Independent Study

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/27475108.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Underage Sex
Categories: M/M, F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Harry Potter/George Weasley, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Characters: Harry Potter, George Weasley, Fred Weasley, Sirius Black, Remus
Lupin, Bill Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks, Order of the Phoenix
Additional Tags: Slow Burn, so much pining, Independent Harry Potter, Powerful Harry,
AU ootp
Language: English
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Stats: Published: 2020-11-09 Completed: 2020-12-24 Words: 144,148
Chapters: 35/35
 Independent Study
by SomewheresSword

Summary

Dumbledore doesn't make it in time for Harry's trial, and the outcome is very different. Harry
is expelled, his wand snapped.

But he refuses to give up. And he is done waiting around for Albus Dumbledore to give him
information.

Deciding to take his life into his own hands, Harry asks for training from several Order
members, preparing himself to fight Voldemort while the whole wizarding world believes
he's helpless and back in the muggle world.

Meanwhile, his friends are at Hogwarts, tackling their own problems in the form of Dolores
Umbridge. Harry hadn't expected the separation to be so difficult - or for a certain
mischievous redhead to make the waiting game they'd entered into so very excruciating.

He might have lost his home in Hogwarts, but with Sirius and Remus around, Harry begins to
learn that rebuilding a family isn't as hard as he'd anticipated.

Notes

Hey friends! I wrote this whole thing in the last month while going through some (non-covid)
health stuff, and it grew a lot longer than I anticipated. But it's finished, so posting should be
pretty regular on alternate days.

This entire fic is basically my love letter to George Weasley that sort of grew arms and legs
and a cohesive plotline. I hope you enjoy it!

Translation into Español available: [Restricted Work] by nellyspectrumm

Translation into Polski available: Independent Study (tłumaczenie) by Zikonest
 Chapter 1

Expelled.

The word echoed through Harry’s head from the moment it left Fudge’s lips. He expected
things to turn numb, dazed, like he’d heard about with extreme instances of shock. On the
contrary, his whole world became sharper — he could see every face in the Wizengamot
crowd, from the horrified gaze of Amelia Bones to the smug satisfaction curling at the lips of
Dolores Umbridge. He couldn’t make words out of the swarm of murmurs that erupted after
the gavel went down, but he remembered every horrifying second of having to surrender his
wand to the aurors and watch Fudge snap it in his pudgy, liver-spotted hands. It sparked when
it broke, and Harry held back a flinch, feeling the aftershocks reverberating under his own
skin. He kept his head held high, his jaw square. He would not break in front of these people,
not even for a second. He owed himself that much.

When he was dismissed, Harry turned on his heel and left the chamber, stride confident even
as he forced his shoulders not to shake. People were calling his name. He ignored them. He
had nothing to say to any of them now.

In the corridor outside, the first person Harry saw was Mr Weasley — who went chalk-white
at the look on Harry’s face, and the confirmation in the mutters of the dispersing Wizengamot
members. Harry sucked in a sharp breath, turning away from the redhead. Do not break,
Potter, he told himself firmly. You have faced worse.

In turning away, he noticed the other half of his welcoming committee. Albus Dumbledore, in
a remarkably subdued lilac and silver robe, his blue eyes for once bereft of their twinkle.
“Harry, my boy,” he began, “I’m so sorry. I was kept ignorant of the time change until it was
too late — by the time I arrived, the courtroom was closed.”

Harry kept his face blank, even as he wanted to scoff in the old man’s face. At last, the great
Albus Dumbledore’s habit of swooping in at the last second and saving the day had backfired
on him. At least no one had died, this time.

“I will speak to the Minister — I’m sure he’ll understand how dangerous it is for you to be
without a wand and away from school, even if he refuses to admit what sits so plainly before
him.”

“No.” Harry surprised himself by speaking — surprised the headmaster, too, by the looks of
it. Nonetheless, he continued. “No, thank you, sir. I would much rather you come back with
me, so we can have a long overdue talk.”

“Harry, really, I know it’s been a stressful day—“ Arthur Weasley stuttered, reaching out with
a hand that fell short before it could squeeze Harry’s shoulder. Harry continued to stare down
the bearded headmaster, watching several expressions flit across his face.

“If this is something you would like to discuss in private, I understand, though I fear time is
of the essence,” Dumbledore said eventually. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“What’s done is done. They won’t go back on their ruling.” He could still vividly recall the
number of triumphant faces — there were too many people in the pocket of the enemy for
him to expect fair play in that courtroom. It wasn’t worth the effort trying. He’d expected this
outcome, deep down, from the second he’d had the letter confirming his hearing. He knew
how this played out. He was Harry Potter; he always faced the worst, in the end. “Let’s go
home.” He worried if they dawdled here much longer, the press would get wind of the result
and he’d be ambushed before he could escape. If he faced Rita Skeeter right now, he couldn’t
promise she would come out of it unscathed.

Without waiting for confirmation from the two adults, Harry set off down the corridor in
search of a floo, his mind already whirring. Dread began to build in his stomach — not for
himself and his future as an unqualified wizard, but for the hysterics he was likely to face
from those waiting from him back at Grimmauld.

He appeared in the living room of Grimmauld Place, stepping aside for the headmaster and
Mr Weasley to follow. A grimace crossed his face — the room was full of people, staring
anxiously at the fireplace. All of them jumped when he arrived. His face must have said it all;
Hermione choked out a sob, her hands flying to her mouth. Sirius cursed.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a private word with the headmaster,” Harry declared,
barely glancing back at Dumbledore before he made for the door. No one stopped him. He
vaguely heard Mr Weasley murmuring comforting words to his wife as she fell into his arms,
but then the door shut, and the commotion was muffled.

Harry led Dumbledore through to the drawing room, the burn-marred tapestry of the House
of Black glaring at him from the walls. When the door was closed, Harry turned to the elderly
wizard, folding his arms over his chest. “You owe me a lot of information, sir, and I want the
truth,” he declared without hesitation.

“I beg your pardon, my boy?”

“Don’t.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Ever since I met you, you’ve been stringing me along one
clue at a time, watching me stumble in and out of dangerous situations like they were nothing
more than a game, never giving me more information than I needed to gather the bare
minimum — just enough to have me haring into dangerous situations without so much as a
second thought for the consequences. Often, dragging my friends with me. Don’t try to deny
it; I might have been naive back then, but I know better now. Keeping the Philosopher’s
Stone in the school was intentional — a test for me, and bait for Voldemort. The Flamels had
kept it safe for over six hundred years, I refuse to believe they struggled so suddenly.”

“Harry, I—“

“Second year, knowing what I do now about the wards you’ve kept on the Dursleys, you
must have known about Dobby the house elf. If you had no idea about Riddle’s diary, that I
can believe, though it does concern me what can happen right under your nose. But you sat
back and watched as the whole school declared me evil, waiting to see what I would do, and
when I risked my life again you merely sent Fawkes to pop along and stop me from getting
myself killed. Third year was another merry information chase, with a solution that you
seemed to have worked out far too conveniently, and we all know how my fourth year
ended.” That, finally, got a flinch from the old man. “I refuse to believe you had no idea one
of your oldest friends was an impostor the entire school year.”

“It is easy to make assumptions in hindsight, Mr Potter,” Dumbledore pointed out.

“And it’s easy to play with peoples’ lives when you’re not the one suffering the fall-out,”
Harry retorted evenly. “You’ve been having me watched the entire summer, Professor.
Without my knowledge. You’ve been deliberately keeping me oblivious, making my friends
deny me information. There’s clearly something bigger going on — and I’m not talking about
the Ministry using me as a scapegoat to bury their heads in the sand. I know my dreams
aren’t normal. Whatever Voldemort is up to, he wants me to be curious about it. And since
you’re telling me jack shit, you want me to be curious, too. Well, I’m telling you, that ends
now. If you’d told me from the beginning of the summer that I had guards, this could have
been avoided. I wouldn’t have gone so far from the house. I would have coordinated with my
guards to make sure everyone was safe. I would have known that something was amiss when
no one came to help, rather than assuming I was on my own again, because God forbid I rely
on anyone but myself. If your trials and tribulations have taught me anything, Dumbledore,
they’ve taught me that much. But that’s the thing, see — they’ve taught me not to rely on
you, either. And today’s farce of a hearing proved that. I knew from the moment I walked
into that courtroom what I would be facing; a blind man could see they’d made up their
minds before it had even begun.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, for once sounding his advanced age. “Harry, my boy, I can see
now that my actions have upset you. But I assure you, I have never kept information from
you for my own entertainment, like you seem to believe. I merely wanted to avoid burdening
you while you are so young, when others can carry that burden a while longer.”

“Well, that’s worked out wonderfully, hasn’t it,” Harry replied dryly. “Bang up job you’ve
done there, Headmaster. No burdens here.”

“I can never apologise enough for what happened today,” Dumbledore said. “And I will do
my utmost to correct the injustice you have suffered.”

“Yeah, we both know that isn’t going to work. Fudge doesn’t want me armed and
dangerous,” Harry pointed out derisively, quoting one of the Prophet’s many disparaging
articles. “I don’t want you to try and get me back to school, Professor. I’m not even
demanding you induct me into the Order. All I want is for you to be upfront with me about
the things that concern me. Merlin knows Voldemort won’t leave me alone just because I’ve
been expelled. And I would like to know why.”

At that, the headmaster tensed visibly. “Harry, that is dangerous information to give you.
You’ve said it yourself; Voldemort wants you curious. Have you considered he is merely
using you to find out his own answers?”

“Clearly he has the answers, seeing as he’s already set on killing me,” came Harry’s retort.
“He’s taunting me, not encouraging me. After my upbringing, I’m well aware of the
difference,” he added drily. “Tell me, headmaster. Why me? What’s so special about me?”
There was a long, stagnant silence. Dumbledore’s dim blue eyes bored into Harry’s,
searching for something Harry wasn’t sure he would ever find. Eventually, the old man’s lips
pursed.

“Before you were born, there was a prophecy. Spoken in a room that only contained myself
and the prophet. Unfortunately, we were both unaware of the Death Eater lurking at the door,
looking for information to take back to his master. He only heard part of the prophecy — but
it was enough for Voldemort to set his sights on you specifically. Enough for him to learn that
‘the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice
defied him, born as the seventh month dies.’. There is more to the prophecy, but that was
information enough. Voldemort made an attempt on your life, and it backfired; we may never
know for certain why that is. But it was enough to make him sure that you were the one who
would bring about his downfall, and he has been determined to kill you ever since.”

Harry leaned back against the wall, taking in the information carefully. He wasn’t completely
blindsided — it had always been clear Voldemort believed Harry specifically was a threat. He
hadn’t expected a prophecy to be the root of it, though; most Divination was a crock of shit,
surely Voldemort didn’t put stock in it? He said as much to Dumbledore, who shook his head.

“True Divination is ancient magic, and this was very much a true prophecy. Voldemort knew
that as well as I.” The aged wizard perched on the edge of the desk in the corner, looking
haggard. “I knew I would have to tell you eventually, but I convinced myself we had more
time. I wanted you to have as close to a normal childhood as you could manage.”

“All due respect, sir; if you truly wanted that, you’d never have sent me to the Dursleys,”
Harry bit out in reply. Something sad flickered across the man’s face.

“Perhaps. But everything I did, I did with your wellbeing in mind, Harry.”

That felt difficult to believe, but Harry didn’t respond. He mulled the words of the prophecy
over in his head once more. “What’s the rest of it? The prophecy? You said there was more.”

Dumbledore grew hesitant again. “I do not know if it’s safe to give you that information,
when you’ve said yourself that Voldemort seems to have access to your mind.”

“Only to my dreams,” Harry argued. “And you said it wasn’t even the important bit.
Voldemort knows enough of the prophecy to have made plenty of moves based on it.” There
was something deeper in the headmaster’s gaze. Harry peered at him. “Unless you’re
intentionally keeping it from him because you want him to think it contains the key to his
defeat. That you know something he doesn’t.”

The old man was suspiciously silent. Harry snorted. “Typical. Tell me, Professor; what’s
worse? Voldemort knowing the rest of the prophecy, or all the people he might kill in order to
find out?” They couldn’t even be sure he’d be able to pluck knowledge out of Harry’s head.
“Hang on, if Voldemort could read my mind, surely he would have found me at my
relatives’? Or even here? Even if there were wards on Privet Drive, I spent half the summer
wandering Wisteria Walk, anyone could’ve picked me off there, guards or no.”
“The nature of your connection with the Dark Lord is unknown — it was formed in unique
circumstances, after all.”

“So you have no idea how it works, you’re just using it as an excuse to keep me in the dark,”
Harry translated bluntly. “Right, now we’ve cleared that up — tell me the rest of the
prophecy.”

Dumbledore frowned deeply, but after several moments seemed to realise Harry was not
going to give in. “‘The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the
Dark Lord knows not. Either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the
other survives’. That is the full extent of the prophecy, my boy,” Dumbledore relented. “You
can see now why it’s so important Voldemort not get his hands on such information.”

Quite frankly, Harry didn’t see why that was important — Voldemort was already pretty set
on killing Harry, regardless of whether Harry would be the one to kill him or not. The ‘power
the Dark Lord knows not’ thing was interesting. “Were you ever going to help me figure out
what that power might be, or were you hoping it might come to me in a dream, or
something?” he asked wryly, watching the taken-aback expression cross the headmaster’s
features.

“You’re only just fifteen, my boy — it seemed cruel to place such a burden on your
shoulders. I planned to give you as much time as you needed to work on your skills.”

“The burden was there regardless of whether I knew about it!” Harry argued. “All you were
doing is making it more likely that people would die when I went into these situations
unprepared! Voldemort isn’t going to give me time.” Harry scowled. “I assume since I’m
apparently the only one who can do it, a good old killing curse to the face won’t do the job?”

“I have strong evidence that Voldemort has taken great pains to achieve what he believes to
be immortality. I am still researching the exact methods involved,” Dumbledore admitted.
“But no, regular means will not kill the Dark Lord.”

“Fantastic.” Harry grimaced, running a hand through his hair. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m
not going back to school, after all.” As if he could just sit around and go to class and play
quidditch when he was the only one who could kill Voldemort. As if Dumbledore had been
happy to let him. When would the headmaster have deemed it ‘appropriate’ for Harry to have
this knowledge? How many people would have ended up like Cedric Diggory?

Harry knew the only reason he was getting so much information now was because the
headmaster was still reeling from his expulsion. As soon as the man regained his composure,
he’d close off again, and Harry would be on his own.

“Your studies are important, Harry,” Dumbledore insisted. “I’m sure we will be able to find a
way for you to continue them. The Order will take care of the war effort.”

“Because that’s been going so well up until now,” Harry muttered under his breath. “No,
Headmaster — if I’m the one who has to kill him, then I refuse to let you be the one making
all the decisions and expecting everyone else to play along. We can discuss what happens
next, but it’s exactly that; a discussion. With everybody involved. This impacts the whole
Order after all, and the Weasleys. If they’re going to be risking their lives for me, they
deserve a say. I’m sure they’ll all have plenty of opinions on what happened today, after all.”

He felt a little bad about having left Mr Weasley to explain things by himself, especially
when the man likely didn’t know much more than the bare minimum.

Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Very well,” he relented,
getting to his feet. “Let us gather in the kitchen. I’m sure Molly has been cooking up a storm
while we’ve been occupied.”

Knowing how much Mrs Weasley used cooking to distract herself from stress, Harry began to
wonder if there would even be enough room on the table for it all.

Dumbledore waved his wand, and the door opened. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a
flesh-coloured string quickly disappear overhead. Had Dumbledore warded the room while
they talked? Had the twins heard anything?

The house was silent as Harry followed the headmaster back into the main hall, and through
to the kitchen — there they found everyone gathered around the table, which was indeed
heaving with food. They were tense and silent, and all eyes were on Harry the moment he
stepped through the door.

“Well,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “I suppose Mr Weasley told you I got expelled, then.”

“Oh, Harry!” A brown blur filled his vision, and suddenly Hermione was squeezing the life
out of him. “There has to be a way to appeal, or something! It’s completely illegal; you were
defending yourself, and your cousin already knew about magic!” She glanced over Harry’s
shoulder, towards the headmaster, as if expecting him to declare he’d already fixed the
situation. When there was no such declaration, Harry felt her shudder.

“They’ve already snapped my wand,” he told her. “Pretty sure they’re not going to bother
with an appeal.”

Several gasps went up around the room.

“They snapped it there and then?” Tonks asked, horrified. “Those bastards! Usually there’s
three feet of paperwork before we can even confiscate a wand, let alone destroy it.”

“As always, I’m a special case,” came Harry’s wry response. He gently untangled himself
from Hermione’s grasp and urged her towards her seat beside Ron, whose freckles stood out
stark on his pale face.

“That’s awful, mate,” he croaked. Harry shrugged.

“Are you… alright, pup?” Sirius asked tentatively, coming to sling an arm over his godson’s
shoulders. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you.”

“It wasn’t safe,” Harry reminded. “And I’m fine, really. Honest,” he added, when Sirius’ face
wasn’t the only skeptical one in the room. “I sort of expected this to happen. My luck, I was
half expecting to be chucked into Azkaban.” Beside him, he felt Sirius flinch.
“They couldn’t do that!” Mrs Weasley blurted.

“I’m sure they could if they tried hard enough,” Harry pointed out.

“So… what happens now?” Sirius’ hesitant question was directed not at Harry, but
Dumbledore, who had moved to his usual seat at the head of the table. Everyone in the room
looked at him, expecting him to hold the answers. It made Harry’s stomach churn
uncomfortably.

“Harry and I have agreed that it’s not in our best interests to attempt to change the Minister’s
mind at this time,” the headmaster declared, as if he and Harry had already had a nice little sit
down over the topic. It took everything in Harry not to snort.

“But Albus, where is he to go? He’s safest at school — you can’t send him back to those
muggles, not without a wand!” Mrs Weasley protested. “He’s welcome at the Burrow, of
course—“

“He can stay here with me,” Sirius argued, leaving Harry’s side to glare Mrs Weasley down.
“The house is safe, I’m here all the time. I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

“Or encourage him into it,” Mrs Weasley retorted sharply.

“I’m not going back to the Dursleys’,” Harry declared, his voice carrying over their raised
voices. “Let me get that very clear right now.”

“I will begin searching for a way to get the expulsion overturned without the Minister’s
permission,” Dumbledore said, as if he’d never been interrupted. “Perhaps a loophole, or a
codicil. In the mean time, I’m sure I can arrange for Harry to get permission to at least carry a
wand again. As for his living arrangements — that will depend entirely on the outcome of
that conversation.”

“We can always sneak the lad down to Knockturn, get him a wand off the grid,” Kingsley
Shacklebolt suggested. “Or send an owl to Ollivander. He’s a good man, he’ll help us out.”

“I suppose now is a good time to admit that I don’t need a wand?” Harry piped up casually.
Everyone in the room froze.

“You what, boy?” Moody barked, electric blue eye fixed on Harry. Harry shrugged.

“Don’t need a wand. Haven’t for a while now.” With a wave of his hand, he summoned a
plate of sandwiches towards him, helping himself to a couple. Everyone stared at him,
gobsmacked.

“But… Harry — wandless magic is really difficult. We don’t even get taught it til seventh
year, and even then just for little things!” Hermione lectured, as if she hadn’t just seen him
use it.

“Yeah but no one told me that,” he reasoned. “So I just sort of— did it. I had so many
incidents of it before Hogwarts, when I didn’t know what magic was; I wondered if I could
learn to be a bit more intentional with that. So I started practicing, and… it came pretty easy.
I’m still stronger with a wand, but that’s probably just because I use it more. If I work on it,
I’ll be fine without. I just never did it in front of people because I never saw anyone else use
it and I didn’t want to be weird.” If the parseltongue debacle had been anything to go by, he’d
learned that the wizarding world didn’t like people with unique talents.

Hermione looked like he’d just burned down the entire Hogwarts library in front of her.
Indeed, several others in the room looked utterly astonished, including Dumbledore. Sirius
and Remus were both beaming with pride, while the twins had scheming expressions on their
faces that made Harry stifle the urge to grin.

“Here’s the plan,” he said, turning back to the group and pointedly ignoring Dumbledore
before the headmaster could try and take back control of the conversation. “I don’t need a
new wand, and I don’t want anyone getting in trouble trying to get me one. It’s exactly what
the Ministry would expect, they’ll be on the lookout. And I’m not going back to the
Dursleys’, under any circumstances. I’ll stay here, under the Fidelius charm and the
Unplottable wards and everything else the Blacks have no doubt smothered this house in so
no one will ever find me, and I’ll train, because Voldemort isn’t going to leave me alone just
because I’ve been expelled.”

“But you’re just a boy!” Mrs Weasley protested. Harry huffed.

“A boy who will be dead the next time I set foot in the wizarding world if I continue being so
defenceless,” he pointed out, slightly sharper than intended. He didn’t mean to hurt the
motherly woman’s feelings, but he was done being coddled. “I’ll have plenty of work to get
on with by myself, especially with the Black library at my disposal, but if anyone wants to
offer their time or expertise I’d be grateful for it.” Here he glanced at the trio of aurors across
the table. Tonks smirked at him.

“We’d be happy to put you through your paces, kid!” she declared cheerfully.

“Are you sure you want to stay here, in this dreary old place, Harry dear?” Mrs Weasley
continued, worrying the edge of her apron in her hands. “There’s plenty of room at the
Burrow, it’ll be no trouble at all to have you — you can even floo over here if you want to
see Sirius in the day.” That looked like it caused her physical pain to offer, and Harry
attempted a kind smile.

“I appreciate the offer, Mrs Weasley, but it’ll be safer for everyone if I’m here.”

“Harry’s my godson, and he’s staying with me,” Sirius agreed firmly. Mrs Weasley turned on
him, puffing up angrily.

“It’s not either of your decisions,” Harry cut in firmly, before the argument could really kick
off. Both of them stared at him, shocked. “It’s mine. I’m not choosing one of you over the
other — I’m choosing the best strategic option. And if you don’t like it, I can always leave
and go live in the muggle world. I was raised there, I still have records there. It would only
take a moment for me to go back and pretend the wizarding world never existed.”

His voice was hard, sending shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. They didn’t
need to know that Harry would never even consider that option — even if he had to retreat to
the muggle world, he’d never abandon magic.

Sirius gaped like a fish, spluttering with several failed attempts to talk. Dumbledore was pale
behind his beard. Harry looked him dead in the eye. “I’m not a student anymore, Professor
Dumbledore. But I have a job to do, and it’s in all your best interests if you sit back and let
me do it. I’m fed up with everyone arguing about my life like I don’t even get a say in it. If
you keep trying, I’ll leave.”

All around the room, cupboards began to rattle. The temperature dropped several degrees.
Harry stared the headmaster down, until he got a nod of assent.

“As you wish, my boy,” Dumbledore said sadly. “You will stay here, then.”

“Good. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I’m dying to get out of these robes,” Harry said with a
grimace, tugging at his starched collar. He gathered a few more sandwiches and some crisps
on a plate, snagged a glass of pumpkin juice, then left the kitchen; its occupants were too
bewildered to do anything but stare after him as he went.
 Chapter 2

Harry kept quiet as he hurried up the stairs; the last thing he wanted to do right now was
wake Mrs Black. His pulse raced as he shut the door to the room he shared with Ron,
loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes. Fuck. Had he really just done that?

He had really just done that.

He’d called the headmaster out on everything that had built up in the back of his mind over
the years, the growing mountain of suspicions and questions and things that never quite
added up. More than that, he’d revealed the one thing he’d kept secret from everyone. He
hadn’t told Ron and Hermione about his wandless magic, or Sirius, anyone. He’d wanted to
keep it to himself, both for fear of having another thing to make him unusual — and as a
backup, in case the worst ever happened.

Well, the worst had happened.

Actually, that was a lie. Things could’ve been worse. He could be in Azkaban, or forced back
to the Dursleys’. He might be expelled and wandless, but at least he still had his friends
around him. His family, of a sorts.

Fuck. He was expelled.

The gravity of the situation was just beginning to set in as the adrenaline faded — but he
wasn’t given too long to dwell on it, when all of a sudden two loud cracks sounded one
straight after the other. Fred and George appeared in the middle of the room, and turned to
face Harry with identical grins.

“Our little Harry,” Fred sniffed, wiping mock-tears from his face. “All grown up and
backchatting the headmaster. So proud.”

“Forget Dumbledore!” George exclaimed, brown eyes round with awe. “Did you see the way
he talked to Mum?” He looked at Harry, shaking his head incredulously. “Never seen the likes
of it before.”

Harry couldn’t help himself; he laughed. “I hope I didn’t upset her too much.” He hadn’t
wanted to be so sharp, but he just couldn’t take being coddled. Even from someone with the
best intentions. Not today.

“She’ll be too busy fretting about your expulsion to worry about that,” George assured him.

“And if she starts being funny with you, we can always give her something to focus on,” Fred
chimed in, grinning. Then his smile faltered, his eyes growing serious. “You alright, mate?
Really?”

“Eh.” Harry held a hand up in a side to side gesture, shrugging. “Probably not. Once it sets
in. But like I said, I was expecting this. That courtroom…” He shuddered, running a hand
through his hair. “They knew what they wanted before they had me there. Fudge was always
going to get his way.”

Both the twins scowled. “Bet he wasn’t expecting you to be the second coming of Merlin,”
George teased, making Harry blush. “All wandless magic and whatnot. Wish I could see his
face when he finds out!”

“With any luck, he won’t for a while,” Harry retorted. “It’s better if everyone thinks I’m
defenceless.”

“Element of surprise,” Fred agreed with a knowing nod. “Don’t need to tell us about that.”
He winked, then paused, cocking his head. The sound of footsteps up the stairs could be
heard faintly outside.

“That’ll be Ron and Hermione,” Harry muttered, letting out a long breath.

“Brace yourself,” George agreed, winking. He reached out, squeezing Harry’s shoulder.
“Want us to distract them?”

Harry appreciated the offer, but he shook his head. “Might as well get it over with.”

“Atta boy,” George said, his hand lingering a moment more. His smile softened. Harry’s
chest tightened. “Give us a yell if you need us, yeah?”

With that, he stepped back beside his twin, and they disappeared just in time; the door swung
wide open, Hermione’s tear-streaked face appearing. Ron was right behind her, and Ginny
was at his side, her lower lip swollen where she’d been biting it anxiously.

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione wailed once again. “Don’t worry — Professor Dumbledore said he’s
going to do everything he can to get the decision overturned. They can’t do this to you, it’s
completely unprecedented. They just have to let you come back to school!”

“They’re the Ministry, Hermione; they don’t have to do anything they don’t want to,” Harry
pointed out, clasping her shoulders to stop her from smothering him in another hug. “It’s
alright, really. I’ll be fine.”

“But— but your OWLs!”

“You really think I would’ve gotten through a whole school year and been able to take my
OWLs disaster-free? With my track record?” he joked. Ron snorted. “Look on the bright side;
with any luck, this means you’ll have a nice, normal year without any of my shenanigans
distracting you from a perfect set of Os.” Harry attempted a grin. Hermione’s face crumpled.

“But you’ll be here all alone!”

“I won’t be alone. I’ve got Sirius,” Harry reminded her. “And whoever in the Order can spare
the time. I won’t just sit around here reading Quidditch Weekly, I promise.”

“I’ll owl you all my class notes,” Hermione declared, squaring her shoulders and wiping her
eyes. “And a revision timetable. Even if it takes some time for Dumbledore to get you back,
you won’t fall behind.”

Harry didn’t have the heart to point out that Dumbledore wasn’t going to get him back — and
he had bigger priorities than studying fifth year classes.

“Hermione, I don’t think there’s an owl strong enough to carry all your class notes,” Ron
piped up with a weak chuckle. Hermione let out a strange sort of hiccuping laugh-sob,
turning to the tall redhead.

“You joke now, Ronald Weasley, but if Harry’s not there it just means I’ve got more time to
make sure you’re working hard.”

Ron grimaced. Beside him, Ginny laughed. “You’ll be begging for some Harry Potter
shenanigans by Easter, big brother,” she teased. She ducked around him, bumping Harry’s
elbow shyly. “Was it awful? Being in front of the whole Wizengamot like that? Dad said they
pulled together a full criminal hearing.”

Harry had assumed that not every underage magic hearing was that dramatic. The Potter luck
strikes again. “It was… not brilliant,” he admitted. His stomach churned when he thought
about sitting back in that chair, facing down the group of witches and wizards while Fudge
tore apart his character, his mental state and any alibi he might have had.

“Mate, I can’t believe you talked to Dumbledore like that,” Ron said, blue eyes wide.

“You should’ve heard what I said to him in private.” Harry grinned sheepishly. That had felt
good, regardless of how foolish it might have been.

“Oh, Harry!” This time Hermione’s words had a distinct tone of disapproval, and the rest of
them laughed. “The headmaster only wants what’s best for you.”

“He’s not my headmaster anymore, Hermione,” Harry pointed out. He paused. All of them
stared at each other, the enormity of the situation beginning to set in. Suddenly, Ron gave him
a mutinous look.

“You don’t have to do Potions with Snape ever again,” he declared jealously. Harry laughed.

“Thank God for that. At least now you can partner with Hermione, though.” Then a thought
occurred. “Poor Neville.”

“I’ll still partner with Neville,” Hermione assured.

“Oi!”

“You’re far less likely to blow up the classroom than he is, Ron.”

“But who will I partner with?”

Harry thought about it — it was true, with him gone the class would be odd numbers. He
smirked. “Maybe Snape will work with you himself.”
Ginny cackled at the horrified look on her brother’s face. “Oh, I’d pay money to see that,”
she enthused.

“Mate, look, I’m sure Dumbledore will get you back — there’s still a couple weeks til term
starts,” Ron started, alarmed by the prospect of having to work with Snape. Harry laughed at
his friend’s splutters, shrugging off his robe and sinking back onto his bed.

Hopefully, that had headed off the worst of the explosion.

.-.-.

Harry was left alone for the long hours before dinner; Hermione dragged Ron and Ginny off
to go help clean the drawing room, muttering something about giving Harry time to come to
terms with things. Harry figured she thought he was waiting to be alone to have a meltdown,
that he was being far too jovial about the situation.

He wasn’t going to have a meltdown. He was sad, yes — Hogwarts was the best home he’d
ever known, and the knowledge that he was no longer welcome there twisted like a knife in
his gut. But his brain was buzzing with far too many other things; the prophecy, and his plans
for the future, and how Voldemort might react to this turn of events. He was being thrust into
the real world a little earlier than expected, but he was ready to face it head on. The best
weapon he had right now was to allow people to underestimate him. That meant he was on a
tight timeline to learn as much as possible before he was forced to show his hand. With him
out of school, Voldemort might not wait until the end of the school year to have his big
showdown.

Harry shook his head, snickering to himself. Who was he kidding; Voldemort was the biggest
drama queen he knew, of course he would follow tradition and wait. The only other likely
change was if he decided to attack Harry on Halloween instead, finish things how they began.

Harry would be ready. The Potter luck had run out in this particular occasion, and he couldn’t
trust it to carry him through any longer. He couldn’t trust the headmaster to keep him running
through his merry little obstacle course until he was ready for Harry to face true danger.
There wasn’t time for that. People would die.

So he took the time to change into comfortable clothes, resolutely ignoring the Gryffindor
uniform crumpled in his trunk. He refused to think about how he didn’t need it anymore.

Then he laid down on his bed, stared at the ceiling, and let all his thoughts come rushing
forward from the corner of his mind he’d shoved them to. Every doubt and fear and worry,
the enormous wave of sadness at the loss of his wand. He might be capable enough without
it, but it was the first thing he’d ever owned that made him truly feel like a wizard. Made him
believe that maybe, there was a place he belonged after all.

He wondered what would happen to the pieces. Hagrid had been allowed to keep his, after
all. Would they mail them back to Harry? Or had they already disposed of them somehow?

He rolled onto his side, hugging his pillow against the gnawing ache in his chest. He’d spent
all morning telling himself not to cry, not to break.
He was alone now. He could give himself that much.

.-.-.-.

Dinner was an awkward affair, to put it bluntly. Everyone was walking on eggshells around
Harry — between the result of the trial and the way he’d acted in the mini Order meeting
after, they didn’t seem to know how to treat him. Sirius was bouncing violently between too-
bright smiles and concerned frowns, unsure which would be best received by his godson,
talking too much but saying very little. Remus, on the other hand, was more silent than ever,
watching Harry sadly. That was almost worse — what was he thinking, Harry wondered. Was
he imagining how Harry’s parents might react? Thinking how disappointed James Potter
would be that his son would never graduate school?

Harry couldn’t look him in the eye, after he had that thought.

Mrs Weasley seemed to have been both cooking and crying for the entire time Harry was in
his room. She was red-eyed and frazzled as she served plate after plate of food, stopping
regularly to hug Harry around the shoulders and kiss him on the head, muttering how sorry
she was about everything, how it would all be alright in the end.

The rest of the Order had left, which Harry was grateful for. He didn’t know them nearly well
enough to want them there at such a raw time. And he was especially glad Dumbledore was
nowhere to be seen.

The only ones acting even remotely normally were the twins; summoning things across the
table, making a show of their ability to use magic as of-age wizards, trying to sneak their
prank sweets into Ron’s dinner or slip potions into Ginny’s drink. Their mother tried to scold
them, but her heart wasn’t in it, not with all her concern focused on Harry.

At least, until Harry met George’s eye across the table, brown gaze dancing with mischief,
and he decided to rise to the challenge as the son of a Marauder should. Twitching his fingers,
he summoned the plate of roast beef out of George’s hand right as he tried to serve himself
more, smirking when the redhead gaped at him. “Oi! Foul play, Potter,” George declared.
Harry’s smirk widened.

“What are you gonna do, tell the Ministry?” he teased, showing off his empty hands and
making another gesture to yank Fred’s glass out of his grasp, making the prankster splutter on
his mouthful of water. “I think you should trade with your brother, Gin,” Harry suggested
casually, floating Fred’s drink to Ginny and Ginny’s drink back towards the older Weasley.

“Cheers, Harry!” Ginny grabbed the water, saluting him with it and drinking the untainted
beverage. Fred, on the other hand, eyed the drink he’d been given with suspicion.

“Sending our own pranks back at us? Harry, I thought we were friends!” he declared
dramatically, reeling back as if wounded.

“Looks like Harry here is reminding us he’s allowed to play with the big boys, now,” George
drawled, rocking back in his chair. Harry clenched his jaw, hoping nothing showed on his
face to betray the way that tone made his pulse jump.
“Harry isn’t allowed to do anything,” Mrs Weasley scolded automatically, only to break with
a quiet sob. “I— I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean—“

“It’s alright, Mrs Weasley,” Harry replied, his grin only halfway false. “You’re not wrong.
But what Fudge doesn’t know won’t hurt him, yeah?”

While the twins were distracted watching their mother like she was going to explode at any
moment, Harry surreptitiously moved the roast potato George had hexed on Ron’s plate
across the table to George’s, nestling it in with the rest of his food. The only person who
seemed to notice was Sirius — several seats down from the twins, he looked like he was
about to hurt himself in his attempt not to laugh. His grey eyes sparkled in a way Harry
hadn’t seen all day.

“I still can’t believe you can do magic like that — it’s really amazing, Harry!” Hermione
said. “And all wordless, too! How many spells can you do like that?”

“I don’t really think of it like spells, to be honest,” he admitted, trying to figure out how to
explain in a way that wouldn’t have Hermione wanting to experiment on him. “I started
trying it out in first year, before I really knew how magic was supposed to work. I just
remembered that before Hogwarts, before I knew any spells or even that magic was real, I did
it just by really wanting or needing something to happen. Instinct, y’know?”

“Accidental magic, yeah,” Ron confirmed. “All kids do it.”

“Right. So I just tried to do that and it worked. If I want to do something specific or

complicated — like, say, a patronus or a jelly-legs jinx or something — I’d have to say the
words and think about the spell. But for stuff like this—“ He raised a hand to send the bowl
of peas floating over towards Mr Weasley, “— I just kinda think about it and it happens.” He
shot Hermione a sheepish look, feeling a faint blush rise to his cheeks. “I might also have
thought a lot about those Star Wars films my cousin likes,” he admitted. Hermione’s jaw
dropped.

“Really, Harry?”

Luckily, Harry was saved having to defend his eleven year-old choices by George yelping in
alarm, his hands suddenly transforming into huge fluffy paws. Sirius lost his battle against
laughter, almost falling off his seat at the outrage on the redhead’s face at being caught with
one of his own pranks. George glared at Ron, then looked around the table, eyes narrowing
when he saw Harry’s far-too-innocent smile. “Oh, this means war,” he declared, the menace
slightly diminished by the fuzzy appendage he was pointing with — and by the shiver of
something that was definitely not fear shooting down Harry’s spine.

“We’ll make a Marauder of you yet, pup!” Sirius told Harry, beaming. Remus, who had
gotten up to take his empty plate to the sink, appeared at Harry’s shoulder, smiling — the
sadness in his eyes was still there, but there was amusement, too. He ruffled Harry’s hair
gently.

“Prongs would be proud,” he agreed, a softness to his tone that made a lump rise in Harry’s
throat.
“Yeah?” he asked, hating the way his voice cracked. Remus’ hand clasped the back of
Harry’s neck.

“Him and Lily both,” the werewolf murmured. Then his expression changed, into something
that reminded Harry how young the man actually was. “She was constantly turning his own
pranks back on him.” He leaned in, speaking low enough for only Harry to hear. “We figured
it was her way of flirting.”

There was something knowing behind the mischievous sparkle in his eyes, something that
had Harry’s cheeks burning red as the man straightened up.

“Hang on a minute—“

“—Did you say Prongs?” the twins asked, George ignoring his paws in favour of staring at
their ex-professor like he was seeing him for the first time. Remus, hand still on Harry’s
neck, glanced down at the black-haired teen.

“I thought you said they knew?”

“They know about the Marauders, and the map,” Harry said, smirking at the twins. “They
don’t know the specifics.”

Sirius stood, clapping his hands together. “Oh, pup, if I’d known that I’d have had way more
fun with them!” He strolled around the table, bumping Remus’ shoulder with his own. “You
finished eating?” he asked Harry. “I wanted to borrow you for a minute.”

“I— yeah?” Harry, confused by the abrupt change in topic, glanced down at his mostly empty
plate. “May I be excused?” The question was directed at Mrs Weasley, who looked like she
could do with a lie down after all the chaos of the day.

“Of course, dear.”

Harry got to his feet, following his godfather towards the door. In the doorway, Sirius
stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Are you coming, Moony?” His tone was just shy of
innocent, and Harry’s gaze darted towards the Weasley twins. Fred had dropped his fork, and
George was so stunned he didn’t even notice when his dad’s hair turned bright blue as a result
of him eating the peas.

Remus grinned, amber eyes bright. “I suppose,” he mock-sighed, moving to join the pair. He
caught Harry’s eye, and his smile widened. “It always took two to keep Padfoot out of
trouble, after all.”

With that, the three of them left the kitchen — and paused just outside the door.

“Did he just—“

“—Are they really—“

“Padfoot and Moony??” they heard the twins splutter in unison, incredulous. Sirius
snickered, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulling him close, heading towards
the stairs.

“Oh, we’re gonna get so much mileage out of that one,” he declared happily. “Now come on;
I really did have something to show you.”

“Did you actually want me along, or were you just being dramatic?” Remus asked, amused.

“Me? Dramatic? How dare you!” Sirius declared in an affronted whisper, leading the way up
the stairs. “Yes, of course I was being dramatic — who do you think I am?” Remus rolled his
eyes. “You should come, though. If it’s alright with Harry.”

“I don’t even know where we’re going,” Harry pointed out. “But yeah, it’s fine. If you want.
You probably have other things to do.” He dropped his gaze, his insecurity rising as the
laughter faded. Remus never seemed as keen to connect with Harry as Sirius was — he’d had
the whole of Harry’s third year and hardly said anything about Harry’s parents, and even
though he was around Grimmauld Place fairly often he still tended to keep to himself.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Remus told him earnestly. “I think… This is all a bit
overdue — if the world had any fairness, you’d have been coming to stay with Sirius and I
from day one, and certainly come to us after James and Lily died. We might be quite a few
years too late, but you’re going to be living here, and I’d very much like to get to know you
better. I think you’ve proven today that you don’t care what Albus Dumbledore has to say
about it all.”

Harry froze. In front of him, Sirius’ shoulders stiffened. “What did Dumbledore say?” he
asked warily. Remus frowned.

“He told me — both of us, I believe — it was best if we kept our distance. That you didn’t
need that reminder of the family you’d lost.”

Rage, white hot and almost blinding, flared through Harry. On the landing below, an ornate
vase shattered. He’d been doing that a lot, today. Oops.

“Dumbledore thinks he knows best about a lot of things,” Harry growled. “He’s wrong more
often than he’ll admit. I want both of you in my life. As— as my godfathers, like you should
have been from the start.”

“Good,” Sirius declared, reaching back to grab Harry by the hand and tug him further up the
stairs. “Because you’re stuck with us. Especially now. How’d you feel about Remus moving
in, once the summer’s over? The three of us living here, together?”

A beaming smile tugged at Harry’s lips. Expulsion aside, that sounded amazing. “I’d love it.”

There was a spring in Sirius’ step as he led them down a hall. When Harry glanced over his
shoulder, Remus was smiling. “That’s settled, then,” the werewolf agreed. “We can help you
with your training, too. Anything you need from us.”

Harry, who had thought it was optimistic to hope for Tonks and Moody and Kingsley to help,
let alone anyone else, looked at him in surprise. “Really? You don’t— you aren’t going to
make me study the fifth year curriculum?”

“Harry, if you’ve established anything today, it’s that no one in this house can make you do
anything,” came Remus’ wry response. At Harry’s embarrassed blush, he winked. “That bit
comes from Lily, too. Stubborn as anything, she was.”

“Oh, Merlin, was she ever,” Sirius agreed. “Terrifying when she got on a tear. Watching you
chew out Dumbledore earlier, blimey, you’re definitely her kid. She’d have been cheering
you on, for sure.” He barked out a laugh. “Now, come here. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

He pushed open a door to their left, entirely unaware that he’d just blindsided his godson like
a bludger to the stomach.

It was the first time in Harry’s memory that anyone had attributed anything but Lily Evans’
eyes to him. The first time he’d been told his mother would have been supportive of
something he’d done.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel nearly as bad about yelling at the headmaster before.

Still off-kilter, Harry stepped into the room behind Sirius, looking around in confusion.

They were in a bedroom, but it was unlike any of the other bedrooms in the house. This one
had a Gryffindor banner blazing across one wall, and several posters of motorcycles and
scantily clad women, and scantily clad women posing with motorcycles. They were all
muggle, though there were some moving pictures tacked up beside them; Harry saw one of
the Marauders as teens, and his breath caught in his throat.

Behind him, Remus chuckled. “I should’ve guessed,” he mused. “I remember when you told
me about those posters.”

Sirius’ cheeks went pink. “Yes, well, I’ll take those down. Soon as I remember which
sticking charm I used — didn’t want Mum tearing them off while I was gone, see.”

“This was your room?” Harry realised, and his godfather nodded.

“Yup. My bedroom ’til I was sixteen — ran away and moved in with the Potters, summer
after fifth year. Doubt anyone’s been in here since. Not even Kreacher, by the looks of it.” He
swiped his finger through the thick layer of dust on the desk, grimacing. “I figured you’d
want to spend the last of the summer with Ron, all things considered. But I thought maybe —
once the house empties out a bit, I was wondering if you wanted to move up here? Claim this
room as your own.”

Harry froze, wide-eyed. “Really? I— I assumed I’d stay where I was.”

“You can if you want to,” Sirius hastened to assure. “You can live where you like, honestly.
Plenty of rooms in this bloody house. But it’s your house now too, and you deserve better
than a guest room. You deserve a room of your own, you can decorate how you like.”

“Preferably with better taste than Padfoot,” Remus piped up, sending a disparaging look at
the nearest bikini-clad muggle model. “God, did this actually convince your parents you
weren’t bent?”

“Doubt it,” Sirius said with a snort. “But posters of half-naked muggle blokes were harder to
come by in the 70s. Anyway, that’s beside the point.” He glanced back to Harry, who was still
looking around, stunned. “Kingsley’s arranged for Buckbeak to move to join a Hippogriff
herd in North Wales next week, so I’ll be claiming the master suite as my own — and
burning everything my dear old Mum ever touched,” he added with a vindictive grin. “I
thought while I’m redecorating like that, we could make this place yours, too. What do you
think?”

The words filtered through Harry’s dazed mind. A room of his own, that he could decorate
however he wanted. He’d never had one of those before. Even at Privet Drive, it had always
been clear the room was still Dudley’s second bedroom, Harry was just being allowed to take
residence there in the summers. “That would be brilliant,” he breathed, a slow smile tugging
at his lips. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Course not!” Sirius enthused, now grinning. “I’ve got too many bad memories in this place
— about time it was filled with something brighter. You can snoop if you like, too; Merlin
only knows what I’ve left in this place. Might be some more pictures of your dad,
somewhere. Possibly even a picture or two of Lily. Though, uh, she probably won’t be facing
the camera,” he added, snorting. “Jamie-boy was a creepy little stalker, back in the day.” He
slung an arm across Harry’s shoulders once more, dropping a kiss to his temple. “What’s
mine is yours, pup.”

“Thanks, Sirius.” Harry leaned into him, happy bubbles fluttering in his belly. Maybe he
wasn’t entirely without a home after all.
 Chapter 3

Harry wasn’t actually feeling too bad the next morning, all things considered. At least, until
he came down for breakfast and saw Fred and George with the Prophet between them, the
headline bold on the front page. Boy-Who-Lived: Expelled From Hogwarts. Fantastic.

“I probably don’t want to read that, do I?” he declared, dropping into the seat opposite
George. The redhead looked up, and grimaced apologetically.

“Not really,” he confirmed, though he handed over the paper anyway. Harry was unsurprised
to see Rita Skeeter’s name in the byline, and he skimmed the article, any semblance of a good
mood curdling immediately. “What a load of bollocks,” he muttered, ignoring Mr Weasley’s
half-hearted scold for his language. “‘In a Ministry hearing yesterday morning, Potter was
found guilty of using dangerous and powerful magic in front of muggles’, in what universe is
a Patronus charm dangerous? She makes it sound like I was throwing Unforgivables around
the playground!”

“Reckon you should’ve kept her in that jar, ‘Mione,” Ron said around a mouthful of toast.
Beside him, Hermione scowled.

“The nerve of that woman, after everything,” she agreed.

“Kept her in a jar?” Tonks cut in, eyebrows raised. Harry hadn’t realised she was in the room
— her hair was a fiery Weasley-red this morning, she’d blended in to the group. Hermione
looked up, blushing.

“Last year after all the awful things she was writing about Harry, we might have discovered
she was an unregistered beetle animagus,” she admitted.

“What Hermione means to say is she discovered Skeeter was an animagus, trapped her in a
jar, and blackmailed her into only writing nice truthful things about me. Clearly, Rita’s
forgotten that little conversation,” Harry said, shooting Hermione a grin when her blush
deepened. The dark-skinned witch got several impressed glances from the kitchen’s
occupants.

“Blimey, Hermione!” Tonks said. “Don’t suppose you’ve thought of a career in law
enforcement? We could use an investigator with your mind in the department.” Then her face
turned mischievous, making it inordinately clear who she was truly related to in the room,
regardless of hair colour. “I think that’s information Kingsley might be very interested to
hear, y’know,” she mused in a casual tone, topping up her mug of tea. “Best to make sure our
nation’s news is coming from good, upstanding citizens, after all.”

Hermione bit her lip, then allowed a vindictive smile to escape. “I’ve got pictures of her
beetle form in my room,” she admitted. “I’ll give you them before you head into work.”

Harry smirked, passing the paper back to George. Rita Skeeter would regret writing that
article very, very soon.
“Well, I’ll just pretend I heard none of that,” Mrs Weasley cut in, bustling over with a plate of
eggs and toast for Harry. “Merlin, the things you children get up to in that castle.” Her eyes
flicked sadly back to Harry for a moment, before she pursed her lips and turned away.
Harry’s heart clenched. He’d be getting up to nothing in that castle, anymore.

George kicked him gently under the table. “Oi, don’t think we’ve forgotten about that little
bombshell you dropped at dinner last night, Mister Marauder,” he muttered, glancing over at
Sirius and Remus. “We expect details.”

Harry’s grin returned, and he kicked back playfully. “I suppose,” he mock-sighed. “But later.”
Guilt about his expulsion or not, Mrs Weasley would kill him if she heard him encouraging
the twins — or heard what kind of influences Harry would have around him when everyone
went back to school. She’d written Sirius off long ago, but she was still under the impression
that Remus Lupin was a sensible man who would keep Harry in line. Harry didn’t want to
burst that bubble.

When they were done eating, Harry let the twins herd him up to their room. There was a
cauldron simmering in the corner, and a tall pile of order forms stacked on the desk.
“Business is booming, I see,” he commented, flicking through the impressive amount of
orders.

“All thanks to you,” Fred chirped, grinning. He spun the rickety desk chair around, sitting
astride it backwards. “So, spill, Potter — have you been holding out on us?”

Harry laughed, sitting on George’s bed, George dropping down beside him with an eager
expression. “Honestly after all this time you’ve lived here I assumed you’d found out
already,” he confessed. “They’re not exactly careful about the nicknames.”

“Are they really Padfoot and Moony?” George asked, wide-eyed. Harry nodded.

“Yup. The last of the Marauders, in the flesh. My dad was Prongs.”

The twins shared a look, then turned back to Harry. “We are not worthy,” they breathed,
making him laugh.

“Is Wormtail dead too, then?” Fred asked, looking forlorn. Harry’s expression tightened.

“No, but he might as well be.” He explained the truth of Peter Pettigrew, watching the twins’
faces turn furious and disgusted.

“Good riddance,” George muttered. “Blimey, can’t believe we’ve been living under the same
roof as two of the Marauders all summer!” He turned to his twin, gaping. “Freddie, we’ve
pranked the Marauders!”

“They think you’re brilliant,” Harry informed the pair, grinning as they blushed identically.
“You should show them some of the stuff you’ve been working on. I bet they’d have ideas.”

“I never would’ve guessed it from Professor Lupin,” Fred mused with a shake of his head.
“No one ever did, that’s what made him such a good alibi.” In the short time Harry had been
at Grimmauld Place, he’d heard plenty of stories of ‘the good old days’ as Sirius called them.
More often than not, Remus was the brains behind the operation; and the trustworthy,
innocent face presented to the professors.

“Wicked,” George murmured. His knee bumped against Harry’s. “D’you really think they’d
like to see our products? They’re the Marauders, they practically wrote the book on
pranking!”

“They never thought of half the stuff you two have,” Harry returned. “Sirius especially would
love to take a look. Just between us, I thinks he misses his pranking days at school. He’d love
an eager audience for some of his stories, too.” It was hard for the dog animagus, sometimes
— his time in Azkaban had made the good memories fuzzy. But with Remus there to help
him work through things, he was starting to recover his jovial old self; and process the twelve
years he’d lost to that awful place. Harry thought it was good for him to remind himself of
the good times, and gain some perspective for how long ago that was now. He certainly
seemed to accidentally call Harry by his father’s name much less, now.

“Wow.” The twins sat in an amazed silence, having a conversation entirely in glances and
facial expressions. George’s knee was still pressed against Harry’s, the contact warm through
the denim of Harry’s jeans.

“So what’s in the cauldron?” Harry asked, nodding his head towards the bubbling brew.
George lit up, launching into an explanation of the potion they were working on. Harry
listened with a smile; if the twins managed to sit down with Padfoot and Moony before they
went back to school, Hogwarts surely wouldn’t know what hit it.

.-.-.

After that first day, there were no more articles in the Prophet about Harry’s expulsion, and
the atmosphere in Grimmauld Place turned… interesting. It wasn’t tense, exactly — more
just forced, like the people within were trying far too hard to pretend everything was normal.
Harry and the others were still put to work cleaning the house, and no one mentioned
Hogwarts, or the rapidly approaching school term, or anything to do with education
whatsoever. It was like certain members of the household were denying there had been any
change in things at all — if they didn’t talk about school, they wouldn’t have to acknowledge
that Harry wouldn’t be on the train come September 1st.

They probably thought they were doing it for his benefit, but Harry just found it exhausting.
Hermione was going to give herself an aneurism with the number of times she cut herself off
mid-word, about to go into a tirade about OWLs and study schedules, her face turning
devastated as she caught Harry’s eye. As if he was going to break down crying at the
reminder that he wouldn’t be taking his exams.

In her defence, that would likely be her reaction in his place.

She and Ron were spending more time with Harry than ever. He wondered if they felt guilty
for the first half of the summer, where they kept him in the dark with pacifying letters full of
nothing, knowing he was cooped up at the Dursleys’. Then he felt bad for thinking that about
his friends. This was a tough situation for them, too.

He hadn’t mentioned Sirius’ offer of his old bedroom to Ron and Hermione, trying to keep
the peace by joining them in their moratorium on anything not-summer-related. He was
trying to be normal with them, but it was hard when they weren’t. It was a little suffocating,
in all honesty — Harry had taken to finding refuge in the Black family library. Even
Hermione didn’t venture in there much, due to the dark nature of the majority of the books,
and the warnings of curses on the tomes. Now that Harry didn’t have to limit his magic use,
he wasn’t too bothered by the occasional screaming or biting book. Remus had promised him
that anything truly dangerous was on the back shelves, and Harry in turn had promised not to
go near the back shelves without supervision.

Instead he claimed the least moth-eaten sofa in the room, curling up with a stack of books
that weren’t light by any means, but weren’t likely to harm him. He might not have said
anything to the others — indeed, Tonks had told him to just say the word when he wanted to
begin his ‘auror training’, seemingly aware he was going to wait until the house was quieter
— but he was still thinking about Dumbledore’s words during their private talk after his
hearing.

Voldemort had done something to ensure he could not be killed by regular means. Harry
couldn’t think of a better place to investigate potential dark rituals like that than the Black
library. It was helping, too, for him to make a list of magic he wanted to work on once his
friends were back at school.

They might not be thinking about that future, but Harry couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening.
Barely two weeks left until school went back, the clock was ticking for him.

He looked up when the door opened, raising an eyebrow when George slipped into the room.
He wasn’t often without his twin. The redhead smiled, gesturing to the sofa, and Harry
nodded in welcome. “You need an alibi?” he asked, only half teasing. George made himself
comfortable on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking his knees up so he was facing Harry.

“Nah, just thought I’d find you in here.” He looked at the book in Harry’s hand, making a
face. “Good book?”

“Surprisingly interesting, actually,” Harry returned, though he set the book down. He could
count the number of times he had been truly alone with George Weasley on one hand, and yet
he was far too familiar with the hum in his veins that accompanied the phenomenon. It was
like a magnet, drawing his attention to the redhead, making him more aware of everything.
“What did you need me for?” Something squirmed anxiously in his stomach, wondering what
George was about to say. What Harry might want him to say.

“I… Fred and I were talking, the other night,” George started, fiddling with a loose thread on
the sleeve of his jumper. “We’ve always been pretty… lax about our studies. Surprising, I
know,” he added, winking at Harry’s exaggerated look of shock. “Since our ever-so-generous
silent partner made an investment, we’ve been so busy working on getting things for the
future shop ready. We don’t have premises, yet, but we’re looking, and things have been
doing really well through the order forms.” George ran a hand through his hair, Harry’s eyes
following the movement, absently wondering what those fiery strands might feel like
between his own fingers. “So, y’know, we don’t really need our NEWTs. And— I know
you’ll have Sirius here, and he’s Padfoot and your godfather and that’s amazing and we’re so
glad you finally have the chance to spend time with him. But.” George bit his lip, hesitant. “If
you wanted a bit more company, or anything. Fred and I don’t have to go back. We’re
seventeen — fully of-age wizards, regardless of whether we’ve got our NEWTs or not. We
could, y’know, stay here with you. Until we get somewhere for the shop to run from.”

For a moment, Harry watched him, imagining what it would be like if he said yes. Having
Sirius and Remus and the twins around. Having George around.

Merlin, it was tempting.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” he said instead. George grinned.

“S’why we’re offering, duh,” he pointed out. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Not what I meant. George… you’re brilliant.” The older boy’s ears glowed pink. “You and
Fred both. Regardless of grades, you two are so intelligent and creative and incredible. The
things you’ve invented, they’re brilliant, and I know that your shop is going to be amazing
regardless of how many NEWTs you get.”

“Easy with the compliments there, Potter. People will talk,” George teased, trying to push
through the embarrassment Harry could see on his face. Harry stuck his tongue out, smiling.

“No one’s here but us,” he reminded. His heart skipped a beat at the way that sounded. He
forged on before he could distract himself. “What I mean is, you’re already well on your way
to success. Give it a year or two, I have no doubt business will be booming. But not everyone
sees your genius like I do. We both know how important it is to your mum that you finish
school.”

George’s smile faltered. “Fred and I could graduate with straight Os and Mum still wouldn’t
approve of our business plans.”

“Only because she doesn’t understand them. She worries about you — the same way I bet she
worried about Charlie when he said he wanted to go play with dragons in Romania,” Harry
reasoned. He let his legs stretch out and tangle ever so slightly with George’s on the cushion
between them. “She wants you to do well, and be happy, and have enough money to support
yourselves with. It’s just that in her mind, the way to do that is to get good grades and a more
traditional job. It’s bad enough she has to see me expelled without so much as an OWL to
my name. It’d break her heart to see you two drop out just to hang out with little old me.”

“You’re not that little. You’ve grown about three inches since last summer,” George teased,
nudging the cuff of Harry’s jeans with his toe, pointing out how they were a little too short in
the leg for him. “I… are you sure?”

“Yeah. I appreciate the offer, but I can’t take it.” No matter how wonderful it sounded, right
then.
There was understanding on George’s freckled face, though he looked a little sad, too.
“Always been too noble for your own good, y’know,” he said. “You should learn to be a bit
selfish once in a while.”

“Maybe,” Harry agreed. “But not about this. It’s one more year, I think I’ll cope.” And if he
gave away more than intended with that statement, George didn’t say anything, though his
shin rested a little heavier on Harry’s. “Besides, someone has to keep an eye on Ron and
Hermione for me.”

“That’s what Ginny’s for, isn’t it?” George retorted, grinning. Harry snorted.

“You’ll look out for them, won’t you?” he asked, softening. “It’s— it’s gonna be hard for
them, without me.”

“Not just them,” George confessed, so quiet Harry wasn’t sure he was supposed to have
heard. “We’ll try and keep them out of trouble.” He grinned slyly. “You never know, with you
out of the way they might finally realise they’re mad about each other.”

That drew a surprised laugh from Harry’s lips. “That’ll be the day,” he sighed.

“We live in hope.” George shifted, their legs tangling further. “We’ll write all the time, of
course. Give you the blow-by-blow of all our best work,” he promised with a wink. “Keep
you up to date on all the good gossip of Hogwarts. Can’t have you forgetting about us while
you’re here training to be the saviour of the wizarding world and all that.”

Harry smiled, shaking his head. “It probably won’t be as glamorous as you’re thinking,” he
insisted. “Your lives will be way more interesting.”

“If you say so,” George said breezily. “We’ll compare at Christmas. You can dazzle me some
more with your wandless magic.” His brown eyes sparked with something that made Harry’s
stomach clench. “Fred and I aren’t the only ones who are destined for success regardless of
grades, y’know? If anyone can go ahead and knock the socks off the wizarding world even
after being expelled, it’s you. And I’m not just talking about offing old Mouldy-Shorts.”

He couldn’t stop the startled laugh that escaped him, even as he felt his cheeks heat. “One
thing at a time,” he deflected. His stomach clenched in an entirely different and much more
unpleasant way when he thought about facing Voldemort — about having a life after that. He
didn’t want to get his hopes up.

“Kids, lunch is ready!” Mrs Weasley’s magically enhanced voice echoed through the house,
followed by the indecipherable yelling of Mrs Black. Harry and George both jumped. For a
while there, Harry had forgotten where they were.

“Well, then.” George untangled his legs from Harry’s and got to his feet. “We’d best get
down there before Ron clears the table. Coming?” He held out a hand. Harry took it, the
redhead’s freckled fingers warm against his own, tightening as they pulled the shorter boy
upright. His skin was so pale, compared to Harry’s Indian complexion, and Harry could’ve
stared at the contrast between them for hours.
There was a long moment, their gazes locked and their hands still clasped, stood barely a foot
apart. George smiled softly. “I’m gonna miss you this year, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Harry croaked, pulse hammering in his ears. “Me, too.”

Their hands remained clasped until they stepped out into the hallway, shutting the library
door in their wake.
 Chapter 4

Harry had completely forgotten about book lists and such until the owls arrived on the
morning of August 31st. Harry wasn’t at breakfast when they did — everyone was walking
on eggshells around him, so he’d made himself scarce, heading up to the room he shared with
Ron after forcing down a couple of slices of toast with half a cup of tea. Not that things were
much better, there; Ron’s mostly-packed trunk stood at the foot of his bed, a stark contrast to
the messy pile of clothes Harry had been living out of in an effort to avoid facing all his
school things. He sighed to himself; the closer it got to September first, the more it started to
sink in that he wasn’t going back to Hogwarts. The more it started to hurt.

“Book lists are here,” Ron declared upon entering, an envelope in his hand. Just the one.
“About time, too. They’re usually way earlier than this. Diagon’s gonna be heaving, I can’t
believe they left it so late.”

“George said it’s because it’s taken ages for Dumbledore to find a new Defence teacher,”
Harry said, valiantly keeping his voice casual. “I wonder who you’ve got. At least it probably
won’t be someone trying to kill me, this time — they might actually be decent.” But Ron
didn’t seem to be listening. He was looking inside the open envelope, a gobsmacked
expression on his face. “Ron? You alright?”

Wordlessly, the redhead tipped the envelope over — and a shiny red and gold badge dropped
into his palm. “Prefect,” Ron said, barely louder than a whisper. “I— Dumbledore’s made me
a prefect.”

Harry had completely forgotten that prefects were chosen in fifth year. His heart squeezed
uncomfortably, a hollow space in his chest. “Wow. Congratulations, Ron, that’s brilliant!”

Ron looked up, and his blue eyes dimmed. “Bet it’s just because you won’t be there. Who
else was he gonna pick; Neville?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry argued, shoving down the tiny voice in the back of his mind that
agreed. “He never would’ve picked me, I’ve been way too much trouble.”

“Trouble? Where?” The twins apparated into the room, their own book lists in hand. They
looked between the two, then their eyes dropped to the badge in Ron’s hand. “Oh, you’ve got
to be joking,” George blurted.

“Oi!” Ron responded automatically.

“You’re a prefect? Ugh, Mum’s going to be revolting,” Fred said with a grimace. “Here we
thought you had your priorities right.”

“Perfect Prefect Ronnikins,” George cooed, while Fred mimed retching. Harry’s chest
loosened off, a grin tugging at his lips. George caught his eye, winking.
The door slammed open, Hermione rushing in with her hair flying about her face, her own
envelope in hand. Harry was entirely unsurprised by the badge she was holding, identical to
Ron’s. That had been coming since their first year. “I got— oh my God,” she said, jaw
dropping at the sight of the badge in Ron’s hand. “Are you—?”

“Prefect,” Ron confirmed faintly. “Yeah.”

“Oh. Wow.” Hermione’s glance flicked guiltily over to Harry, her thoughts clear. “That’s—
that’s amazing, Ron, congratulations!”

Ron still seemed to be in shock. George bumped Harry’s shoulder, leaning in. “Disgraceful,
the pair of them,” he muttered, shaking his head in disappointment. “At least you’ve got the
right idea.”

“I got expelled,” Harry said dryly. George’s grin widened.

“Exactly. Man after my own heart, that.”

Harry was saved having to find a response when Mrs Weasley came by the open door,
carrying a pile of freshly laundered door. “I heard the booklists are here. Give them to me,
I’m headed to the Alley. Hermione, dear, do you need anything other than your books? I’ll
have to get Ron some new pyjamas, his are at least six inches too short. Growing like a weed,
honestly. What colour would you like, love?”

“Get him red and gold, to match his new badge,” Fred crowed, roughly mussing his little
brother’s hair. What followed was an absolute explosion of joy from Mrs Weasley — she was
happier than Harry had seen her since before he got expelled.

“Oh, that’s everyone in the family!” she exclaimed, kissing Ron’s face a dozen times while it
turned redder and redder.

“What are we, next-door neighbours?” George muttered in Harry’s ear, his lips brushing his
temple. Harry snorted, even as heat rushed through him.

Mrs Weasley took the booklists from Ron and Hermione, congratulating her on her new
badge as well, and then faltered when she stopped in front of Harry. Her hand was out
automatically — she wrenched it back in like she’d been bitten, tucking it into her pocket
awkwardly. “I— do you need anything from the Alley, Harry, dear?” she asked in a
somewhat strangled tone.

“No thanks,” he replied, remaining steady only by the grace of George’s chest pressing
against his shoulder. “It’ll be hectic enough, I’d imagine. Don’t worry about me.” He offered
a smile he hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt. The twins came to his rescue, bowing and
scraping theatrically after their brother, drawing the attention of half the household with their
loud exclamations of his prefect status, following him out of the room as he hesitantly asked
his mother for a new broom. Harry was left alone with Hermione, who was biting her lip.

“Harry,” she started hesitantly. “Do you— would it be okay for me to borrow Hedwig, to tell
Mum and Dad? They’ll be so pleased; prefect is something they can understand, you know?”
“Yeah, of course!” he agreed, hating how false his cheer sounded. “She’d love the journey. I
think she’s up hanging out with Remus’ owl.”

“Thanks.” There was an awkward silence. Then, “Are— are you alright, Harry?”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. God, he was tired of saying that. “Look, congratulations, Hermione.
You deserve it, really.”

Her cheeks flushed, her smile widening. “Thanks, Harry. I.. Oh, I’m going to miss you!” She
flung her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him off his feet. “It’s going to be awful
without you.”

“No it won’t,” he soothed, patting her back somewhat awkwardly. “It’ll be nice and quiet and
normal for once.” She giggled wetly into his shoulder. “You won’t even notice I’m gone after
the first week.”

She made a noise of disagreement, pulling back. There were tears in her eyes again. “You’ll
write, won’t you? I— I don’t want you to get lonely here.”

“I’ll write,” he confirmed. “And I won’t get lonely. I’ll have Sirius and Remus. And I’ll be
busy.”

Her lips pursed at the reminder of his plans for the year. “I’ll duplicate all my notes for you,”
she promised for what had to be the dozenth time. “Hopefully you’ll be back before exams
start.”

Through everything, she had been resolute in her conviction that Dumbledore would find a
way to get Harry’s expulsion overturned. At this point, Harry was too tired to argue with her.
“You’d better go finish packing,” he said instead. “Get that letter to your parents.”

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Hermione squeezed him in another tight hug, then scurried from the
room, leaving Harry alone.

At last, he looked at his closed trunk. He really should have gone through it before now — he
could’ve offered his school books to Ginny, or something. Given Ron his cauldron and
potions’ ingredients. His cauldron had certainly seen better days.

But despite knowing he wasn’t going back to school again, he couldn’t bring himself to part
with them. He told himself he might need them in the coming year — the solution to
defeating Voldemort might be a potion.

Of course, if that was the case he’d probably ask Remus or someone to brew it, but still.
Those were his things. His wizardly studying tools. He wasn’t ready to give them up, yet.

He should probably stop living out of a clothes pile, though.

Reminded that he would soon be moving upstairs to Sirius’ old room, he squared his
shoulders and flipped his trunk open, starting to pack up his things ready to move. This was
the easy part — the hard part would be unpacking them all later.
There was a knock on the door, and he looked up, surprise flickering across his face as Ginny
slipped into the room. “Hi, Harry. D’you… Can I talk to you for a second?”

“As long as you promise not to cry,” he warned half-seriously, making her laugh.

“Hermione was just here, hmm?” came her knowing response. “I promise.”

Harry perched on the edge of the desk, beckoning her properly into the room. “What’s up?”

She wrung her hands, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “Well, I’ve been thinking, this
last week, and— of course, it’s not gonna be the same without you, and I won’t be nearly as
good as you are and there’s no guarantee I’d make it anyway, but I wanted to try, only I don’t
want you to get upset or anything, and— what I’m trying to say is, I was thinking about
maybe trying out for seeker this year?” Her words flooded out in a rush, and she went wide-
eyed when Harry tensed. “I don’t want you to think I want to replace you! I’d never be able
to replace you, you’re the best seeker Gryffindor’s seen in ages. But the team will still need
someone. And Bill said he’d send me his old broom if I wanted to try out. I just thought —
well — I was going to try out for chaser when Angelina and Alicia graduated, but I… I like
playing seeker, too. I won’t do it if you don’t want me to, though,” she added hastily. “You’re
my friend, Harry. I don’t want you to be upset.”

“Take my Firebolt.” The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he’d even finished thinking
them, but he didn’t take them back. Ginny gaped at him.

