Chapter 1
Harry padded through the forest; the trees were so thick they blocked out the light but still he went deeper.
‘Just a bit further, Harry,’ the soft voice of his mother whispered through the woods. He felt as if he had been chasing her since these trees were saplings. ‘You’re so close now.’
Harry went faster, beginning to run, tearing his shins on the thick undergrowth.
‘Please,’ his mother called to him, but she sounded scared now and Harry’s heart stuttered.
He went faster and faster until he tripped, falling face first to the forest floor but, as he scrambled to his feet and threw himself forwards again, he hit solid wood. A door. A cupboard had materialised around him. Through the slats he could see a snake slithering past towards a baby whose hair changed colour as laughed.
‘Find me,’ his mother’s voice pleaded again and Harry threw himself at the cupboard door, trying to prise it open, but it wouldn’t budge. The walls pressed closer, pinning Harry in place as the snake reared its head to strike and his mother begged him to find her.
‘The boy who lives, come to die.’ A different voice whipped through the dark. Harry turned and, where the wall should have been, found himself at the door of the Great Hall. The tables were gone and it was piled with bodies, blood slowly seeping over the flagstones towards Harry. Like the treasure in the Lestrange’s vault, the bodies began to replicate, pressing towards him, then suddenly they were crawling to their feet, an army of inferi born from the bodies of his friends that reached and pulled torn at him, until they fell down dead again.
Harry hammered on the door, his fists bleeding as the cold laugh of Voldemort rang out across the hall morphing into the gentle chuckle of Albus Dumbledore who materialised beside Harry. The old man’s face was split down the middle, as if crushed by a fall from a great height and blood was pouring from the cleft, catching in the laughter lines around his eyes and dripping from his beard.
‘Would you like to get out, Harry?’ He questioned in a voice that twinkled with charm. The headmaster pressed against the doors, and they easily swung open under his touch.
Harry stumbled into the entrance hall, shaking, his own head was hurting, aching as if it too were being pulled apart at the seams. He turned to the door of the castle only to find a sheet laying over two bodies. With trembling fingers, he tugged it to the side and his parents lay before him, perfectly still, eyes staring unblinking at the ceiling. Harry glanced back at Dumbledore who smiled.
‘Good boy,’ he affirmed, nodding proudly.
Ever so gently, Harry lay down between his parents’ bodies and closed his eyes, unable to fight the sense of peace that washed over him. The floor seemed to sway gently as if he was lying on the floor of a boat that would take him far away from it all.
‘Harry!’ A scream shook the castle. It was Hermione, agonised, tortured. Harry jumped to his feet, racing for the stairs as a green flash streaked across the entrance hall.
‘Help,’ she cried again, softly from behind him this time.
Harry turned in time to see Hermione slump to the ground where his father had been lying, where Ron lay already cold and dead at the doorway to the castle.
Harry Potter awoke shaking, fingers clutching the wand that was always in his hand as he launched himself out of the tangle of black sheets. His breath came fast, and a wild rush of magic came spilling out of him, flooding the room with light and a crackle of energy that passed through the air like a wave of electricity.
‘Lumos,’ Harry whispered, out of habit rather than necessity, and the tip of the phoenix feather wand blared to life, lighting up Sirus’ dark room. Still half caught in the dream, Harry spun around but the room was empty. He scrambled for the moleskin pouch on the bedside table, thrusting his arm inside, seeking the sharp edge of the mirror he kept stashed there.
Pulling the fragment of glass out, he clutched it tight enough to dig into his fingertips, fighting the phantom aches of battles past.
‘Hermione,’ he called. His voice was horse and in the moments he waited, only staring at his own dishevelled reflection, he struggled to suppress the tremors running through him.
‘Harry?’ A croaky voice whispered back and a sliver of Hermione’s face appeared in the slice of mirror. ‘Are you okay?’
Harry let his head fall, taking a deep breath as her sleepy face replaced the visions of blood, of green light and lifeless eyes.
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘Sorry – I just… Are you okay?’ His best friend’s face instantly softened, and he could tell she was standing up.
‘I’m fine. We’re all fine,’ she soothed. ‘Mrs Weasley made us go to bed as soon as you’d left until she found her packing list for Ron in the bin. Then she had us all up and going over our supplies. I’d say it was ridiculous except that Ron had forgotten to pack a single quill.’ Harry caught glimpses of the burrow staircase over her shoulder as she recounted the foibles of the inventory taking. He slumped on the edge of the bed and put his head between his knees, taking deep breaths to slow his racing heartbeat, and letting her chatter wash over him.
