Same Old, Same New

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/36223678.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Dudley Dursley & Harry Potter, Petunia Evans Dursley & Harry Potter,
Walburga Black & Harry Potter
Characters: Harry Potter, Dudley Dursley, Petunia Evans Dursley, Vernon Dursley,
Albus Dumbledore, Walburga Black
Additional Tags: Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Time Travel,
Morally Grey Harry Potter, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Mild
Bashing, BAMF Harry Potter, Asexual Harry Potter, here there be queer
characters, Canonical Child Abuse, Pre-Hogwarts, I will finish this no
matter what, Don't copy to another site, Dudley Dursley Redemption,
please don't add my fic to goodreads, please don't feed my work to AI
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of What Goes Around (Comes Around)
Stats: Published: 2022-01-05 Completed: 2022-02-22 Words: 36,792 Chapters:
9/9
 Same Old, Same New
by Arkodian

Summary

Some of Harry's memories end up in the past and 9-year-old him has to figure out 1. what to
do about the shitty things he sees in his future, 2. how this happened in the first place, and 3.
if he may just be making it all worse anyway. It doesn't help that his saviour complex
apparently travelled back with him.
What he knows is that neither Voldemort nor Dumbledore have his best interest at heart, so
he may as well be on his own side - and recruit as many people as possible to help/save.

First up: deal with the Dursley Situation and gain some magical allies, if at all possible.

Let's do this.
 Prologue: Well damn
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Harry Potter woke up on his ninth birthday, took one look at the low ceiling of his cupboard
and the spider scuttling its way across the underside of the stairs and went “well damn”.

Then he cursed some more for good measure until his Aunt Petunia reminded him with a
loud rapping on the door that he had chores to attend to and if one more of those foul words
passed his lips, she would wash his mouth with soap. Remembering the one time he had
mentioned magic in front of visitors, Harry believed her. So he ducked his head, murmured
“Yes, Aunt Petunia” and got to work cracking eggs into the skillet.

At least it was Monday, which meant while he made the biggest breakfast of the week, he
was uninterrupted by Vernon and Dudley who were usually reluctant to start off their week.
Petunia kept an eye on him for a few more minutes, but apparently decided he could attend
the cooking alone while she did some laundry.

The moment she left, Harry’s head snapped up from his obedient pose and he looked around
the kitchen with narrowed eyes.

“Well damn”, he repeated.

It took until that evening when the Dursley were suitably distracted by the TV – as evidenced
by Vernon’s booming laugh – that Harry found the time to think. The headache that had been
plaguing him all day had receded to a dull throbbing in time with his heart and the darkness
helped soothe his eyes.

Was it real? The magic and the mythical creatures and the castle that made something in his
chest tighten in longing and the… friends. There had been friends, in these weird memories
that seemed as real as the one of Dudley and his friends beating him up yesterday, yet as
fragile as dreams.

There was one way to find out.

Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes and tried to remember the warm feeling in his chest
when aunt Petunia had shaved off most of his hair and it had grown back overnight, when he
had turned his teacher’s wig blue after she had berated him for not doing his homework after
Dudley had ripped it to shreds, when he had nicked his fingers on the garden shears and the
wound had healed immediately…

A thousand pictures flashed before his eyes, memories or not, and the helpless anger he felt
most days took over his being. There was a wining noise in his head that felt like a thread
stretching thin forever and ever – until it snapped with a twang, the whole house seemed to
give a shudder, uncle Vernon gave a shout and the noise from the TV cut off.
 When Harry opened his eyes, the thin sliver of light from under the door had disappeared. If
he had to guess, so had every single other light source in the house. The warmth in his chest
was back, along with a strange tingling in his right hand and a bone-deep exhaustion that
threatened to pull him under. Even that could not contain the pure joy that spread throughout
his body.

He had magic.

Chapter End Notes

Usually my fics are happy to just stay inside my head, but this one was persistent - and
of course it's a 7-volume-minimum-monster. *sigh*
Part one is pre-Hogwarts and finished. A chapter will be posted every week and
continue right on with part 2 for the first Hogwarts year. Tags may be subject to change
as I'm writing, but I do have a rather extensive outline.
 No Pressure
Chapter Summary

In which Harry admits to himself that the Dursleys are assholes, comes to terms with the
fact that magic is real and realises things have to change. Desperately.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The next two weeks were spent locked in his cupboard. As it was, for once, mostly
warranted, Harry didn’t mind so much – especially because it gave him lots of time to think
and sort through the strange memories that had so unceremoniously been dumped into his
brain. Some seemed a bit blurry, others incomplete and he was sure there were some that he
wouldn’t be able to access properly for years, but… maybe it would be enough. Him
knowing as much as he did. Though, enough for what…

He was sure now that it was real, mostly because when he focused enough, he could cast
simple spells. His first lumos had resulted in a tiny light radiating from his index finger,
another blown-out fuse and him being knocked unconscious yet again. After that he decided
to be more careful.

Harry started by calling on the warm feeling in his chest that he theorised was his magic
spreading through his limbs. It was exhausting, but after doing that for a few days, he
graduated to calling it to his right hand. At the end of the week he managed to hold the tiny
light for about a minute and managed to stay awake for an hour afterwards – and not bust any
more of the light bulbs. Progress!

After the two weeks were up, outwardly, none of his daily routine seemed to change.
However, as soon as the cupboard door closed, which was often, Harry set to work.

He had filched an ugly notebook from Dudley’s room of broken things when he’d been
forced to clean upstairs, as well as a purple pen his cousin had deemed “too girly” to be seen
with. This was used to make a timeline of what seemed to be his future, as well as a list of
spells. Both were depressingly short so far, but he was nothing if not determined to change it.
Writing in it usually took up another hour, not least because his handwriting was atrocious.
The other thing making this difficult was that the feelings associated with the memories often
seemed contrary.

There was a giant knocking down a door. What confused him about that scene was the warm
happiness he felt at that picture rather than the fear he had expected.

There was an owl, often carrying letters. This led to Harry sneaking into his school library
during the breaks in the hopes he would find out if 1. owls could be used like carrier pigeons
and 2. why his heart clenched in his chest with loss.

There was the castle and the magic and two best friends, but an underlying feeling of danger
and dread.

There were hippogriffs and a phoenix and scary-looking, skeletal horse creatures that only
left a sense of vague curiosity.

Then there were the blurry memories.

The shattering of ceramic and brick, someone screaming “move” and his brain unhelpfully
supplying the word troll along with mind-numbing panic.

Plants that tried to strangle him, flames that did not burn, a roaring like a dragon, a pang in
his heart that felt a bit like whenever Harry thought about his parents (not a car accident, his
mind whispered)… and over all of it, a dark shadow that seemed to reach for him, devouring
everything in its path and which made him wake up sweating with pangs of pain in his scar.
And while his 9-year-old heart yearned for the world he had been promised in his dreams,
something far older in his mind whispered that this time, this time he had to be prepared.

Magic, he felt, would be his best weapon, but he only practiced active magic for about an
hour a day at first, and never all at once. Trial and error had taught him that more usually
ended up with him sleeping away the rest of the day at best and being berated by an angry
aunt at worst.

Thus, another hour was taken up by swinging a stick he had found during his garden work.
As far as he remembered, there were wand movements to practice as well. Pouring his magic
into it had only resulted in both his first training wand and one of Petunia’s roses exploding,
so Harry stuck to the dry practice for now. Waving it around with his right hand came
naturally, but Harry stubbornly practiced the movements left-handed too – which seemingly
required the opposite motions, though he could not say how he knew. He was getting very
used to that feeling.

The time right before bed was spent meditating and trying to empty his mind. He had not yet
discovered what that was for, but trusted the weird memories would give him a reason sooner
or later. He had also found himself suspicious of Mrs Figg for some reason, but every time he
tried to access that memory, the only thing he got was a feeling of dreadful cold and despair
he decided to leave well enough alone for now.

The Dursleys got a rude awakening when Harry started his next plan. After careful weeks of
planning, ramping up his performance in sports at school and deliberately catching the eye of
one of the teachers, aunt Petunia found herself frowning down at a letter.

“Taekwondo?” Her pronunciation was so atrocious that Harry had to hide a wince.
“Whatever for?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m not sure. One of the teachers offered I could join the club after school!”

Petunia pursed her lips. “But that’s when you have to do your chores.”
He let his head hang, hunched his shoulders and peered up at her, carefully making sure to
display his big green eyes. He had practiced this look for weeks, trying out different ways
and adjusting the technique depending on how she reacted. Whenever it worked, she pinched
her lips like she did now and looked away.

“Well… I guess if I did sports, my stamina would go up and I could get the work done faster?
And the teachers would be suspicious if I didn’t show up after being so happy about the
offer.”

Petunia’s frown deepened and Harry hastened to add “and maybe this way Dudley will want
to stay for after school too! I heard Mr Sherman mention that he’d do very well in boxing or
rugby, but he was afraid I would feel left out, so he didn’t offer it to Dudley.”

It had been just a month or so ago that a doctor had told Petunia that Dudley would be well-
advised to go on a diet, do more physical activity, or both, if he wanted to lead a healthy
lifestyle. From his memories he knew that nobody had listened before, but maybe, if he could
push the issue…

“I’ll ask Duddykins. It wouldn’t do for you to do an extracurricular activity and neglect your
duties in this house and my Dudders doesn’t get the chance to shine.” Her eyes got a weird
gleam and Harry thought she might be imagining all the trophies Dudley could win and how
she might show them off to the neighbours.

“Of course, aunt Petunia. I bet he’d be amazing at it if he only gave it a shot!”

Her lips turned up at the corner a tiny bit before she turned around and then ordered him to
prune the roses some more.

Harry had a feeling Dudley would be amenable to the idea as well. After all, Harry had been
planting the suggestions of him as an athlete for weeks and gotten him hooked on sports TV.
It had taken some sneaking around at night using the new skill of magicking open his
cupboard door with another wandless spell with a weird name to put the TV on a sports
program. Every day when Dudley got home from school and turned it on, he was bombarded
by rugby players tackling each other, or boxers in the ring. His cousin had taken to it with
surprising fervour.

When the first week of training ended and Dudley got disillusioned with his visions of
grandeur after hobbling along and struggling to breathe even during warmups, Harry made
sure to drop hints that if he continued and Dudley didn’t, he would soon be fast enough to
escape the Harry Hunting sessions. That seemed to give his cousin enough of a boost to
power through the initial inconvenience to his out of practice body.

The added calories Harry now needed were an issue at first. While Dudley gladly wolved
down twice the portions he had eaten before, albeit with more vegetables than usual, Harry’s
did not increase dramatically. However, his magic had seemingly gotten past another hurdle,
which meant in addition to spelling his door open, he also managed to multiply the food in
the fridge. If he focused on the incantation and was hungry enough, he managed to increase
the amount of milk, butter and toast and, if he was lucky or particularly famished, sometimes
even cheese.
He soon felt a noticeable difference in his body as far as weight, height and muscle mass
were concerned and made good on his promise of being able to finish his tasks faster. Sadly,
that meant mowing the lawn got added to is chores, but Harry still chalked it up as a win.
Even Dudley showing his parents his new moves and punching a hole straight through a dry
wall - added when Petunia wanted the entrance to the living room further down the hall -
only marginally curbed his enthusiasm. Besides, he felt a weird sense of pride in having
saved his cousin from an early cholesterol-induced death.

As he had predicted, controlling his magic got easier the fitter he got. He also added a weird
sport played on flying brooms to his timeline of memories on the positive side, as well as
outflying a dragon and dodging between gravestones on the negative one. Some part of his
mind mostly shut out the latter, making sure that one stayed blurry and dreamlike.

With that out of the way, Harry felt like it was time for one of his bigger plans. So, with a
queasy stomach, but a smirk on his face, he opened his notebook to the page titled “Operation
London” in purple gel marker.

It took him a week to find an old backpack in Dudley’s second room and steal some needle
and thread from Petunia’s sewing case. It took him the weekend and many bleeding fingertips
to actually fix the broken strap that had been torn off in one of Dudley’s famous fits of rage in
a way that did not make it look like Frankenstein’s backpack.

Collecting money took longer than he’d thought even though it had been another thing Harry
had started as soon as he’d been able to spell open his door. Petunia’s cleaning obsession
worked against him, so Harry had to check in between the couch cushions every night,
hoping Dudley had dropped a few pence. When that proved to yield about 50p a month, he
knew that strategy was over and done with. Plan B made him shiver from head to toe, but
thinking of the bustling alley with magical shops gave Harry enough courage to try it
anyway.

The first time he took money from Dudley’s school backpack, Harry almost keeled over from
lack of oxygen. The backpack was usually flung carelessly under the desk in his room –
which meant Harry had to sneak in via the door he had carefully oiled the night before to
keep it from creaking, straining to listen to Dudley’s loud breaths and hoping against hope
they stayed even and unbothered. The zip sounded like a chainsaw in his ears, the popping of
the wallet opening like a gunshot. Still, he found a few coins that made it worth it. He left the
ones with the bigger value and a few stray smaller ones, then stowed the rest under his cot in
the darkest and dustiest corner of the cupboard.

The next day was agony. It took all his willpower not to look at Dudley’s backpack and at
lunch, when the money was needed, Harry stayed far away from his cousin, in the hopes he
would not be associated with the theft should it be discovered.

By the time they made it home, Harry was trembling from the stress. Dudley chased him all
the way home, his stamina having sadly improved from the sports, then proceeded to loudly
complain about him to his mother. In short, it was a completely normal day that had Harry
relaxing sometime around evening – just in time to try the next coup.
Uncle Vernon kept his wallet in his bedside drawer, which was slightly more difficult to get
to and included sneaking into… well, his and Petunia’s bedroom. In similar fashion, he took
one night to oil the door and try a new spell, this one designed to keep people sleeping. He
had tried it some days before on one of Mrs Figg’s cats that was napping in the sun. It lasted
for about 5 minutes on her, though Harry could not be sure that the cat might have been
simply ignoring his existence on its own. There was also the question whether body mass
influenced how long it took to wear off, but further experiments would take too much time
and magic.

No time like the present then. On quiet feet, Harry snuck up the stairs and pushed open the
door to his aunt and uncle’s bedroom. Vernon’s snoring immediately increased in volume
while Harry barely breathed. Through the sheer curtains the streetlamp outside gave him just
enough light to work by. His aunt slept on the left side of the bed, his uncle on the right,
closer to the window.

Harry stayed low to the ground until he had reached the bedside table. Calling his magic up
to the surface took a few tries, as the heartbeat hammering in his ears was distracting him.
The first time he dared to murmur the spell his magic immediately failed when his fear
reached new heights. After waiting a minute to see whether uncle Vernon had heard the
whispered words Harry tried again.

With the wave of exhaustion he realised that keeping his uncle asleep did seem to take more
magic than doing the same with a cat. He fought his drooping eyelids, however, and slowly
slid open the drawer. The leather wallet was there and Harry opened it with nimble fingers.
Payday had been a few days ago, so he was not surprised by the large amount of notes
sticking out of the back. He carefully selected a five pound note and emptied the coin cache
of most pennies and 5p pieces as those were the ones he figured would be missed the least.
The scraping of the drawer against the wood below grated on his ears and his uncle gave a
particularly loud snore that had Harry cowering. When his uncle stayed asleep he huffed out
a quiet breath and crouched down again to waddle out of the room.

One look, however, made his limbs seize up in fear. There, on the left side of the bed, was his
aunt, lying on her side, her eyes clearly open. A thousand apologies and explanations sprang
to his tongue, but Harry swallowed them all down. This was it. He was caught. It wouldn't
matter what he said, if she found the money in his ratty pants, he was done for. Bye bye
taekwondo practice. Bye bye nightly trips through the house.

He hung his head, tears stinging his eyes, waiting for the shouting. But it never came. When
he focused on his aunt some more, he noticed her breathing was regular and deep. Still, his
hands trembled when he pulled the door closed with a small click and they still shook when
he stashed the new money below his cot.

He never wanted to do that again. By now not only his hands, but his whole body was
shaking and his breath came in deep gulps that sounded almost like sobs. He was nine. Why
did he have to sneak around to steal money and practice magic? He knew the adults here
were more hindering than useful, but in that magical world he dreamed of… why did this fall
to him? Could they not do whatever it was he was preparing himself for? He had memories
of being famous; had nobody checked on him, thought to teach him? The desperate urgency
 in his chest told him no, as did the glimpse of twinkling blue eyes that sent a feeling of trust,
then hurt, then betrayal through him.

Harry took a few minutes to first cry, then breathe, then stash the money in its hiding place.

Well then. Same again next week.

Chapter End Notes

First chapter posted! God, I've never done this before.

Same thing next week. ;)
 This will do
Chapter Summary

Harry’s first foray into the magical world, though it includes more screaming and less
magical shops than he thought it would.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Christmas was more of a blessing than it usually was. Petunia spent enormous amounts of
money on biscuits and ingredients for the Christmas dinner, bought dozens and dozens of
presents for Dudley and Vernon and got some nice new dresses and a haircut for herself. For
Harry this meant she was, for once, not looking too closely at how much money was
spending. As Dudley splurged on sweets more than usual – he seemed to have a sweet tooth
for marzipan in particular – his money vanished in larger and larger amounts too. Vernon…
well. He had not missed the five pounds per week yet and probably wouldn’t start now with
the stress of getting all the drilling contracts ready before the Christmas break.

Overall, Christmas was a great time for Harry – especially as he’d managed to master the
duplication charm in such a way that he could multiply ham as well, which gave him some
much-needed protein. Another thing he had noticed was that, if he concentrated very hard
and sank into the meditative state he had managed to reach due to his nightly ritual, he could
slightly influence the Dursley’s opinions. He’d found that out the time when Petunia had tried
to yet again cut his hair, but with a mental nudge Harry had gotten her to admit to herself that
if it had not been tamed by now, that probably wouldn’t change in the future. Another time he
managed to make Dudley switch to a channel that did not include a horror film taking place
at a graveyard. So far, Vernon was a lost cause and only made Harry’s head hurt.

That meant when the Dursleys decided to visit a Christmas market one Saturday while Mrs
Figg was visiting family, he convinced his relatives to leave him at home, unattended. It
might also have to do with the fact that no “funny business” had happened since Harry had
exploded the rose bush – which, if he was being honest, must be a personal record. He
figured it had to do with him using his magic actively. Vernon still huffed and threatened to
lock him in the cupboard until next Halloween if he so much as moved a chair wrong and
Petunia stared at him with piercing eyes, but they were soon distracted by a bouncing Dudley
clamouring that he wanted to go look at stuff and get hot chocolate. After yet another bark of
“do your work until we’re back or else”, the door shut on the Dursleys and Harry became a
flurry of activity.

He had gotten quite fast at cleaning the house, but this one was the fastest he’d ever been.
Barely two hours after his relatives had left, everything was sparkling and dinner was waiting
in the fridge to be put into the oven, mostly because Harry had spent some of the night
getting ahead on any tasks he might be asked to do. That meant the Dursleys had a head start
in their car, but it would still take them hours to return from London – which was where
Harry was also going.

He got the puffy jacket with the tear on the back that Dudley had discarded, as well as the
ugly self-knitted red scarf that was aunt Marge’s attempt at being more homely, got the
backpack from under his bed as well as the money, and he was off. The walk to the station
was spent looking over his shoulder and hoping any neighbours that saw him would not
mention it to the Dursleys. Harry only relaxed when he was on a train to London. He spent
the hour taking notes in the book that had become his holy grail and carefully counting out
the money he had managed to collect.

Manoeuvring the city was marginally more difficult than he had thought it would be, but after
taking a flyer of the tube map and pretending to be teary-eyed and asking a passer-by for the
correct bus to his aunt’s house who could not pick him up, he was standing in front of a
rundown house in an ordinary-looking square. There was a strange tug on his magic that
made his steps drag behind him as he approached the building with the number 12 on the
door.

The black door looked worn and the once gleaming silver door knocker was tarnished. There
was no keyhole that he could see, although Harry had the underlying feeling he shouldn’t be
able to see the house at all. Or would that only be in the future?

Harry swallowed and lifted a hand, then let it fall back to his side. He had a few conflicting
memories of this place. Some were tinged with darkness and betrayal and a loss that ran so
deep it made it hard to breathe. Others were filled with urgency and worry, but also warmth
and a feeling of safety. He remembered Sirius. Mostly, anyway. Kreacher too, though those
memories were as arbitrary as the house. What he did not know was when Sirius’ parents had
died and he knew enough to not want to meet them.

But he had come all this way. And if he could sneak into Vernon’s bedroom, he could do this
too.

Feeling slightly braver, Harry took the silver door knocker and let it fall against the door.
Once. Twice. The knocks rang out as if the sound travelled through a long tunnel, then faded
to silence.

The winter sun was warming his slightly cold face, making the puffs of breath stand out
against the air. The rushing of cars could be heard over the muffled sound of a radio
somewhere nearby. From the house in front of him – nothing.

Harry frowned, then looked around again for a bell or a doorknob. Still nothing. With some
more determination, he knocked again, three times now. There was a hollow sound, the
ringing silence, once he thought he heard some muttering, but then, again, nothing.

The thought that he had made this trip in vain brought tears to his eyes and Harry had to
swallow around the lump in his throat. He could feel the magic in the house. It was magic. It
was magic. It was like him, belonged to his world and he belonged right here.
And in an act of desperation, Harry reached out with more than his hands.

It was like looking at a dark whirlpool that had been spinning for years and years, but now
stopped to look back at him. It was like ducking his head underwater and opening his eyes to
a blurry world, just to see monstrous shapes his eyes could not focus on and black tentacles
reaching for him. He could almost feel one touching the warm part where he usually felt his
magic and, as if in answer, it came roaring to the surface.