“Sorry, what?”

“Take my Firebolt,” he repeated. “I’m not gonna be using it. Feels like a crime to let a broom
like that just sit in my trunk and go to waste. I’d give it to Ron, but I don’t think seeker’s his
thing. You’ll need speed more than he will.” He’d seen the way Ron had eyed up the keeper
plays in Quidditch Weekly lately. He knew there was a reason his friend had asked for a new
broom.

“Are you serious? Harry, I can’t— what if I damage it or something, it’s a Firebolt, that’s one
of the most expensive brooms in the world! And Sirius gave it to you! I couldn’t do that.”

“Yeah, you can,” Harry insisted, hopping off the desk and striding across to his trunk. The
broom was in his hand within moments, and he held it out to Ginny. “You’ll be great as
seeker. Gryffindor deserves a good one. Take it.” He grinned. “Kick Malfoy’s arse for me,
yeah? I can’t think of anything better than him getting beat by someone younger than him,
and a Weasley at that.”

Ginny stared at the broom in his hand, the one that was likely worth more than everything she
owned put together. “You mean it,” she said, incredulous. Harry nodded.

“One hundred percent. I know you’ll take care of it.” It would be torture, having the broom
and not being able to fly it. He’d rather remove temptation entirely. Besides, he wanted to see
Gryffindor win the cup even if he couldn’t be there to see it in person — and it would be nigh
on impossible for Ginny to lose on a broom like that.
Slowly, almost reverently, she reached out to wrap a hand around the polished handle of the
racing broom. Harry relinquished it into her grasp, watching the joy flicker across her face at
just the feel of the broom in her hands. He grinned to himself; yeah, she’d look after it for
him. “It’s just a loan,” she told him firmly. “I’m not keeping it.”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “You can get your own broom when you make prefect next year.”

She made a face at that. “You wouldn’t catch me dead with one of those badges,” she
muttered, sticking her tongue out and gagging. Harry snorted. Fred and George would be
pleased to see at least one of their siblings had their priorities straight. “But if I do get a new
broom, or if you ever want it back, it’s yours.”

“You can borrow it ’til you graduate,” he promised her. He would want it back eventually —
it was the first gift Sirius had given him, after all — but he’d feel better knowing it was going
to good use. “Or ’til you get kicked off the team,” he added with a teasing grin. She glared at
him.

“Rude,” she muttered. “You’ve been hanging out with Fred and George too much. You used
to have manners, y’know.”

They both snickered. Ginny straightened up, setting the broom carefully on the bed, then
grabbing Harry in a tight hug. “You’re the best, Harry.”

She was shorter than Hermione, her head tucking under his chin as he hugged her. Her
strawberry-scented shampoo tickled his nose. “You’ll be a great seeker,” he assured her.
“With or without the Firebolt. But it certainly won’t hurt.”

She pulled back, a look of determination on her face. She picked up the broom again, then
looked back to Harry. “I’m gonna make Draco Malfoy cry,” she told him fiercely. Harry
smirked.

“I expect pictures when you do.”

She grinned a Weasley-wicked grin, darting forward to kiss him on the cheek, then hurried
out of the room with her body huddled protectively around the broom. Harry knew then that
she wasn’t going to tell anyone what he’d done — not until she showed up at seeker tryouts
and blew them all away.

Hopefully now he wouldn’t get three angry letters from the chaser girls about leaving the
team in the lurch.

“Did I just see my sister leave here?” He looked up, seeing George enter with a furrow
between his brow.

“Oh, yeah, she just wanted to ask me something,” Harry deflected. He wasn’t going to burst
Ginny’s moment.

George had a funny look on his face, the frown not quite leaving. “Right.” He gave Harry a
long glance, and Harry tried not to squirm. Why was he looking at him like that? “Mum’s
gone to Diagon. Said something about throwing a party tonight, to celebrate the new prefects.
The whole Order’s coming.”

Harry’s smile dropped. “Right,” he echoed. “Of course, yeah. It’s great news. Lots to
celebrate.”

George’s brown eyes were knowing. He stepped closer, ruffling Harry’s hair in a move that
was really more of a fond stroke. Harry tried not to lean into the touch too obviously. “You
know it would’ve been you, right? If Fudge hadn’t ballsed it all up? That badge was yours for
sure.”

“Not necessarily,” Harry argued, though his heart wasn’t in it. “Besides, I thought being a
prefect was revolting,” he teased. George smiled the smile that made Harry’s heart stutter.

“I dunno. Reckon you could’ve made it look good,” he commented. “Authority can be a bit
sexy in the right person.”

Harry’s palms felt clammy. His throat went dry. He coughed. “Why, George, I never knew
you felt that way about Professor McGonagall,” he retorted, trying to keep his cool. George
blinked, then cracked up laughing.

“Oh, you’ve got me,” he declared, leaning an elbow on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s the fire in her
eyes when she starts yelling at me. Gets me every time.” He fanned himself, feigning a
swoon.

“Whatever floats your boat, I guess,” Harry replied. George gave him another one of those
devastatingly attractive winks.

“And what a boat it is,” he drawled. “Want to help me and Fred charm the cups to spit
peoples’ drinks back at them for tonight? We’ve got Moony on distraction duty.” He looked
practically giddy at the declaration, still not over sharing a house with two of his idols.

“Absolutely.”

That sounded like the perfect distraction.

.-.-.

Mrs Weasley was gone for most of the day, and the house was full of the usual chaos that
came with returning to Hogwarts for another year. Mrs Black’s portrait was constantly
awoken as the Weasleys and Hermione made sure they had all their clothes and books and
things, finding all the belongings that had wormed their way into the odd nooks and crannies
of Grimmauld place. The twins were regularly flooing back and forth between Grimmauld
and the Burrow to pick up things they’d forgotten, or fetch things for their siblings.

It was all making Harry feel a little bit nauseous, when he let himself think about it too much.
Keeping the smile on his face whenever anyone looked his way, clapping Ron on the back to
congratulate him on his prefect’s badge and his new Cleansweep, watching his friends go
through the same pre-school rituals that he himself should have been going through. Sirius
caught him having a melancholy moment shortly after lunch, and he pulled him into a loose
hug. “You’re allowed to be sad about it, pup,” he murmured. “No one will blame you.
Regardless of what you yelled at Dumbledore the other week — expecting the worst doesn’t
make it any less painful when it happens.”

Harry gave a noncommittal hum, but leaned into his godfather’s embrace.

“Y’know, when you first came back after your trial, and we found out you’d been expelled…
I was pleased,” Sirius confessed. “And I hated myself for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kid, you’ve been the best thing in my life since the day you were born. Thinking about you
was the only thing that kept me sane all those years in Azkaban. Having you around this
summer, even for a little while — I was dreading having to send you back to school, settling
for the odd letter here and there when it felt safe enough to send one. Like I said, I’ve got
nothing but bad memories of this house. Having you around has made that bearable. I didn’t
want to lose that. But that was selfish of me, and I never really thought it would come true.
So when it did… Merlin, I felt guilty as hell.” He shook his head, kissing Harry’s hair. “You
deserve to be going back to school, pup. Spending time with your friends, going to class and
taking exams and getting up to mischief. Snogging people on the Astronomy tower and
sneaking down to the kitchens and playing quidditch. Normal teenage stuff. Not being
trapped in this awful old house with your escaped convict godfather and his werewolf best
friend, preparing yourself to wandlessly fight the most powerful dark wizard around.”

“I’d have to fight him even if I was at school,” Harry pointed out. “It’s not like my previous
years have been normal.”

“But you’ve had the chance for normality, in amongst all the fighting,” Sirius reasoned. “I
just… you deserve the best life you can get, Harry. You deserve to still be in school, and still
have your wand. It’s awful that the Ministry have taken that away from you as part of their
own agenda. I just… I hate that a part of me was glad about it. I should want what’s best for
you. Like a proper godfather.”

“You are a proper godfather,” Harry insisted, hugging him around the waist. “Yeah, I’m
gonna miss school. I wish I hadn’t been expelled. It sucks that my friends are going back
without me. But of all the bits I’m sad about, the bit where I get to spend more time with you
isn’t one of them.”

Sirius sighed, his forehead pressed to Harry’s hair. “Wise beyond your years, you are,” he
groused. “Just— I’ve got your back, no matter what. Your wandless magic, anything else
you’ve got up your sleeve; I’m entirely supportive of whatever hell you want to raise from
here on out. That’ll never change, pup. I just want you to remember that even if we’re giving
you the burdens of an adult, you’re still supposed to be a kid.” He kissed Harry’s head,
ending the embrace. “Don’t grow up too soon, yeah? I’d hate to see you lose yourself to this
damned war. You’ve lost enough.”

A lump rose in Harry’s throat, and he tried to swallow it down. “I won’t,” he vowed. “But I
need to do whatever I can to keep people safe. This war — it ends with me whether I like it
or not. One way or another.” If he died, the war would be over, because Voldemort would
have won. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Moony and I are right there with you, whatever you need us for,” Sirius assured him. “We
can start your training as soon as you’re ready. Tomorrow, even, if you want.”

“I— I was going to spend tomorrow clearing out my new room,” Harry admitted. He wanted
something that wouldn’t remind him of Hogwarts in any way, something good he could focus
on. “If it’s still alright with you, me moving in there.”

“Course it is!” Sirius enthused, brightening up. “Sounds like a great idea. I think I’ve
remembered the counter-charm to the sticking spell I used. Of course, if you want to keep
those posters up, be my guest,” he winked when Harry blushed. “But I’ve got a feeling
they’re not your cup of tea any more than they were mine.”

Automatically, Harry’s mind flashed to red hair and mischievous eyes and strong, broad
shoulders. His cheeks flushed. Sirius snickered. “You Potters and your redheads,” he teased,
ruffling Harry’s hair. “Must run in the family or something.”

“We’re not— he’s not—“ They weren’t anything, him and George. They could be. Harry
knew that. He felt it, that buzz between them. But they weren’t. Now wasn’t the time.

“Pfft, you might as well be,” Sirius insisted, rolling his eyes. “I commend your choice, pup.
Nice Maraudering lad you’ve found for yourself. Would’ve driven your mum mad, and she’d
have loved him for it.”

That made Harry grin. “He’s not my lad,” he tried for one last protest, weak as it was.

“He’s as good as,” Sirius returned. “Oh, that reminds me.” He straightened up, reaching into
the pocket of his jeans. “I was going to give one to you, back when I thought you’d be
headed back to school. So we could keep in touch. But now, well, I’m sure you’ll find a
better use for them.”

He held out a pair of small mirrors, completely identical. Harry frowned quizzically.
“They’re two-way mirrors. James and I used to use them when we were in separate
detentions. Just speak the name of the person holding the other one, and they’ll appear in the
mirror so you can talk to them.” He pressed them into Harry’s hands, winking. “Keep one,
give the other to one of your friends. It’ll save you running poor Hedwig ragged with a dozen
letters a week.”

Harry looked down at the innocuous little mirrors, a faint bubble of hope rising in his chest.
He’d thought for sure he wouldn’t be able to see any of his friends until Christmas at the
earliest. “These are amazing,” he breathed. “Thanks, Sirius!”

“No problem, kid,” Sirius said, looking pleased. “Just don’t let Molly see them, yeah?
They’re not a hundred percent legal.”

Harry smirked, tucking them away in his pocket. “Noted.”

“So we’ll give your friends a good send-off, then get all the sexy women off the walls,
yeah?” Sirius declared, clapping his hands together. Then he winked. “Don’t want to make
any redheads jealous, now. I hear they’ve got a hell of a temper.”

Harry shoved Sirius’ shoulder, scowling as the blush returned to his face. “Git,” he muttered,
turning away. Sirius cackled.

“I love you, pup!” he called sweetly. Harry’s step faltered for a second, warmth flooding his
chest that had nothing to do with embarrassment. He’d never had that said to him before; let
alone so easily, all teasing aside.

He couldn’t blame Sirius for part of him being glad about Harry’s expulsion. Part of Harry
was glad, too.
 Chapter 5

Harry didn’t think he would have survived the party that night without the twins being on
fine form, Sirius and Remus returning to their Marauder roots to aid them. From the moment
he stepped into the kitchen to see the huge red and gold banner congratulating Ron and
Hermione, something sharp and jealous had lodged in his chest, and only the laughter at the
various pranks throughout the evening stopped it from overwhelming him. Harry was
surprised to see how many members of the Order were present for dinner — and even more
surprised to see Bill Weasley for the first time since after the third Triwizard task.

“Hiya, Harry!” Bill greeted cheerfully, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “How you doing?” He
grimaced as soon as the question was out, eyes flicking to the banner on the wall. “Never
mind, I’m sure I can guess.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said, though he doubted either of them believed it.

“Course,” Bill agreed easily. “I’ve got something for you, before I forget.” He pulled a
slightly crumpled envelope out of the pocket of his leather jacket. Harry frowned, not
recognising the neat cursive on the front. “It’s from Fleur.”

“Fleur Delacour?” Harry asked, eyebrows raising. Bill’s tanned cheeks went a bit pink.

“She’s been working at Gringotts over here since she graduated, to help with her English,” he
informed the dark-haired teen. “She’s been assigned to my team.”

“Oh?” Harry remembered very well the appreciative glances the quarter-veela girl had sent
Bill Weasley when she’d seen him greet Harry the day him and Mrs Weasley had come to
visit as Harry’s family. Bill blushed brighter.

“Yeah. I’ve got to know her pretty well, she’s great. Shut it, you,” he added at the look that
crossed Harry’s face. “I’m only telling you because she asked me to pass on a letter. If you
tell the others, I’ll hex you.”

“My lips are sealed,” Harry promised. “She’s doing well, then?”

“Fits in brilliantly, the goblins love her,” Bill confirmed. “She just wanted to make sure you
were doing alright. Especially after she heard about the expulsion and everything. She’s got a
soft spot for you, since you saved her sister and all.”

“I’ll read it later and write her back,” Harry promised, surprised but pleased that the other
champion wanted to keep in touch.

“Just pass it on to me when you do, don’t bother owling it. I’m sure you’ll want to save
Hedwig for other letters.” Bill’s gaze cast over to Ron and Hermione, who were once again
being praised by Mrs Weasley. “I heard you’ll be pretty busy once this lot clear out. Tonks
said you gave Dumbledore one hell of a talking to. Wish I could’ve seen it.” He must’ve seen
the confusion on Harry’s face, as he grinned. “We went to Hogwarts together; she was in
Charlie’s year, those two were thick as thieves from day one,” he explained. “Anyway, I just
wanted to offer my help if you ever want it. Curse breaking and warding magic might come
in pretty handy for you — though it might take a crash course in Runes and Arithmancy first.
But if you need me, I’m happy to help. Fleur, as well.”

“Is she part of the Order, too?” Harry asked curiously.

“Not yet, but she probably will be soon. Even if she wasn’t, she’d want to help you, though.”

“I’ll definitely keep that in mind, thanks.” Another thought occurred to him, at the reminder
of the goblin-run bank. “Hey, I don’t suppose you’d be able to get some money out of my
vault or something for me, could you? There’s a few things I’ve been thinking of owl
ordering, but since I didn’t go to Diagon for school stuff…” He trailed off. Bill frowned.

“Don’t you have a bank note book?”

“A what?” Harry looked at him blankly.

“A bank note book. Money like your family’s got, it’s pretty standard — like a muggle
checkbook, makes it easier to buy things without lugging a bag of gold around. Who’s your
account manager? I can get one printed for you, no problem.”

“Account manager?” Harry was confused. “I don’t have an account manager, Bill. I’ve just
got my vault.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but that’s just your trust vault.” Harry continued to look confused.
Bill muttered something in a language Harry didn’t recognise. “Bloody— now’s not the time
to go over all this. I’ll find out who the Potter account manager is, and get you a meeting this
week. But trust me, Harry — you’ll have a whole lot more than just your one vault.”

“If you say so, Bill.” Harry was utterly bewildered by the conversation, but couldn’t ask
anything else, as Bill was quickly set upon by his mother begging to give him a haircut.
Eventually, Harry just shook his head, pocketing Fleur’s letter and walking away, joining the
queue for food beside Sirius right as his godfather let out a bark-like laugh.

“No one would have made me a prefect, I spent far too much time in detention with James,”
Sirius was saying to Ginny. “Lupin was the good boy, he got the badge.” The teasing quality
spoke of many years of harassment over just that, and Remus rolled his eyes.

“I think Dumbledore was hoping I could exercise some control over my friends,” he said
wryly, nudging Harry ahead of him to grab a baked potato. “I need scarcely say that I failed
dismally.”

“Failed? You didn’t even try!” Sirius crowed, laughing. Beside Ginny, Hermione looked
mildly disapproving.

“Dad wasn’t a prefect?” Harry clarified, feeling a little better about the whole situation when
Sirius nodded.
“Merlin, no. S’why we were all so surprised when Dumbledore made him Head Boy.
Thought the old man had finally cracked,” he joked. “Lily was prefect, of course, and Head
Girl. Pretty sure half of Jamie’s detentions in fifth year were issued by Prefect Evans.” He
reached around Ron to grab some roast chicken. “Oi, Moony, remember that time you gave
Prongsy detention? Thought he’d never get over the betrayal.”

Harry whipped around to look at Remus, whose face was entirely unrepentant. “He knew he
earned it,” the werewolf insisted.

“What did he do?” Harry was curious — even more so when both Remus and Sirius looked
sheepish.

“I’ll tell you later,” Remus promised, glancing around shiftily. Harry narrowed his eyes, but
let it go, his gaze caught on two identical heads of red hair. The twins were in one corner
talking quietly to Mundungus Fletcher — haggling over something, if he read the situation
right. Harry was surprised; he hadn’t seen Mundungus since before his hearing. The man
hadn’t been able to face Harry after inadvertently being the reason he was expelled from
Hogwarts, and Harry hadn’t been keen on seeing him either. He clenched his jaw, turning
away from the trio. He’d catch the twins later.

“Oi, Potter.” He whipped around, meeting Moody’s unnaturally bright blue eye. “Come here
a minute. I’ve got something to show you.”

The grizzled ex-auror was sat alone at one end of the table, sniffing suspiciously at a chicken
leg. Harry slid into the chair beside him.

With the hand not holding the chicken, Moody reached into his coat, pulling out a very
tattered old photograph. “The original Order of the Phoenix, back in the day. Thought you
might like to see it.”

Harry took the photo with careful fingers, gaze scanning the group of people assembled in the
picture as they smiled and waved at him. Moody was pointing out the unfamiliar faces —
complete with descriptions of their gruesome fates, which made Harry’s stomach turn. He
tried to tune him out, focusing on the people he did recognise. Remus, looking far younger
with a fresh scar across his cheek. Near him, a pair of faces Harry had never met, but
recognised instantly through his familiarity with their son; Neville Longbottom was the very
image of his mother, her round face making his heart clench. The man with an arm around his
waist had to be Neville’s dad; their noses were the same. Frank Longbottom grinned warmly
up at Harry, before dropping a kiss on his wife’s cheek, making her giggle. Harry tore his
gaze away, stomach churning.

Instead, his eyes found Sirius — short-haired and clean shaven, the same roguish smile on his
face that he had in the Potters’ wedding photo. He winked at Harry, blowing him a kiss.
Harry swallowed thickly. This was Sirius without the shadows of Azkaban in his eyes.

Harry scanned the picture for red hair, and found it in droves, though at first not the redhead
he was looking for. In a small cluster stood four redheads; Molly and Arthur Weasley,
looking so very young, and just behind them a pair of tall, identical men, smiling in a way
that hit Harry like a punch to the stomach. “Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Molly’s brothers,”
Moody was saying pointing at the picture. “Went down like heroes, both of them. Took five
Death Eaters to take them out.”

The men Fred and George were named in honour of. The uncles they idolised, though didn’t
remember. The Prewetts looked different to the Weasley twins, a bit more like Bill, but the
roguish grins were the same ones Harry was familiar with.

Feeling his palms grow clammy with anxiety, Harry forced himself to keep looking at the
picture— and at last, he saw them. “There you are. Thought you might like that,” Moody
said, seeing where Harry’s gaze had landed.

Lily and James Potter, stood either side of a watery-eyed man that could only be a young
Peter Pettigrew. Harry ignored the wave of revulsion in his gut at the sight of the man,
focusing on his parents. God, they were so young. James Potter beamed up at him with pride
in his eyes, one hand twined with Lily’s. Harry saw the engagement ring on his mother’s
hand, and the lack of wedding rings on both of them. They weren’t even married, yet. They
had no idea what was to become of them.

His throat felt like it was closing up. He looked up at Moody, who was grinning, looking
pleased with himself. Harry wasn’t sure why this was hitting him so hard — he’d seen
pictures of his parents before, even pictures of them with Wormtail, but… to see how few
people in that picture were alive and well today, see what the first war with Voldemort had
cost them…

What a second might cost them, if he wasn’t fast enough. In the back of his mind, he saw
Fred and George’s faces instead of the Prewett brothers, imagined looking at a picture of all
of his friends after half of them had died fighting. He felt sick.

“You alright, lad?” Moody asked suddenly, gaze narrowing. Then he snorted. “S’pose not, all
things considered. Listen, I’ll be busy sending your friends off safely to the train tomorrow
— even without you there, we can’t take the risk someone might attack them just to hurt you
— but the day after, I’ll come by and put you through your paces. See what we’ve got to
work with, with that wandless magic of yours.”

Still reeling at the information that his friends needed a guard to go to the station because of
him, Harry could do nothing but nod.

“Yeah. Sounds great. Look, thanks for showing me this, but I’ve got to— I forgot—
something,” he finished lamely, fleeing the table. Moody didn’t seem to mind; Sirius had just
called his name, asking what it was he was showing Harry. Harry was glad for the escape,
slipping out of the kitchen before anyone could notice him. His heart was racing, his stomach
churning. He squared his jaw determinedly.

He would not let his friends end up like the original Order. He would stop Voldemort before
he could kill many more. He would work with Moody, and Tonks and Kinglsey, and Bill and
Sirius and Remus and whoever else happened to offer their expertise. And more importantly,
he would scour the Black library for any mention of immortality he could find, and he would
demand Albus Dumbledore tell him what he’d found regarding the things Voldemort might
have done to protect himself. He would leave no stone unturned.
“Harry, are you alright?”

He whipped around, only half surprised to see George approaching. The one person who
would have noticed him leaving.

“Yeah. It’s just all a bit much, y’know?” he said, attempting a smile that came out more like a
grimace. George’s eyes dimmed.

“Yeah,” he agreed, stepping in closer. The pair of them were mostly hidden from the kitchen
door now, leaning against the wall in the little alcove under the stairs. Under other
circumstances, Harry’s stomach might have been filled with butterflies. Now, though, it just
felt heavy and sour. “You sure you’re okay?” George dipped his head in concern. “You
look…” He trailed off, and Harry managed a weak smirk.

“What are you implying, Weasley?” he joked feebly. George flashed a smile.

“Just that you’re not at your usual level of blinding handsomeness,” he retorted. “Seriously,
what’s wrong?”

“It’s fine. Just— Mad-Eye had this picture, of the original Order. Thought I might like to see
my parents in it.”

George’s face shuttered, his jaw tightening. He knew all too well who was in the original
Order. “Blimey. Man sure knows how to be a downer,” he muttered.

“Right?” Harry shook his head. “I just… they lost so many people, that first time round. I
don’t want it happening again.”

“It won’t,” George assured. “Everyone knows better, this time. And the Death Eaters are
weaker than they were back then. Most of the worst ones are dead or in Azkaban.”

That made Harry feel a little better, but not by much.

“Moody says he’ll be over to start working with me the day after tomorrow,” he volunteered.

“Brace yourself, then,” George joked. He sobered up, the serious expression looking out of
place on his usually jovial face. “Harry, I—“ He froze, cocking his head. “Hang on, d’you
hear that?”

Between the muffled noise from the kitchen and his own heartbeat in his ears, Harry
struggled to hear much of anything, but he concentrated. After a moment, he heard it too — it
sounded like someone sobbing. “What—“

“It’s Mum,” George realised in alarm, pulling away from Harry. His wand was in his hand as
he tore up the stairs, his long legs getting him up there much faster than Harry. When Harry
caught up with him at the entrance to the drawing room, his eyes went round in horror. Mrs
Weasley was in the middle of the room, and there on the ground in front of her was Ron —
dead.
Harry’s blood went cold. How was that possible? Ron was just downstairs! Mrs Weasley let
out a loud sob, pointing her wand at Ron’s body with a shaking hand. “R-Riddikulus,” she
stuttered. There was a loud crack, and suddenly it was Bill’s body, spread-eagled and pale on
the ground. George sucked in a sharp breath.

“Mum?”

“R-Riddikulus!” Mrs Weasley tried again, moaning at the sight of her husband’s body on the
floor, his glasses askew.

Again, dead twins.

Again, dead Percy.

Again, dead Harry.

At this, George let out a noise like a wounded animal. Harry shoved past him, throwing
himself between Mrs Weasley and the boggart. There was a crack, and the room plunged into
icy cold — but only for a split second, before Harry was pushed away, and another crack
sounded. This time the boggart hung in the air, a silvery orb. Remus kept one arm
protectively in front of Harry, the other holding his wand outstretched as he calmly banished
the boggart.

The room was silent, but for Mrs Weasley’s distraught moaning. Remus didn’t let go of
Harry’s shoulder, his face pale. Harry wondered if he’d seen Harry’s dead body on the
ground.

“Molly, come on.” Harry’s head snapped up, seeing Sirius gently pat Mrs Weasley’s shoulder.
“It’s alright, it was just a boggart; the kids are safe, Arthur’s safe. Let’s get you a cuppa,
yeah?”

Mrs Weasley finally seemed to snap back to the present, growing all the more flustered when
she realised she had an audience. “Oh, Harry. George. I’m s-so sorry— you had to see— oh,
look at me, n-not even able to deal with a— a silly little boggart!” She was full-on sobbing
now, and George hurried to pull his mother into a hug, her head on his shoulder. He was milk
white beneath his freckles, a haunted look on his face. He met Harry’s gaze over his mother’s
hair, brown eyes filled with pain.

“D-don’t tell your father,” Mrs Weasley cried, burying her face in George’s shirt. “Don’t want
him to worry. M’being silly.”

“Don’t be daft, Mum,” George soothed, rubbing her back. “It’s not silly to worry about us
all.”

Harry could do nothing but stand there numbly, Remus’ hand still on his shoulder, as Mrs
Weasley cried about half the family being in the Order, how dangerous it had been before and
was still. His mind flashed back to Moody’s picture. She had lost so much in the first war —
it was no wonder she was worried about the second. It had been her brothers and her husband
last time, now it was her children.
“Come on, cub,” Remus murmured, gently steering Harry towards the door. “Let’s give them
a moment.”

Harry realised Moody was there too — his magic eye must have seen the commotion from
the kitchen. He wondered if it had been following him since he’d left the party. Had Moody
been watching him talk to George?

He looked back at the tall redhead, adrift without his twin, trying to comfort his mother even
when he looked like he could use some comfort himself. Harry’s stomach churned.

What would George Weasley’s boggart be?

Remus led him from the room, and as soon as they were out of the way, he grabbed him in a
rib-crushing hug. “Scared me half to death, seeing you on the floor like that,” he muttered.
That answered that question.

“I’m okay, Moony. I’m okay.” Harry wasn’t sure which of them he was reassuring. Remus
just held him tighter.

A moment later, a second, taller body joined in the hug, wrapping long arms around Harry
and Remus both. “Sodding boggarts,” Sirius muttered, voice choked with emotion. Remus
snorted weakly.

Harry couldn’t have said how long it was before the three of them finally broke apart. Sirius
looked at him, his grey eyes watery. “You okay, pup? I know what Mad-Eye showed you.
That can’t have been easy to see.”

“I— it’s fine.” Harry couldn’t lie and say he was alright, not to Sirius. “I think I’ll just go to
bed. Big day tomorrow.” Now, the thought of staying behind while all his friends went off to
Hogwarts felt like the worst thing in the world.

“Yeah. Good plan.” Sirius swallowed hard, hugging him roughly once more. “Fudge
might’ve been a bastard to expel you, but at least it means you’re here where I can keep an
eye on you,” he said. “Go on, get some sleep. We’ll… we’ll sort things out here.”

It was hard to wrench himself away from the pair, but Harry managed it, dragging his feet up
the stairs on the way to his room. Mrs Weasley’s gasping sobs faded from his hearing,
disappearing entirely once he shut the door behind him. He crossed over to his bed, sinking
onto the mattress and squeezing his eyes shut.

All he could see when he did was the lifeless faces of Fred and George Weasley, glassy eyes
staring back at him. He shuddered.

Wondering how long the party would keep going downstairs — whether he had long enough
to pretend to have fallen asleep by the time Ron came in — Harry reached for his pyjamas,
only to whip around when the door creaked. It opened just wide enough for a tall form to
slink inside, and suddenly he was staring at the very much alive face of George Weasley, eyes
red-rimmed.
“Sorry,” George blurted, glancing down at the sleepwear in Harry’s hand. “I just. I had to—
to make sure you were— I had to see you.”

Harry’s chest clenched, his heart ached, and nothing in the world could have stopped him
from hugging George right then. Strong arms held him close, a hand cupping the back of his
head. George’s shoulders shook violently.

“You be careful, alright? While I’m at school?” George whispered, voice cracking in a way
Harry had never heard from the older boy. “Don’t do anything stupid, Potter. Not ’til I get
back.”

“I’ll try my best,” Harry replied, knowing he couldn’t make that promise, knowing he’d do
whatever he damn well had to in order to stop Mrs Weasley’s nightmares becoming reality.
“You, either. Nothing stupid at school.”

When George pulled back, his eyes were still watery, his face barely inches from Harry’s.
Harry’s heart ached even more fiercely, and he almost bridged that gap, but he couldn’t bring
himself to. It wasn’t the time. George was leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow. Harry wouldn’t
see him ’til Christmas.

“Nothing stupid,” George assured. The roguish grin he attempted was quivering at the edges.
“Only genius, as always.”

Harry couldn’t help but snort, shaking his head and shoving the redhead away. “Go to bed,”
he muttered, rolling his eyes. “You’ve got adoring fans to sell pranks to on the train
tomorrow. Got to get your beauty sleep.”

“No amount of sleep could improve this beauty,” George retorted, regaining himself a little.
He offered Harry a jaunty half-bow, and a smile that hit like a punch to the gut, even with his
bloodshot eyes. “Sleep tight, Harrikins.”

With that he snuck from the room, and Harry was alone again. He let out a long, steadying
breath. Fuck, he wished he was going back to school tomorrow. Things would be so different
if he was.

He turned back to his pyjamas, letting himself indulge in his wistful imaginings as he readied
himself for bed. Maybe then he might have good dreams of a certain smirking Weasley,
instead of nightmares about seeing him dead on the floor.
 Chapter 6

Getting ready to leave for Hogwarts at Grimmauld Place was much like it was at the Burrow
— with the addition of Walburga Black screaming her head off from the hallway, everyone
having long since given up trying to silence her when she just got woken again five minutes
later.

Harry felt like a ghost observing it all, nothing to do but pick at his breakfast and offer
noncommittal answers every time Ron asked him if he’d seen his book, or his jumper, or his
socks. No one had asked him if he was coming to the platform with them, or even implied it
might be an option — Moody was concerned about safety enough as it was. Harry was glad
for the easy excuse. If he had to stand there and watch the train pull away, it would break
him.

The only bright spot was just after breakfast, when he slunk up to the twins’ room — they
were packing away their little brewing station with carefully controlled chaos, Fred tossing
items across the room at George, who organised them properly in his trunk. Harry’s entrance
saw George hit in the face with something that looked like a bright orange marshmallow, and
the dark-haired Gryffindor snorted.

“Alright, Harry. Do I need to scarper?” Fred greeted, looking between his friend and his twin
with raised eyebrows. Harry blushed, wondering why people had suddenly started
commenting on things so blatantly. Then he wondered if George had said anything about Mrs
Weasley’s boggart last night.

“No, I wanted to talk to both of you.” That intrigued the pair, and they stopped their work to
offer him a seat on George’s bed. Harry reached into his pocket, pulling out the pair of
mirrors. “Sirius gave these to me yesterday,” he began, giving the twins the same explanation
he himself had been given. “I thought — if I give you guys one, and I’ll have the other.”

“Don’t you want to give it to Ron? Or Hermione?” George asked, brow furrowed. “They’re
your best friends.”

“Do you really think I can trust them to be honest with me about how stuff’s going?” Harry
retorted. “They’ll lie their arses off to make me feel better, whatever’s happening. You two
won’t. And — you can tell me, if they’re not doing alright.” He wasn’t so arrogant as to think
they wouldn’t cope without him there, but… he had some minor concerns.

“Ah, I see. You just want us to tell you how much everyone else misses you,” Fred drawled
teasingly. “I suppose I can be the voice of truth, if nothing else. Not sure how truthful this
one’ll be,” he joked, nudging his twin.

“You can tell me how all your pranks and stuff are going, too,” Harry added, smiling at the
thought of having the twins recount their masterpieces. If he couldn’t be there in person, it
was the next best thing. “Also, Sirius says they’re not legal, and I figured you two would care
less about that than Hermione.”
“Oi! We’re being maligned, here, Forge. He’s insulting our character!” George yelped,
grinning.

“Don’t know what you want me to do about it,” Fred retorted. He plucked the mirror from
Harry’s hands, turning to place it carefully in his trunk. “We’ll call at least once a week, keep
you in the loop,” he promised. “And we won’t tell the prissy prefects. Don’t want anyone
getting into trouble.” He winked, and Harry laughed.

“Merlin forbid,” he agreed dryly. He got to his feet, clasping his hands together somewhat
awkwardly. “I’ll let you finish packing. Don’t have to lie to your mum if I haven’t seen
what’s in your trunks,” he joked. Fred gave him a searching look, then turned that same look
on George, before nodding.

“Yeah, probably for the best,” he muttered. Harry got the feeling he wasn’t talking about their
packing habits.

George met Harry’s eyes, lips curved ruefully. “We’ll save all the embarrassing goodbyes for
when we’ve got an audience. Maybe cry a bit,” he said. Harry’s returning smile was trying
very hard not to be sad.

“Let’s see if you can outdo Hermione, then,” he said, instead of the dozens of other things he
could’ve said, wanted to say, wasn’t ready to say.

He left the twins alone, feeling like someone had his heart in a vice grip. He grit his teeth,
shaking the thoughts from his head before they could take root. He knew better. Now was not
the time.

.-.

The twins did not outdo Hermione in the crying department, though they gave it their best
shot, sobbing dramatically into their sleeves as they waved at Harry across the entrance hall.
“Farewell, dear friend,” Fred cried, waving an imaginary handkerchief. “Do not forget the
times we’ve shared!”

“Oh, stop it, both of you!” Mrs Weasley scolded, real tears in her own eyes. She looked like
having to leave Harry behind was causing her physical pain. Looking at her made Harry’s
chest hurt.

“We’ll see you at Christmas, yeah, mate?” Ron muttered, giving Harry a rough, quick hug.
Harry didn’t think he’d been hugged so much in his entire life as he had in the last two
weeks.

“If you haven’t drowned in homework,” Harry joked — the twins had been taunting Ron
with how much work the teachers loaded you with in OWL year, as if they weren’t entering
their NEWT year which would be far, far worse. No one expected the twins to actually do
their homework.

Hermione bit her lip against another wave of tears, and held Crookshanks’ carrier close to her
chest. “Write soon,” she requested. “And be careful.”
“If we don’t get moving soon, we’ll be wide open to pre-meditated attack,” Mad-Eye Moody
barked, smacking his staff down on the tiled floor. “Always be one step ahead of the enemy.”

He was clearly fed up with the displays of emotion, and began to herd everyone out the front
door. Harry stood on the bottom step, keeping his jaw clenched and his face resolute, trying
not to show how much his heart was breaking at watching all his friends leave. George
glanced over his shoulder one last time, gaze meeting Harry’s, and offered a supportive nod.

Harry let out a steady breath. He could handle this.

The door shut behind the large group. Silence filled the house for the first time all morning
— Mrs Black had given up screaming and being ignored about twenty minutes ago.

A hand landed on Harry’s shoulder, pulling him back against a thin chest. Sirius’ long hair
brushed his cheek as the animagus leaned down to kiss the crown of his head. “You’ll be
alright, pup. So will they.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed with a shaky sigh. He drank in the comfort from his godfather, blinking
back the sting in his eyes.

A new year at Hogwarts was about to begin, and Harry would not be part of it.

After a long silence, he cleared his throat, turning to look at Sirius. “You said you
remembered the counter-charm for that sticking spell?” he prompted, wanting nothing more
than to be distracted right then. Sirius grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and nodded.

“I think so, yeah. Come on, let’s give it a go, then you can move your trunk up. Good thing
you’ve practiced all those cleaning charms lately, because you’re gonna need them!”

Harry laughed, a rusty, stilted sound, and followed his godfather up the stairs.

.-.-.

Neither of them said a word when the clock in the hallway chimed eleven. Harry shot spell
after spell at the dusty desk and musty sheets, refusing to think for a second about what his
friends were up to on the train. Whether the trolley had been by yet. Who they were sitting
with — how many people had cornered them for details about Harry’s expulsion. There
hadn’t been any more Rita Skeeter articles on the subject after the first; or Rita Skeeter
articles at all, from what he saw. There was no announcement of the reporter’s illegal
animagus form, but Tonks looked smug every time someone mentioned the newspaper, so
Harry figured something had been done.

He didn’t envy Hermione and the Weasleys, having to answer the same questions a hundred
times over from people who had no right asking after Harry’s private business. At least he
wasn’t having to deal with that in person, for once.

He and Sirius cobbled together lunch from some leftovers in the cold box, getting some
derisive mutters from Kreacher about filthy traitors in his kitchen before Sirius slammed the
door in the elf’s face. Then Harry was drafted into the all-too satisfying task of helping Sirius
burn his parents’ old bed, along with all the hippogriff feathers still in the room.

“I hope Buckbeak’s doing alright in his new herd,” Harry mused, floating a large feather into
the fire in the centre of the room, kept carefully behind shield charms thanks to Sirius. The
bed wasn’t the only piece of furniture he’d decided to burn — there was an ancient-looking
bureau, and a truly hideous wardrobe still full of ladies’ formal robes. Harry was just glad
they’d been able to open a window.

“I leave you alone for five minutes and you start a bloody great big fire.”

They whipped around at the new voice, Sirius grinning at Remus. “Moony! Come to join the
party?”

“Come to check you two didn’t hurt yourselves while I was gone,” the sandy-haired man
teased in reply. “I brought my things over. Looks like you’re stuck with me now.” He patted
his cardigan pocket, which was bulging.

Sirius beamed.

Harry didn’t ask about how the trip to the platform had gone. He wasn’t surprised that Remus
was the only one here — with the kids at school, Mrs Weasley had no excuse not to go back
to the Burrow, though she’d insisted she’d be through to check on Harry and Sirius at least
once a week. She didn’t seem to trust them to cook for themselves. Did she not know that
was one of Harry’s specialties, thanks to the Dursleys?

Instead, he turned back to the fire, nudging the escaping sleeve of a crimson satin dress robe
back into the embers with a burst of magic. He had to keep his mind off of the Hogwarts
Express. Thank God Sirius was always good for a distraction.

.-.-.

Harry’s room — his room, now, truly, with a little nameplate on the front and everything.
Staring at it made his throat close up — kept him busy for most of the day. Or rather, his
trunk did. Having run out of excuses, he finally decided to empty his trunk and organise his
things, now he had a wardrobe to put them in. There were still some of teenage Sirius’
clothes in there, too, and Sirius had insisted Harry keep them. A couple of band t-shirts, a
smart-looking dark blue robe, a pair of red corduroy trousers that Harry couldn’t ever see
himself wearing but that Sirius insisted had been the height of fashion back in the day.

It was ridiculous, the amount of random detritus that had collected in Harry’s school trunk
over the last four years. That was what happened when you lived out of it, he supposed; he’d
never had a place permanent enough to bother emptying it entirely.

Stacking four years worth of school books on the newly dusted bookshelf, he tossed out all
the sweet wrappers and crumpled balls of parchment and broken quills he found along the
way, levitating his Gryffindor uniform into a corner of the room. He could keep the shirts and
trousers, but he wasn’t sure what to do with the robes, ties and jumpers. Or his quidditch
uniform.
He spent a lot of time with that crimson robe in his lap, fingers running over the bright gold
lettering of his name on the back. Of all the things he’d miss about Hogwarts, he’d probably
miss quidditch the most.

That was how Sirius found him, when he came up to ask about dinner; sat on his bed, staring
down at his quidditch robe, eyes red but no longer full of tears. He was all cried out by now.
“Oh, pup,” Sirius sighed, sitting down beside him. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine,” Harry responded automatically. “Not sure what to do with all this, though.” He
gestured to the pile of Gryffindor paraphernalia. He’d chucked everything even remotely red
and gold on the pile, even though he knew there were t-shirts and hoodies he would want to
keep. Right now he couldn’t imagine ever feeling comfortable wearing them again.

“There’s an old suitcase in the guest room I’ve been sleeping in; we can put it in there for
now. Don’t want to throw it all away just yet.” Sirius paused, offering a sharp smile. “Could
sell it for good money a few years down the line — genuine school uniform of the Boy-Who-
Lived! Clothes that have touched his actual skin!”

Harry snorted, shoving Sirius’ shoulder. “Git,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.”You and Moony
all settled?”

Sirius startled. “What? Oh, yeah, he’s all unpacked. Brought enough books to fill his own
library with, the nerd. Says you might want to look at them.” He shot Harry an amused look.
“You planning on encountering South-Asian water demons any time soon? Think I saw a
book about those in the mix. Or ancient legendary desert-dwellers?”

“Merlin, I hope not,” Harry muttered, earning a bark of laughter. “Could be interesting to
read, though.”

“Godric help me, you’re as bad as he is,” Sirius accused. Harry rolled his eyes. “You about
ready for dinner? Thought we’d keep working through the mountain Molly left us with, save
having to order in groceries for a week or so. Or, y’know, the next six months, the way that
woman cooks.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Harry agreed, setting the robe aside and getting to his feet.

“You been through the rest of my old stuff, yet? Bet there’s all sorts of shit lying around. I
wasn’t known for tidiness when I was your age.”

“Or ever,” Harry remarked dryly.

“Rude. Maybe I won’t let you have my old clothes after all.”

“Oh, no, what a loss,” came Harry’s deadpan response.

“You little bugger.” Sirius elbowed him in the ribs. “Do let me know if you find anything
good, though.”

“I’ll give you a yell if I come across your old love letters, don’t worry,” Harry teased,
watching his godfather’s face redden. That was interesting — “Oh my God, do you actually
have love letters?”

“Only ones he wrote to himself.” Remus met them on the stairs, keeping his voice hushed to
avoid the wrath of Mrs Black. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“Y’know what, I’ve changed my mind — I don’t like you two ganging up on me. Get out of
my house,” Sirius said, though was promptly ignored.

“Should I be scared about what I might find in his desk?” Harry asked Remus, feigning
worry. Remus grinned at him.

“Nah, he’d have taken all his favourite love letters with him to James’ house. It’s his old flat
that’s the danger zone — I went there to grab him some clothes when he moved in here, and
Merlin only knows what else is lying about over there.”

“I didn’t know you had a flat,” Harry commented, pushing open the door to the kitchen.
Kreacher was inside, though he quickly made himself scarce at the sight of them.

“Inherited it from my Uncle Alphard,” Sirius replied. “Moved in after James and Lily got
engaged; couldn’t stand being the third wheel to that love-fest anymore. The Ministry’s had a
watch on it since I escaped, of course, in case I go back. Kingsley snuck Remus in to get my
stuff.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “If I ever get free, I’ll have to take you
there sometime. I loved that flat.”

Harry felt a pang of sympathy for Sirius, trapped in this house until there was some sort of
evidence to get him a trial — unlikely in Fudge’s government.

“Just make sure you clean it first,” he joked instead, wrinkling his nose. “There are some
things a kid doesn’t need to learn about his godfather.”

“Brat,” came the immediate retort. Harry grinned. Living with Sirius and Remus was going
to be great.

He only spent a little bit of time thinking about the welcoming feast at Hogwarts. Remus and
Sirius were good at keeping him distracted, first with stories of Sirius’ flat — which Remus
had apparently lived in, too, for a time — then by going back up to his room and testing him
on his wandless magic. They sat on the floor with his old schoolbooks in hand, going through
every spell he should have learned from first year onwards, making sure Harry could do them
without his wand. That lasted long into the evening, and they only got to the end of third
year; there were more spells in those books than Harry even realised he’d picked up on in the
last few years, and once they got on the subject Sirius was begging for stories about
Professor Lupin, telling Harry that he and James had been teasing Remus with the moniker
for years, and the briefcase he’d taken to school with ‘Professor R J Lupin’ embossed on it
had actually been a joke present for the werewolf’s seventeenth birthday, courtesy of Sirius
himself.

It almost felt like being back in the Gryffindor common room — better, even. It felt like
family.
That night, his first night in his new room, he stared down at the two-way mirror in his hand,
pressing his lips together to stop himself from calling the twins. He couldn’t be that needy.
He was fifteen years old, for crying out loud. He’d stood up to Albus Dumbledore. He’d
spent most of the summer alone at Privet Drive. He didn’t need to call his friends the first
night being away from them.

But when he fell asleep, the mirror was still in his hand, just in case they decided to call him.
 Chapter 7

As promised, Mad-Eye Moody arrived shortly after breakfast on September 2nd, limping into
the kitchen and offering Harry a terse nod. “You ready, Potter?” he asked, not even bothering
with a greeting. Harry jumped to his feet, knocking back the last of his tea.

“Absolutely.” He was vibrating out of his skin with the need to do something, anything to
ignore the fact that he wasn’t at school. It felt like a switch had flicked in his mind overnight
— the summer was over, his friends were gone, and now it was time to put his money where
his mouth was and get to work on everything he’d told the Order he’d do, to stop them
worrying about his expulsion.

He wasn’t a kid anymore. He had a war to win. It was time to get to work.

Sirius and Remus asked if he wanted them to come with him, but Harry shook his head,
following Moody upstairs to the small ballroom, which was just a large empty room now
with moth-eaten drapes and a couple of dark wood tables stacked against the wall. “Right,
then. I’ve heard a lot about you, Potter, from a lot of different sources. Most of it’s probably
codswallop, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” Moody barked, his electric blue eye
fixed unerringly on Harry. Harry smirked.

“Anything you’ve read in the Prophet is crap,” he said without missing a beat, making the ex-
auror snort.

“Obviously.” He jerked a nod. “And I’ve told you I won’t have any of that Professor
nonsense from you — I never taught a single damn class, and the student body will be glad of
it. So don’t assume I know anything about your casting style; that wasn’t me, last year.” He
leaned on his staff, gesturing for Harry to stand in front of him. “I’ll start you out easy, lad.
See what I’m working with.” He raised his wand, scarred lips pulling back in a vicious smirk.
“Let’s see how you handle yourself in a duel.”

And they began.

.-.-.

Harry wasn’t sure what he’d expected from his training with Moody, but it sure as hell wasn’t
what he got. First, they’d duelled, Moody declaring he wanted to see what spells Harry
defaulted to in a fight. Then, he forbade Harry from using any magic at all, seeing how well
he could dodge. Luckily, after years of living with Dudley, that was something Harry excelled
at. Moody made a lot of approving noises at that, firing spells at Harry in quick succession.
After he eventually got bored of that, he let Harry stop for a glass of water — making sure he
checked it for hexes first.

“I bet Kingsley wishes his latest batch of trainees had your reflexes!” he remarked. Harry
preened at the compliment. “You’ve a solid base to start with. Your repertoire’s a little basic,
but I can fix that. You’ve got the instinct in you, and that’s the important part.” Moody folded
his arms over his chest, leaning his forearms on his staff. “So, what are you aiming for,
here?”

“Pardon?” Harry looked at him, puzzled. Both the real and the fake eye fixed on him.

“You looking to learn a few impressive hexes to reassure your friends you’re coping without
them? Or are you here to learn how to handle yourself if you get ambushed by Death Eaters?”
His tone held a challenge, and Harry didn’t back down from it.

“I’m here to learn anything you can teach me that might help me bring down Voldemort,” he
replied unflinchingly. “Whether it’s legal or not. I don’t have a wand, there’s no Trace on me.
Figured that means what Fudge doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“What Fudge doesn’t know could fill libraries,” Moody muttered derisively. When he
scanned Harry, there was something like approval in his gaze, his grizzled face contorted in
something that might’ve been a grin of sorts. “And what if Albus comes in and tells me
you’re too young to be learning what you want me to teach you?”

“He’s not my guardian,” Harry retorted quickly. “And he’s not my headmaster. I don’t really
care what he thinks I should and shouldn’t be learning.”

Abruptly, Moody smacked his staff on the hardwood floor — and smiled wolfishly. “That’s
all I wanted to hear. Right, lad — buckle up. We’re jumping in at the deep end.” He reached
into his leather trench coat, pulling out something small, which with a wave of his wand grew
to become a classroom-sized chalkboard, already covered in messy handwriting and
diagrams. “Shacklebolt bet me I couldn’t get you to trainee level before his class full of
imbeciles graduated training,” he declared. “That’s not a bet I’m willing to lose. You hear?”

Harry nodded, trying not to smile. “Yes, sir,” he barked, which only made Moody snort.

“None of your cheek,” he scolded lightly. Then he turned to the chalkboard, using his wand
as a pointer. “We’ll start here, with defensive spells. You’ll need to learn when to shield and
when to duck; if in doubt, just duck. Tell me, Potter; can you cast from both hands without
your wand?”

“I haven’t really tried, to be honest,” Harry admitted. It was always instinctual to use his right
hand.

“Well we’re going to find out. The element of surprise is key, especially for you. You’ll be
facing people older, meaner, and more experienced than you — if you try and play nice,
you’ll be dead in a heartbeat. There’s no room for manners in war.” Moody limped over,
looking Harry in the eye. “No room for disarming charms and stunning spells, either. Leaving
your opponent alive means they can escape to kill someone you care about. If you’ve not got
the stomach to kill, take off their wand arm. Think you can handle that?”

“I didn’t think Voldemort was going to be beaten with a jelly-legs jinx,” Harry responded
evenly. “Don’t think I get a choice whether or not I’ve got the stomach to kill.”
To his surprise, Moody softened, ever so slightly. “You’ve always got a choice, lad. Might
just be a tough one.”

Harry appreciated the attempt, but they both knew there was no real choice in the matter.
Moody might not know the prophecy — Harry wasn’t sure, and hadn’t asked — but he had to
know what Harry was facing.

Unbidden, Harry’s mind flashed back to Professor Quirrell, face blistering under Harry’s
small eleven year-old hands, writhing away even as Harry grabbed him again and again,
knowing exactly what he was doing to the man.

He had the stomach to kill. He just need to work on the method.

.-.-.-.

With his focus fixed firmly back on the task at hand, Harry had entirely forgotten about his
conversation with Bill Weasley during the party for Ron and Hermione. He’d almost
forgotten about the letter from Fleur, until he’d fished it out of his jeans pocket while moving
rooms. He had a response written, genuinely pleased to hear from the French girl, but getting
it to her had slipped his mind in the face of his new training.

So he was surprised when Bill appeared through the kitchen fireplace one morning, strolling
in and grabbing a scone off the counter without hesitation. “Morning, all,” he greeted,
smiling at the three confused faces. “Mind if I borrow Harry for a bit? Gringotts business.
Nothing bad,” he added quickly, when Sirius’ lips turned down. “I just promised to get him a
meeting with his account manager.”

That made the dog animagus relax, and he leaned back in his chair. “Good call,” he said with
an approving nod. “You might not be old enough to inherit the title, but now you’re not at
school you should take a more active role in the family finances. See what you’re allowed to
work with before you’re of age. James made some good investments back after Phee and
Monty died, but that was twenty-odd years ago now, things have likely changed.”

“There’s a title?” Harry asked, bewildered. Sirius’ grey eyes narrowed, then glanced to Bill.

“He thinks the trust vault is all he has,” the eldest Weasley volunteered. Sirius cursed.

“Bloody Dumbledore.” He rolled his eyes, then waved Harry to his feet. “He’s all yours, Bill;
just have him back by three, Tonks is coming over to play.” He grinned. “Harry, go change
into that blue robe I gave you. Your grandmother would come back to haunt me if I let you go
meet Stonehook looking like a scruffy muggle.”

Harry would’ve argued, but he couldn’t deny Dudley’s hand-me-downs had seen better days.
And he was a little overdue a haircut.

Harry did as he was told, wondering exactly what he was about to get himself into. The robe
fit surprisingly well, and Harry tried to neaten his hair the best he could before returning to
meet Bill in the kitchen. Sirius nodded. “Here, give this to your account manager,” he
instructed, handing over a piece of parchment. Harry looked down at it.
‘I, Lord Sirius Orion Black, head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, do hereby
confirm Harry James Potter as my heir in name and blood, to be allowed all the privileges
and responsibilities of my heir henceforth, as if he were my own issue.’

Sirius’ signature was an elaborate flourish at the bottom, and it was stamped in black wax
with a crest Harry only recognised from seeing embossed on silverware in the cupboards
they’d been clearing out.

Keeping his questions to himself, Harry pocketed the note and hoped it would make sense to
him sometime soon.

“Keep your head down in the alley, cub,” Remus warned. “Don’t want to let people know
you’re there if you can help it.”

“I’ll take him in the staff entrance,” Bill assured. “You ready, Harry?”

“Let’s go.”

Harry wasn’t really sure what he was getting into, but he followed Bill’s instruction that they
had to floo together, squeezing into the fireplace with the tall Weasley and holding his breath
as ash swirled around them.

Bill stopped him from flying face-first out of the floo, keeping an arm around his shoulders
and strolling out as if he’d barely paused in his stride.

Harry looked around, recognising the flawless white marble walls of the bank, though he’d
never seen this part of it before. It was bustling with activity, both human and goblin alike,
and only a couple of people looked up at their arrival. They nodded at Bill, then turned back
to their work, not sparing Harry a second glance. “This way,” Bill urged, steering him
towards a corridor to their left. “Now, I can’t stick around for the meeting itself — privacy
and all that — but Stonehook will call for me once he’s finished with you. Just be polite, and
show your teeth when you smile.”

With that instruction, he knocked on a door, opening it without waiting for confirmation.
“Harry Potter for you, Account Manager Stonehook,” he declared, nodding sharply to the
goblin sat behind the desk.

Stonehook was grey-haired and had a puckered silvery scar across his wrinkled jaw, his dark
eyes narrowing as he looked at Harry. Harry tried not to squirm.

“Thank you, Cursebreaker Weasley. You may go.”

Bill clapped Harry on the shoulder, then left him alone in the goblin’s office. Doing his best
not to look uncomfortable, Harry offered the goblin a short nod, having never once seen one
offer to shake a wizard’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Account Manager Stonehook,”
he greeted cautiously, using the same title Bill had offered.

“I expected to meet you long before now, Mr Potter,” Stonehook told him. “Take a seat, we
have much to discuss.”
Harry settled into the wooden chair opposite the desk, his hands clasped in his lap. “I didn’t
know I was supposed to meet you. I’m sorry.”

The goblin waved a dismissive hand. “It is not your fault you were uninformed. At least I
have you here before you come of age.” He sat forward in his chair, reaching for a stack of
papers. “Cursebreaker Weasley tells me you have not been told of your heritage, or any vault
other than your trust vault.”

“I— I was raised by muggles.”

Stonehook narrowed his gaze at that. “Indeed. Well, that cannot be helped, I suppose.” He
slid the papers towards Harry. “Mr Potter, it is my pleasure to inform you that you are the
sole heir to the Ancient House of Potter, following the death of your parents in 1981. My
condolences,” he added. Harry stiffened.

“Thank you. I—“ He looked down at the papers, seeing numbers that made his head spin.
“Ancient House of Potter? What does that mean, exactly? Oh,” he added hurriedly, reaching
into his pocket for Sirius’ note. “I was asked to give you this.”

The goblin studied the note with pursed lips, murmured something in Gobbledegook that
made the paper glow purple, then nodded sharply. “That is all in order. I shall coordinate with
Fangblade, the Black family account manager. Might I assume that any correspondance for
Lord Black himself may be passed on through you? Your Ministry’s sentencing forbids us
from contacting him directly.”

Stonehook looked like he didn’t much care for what the Ministry thought of Sirius, or of
anything. Harry warmed to the goblin instantly. “Yes, anything for him can be sent to me, I’ll
make sure he gets it.”

“Very good.” Stonehook set the note aside, and shuffled his chair closer, pointing with one
long finger to the first passage on the papers. “The Ancient House of Potter has been doing
business with Gringotts bank since the bank’s inception, and management of the account has
been in my family for just as long. Your gold has been guarded faithfully by my ancestors for
many generations, Mr Potter, and it is my honour to do so for you now. The matter of your
titles and privileges within your Ministry are not under my purview, though they are twined
with your inheritance, and many wizards believe Gringotts to be the keepers of such titles.
Let me make this clear, Mr Potter — we have no need for the laws and rulings of wizards
within the Nation. Goblins do not care for the petty squabbles of politicians. Your godfather,
Lord Black, may be a criminal in the eyes of the Ministry, but to Gringotts he is still the
owner and heir to the Black accounts. He has not wronged the Nation, and thus we still do
business with him.” When Stonehook smiled, it was a mouth full of sharp teeth. “Do not try
to cheat or steal from a goblin, Mr Potter, and we shall have a prosperous working
relationship. My colleagues report that you have always treated goblins with respect, even
when you clearly did not know what we were. That is something many wizards cannot
claim.”

Harry thought of how people like the Malfoys treated anyone who wasn’t pureblood, anyone
they thought was beneath them. He sneered to himself — he could take a good guess how
they treated goblins. “Disrespecting those who house your money is something only an idiot
would do,” he retorted. This drew a sharp, husky laugh from the goblin.

“You may not have been raised in the House of Potter, but you are clearly of its blood,” he
declared, sounding pleased. “Come, Mr Potter, let me tell you of your legacy. You have been
kept from it for far too long.”

.-.-.

After an hour in Stonehook’s office, Harry’s head was reeling.

He was rich. Like, Malfoy rich.

His family had centuries worth of gold and jewels and investments at the bank — and,
according to Stonehook, an entire vault filled with non-monetary objects that he would have
access to upon his seventeenth birthday. For now, he could only withdraw from his trust
vault, but as the last surviving member of the family he had access to the statements from all
his other vaults.

Vaults. Plural. There were six of them. His trust vault, the main family finances vault, the
investment vault, the objects vault, and the two vaults of Lily and James Potter, which had
been sealed since their deaths. “I’m afraid I legally cannot allow you into your parents’ vaults
until you are of age.” Stonehook sounded genuinely apologetic about that. “The wills were
sealed by your Ministry at the time of their deaths.” He glanced askance. “It is very likely
that within those vaults is the truth of Lord Black’s crimes, if no trial is had before your
majority.”

Harry bristled. “You mean there’s proof that he’s innocent, just sitting there, and the Ministry
won’t let anyone see it?” Stonehook gave a sharp nod.

“While Lord Black’s criminal status does not prevent him from accessing his own vaults, it
has negated his legal claim of guardianship. Magically, you are a ward of your Ministry until
you come of age, and cannot enter any vault but the trust vault assigned to you without a
legal guardian.”

Harry imagined trying to persuade Aunt Petunia to come to a magical bank full of goblins
and accompany him into her dead sister’s vault so he could find proof that his mass-murder
godfather wasn’t actually a mass-murderer.

Even if he offered her all the gold in his vault, he doubted that would ever happen.

Forcing down his anger, he turned back to Stonehook. “At least I know it’s there, thank you.”
If he couldn’t catch Pettigrew before he turned seventeen, he had that at least.

“I make no promises on the contents of the late Potters’ vaults,” Stonehook clarified.
“However, both your parents made their wills out under my supervision, with certain
stipulations regarding their deaths under particular circumstances.” His beady eyes fixed on
Harry’s, gaze pointed. Harry understood — Stonehook knew that Sirius had not been their
Secret Keeper, because his parents had said so in their wills.
Damn the Ministry for sealing them. Damn Dumbledore for probably letting them. “How can
it be legal, for both their wills to have been sealed when they had a dependant?”

“Many legalities are overlooked in wartime,” Stonehook responded. “The Ministry were
assured that appropriate guardianship had been found following the arrest of Sirius Black,
and in order to confirm that guardianship they sealed your parents’ wills.”

Harry scowled. If the Ministry wasn’t so corrupt and backwards, Sirius could have had a
proper trial. He could have raised Harry from the start.

He forced down the rising swell of emotion; now was not the time to deal with that. Not in
front of a goblin he’d only just met. Clearing his throat, he gave a close-lipped smile. “That’s
good information to have, thank you, Stonehook. So, what can I do right now? Bill —
Cursebreaker Weasley — made it sound like there were things I had to address. And he said
something about a bank note book?”

“I can arrange for one of those connected to your trust vault right away,” Stonehook
confirmed, writing something down on a piece of parchment that glowed white as soon as he
set his quill down. “I believe Cursebreaker Weasley merely intended for you to be informed
and prepared for what you stand to inherit when you come of age — ordinarily, heirs will be
introduced to their account managers prior to their first year of magical schooling. I can offer
you an inheritance test, to see if there is anything you have been bequeathed that we are not
already aware of. Many will take these tests to see if they stand to inherit from any bloodlines
that may have died out, but the Potter line has been under Gringotts purview for long enough
that there are rarely surprises, and your mother submitted an inheritance test prior to joining
the family — there were no recognisable magical ancestors in her family tree.”

“I… I think I’ll leave that until I’m of age, if that’s alright?” Harry was just getting to grips
with his Potter inheritance. He wasn’t quite ready to add any mystery inheritances to that just
yet.

“As you wish. Then all I can do for you now is offer Gringotts’ usual services for account
holders of your level — a bank note book, a signet ring, and a muggle credit card should you
desire. You are also able to adjust any investments within the family portfolio. I recommend
you take that home and study it thoroughly before making any changes. Lord Black will no
doubt assist you.” He nudged the papers towards Harry, who shrank and pocketed them.

“Gringotts can do credit cards?” Harry’s brows rose in surprise. Stonehook’s eyes brightened.

“Goblins do not waste opportunities to increase wealth, Mr Potter. Muggle money can be just
as valuable as any gold, in the right circumstances.” He leaned back in his chair. “Is that
something that would interest you?”

“Absolutely.” Harry had never had more than five pounds of muggle money to call his own
before. To have a card that would convert the pile of gold in his vault to something he could
use outside the wizarding world… he couldn’t pass that up.

Stonehook wrote on his parchment, which glowed once more. Then he opened his desk
drawer, pulling out a blue velvet pouch. “A money purse, linked to your trust vault. Three
drops of blood will bind it to your magic, so only you can open it.” The goblin handed Harry
an ornate silver dagger with the Potter crest on the handle. Harry cut his hand with the tip of
the sharp blade, letting blood fall onto the pouch. There was a quiet crackle, and Stonehook
nodded. Harry healed his hand with a murmured spell, and cleaned the dagger too.

When he opened the purse, there were three things inside — a sleek white credit card with his
name and the Gringotts logo; a gold ring with the Potter crest; and a bound sheaf of
parchment slips that looked very much like a checkbook indeed. Reverently, Harry slid the
ring onto the pinky of his left hand, jolting when it resized to fit him with a sizzle of magic.
Stonehook nodded. “The ring has accepted your right to wear it. Congratulations, Heir
Potter.”

Harry looked down at the ring, awed. This was something his father would have worn — and
his grandfather, and great grandfather, and Merlin only knew how many Potters after him. “It
can only be removed with your approval,” Stonehook informed him. “Should anyone not
entitled to the ring attempt to wear it, they will find themselves missing a finger.” He gave a
bloodthirsty grin, and Harry smirked.

“Good to know.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you today, Heir Potter, or should I summon Cursebreaker
Weasley?”

Harry paused, thoughts drifting back to an absent idea he’d had while writing his letter to
Fleur. “That depends. You mentioned Gringotts is responsible for many legal documents —
can you provide muggle passports?”

Stonehook blinked, but didn’t ask Harry to elaborate, only nodding. “We can indeed. I can
have one to you in a week, for a small fee.”

“Please do.”

It was just an idea. But once he talked to Fleur, maybe it could be something.
 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

When Bill retrieved Harry from Stonehook’s office, he was surprised when Harry asked after
Fleur. Nonetheless, he confirmed she was in the building — and took Harry to find her, so he
could deliver his letter in person. The French witch was sat a desk in front of a small
mountain of paperwork, but her face lit up at the interruption — not, like Harry assumed, at
the sight of Bill, who was definitely dating her by now, from what her letter had said. But at
the sight of Harry himself, who she grabbed in a hug and kissed on both cheeks, greeting
exuberantly. Bill was promptly given a kiss on the lips and sent on his way, with the
instruction to return with lunch, and Harry spent a delightful forty-five minutes catching up
with his fellow Triwizard champion. He told her of the idea he’d had, when she
commiserated on his expulsion, and the wicked smile that crossed her face made it clear why
she had attracted a man like Bill Weasley. For all Mrs Weasley scolded her children for
getting into trouble, not a single one of them could resist the lure of mischief. Except Percy,
of course, but he’d always been the odd one out in the family. Fleur’s expression was pure
mischief, and she reached across the table, squeezing Harry’s hands. “It is so good to see you
again, Harry,” she declared warmly. He grinned.

“It’s good to see you too, Fleur.”

He would take all allies, no matter how unexpected their origins.

.-.-.

As promised, Bill had Harry back at Grimmauld Place a little after two o’clock. They found
Sirius and Remus playing chess in the sitting room, and Bill begged his leave once he’d
confirmed with the two men that Harry was back safe and sound.

“Will you be over for the Order meeting tomorrow?” Remus asked, pouring Harry a cup of
tea from the pot on the table. Harry perked up; that was the first he’d heard of any meeting.

“Can’t, I’m working,” Bill replied. “I’ll get the cliff notes from Dad.” He glanced at his
watch. “Speaking of, I’d better get going. Lunch break is almost over.” He reached out to
ruffle Harry’s hair. “Good to see you, kid. I’ll catch you later. And remember your promise,”
he added mock-threateningly. Harry, who had promised not to tell either of Bill’s parents
about his current relationship status, laughed.

“See you, Bill. Thanks for today.”

Bill left, and the two Marauders immediately turned to Harry with keen eyes. “So? How’d it
go?” Sirius asked excitedly. “You don’t look like Stonehook tried to eat you alive. He
must’ve liked you.”
“He’s just glad the goblins now know they can contact you through me,” Harry returned.
“Apparently it’s illegal for them to contact you directly?”

“Pain in the arse,” the animagus confirmed with a grimace. “But I’ve still got my ring and my
bank book, at least. I haven’t seen the accounts since before I went to Azkaban, though — I
dread to think how much of the family fortune mum drank away after Reg died.”

“Your account manager will send it to me in the next few days,” Harry confirmed.

“Fab. I see you’ve got yourself a new bit of bling, there, Heir Potter,” Sirius teased, gesturing
to the signet ring. Harry blushed. “By all rights you’re entitled to the Black ring too, if you
want it. Probably shouldn’t while I’m still a criminal and all — might cause a bit of panic.
But it’s yours if you ever want it.”

“Oh, speaking of criminals.” Harry set his tea down. “Stonehook said that while I can’t
access Mum and Dad’s vaults — or their wills — until I’m of age, he basically implied that
there’s proof you weren’t the Secret Keeper in there. So, y’know. If we don’t get Wormtail
turned in before then. There’s hope.”

Sirius’ jaw dropped. Beside him, Remus turned to Harry, amber eyes shining hopefully.
“Really?”

“He couldn’t legally tell me what’s in there. But he witnessed their will-writing,” Harry said,
getting a little choked up at the pure emotion on his godfather’s face. “It might be two years
away, but if we haven’t got you free by then, I’ll be in those vaults the moment I’m old
enough. I’ll get that proof and demand a trial. The Ministry will have to listen, then.”

Sirius was silent. He was pressed against Remus from shoulder to knee, and Harry could see
the faint trembling of the convict’s form. “If their wills hadn’t been sealed, I could’ve had a
trial?” he breathed. Harry nodded.

“The Ministry wanted to confirm my guardianship, so they sealed them. Bet they knew that
Mum would never let me go to Aunt Petunia. She probably had a list of potential guardians
half a mile long instead of sending me to them.” It made Harry’s chest ache, how close he
had come to avoiding the hell known as Privet Drive. If only there hadn’t been power plays
and ulterior motives at hand. If he hadn’t been the Boy-Who-Lived — if Dumbledore and the
Ministry hadn’t wanted to keep him out of the wizarding world until the time was right. His
stomach churned just thinking about it.

“Just two years, Pads,” Remus murmured, hand squeezing Sirius’ knee. “Two years, and you
can be a free man. If we can’t make it happen sooner.”

“I can wait two years,” Sirius choked out. “As long as I know I won’t be stuck in this bloody
house forever.”

