Familiar Faces
Lurching, stretching, squeezing… Harry had never felt anything like it. It was as if he had climbed as high as he could on a broom, until the air was so thin that the stick trembled and every breath was a battle, and then thrown himself off, hurling headfirst towards the ground before finally forcing himself to Disapperate to nowhere. He was boiling and freezing all at once, hurtling through light and darkness, spinning and out of control and he couldn’t breathe…
And then it was over.
A cool breeze caressed his face and Harry staggered, raising a shield by pure instinct even as he struggled to remain upright and fought back a groan. Well, I’m never doing that again.
He hadn’t expected an interdimensional portal to be pleasant, but that had almost been worse than being possessed by Voldemort in terms of sheer panic if not in pain. Even now that it was over every part of his body felt like it had been beaten bloody by a troll and his mind was whirling, nausea threatening to overtake him.
But Harry had a lifetime of bad situations to learn from, so he drew upon his newly-found Occlumency shields and forced his physical worries away, taking in the scene around him.
And there was a lot to take in. He was indeed at Hogwarts, and he took a moment to gape at it. He had forgotten how majestic it was when not in ruins. The Quidditch pitch still stood, as did Hagrid’s hut. There were no blackened marks on the stones, no rubble strewn across the grass.
Warmth hummed in his chest. It was good to see Hogwarts again, even if it wasn’t his Hogwarts. Still, even the castle wasn’t enough to distract him from the people surrounding him, arranged in a strange pattern that confirmed his guess of a ritual of some kind.
There were nearly two dozen of them, hands all interlinked, that had been standing on complex lines of runes centred on him. At his feet was a ring of scorched earth the same size as the portal had been, but the interdimensional hole had left no other trace except the tang of magic in the air.
All of the people were unconscious, crumpled awkwardly on the ground. Even Dumbledore. Harry was something of an expert in magical exhaustion but this was more than that – as if whatever they had done to bring him here had not only drained them but also thrown them away once he had come through.
Most of them he recognised.
It hurt to see them. More than he had expected. So many of them were dead to him; he had been witness to some of their final moments. It had been over a year since the Second Wizarding War but he would never forget their faces. He knew who and what they were: the Order of the Phoenix.
Yet these were not the people he had known. Sure, they looked like them, but they weren’t them. Remus was there, but as well as being alive he didn’t have the same scars and he looked younger and happier than Harry had ever seen him. In fact, despite being unconscious most of the people looked happier than Harry had seen them, although Tonks (interestingly enough she was next to Remus, he wondered if they were together here) had a vicious-looking scar on her face that was new to him.
On the other side of Remus… Harry choked. Sirius.
Despite the lost ones that he had already seen here, he hadn’t been expecting his godfather to be among them. It was silly, really, that it was suddenly so hard to breath. He should have known – if Dumbledore could be alive, then so could anyone.
But this was Sirius. The only one who had ever truly loved Harry, deeply and unconditionally. It hurt to see him, even to see him like this – this Sirius had very clearly never been to Azkaban. There were no shadows on his face, no gauntness to his figure, no paleness to his skin. Though he was the same age as Harry’s Sirius would have been he looked so much younger without the dementors haunting his figure.
From what little he had already seen, this world seemed far more idyllic than his own, and Harry wondered what exactly could make these people so desperate as to open up a portal to another world. Because they had to be desperate. Even if Savage hadn’t mentioned how impossible such things were considered, the fact that it had knocked so many powerful witches and wizards out… yes, they had to be desperate.
Harry grimaced. Considering that they were all in the Order of the Phoenix, as well as the way his luck tended to run, it was more than likely that this world had a Voldemort problem. Which would explain why the portal had called specifically to Harry Potter, of all people.
Studying the circle of people more closely Harry found more people that he knew. As well as witches and wizards whose faces were vaguely familiar but that he had never been introduced to were those he knew almost as well as himself. Hogwarts students. Ron was here, and Ginny – in fact the whole Weasley family, Percy included, were all linked together. Neville was there. Even Hermione.
No alternate-Harry, though, and he found himself grateful for that. Being pulled (okay, jumping) into another world was strange enough, but having to deal with another version of himself would be beyond weird.
Besides, he remembered their Third Year, and how Hermione (his Hermione – Merlin, that was going to get confusing, wasn’t it?) had told him that he couldn’t see his earlier self. He had pretty much gotten away with it at the lake, and more to the point dimensional travel was probably different from meddling with time, but all the same he’d been far too reckless when he was younger. Now he was in an alien world, he’d have to watch his own back (not that he wasn’t used to doing that anyway), and it couldn’t hurt to stay away from… himself? Whatever.
Anyway, what was he supposed to do now? The people who had brought him here were not in any condition to tell him anything and he was reluctant to rennervate anyone in a magical semi-coma. And if he was attempting to be more responsible, he couldn’t go flying off on his own. Not without knowing anything at all about this world.
More than that, it seemed wrong to leave the strangers with familiar faces just lying there. Breathing steadily, he reached for his magical core, allowing his shield to flicker out at the same moment. He could concentrate on both at once if he had to but with everyone else unconscious it seemed unnecessary to tire himself out.
Instead of the warm hum it normally was, like a deep pool inside of him, his magic was rippling, almost unsettled. More of it was flowing through his body than usual, trying to heal his various aches as best it could without any actual healing spells. Carefully he siphoned off a thread of power and directed it into the world, just as he had with the Aurors who had tried to ambush him earlier.
The probe told him little that he did not already know, though the flash of ambient magic that came from the school itself was incredibly potent. The people around him were truly unconscious, their magic drained to unhealthy levels. Especially Dumbledore – it was humbling to realise just how depleted the ritual had left the powerful wizard. They would probably be out hours if not days, and there were no others in the surrounding area.
Curiously, those at the outer edges of the circle – mostly those around Harry’s age, but a few that he recognised to be weaker in terms of magical power as a whole – must have been drained least, as their magical exhaustion didn’t seem much different than those closest to the centre. It had probably been designed that way; if it had taken as much from them as Dumbledore then they would likely be dead.
Harry shook his head. Overall, there was nothing wrong with them that rest would not cure, but he couldn’t really leave them there either.
Briefly, he wondered why they had chosen to perform the ritual out in the grounds, away from any kind of shelter. It was a sunny summer’s day, yes, but it was still Scotland. They had to have known the amount of effort that would be required and at least suspected they would wind up incapacitated.
Why do these things always happen to me? Harry grumbled to himself as he conjured stretchers for the unconscious Order members. Damnit, he had thought he was done babysitting the Wizarding World. He didn’t even know these people, even if everything about them was familiar.