The whirlpool paused again while Harry looked into the abyss. Whatever was wrapped
around him did not seem inclined to let go but was waiting for something. For him to do
something. When Harry opened his eyes, he realised he could not hear the cars or the radio
anymore, just the yawning silence beyond the door. He felt that, if he just walked away, the
house would demand a piece of him as tribute. His eyes focused on the silver snake that
seemed, inexplicably, cleaner than before.

Another memory dislodged, but before he could look at it too closely, he opened his mouth
and hissed :open:.

There was another pause, like a breath held just behind lips and sharp teeth, then the sound of
loud metal clicks and the rattling of a chain being pulled away – and the door in front of him
swung open.

The inside of the house looked like its magic felt: dark, cloying, dust swirling in arbitrary
patterns. The magic was still there, although it was not searching anymore, but wrapped
around him like a blanket that felt warm and also like it could suffocate him if it really
wanted to. In the dim light that came from some window above him he could see old-
fashioned lamps, a chandelier, some landscape paintings on the wall and a door at the far end
of the hallway. Harry took one step, there was a small pop and the weirdest creature he had
ever seen stared up at him with huge, narrowed eyes.

“What is this brat doing here, stepping through the door like it owns the place. A filthy
muggle? Come to shame the house of Kreacher’s Mistress? Oh, my poor Mistress. Scum
scuttling in after she is gone, scum…”

“Excuse me, but I’m a wizard.” Harry felt that was important to get out of the way, if the
muttering was anything to go by.

“A wizard? Yes, a wizard then. Magic let you in, it did. But you are not a Black. Do not
belong to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” The creature peered at him with
storm-grey eyes, its batlike ears twitching, moving the white tufts of hair that protruded from
it. Harry could hear the capitalization. “No, not a Black. But how did you get in?”

The thing (house-elf, his memories corrected) seemed to wait for an answer. Harry
considered the question. “I reached out with my magic and told the door to open and it did.”

The bloodshot eyes narrowed further and the elf took a step towards him. Harry forced his
feet to remain rooted to the ground instead of running like his head kept screaming at him to.
“Told it? Nobody can tell it. Only Kreacher can tell it. And Blood-Traitor-Master, but he be
in prison, oh yes. Bad, bad prison with bad, bad sucky creatures, oh yes.”
The memory of cold and despair and a tattered dark cloak tried to take over his mind, but
Harry pushed it away. Later, he told it. “My name is Harry Potter. And I told the snake to
open the door.”

“Potter? Potter?”, the elf barked. “Potter brat? Mistress was so distraught, oh she was, so
angry when the brat killed the Dark Lord. Oh, the shame!”

The house-elf kept muttering about the Dark Lord’s demise and his Mistress and Harry felt
the magic reaching for him yet again. A candelabra on a side table caught his eye, the snakes
on it seeming to writhe in the dim light, something glittering in the dark depth that seemed to
fuel the hungry magic.

:Enough: Harry said. :I didn’t come here to be insulted! I just want… I just…: He trailed off,
clenching his fists at the fact that he didn’t even know how to articulate it.

The elf stopped, eyes blown wide open, ears perking up. “He speaks the noble language of
the serpents! How can he speak? Only the Dark Lord knows how.” The grey eyes narrowed
again. “How can you speak the snake language, boy? Tell me, tell me!”

The last part was roared out loud. There was a flicker in the lights on the wall, then another
voice further back in the house screeching “Kreacher! Has he returned? The blood traitor!
The filth! Scum! Come back to befoul the house of my father!”

Another memory was stirring in his mind, but he pushed that one down too.

There was a pop, the elf disappeared, then Harry heard his voice from further down the
hallway. “Shhhh, Kreacher is here. Blood-traitor-Master is not.” His voice had taken on a
soothing quality, despite the rasping that seemed inherent to it. “But there is a boy. A boy
who can speak to snakes.”

The female voice that had interspersed some more screeching commentary stopped at that.
The whole house seemed to take a breath.

“Bring him here!”

This felt as dangerous as reaching out to the house, but he had come this far and he was not
going to slink back to Surrey without having accomplished anything. So Harry carefully
stepped towards the voice, even as a pair of dusty curtains came into view. The elf was
standing right in front of them, patting the frame as if calming a skittish animal.

When he got close enough, he almost thought it was a person – until the old woman in the
black cap moved and he realized it was a life-sized painting. Her eyes had a shiny hue that
spoke of insanity, the lines in her face cruel and sharp, the ones around her mouth deep as if
she had been screaming and screaming and screaming…

“Boy! Don’t stand there gaping like a fish!” Her eyes skimmed over the puffy jacket, scarf
and tattered boots, the lines digging deeper into her skin, hands curled into claws. “Filth!
Scum! Not worth the carpet he’s standing on! How did he get in? Kreacher, how, how, how?
He cannot be the one. Cannot speak, can he?”
There was a snake in the picture too, in the background, wrapped around a vase. Harry toned
out the screaming and focused on the way the scales were painted, as if light was glinting off
them. So, so realistic. And then he reached down deep inside his magic and his mind and
tried to remember how it felt to be cruel instead of afraid.

:Silence! Your screams are torture on my ears!:

Blessed silence, a house-elf that was tugging on his ears and a portrait woman with bulging
eyes greeted him.

“Well, well, well.”

The woman recovered first, now watching him with something like calculation in her beady
eyes. At least she had spoken in a normal volume, which was progress as far as Harry was
concerned.

“Who might you be?”

Harry swallowed once, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin to look her in the eyes.
“Harry Potter. I’ve heard Sirius Black is my godfather, so I figured I’d look if he has any
relatives left. Because I… don’t.” He shrugged. “No magical ones anyway.”

The eyes of the woman blew wide and Harry flinched, correctly predicting another
screeching session. “What what what? Not magical? Do you mean muggle?? Oh the shame,
a wizard raised by such filth! Preposterous! Disastrous! Tell me, boy.” She rounded on him
again. “Do you know anything of our world? Were you trained? You’re his heir, an heir of the
house of Black – oh the shame, the shame when I found out! My husband was dead and I
could not disown him for it, my blood-traitor son, for making a half-blood the heir to the
House of Black!”

After she got going, the woman got stuck in her tirade for a bit, with the house-elf murmuring
reassurances and stroking the filigree frame soothingly. If he tuned out the shrill voice, Harry
even had time to think.

He had remembered correctly, then. Sirius had made him heir, which was why he had thought
he might be able to enter the house even without the last name Black. He had not
remembered just how creepy it was and how hostile the inhabitants. Then again, he was used
to it. Privet Drive was nothing if not hostile, so a bit of abuse being hurled his way didn’t
even give Harry pause. If he could get them on his side, however…

“Excuse me?”

The woman halted the diatribe, a bout of confusion on her face at being interrupted. She
opened her mouth once and Harry braced for a new round of insults. Instead, the lines on her
face softened the slightest bit. “Yes?”

“That’s why I’m here, you know? To learn about the magical world. To learn about being a
wizard. And how to be Heir Black. I thought someone here might be able to help…”
He trailed off and held his breath as the insane witch eyed him, mouth turning down again at
the state of his clothes.

“How old are you, boy?”

The address made his stomach turn, as Vernon’s face flashed in his mind, as well as the
piercing blue eyes again, but he swallowed it down. “I’m nine years old, Mrs Black.”

“That’s Lady Black to you.”

“Of course, Lady Black.” Harry bowed a bit at the waist and saw the lines softening again.

The portrait gave him a once-over again, then snorted once, dismissive. “I guess he’ll do.”

The tour of the house had to wait, as Kreacher – who had finally introduced himself while
bowing slightly – wanted to make sure it was suitable. From what little he remembered Harry
thought it might never be suitable for young children, but figured he would hold his tongue.
The elf did, however, fetch a few books from the Black library that Walburga deemed
“absolutely indispensable”.

Among them were a truly enormous tome called “Wizard Nobility: a Guide to the Noble
Houses of the Magical World”, at least from what Harry could decipher of the swirly script
on the dusty cover, a book on etiquette that was almost as thick, basic Charms,
Transfiguration and Dark Arts books – Harry also held his tongue on the exclusion of
“Defense against” on the latter one – as well as a slim book that offered to teach him
occlumency. That was when Harry found out what it was he was meditating for and had to
resist the urge to bang his head against a wall. He was, however, very glad for the repaired
backpack that held his new treasures, as well as the expansion charm Kreacher put on it.

Overall, he marked the trip to London as a success, especially as he returned well before the
Dursleys. Because he was done with his chores, he even managed to read through half of the
charms book before uncle Vernon called the house phone to tell him when dinner was to be
finished.

The downside of his outing became apparent that night. After taking forever to meditate and
close his eyes, Harry fell asleep to nightmares of a gigantic snake chasing him through a
tunnel system, a high-pitched laugh echoing from afar. That turned into a female scream,
victorious and as insane as Walburga Black while he heard his own voice scream “Sirius!”
and felt the pain and loss again.

He woke up, soaked in sweat, but apparently had not screamed out, as the rest of the house
remained silent as a grave.

With trembling fingers, he got out his notebook to add to the timeline. This was important.
This was something he had to change. He had to. He had to! But…

Instead of holding on to the pen, Harry let go, tucked his legs in to hug them and started to
cry. He cried for the boy under the cupboard who had only ever wanted to be acknowledged.
He cried for the boy who had found a magical world only to find out it was as dark or darker
than his former one. He cried for his parents who he would never know and for Sirius, who
he might never meet. He cried for himself, for being pushed into something he did not
understand, did not want, was entirely unprepared for.

(Be prepared then, whispered the memories, just out of reach. You can do it. You can change
everything. That’s why he sent you back.)

Harry ignored it. Instead, he hugged his knees harder, curled up on the cot to feel sorry for
himself for once in his life.

The next morning brought more tasks from the Dursleys, being allowed to eat part of the
bacon and eggs from breakfast as a reward for not burning the house down yesterday and
then being sent off to do yet more chores.

The week before Christmas was busy for everyone. Harry had to help Petunia clean the
house, but he didn’t want to neglect the magic books he had gotten from Grimmauld Place.
Luckily, whatever memories had been dumped in his brain had made school much easier. He
was mostly ignored anyway, but being able to do all of his homework during the break was a
distinct advantage. His reading ability had improved as well – which made working his way
through the tome of noble wizarding families easier, if not less boring.

Whenever he came across a name that made something in his mind shift, he wrote it down.
So far, the list included the houses of Diggory, Greengrass, Lestrange, Longbottom, Malfoy –
which, weirdly enough, his mind seemed to associate with Dudley – and Nott. Some minor
houses like Prewett and Trelawney also rang a bell, although the latter gave him shivers all
over.

To the surprise of all but Harry, when Marge came for her yearly Christmas visit on
Christmas eve, Ripper took one look at Harry, turned around on the spot and went to sleep
under the meticulously decorated Christmas tree. Marge commented on how he must be
possessed by Christmas spirit. Petunia, with a pinched face, admitted Harry had been quite
decent the last few months, Vernon huffed and Dudley tried to impress his aunt by boasting
about his boxing prowess, unwittingly distracting her.

While Marge cooed over his cousin, Harry allowed himself a hidden grin. Marge had actually
come closest to the truth, although Ripper wasn’t possessed by the Christmas spirit, but rather
Harry himself. The book on occlumency had been very helpful indeed and although he
preferred to work on his mental shields, Harry had become quite proficient at entering other
people’s minds too. Well. People being relative. He mostly practiced on Mrs Figg’s cats
(kneazles, something nudged in his brain, but he had gotten used to ignoring it) and the odd
bird that found its way into the garden.

When his aunt had almost caught him practicing magic two days ago, he had flung out his
mind and inserted the thought she had better see if she had turned the oven off, but if he was
honest with himself, he hated entering human minds. It felt like a violation. Not to mention
his relatives’ brains were rather narrow-minded and filled with hate.
As the dreams at night got worse, though, he had conceded that living in a slightly less
hostile environment might do him some good. Hence, he had decided to nudge the minds of
Petunia and Dudley into a few less destructive thought cycles in the coming weeks. Vernon,
sadly, was still a lost cause.

Christmas went about the same as usual. Dudley woke the house up screaming on Christmas
morning, everyone exchanged presents and then watched as Dudley opened the dozens upon
dozens he had gotten and then listened to him comparing himself to Harry, who had gotten
nothing.

Well. Almost nothing, it turned out. There was a neat package sitting under the tree that had
his name written in Petunia’s tidy scrawl. When Harry opened it with hammering heart, he
expected to find an old sock, or maybe dog biscuits, or one of his cousin’s broken toys.
Instead, he held up a cheap sewing kit.

“Thank you, aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon”, he mumbled.

Petunia nodded once, sharply. “I caught you staring at mine a few weeks ago. And I
figured… you could use it to adjust your clothes a bit. Do not make me regret this.”

She turned back to watch Dudley open the next package – after he had made fun of Harry for
the girly present of course – and Harry had time to force his eyes dry. This was…
unexpected. This had potential.

The sudden soft-heartedness of his aunt did not mean that Harry could immediately use his
gift, however. Like every year, he ended up in the kitchen, helping her prepare the Christmas
dinner, while Dudley got started on wrecking his new toys. Harry already had his eyes on a
few of them. If his magic got stronger, he might be able to repair them that way. He might
even be able to sell them afterwards.

When the Queen’s speech started and his family ate, Harry was sent to the cupboard. He did –
wonders never ceased today – get a tiny piece of the Christmas roast, as well as an assortment
of the side dishes to take with him, though.

He tuned out Queen Elizabeth talking about anniversaries and instead thought about his
plans. He had a few options here, some more appealing than others. For some reason or other,
his aunt seemed slightly more sympathetic, more than he had ever seen in either set of
memories. He had a few ideas about what he might be able to accomplish until his eleventh
birthday.

That he would continue practicing magic was a no-brainer. It was definitely more dangerous
than he had thought before, and sometimes even morally questionable. But the benefits were
nothing to be scoffed at.

Harry had allies now. Those being a batty old house elf and a racist painting may not be
optimal, but it was better than the big fat nothing he’d had before.

So he lay on his cot and listened to Dudley whine about wanting to go back to his toys and
Petunia asking if anyone wanted seconds and Vernon boasting about his work and Marge
 talking about her dogs and Harry… Harry plotted.

Chapter End Notes

I didn't set out to actually include Walburga in this apart from a mention, but somehow
this happened. I rolled with it. It yielded... interesting results.
 You know what they say about the best-laid plans
Chapter Summary

Where Harry sets out to catch a rat and finds a snake.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

By now Harry was almost used to the route to London. He’d never had to ask for directions
to Grimmauld Place after the first trip and after the third or fourth he had stopped expecting
someone to find him suspicious. Especially with his now better-fitting clothes he didn’t look
out of place this fine Saturday morning.

It had taken him barely an afternoon to have Dudley begging his parents to go to a theme
park. It only helped that Chessington World of Adventures had just added a few vampire-
themed rides that had Dudley pretty much bouncing the whole way to the car. Harry had
managed to look pale, shaky and as if he was about to be sick into the rubbish bin, aunt
Petunia had taken one look at him and allowed him to stay home unsupervised, even adding a
bucket to the closet. Just in case. That had happened more and more over the last few months.
At first, Harry had often nudged his relatives into letting him stay home instead of being
shunted off to Mrs Figg's, with Dudley being easy to distract, his aunt developing a weird soft
sport for him and Vernon being soundly ignored. Nowadays, he mostly didn’t have to. After
all, as far as they were concerned, nothing magical had happened around him for close to a
year.

When he got off at King’s Cross, Harry pulled the cap tight once more and got off. The scar
was easily hidden with some makeup he had stolen from his aunt. As his glasses were the
wrong prescription anyway, he had gotten his sports teacher to notice and force his relatives
to get him new ones, this time with a less obvious frame. The only thing he couldn’t hide was
the typical Potter hair and his eyes.

His hand was in his pocket, wrapped around a gemstone. He had, by order of Lady Walburga
Black, haunted a few antique stores in London to practice sensing magic. Sometimes magical
objects ended up there, she said. He had been drawn to the stone immediately and spent some
of his meagre savings (stealings - Shut up) on purchasing it. Luckily, the shop owner didn’t
seem to think it was valuable. Sadly, so did Aunt Walburga. It was, however, the day when
she had decided she would allow him to call her aunt.

According to her, most Black children got a training wand from the family collection when
they were around seven or eight when they'd had enough bouts of accidental magic and this
started their transition into being seen as full members of the family. As those were all locked
in a Gringotts vault, however, Harry had been unable to get one. Apparently, his stone was a
focus for his magic. The portrait called it a “poor substitute, but it’ll do” and Harry, reminded
of what she had said to him the day they met all those months ago, had felt that maybe it was
more fitting than she thought.

He had spent hours twisting silver wire around the clear quartz crystal to turn it into a
pendant, so he could keep it close. Today, however, he didn’t want it to be seen, just like he
was melding into the crowd. It was a strange thought that, in just a year, he would be here,
boarding the train himself. Today, he would simply watch – and, if he was very lucky, catch a
rat.

Aunt Walburga had been vehemently against it. She had railed against her “blood-traitor son”
and the shame he would bring to the house of Black – until Harry had reminded her that
growing up with a freed convict and, according to her, blood-traitor, would still beat growing
up with muggles. She had shut up after that, which Harry always counted as a win.

Most people walking through the station this morning were muggles. After all, you could
simply floo or apparate right to the platform. It was mostly the muggleborns who entered
platform 9 ¾ this way. He had managed to apply a slight notice-me-not charm to himself and
thus simply slipped through the barrier. It also worked on the wizards already waiting on the
other side, albeit to a lesser degree. He kept close to a family that was safely engaged in a
deep discussion and set in to wait.

There were about twenty minutes until the train left. Harry had been loathe to risk coming
closer to the time of departure, although he suspected the Weasleys would be cutting it close.
Coming too early heightened the risk of exposure, though. He could already feel a prickling
at his neck, as if keen eyes were trying to see through his charm. He covertly scanned the
platform, but couldn’t find anyone looking at him too closely. Maybe it was paranoia. Just to
be sure, though, he slipped into the crowd and started moving around more.

When the Weasley family entered the platform, everyone noticed. It would be hard not to, as
multiple redheads invaded, rushing through the floo and Mrs Weasley’s shouting hanging
over everything.

“Charlie, keep up! Bill isn’t here anymore, so you have to be the new role model. Try to keep
an eye on the twins, will you? And don’t let being quidditch captain interfere with your
studies!”

“But muuuum! Why does Charlie have to keep an eye on us? We’re not first-years anymore!”

“George, you know exactly why. Just last week you dyed all the gnomes in the garden
orange!”

“He’s not George, I am!”

“Oh shush.”

“We’ll behave, I promise!”, Not-George said.

Harry could not suppress a snort as that immediately brought up memories of swamps and
fireworks. Mrs Weasley seemed to have similar concerns, as she levelled them with a stare.
That, at least, distracted everyone enough so that Harry could sneak closer.

“Don’t worry. I’ve been in the Forbidden Forest a few times and I can show you the ropes.”

“Charlie!” That was almost howler-level screaming and vaguely reminded Harry of aunt
Walburga.

“What? You know they’re gonna be in there anyway, so I might as well go to keep them
safe.”

“Don’t worry, mother. I will keep an eye on them.” Percy puffed up his chest as Molly smiled
at him. “I’m a future prefect after all, more like Bill than you.” The last jibe was directed at
Charlie, who frowned.

“Muuum, I want to go too. Why can’t I go this year?” Ron’s voice sounded so young that
Harry startled. In his memories he had lost that high pitch after two years. Something about
that hurt deep in his heart. Especially because he had a feeling that he wouldn’t end up in
Gryffindor this time.

“In a year, Ron. And your brothers will send you letters. Won’t you, boys?” The last part was
sharper and aimed at the twins.

“We’ll send you hundreds of letters!”

“-thousands of letters!”

“-we’ll send you-“

“-some treacle tart from the feast!”

“-and a book from the library!”

“-and a spider from the forbidden forest!”

“Aaaargh!” Ron hid in his mother’s cloak. “Don’t you dare, you…!”

“Do you have your rat, Percy?” Molly defused the situation. Harry’s ears perked up.

“Of course. I’m taking good care of him, after all. He’s sleeping right now.”

Harry gripped his crystal a bit harder and renewed the notice-me-not charm. Then he scanned
the young red-haired boy who was currently talking to Charlie about his ambition to become
a prefect next year. He did not take Percy for someone who would put a rat into a suitcase, so
Harry paid special attention to the overflowing trolley.

“Now then! Take your trunks and onto the train with you! Don’t forget to write, Charlie.
Fred, George, don’t you dare go into that forest and no spiders for you two. And you keep an
eye on everyone, Percy! Now shoo! Or you’ll miss the train!”
Harry could have hit himself. There was that bloody nostalgic feeling that stopped him
paying attention every time one of the redheads opened their mouths. It was like an iron band
on his heart that squeezed and felt like a warm blanket and a grappling hook trying to burrow
into him at the same time. (Focus! This is important!)

There! Wedged between two trunks was a small cage with a fat, slightly scraggly-looking rat
that seemed to be sleeping deeply. That warm feeling in his heart immediately turned into a
raging inferno and the hand gripping his stone tightened around it. He wanted to murder that
rodent. No matter how many people were around, no matter that he might be recognized, no
matter that this could endanger everything he had worked for during the last year.

(It’s not worth it. Stick to the plan stick to the plan stick to the plan stick to…)

There was a metallic crunch, a loud squeak and suddenly platform 9 ¾ was overrun by a
horde of redheads chasing after a rat. That was… not what Harry had been aiming for. At
least his magic had only crushed the cage and not the animal.