Seeing the stricken look on his godfather’s face, Harry vowed silently to do everything he
could to make sure Sirius didn’t have to wait that two years. He didn’t want to take that long
to get rid of Voldemort, if he could help it. And with the Dark Lord out of the way, Wormtail
would be easy prey.
He would make it happen. For Sirius.

.-.-.-.

The Order meeting the next day was scheduled for after lunch — Mrs Weasley arrived at
noon, fussing over Harry and immediately commandeering the kitchen, muttering about all
three of them being too skinny. Remus, who was three days shy of the full moon and
constantly starving, had zero objections to the Weasley matriarch cooking a small mountain
of food, ready to feed whichever Order members might turn up early. Quite a lot of them did,
to Harry’s surprise. Maybe they knew they’d get a free meal out of it.

It was odd, having a full kitchen but without the chaos of having the twins there. The
atmosphere was more tense, the conversation quieter, many of them glancing at Harry before
trailing off mid-sentence or lowering their voices even further. It made Harry roll his eyes —
despite being expelled, despite having told them all he was taking an active role in the war,
they were still determined to treat him like a child, keep him oblivious.

“Harry, dear, why don’t you take your plate up to your room?” Mrs Weasley suggested,
watching him trying to eavesdrop on a conversation between Emmeline Vance and Dedalus
Diggle. “The Headmaster will be here soon, and he’ll want to start promptly. The less time
he’s away from the school, the better, these days.”

Harry didn’t particularly want to see Dumbledore, so he didn’t argue, loading up his plate
with food and getting to his feet. Struck with a shot of rebellion in the absence of the twins
and the reminder of his expulsion, he swung by Sirius and Remus on his way out, ducking his
head to whisper in Sirius’ ear. “Going out for a bit. Muggle London. Don’t freak out if I’m
not back by the end of the meeting.”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to protest — then stopped himself, nodding
sharply. “Have fun, be safe,” he muttered, mouth barely even opening. Beside him, Remus
gave Harry a searching glance and a quick flash of a smile.

“See you in a bit,” he said, as if just bidding Harry goodbye for the duration of the Order
meeting.

Harry padded up to his room, wolfing down his lunch quickly and changing into a fairly
nondescript outfit — one of Sirius’ old band t-shirts, his least baggy pair of jeans, and a
flannel shirt that he was pretty sure had been George’s, once upon a time. He slipped his
Gringotts credit card into his pocket, toed on his trainers — and after a brief thought, grabbed
his old school satchel, which was charmed to hold far more than its size suggested. His
invisibility cloak was inside it, and he swung it over his shoulders. Moody might see him
leave, but he doubted the man would raise the alarm. He was one of the few people who
didn’t treat Harry like a little kid, these days.

Sneaking out of the house was almost laughably easy. With everyone keen to start the Order
meeting and waiting for Dumbledore’s arrival, no one noticed the front door open and close
by itself, just wide enough for a skinny fifteen year-old boy to squeeze through. He kept the
cloak on all the way to the tube station fifteen minutes down the road, ducking into a public
toilet to remove it and stow it back in his bag.
Five minutes and a swipe of his credit card later, and Harry was on the Victoria Line, headed
into central London. He grinned to himself, ducking his head.

For the first time in his life, he had money to spend and the freedom to spend it. It was going
to be a good day.

.-.-.

To his credit, Harry didn’t go entirely overboard. He lived with the hope that he wasn’t yet
done growing, so a whole new wardrobe wasn’t necessary. But the ability to buy socks and
underwear that were brand new; jeans and shirts and jumpers that fit; trainers that didn’t have
holes in and soft leather boots that would keep his feet warm through winter… it was almost
better than magic.

No one questioned a fifteen year-old out shopping by himself, not on Oxford Street. There
were plenty of schools that hadn’t gone back yet. And knowing he wasn’t likely to get
another opportunity to be free of Grimmauld Place any time soon, Harry made the most of it.
He didn’t limit himself to just clothes, stopping in to Boots to buy toiletries and contact
lenses, and even treating himself to a small stack of fiction books at WH Smiths.

He was glad for the expansion and featherlight charms on his satchel, filling it with his
purchases, relishing in the freedom of being in the muggle world. Here he wasn’t Harry
Potter, wasn’t anyone remotely interesting. He was just another face in the busy London
crowd; a boy taking advantage of the back-to-school sales.

He still kept his scar hidden, of course. One of his first purchases was a knit black beanie hat,
which had the benefit of covering his forehead and also hiding the ridiculous birds nest that
was his hair. He was almost tempted to go for a haircut, but couldn’t risk a cut that might
leave his scar exposed. He’d get Ginny to do it, when she came home for Christmas. Mrs
Weasley always cut it too short at the front.

He indulged in some sweets as well; things that Dudley had bragged about having that Harry
had never been able to try, muggle foods that the wizarding world just didn’t have. He bought
some chocolate for Remus as a thank you for not kicking up a fuss about him leaving, and a
magazine about motorcycles for Sirius. He almost bought one of the upper-shelf mags with
girls in bikinis on them, just for a laugh, but he couldn’t bring himself to take that to the
checkout with a straight face.

Keeping an eye on the time, unsure how long the Order meeting was likely to run, Harry
stayed out for as long as he dared. Eventually, he made his way home, wrapped in his brand
new denim jacket with its soft fleece-lined collar. It was getting dark by the time he walked
back from the station to Grimmauld, and he just knew he was going to be in trouble, but he
couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d had the best day.

Sure enough, when he slipped through the front door, he was greeted by a furious redhead.
“And just where have you been, young man?” Mrs Weasley thundered, wincing when the
drapes over Mrs Black’s portrait flew open, the woman screeching her bile to the household.
“Oh, you found him, then!” Tonks said cheerfully, head peeking out over the stair rail.
“Wotcher, Harry. Nice jacket!”

“Harry, what in Merlin’s name were you thinking? Leaving the house, by yourself to boot!
You could’ve been killed! Anything could’ve happened!”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes, watching Sirius wrestle the curtains back over his
mother’s screaming face. “In my defence, no one actually told me I wasn’t allowed to go
out,” he replied, somewhat facetiously. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tonks stuff her
fist in her mouth to muffle a laugh.

Mrs Weasley was not amused, hands on her hips. “Of course you’re not allowed! What if
you’d been seen, what if Death Eaters had found you?”

“If Death Eaters were in John Lewis on Oxford Street, I think we’d have bigger problems,”
Harry said with a shrug. “It’s not like I went to Diagon or anything. I was in the middle of
muggle London.”

“Oh, like that’s any better! What if you’d gotten lost?”

“…I’d get on the bus to the nearest tube station?” Harry shook his head, bewildered by the
woman’s worry. “Mrs Weasley, I was raised muggle. I know how to get around — probably
better than I do anywhere magical. I just did a bit of clothes’ shopping, since I had the chance
to sort my stuff out with Gringotts yesterday. Thought at fifteen years old, I deserved some
pants that hadn’t been worn to death by my cousin first.” There was a bit more bite to his
tone than he’d intended, but honestly he wasn’t ready for his good mood to be spoiled just
yet.

“Let the lad buy his Y-fronts in peace,” Moody remarked, limping out of the kitchen. His
magical eye whizzed up and down over Harry. “Beg pardon, boxer shorts.”

“Ew, Mad-Eye,” Tonks groaned, making a face.

“He’s just a boy!” Mrs Weasley whirled on the ex-auror. “Harry Potter or not, he shouldn’t be
going out unsupervised. He didn’t even tell anyone where he was going, he could’ve been
killed and we’d never know where to look!”

“I told you, Molly, I knew where he was,” Sirius insisted. Harry rifled through his bag for the
magazine, tossing it towards his godfather. Sirius’ face lit up. “Brilliant! Thanks, pup.”

Mrs Weasley huffed, looking from adult to adult, recognising she had no allies there. “Well
excuse me for being worried,” she retorted. A pang of guilt squeezed Harry’s gut.

“Mrs Weasley, I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said, looking appropriately apologetic.
“Everyone was busy with Order stuff, I figured I’d nip out and be back before you were done.
Then I got a bit carried away. I’ve never had muggle money before now — my aunt and
uncle never let me have anything that wasn’t Dudley’s first.” Except for his very first school
uniform, which had still come out of the charity shop. Everything else he’d owned had been
Dudley’s, and was only given to him once the boy had grown out of it or worn through it.
Mrs Weasley’s expression faltered, not immune to Harry’s sad-orphan-face. “You can’t just
leave like that, Harry. It’s dangerous out there. Especially without your wand.”

“Bah!” Moody barked, amused. “Don’t need to worry about that one, Molly. The lad’s better
wandless than half the aurors I’ve trained using the wands they’ve had since first year. He can
handle himself in a fight.” He wound a scarf around his neck, clapping Harry on the shoulder.
“Tomorrow morning, nine sharp.”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, Moody left, and Mrs Weasley seemed to deflate. “Well. Next time, maybe tell
someone first, Harry, dear. Someone responsible,” she clarified, glaring sharply at Sirius.

Harry wisely kept his mouth shut, not offering the promise that he’d told Remus, too.
Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t have a death wish. “So, I’m just gonna… go put this in
my room…” He trailed off, edging towards the stairs and praying he was done being scolded.
As soon as he was clear of the first floor, he scarpered, hurrying the rest of the way up to his
bedroom. Safe in his new refuge, he sighed, tossing his bulging satchel onto the bed.

One day, he’d be able to go to the bloody shops without an armed guard or the Spanish
Inquisition.

.-.-.

For the first time in his life, Harry had a wardrobe full of clothing that he’d chosen himself,
that actually fit properly. He stared at the open wardrobe, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Now this room really felt like home.

With that in mind, he turned to the desk in the corner; the one part of the room he hadn’t
touched other than to clean. It was the only place likely to hold anything Sirius actually cared
about, and Harry had been reluctant to go through it up until now. But his godfather had made
it abundantly clear that Harry was welcome to do what he liked with the contents of the
room. He’d been given enough time, Harry told himself. He wouldn’t object to Harry
organising the space for himself.

He needed somewhere to hide his Pick & Mix, after all.

Bracing himself for Merlin only knew what — pictures of his dad, old prank items, anything
weird or scandalous that sixteen year-old Sirius might have left behind in his haste to run
away — Harry tugged open the central drawer of the desk, and froze.

There was a single sheet of parchment lying on top of the drawer’s contents, covered in
unfamiliar writing. Stomach churning uneasily, Harry picked it up and began to read.

Dear Sirius,

I don’t know why I’m leaving this letter here. I know you’ll never be back in this house, if you
have any say in it. But I can’t quite bring myself to send it to you. I doubt you’d read it if I
did.

I’m going to die, soon. I know I am. The Dark Lord won’t let me live once he finds out what
I’m planning. I just hope I succeed before he reaches me. And I hope— I hope you read this
one day, and know that I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I was such a coward. I’m sorry I believed those lies our parents drilled into us. I’m
sorry I let them push you out of the family. And most of all, I’m sorry I let you believe I hated
you.

Of course I never hated you. You’re my big brother. You protected me from Dad’s curses when
we were kids, you healed my scraped knees and played with me when I was told I was being a
nuisance, you comforted me after my nightmares. I idolised you. Even after you were sorted
into Gryffindor — especially after you were sorted into Gryffindor. I knew I could never do
something to separate myself from the family like that, to stand out so blatantly. I’ve been a
Slytherin through and through since the day I was born, we both know that. But that doesn’t
make me like them. I wish you could’ve seen that. I wish I’d let you see it.

When you ran away, I hated you a little bit. Only because I wished I could go with you. I
wished I had somewhere to go that our parents couldn’t touch me. Wished I still had my big
brother to protect me. As far as you were concerned, I was dead to you along with the rest of
the family. I don’t blame you, there.

Still, what’s done is done. You did what you had to do to survive, and you thrived. You took
that Gryffindor courage and you told the whole family where they could shove their
pureblood beliefs. I’ve always been so very proud of you for that.

You seem happy, now, from what little I know of your life. I heard Evans — sorry, Potter, now
— is expecting. I’m sure you’ll be godfather, and I’m sure you’ll spoil that child absolutely
rotten. You’ve got your Marauders, and you’re blazing a trail through the auror department.
I’ve heard plenty about that, of course. You’re putting rather a damper on things for the Dark
Lord.

I wish I could speak to you one last time, but I’m not foolish enough to believe you’d listen to
anything I’d have to say. Still, I can’t die without at least trying.

I can’t die without telling someone.

The Dark Lord has a horcrux. I’m hoping it’s just the one. I can’t imagine anyone would be so
mad as to make more than one. It’s Salazar Slytherin’s locket. I know because he asked the
use of a house elf to hide the locket in a secure place, and I stupidly volunteered Kreacher for
the job. Poor, poor Kreacher. I know you’ve never liked him, but even you wouldn’t wish upon
him what he had to go through in the Dark Lord’s care.

I can’t follow a man who would split his soul, who would use such foul magic. Even before
that, I’ve had… doubts. Being a Death Eater isn’t quite the political opportunity I was led to
believe. I don’t like muggles, I don’t want them anywhere near me or mine, but that doesn’t
mean I want to spend my nights torturing them.
 I don’t want to kill perfectly healthy, talented magical citizens just because they disagree with
the madman I’ve foolishly thrown my lot in with. We’ll have nothing left but ashes and squibs,
at this rate. Not even the squibs; the Dark Lord wants them dead, too.

I’m the only one who knows about the horcrux. I think the Dark Lord expected Kreacher to
die completing his task, but I ordered him to return to me no matter what. I brewed the
antidote to the Drink of Despair, and healed Kreacher, and he told me everything.

I can’t let such dark magic exist in the world. I can’t let the Dark Lord remain immortal. If
there’s a chance — any chance — that someone might be able to best him, he cannot have his
foul magic tucked away to keep him safe. I know where it is, I know how to get past its
protections. I’m going to get it, and destroy it.

That’s the plan, anyway. Kreacher has instructions if I do not return — he is to destroy the
locket if I cannot. If you ever find this letter, please, speak to Kreacher. Confirm he has
succeeded. Be kind to him; he is the only friend I have left, now.

Either I will die in the attempt, or I will die when the Dark Lord finds out what I have done.
But with any luck, when I die he will be mortal once more. My life is not worth much these
days, but at least I can do this.

I’m sorry, Sirius. I’m sorry I’m not brave enough to tell you all this in person. I don’t know
what scares me more — the chance that you won’t care, or the chance that you will, and
you’ll try and talk me out of it. I have to do this. To make up for everything that monster has
made me do.

Whatever awaits me in the afterlife, I hope it will one day allow me to see you again, and to
apologise for everything. To hug my big brother again.

I love you, Sirius. Have a fantastic life.

Sincerely,

Regulus

The letter fluttered from Harry’s limp grasp, floating down to the desktop. Harry stared at it,
unseeing, his heart in his mouth. The words seared into his mind.

What in the world was a horcrux?

Chapter End Notes

Oh hello there, plotline. Took you a bit to show up!

 Chapter 9

Harry’s pulse thudded in his ears as he read the letter from Regulus Black a second time,
paying close attention to his words regarding the Dark Lord’s immortality. There was some
sort of magic, on Slytherin’s locket. Something that was keeping Voldemort alive. Regulus
had gone to destroy it — had he succeeded?

The letter said to check with Kreacher, that the house elf knew everything. It made Harry
grimace — Kreacher was so mad by now, would he even remember?

Perhaps this whole thing was what had made him mad to begin with.

Palms sweating, Harry called for the elf. “Kreacher,” he said firmly, wondering if the house
elf would even respond. Harry was Sirius’ heir, he’d said so — that made him part of the
family, right? Surely Kreacher had to respond? “Kreacher, come here please.”

A heartbeat, then a soft pop, and the elderly elf appeared in the centre of the room, scowling.

“Nasty half-blood calls Kreacher, thinks he’s Kreacher’s master, does he?” he muttered, as if
Harry wasn’t stood right in front of him. Harry cleared his throat.

“Kreacher, I found this letter from Regulus.” The name made the elf tense, his tennis-ball
eyes going impossibly wider.

“Master Regulus?” he gasped, tone reverent. “Master Regulus wrote a letter for Kreacher?”

“Well, no,” Harry said awkwardly, “it’s for Sirius. But he talks about you. He says — he says
he was going to destroy a locket, that you would do it if he couldn’t.”

All of a sudden, Kreacher let out a wail like a dying animal, clutching at his grubby
pillowcase. “Oh, Kreacher’s greatest shame!” he moaned. “Master Regulus’ locket, Kreacher
could not! It resisted!”

“You couldn’t destroy it?” Harry asked sharply. Kreacher shook his head, twisting his ears
painfully.

“Kreacher could not, Kreacher was not strong enough!” he said, tears dripping down his long
nose. “The one request Master Regulus made of Kreacher, and Kreacher failed! Bad, bad
Kreacher!”

Before the elf could start slamming his head against the desk, Harry made a grab for him.
“Do you still have the locket? I can help you destroy it.”

“Why would nasty half-blood help Kreacher?” Kreacher sneered suspiciously.

“Because Regulus Black wanted the Dark Lord dead for what he did to you,” Harry said
slowly, gesturing to the letter. “And I want him dead, too. Bring me the locket, Kreacher.
Please.”

The elf stared at him for a long moment. Then, he vanished.

Harry cursed quietly, then jumped when Kreacher appeared just as abruptly as he’d gone.
Now, there was an ornate locket on a chain around his neck — a locket that reeked of dark
magic.

More than that, it was familiar dark magic.

It felt like the same kind of magic Harry felt around his scar during his visions from
Voldemort. “Put it on the desk, please, Kreacher.” He didn’t want to touch it. He didn’t know
what it would do to him. Kreacher did as bid, carefully setting it next to the letter from
Regulus. “What have you tried, to destroy it?”

“Kreacher burned it, and boiled it, and stabbed it with Mistress Black’s cursed dagger,”
Kreacher groaned. “Kreacher tried to smash it but it was too strong. Kreacher could not even
open it! Kreacher tried all the magic he could think of, but Kreacher failed Master Regulus.”

“So regular magic won’t cut it,” Harry murmured to himself. He’d expected as much. “Did
Regulus tell you what a horcrux is? Did he give you any idea what might destroy it?”

Kreacher’s ears flapped as he shook his head. “Master Regulus told Kreacher it is dark, bad
magic. It is the Dark Lord’s soul made solid. But Kreacher was not told how to break it.”

The words sent shivers down Harry’s spine — his soul made solid? What did that mean?

He would have to do some research.

Having the locket in his room made his head hurt and his blood turn to ice. “Kreacher, you
can keep looking after the locket for now. But I promise you, I’ll find a way to destroy it. I’ll
help you fulfil Regulus’ last wish.”

“Nast— young half-blood master would do that for Kreacher?” the elf asked in wonder.
Harry nodded.

“I will. I don’t know how long it’ll take me, but I swear to you I’ll do it. I just need you to
keep the locket safe until I’m ready. Can you do that for me?”

Kreacher nodded, eyes wide. He reached for the locket and hugged it tight against his chest.
“Master let the filthy blood traitors try and throw it away, but Kreacher saved it. Kreacher
saved everything he could. All the precious family items, Master didn’t care about any of it!”

Harry bit his lip. He didn’t want to go against Sirius’ orders, but… “I’m Sirius’ heir, so that
makes me your master too, right?” Kreacher nodded. “Then I allow you to save what you
can. But — can you access the Gringotts vaults?” Again, the elf nodded. “Keep the locket
with you, but take everything else Sirius doesn’t want in the house to Gringotts. A lot of it is
cursed, it’s not safe to have lying around. But that doesn’t mean it should just get thrown
away.” Honestly, he was surprised Sirius hadn’t thought about how dangerous it was, to just
chuck out dark items like that. He was blinded by his hatred for the house, for the memories
it held.

“Kreacher can protect the heirlooms of the House of Black?” There was hope in his raspy
voice, it made Harry’s heart clench. He pushed away that little bit of him that always
identified a bit too much with house elves; he hadn’t dissected it before, and now definitely
wasn’t the time.

“Put them all in the vault, if they’re set to be thrown away. And— and anything else in the
house that’s cursed.” Maybe one day, when Sirius was free and Harry was old enough to
access the vaults, they could work on removing the curses, maybe get Bill and his team
involved. Until then, they were safest with the goblins.

“Yes, Master! Kreacher can do that!” The smile on the aged elf’s face showed the few
yellowing teeth he had left, his eyes bright and shiny. Harry wondered how old the elf even
was, what he’d gone through in Voldemort’s hands. Whatever the Drink of Despair was, it
didn’t sound pleasant.

“Thank you, Kreacher. I’ll let you know about the locket.”

Kreacher offered the first honest bow Harry had ever seen from him, then disappeared once
more. The removal of the locket was palpable, the sickening stranglehold of Voldemort’s
magic lifting immediately. He shuddered — he felt like he needed a shower to get the stench
of it off him, and he hadn’t even touched the thing.

Harry grabbed the letter off the desk — he needed to show Sirius, before anything else.

Bursting from his room, he hurried upstairs to the master bedroom, not bothering to knock.
Sirius was sprawled on the bed, reading the magazine Harry had bought him. He frowned at
his godson’s abrupt entrance. “Pup, what’s the matter?”

Wordlessly, Harry thrust the letter towards him. He stood there and watched Sirius read, his
face getting paler and paler with ever sentence, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed
back the tears that shone in his eyes. By the time he looked back up at Harry, Sirius was
devastated. “Reggie.. He…” He shook his head, mouth moving soundlessly. Harry shuffled
closer, sliding an arm around his godfather’s waist, letting the man collapse against him.
“That daft little idiot,” Sirius choked out, losing his battle against tears. “Going against the
Dark Lord, what was he thinking? Stupid— he should’ve come to me. I would have helped
him.”

“That’s what he was afraid of,” Harry said softly.

“He still should’ve come to me. I was his big brother. It was my job to— to protect him.”
Sirius’ voice cracked, a sob tearing from his lips. It broke Harry’s heart to watch him, and he
just held him close, letting him cry. “Merlin, my little Reggie. There were rumours— we
always thought he’d died fleeing Voldemort. Got cold feet, couldn’t handle it. He was only
eighteen when he died. Barely out of Hogwarts six months. Merlin…”
Harry swallowed thickly. He’d figured Regulus had to be young, to have been Sirius’
younger brother and died before Sirius went to Azkaban, when he was just barely twenty-
two. But eighteen… Voldemort was despicable, grooming children so young.

His thoughts turned to the Slytherins he knew, the ones whose parents were Death Eaters, had
been at the graveyard. How many of them were in the same position as Regulus Black had
once been? Too terrified to go against their family, the expectation everyone had of them. Too
scared to openly defy the Dark Lord when they knew they had no protection from those on
the side of the Light.

Harry couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let more kids end up like Regulus. He had to kill
Voldemort before they were forced into that choice.

“Sirius,” he started tentatively. “Do— do you know what a horcrux is?”

Sirius sat up, wiping at his eyes. “It sounds familiar. I can’t think where I’ve heard it before
— it’s certainly not common magic. Reg clearly— Reg thought I’d know. He’d have
explained, otherwise.” He ran a hand through his hair, scowling. “I know I’ve heard of them.
Splitting the soul, it all sounds familiar — bloody Azkaban frazzled my brain. My memory’s
Swiss cheese, these days.” Harry squeezed his hand supportively. Sirius perked up. “Moony
might know. All those books of his, I bet one of them has something to say about horcruxes.
If not, the library’s bound to have something. Probably how Reggie learned about them in the
first place.” He smiled, a haunted smile that made Harry’s chest ache. “Always was a
bookworm. He practically lived in that library when we were kids. I think— I think he knew
Father would leave him alone if he thought he was learning.”

“I’m sorry, Sirius,” Harry murmured, gripping his hand tighter. “About… everything.” His
childhood. His brother. His family, by choice not blood; Harry’s family. Everyone gone, and
twelve long years in Azkaban to relive the worst of it, surrounded by dementors. All that
Sirius had gone through, and he was only thirty-five. Not even close to middle-aged by
magical standards. He should still be that bright-eyed, rakish young man Harry saw in his
parents’ wedding photos, in Moody’s picture of the original Order.

Sirius, Remus, Harry. All three of them should’ve had lives that were a lot different to reality.

At least they had each other, now.

Sirius coughed awkwardly. He let go of Harry’s hand, setting Regulus’ letter down on the
bedspread, smoothing it out gently. “Why don’t you go find Remus, see what he knows,” he
suggested, voice hoarse. “I’ll… I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Of course, yeah,” Harry agreed. If he were Sirius, he’d want to be alone for a while, too.
“Take your time.”

He stumbled out of the room on uneasy legs, taking a long, shaky breath once he’d shut the
door on his grieving godfather. Harry hated to be the one to make Sirius so sad, but… he
couldn’t keep Regulus’ last letter from the person it was addressed to. He couldn’t let Sirius
go a second longer, thinking his brother had died a loyal Death Eater. Unaware his little
brother was a hero.
He turned to the stairs, wondering where Remus might be. With any luck, he would have
some answers.

.-.-.

Unfortunately, Remus didn’t know what a horcrux was. “I’m sure I’ve come across the term
before,” he said, fingers worrying at the hem of his cardigan. Harry had found him in the
kitchen, which was now entirely empty of Order members, though not of the food Mrs
Weasley had made. “I’ll have a look through my books, and do a search through the library.
Have you learned that spell yet?”

When Harry shook his head, Remus — ever the teacher — went over it with him, explaining
that you just had to say the spell followed by the term you wanted to look for, and if there
was enough power in it, it should summon every book containing that word or phrase. It
sounded incredibly useful, and Harry wondered why none of the professors at Hogwarts had
told him about it.

“Most younger students don’t have the power to make it work in a library as big as
Hogwarts,” Remus remarked. “Flitwick usually teaches it in fifth year, though; to help prep
for OWLs.” He grimaced apologetically. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Honestly, a reminder of his expulsion was nothing compared to all the other
emotions he’d experienced that day. He could hardly believe that two hours ago he’d been
gallivanting around Harrods, goggling at expensive toys and gadgets that Dudley would have
only dreamed of owning; things that Harry had enough gold in his vault to buy a dozen times
over without even flinching.

“All this came in a letter from Regulus, you said?” Remus’ voice broke into his thoughts,
thick with concern. His eyes flicked up to the ceiling.

“Yeah. It— it was a lot. It hit Sirius pretty hard.”

“I should go see how he’s doing,” Remus murmured. “He was devastated, when Regulus
died. Even though he tried to convince us all he couldn’t care less about his brother, we knew
how much he loved him. It was months before he was acting normal again. Only— only after
you were born, to be honest.” He ran a hand over his greying hair. “Harry, would you mind
sorting yourself out for dinner? Molly’s left some lasagne in the cold box, you just need to
heat it up. I don’t— I don’t know if Sirius will be up for a proper meal.”

“Of course, yeah. You go be with him; he could use the company. Don’t worry about me.”

Remus stroked Harry’s hair, hand sliding down to squeeze the back of his neck, and he leaned
in to brush his nose against Harry’s temple; one of the more wolfish instincts Harry had
gotten used to in the last few weeks. “You’re a good lad, Harry,” he murmured. “We both
love you very much, you know.”

Harry swallowed, blinking away the unexpected rush of emotion. “I know,” he assured.
Remus straightened up with a small smile, getting to his feet. “We might not see you before
you go to bed. If not, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight.”

Alone in the kitchen, Harry took a few moments to gather his thoughts, then set about
investigating the lasagne Remus had talked about. It wasn’t even that late, but it had been
such a long day — dinner, a bath, and an early night sounded like a good idea to him.

.-.-.

Harry hadn’t dared touch the desk again when he went up to his room, not wanting to
discover any more unexpected emotional bombshells. He had a long soak in the bath opposite
his room, then holed himself up in bed with one of the muggle books he’d bought for
himself. It was a fantasy story that had only come out a few months ago, about a girl called
Sabriel — all the posters in the shop were proclaiming it the greatest children’s fantasy book
of the year, and Harry had been intrigued by the muggle portrayal of magic.

So engrossed in the story, he almost didn’t notice the mirror buzzing on his bedside table.
When he realised, he snatched it up, peering into the glass as two identical faces appeared.

“You look cozy,” Fred chirped. Beside him, George’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you alright? Have you been crying?”

Harry ducked his gaze. “I— don’t worry about it. It’s just been a bit of a day.” He wasn’t
quite ready to unpack all of that yet. “Never mind me — how are you guys? How’s
Hogwarts? What’s the new Defence teacher like?”

The twins made identical expressions of disgust. “She’s awful,” Fred groaned.

“Some Ministry toadie—“

“And we mean that literally, she looks like a toad—“

“She won’t let us use magic in class. All we do is sit and read the theory,” George finished.
Harry frowned.

“Ministry? What do you mean?”

“She works for Fudge,” George said. “Dolores Umbridge.”

“Hermione reckons the Ministry’s trying to get control of the school,” Fred added. “They got
you out, now they’re trying for Dumbledore.”

“Umbridge?” The name was familiar, and it hit Harry suddenly. “She was at my trial! Short,
round woman, wears a lot of pink?”

“That’s the one,” the twins confirmed.

“Your trial? Is she in the Wizengamot?” George’s face was grim.

“No, she’s— what was it.” Harry tried to remember; the trial had been such a blur. “Oh yeah!
Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,” he repeated. “Or something like that. Fudge’s lap
dog, basically.” He scowled. “What’s Dumbledore doing letting someone like her teach?”

“Didn’t have a choice, did he?” Fred pointed out.

“People are hardly lining up for the job,” George finished.

“She won’t let you use magic? But how are you supposed to pass exams and stuff?”

“Pretty sure we’re not, mate,” Fred said. “Hermione’s livid. Ron almost got detention in his
first class — apparently she was saying all this stuff about how Dumbledore’s mad and
you’re delusional and it’s a good thing you got expelled.”

“She would say that, wouldn’t she,” Harry muttered derisively, remembering how pleased
she’d seemed when the verdict had been announced. “Merlin, that’s awful, I’m sorry.” It was
ridiculous; how were people supposed to learn to defend themselves if the Ministry was
interfering with their classes like that? What sort of lengths was Fudge willing to go to, just
to deny Voldemort’s return?

“How’s everything else? How are Ron and Hermione?” he asked. The twins shared a look.
“What?” His heart sank. “How bad is it?”

George sighed. “It’s not great. There’s… a lot of people who think you’ve gone off the deep
end, after the Triwizard and all. Story seems to be that you had some sort of mental
breakdown and started cursing your cousin, and that’s why you got expelled.”

Harry should have expected it, but it still hurt. “Fuck. What a load of bollocks.” He asked a
question he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to. “How many people believe it?”

“Not everyone,” Fred assured him quickly. “Most of the Gryffindors know better. They aren’t
sure exactly what happened, but they know you’re not crazy. Ron and Hermione are trying to
spread the word about what actually happened, but it’s slow going. Especially with Umbridge
around.”

“Most of the Gryffindors,” Harry echoed. “So the rest of the school think I’m a nutter, yeah?”

“The Ministry refuses to believe Voldemort’s back.” Harry wasn’t sure when George had
started saying the name like that, without even flinching, but it made something in his
stomach twist almost proudly. “They’re doing everything they can to hide the truth —
including making you and Dumbledore out to be off your rockers.”

“Fantastic,” came Harry’s deadpan response. “Great. Well, maybe it’s for the best I’m not at
school after all, then.” He dreaded to think how short his temper would be in the face of yet
another year of the whole school whispering about him.

“No it’s not,” George responded instantly. “It’s rubbish without you here.”
He paused, then went pink, his twin snickering. Harry blushed.

“The good news is, business is booming already. Loads of people want excuses to get out of
Umbridge’s classes. They’re even more boring than Binns,” Fred told him, rescuing the
awkward silence that had fallen.

“We’re gonna use some of the stuff we were working on over the summer on her,” George
added, smirking mischievously. “See if she has the guts to handle being a Hogwarts
professor. We’ll definitely be focusing on her, if she was at your trial.”

“Take pictures for me, if you get her with anything really great,” Harry requested, grinning.
He smiled at the thought of what the twins might have in store for the awful woman.

“Aye aye, Captain!” the twins assured, saluting in unison.

“Oh, mate, you should’ve seen it the other day,” Fred enthused. “Hermione tried to give us
detention.”

George cackled. “Wanted Ronniekins to back her up and everything. He wouldn’t, of course
— doesn’t have the guts for that, smart boy that he is.”

“What were you doing?” Harry asked with raised eyebrows. They hadn’t even been back a
full week!

“Testing products on volunteers in the common room,” Fred answered, the picture of
innocence. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“…Volunteers that might’ve been ickle firsties that didn’t know any better,” George clarified
sheepishly. “But it was nothing we hadn’t already tested on ourselves, and Lee! And we told
them what they’d be eating before they ate it. We just needed a wider variety of test
subjects!”

Harry snorted. “No wonder Hermione was pissed. But surely she knows you wouldn’t
actually hurt first years?” The twins were pranksters, but they weren’t malicious. They
wouldn’t give kids anything that had a chance of actually being dangerous.

“You’d think!” George agreed.

“But no, Little Miss Prefect’s got no faith in us.” Fred shook his head sadly. “Hurts, it does
— she’s known us so long, and she still thinks the worst!”

There was humour in his tone, but Harry knew better — Hermione’s assumptions probably
had hurt the twins. Their pranks had never been cruel.

“She just doesn’t want to let McGonagall down, you know what she’s like,” he sighed. “I’m
sure she’ll chill out eventually. Or just give up. It’s not like there’s actually anything in the
school rules about experimenting on first years.”

“If only we had your voice of reason here, Harrikins,” George said. “The firsties jumped at
the chance to prove they’d sorted Gryffindor for a reason. Especially when we offered them
free stuff in exchange for testing.”

“Nice advertising, there,” Harry complimented, and George winked.

“Why, thank you. We do try.” His smile faltered, brown eyes growing concerned. “You sure
you’re alright?”

For a moment, Harry thought about telling them about the letter from Regulus Black. But it
wasn’t really his story to tell — it was Sirius’ private business.

“I am now,” he said honestly, surprised how true that was — even if the news from the twins
wasn’t entirely positive, it had cheered him up just to talk to them, to see their faces. He
glanced across the room at his open wardrobe, and the flannel shirt draped across the back of
the desk chair. “Oh, Merlin, I really pissed off your mum today. I thought she was gonna
ground me or something, I swear.”

Their faces lit up. “Oh? Tell us more,” Fred urged. “Should we expect a howler for corrupting
you?”

Laughing, Harry regaled the twins with the tale of his excursion into muggle London, and
Mrs Weasley’s fury upon his return.

“You little sass monster, you!” George crowed when Harry recounted his response about
Death Eaters in John Lewis. “What happened to shy, quiet ickle Harrikins?”

“He spent too much time around a pair of redheaded menaces,” Harry retorted, smirking.

“Oh? Handsome menaces, I bet,” George drawled.

“Clever, too,” Fred chimed in.

“They’re alright, I guess,” Harry said, shrugging, chuckling at their offended looks. “So
anyway, I told her where I’d been, and she starts going off on one about how no one knew
where I was and I could’ve been killed or kidnapped or whatever. You should’ve seen her
face when Sirius said I’d told him where I was going before I’d left. I felt a bit bad, actually;
she’s only trying to look out for me.”

“No, don’t let the guilt in! That’s how she gets you!” Fred warned. “She’ll give you the sad,
disappointed face, and before you know it you’re following the rules!”

“Me, following rules? I wouldn’t go that far,” Harry teased. The twins laughed.

“Sounds like you had fun, though,” George said.

“We’ve never been to muggle London, not properly.” Fred’s voice was full of envy. “You’ll
have to take us one day, show us around.”

“I’m not sure London would survive,” Harry replied wryly. The thought of trying to herd the
twins through Oxford Street… he’d need help, for sure. Only, he couldn’t think of anyone
who wouldn’t make the chaos worse. Even Fleur would probably just sit back and laugh.
He was hanging out with far too many pranksters, these days.

“I’m glad you’ve got decent clothes now, though. Not your cousin’s old rags.” George smiled
softly. “You deserve it.”

There was a long pause, Harry and George just smiling at each other through the mirror. Fred
coughed. “Hang on, Harry, I think Lee’s calling me for something. I’ll catch you later, yeah?”
He waved, then disappeared. When they heard the door shut, Harry snorted.

“Subtle,” he commented, making George laugh.

“That’s my brother,” he agreed, voice fond. He bit his lip, then sighed. “It’s really weird
without you here, y’know.”

“It’s weird not being there.” Harry couldn’t deny that. “But it’s not bad, being here. I’m
starting to learn some good stuff, and I swear I’ve learned more about being a wizard in the
last week than I had in the whole four years before it. No one tells me shit.”

“We all forget you were raised muggle,” George said apologetically.

“I didn’t mean you guys. I mostly meant Dumbledore.”

“Ah, then I won’t argue there.” George ran a hand through his hair. The sight of him,
sprawled on his bed like that, made Harry’s heart hurt. “You’re doing okay, then? I don’t need
to send Bill round there to come cheer you up?”

“Reinforcements not necessary, promise,” Harry insisted, chuckling quietly. He broke off
with a yawn, jaw cracking.

“Blimey. I should let you go to bed.” George smiled when Harry pouted.

“I can stay up a bit longer.”

“Don’t tempt me,” George sighed. Harry bit his lip to keep his own thoughts in his head.
“We’ll call again at the weekend. Let you know how the war against Umbridge is going.”

“Be careful around her,” Harry warned. “She’s got Fudge’s ear. That makes her dangerous.”

“No one who wears that much pink can be that dangerous,” George shot back. “We can
handle her. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Potter.” He gave his roguish smile. “We’ll
make her regret messing with Harry Potter. By Christmas, she’ll be begging you to come
back to school just to make us stop.”

Harry laughed; if only that were possible. Christmas felt like ages away, now. “Just don’t get
caught, then.”

“Us? Never,” the redhead promised. “Go on, go to sleep. You’ve got to duel Mad-Eye in the
morning.”
Harry made a face at the reminder. “I s’pose.” He slumped further back against his pillows,
already feeling his eyes get drowsy. He forced them open, just in time to see a
heartbreakingly fond expression on George’s face, just for a second, before he covered it up
with a grin. “Goodnight, George.”

“Night, Harry.”

A heartbeat, then the mirror went fuzzy, before showing Harry nothing but his own reflection.

God, he looked like a lovesick little sop. It was a miracle no one but Sirius and Remus — and
Fred, of course — had noticed, over the summer. He supposed everyone else was too used to
seeing the twins as one singular entity to think Harry might feel otherwise.

He set the mirror on the bedside table, settling down and turning out his light. He’d run the
emotional gauntlet, today, with everything that had happened. But at least he was ending on a
good note.
 Chapter 10

With the entire Black family library at their fingertips, and Remus’ spell to search the
library… the three of them still only found one book that had mention of the word horcrux.

“Magyk Moste Evile, blimey, bit on the nose,” Sirius muttered with a grimace, waving his
wand over the tome to scan it for any nasty surprises. It looked old, the black leather binding
cracked and peeling in places. Only once Sirius deemed it safe did Harry reach to open it,
flicking to the page that Remus’ spell had made glow. He skimmed it, his stomach curdling.

“God. This is… Moste Evile is definitely the right phrase for it.” He passed it to Remus, so
the two adults could read.

Horcruxes were a container for a piece of a person’s literal soul, separated off by killing in
cold blood. When Kreacher said it was Voldemort’s soul made solid, when Regulus talked
about the Dark Lord splitting his soul, they were being completely serious.

The locket held a fragment of soul, and that’s why it felt so dark, so twisted.

But… what did that mean about Harry’s scar, when it felt the same way?

Sirius cursed under his breath, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. Reggie, what did you get
yourself into?”

“He might’ve just won us the war,” Harry pointed out, meeting his godfather’s gaze.
“Dumbledore told me Voldemort had found ways of making himself immortal. This is it. All
I have to do now is figure out how to destroy it. And… and find out if he’s got any more.”

“You think he made more than one of these things?” Remus asked, horrified.

Harry bit his lip. Saying it out loud made it real, but he couldn’t hide it from these two. He
told them about the magic of the locket, and how familiar it was. “It’s not only my scar,” he
added hastily, watching both Marauders go chalk-white. “If these things are bits of his soul, if
their purpose is for resurrection in the event of death… I think that diary Ginny had in my
second year was one.” It all added up; the shade of Tom Riddle had been draining her life
force, taking it for his own. It was more than just an imprint or a complicated spell woven in
those pages; it was a living entity of a sort, creeping into Ginny’s mind and slowly taking
over.

“This ritual, this magic… I can’t imagine doing it once, let alone multiple times.” Remus’
voice was raspy. The book went into detail on exactly how to create a horcrux, with
recommendations on object choice and ways to keep them safe. Naturally, there was nothing
in there about destroying or undoing horcruxes. That would’ve been far too easy.

“No wonder he’s so insane,” Sirius agreed. “He’s torn himself apart.” He reached out,
swiping his thumb over Harry’s scar. “How can there be part of him inside you? That
shouldn’t be possible.”
“First off, please never word it like that again, or I will have nightmares forever,” Harry
requested primly. “Second I have no idea, but it makes sense. The visions I have, the way I
can feel what he’s feeling sometimes… this connection between us isn’t like any magic
anyone’s heard of before. He probably did the preparation ritual before he came to kill me;
even when the magic rebounded on him, the piece of his soul was already loose.” Harry bit
his lip. “Maybe, because of that, it’s not a proper horcrux. Maybe it’s not connected properly,
or something. If it was, he’d be in my head, right? Properly, I mean.” He’d be like the diary
Tom Riddle was, leeching Harry’s life away, tricking him into offering it up.

“Or maybe it’s just an echo, and not even a real horcrux,” Remus suggested. He sounded like
he was trying to reassure himself and Sirius more than anything else. “There’s nothing in the
book about what happens if you’re killed while creating a horcrux. And no one’s ever seen
the killing curse rebound before. We still have no idea what really happened that night.”

The trio were silent, lost in grim thoughts of the worst night of their lives.

“Dumbledore knows.” Sirius’ voice startled Harry, and he eyed him quizzically. “Before the
dementor attack, I’d asked Dumbledore about bringing you here. You always told me you
were out of Privet Drive around your birthday, if not sooner. He… he wouldn’t have brought
you here if you hadn’t been attacked. He said it wasn’t safe, that there might be magic
connected to you that would weaken the protections on this place.”

Harry felt sick at the prospect of a full summer with the Dursleys, being denied information
by his friends. He would’ve gone insane. Then he remembered his discussion with
Dumbledore after his hearing, about his dreams and his headaches, and the way the man
hadn’t looked him in the eye when he told Harry he didn’t know what caused them.

Hadn’t looked him in the eye at all, in fact. Not since after the Triwizard task.

“I think you’re right,” he agreed grimly. “He’s been avoiding me, and not just because he
feels guilty about what happened at my trial.”

Rage bubbled in his gut when he thought of how the headmaster had told him he only had
suspicions on Voldemort’s methods of immortality. “He’s probably known about horcruxes
since the diary. And about my scar since I first told him about the dreams.” His blood was ice
in his veins. How much more information was the man going to keep from Harry for his own
good?

“So we don’t tell him we know, then,” Remus surmised. Harry looked at him in shock. “Cub,
the man has his own agenda, that much has always been clear. You said to us you told him
you weren’t going to play by his rules anymore. We’re with you on that.”

“Moony’s right,” Sirius agreed. “I don’t know what would be worse — that Dumbledore
knows how to destroy horcruxes and he’s keeping it to himself, or that he doesn’t know and
he isn’t allowing anyone to help him figure it out. Sure, you have to be wary of information
getting out — if Voldemort ever finds out someone’s on to him, all hell will break loose —
but that man’s always believed he was the smartest person in any room. He’s keeping the
Order busy protecting this bloody prophecy; we might as well put our time to better use and
figure out how to kill an immortal Dark Lord.”
It felt wrong, to be keeping important information from the Order. But Sirius was right; they
couldn’t afford for Voldemort to find out what they knew.

“Well, then. We know what they are — how do we find out how to destroy them? And find
any others?” The last thing Harry wanted was for everyone to believe Voldemort was dead
once more, only for the man to rise a third time. When he killed him, he wanted it to be
permanent. “None of the other books in here talk about horcruxes.” If they had, Regulus
would have known how to destroy the locket. He would have given Kreacher specific
instructions.

“Not by name, no,” Remus said. “They might go by another term. That’s the problem with
the searching spell — it works by word, not by concept. There could be dozens of books in
here that talk about soul magic, or blood magic, or how to destroy cursed items. We just have
to find them.”

Harry turned, looking at the tall shelves stacked to bursting with books.

That was going to take a while.

.-.-.

As promised, the twins called Harry on the mirror that Sunday evening. Immediately, they
both glared at him. “You gave your racing broom to our little sister!” they exclaimed
together. Harry grinned.

“You’ve had tryouts then? How did she do?”

“She made the team, of course,” George assured him, rolling his eyes. “Ron, too — he’s our
new keeper. I’m sure they’ll both write you about it. But why didn’t you say anything! I
thought Angelina was gonna cry when Ginny turned up with your Firebolt.”

“I didn’t want it sitting around gathering dust,” Harry reasoned, shrugging. “She came to ask
me if I would mind if she tried out for seeker with me gone, so I told her to take it. Were
there many others trying out? How tight was the competition?”

“Honestly, mate, she could’ve been riding a school broom and she’d have blown them all
away,” Fred declared, clearly impressed. “I didn’t know she had it in her!”

“She’s not as good as you, of course,” George added, “but she’s a damn fine flier.”

Harry’s chest puffed out in pride. At least he hadn’t let Gryffindor down entirely. “And Ron’s
tryout?”

Here, the twins shared an uneasy look. “…It was close. Cormac McLaggen performed better,
to be honest. But quite frankly, he’s a git, and Angie can’t stand him,” Fred relayed.

“Ron’s got potential, though. He just gets so bloody nervous and ends up going arse over tit.”
George rolled his eyes. “We’ll sort him out before the first game.”
Harry hoped Ron wrote to him soon, so he could reassure his friend about his quidditch
prowess. Truthfully, he had worried about that — Ron was no Oliver Wood. But he was good
on a broom, and solid enough as a keeper. Privately, Harry had hoped him not being on the
team might encourage Ron to grab the opportunity to shine away from Harry’s shadow. He
supposed that wasn’t likely to happen with both his brothers — and now his little sister — on
the team as well.

“I’m glad they both made it,” he said eventually. “And I’m glad my Firebolt will be put to
good use.” He felt a pang in his chest at the thought of it. Merlin, he missed flying.

“Oh, your Firebolt is doing plenty,” George replied, a strange look on his face. Fred snorted.

“Get that thorn out of your arse, Gred,” he teased, nudging his twin in the ribs. He turned to
Harry, winking conspiratorially. “Word got around about Ginny bringing your broom to
school. Everyone seems to think you two are some kind of star-crossed lovers situation,
separated by your expulsion on account of being a headcase and all.”

Harry stared at him, uncomprehending. “Sorry, what?”

“The rumour is you’re dating our sister.” There was a definite bite to George’s tone, his
expression unimpressed. “They think you gave her the broom as a symbol of your love, or
whatever.”

“…That’s ridiculous. She’s my friend. She’s your sister!” Harry yelped. Fred slung an arm
around George’s shoulders.

“And they clearly haven’t been paying attention to the right Weasley,” he teased. “If it helps,
it’s redeemed you a bit — people like Ginny, they don’t think she’d date you if you were an
evil muggle-hating lunatic. She’s doing wonders for your reputation.”

Harry wasn’t sure he wanted that kind of boost to his reputation, and he said as much. Fred
laughed. “You should’ve thought about that before you gave her a world-class racing broom,”
he pointed out. “You’ll get some lip from Ron about that, by the way.”

“Is he mad I didn’t give it to him?” Harry asked warily.

“Nah, he’s in love with his new Cleansweep,” George assured. “That’s his for keeps, he
knows Gin has to give the Firebolt back. No, he’s mad his best mate’s been sneaking around
with his little sister and not told him.”

“No.” Harry shook his head, wide-eyed and incredulous. “He believes that? Seriously?”

He knew that no one else seemed to have noticed the way he’d behaved around George all
summer — since the Quidditch World Cup the summer before, if he was entirely honest —
but how the hell could Ron think Harry fancied Ginny?

“You know what he’s like,” George said.

“Daft and blind?” Fred offered, grinning. He was clearly very amused by the whole affair.
“Hermione’s trying to set him straight, don’t you worry. I feel a bit sorry for her, to be honest
— I knew Ron was an idiot about what feelings looked like, but really, missing so many
obvious signs in front of your face on two different levels has got to be some sort of medical
problem.”

“No progress on their front, then?” Harry hadn’t expected it, really. School had only been in
session a couple of weeks.

“Not a sausage,” Fred sighed. “It’s still weird, seeing them in the common room without you.
They’re so boring, now. Maybe you should’ve given them the Map, might’ve livened them
up a touch.”

Harry had thought about letting Ron have the Marauders’ Map, but he couldn’t bear to part
with it. It couldn’t be replaced as easily as a Firebolt. He only barely trusted the twins with it,
knowing they’d respect it, but they had told him to keep it. If they needed a lookout, they’d
just call him, George insisted.

“Give them a break, it’s early days. Even I wasn’t usually in trouble this early in the year,”
Harry pointed out. “Speaking of trouble, how’s things with Umbridge?” Both twins flinched
ever so slightly, and dropped their right hands out of view. Harry narrowed his eyes. “What is
it?”

It took some needling, but eventually the twins cracked, revealing what had happened in the
detention Umbridge had set them for casting spells in the corridors. Harry stared at the
reddened flesh on the back of George’s hand, the words ‘I must not cause trouble’ only
slightly visible thanks to a healing potion Fred had brewed, and fury roared in his skull.

“That can’t be legal,” he spat. George tucked his hand away, shrugging.

“She’s Fudge’s right hand, remember?” he pointed out. “She clearly doesn’t give a damn
about legal.”

“What are you gonna do to her?” Harry didn’t need to ask if they’d tell McGonagall, or
Dumbledore. If Umbridge was trying to cause trouble for Hogwarts, that would only make
things worse. No, the twins were far sneakier than that. Almost Slytherin, at times.

“We’ve got a few ideas,” Fred told him, smirking. “She might be a raging bitch, but she’s a
rather sensitive one. Doesn’t like things being in chaos and disorder.”

Chaos and disorder were Fred and George’s middle names. The Marauder in Harry danced
with glee, but the protective side of him rose up. “Be careful. You don’t want more
detentions, not with that quill.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” George said, “we promised you we wouldn’t get caught. Just let us
have our fun, yeah?” He winked, and Harry couldn’t have said no if he’d tried.

“It’s Ron you should worry about,” Fred admitted, brows drawing together worriedly. “Idiot
keeps mouthing off in your defense every time Umbridge calls you a lying madman. It’s very
sweet, but he’s gonna get in serious trouble at this rate. He’s got detention scheduled for
Tuesday night, hopefully that’ll put him off.”
Harry’s stomach churned at the thought of Ron writing lines with the cursed quill. This was
why he hated not being at Hogwarts. “Tell him I’m not worth it,” he insisted.

“Tell him yourself,” was George’s retort. “He never listens to us.”

Gritting his teeth, Harry hoped his friends wrote soon. They didn’t know the twins had the
mirror, and he wanted to keep it that way — he couldn’t mention any of this to Ron and
Hermione until they brought it up themselves. If they brought it up themselves.

His mood soured, Harry didn’t stay on the call with the twins much longer, letting them
disappear off to plan some pranks for Umbridge with Lee. He sighed, staring up at the
ceiling. Hogwarts felt like a whole other life away, these days. It had only been two weeks,
but the separation was already cavernous.

It was going to be a long wait until Christmas.

.-.-.

Luckily, letters from Ron, Hermione and Ginny arrived in the middle of that coming week,
all in one bundle dropped off by a large school owl. Hermione’s was a thick envelope, and
Harry rolled his eyes as he opened two weeks worth of study notes for all the subjects he took
— she’d even duplicated Ron’s Divination notes, as pathetic as they were in comparison to
her usual standard. He tossed them aside, doubting there was going to be anything of use to
him in a fifth year curriculum these days.

Ginny’s letter was mostly a detailed recounting of quidditch tryouts, followed by a very
amused explanation of the current Hogwarts rumour mill. Ginny assured him she was
discouraging the whispers about their secret love — admitting it was actually very
inconvenient, because she had her eye on some Ravenclaw bloke in Harry’s year who was
never going to go out with her if he thought she was Harry Potter’s girlfriend. That made
Harry smile — as did the added parchment inside, which contained a letter from the three
chasers on the team, telling him how much they missed him, and how glad they were that
he’d properly equipped his replacement. He read the missive wistfully; when he’d thought
about never going back to Hogwarts immediately after his expulsion, he’d been so
preoccupied with missing the people who would be leaving him behind at Grimmauld, he
hadn’t even thought about all the other people he would miss at school. He hadn’t realised
how many people he was actually friends with, until he was separated from them; the
quidditch team, and his dorm-mates — he even missed the Creevey brothers, to an extent.

People he wouldn’t necessarily think to write to, and who probably wouldn’t write to him,
but who had been regular fixtures in his day for the last four years.

Hermione’s letter was full of fretting and fussing about how he was coping, interspersed with
exclamations about how intense OWL year was already. There was only one sentence about
Umbridge; a throwaway comment about her being the least capable DADA teacher so far. He
scowled to himself — even his best friends wanted to keep him in the dark.

He knew he’d made the right choice in giving the mirror to the twins.
If you discounted Hermione’s addition of revision notes, Ron’s letter was the longest, which
surprised him. The redhead passed on well-wishes from the other boys in their dorm —
though not Seamus, who apparently believed the Prophet, and was at odds with the rest of
them because of it — and complained about the teachers putting the pressure on already. He
gushed about making keeper, and dropped several heavy-handed questions about Harry and
Ginny. Subtlety was not one of Ron Weasley’s talents.

There was a short paragraph about Umbridge, complaining about how she was a Ministry
lackey and she was refusing to hear a word about Voldemort being back, trying to make
Harry and Dumbledore look bad. But there were several scratched-out spots where Ron had
begun a sentence and apparently changed his mind. No mention of all the points the twins
said he’d lost for speaking out, or the detention he had served.

Harry wondered if Ron had been pressured by Hermione into keeping the information from
Harry, or come to the decision all by himself. He tossed the letter across the table, scowling.

“Bad news?” Remus asked lightly. Harry’s scowl deepened.

“Ron and Hermione pretending everything’s fine,” he muttered. “If I wasn’t talking to the
twins, I might actually have believed them.”

“Have you ever considered they just don’t want you to worry about something you can’t
control?” Remus pointed out. “I hate to say it, cub, but you don’t exactly have the best track
record with sitting back and letting other people deal with problems.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but his cheeks flushed when he couldn’t think of anything
the werewolf wouldn’t immediately shoot down.

“That’s usually because no one else is bothering with the problems,” he groused instead,
stabbing at the yolk of his poached egg and watching it ooze over his plate.

“Doesn’t make it your responsibility,” Sirius reasoned. “They’re trying to keep positive, kid,
leave them be. This whole situation can’t be easy on them; they’ve lost their best mate.” He
reached across, absently picking up one of the many pages of Hermione’s Transfiguration
notes. “Blimey, she’s thorough, isn’t she? Even you weren’t this bad, Moons.”

Remus rolled his eyes at the light teasing. “She’s dedicated,” he corrected. “If…
overenthusiastic.” His gaze softened. “Allow them the comfort of thinking they’re protecting
you, Harry. Ease their guilt over being at school when you can’t be.”

A sigh escaped Harry’s lips, and he ran a hand through his messy hair. “I know. It just… it
feels too much like the beginning of summer.” Back when he was desperate for news, any
news, and all his friends sent him were empty platitudes about keeping his chin up.

“Seems to me you’re both keeping things from each other,” Remus said. “And I don’t just
mean the mirror you gave Fred and George.”

It was true. Harry had alluded to working with Moody and Tonks in his last letter, but he
hadn’t given any specifics. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything about horcruxes.
“I can’t put stuff that sensitive in a letter,” he excused feebly. Remus raised one eyebrow
pointedly. “…I’m just keeping them safe.”

“Pot, meet Kettle,” Remus said dryly. Harry shot him a glare, and turned back to his
breakfast.

It wasn’t like that. Ron and Hermione didn’t need to know what he was up to — they could
still avoid the worst of the war, even if they were his friends. But them not telling him about
what was going on at school, something he would have been involved in had he not been
expelled… it felt like he was losing them.

He pushed the thought away firmly. He was being ridiculous. They were fine. Remus was
right.

So why did it still hurt?

 Chapter 11

Despite the dark shadow of his knowledge of horcruxes hanging over his head, Harry settled
into a routine at Grimmauld Place — Moody was usually the one to come over and train with
him, being retired from the auror force, but Harry still had regular visits from both Tonks and
Kingsley when they could spare the time. He was progressing in leaps and bounds, working
to use his wandless magic as easy as breathing, learning all manner of spells and tactics from
the three aurors. It was the kind of training he’d always imagined Dumbledore would give
him, once it became clear Harry was going to be facing Voldemort no matter how many
people wanted to keep him safe.

Dumbledore was still avoiding him, making sure Harry wasn’t allowed near the Order
meetings, and not staying any longer than he had to. Harry wondered if he was asking the
aurors about their training sessions — wondered what the trio were telling the headmaster.
Knowing Moody, he was telling Dumbledore where to shove his questions.

When he wasn’t working with the aurors, Harry was still keeping busy — he and Remus
were systematically devouring the Black library for anything that might be of use. They
hadn’t found much on soul magic yet, and nothing on horcruxes, but Harry had found plenty
of interesting spells and theories he put aside to devote more time to. Not all of it was
bloodthirsty Dark Arts, in that library.

Still, he didn’t mention anything to Hermione about the types of books he was reading. They
definitely wouldn’t be on the Hogwarts library approved list, and she would throw a fit. Or
demand he send them to her.

Worryingly, Hedwig had returned from Hogwarts with his latest letters from his friends
somewhat rough around the edges, her feathers rumpled and an annoyed slant to her eyes.
She looked almost like she’d been grabbed. But the letters were sealed and unspoiled, so
Harry put the matter from his mind.

His days were getting fuller, and he couldn’t be happier about it. Mrs Weasley still stopped
by regularly, usually with food, but Harry was starting to get used to her fussing. They had
somewhat of a truce going on; he didn’t try and get into Order meetings, and she pretended
not to hear anything about the magic he was learning. She also didn’t ask whether or not he’d
been out to muggle London again, or anywhere else.

Not that Harry was getting out, much. He didn’t really have anywhere to go — he didn’t want
to show his face anywhere magical, and the idea of going out into the muggle world had lost
its shine once he realised he had no one to share the experiences with. Sirius was still
confined to Grimmauld Place, and Harry felt bad about leaving him behind. Instead, he had a
mental list of activities he could do with his godfather when the man was free. And another
list, of muggle things to introduce the twins to one day, when he was feeling particularly in
need of chaos. He was keen to see how they’d react to a cinema.
So he duelled with aurors, and he read books on obscure and dubiously-legal magic, and he
and Sirius systematically gutted Grimmauld Place of all its faded wallpaper and weird
pureblood decor. With the promise of destroying Regulus’ locket, Kreacher was practically a
brand new elf, and was actually happy to serve most of the time. He and Sirius still didn’t get
along, but they didn’t outright insult each other anymore, and Kreacher had no qualms about
letting them move furniture or pull up carpets or repaint walls. Harry supposed now he’d
reassured the elf that he wasn’t going to throw away anything important, just put it in the
vaults, it was easier for Kreacher to accept the changes.

And so, time moved on. Harry learned to be more open with his wandless magic, now that he
didn’t have to hide it anymore. The Prophet seemed to have grown bored of mocking him
now he was all but absent from the wizarding world, instead preferring to drag Dumbledore’s
name through the mud. That was fine by Harry; if Dumbledore cared, he could do something
about it himself.

Currently it was a Friday afternoon, which was Tonks’ usual day off work — which meant
she was at Grimmauld, putting Harry through his paces in hand-to-hand combat.

“You can’t always rely on your wand,” she told him, then faltered. “I mean, y’know. Your
magic. You’ve definitely got the advantage, with your wandless magic, but you never know
what you might come up against. Besides,” she added, grinning viciously, “most magical-
raised people, especially purebloods, are useless in a physical fight. They never know what to
do when someone straight up clocks them in the face.”

Harry got a vivid flashback to Hermione punching Malfoy in their third year, and laughed.
“Good enough reason for me,” he chirped, raising his fists to protect his face.

“Watch your thumbs, you’ll break them like that,” Tonks corrected, reaching to adjust his
hands. Harry, who was far more used to dodging and running than ever fighting back,
listened attentively.

He hadn’t expected Tonks, with her jovial nature and general clumsiness, to be as good at
muggle-style fighting as she was. When he said as much, she beamed. “My granddad — on
my dad’s side, obviously — was in the army. He taught Dad how to throw a proper punch,
and put him in boxing classes when he was a teenager. Didn’t want him relying on his magic
too much, said it made him lazy. Dad didn’t really want me learning to fight, but, ah, when I
started getting in fights regardless, he told mum it was best if I at least knew how to do things
properly,” she said with a sheepish grin. Harry had yet to meet Andromeda Tonks, but he’d
heard plenty about her from Tonks and Sirius both, and he couldn’t imagine her being happy
about her daughter brawling like a muggle.

“She was just glad I had somewhere to put all my energy,” Tonks said, ducking the punch
Harry threw her way, aiming a kick at his thigh. “Dad and I managed to win her over when
we made it about training my metamorphmagus abilities, too — learning to fight in different
shapes and sizes. Of course, I was always a bit clumsy in a body that wasn’t shaped like the
one I was used to.”

“What’s your excuse now?” Harry asked before he could help himself. Tonks whacked him
hard in the ribs.
“The cheek of it!” she scolded, grinning. “Who says this body is even the right shape?”
Before his eyes, she shrank several inches, becoming thin and waif-like. She dodged his next
blow, then transformed again — into the spitting image of Harry himself. Harry stopped,
gobsmacked.

“I didn’t know you could change things that much!” He stared — was that really what he
looked like? He was actually tall enough to look fifteen, now!

“Oh, yeah,” Tonks confirmed, returning to the shape Harry was familiar seeing. “It takes
concentration to hold it, but that’s old hat by now. I can do just about anything with my body
if I try hard enough.”

Someone with a dirtier mind than Harry might have made an innuendo out of that. The fact
that he even considered it proved he’d been spending too much time with Sirius. “I bet that
was hell through school. Trying to figure out what you actually wanted to look like. It’s hard
enough when you’re stuck with the body you’ve got.” He’d listened to Lavender and Parvati
moan about their noses and their hair and their skin; watched girls be bullied for having too
small boobs or too big boobs or a little extra around the midsection. Even the boys weren’t
immune to it, especially as they reached the age when they started to care about the opinions
of others. He’d heard the whispers in his third year about the seventh year Hufflepuff boy
who had practically starved himself to death after being teased for being chubby. Just hearing
the boy’s name had made Neville look queasy for weeks.

Tonks stilled, eyeing him with a considering expression, something almost like approval in
her eyes. “Most people tell me how great it must’ve been being able to look however I
wanted,” she remarked. “How easy it must have been to get a date.”

“I get the feeling you weren’t the type to give a shit about impressing dates, even then,”
Harry pointed out, making her laugh.

“True enough. No one bothered with me, anyway — they all thought Charlie and I were
dating. As if he’d ever be interested in anything other than dragons.” She rolled her eyes.
“Even Molly started prepping for me to be her daughter-in-law, by seventh year. Confused
the hell out of her when Charlie said he was going to Romania but I was staying here to go
into auror training. She still doesn’t quite know what to make of me.” Tonks shrugged,
pushing her currently electric purple hair out of her face. “You’re an odd duck, Harry Potter.”

“Thank you?” Harry didn’t know if that was a compliment. He chose to take it as one
regardless. “Your powers are really cool, though. It’s a shame it’s a genetic thing; I’d love to
learn.”

“Bet you’d give an arm to look like anyone other than yourself for a bit, hmm?” she said
knowingly.

“If only,” Harry sighed. He pushed the thought away; no point in wanting things he couldn’t
have. “Hang on, if it takes concentration to change, do you, like— revert back to what you
look like naturally, or whatever, when you’re asleep?” Harry didn’t think it was polite to ask
Tonks how much of her appearance she changed on a day-to-day basis, other than her hair
obviously. For all he knew, she looked entirely different when she was untransformed. He
doubted it, though — that had to be exhausting, and he didn’t see Tonks being that focused
on her looks.

“It takes concentration to change, not to hold it — it doesn’t revert if I’m asleep, but it will if
I’m magically exhausted,” she confirmed. “And sometimes if I’m sick or in a whole load of
pain, or unconscious. It’s why Kingsley didn’t let me get out of Stealth and Tracking with an
easy pass on my powers. He made sure I could keep my cover no matter what.” She
shrugged. “Also half the time I just can’t be bothered.” She caught Harry’s eye, smiling
knowingly. “I’m not offended if you’re curious. This is my natural body, other than the hair.
Oh, and my eyes.” There was a beat, and her hair became jet black and slightly wavy, while
her eyes faded from bright blue to stormy grey.

“Merlin, you look so much like Sirius,” Harry blurted. She burst out laughing.

“That’s what Mum always said!” She grinned, turning back to her purple-haired self. “I did
go through phases, trying to figure out what felt most like me. I was a boy the whole summer
after sixth year.” That made Harry raise an eyebrow. “It was nice, but not something I’d do
permanently. Just every now and then. When I want to piss standing up and all that.”

Harry choked. “That was more information than I needed, thanks.”

Tonks laughed again. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” she asked sweetly, then cackled.
“It was as much for Charlie’s benefit as mine. I was trying to figure out what the difference
was, and he thought he might fancy me if I was a bloke. Didn’t work out like that. We did
both learn a lot, though.”

There was an expression on her face that made Harry desperate to return to their fighting
lesson, before he was treated to way more detail than he ever wanted about the intimate
leanings of either Tonks or Charlie Weasley. He must have looked fearful of that, because
Tonks snickered, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Don’t worry, I won’t traumatise you.” Then
she winked, looking entirely too like Harry’s godfather even without the hair and eyes.
“Offer’s always open if you want information, though. How to handle girls and guys from
someone who’s experienced it all both ways,” she leered.

Most of Harry’s blood had to be in his face by now. “I— I’m good, thanks,” he spluttered.

“Oh, already got that info? Do tell,” Tonks drawled playfully, smirking at the croaking yelp
Harry let out in response.

“No! I mean— I just—“

Tonks’ laughter rang through the ballroom. “I’m just messing with you, mate,” she assured.
“Your business is your business, I’m not a nosy sod like my cousin. Guess I just feel like your
options for learning have been cut a bit short, is all, now you’re not at school. Fifth year
always seemed to be the time everyone turned into horny little maniacs.”

“Ninety-nine percent of the school would go straight to the Prophet if I so much as looked at
them like that,” Harry pointed out. He resolutely did not mention that he didn’t want any
more options for learning, thanks; he’d narrowed that one down for himself.
“Ah, fair play.” That made Tonks look sad. “There’s bound to be someone brilliant in the one
percent who wouldn’t, though. Charming bloke like you. Shame you’re a bit young for my
tastes.” Her tone was teasing, and Harry didn’t let himself be embarrassed.

“Shame you’re a bit female for mine,” he retorted slyly. Her eyes widened for just a moment,
and then her lips curled.

“I don’t have to be.” Suddenly her voice was several octaves lower, her jaw more square and
her shoulders broadening as she took on a distinctly masculine form. Harry would have been
fascinated by the ease of the transformation — if he wasn’t too busy being horrified.

“You look way too much like my godfather, thanks; I’m going to have nightmares for ages
now.”

Tonks dropped the come-hither eyes she’d been hitting him with, laughing so hard she
doubled over. “Oh, Merlin, I’m telling him you said that!” she crowed. “He thinks he’s so
handsome, he’ll be devastated.”

“Devastated that I don’t fancy him?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows. “Should I be
concerned?”

“Don’t start, you know what I meant.” Tonks rolled her eyes. “That’s a bit of a relief, though
— you lean the same way he does, he can help you with all that stuff. I had the horrifying
mental image of him trying to talk to you about girls — or worse, him getting Arthur and
Molly to do it.”

Now that was truly nightmare-worthy, and he said as much. This time, Tonks agreed,
shuddering theatrically. “Charlie told me about the talks his parents tried to have with him
growing up,” she said conspiratorially. “He made Bill promise to do it for Percy and the rest,
just so they wouldn’t suffer the same.”

“He wants Bill to talk to Ginny about sex?” Harry checked doubtfully, making a face.

“Oh, Merlin, no! He made that my job,” Tonks assured. “S’why I thought I’d see if you
needed help. I could use some practice.”

