Holly Potter and The Time-Travelling Brother

“Bloody arseholes!” Holly Potter seethed, throwing the letter she had been reading to the floor, where it joined the rest of the letters she had discarded after reading that summer. It had been a month since she watched Cedric die at Voldemort’s hands in the graveyard, and not days after that event she had been carted back off to the Dursleys as though nothing had happened.

Once there, she had been quite thoroughly isolated from everyone she knew, with only the occasional package of sweets from Mrs. Weasley and letters with far too little in them from Ginny, Ron and Sirius to tide her over til Hogwarts started again on September 1st.

It was not enough, and just left her more angry than ever as each homemade cake arrived without so much as a note explaining what was going on, and letter after letter fell into her lap filled with empty platitudes and hollow words which told her nothing bar one simple truth - they were hiding something from her.

“Fuck you too then!” she hissed, stamping on the pile of letters and rolling them up into a ball before throwing them at the wastepaper basket in the corner of her room - it missed by a wide berth, and she cursed loudly at that, kicking the corner of her bed in frustration.

It hurt, and if she were a person of lesser pride, she might have hopped around the room, bemoaning her hotheadedness, but instead she stayed where she was, determined to ignore the dull throbbing in her foot as she silently fumed about the injustice of being left in the dark.

However, before she could achieve the beautiful catharsis of having her righteous fury come to a head, she heard a loud bang from outside - like the crack of a whip. Immediately, she knew what it was, and her anger suddenly drained out of her, replaced with a cold dread; someone had just Apparated outside of Privet Drive.

Jumping into action, she got down on her hands and knees and crawled under her bed, pulling up the loose floorboard and fumbling around until she found her wand. With it firmly secured in her hand, she scurried back to her feet and took post next to her door frame, her chest heaving and face slightly flushed from the sudden burst of activity combined with her previous anger.

Downstairs, she heard the front door click and swing open, and she waited for uncle Vernon to come screaming at the intruder, but her dear uncle’s voice never made itself heard. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she remembered that the Dursleys had gone out to a restaurant, and she was the only one in the house with this mystery person.

Soft footsteps padded up the stairs, and none of the other doors were even tried before the person came to a stop in front of hers. She waited with bated breath, cursing her previous heavy breathing which had likely alerted the intruder to her location, but the door didn’t open. 

Instead, the silence seemed to stretch on into infinity, and Holly was about to start wondering if she had imagined a break-in for some temporary reprieve from her boredom before a voice spoke from the other side of the door.

“Wonder if she’s home? I would have opened the door by now,” it mused, sounding as though it were talking to someone, despite the fact that she had definitely only heard one set of footsteps come up the stairs. The voice that had spoken was deep, that of a man, and it sounded vaguely amused, which set Holly on edge.

“Yes, you would, and I applaud her superior discretion, but I can smell her fear. She is home,” a second voice returned, that of a woman. It was low, although not as low as the man’s, and sibilant, with a strangely serpentine edge to it.

“It was a rhetorical question, Llivia. I heard her banging about in her room before I even opened the door,” the man replied easily, causing Holly to flush red with embarrassment on the other side of the door. The woman just laughed, a noise which sounded like the tinkling of bells to Holly’s ears.

Deciding that she had had enough of being mocked by these mystery people, she flung open her bedroom door, a curse on her lips which died the moment she saw what was on the other side. Her father - no, that wasn’t right, a man in her father’s skin and with her mother’s eyes - was leaning against the wall with a guileless smirk on his face, with a snake as wide as a man’s thigh draped around his shoulders like some bizarre sort of scarf, flicking its tongue out at her curiously.

“Who are you?” she asked, because she could think of no other question more pressing. After all, it wasn’t everyday she came across strange men who looked for all the world like the son of her parents. The man’s smile widened, and he straightened up from his previous slouching posture to stick out his hand.

“Harry Potter, at your service,” he said brightly, a shit-eating grin on his face which reminded her too much of Sirius from before Azkaban, smiling up at her from the few photos she had of him, tucked away in the photo album Hagrid had given her in her first year.