People were bowled over, trunks spilled open and over everything hung Percy’s desperate
voice screaming for Scabbers. If it hadn’t been the absolute opposite of what Harry had
wanted, it would have been hilarious. Especially funny was the part where Mr Malfoy had to
save himself from a frantic Charlie by diving head-first to the side. Cursing, Harry decided to
stay back but keep an eye on the chaos that was unfolding.

“Scabbers!”

Inching his way along the side of the platform, he made it to the opposite side that held most
of the chaos now. At least everyone was too distracted by the Weasley family to notice the
unimposing figure of a little boy. Through a gap in the crowd, he could see the rat winding its
way in between feet. He imagined it was squeaking in pain and took more pleasure in it than
he had thought. When he had an unimpeded view, Harry focused on his crystal and pulled.

This time there was an audible squeak, then Wormtail came zooming towards Harry,
followed by another “Scabbers!” and the sound of footsteps. The closer the rat got, the faster
his heart beat. Harry pushed some more magic into it, willing the rat to fly more quickly. He
could almost see the wriggling tail, the detail of the fur – when a person in a grey cloak made
one step in the wrong direction and Scabbers got intercepted rather forcefully. Another
squeak, a scream from the unfortunate human that had been chest-butted by a rat and the
relieved babble of Percy told him all he needed to know.

Harry couldn’t suppress a curse as he watched a teary-eyed Percy pick up a fat brown rat and
continuously apologise to the witch that had intercepted Scabbers’ impromptu flying lesson.
The rest of the Weasley family was close on his heels and even from here he could hear
Molly warning everybody about the soon departing train. It seemed all of the other students
were already on board because most of them were leaning out of the windows to watch the
mayhem on the platform. When a short whistle sounded, he watched a gaggle of yet again
panicky redheads lug their trunks onto the train and depart with much tearful waving from
their mother.
In one corner stood a boy in clothes that fit decently, but which had seen better days. One
hand was hidden in his pockets, the other balled into a fist. If you looked closely enough, you
could see tears in his eyes.

There went his chance, the rat bound for Hogwarts and yet another year of pampering by a
diligent Percy. The soonest he would get close again would be in exactly a year, on
September 1st when he would meet Ron on the Hogwarts Express – though stealing his rat
during the first hour probably wouldn’t set them on a fast track to friendship.

The small groups of parents were starting to disperse and Harry, as a now obviously alone
and almost Hogwarts-aged child, was beginning to stand out. With a deep breath he pulled
back the rage and the helplessness, shutting them tightly behind his mental shields, then cast
another notice-me-not. A setback, but he would get through it. He had survived worse. (He
really had.)

With discreet checks whether anyone was looking towards him, Harry made his way towards
the barrier. If he made a stop at Grimmauld Place, maybe this day would be less of a waste.
He was almost tempted to sneak into Diagon Alley, sure that Dumbledore would be too
preoccupied with welcoming the old and new students – but Aunt Walburga had warned him
that the headmaster had eyes everywhere.

Even at Grimmauld Place, she had instructed Kreacher to take down one of the portraits with
the explanation that, as Harry had not yet accepted the heirship officially, he could not order
the portrait to be silent - and that even if he did, Sirius' authority would overrule his. He
himself knew that Dumbledore would never let him come to Grimmauld again if he ever
found out that was where Harry spent most of his unsupervised time. Not to mention being
taught by Walburga Black. Now that was almost worth it, seeing him have a heart attack.

A very angry mumbling caught his ear on the way to the barrier. There was a strange quality
to it and Harry felt something like a tug on his magic. It definitely wasn’t a rat. But it
promised to be something interesting either way.

He followed what felt like a string pulling at his chest while the voice complained about all
the feet that were almost trampling it. There, half under a bench on the side, was a sliver of
something hiding. Feeling a bit of his bad temper ebb, Harry crouched down.

:Hello:

There was a pause in the hissed complaints and a dark egg-shaped head poked out of the
shadows, huge vibrant green eyes trained on him.

:Hello?:

:What is a snake doing here?:, Harry mused.

:You are a speaker! I thought I imagined it.: The snake turned its head from side to side,
seeming to look for more people. :I’m hiding. Can’t you see that?:
Harry copied the snake, looking around the platform again. There were still some parents
talking with each other – maybe friends, or the parents of children who had boarded the train,
maybe waiting to grab lunch together somewhere. One man in a dark cloak, however, was
wandering around, eyes trained on the ground, systematically scanning it for… probably a
snake, if Harry had to guess.

:I can see that. But if you stay there, he will find you. Why did you escape?:

The snake hissed again, but this time there were no words. Just the long, drawn-out, angry
sound that rattled in Harry’s ears.

:I was bought as a potion ingredient. A potion ingredient! Can you imagine that?: More
hissing and a tail wiggle that was probably meant to look menacing, but Harry thought was
rather cute. :I am not going to be chopped up and thrown into a cauldron! I am mighty! I am
fiercessssssss!:

While his face showed the mask of being interested in whatever the snake had to say, inside,
Harry was grinning. This was the funniest conversation he'd had since he had listened to
Dudley complain about not being allowed to read The Hobbit, which one of his new friends
from boxing had been trying to lend him for weeks. Watching Vernon’s face rapidly switch
between beet red and chalk white while sneaking concerned looks at Harry had been the
highlight of his month.

Dudley had won that argument, of course, and Harry took great pleasure in asking to borrow
the book as well, so his cousin had another person to talk to about it. Even better had been the
realization that, apparently, Dudley really liked reading – as long as he was reading fantasy
books. There had been some whispered discussions in the dead of night, but in the end,
Dudley’s higher education won out. A nice side effect was that his cousin hadn’t been playing
Harry Hunting for months now and was instead more likely to ask him for his opinion on the
latest fixation.

:Can you get me out of here, human?: The snake was looking at him again, somehow
managing to make his eyes even wider and almost… cute?

:If you promise not to bite me, I don’t see why not.:

The snake hissed a thanks and, when Harry held out a hand, quickly disappeared into his
sleeve and wound itself around his arm. If he had to guess, it was a bit longer than one foot
and a half and he could feel the rough scales all the way up his arm. It was a slightly
disconcerting feeling.

He patted his trousers to get rid of the dirt, then set off at a brisk pace towards the barrier. The
man had reached the bench by now. Harry didn’t recognize him and didn’t stick around long
enough to find out his identity. With one last sweep of the platform, he crossed back over into
the muggle world.

:What now?:, he hissed to the snake. :Where should I let you off?:
There was a tickling feeling from under his sleeve, as if the snake had flicked its tongue at his
arm. Being that close to its fangs made Harry’s stomach drop a bit, but he powered through.
No need to cause chaos twice a day by flinging an animal around a train station. Besides, the
snake probably didn’t deserve it.

:I’m not sure, actually.: The snake poked its head out of the sleeve just the tiniest bit to look
at him. :I’ve never been on my own. I was bred to be put into a cauldron. Not that anyone
ever asked me whether I wanted to go in there.:

The feeling in his stomach turned into a sinking one. Goddamn it.

:Can’t you take me home with you? As long as you promise not to cook me, of course:, the
snake hurriedly added. It tilted its head again, this time exposing a yellow throat.

:I’m… not sure I can keep a snake. My home isn’t very big. And the people I live with don’t
like me very much. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to find anything to eat for you.:

:Do you have a garden?:

Harry nodded.

:Then I can find lizards. Or birds. Maybe some eggs too. I’m a snake. I’ll be a great hunter!:

Harry very much doubted that, but was wise enough to keep quiet with snake fangs still so
close to his wrist. If push came to shove, he had just proven he could easily accio a rodent
across a rather large space. Besides, Aunt Petunia had complained about the mice that had
been recently trying to take over the garage.

:Alright, you can come – if you follow some rules. Number one, you do not bite me or
anyone else unless I give you permission. Are you venomous?:

The snake swayed its head back and forth. :Yes, but… I’m not sure how much, actually. I
only got dead rats so far. And I didn’t manage to bite the bad man, even though I tried. But I
promise to only bite when you say so. I could bite your enemies, though!:, the snake offered.

:Huh.: Harry had the quick but mean thought of testing the venom out on uncle Vernon. But
that would probably just get him or the snake in trouble. :Number two, if I tell you to hide,
you hide. That might even be most of the time. Nobody can know that I have you. And
nobody can know that I can talk to you unless I say it’s okay.:

The snake bobbed its head again.

:Okay, then you can stay. But like I said, I can’t promise you’ll like it.:

:That’s fine.: A short pause. :Were you the one who distracted everyone so I could escape?:

Harry found himself nodding. :Yes, though I was actually trying to capture a rat.:

:Oh I can help with that!:

The enthusiasm made Harry snicker. He started to feel a bit lighter after that failure with
Scabbers. :It’s too late now, but maybe you’ll be able to help me with it next year. I’ll have to
wait until then to try again.:

:Stalking your prey. Very smart:, said the snake.

:What’s your name, by the way? You never said.:

Another round of head-swaying, which seemed to be how the snake thought about things.
Maybe it was the equivalent of shrugging?

:I don’t have one. Only other snakes ever talk to me and they know how I look and my scent,
so I don’t need a name. Can you not see me? Should I come closer? My pattern is very
distinct.:

There was some more wriggling in his sleeve and Harry clamped down on his elbow before
the snake managed to crawl all the way up to his shoulder.

:Don’t! Just… stay there for a while. I can’t smell you because humans can’t smell very well.
We can’t hear very well either. Or see. Humans suck, if I’m being honest. But maybe you can
be my nose and ears and eyes?:

:I can’t smell very well either.: The snake sounded sullen. :But I can definitely see for you!
And I can sense things even when there’s a barrier in front of it, sometimes. I can feel the
vibrations through the earth. That could be helpful?: Another thoughtful nod. :And if you
need a name for me, you can just choose one. But choose a nice one!:, it warned.

:Are you male or female? Or do you want a gender-neutral name?:

:I am male.:

:I’ll take some time to think about a name then:, Harry promised.

:Where are we going now?: The snake was completely hidden by the sleeve, not even poking
its head out. Harry could still feel the rough dry scales of the tail wrapped around his wrist
and when he moved his arm, he could feel its body brushing against his skin. As a dark and
warm space, it must be rather comfortable.

:First, we’ll go meet my aunt Walburga. She’s dead, but I think she’ll like you.: The thought
of telling her that he had a pet snake now made him grin. :After that we’ll go home to my
other aunt, Petunia. She’s alive, but she doesn’t even like me, so she definitely won’t like you.
You’ll have to stay hidden from her.:

:Alright.: There was the sensation of a tongue touching his wrist again, like a butterfly kiss. It
tickled a little. :Where you go, I’ll go.:

Harry had the quick thought about what Hedwig might say in a year when he fully intended
to buy her again. Or what the little snake might say when he brought home an owl. For now,
however, he thought over a few names from his magical history books. Why mess with a
good thing, after all.
:What about Mehen? He was an old Egyptian snake god. Very powerful and worshipped by
many.:

There was a slight hissing from his sleeve that somehow reminded him of Mrs Figg’s cats
when they were purring. :A truly noble name. You may call me Mehen.:

Well, that was settled then. The dungeon at Grimmauld Place may be one rat short, but at
least Harry now had a companion. He hoped that alone made the trip worth it. And now that
he was stuck with the Dursleys for at least another year or two, there were some other plans
involved in making his stay there as pleasant as possible. He couldn’t wait for Aunt
Walburga’s reaction either.

Harry had never seen a painting faint, but his first experience being Walburga put him in a
rather good mood.

“Oh, my poor Mistress! What has the Young Master done?”

Kreacher was torn between pulling on his drooping ears and patting the golden frame. Mehen
was draped over Harry’s shoulder and was hissing quietly. He was actually about a foot
longer than Harry had thought. He was also, according to the snake itself, still young and
would grow quite a bit yet. He would probably have to come up with a better place to hide
him than his sleeve.

Walburga’s eyes were twitching and Harry adjusted his pose. “Aunt Walburga? Are you
well?”

“What are you doing with a boomslang?”

It might be the first time he had heard her voice sounding almost weak. “Is that what he is? I
picked him up at King’s Cross. He escaped a potion master.”

At that, the Lady Black looked like she might faint again. “At King’s Cross? Around
children?! Was that man mad? It’s one of the most venomous snakes in the world!”

Ah. Guess that answered that question then. Harry resolved not to sick Mehen on uncle
Vernon. Yet.

“Are you sure you can control it?” The dead witch eyed the snake which was still draped
across Harry’s shoulders and was now hissing a bit more menacingly.

“Him”, Harry corrected. “And Mehen will listen to me, I’m sure.”

“A very good name.” Walburga looked a little mollified at that and with cruelly glinting eyes
said: “A snake. He might even become your familiar - and he might be helpful against your
enemies.”

Harry had a feeling that term was meant for Dumbledore more than Voldemort and resolved
not to let Kreacher anywhere near the snake, just in case Walburga got the idea to order him
around.

“And their skins are a very important ingredient in polyjuice potion.” Mehen hissed again,
this time puffing out the skin starting around his neck weirdly. “Shed skin works too.” He
deflated.

“How high are the chances that Dumbledore will let me bring him as a pet?”, Harry asked.

“Not very high”, was the expected answer. “If you play on your poor orphan situation and tell
him you can control Mehen with Parseltongue… maybe.”

Her facial expression told him exactly what she thought of giving up that secret and Harry
had to agree. He had memories from second year when his Parsel ability had gotten out. That
he was most likely to end up in Slytherin, maybe Ravenclaw, wouldn’t help matters. They
had come up with some plans for either, so at least he wouldn’t go in blind. Gryffindor left a
bad taste in Harry’s mouth and Walburga outright refused to teach him any more should he
end up in Hufflepuff. Harry would have argued, but over the last year or so he had learned to
save his breath for the important discussions.

“Alright then. Do you have any ideas for smuggling a snake into Hogwarts and hiding it from
my dorm mates, Aunt Walburga?”, he sighed.

Walburga’s mouth morphed into a truly vicious smile. “Now that sounds much more like a
Black! I will think on the matter and we can work on a plan when you are here next. There is
still time for it, after all, and it does not do to hasten important decisions.”

“Yes, Aunt Walburga.”

“Now. Back to your training.”

Half an hour later found Harry in a duelling room he had absolutely no memory of from
“before”, facing off against a bunch of upholstery.

“Again!”, barked Walburga – who had abandoned her portrait to watch from a frame that
seemed specifically positioned for keeping an eye on the whole room from one of the walls.

Harry gritted his teeth and closed his hand around his necklace again – the quartz crystal he
was never taking off. He felt the slight tug at his magic and aimed his left hand at the target
Kreacher had built out of pillowcases. The real practice targets had been either destroyed
years ago, or looked so moth-eaten that even a weak cutting curse would tear them apart –
and that would not be befitting an heir of the House of Black, according to the Lady of the
House.

“Diffindo!”

There was a ripping sensation, a bit of fluff and a cut appeared diagonally across the brocade.

“Much better. If you can do this much damage with just a gem stone as a focus and your non-
dominant hand, outfitting you with a wand should be very promising indeed. I think we can
move on to a few more vicious curses next time. You better learn them before Hogwarts, as
they are not even taught there. Oh, how low the standards have dropped.” She shook her head
while Kreacher nodded sagely.

Harry had his own opinions on the matter, but decided to hold his tongue. He wasn’t sure
how responsible it was to teach these things to a ten-year-old, no matter how often Walburga
insisted he was actually behind in his education as the heir to the Black Lordship. He was,
however, very sure that he would be even more horrified by it all if he didn’t have a bunch of
memories where dark curses were flung at him. If he knew them himself, maybe at least his
defence would improve, even should he never use them. The list of spells he remembered
from the future had grown quite a bit and a large part of them were under the “dark and
dangerous” section he’d started.

“Again. This time a spell chain.”

Harry sighed, took his position – “elbow lower, knees apart!”, barked the portrait – then
started a chain of first and second-year spells. Even with a wand, the movements would
easily flow from one to the other. The effect was rather destructive. With just his stone, the
pillows more or less exploded and were unsalvageable afterwards. Kreacher dutifully
propped up a new one immediately.

“Good. That was enough magic for today; we can’t tax your core too much. Instead, let’s hear
about the 16th century feud between the Blacks and the Malfoys and how it was resolved.
And after that I’ve got a birthday present for you.”

Walburga had warmed up to him quite considerably since his first time here, even going so
far as to instruct Kreacher to choose some of the surviving robes from Regulus’ room to fit
him. It was the only room that the house elf had regularly cleaned and as, according to his
aunt, wizarding fashion seldomly changed, they were still suitable for someone of his
standing. Of course Harry would only be able to wear them once he had his official
introduction to the wizarding world. And whenever he set foot into Grimmauld Place.
Walburga was appalled by the “muggle rags” he showed up in and commanded him to
change every time.

“Now. About the Longbottom yule ball disaster of 1953…” Harry sighed and got on with it.

The spells were really helpful, as were a lot of the books he’d managed to read during the last
few months. Having someone he could talk to about the magical world also made him feel
less crazy and alone, even if his conversation partners were a painting and a house elf. He’d
still learned a lot and even Walburga had warmed up to him after a few false starts.

She now wore an expression that everyone would assume was cruel, but Harry had dubbed
“begrudgingly proud”. It appeared more and more often. “As for your gift. You’ve done very
well during the last year” the especially for someone raised by horrid muggles went unsaid
“so you will be honoured by being able to officially show you are a member of House Black.
Kreacher, bring the jewellery!”

Kreacher bowed and popped away, then returned with little cases and cushions holding
jewellery from necklaces to bracelets to cufflinks to other miscellaneous things. All of them
featured lots of black, lots of ravens and sometimes a skull, which Harry immediately
recognized as the Black family crest from his lessons.

He swallowed around a lump that had mysteriously formed in his throat. “But… I’m not even
a Black by birth…”

Walburga looked as soft as she ever had. “No, you are not. But I still believe if you continue
improving like this, you can become worthy of the name. Besides. There are rituals to solve
the blood issue.”

Harry tentatively reached out to run his hand over a broad dark leather wristband with the
inlaid golden words “toujours pur”. He may not believe in everything Walburga was teaching
him – but this was the first time someone wanted him to be a part of their family.

“I’m honoured you think I am worthy of this, Aunt Walburga.”

She inclined her head, then motioned towards the jewellery. “Choose one.”

Some of the items were gaudy and Harry instantly dismissed them. He already wore his focus
as a necklace and another thing might look strange, so he discarded those as well. Cufflinks
were out because he didn’t own or need formal clothing yet, but he stored the information for
possible future events.

When he had pulled out an assortment of bracelets, Walburga cleared her throat. “All very
good choices. But I have a suggestion.” She nodded towards a thick silver one. “That one has
additional charms embedded in it to protect its wearer from most poisons or potions.”

Although he didn’t think being poisoned was on his agenda for a while, Harry felt touched
she sought to protect him. Maybe she just wanted to protect the last possible heir to the Black
fortune that she would approve of – but she cared nonetheless.

“Thank you, Aunt Walburga.”

Harry took the bracelet from the dark satin cushion. It was silver, as thick as his thumb, but
included filigree work of three ravens, spreading their wings in flight, tip to tip. There were
tiny dark gems embedded in between the feathers that Harry thought might be onyx. When he
put it on, it automatically resized to fit his small wrist. He actually had to bring up some
occlumency shields to keep his eyes dry.

“You are welcome, Harry.”

It was rare that she called him by his name. Usually she just screamed some version of you at
him and he was supposed to know who she was addressing. Harry swallowed again.

Kreacher, standing taller than Harry had ever seen him, started moving the rest of the
jewellery back into boxes and popping them away.

“Most of the family jewellery is kept at Gringotts, of course, especially the ones with strong
enchantments. You shall have to take a look at them once you have access to the family vault.
It may not be feasible to take it to the muggle world anyway, so for now this will have to do.”
 “Yes, Aunt Walburga.”

Harry looked through the items that were left, just out of curiosity. After all, some of the
necklaces were rather nice, even though they wouldn’t fit with his crystal one. When he lifted
his hand to touch a particularly nice golden skull, his magic pulled.

There, among the more gaudy objects, lay a big golden locket with an S laid out in emeralds
on the front. His hand, his very being, was drawn to it and Harry picked it up by the chain as
his brain was flooded by memories. Kreacher, who had just returned from his first trip, made
a choked noise.

“Bloody hell.”

“Language!”, chided Lady Walburga.

“That’s a bloody horcrux.”

The ensuing streak of curses was much more colourful language than anything Harry could
have come up with.

Chapter End Notes

As the pre-Hogwarts part was originally supposed to be just a chapter or two, there are a
few time skips. This one is probably the biggest one in the whole series, but I decided to
keep it anyway.
 Lessons to be taught
Chapter Summary

In which Harry is overwhelmed. So is everyone else.

Chapter Notes

TW: this is where the canonical child abuse tag comes into play (though maybe a bit
worse than in canon, actually). If you’d rather skip that part, stop reading this chapter
when Vernon comes storming down the stairs right after the Christmas morning scene.
You should still get the gist of what happened in the next chapter (or can ask me in the
comments).

After staring at the locket for what seemed like forever, Kreacher swearing he couldn't tell,
that he had been ordered not to tell his Mistress, Harry finally solving the issue by having
Kreacher tell him the story in the kitchen and relaying it to his aunt. That, of course, led to
Walburga screaming and raging worse than she ever had, cursing Kreacher, her youngest son,
Kreacher, her oldest son, Kreacher, Herpo the Foul, and, somewhat surprisingly, the Dark
Lord. Some of the other portraits had woken up by this point and Harry barely managed to
keep the word “horcrux” out of the screamed conversation and himself out of sight. It took
hours and much pining for alcohol on Walburga’s part for his aunt to reach even a semblance
of calm.