“Thanks, but I’m good. Well informed,” came Harry’s dry response. “Besides, he was useless
regardless. Chickened out and made Moony do it.” Sirius had made a valiant attempt, only a
few days after the house had cleared out at the start of the school term. Apparently bolstered
by Harry not denying whatever was brewing between him and George, he’d taken it upon
himself to make sure Harry was properly educated on the subject — only to stutter out some
excuses, and thrust him in Remus’ direction. Remus, to his credit, had just laughed and sat
him down for an open and surprisingly easy conversation; then gave him a book about it all
and sent him on his merry way.

“Oh, good,” Tonks said, relieved. Then she pouted. “Can I practice on you anyway? I know
loads about boys. And girls. Ginny might need info on both.”
“How about you stick to teaching me how to break someone’s nose?” Harry reminded,
attempting to get them back on track.

“Ooh, yeah, we did get a bit side-tracked. Sorry.” Tonks glanced at Harry contemplatively.
“D’you think I should teach Ginny that, too?”

Harry thought of the youngest Weasley, and how terrifying she was already. “Pretty sure she
already knows.” She’d grown up with six brothers, after all.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Tonks sighed. “Ah well. Guess you’ll have to let me impart
some of my wisdom after all.”

“As long as it’s not sex wisdom, I’m okay with that.”

.-.-.-.

Awkward conversations with Tonks aside, Harry was enjoying his time at Grimmauld Place.
There was just enough keeping him busy so he didn’t get lonely, and the twins seemed to
have a sixth sense about calling on the mirror just when he was starting to grow melancholy.
They were going all-in on pranking Umbridge from the sounds of things, and George was
convinced the other teachers were helping them out. Apparently Flitwick gave him an alibi
when Umbridge accused him of charming her cardigan buttons to blow raspberries whenever
she said the word ‘Ministry’.

The only hiccup in the peace he’d found was when Dumbledore tried to send Remus to
liaison with a werewolf pack for a month or so. Luckily, Remus got out of it by pointing out
that any werewolf would smell Harry Potter all over him, and they didn’t want to put Harry
in danger like that. Harry wished he could have seen Dumbledore’s face.

So far, the headmaster hadn’t offered Harry any more information on his connection with
Voldemort, or his apparent search into Voldemort’s immortality. Then again, Harry hadn’t
asked. Dumbledore clearly didn’t think him capable of doing any real research or damage to
the Dark, despite their conversation after Harry’s trial. He was probably delighted to have
Harry distracted by his faux auror training. He had no idea that Harry was already several
steps ahead.

He and Remus hadn’t found much else on horcruxes in the library, but they’d started to learn
the signs of them in histories of ancient dark wizards and witches, references to ‘sacred
objects’ and allegations of soul magic. It was nothing they could use — but it had been
enough to give Harry an idea.

It was supposed to be one of his ‘days off’; AKA, days in which all the others were too busy
with their own stuff and thought Harry should have a break from training, so he amused
himself by learning spells he’d seen in books, or from Hermione’s copious note-taking. Not
that he was following the curriculum by any stretch of the imagination; he didn’t think
McGonagall would approve of his wandless method of transfiguration, which involved no
specific spells or movements whatsoever and was mostly about thinking really hard about
wanting one thing to become another. The more he worked on using his magic instinctually
with the aurors, the more he learned that it was less about specifics and more about intention
— in a fight, most people wouldn’t have time to yell the spells they were casting or make
elaborate wand movements, though the motions did help direct magic for more intricate
work.

It was the complete opposite of the magic he was being taught right now. He’d invited — or
lured, Sirius insisted it was luring — Bill Weasley to Grimmauld with the request of a lesson
in warding, which was magic wholly unlike anything he’d studied before, reliant on runes
and calculations and detail. It was fascinating, and he was definitely truly interested; it just
wasn’t the real reason he’d wanted to talk to Bill.

“You must have seen all kinds of really old dark magic in the tombs in Egypt,” he
commented, once Bill was finished explaining how wardstones were made and set. Bill
blinked at the non-sequitur.

“Absolutely. The kind of stuff the old pharaohs did, or had other people do for them… some
of it’s really horrible stuff.” He looked excited by it, with the same face the twins got when
talking about new pranks they’d invented. Probably the same face Charlie would get talking
about dragons, if Harry ever got the chance to ask him. The more he got to know the Weasley
siblings, the more he was drawing connections between them, realising how similar they
were despite the huge age range. “Not all of it’s dark, though; a lot of the stuff curse breakers
get called in for is just complicated magic. Though even the curses that aren’t really dark are
still usually fairly dangerous — the best way to protect something is to make people regret
touching it, after all.”

“Have you ever come across something called a horcrux?” Harry tried to keep his voice
casual. He knew it was a risk, asking Bill about it, but as he’d argued with Sirius on the
matter; Bill was the most likely person he knew to have heard about the foul magic. Or if he
didn’t, he might know someone who did.

The redhead pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I might’ve done. It certainly sounds familiar. What
is it?”

Harry took a deep breath. No going back, now. “It’s when someone splits their soul and puts
part of it in an object. Voldemort has them. It’s why he didn’t die when I was a baby.”

Bill’s jaw dropped. “I— Merlin,” he breathed, stunned. His blue eyes narrowed. “Why are
you telling me this?”

“Because I need to know how to find them, and how to destroy them, and Remus and I can’t
find anything about it in the library here. We have one of them. Maybe two. We don’t know
how many more there are.”

Quickly, so Bill couldn’t get too freaked out by it all, Harry gave him the cliff notes of
Regulus’ letter and the locket, and his own realisation about his scar. The eldest Weasley
sibling looked horrified by the time Harry stopped talking.

“And you’re not going to Dumbledore about this because…”

“Because he probably already knows, and isn’t telling me anything because he thinks I’m not
ready yet,” he said with an irritated roll of his eyes. “Though I don’t think he knows how to
destroy them, or he’d have done my scar by now.”

Unless it could only be destroyed by death, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, a
thought he’d been firmly ignoring for weeks now. He refused to think of that possibility. Not
until he had no other choice. And if that happened, well… he’d deal with that when it came
to it.

He was going to do his damnedest to live through this war.

“The goblins have records on just about every branch of magic known in the world,” Bill told
him. “Even non-human magic. If these horcrux things have been made by dark magic users
before, like you’ve said, then they’ll probably have some information on them somewhere. I
just might have to ask around a bit.” The curse breaker’s lips pursed. “They’ll want to know
why I’m asking. Especially if it’s as dark as it sounds.”

Harry had anticipated as much. “Can you trust them? Your team, the goblins you work with?”

“With my life,” Bill said without hesitation. “I’ve been with the same team since I started
working for Gringotts — it wasn’t just me who transferred to the UK this summer, we all did.
I let my parents think it was because of the war, but it was on the cards regardless; we’ve
been working on some pretty nasty dig-sites over in North Wales, I know Mum would freak
if she knew.”

“She won’t hear it from me,” Harry promised. “And… if you trust them, if you’re absolutely
positive you can get the information without risking it getting to the wrong ears that
someone’s asking questions about horcruxes, then please, I can use all the help I can get.”

“No one working for Gringotts would side with Voldemort even a little bit,” Bill assured him.
“We’ve got all sorts — goblins, wizards, veela, vampires, even some merpeople employed by
the bank, for underwater treasure and stuff. It’s not the place for anyone who believes in
magical supremacy of any kind.”

Harry shouldn’t have been so surprised at how diverse Gringotts was; talking to Stonehook
had made it very clear how little the Goblin Nation cared for the narrow-minded opinions of
wizards. He hadn’t thought it possible to employ merpeople, though. It probably just wasn’t
legal by Ministry standards. The Nation laughed at Ministry standards.

“Anything you can find out will be helpful. I’m more worried about how to locate the rest
than destroying the one I’ve got — as mad as Voldemort is, he could have dozens of the
things.” None of the books Harry had read discussed the possible limits of soul-splitting, or
other forms of soul magic. They just held vague warnings about fractured sanity and over-
taxing your magic, burning out if you pushed too hard.

Bill’s face was grim. “I’ll see what I can find out.” He fiddled with the end of his ponytail,
suddenly looking hesitant. “Did you actually want to learn about warding, or did you just
need to get me here?”
“Oh, no, I want to learn!” Harry assured quickly, not wanting to lose this new avenue of
magic. “I’ll need to study runes more if I want a chance in hell of actually understanding it,
but I’d love to learn protective wards if nothing else.” The idea of being able to ward a space
to make it safe was very appealing to Harry. He was less into the curse-breaking side of
things — he didn’t have the patience for that, or the magical finesse without his wand — but
warding was fascinating.

That seemed to cheer Bill up, and he rolled his sleeves to his elbows, diving back into the
explanation. Harry tried hard to keep up — and not to get his hopes up too soon. If Bill was
right, if the goblins did have some record of horcruxes, then he could be on his way to ending
the war a lot sooner than he’d dared hope.
 Chapter 12

Even though he hardly left the house, Harry noticed when it started getting dark earlier and
earlier, winter drawing ever closer. Kreacher kept the fires going through the house, but there
was still a bit of a chill to the place, and the new jumpers he’d bought were getting plenty of
use.

He woke early one morning, head aching from yet another Voldemort-sent dream of a
Ministry corridor, stomach rumbling the only thing urging him out of his warm cocoon of
blankets. He absently cast a warming charm over himself, glancing at the clock and deciding
to head down. Sirius and Remus might not be up yet, but they soon would be if he started
cooking. It was the full moon that night — Remus would be starving.

Perking up at the thought of getting a full English going, Harry padded down the stairs and
into the kitchen — and froze.

The other occupants of the house were in fact up already. Remus was sat on the counter, heels
hooked gently around Sirius’ thighs, one hand buried in jet black hair as they kissed lazily.
Amused, Harry cleared his throat.

The pair instantly sprang apart, Remus almost falling off the counter in his haste. Both their
faces were bright red. “Pup! This is— we were just— I—“ Sirius spluttered, and Harry’s
smile faltered at the genuine alarm on his godfather’s face.

“Wait, did you think I didn’t know?”

“You knew!?” Remus yelped. Harry opened the cold box, searching for the paper-wrapped
bacon within.

“Uh, yeah. You’re both kind of… obvious.” Harry had assumed they were just being discreet,
or didn’t want the Order to know. “Is it supposed to be a secret?” He levitated the eggs out
when his hands became too full to carry everything. “Do we have any mushrooms around
here?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sirius’ eyes darted between Harry and Remus anxiously.
“How long have you known?”

“I didn’t think I needed to say anything! You look at him like he hung the damn moon! No
pun intended,” Harry added, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I was never going to actually believe
he sleeps in the spare room down the hall from yours. All his books are in the master
bedroom.” He truly hadn’t realised they thought him oblivious. A thought occurred to him,
and he frowned. “Did… did you not want me to know?”

“What? Cub, no!” Remus hastened to assure him. “We just didn’t want to spring it on you
like this. We didn’t know how you’d take it.”
“Did you miss the bit where I’m also a massive homosexual?” Harry asked dryly, watching
Sirius choke on his tea. “I’m hardly likely to be prejudiced.”

“Not like that. Just… I was your professor, and Sirius is your godfather…”

Seeing the genuine upset on the werewolf’s face, Harry’s frown deepened. “Why would that
bother me? You’re both family. I’ve known for ages that you two are together. I think it’s
great.”

“Really?” Sirius brightened. Harry grinned at him, bumping him with his hip on his way to
the stovetop.

“Yeah, I’m glad you’re happy. You both deserve it.”

“It doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”

“Only in like, the same way imagining Mr and Mrs Weasley having sex makes me
uncomfortable,” Harry replied, making a face. “You guys are like my parents now. It’s
weird.” He turned to the bacon he was frying, and thus completely missed the awed
expressions the two men had. “Just remember your silencing charms, keep the R-rated stuff
to your bedroom, and we’re good. You don’t have to pretend to be nuns in front of me,
Merlin.” His cheeks went pink. “I think it’s kinda cute.” He’d seen how utterly besotted they
were from the moment they’d reunited in the Shrieking Shack at the end of his third year. He
didn’t know whether they’d dated prior to Sirius’ stint in Azkaban, or if it was a matter of
feelings they’d kept hidden until now, but… it was nice, seeing two men just be together.
Something he’d never experienced in the muggle world, certainly not with Vernon regularly
kicking off about ‘the gays’ and how they were everything wrong with the world.

It was the love he could see between Sirius and Remus that had helped him come to terms
with his feelings for George. Suddenly, he froze. “It’s not— it’s not illegal or anything, is it?
Like with the muggles?” Everyone around him seemed to be totally fine with all kinds of
sexualities, but they could just be particularly progressive people.

“No, no, don’t worry,” Remus soothed. “We can’t get married, but that’s because I’m a
werewolf, not because we’re two men.”

“Werewolves can’t get married?” Harry’s voice rose in anger. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Tell me about it,” Sirius muttered, annoyed. He sidled closer to Harry, grey eyes hopeful.
“You really don’t mind? About me and Moony?”

“Of course not, you daft sod,” Harry said, sliding an arm around him in a brief hug — and
slapping his hand away when he tried to steal a piece of mushroom off the cutting board. “So
if you’ve been sneaking around for my sake, you can stop it.”

“Ooh, you hear that, Moony,” Sirius drawled, darting around Harry to stand in front of
Remus, who was still sat on the countertop. “Permission to stop sneaking.” He threaded his
fingers through Remus’ bedhead, pulling him down into a kiss. Harry rolled his eyes.
“Not permission to be gross,” he reminded. “If you’re gonna be like that, go back to bed.
Why are you two up so early, anyway?”

They stopped kissing, but Remus kept a hand on Sirius’ shoulder, playing with the longer
strands of his hair. “I got restless. It happens, this time of the month. I wanted food, but — we
got distracted.” He blushed, making Harry laugh.

“Good thing I showed up, then, isn’t it?” he teased. “Get off my counters, I’ll have a fry up
done in just a mo’.” He gently shoved Remus off the edge of the counter, and Sirius
snickered, hugging the teen around the waist and kissing the top of his head.

“Best godson ever,” he declared. Harry’s stomach fluttered happily.

“I— I love you guys,” he said, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. “You know that,
right?” He was still properly getting to know them, but the last few months of living together
had been some of the best months of Harry’s life.

“We love you too, kid,” Sirius replied. “Ooh, hash browns? You spoil us, Harry.”

“You won’t get any if you keep getting in my way,” he mock-threatened.

Obediently, Sirius retreated to the kitchen table. Remus followed, only after pouring Harry a
cup of tea. He still looked a bit dazed — Harry wasn’t sure if it was the conversation, or just
the full moon having him out of sorts.

He shook his head to himself; those idiots, thinking he’d be bothered by their relationship.
Thinking they’d managed to keep it hidden. A blind person could see how in love they were.
Even Hermione might have figured it out. He snorted quietly — Ron was still oblivious,
though.

Unfortunately, the good mood in the kitchen lasted only up until the newspaper was delivered
— the front page had a picture of Umbridge stood at Dumbledore’s podium in the Great Hall,
smiling her sickly-sweet smile. ‘Ministry Seeks Educational Reform. Dolores Umbridge
Appointed First Ever High Inquisitor’ the headline read.

“What the hell is a High Inquisitor?” Harry asked, scowling as the witch waved coyly from
her photo. Remus grabbed the paper, peering at it with a frown.

“A position the Ministry just invented to give them more control at Hogwarts,” he declared
once he’d read the article, tossing it down in disgust. “She’s got the power to declare the
other teachers unsuitable for the job. Also sounds like she can make her own school rules, go
over the headmaster’s head on disciplinary matters, that sort of thing.”

“Bloody hell.” It made Harry’s stomach turn. His friends were having to deal with that hag!
“Who’s she trying to fire?”

“Hagrid, almost definitely, once he gets back from— never mind. Probably Flitwick too if
she’s feeling really brave,” Sirius commented. At Harry’s look of confusion, he elaborated.
“Umbridge hates creatures, anyone with creature blood, anyone who’s supportive of
creatures. Almost all the creature restriction laws in the last decade have gone through at her
insistence. She’d have everyone not entirely human rounded up and killed, if she could.”

Harry was glad he’d mostly finished eating — that would have put him off his breakfast
entirely, otherwise. “Is she the reason you two can’t get married?”

“Me being an escaped convict doesn’t help,” Sirius pointed out ruefully. “But yeah, she
pushed through the werewolf marriage laws. Foul woman, she is.”

“I can’t see Dumbledore letting her get away with all this.” Harry scowled — he needed to
talk to the twins. They’d been annoyingly tight-lipped on the subject of Umbridge lately. Just
how bad was it, there?

“He doesn’t really have a choice,” Remus said. “He might be a powerful man, but he’s in a
precarious position right now, and his reputation’s taken a serious hit since June. Rocking the
boat right now could get him fired, and then the students would be far worse off.”

Harry might not be Dumbledore’s biggest fan right now, but the thought of Hogwarts without
him, left open to the Ministry’s interference, made his blood run cold.

“I hate this,” he muttered. “Everyone’s at school and dealing with this bitch and there’s
nothing I can do to help. I can barely even write anymore!” Hermione’s last letter had been
cryptic and full of heavy implications that mail to and from the castle was being read these
days. Harry hadn’t dared send anything in response. He’d wait until Christmas, but the
separation was killing him.

If the twins didn’t have Sirius’ mirror, he’d probably have done something stupid by now.

“You’re doing everything you can, cub,” Remus soothed, patting his hand. “Some battles
aren’t yours to fight.”

Harry knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier. He’d always been the one fighting in the
past — even if his friends had helped, he’d always taken the brunt of things. He wasn’t there
to do that anymore, and it tore him up inside, imagining what sort of horrors the people he
cared about were facing.

He wished it wasn’t a Thursday. He’d have to wait until bedtime to call the twins; they had
quidditch practice after dinner.

“Ugh,” he said eventually, scowling. “Please tell me there’s some more furniture around here
I can practice curses on. I want to break something.”

Sirius barked out a laugh, ruffling Harry’s hair. “I’m sure we’ll find something, kiddo.
Always do in this house.”

He’d apologise to Kreacher later.

.-.-.-.
There was an impromptu Order meeting called that night — likely in response to the
Umbridge news, though naturally Harry was hurried up to his room as soon as the meeting
began. At least Mrs Weasley had given him fresh-baked cookies before she sent him on his
way.

“Are those Mum’s cookies?” George greeted enviously the moment his face became visible
in the mirror. His hair was damp and sticking up a bit at the back, faint red marks visible
around his eyes.

“Did you just shower, or was it pissing it down during practice?” Harry returned.

“Absolute cats and dogs,” Fred declared, shoving his twin aside so he could get a look in.
“Looked like drowned rats by the end of it. Really hope the weather improves before our first
match. If Umbridge even lets us play.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, eyes narrowing.

“It’s just a rumour,” George placated. “She hates just about everyone on the Gryffindor team,
people — mostly Slytherins — are trying to say her new position will let her refuse our right
to play, if she wants.”

“Can she really do that?” Harry was horrified — she couldn’t cancel quidditch!

“Who knows, mate,” Fred grumbled. “Reckon the Minister would let her do just about
anything around here.” He ran a hand through his hair, then hissed in pain. When he pulled it
back, Harry saw the barest glimpse of red-raw skin on the back of his hand.

“You’ve had more detentions,” he realised, heart sinking.

“Only a couple. I promise, we’re fine. Keeping our heads down like good little boys.”

Harry snorted. “Pull the other one.” The twins had never been good little boys in their lives.
“Be careful, okay?”

The more he was learning about Dolores Umbridge, the more he was beginning to realise
how dangerous an enemy she could be.

.-.-.

In the weeks that followed Umbridge’s appointment, it certainly seemed she wasn’t messing
around. Fred and George had told him about her sitting in on classes, interviewing the
teachers and making a general nuisance of herself. Harry couldn’t even be amused by
George’s recounting of Ron’s story about Umbridge inspecting Snape, and Snape’s reaction
to her presence in his classroom.

“I wish I could be there with you,” he sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He was wearing his
muggle contacts again — trying to get used to them, as Moody kept insisting his glasses
made him a liability — and they were beginning to itch.
It was just George on the call today — Fred was off doing something to Umbridge’s
classroom with Lee — and the redhead frowned. “Look, I miss you too, but to be honest
you’re better off where you are. Hogwarts is… it’s different, this year. Not just because it
doesn’t have your sparkling presence,” he added, attempting a roguish smile. “No one’s
getting anything done with Umbridge sticking her nose in everywhere, and Defence classes
are a joke. Hermione’s started this secret study group for it, to make sure everyone learns
proper magic — both for exams, and for, y’know.” His face was grim; they were both very
aware of what could be facing young magicals in the outside world these days. “If you were
here, she’d probably want you to teach the damn thing. I’m surprised she hasn’t told you
about it already.”

“We don’t write anymore,” Harry said sadly. “Mail’s being searched. It’s not safe.”

George swore, scowling. “Only five weeks ’til Christmas hols.”

“I know.” Harry was counting down the days, on a muggle calendar he had pinned to his wall
above the desk.

“Oh, and hey, good news — we got permission for the Gryffindor team to keep playing!”
George enthused. That prompted an explanation as to why the team needed permission to
keep playing, and the revelation of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four.

“Hang on, you’re saying it came in the day after Hermione started her new study group?
Doesn’t that seem a bit fishy to you?”

“I mean — it was just a little gathering in an old classroom,” George said, frowning. “Maybe
thirty of us, tops. Half of them just wanted to ask questions about you, to be honest.”

Thirty didn’t sound like a little gathering, and Harry said as much. “She could be in serious
trouble if Umbridge catches on you’re still meeting.” Part of him was proud of his friends,
how they were taking charge and making sure people at Hogwarts were ready for the worst.
But the bigger part — the part that now knew what very real consequences could come of
things like this, in their current corrupt Ministry — was wracked with guilt and worry.

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” George assured. “Hey, Harry, look at me.” Harry froze, green
eyes meeting brown. George held his gaze, and slowly the tension started to leak out of
Harry’s shoulders. “We’re doing fine, here. You worry about all that stuff you’re doing and
not telling me about, alright? Freddie and I will keep your friends safe.”

“And what about you two?” Harry asked quietly. George smiled.

“If shit goes down, you’ll have more company where you’re at,” he half-joked. “Can’t say
it’s the worst outcome in the world.”

Right then, Harry could think of few things he wanted more than George back at Grimmauld,
with him. But not at the extent of the redhead’s schooling.

“You look really different without your glasses, y’know,” George told him, a blush rising
beneath his freckles. “Your eyes are— really green.”
It was Harry’s turn to blush. “If you’re trying to distract me, it’s not working,” he warned,
tamping down the smile threatening to emerge. George winked at him.

“No distractions, just the truth.” He cleared his throat, glancing away. “Here’s a distraction,
though — we’re playing Slytherin in less than a fortnight, and Ron’s too nervous to hold the
bloody quaffle.”

It was a distraction that worked; Harry groaned, having heard a fair few complaints from the
twins about Ron’s quidditch ability. “He’s still having trouble?”

“He’s not bad, honestly. He just gets so anxious, then he starts making mistakes. Seems to
think he’s got to be perfect to honour you or some shit, too — I swear, Ginny’s going to hex
him if he says anything more about not letting you down. She’s nervous, too, but at least she
knows she’s good.”

“I wish I could talk to him. Give him a pep talk,” Harry sighed, frustrated. Neither of them
suggested the twins reveal the truth of the mirror to Ron, even in the face of potential loss to
Slytherin. Harry selfishly didn’t want his only communication with George to be taken away
from him, nor to have to explain to his best friend why he’d given the mirror to the twins to
begin with. Everyone else who knew, nothing had ever been said out loud… not even by him
and George themselves. If Harry had to voice it, put actual words to the feeling in his chest
that had been growing for over a year, it would make it real — and make it torture to be
separated from the redheaded prankster. They were only coping now by the unspoken
agreement to leave things well alone.

“I’d say risk sending a letter with an owl less obvious than Hedwig, but honestly, a pep talk
from you might just make the pressure worse,” George muttered. “I just want the match over
with, honestly.”

“It’s tough luck, playing Slytherin first.” Why couldn’t it have been Hufflepuff? That
would’ve been a much better way to ease Ron into the sport.

There was a commotion on George’s end of the mirror, before a second face squeezed into
view. Fred threw himself down on the bed, practically sprawled on top of his twin. “Alright,
there, Harry?” he greeted, ignoring George squirming to get less suffocated. “How’s life in
the outside world?”

“Better than your end, from the sounds of things,” Harry replied. “What’ve you done to
Umbridge now?”

“Oh, just gifted her a new plate for her office wall,” Fred said airily. “She does so love her
decorations. Lee’s cousin found a really great one, just her style — I think the German
Shepherd will get along just smashingly with all her kittens.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“Did you tell him about Trelawney, or were you too busy staring into his eyes?” Fred teased,
glancing at his twin. George’s face burned.
“What about Trelawney?” Harry resolutely did not acknowledge the remark about his eyes.
Fred was the worst.

“She’s been put on probation by Umbridge,” George piped up. Harry raised an eyebrow —
that didn’t sound like too bad a development.

“Can’t say I’m sad about it,” he confessed. “Do wonder who else she’ll go after, though. Is
Hagrid back yet?”

“No sign of him,” Fred answered sadly. “We were hoping you might have more news.”

“I’ve not heard anything.” Tonks had let slip ages ago that Hagrid was on a mission for the
Order in France, but Harry hadn’t heard any details since. He knew just enough to keep track
of what Dumbledore was up to, and let the specifics stay a mystery — both for plausible
deniability, and because quite frankly he had enough on his plate without worrying about
what the entire Order were up to. He still hadn’t found anything useful about destroying
horcruxes, and he was starting to run out of books in the Black library.

He stayed on the mirror for a little bit longer before letting the twins go, scowling to himself
and pacing his room. He almost thought about going to talk to Sirius about things, but it was
late, and Remus had only just gotten back after a week away on Order business. He didn’t
want to disturb them.

He grabbed his glasses and headed to the bathroom, intending to take his contacts out and go
to bed.

All he could do was keep working on his own things, hope that Dumbledore’s work with the
Order was proving fruitful, and let everything else rest in the hands of others. He hadn’t
shown his face in the magical world since his trial, and it was for the best — let Fudge think
he’d gone back to the muggle world with his tail between his legs. The more time he and
Umbridge spent bragging over their ‘defeat’ of Harry Potter, the less time they had to make
things more difficult for his friends.
 Chapter 13

Harry could tell from the moment he saw Fred and George in the mirror that the quidditch
match against Slytherin had gone terribly. His heart turned to lead. “How bad was the score?”

“Oh, no, we won,” Fred assured, lips quirking in a brief smile. “Ginny beat Malfoy to the
snitch; that bit was great.”

“Then why do you look like Slytherin have won the cup already?”

Reluctantly, the pair told him about the Slytherins’ new song, and the effect it had on Ron’s
performance. “And that’s not even starting on what Malfoy said once the game was over.”

Beside him, Fred’s jaw clenched so hard his cheek twitched. “I almost punched the little git, I
swear,” he scowled.

“It’s a good thing the girls held us back,” George agreed. “Else Malfoy would be in the
hospital wing right now. And we’d probably be in detention til Easter.”

“Ginny got him, though, we think.”

“Ginny punched Malfoy?” Harry yelped in alarm. Fred shook his head.

“Nah, she’s way sneakier than that, our sister. I didn’t really see it — Angie and Katie had
hold of me, Ginny was stopping George from knocking Malfoy’s lights out. Ron had already
gone to drown himself in the showers,” he added, rolling his eyes. “The bastard said
something about Mum — I won’t repeat it — and I thought for a second Ginny was gonna let
George go and take her own swing. She got her wand out instead, though; behind George’s
back, where no one could see it.”

“I didn’t hear what she cast, but she told me Malfoy probably wouldn’t be in classes on
Monday,” George said. “He seemed fine when we walked away.”

“Ginny won’t tell us the spell she used.” Fred looked both annoyed and impressed. “She just
mentioned she had a promise to keep to you.” The twins eyed him expectantly, and a laugh
bubbled from Harry’s lips.

“There’ll be pictures, then, whatever she’s done,” he told them. They shared a look that
seemed to hold an entire conversation.

“Our sister’s a bit terrifying, y’know,” George said eventually. Harry and Fred both nodded.

“Just don’t piss her off,” Harry suggested wisely. “And look on the bright side — you beat
Slytherin, and the worst match is over now. Regardless of what happens with Ron, the rest of
the season’ll be a piece of cake.” Unless there had been serious line-up changes, Harry
couldn’t see Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw posing much of a problem. Gryffindor would keep the
cup for another year.
He just wouldn’t be there to lift it.

His gaze caught George’s, and the redhead smiled sympathetically. “It’s almost Christmas
hols, too,” he added.

“Yeah,” Harry echoed, gut suddenly full of a buzzing, warm sensation. “You guys are
spending it here. Your mum tried to convince me to come to the Burrow, but I wasn’t gonna
leave Moony and Padfoot behind. Tonks is bringing the decorations over tomorrow.” He
couldn’t wait; his first Christmas with his godfathers. His family.

George beamed. “Brilliant.”

.-.-.

“God rest ye merry hippogriffs, let nothing you dismay!”

The singing drifting through the ajar library door made Harry snicker, and Remus’ lips
curved in a fond smile. “Idiot,” he muttered, voice full of affection.

“Leave him be.” Harry closed the book on his lap, his eyes starting to hurt from reading the
tiny font in Old English. He really needed to get better at translation charms. “What did he do
last Christmas, d’you know?”

“Got really drunk on my sofa and threatened to break into Hogwarts to see you,” Remus
supplied, shaking his head. “Better than the Christmas before, which he says he spent in the
Shack.”

And the twelve Christmases before that, Harry thought sadly. “This is gonna be the best
Christmas ever,” he declared.

“You’re just saying that because George will be here soon.”

Harry blushed, but his smile didn’t falter. “Not just that.” Though he was looking forward to
that very much. “I haven’t had a proper Christmas in… well, ever, really.” Christmas at
Hogwarts was nice, but it was still very much a huge reminder that the only people there
were the ones who didn’t have a home to go back to. And before Hogwarts, well —
Christmas wasn’t for freaky little nobodies like Harry.

Remus’ smile turned sad. “I’m sorry it’s taken this long, cub. If I’d been able to do
something…”

“Don’t,” Harry cut him off. “It’s not your fault. I don’t have to go back to them anymore,
that’s all I care about. We’ve got plenty of Christmases to look forward to, now.”

Remus stretched one long arm over the back of the sofa, tugging Harry across the space
between them, pressing a kiss to his hair. “That we do. This is just the first of many.” They
heard a faint crash interrupt Sirius’ singing, then a pause, before the song resumed louder and
more boisterous before. “He’s gonna spoil you rotten, y’know. Even after the Firebolt, he still
thinks he’s got all these years in presents to make up for.”
“Oh, Moony, no,” Harry groaned. “Please tell me you’re stopping him.”

“Sorry, can’t,” Remus replied, grinning. “Godfathers’ prerogative to spoil our godson.”

“I don’t need anything,” Harry insisted, his insides glowing warmly at how easy Remus said
those words. Our godson. “Just being here with you both is enough, really.”

“It’s more than I ever dreamed possible,” the werewolf agreed, voice cracking faintly. “But
he’s missed out on so much… seeing that joy in his eyes again, I can’t say no. Sorry.” He
didn’t sound it even a little bit.

“Sap,” Harry accused playfully.

“Yup!” Remus was unrepentant.

“How did you cope? All those years, with him in Azkaban?” Harry asked before he could
help himself. So often they thought of the years Sirius had been locked away, or Harry’s time
spent at the Dursleys’ — it was easy to forget that in many ways, Remus had been just as
lonely in those years.

“I put everything that reminded me of him in a box, and I refused to look at that box, ever.
Also, copious amounts of alcohol.” Remus’ amber eyes grew sad. “Those years after losing
James and Lily — losing everything.” Because of course, he’d thought Peter was his friend
too, and had been killed by Sirius. “I was… not myself. I spent a lot of time with various
werewolf packs, trying to find something like family, but it never felt the same as it had with
the Marauders. Not ’til Dumbledore tracked me down and begged me to come teach, and I
met this scrawny little lad with messy black hair and his mother’s big green eyes.” He smiled,
smoothing Harry’s hair down. “In a way, I’m glad Sirius and I were never— we’d been a bit
like you and your boy, before everything, The timing was never right. Unfortunately, neither
of us knew how long it would take before the timing really was. Even now, at times, I
sometimes feel like the sensible thing would’ve been to wait. With him on the run, and
Voldemort looming over all our heads… it feels like I shouldn’t have distractions. But I
didn’t stop loving him even when I hadn’t said the words, and it certainly didn’t make me
worry any less.”

“I’m glad you’re not waiting,” Harry said. It would have been heartbreaking to watch the pair
of them pine for each other under the same roof.

“Me, too.” They went silent for a long moment, Remus’ fingers carding through Harry’s hair.
The touch was soothing for Harry’s aching head; he was getting dreams from Voldemort just
about every other night, now. “Don’t wait too long yourself, alright, cub? If you think you’re
keeping him safe, or keeping yourself focused… after long enough, it’s not worth it. Every
moment is precious, in times like these.”

“It’s— it’s not like that,” Harry sighed. He didn’t really want to talk about it, but he knew
Remus would get it. “I know none of us are safe. But— if I hadn’t been expelled, things
would be different.”
Remus hummed in understanding. “I thought as much. Padfoot was worried about you. I told
him you weren’t quite as self-flagellating as we were at your age.”

“My friends might say otherwise,” Harry remarked wryly, making the werewolf snort. “But
— tell him not to worry. We’ll get there.” He had no doubt about that. No doubt about the
intensity of the feelings involved. The circumstances were just terrible.

“Good. I look forward to being able to tease you in front of the rest of the Weasleys about it.”

“Git.” Harry poked the man in the ribs.

All of a sudden, the door burst open, Sirius making a dramatic stance in the doorway. His
eyes softened at the sight of the pair of them. “Here I am, slaving away with the Christmas
decorations,” he sighed, stalking over, “and you two are cosying up together in the library!
You told me you were working!”

“We were. It’s a little hard to concentrate with you caterwauling in the background,” Remus
teased. Sirius gasped, mock-offended.

“Rude!” He leaned in, pecking Remus on the lips and ruffling Harry’s hair. “How are my
favourite boys doing this afternoon?”

“Wondering if my eyes can survive another trip downstairs with all the tinsel you’ve put up.
I’m blind enough without your help.”

Sirius laughed, plucking Harry’s glasses off his face and setting them on his own nose.
“Blimey, you’re not wrong there! Even James wasn’t nearly this bad.”

Harry snatched his glasses back, scowling half-heartedly.

“Did you need us for something, or is it Give Padfoot Attention time?” Remus asked with a
playful lilt.

“Moony, dearest, it’s always Give Padfoot Attention time,” the animagus insisted. “But I
came to see if you could be dragged away from your dusty old books and persuaded to help
me make Christmas cookies.”

“And by help, you mean make Christmas cookies for you,” Harry surmised; he’d seen Sirius
bake, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Well, if you’re offering, I shan’t say no!” Sirius batted his eyelashes theatrically. “How
about it, kiddo?”

Harry had to admit, that did sound good. “I got some boiled sweets at the corner shop the
other day, I could make stained-glass biscuits?” They might not be the most glamorous of
treat, but Harry had a soft spot for them; Petunia always used to make him bake them to hang
on their tree, and Dudley only liked the strawberry, blackcurrant or orange flavoured ones, so
Harry could occasionally sneak one of the lemon or lime flavoured biscuits into his cupboard.
“Fantastic! Moony, what’re you bringing to the table?” Sirius demanded imperiously. Remus
untangled himself from Harry, getting to his feet.

“If you give me a minute, I’ve got Monty’s white chocolate almond biscuit recipe written
down in our room somewhere,” he volunteered, taking Sirius’ hand when the animagus froze.
“I found it tucked in an old diary when I was going through my things to move in here. I was
going to give it to Harry for Christmas, but… we could pick the tradition back up? If you still
remember the cookie-cutting spell?”

“You— I didn’t know he ever wrote it down for you,” Sirius croaked. Harry watched the pair,
heart thudding painfully in his chest.

“A couple weeks before he and Phee died,” Remus admitted quietly. “He knew they weren’t
doing well. Wanted me to make sure you and James still got your favourites at Christmas.
Neither of you were up for it that first year, and Lily and James had gone into hiding the year
after.”

“I… my granddad baked cookies at Christmas?” Harry cut in tentatively, wanting to learn
more about the family he’d never known.

Sirius beamed at him through the pain in his eyes, hauling him up to his feet. “Oh, Harry, he
made the best cookies! Said it was a secret Potter recipe, that you only got to learn it if you
married into the family. I threatened to marry James just for that recipe, but Prongsy wasn’t
having it. And there’s a spell, too — Phee taught us when we were kids, it cuts them into
snowflake shapes, that’s the only way to eat them. Don’t taste right in any other shape.” He
turned to Remus abruptly, accusation in his eyes. “Why’d he give you the recipe? You
weren’t marrying a Potter.”

Remus leaned in, kissing him, eyes dancing when he pulled back. “I might as well have been.
Monty knew, even then.”

Sirius’ lips parted, breath catching in a sharp inhale. “Oh.” Then his brain seemed to catch up
with the rest of him, and he smiled so wide it looked like it hurt. “Oh.”

“I’ll meet you two in the kitchen,” Harry declared, mock-gagging as he stepped around the
pair. “It’ll be less sugary down there.”

“Don’t be jealous, pup; it doesn’t suit you!” Sirius teased in reply.

Harry left the room laughing, a spring in his step.

.-.-.-.

Harry screamed as he lurched up out of bed, instantly leaning over the side to vomit on the
hardwood floors. His forehead seared with pain like someone had pressed a white hot iron to
it, and he could still taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, the press of his fangs
against flesh.
His eyes wide, he wrestled his way out of the sheets he’d tangled himself up in, pyjamas
sticking to his skin with icy sweat. Waving his hand to vanish the mess on his floor, he
pressed a hand to his burning head, grimacing.

That had been real. That had been so, so real. And he knew the man who now lay bleeding
and dying on the Ministry floor.

“Expecto Patronum,” he rasped, focusing his thoughts, chest easing a fraction when Prongs
leapt into existence, lighting up the room. “Go to Albus Dumbledore. Tell him — Arthur
Weasley has been attacked by Voldemort’s snake. He needs help, immediately.” He focused
again on the tweak of the spell necessary to use the patronus as a messenger, the way
Kingsley had taught him only a few weeks ago. The stag bowed its majestic head, then
disappeared.

Harry prayed it worked. There was no time to send a letter, not all the way to Hogwarts. Mr
Weasley would be dead before an owl could even reach the castle.

Not wanting to put all his trust in the magic he wasn’t yet familiar with, Harry leapt to his
feet. The silencing charm over his room — the one he’d used regularly since the nightmares
had picked up in frequency — would have stopped Sirius and Remus from hearing anything.
He thundered up the stairs, not caring if his footsteps woke Mrs Black, knocking on the door
to the master bedroom. He didn’t wait for a response, shoving his way inside — in the dark,
Remus’ sleep-fogged amber eyes stared back at him in confusion, quickly growing alert.

“Harry, what’s the matter? What happened?” He sat up, dislodging Sirius where the dark-
haired man was asleep on his chest, and Sirius jerked awake.

“Mm, Rem, what?” he muttered, already closing his eyes again.

“Mr Weasley’s been attacked,” Harry blurted. Sirius’ eyes slammed open, and he scrambled
into a sitting position.

“What?”

“I had a dream— a vision,” Harry relayed, staring down at his own trembling hands. “I was
in the Ministry, the same corridor he’s always sending me, only I was— I was a snake, Mr
Weasley was there, and he saw me, it— the snake bit him.” He shuddered, stomach roiling at
the memory. “It’s bad. I felt ribs break, there was so much blood.”

Either oblivious or uncaring of the fact that he was only in a pair of boxers, Sirius jumped up
and pulled Harry into a hug. “Easy, pup, easy. You’re alright. You’re safe. You’re not in his
head anymore.”

“I sent a patronus to Dumbledore, but I don’t know if it worked. I don’t know how else to
contact him. George says Umbridge is watching the fireplaces.”

“She can’t get to the headmaster’s fireplace,” Remus assured him grimly, keeping the sheets
covering his lower half. “Quickly, cub, go downstairs and call him. It’s Albus Dumbledore’s
Private Quarters, Hogwarts; the password is Phoenix. We’ll get dressed and meet you there.”
Harry nodded, heart still racing, mind fuzzy and fractured from the remnants of the vision.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to come with you?” Sirius asked, cupping Harry’s cheeks.
Harry shook his head and squared his shoulders.

“No, it’s fine. Get dressed.” He turned on his heel, hurrying out of the room and all the way
down to the kitchen, lighting the lamps with a hasty wave of his hand. There was a small pot
of floo powder on the mantle, and after taking a pinch Harry fell to his knees painfully hard
on the tile, thrusting his head into the green flames. “Albus Dumbledore’s Private Quarters,
Hogwarts!” he called. The flames whooshed, then turned purple. “Phoenix.” They turned
green once more, and suddenly he was staring out at the bottom of a pair of chintz armchairs.
“Professor Dumbledore!” he yelled, not caring if he woke the whole castle at this point.

“Harry!” the old man’s voice came from somewhere he couldn’t see, and after a beat he was
kneeling on the hearth rug. Dumbledore wore a purple dressing gown patterned with moons
and stars, his glasses crooked on his face. “I just received your patronus. What happened?”

“Had a vision,” he gasped out. “Mr Weasley, at the Ministry. Voldemort’s snake bit him —
blood everywhere, Professor, he needs help now.”

“Was Voldemort there?” Dumbledore asked sharply. Harry growled in impatience. Did he not
understand how dire this situation was??

“No, just the snake. I was the snake. He was controlling her, or possessing her, or something
— look, Professor, Mr Weasley is dying!”

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened. “I will raise the alarm. Do not go anywhere — I will contact
you shortly.” He stood, hurrying away from the fireplace. For a minute, Harry stared ater
him, incredulous. Where the hell did he think Harry was going to go? To the Ministry, to get
Mr Weasley himself??

He pulled his head from the flames, blinking against the disorienting motion. A large hand
squeezed his shoulder. “Up you get, cub.” Remus helped him to his feet and into a chair; he
and Sirius both wore pyjamas and dressing gowns now, wands in hand and slippers on their
feet. “Did you get him?”

“Yeah, he said he’d raise the alarm. He’s not— it’ll take too long for him to go get him
himself. Mr Weasley could die.”

“Albus has many ways of getting messages around,” Sirius assured him. “He’ll get someone
to Arthur in time. Now.” He sat down beside Harry, taking both the teen’s hands in his own.
“Deep breaths, pup. Tell us what happened.”

Trying to calm his racing heart, Remus rubbing soothing circles on his back, Harry slowly
began to organise his thoughts into words. “I was having a dream. It started out— normal.
Christmas stuff. Then it changed. I thought it was just going to be another corridor dream, but
— it was different. I was a snake, Voldemort’s snake. I had a job to do, but Mr Weasley was
there. I wanted to bite him, but I wasn’t going to. He was asleep. But then he woke up, pulled
his wand, and I—“ He broke off, throat closing up. “How is that possible? It was real, I know
it was. But I haven’t had a real one in months! And never— never like that.” He’d figured out
that the corridor dreams were false visions sent by Voldemort, and he knew why; it was the
corridor to the Department of Mysteries, where the prophecy hall would be found. Voldemort
wanted Harry curious, wanted Harry to go and get the prophecy that the Dark Lord wasn’t
brave enough to attempt retrieving himself. He clearly couldn’t dig deep enough into Harry’s
mind to know that Harry already knew the prophecy. But Harry knew those visions were
fake; Voldemort obviously hadn’t been wandering around the Ministry every other night.

Once or twice, he’d had a vision of a Death Eater meeting, when Voldemort was particularly
furious — or happy. Those had certainly been real. But those had all been from Voldemort’s
eyes. Where did the snake come into things?

“We know Voldemort has a connection with his snake. He used her milk and venom to regain
his strength, before he got his body back,” Remus said grimly. “We have no idea how deep
that connection goes. Obviously it was enough to pull you along for the ride. Maybe he
possessed her. Maybe he’s made her into a horcrux, too. Who knows.”

“Pup, you’re shaking,” Sirius fretted. In an instant, he had his dressing gown off and was
wrapping it around Harry’s shoulders. It was warm, and smelled like Sirius’ aftershave —
and a little bit of wet dog.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Remus announced, getting to his feet.

“Mrs Weasley,” Harry realised suddenly. “Someone should tell her.” He lurched, as if to
return to the fireplace, but Sirius held him in his chair.

“Albus will take care of it. Though from what I’ve heard about that clock of hers, she
probably already knows.” Harry thought about the Weasley family clock, his blood turning to
ice at the thought of Mr Weasley’s hand pointing to mortal peril.

The kettle bubbled on the stove, and just as it began to whistle, there was a brief flash of fire
over the kitchen table; a piece of parchment floated down, along with a single red feather.
Harry snatched it up, recognising Dumbledore’s handwriting immediately.

Arthur found, at St Mungo’s. Weasley children incoming shortly by portkey.

Relief hit him, but it didn’t last long — there was nothing in the note about what state Mr
Weasley had been in when he was found.

“Moony, we’re having company. Albus is sending the kids over,” Sirius said, reading the note
over Harry’s shoulder. Remus hummed, summoning several more mugs off the shelf. He
deposited a mug of tea in front of Harry, as well as a small plate stacked with snowflake-
shaped biscuits. Harry’s lips twitched in an attempt at a smile, which grew when the
werewolf scooted his chair closer to keep one arm around Harry’s back, his own mug of tea
in hand. Sirius gathered close too, tangling his fingers with Remus’ on the back of Harry’s
chair.

He sipped at his tea, heart still hammering against his ribs. “He was on guard duty, wasn’t
he?” Harry realised, voice hollow. “For the prophecy.” He might not have been in Order
meetings, but between the three aurors and his godfathers, he’d heard enough. He knew that
Sturgis Podmore had been arrested while on Order duty, and that Dumbledore was keeping
eyes on the Department of Mysteries at all times.

Mr Weasley being in that corridor felt like Harry’s fault. If not for the prophecy, he wouldn’t
have been there.

He shook away the thoughts. If anything, it was Dumbledore’s fault. Harry couldn’t think like
that.

“He was,” Remus confirmed softly. “All Order members with Ministry access keep guard on
rotation.”

Before Harry could ask any more, four bodies popped into existence by the doorway, all
clustered around a teakettle that had seen better days. They were all in their pyjamas, looking
scared and confused. It said a lot about Harry’s emotional state that he didn’t even feel better
when George’s eyes met his. If anything, it just made him feel worse; their father was dying,
because he’d been on guard duty to protect the prophecy — to protect Harry.

“Harry!” Ginny rushed forward, skidding to a halt beside the awkward hug-bundle going on
between the trio still sat on their chairs. “Dumbledore said— what happened?”

Harry untangled himself from his godfathers and stood, Sirius’ dressing gown still draped
over his shoulders. Ginny immediately launched herself at him, hugging him around the
waist. “Dumbledore said it was Voldemort,” she whispered, chalk-white and watery eyed.
“He was in your head.”

“He said— he said Dad’s been hurt,” Ron croaked. Harry winced.

“Sit down, all of you, have some tea.” Remus made four more cups of tea and levitated them
to the table, gently ushering the Weasleys to settle down. When Ginny let go of Harry, she
looked at him with fear in her eyes. No, not fear — sympathy.

“Are you okay?” she asked, voice trembling. “Was it like— was it like the diary?”

“Oh, Gin, no,” Harry assured hastily. “Nothing like that. I’m okay, I promise. Just sit down,
I’ll explain everything.”

With Sirius and Remus still bracketing him, the Weasley siblings sat opposite Harry at the
table. They wrapped their hands around their mugs, but didn’t drink, watching Harry
expectantly.

“I had a vision,” Harry began, not looking anyone in the eyes. “Like— y’know, like I’ve had
before.” They all nodded, at least vaguely familiar with Harry’s nighttime jaunts into
Voldemort’s head. “I was his snake, and I was in the Ministry. Your dad was there. I— the
snake attacked him, bit him. I woke up, and sent a message to Dumbledore. I didn’t know he
was going to wake you guys up.”

“It’s our dad,” Fred pointed out. “What was he doing in the Ministry at this time of night?”

Harry glanced at Remus. “Order work,” the werewolf said cryptically. “It’s not important.”
“Is— is Dad gonna be alright?” George croaked. “Does Mum know?”

“Your father’s at St Mungo’s,” Sirius said, which wasn’t an answer. “If Molly doesn’t know
yet, she will soon. Albus will tell her.”

Ginny’s first instinct was to go to St Mungo’s, regardless of her pyjama-clad state, but Remus
managed to talk her down.

“We can’t have anyone knowing about Harry’s visions,” he said evenly. “Besides, there’s
nothing you can do anyway. Let the healers work — I’m sure there will be word soon. Drink
your tea. Have a biscuit.” He nudged the plate of snowflake biscuits across the table. Harry
reached for one, but merely turned it over in his hands, fingers worrying the spines of the
snowflake until they began to crumble.

“Quit playing with your food, pup,” Sirius scolded half-heartedly. He shivered, then turned to
the fire. “Need to put more wood on. Kreacher!”

The house elf appeared, sparing barely a glance at the extra guests. “Masters is up late,” he
muttered. “Kreacher will tend the fire.” He disappeared again.

“D’you want your robe back?” Harry asked, though he made no motion to take off the
dressing gown.

“And expose your legs to this innocent young lady?” Sirius retorted, his heart not quite in the
act of being scandalised, though Ginny managed a wet giggle. “Nah, might grab a jumper
though.” Nonetheless, he didn’t move.

“Here.” Remus waved his wand, and a chunky knitted cardigan came sailing through the
open doorway, landing in Sirius’ lap. The animagus flashed a quick smile, shrugging into the
garment. It hung a little loose on him — even after months of solid meals, Remus was still
broader in the shoulders — but he wrapped it around himself all the same. Harry saw Sirius’
nose press against the collar, inhaling the scent, but considering he’d done about the same to
Sirius’ dressing gown he had no room to judge. Moony’s wolf instincts were rubbing off on
both of them, perhaps.

All of a sudden, there was another burst of phoenix fire, and another piece of parchment; this
one accompanied by a gold tail feather. Harry snatched it up. “It’s from Dumbledore,” he said
unnecessarily. “Wait, hang on, that’s your mum’s writing. ‘Dad is still alive. I am setting out
for St Mungo’s now. Stay where you are. I will send news when I can. Mum’.” Harry looked
up at the four pallid faces opposite.

Ron, who had been incredibly silent since Harry had explained his vision, looked around the
table. “Still alive,” he echoed. “But… that makes it sound like…”

Harry’s stomach lurched, and he got to his feet, chair legs scraping loudly on the tile. “I can’t
— I need—“ He gave up trying to find an excuse, fleeing the kitchen on unsteady legs.

He skidded to a halt in the entrance hall, unsure where to go. He couldn’t just go back to bed.
Not while his friends were waiting to hear if their father was dead. The library, maybe? If he
was going to be awake, he might as well do something useful. Or maybe he could go curse
things in the ballroom. That might make him feel better; might get his mind off the feeling of
baring his fangs and lunging to strike.

“Harry.” He whirled around. George approached, hair all stuck up on one side like he’d gone
to bed with it still damp, wearing long-sleeved blue pyjamas with a large G embroidered on
the shirt pocket. He was barefoot. Harry’s chest was painfully tight — this was not how he’d
envisioned seeing George again. “Harry, come here.”

Harry stumbled back a step. “I’m just gonna—“ He wasn’t sure what he was going to do.
George took a step forward.

“Please.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t move as George bridged the gap between them, tucking
Harry’s head beneath his chin, holding him close. “You’re alright. It’s okay. It wasn’t your
fault.”

“How can you say that?” Harry croaked. “You heard what I said — I was the snake. I— I bit
your dad.”

“It wasn’t you and we both know it,” George waved him off. “Don’t be daft. Just… come
back to the kitchen. Please.”

“I shouldn’t intrude,” Harry attempted weakly. He turned his face towards the soft cotton of
George’s shirt, inhaling the sleep-warm scent of fireworks and toffee that he’d been dreaming
about for months now.

“Don’t be daft,” George repeated. He held Harry tighter. Harry heard the older boy’s heart
thudding beneath his ear, far faster than it should be. “Come on. Harry, love, please.”

It was that word that did it; that simple, whispered word, slipping off George’s tongue so
easily despite being the first time he’d ever said it towards Harry, first time either of them had
dared mention anything of the sort. A quiet sob forced its way out of Harry’s throat.

Inside the kitchen, George’s other three siblings were grieving, and worrying, and likely not
sparing a single thought for whatever was going on in Harry’s head, except perhaps to
wonder if their friend was becoming a Dark Lord. And yet here was George, with Harry,
reassuring him. That should be Harry’s job, right now.

With that sobering thought, he took in a deep breath, reluctantly pulling away from George’s
embrace. He wriggled his arms into Sirius’ dressing gown, belting it properly over the t-shirt
and boxer shorts he’d worn to sleep in. George’s lips twitched; the tiniest of smiles, the
briefest of sparks in his gaze. He nudged Harry back towards the kitchen, and Harry went.
 Chapter 14

It felt like they sat in that kitchen forever.

Harry doubted anyone managed to finish their tea before it went cold. Ron ate a biscuit, but
no one else touched the plate, their eyes darting to the clock on the wall, the fireplace, the
doorway. Hoping for any sort of sign their father was okay. Harry sat between Sirius and
Remus, their knees pressed comfortingly to his beneath the table, their hands linked behind
his back. Occasionally Remus lifted his wand to do a round of warming charms on the tea.
Other than that, they just watched the siblings grieve, and waited. Whenever it got too much,
whenever Harry felt his pulse pick up and his breath began to choke him, George caught his
eye across the table and he felt a little bit calmer.

It wasn’t how he’d expected to see his friends again, after three and a half months apart.
Harry didn’t know what to do.

At last, just after five in the morning, the door swung open and Mrs Weasley entered the
kitchen. Harry froze. Her face was drawn and pale, her hair half escaped from a messy bun.
Her children all turned to look at her, and she gave a strained smile.

“He’s going to be alright,” she announced, voice tired. “He’s sleeping. We can all go and see
him later — Bill’s sitting with him now.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, her words taking a second to fully process in the
sleep-deprived brains. Then Ginny jumped to her feet, throwing herself at her mother in a
tight hug. Ron slumped in his chair like a puppet with his strings cut, and the twins turned to
look at each other, relief clear on their faces.

Harry didn’t move. Mrs Weasley’s words echoed through his head, again and again. Mr
Weasley was okay. He’d survived the snake attack. Harry’s attack.

Perhaps when he’d had some rest, he would think how stupid he was being to act like he was
responsible for the snake’s actions. He knew it was Voldemort, he knew he’d just been
dragged along for the ride, but that didn’t change that he now had visceral, first-hand
knowledge of what it was like to sink his fangs into Arthur Weasley’s ribcage.

“Let’s make breakfast, cub.” Remus’ soft voice cut into his hazy thoughts. Across the room,
Sirius was hugging Mrs Weasley tightly. Harry looked around, lost.

Yes, breakfast. Cooking he could do. Cooking he was good at.

He got to his feet and made for the stove, warming the pans while Remus got bacon and eggs
from the cold box. When he turned around to go fetch plates, he found himself wrapped in a
rib-crushing Molly Weasley hug. “Oh, Harry,” she sighed, relief audible, voice muffled
against his shoulder. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if not for you. Arthur wouldn’t
have been found until morning, for sure. He—“ She broke off with a sob. Harry stood there
stiffly, letting her hug him and mutter about how grateful she was, how much trouble Arthur
would’ve been in if Dumbledore hadn’t known and thought of a cover story. She let him go,
and Harry was beyond grateful when she turned to Remus to thank him for keeping an eye on
the kids all night. He focused his attention on the stove, trying to block out the sounds of the
Weasleys’ happiness, of their gratitude that he didn’t deserve. Ron sidled past, clapping him
on the shoulder with a muttered ‘good t’see you, mate’ before he claimed his fill of the food.
Harry folded a couple of rashers of bacon between a slice of bread, nibbling on the corner, his
stomach churning. It was all too much.

“Just breathe, pup,” Sirius’ husky voice murmured in his ear, a comforting pressure against
his side. “Eat some breakfast, then you can go get some sleep. Don’t let this rattle you.
You’ve had visions before, we know what they are. Let it pass like the others, and be glad
this one was useful.”

The man spoke sense, and Harry tried to believe it. It had just been such a long time — all the
visions of empty corridors and locked doors had lulled him into a false sense of security.
Even the visions of Death Eater meetings; they only ever contained people he hated, or
people he didn’t know, or Snape. Never anything like this.

Not wanting to burst the happy bubble his friends were now in — or draw attention to
himself, in case they wanted more details about his vision — Harry took his bacon sandwich
back to the table.

Luckily, breakfast was a short affair, the fatigue settling in quickly now the adrenaline was
wearing off. They all trudged upstairs, and Ron had an awkward moment when he realised
Harry no longer shared the room they had slept in during the summer. At last, Harry was
back in his bedroom, alone. He flopped onto the mattress, not even bothering to remove
Sirius’ dressing gown, and squeezed his eyes shut. There was still a dull throbbing behind his
scar, and as he felt himself drift off, he sent a quick prayer to whoever might be listening that
Voldemort was done for the night. He couldn’t take another vision so soon after the first.

.-.-.

They all slept until the early afternoon — when Harry trudged downstairs, he was surprised
to see Moody and Tonks sat at the kitchen table with Sirius, Remus and the Weasleys. “We’re
not training today, are we?” he asked, wondering if he’d got his schedule confused in the
chaos of the night before. He didn’t notice Ron’s narrow-eyed look of alarm.

“Nah, don’t worry. We’re here to escort this lot to St Mungo’s,” Tonks assured him. “You’re
off the hook for Christmas now, kid.”

Harry nodded, smiling though the news didn’t really make him happy. Of course, Mrs
Weasley — who refused to hear anything about what the aurors were teaching Harry,
claiming it all to be far too dangerous for a boy his age — wouldn’t want him keeping to his
schedule while her children were there. She wouldn’t want them to see the sort of magic
Harry could do now.

Harry didn’t really want them to see that, either. He didn’t need any more glaring signs of
how different his life was to theirs after only a few short months.
Then, Tonks’ words hit him fully. He froze. “I can’t go to St Mungo’s, can I?” he realised
dully.

“What? Of course you’re coming!” Ron argued. “You saved Dad’s life!” When he looked to
the other adults in the room, they were grim-faced.

“I’m not supposed to be in the wizarding world anymore, Ron,” Harry pointed out. “There’ll
be too many questions if I pop in just to visit your dad.” He gave a breezy smile that was
entirely faked. “Give him my best, yeah? I hope he gets to come home soon. I’ll see him
when they let him leave.”

“We can disguise you,” Fred suggested.

“You can pretend to be one of us,” George agreed. “We’ll take turns visiting.”

This time, Harry didn’t have to fake a smile. “Thanks for the offer, but it’s fine. Go see your
dad. I’ll hang out here.” He could find something to do, if he wasn’t allowed to train. There
were bound to be some books in the library he hadn’t read yet, except for the ones that would
bite off his hands if he tried.

“I’m sorry, Harry dear,” Mrs Weasley said, looking forlorn. “I know Arthur would love to see
you, but it’s just too much of a risk, you understand.”

“Absolutely. It’s fine.” The wizarding world had to believe that he was in the muggle world,
sulking and wandless and utterly removed from magic once again. “I’ll see you all when you
get back.”

None of the Weasley kids looked thrilled about leaving Harry behind, but they were too eager
to see their dad to put up much of a fight. Soon, it was just Harry, Sirius and Remus in the
house once more. Harry could hardly believe that twenty-four hours ago they’d been baking
up a storm in the kitchen, the two Marauders regaling him with stories of his Potter
grandparents.

“Want to duel?” Sirius asked him, leaning back on the legs of his chair. Harry swallowed
tightly.

“Merlin, yes.”

Remus insisted they eat something first, but didn’t put up a fight after, following them up to
the ballroom Harry usually trained in. Sirius looked around, then chuckled. “Few more curse
marks on the floor than I remember,” he remarked. “You’ve been busy up here, I see.”

“Not all of them were me,” Harry defended. The animagus barked out a laugh.

“Oh, I know. That one there’s been there for years — I was twelve. Father wanted to see if I
was truly brave enough for Gryffindor.” His lips became a bitter, twisted smile. He rolled up
his shirtsleeves, palming his wand. “Ready?”

They bowed, and begun.

It was a freeing feeling, duelling with people who weren’t trying to kill him, but also weren’t
holding back. Harry had only discovered the feeling since his expulsion, but he loved it.
Magic buzzed from his fingertips as he dodged and returned fire, Sirius’ wand a blur. The
two of them didn’t duel often, and Sirius was clearly a little rusty from his auror days, but at
the same time Harry could see what the man must have been, once upon a time.

Duelling with Sirius was always interesting — he didn’t stick to the usual offensive magic, or
even have a Charms or Transfiguration lean to his style like some duellists Kingsley had told
him about. Instead, you were just as likely to be hit with a bone-breaking curse as a colour-
change charm, or something to make all your hair turn into six-foot tentacles. By the time
they were finished, Harry claiming victory with a choking curse from his left hand, they were
both bruised and bloodied, and Harry’s clothes had become a French Maid’s outfit, complete
with stiletto heels.

“Keep me out of your kinky little bedroom games, if you don’t mind, Pads,” Harry teased,
wincing when he put a little too much pressure on his broken ankle. “God, how do women
wear these things?”

“Usually not with shattered bones,” Remus replied.

“I see you have no comment on the kinky bedroom games.”

Sirius, breathless even after Harry had ended the spell, wheezed out a laugh and waved his
wand, returning Harry’s outfit to normal. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,
kiddo.” He looked down at himself, grimacing. There was a huge slash through the left side
of his shirt, blood soaking into the fabric. “I really hope I can fix that. I like this shirt.”

Between the three of them, they got healed up and back to rights in short order — Sirius had
made sure early on to teach Harry as many healing and medical spells as he could, insisting
he’d end up looking like Mad-Eye if he didn’t learn how to magically stitch himself up.

“You’re getting good with your off-hand,” Sirius complimented, pulling the hem of his
repaired shirt out to check for any holes or thin patches. “And that sneezing hex —
Kingsley’s work?”

“Tonks,” Harry corrected, beaming with pride. “She say’s there’s not many people who can
keep casting through sneezes that bad, and most don’t know the counter. You did, though.”

“I used to cast it on Snape during Potions’ classes,” Sirius explained unrepentantly.

Grimacing at a splatter of blood on the wall, unsure which of them it had come from, Harry
cursed when his cleaning spell barely made a dent in the stain. “Bugger. I hope Kreacher can
get that out.”

Kreacher appeared, startling all three of them, and surveyed the bloodstained wall with his
arms folded. Then, he snapped his fingers, and the wall was pristine again. “Kreacher is a
Black elf,” he declared solemnly, gazing up at Harry. “Kreacher is good at cleaning blood.”

He vanished once more. There was a long, awkward silence.

“Well,” Remus said eventually, clearing his throat. “Can’t fault that logic, I suppose.” He
checked his watch. “The Weasleys will probably be home, soon.”

Sirius sidled up next to Harry, nudging his shoulder. “You good, pup?”

“Think so.” His head felt clearer, at any rate. There was less buzzing beneath his skin.
“Thanks for this.”

“You looked like you needed it.” Sirius smiled at him. “Go take a shower, take a nap or
something — we’ll get started on dinner in a bit. Gonna be a full house tonight.” He looked
thrilled by the notion. Harry couldn’t blame him; Grimmauld had been getting a bit lonely,
even with the three of them. And at least Harry could go out for a walk in the muggle world
every now and then. Sirius sometimes came too as Padfoot, but it wasn’t the same as seeing
the world from two legs.

“Sure you don’t want me to help cook?” Before the words could even finish leaving Harry’s
mouth, he noticed the way Remus was looking at Sirius, and screwed up his nose. “Never
mind. Not asking questions I don’t want the answer to. I’ll be in my room, don’t forget the
silencing charms.”

“Atta boy!” Sirius said, thumping him on the back and giving him a hefty shove towards the
door. Harry fled from the room before the two could start getting frisky.

That was another reason he didn’t duel Sirius that often. Depending on where they were at in
the moon cycle, watching Sirius fight made Remus inexplicably horny, and now they weren’t
trying to hide things from Harry they were not remotely subtle about it.

There were some things Harry just did not want to see, ever.

He took a quick shower to wash away the sweat and blood that his spells hadn’t caught, then
returned to his room, making himself comfortable with a muggle fiction book. He was
making good progress through the little stack he’d bought himself — only Remus’ heavy-
handed hints that he might be getting more for Christmas had stopped him from adding to his
collection.

Time passed quickly while Harry was engrossed in his book. So quickly, he was surprised
when someone knocked on his door, and a shock of red hair peeked in. “Hey, you,” George
greeted, glancing around the room. “So this is your new bedroom, hmm? Love what you’ve
done with the place.”

The redhead had only seen bits and pieces in the background of their mirror-calls. No longer
was it a dreary room with dark green wallpaper and depressing decor; now it had calming
blue-grey walls and a fluffy geometric-pattern rug on the floor.

“It’s home,” Harry declared happily, sitting up in bed and tucking his knees up. George
perched on the other end of the twin bed. “How’s your dad?”

“Oh, up and laughing, trying to convince his healer to try out some weird muggle stuff on his
wound,” George relayed with a chuckle. “He sends his love, and said to thank you for getting
the alert up.”

“I’m glad he’s alright. When can he come home?”

“Not sure yet. There’s something in the venom that stops the wound from closing up, so
they’re keeping an eye on it and trying to control the bleeding. I reckon once that stops,
they’ll let him go.”

Harry’s stomach flopped queasily. He could still remember the feeling of that venom
releasing from his fangs.

“You know what he was doing in the Ministry that late, don’t you,” George presumed, brown
eyes fixed on Harry’s.

“Yeah.” Harry didn’t even try to lie. “But I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t let Ron know. He’s desperate to know what’s really going on. Seems all these years of
being best mates with Harry Potter has given him a taste for ferreting out information.” There
was something unreadable on his face, and it made Harry uneasy.

“What do you mean?”

George explained the Extendable Ears, and what they’d heard Moody say. He thought Harry
was being possessed.

Harry’s stomach turned to lead. “Does Ron think that? Do you? That I— that I was possessed
into attacking your dad?”

“I don’t,” George assured quickly. “I’ll be honest, I’ve no idea what’s going on in that head of
yours. But you don’t seem scared, or confused, so I’d bet anything you do know what’s going
on.” Harry neither confirmed nor denied, but George took that as confirmation enough. “And
you can’t tell me.”

“It’s too dangerous.” It was bad enough that the four of them — him, Sirius, Remus and Bill
— knew about horcruxes. He sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone else. Even if it left them
thinking he was being possessed by Voldemort.

“You and your secrets, Potter,” George muttered fondly, eyes sparkling. “All these things you
never talk about.”

Lightning shot up and down Harry’s spine, his pulse ticking up. “George, I— ”

“Don’t,” George shushed. “S’not a bad thing. You keep your secrets ’til you're ready. It’ll
keep.” His hand lay on top of the duvet, inches from Harry’s foot. Then he chuckled. “Bit of
a dramatic way to get me here early, I must admit,” he teased. “Having my dad attacked by a
dirty great snake.”

Tension eased in Harry’s shoulders he hadn’t truly known was there — if George could joke
about it, they were fine. Everything was fine. “What can I say?” Harry shot back, grinning. “I
missed you.”
“Charmer,” George said, winking. “Anyway, I came up here for a reason, before you
distracted me. Dinner’s ready.” He stood, then held out a hand. “You coming?”

Harry took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He was barely inches from George, and the
tall redhead squeezed Harry’s hand, let go, then ducked down to kiss him on the cheek. When
he pulled back, they were both blushing. “Thanks for saving my dad, Harry.”

“Anytime,” came Harry’s breathless reply.

.-.-.-.

Now that everyone had seen for themselves that Mr Weasley was out of the woods, the house
was far more relaxed — the Hogwarts students revelling in having skipped out several days
early.

“I should’ve left a note for Hermione,” Ron fretted, stabbing into a yorkshire pudding.
“She’ll be losing her mind not to know where we all went in the middle of the night.”

“I’m sure McGonagall or someone will have told her,” Ginny assured. Then she grinned
devilishly. “Or are you just sad you didn’t get to say a proper goodbye?”

Ron went beet red, and Harry hid a snicker behind his cup. “Still no progress there, then?” he
asked under his breath, glancing sideways at George. George shook his head.

“Not even close. Pretty sure they’re fighting more than ever, without you around as buffer.”
He paused, eyeing his little brother contemplatively. “Unless that’s just their thing.”

“Ew, gross,” Harry complained.

Remus had gone all-out and made dessert, pulling out an apple and blackberry pie once the
table was cleared of their main. “Will you get the ice cream, cub?” he asked. Harry nodded,
summoning the frozen treat from the pantry. Ron and Ginny both blinked at him.

