You think you know someone

 Perhaps it had all just been an exceptionally bad dream. Really. The past events of him getting rescued could’ve only occurred in his head, and he might still be in that cell. How he wished he was still locked up in there, as odd as that sound; If everything that had happened could be explained as nothing more than a simple nightmare, then maybe his father was still alive. He can’t be dead. He just can’t.

 Dad had truly come for him. He had travelled through space and time, surprising everyone—including Albus, who had initially experienced shock. Though truth be told, from the moment Albus had laid eyes on his finally corporeal Patronus inside that cell, he predicted as much. But never had he imagined his dad’s fate would be so fatal. He tried not to hold himself accountable for what had happened, knowing that dad would’ve urged Albus not to blame himself, but he couldn’t help it.

 As Albus clutched his brother’s invisibility cloak his dad had left behind, he wished for nothing more than to be the one to disappear from the face of this earth.

  His mind kept replaying the events of the Manor from the moment he recognized his father’s voice until the second before Moody had apparated them into that alley. Dumbledore’s cursed hand. Remus Lupin with Godric Gryffindor’s sword. Nagini dead. It took a while, but Albus eventually pieced together the little bits of crumbs to figure out the context.

 That’s two more horcruxes down beside the diadem as far as he could tell, which begged the question: was that what Dumbledore had been doing all the time he wasn’t in the castle? And had Dumbledore told others about his plans fully? Had Teddy’s father known what Nagini was, or had he simply been following Dumbledore’s orders obligingly? Could it be that the timing of Harry’s disappearance was no coincidence at all? Could it be that the late Headmaster knew something like the Dark lord’s death would occur soon and wanted to make it. . . permanent.

 Albus didn’t know what to believe anymore, and even if he did, he hadn’t the energy to exhaust himself with the possibility. It wasn’t as though he could confront the old man and ask him for the truth—he’s dead.

 And so was his killer.

 Voldemort had been keener on having Dumbledore dead sooner despite being aware of Albus’ father being present at the time. Albus had been truly convinced that the killing curse was meant for his dad, but now, as he considered the reasoning’s of Voldemort’s agenda, it had become apparent to him that the Dark lord would never want Harry Potter to just. . . die. Not without destroying him first. The revelation sent a nasty shiver through Albus. If it had been Voldemort’s way, he would have probably taken his time with dad before eventually killing him. The noseless bastard hated Dumbledore enough to kill him quickly, but not as much as he hated the only person who could supposedly kill him.

 And in spite of the Voldemort’s plans never succeeding, that person still died in the end, which led to the mantra forever unquieted inside Albus’ head: Why did he have to die.

 After the brutal reality of the situation settled in his head, it left him with no further room for denial. Albus had tried categorizing his thoughts on the events that had befallen him, however, accepting all that had happened left him unable to interact with others for days, so he remained speechless. He could barely voice his thoughts, let alone take part in regular occurrences such as eating. He buried himself in grief by hiding beneath the cloak with Harry’s snake—the only tokens left from each dad—wishing that he did not exist.

 Being invisible was the closest he’d ever get to disappearing.

 He was at the Burrow, he knew that much. And no, it was not the Burrow he grew up with. He was with his family, yes, but not the kind that were familiar with him. Ever since news of all that had happened at Malfoy Manor had spread, Albus had been in Uncle Percy’s old room where he spent most of his time brooding.

 It was peculiar how detached he was to the place that should be like a second home to him. How many holidays had he spent in his grandparents’ home? The place now, as it always was in his original timeline, had a cozy air to it, yet he could not bring himself to appreciate it.

 The family he grew up with were good people, but they weren’t the best at dealing with socially closed off teenagers. Occasionally, Albus’ grandparents would try to keep them busy, as it so happened that there were always endless chores in the Burrow that needed tending to. Uncle George and Uncle Ron would be the ones to crack inappropriate jokes (Uncle Ron would always sneak in a treat while he’s at it.) Aunt Hermione, though she always meant well, would relentlessly persist that they talked it out. Aunt Angelina, Aunt Fleur and Uncle Bill would give little encouraging words and would leave it at that. Uncle Charlie always seemed to have a dragon fact ready to spew about as a way to distract them from whatever was troubling them. And leave it to Uncle Percy and Aunt Audrey to always turn things into an overbearing lecture.