He could hear her knocking gently on a door.
‘Nox,’ Harry whispered. The light from his wand went out but magic still pulsed around the room.
‘Ron,’ he could hear Hermione pushing the door open and the rumbling snores that had accompanied him for years.
‘Ronald, wake up!’ There was a slight hitch in the grumbling. ‘It’s Harry.’ The snoring stopped.
‘S’e’ok?’ Harry raised his head to watch Hermione elbowing Ron to the side and slipping into the orange bed as the sluggish red-head squashed himself against the wall, squinting into the mirror to check in on their best friend.
‘Just dreams,’ Harry replied.
‘I had a dream,’ said Ron yawning widely, ‘that a Kelpie started a tap-dancing class and you kept getting in trouble for bringing the wrong shoes.’
‘That is hardly useful -’ but Hermione’s reproach was cut off.
‘Bet Neville crushed it,’ Harry said, trying to smile.
‘Can’t remember but there was something with a pixie too,’ Ron said, snuggling deeper into the sheets.
‘Tell me?’ Harry lay back on his god father’s bed, closing his eyes and pretending he was with his friends, that this was one of the countless nights they had spent at the Burrow. Ron rambled, and the room in Grimaud Place grew darker as the seething energy in Harry settled. By the time Ron was trying to recall the non-sensical details of a duel between a mermaid and a post-owl that captained an underwater fleet of marine deliveries, Harry felt like himself again. This power that had been released in him at the start of the summer settling back into his skin. It was strange, so instinctive and yet so new to him.
McGonagall, once she had learnt the details of their quest last year and the significance of Harry’s first death, had theorised that this immense power had always been inside him. It had battling with the fragment of Voldemort’s soul that had lived in Harry, keeping him safe until the darkness had been destroyed and Harry’s powers could manifest. He had been having bursts of wild magic ever since the battle, elemental rushes of power that flooded out of him; the uncontrollable blooming of lilies at Colin Creevey’s grave whenever he visited, the storm at Remus’ funeral that thundered in rhythm with Harry’s choaked breathing, the impenetrable bubble of protection that encased Teddy’s crib and wouldn’t let anyone through apart from his godfather who clutched the crying baby at a loss as how to make a mends. Emotional and wandless, his new powers made Harry feel like a child again, like the boy who had hidden in his cupboard and wished away the special things he could do so that he wouldn’t get hurt.
‘We could come and see you tomorrow,’ Hermione ventured quietly in the darkness. Ron had stopped talking and both of them were peering into mirror. ‘Before you leave?’
‘You won’t have time,’ Harry smiled tightly at her.
‘We’ll be in London early,’ pressed Ron.
Harry swallowed and tried to press down the panic. He was leaving tomorrow, today really, in just a few hours, travelling across the ocean so he wouldn’t have to think about the castle, about the wall raining down on his friends, about gut-wrenching revelation that his life there had been a lie.
‘You better write to us,’ Ron countered.
‘Doesn’t sound like you’ll be able to write back,’ Harry tried to tease.
‘Honestly,’ Ron threw himself back on the pillows. ‘It it’s just a quill. I can fob one off anyone.’
‘That’s hardly the example you should be setting, and I’ll take points if I catch you doing it,’ came Hermione’s sharp reply.
‘Harry,’ Ron appealed, ‘Harry, tell her that she isn’t head girl ‘til tomorrow.’
Harry chuckles at their bickering. He had worried at first, when their romance has faded, but the trio had remained as close as ever. He listened to their chatter until he could see Hermione’s eyes struggling to stay open, then bid them a final good night.
He stowed the fragment of mirror back into his bag, pulling out the cigarettes he kept there. Something had snapped in him after the battle, he struggled to control his magic, to believe in the security of shelter and food. He had become harder, wilder, in the year on the run and couldn’t fight the habits that had ingrained themselves out of necessity, no matter how much he tried to trust that the danger was over. At the Burrow, struggling to face the Weasley’s and see Fred in every face that tried to offer him, he kept squirreling away bits of food, hiding knives in the pockets of his clothes. Harry had nearly cried when Mrs Weasley had found his stash of vegetable peelings in the sock drawer; years at the Dursley’s had taught him to preserve food and he couldn’t banish the need to save every morsel. The heartbroken look had been too much on the warm face of Mrs Weasley but when she pulled him into a hug, Harry had a panic attack and spontaneously disapperated with his handful of vegetable off-cuts. She had cried as she piled a ginormous serving of Shepard’s pie on to his plate that evening and offered him more until Harry had to grit his teeth to maintain his smile. She didn’t understand, she hadn’t been there when he and Hermione had been transfiguring rotten leaves to eat to fight the gnawing hunger. Harry had left the Burrow soon after.