“Forgot you could do that, mate,” Ron remarked. Harry said nothing, wondering what Ron
might have said had he watched Harry’s duel earlier.

“Of course, Arthur won’t be home by Christmas,” Mrs Weasley was telling Sirius, further
down the table. “But with any luck, we’ll have him back by New Year’s. Thanks again ever
so much for putting us up for the holidays — it’s so easy to get to the hospital from here!”

It was a far cry from the grudging acceptance she’d had back when they had originally
decided to host Christmas at Grimmauld, when Harry refused to be without his godfathers.
But Sirius graciously didn’t say anything, patting her on the arm. “We’re happy to have you
here, Molly! The more the merrier.”

After dinner, they all drifted up to the living room, which was actually liveable now that
Sirius, Remus and Harry had spent some time redecorating, and Kreacher had stopped
fighting them about it.
“You know you’re not possessed by Voldemort, don’t you, Harry?” Ginny asked bluntly, once
they were all sat down in front of the fire. “I would know if you were. I remember what it
was like.” Ron made a sort of strangled noise.

“I know, Gin,” Harry assured. “But I’m glad you lot don’t agree with Mad-Eye.”

To the ex-auror’s credit, he didn’t seem particularly bothered by the prospect of Harry being
possessed. He’d just told him to stay vigilant, and not to get rusty over the holidays.

“Glad that’s settled, then,” Fred declared, clapping his hands together. “Exploding Snap,
anyone?”
 Chapter 15

To everyone’s surprise, Hermione showed up around six o’clock the next evening, ringing the
doorbell and setting off Mrs Black’s portrait. “I told my parents that everyone else was
staying at school to study for their OWLs,” she declared, unwinding her scarf from her neck.
“They were sad I’d miss skiing, but they understood. Oh, Harry, it’s so good to see you!
You’re looking really well!” She hugged him tight, giving him a searching once-over. Harry
grinned.

“Good to see you too, Hermione.” Indeed, it had been strange to have all the Weasleys back
but not her.

They gathered in the living room for Hermione to regale them all with Umbridge’s reaction
to all the Weasley children leaving in the middle of the night. “She’s really awful, Harry,” the
dark-skinned witch complained. “We haven’t used a single spell in Defence class all term!”

“I hear that’s not stopped you, though,” he teased. “Tell me more about this study group of
yours.”

She blushed, but launched into an explanation, once she was sure none of the adults were
nearby to listen at the door. “Dobby helped us find a place to practice, it’s really fascinating!”
she told him, eyes bright. “It’s called the Room of Requirement. Oh, and Dobby misses you,
by the way.”

“I miss him, too.” Harry thought sadly of the little elf. “I’ll buy him some socks or
something, if you’ll give him them when you go back?”

That prompted Hermione to tell him all about her progress with S.P.E.W, knitting hats to free
the Hogwarts house elves. Harry wasn’t sure if that was exactly progress, but at the wide-
eyed look on Ron’s face he wisely kept his mouth shut.

As glad as he was to have the house full of people for Christmas, and to see his friends in
person again, it was weird, too. Hermione and Ron seemed desperate to tell him about every
little thing he’d missed in the last few months at school — even things he wouldn’t have
cared about if he had been there. He appreciated their thoughts on Umbridge, and their tales
of the study group they’d formed — Dumbledore’s Army, they had called it, which seemed
like they were just begging for Umbridge to discover it and throw a fit. He even enjoyed
Ron’s recounting of his quidditch progress, morose as it was; he still hadn’t recovered his
confidence after the Slytherin match, even after Angelina had refused to let him quit the
team.

But when it came to learning who Lavender Brown had been caught snogging in the Charms
corridor, or that some Slytherin seventh year had broken off his betrothal with a Ravenclaw
fifth year and his parents were furious, Harry had to wonder. “Hermione, that’s great and all,
but unless you’re telling me this because you’re the reason that Slytherin dumped his
betrothed, I don’t actually care.”
Hermione blushed brightly. Beside her, Ron snorted. “I just don’t want you to feel left out,”
she said plaintively. Then, to Harry’s horror, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a
truly terrifying mountain of parchment. “Here, look; I’ve copied all my notes for you, and all
the DA notes too.”

He had never been more relieved for Mrs Weasley to come in and chivvy them all up to bed.
Ginny sniggered silently at the look on his face when he picked up the stack of notes
Hermione had thrust upon him.

“I’ve got a present for you too, Harry,” the redhead volunteered, digging into her pocket.
“Here, look. My friend Luna took them — she’s in Ravenclaw. It was easier than trying to
explain to Colin what I wanted pictures of. Sorry I couldn’t get pictures of what happened
after the match — I may or may not have hexed him so bad he didn’t come out of his dorm
for three days? Oops.”

She passed over three slightly crumpled wizarding photographs; they documented, second-
by-second, the exact moment Ginny had beat Draco Malfoy to the snitch. And the look on
Malfoy’s face, when he realised what had happened. Harry beamed at her.

“Brilliant, Gin!”

The last picture had Malfoy pulling his broom to a halt, looking the strangest mix of furious
and embarrassed, while Ginny whizzed past him clutching the snitch victoriously. If he
wasn’t mistaken, there were tears in the corner of the blond’s eyes.

Harry was going to put it on his wall.

.-.-.

Visiting Mr Weasley became a daily journey for all those who were allowed out of the house
without causing alarm. Ron looked like he was going to protest every time they left Harry
behind, but Harry didn’t mind; truthfully, he was glad for the peace and quiet, just for a
couple of hours.

He was surprised when, the day before Christmas, he walked into the kitchen expecting it to
be empty, only to find Bill in there talking to Sirius. Remus had gone to visit Mr Weasley —
and, he’d confided to Harry quietly, to have a chat with the poor bloke in the same ward
who’d been bitten by a werewolf on the last moon.

“I thought you’d be at the hospital with the others,” Harry greeted curiously. Bill shook his
head.

“Nah, I’ll go this afternoon; I’ve only got a short lunch break.”

“Oh. Then do you mind waiting a minute? I’ve got a Christmas present for Fleur — and
yours, of course, but I figured you’d be by sometime tomorrow.”

“I actually came here to talk to you, if you’re not busy,” Bill told him. “I’ll come up with
you.”
Harry’s expression grew serious, and he nodded, turning on his heel and leading Bill up the
stairs to his room. The curse breaker shut the door behind himself and began to ward it, so
Harry took the chance to dig Fleur’s present out from the bottom of his wardrobe, as well as
the card he’d written for Gabrielle.

“So, what’s the matter?” he asked, brow furrowed. Bill fiddled with his fang earring.

“Well, I’ve got good news, bad news, and sort-of okay-ish news,” he declared.

“Right. Bad news first, I suppose?” Harry’s heart was in his throat, wondering what Bill
might have come across in his research.

“Bad news is, your scar is almost definitely a horcrux,” Bill told him bluntly. “But the good
news is, there’s supposed to be a ritual to anchor a horcrux properly once it’s in its chosen
vessel — if Voldemort got hit by the killing curse, he couldn’t have completed that ritual, so
the likelihood is that it’s just a sort of splinter-horcrux in your scar. Part of his soul — that
much is obvious, after you saw Dad get attacked — but it’s a small part, and it’s not properly
anchored. There’s a purging potion that my team healer reckons will get it all out of your
system.”

Harry blinked, digesting the information. “That’s… better than I anticipated, actually.” After
how vivid the vision was, he’d been anticipating the worst. A potion sounded like a pretty
simple fix. “And the okay-ish news?”

“This is where it gets a bit complicated.” Bill perched on the edge of the desk, tucking a loose
strand of hair behind his ear. “Gringotts has some record of horcruxes, but because of the
nature of the magic, they’re a little spotty and held behind some serious security. Luckily, I’m
in a senior enough team that I can get through most of that security, but I still had to tell a
couple of goblins what I was after. But like I told you, they hate pureblood supremacists, so
it’s fine. Anyway, one of the older blokes on my team spent some time a while back working
in Germany in this ancient dark castle, had some crypts and the like all connected to it. He’s
seen it all, so I asked him about the horcrux situation, and he gave me this diary that
contained a really, really old ritual. It was written by this dark lord some ten or twelve
centuries ago, some bloke who made three horcruxes when he was in the height of his power
— then as he got older, he started to regret what he’d done in splitting his soul. Only, he’d
hidden his horcruxes so well he couldn’t actually find them again.” Here, Bill’s lips quirked,
and Harry snorted.

“Is it a locating spell?” he asked hopefully. Bill shook his head.

“Not quite. He didn’t want to destroy them, see; he wanted to reverse them. So this evil
genius dark lord decides to create a ritual that he intends will reunite all the shards of his soul
within his body, leaving him mortal but back to how powerful he once was.”

“We don’t want Voldemort mortal but more powerful, Bill,” Harry pointed out in alarm.
“He’s powerful enough as it is.”

“Exactly. Which is why it’s a good thing this Germanic bloke’s ritual couldn’t stitch the soul
pieces back, and they just moved on to— wherever evil soul pieces go, I guess, the writings
weren’t clear on that part.”

Harry blinked. “So, let me see if I understand this. You found a ritual that can make all the
pieces of his soul just… go away? What’s the catch?” If it was that perfect, the goblins would
have done it by now, prophecy and Harry Potter be damned.

“The catch,” Bill drawled, “is that the ritual can only be performed by a living being
containing part of the soul the ritual is to be focused on.”

Harry’s heart sank. “So we have to trick Voldemort into performing this ritual, somehow?”
That was never going to happen. Even if they could frame it as some sort of power-boosting
ritual, it would take time and more finesse than they probably had to make it something the
Dark Lord trusted. Maybe they could get Snape to offer it to him?

“Here I thought you were smart, Potter,” Bill teased, not looking as frustrated as Harry
expected by the news. “Think — living being containing part of the soul. What did I just tell
you was lodged in that scar of yours?”

Bill’s grin widened when Harry froze. The dark-haired teen looked up at him, hardly daring
to believe it could be that perfect. “I— will that work? You said it was a splinter-horcrux. Is it
anchored enough for me to do the ritual?”

“Unconfirmed,” Bill admitted. “We’re still doing the research on that. It might not have been
anchored, but it’s been floating around up there for fourteen years now. It’s probably twined
pretty strongly with your own magical core.”

Harry didn’t really like the sound of that. “Will that make it difficult for the purging potion to
remove?” Was it going to rip out his magic? Or worse, make it possible for Voldemort to get
a tighter hold on him?

“Goblins say probably not, but they’d like to do some more studying first. It’s early days, and
there’s a lot more testing and theorising we need to do before we can lay down any proper
magic, but… in theory, you should be able to use the ritual to disperse all his errant soul
pieces without having to know where they are, then take the purging potion to get rid of the
bit in you, and it’ll just be Voldemort. Mortal as any of the rest of us.”

The words settled in Harry’s mind; he could hardly believe it was possible, that they could be
so close to finding a way. “Wow,” he murmured. “Bill, that’s— that’s brilliant.” To think, this
knowledge could have been found months, even years ago if Dumbledore had shared his
suspicions about horcruxes with the Order. Presuming the headmaster had those suspicions,
of course — which Harry was almost positive he did.

“It’s progress,” Bill agreed. “We’re going to keep working on it after Christmas. And— once
we figure it out, I don’t think we should do the ritual until you’re ready to, y’know, fight him.
There’s no guarantee he won’t notice the rest of his soul disappearing.” Then, Bill glanced
sideways. “Also, quite frankly, I’d rather you not take the purging potion until you absolutely
have to. Those visions of yours saved Dad’s life.”
“We don’t know if I’ll ever have another that useful,” Harry pointed out, not wanting anyone
to think he was some kind of early warning system for Voldemort attacks. It was very likely
that Voldemort had let him see that intentionally, forced him into the snake’s mind to make
him watch Arthur Weasley die. If Harry had been back at his relatives’ like everyone thought
he was, cut off from the magical world… Mr Weasley wouldn’t have survived the time it
would have taken for Hedwig to fly from Surrey to Hogwarts.

“But there’s a chance you might,” Bill retorted. “Look, Harry, I know it’s easy for me to say;
I’m not the one being forced into Voldemort’s head when I sleep. But… strategically, it’s an
advantage you shouldn’t give up. And you can’t, at least, until the ritual has been completed.”

“I know. It’s fine, really.” Harry ran a hand through his hair, smiling ruefully. “Like you said,
it’s been knocking around in there for fourteen years. A few more months won’t hurt.”

“We’ll figure it out, Harry,” Bill vowed. “As quickly as we can. And when you’re ready… it
looks like we have a way to end all this.”

They did. And it was far more than they’d have if Harry hadn’t been expelled.

Maybe everything did happen for a reason.

.-.-.

Christmas morning dawned bright and early, with a suffocatingly huge mountain of presents
at the bottom of Harry’s bed. Harry groaned at the sight of them all, cheeks flushing pink.
“Damn it, Padfoot,” he muttered to himself, inordinately glad he was no longer sharing a
room with Ron. This was possibly more presents than even Dudley got.

It made something warm in Harry’s chest, something that he thought had died long ago —
the little boy in his cupboard, watching his cousin tear open present after present under the
Christmas tree, imagining wistfully a day where he might have someone who cared about
him enough to buy him that many things.

He started to work through the mountain, finding everything from new robes to books to a
stack of muggle CDs and a walkman, several joke presents, a gay sex guide that made
Harry’s face flame bright red, and a brand new album full of pictures of his parents and the
Marauders growing up, all with Peter Pettigrew skilfully cut out of them. Every single
present had the same tag - ‘To Harry. Merry Christmas, love Padfoot and Moony’.

Harry had the ridiculous urge to save all the tags to put in the photo album, as a reminder to
that little boy in the cupboard that he was loved.

Underneath all the presents from his godfathers, Harry found the presents from the rest of his
friends — the Weasleys and Hermione; a fanged wallet from Hagrid with a long letter about
how much he missed Harry and he hoped he was doing okay; Moody and Tonks and
Kingsley; Fleur and Bill; even Dobby had sent him a painting he’d done, which was an…
interesting artistic interpretation of Harry himself.
There was a loud crack, and Harry looked up from the ocean of wrapping paper surrounding
him to see a grinning redhead in a bright purple knitted jumper, a large orange F on the front.

“Merry Christmas, George,” he greeted, laughing. The redhead pouted.

“Oi, not fair, see!” He pointed at the letter on his chest. “You’re not supposed to be able to
tell.”

“You’ll have to try better than that.” Harry had been correctly telling the twins apart since
before his second year.

George rolled his eyes, surveying the scene in front of him. “Bloody hell, Harry. Sirius went
a bit overboard, hmm?”

“Just a bit.” With a wave of his hand, all the wrapping paper screwed up into a large ball,
then vanished. Not the tags, though. He was keeping those.

That still left him with a massive pile of presents, which he attempted to get into some kind
of organised state. Laughing, George waved his wand to lift some of them aside. When he
shifted a robe, it revealed the gay sex book lodged beneath. George’s face went as red as his
hair. “Well, then,” he said, and Harry hurried to jam the book under a different pile of
presents. “That’ll be… informative, for you.” The prankster cleared his throat, glancing away.
Mentally, Harry cursed his godfathers.

Luckily, George quickly pulled himself together, regaining his composure with a half-smile.
“You’ll want to avoid going downstairs for a bit. Mum’s crying again. Percy sent his jumper
back, not even a note.”

Harry scowled. “Prick.”

“Yup. But Moony’s cheering her up, best to give her a bit before heading down to breakfast.
Fred’s warning Ron.” At last, there was a small clear space on the bed, and George plonked
himself down on it, grinning. “Merry Christmas.” His voice went soft and slightly husky, and
a shiver ran up Harry’s spine.

“Merry Christmas,” he repeated. “Thanks for the prank stuff. I’m gonna get Sirius so good,”
he declared, smirking at the thought of his box of prototype Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes
products.

“Only the best for our silent investor,” George said, winking. “Thanks for the voucher, we’re
low on just about everything these days. Skiving Snackboxes are flying off the shelves.”
Harry had given the twins a voucher to Slug and Jigger’s Apothecary. He’d thought about
getting something special for George, but he hadn’t been able to think of the perfect thing —
and it still felt too soon to tip his hand like that. Even though George knew, he had to know,
and each day was getting harder and harder to stay in the boy’s orbit without just giving in.
Even now, having George sat on his bed, his knee pressed against Harry’s hip… it was
torture. “Your jumper looks great.”
This year Mrs Weasley had knitted a beautiful blue-grey jumper, a similar colour to the walls
of his bedroom, with a black paw print and a crescent moon on the left breast. Harry had
almost cried when he saw it, heart warmed by her acceptance of his new family. “Your
mum’s brilliant,” he agreed. “Does she ever do you two ones without your initials on them?”

“Hasn’t yet,” George chirped. “It started as a joke so people could tell us apart, and I think
she figured out how much we like wearing the wrong ones just to be confusing. Maybe when
we stop growing she’ll mix it up a bit, but for now we’re due a new one every year anyway.”
Indeed, the twins hadn’t stopped growing since Harry had known them. And Harry may or
may not own a jumper with a G on it from two years ago, tucked away in his dresser. He’d
never worn it in front of anyone, but… it was nice to have. “Unfortunately, some people have
to ruin our fun and spot the difference,” George teased, poking Harry in the chest.

“Be a bit weird by this point if I couldn’t,” Harry retorted, coming dangerously close to
mentioning the things they Did Not Mention. George eyed him over, making his pulse jump.

“Just a bit. Glad I don’t have to worry about that.” He was using that husky voice again.
Harry was so tempted to lean in to him.

“Don’t think there’s much you do have to worry about, there,” the dark-haired boy confessed.
“Just timing.”

“Oh, pesky timing,” George sighed forlornly, pressing a hand to his chest like a lovesick
Shakespearean character. “How cruel the sands of time can be.”

Harry snickered, glad George knew to diffuse the situation before one of them crossed a line.
Glad the redhead was in agreement with him about things.

“What the bloody hell is that?” George had spotted Dobby’s painting, and held it up with a
critical gaze. “Looks like a gibbon with two black eyes.”

“It’s me, apparently. Dobby did it.”

“And what a handsome black-eyed gibbon you are,” George corrected swiftly, winking.
Harry laughed, and there was a knock on the door, before Ron stuck his head through.

“Merry Christmas, mate! You coming down for breakfast?” He didn’t bat an eyelash at
George’s presence, or the lack of distance between them. “Oh, George warning you about
Mum? Ginny said she’s done crying now.”

“Right. Great. Let me get dressed, I’ll meet you down there,” Harry assured. “Merry
Christmas!”

Ron gave him a thumbs up, then shut the door, and as his footsteps faded away George burst
out laughing.

“Merlin’s balls my brother is thick,” he said, shaking his head in despair. “Poor bloody
Hermione.”
“I’m so glad you’re not all that blind,” Harry agreed. “Think where we’d be then.” George
nodded vehemently. It wasn’t as painful, waiting, when they both knew what was at stake.
“Piss off so I can get dressed, then,” he demanded playfully. George’s eyes darkened, and he
winked.

“Oh, one day,” he drawled huskily, patting Harry’s thigh. Then he apparated away, leaving
Harry alone, with a little extra Christmas present he was going to need to take care of before
making himself presentable at breakfast. Harry sent a locking and silencing spell at his door,
wondering if it was just his imagination, hearing familiar laughter ring quietly in the back of
his head.

One day, indeed.

 Chapter 16

The Weasleys and Hermione went to visit Mr Weasley after Christmas breakfast, and Harry
sent along his present for the man; a beginner’s circuitboard set he’d found in a muggle shop,
complete with screwdrivers. Hopefully, that would keep him entertained while he was still
recovering.

With them gone, Harry got the experience of his first Christmas day with Sirius and Remus.
Sirius put a vinyl of muggle Christmas songs on his record player in the living room, and
they drank hot chocolate and ate Fleamont Potter’s white chocolate almond snowflake
biscuits, Remus with his nose already buried in the book of muggle mythical creatures Harry
had bought him, while Sirius called him a nerd and threw Bertie Botts’ beans at him,
demanding kisses.

The dog animagus was more joyful than Harry had ever seen him, singing Christmas songs
and dragging both Remus and Harry up to dance with him. It made Harry wonder if Sirius
had started drinking early, but Remus assured him the man was stone cold sober — just an
overgrown child. Every time Harry teased his godfather, he was threatened with even more
Christmas presents.

“I don’t think that’s how that’s supposed to work, y’know,” Harry commented. Sirius stuck
his tongue out.

“Don’t care. Quit being a brat or I’ll buy you more things, and you can’t stop me.”

The spirit of the season had even warmed Sirius’ heart towards Kreacher — in cleaning out
his father’s old desk in the study, he’d found a picture of Regulus as a young boy, and had it
framed for the house elf. Kreacher’s happy sobs could still be heard drifting up from the
kitchen whenever the music went quiet.

“I hope he stops crying before Hermione gets back, or she’ll think I’ve beaten him,” Sirius
muttered dryly.

The crowd of Weasleys and Hermione returned while Harry, Remus and Sirius were
preparing the most enormous Christmas dinner Harry had ever seen outside Hogwarts. They
brought Bill with them, and he waved at Harry, grinning. “Merry Christmas. Cheers for that
book, mate!” Harry had bought Bill a muggle book on Egyptian history. Almost all the
presents he’d bought people were muggle, honestly; he didn’t have much of a choice,
otherwise. Anyone who got an owl order from Harry Potter would go straight to the Prophet,
and everyone who he might have asked to go shopping for him was either busy or not
welcome in most of Diagon’s shops.

“Glad you like it. The wardstone is brilliant, thanks!” According to the note, Bill and Fleur
had enchanted it themselves — it fit on a necklace, and if he wore it it would make all
wizarding pictures of him come out blurry and unusable.
“Why don’t you let Mum take over chopping those carrots, mate,” Fred suggested, sidling
over to Harry. “She could use a bit of an outlet.”

Behind them, Mrs Weasley harrumphed.

“Watch your cheek, young man.” Then she paused, eyeing the knife in Harry’s hand. “Oh,
give that here, Harry, dear. Thank you for Arthur’s present, he’s delighted.”

Harry passed her the knife, backing away to stand between the twins. “Do I want to know?”
he asked under his breath, The pair shared an amused look.

“Dad let his healer experiment with muggle healing methods. Stitches,” George clarified
quietly.

“It didn’t go well,” Fred finished. “Mum’s not impressed.”

Harry winced — yeah, he’d let her blow off some steam on the vegetables, then.

With ‘the kids’ back, that had ‘the adults’ shooing them all out of the kitchen to go play until
dinner was ready. Harry was incredibly amused to see twenty-five year old Bill Weasley still
counted among the kids.

Ron, Hermione and Ginny sat with Harry playing with Ginny’s new gobstones set, and they
told him about their trip up to the Janus Thickey ward. “I didn’t know Neville’s parents were
there,” Ron whispered. “Poor guy.”

“I did.” Harry had known since last year, when Dumbledore had revealed what Barty Crouch
Jr had been arrested for. “How’s Neville doing? I wanted to write to him but I wasn’t sure if
he’d stayed at Hogwarts.” Hermione hadn’t been completely lying when she’d told her
parents a lot of fifth years stayed behind to study.

“He’s okay. He’s doing really well in the DA,” Ginny told him, smiling with pride. “He
misses you. I think he’d love to hear from you.”

Harry made a mental note to write to the other boy over the holidays, now he knew there was
no chance of Umbridge intercepting.

Dinner was a lively affair, both the Marauders and the twins on fine form with their joke-
telling — though the food was all prank-free, no one willing to risk the wrath of Molly
Weasley on Christmas. There was an obvious gap in the gathering where Mr Weasley was
missing, but he seemed to be on the road to recovery, so that didn’t spoil the joy overmuch.
Looking around the table, seeing all his friends and with Sirius and Remus beaming so
widely, Harry didn’t think he’d ever been happier. This was better than all his Christmases at
Hogwarts combined.

After dinner, and dessert, when everyone moved into the living room to loosen off their belts
and groan contentedly, Harry sprawled on the floor with his back against Sirius’ legs where
the animagus sat on the sofa, Remus’ feet tucked under his thigh. The radio was on quietly in
the background, but he was too food-dazed to pay attention to it. Instead he just basked in the
moment, eyes half-shut, Sirius’ hand playing absently with his shaggy hair. He really needed
to remember to get Ginny to cut it before she went back to Hogwarts.

For once, Harry was glad he’d been expelled. He’d hate to think how Sirius might have
handled the last few months by himself in the house — especially since he’d only asked
Remus to move in because of Harry. His future might be a bit precarious, and he might be
missing out on a lot at school; but he had gained this, and it was the best feeling in the world.

.-.-.-.-.

Unfortunately, the closer it drew to the end of the holidays, the more Ron and Hermione
seemed to remember they’d have to say goodbye to Harry and go back to Hogwarts very
soon. They stuck to his sides like limpets, trying to cram a whole school year’s worth of time
together into the last ten days they had. There was no way they’d be leaving the castle at
Easter, with their exams so close.

“The DA would be so much better if you were still at school, Harry,” Hermione told him one
afternoon, when she was trying to work on her lesson plans for the study group. “You’ve
always been the best at Defence. I bet you’d be a fantastic teacher.”

“Umbridge would be trying twice as hard to catch you if I was involved,” Harry pointed out
ruefully. “She hates me.”

“You haven’t seen the Room of Requirement, mate,” Ron replied. “She’ll never catch us in
there.”

Harry had to admit, he was intrigued by the room they’d described. He was pretty sure it was
the same one Dumbledore had mentioned at the Yule Ball; the one filled with chamber pots.

“Do you know if Professor Dumbledore has made any progress in trying to get your
expulsion overturned?” Hermione asked. “It would be brilliant if you could come back soon.”

“Hermione…” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Dumbledore’s not trying to
get it overturned, and I haven’t asked him to.”

Her brown eyes went wide. “What?”

“Mate,” Ron said, chuckling awkwardly. “You have to come back. It’s Hogwarts.”

“I know, and I do miss it. I miss you,” Harry admitted. “But… I like being here. Yeah, it’s a
bit boring, hardly ever leaving the house. But I have the muggle world when I really need to
get out. And I can use my magic how I like now, even if it means I don’t have my wand.”
There were still times, especially when he just woke up out of a vision, where he scrambled
for his wand automatically and was hit with the loss all over again. “I’m learning loads of
interesting stuff. Useful stuff. Things I’ll need when I fight Voldemort.” He hadn’t told his
friends about the horcruxes. He didn’t want to worry them.

“But… you’re fifteen. Surely you don’t want to fight him any time soon?” Ron asked. Harry
shrugged.
“I’ve seen the Prophet.” They were trying to cover it up, but the obituaries page spoke for
itself. “The sooner I fight him, the fewer people die.”

“But you said the next time you fight him, that’ll be the end.” Hermione’s voice wobbled.
“You can’t be ready for that, Harry.”

“Not yet,” he agreed. “But I’m not as far off as you probably think I am.”

“Why can’t you teach us what you’ve been learning? We’ll fight with you,” Ron said
determinedly. Harry shook his head.

“It’s not that simple. You can’t exactly practice here, and it’s not a list of spells you want to
be taking back to school with you, with Umbridge about.”

“It’s not… Harry, are you learning dark magic?” Hermione whispered in shock.

“Some. Can’t expect the Death Eaters to play fair.” He was echoing Mad-Eye’s words. “But
even the stuff that’s not isn’t exactly on the OWL exams.”

“I wish I didn’t have to take the bloody OWL exams,” Ron muttered. “I bet you haven’t
brewed a potion in months.”

“I’ve brewed some,” Harry said. Healing potions and the like. “I’m thinking about learning to
brew the Wolfsbane for Remus, but I’d have to get Snape to teach me, and I don’t have
anything I can trade him for it yet.” Severus Snape would not offer up his services freely,
especially not to Harry Potter. Ron looked a bit green around the gills.

“You’d ask Snape to teach you? Are you mad? You can’t miss his lessons that badly!”

No, Harry didn’t miss Snape’s Potions’ class. But he didn’t hate brewing as much as he
thought he had, in a room full of Slytherins who were constantly trying to make him fail. And
if it was to help Remus, all the better.

“But Harry… if you don’t come back and take your OWLs, how will you get a job?”
Hermione asked in concern. “I’ve been looking through the careers advice pamphlets
Professor McGonagall gave us, and there isn’t a single thing in there that doesn’t require at
least a basic set of passing OWL grades.”

Harry doubted Hermione would react too well to the knowledge that once he turned
seventeen and got his full inheritance, he wouldn’t need to work a day in his life if he didn’t
want to. That probably wasn’t the sort of answer she was going for.

“I’ll figure something out. Once I kill Voldemort, whoever becomes Minister after Fudge will
probably let me get a wand again. I can always take exams at the Ministry then.” It would be
weird, using a wand again. He wasn’t sure he could actually do it.

“What do you mean, whoever’s Minister after Fudge?” Ron’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I mean there’s no way in hell Fudge will stay in office the way he’s been handling this,”
Harry retorted. “Either Voldemort will kill him, or once the truth comes out he’ll be laughed
into retirement. Even if I have to do it myself.” Fudge had endangered so many lives with his
refusal to admit the truth. Harry wouldn’t let him stay Minister, ready to blunder through the
next crisis the wizarding world faced. “Look, guys, I know it’s hard for you to imagine — but
I’m not exactly on the traditional educational path anymore. That doesn’t mean I’ll never get
there.” He had plans with Fleur that were slowly getting into motion, plans that could change
everything. “I’m young, and wizards live ages. People are homeschooled all the time and take
exams at any stage in their life. I’ve just got— other priorities, y’know?”

“Do you’ll reckon they’ll let you be an auror? Since you’ve been training with Kingsley and
all them?” Ron sounded hopeful. Harry grimaced — it was something he’d thought about.
All three of his auror tutors were firmly of the opinion that Harry had outclassed their
trainees weeks ago. If the Ministry came under new management, Harry knew Kingsley
would make it happen in a second if Harry said something about wanting to be an auror.

But he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the rest of his life chasing dark wizards.

“Who knows, mate,” he said instead.

“That would be so cool, if we could go through auror training together. We could be

partners!” Ron said eagerly, eyes lighting up. Harry didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d
already done most of the auror training program. The non-bureaucratic bits, at least.

That was another thing about being an auror. Bloody paperwork.

“Maybe.” He kept his tone noncommittal. He didn’t want to break his friends’ hearts. “I’ll
figure out the Voldemort situation, first. Might take me a bit.” He liked to think he’d be done
before his friends graduated, especially with the ritual Bill and his team had found, but… the
course of being Harry Potter never did run smooth. “Just— just don’t be disappointed if
things don’t work out the way you expect, y’know?” They weren’t even considering the
likelihood of him dying during the fight with Voldemort. He appreciated their confidence,
and didn’t like thinking about it himself, but… he was aware of the possibility.

“I suppose,” Hermione murmured, after a long period of silence, “I always thought the three
of us would stick together, y’know? Through everything. Exams, graduation, everything
else… I thought we’d all face it together.”

Harry reached out, squeezing her hand. “Hey, look, just because I’m not at school doesn’t
mean you’re not still stuck with me,” he told her, grinning lightly. “I’m just taking a different
path. Eventually we’ll all be in the same sort of place.” Once the war was over, and they were
graduated, and the three of them were figuring out adult life and their jobs and everything
else it entailed. “I’ll still be there. And look at it this way; once the curse on the DADA
position hits Umbridge, you’ll get someone less shitty next year and we can write each other
all the time.”

Hermione couldn’t hold back her laugh, even as she gave him a scolding look. “The position
isn’t actually cursed, Harry.”

“Uh, five professors in five years says otherwise,” he retorted. Ron sniggered. “I feel out of
the loop, too, you guys. But that doesn’t mean I need to hear about every little piece of gossip
from the castle. If I could write to you, I wouldn’t want to know about that. I’d want to know
how your week’s going, and which classes are giving you too much homework, and what sort
of rulebreaking shenanigans you’re getting up to without me. Whether you’ve been snogging
anyone.” Both of them blushed. “Ginny told me all about that Michael Corner bloke of hers.”
Mostly, from telling him how long it had taken her to convince Michael that she didn’t
secretly fancy Harry.

Typically, mentioning him made Ron scowl. “Needs to get his bloody hands off my sister,”
he muttered. Hermione rolled her eyes, and Harry snorted.

“See, that’s the type of stuff you’d be writing me about,” he said. “Not all that other crap.
Just… take it easy on the info, yeah?”

“So… so you don’t want my revision notes?” Hermione sniffed.

“No offence, Hermione, but no, I really, really don’t.” She thwacked him on the arm, biting
her lip to stop laughing through her put-out expression.

.-.-.-.

After that conversation, things got better, but it was still hard for Harry to get used to being
surrounded by people again. He thought Remus was feeling it, too; the werewolf was
spending more and more time up in his and Sirius’ room, claiming full-moon exhaustion.
Harry, on the other hand, preferred the library. His room was the first place people would
look for him, and Ron was so incredibly allergic to the concept of studying over Christmas
that he refused to set foot in the library, or let Hermione hole up in there.

Sometimes he would hang out in the twins’ room, help them out with spells and things for
their products or just sit and watch them work their genius — or their explosions, depending
on the day. But even that didn’t deter Ron every time.

So Harry would make an excuse about going to find Sirius, or check on Remus, and he’d
sneak away to his favourite sofa in the library to listen to the walkman Sirius had modified to
run on magic, or read his books, or just sit in silence for a while.

True to his word, Remus had got him a whole bunch more muggle books for Christmas,
including several older fantasy works he’d never heard of. A lot of them were passed on from
Remus’ collection itself, dog-eared and care-worn and some with passages underlined or little
notes in the margins from a teenage Remus. A couple, Harry had been awed to find, had
come from his mother’s book collection, salvaged by Remus after her death, or lent to him
and forgotten about before they could be returned. These ones never left his room, sat in
pride of place on his bookshelf, where sometimes he would get them out just to stare at the
neat ‘Property of Lily Evans’ written on the inside cover.

He was reading one of Remus’ favourites, a book about an angel and a demon who misplaced
the Antichrist, when he heard the creak of the door.

“Your hiding is getting predictable,” George said by way of greeting. Harry let his book drop
to his chest, smiling.
“Funny, you’re the only one who ever finds me,” he returned. That made George grin — he
shifted Harry’s feet off the end of the sofa, sitting down and pulling the sock-clad appendages
back into his lap. “You need me for something?”

“Nah. Just wanted to sit a while. You can keep reading if you like,” George offered. Harry
shook his head. He had more interesting things to do, now.

“You started packing yet?” Harry asked, knowing Mrs Weasley had begun gently reminding
her children about their impending return to Scotland. George’s expression turned mulish.

“Not even close. Thought about just not bothering. Hard to want to go back when Umbridge
is running the place.”

“But you have to,” Harry sighed.

“Do I?” George retorted with an eyebrow raised. Harry’s heart ached. He wanted so badly to
say no, George didn’t; he could say fuck school and hang out with Harry instead.

“At least ’til you get premises.” It would be hard to keep finding good reasons after that, but
Harry was determined to try.

George huffed. “You’re no fun, Potter,” he declared. “You’re supposed to tell me to become a
drop-out like you.”

“Am I, now?” Harry tried for teasing, but couldn’t hold it. “You know I can’t ask that of you,
George. Either of you.”

“Wish you would,” George muttered. “I’d do it if you did. In a heartbeat.”

“I know.” And that’s exactly why Harry wouldn’t ask. “Just think of all the things you can
torment Umbridge with once you get back. All the new stuff you’ve made in the last couple
of weeks.”

That did bring a grin to George’s face, but it was brief. The redhead sighed, running a hand
through his much shorter hair. Ginny had been offering haircuts all day, after Harry had
brought it up. He looked good, his jawline sharper, even with a hint of stubble dusting his
cheeks. Harry’s nerves sparked with want.

“Reckon it wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for her,” George admitted. “But all her Educational
Decrees, and the way she talks about you — the only saving grace is I know you’re well shot
of her. She can’t hurt you.” He rested a hand on Harry’s ankle, thumb absently stroking the
bare skin. When he glanced up at Harry, his brown eyes were dark. “I know we don’t talk
about it. We’ve come close, but I won’t. Not even now. I just…” His lips quirked. “Is it okay
for me to say that I hope one day is soon?”

Right then, right there, Harry almost gave in. Only the thought of having to say goodbye to
George again in a few days reminded him of how much worse it would feel it he did. “Only if
it’s okay for me to say me, too.”
George smiled, and it broke Harry’s heart a little bit. Then, all of a sudden, the taller boy was
stretching out across the sofa, leaning towards Harry. “George,” Harry said in alarm, freezing.
George hushed him.

“Relax, I said I wouldn’t. All above board, here.” Slowly, he laid down, shifting until his
head rested on Harry’s chest, his body wedged between Harry’s and the back of the sofa.
Harry was sure George could hear his heart practically jumping out of his ribcage.
Instinctively, he moved to get comfortable; one hand rested on George’s hip, while the other
gave into a years-long urge and sank into the fiery red hair. It was just as soft as he’d
imagined. “There we go,” George breathed, his eyes falling half-shut. “S’Christmas. Think of
it as a belated present.”

“For you or for me?” Harry asked, one eyebrow raised. George snorted.

“Either. Both.” He turned his nose into the soft material of Harry’s sweatshirt. “Just shut up
and cuddle me, Potter.”

It was a completely innocent embrace. Platonic, almost brotherly. But Harry doubted George
would lie down like this with any of his brothers, except perhaps Fred. The redhead brought a
hand up to rest on Harry’s chest, beside his face, over Harry’s heart. Harry played with the
short strands of hair at the back of George’s neck, feeling him stretch into it like a cat.

It wasn’t crossing any lines. Bending them a bit, maybe. But it wasn’t anything they couldn’t
turn back from, wouldn’t hate to lose once George went back to school for the next six
months.

It was perfect.
 Chapter 17

On the last day of the holidays, while the Weasleys were all out visiting at St Mungo’s,
Professor Dumbledore stepped through the floo. Harry wondered if it was strategically timed
for when the house was quietest — that thought was confirmed when Professor Snape
stepped through after him.

Sirius, who was stirring some soup on the stove, froze.

“Headmaster, Professor,” Harry greeted calmly. “What can we do for you, today? I’m afraid
if you’re looking for any of the Weasleys, they’re at the hospital.”

“Not to worry, my boy — I was hoping we could have a chat with you,” Dumbledore said,
looking jovial. His tone immediately set Harry on edge.

“Whatever Snape has to say to Harry, he can say to me, too,” Sirius growled. Beside
Dumbledore, Snape’s lips curled in a sneer. Already sensing the explosion, Harry stepped
over to his godfather.

“It’s fine, Sirius. I’ll put the soup to simmer, you go upstairs and see what Moony’s up to.”

“Pup,” Sirius started, but Harry cut him off.

“I’ve got this,” he insisted quietly. “Go.” Whatever Dumbledore wanted Snape for, it would
be so much worse if Sirius was in the same room at the time. Having Harry around and
working through his memories of his school years was helping Sirius, but there was just
something about his schoolboy rival that set him off. Where Remus had the years of
hindsight to realise the way the Marauders had treated Snape was awful, Sirius’ time in
Azkaban had just compounded and twisted the memories until Snape was practically level
with Voldemort himself in the man’s mind.

Sirius didn’t look pleased, but he turned for the door. Snape smirked.

“What a good dog you are,” the man drawled. Harry glared at him, pressing a hand to Sirius’
shoulder before the animagus could turn around.

“Leave it, Sirius.”

If Sirius had been Padfoot, his hackles would have been up. Harry nudged the door shut
behind him, raising a discreet silencing ward.

When he turned back to the pair, Snape’s dark eyes were calculating, while Dumbledore had
the serene smile and twinkling eyes that made trepidation gather in Harry’s gut. “Harry, my
boy, I’m glad to see you’ve been doing well under the circumstances. I hope you’ve had a
wonderful Christmas with your friends, you must have missed them terribly.”
Harry folded his arms over his chest. “No offence, Headmaster, but we both know you’re not
here for smalltalk and a social call. What did you need from me?”

“Watch your mouth, boy,” Snape spat immediately. Harry didn’t flinch. The Potions’
professor just wasn’t that intimidating anymore, not now Harry had duelled regularly with
Mad-Eye Moody himself.

“No, no, Severus; Harry’s right, of course. Might as well get straight to business.”
Dumbledore smiled. “I have come with a request for you, my boy. It was remiss of me not to
offer this sooner — foolishly, I had thought Voldemort unaware of the uses of the connection
between you two. While things worked out well for Arthur Weasley in this particular
circumstance, it is worrying to know that the Dark Lord has such free access to your sleeping
mind. Professor Snape and I have come to suggest that he begin teaching you Occlumency —
it is the art of protecting the mind against external penetration.”

“I know what Occlumency is, Headmaster. There’s some fairly extensive books on the
subject in the family library,” Harry replied. He narrowed his gaze, wondering what the hell
Dumbledore was playing at. He wanted Snape to come teach Harry Occlumency? Was he
mad?

“Ah, I’m glad to hear you’ve kept yourself occupied, my boy!” Dumbledore’s smile widened.
“A basic knowledge will certainly make Severus’ job easier.”

Harry glanced to the dark-haired professor. Snape looked like he would rather cut off his own
arm than spend any time in Harry’s presence at all, let alone teaching him. “And how does
Professor Snape feel about the matter?”

“I had thought myself well shot of you,” Snape retorted. Then his face tightened. “But if it is
the headmaster’s wish, then I will teach you. Provided you make the effort as a student you
were so sorely lacking in your school career.”

Harry bit back a snort. Dumbledore looked pleased by the whole thing, as if his plans were so
easily falling into place. But there was one thing that just didn’t add up to Harry.

“All due respect, Headmaster — we both know that Occlumency isn’t going to make a lick of
difference in the amount of access Voldemort has to my mind. It is, as you said, for external
penetration after all.” And that definitely wasn’t a good enough reason to be using the word
‘penetration’ in conversation with his two former professors. Behind his glasses,
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m not quite sure what you’re implying, my boy. Have no fear, Voldemort sending you
these visions does not mean he cannot be shielded from your thoughts.”

“Except when he’s coming from a position within any shields I would build.” Harry didn’t
want to say it, not in front of Snape. But if Dumbledore truly knew about the horcrux in
Harry’s skull, he would know that a connection like that could not be blocked with simple
Occlumency.

Harry would know. He’d checked.

Almost imperceptibly, Dumbledore tensed. “You believe you have more information on the
nature of your connection? Have you had other visions, apart from the one of Arthur?”

That wasn’t any of Dumbledore’s damned business. If he was truly worried about the security
of Harry’s mind, he would have offered Occlumency lessons last year when Harry first began
having visions. That he was only offering now, after everybody knew…

“If you’re worried about how much of that information Voldemort might be able to glean
from my mind, don’t worry — he’s far too arrogant to think there’s anything in there he
doesn’t already know. He believes me to have returned to the muggle world. If he knew
where I was, what I was doing, he would have made a move to draw me out by now.” Then
Harry glanced at Snape, who was watching the whole exchange with calculating eyes. “On
the other hand, if you’re hoping to have Professor Snape learn information from my mind so
you can move all your little chess pieces accordingly, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on the offer.
If I wanted you to know what my plans were, Headmaster, I’d have told you myself.”

Dumbledore looked like he’d choked on one of his lemon drops. Harry smiled sweetly.
“Awfully frustrating, isn’t it, having things kept from you?”

“Harry, come now; this grudge is getting childish.”

“It’s not a grudge, it’s tactics,” Harry retorted. “You’re waging your own war, Headmaster. I
appreciate the work you’re doing in managing the wider scale of things; you have far more
knowledge and influence than I could think to hold. I have no doubt the Ministry would have
fallen without your command of the Order. But I have my own war to win, and I’m sure you
can understand how sensitive certain information can be. While I’m sure Professor Snape is a
very accomplished Occlumens to have spied on Voldemort for so long, we’re all safer if he
knows nothing.”

Then, Harry smirked, glancing at the man. “Besides, I can’t step foot in the castle without the
Ministry getting wind of it. Do you really have the time in your schedule to visit here to teach
me every week, Professor? On top of your… commitments, outside of Hogwarts?” Umbridge
would be keeping an eye on Snape especially. If he was leaving to make his Death Eater
meetings, he probably didn’t have time to come and see Harry regularly. “Because quite
honestly, if you do, I’d be glad for any lessons you’d be willing to offer. Not Occlumency, of
course, but you’re a man of many talents. I would pay good money for you to teach me to
brew Wolfsbane for Remus.”

Snape’s lips curled derisively. “I can assure you, Potter — even with whatever fortune your
father might have left you, there is not enough gold in Gringotts for me to willingly teach you
potions once more. Especially not one so complicated.”

Harry nodded in assent; maybe he’d find something other than gold that would interest
Snape, one day. Or maybe he’d just have to accept that some things were beyond his reach,
and continue to let Sirius keep paying the man to brew the monthly potion.

“Your concern for Professor Snape’s schedule aside, Harry, I really must insist you learn
Occlumency. Residing in Order headquarters, we cannot risk Voldemort siphoning
knowledge from you while you are defenceless.”
“If you truly cared about that you’d have offered the moment I got expelled,” Harry pointed
out. “And trust me — if Voldemort could reach what I know, we would certainly know about
it.” If he knew what Regulus had done, he would have been far to angry to possibly hide it
from Harry, and there would have been an attack that the Ministry could not deny. And if
Voldemort knew about the horcrux ritual Gringotts had found…

Yeah, they would know.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to make you distrust me, so, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice was
full of disappointment. A year or two ago, it might have guilted Harry into agreeing to
whatever the man wanted. Now, Harry just snorted.

“Really? No idea at all?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape’s gaze flash with veiled
amusement. “If Occlumency is truly something you think I would benefit from, I’ll happily
consider adding it to my schedule. But I think Professor Snape has better things to do outside
school hours than teach me — it’s part of the auror training curriculum, I can always have
Kingsley or Tonks teach me. Mad-Eye’s said he’s no great shakes at Legilimency these days.
And Sirius has enough to work on with his own mindscape without bothering with mine.”
Harry smiled a cool, disarming smile. “I’m sorry, Professor Snape — it does seem you’ve
rather wasted the trip. Can I offer you a drink before you leave? Or— oh, Kreacher found
some bottles of something we’re pretty sure are some kind of venom in the cellar the other
day. Couldn’t identify them, not too keen on trying. Would you like them? They might be
some sort of potion ingredient.” Harry’s smile turned devilish. “Or something you might be
tempted to slip into Professor Umbridge’s tea, I don’t know — I’ll leave that up to you.”

Again, there was that brief flicker of amusement, and Snape pursed his lips. “To save anyone
worrying about what trouble you might get into with unknown substances, I can remove them
from your possession,” he agreed.

“Fantastic. Kreacher!” The elf appeared, shocking both the headmaster and Snape. “Those
bottles you found in the cellar the other day, the weird ones with those gross bone stoppers —
would you get them for me, please? Professor Snape is going to take them.”

Kreacher’s large eyes slid to peer at Snape for a moment, then he nodded, summoning a small
box with a click of his fingers. There were five bottles inside, each about the size and shape
of a small pear, sealed with off-white stoppers that seemed to be chiselled bone.

“Does Master need anything else from Kreacher?”

Harry shook his head, and the elf bowed, disappearing. Harry passed the box to Snape. “Here
you are, Sir. Hope they’re something useful.”

“Kreacher appears to have taken to you, my boy,” Dumbledore mused, curiosity evident.
Harry shrugged.

“He and I found some common ground.” He was referring to Regulus, but the tiny flinch the
old man gave suggested his mind had gone to Harry’s life at the Dursleys’. Well, Harry
wasn’t going to argue with that, either.
Snape pocketed the box in his voluminous robe, and just as Dumbledore turned to Harry once
more, the kitchen door slammed open.

“Cured!” It was Mr Weasley, a trench coat over his striped pyjamas, his entire family plus
Hermione beaming behind him. “Completely cured!” He paused, looking between Harry,
Dumbledore and Snape. “Oh, terribly sorry, are we interrupting?”

“Don’t worry, we were finished talking,” Harry assured him. “It’s good to see you back on
your feet!”

Mr Weasley smiled widely. “All thanks to you, Harry, m’lad!”

“Harry, I don’t think this conversation is over,” Dumbledore began. Harry’s green eyes were
icy when he turned them on the aged wizard.

“Then we’ll agree to disagree. Like I said, Headmaster; I appreciate the offer, but I’m going
to have to decline. And next time you want information from me, I suggest you just ask.”

Behind him, he heard Hermione gasp softly. Dumbledore’s eyes grew sad. “If you insist, dear
boy. I’m sorry you feel that way. Come, Severus; we should get back to the castle. Arthur, it
is truly tremendous to see you’ve recovered.”

Snape didn’t need more permission than that to step back into the floo. Dumbledore lingered
a moment, as if hoping he might be invited to stay for tea now everybody was home, but
when no such offer came forth, he bid his goodbyes and disappeared into the hearth.

“What was all that about, mate?” Ron asked, looking baffled. “What was Snape here for?”

“Nothing important,” Harry replied airily. “Just a misunderstanding.”

Mrs Weasley was so overjoyed to have her husband home that she seemed oblivious to the
tension in the air, hurrying into the pantry to pull out the cake she’d baked in celebration of
Arthur’s return. Hermione and Ron rushed to Harry’s side.

“Harry, I can’t believe you’d talk to the headmaster like that!” Hermione hissed, wide-eyed.
Harry smiled thinly.

“Not my headmaster anymore, Hermione.” He squeezed past them, intent on greeting Mr

Weasley properly. He didn’t want to get into that argument with her — they would always
have very different views of authority figures.

“I know Molly’s passed it along, but I wanted to thank you in person, Harry,” Mr Weasley
insisted, shaking Harry’s hand vigorously. He was sat at the kitchen table, coat hooked over
the back of his chair, and Harry could see the block of white bandages through the flimsy
material of the hospital-issue pyjama shirt. “It was a lucky day our Ron decided to befriend
you on the Hogwarts Express, for all the family!”

Harry’s smile softened. “I think I got just as lucky, Mr Weasley,” he insisted, looking over the
crowd of redheads, eyes lingering on the twins as they tried to sneak the largest slices of cake
from their mother’s tray. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”
“There was a bit of a hiccup with the venom’s potency — wouldn’t let the wounds heal up —
but we, ah, got there in the end.” Mr Weasley glanced at his wife sheepishly, no doubt
remembering the stitches debacle. “And really, Harry, it’s about time you called me Arthur,
don’t you think?” He chuckled, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “You’re a Weasley, now, son,
for better or worse!”

Harry froze. Instinctively, his eyes darted to George — no, that wasn’t what Mr Weasley
meant. He didn’t know a thing about that. He chuckled somewhat awkwardly, ducking his
head. “I— if you insist, Mr— Arthur.”

Luckily for Harry, his discomfort was smoothed right over by the delivery of cake, and Harry
let Mrs Weasley take his seat so she could fuss over her husband, jumping up to check on the
soup.

He noticed Sirius slink into the room, his shoulders relaxing when Harry’s was the only black
head of hair in sight. “What did Snivelly want?” he asked quietly, coming to stand beside
Harry at the stove.

“Sirius,” Harry chided — he’d promised to stop using that nickname. Sirius rolled his eyes.

“Fine, what did Snape want?”

“He didn’t want anything. Dumbledore wanted him to teach me Occlumency.”

“Is he mad!?” Sirius blurted out, causing several red heads to swivel in their direction.
“Sorry,” he muttered, ducking his head. “What was he thinking that would achieve, other
than bloodshed?”

“I think he was hoping Snape would crack me like an egg and report back with whatever I’ve
been working on these past few months. I told them no, obviously,” Harry added, scowling.
“Snape seemed happy not to have to take me back as a student in any capacity. I gave him
those creepy venom bottles Kreacher found, a bit of an apology for him being dragged into
all this.”

“Snape doesn’t deserve your apologies,” Sirius snapped automatically. Harry narrowed his
eyes.

“We’ve talked about this, Sirius. My childhood was far closer to his than yours growing up,
and you’re too old to be such a bully,” he argued firmly. That was one common point of
contention between himself and his godfather; Harry heard Sirius’ tales of pranking Snape
and he couldn’t help but compare it to Dudley’s treatment of Harry himself, but with magic.
Sirius refused to admit it was anything other than childhood fun, and ‘the git had it coming’.
The man’s grey eyes darkened.

“You’re nothing like him, Harry.”

“That’s a lie. Besides,” Harry added, glancing over Sirius’ shoulder to see Remus make his
way into the room, looking weary from the full moon the night before. “You ought to think
about being a bit nicer to the bloke who makes it possible for the man you love not to tear
himself to pieces every month.” Harry summoned a bowl, which jumped a little too firmly
into his hand, and ladled out a portion of soup. He carried it over to Remus, hoping his scowl
had mostly faded. “Here, Moony. How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad, all things considered,” Remus replied, leaning against the countertop. “I hear
Severus stopped by?” His amber eyes were knowing as they drifted to his partner, scowling at
the soup pot several feet away.

“With Dumbledore. Don’t worry, they won’t be back any time soon. I’ll tell you later.” He
could see the flesh-coloured string tucked behind the bread bin, leading all the way over to
where the twins and Ron were gathered. Remus pursed his lips, and nodded.

.-.

Despite the cheer at having Mr Weasley home and healthy, dinner wasn’t as celebratory as it
should have been that night. Everyone was all-too aware of the Hogwarts term resuming in
the morning. Between that and Sirius sulking over the Snape situation, Harry’s face started to
hurt from faking a grin before they even reached dessert.

If anything, this was a hundred times worse than waiting for his friends to leave on
September 1st. This time, he knew he wasn’t likely to see them again until the end of the
school year — and he knew what kind of hell they were headed back to. There hadn’t been
any more education decrees over the break, not as far as they’d seen in the Prophet, but that
just made Harry nervous. Who knew what Umbridge was building up to?

“Cheer up, kid,” Kingsley said, snapping Harry from his thoughts. The auror was one of
many Order members who had come over for dinner to celebrate Arthur’s good health. “Your
friends are tough. They’ll be alright.”

“I wish you could promise me that, Kings,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“Anything interesting from the Ministry lately?”

“Not unless you want to sit and listen to me bitch about the security meeting I had with
Fudge and the muggle MoD last week,” Kingsley retorted, rolling his eyes. “I swear, the
danger to the muggles these days isn’t Voldemort — it’s them underestimating the situation
because Fudge is too big an imbecile for them to take seriously.”

Harry snickered. In their training sessions, he’d had many a complaint from the Senior Auror
about how impossible it was to liaison with the muggle heads of state and security when
Fudge needed as much supervision as a toddler.

“I’ll pass on that, thanks,” he joked, using a nudge of magic to assist the jug of custard that
was being passed down the table before someone could spill it.

“I’ll tell you all about it on Thursday, don’t worry,” Kingsley teased, ruffling Harry’s hair.
“Nice haircut, by the way.”

Harry grinned self-consciously. “Thanks. I figured it was getting a bit long — I can’t pull off
that look like Sirius does.”
Kingsley ran a hand over his own shining bald head. “I don’t know how he does it,” he said
ruefully, eyeing the animagus’ dark locks, settling in loose waves at his shoulders. “He had it
long for a bit when he was in the aurors, did you know? Until Mad-Eye got sick of him
getting it in his eyes and shaved it down to a military cut while he was unconscious in the
medical wing one day.”

Harry’s eyes went wide in amusement. “No? Really! He never told me why it was short in
some of the pictures.”

Kingsley chuckled. “Moody did it,” he confirmed. “Used healer’s clippers, too — the hair
can’t be grown back with a spell, only naturally.”

“Merlin, I bet Sirius was furious.” Harry wondered if he could get away with doing that to his
godfather one day. Maybe not with the healer’s clippers — Remus might cry if Sirius went
short-haired again — but with a spell, just for a day or two.

“Oi, Harry!” Fred called. Harry whipped around to see the twins and Ginny stood by the
kitchen door. “Exploding Snap, with those new cards George made last week. You coming or
what?” Ron and Hermione seemed to have already left the kitchen; indeed, dinner was
winding up, now.

Harry glanced apologetically to Kingsley, who rolled his eyes. “Go, have fun with your
friends,” the auror insisted. He winked. “I’ll cut out early on Thursday and come for lunch,
tell you all about your godfather’s most embarrassing moments before I wipe the ballroom
floor with you.”

“Challenge accepted,” Harry returned, jumping to his feet. “See you, Kings.”

Fred’s declaration had gained them a couple more players for the game; Bill and Tonks
trailed after them in morbid curiosity, joining them in the living room.

“Hang on,” Harry said, magically rearranging the furniture into a circle, expanding the table
in the middle to fit everyone. He turned, beginning to raise protective wards in front of the
bookshelves. “Bill, you might want to fireproof the table.”

The eldest Weasley raised an eyebrow, but waved his wand and muttered a spell. Harry
snorted. “Bit more than that. A Thurisaz chain at least.”

“It’s Exploding Snap,” Bill said flatly.

“With cards that your brother made,” Harry retorted. Bill hummed thoughtfully, then nodded.

“Yeah, fair. Here; if we’re going Futhark, put this on top of the cabinet,” he requested, pulling
a wardstone from his pocket and tossing it to Harry. “There’s some Teutonic-warded stuff in
there that might mix weirdly with the Norse if things get triggered.”

“Y’know, Forge,” George declared, watching the spellcasting take place, “I feel like we
should be insulted. Harrykins thinks we’ll blow the house up.”
“Seems more like a compliment to me, Gred,” Fred replied, beaming. He vaulted over the
back of the sofa, slapping his hands down on the now-warded table. “Let’s play.”

“You never took Ancient Runes, Harry,” Hermione commented as she claimed the armchair.

“Bill’s been teaching me a bit,” Harry demurred, not wanting to cause an argument about
anything this close to their return to Hogwarts. He squeezed onto the sofa beside George,
trying not to grin when the redhead’s socked foot hooked around his ankle beneath the table.

“Fleur did most of the difficult bits. I just taught you the fun exploding stuff,” Bill joked,
rolling up his shirtsleeves. In unison, five sets of eyes snapped to look at the curse breaker.

“Fleur? Fleur Delacour?” Ron yelped in a strangled tone. “When were you hanging out with
Fleur Delacour?”

All the colour drained from Bill’s face. Across the table, Harry met Tonks’ gaze, and they
both burst out laughing.
 Chapter 18

Saying goodbye was hard.

Harry didn’t let himself be alone with George at any point, not wanting to make things any
harder. They settled for intense staring that Harry was amazed none of the others noticed, and
a boisterous hug identical to the one Fred had given Harry when they all gathered to go get
the train.

“Don’t get too bored without us,” George joked, ruffling Harry’s hair. If his hand lingered
just a second, there was too much chaos going on for anyone else to realise. “Look after
yourself, Potter.”

“You too, Weasley,” Harry retorted, swallowing back the lump in his throat. “All of you,” he
added, gazing over the assembled group. “Watch out for Umbridge. And win the Quidditch
Cup for me.”

“Aye-aye, Captain!” Ginny cheered, saluting jauntily.

Bill, who had stayed the night at Grimmauld even after being ruthlessly interrogated about
his girlfriend, began to help usher everyone out along with their assortment of trunks and
animal cages. Harry watched until the door was shut, his shoulders slumping. It felt like his
heart had been ripped out and taken along with them.

He gave himself a moment, then two.

Then he straightened up, plastering a smile on his face and turning to Sirius and Remus. “I’m
gonna get started on lunch. I think I fancy making bread, today. Maybe that cheesy garlic
bread? We can have soup for lunch, and I’ll do lasagne for dinner. How’s that sound?”

“I— yeah, sounds great.” Sirius eyed him oddly. “Why bread?”

Harry’s smile widened almost aggressively. “I need to punch something.”

.-.-.-.

With the house emptier again, things settled back into a similar routine to before Christmas.
Mr and Mrs Weasley moved back to the Burrow, and Harry resumed his training and tutoring.
His plans with Fleur were starting to show promise, and that had him spending his evenings
flicking through Sirius’ old copies of his fifth year textbooks, checking for any gaps in his
knowledge.

“It’s alright to give yourself a break every now and then, pup,” Sirius pointed out from across
the living room, his head in Remus’ lap as he watched Harry juggle a book, parchment and
quill in his armchair blanket cocoon.
“I did, it’s called the whole Christmas holiday,” Harry retorted, sticking his quill in his mouth
to turn his page.

“And you haven’t stopped working in the entire week since.” Remus frowned at him, one
hand carding through Sirius’ hair. “You’ll burn yourself out if you’re not careful.”

“I’m fine, I promise,” Harry dismissed. “I just… I feel like something big is coming. I need
to stay busy.” He’d been restless for the last few days, with no idea why. The kind of restless
he might once have soothed by going flying — now he didn’t have that option, he would take
what he could get.

“Sounds like you’re just sexually frustrated,” Sirius declared sagely. “Spending all that time
with your boy and not doing anything about it. Happens to the best of us. Go have a bath and
a wank, it’ll sort you right out.”

“Sirius!” Harry groaned, blushing hotly.

“It’s perfectly natural, Harry! Healthy young lad like you, I’m amazed you kept your hands
off him! You must be dying to blow off some steam. I gave you that book for Christmas for a
reason, y’know — you’re gonna do it, I’d rather you did it properly.”

“I really need you to stop talking, now.”

“There’s a muggle shop about fifteen minutes walk from here, sells all sorts of naughty things
— you should put all your studying to work and make yourself look eighteen, transfigure up
a fake ID and go buy yourself something fun, maybe that’ll chill you out ’til your beau
returns from the war.”

Through all of this, Remus was laughing silently into his cardigan sleeve, absolutely no help
whatsoever. Harry thought he was going to explode from the force of his blush. If he’d been
braver, maybe he’d have retorted that he’d already been to the muggle shop and bought
himself plenty, but he didn’t want Sirius to feel like he’d won.

“I’m not sexually frustrated!” Harry burst out, letting his book fall to the floor. “At least,
that’s not why I’m restless! It’s different.”

“Can’t hurt, though,” Sirius reasoned — Harry hated the neutral expression his godfather
kept through the whole exchange, when he could see in the man’s grey eyes how badly he
wanted to laugh at Harry’s discomfort. “Personally I don’t see why you didn’t take the
opportunity while he was here — you gave him the mirror, you could always use that for a bit
of private time while he’s at school.” He winked. “Repression is bad for the soul, Harry —
take it from Moony and me; you’ll be way happier once you stop holding yourself back.”

“Don’t bring me into this, you randy old dog,” Remus muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Excuse you, I’m not the one who—“

“I’m leaving now!” Harry announced loudly, casting a silencing charm at his godfather
before that sentence could be finished and his brain could be scarred forever. “Goodnight,
please let’s pretend this whole conversation never happened.”

“Masturbation is healthy, Harry!” Sirius called after him, having broken the silencer easily.
“Don’t sex-shame yourself!”

Harry shuddered, slamming the living room door shut on the worst godparents ever, trying to
eject Sirius’ words from his mind.

Earlier, he might have considered having some private time to try and de-stress, maybe even
with one of the toys he’d bought at the muggle sex shop. Now, however, it would be a
miracle if he could ever even think about touching himself without Sirius’ encouragement
burning into his eyelids.

.-.-.-.

Harry woke up laughing, and that made him worried.

It wasn’t the bubbly, warm kind of laughter that came from the tail end of a dream about the
twins’ pranks, or even the slightly embarrassed laughter of looking back over last night’s
conversation with Sirius. It was a fanatic, maniacal laughter that came from a place that was
not his own, and was accompanied by a headache and a pit in his stomach.

Voldemort was laughing. Had been laughing all night, by the feel of it. His euphoria cut
through Harry like a knife, an icy sense of triumph within him. Harry went down to breakfast
with a heavy feeling of trepidation, and when he saw his godfathers’ expressions and the
Prophet headline, the laughter suddenly made sense.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed through his teeth, staring at ten black-and-white faces
leering from the front page.

“Did you see anything?” Sirius tapped his forehead roughly where the scar would be on
Harry’s. Harry shook his head.

“No, but I felt it.” Ever since the attack on Mr Weasley, he hadn’t seen much of anything in
his dreams, not even the corridor at the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort was cutting off
that contact, no-doubt trying to figure out how much access to the magical world Harry truly
had. “He’s so happy.”

“He would be,” Sirius muttered with a scowl, glaring at the newspaper. In her frame, his
cousin Bellatrix Lestrange stared back menacingly. “Got all his best friends back with him,
now.”

Harry pulled the paper closer to read the accompanying article, and noticed each Wanted
poster held the occupant’s name and a short description of their crimes. His gaze lingered on
the words beneath Bellatrix’s. “Merlin, poor Neville.” Everyone at school would know about
his parents, now. Harry was glad he’d taken the chance to write to the boy over Christmas,
and wished he could send him a note now without Umbridge getting her hands on it.
He couldn’t believe that the Ministry were still burying their heads in the sand, blaming the
breakout on Sirius of all people. “Blimey, Padfoot; didn’t know you were such a criminal
mastermind,” he commented bitterly. “Breaking ten people out of Azkaban.”

“I astound myself, sometimes,” came Sirius’ equally snide response.

“Shall I assume Tonks won’t be round today, then?” Harry was supposed to have a session
with her all morning. He’d been looking forward to it, planning on telling her of Sirius’
embarrassing antics the night before, maybe having her help think of a way to get back at the
man. She would probably be rushed off her feet for the foreseeable future — Kingsley, too.

Harry glanced over at Remus, who had been silent since he entered the kitchen. The man was
staring at the spot on the table where the paper had been before Harry picked it up, his amber
eyes unseeing and his hands wrapped too-tightly around his mug. “Remus? Are you alright?”

Remus startled, tea slopping over onto his fingers, though he didn’t seem to notice. “What?
Oh. I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Fenrir Greyback. He’s the wolf that bit me. I
just… wasn’t expecting to see his face again.”

Harry stared in horror, then looked back at the front page, at the man baring his teeth with a
snarl. Fenrir Greyback, werewolf convicted of intentional turning and murder of children.

“Merlin, Moony…”

Sirius reached over, easing one of Remus’ hands free to tangle their fingers together. “We’ll
get him,” he vowed determinedly. “He was in there almost as long as I was; it’ll take a while
before he’s in any state to do anything. As soon as he starts showing his disgusting face
again, the aurors will get him. They know what they’re facing.”

Harry hoped that was the case. The only thing he’d heard about the current lot of aurors was
bitching from Kingsley and Tonks about how useless most of them were, and how they all
lived halfway up Fudge’s arse.

“So Voldemort’s got the dementors on his side, then?” he presumed, reading further down the
article where it relayed the ‘mysterious’ disappearance of the Azkaban guards. “Shit.” He
wished he’d had the chance to teach his friends how to do a Patronus charm. Hermione had
asked, over the break — Harry had shown her, and explained it to her, but with her unable to
do magic in the holidays she hadn’t been able to do more than just get the theory.

He wondered if she’d been practicing; if she was going to teach the DA. He hoped so.

He couldn’t even write and ask her, not with Umbridge about. Maybe he could send her a
message patronus, if he watched on the Map to see when she and Ron might be alone. Or he
could ask Fred and George to figure out a way to pass the message along, without admitting
they were in contact with Harry.

It had only been a week. If things got much worse, he’d ditch the idea of keeping the mirror a
secret, have the twins come clean and face Ron’s anger just to be able to talk to his other
friends. Even if Ron claimed the mirror, and Harry lost his easy contact with George. It
would be worth it.

If things got much worse.

He snorted to himself, glancing down at the paper. How much worse did it have to get?

.-.-.

Over the next couple of weeks, he was on the mirror almost every other night to the twins,
getting their reports about what was going on at the school. Shortly after the Azkaban break
out, Umbridge had made another decree banning teachers from talking to students about
things unrelated to their schoolwork. She’d put Hagrid on probation, seemed to have
someone or another in detention every night — far too often it was one of the Weasleys, and
Harry wanted to punch something every time he saw the red-raw scars on the twins’ hands.
They had almost faded completely over Christmas, and now they were worse than ever.

In the first week of February, Harry picked up the mirror to see both twins looked at him,
absolutely furious. “What happened?” he asked with trepidation.

In one of her most blatant moves yet, Umbridge had decided that excessive detentions was
not enough for the twins. She had banned them from the quidditch team, confiscating their
brooms in the process.

“Can she even do that?” Harry exploded, looking at the identical dark expressions.

“She can do whatever the hell she wants, mate,” Fred retorted. “Honestly, I don’t know why
we’re still kicking around this place. No quidditch, carving our hands up in detention, more
rules than a bloody prison. We should just say sod it and leave.”

Harry didn’t look George in the eye. “But what about Ron and Ginny? And Hermione?” he
asked softly, face grim.

“As if they’d let us help them with anything,” George retorted. “We’re not you, Harry.”

The words twisted painfully in Harry’s chest. Not for the first time, he wanted to say sod
Voldemort and the war, and make his way into Hogwarts just to show Umbridge everything
he’d learned since she’d had him expelled. He wondered if she was secretly a Death Eater, or
a sympathiser at the very least. She had to be, with her bullshit pureblood supremacist views.