After that they first tried to think of anything in Grimmauld Place that could destroy a
horcrux. They quickly amended that to trying to find some books on the matter, which led to
Kreacher popping in with the last thing that Regulus had read. It was a large book bound in
black leather with the ominous title “Secrets of the Darkest Arts”. That even Walburga didn’t
let Harry closer to it than looking over Kreacher’s shoulder as they read was a testament to
what could be found inside.

At least it was worth it and they found some possible ways to destroy the locket. Fiendfyre
was out of the question for obvious reasons – those being that one of them was a painting,
one a house elf and the last member of this illustrious group a ten-year-old. Whether the
killing curse would work was discussed briefly and then discarded for the same reasons as
option one. Walburga was excited for a moment when she ordered Kreacher to check her old
potions lab for bottled basilisk venom, only for the mood to fall when he told her the last one
was at the bottom of a lake filled with inferi, where Regulus had taken it. Harry, though,
made a memo to check on said lab and any potion ingredients that might be salvageable.
That left them figuring out how to lessen the effects of the evil artefact – because even
Walburga admitted that this was the blackest of magics and should never have ended up in
her house. They settled on a box with dampening magic that would be put up into the furthest
part of the attic until they could find a way to destroy it, Kreacher ordered to only go near it
in the direst circumstances.

Next was the interrogation of how Harry had recognised it for what it was, let alone known
what a horcrux was. He, miraculously, managed to evade those questions, though he
wondered whether Walburga had simply humoured him and would pick up the conversation
at a later date.

“This is infuriating”, commented Walburga on the whole situation, which summed it up very
well in Harry’s mind.

“We’ll manage to find a way. Maybe I can buy basilisk venom?”

She shook her head. “It’s a controlled substance, so a ten-year-old buying this will see the
ministry come running. I fear you won’t be getting your hands on any for a few years yet.”

Harry thought about mentioning the basilisk at Hogwarts, but as he had plans for that and still
remembered his aunt’s tirade about the venomous boomslang left to roam Platform 9 ¾, he
figured this was not the time.

Kreacher was tasked with finding all books mentioning horcruxes in the coming weeks. By
that point it was so late that Harry had to hurry back to Surrey and they had parted with the
promise that they would plan some more during their next meeting.

Harry was doing a lot of the planning during the weeks afterwards. Seeing the locket had
shaken something loose in his mind and it was now swamped with horrible, awful sets of
memories. Dementors and frozen lakes, snakes, dragons, withered hands, basilisks and
monsters of fire. The new influx of memories brought with them a headache that lasted for
weeks. Every time Harry thought this was the last of the puzzle pieces, another nightmare
took its place and haunted him for days. It was lucky that Harry was quite adept at wandless
silencing charms by now; he had a feeling even the at this point rather tame Dursleys would
not appreciate being screamed awake every night. The timeline was taking shape, though,
and Harry had actually started a second book. This time the gel marker was green. A lot of
memories were still escaping him, however.

At least he had some company now, as evidenced by Mehen winding around his shoulders
and upper arms while Harry adjusted the timeline once again to include a diadem.

:I’m booooored.:

:I told you we’d be mostly locked in:, Harry chided. :What did you expect? The Dursleys are
visiting friends today, so at least you’ll be able to roam the house.:
Mehen made some noise that Harry could only describe as grumbling, then started to slither
around his cot. :I am itchyyyy. Make it go away.:

Harry snorted, but continued writing. :You shouldn’t have eaten all the mice in the garage
then. Maybe you wouldn’t be shedding already.:

:But they were so tasty!: Mehen paused in his movements and waved his head from side to
side. His eyes had already gone milky, a sure sign he would soon find himself in a new skin.

Despite his seeming annoyance, Harry loved having someone to talk to. Mehen had turned
out to be rather clever and sarcastic, which suited him very well. As such, he put down the
notebook, held his hand out for Mehen and nudged a cardboard box on the floor with his feet.

:I put a few wet towels in there and some rocks from the garden; I can also make it warm for
you. If you soak in water for a bit and continue rubbing against rough surfaces, that dry skin
should come off in no time.:

:It better:, muttered the snake. :I hate not being able to see so well.: He did, however, slide
down from Harry’s hands and into the box, letting out a sigh when he touched the damp
towels. Harry then cast a warming charm on the whole thing. :Much better.:

:Next time just let me know what you want instead of complaining all the time.:

A satisfied hissing sound was the answer, then there was blessed silence and Harry picked up
his notes again.

He was not equipped to keep a snake. There was no tank, no heating stones, no temperature
regulator… nothing. It wasn’t like he could ask the Dursleys for any of these things either. Of
course he had asked Mehen whether he would like to go somewhere else, where his new
owner had the equipment needed, but the snake had sniffed at that and announced he would
never be owned by anyone again. He would rather stick with someone who would treat him
like a friend instead of an animal. It had not taken long to convince Harry, as he 1. was also in
desperate need of a friend and 2. there would be questions if a ten-year-old tried to give one
of the most venomous snakes in the world to a zoo.

:…you said I can ask you for things if I really want them…?:

:Yes?: Harry put the book away completely. Knowing Mehen, he would not get to pick it up
for a while.

:…I’m hungry, but can’t hunt with these eyes. Can you catch me a lizard? I don’t really need
to eat, but I kinda want to…?:

Harry just sighed. Then he got up. :Sure.:

It took another day for the skin to finally come off. Harry wasn’t sure whether the lizard he
had snatched with a wandless acccio from some rock in the garden had helped, but Mehen
had at least stopped complaining. Well, mostly. He still lamented not being able to sneak into
the high hedges in the backyard, which he loved slithering up and through.
When Harry woke up and saw the shed skin lying in his improvised terrarium, he
immediately scooped it up and put it into a jar he had nicked from the kitchen for just that
purpose. Knowing his fame in the wizarding world, he might need polyjuice potion at some
point. The bigger surprise came when a snake fell from the ceiling onto him and started
hissing excitedly into his ear.

:Harry, look, look, look!:

The reason for the excitement was immediately obvious. Instead of the brown-black back
with the blue-grey spots and the sand-coloured belly, Mehen now sported a greener colour on
top with some scales outlined in black and the belly a somewhat lighter yellow-ish green. The
yellow throat was starting to fade. So were the beautiful emerald eyes that had taken on a
more brown hue. It looked almost as if the scales had soaked up the green and instead left
behind a dark brown.

:Uuuuh…???:

Mehen wrapped his tail around Harry’s upper arm, then began swaying back and forth. :I'm
getting my adult colours!:

Harry tentatively reached out to touch the new skin, being very careful not to damage it.
:You’re very pretty, Mehen. The green suits you.:

The snake preened and gave a proud tongue flick. :Thank you! It's going to be an even
brighter green! Then I can blend in better with the leaves!:

The snake rubbed its head against his hand for a bit, then coiled up on the bed, still proudly
glancing at his new scales occasionally. Not one to interrupt his new friend admiring himself,
Harry decided to not mention that the leaves would fall in autumn and turn brown and that
his former colouring might have been more helpful. Then again, they were living at Privet
Drive and the privet hedges stayed green all year.

:I’ll eat lot of lizards and birds and mice so that I can shed again soon! I’ll grow much
brighter and much, much bigger!:

Harry just sighed. That probably meant more irritable Mehen in the future. But at least he had
company and that was worth all the complaining about itchy scales. He might have to keep
an eye on the food intake, though. Mehen seemed to think he could only grow in length and
not in width.

The rest of the year passed slowly from then on. Autumn became winter, Walburga and he
hadn’t come up with a permanent solution to the horcrux problem so had started up his
training again, and soon Christmas was coming up. Dudley had turned into “such a strapping
young boy, Vernon, aren’t you proud?” and, surprisingly, the new friends he’d made in his
boxing club had turned out to be a great influence. He was still hanging out with Pierce and
the others, but that was more due to proximity. A lot of the weekend nights were spent at
some boxing peer’s house to watch films and compare muscles.
His fantasy book collection had grown as well, now taking up a whole shelf in his room. He
had even given Harry the promise he could borrow some if he wanted, as that meant he had
someone else to discuss them with. The conversations about Matilda and Charlie and the
Chocolate Factory had his cousin growing thoughtful and Harry hopeful. Harry Hunting was
pretty much a thing of the past after that and during the afternoons it was more likely to see
both boys engrossed in books.

When Vernon and Petunia had found out, they had both gone rather pale. Petunia said
nothing more on the matter. Vernon tried to talk Dudley into taking back his word and also
made some snide comments that Harry was sure were meant to make Dudley bully him
again, but it all bounced off of Dudley’s new self-esteem like rain did from Mehen’s scales.

Harry still had chores, of course, but when only his aunt and cousin were around, he was not
screamed at while doing them. He got water when he worked outside. He was allowed to
shower in the actual shower instead of under the garden hose. Even his food portions had
gotten larger, though he still supplemented them with nightly trips to the fridge where he
duplicated some food. He had gotten rather good at that type of magic, after all.

His visits to Mrs Figg had gotten more infrequent as well, seeing as he was now trusted to
stay in the house for a day at a time. That Harry almost never did and instead ran off to
London remained unnoticed. Besides, he still had that weird feeling about Mrs Figg, though
no memories yet as explanation, and was glad to not be surrounded by dozens of cats either
way.

The more Harry slotted himself seamlessly into life at Privet Drive, the deeper the furrow in
Vernon’s brow got, the more his moustache started to tremble when he saw Dudley or Petunia
actually having a conversation with him and when Dudley called him Harry instead of “boy”
or “freak” his pale complexion shifted to red rather dramatically.

Not having done magic in sight of them or anyone else for over a year had done wonders for
his relationships, but Vernon was still suspicious. Sometimes he seemed to try and steer
Harry into situations where, just twelve months ago, his magic would have instinctively
lashed out. Whenever he saw him with a fantasy book, his fingers twitched as if he was
desperate to rip it out of his hands. When Christmas Eve passed in an as uneventful way as it
had last year, with not even Ripper being vicious to him, Harry saw a strange glint in his
uncle’s eyes that made a shiver run down his back.

Maybe it would have faded a bit had he known that Ripper indeed still wanted to rip Harry’s
throat out and that the only reason he didn’t was Harry keeping up a constant presence in the
dog’s mind. It made Harry a bit snappish and more vicious than usual when his occlumency
failed to keep all of Ripper’s more base thoughts out, as well as giving him a headache and
preventing him from doing any other magic – but Harry still saw it as a win. His occlumency
had come leaps and bounds, though it was at a strange standstill with no visible improvement
in months. Aunt Walburga was growing rather irritated with it.

To compensate, she had instructed Harry to use legilimency more, which came much more
naturally to him. Not that he actually liked it. It still felt like a violation of other people’s
privacy and always left him with a slimy feeling in his mind and magic. He did it anyway,
though he tried to stick to people he came across during his daily life, slipping in and out of
neighbours’ and teachers’ minds. Some, he had noticed, had rudimentary barriers, even as
muggles.

He continued to avoid eye contact with Vernon on Christmas morning, concentrating on

being happy about Petunia’s gift – this time it was some actual taekwondo equipment and
wasn’t that a clear improvement – and continued to ignore Marge’s tirade about his allegedly
useless parents. Dudley was sneaking what he thought were covert looks at his aunt, hands
clenched around the much more high-grade boxing supplies he had gotten, as if he was about
to put on his new gloves and punch her. While entertaining, Harry felt that would be
detrimental to the overall situation.

When he slipped into his cousin’s mind, Harry paused in confusion. He was just in the outer
layer, not wanting to infringe too much by looking at his cousin’s innermost thoughts, but
what he found even here made his breath catch in his throat. Dudley was about to defend him
to his aunt. What had never happened in almost 16 years of living together in his memories
was about to go down. Harry could see quickly changing scenarios of his cousin indeed
punching Marge’s lights out, or cussing at her, or trying to argue with her about how his
cousin was not stupid. That even if his parents had been, Harry read the same books he did
and that Dudley enjoyed discussing them with him.

While admirable and making Harry’s heart clench, he tamped down on his cousin’s emotions
and put in the little suggestion that Christmas Day was not the right time to address any of
these issues. And hey, there were a lot of presents still left for him and didn’t he want to open
those?

Dudley did indeed and the crisis was postponed. Harry still appreciated Dudley sticking close
to him during the rest of Marge’s visit and involving him in book conversations in her
hearing range. Not that it would help with his aunt’s disposition towards him, but the thought
counted.

Of course, it all came to a head anyway.

It was such a small thing that started the whole incident, and on the last day of Marge’s visit
too. Dudley had worked his way halfway through the Narnia book he had gotten and was
sitting on the stairs, praising it to Harry, talking about how he just had to read it directly after
him, so Dudley had someone to talk to about it until school started again. Harry was dusting
the hallway pictures, listening to his cousin and making appropriate noises during the gaps in
the conversation. Aunt Petunia was making lunch in the kitchen, humming under her breath
to some Christmas song on the radio. Ripper, whom Harry was keeping tabs on 24/7, was
lying in the living room, mostly exhausted after a morning of chasing squirrels in the
backyard. Mehen, as far as Harry knew, was still in the cupboard with the order to stay there
under any circumstances. Harry took his safety very serious and with a dog in the house, even
one under what amounted to the imperius, he would not risk carrying his snake in his sleeve.
Marge was lying on the sofa next to him, having what she called a deserved nap.

That left Vernon, who was stomping around on the first floor, ruining the tranquil mood the
rest of the house had found itself in. There was a prickling in Harry’s mind that had him
restless and twitchy, though he kept it mostly under wraps behind his mind barriers. The only
outward sign was that he was dusting maybe a bit more forcefully than he usually would.
Dudley was happily prattling on about fauns and other fantasy creatures when Vernon’s
footsteps stopped. It felt like the whole house took a deep breath. Even Dudley had stopped
speaking, though his eyebrows were pulled together as if it had been an unconscious reaction
and the rest of his brain was trying to catch up to what had changed. It became glaringly
obvious when his father roughly pushed his way past him on the stairs.

Vernon was red in the face, like he often was after drinking, and Harry had noted just this
morning that the eggnog that was left over from last night was mysteriously missing from the
fridge. There was a vein pulsing at his temple and Harry just about managed to take a step
back when his uncle had grabbed the front of his jumper and pulled him so far up the wall
that the tips of his toes were barely touching the floor.

Harry registered with half a mind that Dudley had jumped to his feet. He didn’t know
whether it was his cousin or he himself who had made the choked-out noise. It must have
been loud enough to alert Petunia to the altercation, as she came rushing out of the kitchen. In
the very back of his mind, Harry registered that Ripper had noticed as well. He was then
distracted by Vernon shaking him violently and screaming in his face.

“What did you do to them, freak?! What! I’m not sure what you did to my wife or my son –
or that, that hell beast my sister calls a dog – but it stops now! Do you hear me? Stop doing
your voodoo, or whatever it is, on them and make them normal!”

His teeth rattled as he was shaken again. In between the blurring world, he saw Dudley’s
scared face swimming in and out of focus, and just a glimpse of his aunt who had her hands
in front of her mouth.

“But I didn’t…”

“Don’t. Lie. To. Me.”

Multiple memories flashed through his mind. His uncle sounded almost like Severus Snape, a
vicious, sharp edge in his voice that cut through his bravado like a knife through butter.
Memories of Umbridge, which he had just started to properly remember a few weeks ago,
bringing with them a phantom pain in his hand.

“But… nggggh.”

He was shaken again, then shoved against the wall so violently that his head was ringing and
he didn’t know whether the outraged “Vernon!” actually came from his aunt or he was just
imagining it. There was a dull throbbing where the side of his head had collided with the
wall. Harry could feel his concentration waver and only his meditation practice made it
possible to shove most of the pain to the side for later. Now he had other problems. From
beyond the still blurry world – had his glasses been smashed or fallen off? – he saw Vernon’s
big hands coming for him again.

It was a desperate act of self-preservation. Harry almost regretted it anyway.

Vernon Dursley’s mind was not a nice place to be. One could even say it was a place as close
to hell as you could come in a perfect suburban neighbourhood. Harry had never known you
could hate so many things at once without exploding. The core of it all was the all-
encompassing rage towards anything that was different. Even his love for Petunia and Dudley
had an almost proprietary, obsessive quality to it that made Harry’s thoughts feel slimy and
made him shudder. Every thought that had the word magic even associated with it felt like a
knife to his brain and made his breath come faster and faster.

“Vernon? What is…” Aunt Marge appeared in the doorway to the living room, her face
twisting into an expression of glee when she saw the situation. “Good then. I almost thought
you had lost your touch.”

Ripper, who was at her feet, growled threateningly and Harry belatedly realised that he had
almost completely let go of the dog in order to get to his uncle. With gritted teeth, trying to
breathe around the hands that were now on his throat, he sent a thought at Ripper like a spear.
The dog stopped growling, but still stared at him with murderous eyes.

“Stop. It. You little freak.”

“Dad!”

That was Dudley and the sound of him scared and confused made Harry want to punch
something himself.

“Shush, Dudders. This is for the adults to handle”, Marge said.

When Dudley looked at Aunt Marge, the confusion had morphed into anger. He was
clenching his fists again and took a step down the stairs.

“No! He’s my cousin! I’ve listened to how you talk about him the whole time and you’re just
being a mean bully!”

“Vernon, let the boy go.” That was Petunia, apparently getting over her frozen state.

Without the hands around his neck Harry might have snorted at her attempt to diffuse the
situation. She had one hand outstretched, like she was approaching a terrified aggressive dog.
But the pressure on his throat only lessened when Harry shoved the thought of listening to his
wife deep into Vernon’s brain. He did not let go, however.

“He needs to be taught a lesson! Making so much trouble for decent folks like you. Dudley,
you don’t understand yet, but…”, began Marge.

“Shut up!” Dudley’s face had taken on the same dangerous hue as his father and he had made
his way to the last steps of the stairs, which brought him to about the same height as Vernon.
His head was swivelling between his father and Harry and Aunt Marge, fists clenched so hard
the skin around his knuckled had gone white.

Harry didn’t know whether it was because he was fond of his cousin after seeing how
protective he was of him, but he didn’t want him to get involved in this mess and get in
trouble. While keeping Ripper at bay and Vernon from squeezing the life out of him, Harry
split his attention into a third part that he threw at Dudley. With all his might, he kept pushing
the thought do not hit Aunt Marge, do not hit Aunt Marge! into the forefront of his cousin’s
mind.

Dudley did not hit Aunt Marge.

Instead, he punched his father in the face.

 When actions have consequences
Chapter Summary

Let there be repercussions.

Chapter Notes

TW: Skip the first three paragraphs of chapter 6 too if you’d rather the physical stuff
was over completely. We’re done with most of the altercation, tough. At least outside of
Harry's own mind. ;)

For a second, nobody moved. Then Vernon stuttered a confused “Dud…” but was once again
punched in the face before he could finish.

“You. Let. Go. Of. My. Cousin!”

Every word was accompanied by another blow and before his father could utter another
word, Vernon Dursley yielded to Dudley’s fury and twelve months of boxing training. His
eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed like someone had cut his strings. Marge
was screaming bloody murder. Petunia let out a choaked gasp and teetered forwards to catch
her husband, then thought better of it. Dudley stood over his father, breathing heavily.

Harry himself went down like a sack of potatoes. There was a ringing in his ears and a
metallic taste on his tongue. He felt something else run down from his nose to his lips and
when his tongue automatically flicked out to get rid of the strange sensation, the metallic
taste just intensified (blood. It’s blood. Focus!). Dudley’s and Petunia’s screams of his name,
intermixed with Marge calling for Vernon were muffled, like someone had put pillows on
both of his ears.

There was something wrong with him apart from all that, though. His mind was sluggish,
turning over every thought three times before Harry could even comprehend them. And
something else was stirring at the back of his mind. Something that felt like it had slept for a
long time and was now sending tentative tendrils of darkness through his brain, searching,
searching…

Even with his slow thoughts Harry knew it was nothing good. It latched onto the hatred he
felt for Vernon in this moment. The hatred he felt for everyone who had ever hurt him, this
time or the last. The pure wrath that Harry kept under layers and layers. There was a feeling
like glee, like a cackling in his mind that sent foreboding shivers through him. But it also
cleared his mind for one single moment.

It was enough to realise what the problem was, and Harry pulled. The part of his mind that
was keeping Dudley calm was the first to snap back to him, making Harry groan and feel like
he was experiencing whiplash while Dudley started screaming back at Aunt Marge. Ripper
was next and it was like pulling teeth, one after the other, where they had buried so deep into
the dog’s brain that Harry almost felt a pop when the last one came out. Ripper, contrary to
his usual disposition, tucked in his tail and ran.

The sliver of him still residing in Vernon’s unconscious mind was the most difficult. He could
still feel his uncle’s muted rage, had not even realised when his own feelings and Vernon’s
had started to blur so much that it was difficult to distinguish what was his and what was not.
The dull throbbing in his temple didn’t help his concentration. It took agonising seconds to
sort through them with gritted teeth. In the end, it was instinct more than anything that had
Harry pull back the righteous fury and leave everything else behind.

The black tendrils of the… thing had managed to grab onto some of his thoughts and Harry
could see it warping them, turning them into something other, turning his anger to wrath
again and it hurt hurt hurt…

With all of his mind back in his body, Harry threw it all at whatever was now attacking him
from the inside. It felt like hooks in his flesh where he pulled out the tendrils that wisped
away into nothingness when not fuelled by his emotions. He didn’t know whether the unholy
screeching was coming from the thing, from him or was entirely a hallucination, but he
persisted, prying the darkness off himself one tendril at a time. A different type of darkness
was encroaching on his already poor vision and someone was calling his name.