 Things here seemed to follow a slightly similar pattern, but Albus couldn’t help but feel alienated with how different the similarities were here.

 To their credit, everyone at this other 1997 version of the Burrow seemed to have latched on the fact that the fallen hero was someone close to Albus, and that the only Potter among them needed the time alone.

 Did they even know who he really was? Albus didn’t know whether Sirius told them everything, and frankly he was in no state to care. Let them know that truth, or not, what difference would it make to him? None of them could undo what had been done. And why would they? Voldemort was dead before due time, and that was something worth celebrating. (Strangely though, no one at the Burrow seemed enthused over that feat—oh, right. Harry’s missing.)

 The Burrow was dismal, the very polar opposite of how things were. It was less crowded with family members than it should. Mostly because whenever Albus would visit, most of the cousins would be there as well.

 When Albus saw the clock downstairs since he first got here, he noticed how it was smaller, which was understandable considering that twenty years ago they didn’t have to fit more than nine people on it. Over the years, more and more people would be added in addition to the nin—eight ones. Uncle Fred’s was the only unusual addition to the family clock on this dimension.

 Eventually, all those days spent locking himself in Uncle Percy’s old bedroom without socializing with anyone became concerning to the residents of the Burrow. Molly Weasley would knock gently on the door and insisted that he joined them during meals. He would not come out, so she’d leave a try for him to hopefully help himself with, but she never gave up on asking. 

 Ron was the one always reminding him to eat though. It was such an Uncle Ron thing for him to do. But unlike his real uncle, Ron didn’t have the knack to make jokes to defuse uncomfortable situations. Here, that seemed to be the twins’ thing.

 The difference was bizarre. It never occurred to Albus how haunted Uncle George’s eyes always were in contrast to the version of him that still had his twin brother—and probably forever would. 

 Albus noted the difference. This version of him was lax (if Albus could even tell which of the two was George) He didn’t even want to address the harsh truth that once he was able to identify the twins, he’d have to acknowledge the fact that the other was the uncle he never met. This could have—should have—been a happy moment, he thought, if it weren’t for what happened to Harry—either one of them or both, really.

 Eventually, once an amount of time had passed, people would probably expect him to get better. To Albus, it felt that social construct demanded he get better soon. And he would feel guilty for not getting there. He should be interacting with those people! Not isolating himself and deliberately avoiding each and every one of them!

 When all was said and all was done, this was not really that different from how he was with his actual family. He had always been the one to feel alienated around them. Though the scenario here was quite different from what it was like back home. Albus was used to distancing himself from family, mostly because he knew they didn’t want him around anyway. Now, he wasn’t so sure that it hadn’t only appeared that way in his head.

 Why couldn’t he just get better? Why did it always feel like he couldn’t belong? Why did his essence have to be so ruinous to everything around him?

 Why did he have to die?

 Albus wasn’t one to believe in tangible jinxes, but he would be oblivious if he didn’t admit to his own presence being cursed in some way or another.

 The only person Albus was able to stomach to have around was Ginny. She didn’t try to pry answers out of him, nor did he feel pressured to just get better when she was around. Everything about her spoke of patience and understanding. Her essence was the closest thing to the parental comfort he never thought he’d receive again. And even though he hadn’t said it, he appreciated her dearly, for he would be irrevocably bereft without her.

 Ginny would sometimes sit on Percy’s bed beside Albus, not saying anything but simply being there. The gentle brown eyes radiated the kind of warmth and comfort one could only crave when they were homesick. As the two were alone together, Albus wouldn’t talk, and so she wouldn’t talk either. All she did was offer a shoulder for him to cry on, which he readily accepted it.

 In another world, he had encountered considerably less than extreme situations where he found himself holding on to his mother like he would to a lifeline. When Albus felt exceptionally alienated amongst his own family, mum always seemed to be the one to know what was wrong without having to communicate it with words.

 Albus was certain that this could not be something similar with Ginny. Not only was she a teenage version of his mother, but she was also his friend, the one who taught him the Patronus Charm, but not the one who raised him. She couldn’t know everything about him. Could she?