But no — surely if she were a Death Eater, she would have done something to try and get the
prophecy to Voldemort. She was just an utterly foul human being, regardless of any dark
leanings.

“Well, I’ve never been able to stop you two doing anything you’ve put your mind to, so far
be it from me to try now,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Just… make sure
they’ll be alright, if you do go? Leave the mirror with them or something. You two are my
only eyes and ears in the castle.”

Harry had never felt more isolated in his life.

.-.-.-.-.

“Mind if I borrow you for a bit, Harry?”

The voice, coming unexpectedly from the fireplace as Harry sat down for a late breakfast,
startled him so much he dropped his fork with a loud clatter. “Oops, sorry.” It was Bill — or
rather, just Bill’s head, staring sheepishly up from the fire. “You alright? You look a bit…”

“Sleep-deprived?” Harry finished dryly. He’d seen himself in the mirror, he knew how bad
the dark circles beneath his eyes were. “Yeah, a bit. Rough night.” He’d been privy to a
Death Eater meeting that lasted far too long and involved far too many Cruciatus curses for
his liking. His fingers still trembled from the aftershocks even now. “What do you need me
for? If it involves any sort of quick reflexes, I can’t help you.” Harry felt like he’d spent all
night running uphill in the mud, and then been dragged through hedges all the way back
down.

“Nah, nothing like that. Can I come through?”

Harry nodded, and Bill appeared in the kitchen, wearing his usual work uniform of a dark red
dragon-hide jacket and jeans. Harry gestured towards the kettle, but Bill shook his head. “No
thanks, I’m fine. Merlin, you sure you’re okay?” In a move very reminiscent of his mother,
Bill reached out to press the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead, checking his temperature.
Harry almost smiled.

“I’m fine, just — visions. Nothing like your dad,” he added quickly, at the redhead’s look of
alarm. “Just Death Eater meetings. Didn’t sleep much.” His throat was still sore from
screaming.

“Gods,” Bill cursed, brows knitting together. “Right. Well, we can always do this another day
if you need to, but— the team have been working with the ritual, gathering everything
needed and testing the components to try and work out if it’ll do what we want it to do.”

“As opposed to stealing my soul instead or something?” Harry joked. Bill didn’t laugh.

“We’re like ninety-five percent sure it won’t do that, don’t worry,” he assured. “The big
mystery in it all is whether your scar is enough of Voldemort’s soul for you to even be able to
perform the ritual. If it’s not, we don’t think anything will happen — none of your soul is
outside your body, so there’s nothing to disperse.”

Harry blinked dumbly. “So… what do you need me to do?” Was there some sort of test, like a
geiger counter or something— a scanner to wave over him and see how much of Voldemort’s
soul he contained? They had the locket already; Harry had taken it from Kreacher with the
promise to bring him proof when the job was finished. Did they want to compare the two?

“Mostly just sit there, really. Let my team do some diagnostics. As you can imagine, we’re all
a bit reluctant to leave something this big to chance and luck.”

“Haven’t you heard? Chance and luck is kind-of my thing,” Harry replied wryly. “Is it safe?”
“I’ll take you in the staff entrance again. No one on the team will tell anyone they’ve seen
you — they’re all very discreet, I promise. Kind of comes with the job, working with
peoples’ private affairs. You can trust them.”

If Bill was happy they wouldn’t blow Harry’s cover, that was good enough for him. Looking
down at his half-eaten sausage sandwich, he nodded resolutely and stifled a yawn. “Yeah,
sounds like something I can do. Let me just let someone know I’m headed out.”

He had no idea what Sirius and Remus were up to that morning. He only knew they’d left
their room because the sausages had been waiting for him under a warming charm.

Double checking that the silencing bubble Bill and Fleur had warded Mrs Black’s portrait
with was still holding strong, Harry stood at the base of the stairs. “Moony! Padfoot!” he
yelled, waiting for a response.

“Yeah, pup?” Sirius shouted back. He sounded a little breathless. Harry wrinkled his nose.

“Bill’s kidnapping me for a bit! Don’t know when I’ll be back!” he informed them. There
was a beat of silence, and a faint thud.

“Okay, have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Another pause, some faint giggling.
“Scratch that — don’t do anything Moony would do! Love you, pup!”

There was more giggling, which cut off sharply like someone had raised a silencing spell.
Harry shoved the entire interaction to the back of his mind to save from scarring himself for
life, and wandered back into the kitchen. “I’m good to go.” He glanced at the table, and
reached for the other half of his sandwich. “This is coming with me.”

“Just don’t lose it in the floo,” Bill warned in amusement.

With that in mind, Harry’s solution was to shove the entire thing in his mouth in one go —
and then try very, very hard not to either choke or vomit as Bill took him through the
Gringotts’ staff entrance. He stumbled out, coughing on a piece of bread wedged in the back
of his throat. Bill whacked him heartily on the back. “I’m good. I’m fine. We’re good.” Harry
looked up, eyes automatically finding Fleur, who grinned at him from the midst of a group of
humans and goblins alike.

“Salut, Harry!” she greeted cheerfully, then pursed her lips and frowned. “You ‘ave not been
taking care of yourself.”

“Not all of us can be as gorgeous as you, dear,” Bill told her smoothly, bypassing Harry to
kiss her on the cheek. A stocky blond man who looked about Sirius’ age made an
exaggerated retching noise.

“That’s a sickle in the jar, Weasley,” he heckled in a thick Irish accent. Bill rolled his eyes,
and Fleur laughed — she reached into her pocket and pulled out a sickle, dropping it neatly in
a glass jar full halfway with the silver coins. Harry looked closer, seeing the jar was labelled
‘PDA tax’. He snickered.
“You two are that bad?” he asked, amused. Bill cuffed him gently round the ear.

“Don’t listen to them — at least half of that came from Jenna and Emine,” he insisted, jerking
a thumb at two women perched on the end of a desk. The darker-skinned one of the pair
laughed, flipped him off, and said something in a language Harry didn’t recognise, while the
other just giggled.

“So you’re Harry Potter, hmm?” The man who’d made Fleur pay the tax stepped forward,
eyeing Harry over like he was a particular intriguing puzzle. Harry tried not to squirm.
“Blimey, yeah, that scar of yours is just haemorrhaging dark magic, isn’t it?” He reached out
a hand, and Harry jerked back.

“Boundaries, Dec,” Bill chided, the phrase sounding rote. He squeezed Harry’s shoulder
reassuringly. “Harry, this is Declan McKeithan, call him Dec. He’s our resident mage-seer.”

Now the man’s comment about magic made sense. “My scar stands out that much?” Harry
asked in shock. Dec nodded.

“Bold as brass, lad,” he confirmed. “Hurts to look right at you, a bit.”

“Nah, that’s just his face,” Bill teased. Fleur slapped him gently on the chest.

“William, behave.”

Bill just grinned at Harry. “Over there we have Jenna Westmoor and Emine Sakir — Jenna’s
our numbers whizz, Emine is all about languages.” The two women waved brightly. “Then
Conrad Michaels, our historian; the man who discovered the ritual to begin with.” A grey-
haired man far older than the rest of the team nodded in Harry’s direction. “Makali, our
healer and captain.” One of the three goblins on the team, with eerie pale green eyes and a
thick blond moustache, raised a hand. “And finally the twins, Thanax and Kalax, who have
done more rituals between them than perhaps anyone else in Gringotts.” Harry was quite sure
he was meeting his first ever female goblins — they didn’t look all that different from the
male ones, but their bronze hair was in two thick braids down their backs, and they were
entirely identical but for a ropey scar on Kalax’s nose. “And of course, you know Fleur.”

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Harry greeted, offering a slightly awkward wave.

“The pleasure’s ours,” Jenna insisted, her voice quiet and faintly accented, though he couldn’t
pinpoint where from. “We haven’t had a case this interesting in years!” Emine elbowed her in
the ribs. “Ow! Oh, yeah, also Bill’s told us loads about you and says you’re great, so that’s
nice too!”

Harry bit back his amusement. “So… what do you need me to do?”

The twins stepped forward in unison, eyeing him with a vaguely predatory gaze that sent an
uneasy shiver down his spine. “Come with us, Harry Potter,” Thanax requested, beckoning
him to follow her. “We have much to discuss.”
Fleur looped her arm through Harry’s, tugging him along as if they were off on a stroll
through Paris rather than leading him deep into the catacombs of Gringotts to perform
unknown and possibly experimental diagnostic magic on the piece of a dark lord’s soul that
resided in his skull.

Probably just your average work day, for Bill’s team.

 Chapter 19

Working for Gringotts was now much higher on Harry’s list of potential careers than it had
been prior to his introduction to Bill’s team. They had made him feel welcome almost
instantly, despite the intense stares of several members of the team — according to Bill, they
were just very, very focused on their work. It was an intimidating start, but once they’d got
Harry settled on a stone bench in the middle of a slightly sinister-looking ritual circle, they
hadn’t become as clinical as Harry had feared; questions about his magic and his scar were
interspersed with queries about his hobbies and interests, and anecdotes of Bill’s early years
on their team. It turned out that other than Fleur, Bill was the newest member of the team —
and even that had been six years ago, now. They were a well-oiled machine, each one with a
specialty but providing a vast array of knowledge and skill between them, and they spoke
with each other like family. It reminded Harry of being at the Weasleys’ when all of Bill’s
siblings were around, and Bill laughed when he said as much.

“Why d’you think I fit in so easy? It’s just like home,” he joked, grinning.

Between them, the team did several scans and tests on Harry, most of which required nothing
but for him to sit there and not move. At one point Dec asked Harry to perform wandless
magic, and the man’s violet-coloured eyes were almost glassed-over as he stared intently.
“Fascinating,” he muttered, while Harry transfigured a piece of stray parchment into a live
robin, which perched on his finger and chirped a couple of times before Harry turned it back,
then set the parchment on fire. “I could write a whole bloody thesis on you, Potter.”

“Please don’t,” Harry replied mildly.

He was there for most of the day, getting poked and prodded with various instruments and
forms of magic. At the same time, Conrad and Emine explained the basis of the ritual to him,
going through it step by step and giving a full description of the use of each component.

“If you know what each part means, then you will know if it does not feel right,” Emine told
him. “We will not be able to help you with the ritual itself, when the time comes.”

Through it all, there was not a single reference to the circumstances behind the ritual, except
in clinical terms. None of them cared that he was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. None of
them gave a toss that he’d been expelled from Hogwarts at fifteen. They were just happy to
have a new puzzle to figure out — and then, when he began to ask questions about their
work, a new audience to gush to. Even Bill was a little different than he was around his
family; unlike at home, where he was the responsible eldest sibling, here he was the much-
loved and much-teased baby brother.

By the time Dec declared that they’d gained all the information they could from his scar and
would need to process the results in time, Harry was sad to leave. Jenna made Bill promise to
bring Harry back sometime, and Makali declared Harry an excellent candidate for an
apprenticeship, should he be interested once Fleur had fully qualified. Apparently each team
could only have one apprentice at a time, for safety reasons.
“I’ll think about it, yeah,” Harry said earnestly. He hadn’t realised there were so many
employment options within Gringotts, or so many branches of magic. It was incredible!

To make up for turning him into a lab rat for the day, Bill and Fleur took him down to the
staff canteen, apologising for not being able to take him out for a proper meal.

“We wouldn’t get three feet out the door, this time of day,” Bill said with a grimace, which
then turned playful. “Fleur turns too many heads.”

The quarter-veela laughed, rolling her eyes. “Are all the Weasley boys this charming, Harry?”
she asked wryly. “I do not remember them being so.”

Considering Fleur had mostly encountered Ron, who had all the charm and poise of a
hippogriff trying to ice skate, he could see how Fleur would be surprised.

“They have their moments,” Harry replied with a laugh, thinking of sparkling brown eyes and
a devious smile.

“Oh! What is that face!” Fleur gasped, pointing accusingly at him. “I am a veela, I know that
face!”

Beside her, Bill almost choked on his baklava. “He’s got a face? What face?” He looked at
Harry, narrowing his eyes. “Which of my brothers is making you make that face?” Suddenly
he looked a bit ill. “Please God don’t say Ron.”

Harry looked ill too, at the thought of fancying his best mate. “Jesus, no; Hermione can have
him,” he replied reflexively. Then he blushed. “I wasn’t making any face! There was no
face!”

“You are a dirty liar, Harry Potter,” Fleur accused. “That was the face of l’amour. Come, now
— we trusted you with our secret. We can be trusted too, non?”

“It’s a twin, it’s got to be. He doesn’t know Charlie well enough,” Bill said, studying Harry as
intensely as he’d studied him during the horcrux diagnostics, though this time with more of a
smile on his face. There was no mention of Percy. “Is it George? It must be George. Fred’s
straight, you know that, you wouldn’t still have that face.” Bill gasped theatrically, raising a
hand to his chest. “Harry James Potter, are you having it off with my little brother?”

“Shut your mouth!” Harry hissed, beet-red, glancing around the canteen anxiously. There
were a few others in there, but no one was paying them any attention.

“Relax, the tables are privacy-warded,” Bill dismissed. “Answer the question! Are you
sneaking around with George?”

“I haven’t done anything with George!” he insisted. It wasn’t even a lie.

“But you would like to,” Fleur drawled knowingly, eyes sparkling. “I admit, I cannot tell the
twins apart. But I remember they were ‘andsome. They are trouble, yes?”
“So much trouble,” Bill confirmed. He grinned wickedly, turning back to Harry. “Come on,
mate, you can tell me — we’re basically family! I’m helping you defeat Voldemort! You can
admit to fancying my brother. Does he know? Does he fancy you back?” Bill frowned
thoughtfully, like he was mentally reviewing every interaction between George and Harry
he’d ever been present for. “I can’t even tell if he talks about you more than average; all my
siblings talk about you loads. All those shenanigans you get up to,” he added, rolling his
eyes. “Spill, Harry. What’s the deets here?”

“What are you, a thirteen year-old girl at a sleepover?” Harry grumbled. Bill’s grin widened.
“There’s nothing to tell. No deets.” This time, Harry was more resigned than defensive. “He’s
at Hogwarts, and I’m not. S’all there is to it.” He didn’t mean to sulk, he really didn’t, but
God it was getting harder by the day. He missed all his friends at Hogwarts, but he missed
George the most.

Fleur turned sympathetic, and she reached over to pat him on the hand. “There is time.
Summer will be here soon. Then they graduate, oui?” Harry nodded. She grinned impishly.
“Then soon there will be plenty to tell. And we expect to be the first you call.”

“If you want to take on a Weasley twin, more power to you,” Bill said, making it sound akin
to trying to harness a tornado. “Merlin, I can’t believe you went the whole Christmas break
and I didn’t suspect a thing! Sure I was a bit distracted with Dad and all, but I saw you two
together loads of times! There was nothing!”

“Good,” Harry replied somewhat sharply. “You weren’t supposed to suspect. There is nothing
to suspect.”

“You aren’t worried, are you? What the others will say?” Bill’s brows furrowed. “Godric,
Mum’ll be over the moon. The whole family loves you, Harry. There might be a bit of
teasing, but it’s all in good fun. Surely Ron’s told you that.”

“Ron doesn’t know.”

At this, Bill’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “Serious? You haven’t even told Ron?
What about Hermione?” Harry shook his head. “Who does know?”

“Fred, obviously. And Sirius, and Remus. They guessed.”

“And that’s it? Not even Ginny?” Again, Harry shook his head. “Blimey, Harry. Why?”

Harry grimaced, his stomach tying itself in knots, a lump forcing its way up his throat — this
is why he didn’t want anyone to know. He hated having to deal with the questions. Things
were so much easier when it was just him and George, never saying anything but secure in
the fact that they knew. Little smiles and brushed hands and knees pressed together under the
table, no explanation needed. At first they just weren’t ready, both figuring themselves out as
they grew older, Harry wondering if the flutters in his chest were just friendship and
admiration of Ron’s cool older brother, eventually realising it was so much more than that.
They both knew the right moment would come eventually — would have come sooner if the
dementors hadn’t blown Harry’s whole life to hell.
“Like I said; he’s at Hogwarts, I’m not. It’s nothing yet. People don’t need to know.” So
much of his personal life was treated like public property. He wanted this for himself.

Fleur leaned against Bill’s arm, whispering something in French in his ear. She looked at
Harry like she could read all those thoughts plain on his face. When she pulled back, raising a
blonde eyebrow at her boyfriend, he sighed.

“Okay. Nothing to tell, then. That’s fine,” he assured. His steel-toed boot bumped Harry’s
foot beneath the table. “But for the record, when there is something to tell, we’ll all be happy
for you.”

Harry tried to muster a smile. Sometimes, when he thought about everyone knowing — even
just the family — he felt a bit sick. Not because he thought they’d disapprove, just… as soon
as people knew, it stopped being about just him and George.

“You know, you’ve an awful lot to say about it considering you only just told your siblings
about Fleur over Christmas — by accident,” he said slowly, narrowing his gaze at Bill. “Your
parents don’t know a thing, and you two are actually dating.”

“Uh. Right.” Suddenly, Bill was utterly fixated on the pastry on his plate. “Here, Harry, have
you tried the baklava? It’s amazing here; best I’ve had anywhere in the world!”

Harry bit back a smug smile. Served him right for asking questions.

.-.-.-.-.

February dragged into March in an endless slog of rain and cold — even though Kreacher
kept all the fires going, the house was still chilly. Harry had stopped going out into the
muggle world, not wanting to deal with the atrocious weather, and even Sirius wasn’t
desperate enough for fresh air to want to face all that mud as Padfoot.

Bill’s team at Gringotts were making good progress with the ritual, apparently, and all signs
pointed to it being possible. Even that couldn’t raise Harry’s spirits — he still had to get to a
point where he was actually ready to use said ritual and face a Dark Lord. Meanwhile, attacks
were being carried out all over the country; now being blamed on the escaped Death Eaters,
who the Prophet accused of independently causing chaos. Because ten mass-murderers who
all followed the same dark lord breaking out of prison and deciding to go their separate ways
and cause trouble that was very much like what that dark lord would ask of them, entirely of
their own devising, was completely believable.

It was hard. With every day that passed, every new face or name in the obituaries of the
newspaper, every article declaring Albus Dumbledore a liar and a scare-mongerer, the lump
of guilt sitting in Harry’s gut grew that little bit heavier. The urge to just do the ritual and wait
for Voldemort to find him became that little bit louder.

The sensible side of him knew better. Progress with the ritual did not mean it was ready,
certainly didn’t mean he was ready. They only got one chance, and Harry couldn’t fuck it up.

That didn’t make it any easier to handle.

As he had for many nights in the past now, Harry sat in bed surrounded by books, an orb of
magical light hovering above his head. It was well past midnight, and the others in the house
were asleep. It was just Harry, listening to the wind rattle his window, trying to distract
himself by reading about the Giant Wars of 1352. Or trying to bore himself to sleep, he
wasn’t fussy.

Turning the page, he jolted at an abrupt buzzing sound. The two-way mirror, which lived
constantly in sight on his bedside table now, was vibrating. Setting his book aside, he reached
for it, his own face disappearing in the glass. Instead of meeting brown eyes, he was left
staring at total darkness. A faint shadow moved, and he heard the faint rustle of fabric.
“Harry.”

“George,” he greeted, relaxing a little. The older boy didn’t sound scared, or alarmed.

“It’s pitch black, how can you tell it’s me?” came the faintly indignant response.

It’s the way you say my name, Harry almost blurted, but he held it back. That felt like too
much, too soon — he didn’t know what this call was about.

“Fred has the sense to turn a light on,” he teased instead. He heard a snort, and then a
murmured ‘lumos’, and George’s face became visible in the low light from his wand-tip. He
was in his bed in the Gryffindor dorm, with the drapes pulled shut around him. He was lying
on his side, blankets pulled up to his shoulder. His lips curved in a fond smile.

“Better?”

“I s’pose,” Harry replied. He shifted to lean back against the pillows stacked against his
headboard, stretching out his legs. “You alright? It’s late.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” George replied noncommittally. “What’s your excuse?”

“Same.” Harry held up his book in view of the mirror. “Doing a bit of light reading.”

“Ooh, fascinating,” said George drolly. Harry laughed.

Even though both of them were definitely within silencing charms, they still spoke in
whispers. It didn’t seem right to be loud, not so late at night, not in the near-dark.

“I’ve got some news for you,” George began. Harry’s heart plummeted. What had gone
wrong now?

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” George’s voice, even at a whisper, shook. “We, ah, officially bought premises today.
Number 93, Diagon Alley. Soon to be Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”

The words echoed in Harry’s ears. “You… really?”

“Yeah.” A tentative grin danced across George’s face. “Signed the deed and everything. Had
to sneak down to Hogsmeade to do it, mind, but we weren’t caught. Not that it really matters
if we are, now.”

Harry’s pulse stuttered. “Are you leaving, then?” Deep in his chest, hope rose fiercely, though
he tried not to let it take hold. He should want the twins to finish out the school year, take
their exams, graduate properly. It would mean so much to their mother.

“Not just yet.” There was a strange tone to George’s voice. It sounded a little like Harry felt
— like he was disappointed, but didn’t want to admit it. “We saw this Hufflepuff firstie, the
other day, with her hand bleeding like nobody’s business. ‘My mother is an animal, and I do
not deserve a wand’, it said.” George’s eyes blazed with fury. “She’s half-selkie, her dad’s a
muggle. Poor kid was terrified, crying her eyes out and ready to beg the headmaster to send
her home. Can you imagine, your introduction to magical school being Umbridge?”

It made Harry feel sick.

“We patched her up, gave her some Snackboxes and a couple Giggling Gobstones to make
her smile, promised her that the rest of the wizarding world isn’t like that. Sent her off to
Susan Bones, so hopefully the ‘Puffs will look out for her. But Merlin, Harry — the amount
of time we spend in detention, imagine how many other kids she could get with that foul quill
once we’re gone?”

The selfish little voice in the back of Harry’s head insisted that it didn’t matter, that the twins
shouldn’t throw themselves on the pyre for the sake of others, that they should get out while
they could. But that voice was tiny, weak. The rest of Harry was full of pride — Fred and
George were Gryffindors to the core, bold and brave and brilliant, and Harry’s heart ached
with how badly he wanted to be with the redhead staring back at him through the small
mirror.

He swallowed thickly. “I bet that little girl is besotted with the pair of you,” he teased, voice
cracking. “Her knights in shining armour.”

George chuckled, and Harry could just make out the edges of a blush. “I don’t know about
that. I’ll leave all the lovestruck damsels to Fred.”

The pair lay there, their breathing steady and so much louder in the dark and quiet. George
shifted, resting his cheek on his bicep while his other hand held the mirror. “It all feels so real
now, y’know? Signing that contract. We have a shop. In a few months, we’ll have it all
decked out and set up, and we’ll be open for business by the next school rush.” He smiled,
eyes shining. “It’s been our dream since we were little kids. All we’ve ever wanted to do was
open a joke shop. And now we’re doing it.” His smile softened. “And it’s all thanks to you.”

“Don’t give me so much credit,” Harry dismissed. “You two have been working so hard, with
the owl-order business. I don’t know how you’re managing to get everything past
Umbridge.”

“That’s actually down to you as well. We’re keeping all our stuff in the Shrieking Shack,
sending and receiving owls out of there so they never hit the school wards. Since you told us
how to get past the Whomping Willow.” He grinned at the look of surprise on Harry’s face. “
And your mate Dobby helps us deliver within the castle. See? You’re far more important than
you think, Potter.”

“But you two are the brains behind it all. You’ve invented all of these amazing things, and
worked to get stuff sorted for your shop. You’re entrepreneurs, starting up your own business
at seventeen. That’s incredible.” He paused, frowning. “How come you never told the others
about the Shack? They could’ve written to me.”

“Ron and Hermione are being watched way more closely than we are — and no offence to
them, but without you they’re a bit shit at sneaking around,” George added ruefully. “We
didn’t want them getting in trouble trying to get down to the Shack, or letting slip to someone
they were writing to you. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. We just want to keep them safe.”
He worried his lower lip, expecting Harry to be angry that he’d been kept from writing to his
friends.

“That’s exactly what I asked you to do,” Harry pointed out. He didn’t blame them. To be
honest, Ron and Hermione had enough on their plates with OWLs and their secret study
group and everything, without trying to get letters to Harry under Umbridge’s nose. “‘M not
mad at you.”

“Good.” He saw George relax — his gaze was just that little bit drowsy, making Harry ache
with the need to just crawl through the mirror and curl up in his arms. “I wish you could go to
Diagon and see the place we’ve bought. It’s all empty and boring outside right now,
obviously, but we’ve got some brilliant plans for it. And there’s a flat on the top floor, a nice
little two-bed place, so we can live right above the shop and everything. It’s gonna be
brilliant.” His grin turned a little lopsided. “First time in seventeen years I won’t have shared
a room with Fred.”

That probably wasn’t supposed to send a fizzle of heat through Harry’s belly, but it did. “I’ll
get to see it somehow, once you’re set up. Even if I have to polyjuice. And I can see the
inside, when you’re not open. I can see the flat.”

Even in the wandlight, Harry could see George’s eyes darken. “Can’t wait.” Still, that
couldn’t keep his giddy excitement off his face for long. “We’ve got so many ideas for when
we’re done with school. New stuff to work on. Things we’ve thought about for years but
never had the time or the space or the money.” He let out an incredulous huff of breath. “How
is this real, Harry? I’m gonna get everything I’ve ever wanted in the space of about six
months. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“You deserve it,” Harry insisted. “I’m a bit jealous, to be honest.” George eyed him in
bafflement. “It’s like you said; you guys have wanted this since you were kids. You’ve
always known what you want to do. I’ve got no bloody clue.” He sighed to himself. “Don’t
even know what I can do. The only thing I’ve ever been allowed to focus on is fighting
Voldemort, really. No room to think about what might come after that.” Ever since his time at
Gringotts with Bill’s team, he’d been wondering what he wanted to do with his life. If he
wanted to be an auror, or a cursebreaker, or something else entirely. If he would be allowed to
do any of those things in Britain, or if he’d have to move just to be considered qualified.

If he’d even survive long enough for it to matter.

“That’s normal, though,” George assured him. “Most people don’t have a clue when they’re
fifteen. Freddie and I are the odd ones out, there.”

“I should have some idea, though.”

“Why?” George asked plaintively. “Like you said, you haven’t ever really been given the
chance to find out. How can you decide when you’ve no idea what your options are?”

“Some decisions can be made without seeing all the options. You just know. Like you and
Fred, with the joke shop.” Harry doubted the twins had known every option available to them
before they decided on their joke shop dream at the age of six or seven.

He watched as George bit his lip, fighting a large smile, eyes bright. “Good to hear you don’t
always need options before making your mind up.” His gaze was intent. It took a second for
Harry’s frazzled brain to catch the insinuation, and when he did, he flushed.

“Like I said,” he mumbled, smiling back tentatively. “You just know.” His heart thudded
against his ribs.

“Yeah,” George agreed in a husky whisper. “I know.” He rolled onto his other side, adjusting
his pillow. “You’ve got all the time in the world to decide what you want to do with your life,
Harry. You could do a dozen different things, if you wanted. Or you could kick back, do
nothing at all, and live off all the galleons that’ll flood your vaults from your wise teenage
investment in a joke shop,” he added with a wink. Harry snorted.

“Like I wouldn’t put all that money straight back in your vault. I’ve got the Potter money.”

“We can have that argument when you inherit,” George dismissed cheekily. “But really, it’s
fine to not know. I know there’s all this pressure to try and figure it out before you’ve left
school, but honestly — wizards live for ages. You could have five different careers before
you’re old enough to retire. And if you’re worried about the Ministry, well, fuck them — not
many will say no to you when you’ve got ‘defeated a Dark Lord’ on your resume.” Before
Harry could argue that point, George hushed him. “And I promise, if you still feel like you
need to do something, you can come work in the shop for as long as you like, whenever you
like. While you take time to figure things out.” His grin grew bolder. Harry’s stomach
fluttered. “We’ll even let you live in the flat, if you want to get away from those godfathers of
yours, wherever they end up when Padfoot’s a free man.”

“Thought you said it was just a two-bed?” Harry returned, his own bravery rising. Everything
was so much easier in the dark, with the barrier of the mirror between them. Sometimes it felt
like Harry could say anything.

“We’ll sort something out.”

A thrill shot down Harry’s spine. The fluttering in his stomach was almost overwhelming,
now. He was sure that if there hadn’t been the barrier of the mirror between them, the
reminder that they were not actually lying in the dark together, he would have reached out.
He would have crossed some lines.
“I think I’d like that,” he whispered instead.

“That’s settled, then.” George paused for a beat, then smiled mischievously. “You can kip on
our sofa.”

The snort that escaped Harry was loud and ungainly and embarrassing, and sent George into
a fit of giggles.

“You git,” Harry muttered, feeling some of the heat from his belly rise to his cheeks.

“Oh, I’m sorry, gorgeous,” George soothed, blinking the laughter from his eyes. “That was
mean.” A heavy silence fell between them. The tension felt so thick Harry half expected
sparks to flicker at his fingertips. “We stay up talking much longer, I’m gonna say things I
shouldn’t. Feel like I might’ve said too much already.” George eyed Harry cautiously, like an
animal about to spook. Harry shuffled down to lie on his side, propping the mirror up on a
pillow corner. Like this, it really did feel like they were in the same room. In the same bed.

“It’s okay,” he assured. His whole body was tingling, certain parts of him far too awake for
such a late hour, but he wasn’t scared. He was ready, he knew he was, for the things they
shouldn’t say. It was just the stupid distance between them, stupid school, stupid Umbridge,
stupid life. It felt unfair to say something when they couldn’t do anything about it, but that
was the only reason he kept his mouth shut. Not because he didn’t want to cross that line, yet.

A yawn overtook him, his jaw cracking. George chuckled. “Merlin, that’s cute.” The whisper
was so quiet, Harry wondered if he’d even intended to speak out loud. Then, louder; “You
should go to sleep. We both should.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, though he made no move to end the call. “Not just yet, though. In a
bit.”

Still, his eyes fluttered half-shut. George hummed in agreement. The ball of light Harry had
conjured dimmed a little bit as his fatigue kicked in, but it didn’t go out completely.

Not until five minutes later, when Harry drifted off to sleep, mirror still active and a pair of
sleepy brown eyes watching him, full of affection. When his room went dark, a soft chuckle
sounded from the mirror, followed by a wistful sigh.

“Oh, one day. Soon, I hope.”

Then, the mirror went blank, reflecting nothing but Harry’s sleeping form in the pitch black
room.
 Chapter 20

While the weather improved as late March brought the spring, it was all starting to blend
together for Harry, endless days of training and waiting and visiting Death Eater meetings in
his dreams. Whether Voldemort intentionally pulled Harry into them, or was unaware of how
open the connection was these days, Harry couldn’t tell. He’d theorised with Bill that perhaps
all their experimentation and testing on the horcrux in Harry’s scar might have increased the
connection. He’d started practicing Occlumency thanks to instruction from Kingsley and a
couple of books, but that didn’t seem to be helping, either.

The monotony was starting to wear on him. At least in Hogwarts, he’d had other people
around to provide some sort of entertainment. Sirius and Remus were just as bored as he was,
and talking to the twins just made him mad at Umbridge. He’d heard about the sacking of
Professor Trelawney and her replacement in Firenze, but other than that Hogwarts seemed to
be in an uneasy truce. Umbridge had practically run out of things to regulate with her
Ministry decrees, and the twins were — for the most part — keeping their heads down.

That all changed one early April afternoon, when Harry was in the kitchen chopping
vegetables with Remus, happily discussing the plot twists at the end of one of the books
Harry had recently finished reading. All of a sudden, there was a flash of fire across the
room.

Instinctively, Harry whipped around, knife raised ready to defend himself — only to stare in
shock. Professor Dumbledore was in the kitchen with them, looking a little ruffled, and on his
shoulder perched Fawkes the phoenix.

“Albus,” Remus greeted, eyebrows rising. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

“I’m afraid not, Remus,” the bearded wizard replied. Harry felt his chest tighten in fear.
“Fawkes, summon the Order, we need a meeting.” The phoenix crooned, then took off and
stretched out his wings, disappearing in a blaze.

“What’s happened at the school?” Harry asked in alarm. The knife was still in his hand, and
he set it on the cutting board sheepishly. Dumbledore’s lips pursed.

“I’m afraid your friends’ rather ingenious little study group has been discovered. The
Minister was rather unimpressed by it all — I shall explain fully once the Order has arrived.”

Pulse racing, Harry forced himself not to react, his first instinct to run upstairs and grab the
mirror, check that the twins were okay. What did Dumbledore mean, they had been
discovered?

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. Remus went to find Sirius while Harry put away the
vegetables for later, and the Order began arriving in a steady trickle through the floo. All of
them were grim-faced, which turned to alarm when they saw Dumbledore present. It was the
middle of the school day. Usually, the Headmaster could only attend meetings late in the
evenings or on weekends.
No one shooed Harry from the room this time, so he hopped up onto the counter to sit behind
Tonks, seeing as the table was full. Dumbledore stood at the head of the room, hands clasped,
Fawkes on his shoulder once more. Harry had to admit, he was quite the striking figure. He
looked ready to speak, and Harry narrowed his eyes — Kingsley wasn’t there yet. Was he
caught up in something? Did he already know what had happened?

“I am afraid that our fears have come to pass,” Dumbledore declared, bringing the room to a
tense hush. “This afternoon, shortly before dinner, I had a visit from Minister Fudge and an
accompaniment of aurors, prepared to expel and arrest Miss Hermione Granger and Mr
Ronald Weasley for breaking Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four.”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. Across the room, Molly Weasley whimpered. “Are they
alright? Where are they?”

“They are unharmed,” Dumbledore assured. “And remain students of Hogwarts.” Several sets
of eyes flicked towards Harry, and he resolutely did not let his expression change. Were they
expecting him to be disappointed, that his friends had not been expelled too?

Calmly, Dumbledore relayed the events of the past hour — some Ravenclaw sixth year had
told Umbridge about the DA, revealing the secret of the Room of Requirement and telling her
there would be a meeting before dinner that very day. Naturally, Umbridge had been
overjoyed with the information and contacted the Minister, prepared to ambush the meeting
and expel every single one of them. Luckily, the DA had been warned by Dobby, and had
tried to scatter before Umbridge could catch them.

Less luckily, Umbridge had roped several Slytherins in to helping, and their actions led to
Ron and Hermione getting caught.

It turned out Hermione had done some sort of spell to prevent secrets being spilled —
Dumbledore wasn’t clear on the specifics, but whatever she’d done meant that the Ravenclaw
girl was completely silent when asked to repeat her story in front of the Minister, leaving
very little evidence for Umbridge to work with. Only Umbridge had gone into the Room after
the DA had fled, and found their sign-up sheet.

“Dolores was quite keen to expel every student on the list — Miss Granger and Mr Weasley
in particular — but it seemed they had decided to name themselves ‘Dumbledore’s Army,”
the headmaster said with a quiet chuckle. “Rather flattering, indeed. Naturally, I could not
allow the students to suffer for what was so clearly my doing, with my name at the top of the
sheet. I let Fudge believe that I had been the one to gather the students and set them to begin
training each other for war, and he decided to have me arrested.”

With perfect timing, the floo flared green that very moment, and Kingsley stepped through.
He was still wearing his auror robes, and he looked around in alarm — then caught
Dumbledore’s eye, and chuckled. “Very good show, Albus,” he complimented. “You should
have seen the look on Cornelius’ face when Fawkes took you out of your office.”

“Are my friends alright?” Harry cut in impatiently. Kingsley offered him a weary smile.

“They might have one hell of a detention schedule, but they’re fine.”
Everyone in the room looked relieved, and Harry knew immediately that they were
completely unaware of the nature of Umbridge’s detentions. His stomach churned.

“That’s not fine! She’ll shred their hands bloody! Who’s in charge of the school now?”

“The Minister has decreed Dolores to be the new headmistress; I believe the announcement
will be in the morning paper.” Kingsley narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, shred their
hands? What have you been keeping from us, Potter?”

“They told me not to tell anyone,” Harry retorted. “No one wanted to put the headmaster in a
difficult position. Bit late for that now, though,” he spat. He told the Order of the awful black
quills Umbridge used on kids in detention, relaying everything the twins had told him —
including what she’d done to that poor Hufflepuff first year. By the time he’d finished,
everyone in the room was aghast. Even Dumbledore was looking rather ill.

“How the fuck did she get her hands on Blood Quills?” Bill Weasley roared furiously.
“They’re supposed to be for legal documents and ritual use only! They’re not tools of
punishment; how is this not regulated?”

“She lives in Fudge’s pocket, she can do what she likes,” Sirius snarled. Beside him, Remus’
eyes were glowing faintly gold.

“If I told my boss…” Bill trailed off, still scowling. “Gringotts didn’t want the Ministry to
have access to Blood Quills to begin with. They’ve no need when the goblins handle
contracts like that.”

For a minute, Harry daydreamed about what might happen if the Goblin Nation came for
Umbridge. He’d like to see that.

“I had no idea,” Dumbledore breathed, his face the colour of milk behind his beard. “Oh,
those poor students… I continue to fail them without even realising.” He turned to Harry,
blue eyes glimmering with tears. “Why did you not tell me sooner? Surely your grudge does
not extend this far, my boy?”

“It’s not a grudge,” Harry insisted with a roll of his eyes. “It’s a difference of opinion, Jesus.
And what could you have done if I’d told you? If anyone had told any of the teachers? The
Ministry have been breathing down your neck since the school year began — if Umbridge
has those quills, you can bet Fudge gave her permission. If you’d known you would have just
tried to do something, and they’d have kicked you out of the school months ago.” His lips
twisted in a bitter smirk. “Your students are far more resilient than you give them credit for,
Headmaster. Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott have been harvesting murtlap tentacles
out of the Black Lake since October; apparently they work a treat on the wounds.” Harry was
so proud of his classmates, banding together to take care of their own. “Umbridge couldn’t
risk putting the same people in detention too often, or their records would flag in your office.
Merlin knows how bad it’ll be now you’re gone.”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore’s lips pursed, face still stricken with grief. “We can only hope that
resilience is enough to keep them safe until the end of the school year. I will try and get word
to Minerva and the other heads of house, see if there is anything they can do about the
detentions. I have faith in the rest of my staff. However… with Dolores in charge, they may
not remain staff much longer.”

The atmosphere in the kitchen was heavy. Mrs Weasley had tear-tracks down her cheeks and
a death grip on her husband’s arm. Harry’s heart ached for her — to know her children were
stuck there with that monster, it couldn’t be easy.

“They were supposed to be safe,” Mr Weasley muttered, pale-faced. “Of all places for them,
Hogwarts was supposed to be safe.”

“I am truly sorry, Arthur,” Dumbledore sighed. “I wish I could have done more to protect
them. Had I seen any way to keep my position as headmaster without sacrificing the entirety
of Dumbledore’s Army in doing so, I would have done it. But I could not stand by and see
thirty-six students expelled.” His eyes returned to Harry. “Not having already failed one this
year.”

Harry didn’t argue with him. Sure, he might be benefiting from his expulsion, but there was
no use denying that Dumbledore’s presence at his trial would have changed everything.

“So what do we do now, Albus?” Emmeline Vance asked, breaking the silence that followed.

“Now, we wait and see what the Ministry will do next, and we prepare ourselves for the
worst,” Dumbledore replied. “Given the track record of our Defence Against the Dark Arts
teachers, it seems highly unlikely that Dolores Umbridge will be teaching the subject come
next year. How that comes to pass, however…” He didn’t finish his sentence. Harry
swallowed anxiously.

She wouldn’t be teaching the subject if she was permanently instated as headmistress. Or if
she got the school shut down altogether. For once, the supposed curse on the subject was not
a reassurance.

“Mr Potter,” Dumbledore piped up, and Harry glanced over. “You seem to have some
awareness of what goes on inside the school, from a perspective neither I nor any staff can
manage. Do let us know if there is anything we can make moves to prevent, won’t you,
now?”

He didn’t ask Harry to give up his means of communication, and Harry was glad for it.
Instead, he simply nodded.

After that, there was little for the Order to talk about. Indeed, they all seemed to be somewhat
in shock. The meeting began to disperse, and Dumbledore made his way over to Harry’s side.
“You will likely be our ear to the ground among the students, Harry; however you have
means to communicate with your friends. I am unsure how often I will be able to get word
from Minerva.”

“I don’t know if I can offer anything useful, but I’ll do what I can,” he promised. Truthfully
he wasn’t sure what any of them could do, except wait and see what fate befell Umbridge as
this year’s DADA victim. “Have a little faith in the students, though. They’ve survived a lot.”
Especially the kids who had been at the school since his first year. Even if they hadn’t been
involved in half the adventures he had on campus, they’d still had to put up with a teacher
possessed by Voldemort, a basilisk loose in the school, dementors guarding the perimeter, and
a Death Eater in disguise as a teacher for a year.

They were a hardy lot, this generation of Hogwarts students. They would be okay.

“I am starting to realise that,” Dumbledore agreed, looking pensive. A sudden thought

popped into Harry’s mind.

“Will you be staying here? Since you can’t be at school?” he asked, stomach sinking at the
prospect of sharing the house with the headmaster — ex-headmaster, now, he supposed. He’d
gotten quite used to having the man’s nose out of his business, and with things for the ritual
starting to come together, he didn’t want Dumbledore getting involved.

“Oh, heavens, no,” Dumbledore assured, chuckling. “Going into hiding is exactly what
Cornelius is hoping I’ll do, and I’d hate to prove him right. The least I can do is make him
regret dislodging me from Hogwarts.” His blue eyes flashed with the kind of determination
that made it easy for Harry to see why he’d gained such a following over the years. “You say
my students will fight from within school walls. Well, Harry; I must do my part, and fight
from without.”

“Good.” Harry smirked viciously. “Give them hell, Headmaster.”

“You know, my boy — as you have pointed out on many occasions, I am no longer your
headmaster. Indeed, I am no longer anyone’s headmaster.” Dumbledore’s lips quirked briefly.
“You may call me Albus, if you wish.”

It sounded like an apology, an olive branch extended. Harry doubted it would be that simple
— there was too much the man still had to answer for, too much controlling he was still
trying to do. But it was a start; if nothing else, it would have the elder wizard beginning to
think of them as equals.

“If you insist, Albus.” The name felt strange on his tongue. Weirdly, it was easier to call
Dumbledore by his first name than either of the Weasley parents. “If you’ll excuse me, I need
to go check something.”

Dumbledore, probably at least vaguely aware of what it was Harry could possibly need to
check, nodded and straightened up, heading to talk to Sirius and Tonks. Harry slipped out of
the kitchen, racing upstairs to his bedroom.

“George Weasley,” he said into the mirror, knowing by now which of the twins would be
keeping the mirror. The glass went cloudy for several long minutes — at last, his call was
answered, and two identical faces peered back at them. They had dark circles beneath their
eyes, and George could barely even muster up a smile for him.

“Is he with you?” Fred asked knowingly. Harry nodded.

“How bad is the fallout?”

The twins, squeezed together on George’s bed, told him about the moment Dobby had burst
into the DA’s session of Patronus practice.

“Ron and Hermione were the only ones to get caught,” Fred said with a grimace. “Bloody
typical. Umbridge still had the sign-up sheet, though.”

“Everyone on the list has a week’s detention,” George supplied. “Naturally, us Gryffindors
are up first. I don’t know how many of those damned quills she has but they’re all going to be
getting plenty of use.”

The only bright spot in it all was Umbridge going up to claim the headmaster’s office for her
own, only for the gargoyle to refuse to let her in.

“She spent ages stood there cursing the thing,” Fred told him, a flicker of a smile crossing his
lips. “Seems the school isn’t a fan in the change of regime either.”

“Well, it’ll be official by morning,” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. There was
a knock on his door, and he froze. “Who is it?”

“Just me, cub. I brought up dinner.” Relaxing, Harry waved a hand to open the door, inviting
Remus into the room. The werewolf held a tray with a steaming plate of food and a tall glass
of juice — and a small piece of chocolate cake. Harry eyed the treat, wondering where the
hell that had come from, and Remus gave a sheepish grin. “I keep a stash for emergencies.
Rather thought this qualified. Oh, hello, boys,” he added, realising Harry had the mirror out.

“Alright, Moony,” George greeted. “How’re you doing?”

“Better than you two, I’d imagine,” Remus replied. He perched on the edge of the bed beside
Harry, waving at the twins. “Congratulations on the new shop, by the way. Harry mentioned
it the other week.”

That brought actual grins to their faces. “Thanks. We’d love to see you there once it opens.
Marauder’s discount,” Fred promised with a wink. Remus chuckled.

“Looking forward to it. Maybe I’ll even bring my pet dog,” he remarked dryly. He turned to
Harry, running an affectionate hand over his hair. “Eat. There’s more cake in the pantry if you
want it — I won’t blame you if you do,” he added playfully. “I’ll leave you to it. Look after
yourselves, boys.”

The twins saluted, and Remus left the room. Harry used a bit of magic to keep the mirror in
front of his face while he ate. “So have the DA disbanded?” he asked, brows furrowed. The
twins shrugged.

“Not really sure. No one wants to give it up, of course, but now Umbridge knows about the
Room…” George trailed off. “Hermione’s been the driving force behind it all, really, so we’ll
see what she can come up with.”

“We’re a bit worried about her. She’s never had a detention before, let alone one with
Umbridge,” Fred added conspiratorially. “She’s not taking it too well.”
“Not about the quills, mind,” George said, rolling her eyes. “Just about her future prospects.”

“Surely she’s not worried about her school record, even now?” Harry asked, though he
already knew the answer. It was Hermione, of course she was worried about her record.

“Maybe it’s a good thing.” George shrugged. “Breaking the seal, of a sorts. Once she’s got a
week’s detentions on her record, she won’t blink at getting a few more. Quite honestly, all
you three have gotten into before now, I’m amazed it’s taken nearly five years.”

Harry was pretty surprised, too. He and Ron had both had detentions in first year; Harry
hadn’t gone more than a month between them before he’d gotten expelled. Usually thanks to
Snape.

“We’ll see,” he murmured. A year ago he would have said the only thing detention would
inspire in Hermione was a total breakdown, but a year ago he wouldn’t have expected her to
start an underground student rebellion, either. “Any idea what Umbridge is making her
write?” Ron already had his; Harry had caught sight of the scar over Christmas. I must not
argue with authority. As if Ron would take that as anything other than a challenge.

Both twins shook their heads. The thing with the quill was that in order for Umbridge’s
message to sink in appropriately, it had to be the same lines written every detention, no matter
what the cause. Harry’s stomach squirmed anxiously when he thought about what his friends
might have carved on the backs of their hands; even with the murtlap tentacles, it still tended
to leave a permanent scar after five or six detentions.

“I suppose we’ll just have to see how bad it can get,” George sighed eventually.

“See how long we can stand it,” Fred agreed. Harry ducked his gaze to his plate — the twins
were running out of good enough reasons to stay put, at this point.
 Chapter 21
Chapter Notes

This is it. The big one. The one we've all been waiting for.

We're about to earn that M rating, friends, so buckle up ;)

Harry wasn’t surprised when it finally happened.

He didn’t hear from the twins much, in the weeks following Dumbledore’s flight from
Hogwarts. When they weren’t in classes, they were in detention — or helping distribute
murtlap essence to those who had also been in detention. Sometimes, he would stay up late
just to talk to George, but it broke Harry’s heart to watch the pain and frustration in those
brown eyes grow every day

It seemed like with Dumbledore out of the way, everyone wanted to show their displeasure
with their new headmistress. The only people who were actually enjoying her appointment
was her Inquisitorial Squad; a group of students — mostly Slytherins — who she had given
powers even above prefects to. Gryffindor was almost entirely out of house points, from the
sounds of it. And the student body was retaliating.

Skiving Snackboxes were used. All manner of potions were slipped into Umbridge’s tea or
poured over her belongings. She and Filch were constantly running back and forth all over
the castle in search of troublemakers, and her office apparently had a constant stink of
dungbombs.

Harry would have found it hilarious, if not for one major problem; she was blaming
everything on the twins.

Not even just those incidents that could be traced back to their products. Every little thing
that misfired or malfunctioned in her vicinity, every prank spell used, every rude word
graffiti-ed on her classroom wall — as far as Umbridge was concerned, the twins were
responsible for all of it.

At first, they hadn’t minded, George insisted. They were used to being in trouble; if it kept
everyone else safe, they were happy to take the fall. But when the detentions became so bad
they were having to brew their own blood-replenishing potions to avoid passing out in class,
they had to draw a line. Harry could tell, every time he spoke to them, that the moment was
coming.

And on the last day of April, they finally cracked.

Harry had taken to carrying the mirror around with him at all times, knowing he was likely
the fastest direct contact with the Order available. It had helped, catching George briefly
between classes, trying to cheer him up or offer support the best he could — or using the map
to help him and Fred avoid Umbridge. He hadn’t heard anything for a couple of days, though;
and that had been a call to tell him that, according to the rumour mill, Filch was close to
being approved to bring back physical punishment. The look in George’s eyes still haunted
Harry’s dreams; when he wasn’t stuck in Death Eater meetings or the corridor at the Ministry,
of course.

One afternoon when he was going over some Potions’ notes with Remus, the mirror began to
vibrate in his pocket. Harry felt like he’d been plunged into ice water, scrambling to answer
the call. Immediately, he knew that something big had happened.

George was not anywhere that Harry recognised. It was hard to see much of his surroundings,
but he knew there was nowhere with that striped wallpaper at Hogwarts. George’s hair was
messy, his eyes wild. “Harry, I’m sorry,” he began, somewhat breathless. “I know I said I’d
leave the mirror with the others, but things got a bit chaotic and I totally forgot it was in my
pocket and there wasn’t time—“

“George, slow down.” Giving a worried glance to Remus, Harry jumped to his feet and
ducked out into the hallway for some privacy. “What’s happened? Where are you?”

“At the flat,” George told him. “We left. We had to — it was torture, Harry, we just— we
couldn’t take it anymore. We wanted to stay, to take care of everyone, but Filch was talking
about whipping and we’ve barely slept in days and Fred’s hand won’t stop bleeding, we just
couldn’t take it anymore.”

Heart in his throat, Harry shushed the redhead soothingly. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I don’t blame
you for getting out of there, Christ, you’ve put up with so much.” The tears in George’s eyes
made Harry’s heart break. “You’re at the flat, you said? Over the shop?” George nodded. “Is
the floo open?”

“Yeah, the guy came a couple days ago, what—“

“Give me two minutes. Hang on.” Harry hung up the call, pushing open the library door to
see Remus sat in his armchair with his brows knitted together in worry. “I’m going out. The
twins— George—“

“I understand,” Remus assured. “Go. Make sure they’re alright.”

Harry shot him a grateful smile, then sprinted downstairs to the kitchen, reaching for the floo
powder on the mantle. He tossed it into the flames, barely waiting for them to turn green
before stepping in. “Number 93, Diagon Alley!” he called out clearly. The world spun, and he
was soon being spat out into a somewhat bare living room with striped wallpaper.

“Harry!” Fred went wide-eyed at the sight of him, where he was stood in the kitchen just off
the living room, a rag wrapped around his right hand. George was sat on the single sofa in the
room, but he jumped to his feet at Harry’s entry.
“Are you two alright?” Harry asked urgently, green gaze flicking between the pair.

“We’re fine,” Fred insisted. It was a definite lie — he was bleeding through the rag already,
and he was gaunt with lack of sleep. George didn’t look much better; there was a cut on his
jaw that he didn’t seem to have even noticed, bleeding sluggishly down onto his shirt collar.
They were both still in their school uniforms, though their robes had been ditched in a heap
next to the sofa, looking oddly soggy.

Harry went to Fred first, removing the rag and almost gagging at the shredded mess of flesh
on the back of his hand, the words ‘I must not cause trouble’ bored in almost to the bone. He
began casting every healing spell he could think of, going from the basics right up to the one
Kingsley had taught him specifically for dark magic inflicted wounds. That was the only
thing to make a difference — the skin was still raw and painful-looking, but at least it had
stopped bleeding.

“George, where’s yours?” He turned, gaze seeking out George’s right hand. It wasn’t as bad
as Fred’s, but it was still pretty gruesome. George was silent as Harry gently took his hand in
his left, casting with his right until the wounds started to knit closed. Then he raised his hand,
cupping the redhead’s jaw and murmuring a healing charm for the cut there. That one
disappeared instantly, leaving only the trace of blood on his shirt and neck. “Are you hurt
anywhere else?”

George shook his head numbly. “What— what are you doing here?”

Harry’s heart broke that little bit further. He squeezed George’s hand softly. If he hugged the
older boy, he might not ever let go. “Here to see you, you daft git,” he replied with a
halfhearted smile.

For the first time, he noticed the pair of brooms propped up against the wall — one of which
was still dragging a hefty looking chain. He swallowed thickly. “I’ll make tea. You two sit
down, tell me everything.”

While he busied his trembling hands with the kettle, Fred and George relayed the tale of their
escape. From the sounds of things, they’d used every last bit of their bravado making a fool
of Umbridge on their way out, and now the adrenaline was starting to fade.

“A swamp, in the middle of the Charms corridor?” Harry repeated incredulously. “I— how
the hell did you manage that?”

“We’re geniuses, remember?” George pointed out with a wink. He was starting to come back
to himself, thanks to a cup of tea and a sit down. “We knew we were gonna have to go out
with a bang, and, well, we’d been saving that one for a little while. It’s a masterpiece,
honestly Harry, I wish you could see it.” He brightened up, grinning. “Umbridge was furious,
I thought she was going to have a stroke.”

“It sounds brilliant.” Harry grinned back. “So what made today the day?” They’d put up with
so much… what had been the last straw?

The pair shared a grim look. “Hermione needed a distraction,” Fred volunteered.
“No idea what for. Something about Hagrid; she clammed up when we asked,” George
added.

“Originally we were just gonna set off some fireworks and give Peeves some Permanent
Paint Pellets, let him have at it—“

“But then Filch started wailing about his whipping permits, and we knew we’d be in for it if
we stayed.” George shuddered. Harry reached over to squeeze his knee.

“So we grabbed the swamp, packed our bags, and made our grand escape. Let a nice broom-
shaped hole in Umbridge’s office wall, too.” Fred grinned widely. “We’ll go down in
Hogwarts history with that,” he said with a wistful sigh.

Harry smiled back — despite the circumstances, he was glad the twins made their mark on
their way out. He wished he could have a pensieve memory of the whole affair. Maybe he’d
have to ask Ginny over the summer; from their recounting of things, the youngest Weasley
had a front row seat to the chaos. “Sounds brilliant,” he enthused. “Maybe next time she’ll
think twice about messing with Weasleys.”

He wondered what Hermione was up to — and what Hagrid had to do with it — but there
was no point torturing himself with questions, now. With the twins gone, he had no way of
knowing anything that was happening in Hogwarts.

“We’re sorry about the mirror, though,” Fred added, as if reading Harry’s thoughts. George
frowned.

“Yeah. I just got so used to having it in my pocket, it completely slipped my mind until we
were already flying over Glasgow.” He offered Harry an apologetic smile. “I’m sure we can
figure out a way to get it to them.”

“Possibly.” At this point, he wasn’t sure what would be safe, and he didn’t dare risk his
friends any more than they already faced.

Not wanting to dwell on it, he glanced around at the flat. It was clear the twins hadn’t done
more than dump their trunks in a corner by what appeared to be the front door, but it was a
decent-sized living room, with a surprisingly spacious kitchen attached and room for a dining
table that could probably fit six. Not quite the space for a full Weasley family gathering, but
better than most London flats. Wizard space was a wonderful thing. There was a small
hallway opposite the kitchen, with three doors and a spiral staircase going up into the attic.

“So this is your new home, is it?” he drawled, pointedly eyeing the place over. George
jumped to his feet, holding out his arms in an exaggerated ‘ta-da’ motion.

“It will be once we’ve had a minute with it! Really, Harry; awfully rude of you to just invite
yourself over like that,” he joked. “Not even given us the chance to unpack!” There was a
faint tremble to his tone, and he was talking just a touch faster than usual — he was nervous,
Harry realised with a jolt.
Heat flared in his belly as the situation began to set in, his worry fading now he’d seen for
himself that the twins were mostly in one piece. They were out of Hogwarts; abandoning
their final year of school, giving a big fuck-you to NEWTs, and ready to start work on their
shop.

His pulse began to race, fingertips tingling.

“Hey, Fred?” he started casually, glancing at the twin closest to him. “Mind giving us a
minute?”

The smirk that slid onto Fred’s face was positively scandalous, and he offered a jaunty salute.
“Right you are, mate — I’m gonna, ah, head downstairs and check what kind of stock we’ve
got saved up already.”

In seconds, he was gone, his footsteps fading on the stairs down to the shop. Harry slowly
stood up, glancing over at George. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. The redhead was
eyeing him carefully, chocolate brown gaze trying to hide the cautious spark of hope.

Harry took three strides across the room, and kissed him.

Everything he’d kept pent up in the last nine months — longer, even — suddenly rushed
through him like an explosion, every nerve singing as he pulled George’s face down to his,
tongue sliding between parted lips. He needed more, he kept walking, George stumbling as
he was pushed all the way back until he hit the striped wall with a thud, the kiss not breaking
for a second. Harry pressed so close to him it was like he was trying to become part of him,
arching up into him, moaning softly as George’s hand buried itself in his hair, tilting his head
for a better angle. Harry slid both hands down the redhead’s ribs, one moving down to his
backside and with a sneaky bit of magic to help keep them balanced he had George’s feet off
the ground, hands gripping his thighs, holding him pinned against the wall at just the right
height for Harry to get the advantage.

His head was spinning, everything within him screaming George’s name, one of the
redhead’s strong arms curved up behind his back and pulling him ever closer. George let out a
faint whimper that went straight to Harry’s cock, already rigid against the inside of George’s
thigh, an answering hardness pressing against his stomach.

They only parted when oxygen became a problem, gasping as they parted, George’s nose
sliding against Harry’s cheek as Harry pressed a trail of kisses across the redhead’s jaw. By
now he had one hand on the redhead’s backside holding him up, the other cupping his face,
and he let his thumb stroke the small cluster of freckles at George’s temple. “Hi,” he greeted
breathlessly, unable to stop the wide smile from spreading across his lips. God, he’d needed
that.

George blinked owlishly at him. He glanced down, where his legs were still locked around
Harry’s hips, Harry’s arm barely even straining at the weight of him. “That was so hot I think
I might die,” he croaked, pupils blown wide. “Are you— fuck, Harry, you used to be
scrawny.” He tilted his head for another kiss, humming softly.
“I’ve been keeping busy this year,” Harry whispered in reply when they parted again,
smirking. Thanks to his pseudo-auror training, scrawny Harry Potter was long gone. He’d
never be as built as George, with his muscles from years as a beater, but he held a lot of
muscle in his lithe limbs now. Muscle enough to pick up his taller boyfriend and slam him
against a wall, apparently. Good to know.

George’s expression softened, a dazed smile crossing his face as he met Harry’s lust-glazed
eyes. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, and Harry’s heart almost leapt from his chest at the fond look
on the redhead’s face. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You, too.” It was even better to feel him, to hold him, to kiss him. Harry would like to do a
whole lot more of that. “Which door’s your room?”

George wiggled his eyebrows salaciously. “Steady on, there,” he teased, then chuckled.
“S’pose we have earned it. First on the left.”

Expecting to be set back on his feet, George yelped when Harry pulled him away from the
wall, carrying him the few steps to the door in the hallway. A single thought had the door
slamming wide open, and the only thing Harry noticed about the room was that it had a bed
— a double, with a plain white sheet covering it, and he was glad for that as he tossed George
down on the mattress and scrambled to join him, straddling the redhead’s hips.

“You are a lot friskier than I was expecting, Potter,” George gasped, tilting his head back as
Harry sucked a kiss against the hollow of his throat. His large hands tugged at Harry’s shirt,
rucking it up at the back and trailing up the bare skin beneath, blunt nails scrabbling for
purchase on Harry’s shoulders. Harry, frustrated by George’s red and gold tie blocking his
way, vanished the thing in annoyance and started working on the few shirt buttons that
weren’t quite obstructed by his jumper.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, Weasley,” Harry retorted, pulling back to try
and wrestle the knitwear over George’s head. George wriggled out of it, then gave a devious
smile and yanked the bottom of Harry’s shirt up, all the way over his head. Harry was glad
he’d put contacts in for a duel with Moody that morning; there were no glasses to get tangled
in the fabric, and he could pull his arms from the sleeves and toss it across the room. He
grinned down at George, who was wide-eyed, his hands immediately moving to run up
Harry’s chest.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed hoarsely. Then, the next thing Harry knew he was being flipped
over, his back hitting the sheet while George tangled their legs together, smirking
triumphantly. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, right there.” He leaned down, kissing a path
up Harry’s sternum, flicking fingers over pebbled brown nipples and smirking against tan
skin at the gasp it produced. Harry was lost to the redhead’s touch, his cock pressing
painfully against the zipper of his jeans, head thrown back in lust. When George sat up a little
to adjust his hips, Harry reached up, running a hand down the front of his white shirt and
watching the buttons pop open one by one, revealing pale, freckled skin with a fine dusting of
bright red hair. When the shirt fell open completely, Harry sat up to yank it off, keeping
George in his lap. The position pressed them together at the crotch, and sparks burst behind
Harry’s eyelids, his body flooding with pleasure. It was glorious, better than anything he’d
ever felt alone, but it wasn’t quite enough, and his gripped George’s shoulders and kissed him
aggressively, bucking up into him.

“Hang on,” George gasped, and with a bit of manhandling they were both lying down,
George on top of Harry, one leg between his so Harry could clamp his thighs around George
and rut against him, seeking that perfect friction. George was doing the same, hardness
pressing against Harry’s hip, low gasps and cut-off moans issuing from his lips. Feeling the
pressure build, Harry searched blindly for George’s face, gripping his jaw and pulling him
into a bruising kiss just as every nerve in his body exploded in bliss, his spine arching and his
free hand curled around the back of George’s belt. George let out a cry, going tense as his
own release hit him, fingers digging into Harry’s shoulders.

They slumped against each other, George still mostly-covering Harry, and Harry let his eyes
fall shut and his head rest against the mattress, the weight of the redhead on top of him
feeling like everything he had been missing since Christmas. There was a rapidly cooling
mess in his boxers, but he didn’t care, running gentle fingers up George’s spine and into his
hair.

“Blimey,” George breathed, pulling back to look Harry in the eyes, astounded.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. His limbs were jelly, warmth flooding his veins, George’s skin sticking
to his with sweat. He hadn’t known it could feel this good. He grinned languidly. “How’s that
for a welcome home?”

George stared at him, then huffed out a laugh, burying his face in Harry’s neck. “You
absolute marvel,” he declared in a whisper so awed and affectionate it made Harry’s heart
jolt. He chuckled, the sound vibrating against Harry’s throat. “Merlin, Harry, we could’ve
been doing that since Christmas. Since summer.”

Harry thought about what that might have been like, if he’d thrown caution to the wind and
discovered this absolute heaven back when he’d first arrived at Grimmauld Place. “If I’d
known what this felt like and then had to let you go back to school, I think it might’ve killed
me,” he replied honestly. George shifted to glance up at him, gaze knowing.

“Yeah. You’re not wrong.” With a grimace, he sat up ever so slightly. “Where’d you chuck
my wand at?”

“No idea.” Harry guessed his problem and waved his hand, vanishing the mess in both their
trousers. George jumped at the sensation, then grinned.

“Convenient.” He shuffled back a little, propping himself up on one hand as his hungry gaze
travelled over Harry’s body. His lips quirked. “You didn’t even stop to put shoes on, you
nutter.”

Harry looked down at his sock-clad feet, then grinned sheepishly. “I wanted to see you. I’d
waited long enough.” He hadn’t even thought about shoes when he’d ended that mirror call,
just wanting to get to George as quickly as possible and make sure he was alright.
George’s eyes softened, his free hand reaching to stroke Harry’s cheek. “Yeah.” He bit his lip
tentatively. “We can talk about it now, yeah? I can say stuff?”

Harry rather thought that after what they’d just done, the lines had been well and truly
crossed. “We can talk about it,” he confirmed. He sighed guiltily. “I’m sorry I made you wait,
I just—“ He was cut off by a firm kiss, George’s fingers curving around his jaw.

“Don’t you dare,” the redhead murmured against his lips. “I was waiting, too. We were on the
same page, the whole time. Even when it was difficult. Even when I didn’t want to wait.” He
pushed Harry’s hair back from his forehead, and his eyes didn’t linger even for a second on
the scar the whole world tripped over themselves for a glimpse at. He was too focused on
Harry’s emerald green eyes. “I’m absolutely mad about you, Harry Potter.”

It wasn’t a surprise. George’s eyes, his actions, had been saying as much for months, even
when his voice was silent. But to hear it aloud for the first time, Harry’s heart stuttered. “I’m
sort-of completely obsessed with you, George Weasley,” he replied, those words that had
been sitting in his chest since the Quidditch World Cup at least.

George beamed at him, leaning down for another firm kiss. “Glad we got that settled, then,”
he declared.

Harry beamed back. He was so happy he thought he might explode.

 Chapter 22

George lay back down beside Harry, and they stared at each other in total silence, like a
couple of besotted little idiots, for what had to be several minutes. It felt like all that time
Harry had spent talking to George through the mirror, except better, because now instead of
just wishing he could reach out and touch the redhead, he could actually do that. And he did,
stretching one arm to rest on George’s side, gentle fingers stroking the soft skin there.
George’s grin widened. “I can’t believe this is real,” he confessed in a whisper. “I feel like
I’m gonna wake up back at Hogwarts with the mirror on the pillow beside me and realise this
was just another dream.”

“Have a lot of dreams that go this way, do you?” Harry asked, earning a quiet chuckle.

“Oh, only every other night since Christmas,” George replied. “Though I’ll admit, you
weren’t quite so fiesty in my dreams. You little minx.”

Harry blushed; he had been rather forward, more so than he’d expected of himself. He’d just
been wanting to kiss George for so long, everything sort-of spilled out at once. He said as
much, and George leaned in to kiss him.

“Not as long as I have, I’ll bet,” he murmured. Harry raised an eyebrow. Now that they were
finally putting words to the feelings they’d had for so long, he felt the urge to just tell George
everything, all the things he’d been keeping bottled up that whole time.

“Oh yeah? I don’t know about that. You were my sexual awakening,” he teased. “I had my
first ever wet dream about you.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “We were in the showers in the
quidditch changing room.”

“You utter cliche, Potter,” George retorted, making Harry snort. “I’m honoured. But that
doesn’t mean you wanted to kiss me — not like you did just now.”

He was right, to be fair; it had taken a little while for Harry to come to terms with things —
first liking boys; then liking his best mate’s older brother in particular. Second year had made
him aware of the concept of being attracted to people, but third year was really where he’d
started to crush hard on George Weasley.

“For me, it was summer before fifth year — when we got back from Egypt and found you at
the Leaky Cauldron, and you looked like you’d actually enjoyed part of your summer for the
first time ever, and you’d grown a bit taller and a bit cheekier and I remember this moment,
sat watching you talk to Ron at dinner one night, and I could just see what kind of bloke
you’d turn out like when you hit sixteen or seventeen and had the confidence you ought to
have, and you smiled and it hit me like a bludger to the stomach that I wanted you to smile at
me like that, forever.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, wondering what night that might have been, what he was
doing at the time, what he’d done to set off that spark within George. He’d had no idea the
older boy’s feelings went so far back. “We’ll call it even, then,” he allowed. George leaned in
for a kiss, nipping playfully at his lower lip.

“If you insist.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I also remember the morning we left for the
Quidditch World Cup, half-asleep and getting dressed with all four of us crammed in Ron’s
room, and I turned around to grab my shirt and you were staring at me with this look in your
eyes and I realised you wouldn’t actually say no if I asked to kiss you.”

Harry remembered that, too — remembered the pounding in his chest as George’s gaze
locked with his, the absolute surety that he’d been caught ogling, that he’d embarrassed
himself beyond saving and George would hate him forever. Then the tiny, pleased smile that
had flickered across George’s lips, before he turned away and reached for his shirt and never
said a word.

From that moment, the pair had been like magnets, edging closer and closer, but still never
admitting to anything.

“Why didn’t you? Ask, I mean,” Harry queried, curious to know what had stopped the older
boy.

“I thought about it the rest of that summer, but we were all staying in the one room and I
didn’t want to make things weird if I’d read the situation wrong,” George admitted. “Or, if I’d
read things right, have to try and figure it all out in front of my entire family. I could tell you
fancied me, but I wasn’t sure if you were actually ready or even wanting to do anything about
it, and I spent ages telling myself that I’d just test the waters and see if it was a passing thing
for you or actually something, and then ages trying to pluck up the courage to do something
about it — then your name came out of that fucking goblet, and I reckoned you had enough
on your plate without a potential sexuality crisis. You didn’t seem to mind me flirting with
you, so I kept it at that,” he added with a wink. Harry chuckled — no, he definitely had not
minded the flirting, once he’d figured out that it wasn’t just George teasing him about his
crush.