Harry thought that he really shouldn’t have tried to influence three minds at once when there
was something that felt like a snap in his brain. The last thing he knew before his world went
black was reaching the furthest part of his mind. Something red enveloped him that had the
same metallic tang as his mouth but also, strangely, tasted like flowers. It soon encased the
evil tendrils as well, then helped him push the darkness into a corner and slam the
metaphorical door shut between them.

What he was left with was the strange feeling of floating, enveloped in a dark warmth like a
wool blanket. All the memories he had from this life and the weird one he only half-
remembered were drifting past, but nothing could touch him in this soothing cocoon.
Sometimes he thought he could feel hands on him, or blurred voices. But that couldn’t be
right. Those voices sounded concerned, after all.

When Harry woke up, his first thought was (great, I’m dead again). His second thought was
wait – again?, but instead of focusing on that madness, he decided to blink against the
brightness and try to figure out where he was.

He was lying down and looking at a clear white ceiling. (King’s Cross? something in his head
asked.) He shook it again, then winced when both his throat and the side of his head hurt. Ah.
There were those missing memories of Christmas.

The ceiling was tiled and when he turned his head, Harry saw that he was not at King’s Cross
– and really, why would he be – but in a small room. The walls were painted white, but the
windows had some colourful blinds that looked a bit out of place. The bed as well as the
machinery surrounding it told him he was at a hospital. He had never been in a muggle one,
not in this life and, as far as he could remember, not in his last one either, but it was similar
enough to the magical hospital (St Mungo’s. Not important) that it was an easy conclusion to
jump to. That, and the needles in his arm that went to some bags filled with liquid clued him
in.

Maybe Dudley or Petunia had called an ambulance after Vernon went down. Marge certainly
hadn’t. Except if she had called one for Vernon and the paramedics had found Harry too and
insisted on bringing him here.

He furrowed his brow. His head hurt.

Thinking may hurt, but seeing as he was in an unfamiliar situation, he had to do it anyways.
So Harry closed his eyes and tried to call on his occlumency training. That hurt even more,
but he finally managed to slip into his own mind.

It was chaos. Every memory he had painstakingly put into neat little metaphorical boxes was
spilling out, some looking as if they had been ripped apart. When he touched them, there was
a residue of anger and hatred that reminded him of dark tentacles reaching for him. But when
he touched them, they dissipated like smoke. Well then. Something positive at least.

He was more cautious when he approached the “door”, for lack of a better word, he had
thrown the black tendril monster through. When he touched it, it shone in a weird red glow
that felt warm and loving on his skin. It was reassuring him enough that his mind would not
be attacked again any time soon.

Mentally sighing, Harry started touching all the compromised memories, painstakingly
rebuilding toppled over pathways in his minds and, so to speak, dusting off the boxes. He
thought back on the memory of the fight multiple times, Dudley’s determined expression
right before he punched Vernon somehow stuck in his head, as well as the general fear and
anxiety that Petunia was radiating not just towards her husband. To be honest, there seemed
to be more fear in her than any other emotion. Fear of failure. Fear of not being perfect
enough. Fear of what the neighbours might think. Fear of… Harry suddenly started to wonder
whether he had been the first punching bag Vernon had needed.

When the headache got too bad, Harry regretfully left the tidying up for another time and
opened his eyes to the bland room again. Ordering his thoughts messed up his sense of time,
but he thought it may have been an hour since he had woken up when the door opened and a
nurse popped her head in. When she saw his eyes watching her, a warm smile appeared on
her face.

“How nice to see you awake, Harry. My name is Miriam. Are you hungry?”
The answer to the question how long he had been asleep was “too long” then. He had figured
that was the case when he had found the needles in his arm and although he had managed to
ignore the pangs of hunger in his stomach so far, the words of the nurse ended with it making
a growling noise.

“Guess that means yes?”, he said and sent a tentative smile back at her.

“I’ll be right back”, she promised.

The door closed again, as did Harry’s eyes. His throat felt a bit raw and his voice like he
hadn’t used it in days. He probably hadn’t. What had happened to Dudley? Petunia? Vernon
and Marge were secondary in his thoughts, though he wouldn’t cry if the answer was “pushed
off a huge cliff”.

He would probably have to play the scared child. Thinking about that for a moment longer,
he admitted to himself that no acting would be involved. Every time he swallowed, he could
feel Vernon’s meaty fingers closing around his throat, cutting off his air, his mind swimming
in panic and in hatred and…

Harry didn’t lift his arms to wipe away the tears, one because he wasn’t sure whether he
would rip out the injection stuff in his hands, two because there would be new tears anyway,
and three because he had just remembered that he was still feeling the Black bracelet on his
arm and didn’t want anyone to notice. It also meant that, when the nurse returned with a tray
of food, she immediately went “oh sweetheart!” and came to comfort him. It was nice in a
way that made Harry’s heart ache.

“I’ve brought you some potato soup. Don’t worry if you can’t finish it, but try to eat as much
as you can please. If you try that, I’ve snuck some chocolate pudding onto the tray for you as
well.” She winked at him and Harry gave her a slight smile.

It was weird being treated like a kid. Vernon and Petunia certainly never had. There, he was a
thing. Aunt Walburga treated him like a mini adult. Not quite grown, but certainly not a child.
Some part of him was bristling at her sweet and slightly higher-than-usual-pitched voice, but
another wanted to hug her and never let go. He suppressed both.

“I promise.”

She smiled again. “I’ll be back in a bit. Is there anything else you need?”

Let the games begin. “Where’s Dudley?”

“That’s your cousin, right?” She had done her homework then.

“Yes. He isn’t in trouble, is he?” Harry bit his lip.

The nurse’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why do you think he could be in trouble?”

“He hit Uncle Vernon”, he said, eyes wide and awe in his voice. It wasn’t even faked. It had
been one of the most glorious moments in his life(s) and he would cherish the memory until
his dying days. He was, however, truly worried for his cousin.
“He isn’t in trouble”, Miriam promised him. “In fact, he’s been here every afternoon, waiting
to see you. I’m sure he’ll be by again later and you can talk to him then.”

“Maybe he can bring me the Narnia book! Do you think I’ll have time to read?”

The smile on Miriam’s face seemed even more genuine now. “I’m sure you’ll have loads of
time to read, honey.”

He'd be staying a while then. Because he might as well make a good first impression, Harry
ate the whole potato soup and the chocolate pudding. His stomach was full after a bit more
than half, but he figured if he wanted to make up for however many days he had missed, he
should start now. The nurse came back as well and gave him a big smile when she saw the
empty tray. “We’ll get you back on your feet in no time!”

She also asked him if a “nice lady” could come talk to him soon. Harry agreed, if only to get
it over with.

The lady was rather nice, he had to admit, though he could have done without the tiptoeing
around the topic. Miriam must have mentioned his love of fantasy books, though, as she used
that topic to start a conversation with him. Overall, Harry felt she was behaving quite
professionally and he rewarded her by doing exactly what she had hoped for. He told her
everything.

Well. Mostly everything, that was. He definitely mentioned Vernon’s abuse and Marge’s
encouragement. He spun the awed tale of Dudley’s heroic rescue. He slightly exaggerated
Petunia’s involvement in the matter and had her tearfully trying to talk Vernon down. He may
also have mentioned that he had always felt she was very afraid of her husband.

The “nice lady” – who had introduced herself as Annie – had a smile on her face for the
whole conversation and nodded encouragingly at the right parts. Something in her eyes,
however, was hard as steel and very very angry. If he could redirect that anger to the correct
people to further his plans, that was only in Harry’s interest.

At least she seemed to believe him about Dudley because the talk finished with her telling
him his cousin would be in shortly. He had to hand it to them, checking whether he actually
wanted to see his cousin or if they’d just let in a bully was a great move.

Dudley, surprisingly, was all apologies. For what his father had done, for what Marge had
said, that he himself hadn’t helped Harry before… There was lots of crying on both sides and
lots of hugging, which only ended when Harry winced and Dudley apologised yet again, this
time for squeezing one of the bruises.

It turned out that he had slept for half a week and if he hadn’t woken up when he had, they
would have moved him to a ward for long-term cases, which had scared Dudley more than
even he wanted to admit.

Harry soon moved the conversation on to the sick right hook Dudley had taken Vernon out
with, which seemed to mollify his cousin somewhat. When Harry mentioned, however, that it
was the best thing he had seen in his life, Dudley disagreed. His cousin's second favourite
moment was Marge trying to get at Dudley because he had hurt her brother – and then being
set upon by a furious Petunia with a frying pan. His favourite moment turned out to be when
Vernon came back from his two-day hospital stay only to find his things in half-packed
suitcases and cardboard boxes strewn across the lawn, the locks changed and an angry
Petunia standing in the window with the aforementioned frying pan in one hand and the
house phone with the police on pre-dialled in the other. As far as his cousin knew, Marge had
picked him up, sneering at his aunt all the way. If Harry ever told Dudley about magic and
got access to a pensieve, he would have to ask his cousin to provide him with that memory.

Speaking of.

“Dudley, can you bring me some fantasy books? I think I’ll be here for a while and it’s so
boring!”

“Sure! Just give me a list and I’ll bring them tomorrow when I come visit. My mum is
bringing me every day, though she’s always waiting outside.”

“She is?” While Harry didn’t think Petunia hated him quite as much anymore, however he
had managed that, it was still a surprise.

“Yeah, they won’t let her in. Not sure why. She didn’t hit you, after all.”

Harry decided not to tell his cousin there were more ways to hurt people and that Petunia had
done her fair share of them. He especially wouldn’t tell him because he’d have to convince
the “nice lady” that staying with his aunt and cousin would be in his best interest – and he
had a rather interesting conversation to look forward to with his cousin anyway.

“I hope I can see her too. Tell her…” Harry had to think about that one for a moment. “Tell
her that I don’t blame her for that." As much anyway. "And that I hope she’s okay.”

“Will do.”

The nurse came back then and shooed his cousin out, so that they could run a few tests on
him. Harry didn’t mind. In fact, afterwards he was so exhausted that he immediately fell
sleep and only woke hours and hours later.

Sleeping was something that became almost second nature. It took Harry weeks to recover.
Not from the shock, like the child psychologist they sent him suggested, but rather from the
truly enormous amount of magic he had used to keep from being killed or accidentally killing
people or keeping Dudley from accidentally killing people. Though the psychologist was
right in that having to sort through how that mess made him feel definitely didn’t help his
recovery.

Dudley came every day, bringing fantasy books and babbling on about what Harry had
missed from the outside world. That included the neighbourhood gossiping about what
seemed to be known as “The Dursley Disaster”, the baked goods and casseroles turning up on
their doorstep, as well as Mr Monroe from number 9, who was a veteran, offering to take care
of Vernon should he ever darken Petunia’s doorway again. He also mentioned the “enormous,
gigantic, truly humongous, Harry, I swear!” snake he had seen in the garage, lamenting how
nobody would believe him. Harry swore he did, quietly relieved that Mehen seemed to be
able to hunt on his own.

Petunia herself came in three days after Harry woke up, hands clenched in front of her,
though Dudley was almost pulling her through the doorway. A very alert nurse Miriam was
busying herself in one corner of the room, eyes not leaving the newest visitor. At first, she
was silent, letting Dudley talk about his usual topics, but when there was a lull in the
conversation, she finally cleared her throat. Harry sat up in his bed.

“Harry…” He didn’t think he had ever heard her call him by his name. “I’m so sorry. It never
should have gone this far. I should have put a stop to it sooner and… God.” There were actual
tears in her eyes. Harry’s eyebrows rose and did so even further when he caught the mumbled
“Lilly would never forgive me.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Petunia. You were scared. I know.”

The sniffling stopped long enough for his aunt to look at him with huge eyes. He took pity on
her and offered her one of the tissues he always had next to his bed. There had been a lot of
crying in this room so far.

She sniffed her nose once, but looked marginally more composed. “That is still not an excuse
and… when you come back home, I will do my very best to make up for it all.”

He could hear the underlying “if”. But he could also hear the apology for not just the
Christmas incident, but all the things that had happened beforehand. Maybe she wanted to
keep the police off her back. Maybe she was trying to save face in the neighbourhood. Maybe
she was doing it for Dudley because his cousin seemed to like him now, against all odds. And
maybe, just maybe, she meant it. There was a tiny kernel of warmth in his heart that bled into
his smile as he looked at his aunt.

“Well, kicking Vernon out while all the neighbours watched was a great start, if you ask me.”

That actually made her laugh a bit and he saw Miriam in her corner relax just the tiniest bit.
“Yes, we’re the talk of the neighbourhood. But I’ve fantasised about doing that for years and
it felt so good to finally do it. After all, the house is in my name, bought with my inheritance
from my parents.” She hesitated on the last word. “They would have loved you, you know?
They…”

Harry wordlessly handed her another tissue.

He had been feeling a bit bad about the little mental nudges he sometimes gave the Dursleys
to be nicer to him or, in Vernon’s case, just leave him alone. If this was what Petunia Dursley
had become because of them, it made him feel a little bit better. Not to mention it opened up
many interesting options to him that had previously been unattainable.

After that, his aunt was a fixture during the afternoon visits and after another few days, nurse
Miriam or whoever was her replacements chaperone, even stepped out during them.
There were a lot of legal things going on that everybody was trying – and mostly failing – to
keep from him. He knew that Petunia had managed to gain an emergency protection order
against Vernon on her, and probably also Dudley’s and his, behalf. A lot more “nice people”
came to have a chat with Harry, who always emphasised how much he wanted to stay with
his aunt and cousin and how much he never wanted to see Vernon again. Dudley confided he
had someone asking him questions as well and saw absolutely nothing wrong with it. There
were divorce proceedings and, at some point, someone came in to get a statement from Harry
for what was probably going to be Vernon’s trial.

What came up often in conversation, though, was Petunia’s new job, as she had gained a
position as a secretary at a nice company. Harry had a feeling he’d never known that had
been her job, even memory-him. She didn't earn much money, but seemed certain she'd be
able to support a single-income household.

Harry also found out that nobody could actually see his bracelet when he made a point of
waving his arm in front of another nurse’s face out of boredom. There were only so many
fantasy books and occlumency training per day that he could stand.

It took some more visits with various doctors and nice people who all promised he’d see
them again until Harry was finally discharged, found himself in a little purple car and then
stepped through the door of Number 4 Privet Drive again.

It was strange, standing in the hallway where, a few weeks prior, he was being choked
against the wall. Nothing had really changed.

Well, he said nothing had changed, but that wasn’t entirely true when everything had. For one
thing, he found himself pushed into the second bedroom by an excited Dudley to see a newly
furnished and decorated space. Gone were rickety furniture and the boring white walls that
hadn’t been painted in a decade. Instead, the walls were a pale blue and a used but sturdy bed,
desk, chair and closet had found their way inside. There was also a bookshelf full of fantasy
books right next to the door to Dudley’s room that his cousin promised him they’d share, as
most of them had been donated by friends.

Harry had to break out the tissues again.

There were some neighbours who dropped by, but were intercepted by Aunt Petunia at the
door. From the quiet conversations Harry figured out she’d sent them away with the
explanation that Harry’s first night home should be a relaxing one, but that the well-wishes
were very much appreciated.

Harry ate dinner with his relatives, let himself be tucked into bed by Aunt Petunia who then
had to shoo out Dudley who wouldn’t stop talking about what they were going to do
tomorrow and then curled up in his new bed under his new blankets.

When the house was silent, he immediately snuck down the stairs, carefully avoiding the
creaking step, and opened the door to his cupboard. Harry poked his head inside.
:Mehen?:, he hissed into the darkness.

The darkness threw itself at him, slamming into his chest from somewhere above him.

:Harryyyyyy!: The boy found himself with an armful of snake. :I was so worried! I could
smell you bleeding and when I poked my head out you were just lying there and not moving
and everybody was panicking and your cousin and dog-aunt were shouting at each other and
I could feel them running around behind the cupboard door-:

:Sssshhhh, it’s okay.: He carefully stroked the snake’s head.

:-and then other people came and took you away and then there was more shouting and
everybody left and didn’t come back forever and when they did it was without you-:

:I’m back. I’m fine. Don’t worry, Mehen.:

:-but you didn’t come back and I was so worried! And all those people came and your aunt
threw out a lot of stuff and then had a screaming match with your uncle outside and then even
more people came. And I was getting hungry so I snuck out to catch the last few mice in the
garage and I think your cousin saw me.: The snake hung its head low while Harry held back
what would either be a chuckle or a cut-off sob.

:It’s okay. He saw you, but nobody believes him and as long as nobody does, you’ll be fine.:
Harry had actually considered telling his cousin, but then thought better of it. Dudley was
only ten years old, after all, and who wouldn’t go bragging about Mehen?

:I missed you so much, Harry. It hurt not having you there.:

That gave him pause. :What do you mean, hurt?:

The snake had wound its way tighter around him, the tip of his tail wrapped around his
forearm, head resting on his shoulder, tongue flicking out against his cheek over and over
again.

:It was like a pull right next to my heart. At first, I didn’t notice it because I was so worried
about you, but the longer you were gone, the more I felt it.:

Thinking back, Harry had been feeling the same thing. He just hadn’t paid it that much
attention, thinking it was still a left-over bruise from his close encounter with the wall. Now
he frowned, closing his eyes and sinking into his mind again.

He still ignored the closed doorway at the back of his brain and instead felt around for
Mehen. And only now that he was thinking about it, did he realise that was actually possible.
Mehen had a very distinct feel that made his magic sing in that strange language he was
speaking when talking to his snake – and he could feel it in his mind.

At first, he thought he had encountered another weird tendril-monster, but before he could
freak out and lock it away, he felt it. It was silver, but had a slightly greenish tint to it that
reminded him of Mehen’s new scales shimmering in the light of the winter sun and when he
reached out to it, it made him warm and all fluttery in his chest.
:Ooooh, what did you do? That feels great!: Mehen wiggled around a bit, making the strange
warm feeling even stronger.

:Huh. I think we’ve… bonded? Magically? Somehow?:

For some reason it didn’t worry Harry as much as it probably should have. From Mehen’s
content wiggles, he didn’t seem to care either. So, with all parties happy with the situation,
Harry decided to put it out of his mind for now. God knew he had enough other things to
worry about.

:Harry… I’m not sure you should use a lot of magic for a while.:

:What do you mean?:

:I could feel it when you fainted and it was like there was almost no magic left. It made me
feel cold.:

Now that… was a little concerning. First, because losing his magic was obviously pretty
much his worst nightmare by now. Second, because that seemed to be hurting Mehen and that
was unacceptable.

:We should probably look at that connection a bit more closely:, he decided.

Mehen gave him a judgemental look.

:…after you give the go-ahead that my magic has stabilised.:

:Good.: A pause. :I still really missed you.:

Harry scratched Mehen’s chin in the way the snake loved. :Me too, my friend.:

That night Mehen insisted on sleeping in Harry’s bed, promising to leave before anyone
noticed he was there. Harry had neither the heart nor the wish to tell him no and thus spent
his first night back on Privet Drive wrapped in loops of venomous snake.
 Trouble comes a-knocking
Chapter Summary

Harry’s normal and magical life intersect for the first time, one time in expected and the
other in entirely unexpected ways.

Chapter Notes

TW: Dog attack towards the end of the chapter.

Thanks for all the comments on the last few chapters! Those really made my day. They
also motivated me a lot to keep working on part 2, so that's going really well. 😊

Harry’s life in the Dursley-soon-to-be-Evans household had improved dramatically. He had a

room. His chores were so far non-existent, although Petunia indicated she was going to
implement a schedule that included Dudley as soon as Harry was feeling better. He got as
much food as he needed. Dudley and he got along fine and his cousin was turning into a
veritable bookworm, albeit a boxing one.

Petunia had started to tell him things about his grandparents and shown him photos. She had
even started tentatively talking about his mother. A photo of Harry and Dudley in the garden,
arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, had found its way onto the mantlepiece. He was
excused from school for the first few weeks until his psychologist gave the go-ahead, but
Dudley brought him homework and explained what they had done each day, which had the
nice side-effect of boosting his cousin’s grades – which was yet another strike against Vernon
Dursley, as far as the authorities were concerned.

Harry had taken most of his hidden things, that being money and the backpack with magic
books, out of the cupboard under the stairs and had instead hidden them in his new closet. A
notice-me-not-charm that he’d reapply every few days should take care of it. He had also
gotten out his notebook and went through his plans again. It was a very happy Harry that
crossed off some things on his list. A big one was getting Vernon out of the house. Some
smaller ones included buying an owl cage with a detachable bottom or stocking up on
pranking potions before the summer break.

There were only two things that made the situation slightly difficult.

One of these things was Vernon Dursley. Instead of being smart and tucking in his tail, he had
decided to fight. He had shown up at the house multiple times, demanding to see Dudley.
Petunia had told him off. Dudley had cursed at him and sworn he never wanted to see him
again. Mr Monroe had come over and threatened him so much he hadn’t shown his face for a
week. Petunia swore that, should he show up again, she was setting the cops on him.

She tried to keep most of the legal issues away from Dudley and Harry, but more often than
not, Harry found his bed invaded by Dudley sometime in the night, quietly whispering his
fears of his dad winning the lawsuit and being forced to live with him, or his mum being
forced to go back. Seeing how much more his father earned than his mother was an issue, as
was the fact that he was backed by Aunt Marge. Harry tried his best to console his cousin, but
law was something he’d never had any knowledge in, so he was almost as apprehensive as
Dudley.