Bloody Gryffindor tendancies. Taking a leaf out of Snape’s book, he had become accustomed to blaming everything on his house. It amused him in the dry, cynical way that some things did these days.
Talking of Snape, though, that was one member of the Order that wasn’t present. Or was he a member of the Order in this world? Harry frowned. That was a disturbing thought.
He had never liked Snape, but then he had never really known the man. It was difficult to excuse him for the long years of hatred and vitriol, of ruining a subject Harry had been genuinely excited about. But at the same time, Harry was in awe of him. He did not know anyone else who could have maintained the precarious balance between Dumbledore and Voldemort, and if nothing else he owed the dead Severus Snape his life several times over. He had a deep respect for the man (made easier by the fact that he was dead) and it was disturbing to think that here he might actually be a loyal Death Eater, since Harry didn’t know how different this world was to his.
Whilst nothing would excuse blaming an orphaned eleven-year-old for the crimes of a father he had never known, Snape had had no one who believed in him or would fight for him. Even Dumbledore had placed stringent conditions on him, and the one true friend Snape had ever made had abandoned him over a single insult.
Despite what Snape had always believed, Harry could empathise deeply with him – especially considering how quickly people had abandoned him after the War. He knew what it was like to be bullied, and alone, and friendless, and bitter. To have so little to live for.
Harry understood Severus Snape in a way he understood few other people, and to think of him returned to service under a megalomaniac… even if it wasn’t the same Snape, the thought still made Harry uncomfortable. So he didn’t think about it. He shoved deliberations about Potions’ Masters behind an Occlumency screen (and yes, those screens very much helped his newfound understanding of Snape) and determined not to bring it up again until he had some answers.
A few flicks of his wand levitated and charmed the stretchers, then Harry set out for Hogwarts, a long line of unconscious people following him like an obedient chain of ducklings.
Placing his palm on the main doors, he felt a flicker of magic sting his palm as the wards tasted his magic, his intent. Then warmth flooded through him, a distinct sense of welcome, and an anxiousness he had not even noticed seeped out of him as some tense part of him uncoiled. Welcome home, the magic sighed, and the doors swung open.
Harry gave a wry smile. Yes, Hogwarts was the only place he had truly called home. It was viscerally comforting that this castle felt the same as the one in the world he had left.
Smile softening, he wandered through the halls, taking his time, revelling that he had time to take. Every inch of the place was familiar. Every staircase, every suit of armour.
It hadn’t been the same after the battle. They could clean the blood from the stones, but something of its essence had seeped in anyway and it would never again feel innocent and untainted, at least not to those who’d fought and bled there. When he’d gone back, just once, he’d been unable to forget all the terrible things that had happened there, the dark miasma that still lingered in classrooms where Unforgivables had been cast and corridors where students had marched full of fear.
This, however, was a Hogwarts where battle had never taken place and its halls did not remind him of the friends who had died but of the happier times he had spent here at school. It eased an ache in his soul he had spent years ignoring.
It was strange for the halls to be empty, but that felt right, too. Though the portraits peered at him curiously there were no questions, not even any ghosts.
Peace.
Peace as he had seldom felt in years, not since he was a naïve eleven-year-old who had not known (or at least not remembered) what it was like to face death. Yes, he had been right to come here.
Too soon he arrived at the infirmary, and for the first time a shudder ran down his spine. Despite Madame Pomphrey’s excellent care, he had always hated this room and done everything he could to avoid it. Seeing friends and allies and even enemies succumb to vicious curses in the Aftermath had not endeared it to him.
A gesture with his wand had each stretcher picking a bed, Vanishing once their occupants were in place. As soon as all the current beds were all filled, more appeared, as he had known that they would, until all save one were settled.
Harry moved around the room, touching each bed with his wand to tie their wards to his magical signature. He would be alerted when their condition changed.
Only then did he examine the last stretcher. Albus Dumbledore lay there, looking disturbingly similar to the way he had last time Harry had seen his own Dumbledore, pale and still. Harry sighed.
He had loved his own Headmaster, but he was not blind to the man’s faults. So many of the awful things that had happened could have been prevented if Dumbledore had been a little bit more forthcoming with information, a little bit less manipulative.
It had taken him a long time to see that. It was only when he had had his blinders ripped off by the rest of the Wizarding world that he had begun to question the old man he had idolised for so long.
Albus Dumbledore was a powerful, influential wizard, who worked tirelessly for the Light and tried to do the right thing… but he was still a man, not the infallible power a younger Harry – and most of the Wizarding world – had seen him as.
That view was dangerous. He had so much power, so much influence… so many people who believed that he could do no wrong. And the interdimensional portal practically reeked of Dumbledore’s “good intentions.”
Seeing him like this was difficult. In a way that was different to seeing Sirius and the others. But Harry couldn’t leave him here, because to see him this way would lose much of the faith that had kept the Order of the Phoenix in his world from fragmenting.
A part of Harry hated the way that, even unconscious, Dumbledore had such influence on him. That he would be willing to keep that infallible image alive despite a keen knowledge of the mistakes he could make and the subsequent consequences of that image.
The stretcher followed him as he passed through a small door in the side of the infirmary. It was warded to keep students away from it, a Notice-Me-Not charm specifically targeted at underage wizards, and led to a dozen private rooms for recovering adults.
Harry placed Dumbledore in one midway down the corridor, laying him gently on the bed and tying the alert wards to him in the same way as the others. Then he placed more wards around the room, preventing anyone from going in or out, because Dumbledore or not this was a brand new world and Harry didn’t know him, not really. He didn’t know any of them.
Finally, pushing away a brief pang of guilt, Harry reached into Dumbledore’s arm holster and disarmed him. The wand he drew out was familiar in every way – bone white, fifteen inches, Thestral tail-hair core. The Elder Wand.
It warmed in his hand, sending a flush of power through him, and black and white sparks shot out of the end. A wand reunited with a master that had never possessed it.
Harry winced. Oh, that is not good. Apparently, being the Master of Death was not a one-world-only deal. He had just taken away one of Albus Dumbledore’s biggest weapons.
Oops.
After a second, he shrugged philosophically. There was nothing he could do about it now; he could hardly put the wand back. But he wouldn’t use it either, not unless he had to – despite its raw power, despite his mastery of the Deathly Hallows, the Deathstick suited him less than the pine wand he had claimed after the War or the acacia he’d picked up in Knockturn Alley. Even the holly he still carried was preferable, despite the fact that it no longer fit him quite as well as it had as a child.