“No you’re not. I’m the last Potter alive, Dumbledore said so,” she countered, although she wondered if she could really trust Dumbledore’s word. He didn’t seem as whimsical as he did when she first started Hogwarts anymore, with his many blunders since her first introduction to the only wizard Voldemort ever feared, and she wondered if this was just another one of Dumbledore’s errors.

“Oh, you are. In this world, that is. Would you believe me, Holly, if I told you that I’m from 2007?” he asked brightly, hand still extended. Holly refused to take it, and shook her head, because she hadn’t gone quite so loopy as to believe a story that preposterous yet.

“She is rude,” the snake complained, and Holly flinched at the realisation that the ‘Llivia’ she had heard speaking earlier was actually a snake. She often forgot that she was a Parselmouth - the whole business with the snake in the dueling club was long behind her - but it was never a pleasant realisation every time it came back to her.

“Do not be boorish, Llivia. She is a speaker,” Harry chided, wagging his finger exaggeratedly at the snake before turning back to Holly. “I assure you, I am from 2007. I’m you, in fact, or at least my time’s version of you. I was born to Lily and James Potter on July 31st, 1980 and my godfather was Sirius Black, who was falsely imprisoned after the betrayal of Peter Pettigrew. This summer, I was sent back to Privet Drive without enough information, and Sirius, Ron and Hermione didn’t send me enough letters, so I got real moody and depressed. Sound familiar?”

“I- I am not moody and depressed!” she sputtered, because it was the easiest part to deal with of that confession. Harry actually had the gall to laugh at that, and he ruffled her wine-red hair as though she were a child.

“Sure you aren’t, shortstuff. Anyways, my third year Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was Remus Lupin, and he taught me the Patronus Charm, which took the form of a stag. In my first year, Moldyshorts was living out the back of Quirell’s head, and I stopped him from getting the Philosopher’s Stone, melting Quirell’s face off in the process. Last year, my name came out of the Goblet of Fire because Crouch Jr., who was pretending to be Moody, put it in, and Ron thought I put it in myself and acted like an absolute ass about it until a dragon nearly burnt my ass off. Anything I’ve said there not apply here?” he asked.

Holly took a moment to rack her brains, and found that Harry’s account was much too accurate for him to be anyone other than who he claimed he was, although there were some discrepancies.

“I’m not friends with Granger, and I honestly can’t see why you would have been. My patronus is a doe, and Ron believed me when I said that I didn’t put my name in the Goblet. It was Ginny who didn’t initially, but I yelled at her enough about it that she realised I was serious before the first task,” she said, still reeling that Harry really was who he said he was.

“You’re not friends with Hermione? How do you get your homework done on time?” he asked incredulously. Holly levelled him with her best look of faux-disbelief, although it was slightly ruined by the fact that she was currently in much greater disbelief about other things.

“Were you thick enough that you couldn’t without that know-it-all’s help?” she asked in turn. Harry opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking deep in thought. Eventually, he nodded, looking incredibly put out.

“Merlin, I need to meet this world’s version of Ron. Mine would have flunked out by second year without Hermione,” he joked, but it sounded pained, as though he had only just realised there was another way things could have been. 

Holly just nodded, her smug expression wiped off her face and replaced with a bitter one. In truth, she didn’t much care that her Ron was apparently better than Harry’s, because he had still abandoned her to the Dursleys, a crime much worse than being a bad study in her opinion.

As if reading her mind, Harry placed a hand on her shoulder, face suddenly serious.

“Ron hasn’t abandoned you, Holly, I can promise you that. If you want to sit down, I can explain some of what’s going on right now,” he offered, gesturing to the room behind her. Reluctant to believe him, but knowing that her future self likely knew better than her, she nodded and entered the room, sitting down on her bed. Harry followed, pulling the chair out from under her desk and sitting down on it.

He sighed, wiping his mop of black hair out of his eyes, and in doing so showcased a mirror of her own scar, more faded but still present, on his forehead, along with an ornate looking signet ring, with a gold casing and a black stone set in it. She wanted to ask about both, as her own scar had only seemed to grow more agitated as time ploughed forward and the ring was really very fancy, but she restrained herself, and Harry started speaking.