 Albus liked to pretend that she did. He would have his eyes shut tightly, pretending that he was back home in his own room, tucked beneath his mother’s secured embrace. An embrace that felt like a silent promise that everything would work itself out, and all would be well in the end.

 For once, Albus doubted it could.

Albus hadn’t been hiding today. He had been feeling a tad bit like socializing, so he spent the morning helping Molly Weasley with breakfast. He wasn’t entirely sure if she knew who he was; she kept referring to him as dear or Al, so he couldn’t be sure. She’d hadn’t tried to strike up a conversation with him, and to that he had been grateful. She only stuck with gently instructing him or asking simple questions which he’d shake his head to, nod, or shrug—or, if it called for it, he’d say a few things, which made him internally cringed at how croaky he sounded. He barely recognized his own voice after the period of disuse.

 He thought of how his own grandmother’s cooking was one of the best he’d ever had, and this was no different. Thus, he was forcibly reminded of his dad’s cooking, which was something not only he could never experience again, but neither could his siblings, and family. They would never have him cook for them ever again, never see him in their house, never hear him talk. . . there was nothing left of him—not even a body for them to bury, to bring home. . .

 He was suddenly not in the mood to socialize with anyone anymore. He wanted to. . . to disappear. Oh yes, he wanted—needed—to not exist for a while.

 He had grabbed an apple to not have her persist that he wasn’t eating before leaving to hide upstairs with the cloak, the only thing left of his dad.

 After about twenty minutes, Ginny came upstairs. She had two plates with her which she set on the floor before joining him there too. There was Some green piece of clothing tucked between her arm and the right side of her torso, which he didn’t pay attention to. He wasn’t sure how she knew he was there. He made sure not to sit on something bendy for a reason.

 He stayed quiet. Maybe she’d go away if she thought he wasn’t there.

 As though reading his mind, she nudged his partly exposed shoe with her foot.

 He mentally grumbled as he peeled off the cloak. She pushed a plate in front of him and started eating her breakfast without saying anything. Albus decided to take a bite off the apple he’d been fiddling with when Ginny chose that moment to break the long silence.

“Do you prefer Albus? Or should I stick with Al?” That was the first thing Ginny said after a little over a week of mutual silence between the two. It was a perfectly appropriate thing to ask. Completely innocent and unintrusive that he should not have any problem in responding.

 Albus’ initial reaction was lax rather than surprised. With all that had happened, revealing his true identity was the least of his problems. Besides, he figured she might as well know who he was by now.

 It took Albus the duration of an entire thirty seconds to find his voice. “I don’t like Al.”

 “Really?” Ginny sounded genuinely intrigued, eyebrows as good as disappearing into red hairline. “Then why’d you have us refer you as that for months?”

 “I don’t know. It just felt easier—” He cleared his throat. Gosh, why was his voice so hoarse? “less confusing.”

 Ginny’s forehead creased when the simple motion of clearing his throat escalated into coughs. “Need something to drink?”

 “M’fine.” He mumbled, shaking his head no.

 Ginny looked far from convinced, and honestly, he couldn’t blame her. If he was ‘fine’, then he wouldn’t feel so weird around his own family to the point of hiding all the time.

 “Albus is my name.” He tried to refocus the subject before she’d be able to change it into a more serious one. “It’s already short and easily rolls off the tongue, there’s no need to shorten it even more.”

 Ginny lips tugged at a corner in a semi like smirk. “That’s one way to look at nicknames. I just can’t believe it’s taken me so long to realize you’re Harry’s dimension travelling son.”

 Now it was Albus whose eyebrows rose in amusement. “You. . . thought I was lying?”

 “Oh, don’t you get defensive—you were lying.” Albus opened his mouth to interject but Ginny cut him off. “Besides, I don’t need to have had a childhood crush on Harry to know his so called counterpart was a fake. It just takes someone observant.” The like me was left unsaid and she grinned proudly at the self-proclaimed phrase before adding with a shrug. “Like Hermione.”

 “Hermione?” He blinked.