Returning to the main infirmary, Harry placed similar wards on both doors to prevent the Order from leaving before he could deal with them, then murmured, “Accio wands,” brandishing his own at the unconscious witches and wizards. Several flew to him with a minimum of fuss, and for the rest he moved from bed to bed, meticulously removing them from holsters equipped with anti-summoning charms and (in Moody’s case) several debilitating jinxes.
There were a few shocks, faces he hadn’t properly examined before, including two people who bore a striking resemblance to Neville. It took a moment for Harry’s brain to catch up. Frank and Alice Longbottom, in this world perfectly alive and seemingly sane. He smiled for his friend, who looked strong and capable despite the thick scar on his left arm. Another thing that this world had got right.
Really, looking around, what business did they have being desperate enough to create an interdimensional portal? This world seemed practically idyllic compared to his own.
After he was finished wand-collecting, he placed them all on the desk in the attached office, raising a clear dome over them so that they couldn’t be retrieved. He added a few basic wards against wandless magic (he’d never discovered whether or not Moody could use it prior to the man’s death, but he’d heard so many stories that he had a hard time believing otherwise) before nodding to himself.
They had gone through a lot of effort to bring him here so he doubted that this amount of caution was necessary, but years on the run had taught him the value of paranoia. A smirk tugged at him as he acknowledged that he was almost as bad as Moody. “Constant vigilance” indeed.
Then again, Moody managed to get himself captured and impersonated back in fourth year, so… Harry wondered if that had happened here, and if Alastor was better or worse for it.
God, he wanted answers badly.
That was a point, actually. Why was he waiting around for them to wake up and maybe give them to him? Harry snorted and shook his head at his own ridiculousness. His own Order had seemed to delight in keeping back important information. Why was he expecting this one to be any different?
Mind made up, Harry strode from the infirmary and headed on the familiar path to a room he had not sought out as much as he should when he was a student here. The library. Hermione would be proud.
Hermione…
Scowling at himself, Harry pushed away the thought. There was a Hermione here, but the friend he knew was gone forever. Had been gone a while, actually. She had slowly withdrawn from his life when she had vanished off to Australia with Ron, and despite exchanging frequent letters he doubted that she would truly miss him. The Golden Trio he had once thought unbreakable had survived the war, and yet afterwards it had fractured.
Harry could admit that it was mostly his fault. He hadn’t been the same person after walking to his own death. Especially not when the rest of Wizarding Britain had then turned their backs on him and condemned him for doing what they couldn’t, what they had always expected him to.
He had killed Voldemort, and they had looked at him as if he would be the next Dark Lord. And honestly… despite the fact that Harry had always hated his fame and abhorred everything Voldemort stood for, sometimes the thought was tempting. Their world was so broken…
Enough. Not his world anymore. Not his mess.
Harry got halfway down the corridor before another thought occurred to him; Dumbledore had escaped the castle despite the Ministry in his fifth year, because… “Fawkes,” he murmured.
There was a flash of flame, and the phoenix appeared before him. He was resplendent in red and gold, intelligence shining in his black eyes as their gazes met. Harry dipped his head in respect, never breaking eye contact, as he felt the bird take his measure. Fawkes tasted his aura, something indiscernible passing through his eyes, before letting out a melodious yet sorrowful cry and perching on his shoulder.
The bird crooned to him, nuzzling against his cheek. Harry smiled and brushed a hand over the phoenix. “Well met, my friend.”
Fawkes pressed his head into Harry’s hand, trilling.
“It is good to see you again,” Harry told him, fond memories humming through him. He had always liked the phoenix, though the memory of his lament after Dumbledore’s death caused his heart to ache. So much death…
As if sensing the darker turn to his thoughts, Fawkes let out a few soothing notes, not quite a song. Harry’s heart lightened. When he smiled slightly, the bird let out another rising note, this one questioning.
“I won’t hurt them,” he told the phoenix. “But I am not from here, and I need some answers. I need some time. Can you give me that? Can you trust me?”
It was how he had always used to talk to Hedwig, and a part of him tightened in grief. Fawkes eyed him just like his wonderful owl had, as if he understood every word he had spoken, and then dipped his head in something very much like agreement. Harry smiled at him; a small smile edged with old pain. “Watch over them for me.”
Again, the phoenix dipped his head, then soared away towards the hospital wing with a last chirp of farewell.
Just like being back at Hogwarts, the conversation with Fawkes had been soothing and more tension drained from Harry. The bitter ache at the thought of his own world and those lost to him had calmed slightly, as if the phoenix had taken some of the burden.
Lost in his thoughts, he only recognised he had arrived when the smell of parchment and old books surrounded him and he took a moment to take in the full majesty of the Hogwarts Library. The amount of information contained here was truly immense, and he appreciated that now in a way that he had never had the opportunity to at school. It was ironic, really, that his passion for knowledge had never flowered until after he had lost access to it. But then he had been a little too busy with Voldemort to find schoolwork, even magical schoolwork, fully absorbing.
Years of humouring Hermione had given him a good working knowledge of the library, so he headed with very little hesitation to the dusty back corner that in his world had been full of self-updating copies of the Daily Prophet. Surely enough it was the same here, organised by year and date and going back nearly a full century.
A little daunted by the sheer amount of paper, Harry wordlessly summoned the edition for November 1st, 1981. Sure enough, the title jubilantly declared the “Fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” Harry scanned the article, teasing out the relevant information.
It seemed that just as in his world, Voldemort had gone to Godric’s Hollow that night. Just as in his world, he had killed James and Lily Potter, and had tried to kill Harry. Just as in his world, the Killing Curse had rebounded back to its caster. There things changed; Voldemort had been banished, true, but the backlash of the curse had collapsed the roof. Baby Harry had survived the un-survivable only to be crushed by falling masonry.
Harry almost wanted to laugh. It was ironic, really. Such an ordinary death.
If he didn’t laugh then he would probably cry, because ever since seeing a healthy Sirius a part of him had been almost hoping that the Potters had survived despite the odds. That their universes diverged in having Sirius rather than Wormtail being Secret-Keeper. That he would get to meet his parents.
It was not to be. Harry forced himself to read more, wanting to know what happened to Sirius. He found answers under the heading, ‘Pettigrew Betrays Potters!”
It seemed that his godfather had broken down Halloween night, when Harry too had perished, and been found weeping at the scene but able to tell them that he had not been the traitor. Thus, it had been the Aurors to go after Pettigrew. A curse had struck him mid-transformation, and just like that Wormtail was dead. The Dark Mark on the traitor’s arm had been enough to get Sirius a trial, and that had been that.