“You know about the Death Eaters, right?” he asked. At her nod, he continued, “Well, in the last war, there was a group called the Order of the Phoenix who fought against them, led by Dumbledore. My- well, our parents were in it, and so were Sirius, Remus and Pettigrew. After Moldyshorts and his ugly mug came out of the cauldron this summer, Dumbledore decided it was time to reform the Order.

They’re headquartered at Sirius’ old family home, and the Weasleys are a part of it this time round, so Ron and Ginny are staying there with Sirius. Dumbledore doesn’t want you informed of it for a reason I’ll explain in a second, so he’s told Sirius, Ron and Ginny to censor their letters to you. That’s why they’re so insubstantial and… well, shitty. It’s because Dumbledore is keeping you in the dark, not because your friends and godfather have decided you aren’t worth their time anymore.”

Holly nodded slowly. That did make much more sense, really, than her running theory that everyone important in her life had suddenly decided that she was beneath them. However, it had been more than a second and Harry still hadn’t explained why Dumbledore wanted her in the dark, and Holly Potter was nothing if not curious.

“Why does Dumbledore not want me to know about this?” she asked, feeling some righteous indignation at that - she had seen Voldemort return, if anyone had a right to know about this resistance group, it was her!

Harry sighed again, leaning back in his chair. He steepled his fingers, looking deep in thought, and Holly was about to ask him to snap out of it and just tell her when he started speaking.

“Do you remember the diary from second year?” he asked. Holly, baffled at the non-sequitur, still racked her brains at the question, until she eventually remembered that Ginny had come to school that year with a diary which talked back to her, which she and Ron had promptly confiscated and handed in to the professors.

“Yeah. Ginny had a diary which wrote back to her, and me and Ron took it off her and gave it to Professor McGonagall because it was obviously dangerous. What about it?”

Harry frowned deeply at that for some reason, and took a moment to respond. When he did, he spoke in a measured tone which really didn’t suit him, as though he were trying to puzzle something out as he spoke.

“Right. Well, that explanation won’t make much sense then, because you don’t know what the diary really was. Okay, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to tell you outright; you have a piece of Lord Voldemort’s soul inside of you.”

Of all the things Holly had been expecting, that hadn’t been one of them. She felt as though she had been doused in cold water, and the world around her suddenly seemed less real. She clapped a hand to the scar on her forehead, which was tingling like it had done when professor Quirell looked at her in first year and like it did when Voldemort came out of the cauldron in the graveyard.

However, before the true dread at that pronouncement could sink in, Harry was at her side, grasping her hand in his own. It was bony - not in the way that Ron was bony, but emaciated, as though he had been starved - but it was warm, and Holly thought that she could not possibly feel warmth if having a piece of Voldemort’s soul inside her was a world-ending event.

Suddenly, the colour seemed to seep back into the world, and Harry was looking down at her with a bright intensity in his emerald green eyes, brow furrowed in concern. He squeezed her hand and made no move to let go until she pulled away, which made her feel a warmness in her chest which she couldn’t quite place.

She was not touch-starved, as Ron and Ginny seemed to insist was the case, but Mrs. Weasley’s bear hugs and Ron and Ginny’s casual intimacy had always left something to be desired; it wasn’t that it didn’t feel nice, exactly, but they were always pulling away before she had a chance to take it in, as though she shouldn’t need to take it in.

Harry seemed to understand that there was such a need, and he did not make to pull away until her quickened breathing had levelled out, and she pulled back of her own accord. It felt nice, and she shot Harry a tentative smile, which he briefly returned before his face went serious again.

“Right. So, there’s a piece of Lord Voldermort’s soul inside of you. Dumbledore doesn’t know that for certain right now, but he’s speculating that there’s a connection between the two of you, and he thinks that Voldemort could use that connection to learn about the Order if he told you about it, which is why he’s told everyone to keep you in the dark.”

Holly nodded, shuddering slightly at the mention of her body playing host to Voldemort’s soul, but the world did not go grey this time as it had done the first time Harry had mentioned it. Instead, she asked, in her opinion, the most obvious question there was in the face of what Harry had just told her.

“Well, how did you find out about it in your world then? I find it hard to believe that you somehow got shot of Voldemort’s soul piece before the summer was out.”