George rolled onto his back, though his face stayed tilted towards Harry. Harry couldn’t help
but let his gaze follow the trail of red hair down to the waistband of his trousers. And then he
couldn’t help but reach out and touch, watching the muscles twitch under his fingertips. “I
thought about you all last summer while I was stuck with my relatives,” he admitted. “When
I wasn’t having nightmares about Cedric. I swear I must have thought about every single
second I spent with you in fourth year, analysing it to try and be sure that you liked me. I was
dead set on asking you out. Once we got back to school.” His smile faltered. “And then I
didn’t.”

“And then you didn’t,” George repeated with a wry, sad smile. He captured Harry’s hand with
his own, lacing their fingers together on his stomach. “Like I said, we’ve been on the same
page this whole time. Even when we didn’t know we were. I knew the moment you got back
from that trial that nothing would be happening between us until I was out of Hogwarts with
you. I knew you wouldn’t be coming back to school like Ron thought you were.”

“Thank you,” Harry murmured — he’d never said it, because they hadn’t been talking about
this, but having George just get it had been the only thing stopping him from punching things
sometimes, in the weeks between his expulsion and the start of the school year.

“We got there in the end,” George pointed out. “Doesn’t matter how long it took.”

He squeezed Harry’s hand. Once again, Harry was hit by a powerful wave of adoration for
the boy lying next to him.

“You’re perfect,” he blurted, watching the tips of George’s ears glow pink.

“You’re not so bad yourself, there,” came the reply, the redhead tilting his head down to press
their lips together.

“And you’re revolting, the pair of you.” They sprang apart, looking up to see Fred leaning in
the open doorway. He was smirking like the cat that caught the canary, his gaze fond as he
surveyed them. “About fucking time. But I can see we’re clearly going to need to have a talk
about closing our doors,” he said pointedly, snickering when they both blushed. “I went out
and got fish and chips — put your damned shirts on and come eat, then we can start making
this place a proper home. Harry, we’ve seen what your magic can do, you’ve no excuse now.
If you want to stay here and snog my brother, you’ll have to earn it first.”

“I could just go home and leave you to it,” Harry threatened. Fred laughed.

“No, you couldn’t,” he shot back knowingly. “‘You’re perfect’, Merlin, kill me now.” He
retched exaggeratedly, then disappeared down the hall, cackling.

Harry felt the heat rise to his cheeks, and despite his own blush George was grinning. “Don’t
let him fool you; he’s been rooting for us for years,” he assured, dropping one more kiss on
Harry’s lips before dragging himself to his feet, bending down to pick his shirt up off the
floor. Harry let his gaze linger on the redhead’s trouser-clad arse, which made George roll his
eyes when he noticed. “You heard my brother — there’s food and unpacking waiting for us.
Pull yourself together, man!” He grabbed Harry’s shirt and tossed it at him, doing up his
buttons with one hand.

Harry groaned theatrically, but pulled his shirt over his head.

“Where’s my tie?” George asked curiously, peering around the near-empty room. Harry
flushed sheepishly.

“Vanished it,” he admitted in a mumble. George’s answering laugh was loud.

“Absolute nutter,” he teased, practically dancing across the room to pull Harry to his feet.
The shadows that had been hanging over him for the last several months at school had
vanished in an instant — Harry absently wondered if it was the freedom from Umbridge, or
the orgasm.

He hoped it was the orgasm.

True to his word, Fred had procured three portions of fish and chips and a six-pack of
butterbeer, though due to the lack of furnishings they ate with the food on their laps, with
cutlery Fred had transfigured from napkins. George and Harry sat pressed together on the
sofa, and every couple of minutes their eyes would meet and they’d blush, smiling goofily at
each other. After several instances of this, Fred rolled his eyes.

“This honeymoon period is going to be awful, isn’t it?” he muttered despairingly. Harry
tossed a chip at him.

“Shut up and let me bask,” he demanded, leaning into George’s shoulder. “I had my first kiss
today, I’m allowed to be happy.”

Fred mimed vomiting into his dinner. George’s eyes went round. “I was— that was your
first?” he asked, an odd hitch in his tone. Trying valiantly not to blush, Harry nodded. His
first ever kiss… and firsts of a couple of other things, too. George’s eyes glazed over for a
moment. “Blimey,” he murmured.

“I hate you both,” Fred declared. “I changed my mind, I’m going back to Hogwarts.”

Harry laughed, patting George’s cheek to try and snap him out of it. “Later,” he promised,
winking. George’s throat bobbed as he swallowed sharply.

Before Fred could start hexing them, they did settle down and finish their dinner — Fred still
couldn’t prevent the smiling-and-blushing situation, but he seemed to have resigned himself
to it, and Harry could see the hint of a smile tugging at his lips when he thought the two of
them weren’t looking.

He was pleased for his twin, he couldn’t hide it.

Once they’d eaten, Fred levitated in several boxes he said to have brought up from
downstairs, and Harry began to realise just how thoroughly the Weasley twins had been
planning this whole venture, and for how long.

“Here’s the stuff for your room,” Fred declared, nudging one box towards his brother. Harry
peered into it, surprised to see several shrunken-down items he recognised from the twins’
room back at the Burrow.

“You packed up your whole room and your parents didn’t notice?” Harry asked
incredulously. The pair shared a grin.

“Mum doesn’t go in our room,” George told him. “She’s too scared of what she might find.”

Thinking about it, Harry didn’t blame her. You’d have to be very brave or very stupid to enter
the twins’ room without their presence or permission.

Out of the box of stuff, George pulled a Wizarding Wireless radio, resizing it and turning the
dial until The Weird Sisters began blasting from the speakers.

“Right, Potter,” he said, reaching for another box and thrusting it at Harry. “You unshrink
them, we’ll place them. Deal?”

Harry snatched his wrist before he could get too far away, reeling him in for a kiss. “Deal,”
he confirmed, grinning. Little bubbles of giddy happiness rose in his chest — he could do
that now! Just grab George and kiss him if he wanted to! And no one could complain!

Well, except Fred. But neither of them cared about Fred’s complaints.

Before they started filling the place with furniture, the twins got to work on changing the
decor a little more to their liking. The blue and bronze striped wallpaper that betrayed the
place’s Ravenclaw previous owner was vanished, and replaced with a bold purple firework-
patterned wallpaper on one wall, and pale purple-grey paint on the rest. George did some
impressive spellwork to change the kitchen cabinets to a slate grey colour from the navy blue
they had once been, though he kept the bronze handles and fixtures, and the wooden
countertop.

“Make yourself useful, gorgeous,” he called, floating a box over towards Harry. “Start putting
that stuff away, would you?” The box was full of crockery and cookware, holding far more
than it initially appeared.

“When did you get the chance to buy all this stuff?” he asked in amazement, pulling out a
whole rainbow worth of mugs.

“Oh, here and there,” Fred said, shrugging. “We’ve been planning to move out since you
gave us your Triwizard winnings and we realised it’d be enough to get us started with a
place.”

“At first we thought we’d be continuing the owl-order business out of whatever place we
found to live,” George continued, using his wand to direct a paintbrush to cover the kitchen’s
plain white wall with a rust-coloured paint that surprisingly didn’t clash. “So we snuck out of
Grimmauld a few times over the summer, hit up second hand shops and the like. Bill gave us
some stuff he’d brought back from his place in Egypt he said he wouldn’t need anymore. As
the owl-order business got more and more lucrative, we realised we might actually make
enough money to buy proper shop premises sooner than we thought. This place was lucky
timing, and an absolute bargain — used to belong to a friend of Lee’s cousin, who liked the
sound of what we were planning to do and agreed to sell it to us for cheap as long as we send
her free products whenever she wants them.”

“Seemed like a fair deal to us,” Fred finished, grinning widely. “So here we are. Most of
these boxes have been sat in our room at home since the summer, and when we closed on the
property we had Lee’s cousin and her friend move everything over for us while Mum and
Dad were out, as well as a few boxes of stock we’d been keeping in the Shack.”

“So your parents have no idea?” Harry couldn’t imagine doing all that work behind Mr and
Mrs Weasley’s backs — right under their noses, even.

“Are you kidding? Mum would have a fit if she knew what we’ve done. How long we’ve
been planning this,” George remarked, somewhat derisively. “She’s got no idea of how much
money we actually make through our owl-order catalogue, she just thinks it’s all silly little
pranks and toys that won’t get us anywhere.” Harry frowned at the hurt in his tone, squeezing
his shoulder sympathetically as he walked past to unload a stack of plates.
“This wasn’t quite how we planned for it to go,” Fred admitted. “ We thought we’d spend the
rest of the school year prepping stock for this place, the first half of summer getting it all
kitted out and ready to roll while half living at home, and then open with a bang to show
Mum how serious we are about it. But she’ll find out we’ve left school soon — we’ll owl her
in the morning when the post office reopens.”

“She’ll want to know where we’re living, and we’ll have to show her the flat and
everything,” George sighed.

“Why don’t you tell her you’re moving into Grimmauld?”

Both twins froze at Harry’s suggestion. “What?” they chirped. Harry grinned.

“Tell her you’re moving into Grimmauld to keep me company. She’ll love that — she thinks
it’s not healthy for me to be stuck there with no one my age,” he quoted sardonically. “Take
your time getting the shop and the flat ready, live here without anyone else disturbing you,
and open up when you’re ready. Once she sees how popular your place is — and trust me, it’s
going to be popular — she’ll realise she’s been wrong about everything and there’s nothing to
worry about.” He shrugged. “Moony and Padfoot’ll cover for you, quite happily.” They
would love the idea of helping the two pranksters keep their mother off their backs while they
prepared to open their joke shop.

“Are you serious?” Fred asked. Harry nodded.

“Absolutely. You might have to scramble through the floo once or twice if she comes calling
unannounced, but that’s no problem.” Harry checked that his box of kitchen supplies was
completely empty, oblivious to the conversation happening between the twins in the form of
eyebrow movements and facial expressions.

“Harry, we can’t ask you to lie to Mum for us,” George said, frown tugging at his lips. Harry
shrugged again.

“Why not? I’ve been lying to her all year about what Moody and the others have been
teaching me.” Mostly lies of omission, but still lies. “And I’d be lying to her about the fact
that I’m coming over here to snog you stupid on a regular basis, even if she knew about this
place.” He paused, suddenly realising how that sounded. “I mean, not that I want to lie to
people about it or anything — I just thought that since it’s so new and there’s so much else
going on and all— I thought we could take a couple months to figure things out. Maybe let
people know in the summer? I’m not trying to hide it, I swear, I’m serious about you, I only
—“ His nervous rambling was cut off by George’s lips pressing firmly against his own, hands
resting on his hips.

“Relax,” George soothed, looking amused. “I know what you mean. We need to get used to
this being a thing before we let Mum start planning the wedding.” He was only teasing, but
Harry blushed all the same. “Good to know you’re serious, though.” His brown eyes were
bright, intense as they met Harry’s. “About us. And about lying to Mum for us.”

“I wouldn’t, y’know, if I wasn’t serious,” Harry told him, barely louder than a whisper. He
half-hid his face in George’s neck. “Your family means too much to me. You mean too much
to me.” If it was going to be just some casual thing, he wouldn’t have made sure they waited
until the timing was perfect, until they could properly commit to something.

“I know, gorgeous,” George assured softly, kissing his temple. “Me, too. We’re playing for
keeps, here.”

The words made the giddy bubbles return to Harry’s chest. Fred cleared his throat loudly.

“If you’re quite finished,” he drawled, trying to sound severe but failing due to the smile
tugging at his lips, “that sounds like a solid plan, Harry. If Sirius and Remus are okay with
it.”

“They’ve been keen to cause some kind of mischief for ages,” Harry assured. “This’ll be
right up their street. Also, in the nicest way possible, Sirius is always up for anything that
would piss your mum off.”

Both twins snickered. “Knew we liked him for a reason,” Fred enthused.

“Alright, then,” George assented. “We’ll tell Mum we’re at Grimmauld.”

With that settled, they got to work on finishing up the unpacking. Harry, as agreed, unshrunk
furniture items while the twins rearranged their new living room half a dozen times trying to
figure out how they wanted it all. As he unpacked more, it became clear that they still had a
lot of things to get to make the place a proper home, but he was impressed at how many of
the essentials they’d covered. They truly were the masters of deception and misdirection,
being able to assemble all this without anybody knowing. Harry bet they could give even
Tonks a run for her money on the ‘stealth and tracking’ portion of auror work.

It was a good thing they’d decided to put their energy into pranks and jokes rather than
anything more sinister, or the wizarding world would be doomed.

When they’d unpacked most of the stuff for the living room and kitchen — and Fred insisted
he was truly going to be sick if he had to spend a second more around his brother and Harry
while they made eyes at each other — they each grabbed their trunks and the box of stuff for
their own rooms and retreated, Harry following George.

While George redecorated his bedroom to his liking — more purple and grey, which didn’t
surprise Harry one bit — Harry sat on the bed and dug through the redhead’s school trunk,
separating them into piles around him. It was much like he’d done when he’d moved into his
room at Grimmauld Place; a pile for clothes, a pile for books, and various piles for
miscellaneous other things.

“What’s all that stuff?” George asked, poking his wand at a pile that didn’t seem to have any
sort of theme.

“Stuff that’s actually Fred’s,” Harry replied. “Or at least, I think it is.”

George pursed his lips, digging through the pile to get a better look at it all. “Yup, you’re spot
on, there. How much have you been paying attention to my stuff? You little stalker,” he
joked. Harry flushed.

“It’s not that. I just know you well enough to know what’s more Fred than you.” Like the
Potions’ journal, or the polka-dot t-shirt — or the copy of Playwitch magazine.

That drew a sappy smile to George’s face, and he slid his hand into Harry’s hair, snogging
him thoroughly. “You’re perfect,” he echoed Harry’s words from earlier, full of fondness. He
pulled back, glancing down at the pile, and sighed. “Fred’s probably got a bunch of my stuff,
too. It never mattered before, really. We shared practically everything anyway.”

Harry rubbed at his back, making room for him to sit on the bed. “Will it bother you, having
your own room?” He couldn’t imagine having a twin; having someone so close to him who
he shared everything with, who many people couldn’t even tell him apart from. Let alone
having someone like that and then finally having separation from them after eighteen years.

“Maybe a bit, to start with. It’s weird to think about. But we’ve got the whole living space,
and the shop and everything — I’ll only really be sleeping in here. And spending time with
you,” he added with a wolfish grin. “It’s not like I’m leaving him forever. I think it’ll be nice,
having my own separate space. Especially if he’s gonna be bringing girls over.”

“You can’t really talk, there,” Harry pointed out wryly, gesturing to himself.

“Yeah but you’re you,” George said, making no sense whatsoever. “The girls he picks up are
just… girls.” Things clicked then, and Harry felt his cheeks heat.

“Oh.”

George rolled his eyes, leaning in for another kiss. “Yeah, oh. Daft sod,” he teased. “Come
on, there’s a wardrobe in here somewhere,” he said, waving a hand towards the box. He got
to his feet, making the wood floor a lighter colour with a wave of his wand, and started
digging around the box for a wardrobe. There also turned out to be a matching dresser, which
George squeezed in beneath the singular window.

“I don’t think I’m quite ready to be at the level of you putting away my underwear for me
yet,” the redhead announced with a wink, unshrinking a suitcase full of clothes. “Can you do
books?”

“Sure.” Amused, Harry got up from the bed and levitated the stack of books after him, sitting
down in front of the bookshelf. “Alphabetical, or by subject?”

“I thought you knew me so well?” George mocked lightly. Harry glared at him exasperatedly.
“By subject, if you please. Or just shove them on in any order and I’ll sort them out another
time. I’m starting to think unpacking is dumb and we’re wasting a perfect opportunity to snog
some more.” His eyes sparkled mischievously. “Door’s closed.”

“Indeed it is,” Harry noted, clambering to his feet. “Well, it’s your room — you’re the boss.”

“Ooh, kinky,” George purred, reaching out to take Harry’s hand. Harry snorted, allowing
himsel to be tugged into an embrace.
“Pervert.”

“You’re the one with the sex book,” George argued.

“Which my godfather gave me for Christmas.” Harry paused, then shuddered. “Pretend I
never said that. I don’t want to think about my godfather right now.” Or his godfather reading
or in any other way utilising a gay sex manual.

“Agreed.” George kissed him, hand sneaking up the back of Harry’s shirt. “Was I really your
first kiss?”

Harry’s face burned furiously. He’d hoped George would forget he’d said that. “We already
established that I have thought of you and no one but you since I figured out what wanking
was,” he bit out. “Who else was I going to kiss?”

“I dunno. You’re Harry Potter — loads of people want to kiss you.”

“And I didn’t want to kiss any of them,” Harry reasoned sharply. “Especially the ones who
wanted to kiss me because I’m Harry Potter.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing,” George assured hastily. “It’s kind of hot, knowing I’m the only one.”
He paused, thumb stroking the jut of Harry’s hip. “So you hadn’t ever… with anyone?”

“Not until a couple of hours ago,” Harry confirmed, trying desperately not to be embarrassed.
If he could get himself off against George’s thigh, surely he could talk about stuff like that
with him too?

“Well you sure fooled me,” George told him, grinning. “Seemed like you knew exactly what
you wanted, and how to get it.”

“I’m pretty good at figuring things out on the fly,” Harry replied, unable to stop himself from
arching into the touch of George’s fingers fluttering down the ridges of his spine. He was
getting hard again, and while the thrill made his blood heat, he didn’t have the same
desperation as before to bolster him. He ducked his head, suddenly self-conscious. “But I’m
still new to all of this. So, uh — go easy on me, yeah?”

George’s free hand chucked him under the chin, nudging his head back up to meet his gaze.
“Slow and steady wins the race,” he said softly, running a thumb over Harry’s lips. “I’m not
exactly working with a wealth of experience, either, y’know. And every person’s different.
But we can take our time. Work out what makes you feel good. Show you what makes me
feel good.” His voice grew huskier with every word, and it was making it incredibly difficult
for Harry to remember why he was worried about intimate stuff. Or remember anything but
how it felt to have George’s thigh wedged between his, George’s skin under his hands.

He shook his head, coughing embarrassedly. “That— that sounds good.” He hated the way
his voice cracked.

George moved his thumb, kissing Harry slow and languid. “We probably don’t have time for
much more tonight, though,” he pointed out sadly. “Your godfather will start to worry if
you’re not home soon. And I should probably put some proper sheets on this bed eventually.”

Harry did a quick tempus charm, his eyebrows rising when he realised it was gone ten
o’clock. He’d been with the twins for seven hours!

Sirius and Remus were fairly relaxed guardians, but George was right; they’d worry if he
didn’t come home soon. “I hate it when you’re sensible,” he sighed, and George laughed.

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t happen often.” He smirked wickedly. “And I’d say we can probably
push it ’til half past before I send you home. That’s plenty of time to snog a bit more.”

That sounded perfect to Harry.

 Chapter 23

When he eventually flooed back to Grimmauld Place, he was only half surprised to see Sirius
and Remus sat at the kitchen table, playing cards and drinking firewhiskey. Part of him had
thought they might take advantage of having the house to themselves, but deep down he
knew they wouldn’t pass up the chance to tease the hell out of him.

“Well, well, well,” Sirius drawled, leaning back in his chair and eyeing his godson
knowingly. “Look what the kneazle dragged in.”

Harry could feel the blood run to his face, even as he strode to the sink to pour himself some
water as if nothing was awry.

“The twins doing alright, then?” Remus asked in amusement. “You’re lucky we didn’t panic,
after you buggered off so fast.”

“Sorry.” Harry ducked his head. “They were a bit of a state when I got there. I had to heal a
couple of wounds.” He gave a brief recount of the twins’ story, watching his godfathers purse
their lips in worry at what Umbridge was doing to students.

“If anyone deserves Azkaban, it’s that foul bitch,” Sirius muttered, knocking back the last of
his firewhiskey. “They got out safe, though. That’s the important bit.” Then he eyed Harry
over, smirking. “And George was clearly pleased to see you. You’ve got a little…” He
gestured to his neck, and Harry slapped a hand over his own throat in horror, watching the
pair burst out laughing. “Merlin, gets them every time!”

Harry looked down at his reflection in the shiny kettle — there were no marks on his throat
whatsoever. His reaction had said it all, though. “Shut up.” He glared halfheartedly at the
pair. Sirius grinned at him.

“You two’ve finally stopped waiting about, then? No more longing glances across the room
that make me want to smack your heads together?”

Harry’s blush grew brighter, but he couldn’t stop the smile that broke across his face. “Yeah,
we’re… we’re good, now.”

“I bet you are,” the animagus jeered with a wiggle of his eyebrows. There was a muffled thud
and Sirius yelped — Remus had kicked him under the table.

“We’re happy for you, cub,” he assured with a fond smile. “We both know all too well how
difficult a situation like that is.” He shot Sirius a pointed look, and the dark-haired man
sobered up sheepishly.

“Yeah, alright, alright,” he relented. “We’re delighted you finally got to snog the boy of your
dreams. But it’s my duty as your godfather to tease you about it.” He winked. “And, of
course, make sure you’re all safe and happy and consenting. Have you read the book we got
you? I’m sure Moony would be happy to go over everything with you, answer any questions
you might have.”

“Because you’re too chicken to do that without dying of embarrassment,” Harry retorted
knowingly. He pulled out the chair at the end of the table, sitting down between them.
“Listen, I need you both to do me a favour.” Sirius cocked his head in a move reminiscent of
his canine counterpart. “Fred and George don’t want their mum to know about the shop yet.
Not until they’re ready to open. So I said we’d pretend they were living here, now they’re out
of school.”

Remus’ brows knitted together. Sirius, on the other hand, looked devious. “Ooh, I don’t
blame them — Molly’s gonna be on enough of a tear once she hears they’re skipping out on
exams. When do they think they’ll open?” he asked.

Harry shrugged. “First week of the summer, probably? Their main market is students; might
as well wait until they’re not all stuck at school. It’ll give them plenty of time to get
everything sorted, and work on a few more products to launch with the shop’s opening.”
He’d listened to them toss ideas back and forth as they’d unpacked their stuff, and he was
once again astounded by their imaginations.

“So two months of pretending to Molly we’ve got her twin terrors staying here?” Sirius’ grey
eyes turned mischievous. “Presumably not revealing that one of those terrors is rather keen to
deflower her precious little Harry?”

It was Harry’s turn to kick Sirius under the table. “Git. But yeah, we, uh, don’t really want
anyone to know yet. Figured we’d wait til the summer for that, too.”

“You’ve got enough people breathing down your neck about Voldemort,” Remus agreed, “I
don’t blame you for wanting some privacy there.” His lips pursed. “Are you sure Molly will
be alright with the twins living here? She might be under the delusion that I’m a responsible
adult, but we both know what she thinks of Sirius being the adult supervision in any
situation.” His tone was wry, and Sirius snickered. “She might insist they come home with
her.”

“At which point they will gently remind her that they’re eighteen and old enough to make
their own decisions,” Harry reasoned. “She can’t force them back to the Burrow. We’re more
concerned she might just start spending all her time over here to keep an eye on us, but if it
means the twins have to live here for a week or so until she stops worrying, they can handle
that.”

Sirius gave another salacious wiggle of his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. “We’ll tell her
whatever you want us to, kiddo,” he assured. “And not tell her whatever you want us to, as
well. But if she moves in here to keep an eye on her boys, you’re the one who has to get her
out.”

Harry grimaced — that wouldn’t be a pleasant task. “We’ll handle it.” Privately, he thought
Mrs Weasley would be too busy worrying about Ron and Ginny and Hermione to be paying
much attention to the twins.
All of a sudden, a yawn burst out of him, and Remus chuckled. “Looks like all the drama of
the day has worn you out,” he teased “At least now we shouldn’t have to worry about you
forcing yourself to stay up just to talk on the mirror half the night. Unless you’re even more
of a lovesick fool than your father ever was.”

Harry shot the man a wounded look — he’d expected teasing from Sirius, but he’d thought
Remus was safe! He should’ve known better. Bloody Marauders.

“Not now I can floo over and see him whenever I want.” There was a bit of a challenge in his
tone, just in case his godfathers thought it too dangerous for him to be in Diagon Alley
regularly even if he never left the flat.

Remus’ eyes glittered. “Oh, good — Padfoot, we’ll finally get the little menace out of our
way.”

“Fantastic. No more worrying about getting caught shagging in the library,” Sirius replied
with a grin, shooting his lover a hungry look. Harry grimaced.

“You two are the worst,” he complained.

“Honestly, Harry — you think you have a lot of time to catch up on, having to spend most of
the school year away from George; Sirius and I were apart for twelve years, and even before
that we were pining like idiots,” Remus told him, his genial smile at odds with the wicked
look in his eyes. “Really, count yourself lucky we’ve been behaving so far. We didn’t want to
rub it in your face, after all, that we were together while your lad was stuck in the castle.”

“Go ahead, visit the terror as much as you like,” Sirius agreed. “Just keep to your training.
And let us know if you’re planning on staying the night — some things just take time,
y’know?” At this point, he wasn’t even looking at Harry, his predatory gaze fixed on the
werewolf opposite him. Harry made a noise of faint disgust.

“Maybe I’ll bring George over here instead,” he threatened. “Make up for all the places we
couldn’t snog over Christmas.”

“You’re very much welcome to, pup,” Sirius agreed evenly, lips curling in a smirk. “Just
don’t be upset if those places are already occupied.”

Harry was hit by the mental image of trying to find somewhere private with George, only to
come across his godfathers making out — or worse. He shuddered.

“Right, that’s it, I’m going to bed,” he declared, refusing to look either of them in the eye.
“You two are terrible and I very much wish to pretend this conversation never happened.”

“Sweet dreams, kiddo,” Sirius cooed. Harry dodged the hand reaching out to ruffle his hair,
jumping to his feet and heading towards the door.

“Harry?” Remus called his name, tone soft and fond — Harry turned, wondering if the man
was going to offer up some sort of sincere congratulations, or heartfelt advice about his new
relationship. Instead, Remus looked him unflinchingly in the eye— and then smiled. “You’ll
want to avoid the drawing room in the morning; we got a bit carried away in there after
dinner, and I don’t think Kreacher is willing to clean that sort of mess up.”

Harry recoiled in horror, and fled from the kitchen.

Why, why, did he ever trust Remus to be the nice one? He should know better!

.-.-.-.

The twins flooed into Grimmauld Place towards the end of breakfast the next morning, both
with backpacks over their shoulders. “Alright, Harry,” Fred greeted cheerfully, looking miles
better than he had the night before, now he’d had a good night’s sleep away from Umbridge
and her threats. “We brought some stuff to put in our old room, in case Mum gets
suspicious.”

George sidled up to Harry with a fond smile, leaning in automatically — and then froze,
glancing at Sirius and Remus. The pair were watching with amusement in their eyes, and
Harry tried not to blush. “It’s fine, they know,” he assured George, bravely leaning up to peck
him on the lips. “How are you?”

“Better now I’ve seen you,” George replied with a grin. Sirius gagged.

“Yeah, get used to that,” Fred warned. “They’re disgusting, I’m telling you.”

“Can’t possibly be worse than James and Lily,” Remus remarked. “Those two… good Lord,
it was painful sometimes. His pining was bad enough, but then the absolute sap of them being
a couple…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Anyway. Good to see you well, boys. Harry
tells us we’re to be your alibi to your parents.”

“If you don’t mind,” George requested, sneaking an arm around Harry’s waist to squeeze him
in a hug, then steal a rasher of bacon.

“Course not! Under one condition,” Sirius added. Harry froze in trepidation; Sirius had said
nothing about conditions the night before. “We get a front row seat to Molly’s face when you
finally tell her the truth. About the shop,” he clarified, “though her face when you tell her
about this is also something I desperately want to see.” By ‘this’, he clearly meant George
and Harry, gesturing to the pair leaning into each other like they’d been apart for weeks rather
than hours.

“Deal,” Fred agreed before his twin could speak up. “We time it right, maybe there’ll even be
popcorn.” Sirius barked out a laugh. “I’m gonna take this stuff upstairs.” He shrugged the
shoulder carrying his backpack, and George tossed him the one he was carrying.

“Did you owl your mum, then?” Harry asked, tilting his neck to peer up at the redhead. There
were still shadows under his eyes — one night of good sleep wouldn’t fix that — but he
looked so much better than Harry had seen him in weeks. He wore a soft flannel shirt, and
Harry couldn’t help but lean his cheek against the well-worn fabric.
“Just now, yeah. Not sure how long it’ll take to get there, but we figured we should be
prepared.”

“Have you eaten?” Remus asked, gesturing to the breakfast leftovers still in the pan.

“Yeah, we’re good, thanks,” George assured. He glanced down at Harry, hand rising to rest
on the back of his neck, stroking over the short hairs at the base of his skull. “You busy
today?”

“Don’t think so. The auror lot have been busier than ever, lately, so I haven’t seen them as
much. Might go over some stuff by myself. Need to write to Fleur about something.” His
plans on that front were so close to fruition, and it made his stomach bubble with nerves
whenever he thought about it. “What about you, what are you up to?”

“Figured we’d sit around here and wait for Mum to come yell at us about skipping out on our
NEWTs,” George replied with a halfhearted shrug. “Maybe do a bit more unpacking later,
once she’s done. We really need to give the shop a full inspection — we didn’t actually see it
in person before we bought it because of Umbridge, just had pictures and Lee’s cousin’s word
on it. Need to figure out what we’re working with before we can properly plan the layout.”

There was a spark of excitement in his eyes that made Harry’s stomach flutter. He couldn’t
wait to see what the twins came up with.

“Y’know, I really hope you two are capable of tearing yourselves apart, because if you act
like that when Molly gets here it’ll give the game away in a heartbeat,” Sirius cut in with an
amused smirk. Harry blushed, but George just wrapped his arm tighter around him.

“S’why I’ve gotta get it out of my system now,” he declared, hugging Harry like a teddy bear
and dropping a kiss on his head.

“Well I’d love it if you could do that elsewhere for a bit — it’s too early for that sort of
saccharine behaviour for anyone but me and my Moony dearest, in this kitchen,” Sirius
declared, reaching out to grab Remus by the elbow as the werewolf took dishes to the sink,
reeling him in and pressing his lips to the man’s jaw. Harry rolled his eyes.

“I am not getting into a competition with you,” he insisted. “Come on, George. We’ll wait for
your mum upstairs.”

Twining his fingers with George’s, Harry led the way out of the kitchen. He didn’t take them
towards the twins’ room, where Fred was putting their things out to make it look lived-in;
instead he continued up to his own room. George didn’t protest, though he did wiggle his
eyebrows when Harry brought him inside and shut the door.

“Taking me up to your bedroom, Potter? What will my parents say?” he teased, stepping in
close and cupping Harry’s jaw. Harry smirked.

“They’ll say how delighted they are that I’ve finally got some other boys my age to play
with,” he drawled. George’s eyes darkened.
“Ooh, what are we playing?”

Harry huffed a laugh, leaning up for a proper kiss unlike the brief peck he’d had in the
kitchen. It still felt forbidden, heart racing like he was breaking the rules somehow. George
sighed softly into his mouth, holding Harry close.

“Can’t believe I get to do this, now,” he breathed, forehead pressed to Harry’s.

“I know the feeling,” Harry agreed. He wanted to stay there in George’s arms forever, just
relishing in the sensation of finally being there. The waiting had been worth it, but fuck, he
was glad it was over.

Running his fingers over George’s stubbled jaw, he took a breath to steady himself. “How
long d’you think we’ve got before the horde descends?” An owl from London to Ottery St
Catchpole wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.

As if on cue, both boys jolted as a familiar voice called up from the base of the stairs. “Fred!
George! Where are you, are you alright?” Mrs Weasley’s voice was full of worry. George met
Harry’s gaze, winked, then gripped his shoulder tight. There was a crack, and a sensation of
being squeezed through a tube — Harry was glad Mad-Eye had taught him to apparate
despite his lack of license, or the sensation might have made him sick.

They had reappeared in the twins’ bedroom, which now looked perfectly like they had
arrived last night and made themselves at home with all the things from their school trunks.
There was even a cauldron set up in the corner, as there had been all summer, waiting for
them to start work on their prank products.

Fred snorted at seeing them pull apart, Harry moving to sit nonchalantly at the desk right
before the door flew open. “Oh, my boys,” Mrs Weasley gasped, lunging forward to grab the
pair in a tight hug. “Let me look at you — are you okay? What did that awful woman do to
you?” She reached for George’s right hand, as he happened to be closest, and yanked it up to
her face. Her eyes filled with a fury Harry had rarely seen on the jovial woman, her finger
stroking tenderly over the inflamed, scarred skin. “Oh, Georgie. Freddie. I’m so sorry, we had
no idea.”

“Exactly how we wanted it, Mum,” George assured, turning his hand over in her grasp to
squeeze hers gently. “We’re fine, I swear. Harry patched us right up when we got in
yesterday.”

Mrs Weasley suddenly seemed to realise Harry was there, and the look she sent him was
tearful and relieved. “Harry, dear, thank you.” She looked back to her sons. “But why didn’t
you come home? The Burrow isn’t that much further than London.”

The twins shared an uneasy glance. “We didn’t know if you’d be pleased to see us,” Fred
confessed. Mrs Weasley choked on a sob, pulling them back into another hug.

“Silly boys,” she whispered thickly. “Of course I’m upset you won’t be taking your NEWTs,
but I’m just happy to have you safe!” The twins both looked surprised over her head, peering
towards Harry, who shrugged in bewilderment. That wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting
either!

“Ever since Harry told the Order what that hag has been doing to you kids, I’ve hardly been
able to sleep for worrying about you. I’m sure once Albus is back in charge he’ll let you sit
your NEWTs next year, or perhaps we can even have you take your exams at the Ministry,
over the summer. A little expensive, mind, but— you weren’t taking too many subjects each.
And maybe you can chip in a bit of the money you’ve made selling those silly trick wands of
yours.”

Harry bit his lip hard to stop himself from guffawing incredulously. Molly Weasley truly had
no idea what sort of enterprising young men her twins were. It was a little sad, actually, that
she was so oblivious to their talent when she spent so long gushing about the rest of their
siblings for their grades and badges and whatnot.

The look in the twin redheads’ eyes made it very clear that they would not be wasting their
hard-earned galleons on exams at the Ministry, but they kept their mouths shut, patting their
mum’s back until she stopped crying. When she composed herself, she looked around the
somewhat dreary room. “Are you sure you boys don’t want to come home?” she asked
doubtfully. “I know you must like the idea of staying here unsupervised, getting up to
mischief with Sirius—“ Harry did snort at that; did she forget that Sirius was the supervision?
“—but you know you’re welcome back with your father and I. We’d love to have you, there’s
no need to impose here.”

“Actually, Mrs Weasley, I asked them to stay,” Harry piped up, putting on his best sad-little-
orphan face. “I love having Sirius and Remus around, I really do, but… I’ve missed everyone
while they’ve been at school. I know the others will be back in a couple months, but I could
use the company here.”

“We’re not Ron and Hermione, but we’ll do in a pinch,” Fred joked, grinning.

“Oh, of course, Harry dear!” That changed Mrs Weasley’s demeanour entirely. “Of course,
you’ve been cooped up here without any of your friends for so long. You poor thing.” She
looked like she didn’t know which of them to fuss over the most. “Have you had breakfast?
Do you need me to bring you anything from home?”

“Steady on, Mum, we only got in yesterday evening,” George said, holding his hands up.
“It’s not like you’re in Antarctica; we’ll pop by if we need anything.”

“I suppose.” Clearly flustered, Mrs Weasley shook her head. “Come down to the kitchen, I’ll
get started on lunch. Your father’s at work, but he’ll be coming over for dinner — Bill, too, if
he can make it. You can tell us all about what happened. How are Ron and Ginny? And
Hermione, of course. Are they done with their detentions?”

Her gaze kept darting back to the scars on her sons’ hands, and Harry wished for a moment
he hadn’t blurted out about the quills in front of the Order. But they needed to know. Maybe
if they were lucky, one of them might be able to use the information to get Umbridge
arrested, once Fudge was unseated.
If Fudge could be unseated.
 Chapter 24

Naturally, there was an Order meeting that night. Harry wasn’t sure if it was a formally called
meeting, or just something that had grown from Mrs Weasley wanting to gather her family
for dinner now that two more of her boys were home, but it became an Order gathering all the
same.

As she was wont to do, Mrs Weasley took over the kitchen like it was her own as soon as
they got back downstairs, grilling the twins for information on her other children while she
cooked up a ham and vegetable quiche, using ingredients Harry hadn’t even realised they had
in the pantry at that time. He sat beside Fred, with George on his twin’s other side — he
didn’t think he’d be able to keep his hands to himself right now. He listened to the twins as
well, pretending it was all brand new information to him, hearing of his friends’ exploits to
stand their ground under Umbridge’s tyranny. They were heavily editing it for their mother’s
sake, not wanting to worry her — not that it seemed to stop her fretting, by the look on her
face.

Harry could also tell there was going to be an argument, somewhere down the line — perhaps
in a week or so, when Mrs Weasley got over the relief at having the twins safely out of the
castle, and remembered why they were supposed to be in the castle in the first place. She
regularly glossed over the subject of their exams with ‘Dumbledore will sort it out’,
reminding Harry very much of Hermione’s attitude towards his expulsion back at the end of
the summer. The twins wisely kept quiet, and Harry was glad they had decided to lie and say
they were staying at Grimmauld for the foreseeable. They deserved the space to get their
shop set up how they wanted it before having to deal with the Molly Weasley meltdown that
would ensue.

After lunch, Albus Dumbledore appeared. Harry wasn’t going to ask how the man knew what
was going on, or where the twins ended up. The ex-headmaster expertly coerced Mrs
Weasley into allowing him to have a private word with the twins. George caught Harry’s eye
on the way out of the room, and stifled a smile.

Deciding the best way to make their story believable was to carry on mostly as normal, Harry
went up to the drawing room — after checking with Kreacher that it was in fact clean and
there were no weird remnants or evidence of anything Sirius and Remus may or may not
have done in there — summoned a quill and some parchment, and began to write a letter to
Fleur.

Remus found him after a couple of hours, telling him they would be expecting a full house
for dinner. “Molly’s taking this all much more calmly than I expected,” he remarked,
perching on the arm of Harry’s chair.

“I think I scared her when I told the Order about Umbridge’s detentions,” Harry confessed.
“Merlin only knows what she’s been thinking is happening to her kids. She hated having me
here because she thought it was pushing me into things I was too young to handle — and then
she discovers things aren’t any safer at the place she sent her own children.” He smirked
faintly. “It’ll be nice having someone else for her to fuss over, for a change.” Though if she
kept stopping by to fuss over the twins and started interrupting Harry’s training time, there
could be problems.

“Until her fussing stops you getting alone time with your new boyfriend,” Remus remarked
cheekily. Harry bit his lip. Or that, yes.

“Fred’s always good for a distraction,” he waved off. He was sure he could persuade his
boyfriend’s twin to run damage control if he and George ever needed to sneak away.

“So are Sirius and I, despite all our teasing,” the werewolf promised. “Hell, cub, I think that
might be the most normal teenage thing you’ll ever do in your life, keeping your relationship
secret from Molly.”

Harry snorted. “Probably.” He paused, biting his lip. “Do you think it’s fair? I mean, you and
Sirius know. Shouldn’t George’s parents know too?”

“We only know because we recognised the way you looked at him when you thought no one
else was watching,” Remus pointed out, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. “You don’t owe anyone
that knowledge while you’re still figuring things out. Think of it this way; if you’d both been
at school, Molly never would have known until you decided to tell her. She certainly doesn’t
know about that boy Ginny is dating, and I doubt she has any idea what I’m sure Fred has
gotten up to in the hidden corners of Hogwarts. Being under her nose doesn’t mean she gets
the right to intrude before you’re ready.” His smile softened. “But it doesn’t mean you should
be scared of showing how you feel, either.”

“I’m not,” Harry assured quickly. “Christ, Moony, you saw that this morning. When I know
we’re around people who are safe, I can’t help myself.”

“Ah, young love.” Remus chuckled.

“It just feels like this has been such a delicate subject for so long. Part of me— part of me
worries that once the thrill of making eyes at each other in a room full of people without them
noticing wears off, George won’t—“ He cut himself off, cheeks flushing. “It’s nothing, I’m
being stupid.”

“It’s your first relationship, you’re allowed to be stupid,” Remus told him. “But I don’t think
you have anything to worry about. He doesn’t seem like the type to string you along like
that.” He side-eyed Harry impishly. “And I’m sure you don’t want me to tell you what I’ve
learned from the pheromones you two put off.”

Harry, who had completely forgotten about that particular skill set of his werewolf
godfather’s, flushed bright red. “No, you can keep that to yourself,” he croaked. Still, there
was a tiny flutter of happiness in his chest at the confidence in Remus’ words.

George had told him he was serious, that he was playing for keeps, but… well, Harry still
didn’t really understand why someone as hot and talented as George Weasley would be
interested in his little brother’s speccy friend, even if he was the Boy-Who-Lived.
He pushed the thought away. George wasn’t that shallow. Harry could trust him.

“We should get downstairs, see who turns up,” Harry suggested, tucking his letter to Fleur
into his pocket. Bill would be there tonight, so even if his quarter-veela companion couldn’t
make it, Harry could have him pass along the missive.

Remus stood when Harry did, but wound an arm around the teen’s chest to pull him back into
a quick hug. “Don’t sabotage your own happiness, Harry,” he advised softly, letting him go
and then strolling from the room.

Harry swallowed thickly. That was easier said than done, when you were Harry Potter.

.-.-.

As dinner drew closer, the kitchen filled with Order members — and the twins were on fine
form with their audience, regaling them with the tale of their daring escape, the story full of
all the drama and embellishment they hadn’t been in any state to include when they told
Harry. He grinned as he listened to them tell the story to Tonks, who had turned up a little
late, watching her wipe tears of laughter from her eyes at their description of Umbridge’s face
watching them fly away from the school.

It became clear that despite Dumbledore’s presence, the Order business would not begin until
after everyone had eaten. Harry was surprised at how relaxed the headmaster seemed, sat at
the table between Moody and Mr Weasley. He himself was up the other end with the twins,
Bill and Tonks, and Harry was absolutely refusing to meet Bill’s eye. The cursebreaker might
be able to keep a secret, but he was not remotely subtle in the way he studied Harry and
George, clearly trying to see if something about their relationship had changed. Harry
doubted he saw anything he wasn’t used to seeing from the last year — after Dumbledore had
finished talking to the twins about Umbridge, George snuck back up to Harry’s room for
some time to themselves, so they had mostly gotten things out of their system by the time
they had to put on a front for their dinner guests.

Harry wondered if the reason no one suspected was because things had been brewing
between them so long — he and George had acted like that around each other for the last
couple of years now, everyone had probably written it off as just friendship. Also, most
people couldn’t regularly tell the twins apart, and likely didn’t realise Harry only acted a
certain way around one of them. Perhaps if he’d been at school all year, they would have
given themselves away — then again, if he’d been at school all year, they wouldn’t have
waited this long.

Surprisingly, there weren’t any pranks hidden within the dinner, or spells let loose at the
table. Harry was beginning to wonder if the twins were truly feeling okay, or just putting on
brave faces for their family and Harry.

Then the table cleared, and Dumbledore cleared his throat, and things slowly began to click
together.

“As you can all see, we have two more in our number tonight,” the elderly wizard declared,
getting to his feet and walking around the head of the table, standing behind Sirius. “While
the circumstances are… not particularly ideal, we must welcome Fred and George Weasley
back to London… and into the ranks of the Order.”

“Absolutely not!” Mrs Weasley exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “Albus, they’re just boys!”

“They are of-age, Molly,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “Only two months shy of graduation. I
know you wish to protect them, but it is their decision.”

“We joined up when we were eighteen,” Sirius pointed out, gesturing to himself and Remus.
“And I think the twins know a darn sight more about what they’re getting into than we did at
that age. They’ve been mates with Harry too long to think otherwise.”

Harry smiled wryly, glancing at the twins. They were as serious as he’d ever seen them — no
wonder they hadn’t been pranking. They wanted to prove they were responsible enough.

“We’re gonna be in the thick of it regardless, Mum,” George reasoned. “With the rest of the
family involved. We want to fight.”

Harry had been attending Order meetings since Dumbledore had left Hogwarts — no one had
really decided to make that change, but they’d stopped kicking him out of the kitchen when
they gathered, and Mr Weasley had put a hand on his wife’s arm to silence any protest she
might have made. Harry didn’t speak much in meetings — a lot of what they were doing
were things he couldn’t contribute to, stuck in Grimmauld as he was, and most of the
information he had was not anything he was willing to share with the group at large.
Sometimes he relayed facts from his visions of Death Eater meetings, but that tended to make
people anxious, so it was easier to just tell Kingsley beforehand and let the auror do the
talking.

“Fred, George…” Mrs Weasley trailed off pleadingly, tears in her eyes. Harry was viscerally
reminded of her boggart in the drawing room back in the summer, the sight of her family’s
corpses on the threadbare carpet. “Please, think about this.”

“We’ve been thinking about it all year, Mum,” Fred argued gently. “You can’t stop us. You
wouldn’t have said anything after we graduated, and it seems a bit pointless to just sit here
for the next two months and twiddle our thumbs ’til you say we can go.” He rolled his eyes.

Mrs Weasley didn’t look convinced, but sighed sadly and sat back down. Mr Weasley put an
arm around her shoulders, kissing her temple and murmuring something too soft for any of
them to hear.

That was settled, then. The twins were joining the Order.

It turned out, much to Harry’s surprise, that there was an oath of secrecy involved in the
matter. The twins swore their allegiance to the Light in quiet, determined voices. Harry
leaned in to whisper in Tonks’ ear; “How come I never had to swear in?”

“Because if you willingly turned to the Dark, we’d all be fucked and it wouldn’t matter
anymore,” she replied with a snort. “Also it’s illegal for anyone underage to swear a
magically binding oath.”
Harry wondered where that law was when he’d been magically sworn to compete in the
Triwizard Tournament last year.

The twins had pride in their eyes when they returned to their seats, and Harry couldn’t help
but shuffle a little closer and let his knee press against George’s beneath the table, offering a
quick grin. Dumbledore continued to speak, and Harry settled down to listen.

“From what I have heard from our sources, Voldemort continues to attempt to place his
people within the Ministry — or sway those who already work in influential positions.”
Harry perked up, eyes narrowing. How many people did Voldemort have in there already?

“There have been overtures made to several aurors within the department,” Kingsley piped
up, and all heads swivelled to look at him. “Discreet, of course — to those who have already
showed leanings towards pureblood supremacy. But many of our recent arrests have been
conveniently found to have insufficient evidence for conviction. And many of our aurors
seem to be spending money that is entirely outside their Ministry salary.”

Several people around the table sneered. Harry grimaced.

“Fudge is getting more confident,” he remarked, drawing the attention of the gathered crowd.
“There have been no repercussions for expelling me, as far as he’s concerned. He’s now rid
himself of the two people who had the influence to tear down his empire; he thinks he’s
won.” It was clear from the Prophet, which had replaced Rita Skeeter with some Ministry
mouthpiece journalist. Fudge was constantly congratulating himself for his work in
‘protecting the future’ by installing Umbridge at Hogwarts, stating that without underserving
celebrities trying to claim the nation’s attention, they could properly get things back to rights.
At the same time, he was accepting bribes from Lucius Malfoy every week for one thing or
another, restructuring the Ministry under the man’s suggestion.

“Well, that confidence is bound to fail him sooner or later,” Elphias Doge remarked
optimistically. Harry grimaced.

There was a lot of damage that could be done before that happened.

With a few more reports from various people on the frustratingly little they could do under
the current Ministry, the meeting finally wound down and people began to disperse. Harry
was surprised when Bill sought him out, once the kitchen was a little emptier.

“Oh, here, can you deliver this?” Harry requested, pulling his letter for Fleur out of his
pocket. Bill glanced at the name on the front, then nodded, tucking it into his jacket.

“Yeah, no problem. Listen, Conrad had a bit of a breakthrough the other day. I won’t bore
you with the specifics — I barely understand them myself — but, just to let you know, things
are ready to go whenever you are.”

Harry’s heart jumped, his gaze sharp as he met Bill’s eyes. “Really? Both parts?” Last Bill
had told him, they’d figured out the purging potion but were struggling to comprehend some
aspects of the ritual, due to the language barrier and the time passed. Something about
identifying substitute components for things that had gone extinct.
“Whole thing,” Bill confirmed quietly. “And what we’ve got will keep for a year before we
need to replace it. So just… give us a shout when you need it.”

Harry pursed his lips. He hoped a year was going to be more than enough time. There was so
much damage Voldemort could do in that period. “Right. Good to know, thanks.”

Bill nodded, then his eyes flicked over Harry’s shoulder, and he reached out to ruffle Harry’s
hair. “I’ll catch you later, kid. Did you need something, Mum?” His voice was entirely too
casual, and when Harry turned around it was to see Mrs Weasley approaching. Harrys
winced; thank God Bill had noticed her before either of them said something sensitive. So
far, the Weasley matriarch had no idea her son was doing anything other than helping Harry
learn runes sometimes.

“What was that all about?” He whirled around, meeting George’s gaze. The redhead was
stood close, but not touching — though the look in his eyes said he wished otherwise. “You
and Bill? Looked awfully secretive.”

“He was just… letting me know the project his team’s been working on was a success. He’d
told me about it the other day, and I was curious to know how it worked out.”

Not entirely a lie, but enough of one for George to recognise the misdirection. Brown eyes
narrowed. Harry gave a helpless half-shrug. George sighed, then shook his head. “If I needed
to know, you’d tell me,” he said, more to himself than Harry. He offered a smile in
reassurance. “You’ve got your fingers in far too many pies these days, Potter. It’s hard to
keep up with you.”

He disappeared before Harry could respond — now that Bill had gone, Mr and Mrs Weasley
were the last ones left, and Mrs Weasley seemed to be struggling to leave her sons behind.

“Come on, Molly, dear,” Mr Weasley urged, gently steering her towards the fireplace. “We’ll
see the boys again soon, I’m sure.” With one last round of goodbyes, the pair vanished,
leaving just the twins, Harry and the Marauders in the kitchen.

“Well, now that’s settled,” George declared, returning to Harry’s side to drape an arm over his
shoulders. “You coming back with us for a bit?”

Harry felt his ears heat, and glanced over at Sirius and Remus. They weren’t even trying to
hide their amusement.

“Go on, pup. You’ve been stuck with us for far too long,” Sirius joked, waving him off. “Just
don’t forget Mad-Eye’s coming early tomorrow.”

Harry’s blush brightened — did Sirius think he would spend the night? Already? “I’ll be back
later tonight,” he assured, gaze flicking to George to try and see what he thought of the
insinuation. The redhead’s face was frustratingly unreadable.

Nevertheless, Harry flooed into the twins’ flat right behind them. It looked just as it had when
he’d left it the night before, though with the addition of a colourful knitted blanket thrown
over the back of the sofa.
“I’m gonna work on redecorating the bathroom,” Fred announced, shoving his sleeves up to
his elbows. He smirked at them. “You two have fun now. Don’t forget to shut the door this
time.”

Harry and George both blushed.

They retreated to George’s room — shutting and silencing the door, just to be safe — and
George tugged Harry into a slow, languid kiss. “That’s Mum and Dad sorted, then. Mum took
that better than I expected,” the redhead confessed once they parted, his hands on Harry’s
hips. Harry, who was having trouble stringing words together at that particular time, blinked
owlishly.

“Oh. Yeah.”

George chuckled, leaning down to kiss Harry once more. “How the hell did I manage to go
all of Christmas without kissing you?” he murmured to himself, thumbs settled in the divots
of Harry’s hips. Harry’s blood was racing just from those two kisses, his head fogged. How,
indeed?

“Would’ve been impossible to stop, once we’d started,” he pointed out breathlessly. One of
George’s hands moved up the back of his shirt, while the redhead’s lips moved to his jaw.

“Too right,” he agreed. Sidestepping carefully, he turned Harry around and nudged him down
onto the bed — which now had proper sheets and pillows and blankets. Harry happily let the
taller boy manhandle him, kicking his shoes off hastily.

It wasn’t the same fire and passion they’d had the night before, when they’d been so eager to
see each other and to taste and touch and express everything they’d been holding back for so
long. This was more of a steady simmer, a comfortable heat that had been brewing all day,
occasionally relieved by kisses when they’d managed to escape Mrs Weasley. Harry was
growing hard, and he could feel the same from George, but they weren’t rushing to do
anything about it.

In another life, they would have been doing this since the summer. They would have spent
those months getting to know each other better physically as well as emotionally, snogging in
secret corners of the castle, taking their time over it all. There was no need to rush to catch up
now they’d finally got there.

But he still wouldn’t complain when George sat up to pull his t-shirt off, revealing his broad
chest and firm abs, a million freckles Harry wanted to get to know intimately. He was
beautiful. And he was looking at Harry like the bespectacled boy was the only thing in the
universe worth paying attention to. Harry swallowed against an unexpected wave of
emotion.

“God, this still doesn’t feel real,” he croaked, pressing a hand against the redhead’s warm
skin, feeling George arch into his touch.

“I know what you mean,” George agreed, propping himself up on one elbow, half leaning
over Harry. “It is, though. So real.” He nipped playfully at Harry’s bottom lip. “Do I get to
take your shirt off again, too?” His hand played with the hem of Harry’s t-shirt, his gaze
hopeful and earnest. Harry got the feeling that if he said no, that would be that, and George
would be perfectly happy to go right back to kissing him regardless.

“Hmm, I suppose so. Only fair,” Harry replied with a teasing grin, trying to help as George
tugged the garment up. This time, Harry’s glasses were there to get caught, and there was a
brief interlude of giggles as they tried to get Harry put to rights.

“Why don’t you just take them off?” George suggested amusedly. Harry pouted.

“All your freckles go blurry if I do that,” he retorted. How was he supposed to count them
then?

George’s grin widened, his eyes like liquid chocolate as they met Harry’s, hot and inviting.
“You like my freckles, hmm?”

“I do,” Harry declared, letting his fingers trace some of the freckles on George’s chest like a
dot-to-dot all the way up his collarbone. “Not sure which is my favourite yet, though. I’ll
have to get to know them better.”

At this, the redhead’s expression grew predatory, sending a pulse of want straight to Harry’s
cock. “Be my guest,” George drawled, rolling onto his back and holding his arms out as if
offering himself up. “I’m sure they’ll all be very friendly.”

Harry snickered, scrambling over to straddle George’s waist, careful to keep his glasses
firmly on the bridge of his nose.

How could he refuse an offer like that?

 Chapter 25

If Harry had to describe the next week, it could only be as absolute bliss.

Sure, the outside world was kind of a hellscape garbage fire, but as he didn’t have much
contact with the outside world these days…

Instead, while he spent less time training with the three aurors and Bill as they became far
busier between both work and Order commitments, it allowed him to spend most of his time
over at 93 Diagon Alley, helping the twins set up their new shop.

He was pretty sure that by now, practically everyone in the Order knew that the twins were
not truly living at Grimmauld Place, except for Mrs Weasley — he privately thought Mr
Weasley had to have picked up on it, and was just allowing his sons their privacy by not
saying anything. No one seemed to have figured out what was going on between George and
Harry, but they were no longer surprised to arrive at Grimmauld and find the twins weren’t
there. Or to find Harry flooing in and out regularly. Also, several of them had made
comments about helping the twins out with ‘a project’, and Harry knew for a fact that Moody
had gone over to check out the wards Bill and Fleur had put up to protect the place. He was
glad the rest of the Order were being so supportive, and making sure the twins were safe in
their new home.

But even with his new relationship secret from all but a few people — even if Bill thought he
knew far more than he actually did, the smug git — Harry felt like a weight had been lifted
from his shoulders. All this time, all this waiting, and now he could just walk over and grab
George and kiss him whenever he wanted. Provided they weren’t in an Order meeting or
anything, of course. He no longer had to avert his gaze when the staring felt like too much, or
spend hours at night lying awake thinking about how long it would be before he and George
could stop sidestepping around this huge thing between them, bottling it up for what felt like
eternity. The waiting was over, now. George was his boyfriend, for real. The one thing he’d
wanted since he was twelve, and it had happened.

And what an incredible boyfriend he was. While in a lot of ways their relationship hadn’t
really changed — Harry had been mentally prioritising George for longer than he cared to
admit, and George had been doing much of the same — now they were properly together
George was finally able to express all the things he’d kept quiet for Harry’s sake. And he was
an absolute hopeless romantic, underneath all the jokes and banter and charm.

He held Harry’s hand while they sat and discussed shop layout with Fred, sometimes raising
it to press a kiss to the back of it. He bought Harry sweets when he went out into the alley,
brushing it off with a bashful ‘I saw this and thought you might like it’. He pulled out chairs
and opened doors and loved absolutely nothing more than to snuggle up with Harry at the end
of the day and listen to the Wireless. It was all a bit overwhelming for the dark-haired boy,
who had hardly experienced any kind of love in his life, let alone the kind of devotion offered
by a Weasley. Once, he mentioned it offhand to Fleur, and she just laughed at him before
patting his hand and telling him he deserved all that and more, and that Weasleys were good
men to have the love of. The word had made him blush for the whole rest of the afternoon,
his stomach squirming whenever he thought about it.

Fred thought they were gross, and regularly made sure to tell them as much, but Harry had
seen him smiling when he turned away from scolding them for kissing instead of sorting
stock or building shelves. He was happy for them. Harry thought he liked the extra company
around the flat, too; the twins were always surrounded by people at school and in the
summer, and it had to be strange to be by themselves so much now. At least Harry was used
to it when he got expelled.

“What’s got you smiling, then?” Harry snapped out of his thoughts abruptly, jerking his head
up to look at the intruder. He was supposed to be setting up the wards on a display of love-
potion-based products that were a bit more adult in nature, making sure no one under sixteen
could remove them from their shelves. Though the love potions were incredibly weak, and
wouldn’t do more than give someone the urge to confess feelings they already had, the twins
were still wary of letting their younger customers get into all of that.

Instead he’d been daydreaming, and it seemed George had caught him at it. He grinned at the
redhead. “See, there’s this boy I like,” he began in a theatrical whisper, kicking his legs
playfully where he perched on the edge of the table.

“Oh?” George asked, equally theatrical, reaching for a bottle of the love potion. “Thinking of
slipping him some of this, are we?”

“Hmm, I don’t think so,” Harry replied. “I’m pretty sure he likes me back, see.”

“What a lucky lad he is,” George murmured, grin widening. “Maybe you’re after something
more like this, then.” He reached up to grab a little bottle of something over Harry’s head,
drawing frustratingly close in the process. He smelled like fireworks; he’d been up in the attic
workshop all morning, testing some new product ideas.

Harry looked at the bottle, smirking as he read the label: Weasley’s Liquid Gryffindor; Be
Brave at Heart!

It was a sort-of watered down version of Felix Felicis, designed to offer a boost of courage to
those facing an important event or big conversation; such as telling someone you fancied
them.

“Don’t think I’ll need that, either,” came Harry’s drawling response. He stretched his legs
out, hooking his feet around the backs of George’s thighs, bringing him in closer. “Courage
has never been one of my problems.”

That made George snicker despite himself. “Well, then, I’m not sure what we at Weasley’s
Wizard Wheezes can do to help you out with your crush,” he said in mock-sadness. Harry
smirked devilishly.

“I can think of a couple things.” He leaned up, pressing his lips to George’s, feeling the
redhead’s arms come around him instantly. George moaned softly into the kiss, the sound
going right to Harry’s very soul, and his eyes were dazed when they parted. “That’s a good
start.”

“Well there’s plenty more where that came from,” George teased with a salacious wink.
“How go the wards?”

“Uh, yeah, not done yet. Got a bit distracted, sorry.” Harry’s sheepish smile made George roll
his eyes.

“Useless,” he teased. “What do we even have you around for?”

Harry let his hand slip down to squeeze George’s bum through his jeans. “I can give you a
reminder if you like.”

George kissed him again, smirking. “Only once you’ve done the wards.”

Harry sighed — he had promised, he supposed. And in his defence, he was at least halfway
done. He hadn’t been sat there thinking about George the entire time.

George hovered at Harry’s shoulder while the dark-haired teen wandlessly inscribed runes
onto the wood of the display, humming curiously. Arithmancy had always been more Fred’s
thing than George’s.

“You’re getting good at that,” he commented, pride colouring his voice. Harry grinned, even
as his cheeks flushed.

“It’s fairly easy, once you get the hang of it. Bill’s a great teacher.” Runes and Arithmancy
reminded him of learning Maths back in muggle primary school. He’d always liked Maths.

When he finished, he ran a keen eye over his rune chain, checking everything added up as it
should. “If all is in order…” He reached out, grabbing one of the potion bottles, and it firmly
did not budge. When he let it go, George tried, and had no problems removing the bottle from
the shelf. He made a face.

“Well, now I feel like I’m robbing the cradle,” he declared dryly. Harry laughed.

“Couple more months,” he reminded, stroking George’s cheek. “God, I bet muggles wish
they could do something like that. Not even a fake ID would work then.”

“What’s a fake ID?”

“I’ve got one, I can show you tomorrow. Bit like an apparition license, but it’s an actual card
you carry with you. Has your picture and your date of birth and all that on it, so people can
tell if you’re old enough to buy alcohol or— other things.” His cheeks flushed, remembering
what he’d used his for. George caught the look and narrowed his eyes.

“Ooh, have you been up to something naughty, little Harry?” he teased softly. “What’ve you
been buying before the muggles say you’re old enough?”
Harry bit his lip. “You’ll have to wait to see that, I’m afraid.” They might have spent the last
week developing their new relationship, but as George had promised, they were taking their
time; he wasn’t quite ready to introduce the redhead to the contents of his locked bedside
drawer.

George’s eyes darkened, comprehension dawning.

“You saucy little minx.” He kissed Harry hard, then tugged him off the edge of the desk.
“Come on — there’s things I want to do to you that are definitely on Fred’s list of things
we’re not allowed to do in the shop.” He paused, eyes sparkling with lust as he grinned at
Harry. “You interested?”

Harry grabbed his hand, and began to lead the way up to the flat.

.-.-.-.

It was all going far too well, and Harry really should have been less surprised when that
changed.

He was in his room one blustery Tuesday evening, a rare one spent at Grimmauld rather than
with the twins; Remus had been called away on Order duties, and Harry hadn’t wanted to
leave Sirius by himself. The dog animagus was currently keeping himself busy doing dishes
in the kitchen, and had shooed Harry up to his bedroom to go do something more fun. And
so, Harry was lying on his bed, his mind mostly stuck in a memory from earlier that week.
Fred had been out of the flat all day to pick up some potion ingredients from one of their
shadier suppliers, leaving George and Harry to their own devices. Naturally, like the two
randy teenagers they were, that ended up in one place only; George’s room, with Harry
receiving his first ever blowjob. Followed shortly by giving his first ever blowjob.

Just as he was considering throwing a locking and silencing charm at his door, his other hand
sliding down his belly to the bulge in his pyjama bottoms, there was a flash of fire in the
middle of the room, and a single red tail feather floated down to the ground.

Harry shot up, arousal dying instantly. Within seconds he was on his feet and sprinting down
the stairs, bursting into the kitchen only to skid to a wide-eyed halt.

Most of the Order was in the room, and not a single one of them seemed to be unscathed. Up
one end of the table was Tonks, lying down while Emmeline Vance tended to a stream of
blood pouring from her abdomen. On the other end, Bill Weasley was splayed out
unconscious on the table, Madam Pomfrey hovering around him with her wand a blur, her
face completely serious. Harry’s heart turned to lead — he hadn’t even known the Hogwarts
matron was in the Order. To have her here, away from the school… what was wrong with
Bill?

“Potter!” His head snapped up at Kingsley’s sharp call. “Triage, now!”

Tearing his gaze away from the unconscious redhead, Harry jumped to work, darting from
person to person and checking their injuries, healing what he could on the way and trying to
figure out who was in most desperate need of help. A spark of relief flared within him when
he saw a pair of identical redheads sat on chairs by the stove, George’s wand carefully
knitting together a deep gash on Fred’s thigh.

“I’ve got this,” George assured, offering Harry a brief flash of a smile, even though there was
blood matted in his hair. “We’ve had worse from our own products. Go help Fleur; she got hit
protecting Bill, I don’t know if she’s okay.”

Harry hadn’t seen the blonde yet, and he felt the panic rise within him when he didn’t
immediately see her in the kitchen. There were so many people, so many of them wounded or
cursed in some way.

There! He craned his neck, spotting something silver flashing by the table where Pomfrey
was working on Bill. Harry rounded the table quickly, sucking in a sharp breath. Fleur was
lying down on a transfigured bench, skin almost as pale as her hair, shivering violently.

“Fleur! What happened?” Harry immediately began running his hand over her for
diagnostics, keeping his attention half on what his magic was telling him and half on the
words coming out of the French witch’s mouth.

“Eet was an ‘ex, I did not ‘ear the words.” Her accent thickened as she mumbled dazedly, her
eyes glassy and failing to focus on Harry. He lit up the end of his finger with a lumos, testing
her sight responses; slow and wobbly, but she was still responding. She hadn’t been blinded.
Probably just seeing double.

“How do you feel?”

“Cold,” she gasped, wrapping her arm around her stomach. “So cold. ‘Ow ees Bill? Il etait
blessé, il est—“ She continued to babble in French, Harry only recognising a handful of
words as he worked on her. There was dark magic around her for sure, something sitting
thick and heavy and suffocating. Harry wasn’t sure what it was, and his hands trembled as he
tried to think of the best counter. Bill would know. But Bill was still unconscious, with
Pomfrey desperately working to heal him.

When he looked up, everyone who might have been of aid was already dealing with their
own patient. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sirius running his wand over Remus, who
was vomiting black bile into the sink. Dumbledore was murmuring a healing chant over
Kingsley, who sat in the corner with his robes cut to bare his back, which held some nasty-
looking burns.

Harry was on his own.

He forged on, panic spiking when Fleur’s pulse slowed dramatically, her eyes drifting shut as
her shivering continued. It struck something familiar within him — she had looked somewhat
the same after the second task, soaking wet from the lake in February.

Veela were susceptible to cold, as beings of fire.

Now he had something to go with, Harry followed his instincts, casting the counter-curse to
any hex he could think of that would induce extreme cold. When he parted Fleur’s robe he
saw several sluggishly-bleeding cuts on her abdomen and shoulders, curse marks and blisters
all over her skin. He ached to treat them, but he couldn’t yet; he had to figure out the freezing
hex first.

At last, one of the counters he used made the magic surrounding her shudder, and as Harry
pushed more power into it he could feel it melting away. Fleur’s shivers lessened, and Harry
quickly began to clean and heal her wounds, his adrenaline-fuelled heartbeat beginning to
return to normal. When he looked up, he met Madam Pomfrey’s keen hazel eyes. “You’ve
been keeping busy, Mr Potter,” she noted. Harry wondered how long she’d been watching
him work.

“I haven’t had you to patch me up,” he joked lightly, watching the corners of her lips twitch
in a reluctant smile. “How’s Bill?”

“He’ll live. Took a rather nasty combination of a compression hex and a blood-boiling curse,
but it was reversible.” Harry grimaced; that sounded horrendous.

“Good. I— I didn’t know you knew. About, y’know,” he gestured to the house around them,
under its Fidelius charm. The mediwitch smiled.

“I’m only called in emergencies, but Albus made sure I would know where to find those who
need me.” She straightened up, surveying the controlled chaos around them. Most people
seemed to have dealt with their wounds by now; even Tonks was sat up and smiling, though
she was still pale and leaning against Emmeline like she might fall over otherwise. “I should
get back to the school, before our dear headmistress notices I’m gone.” The venom in her
words made Harry flinch. In his joy at having the twins back, he’d almost forgotten
Umbridge was in charge of the school.

“Madam Pomfrey,” he called quietly, before she could walk away. She turned, raising an
eyebrow at him. “How— how bad is it? In the castle? How—“ how are my friends?, he
wanted to ask, but he doubted he’d like the answer.

Pomfrey’s lips pursed. “The students are fighting back, the best they can. She has not broken
them yet. With any luck, she’ll be gone by summer.” Then she smiled, reaching out to
squeeze Harry’s arm. “It’s good to see you, Potter. Well done with Miss Delacour — that was
some very fine healing, there. I daresay you have a knack for it.”

“I— really?” Kingsley and Sirius and Remus had all complimented his healing work, but
only in the same way they complimented most of his magical training.

“Indeed. If you ever want to study it further, please do owl me. Once the Ministry gets its
nose out of my personal correspondence, of course,” she added sharply. With a short nod, she
hurried over to speak to Albus, then disappeared in a whirl of portkey magic.