A dark smile touched Harry’s lips. At least the rat could do no further harm.
Still, Voldemort had almost certainly made Horcruxes here too, so he probably wasn’t gone for good. Working on a hunch, Harry aimed his wand at all the volumes after 1990, a year at a time, and summoned editions mentioning ‘You-Know-Who,’ then ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.’
There was no response for longer than he would have thought, but just before he convinced himself that Voldemort couldn’t be the problem here a single newspaper from February 1998 fluttered into his hand. Two years ago.
It wasn’t on the front page, or the second, or the third. In fact, he made it nearly halfway through the paper before coming across the article mentioning ‘You-Know-Who.’ It was tucked away in a side column, and with dread Harry recognised the pattern. Dumbledore was claiming that Voldemort was back, but no one believed him.
Oh, joy. There went the hope that this Wizarding world was more sensible than the one he had left behind.
For a moment, he wondered how Voldemort had returned. Had he used the same ritual – blood of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy? If so, who was the unlucky enemy? And for that matter, with Pettigrew dead, who was the servant?
Maybe it was a different ritual. After all the timescale was off; his Voldemort had returned in 1995, not 1998, and that was if you didn’t count Quirrel or Diary-Riddle. Had those events happened here?
It was frustrating to have so little information. The little he had already found out just gave him more questions.
With no other options (not awake ones anyway), Harry continued to search through the papers for mentions of one of Voldemort’s ridiculous monikers. There were a few more mentions of Dumbledore stirring up trouble, but just as in Harry’s world it seemed the Dark Lord was content to lie low.
Then, as he had halfway expected, Voldemort made his move. In late 1999 he appeared at the Ministry, bringing all his Death Eaters with blatant disregard for what should have been an Auror stronghold. It had the desired effect, sowing panic across the Wizarding world, but Dumbledore (and probably the Order, though they weren’t mentioned) had managed to drive him off and win a reprieve.
There was no mention of the Department of Mysteries, but Harry hadn’t really expected there to be. Getting anything useful out of the Daily Prophet always required reading between the lines anyway, and for Voldemort to show up once again at the Ministry of all places gave Harry strong suspicions that there had been a prophecy in this world too.
With his marked ‘equal’ dead, however, Voldemort probably considered it null and void now. And in the last seven months he had started anew on his reign of terror, with disappearances and deaths becoming more the norm than the exception and fear bleeding through the words on paper.
The Prophect didn’t say very much, all told, but that in itself was damning. The pattern was a familiar one; things were getting bad, the Aurors couldn’t hold off the Death Eaters, and the public weren’t willing to get off their asses and help. Ministries assurances meant very little, and the Wizarding world turned to Dumbledore and his Order as Saviour.
At least here there was no Boy-Who-Lived for them to turn on, Harry thought with no small degree of bitterness, but he shook away the lingering resentment. Upon recognising the Order here he had known that it was probably Voldemort, and he’d resigned himself to the fact that they could never bloody save themselves.
But from what he could see Voldemort hadn’t completely ruined this world yet. So perhaps Harry could do more good here, or at the very least he could play his part and then vanish into obscurity.
In this world he was not the Boy-Who-Lived and the average witch or wizard would not recognise him. It was enough of a relief to put a broad grin on his face despite the knowledge that he’d have to face down the Dark Lord again. How many times was that now? Six? Seven? He honestly couldn’t remember.
One of the most recent newspapers diverted his attention back onto this new world. ‘Showdown in Diagon Alley!’ screamed the headline, but it wasn’t the words that caught his attention but the picture. Two very familiar figures stood proudly among the wreckage littering Diagon Alley, exchanging hexes and curses so fast that they were little more than blurs. It was a duel of the kind Harry had seen only a few times before.
Dumbledore against Voldemort.
Harry wasn’t clear on the exact date, but it could only have been a few weeks ago. The article was spotty at best, from reporters that had been more interested in getting the hell away from the attack than recording the events, but the outcome was clear for all to see. Voldemort had been driven away, but Dumbledore had collapsed the second he left.
Reading between the lines… if the Aurors (doubtless aided by the Order) hadn’t overcome the rest of the Death Eaters, Dumbledore probably would have been brought down. Harry examined the picture more closely.
Few would have seen it, but Harry noted the expression in Dumbledore’s eyes. They were cold and hard, not twinkling as they always were at Hogwarts, and there was a desperation in them that few would recognise. But Harry had seen it before, in the duel his own Dumbledore and Voldemort had had. Dumbledore had looked exactly like that when Voldemort had tried to possess Harry. The helplessness of knowing that there was nothing he could do to beat him.
For the Headmaster to have recovered enough from what looked like magical exhaustion to attempt a ritual so soon after was both a marvel and a worry. Dumbledore had to have been desperate. But then, Harry had known that; the ritual required desperation in and of itself.
Before he could read any more papers his magic tingled, like a tap on his shoulder. Someone was waking up.
Steeling himself for the conversation ahead, Harry packed away the papers with a sweep of his wand. Magic that had once awed him in Slughorn’s house now seemed a little rudimentary, and he grimaced at the wonder that had disappeared from his world. He still loved magic, but the Wizarding world was so much darker than he had ever known as a naïve eleven year old desperate to get away from the Dursleys.
He wondered who had awoken first. It wasn’t Dumbledore because he’d recognise the other layers of wards he’d woven over the leader of the Order, but other than that he couldn’t tell; the wards on the infirmary had been designed to alert a nurse that they were needed, not to give specifics. For that matter, Harry wasn’t sure who he wanted to talk to – whether it would be easier to talk to someone he had lost, someone who was still alive to him, or someone he had never known at all.
Not that he had a choice, of course, but it was easier to think of that then it was to mull over the fact that he was going to have to deal with Voldemort. Again. Though at least it was by choice this time.... sort of.
He headed towards the infirmary, but took it purposely slow to give whoever it was time to come to their senses. He felt the same phantom tap twice more on the way, so he was partly expecting the quiet murmuring that met his ears when he at last turned onto the correct hallway.
“D’you think it worked?”
Harry froze. It wasn’t so much the words that affected him but the person who had spoken them. Seeing his beloved dead again had been hard enough, but hearing Sirius speak was like swallowing broken glass. He had forgotten the way his godfather spoke, so impatient, so excitable, forgotten what his voice had sounded like. Small details that he had not realised were so important.
“I don’t know any more than you do, Padfoot. The fact that we are in the infirmary seems to suggest so… though Albus is not here. He could have brought us up.”