Harry grimaced at that, hand absently travelling up to his scar at the words. Llivia hissed in what she could tell was malcontent although no words were issued from her mouth, and she coiled tighter around Harry, as though hugging him. Harry, however, brushed her off with a whisper that she couldn’t catch, which had the snake resuming her previous position.

“No, I didn’t, although I’m going to make sure that you do. No, Dumbledore decided it was finally time that I learn about the Order when me and Dudley almost got our souls sucked out by a pair of dementors,” he deadpanned. Holly, who had just about started to believe the headmaster may have been possessed of some modicum of common sense, stared at him with her mouth open in a perfect ‘o’ shape, absolutely gobsmacked.

“What? How? Why?” she demanded, and Harry’s serious expression suddenly melted away, and he looked as though he were biting back a laugh, which she thought was entirely inappropriate. She was about to start shouting, but he began speaking before she had the chance.

“I’m sorry, but you remind me so much of myself when I was your age. I know we’re the same person or whatever, but still…” he trailed off, shaking his head fondly, before schooling his expression back into something more appropriate.

“Well, it was quite simple, really; Dolores Umbridge, senior undersecretary to the Minister and an absolute crazy bitch of a woman, sent them after me, hoping I’d either die or get expelled from Hogwarts for doing magic over the summer. The Ministry doesn’t like the cut of our jib, see, and they’ve been running a smear campaign on us ever since the grand return of Moldyshorts, because they don’t want to believe he’s back. 

Anyway, seeing that I was quite literally in danger of losing my soul if I stayed at Privet Drive any longer, Dumbledore finally saw fit to remove me, and he sent a team to come fly me out a few days later to take me to headquarters. He still forbade me from joining in on any of the meetings though, even though they all concerned me, whether directly or indirectly,” he said, his tone going bitter by the end. 

Holly, who had thus far taken Harry as someone who was physically incapable of showing ill will from his jaunty, comforting demeanour, was unsure what to say. It was rather like in her fourth year, when the usually meek and mild-mannered Mr. Weasley had come storming into the castle when it was announced that Holly was the fourth champion with Mrs. Weasley in his wake and had shouted himself hoarse at Dumbledore about how Holly was ‘as good as his daughter’, and that he ‘wasn’t going to let her life be put at risk in this ruddy tournament.’

Mr. Weasley’s words had ultimately proven ineffectual, as Dumbledore either lacked the motivation or means to circumvent the binding magical contract of the Goblet, but they had come from a place of great passion, and Holly could tell that Harry’s had too, although she could not fathom why.

Seeing her look of confusion, Harry just shook his head, stroking Llivia’s flat head as though she were a cat.

“Secrets kill, Holly. Remember that,” he offered cryptically, before his expression  brightened unnaturally. “So,” he said, clapping his hands together as though the dark mood he had been in a minute prior had never existed, “About removing that piece of Lord Voldemort’s soul,” he continued, getting to his feet and withdrawing a wand which was strangely familiar to Holly, although she could not figure out why.

“Do you have anything here that you wouldn’t mind playing host to the soul piece? Preferably something that doesn’t have to make it through the process intact,” he asked. Holly deliberated for a moment, knowing she was in possession of several things which she wouldn’t mind being destroyed, before she eventually settled on the ugliest and scratchiest of Dudley’s castoffs, handing over the mustard yellow, handknit jumper to Harry with a wide smirk on her face.

Harry returned it for a second, but his expression quickly turned solemn as he took the jumper from her, and he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“This is going to hurt, okay? Like, worse than the Cruciatus, hurt. You’ll likely be out of commission for a while, but it’s far better than the alternative. You ready, kiddo?” he asked, as though he wasn’t going to do it anyway if she said that she wasn’t. Although, in fairness, Harry did seem kind enough that he just might, if she truly wasn’t ready. 

However, there was never a part of Holly that doubted that she could do this, if it meant destroying this piece of Voldemort’s soul living inside her. She bowed her head, and Harry raised his wand. He commanded her to open her mouth, which she obliged, and then he spoke the incantation.

“Transferum Anima Fractum,” he whispered. All at once, Holly’s very being felt as though she were on fire. She wanted to writhe from the pain, but Harry had cast a body bind wordlessly along with the other spell, and she was powerless to do anything but watch as the very fibres of her being felt as though they were being wrenched apart.