The other thing was that, with Petunia keeping a close eye on them in case Vernon tried
anything and Dudley needing a lot of reassurance, there was no way for Harry to sneak off to
Grimmauld Place. He figured that even after the whole thing died down, getting to London
was going to become much more difficult.

That meant it was time to implement the plan that Harry had tentatively made when Dudley
had first voluntarily sought him out to talk about fantasy books, of all things.

There was one thing his cousin kept asking and had not been able to find an answer to so far.
The question was short and easy: why. Why had his dad and, most of the time, his mum,
hated Harry from the very beginning?

So one night, when Dudley climbed into Harry’s bed again, Harry took a deep breath. This
could ruin everything. But he still thought the possible benefits outweighed the risks.

“Dudley?”

“What is it, Harry?”

Harry swallowed, then whispered: “I think I figured out why they always hated me so much.”

Dudley turned abruptly to look at him. “You did? So… why?” His voice sounded almost
desperate.

“Well…” Mehen had given him the go ahead a few days ago – he was also waiting in the
cupboard along with Harry’s most important possessions in case this went very very wrong.

Harry almost didn’t have to concentrate anymore after the practice sessions with Walburga
and getting his focus stone. Still, he furrowed his brow for good measure and produced a tiny
but steady light in the middle of his palm. He kept a close look on Dudley’s face, watching
his eyes go wide.

His heart was racing as he was struck with the realisation that he didn’t want to lose his
cousin’s friendship. He wasn’t sure when that had happened, but now he was scared.

When Dudley’s hand passed through the ball of light, his mouth joined the wide-open eyes.
The light was still shining, but shaking a bit, in time with his hands.
“Remember all those weird things that used to happen? Like the time our teacher’s hair
turned blue? Or that time the pan flew across the whole room? Your fantasy books kind of
gave me the idea that it might be, well, magic.” Harry shrugged.

“Wow. This is. So. Cool!”

Harry released a choked-out laugh, the light fading away when he wiped his eyes with his
sleeve.

“What else can you do? Can you turn invisible like Bilbo? Can you make fire? Or ice? Make
things move like Matilda? Ooooh, can you fly?!”

Harry laughed snottily and wiped his eyes and nose again. “I’m not sure actually? I can’t do
that much, but that might get better with practice. I can’t turn invisible or fly, sadly. I can
make other things fly, though. Fire and ice… I can see that working. Maybe.”

“Wicked.” Dudley grinned. “Can you show me something else?” His eyes were shining, even
without the light illuminating them.

“Let me concentrate.”

There was a dog toy one of the neighbours had brought as a gift. In fact, there had been a lot
of cuddly toys dropped off and Harry had no explanation nor excuse for the fact that he loved
every single one of them. Best of all, though, was the black fluffy dog he had immediately
named after his missing godfather. Now, with a slight tug on his magic, Padfoot rose from the
blankets and hovered, shaking slightly, in front of Dudley’s face.

“Woooow.” His cousin waved a hand underneath the toy, then tugged at it slightly. It dropped
a few inches, then Harry pulled it back up again. “This is so cool! Do you know how cool
this is?!”

“Well…” Harry winced. “I think your dad didn’t feel the same way. Every time something…
strange... happened, I was punished for it. Remember last year when the lights blew out in the
whole house? I was in the cupboard for two weeks after that.”

Now it was Dudley’s turn to wince. “Sorry about how mean I was to you”, he whispered yet
again.

“Don’t worry. You were just doing what your dad told you. It’s not your fault your dad is an
asshole.”

Dudley snorted. “We aren’t allowed to use that word.” Then he got a thoughtful look on his
face. “Even though it’s true.”

Harry grinned at him. “I was really scared to tell you. And I’m not sure I can tell your mum
yet. I’m scared she’ll… that she’ll…”

Suddenly he found himself in Dudley’s embrace, his thick arms wrapped around his
shoulders, head pressed against his cousin’s chest. “I wouldn’t let her”, he swore. “And why
wouldn’t she love it? This is magic! Do you not understand that this is magic!”
“Some people are afraid of things they don’t know”, he explained. “And some people are
angry when someone else can do something they can’t.”

“But maybe there’s more people like that! Maybe I have magic too!” He frowned at his hand,
as if willing a light to appear there too while Harry felt his heart tighten again. This was the
second hurdle.

“What if you can only do it because someone else in your family could? And what if that
wasn’t my mum but my dad? You’re not related to him.”

Dudley pouted at him, then sighed. “Yeah, I think we need to do research on this.”

“Research?” Dudley?

“Maybe some of the fantasy books are actually true. We just have to find the right one!”

Ah. At least, Harry thought, it would be a distraction from everything else that was going on.

“Okay, maybe that will help. But… please don’t tell your mum yet. I’ll tell her eventually.
Just… not yet.”

“I promise.” His cousin hugged him again, then let go. “…can you do the light again…?

Harry grinned and let the lumos shine in his palm.

“Wicked.”

There was a tiny pang in his heart for the lies he was telling. But at the same time he knew
that he couldn’t tell Dudley everything. He would never be able to tell Dudley everything, or
anyone, for that matter. The whole memory thing was strange even for wizards and Harry
didn’t want to find out what would happen if he came out with that. He would always be
lying about a core part of himself.

But for now, he smiled at his cousin’s joy and decided even though he couldn’t tell him
much, he would tell him everything he could.

The magical community, in the form of a lone wizard, checked in on him on a beautiful
Sunday in late February. Petunia had made the biggest breakfast he had ever seen to celebrate
Harry’s going back to school the coming day. He was dreading it a bit, thinking about what
his classmates and teachers might have picked up, so the breakfast was very much
appreciated.

The apprehension started when Harry heard what sounded like the noise of a backfiring car
coming from somewhere on Privet Drive. He tensed immediately. Maybe whoever that was
only wanted to talk to Mrs Figg? One could hope. But the feeling in his stomach told him
otherwise. Just in case, Harry tightened his occlumency shields around his innermost
thoughts while trying to project only the normal ones to the front of his mind.
That was a technique that Aunt Walburga had tried to teach him for months and which Harry
had never really gotten the hang of. Only his mostly involuntary deep-dive into his relatives’
and his own mind had made it a bit easier. Not to mention staying at a hospital was boring
and working on his occlumency had sometimes been the only thing he'd been able to do. He
still couldn’t shield his mind completely, but at least he managed to do this. He hoped. It was
difficult to test without another legilimens.

He thought of how much he loved Vernon being gone. How much he liked the change in
Petunia and even Dudley. How scared he was of school tomorrow. The way his throat still
felt a bit sore and how he couldn’t quite figure out if that meant there was still damage there,
or if he just hadn’t gotten over it yet. Any thoughts of magic, of Mehen, of Grimmauld Place,
were pushed to the very back until even Harry almost believed he was the innocent 10-year-
old he was pretending to be.

Nothing happened for a while, except for Petunia picking up on his weird mood and trying to
reassure him that everything would be fine tomorrow and how he could always tell the
teacher or the school nurse if he didn’t feel up to it anymore and Petunia would come pick
him up, no questions asked. It was actually working, to his surprise.

Deciding to face the situation head on to get it over with, Harry left Petunia to her washing
up and Dudley watching TV to go sit in the small garden at the front of the house. Some of
their elderly neighbours were doing their Sunday strolls and kept smiling at him. It still felt a
bit like whiplash every time. Harry remembered how horrible they had been to him and, in
the first timeline, how easily they had all believed the St Brutus lie. And now they were
leaving cake and stuffed animals for him. He shook his head, instead rattling off the numbers
they were learning in school at the moment. Harry knew them already, of course, but it had a
calming effect.

“Excuse me, young man?”

The voice nearly made him flinch, but Harry didn’t as much as breathe. Well then. Game on.

He turned around with a tentative but suspicious smile on his face. There, in all his glory,
stood a wizard. He looked so out of place on the sidewalk of Privet Drive that Harry almost
snorted. Although he had apparently made an effort to wear muggle clothes, they consisted of
a horrid tweed suit that was at least decades out of fashion, a tall hat that looked suspiciously
like a transfigured wizard’s hat and a tie that was made up of so many colours it almost made
Harry dizzy. If it hadn’t been the colourful tie that clued him in, the piercing blue eyes would
have done it.

Some of the memories were pushing against his shields, crying to be heard, as well as the
questions where the long white beard was and why this man looked about 50 years too
young. Harry shoved down the feeling of dread to the very bottom of his stomach, checked
his shields again, took a deep breath… “Yes?”

The moment he looked Dumbledore in the eyes, he could feel the pressure on his mind. This
would be the time of truth, then. So far, he hadn’t gotten memories of whether he had ever
mastered occlumency and didn’t remember this feeling either – though he had to admit
mastering something he never had before filled him with a self-confidence that was very new
to him.

It was subtle at first, barely registering on his radar, but then there were thin tendrils of
something, stretching out towards his thoughts, probing… They behaved a bit like the dark
ones Harry had fought on Christmas, which gave him pause – but he shoved that one down as
far as it could go. That was pretty much all it was, organising which thoughts were at the
forefront of his mind and which hidden behind the strongest walls he could make. Besides,
the tendrils had a lighter quality, almost translucent. And who would look deeper if they
immediately found what they were looking for?

Harry brought out his fears for tomorrow first. How it was the first day he was back at
school. How he was scared everyone would make fun of him; after all they had only started
tentatively accepting him about half a year ago when they realised Dudley wouldn’t make
their lives a living hell for it anymore. How he was scared the teachers might shoot him
pitying looks, even though they had never done a thing and instead berated him for not doing
his homework properly or showing up in ratty clothes.

“Sir? What is it?” He made sure to let distrust seep into his mind.

“Yes, I was wondering if you could explain how to get to Wisteria Walk from here, my boy.
I’m afraid I am quite lost.”

A slight shudder ran through him at the sound of the endearment, but he pulled himself
together and projected Vernon’s shouts of “Boy!” and how he had thought that was his name
for years into his mind just in case Dumbledore had picked up on his discomfort. The old
man’s brows furrowed.

“Sure, it’s not far from here. A family friend actually lives there.” Mrs Figg had dropped by
as well, offering condolences, one of her cats as a companion for the family in these trying
times, and a self-made chocolate cake. Aunt Petunia had accepted the condolences and the
cake, but said no to the cat. Harry was secretly happy, as he couldn’t be entirely sure the cat
wouldn’t have been a spy. He still had to ask Aunt Walburga about kneazles (push it down).

He proceeded to describe the way to the neighbouring street. The perfect excuse came when
his throat went dry and he was again reminded of feeling his uncle’s hands around his throat
and being pinned against the wall. The fear, the pain, the flashes of what Vernon had done to
him all the years before, a glimpse of the cupboard and the frying pan Petunia had once
swung at him.

He had stopped looking at Dumbledore, though he had allowed the connection to his mind to
persist. When Harry looked up to point towards the direction of Wisteria Walk, he glanced at
the old man out of the corner of his eye.

He had gone almost as white as his missing beard, all blood draining from his face, lips
pursed, forehead wrinkled and an expression of utter devastation settling on his features.

He hadn’t known then. Harry pushed down the relief too, instead showing confusion. “Sir,
are you alright?” He made no move to get closer, though, repeating the words “stranger
danger” in his mind and staying very much on the front steps of Number 4 where he had been
dropped off as a baby all those years ago. The irony was not lost on him.

“I’m fine”, Dumbledore muttered. “Thank you for your help.”

He nodded at Harry once more, then proceeded in the direction the child had just pointed
him. No lightshow, no apparating, no glances back – Harry was almost disappointed. He did,
however, not relax his occlumency shields even when the figure of his former-future-
headmaster had disappeared into a side street. In fact, he did not relax them until it was night
and he was, for once, snuggled up under his blanket alone.

Well. If alone meant without Dudley, but with a potentially deadly snake.

:What did he want here?: Mehen nudged his hand.

Harry’s smile was a bit wobbly, but he began petting the snake anyway. :Mrs Figg must have
told him about the whole situation and he came to check on me. Probably to see if it was true.
I don’t know why; he never bothered before and she must have told him about some of the
abuse then as well.: He frowned. :Maybe it’s because there were no authorities involved.
Maybe it’s because none of the neighbours, not even Mrs Figg, knew how physical it
sometimes got. Though the ratty clothes should have been a hint. Maybe he was scared my
aunt would move us away because of it?:

Harry sighed. He might never know. And, to be fair, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Albus
Dumbledore had been a grandfatherly figure in his life at one point, but even the thought of
having been sent on a horcrux hunt without even a decent explanation in person was just…
And then there was that feeling that he was still missing something, a betrayal that ran even
deeper, but that his mind kept twisting away from.

Mehen wound himself tighter around Harry’s chest and tucked his head under his chin,
tongue flicking gently against his skin. Only then did Harry truly relax, which meant the
feelings and thoughts he had been burying all day resurfaced, along with a headache. A
choked-off sob passed his lips until he got back in control.

:I trusted him. That’s what it boils down to. I trusted him and he didn’t even trust me enough
to explain everything to me himself. He never gave me the right information when I needed
it, just cryptic clues. I was put into so many dangerous situations at school. A school. And…
he just dropped me off here. Right on the doorstep of Number 4 Privet Drive, with a letter.
Just a letter. And then he never checked up on me again and downplayed my family situation
when I mentioned it to him.:

:He doesn’t sound like a very nice person.:

Harry thought about that for a moment. :I’m sure he is, actually. He always treated me well
when we were talking. He fought back against Voldemort, even when the ministry was
against us both. He might have even loved me. I’m just not sure he’s a very… good person.
Because if to win and save hundreds, he has to sacrifice one person, he will do it without
question.: Even if that person was Dumbledore himself. Even if that person was Harry.
:Well, that’s not very nice either, now is it.:

Harry chuckled. :I suppose.:

Mehen hesitated. :You know you can cry, right? You don’t have to keep everything in.:

:I know. It’s just… been so long ago for me and at the same time it hasn’t happened at all yet.
I see no point in crying over it. Instead, I’m going to change it.:

:Oh? Do tell.:

Harry got out his notebook. :Well. I have a few ideas...:

None of his plans had prepared him for Vernon standing in the middle of Aunt Petunia’s
roses. Harry stopped in his tracks, one hand tightening on a strap of his backpack, the other
reaching for his crystal necklace. Dudley, who was walking right beside him, chattered on
without a concern in the world.

“…and then the coach said I could go to a tournament soon! You know, a big one in London,
where I’ll go up against boys from other schools as well. You have to come root for me,
promise! Mum will come too, of course. And maybe we can invite a few friends- Harry?”

Harry wanted to warn his cousin – but it felt like his tongue was glued to his mouth. His
throat started to itch and his hands began to shake while his mind recited the words he can’t
hurt you, he can’t, he can’t like a mantra. At least they had both stopped walking now. Dudley
peered at him in concern instead of noticing his father. But Harry noticed little else, as the
world seemed to have narrowed in on the form of his uncle, who was peering through the
kitchen window.

“…-ry? Harry!”

Vernon’s head snapped around and his eyes flickered from Dudley to Harry, then narrowed.

“Dudley, run”, he choked out.

“What? Harry, what’s wrong. What-”

Harry made a noise that sounded like Dudley’s talking action figure when its batteries had
started to die.

“Harry?”

Vernon had started to move towards them and his feet were still rooted to the spot. Why
couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he speak? Why could he only watch? Why-?

Dudley’s head finally swivelled around to see what Harry was so focused on and even from
the corner of his eyes Harry could see all the blood leave his cousin’s face. Vernon glanced at
Dudley again.
“Dudley, run. I think he’s here for you.”

Where was Petunia? Where was Mr. Monroe? Hell, he’d even take Dumbledore.

“If you think I’m leaving you here, you’re an idiot. I beat him before. I can do it again.”

Although that was still one of his favourite moments, Harry couldn’t help but compare
Dudley’s plump albeit now more muscular frame to Vernon’s truly enormous mass. Last time
he’d had the element of surprise. This time…

The mantra in his head went quiet as he realised that Vernon Dursley could actually hurt
them.

That gave him the push he needed to snap out of his frozen state. Within milliseconds Harry
had reorganised his thoughts, forcing the paralysing fear down into the depth and filling his
mind with thoughts of Dudley standing up to his father, the image of Petunia with a frying
pan, the memory of that warm force that had helped him against the thing behind the door.
He quickly catalogued all his plans, then got the hand that was clenched around the backpack
strap to grab Dudley’s sleeve and pulled.

“Why are we running?” Dudley was letting himself be dragged along at least, although Harry
could practically feel the pout on his face. “We could totally take him!”

“But why should we have to? And we can run. Your dad, though?”

“Come back here, boy! How dare you-?!”

The fact that Vernon left the sentence uncompleted in favour of breathing heavily gave him
hope.

The barking of a dog from just around the corner almost made him freeze again, but instead
he veered sharply to the left. Maybe he should have told Dudley, as the larger boy stumbled
before finding his balance.

“What’d you do that for??”

Being chased by the hell beast for years and having been in its head, Harry would recognise
Ripper’s bark anywhere. And where there was Ripper, there was…

“Marge…!”, squeaked Dudley when he looked behind them.

They picked up the pace without a word, now running along the back part of the privet
hedges. Harry half hoped to see Mehen somewhere in the branches. If all else failed, maybe
being faced with a snake would make his uncle pause. Or being bitten by one. Mehen
wouldn’t be stopped from defending him this time. But nowhere in the dark green leaves did
he catch a glimpse of sparkling scales, so they hurried past and Harry readjusted his plans yet
again. They were dwindling into the single digits now. There was a dog bark from
somewhere behind them again and Harry pushed down the thought of we are being herded.
Because that led to the questions of where to? and what was he going to do to them after?
The sound of Vernon’s footsteps had long since disappeared, but Ripper’s barking just got
louder and louder. Harry tried to focus and reach for the dog’s mind, but there was a
pounding in his head and his breathing was all off and he couldn’t think (think, damnit!) and
Dudley had started to whimper next to him.

“Harry…” His voice was so quiet he could barely hear his cousin over the wheezing breaths.

All the warmups and sports and boxing and taekwondo couldn’t prepare you for a dangerous
situation, Harry realised. Because what good was his improved physique if there were iron
bands around his chest? What good was it all against the taser that Harry’s mind had just
remembered seeing in Vernon’s back pocket?

Harry tugged on Dudley’s sleeve and this time the turn right worked without stumbling steps.
That may have been because his cousin had thought of the same person who might help
them, though. They had almost reached Mr Monroe’s back door when there was a hair-
raising snarl behind them. Harry was down to two plans now.

Dudley protested slightly when he was pushed behind his cousin and protested more when he
screamed at him to get Mr Monroe.

“But you-!”

“Ripper will be after me. It’s what he’s used to. Go get help!”

Harry didn’t take his eyes off the dog, but heard his cousin’s retreating steps and then him
banging on Mr Monroe’s backdoor. Just like he’d hoped, Ripper only had eyes for Harry.
Years of training were difficult to overcome, after all. But this time, Harry had trained too.
And while lying in a hospital bed, he had planned what he would do should he ever be faced
with Marge and her dog again.

There was little Aunt Marge cared about. Expensive sherry was probably on the list. Bad-
mouthing others. Maybe her brother made it somewhere in the top 20. But the uncontested
number one was Ripper.

Behind him, he could hear Dudley talking as fast as his tongue would let him, then the
thundering footsteps of a vet on a mission.

Now or never.

Harry took another look at Ripper. He could have been a great dog. He was probably always
a bit vicious, but if Marge hadn’t trained him to act on these instincts, he may have made a
nice hunting dog or protector. But he had been inside the dog’s mind and he knew there was
no saving him.

From somewhere closer by than he wanted her to be, Marge shouted a command. Harry
couldn’t have dodged if he tried.

A teeth-fletching, snarling monster flew at him and he barely managed to take a step before
Ripper sank his teeth into Harry’s leg. He could hear Dudley’s scream in the background,
wordless panic in his voice, as well as Mr Monroe’s deep baritone spitting curses that
would’ve made Aunt Petunia either wash out his mouth with soap or join him.

Ripper, meanwhile, tried to live up to his name. So far, he had mostly managed to rip apart
Harry’s jeans, but if nothing happened, his leg might go the same way. Right now he couldn’t
feel much, but figured that was probably the adrenaline and it would soon hurt like all hell.
One hand was still gripping the crystal; it took everything in him not to draw on his magic
and fling the dog into the garden wall. He could, and a big part of him was really really
tempted to. But he could hear Mr Monroe coming up behind him and Marge running towards
him and Dudley screaming and- (not yet).

There were strong hands on his shoulders and Mr Monroe’s voice in his ear and then Ripper’s
jaw was pried off his leg and Marge was lumbering into the backyard and there was
screaming at Marge and screaming at him and Dudley just screaming in general.

With the chaos unfolding, the pain in his leg finally started to register and he realised that
Dudley’s screaming was most likely related to the blood now showing on his ripped jeans.
Harry sat down right there on the grass and, figuring the pants were ruined anyway, just did
away with everything below his knee. He could see the tiny indents of Ripper’s teeth, but was
mostly just relieved that when he wiped the blood off, it looked way better than he had
feared. Dudley seemed to think so too because he had at least stopped screaming and was
instead kneeling beside him.

He was still much too pale, but when he took Harry’s hand and squeezed it, there was a
determination there. When Harry looked up, he saw it reflected in his cousin’s eyes.

“Mr Monroe said to go inside and that he’ll take care of everything.”

Seeing as Marge was currently getting the lecture of her life and Ripper was nowhere to be
seen or heard, Harry figured that was for the best.