That was Remus. Moony.
Hearing him hurt in a different way. Especially the way he and Sirius spoke to each other, so trusting, so dependent on each other. A stronger relationship than Harry remembered, one without the strain of a dozen years alone or in Azkaban, without Sirius being believed a traitor by the whole world.
Another cut in. “Nah.” Bright and irreverent, this voice too Harry knew. He had never known Tonks as thoroughly as some of the others, but he had always liked the plucky young Auror. “Albus anchored the spell. I reckon he’d be knocked for a loop even more than us. Especially after Diagon Alley…” she trailed off, and remembering the article he had seen Harry heard the words unspoken. Dumbledore would have given it his all, for the Greater Good, because he didn’t know what else to do and there was no Boy-Who-Lived in play here.
Worry entered Remus’s voice. “Then where is he? Why isn’t he here?”
“Why don’t we try… Hang on a minute! Where’s my wand?”
“Honestly, Padfoot,” Remus sighed in exasperation. “Of all the things to misplace…” Then he cursed, clearly having reached for his own only to find it missing. “Mine’s gone too!”
Tonks let out a similar squeak. “What on earth…”
For a few moments the room was filled with rustling as they searched fruitlessly for their wands. Harry winced at their panic, but he didn’t regret taking them. He was vastly outnumbered, after all.
He took a deep breath. Just hearing their voices had nearly crippled him, and Harry couldn’t afford to show weakness. No matter how familiar they looked or sounded they were not the people he had once known. He could not forget that he had no allies here. They would not know him, not even an alternate version of him; their Harry Potter had been dead for nearly two decades.
It was cheating, but Harry retrieved his invisibility cloak and threw it over him. Since the war he never let it leave his side, and the habit had proved its worth several times over. It did so again now as he slipped into the infirmary and the breath was driven out of him. It hurt so much to see them, moving and alive, without some of the worn lines that war had carved into their counterparts.
Sirius, the only family he had ever really known, snatched from him when he was only just beginning to understand what that meant. Remus and Tonks, who had been torn from a world that should have been theirs, leaving only a son that Harry had not been allowed to care for. From the way they looked at each other, perhaps Teddy would be born here, too, if he hadn’t already. Perhaps here he could grow up with parents who loved him and each other.
For a minute, all he could do was watch as they searched without success for their wands. Tonks enlisted Sirius’s help as they went around checking the other Order members only to come up short and Remus tried a wandless summoning charm. Tuning into his magic Harry could tell that the charm was weak, but all the same wandless magic was impressive. Not enough to threaten him, though, or to break the wards on their wands.
Enough to stir it, though; the bond between Remus and his wand had to be quite strong for it to respond through the dome. It collided with the protection with a dull thud that the werewolf was the only one to hear, and he quickly shushed the other two.
He cast the charm again – weaker still this time, a clinging reminder of the magical exhaustion they still suffered from – and followed the sound to the office.
Silent, unseen, Harry followed them. The cloak worked better than ever since the Final Battle, rendering him truly invisible. He watched as they tried without success to break the dome, exclaiming over the pretty feat of magic. It had been so long since Harry was normal that he had forgotten that most people couldn’t cast complex wards as easily as disarming charms.
“Albus’s wand isn’t here either,” Remus noted quietly once their panic had subsided a little. “But I can’t imagine that he’d take ours away, so we must have managed to bring someone here. I wonder how long we’ve been unconscious?”
Harry didn’t really want to remove the cloak. He wanted to stay here, safe and protected, and just watch in peace for several hours. To see the faces he cherished smooth and unsuspicious. But he knew that he was being a coward, so he removed the hood with a whisper of cloth.
Either the sound or the movement caught their attention. Remus was the first to whirl round, his eyes glinting amber (it was the day after the full moon, he reminded himself), closely followed by Sirius and then Tonks. Harry met their eyes calmly. “Not long. Perhaps an hour or two.”
Tonks took a step back in her surprise. Remus and Sirius paled drastically, as if he were a ghost. “J-James?” Sirius breathed.
It shouldn’t have hurt. How many people had told him that he looked exactly like his father? In this world Sirius and Remus had known James Potter, had loved him, whilst their Harry had never grown up. He should have expected their assumptions. Shoving the hurt behind mental walls he gave them a sad smile and said in a quiet, gentle voice, “I’m afraid not.”
It was Remus who looked closer, eyes widening as amber met green. “Harry?” he whispered.
“Hello, Moony.”
“H-Harry?” Sirius echoed, gripping Remus’s arm as if it was the only thing holding him upright.
Emerald eyes met grey and Harry saw disbelief and hope in them, echoes of old pain. And oh, that look was so very familiar. Though this Sirius had never gone to Azkaban, he had believed his godson dead along with his best friend, and it had left its mark.
“Hello, Padfoot.”
Sirius reached out a trembling hand. “Y-you’re dead.”
Harry knew the feeling. There were so many emotions gushing through him that if it hadn’t been for the Occlumency he had finally mastered he doubted he would be any better off than Sirius.
It was Remus who reminded his sort-of-godfather, “Another dimension… I did not really believe that it would work.” Yet his eyes remained on Harry, raking over his body as if afraid he would disappear as abruptly as he had appeared.
“Harry- Harry Potter?” Tonks asked, looking between the two Marauders, hair flitting through a wide variety of colours.
Tearing his eyes from Sirius’s, Harry swept her a mock-bow. “Wotcher, Tonks.” Ignoring her surprise, he returned his attention to Remus and asked curiously, “If you didn’t think it would work, why go along with it?”
Well, other than because Dumbledore told you to. If this Remus was similar to Professor Lupin then that would be a large part of it – Harry’s Remus had never got over his gratitude for the opportunity to attend Hogwarts.
“I did not know what else to do,” the werewolf admitted, still staring at him. As a child such attention would have made him uncomfortable, but Harry had grown up a lot since then. By the end of his time at Hogwarts he had become so used to being stared at that it seldom bothered him anymore.
Sirius was still staring, too, and that was far more unnerving than Remus’s gaping. Even after Azkaban Sirius had never looked at him like that, almost rabid.
This was not Sirius, at least not his Sirius. Intellectually, he knew that. But it was so very difficult to remember with that familiar face in front of him once more.
This was his chance to get answers, though, so Harry pushed, “Why, though? Why create an interdimensional portal in the first place? I’m assuming that that was the intention, and not some freaky result of a different ritual, because that would be beyond awkward.” Even if he wouldn’t put that past his luck either.