He had started staying at Grimaud Place and, the first night alone in London, unable to sleep without waking screaming in terror, and having sent Kreacher to Andromeda to help care for Teddy to avoid the house-elf’s fussing, Harry had found a packet of muggle cigarettes in Sirus’s room. It was a bad habit, but it was hardly as if he could die these days, and they were the only thing that seem to stop the shakes that crept up on him. He lit it with a wave of his hand (a trick he had perfected over the summer) and took a long drag, turning over the letter he had found.
Dear Sirus,
Your letter was a surprise but a welcome one. I have to say that I haven’t had contact with your family since I was a boy. The little I remember is not fond and I do not doubt that the years have made them harsher. If you can find your way to Washington, I’ll give you whatever home an old man can. You would be welcome here, cousin.
Ephraim Black
The letter was dated 1975, the year Sirus had left Grimaud Place, but he had not gone to this mysterious Ephraim, he had gone to Harry’s family. Now, a quarter of a century later, Harry found himself alone, longing for a home, and aching to run away from everything that haunted him.
Harry sat in his godfather’s room until the sun came up over the square, slowly smoking his way through the pack. A deafening crack broke his contemplation.
‘Master Harry!’ an adoring but grouchy voice called from the hallway. ‘I’s is warning you like you’s is asking, Master Harry. I’s is going for the ministry man now.’
‘Thank you, Kreacher,’ Harry called down the stairs.
‘Thanking Kreacher is eating your breakfast not putting it in your dirty pockets,’ the house elf scolded before another loud bang marked his disappearance.
While he horded food, Harry found that he didn’t have much of an appetite most of the time – something Kreacher took as a personal slight. Harry hauled himself to his feet and glanced in the mirror. He looked as he always did: a mess. Years of experience proved the futility of trying to tame his hair, but Harry tried to pull it down over his forehead none the less. The only thing that had really changed was his scar. When Voldemort’s second killing curse had struck him, the scar had turned black and splintered like a real lightning bolt. The feathered scar now branched up into his hair and one fine black line ran down over the corner of his right eyebrow, ending just above his cheekbone. He knew that he had changed, become thinner and sharper, the new magic that crackled behind his eyes gave an unmistakable air of danger. In the months since the battle of Hogwarts, Harry had been besieged by politicians, journalists, and fans alike, but he had learnt to lean into the wilder side that the war brought out in him. A summer spent catching dark wizards and Death Eater sympathizers rather than on a press tour had raised some eyebrows but Harry couldn’t bear the spotlight. There were rumours spreading that Potter had gone feral; good, Harry smiled to himself.
He patted his hair down once more and decided it was as good as it was going to get; there was no hiding the scar these days. He wandered down into the kitchen where a full English breakfast was waiting for him beside his trunk. With a quick stasis charm, he tucked the toast and sausages into his pocket but sat down to eat the hash browns and beans. A gentle knock at the door had Harry on his feet, wand out and on high alert, he stalked down the hallway unable to make himself move out of the shadows even as he rationalised the situation.
It had to be someone he knew, the wards that he built wouldn’t let anyone get within touching distance if they meant him harm. His friends. Dropping his wand arm, but still keeping the holly in his hand, Harry took a steadying breath; he pulled open the great black front door, preparing to reassure them for the thousandth time that this was the right decision, but it was not Ron and Hermione.
‘Hiya, Harry, can I give you a hug?’ Luna smiled at him from the doorstep. In lieu of a reply, Harry reached for her and drew her close, shutting the door behind them. Luna hugged like no-one else and was one of the only people Harry could bear to have touch him.
She drew them into the kitchen and set about making tea.
‘You’re going to be late,’ Harry said quietly, leaning against the counter next to her.
‘I don’t mind missing the train nearly as much as I mind missing you,’ she pressed a cup into his hand and sat at the table. That was the great thing about Luna, she didn’t expect you to talk.
They slowly sipped their tea together until another crack indicated Kreacher’s return. Harry set his face into his trademark scowl and Luna gently smiled.