 “Mhmm. I knew from the start you could not have been Harry, but Hermione was the one who put in the effort to investigate it.” Ginny said. “After Harry’s godfather sent a Patronus message to you and to Harry, Hermione already knew about the message to Harry—assuming he already told her and Ron about it obviously—and she had her suspicions. When you told Luna and I about needing to learn the Patronus Charm to communicate with your folks, Hermione might have overheard Luna and I discussing it. So, she pieced things together and told Ron who told me that you might either be Harry’s descendant from the future, or—er. . . y’know what, it doesn’t matter what her other possibilities of who and what you are were. They’re just theories, and half of them couldn’t be true because I just knew you aren’t secretly a bad person.”

 “W-wait, what were half of those theories about then? Me being a Death Eaters in disguise?” He attempted to jest, something he couldn’t imagine he’d be capable of doing anymore, yet the corner of his mouth quirked ever so slightly. “I thought the entire school at least thought that the first time they saw me.”

 Ginny rolled her eyes, but Albus did not miss the way her face flushed, which was all the admission of guilt he needed. “Anyway—”

 “You did too?!”

 Her face turned nearly as red as her hair that Albus immediately thought of Lily. But instead of making his heart yearn, he found it endearing. It was almost like he was talking to his sister. But he knew that he should not be okay with this. Ginny was neither a substitute for a sister nor a mother—yes, she was his mother in a sense, but not the real one. He was not a real part of her family.

 Yet that didn’t stop her from caring about him.

 “My point is, Ron and Hermione weren’t really surprised when Sirius confirmed the more pleasant of their theories. Honestly, we all expected that could be your true relations to Harry.” After a slight pause, she hastily added with a disappointed frown. “Ironically, except for Harry. But he’s always been an oblivious bloke, that one.”

 Albus did not know what to say to that. What she was saying was that Harry technically mightn’t have known. If Sirius was the one to expose the truth, then that had happened after Harry’s disappearance and not before.

 She must have sensed that any Harry-related topic was unwelcome, so she added provocatively, “I’d say the unexpected bit was when I saw Harry’s stag Patronus appear in front of me and delivered a long message starting with: Mum, it’s me, it’s Albus.”

 Huh, his Patroni had been confused on which Ginny Albus had meant, so it sent a message with the two versions Albus’ magical core was familiar with? Was that how the Order knew he had been held captive at Malfoy Manor? “Huh.”

 “Yeah.” Ginny stated. “I was lucky it happened when I was heading toward the loo and the corridor was empty. Imagine the scandal.” She quipped, but he was suddenly in no chummy mood.

 “So. . . your family know.” He stated somberly.

 “I didn’t know if it was my place to tell. I mean, you certainly didn’t want them to know if you kept your identity hidden for months.” Her eyes darted as she searched for the right words to say. “I. . . I wanted to talk to you about it first once the Order save you, but, that didn’t matter then.” She looked down. “Not after everything that happened. Voldemort killing Professor Dumbledore and then Harry goes missing the same time Voldemort’s been defeated by. . . by. . .” She looked at him uncertainly.

 He swallowed a lump to keep down his reaction.

 Finally she settled on saying: “Sirius told the Order everything.”

 Suddenly, Albus could not find his voice.

 Ginny inched closer, a sad look crossed her face. If she thought Harry was an undesirable subject to discuss with Albus, then this was a . She whispered sympathetically, “Albus. . . that’s Harry’s real counterpart, isn’t it?”

 He nodded. He hated how his eyes stung from just mentioning it.

 “He was your dad.”

 Was.

 He looked at her urgently, gazing pleadingly, willing her to understand that he did not—could not—talk about it.

 And Ginny, she understood him best, so they didn’t discuss anything further. Instead, she had given him the green jumper she’d been holding on to. It was the classic Christmas jumper made by Molly Weasley. Ginny explained the reason Albus got his later than the rest of them did was because her mum had to undo the H to make an A instead.

A gentle series of knocks occurred from the other side of the door before the knocker invited themselves in. Albus did not look up from where he lay on the bed, body curled, face tucked between hunched shoulders, and his back facing the door—and of course, the cloak covering his entire figure and a Grass Snake lurking someplace close by.

 Three days from now, the break would be over, and Albus didn’t know what he would do once that happened. He had on the jumper grandma made for him, strikingly identical to the one his real grandmother had made for him in the other dimension—home dimension.

 Albus heard the sound of footsteps approaching, but when the mattress dipped from the edge of the bed where the figure settled on, he knew that this was not Ginny. Nevertheless, Albus dismissed it as Ron probably attempting to make him eat, or the twins trying to persuade him into getting up to mischief to drive his sorrows away.