Harry was right - it was worse by far than the Cruciatus curse. She had taken four of those in the graveyard, and even put together they could not hold a candle to how excruciating the removal of the soul piece was. Tears involuntarily leaked from her eyes as her body tried to buck and lurch against the pain, but could find no release from the restraints binding her.

Then, the pain came to an unbearable head, and she felt as though she were going to die. However, the release of death never came. Instead, a pulsating, black thing emerged from her mouth, and Harry slowly wrangled it towards the jumper, which it imbued itself into on contact.

As soon as the soul fragment was out of sight Harry undid the body bind, and the first thing Holly did with her newfound motor skills was let out a gasping, desperate sob. It was a weak, pitiful noise but Holly couldn’t find it within herself to care - this hurt, far worse than anything else she had had to endure in her life.

Then, Harry was at her side, holding her to him, and that all seemed less important than clinging onto him, making sure that he did not leave her. Sirius had held onto her like this too, when she had told him that she would live with him after they turned Pettigrew in, but he had been forced to let go when professor Lupin turned into a werewolf, and he had been unable to make his way back ever since.

Holly wouldn’t let that happen this time. She was hurting, infinitely worse than when she found out that Pettigrew was the one to betray her parents, and she could not stand to lose her anchor again. Harry, for his part, seemed to understand; he kneaded his fingers through her mane of wine-red hair, and made no comment as her hands found purchase on his bony shoulder-blades and her tears stained his jumper.

He didn’t leave. Holly sobbed herself to sleep in Harry’s arms, and he stayed with her the whole way, muttering an occasional reassurance whenever there was a hitch in her tears. Just as she felt herself drifting off, Harry gave her a comforting squeeze and whispered in her ear,

“It’s going to be alright, Holly. I promise.”

And somehow, for all his unjustified cheeriness in the face of dark subject matters and the inconsequential amount of time which she had known him, Holly believed Harry Potter when he said that.

-Holly Potter and The Time-Travelling Brother-

“Holly! Holly, wake up, kiddo!”

Holly groaned, her head swimming in the throes of a splitting migraine. Everything hurt, and for a moment she could not begin to fathom as to why. Then, her memories from before she drifted off began to seep back in, and she remembered all too well why she was in so much pain, as well as the identity of the man who was currently attempting to rouse her from her blissful sleep.

“What?” she groused, attempting to roll out of bed, only to find that she was not in bed, but rather leaning against something more solid than a mattress, which rose and fell underneath her as though alive. She opened her eyes and found that, to her horror, she had continued to cling to Harry in her sleep, and he had let her do so for, judging by the pitch blackness outside which had replaced the golden evening sun, several hours.

“What the- why aren’t I in bed?” she demanded, her face flushing red in embarrassment. Did Harry think her this weak, that she could not bear to be separated from him, even in slumber? Then again, she had fallen asleep snivelling into his chest, as though he were a lifeline. A fresh wave of shame washed over her at the thought; what must he think of her? 

Mrs. Weasley and Ginny had always insisted that she was too emotionally repressed for a girl her age, and Ron agreed with them because he tended to defer to his mother and sister when it came to matters of emotional intelligence, but that surely did not mean she ought to go around spilling her guts out to strangers, did it?

“You wouldn’t let me put you down,” Harry said simply, standing up from the bed as he did. Holly did not fall, as she should have by all rights without Harry’s arms behind her keeping her in place and, when he attempted to pry her hands off of where they had continued to hold onto the bunches of his jumper they had gathered, he was unable.

Accidental magic.

Holly’s flush turned crimson at the thought, now rivalling Ron and Ginny at their fiercest of tempers with how badly her fiery complexion clashed with her hair. She was fifteen, for Merlin’s sake, how childish must Harry think her, having bouts of accidental magic as though she were still a little girl, avoiding Dudley and his gang?

“Sorry,” she mumbled into his chest, too abashed to look him in the face. Even now that she was aware of it, her magic steadfastly refused to detach her from him, making her feel even more like a child. She didn’t want to look Harry in the eye, and see what was surely pity or distaste within her mother’s emerald irises.