That’s how Harry found himself sitting on an old tartan sofa, a blanket draped over his back
and being hugged within an inch of his life by Dudley. He was only half there, as he had
thrown part of his mind into the surface thoughts of a nosy neighbour who had made the
mistake of looking at him, to keep an eye on things. The police had been and gone, taking
both a screaming Marge and setting in motion a search for Ripper to contain the dangerous
dog, and for Vernon as a witness or suspect. Petunia had been called and was on her way, as
was the ambulance.

Harry let it all wash over him, clutching the hot chocolate tighter and tried to get the taste of
guilt out of his mouth.

After all, it had all gone according to plan.

Part one had been getting to safety and Mr Monroe was about as safe as you could get in
Privet Drive. Then he had sent Dudley out of the danger zone. And then… he had entered the
dog’s mind and he could have made him stop. Could have made him run. Could have made
him attack Marge, even. Instead, he had only made sure that Ripper wouldn’t puncture his
skin deeper than barely drawing blood.
But now this dog had attacked a defenceless child and there was only one way this could
possibly go. Having heard Marge crying about her poor baby while being shoved into the
back of a police car, she knew it too.

Ripper was going to be put down and Marge was going to blame him. And Harry didn’t care
– revelled in it, even. This had been the easiest way to get one threat out of the way and two
others in deep shit. He didn’t have to use much magic to accomplish this. He didn’t need to
burden Dudley any more with having to punch relatives. He didn’t have to try going up
against adults that were at least twice his size. His wounds would heal within a week,
probably less if he let his magic do its thing. And maybe Vernon and Marge would be able to
wiggle their way out of this one too, but Harry was sure Ripper was a thing of the past and if
anyone in this town had a brain, Marge wouldn’t be allowed to own another dog as long as
she lived. And now she had her own court case to deal with and wouldn’t be able to help her
brother out.

His leg still hurt, but he honestly thought the ambulance wasn’t even necessary. Scaring
Dudley like that was a bit much, but Harry couldn’t argue with the results. Marge carted off,
Ripper gone and Vernon under investigation even more than he already had been – though he
had a feeling his uncle had probably gotten rid of that taser. So he sipped the chocolate and
kept an eye on things and little by little let go of the guilt. Aunt Walburga would be proud.

“Do you think he’ll give up now?”, Dudley asked quietly.

Harry wanted to say yes, he really did. But the hatred he had seen in Vernon’s eyes told its
own story. He mentally crossed Ripper off and instead added a new bullet point to his to-do
list.
 An Impasse
Chapter Summary

Walburga goes through allll the emotions. Mostly at the same time.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Life went on. Even though there were no more strange wizards visiting and Vernon stayed
away (for now), enough people dropped by.

There were the police officers taking his and Dudley’s statements on Vernon, Marge and
Ripper. There were the neighbours, who took another month until they seemed to be tired of
talking about the drama. There were the people from the child protection service who toured
the house and his new room, talked a lot to Petunia, talked to the neighbours and, of course,
talked to him. Harry had a feeling they probably also talked to his teachers at school. Seeing
as he was still at Number 4, everything must have been in order.

Vernon showed up twice more, although he learned very soon that this was not the way to
contact his former family. After being forcibly removed by Mr Monroe the first time, Petunia
resorted to calling the cops and his visits stopped. Mr Monroe, however, still showed up,
especially when Aunt Petunia was baking her cherry pie. Harry had to smirk every time, but
luckily, Dudley seemed to like him too, so he left it at that.

Who he did not expect to drop by were his new friends. With all the hype, he had suddenly
become very popular at school. Dudley took great pride in escorting him everywhere for the
first fortnight and the guys from his boxing club soon joined him, as did the Taekwondo
people from Harry’s own sports club. Being walked through the halls with his own personal
bodyguards was both mortifying and strangely empowering at the same time. It also made
sure he had no shortage of “friends”.

The difficult thing was sorting through who really wanted to get to know him, now that it was
finally allowed, and who just wanted to share the spotlight. It would sort itself out with time,
he figured, though there were some people he hoped would stay and those were the ones
invited for a visit when Aunt Petunia asked if he wanted to bring some friends home.

With all the people suddenly taking an interest, it was more difficult to find time to practice
magic and study the theory. Of course he still did, but even though Dudley’s scared visits at
night had been reduced to maybe three times a week, he never knew when those nights were
and couldn’t very well keep his magic books lying around. The practical parts were easier to
shove somewhere in between his busy schedule, but Aunt Walburga wouldn’t be happy with
the overall situation.
Then again, he had to get to Aunt Walburga first and that proved to be even more difficult
than expected. Nobody left him alone anymore. There would probably be trips to London
once his aunt felt he was up to it, but those would be far in between and she would still keep
an eye on him. He had toyed with the idea of just telling her, but even then it was highly
unlikely she would let him go to the Black house alone. Bringing her along had nightmare
potential; even just thinking about Walburga finding his muggle aunt in her home was
headache-inducing.

He still had nightmares. Nobody knew, even if his aunt sometimes gave him looks that said
she suspected. She wouldn’t know the content, even if Vernon and Ripper did sometimes
feature heavily. It was still the magical world haunting him, as if it was clawing for his
attention. Voldemort, rising from a cauldron. A giant snake chasing him through an attic.
Again and again, a walk into the Forbidden Forest that ended in a blank wall and a sick
feeling in his stomach.

He still didn’t know why. He still didn’t want to know why. But he had the sinking feeling it
had to do with what was lurking behind the door in his mind and what that might mean. (You
have to know.) He pushed it down.

When it was the end of March and he still hadn’t seen Walburga, Harry decided he had to
take things into his own hands. Not that that was any different than usual.

He felt positively awful. Absolutely, truly awful. Not to forget terrified. When they dropped
off Dudley at a friend’s birthday party – Harry had timed it perfectly – and Aunt Petunia
started driving towards London, Harry’s heart dropped and he almost found himself
hyperventilating. Almost only because Mehen had wrapped himself tightly and reassuringly
around him and the rough scales on his skin grounded him in a way nothing else could.
Petunia’s mind was wide open, making it more than easy for him to rearrange her plans and
make her think he was tagging along, mostly not being a bother. She would bring him back a
few books and some new jumpers, thinking he had asked for them.

In the meantime, Harry and his bad conscience would be at Grimmauld Place, catching up
with his other family.

As Petunia was distracted by one of her favourite songs on the radio, one of those Harry was
likely to ignore, he dared having a whispered conversation.

:Do you think Aunt Walburga will be very angry?:

:Depends. There’s so many things she could be angry at.:

:At me, I mean. Of course.: Harry fidgeted a bit in his seat.

:Well… You didn’t show up for months, so she’s not gonna like that. But once you explain
what happened…:

:…she’ll probably want to burn Privet Drive to the ground. Let’s be honest.:

:Yes, most likely.:

Harry sighed and put his forehead against the car window. How had he gotten into this mess?
It would have been so much easier to just be normal. Then his relatives would have liked him
from the very beginning. He wouldn’t be going to a death trap that called itself a school. He
wouldn’t have a madman after his blood.

(But it’s all real.)

He hated it all. He especially hated that voice in his head that was not quite a part of him, but
buried so deep he’d never get rid of it anyway. Harry had a feeling it was all that was left of
whatever part of future him had travelled back in time. It wasn’t that it was useless. It was
just… yet another weird thing. He’d already had enough weird things to last him a lifetime
(or two), but knew if the next few years played out even marginally like he thought they
would, it was about to get about a thousand times weirder still.

Petunia happily dropped him off in front of Number 12 and Harry instructed her to return in a
few hours. He decided it was probably safer to give her a specific time instead of risking her
knocking at the door. He had no idea what that snake knocker might do to a muggle.

The house was strangely silent, even for the haunted house that pretended to be a home. The
silence was waiting. And it wasn’t happy. The same could be said about his Aunt Walburga.

“Harry James Potter! Where have you been?! I have been waiting for months. Months! How
dare you stay away that long! What were you thinking? I have been…”

Harry tuned her out for a while, deciding that it was probably safer to let her tirade run its
course and then defend himself instead of being interrupted by a screaming portrait every two
words. Kreacher had shown up as well, giving him the reproachful look he hadn’t seen in
over a year.

“Aunt Walburga!”, he finally interrupted her.

She scowled at him, but was finally a semblance of silent.

“I would have come if I could. However, being beaten nearly to death by your own uncle,
ending up at the hospital and then being surrounded by people who suddenly care too much
makes sneaking off to London rather difficult.”

The silence continued.

There was a grandfather clock ticking off in some other room. Mehen’s comforting hissing
from his sleeve. Kreacher’s loud breathing. Some weird rustling somewhere that might be
pests which had found their way into the house – Kreacher had started deep cleaning a year
ago, but it was a slow-going process. Harry enjoyed the near-complete silence until, as
expected –

“WHAT?! How dare he?! How dare he lay hand on a wizard! He is not worth the space it
takes to keep a cockroach!”
Aunt Walburga was fuming and Kreacher was suddenly prodding and poking Harry, trying to
check whether the weird muggle medicine had healed him correctly. All the while Aunt
Walburga went on screeching in the background and Harry tuned it out yet again. This time,
however, it gave him a warm feeling to know she cared. He knew it might be because he was
the only Black heir she could stand, but there was something liberating in seeing someone let
loose the emotion Harry had been holding back since his back was shoved against a wall. It
had taken him a while to separate all his feelings from each other – the therapist had actually
helped with that – and he had even talked about his anger at the whole situation. But he
hadn’t found a real way to vent yet, as that was likely to be accompanied by him losing
control over his magic.

You could say what you wanted, but Aunt Walburga was very much in touch with her
emotions and Harry felt he might have to use her as an example sometime.

“The Young Master must sit and talk”, Kreacher announced after his impromptu house-elve
check-up, pushing him towards the dining room which was the closest room with chairs. “Oh
yes, sit and talk and tell Kreacher how he can make Vernon-person pay. Maybe maim a bit.
Lose an arm. Or a leg, yes, yes.”

Harry had to smother a laugh. Kreacher sounded quite a bit like Dobby, which was scary for
one thing – were house elves this vicious in general? – and made him grin because both elves
would be absolutely horrified by the comparison. Mehen seemed to have gotten the gist of
that tirade, as he hissed his agreement.

“I don’t know where he lives right now, actually”, Harry interjected into the speech about
how his uncle would lose his many vital or not quite as vital body parts. “Could be he’s with
Marge. Or maybe he found a flat on his own by now. Petunia threw him out.”

Walburga, who had followed through other portraits and was now occupying the frame of a
beautiful Cotswold landscape, frowned. “I’m not a fan of that woman”, she sneered the word,
“but in this I have to say she did beautifully.”

“Agreed. I’m still sad I missed the part where she threatened Vernon with a frying pan.” It
continued to be Dudley’s favourite memory, as far as he could tell. Harry could have sworn
he saw a small smirk in the corners of Walburga’s mouth too.

“She might be a squib, you know?”

“Huh?”

“Language, young man”, she chided.

“I’m sorry Aunt Walburga. What do you mean?”

“Well. She is your mother’s sister – who was a witch with considerable power, even though
her pedigree was… sorely lacking.” This was a topic they hadn’t broached in depth, as
Walburga correctly surmised that Harry would not take kindly to her slandering his mother. “I
know the Potters never had as much magic to spare as you do, so it must have come from
somewhere. And it’s highly unlikely she has no magic at all when your mother was so very
magical.”

“So… you think she might have a tiny bit, but not enough to attend Hogwarts?”

Walburga shook her head. “I’m not sure”, she admitted. “It may skip a generation. Or two.”

Harry though of Dudley again and his disappointment that he didn’t seem to have any magic.
They had tried. Harry had explained to him how it felt to channel magic, but nothing had
worked for his cousin so far. Dudley hadn’t given up yet and Harry wouldn’t either.

“I thought you didn’t like squibs?”, he asked, cautiously.

“Of course I don’t. It’s a disgrace for someone without magic to be born into a magical
family. It calls into question the strength of their parents’ magic and that of their family. That
is why they are hidden away, or left in the muggle world. But a squib is still better than a
muggle.” She sniffed, as if that was a completely obvious conclusion to reach.

“Huh.”

“Your eloquence today is astounding.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Walburga.”

“Well then.” She settled down in the painting and watched Harry with sharp eyes. “Let’s hear
you explain what happened with your uncle” a sneer at the word “and why you didn’t rip him
apart with magic, shall we? And don’t give me that look, I know you could have. I want to
know why you weren’t defending yourself properly.”

“What if I had killed him? If I had let all that magic go, it would have been accidental and not
deliberate, so I wouldn’t have been able to control it.” And his magic had always put on
rather showy displays if left to its own devices. The accidental apperating incident came to
mind, for example.

“They wouldn’t have convicted you for accidental magic to defend your life, even if it
grievously injured someone”, she tutted. “And even if they did, that would still be better than
ending up choked to death by an irate muggle.”

“But then Aunt Petunia and Dudley would’ve probably been scared of me and I would’ve
gone into foster care. No thanks.”

Walburga huffed, but didn’t refute his statement.

“And it’s not like I didn’t try anything. I entered his mind to make him stop choking me and
he did. But then Aunt Marge’s vicious dog came out, so I had to keep that from attacking me
as well. And then my cousin decided to throw a punch, but I was scared for him and wanted
to keep him out of it, so I forced him with legilimency not to.”

All of that had come out in one breath and Harry found himself panting a bit. It felt good to
finally talk about that. It wasn’t like he could tell his therapist or his relatives. Dudley might
know about magic, but even he wouldn’t be happy about Harry invading his mind.

“You used legilimency on three people at once.”

“Yes, but it messed my magic up quite a bit”, Harry grumbled. “Mehen wouldn’t let me use
magic for weeks afterwards. Oh, by the way, I seem to have somehow bonded with my snake
and would like to ask whether that’s normal?” He started stroking the snake’s scales as he
talked and his friend poked his head out of the sleeve of Harry’s jumper.

If possible, Harry thought the stunned silence had deepened even more. “You kept control of
three minds at once?”, she repeated.

He shrugged. “Well… not really? Vernon stopped choking me, but he still had me pushed
against the wall. And Ripper – that’s the dog – stopped growling at me but didn’t leave and
Dudley didn’t punch Aunt Marge like he wanted to but then he punched Vernon instead.”

“But… three minds at once?”

“Er… yes? It was difficult to get myself out of them afterwards, though. That was a bit of a
mess.”

“Of course it was a bloody mess!”, Walburga screeched. “You could have died after that
stunt! What were you thinking? Three minds at once!”

Harry frowned. “Well, it’s not like you told me it was dangerous! And besides, I’d been in
Ripper’s mind quasi-constantly from the moment Marge entered the house. I didn’t feel like
being a dog snack, thank you very much.”

“Kreacher!”

“Yes, Mistress?” He bowed before the Cotswold painting.

“Get the boy some more books on occlumency and legilimency from the library. The
advanced ones. I believe we have to move this up.”

“Very well, Mistress.”

The elf popped away, Harry still frowning at the place where he had been standing just a bit
ago. “Wasn’t I supposed to do that?”

“Well…” Walburga seemed to think for a bit. “It’s certainly strange to see that you survived it
at such a young age. You must be a natural at the mind arts.”

Harry snorted. “Oh please. Legilimency is okay, easy actually, but I hate entering people’s
minds to influence them. It just seems wrong, though I understand why I have to learn how to
control that ability, if only to not do it accidentally. But my occlumency is awful. I still can’t
quiet my mind a third of the time, or it takes me hours to get there, or hours to get out of it
again. Not to mention blocking someone completely. I’m horrible at it.”
Even though he had realised just a few weeks ago that it might not be completely his fault.
Harry had found it much easier to calm his mind after he had managed to lock the weird
black thing in his mind behind extra protection. And he had managed to fool Dumbledore.

“Child, do you have any idea how extraordinary your abilities are.”

Now that brought his thoughts to a screeching halt. “Extraordinary? Who are you and what
have you done to Aunt Walburga.”

She sniffed at his tone, but didn’t seem too angry. “I’m not one for compliments, you know
that. But you have to know the truth if you want to stand strong in this world and my life’s
mission now is to make sure you can do just that and lead House Black to new glory. So let
me be blunt: your progress into practical and theoretical magic is, quite frankly, frightening.
When you got here almost a year ago, I despaired at how much you had to learn about the
magical world and how much catching up you would have to do to get anywhere near the
level your peers would be at once you all go to Hogwarts. I’m not worried about that
anymore. While your etiquette still needs some work, as does your theoretical magic, you far
outpace anyone I’ve ever known in practical magic.”

Harry could feel the heat rising to his face during that tirade of a different kind and by the end
of it his face resembled a tomato. He also felt a bit bad. After all, the only reason he was good
at magic at all was that he had those weird memories. But he hadn’t told Walburga about
them yet and he wasn’t sure he ever would. He trusted her to educate him, but her main
priority would still be House Black and not he as an individual.

“So yes, you still need some work, but I am confident you can get up to par before Hogwarts.
And then you do things like control three minds at once and I am starting to wonder whether
Hogwarts will even survive you.”

Thinking about the possessed professor, trolls and basilisks, escaped convicts, dementors,
dragons, and Death Eaters in the school, Harry couldn’t suppress a snicker. “I think it may
survive. Barely.”

The thought of Hogwarts in ruins after the final battle sobered him completely, however.
(Never again.) He would make sure it survived. This time, with less loss of life and less
tragedy. And to do that, he apparently needed to learn the advanced mind arts. He sighed.

“Alright then, legilimency training. But I don’t like it.”

Walburga smiled thinly. “You don’t have to like it. You have to know it, so that when you
need it most, you can deal with it. You are the last Black.” She intentionally ignored Sirius
every time she said something like that. “You have to survive. And from what you’ve said, a
lot of people will be after you. Either because of your fame when they want to have their few
minutes in the spotlight. Or because of your political clout as the Boy-Who-Lived” that sneer
was almost as impressive as the one used for the Dursleys “and as Heir Black. And then
there’s the Dark Lord.”

Harry tried to desperately remember whether he had actually told her that Voldemort was still
alive.
“If he has a horcrux, he might have taken other measures to make sure he can come back.”

Ah. Well, he never said she was stupid and Harry had a feeling she might be helpful when
dealing with Voldemort in the future. That was if…

“Aunt Walburga?”

“What is it?”

“Well… if the Dark Lord comes back, he will probably come after me, no matter what I do.
He might send his followers too. You supported him the last time.”

“I did. Watching all our traditions be changed to muggle ones was disheartening, to say the
least. He seemed like someone who would make sure we took our rightful place at the top of
wizarding society.”

Harry decided to just leave it at that instead of asking whether killing muggleborns and
wiping out whole families was worth it. He needed Walburga’s help. Something must have
shown on his face anyway.

“You don’t agree.”

He sighed. “Not exactly. I can see why you’d want to preserve your own traditions. I can also
see why you wouldn’t want your family’s status to decline. I disapprove of the methods.
What good is preserving the old pureblood lines and magic when the light-aligned families
are killed off? Or Sirius disagreeing with you and running away, only for your last remaining
heir to be killed by the very person you supported? Your niece Bellatrix ending up in
Azkaban? And people with new magical blood, which would bring strong magic into the old
lines, like my mum, are just indiscriminately cut down?” He shook his head. “We’ll have to
agree to disagree.”

Instead of going on another tirade like Harry had expected, Walburga just eyed him critically.
“So you’re not completely opposed to the goals, but the methods?”

Harry had to think about that for a moment. He’d probably have to have this conversation
with his Slytherin classmates at some point – if he got sorted there, though he was fairly sure
at this point – so this was good practice.

“Not quite. I don’t think muggleborns or even muggles are inherently worth less than magical
people. And other intelligent beings like goblins, centaurs, merpeople or wizards afflicted by
lycanthropy or vampirism also belong to our world and are not less than, in my opinion. I do
agree that our magical traditions should be taught to everyone, though I can understand if
some muggleborns want to keep theirs. They should still have the option to get to know them.
Besides, sometimes they’re important to preserve magic.”

During the last visit Walburga had given him a book on old rituals which had been in use
since before the Romans came to the British Isles. It had been enlightening, to say the least.
Some of them strengthened the caster’s magic or gave back magic to the earth. There were
some similar teachings in other cultures outside of Great Britain, tied in with other religions.
If nobody did them anymore, Harry wasn’t sure what kind of effect it would have on the
magical people and magic itself.

“I also think our world should be kept completely separate from the muggle world. It’s too
dangerous.”

“Explain that thought process”, Walburga prompted him.

“Did you kept an eye on the Second World War when it was happening?”, he asked her.

“Of course. London was bombed quite frequently and we had to strengthen our wards to
make sure we wouldn’t be affected.”

“Then you remember how nuclear bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki?”

“Vaguely. I remember the news talking about how destructive it was, but by then the war was
mostly over anyway.”

“Destructive is one way to put it. Those bombs completely destroyed two cities. Over
150.000 people died. And that’s not even counting all the victims suffering the after-effects.”

Harry had made sure to look these facts up in the school library for the next time a wizard
started talking about muggles being harmless. It certainly seemed to have had an impact on
Walburga, as her eyes had gone wide and her mouth was hanging open.

“Those numbers… I had no idea. Are they real?”

Harry shrugged. “That’s actually the more conservative estimate. It might be twice as much.
And I just keep thinking… A lot of people are scared of what they don’t know. Especially if
it’s something they’ll never be able to do. So they lash out. Maybe it’s because I grew up with
the Dursleys, but I can’t see it going well if magic is ever revealed to the wider world.
Besides, it should be a global decision, as it affects magical people and creatures all over the
world. And I do not want to see a nuclear bomb being dropped on Hogwarts.”