Remus cleared his throat, exchanging an uneasy look with Tonks. “Yes, that was the intention. As to why… ah, perhaps you should ask Albus about that?”
Pre-War Harry would have accepted that. Now he pinned the werewolf with a relentless stare. “I’m asking you.”
Again, Remus exchanged a look with Tonks and Harry had to stifle his urge to groan. Seriously, what was it with the Order of the Phoenix and hoarding information? He had forgotten just how annoying it could be.
“Where is Albus?” Tonks interjected, and gratitude flashed over Remus’s face. Harry frowned.
“In the teacher’s ward. Don’t change the subject.”
When they still looked unwilling to answer, he sighed and made his guess. “I’m guessing that you have a Vol-” Just in time he remembered his own Second War. Irritation flickered over his face as he corrected, “- a ‘Dark Lord’ problem here, but that doesn’t explain the interdimensional thing.”
If anything that made Remus even paler. “Dark Lord?” he questioned, sounding faint, and it honestly took Harry a few moments to figure out what had disturbed him. Of course; generally only death eaters bothered with that title. Which was proof that he was too tired to deal with this right now.
Maturity, Harry, he reminded himself, waving a hand to dismiss their concerns. “Well, he is, isn’t he? A Dark Lord? Minions and all.”
All three of them looked shocked by that. Hermione had been the same way, before Australia. No one had really understood the dark humour Harry used when he just wanted to scream until everyone left him alone. He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You don’t know anything about me or my universe – Merlin is that weird – so if I use ‘You-Know-Who’ I could be referring to someone completely different, and ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’ is awkward and long and kind of silly. What is it with the Wizarding world and hyphens? Anyway…” Harry forced his mind back on track. “So. Portal. Other dimensions. Why?”
They just gaped at him, and Harry grimaced. “Look, it’s been a really long day. I was having a shitty morning even before the portal turned up, and now I’m here and everything is really, really weird and I need someone to tell me why before I go crazy. Crazier. What the hell happened?”
“But you had a choice, right?” Remus asked. “The portal wasn’t meant to just kidnap you. You chose to come through?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes, I made a split-second decision like a typical bloody Gryffindor and decided to throw myself through an untested interdimensional portal with no idea if it would kill me and only a vague impression of Hogwarts on the other side. If that counts as choosing then sure, I had a choice. But can we not go into complex magical theories right now? If you can’t decide why you opened a portal – which frankly is definitely something you should have figured out before even attempting a ritual like that – at least tell me something.”
Suddenly guilty, Remus swallowed and nodded. After all, they had been the ones to initiate the passageway and bring him here. The Order did owe him answers, even if Harry Potter had been the last thing any of them had expected to come of it.
Remus wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected. If the ritual had not failed (which had been the most likely option), the only one Remus could have imagined it summoning was a younger version of Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster was the only one with the power to face You-Know-Who and live, as well as being the only person he knew both crazy and curious enough to leap through a portal.
He knew Albus Dumbledore and could have dealt with another version of him. But Harry… he had never expected Harry. He had loved his best friend’s child, but his Harry had died as a baby. To be confronted with him was a shock.
What had happened in his world, for Harry Potter to have lived? Did You-Know-Who never target the Potters? Had they been happy?
It was an effort to concentrate on the present, not to speculate. But he owed this boy, who might have been his and Sirius’s godson, answers.
Where did he even begin, though? It would have been so much better if Albus explained things to him, as they had unanimously agreed to let him do before embarking on this insane venture. But that clearly wasn’t an option. Albus must not be awake yet, or the strange young man in front of him – it was so difficult to believe that this was Harry Potter, James’s son, even as an instinctual part of him nearly purred in contentment – would be pestering their leader instead.
“Alright, Harry,” he murmured, stalling for time. What did he say? “As you said, I don’t know what things were like in your world, but I am assuming that You-Know-Who exists there, as well?”
A slight nod, though there was an expression on his face Remus couldn’t decipher.
“Well, here in our world he disappeared for a time. Everyone thought he was dead – celebrated as if he was. But a year ago he returned, as strong as he ever was. We – the people who brought you here –”
Harry interjected, “I know about the Order of the Phoenix.”
Remus nodded, though his curiosity only grew. “The Order are fighting as best we can.” He sighed. “It isn’t enough, though. Things are getting worse by the day. Albus is our leader, and he defeated the last Dark Lord, but…”
It was difficult to talk about. Even thinking the words felt disloyal, like betraying Albus, betraying the order. It made Remus uncomfortable to consider that Albus was as human as the rest of them, that he was not invincible.
More than he would like to, Harry understood. In this world, the Order had never had to face Dumbledore’s death. They would have difficulty seeing him as anything but infallible. “He is old,” Harry voiced, and however gently he said it Remus still shuddered and bowed his head.
“The last time he faced You-Know-Who… did not end well.” It was as close as the werewolf could come to admitting it. “And even if Albus had prevailed… we believed him dead once before. We would have no way of knowing he was gone for good.”
Shock hit Harry like an icy torrent. He had not expected that. Did they not know about the Horcruxes? Remus’s words would suggest not, and that was a terrifying thought.
Harry had no doubt that Voldemort did have Horcruxes here, because from what he had already figured out their words were very, very similar. If they did not know about the Horcruxes… Perhaps they truly did need him.
Now that he thought about it, it wasn’t so surprising that they did not know. How could they? In this world Harry Potter was dead, so there was no human horcrux, and if things in what would have been his second year had played out differently perhaps the diary had never come to Hogwarts. After all, it had been the diary that had tipped off his own Dumbledore.
It made sense that they did not know. Which meant that they needed his help even more than they realised.
He bit back his initial irritation at being involved with Voldemort again. It wasn’t like he could complain; he had known before he had jumped that it was the most likely explanation. Most (though not all) of the truly bizarre things in his life were tangled up with the prophesised Dark Lord. It didn’t mean that he had to be happy about facing the megalomaniac again but at least it had been his choice this time. That was more than his own world had ever offered him.
Remus had paused, either recognising that Harry was lost in his thoughts or waiting to see what his reaction would be. He looked cautious, and Harry could admit that that was probably a good thing.
He cleared his throat. “Right. Okay. I’m with you so far, but an interdimensional portal still seems a little drastic.” His eyes hardened as a thought occurred to him. “And I’m going to warn you now that if this has anything to do with a thrice-damned prophecy, things are going to explode.”
Remus flinched, and really that was all the answer Harry needed. “Oh, bloody hell. Really?” He whined, talking more to the ceiling than to the three Order members who were watching him with wide eyes, like a bomb that could detonate any second.