To her surprise, she felt his chest heaving where she was led against it, as though he was biting back laughter, and when she looked up she saw none of the expressions she had been expecting, but rather poorly contained amusement.

“What are you laughing at?” she demanded hotly, because if there was something she couldn’t stand more than feeling humiliated, it was being laughed at.

“You, you melodramatic little whelp, You’ve nothing to be sorry for, I’m your brother. What else are brothers for, if not a shoulder to cry on?” he asked, ruffling her hair. Holly didn’t quite know what to say to that - because it was technically true, but it was bizarre to think of this man who was older than her parents had been when they died as her brother - so she didn’t say anything at all.

Harry seemed to understand her plight, as he did not leave enough dead air before he started speaking again for the room to grow awkward, instead ploughing on through the silence in a manner reminiscent of Ron.

“Anyways, I woke you up because we’re leaving. The Dursleys came back while you were asleep, and they seemed in a good enough mood not to bother you, but I doubt that’ll last til the morning, so we’re taking a trip to Diagon Alley. Grab your stuff and we’ll be on our way.”

Holly nodded, and her magic finally seemed to understand that clinging on to Harry was no longer needed, as she unexpectedly began falling backwards, landing in a heap on her bed. Harry let out a huff of laughter at that before calling for Llivia. As Holly got to her feet, the snake slithered out from under her bed, and she had to force herself not to shiver at the thought of the snake residing under the place where she slept.

“What’s with the snake, anyways?” she asked as she deposited the contents of her meagre wardrobe onto her bed, to be transferred into her trunk once she retrieved it from the cupboard under the stairs.

Harry, who had been crouched down to allow Llivia to slither back around his shoulders, stiffened up like a board at the question, and took far longer to reply than the innocuous question really warranted. However, when he finally did start speaking, Holly saw why.

“Llivia is- well, was, a horcrux. That is to say, she had a piece of my soul in her, like you did Voldemort, and like that jumper has now,” he explained tentatively, drawing up to his full height with the snake around his shoulders.

Holly frowned deeply at that, straightening up from where she had been gathering some of the clothes which she had been too lazy to hang back up after discarding them, convinced that she had been left to languish forever at the Dursleys.

“Why did you split your soul?” she asked, confused. Holly had no idea what splitting one’s soul entailed, but seeing as Voldemort had done it, and just by the very imagery the phrase conjured up, she had a feeling it wasn’t anything good. Harry sighed, suddenly looking incredibly tired.

“That’s not a question I can answer right now, Holly. Just- just get your things packed. I’ll go get your trunk,” he said, leaving her room before she had a chance to protest. She let out a huff of frustration at the secrecy - had he not just told her that very same day that secrets kill? - but she continued ferreting out all of her worldly possessions from where they had managed to disperse themselves across her room.

Just as she emerged from under her bed with a sock full of assorted wizarding change in hand, the last of her secret stash under the loose floorboard, Harry reentered the room, lifting her heavy trunk in one hand as though it were nothing. He deposited it on her bed and told her to get packing, all the while avoiding her gaze.

Holly, although getting more annoyed with him by the minute, did as he asked, and within five minutes her trunk was packed, although messily enough that even Ron might have told her it could do with a bit of tidying.

If Harry thought as much, he didn’t say so as he snapped the trunk shut and took ahold of it, grabbing the horcrux-jumper off of the floor with his other arm and slinging it over the trunk before offering his hand to Holly, who eyed him suspiciously at the gesture.

“We’re Apparating. Since you seem a bit more well read than I was at your age, I’m going to assume you know what that is?” he asked, to which Holly nodded, wondering privately how Harry had ever managed to emerge triumphant over Voldemort if he did not even know what Apparition was by her age.

“Where are we Apprating to?” she asked as she took his arm.

“The Leaky Cauldron. I’m going to have a quick nap, and then we’re going to do your school shopping. Sound good?” he asked. Holly had scarcely begun nodding her head before she felt a horrible jerk behind her navel, and she suddenly felt as though she were being sucked through a tube.

She couldn’t breath at all, and for a horrible moment she thought she was going to suffocate, and then her feet were suddenly planted on the ground once more, and there was blissful air in her lungs, although her stomach was roiling as though she were going to be sick. 