 The figure then began speaking.

 “I believe that I bear some guilt for what happened to your dad, Albus.”

 Albus closed his eyes and sighed before turning to address Sirius Black.

 The man didn’t turn his head—probably because he couldn’t see him; he was glaring at his own lap where his hands rested. Albus had to force his body into a proper sitting position just to be able to see the other’s face sideways, causing the cloak to sling off his shoulders.

 “I want you to know that what happened hadn’t been part of the plan.” Sirius resumed when it became apparent that the teenager had nothing to contribute. “He and I were supposed to destroy the horcruxes before he attempts to stop Voldemort—and in no way did the plan involve facing him off on his own, let alone getting killed in the process as well—I. . . I worry that I may have unintentionally pressured him, and for that I am deeply sorry.” Sirius buried his face in one of his hands, elbow resting on his lap as it supported the weight of his head. “I only wanted to protect my Harry, but I never wished that to happen at the expense of your father’s life.”

 There were many things to say about that, yet Albus still hadn’t the words. Though it was about time he addressed the giant elephant in the room. “Where is. . . Harry?”

 Sirius was taken aback. This was the first time he’d heard Albus speak. Silence rang again, though Albus wasn't certain if his mind was shutting off the outer sounds or if it had actually gotten quiet. “I don’t know.” Sirius said defeatedly, just barely audible.

 Albus looked at the man like he was seeing him for the first time, because in a sense, he was.

 This was a man who had to face life changing challenges one after the other, and each time his life bore a semblance to improvement, more bad things seemed to happen that knocked him off. That was something he could relate to at the moment, at least.

 And while Albus spent months in this world, Sirius had no doubt spent just as many in the other one. (Funny that. Since when did Albus think of his home dimension as being the other?) Albus wondered if spending time with dad had made Sirius think of James Potter I had he lived past twenty one. With what dad being the same age as Sirius was, Albus supposed it might have. He promptly wondered if it felt to Sirius that he had lost his best friend all over again. . . and shortly after, the godson he was supposed to look after, but was never able to.

 Albus blinked curiously at the defeated-looking man. He wasn’t the only one taking the news hard on himself. He wasn’t the only one who felt guilty about what happened to his father. Sirius and Albus were experiencing the very same guilt on some level.

 “So, they’re both gone. Just like that?” Albus said quietly. And, because something in his mind clicked, he had to add. “You know about the horcruxes.” It was meant to sound like a question, although it came out sounding like he was stating a plain fact.

 Sirius released his head from his hand and breathed in sharply.

 “We talked, your dad and I.” He said without looking at Albus. And after a rather long pause, he resumed, “I just spoke to Snape, before coming here. It appears that he and Dumbledore have beaten your dad and I in the soul-searching bit.” Sirius said in mild distaste. If the tone was meant for Snape or Dumbledore or even Voldemort’s scattered pieces of souls, Albus couldn’t tell. “I suppose you told Dumbledore about the horcruxes as soon as you got here, huh? So, I guess that was resourceful. Well done.”

 Not so much as told Dumbledore as him stealing the information from Albus’ mind. He attempted for a scoff, but it came out as a huffing sound that did no justice to what he thought.

 “So,” Albus began slowly. “you know about. . . about Harry being. . .”

 “I do.” Sirius said distantly, his head facing forward toward the closed door while Albus took the liberty to take off the cloak fully and fold it before setting it aside. “Your dad and I were going to figure something out about. . . that. . . after you were sent home.”

 Albus shrunk onto himself, mumbling, “I don’t think I even want to go home anymore.” It would mean that he would have to deliver the bad news to his family. And a part of him was sick to his core of what they’d think.

 Was this how his dad felt when people he loved died during the war? Did he blame himself for it, like Albus was doing now?

 Would his family blame him for what happened to dad?

 Sirius turned his head and looked at him at last. Something in those grey eyes flashed in comprehension.

 “I understand. You need time.” Sirius said sympathetically. “But you have to return eventually. I owe it to your father to make sure you make it back home. After all the arrests at the Battle of Malfoy Manor, I was granted the title as Head of House to my family, so the political power I hold from that horrid title could be put to good use and get fully authorized access to the veil. But we don’t have to go to the ministry right now if you don’t feel like it.”