There was a flash of something in his mind which he usually associated with memories that
were still hidden from him. This time he actively tried to break through it because the thought
of Hogwarts being obliterated physically hurt. He got enough from the memory to know the
school was fine, but there was still something about this whole topic that had his alarm bells
ringing.

“I think I can see your point of view, though I don’t agree with everything”, Walburga
interrupted his thought process.

“I don’t expect you to. I just believe that all magical people and creatures belong in the
magical world and should all be protected. Because if we’re discovered, we will all face the
same fate, no matter what our blood status is, or whether we turn into a wolf once a month.
And seeing muggles as inherently inferior is simply dangerous. If a wizard went up against
my uncle with a gun, I’m pretty sure he’d catch a bullet before the first word of a spell left his
mouth. Not to mention if they were faced with a soldier and a machine gun.”
The image of Hagrid bending a rifle into a knot flashed across his mind, but Harry didn’t take
his words back. The general idea was probably correct.

Walburga made a thoughtful noise and Harry finally noticed Kreacher, who was standing to
the side, polishing some silver that had already been polished but had his ears turned up to
follow the conversation.

“Anyway. You still haven’t answered my original question because we got distracted by
politics. If the Dark Lord comes back, will you side with him against me, support me in
fighting him, or stay neutral on the whole matter?”

“You’d accept neutrality?”

“Of course! Not to would be idiotic. I can’t expect you to change your views for me. If you
do, that’s your personal matter, though I’d of course be thrilled. Even if you tell me now that
you’d support him, I would still come here and learn for as long as possible and simply stay
away should the situation call for it.”

Some silver cutlery hit the ground which Kreacher didn’t even pretend to polish anymore,
staring at Harry wide-eyed.

“That’s a surprisingly mature outlook”, mused Walburga.

Harry just shrugged. “I’ve got a feeling I’ll end up in Slytherin. I had to come up with a
strategy that will keep me alive there even when I’m surrounded by children who had death
eater values instilled in them by their parents. This seems like a decent solution for now.
Until the situation changes, of course.”

“The answer is easier than you think.” Walburga stood straight like a rod in the landscape
painting, eyes fixed completely on Harry. “I believe in the Dark Lord’s ideals, but my duty is
first and foremost to my family. I lost Sirius to the light side and believed Regulus would be
Lord Black one day and continue our traditions. But Regulus died in the service of the Dark
Lord.” Her expression darkened. “Or rather, he died opposing him. And now Sirius is the last
one of us left and you are his heir. If I don’t support you, there will be no house Black to
continue any traditions. So yes, I would side with you over the Dark Lord. Every single
time.”

He felt himself tearing up a bit. It was a purely logical decision by his great aunt, but at least
she would continue to be on his side.

“If it was only Sirius”, she mused “I’m not sure I could support him. He turned his back on
all things Black. But you… You I can work with.”

“Even though we don’t agree on everything?”

She tilted her head. “Even so. You’re too headstrong for me to change your opinion
completely. Maybe if you had come to us a bit younger. But that just means Albus
Dumbledore will face the same problem and that can only be a good thing. You’re not dark.
But you’re also not light.”
Harry mimicked her position, thinking. “No, I think if anything, I’m closer to being grey than
either of those.”

“Indeed. And if you had to choose a side? If the Dark Lord offered you a top position, or
being of equal standing? If Dumbledore decided to trust you with everything and made you
the next great defeater of a Dark Lord, saviour of the Light? Which side would you choose?”

“The answer to that is as easy as yours just now.” Harry grinned. “Neither. I couldn’t ever be
on Voldemort’s” Kreacher flinched and even Walburga tensed “side because I disapprove of
his methods so completely. Not to mention he’s absolutely bloody insane, insane enough to
have made a horcrux. But I’m not light and never will be and I couldn’t pretend to be.
Besides, I don’t trust Dumbledore as far as I can throw him because he’d sacrifice me in a
heartbeat if it furthered his plans.”

“So what then?”

His grin widened. “If I have to choose between the two, I won’t be on either side. I’ll make
my own.”

That startled a barking laugh out of Walburga, who immediately covered her mouth with one
hand. A calculating look entered her eyes as she looked him up and down, not quite
dissimilar to when she’d first met him. This time there was a hint of approval in her gaze,
however. “Now that I’ve got to see.”

When Harry looked to the side, he could see Kreacher unabashedly watching him with the
widest eyes he’d ever seen (apart from Dobby’s). He looked between his mistress and Harry,
bowed so deep to both that his nose was almost touching the ground, then popped from the
room.

Well. That was weird.

“Yes, I will definitely support you going forward. Besides, supporting the first grey leader in
centuries will definitely befit the House of Black.”

She laughed – actually laughed – when Harry started sputtering.

“Grey leader?”

“Mmh, yes. We haven’t had one of those in a while.”

“I’m not going to lead anyone or anything. Maybe the quidditch team, if I’m lucky.”

“So you say. And I say we’ll have to see about that.”

Harry just sighed, combing a hand through his hair. It was longer now, as he had stopped
cutting it some time ago in the hopes it would be more manageable this way by the time he
went to Hogwarts. At the moment it was in that weird shaggy state that made his Aunt
Petunia purse her lips every time she looked at him. She knew better than to try and cut it,
though. Walburga liked it, which was far more important at the moment.
“Let’s leave it at that for now. What about that bond I have with my snake?”

The gleam entered Walburga’s eyes again. “Now that is also a very interesting development.”

Glad she had accepted the topic change, Harry started to relax a bit. “He apparently felt when
I was hurt and that I was far away. Both of us felt a weird pull. Right here.” He touched his
sternum, then hissed to Mehen who started winding his way up Harry’s arm to poke out of his
neckline.

“Did anything change about him recently? Did he grow a lot? Did you do a lot of magic
around him? Did he bite you or anyone else? Did he bleed on you or you on him?”

His head swam a bit. “No, nothing like that. Well… he did shed a few times, but around
Christmas he slowly changed colour while doing it…? I almost forgot over everything else.
He’s black and green now and said they're his adult colours. And I think he’s growing faster
than a snake like him should, but I only have the school library books to do research and they
don’t have a lot of information about boomslangs.”

He also had to deal with the fact that people noticed when he didn’t go outside during the
break anymore. Nowadays, the other children actually wanted to hang out with him and the
teachers kept an eye on him.

“Kreacher!”

The house elf popped in immediately. “Yes, mistress?”

“Look in the potions section of the library for that book about the boomslang again.”

The elf bowed and popped away again.

“I was going to give that to you ages ago, but you were still not caught up with the etiquette”,
she sighed. “But it means that Mehen could bond with you because he is an adult now.
Maybe he started feeding on your magic, which is why he’s growing faster. It sometimes
happens with animals that you have a strong connection to. A lot of people bond with their
owls, which means they can find them anywhere, even through wards.”

The memory of Hedwig finding him at the Leaky Cauldron, later even at Grimmauld Place,
flashed in his mind.

“Depending on how strong the bond is, he may become your familiar now or in the future.”

“What does that even mean? What’s different about a familiar compared to another animal?
Say, if I got an owl, would it become my familiar as well?” By now, Mehen had made his
way to Harry’s shoulders and had assumed his usual position as a scaly scarf. He’d have to
translate anything of the conversation the snake hadn’t understood later.

Walburga pursed her lips and eyed the now green snake. “Well, a familiar usually absorbs
part of your magic, so that means they grow older than other animals of the same species.
Sometimes they develop other abilities too, like a stronger type of venom, or they become
smarter, bigger… it varies from animal to animal and also depends on who they bonded to.”
The thought of Mehen’s venom becoming even stronger was almost nightmare-inducing, so
Harry shoved that to the very back of his brain. He sometimes still woke up at night, heart
racing, waking from a dream where Mehen had come out of the cupboard to help him against
Vernon and had been taken away.

“It’s normal to bond to more than one animal. Especially when your magic is strong, it’s not
unusual. There was a witch two years above my Hogwarts graduate class who ended up
starting a kneazle farm after school. She bonded with 13 cats.”

“She may be related to Mrs Figg”, Harry mused.

“Mrs Figg?”

“She lives a few streets away from us and sometimes watched me when the Dursleys were
away. I’m pretty sure she’s a squib because she owns a lot of kneazles or half-kneazles. And
when I say a lot, I mean a lot. I only recognised them when you started giving me books on
magical creatures.”

She got a thoughtful expression on her face and Harry was sure she drew the right
conclusions. “Do you know whether she knows Dumbledore?”

A wry smile found its way to his mouth. “I’m not sure, but I very much think she does. After
all, he showed up.”

“He what?!”

“I… kind of forgot to mention that, didn’t I.”

“I’ll say!”

“Yes, he showed up. In a horrid suit and read my surface thoughts and found out what he
must have heard from Mrs Figg was true.”

Walburga made a weird choking sound and then, to Harry’s never-ending horror, started to
outright laugh for the second time today. “I would have given anything to see his face.”

“Er… it was kind of funny, I guess.”

It had also felt kind of righteous in the fury that raised its head every now and then. After all,
Dumbledore had left him with the Dursleys in the first place, never checking up, or even
wilfully ignoring reports from Mrs Figg as to what went on in that house. Because even
though the police had never been involved until the Christmas incident, there had been other
signs. A scrawny child wearing cast-offs and gardening in the burning sun should raise all
kinds of red flags.

“What did you let him see?”

It was kind of heartening to know that she believed his occlumency was advanced enough to
block even Dumbledore enough to only show him what he wished the older wizard to see.
“Pretty much the whole abuse. I thought I might as well make him feel guilty for everything.”
 There was still a smile on her face. “That must have been a day for him then.”

“He looked quite distraught.”

Another snort. “I can imagine.”

Kreacher finally came back with a large black tome and put it on the table with a thud. “I
found the part about the snakies too. It be here.” The book opened on a section towards the
front that had some helpful illustrations of live specimen and some of definitely dead ones
that made his stomach churn slightly and Mehen puff out his throat threateningly.

“Take a look at that entry. I don’t think it makes sense for you to take it home with you. I do
have some other books you should take with you, however, and a few more than usual, as we
don’t know when you’ll be able to come back. Kreacher can enlarge your bag and put a
lightweight charm on it. Depending on how much time we’ll have to practice, you can do it
yourself.”

“Yes, Aunt Walburga.”

Luckily the passage on the boomslang and its use in potions was very interesting and he got
through it fast enough. It mentioned that they did change colour when reaching their adult
form, so Walburga’s first thought seemed correct.

The rest of the time was spent stocking up on books and proving to Walburga that he hadn’t
forgotten any of the spells even if he hadn’t been able to use them much. He conveniently
forgot to mention that Dudley now knew about magic and demanded Harry show him some
most evenings. He did mention the ploy that had gotten rid of Ripper. Walburga was suitably
impressed, if slightly put off by the lack of magic in that plan.

When a slightly dazed-looking Petunia pulled up, Harry’s head was swimming with all the
new information – as well as the guilt for his aunt’s state. Kreacher had spelled the bag, so at
least that didn’t lead to new questions. He did, however, mumble something about looking
for magic to maim a person and Harry made a mental note to keep an eye on his uncle. It
wouldn’t do for him to be suspected of maiming his uncle with magic, after all.

Petunia’s confusion lessened the closer they got to Surrey and the more she talked to Harry
about what “they” had been doing all day, and by the time they arrived at home when Harry
got out with his new shoes, carrying his new books, there was no sign anything about this day
had been less than normal.

Chapter End Notes

Just one more chapter to go! As promised, I'll immediately continue with part 2
afterwards. In fact, because the chapter is a bit shorter, I'll post twice that week.
It's not like I have much else to do because I had a positive test yesterday and am now
officially in quarantine for the next 10 days. So far the symptoms are mild and I hope it
stays that way.
 Second Thoughts
Chapter Summary

The Evans family makes a comeback, Vernon an exit, and Harry gets cold feet.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

He was soon distracted from his bad conscience as the divorce went through at the beginning
of June and the name change was official a few weeks later. Dudley gleefully corrected all
the teachers who used his old name, which made Harry smile every single time, thinking
about how irate Vernon must have been when he had gotten the news that his son had asked
for his last name to be the same as his mother’s. Not that Harry could blame him. Dudley
Evans sounded a lot less like a dim-witted superhero name anyway. Besides, Vernon had
other issues, like the fact that the restraining order against him had become permanent.

This situation had, however, presented Harry with a choice. When Petunia had sheepishly
brought it up one night, he had been struck speechless. She had offered that he could change
his name too if he wanted. Harry begged for some time to think it over, which she granted
immediately. The whole conversation was stilted and awkward, but he could also see the
genuine emotion in her eyes when she reminded him that he was, after all, her sister’s son
and therefore had a right to her maiden name as much as Dudley.

It turned out to be a bit of a conundrum, and not only from the emotional side. Harry wanted
to have a closer tie to his mother. A lot of people in the wizarding world always compared
him to his father, just by looks alone, and neglected to mention his mother apart from the
green eyes. Using her name would be one way to forcibly remind the world that she was a
part of him too.

Then there was the more political side to consider. The wizarding world knew his father
because Potter was, although not belonging to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, still a very respected
family associated with mostly purebloods. His father had been one, after all. His last name
being Potter would give him a lot more clout with the high society.

Being named after his mother, however, would also have its use. For one, “Harry Potter” was
the boy-who-lived, the one who had defeated the Dark Lord, the saviour of the wizarding
world. Harry Evans was not. He would still be associated with it, but hopefully a bit removed
from the persona that had been created without his say-so. Maybe it would even have the
positive effect on Snape that he didn’t just see his father in him. Harry wouldn’t hold his
breath on that one, though.
The disadvantage, of course, was him showing a preference towards his mother and her
muggle name. While that didn’t bother him, it might make it difficult to get a leg in with
pureblood politics, like he knew he would have to. Giving up his father’s name might make it
seem like he didn’t care for the wizarding world or its traditions.

The solution was found when Dudley innocently asked why Harry couldn’t just take both.

So, when Petunia and Dudley Evans walked out of the office, Harry Evans-Potter walked
with them. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it should cover all the bases. It also made his
cousin very giddy, screaming over and over how they finally had the same last name, which
Harry decided was kind of adorable.

It was also the first year that Harry would get an actual birthday party, though Dudley’s came
first. When Petunia asked Harry where he thought Dudley would like to go for his special
day, Harry, caught up in the nostalgia, asked her to take them to the zoo.

It was a great visit and Harry even talked to the snake again, this time watched by a wide-
eyed Dudley who asked to have a whole translated conversation with the animal. Now
knowing Mehen, Harry found that the Boa didn’t make for very intelligent conversation,
albeit still interesting. Maybe it did have something to do with the familiar bond or being
around magic after all.

They saw all the animals. They got ice cream. Dudley convinced his mum to get him one of
the stuffed animals from the zoo shop – a panda – and get one for Harry as well – he insisted
on a snake. When they got home, for the first time ever Harry felt it was all too surreal. His
cousin opened his presents in the afternoon because they had gone to the zoo so early and
wasn’t at all disappointed to find he had only gotten a number in the single digits from his
mother. A large delivery of gifts had arrived in a package yesterday that Dudley had told his
mother to return to the sender without even a note or, if not possible, donate it to the
children’s hospital Harry had been in.

In the evening, Dudley had gushed some more about the awesome day and decided they’d
have to start reading the books together soon. It still made him smile a bit that he had
inadvertently turned his cousin into almost as big of a bookworm as Hermione. Even his
English grades had gone up. Dudley, of course, asked for a bit of a magic show for his
birthday, so Harry levitated the panda and snake around the room. Some time ago he had
figured out a way to turn the lumos lights into tiny throwable spheres that even Dudley could
hold, so they made a game of throwing them at the animals while Harry floated them farther
and farther up to the ceiling.

Harry’s thoughts were stuck on something else, however. The day he had received his
Hogwarts letter the first time drew nearer, making the knot in his stomach tighten with every
hour. He still hadn’t gotten the courage to tell Petunia that he knew about magic but figured
having Dudley on his side would help. Besides, he wasn’t supposed to know about Hogwarts
and figured it would work itself out somehow.

Dudley was also very excited for his new school – which wasn’t Smeltings because there was
no Vernon insisting on sending Dudley there and Petunia’s wages didn’t cover the tuition of
the fancy private school – and his aunt had instead looked up a nice local school for them.
His cousin’s excitement over both of them going made Harry’s bad conscience even worse.

After he had provided Dudley with his nightly magical entertainment and trying and failing
to coax some magic out of his cousin, Harry lay wide awake, Mehen wrapped around the post
of his bed, his head right next to his cheek.

:What’s bothering you, Harry? Are you worried about going to Hogwarts? About leaving
your cousin behind?:

:In a way, yes. It’s strange. It just feels kind of unreal, if you know what I mean.:

:I don’t actually. Can you explain it?:

Harry frowned and tried to order his thoughts to find out what was bothering him about it all.
:Well… knowing that in that other time, this never happened and none of my schoolmates, or
Dudley, or my aunt cared... It kind of makes me wonder whether it’s real, whether people are
just pretending, whether it’s worth anything at all. Whether I changed so much already that
I’ve just made things worse overall.:

Mehen’s tongue flicked against his cheek, then he uncoiled from the bed and wrapped his
body around Harry’s shoulder instead. :I think you should look at it differently. These are not
the same people as the ones from your memories. You’ve changed too much. They’re new
people, so you shouldn’t be comparing them to who you remember them to be. You do like
Dudley, don’t you?:

That made him smile. Just today Dudley had excitedly blabbered about getting the Lord of
the Rings trilogy for his birthday and while Harry thought it might take him ages to get
through the books, he’d promised to try and read them too. :Dudley is pretty great, yes.:

:And yet, from what you told me, in your memories he was awful to you until you saved him
from those soul monster thingies.:

:Dementors:, Harry interjected.

:Yes. Those. And you still gave him a chance.:

:I guess I did. Maybe because it wasn’t ever his fault, really. He just copied his mum and
dad.: Harry turned his head to the side, watching Mehen’s scales slide by him just a nose-
length away. :If I follow that logic, it wasn’t ever really the other childrens’ fault either.
Petunia… maybe. But I guess I can understand that she was scared of Vernon and at least
she’s trying really hard to be better.:

:Well, she better. Because if she doesn’t, I’ll bite her!: Mehen opened his mouth just wide
enough that Harry could see the fangs at the back of it. Knowing what that venom could do
made him shudder.

:Now that I think about it more, I think there’s another aspect to it. I know there’s this whole
magical world waiting for me that I’m going to be a part of in just a few months. I won’t go
to school with the others anymore because I’ll be spending most of the year at a boarding
school. And I won’t even be able to talk to them about it, except for Dudley. I won’t be able
to tell them about the subjects I’m taking, what kind of grades I get, what kind of sports I
play… we will drift apart. So what’s the point of trying now?:

He felt Mehen’s tongue flick against his check again and the rough belly scales against his
neck. :I guess I can understand that. But that’s a decision you’ll have to make. Is it worth it to
become friends with them when you’ll have to lie to them for the rest of your lives, if you’ll
even stay friends that long?:

:…you know that sounds really depressing?:

Mehen was waving his head from side to side again, tongue flicking out. :You’re taking a
very negative view of it all.:

:Can you blame me? Sometimes I wonder… what would happen if I just left the magical
world behind? So far, they haven’t done anything for me. Some dark lord killed my parents
and I’m the one being celebrated for defeating him. When there’s a whole ministry whose job
it was to take him out! I have memories that show nothing has changed even now. The same
people stayed in power, even the ones who supported him. And the wizarding public and
even the other students at Hogwarts change their minds to whichever way the wind blows.
Would it be so awful if I just didn’t want to deal with it all? If I just want to ask Petunia and
Dudley to move to Australia with me and forget all about magic?:

:No. It wouldn’t be awful at all.: Mehen had stopped moving his head and was now starting
into Harry’s eyes, brown meeting a green almost as bright as his scales. :But could you live
with yourself? Living like that?:

Harry thought about living as a muggle and found the idea almost appealing. No dangerous
spells, no possessed professors, no trolls… That last one stopped him short. Hermione. Even
if he didn’t go to Hogwarts, he was pretty sure Ron might still chase her into that loo with his
uncaring comments. And without him there, Hermione would surely be squashed by a troll.
Lucius Malfoy might still give the diary to Ginny or another unsuspecting student and they
would die. Sirius would probably be kissed by dementors.

:I guess not. As long as I think I can help, I will. Even if I do it my way this time. Even if my
old friends will hate me for it.:

:You’ll find new friends.: Mehen was hissing soothingly into his ear.

Harry remembered having friends at Hogwarts, but wasn’t sure whether he would make the
same ones. After all, he had been a very different person with very different goals. As for
making new friends, he would definitely try to befriend his fellow year mates, but depending
on where he was sorted – and he had a feeling he would be wearing green – this could prove
to be difficult. Slytherins befriending the boy-who-lived… Especially with the house system
leading to instant rivalries that made no sense to him now, making friends in other houses
would be even more difficult.

:It will be fine:, Mehen promised. :And I’ll be with you.:

 The last part actually made him feel slightly better. He scratched Mehen’s scales lightly while
the snake closed its eyes and made a quiet hissing sound.

“I guess we’ll both make the best of it.:

:We will.:

So Harry closed his eyes to the comforting sound of Mehen and tried not to think about how
his whole world would change soon.

Chapter End Notes

And this concludes part 1! This got a lot longer than I wanted it to, but here we are. The
plot will pick up speed in the next one (I promise).
As this chapter is very short and the first chapter of part 2 is as well, this week I'll post
on Saturday as well! So keep an eye out. ^^

Thank you so much for reading, giving kudos and commenting! It's really motivating to
see that so many people seem to like this fic.
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!