“Stomach soother?” he offered, procuring a vial of purple liquid from within his jean pockets. Holly wanted to ask why he had that particular brew to hand, but she truly felt like she was in danger of throwing up if she did nothing for much longer, so she nodded gratefully and took it, downing the whole thing in one.

Immediately, she felt much better, but before she had a chance to fully relish in the reprieve from her nauseousness Harry was leading her by the hand towards the Leaky Cauldron. Just as they reached the door, however, Harry took a wrong turn, and led them down a side alley.

Holly was about to ask him if he’d gone barmy, but he pressed a finger to his lips to silence her, and withdrew his wand, casting numerous murmured spells. Suddenly, his muggle attire was replaced with a set of plain black robes, encompassed by a fur-lined cloak which touched the floor. He pulled up the cowl of his robes so that it obscured his face, and then opened up his cloak.

“Get your invisibility cloak out and then get under here. You never know who's watching in Diagon Alley, it’s best to have two layers of deception whenever you make a visit,” he said, casting glamours on his face as he spoke. Holly thought that he sounded a lot like Moody at that moment, but she did as she was told and withdrew her invisibility cloak from where she had hastily stuffed it into her back pocket, throwing it over herself before stepping into the space Harry had opened up in his cloak, which promptly closed around her like a curtain. She could see nothing except a faint glimmer of light pouring through from the neckline of the cloak, which was a good half a foot above the top of her head, and made her appreciate for the first time just how substantial Harry’s height was - she didn’t think she had met anyone taller, except Hagrid, of course.

“You’re going to have to walk in step with me. Try it now, before we go into the Leaky,” he said, before setting off at a sedate pace, walking around in a circle. Holly stumbled at first trying to match his gait, but quickly got the hang of it, and when she made no missteps after a full circle Harry seemed satisfied she would not blow their cover, as he made his way into the Leaky, heading up the front desk to speak to Tom the barman.

“Room for two,” Harry intoned in a gruff voice which was not his own.

“Six galleons, eleven sickles,” Tom replied, and Holly did not have to be able to see him to hear the smile in his words. “Will your companion be joining us later in the night then, eh?” he asked, the bar groaning as Tom presumably leant against it. Holly would have retched, if her silence were not required; as it was, she shuddered in discomfort at the thought that the Leaky offered rooms for such a purpose, and Harry seemed slightly disgusted too, judging by the way he threw the required fare onto the bar, took the room keys and departed without further comment.

Navigating the stairs while moving in step with Harry was ungainly, and for a horrible moment she thought they would be found out when she tripped and nearly fell over, but Harry saved her with a lightning fast reaction, and they managed to get to their room without further incident. 

Once they were inside, Harry wasted no time in reverting his clothes back to their previous state and undoing the glamours on his face, which Holly could now see had made him wall-eyed and sallow-skinned, and split the double bed in two with a careless wave of his wand, 

“Was all that really necessary? You could have just glamoured me, or something,” Holly complained, throwing herself onto the closest of the two transfigured beds. In response, Harry threw her trunk at her, causing her to shriek and jump back up as it landed with a thud where her legs had been a moment before.

“Constant vigilance!” he roared, before bursting out into peals of laughter. Holly, who was much less amused, punched him hard in the arm, but that just seemed to amuse Harry further, as he clutched at his chest, bending over double. 

“Oh, I have no idea how more people didn’t do that to me in my time. You’re so easy to wind up, pipsqueak,” he eventually teased once he had recovered, ruffling her hair again - it was sure to end up as much of a bird’s nest as his if he kept that up,

“You’re an asshole,” she muttered, shifting her trunk to lay at the foot of her bed before climbing back in.

“Don’t be such a grouch. It doesn’t suit you,” Harry retorted, shrugging Llivia off of his shoulders and letting her slither away under his bed as he spoke. Holly glowered at him with an intensity which would have had anyone else she knew running for the hills, but Harry just laughed yet again, leaning over and pinching her cheek as though she were a baby.