 Albus gave a short nod, and the man patted his back.

 “Just, once you’re ready to go home, tell me and I’ll make it happen, alright?”

 He nodded again, distinctly wondering how long he could extend his stay until Sirius would be forced to make him leave.

 He did not want to keep thinking of that, so he attempted to change the subject. “So, Dumbledore and Snape were horcrux hunting all this time? Have they found and destroyed all of them?”

 “Snape mentioned they’ve gotten the three—four if you count the snake.”

 Ring, locket, and cup. Albus wasn’t entirely sure where each of their location could be. Except he knew that the locket’s original location had been in a cave before it got switched with a replica by Sirius’ brother. Dad and especially Aunt Hermione had made sure to let it be known of the heroism of those who weren’t acknowledge by the public. Also, Albus knew from stories Kreacher had told about how he had come to love serving Harry Potter almost as much as his former master. Kreacher had told them as kids all about his own part of the war, so the locket had been brought up several times.

 Albus had the dates a little mixed up, but he knew it was too early for the locket to be stolen from this dimension’s Kreacher yet, so it had to be still at Grimmauld’s. Dumbledore could have certainly obtained it easily.

 As for the other two horcruxes. Albus knew one of them must have been at Gringotts since his dad, aunt and uncle’s break in had been documented. It was a well-known fact that they have been the first to ever steal from the most secured bank, and after the war ended, it had been easy for the public to guess what that object meant, so the horcrux had been documented as well—though which one? Dad never thought it important to come out and discuss it openly, and neither did the workers of the bank.

 But Dumbledore couldn’t have gotten whatever was in the Lestrange vault, could he?

 “Your cousin had one hidden at Gringotts, do you know about that?” Said Albus. “How could they have gotten it out of there without it making the news?”

 “Snape said Dumbledore had to make an appeal to Wizengamot to allow for a private warrant to search her vault. The goblins are an obstinate folks, so you can imagine how uncooperative they were, that is until Dumbledore revealed the nature of the object they wanted to confiscate, which so happens to be a stolen, tainted object that rightfully—and I mean by their law—belonged to the goblins.”

 That made sense. The most valuable of magical artifacts were unsurprisingly goblin-made, those were of the best quality after all, and someone like the founders of an important institute in the history of magic would have the honors of having owned something handmade by the best.

 If the goblins at Gringotts deemed the horcrux’ nature to be stolen from them, then it had to be Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, and unlike that heirloom, the Gaunt ring rightfully belonged to Voldemort.

 The ring was certainly an interesting heirloom to have considering the conspiracy theories behind it. After May of 1998, some would say that it was the same ring from a folktale from the book of the Tales of Beedle the Bard. People had this ridiculous urge to prove that it was some kind of a Deathly Hollow.

Consequently, that popularized an interview with Garric Olivander of the time he had been kidnapped by Voldemort. that led people to bring up everything they know about Dumbledore’s biography written by Rita Skeeter and link it with Gellert Grindelwald’s involvement in World War II—all that eventually led to the birth of the most absurd theory yet: that Dumbledore’s wand, the Guant ring, and dad’s cloak, were the three objects from the Tale of the Three Brothers.

 Dad had publicly denied it. Repeatedly.

 His dad had also denied many other things that this dimension proved to be quite the contrary. Like saying that there were never more than six horcruxes.

 Albus shared all that with Sirius. He seemed to already know some of the things Albus told him about, and more. And so they talked for hours. They talked about the so-called Deathly Hollows, and about the wand lore, and about dementors, trying to see what their options were. But even if they did conduct a plan to help Harry with the soul problem, they still had no idea where to find him.

 When Sirius was about to leave, he paused at the door frame and looked at Albus imploringly.

 “It’s not your fault, you know.” He said. “Things happen, and they’re out of our control. There’s no use blaming yourself over something so vast. You’re just a kid, and that’s a mighty burden to bear on even grown men.”

 Albus was taken back, but as Sirius made to leave, he promptly said. “It’s not your fault either.”

 Sirius hesitated, and though Albus couldn’t see his face, he could tell he was mulling it over, then he continued walking out.