He would have been offended at that look, but, as promised, several implements around the office – including three quills, a random piece of parchment and even a spare chair – spontaneously combusted. His magic flooded the room, near feral as it lashed out in its fervent desire to protect him.
Nearly growling, Harry reached out to it and yanked, restraining it with no little effort. For several moments he stood still, glowing green eyes closed, trying to tamp down the rising tide of anger. Only once he was fully in control of himself did he open his eyes and confront the three people who were nearly shaking in front of him.
“Damnit,” he cursed, more to himself than anything else.
He knew why the outburst had happened. The Horcrux in him had fed off his magical power and after so long spent working past it, with it gone his magic had turned more than a little unstable. There was so much of it that it sometimes lashed out in accidental magic very similar to a child’s. But he wasn’t going to explain or even to apologise for this particular incident; he had very good reasons for his reaction to anything to do with divination.
“What was that?” Tonks demanded, hair white and eyes wide. Harry winced. Oops.
“I did warn you,” he muttered, then turned back to Remus. “Fine. Fine. Prophecy. Enlighten me.”
Retreating a step – hardly subtly, but Harry couldn’t blame him – Remus hedged, “Well, it isn’t really a prophecy. Not exactly.”
He had never seen a werewolf so nervous before and would never have expected it of Remus. The man had always seemed to be so calm, so collected. The only time he had been ruffled at all was when Sirius had revealed the truth about that night in Godric’s Hollow. He was always cautious, but to see him scared… it rattled Harry that he could cause such a reaction in a man he had once looked up to. A long time ago now.
“I won’t blow up again,” he promised quietly, because he couldn’t stand to see fear in Remus’s eyes. “Just tell me.”
It was Tonks who stepped up, standing beside Remus as colour slowly bled back into her hair. “It isn’t actually a prophecy, really. More of a warning, from the Founders themselves. From what we know, Helga Hufflepuff was something of a Seer. She had visions, at least, and most of the time they came true.”
Well, that was new. Better than Trelawney at least. And most of the time was less than always and certainly better than neither can live while the other survives, so Harry nodded for her to continue.
“One of those visions… it disturbed her deeply. It predicted that the magical world would one day risk total collapse, and she Saw that there was nothing one of our world could do to stop it but also that it had to be stopped at all costs. It was a contradiction that tormented her, so she took it to Lady Ravenclaw. The two of them banded together to create a ritual that they hoped would aid us against the shadowy figure in her dreams, and then went to Godric Gryffindor. He passed the knowledge to the Sorting Hat, who has informed the Headmaster of every generation hence.”
It sounded fantastical. Ridiculous. From the expression on her face, Tonks knew that, but that ridiculousness actually made Harry more likely to believe her. These kinds of things only ever happened to him. My luck, I swear. I don’t know whether to love or hate it.
There were gaps in the story, however. “But why use it now? And where was Salazar Slytherin when this was being carried out?”
“I don’t know about Slytherin,” Tonks looked vaguely troubled about that, as if something had occurred to her that hadn’t before. “Though we’re pretty sure that this was early on, when the four of them should still have been together.”
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. “Hufflepuff’s visions showed a few hints at when the ritual might be needed, and the Sorting Hat passed them on diligently. She spoke interchangeably of ‘an Heir of Slytherin’ and ‘the Dark Heir,’ and mentioned something about him ‘feasting on Death.’ Whilst at first that sounds like cannibalism, Albus had a different theory.”
“Death Eaters,” Harry said softly, because his mind had made the same leap. He could see why the prediction could refer to Voldemort – he was an heir of Slytherin, a Dark Lord, and even if ‘death feasting’ did not refer to his followers it might allude to Horcruxes. To learn to find and destroy them most effectively Harry had had to know something about how to create them, and…
Not going there, he reminded himself firmly. However necessary, it was knowledge that he wished he had never even heard of and dwelling on it was likely to drive him mad.
Remus looked momentarily surprised but then nodded, taking over from Tonks. “Yes, Death Eaters. We were initially reluctant to even try it, Albus perhaps more so than us all, but when we realised that he could not defeat You-Know-Who… none of us can match him for power. And whatever he has done to make himself so unkillable… the ritual was the only hope we had.”
It was difficult to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, it was almost certainly true that none of them had the power to face Voldemort. Not alone. But there were dozens of people in the Order, more if the Aurors weren’t completely corrupt yet, and no man could dodge or predict that many spells. And that was ruling out traps and traitors and spies; there were so many more options than a straight up duel.
Then again, if wizards started using logic then they would probably have bigger problems than a Dark Lord. Appropriate humour, Harry, he chided himself again, in a mental voice that sounded scarily like Hermione’s.
Aware that Remus, Sirius and Tonks were still watching him apprehensively, Harry let out a heavy sigh and then nodded. “Well, I’m here now. Might as well help.”
The scepticism in their faces was almost refreshing. It was weird to see people doubting that he should be involved in the war rather than expecting him to solve all of their problems. Harry had a sudden rush of fondness for this strange dimension, where everyone seemed to be alive and relatively happy (despite Voldemort) and almost untouched by the darkness that seemed to surround him.
Tonks was the first to voice her feelings. “Do you think you can?”
By the way her hair flickered between white and grey, his answering grin unsettled her. But Harry couldn’t help it; he didn’t do a lot of socialising anymore and Merlin it was good to see them again, even if they didn’t know him, even if they weren’t his versions of anyone. The look of concern on their faces… his own Remus and Sirius had looked at him like that. It hurt, but in a good way.
When they realised that he wasn’t going to answer, Remus pushed, “It’s just… you’re what, seventeen, eighteen? Are you even of age?”
Age. As if that was important; it wasn’t like Harry had really had a childhood to speak of. His own Order had used ‘childhood’ as an excuse not to tell him anything. Things that he should have been told, that would have made everything so much easier. If they had told him about the prophecy he would have been on his guard, he would never have gone to the Department of Mysteries and Sirius would not have died.
Old anger flamed up in him, but Harry wasn’t fifteen anymore and pointed out quite calmly, “I’m nineteen, actually. You have people in your Order who are younger than I am.”
Tonks frowned. “True, but they have their reasons. This war isn’t even yours.”
“You brought me here to deal with it. Doesn’t that make it mine?”
They could hardly argue with that one. Even if they hadn’t expected him, Harry Potter, nineteen-year-old Boy-Who-Could-Never-Be-Normal, they had summoned him to deal with this and therefore he was involved. They couldn’t reasonably deny it, yet by the looks of them, they were still going to try.