“I’m sorry, Holly, but you and your chubby cheeks really are far too adorable to be intimidating. Try again in a few years, yeah?” he joked, flashing her a pearly smile. Holly, who had gone a blotchy red in a mixture of indignation and embarrassment, did not bother to dignify that with a response, thinking privately that Harry was like if Fred and George had merged into one person and become even more irritating.

“Anything you want to do while I sleep, or would you rather I put you under as well?” he asked after a brief pause, which made Holly forget her annoyance with him for a moment in order to consider his words.

“Do you have anything good to read?” she eventually asked. Harry bowed his head, looking as though he were chewing something over in his mind, and then he waved his wand, conjuring a tattered scrapbook with broken bindings and post-it notes which looked in danger of falling out from between the pages.

“Give that a go. I’m sure you’ll find it up to scratch,” he replied, tossing the book over to her. She nearly fumbled it but just about managed to keep her grip and flipped it open, curious as to what was in this book, which seemed more duct tape and sticky back inserts than a real novel.

‘Chapter 1: Animagery Made Easy!

You may have heard that becoming an Animagus takes dedication, magical prowess and, most importantly, more time than any self-respecting witch or wizard can afford to lose. Well, fear not; with this patented Harry James Potter brew, the Animagus transformation can be achieved in a matter of hours!’

Next to this passage was a post-it note, consisting of mostly scribbled out instructions, but through all of the corrections, Holly could see that one ingredient had remained constant; a human tongue.

Holly looked up from the book at that, intending to ask Harry whether this was some sort of practical joke, only to find that he was already asleep, snoring loudly on top of the covers and still in his jumper and jeans.

Shaking her head, she turned back to the book, pulling back the post-it note to reveal another, and then another, and so on it went until she finally reached the bottom of the stack, where the final set of instructions was listed.

‘Instructions:

Brew in solid gold cauldron, maximum Vol. of 1 qt.

Begin brewing after sunset.

Fill up to ¾ capacity with distilled water, bring to boil before adding diced human tongue.

Stir clockwise 6X, counter-clockwise 7X, clockwise 4X and counter-clockwise 8X. Repeat until potion stops spitting.

Add live mandrake - must be juvenile, no older than two weeks - and grind with iron pestle until mixture stops churning.

Add scoop full of death’s head hawkmoth chrysalises - must be near to splitting, or the potion will only work for a limited time - to the potion, increasing the temperature to 200°C.

Repeat previous stir pattern, allowing the mixture to boil off until a pure concentrate is left at the bottom - colour will be pigeon blood red, typical Vol. of ¼ of a pint.

Prick the tip of the finger and allow seven drops of blood to fall into the concentrate, before leaving to cool. 

Must be drunk before sunrise.

Notes: Blood used must be the blood of the drinker, or adverse effects may be observed’

Holly looked back and forth between the grotesque set of instructions she had just read and her inter-dimensional brother, and found that she could not reconcile them - how could this man, who seemed full of nothing but laughter, be capable of creating such a vile potion?

Then again, she thought, he had admitted to making a horcrux, had he not? There was obviously more to Harry Potter than meets the eye; beneath his boyish cheer and brotherly familiarity - which, although she would never admit it, had actually been rather endearing - there was an indelible darkness, shown both through this book and the hollow look his eyes had taken on when she asked him why he split his soul.

She would endeavour to pick his brains about that once he woke up, because Holly Potter did not do well with secrets; but not now, because right now she had a book to read which was, if disturbing, then not enough so to dissuade her from pursuing it - it was just so interesting!

In that moment, the inter-dimensional siblings were more alike than either of them realised - Harry because he was dead to the world, snoring at an impressively loud volume, and Holly because she was too engrossed in her new reading material to pay attention to such trivialities - but, under Harry’s bed, Llivia noticed.

“Merlin, give me strength,” the snake hissed to itself. Harry expressed his assent by letting out a particularly loud snore, while Holly’s bed let out a strained sounding creak as she leaned forward to inspect the book closer.

Sighing in exasperation, Llivia curled up in a ball and attempted to drift off to sleep, although it was difficult with Harry’s snoring and Holly’s incessant page turning. She thought she had it bad enough with just one uncontrollable Potter child endeavouring to make her life as difficult as possible - she wasn’t entirely sure if she was going to be able to cope with a second.