‘Very good,’ Luna smiled, ‘I do believe I’d find you quite menacing if I didn’t know you.’
‘Don’t be touching,’ Kreacher snapped from the hallway. Harry squared his shoulders and walked out into the hallway where the house-elf was glowering at the wizard he had just apparated in.
‘Mr Froley?’ Harry questioned.
Froley, a junior member of the International Magical Transportation Department, tore his eyes away from the elf and nearly fell over when he found himself face to face with Harry Potter.
‘Harry Potter. H-Mr… Mr Potter. It’s an honour. Could I maybe have an auto - I can’t say -’ he stumbled over himself. When he had been handed that morning’s batch of international portkeys, nothing in the paperwork had indicated that Harry Potter was one of the recipients. Froley pulled himself up to his full height and beamed at the boy, but his admiration was met with a cold and slightly terrifying stare. Froley gulped and re-thought his instinct to ask for a signature. In real life, Harry Potter was a long shot for the doe-eyed hero who graced the front page of The Prophet every-day. When Froley first heard that the boy had been offered the role of Head of the Aurors he assumed it was a courtesy but, standing in front of the Boy Who Lived, Froley could see that the young man almost crackled with power.
‘You brought the portkey?’ Harry asked, pulling Froley from his awe.
‘Yes, yes, sir, Mr Potter,’ he opened his briefcase and retrieved the sandal tagged as #9, 10:00, but the destination had been left blank. ‘Taking a holiday, Mr Potter?’
‘Yous is not to be asking questions, nasty little spy,’ snapped Kreacher.
‘Something like that,’ Harry replied with an inscrutable expression on his face as he took the shoe from Froley. ‘Is all ready to go?’
Froley closed the briefcase with an officious snap and checked his department issued watch (accurate to the zeptosecond).
‘Three minutes to go,’ he confirmed.
‘Kreacher,’ Harry turned his back on the ministry official and nodded to the elf who leapt forwards with a sinister eagerness. ‘Thank you, and I’m sorry about this Mr Froley.’ Harry pointed his wand and whispered, ‘Obliviate.’ The man’s face went slack.
Harry wriggled off a ring he wore on his little finger, a gift from the goblin nation and cursed within an inch of it’s existence. He held it out to Kreacher.
‘Thank you for everything, Kreacher,’ he proffered the ring, but Kreacher sneered.
‘Kreacher is not wanting master’s foul ring. Kreacher is wanting him at home.’ It was a familiar argument.
‘Well, you know what to do then,’ Harry sighed and began to slip the ring back on when the elf’s bony fingers closed around his.
‘Kreacher is not saying he is not having it,’ he scorned before slipping the ring onto his own thumb, grabbing hold of the dazed ministry employee and disappearing with a crack; later, Mr Froley found himself back in his office, no idea how he had spent the morning.
Once it was clear, Luna edged into the hallway, pulling Harry’s trunk with her. She hesitated until Harry opened his arms and then she gathered him up in one last restorative hug.
‘You’re not alone, Harry Potter,’ she whispered into his ear and Harry felt the public façade fade. The clock in the hall ticked loudly and he took a step back, shaking slightly as he adjusted his grip on the sandal and took his trunk from Luna. He wanted to say something but couldn’t manage it, it felt like he was held together with vengeance and panic all summer and now that was over he didn’t know what glued him together; the battle of Hogwarts had been the crux, but the war had persisted, along with the attempts on his life. Ideologies didn’t die alongside Dark Lords. But now the bloody summer was over and the tide had turned irrefutably in favour of the light but the assassination attempts kept coming. Minister Shacklebolt had privately come to Harry with a plan, a way to keep him out of the hands of the last desperate supports of Voldemort and give him a chance to recover from the last seven years. While Harry resented the insinuation that there was anything wrong with him, he had already discovered Ephraim’s letter. The prospect of returning to the castle made it hard to breathe, so Harry had cautiously agreed to the scheme. No-one, not even the minister, knew where he was going.
‘This is for you,’ Luna handed him a small box as the minute hand ticked closer to the hour. ‘Bill’s put all the enchantments on it.’ Harry took the gift, clutching alongside his wand.
‘Be safe,’ he breathed.
‘Look after yourself Harry Potter.’ The clock struck ten and Harry felt the familiar jerk behind his navel as Luna, Grimald Place, and everything he knew twisted out of existence.
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Many thousands of miles away, in a town where the sun hardly shone, a solitary figure raced across the mountain tops, unaware that this day would come to define his infinite existence.