Hoping to forestall them, he asked, “What did you ask the ritual for? Could you ask?” He was genuinely curious; the portal had called his name, but they couldn’t have been calling for Harry Potter specifically because then they would not have been so surprised.
“Albus was the conduit,” Remus answered slowly. “It wasn’t like we had a list of requirements. He had to picture what we needed, as clearly as he could.” Harry raised an eyebrow in silent enquiry. “Someone to help us defeat You-Know-Who. Someone who could. Someone who would.” Then, more quietly, as if he didn’t want Harry to hear. “A miracle. He asked for a miracle.”
Typical. Of course it would bloody pick me. “That’s what you asked for, and the ritual chose to call to me. So you’ll have to trust that I might help, and can help, and will help.” And hope you don’t realise that that kind of description could just have summoned an even more powerful Dark Lord rather than a saviour... wizards are kind of dumb, really.
Remus fidgeted uncomfortably, and Harry transferred his gaze to Sirius. He was still pale and staring, as if he was going to fall over at any moment, and Harry abruptly remembered that newspaper article. Why Sirius was here and healthy and free.
He had a sudden realisation. Aside from the ‘prophecy,’ the only real difference between their two worlds… Harry had died here. That was all. That was the point of divergence. The only reason that Sirius had collapsed in a heap and broken down rather than go haring off after vengeance.
The revelation was stunning. Even in his own world he had never really known just how much his godfather had loved him. A part of him – a part born of the Dursleys, of a decade of loneliness and isolation and hatred – had never truly trusted it. That someone, family, his godfather, could really love him.
Sudden tenderness shot through him. “Sirius?” he asked, taking an uncertain step towards the man. “Are you alright?”
“You’re really him?” Sirius whispered, disbelief warring with frantic hope as a single tear escaped him. Remus gave him a concerned look but Harry didn’t really care about Remus right now. “Y-you’re Harry? My Harry?”
He wasn’t ‘his’ Harry, but that wasn’t what Sirius needed to hear right now. And did it really matter? “I’m Harry,” he said quietly, because that was the truth and he didn’t know what else to say.
Fragile grey eyes met green and suddenly Sirius was right in front of him, taking in his features with something like desperation. “You look so like your parents.” His hand shook as he reached out only to hesitate, as if afraid Harry would disappear.
After a few seconds, he touched Harry’s cheek, brushing it with incredible gentleness. Solid. Warm. Real.
With a choked sob Sirius pulled him close. Harry didn’t resist, his own eyes watering as he took in the feel and scent of his godfather. Merlin, he smelled the same, like leather and mischief and wet dog.
Sirius clutched him as if he would never let go, as if he was the only thing holding him upright, murmuring into his hair, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Harry held onto him, revelling in the embrace. It had been so long since he had felt anything like a comforting touch, so long since he had simply been held. But he knew exactly what Sirius was apologising for, and he hated it. He wanted to apologise too, for the recklessness that had got his Sirius killed, even if he had accepted by now that it had not been all his fault, that it was not what his Sirius would have wanted. If the Harry of this world had grown up, Harry knew that he would not have wanted this Sirius to feel guilty either.
“It was not your fault, Sirius,” Harry murmured, still clinging to him. “You have nothing to apologise for.”
“But Peter- and I- You don’t know- If I hadn’t- Wormtail-”
“Shush,” Harry soothed. “I know what happened, Sirius. That Halloween night was not your fault. It should have been a good plan. You are not to blame for the choices the rat made.”
“How do you know?” Remus asked even as Sirius hugged him closer, breathing in Harry’s scent the way Harry had done to him.
Without breaking the hug, Harry sent him a glare deadly enough that the werewolf flinched a little. Well,looks likeSnape taught me some things at least. He didn’t want this moment to end.
“I went to the library while you were out and looked up that Halloween.” Harry revealed. “Our worlds were not so different eighteen years ago.”
“But you…” he trailed off, having realised that the end of that sentence sounded callous. But you lived.
With a last squeeze, Harry reluctantly pried himself away from Sirius. “I survived, yes. I think that’s one of the main areas where our past differs. The ritual would be another, I suppose. The Founders in my world proposed theories about alternate dimensions, but never created a way of accessing them. But anyway, my parents also switched Secret Keepers to Wormtail and he subsequently betrayed them to Vol- to You-Know-Who. Damned rat.” He had forgotten how annoying the Taboo had been, but he would be cautious until he learned more about this Voldemort.
A particularly hard tap on his shoulder made him jump and he fought the urge to whirl around. No one should have been able to creep up behind him, and after a second he relaxed. The tingling sensation came from the wards, not from a person. “Dumbledore is waking up,” he stated, almost to himself.
“May we have our wands back?” Tonks asked cautiously. From the expression on her face, it seemed that she had given up on understanding him for the minute.
“Are you going to hex me?”
He was impressed when she actually took a moment to think about it. Sirius, of course, jumped and immediately cried, “Of course not!”
Remus sent him a censoring look. Sirius tossed an incredulous one back. “He’s Harry, Moony. James’s son. My godson.”
“But he’s not. Not really.”
Remus always was the voice of reason, though Sirius sent him a hurt glare. Harry raised his hands. “He has a point, Sirius. I am Harry, but I’m not your Harry.”
“But you could be,” Sirius whispered, longing in his voice. And Harry couldn’t deny him. He wanted that, too, wanted someone to care about him the way his Sirius had. He knew, he knew that they were not the same. But that didn’t mean that they couldn’t bond, that he couldn’t have something like a godfather still.
Careful, Harry.
He couldn’t resent Remus for the wary way that the werewolf watched him any more than he could resent Tonks for her careful deliberation about whether she would use a wand if she had it. They had brought him here, but they didn’t know him. In fact, they knew less about him than he did about them, and he hadn’t even trusted them to keep their wands when they were unconscious.
Keeping his movements slow and steady, he moved past them to where the wands lay beneath their clear dome. A single tap of his own wand wove a thread of magic into it, modifying and strengthening the wards so that they could stand up to spellfire. Then he reached in, the magic tingling like cold water, and selected three.
He handed them back to their owners, ignoring the shock on their faces and the quiet, hopeful longing on Sirius’s. “I suggest you leave the others to sleep. Magical exhaustion can be tricky. I’ll be back soon.”
Then, utterly ignoring them, he turned around and left the room. They didn’t hex him, but he kept a wandless shield charm in place anyway by sheer force of habit and because the next person he was going to see... well, he had no idea how this was going to go.
It was time to visit Dumbledore.