Harry looked around the room, mentally ticking everyone off his ‘okay’ list. Fred didn’t
appear to be bleeding anymore, though his trousers were ruined. Remus had stopped
vomiting, his trembling hands cradled between Sirius’ as they talked quietly. Mr and Mrs
Weasley were now beside Bill — he hadn’t even realised they were there, until now. They
didn’t look too worse for wear, though they were a little dishevelled.
“What happened?” Harry asked, approaching his godfathers. Remus gave him a smile that
was more of a grimace.

“Severus passed on word of a raid — a squib couple who have been fostering several
muggleborn children who were not safe with their muggle families. We got there in time to
save everyone, but… the Death Eaters weren’t impressed by our arrival.”

A vice clenched around Harry’s heart, even though Remus had assured him there were no
casualties. A foster family for muggleborns with abusive families… if only he’d had one of
those, as a kid.

“Did we manage to get any of them?” he asked hopefully, looking around the room. Surely
with the number of aurors and seasoned fighters, they would have arrested or incapacitated at
least one Death Eater.

“A fair few — it was an initiation raid, by the looks of it. Mostly inexperienced people, with
a few of the higher rank Death Eaters thrown in for supervision. It was those ones that caught
us off guard; we were outnumbered by the amateurs, we couldn’t always guard on two sides.”

Harry looked around the kitchen, counting quickly — twelve Order members. Fourteen, if
you counted Dumbledore and Snape, though the latter would have been trying to keep his
cover. There were over fourteen people in that single raid trying to become full-blown Death
Eaters.

How the hell were the Ministry still maintaining that Voldemort was dead??

“We’re going to take Bill home with, I think,” Mr Weasley declared, looking down at his
unconscious son sadly. “Poppy says he’ll be alright, but… he’ll do better in a familiar
setting.”

“I am coming wiz him,” Fleur declared, her voice still a little slurred, the occasional shiver
wracking her body. Mrs Weasley eyed her oddly.

“He’s going to be okay, dear,” she assured. “You kept him safe, and we’re ever so grateful,
but… you should go and get some rest. We can have him call you once he’s back on his feet.”

“I am coming wiz him,” Fleur repeated firmly. She reached out, taking Bill’s hand in her
own, looking at the redhead’s parents defiantly. Mr Weasley’s eyes widened, and Mrs
Weasley brought a hand to her mouth.

“Oh. I…”

Harry held his breath, watching in trepidation as the redheaded matriarch digested the news.
He had to give it to Fleur; she certainly had guts. Though this was probably the best time for
it — Molly would be too overwhelmed by the raid for the information to really sink in.

Mrs Weasley didn’t seem able to finish the sentence, and her husband patted her on the arm.

“Of course, Fleur — you’re very welcome in our home,” he declared, his soft voice ringing
through the otherwise silent kitchen. “Let’s get him into bed, shall we?” With a wave of his
wand, he levitated his son off the table. Fleur didn’t let go of Bill’s hand. “Goodnight, all.”

The four of them disappeared into the floo, and a collective breath was released by those who
remained.

“Well,” Tonks said, getting gingerly to her feet. “Bill’s in for an earful once he’s back to
rights. Blimey.”

It was well known within the Order that Molly Weasley was not a fan of Fleur Delacour. She
would be even less so now the girl had admitted to dating her precious son.

“Fancy crashing at mine tonight, Em?” Tonks said, glancing at Emmeline Vance. “Make sure
I don’t bleed out in the night?”

“If I must,” the older witch replied, a hint of a smile at her lips.

The kitchen steadily began to clear out, and Harry nudged Sirius’ side. “Take Moony up,” he
urged softly. “He looks like he’s ready to pass out. I’ll finish up here.”

Sirius blinked, glancing at his partner, who was swaying on his feet and looked a little dazed.
“You sure?” he checked with Harry, eyes flicking to the Weasley twins. Harry nodded.

“Go on.”

With an arm around Remus’ waist, Sirius guided him from the kitchen. Harry headed over to
the twins. “How are you doing?” he asked, grimacing at Fred’s blood-stained and ripped
jeans.

“Bit tender, otherwise fine,” the redhead replied cheerfully. “We thought— if it’s alright with
you, we thought we might crash here tonight. In case Mum calls early to check on us.”

Looking the pair in the eyes, seeing their exhaustion, Harry thought that might not be the
only reason they wanted to stay.

“Yeah, not a problem. You’re always welcome to your room,” he insisted. It was just the
three of them left, now, and Harry begin to clean up the leftover bandages and splatters of
blood around the room. All of a sudden, Kreacher appeared.

“Kreacher will take care of things,” he insisted stubbornly. “Master will go to bed.”

Harry blinked at the elf, who huffed past him and vanished a bloodstain on the table with a
click of his fingers. “Thanks, Kreacher.” There was no response.

Shaking his head in bemusement, Harry walked with the twins towards the staircase. Fred
was limping, leaning heavily into his twin. “Do you need a hand, or…?” Harry trailed off,
and Fred shook his head.

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”

With that assurance, Harry nodded hesitantly, but leaned up to press a kiss to George’s lips.
“Goodnight, then.” Letting them figure their own way up the stairs, Harry headed up to his
bedroom, sinking onto his bed with a sigh. He looked down at his own lap, and grimaced.
There was blood on his pyjamas.

A shower was in order.

He didn’t linger long under the water, just enough to scrub the feeling of blood and dark
magic from his hands. He could hardly believe so many of the Order had come back injured
from the same raid — he’d seen them return to Grimmauld in groups of four and five, scuffed
and sometimes bloody but otherwise alright. This was the biggest one yet. It made his
stomach churn uneasily, especially when he felt neither triumph nor rage through his scar.
Either Voldemort was learning to block his emotions from Harry, or he truly wasn’t bothered
by the resistance to his initiation.

Harry’s stomach squirmed when he thought about what going to sleep might entail.
Voldemort would no doubt be punishing those failures, still.

After Merlin only knew how long spent staring at his bed in a conflicted haze, Harry finally
collapsed into it, tugging the duvet up to his chin.

Then, there was a knock at the door.

He waved his hand to summon light, and again to open the door slightly. George stood there,
wearing boxers and a t-shirt, his hair damp. The smile he gave Harry was strained. “Mind if I
join you?”

In response, Harry pulled back the duvet, nudging the door shut when George stepped inside.
The taller boy wiggled his way under the duvet with Harry, crowding up against his chest. It
was a bit of a tight squeeze in the single bed, but with a little bit of manoeuvring they
managed to get comfortable facing each other, their legs tangled. “Thought you’d want to
stick with Fred tonight,” Harry whispered, nose almost touching George’s.

“He’s fine, just tired. Told me to come up here.” George’s eyes squeezed shut for a long
moment. “Does it ever get any less terrifying?”

Harry didn’t need to ask for clarification. He cupped George’s face, stroking his cheek gently.
“After the first couple of times, sort of.” Facing death didn’t exactly get less terrifying, just
less… novel. The response became more automatic, which made it feel less scary, because
you’d done it before. As far as he knew, this was the twins’ first proper battle with Death
Eaters.

“You’ve been facing shit like that since you were eleven,” George breathed. “Worse than that,
even. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Never had much of a choice,” Harry replied humourlessly. “It’s… it’s easier to do it on my
own. When I don’t have to worry about others.” Even now, Cedric’s lifeless face haunted his
dreams.
“You’re so brave,” George insisted. “If not for Tonks, Fred and I both would’ve been killed
out there. We froze.”

Harry made a mental note to send Tonks some kind of present. “It was your first fight, of
course you froze.” He ran a soothing hand through George’s shower-damp hair. “The brave
part is going towards the fight to begin with, and you did that.”

George hummed noncommittally. Harry leaned in, kissing his jaw. “You are brave,” he
insisted. “So brave. Just look at everything you did to protect the kids before you left
Hogwarts.” He pulled George closer, urging him to rest his head on Harry’s chest. “They’re
Death Eaters, of course they’re terrifying. But you did it anyway. I’m so proud of you.”

George squeezed him tight for a moment, and Harry felt his shoulders shudder a little. “Don’t
know what I’d do without you,” the redhead admitted quietly. “I… whatever your secrets are,
whatever plans you’ve got— do your best to come back to me when it’s all over, yeah? I need
you, Harry.”

Harry bit his lip. He was glad George didn’t ask him to promise to live. That wasn’t a
promise he could make. None of them could. “I will if you do,” he responded, stroking the
short hairs on the nape of George’s neck. “The feeling is mutual.” He couldn’t know the
outcome of this war, but he knew that the longer it kept going, the more likely it would
become that George wouldn’t come home one day. Especially if Voldemort ever found out
how much the redhead meant to Harry.

But that wouldn’t stop either of them fighting, or being together. They’d waited long enough
for both of those things.
 Chapter 26

In the middle of a large crowd of muggles all moving in the same direction, Harry peered
around for a familiar face, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

Only nine people knew where he was right now. That was a larger number than privy to most
of his secrets, and that should have reassured him, but all he could think of was how he had
never done anything remotely like this before. He’d never left Britain before.

He shuffled along with the crowd of muggles through the train station, and his stomach
flipped at the sight of silver-blonde hair, relief flooding him instantly. Fleur was stood off to
the side, dressed like an incredibly fashionable muggle in jeans and a silver top beneath a
leather jacket, completely ignoring the way half the people in the station were staring at her
in awe. Harry stifled a smirk, heading in her direction, and her face lit up when she saw him.
She hurried over, bundling him in a tight hug and kissing both his cheeks delightedly. “You
made it!” she squealed happily. Harry wondered if she noticed all the people now giving him
death glares for being so familiar with the beautiful young woman.

“Happy birthday,” he replied, passing over a small wrapped gift. She squealed and hugged
him again.

“Oh, you should not have! You have already done so much!”

“You’re the one who’s done the favour for me,” he insisted. “It’s the least I could do.”

Fleur rolled her eyes, but tucked the present into her handbag, then looped her arm through
Harry’s. “Shall we go? Gabrielle is eager to see you.”

Harry grinned, hitching his backpack further up his shoulder and gesturing broadly in front of
them. “Lead the way!”

It was strange, being in Calais station. It was as busy as St Pancras had been, but there were
distinct differences; both in architecture, and in the language all around him. He’d never been
somewhere he didn’t speak the most-used language before — even in Gringotts, most
discussions were held in English — and to hear dozens of conversations happening but not
understand a single one of them was somewhat jarring. He was fascinated, though, looking
around with childlike joy as Fleur led him around to a corridor that none of the muggles
appeared to notice.

“I wish you were here for longer,” Fleur sighed. “I would love to show you my home
country.”

“Another time, perhaps,” Harry suggested. He too wished he had time for sight-seeing, but he
was on an incredibly tight schedule.

The warded corridor held a row of fireplaces, as well as several cubicles that were for use as
departing apparition points, according to the sign in both French and English. Fleur stepped
up towards one of the fireplaces, reaching for the floo powder. “Hold on tight,” she teased,
tossing the powder in and pulling Harry with her into the flames, calling out something he
didn’t quite catch before they were swirling through the fireplace.

It spat them out into an elegantly decorated reception room, and Harry barely had time to
regain his footing before a tiny blonde blur was flying towards him. “Harry!” It was
Gabrielle, Fleur’s little sister, who had grown at least three inches since Harry had seen her
last. “Welcome! We are so ‘appy to ‘ave you! Ca va? Fleur said you cannot stay long and you
are very busy—“ Her words spilled out in a mixture of French and heavily-accented English,
and Fleur’s musical laugh met Harry’s ears.

“Gabrielle, parle l’Anglais,” the elder sister chided playfully. “‘Arry does not speak Francais,
oui?”

The young girl blushed, staring up at Harry with wide eyes. He offered her a smile. “Hi,
Gabrielle. It’s good to see you, too! Wow, you look even more like your sister than last time,”
he added, watching her beam with pride.

“Come, Papa has lunch ready,” Fleur urged. At that reminder, Gabrielle bounced forward to
take Harry’s hand, leading him through the house as she spoke in slower, somewhat stilted
English.

“You must tell me what it is like where Fleur works, she will not say much,” she declared
with a mildly mutinous look at her sister. “And she ‘as barely said anyzing about ‘er
boyfriend! Do you know ‘im?”

Harry grinned wickedly. “Oh, I’ve known him for longer than Fleur has,” he informed her,
watching the girl’s eyebrows rise.

“Zen you must tell me everyzing.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Fleur cut in. “Not too much, ‘Arry.” She winked at him, and he chuckled.

They went through a doorway into a homey, country-style kitchen, and Harry’s breath caught
in his throat at the sight of the man stood by the sink. He had the same white-blond hair as
the Malfoys, but that was where the similarities ended. His hair was short, and his face was
warm and friendly with the barest hint of laughter lines creasing the tanned skin. Bright blue
eyes danced at the sight of his daughters and their guest, and he glanced down at the navy
blue apron tied around his waist with a sheepish smile.

“You are earlier than I expected. Forgive me, I have been baking.” Muscular arms flexed as
he reached behind himself to untie the apron, hanging it on a hook by the stove. “You must be
Harry Potter.” He held out a hand.

Harry swallowed thickly, almost tripping over his feet in his haste to shake it. “Yes, ah, it’s
nice to meet you.” He hadn’t realised that Fleur had gained her veela heritage from her
father’s side! He’d never seen a male veela before, or even half-veela! He quickly tried to
regain his composure. “Thank you for inviting me into your home, Monsieur Delacour.”
“Please, please, call me François,” the man insisted, smiling brightly. “You are welcome here
always — both my daughters are very fond of you.”

Gabrielle blushed at the insinuation, while Fleur just chuckled.

Still a little distracted by Fleur’s supernaturally gorgeous dad, Harry let himself be directed
into a chair, and soon there was a large dish of food floating towards the table, as well as a
bread board with a still-steaming loaf. It all smelled wonderful, and Harry’s stomach
rumbled; he’d hardly eaten on the train over.

“How was your journey?” François asked, gesturing for Harry to serve himself. “I admit, I
am fascinated by that new muggle enterprise. To have built a tunnel all the way beneath the
sea! Completely without magic! They are industrious indeed.”

“It was certainly an experience,” Harry agreed. He hadn’t been on a train for that long before,
and it had gotten a little claustrophobic at first, but he’d settled down with a book and soon
time had flown by. The Channel Tunnel train had barely been open much longer than a year,
and many of its passengers had been confused by this ordinary-looking teenage boy
travelling by himself, no doubt wondering how he’d paid for the ticket.

Over lunch, the Delacour family made Harry feel entirely welcome, commiserating over his
short stay with them. “Plenty of time for you to tell us about Fleur’s new beau,” François
teased, watching his daughter flush. “He must be a special one, or she would have told us
more.”

“She would ‘ave dumped ‘im by now, you mean, Papa,” Gabrielle added cheekily. Harry
snickered.

“I’m a bit biased, but Bill is wonderful,” he assured. “And he loves your daughter very
much.” Harry could still remember the shouting match that had occurred at Grimmauld Place
once Bill had recovered well enough for Mrs Weasley to criticise his choice in girlfriend. Bill
had refused to hear a bad word about Fleur, threatening to stop speaking to his mother
entirely if she couldn’t accept their relationship.

“Biased?” François asked, raising an eyebrow.

“‘Arry is to be family, soon,” Fleur said, an impish lilt to her tone. Harry choked on his bread.

“What! I— steady on, Fleur, we’re just—“ He and George had barely been together a month!
Regardless of all the time before in that space in-between.

Fleur giggled. “I did not mean like that, though it says a lot that your mind went straight
there,” she added knowingly. Harry looked at her, puzzled, until the pieces clicked together
and his jaw dropped.

“You? Did Bill—“ He glanced down at her left hand. Her grin widened.

“Not yet. But I may ‘ave found it in a drawer of ‘is desk. Bill does not know I know.” She
looked to her father, happiness shining on her face. “That is another reason I was glad to
come ‘ome, Papa. Bill ‘as not yet proposed, and I do not know when ‘e will, but I will say
yes when that day comes.”

François looked gobsmacked. Harry beamed; that was brilliant! He couldn’t think of a more
deserving couple than Bill and Fleur.

The three Delacours had a hurried discussion in French, then Fleur turned to Harry
apologetically. “We are being rude,” she began, but he waved her off.

“I don’t mind. It’s fantastic news! Though I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep this from
George,” he added with a grimace. “Or from Bill, to be honest. Hopefully he asks you soon.”
There were enough secrets in his life that he was having to keep track of, but he was
delighted to add this particular one to the mix.

He hoped he could be there when they told Mrs Weasley the good news.

The admission that Fleur was going to marry Bill when he asked changed the tone of the
meal entirely, Fleur laughingly fending off her father’s enquiries, insisting that they were not
actually engaged yet. When their plates were clear, she turned to Harry.

“Maman ‘as said we can floo to ‘er office when you are ready,” she told him. “You begin at
two, oui?”

Harry checked his watch; it was just gone one now. His stomach flooded with nerves. “Yeah,
first one is at two o’clock. We should get going, then?” With his exuberant welcome, he’d
almost forgotten the real reason he was in France.

François cleared the table with a flick of his wand, and the smile he offered Harry made the
teen’s stomach flip. George was never going to let him hear the end of this if he ever found
out! And something about Fleur’s innocent expression made Harry positive the redhead
would indeed find out.

He felt a little bit bad about mocking Ron for the way he acted around Fleur in fourth year,
now.

“Good luck, ‘Arry,” Gabrielle chirped, bravely bouncing up to kiss him on the cheek before
scurrying back to her father’s side.

“Indeed; good luck. We will see you this evening; your room is prepared. If you wish to leave
your bag with us, I can put it away for you,” François offered, gesturing to the backpack
beside Harry’s chair.

“Oh, thank you.” He couldn’t think of anything in it he needed, once he changed into the
robes he had brought. Quills and ink would be supplied for him.

With Fleur leading the way, he soon found himself flooing into an office in the French
Ministry building, and shaking hands with Apolline Delacour, a formidable-looking witch
with a cascade of wavy blonde hair and intelligent grey eyes. She might not have the veela
blood of her daughters, but she was still incredibly beautiful.
“I admit, when Fleur told me she was bringing home an English boy, I expected it to be that
Mr Weasley of hers,” Apolline commented, making Fleur blush and Harry laugh.

“I’m sure she’ll bring him to meet you, soon,” he assured, not wanting to spoil Fleur’s big
news. “Thank you so much for arranging this, Madame Delacour. I don’t know how to thank
you.”

“Nonsense. You saved my daughter’s life. Both of them,” the woman insisted softly. “Fleur
told me about the freezing curse you cured her of. My family owes you many debts,
Monsieur Potter, and I will do my best to begin to repay them.”

Harry glanced askance at Fleur. “There are no debts between family,” he said, watching
Apolline’s shrewd gaze dart back to her daughter.

“Well,” she murmured. “I will take you to your first exam. Fleur, it seems we have much to
discuss, non?”

Fleur grinned. “I will tell you everything, Maman,” she promised.

Harry walked with the two Delacour women down an empty corridor to a small room,
holding two desks facing each other and a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick
moustache. The man straightened up when they entered, offering a short bow. “Welcome.
You must be Monsieur Potter. I am Professeur Gauthier.”

Harry shook the man’s hand, then pulled from his robe pocket his Gringotts-officiated birth
certificate. Professeur Gauthier scanned the document, first with his eyes and then with his
wand, before nodding sharply and handing it back to Harry. “That is all in order. You are set
to take three exams this afternoon, correct?”

Harry nodded — his schedule had all but burned itself into his eyelids by now.

“Fantastique. Madame Delacour, I shall send for you when Monsieur Potter is finished, if that
pleases you?”

The pair shared a short conversation in French, and while they did that Fleur turned to Harry.
“You are smart,” she told him firmly. “And you are capable. I would wish you luck, but you
do not need it.” She leaned in, kissing both his cheeks, and when she pulled back there was
fire in her eyes. “Show your Ministry what they are missing out on, yes?”

Harry grinned back with the same fire, and nodded.

The two women left, and Gauthier gestured for Harry to take a seat at the desk. The chair
glowed white, startling Harry. “To confirm you have no methods of cheating on your person,”
Gauthier explained, setting a single quill and a pot of ink in front of him. “If you need more
of either, please raise your hand. You have two hours.” Suddenly, two pieces of parchment
appeared on the desk; one for Harry to write on, the other requesting he turn over when
instructed. “You may begin.”
All of a sudden, a large hourglass appeared on the desk opposite; Gauthier’s desk. Harry
immediately picked up his quill and flipped over the parchment, breathing out a steadying
breath.

‘International Standard Ordinary Wizarding Level — Charms Written Examination’ it read at

the top. Harry pushed down the squirming in his belly, turned his gaze to the first question,
and got to work.

.-.-.-.

He was only in France for four days. Four days to take exams in ten subjects; many of which
had both written and practical examinations. Fleur had thought him mad when he’d first
suggested it, but Harry didn’t have the luxury of being away from home much longer. Every
minute he spent out of Britain — at least, the minutes where he wasn’t focused on his exams
— his heart raced with the fear that something big was going to happen while he was too far
away to stop it.

Luckily, the universe seemed to be in his favour. He didn’t have a single Voldemort-related
dream while he was with the Delacours — which meant he wasn’t entering his exams sleep
deprived and high on headache remedy, another bonus. After that first day, he went to the
French Ministry with Apolline, returned to the examination room, and only left for bathroom
breaks until Apolline came to retrieve him to go home for dinner. The Ministry provided
lunch for him, at his desk in that little room, and whichever member of the education
department was supervising him would apologise that he could not go outside and get more
fresh air than their open window allowed. Harry didn’t mind. He was used to being stuck
inside by now — it wasn’t worth the risk that someone might see him and recognise Harry
Potter.

It was incredibly fortunate for him, that Apolline Delacour was the head of the Department of
Education and Examinations in France. He hadn’t expected that when he’d hesitantly floated
the idea of taking his exams in another country to Fleur, all those months ago. She had been
eager to enlist her mother for help, promising Harry that she could get him qualified at the
same time as his friends, if not sooner.

Everyone who interacted with Harry was sworn to secrecy over his presence, but Harry
doubted that was even really necessary — none of them held much admiration for the
English Ministry, and they all seemed delighted to be getting one over on Cornelius Fudge.
Taking his examinations in France technically made Harry a student of the French education
system, so not only would his grades reflect well on them but it would allow him to seek
employment in France and its allied magical communities, even if the English Ministry
refused to ever overturn his expulsion and recognise the qualifications. It gave Harry options,
even if Fudge managed to retain power. Even if destroying Voldemort took much longer than
Harry anticipated.

So for four days, he punished himself with a rigorous exam schedule, and went home to the
Delacour household in the evenings, welcomed with excellent food and bright conversation
and plenty of encouragement for his remaining exams. Fleur’s family were truly wonderful,
and he couldn’t wait for Bill to meet them one day. One day soon, as he had promised to
Apolline, agreeing to pester Fleur if she did not arrange a trip home once she was officially
engaged.

He missed his family, of course. At night when he went to bed he pulled the two-way mirror
from his backpack and called George, demanding to know if anything had happened while he
was gone. Being on the mirror reminded him of when the twins had been at Hogwarts, but it
was easier this time. For one, he knew he wouldn’t be away long, but also the twins were no
longer at risk of Umbridge.

At risk of Death Eaters was another matter, but Harry just tried not to think about that
possibility.

The exams themselves were going far better than he’d anticipated — either the Hogwarts
professors made them sound far harder than reality in order to scare students into studying, or
he’d learned a whole lot more in the last eight months than he’d realised. The written exams
went smoothly — even Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, which he’d put himself forward for
only at Bill’s urging — and the examiners carrying out his practical exams delighted in his
free use of wandless magic. At first they seemed a little baffled how to grade him properly,
when they were supposed to take wand movements into account, but the power and
effectiveness of his spells spoke for themselves. Professeur Gauthier, who ended up giving
Harry’s Defence Against the Dark Arts practical exam, almost fell to the floor in shock at the
sight of Harry’s wandless, corporeal patronus. “Mon Dieu,” the man murmured, awed gaze
fixed on the glowing white stag. “This at fifteen… your English Ministry had made a foolish
mistake.”

Harry just grinned.

When he set his quill down at the end of his Transfiguration written exam, the very last exam
in his schedule, a wave of relief overcame him. He leaned back in his chair, looking up at
Professeur Bernard, who flipped the hourglass, summoned his papers and tapped them with
her wand to make them disappear up to her office. “Congratulations, Monsieur Potter — you
have completed your examinations.”

With a wave of her wand, a small blue bird made of light appeared in the air, zooming
towards the door and squeezing through the keyhole. Harry knew the bird would make its
way to Apolline, to let her know he was done for the day.

“How do you feel that one went?” Professeur Bernard asked, tucking a lock of dark brown
hair behind her ear. She was the youngest of the people working in the department — at least
the ones Harry had met — and she had been so overjoyed with his Arithmancy practical she
had practically handed him the pass certificate there and then.

“Well, I think. There was nothing I hadn’t prepared for.” He made a mental note to thank
Sirius when he got home, for incorporating so many transfiguration-based prank spells into
Harry’s daily life. It had made explaining the theory behind many of them far easier than he’d
anticipated.

There was a knock on the door, and Apolline stepped inside, beaming. “You finished early,”
she noted, glancing at the hourglass, which had stopped spilling sand when Professeur
Bernard had turned it over, showing he still had at least a quarter of his allotted time
remaining.

“If I’d started reading my answers back a third time, I would have started to doubt myself,”
Harry pointed out wryly. Both women laughed.

“Is it time, then?” Professeur Bernard asked Apolline, who nodded. Harry looked puzzled.
Time for what?

To his surprise, Apolline did not open the door and lead the way back to her office, as she had
done every day prior. Instead she looked at Harry, wearing an impish expression very much
like her daughter’s. “There is one more test for you to take, if you please, Harry.”

Harry wracked his brain in panic, trying to figure out which one he’d missed. He didn’t have
time for another test! He had to take his train back to London soon!

He couldn’t think of anything, and he wondered if it was some sort of French addition to the
exam schedule, some subject he wasn’t aware of that he’d been signed up to by accident.
Apolline chuckled at his look of alarm. “My daughter tells me you know how to apparate.”

“I— apparition isn’t legal until you’re seventeen,” he answered automatically. Apolline’s
smile widened.

“Ordinarily, yes. However, in the French Ministry, we sometimes allow those who are not yet
of age to get their license, if they have need of it and show a firm grasp of their magic. For
young people who must work to aid their families or their siblings, or have safety concerns
that would be eased by their ability to apparate. As you have taken your OWLs with us, that
makes you enough of a French student to gain your apparition license here as well. Should
you ever have need of the skill and get caught, you will not have to fear punishment from
your English Ministry. The French will protect your rights.”

Harry gaped at her. He had no idea what he’d done to deserve the backing of such an
incredible, high-powered woman — and an entire nation, from the sounds of things — but he
was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“What does the exam entail?”

Apolline beamed at him. “I am qualified to examine for an apparition license, as is Professeur

Gauthier, who is currently in my office. Fleur is there also.” She winked. “There is a
designated spot in front of the fireplace. We will see you there.” With that, she turned on the
spot and vanished with a quiet pop.

Harry turned to Professeur Bernard, offering his hand. “Thank you again for giving up your
time for me,” he said, knowing that every single one of the invigilators who had helped him
this week had made room in their own busy schedules just for that. Private exam sessions
were practically unheard of, even for homeschooled students, and Harry was well aware how
lucky he was that they had all been willing to do this for him.
“It was a pleasure, Monsieur Potter,” she insisted, cheeks dimpling when she smiled. “I look
forward to seeing where your magic takes you, as strong as it is. Now go; they are waiting.”

Checking he wasn’t leaving anything behind, Harry squared his shoulders and mentally
pictured Apolline’s office, with the square rug in front of the fireplace. Gathering his magic,
he spun on his heel—

— And reappeared right where he had anticipated, meeting Fleur’s bright gaze. The blonde
witch cheered when he appeared, and Harry turned to see Apolline and Professeur Gauthier
stood beside her desk. Harry held out his arms and twirled slowly, as if to prove he had not
splinched or damaged himself in the journey. Apolline laughed. “Very well done, Harry,” she
complimented. Professeur Gauthier had a clipboard floating in front of him and an ornate
peacock quill in hand.

“Indeed, Monsieur Potter; I am happy to report a successful examination.” He ticked

something on his clipboard, then scrawled his name with a flourish, and the parchment
vanished in a sizzle of green smoke. “Congratulations. The apparition license is valid
immediately, and the rest of your examination results should be processed by the end of the
examination period. You have already signed your secrecy contract, and Madame Delacour
has assured me she will get your results directly to you once they are ready.” His lips curled
upwards beneath his moustache. “It has truly been a delight working with you, Monsieur
Potter. Should you wish to sit your NEWT-level examinations with us, the French Ministry
would be honoured to oblige you.”

“I— thank you. I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

“I daresay Harry could sit his NEWTs the day he gets his OWL results back and still get
straight-Os,” Apolline remarked slyly, making him blush. She hadn’t been responsible for
overseeing any of his examinations — to avoid a conflict of interest, given the ties between
their families — but she assured Harry she had talked to those who had, and he had done
very well indeed.

Professeur Gauthier said his goodbyes, and Harry turned to the two witches still in the room.
“I suppose I’d best make my way to the station, then.” He’d said his goodbyes to Gabrielle
and François that morning, promising Gabrielle he’d come back to visit sometime soon when
things were safer. His backpack was beside Apolline’s desk, ready for him to floo to the train
station. All international magical travel was monitored, but the Ministry didn’t even think of
keeping an eye on muggle transportation. No one in England would know Harry had even
left, unless he told them.

Fleur’s smile dropped. “You are welcome to stay another night and come back with me,
through Gringotts,” she offered for the dozenth time. Harry shook his head; as tempting as it
was, he couldn’t risk it.

“No, you have a good night with your family; I think I’ve monopolised their time long
enough,” he joked. Sure, Fleur spent time with her family while Harry was sitting his exams,
but it wasn’t the same. She deserved to spend some time with just them — once she was back
in England, she didn’t know when she would see them again.
The goodbyes were fond, Apolline assuring he was welcome in their home whenever he
wished, and Fleur promising she would see him the next day once she too was back in
England. His heart twisting, Harry stepped into the floo, calling the name for the station
fireplaces.

He was sad to leave, but he couldn’t wait to see his own family again.
 Chapter 27
Chapter Notes

There was no George in the last chapter. So have some smut to make up for that :P

Despite everything, Harry continued to have terrible timing.

When he reached St Pancras station, weariness beginning to set in after a gruelling week and
the long train journey, he found a hidden corner and apparated away — he was too tired to
bother with the tube at that time of night, and going to the wizarding sector of the station to
floo out would mean going across to King’s Cross and stepping onto Platform 9 & 3/4, which
his heart couldn’t take at that moment. So, taking advantage of his new French license, he
spun on his heel and thought of the twins’ shop.

He was surprised to see how much progress they had made while he was gone — the place
was a riot of colour, and half the displays were full now. The wards parted easily for him, and
he hurried up to the flat, eager to see their faces — one in particular.

However, the flat was empty when he reached it. A frown coming to his lips as unease
squirmed in his gut, Harry looked around for some sort of note. He hadn’t actually told them
what time he would be coming home, or suggested he would stop in on the way. Perhaps they
were out with friends? He’d heard Oliver Wood was in town for a game at the weekend.

Somewhat forlorn, and refusing to even consider any more sinister reasons for the pair to be
out, Harry turned to their fireplace.

And flooed right into the middle of an Order meeting.

Everyone in the room stared at him. Harry stared back dumbly — had he known there was
going to be a meeting, and just forgotten in his tiredness?

“Harry! Where on Earth have you been?” Mrs Weasley jumped to her feet. “I haven’t seen
you in days, Sirius said you were only out for a walk this evening! Where did you floo in
from? Who were you with? You’re supposed to be avoiding magical spaces, it’s dangerous!”

“Oh, y’know,” Harry replied with a shrug. “Had some Gringotts business. It was a bit late,
but that’s goblins for you. Money never sleeps.” He chuckled. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“I will admit to also being intrigued, Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore piped up before Harry
could excuse himself. “As Molly said; no one has seen you in several days now. I myself
have been here multiple times in the last week, and you have been gone the whole time.”
Harry bit back a grimace, wondering what kind of lies his godfathers and the twins had been
spinning to try and keep people off his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw
Sirius mime something.

“I’ve started running, now the weather’s better,” he explained, hoping that was what Sirius
was trying to get at. The discreet thumbs-up made his shoulders relax. “Got to stay fit, after
all.”

“Running, in jeans?” Elphias Doge asked doubtfully, eyeing him over.

“No — I was at Gringotts tonight,” Harry reminded. “But the days before I was probably
running when Albus and Molly were over. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

He could tell that hardly anyone believed his story about going running, but he wasn’t going
to invite further questions from anyone who cared. Veering around the full table and leaving
the kitchen, he headed up to his room before a proper interrogation could begin.

Harry told himself he hadn’t told the rest of the Order for safety reasons, not wanting anyone
to know he’d been reckless enough to leave the country through muggle means and then
show his face at the French Ministry. He resolutely ignored the little voice that pointed out
that the fewer people who knew, the fewer people he had to admit to when he failed all his
exams.

Apolline had told him he’d done well. That voice could fuck off.

Tossing the laundry from his backpack into the hamper, Harry grabbed clean clothes and
made a beeline for his bathroom — he’d done his Potions practical that morning, and his hair
still felt a little lank from the fumes of his Draught of Peace. No wonder Snape always looked
so greasy, from the time he spent hunched over a cauldron.

François had snuck him a stasis-charmed lunchbox with a dish of homemade ratatouille and a
small selection of sweet pastries, which he’d discovered and then demolished on the train
home, so he had no need to brave the Order meeting and hunt down dinner. Instead, Harry
got himself clean and sprawled out on his bed, letting the events of the past week wash over
him.

He had taken his OWLs. It might not be legal in England due to his expulsion, but he would
have some sort of qualifications to his name soon — provided he hadn’t failed them all
dismally. He had taken the first steps to securing his future, outside of the whole Dark Lord
situation.

Secretly, he was sort of glad he couldn’t write to his friends. Even though the secrecy
contract he’d signed made it physically impossible to tell anyone the contents of the exam, to
avoid giving advance notice to any students yet to take this year’s examination, he knew
Hermione would insist he dissect every second of his time at the French Ministry, and
practically recite his answers back to her. Ron would be jealous that Harry had got his exams
out of the way early, and been able to take them in private so no one else could see if he
messed up. At Hogwarts, Harry knew, they took practical exams in groups in the Great Hall.
Harry didn’t want to go over his answers, or talk about what the exams were like. Quite
frankly, he wanted to push the whole thing from his mind entirely — at least until his results
came.

His foot bounced restlessly. How long would it take, he wondered, for the results to arrive.
Gauthier had said ‘by the end of the examination period’. Did that mean when everyone had
taken the exams, or when they had all been marked? Would he have to wait until the summer
to get his results back?

His foot bounced more aggressively, his fingers tapping on the hollow of his ribs. He wasn’t
sure he could wait that long and not think about it. Now he’d taken the exams, that was half
his study time empty — unless he wanted to get a head start on NEWT work. He could spend
more time training, but those who would help him were getting busier and busier these days.
It was hard to practice duelling by yourself.

So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realise how much time had passed — and thus almost
jumped out of his skin when someone knocked on the door. He flicked it open, hoping it
wasn’t Dumbledore come to interrogate him some more, and grinned at the sight of George.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” George drawled, shutting the door and practically
pouncing on the bed. Harry caught him easily, pulling him down into a messy kiss.

“Missed you,” he murmured, hands tangling in George’s t-shirt.

“Missed you too, gorgeous,” George replied, kissing along Harry’s jaw. “Everyone’s gone
home. Freddie and I are about to head back. You wanna come with? Padfoot says it’s fine,”
he added before Harry could argue.

Harry thought about it, his hands on George’s backside. He hadn’t seen his godfathers in
days, and they were probably keen to hear about his time in France. He should stay with
them.

But. George was here and warm and so devastatingly sexy with his grin and his tight grey t-
shirt and his messy hair. Harry had missed him, too. And he seemed pretty keen to not hear
about Harry’s time in France. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll come.”

“Mm, at least once, I promise,” George murmured salaciously, pressing himself against Harry
before pulling back, tugging Harry up with him. “Let’s go.”

As promised, the kitchen was far emptier. Sirius and Remus were smirking knowingly at their
godson. “Don’t worry about us, kid,” Sirius assured, ruffling his hair. “Despite being
positively ancient, we remember what exams were like. Go hang out with the twins, you can
tell us everything tomorrow.”

Remus kissed him on the forehead, then shoved him back over towards George. “He’s all
yours, boys. Do try and have him back in one piece, whenever you feel like throwing him
back our way. No rush, though. Moon’s tonight.”
Harry hadn’t realised, and he grimaced; that explained why Remus was looking a little grey
in the face. “Hope it’s a calm one,” he replied, earning a smile.

Harry flooed over to the flat, and Fred ruffled his hair. “Good to have you back, mate. This
one’s been useless; too busy pining for you,” he joked, gesturing to his brother. “Drink?” He
summoned several butterbeers, tossing one to Harry.

“Useless, he says,” George retorted with a gasp. “Which one of us finally perfected the
isolation on the cushioning charm!”

“You got it?” Harry asked eagerly; the project had been bothering George since before Harry
had left, trying to figure out how to make some slap-bracelets turn only a person’s hands
weightless and elastic, rather than their whole body. Marshmallow Fists of Fury, they wanted
to call them; goad someone into hitting something, sneak the bracelet on them and watch
their pathetic useless fists go to work.

“I did, the genius that I am,” George preened, tilting his head down for the congratulatory
kiss Harry offered. “That’s another one ticked off the list.”

They were working so quickly through their list of products to get ready for the grand
opening. Harry was sure they’d have it all done well ahead of schedule.

One congratulatory kiss turned into two, until Fred sprayed them with a blast of water from
his wand. “Alright, alright, we’ll behave!” Harry assured laughingly, drying them both.

“For now,” George murmured, breath hot on Harry’s ear, hand sneaking down to squeeze his
bum.

Harry stomped down on the arousal within him, refusing to get a boner while they were still
hanging out with Fred. Something George seemed to be taking as a challenge.

The living room of the flat now had two comfy sofas and an armchair, and Harry and George
claimed their usual sofa, George pulling Harry half into his lap. As the twins updated Harry
on everything they’d been up to in the last few days, George kept one hand on Harry’s thigh,
stroking gently with his thumb. It was driving Harry absolutely insane, and he was glad when
Fred declared he was going to call it a night.

Harry and George retreated to George’s room, and as soon as the door was shut and silenced
Harry had George slammed up against it, his fingers tugging at the hem of the older boy’s t-
shirt. “You bloody tease,” he growled, pulling away long enough just to wrestle George’s
shirt over his head. George smirked devilishly, and Harry’s pulse jumped.

“Just letting you know I’m glad to have you home,” George teased, removing Harry’s shirt,
mindful of his glasses. “Y’know, I remember the night exams ended back in our OWL year.
The only thing anyone wanted to do was celebrate.” He whirled them around, pinning Harry
to the door by his wrists, mouthing along his shoulder. “What do you think? You want to
celebrate?”
“I want you naked,” Harry muttered with a pointed glance at the redhead’s jeans. George’s
smirk widened.

“Sounds like a celebration to me. Your wish is my command.” He stepped back, and Harry
took the opportunity to kick off his shoes and socks and make himself comfortable on the
bed. George stood in front of him, hands moving leisurely to the fly of his jeans. He unzipped
and let his jeans fall from his hips as if there was no rush whatsoever. When his fingers
curled in the waistband of his boxers, Harry whimpered quietly, eyes fixed on the bulge in the
bright blue fabric. George grinned. He turned around, bending over pointedly as he pulled his
boxers down, giving a little shake of his arse in Harry’s direction.

At last, he faced Harry, fully naked. It was a sight Harry had only been privy to a handful of
times now — if you didn’t count the quidditch changing rooms, which he absolutely didn’t
because that was totally not the same — and every time it took his breath away. George was
incredible, his quidditch-muscled thighs dusted with freckles and red-blond hairs, his cock
standing proud, a faint scar on the ridge of his hipbone from an incident as a kid. Harry
wanted to touch every inch of that creamy freckled skin — he held his arms out pointedly,
beckoning George closer.

“Merlin, the way you look at me,” George breathed, stalking towards him. He knelt on the
end of the bed, between Harry’s legs, and reached up to flick open the button on Harry’s
jeans. His fingers pressed teasingly against Harry’s straining length as he undid the zip, and
then with a quick yank on the cuffs of the jeans he was whipping them off and tossing them
to the floor. “These coming off, too?” he asked, finger tracing the lower edge of Harry’s
boxers. Harry arched up into the touch.

“Please.”

George peeled Harry’s boxers down with near-reverent hands, staring at the naked seeker
lying in his bed like Harry was a feast and he a starving man. Harry resisted the urge to
squirm, knowing it would just make George’s admiration become more blatant. The older
Gryffindor didn’t like Harry trying to downplay his attractiveness, or any other part of
himself.

George’s hands skimmed up Harry’s calves and thighs, dodging the one area most desperate
for touch and continuing up his stomach and chest, callused fingertips flicking at pert nipples.
“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asked, voice slow and treacle-thick, pupils blown
wide. “It’s your celebration, after all. How do you want me, Harry?”

The words stole the breath from Harry’s lungs, his brain shorting out as he tried to think of a
response. There were dozens of ways he wanted George right now; how was he supposed to
pick one?

There was still so much they hadn’t done together, things Harry had heard about at school or
read in the book he’d been given for Christmas; things he was eager to get to but unwilling to
rush this achingly, gloriously slow journey George had set them on, determined to learn every
little inch of Harry’s body and what made it tick.
George moved one hand to Harry’s side, brushing gentle fingers over the line of his waist in
the way he knew made Harry’s skin spark with pleasure. The dark-haired boy gasped, arching
up to the touch, feeling his cock jump at the sensation. “Touch me,” he begged. George
smirked wolfishly.

“But I am,” he breathed, pointedly running his nails over the ridges of Harry’s ribs. “Gonna
have to be more specific.”

“I—“ Harry was lost, his brain a puddle of goo somewhere on the mattress, his senses
oblivious to everything but the feel of George’s hands on him, the scent of the redhead’s
sheets, the taste of his mouth still on Harry’s lips.

“I can touch you here,” George told him softly, trailing a hand down to wrap around Harry’s
straining erection. Harry groaned deep in the back of his throat. “Or, if you’re feeling
brave…” The redhead leaned over Harry, propped up with one hand beside his head,
lowering down until his chest just barely touched Harry’s. “I can touch you… here.” His
fingers moved to run delicately over Harry’s balls, drifting behind them but not going any
further. The look in his eyes made it clear what he was suggesting, and for a moment Harry
thought he was going to come there and then.

“Yes,” he blurted in a whisper, cheeks burning at his own eagerness. “Fuck, George, please.
Do you have—“ George’s full body pressed against him as he reached across into his bedside
drawer, coming back with a potion vial full of a glistening pale pink liquid. “Nice.” He
pressed up for an eager kiss. “How— how d’you wanna do this? Should I…?” He gestured as
if to roll over, and George stayed him with a hand to his chest.

“Only if you want to. Sometimes it’s more comfortable that way, but I’m gonna go slow, so
that shouldn’t really matter. And I’m not— we’re not, y’know, going the whole way tonight,
are we?”

Harry thought about it, for a moment. It was tempting. George’s cock was right there, thick
and hard. He swallowed. Thicker than his toy from the muggle shop, which he’d only tried a
couple of times before.

Taking their time was probably the better idea. It had worked out well for him so far. “Not
tonight,” he assured. A thought occurred to him, and he tensed. “Do we even have time for
this tonight?” He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay.

“We’ve got all night, if you want,” George suggested tentatively. “Moony and Pads will be
busy with the full — Remus told me to keep you ’til morning. If… if you want to stay.”

Despite their compromising position, his eyes were hesitant and hopeful, and Harry’s heart
ached with affection. “I’d love to,” he assured, pulling George in for another kiss. They
hadn’t shared a bed at night since that one Death Eater raid where Bill almost died, but just
that once was enough for Harry to be addicted to the feeling of waking up in George’s arms.

“Good.” George’s grin was boyish and happy, before he remembered what they were in the
middle of — he smirked, uncorking the vial. “Then just lie back and trust me, gorgeous.” He
adjusted Harry a little, putting a pillow beneath his hips and making sure he was comfortable.
“This is gonna feel weird at first,” he warned, dipping his fingers into the potion vial.

“I know. I… I’ve tried stuff, myself, a couple times,” Harry admitted shyly. A drop of clear
fluid spurted from the tip of George’s cock, and he moaned softly.

“You’re gonna kill me with that mental image.” He leaned down, kissing Harry hard. “You
liked it, playing with yourself?”

“Yeah. My wrist didn’t really bend right to get my fingers in enough, but I’ve got this… um.
Do wizards have sex toys?” He honestly had no idea. It had never really come up in
conversation.

George looked like he was barely holding on by a thread. “You’re so hot it should be illegal,
Potter.” He ran his now-slicked fingers down Harry’s length, taking his time to his
destination. “Yes, wizards have sex toys. Not many places to get them, though. Something
we’ve thought about expanding the shop for, one day.” He smirked, eyes sparkling. “Could
be fun to test those kinds of products, hmm?” Slowly, carefully, his first finger slipped inside
Harry. “You telling me you’ve got some muggle toys? Oh, darling, you’ve been holding out
on me.”

“Was gonna tell you eventually,” Harry replied, squirming desperately in an attempt to get
George to go deeper. He was taking everything so incredibly slowly — he always said he was
giving Harry time to get used to things, but Harry wondered if the redhead wasn’t just trying
to kill him with overstimulation instead. “There’s a shop near Grimmauld.”

“Oh? Maybe we can go there for your birthday,” George suggested softly, pressing butterfly
kisses up Harry’s neck as he moved his hand expertly. “Buy you something nice.”

“This is gonna be over a lot faster than either of us would like if you keep talking like that,”
Harry panted, trying to keep his hips from bucking up, searching for friction, for release.

George’s answering smile was pure seduction. “That’s okay. We have all night, remember?”

Harry’s breath hitched. Merlin, it was good to be home.

 Chapter 28

With his exams out of the way, that was one burden removed from Harry’s shoulders.
Between that and the knowledge that Bill’s cursebreaking team had the ritual ready whenever
he needed it, Harry was quite possibly the calmest he’d ever been as May ticked over into
June. He only grew anxious when he thought of his friends — both worried about how they
were all coping with Umbridge, and worried about how Ron was coping with Hermione in
the pre-OWL stress, without Harry around to even things out.

Those around him kept him occupied whenever he fell into those sorts of thoughts, though —
now that Harry had his exams out of the way, Sirius was currently campaigning for him to
learn to be an animagus. The twins thought it was the coolest idea ever, and so Harry had
been gently bullied into agreeing; they were all meditating regularly, and Fred was brewing
the potion to help them discover their forms. It would need to mature for a month, so Harry
was happy to leave that to be a future problem. He was just glad the potion had been invented
so they didn’t have to use the more complicated alternative of keeping a mandrake leaf in
their mouths for a month. That just sounded impractical.

The Ministry was getting busier, and thus the Order members employed by the Ministry were
getting busier. Mrs Weasley had come over to Grimmauld several evenings in the last few
weeks to eat dinner with them all as her husband was working late — which had resulted in a
few close calls for the twins, and one very close call for George and Harry getting a bit of
time alone in Harry’s room. But so far she was oblivious to both the shop and the
relationship.

Harry had given up being nosy about the Ministry once he’d realised it was mostly just Fudge
trying to ‘streamline’ things to make rooting out dark magic users more ‘efficient’. The idea
seemed to be getting bankrolled by Lucius Malfoy, so they all had severe doubts about its
efficacy, and it seemed with the Order and a few sympathisers involved it would be fairly
easy to crumble the whole thing to make the Ministry look like fools. On top of that,
Dumbledore was still doing his part to be a general nuisance to Fudge, which was something
Harry could appreciate, and so he didn’t let life outside Grimmauld bother him as much —
sure, it was frustrating not to be doing anything, but he at least knew that those who were
capable of doing so were working towards a positive future. Not just in the immediate form
of getting rid of Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

“Oi, Harry!” He looked up, seeing the twins grinning at him.

“When did you two get here?” Harry asked, sitting up on the library sofa he was sprawled
over. “Is your mum around again?” Unable to help himself, his cheeks coloured at the
reminder of what had almost happened last time she came over. Fred snickered.

“Nah, not yet at least,” he assured. George plonked himself down on the sofa beside Harry,
leaning in for a kiss. He was beaming when he pulled back.

“That happy to see me, are you?” Harry teased. George wiggled his eyebrows.
“Always. But it’s a good news day — the shop’s all ready to open.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Really? Already?” There was still just under a month until school
would let out.

“Yup! We won’t open yet, of course — still waiting until the students are able to come visit
— but we’ve sent a notice to the Prophet to advertise our grand opening for July 6th. Thank
Merlin Mum still won’t read the damned thing.” Even with Harry expelled, they were
printing such outrageous lies about Dumbledore and his supporters that Mrs Weasley couldn’t
look at the paper without wanting to set it on fire. “We’ve got loads of stock built up, and the
variety of products we wanted. There’s a few things with a shorter shelf life we’ll start
prepping closer to the time, and some more ideas in the works, but… we didn’t want to
overwhelm people at the start.”

“Let everyone get a chance at the classics before we throw new stuff at them,” Fred chimed
in, grinning as wide as his twin. “We’ve got the shop floor set up how we want it, just about.
We’re really pleased with it all.”

They hadn’t let Harry down into the shop itself in a week now, insisting they wanted him to
be surprised when it was all done. Harry perked up. “Does that mean I can come see it
now?”

The twins exchanged a look. “Well, we wanted to ask you about that, actually,” Fred began,
and Harry was surprised to see he looked… nervous?

“The whole place is really well-warded, you know how much Bill layered on that place,”
George continued.

“We haven’t had anyone inside the shop yet, except you, because my dear brother starts to
waste away if he goes more than about an hour without snogging you,” Fred added teasingly,
dodging the halfhearted kick George aimed his way.

“We were thinking… if we made dinner tonight, d’you think Sirius and Remus could be
persuaded to come over? See the flat, and the shop, and everything?”

“Come see where their precious godson is being kidnapped to,” Fred finished, turning
hopeful eyes on Harry. “You’re invited too, if that wasn’t clear.”

“I don’t think it would take any persuasion whatsoever,” Harry told them with a grin. “Sirius
has been bugging me about your place for weeks.”

The twins’ faces lit up. “You really think they’d come?”

“Absolutely. Kreacher can hold down the fort, one night of this house being empty won’t
break the universe.” They would only be a floo journey away. “Let’s go ask them.”

Harry jumped to his feet, pulling George along by the hand while Fred followed in
bemusement. “Padfoot!” Harry yelled into the stairwell, injecting a little magic into his voice
— their tried-and-true method of figuring out where the hell someone was in a house so
expansive. Thanks to Bill and Fleur’s ward bubble, Walburga’s portrait hadn’t made a sound
in months.

“In the upper drawing room!” Sirius’ disembodied voice called back. Harry hurried upstairs
to the room in question. Sirius and Remus were both in there, and they raised their eyebrows
at the sight of the trio. “You off to their place again?” Sirius presumed. Harry grinned at him.

“Not quite. The twins have something to ask you.” Harry pushed them forward, watching the
pair face his godfathers with deer-in-headlights expressions.

“We, uh— we were wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight. The three of
you,” Fred stuttered out, all his confidence vanishing in the face of his pranking idols.

“The shop’s finished,” George explained. “We know visiting might be tricky once we open,
so… would the great Moony and Padfoot honour us humble pranksters in accepting a private
tour of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes?”

Sirius looked like Christmas had arrived early. “We are the honoured ones!” he insisted. “The
chance to see the future of mischief at Hogwarts, there’s no way we could say no! Right,
Moony?” He turned his wide-eyed gaze on his partner like a child begging for sweets. Remus
smiled fondly.

“Absolutely. What time do you want us?”

“Floo in around seven? We’ll have dinner on the table,” George promised, looking practically
giddy. “It’s not Mum’s cooking, but I’d say we’ve learnt plenty from her.”

Harry, who had eaten quite a bit of the twins’ cooking over the last few weeks, had no
complaints about the quality, and said as much.

“Great. We’ll see you all at seven, then,” Fred confirmed.

“Even me?” Harry had hoped to go back with them; there were a few hours before seven,
after all.

“Especially you,” Fred insisted, pointing an accusing finger at him. “If you come back with
us, I’ll be doing all the work for sure.”

Harry’s godfathers both laughed, while Harry pouted. George leaned in to kiss the pout off
his lips. “The surprise will be worth the wait, I promise.”

Harry knew it would be, but that didn’t stop him being annoyed about it. But he huffed and
kissed George goodbye, already mentally planning to stay the night at the flat.

.-.-.

At seven PM on the dot, Harry flooed through to the twins’ flat, immediately stepping aside
for Sirius and Remus to follow.
They arrived together, and Harry could see the amazement on their faces as they surveyed the
flat. He couldn’t blame them — it wasn’t what people would expect from the chaos-
embodying Weasley twins.

While the purple firework wallpaper was bold, it fit in well with the more neutral decor of the
rest of the place. Their two favourite colours of purple and orange could have clashed awfully
in the flat, but they had chosen great shades for the paint and kept it fairly toned down with
all the greys. The tall bookshelf opposite the fireplace was full to bursting with both books
and all manner of odd knick-knacks, and one wall held a bunch of framed photos of the
twins’ family and friends. A rather curious plant — quite literally, as its flowers turned
inquisitively towards the visitors — lived in one corner, and the coffee table was neat and
stacked with a couple of potions’ magazines.

They had clearly tidied up for their guests, but it was definitely not what anyone would
anticipate from a pair of eighteen year-old boys, especially not ones like the twins. Harry felt
a small flutter of pride in his chest as he watched his godfathers react.

“Wow; love what you’ve done in here!” Sirius enthused. “Clearly I should’ve taken
decorating tips from the pair of you when Harry and I started working on Grimmauld.”

“We’ve still got plenty of rooms to work on,” Harry reminded him. Rooms they’d given up
on when they realised how little they had use for them at this time. One day, when the war
was over and they could pester more people into decorating, they’d finish the place off
properly.

Sirius was still determined to get his mother’s portrait off the wall and burn it, one day.

“It certainly suits you,” Remus complimented. The twins stood a little straighter. Remus was
right — it suited the genius, creative young men the twins really were, not the whirlwind of
mischief and ridiculousness so many people couldn’t look past.

“Thanks, Moony. We like it,” George preened.

“Home sweet home,” Fred agreed. “Now, dinner’s all set to go. We even picked up a good
bottle of wine to go with.”

He gestured to their dining table, a beautiful dark wood piece Harry had found at a muggle
second hand shop for an absolute steal. It was all set up for five people, a huge pan of
delicious-smelling lasagne in the centre beside a salad bowl, garlic bread, and a bottle of red
wine. Harry’s eyebrows rose — the boys really were going all-out to impress the Marauders.

“This looks amazing,” he complimented, pecking George on the cheek and taking his usual
chair beside the redhead. With a wave of Fred’s wand, the wine began to pour — it hesitated
above the glass in front of Harry.

“Oh, go ahead,” Sirius assured with a dismissive wave. “Glass of wine with dinner never hurt
anyone.”

The bottle resumed pouring. Fred winked at Harry.

The food was as incredible as it looked, and both Marauders were full of compliments for it.

“So you’re enjoying living by yourselves, then?” Remus asked knowingly, glancing around
the flat. Both twins nodded.

“It’s brilliant,” Fred enthused.

“We love Mum, but she’s always been a bit…” George trailed off, not needing to finish the
sentence.

“Having our own place where no one’s gonna mess with our experiments or complain about
what we put in it is a dream.” Fred’s grin turned impish. “And being able to go to my own
room and ignore when those two start getting frisky makes everything worth it.”

Sirius barked out a laugh as his godson blushed.

“I bet! I was the same when we moved out of Hogwarts — I moved in with Prongs and Lily,
and it was such a relief to be able to shut the pair of them away when they attached at the
face, rather than having to put up with it in the dorms.”

Harry wondered if he and George would have been equally obnoxious had they been at
Hogwarts together all year. It certainly would’ve been harder to find somewhere to be alone.

He sipped at his wine, leaning back and enjoying the easy flow of conversation between the
twins and his godfathers. The twins were absolutely loving the chance to get to speak to the
older pranksters without the rest of the Order around — but there was something different
about the evening, too. It held more weight to it than all the dinners the twins had joined at
Grimmauld Place, even when it was just the five of them.

Perhaps it was the wine, but it rather felt like Harry was introducing his boyfriend to his
parents — or the closest thing he had to parents, at least. Even with Fred there, much of the
conversation was focused on George, and now Harry had recognised it he could see how
Remus and Sirius were subtly grilling the redhead. Fred, looking amused at the whole affair,
had clearly caught on a while ago.

Harry looked at the table with its beautiful place settings and matching cloth napkins; the
label on the bottle of wine marking it a very good vintage indeed; the fact that the twins were
wearing smart trousers and button-ups instead of their usual jeans and t-shirts.

Yes, this was definitely a meet-the-parents situation, and he’d walked into it completely
oblivious. He was just glad he’d dressed up a little regardless, wanting to make George regret
kicking him out of the flat for the afternoon.

His anxiety picked up now he was aware of the situation, though he wasn’t sure why — his
godfathers adored George, and even if they hadn’t the redhead was on top form tonight, and
would have won them over easily. Especially when he brought out a decadent-looking
chocolate gateaux for dessert. Remus looked like he wanted to eat the entire thing himself.
“When’s the grand opening, then?” Sirius asked, practically bouncing in his chair when
conversation turned to the shop downstairs.

“July 6th. School lets out on the third, so that’ll give some of the kids a chance to pester their
parents into bringing them. I bet they’ll be pretty keen for some laughs after the year they’ve
had,” Fred remarked, sadness flashing across his face.

“Blimey, yeah. Are you still able to fill owl orders to the school?”

“Thankfully, yes. With a little help from Dobby,” George added. “We’ve got a pretty limited
catalogue for the owl orders at the moment, though; just stuff we know we can get past
Umbridge’s detection.”

“Ah, purebloods. Always underestimating house elves,” Remus said wryly.

Almost as soon as the werewolf set his fork down on the empty plate, Sirius was up on his
feet. “Can we go see the shop now?” he begged, making Remus laugh.

“If the boys are ready to show us.”

The twins were more than ready, and they led the way over to the stairs. Harry’s own stomach
was bubbling with excitement, wondering how far the shop had come since he’d last been in
it.

All the lights were off when they stepped through the back room into the main shop itself.
“Ready?” the twins asked in unison, not waiting for a response before they magically lit up
everything.

Harry’s breath left his lungs in a swift punch of shock. It was extraordinary. Every corner of
the three-storey shop was a riot of colour, the individually themed displays flowing smoothly
from one to the next. Almost everything was fully stocked, except for the shelves waiting for
the products that needed to be made fresh. Bold-coloured signs people pointed in the
direction of various categories of prank or toy, and several displays were set up in the wider
spaces to show off the most popular products, including one of their Reusable Hangman sets,
the tiny gallows set up for the little wooden man.

“Sweet Merlin,” Remus breathed, craning his neck to see how far up the place went. It was
enormous on the inside — one of the reasons the twins had jumped on it so keenly. Early on,
Harry had doubts about their ability to fill the place before they had time to work on future
projects, and the twins had assured him they had it covered. That was definitely the case;
while there was plenty of space for future additions, there wasn’t an inch of the shop that
looked unfinished or neglected.

“We’re gonna have fireworks going up in the roof there,” Fred told them. “And— oh, hang
on.” He waved his wand, and suddenly there was a whistle of steam, and a model train began
chugging around a track that wound through the entire shop. It pulled five open-topped
carriages, which were all full of sweets, and plumes of bright coloured smoke poured from its
chimney.
“There’s still some stuff missing,” George fussed. “We’ve got a small healing range to go
with our defense corner, and most of those potions don’t sit for long. And the pygmy puffs, of
course.”

“Pygmy puffs?” Sirius asked keenly.

“Miniature puffskeins, we figured out how to breed them in a whole bunch of colours.”

“I’ll take five,” the animagus declared instantly. Remus rolled his eyes.

“Two, maybe,” he haggled. “Depends how they take to werewolves.” Harry knew there were
some animals, especially prey animals, that could sense the creature within Remus and were
nervous about it.

“You three are of course welcome to anything in the shop, free of charge,” Fred declared.
“We wouldn’t be where we are today without any of you. So go on, help yourselves.”

That seemed to be all it took for Sirius — his joy in investigating the shop had combined with
his delight in being somewhere that was not Grimmauld Place, and he shot off like a rocket to
go investigate. Remus sighed in fond exasperation, heading off after him — though he
paused, examined a Decoy Detonator from a large display of them, and tucked it in his
pocket before trailing after his exuberant mate.

Harry, already familiar with the product range, sidled up to George and pulled him down into
a long kiss. “This place looks amazing,” he announced. “You’re going to be a hit. God, I’m
so proud of you both.”

“You don’t have to kiss me to prove that, I promise,” Fred volunteered from his twin’s side.
He was beaming so wide it looked like it hurt, gaze following Sirius’ adventure through the
shop.

“You really like it?” George asked, hands settling on Harry’s waist.

“Really. This is ridiculous, I can’t believe how great it looks all together like this!” It was the
perfect level of eye-popping madness without being so overwhelming you couldn’t stand to
look at it. Harry was sure the Hogwarts students would love it — and so would plenty others
no longer of Hogwarts age.

“We’ve got a section over there for stuff a bit more serious,” George added, gesturing to the
back corner. “Shield hats and cloaks, Instant Darkness Powder, Wailing Wallets.”

“We’ve been trying to get in touch with the wizard who made our family clock,” Fred told
him. “See if he wants to collaborate on some similar stuff — Watches that tell you if your
loved ones are in danger, and the like. He’s fairly old now, though, so we don’t know how
much he can handle. Depends on if he took an apprentice.”

Harry still couldn’t believe the kind of magic they’d worked on their products, making such
extraordinary things available to the average witch and wizard. Not only did they sell stuff to
make people laugh, but they were going to keep so many people safe with their wares.
“Look, over here.” George grabbed his hand, dragging him over to the little alcove beneath
the stairs. “We’ve even got a selection of muggle stuff — things they think are magic tricks.
Dad always thought they were hilarious, and we figured they might be a bit of a novelty for
wizards.”

Harry could see several things he recognised from his own childhood — disappearing cup-
and-ball sets, trick playing cards, impossible rope puzzles. There was a section of prank toys,
too; many of which had signs indicating a magical Weasley version was also available
elsewhere.

“You two are absolute geniuses.” The whole place looked just like he would have imagined a
magic shop to look when he was a child, before he knew about it all.

It looked like the kind of place that would give his uncle a heart attack just to look inside.

George took his hand to give him the full tour, showing him past the Back-To-School section
— with a variety of charmed quills and prank parchments, including some that would erase
anything written on it after twelve hours that he was so tempted to try and get Hermione with,
just to watch the meltdown — through the WonderWitch area and upstairs to the full display
of food-based pranks. The Skiving Snackboxes took pride of place, but there were also
Canary Creams and Ton-Tongue Toffees and open shelves for a bunch of other fun treats the
twins were working on.

Then there was the fireworks section, which also held the Portable Swamps. Followed by the
Harmless Fun display, full of things that weren’t prank items but just entertaining little toys
and trinkets the twins had invented. Even for Harry, who had spent hours sorting stock for the
twins, it was overwhelming seeing how many things they had come up with.

When they finally caught up with Sirius, the Marauder had a basket over his arm that was full
to the brim. “I’m paying for all of this and you’re not going to stop me,” he declared by way
of greeting, tossing a bottle of Jungle Juice — ‘Bring out the animal in you!’ — into the
basket.

“Challenge accepted,” George retorted without missing a beat. “Your gold’s no good here,
Padfoot. Nor is yours,” he added to Remus, who had a basket over his arm that wasn’t quite
as full as Sirius’. Harry wondered how much of that was just overflow from Sirius.

“You sure I can’t make a convincing argument for my gold?” Harry offered for the hundredth
time. George winked at him.

“You can pay me in other ways if you really insist on it.”

“Ew, gross, we’re still here thanks,” Sirius reminded, as if he and Remus hadn’t said and
done worse in front of Harry. “But seriously, this place is the best thing I’ve ever seen.
Prongs and I would have dreamed of having something like this when we were kids. You two
are really going for it, y’know? You’ll knock old Zonko right off his high horse.”

George’s face slackened like he had never heard a greater compliment in his life. “I—
really?”
“This is really brilliant spellwork,” Remus agreed. “All of it. Creativity of your pranks aside
— which, really, is better than we could ever come up with — the level of skill that goes into
all these; charms, transfigurations, potions, even just the cooking knowledge for some of
these! I don’t know why your mother seems to think you haven’t been applying yourselves in
school; some of these are mastery-level quality.”

There was a thud behind them — Harry turned to see Fred having stumbled on his way up the
stairs, clearly having heard Remus’ comments. Neither twin seemed to know how to respond.
Harry leaned up to kiss George’s cheek.

“Told you they’d love it,” he whispered, grinning.

Remus launched into a series of questions over the specifics of some of their spellwork, and
soon the three were embroiled in a rapid-fire conversation on topics that Harry could barely
keep up with. He wandered off towards the Family Friendly section, smiling in amusement at
some of the cuddly looking stuffed toys that were charmed to entertain young children. A
large hand clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing gently.

“That young man of yours is really quite something,” Sirius murmured in his ear. Harry’s
grin widened.

“Isn’t he?” He let his gaze draw back to George, heart stuttering at the way the redhead’s face
lit up as he explained something with exuberant hand gestures. “I knew this would all work
out for them. They just needed someone to have some faith.” Especially since that faith had
come in the form of a thousand galleons, but he was confident they’d have made it here
eventually regardless. In the scheme of how much they were making already — something
he, as a silent partner, was kept well informed of — they had blown past that milestone a long
time ago. From just his share alone, they’d already paid him back several times over, even
with the money it took to buy the shop.

“Brains, looks, mischief; you’ve really caught yourself a winner, there.” Sirius smiled at him,
ruffling his hair. “And it’s obvious he thinks the absolute world of you.”

Harry knew he was blushing, but he couldn’t stop smiling anyway. “I can hardly believe my
luck, when I look at him,” he admitted. He turned to his godfather, sheepish. “He’s trying so
hard to impress you both tonight.” Harry could hardly imagine how George was feeling,
showing off the culmination of his dreams to two people who had inspired half of those
dreams unknowingly — two people who also happened to be the closest thing to parental
figures his boyfriend had.

“Oh, we know.” Sirius smirked faintly. “You can tell him it’s not necessary, though. We’ve
already decided we’ll let you keep him.”

Harry’s pulse skipped a beat. “I’d have ignored you even if you’d said you hated him, you
know.”

“We know,” Sirius repeated. “But our opinion is clearly important to him.” He winked
mischievously. “He doesn’t know I’d trade you for all this stuff without thinking twice.” He
gestured to his over-full shopping basket.
“Oi!” Harry argued halfheartedly, laughing. Sirius slid an arm around his waist, and Harry
leaned into it.

“It’s a bit terrifying, watching your godson grow up, without his parents there,” the animagus
said conversationally. “Especially when you’ve barely seen him since he was a toddler. And
when he’s wanted by a Dark Lord.” Harry snorted. “But you’re a good lad, with a solid head
on your shoulders — and a young man who’d do absolutely anything to keep you happy.”
Sirius’ eyes glistened slightly. “I reckon that’s all James and Lily could’ve ever wanted for
you.”

Harry swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Do you— do you think they would approve?” Sirius
had said before that James would have loved the twins, but that was as pranksters — not
necessarily as their son’s boyfriend.

“Oh, pup,” Sirius breathed, pressing his lips to Harry’s hair. “They’d adore him. Jamie
would’ve demanded you marry the bloke by now.”

A weight lifted from Harry’s shoulders; one he hadn’t even known he was carrying. And,
almost unbidden, thoughts rose in his mind of what a future with George might look like.
Like he was finally allowing himself, now he had parental approval.

“I— I think I want to,” he admitted hoarsely. “Marry him, y’know. I know we’re still young,
but… I think he’s the one.”

“I saw that exact same look in your dad’s eye after he went on his first date with Lily,” Sirius
told him. “I’m with you all the way, kid. Whatever happens — whatever this war brings — I
want you to know that. Remus and I love you, and we love your boyfriend, and we’re so
bloody proud of you.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Harry retorted reflexively, leaning heavier against Sirius.
Just like with George, Harry refused to imagine a world in which his godfathers didn’t make
it through in one piece. “But I love you both too.”

They stood there for a while, watching their respective partners with love-filled gazes, lost in
their thoughts of what may come.

As long as it involved the four other men in the shop with him right then, Harry would be
happy.
 Chapter 29

Harry might have been out of school for the entire academic year, but that didn’t stop him
waking up in a cold sweat on the first morning of Hogwarts exam week.

It took him a moment to realise it, of course. Instinctively, his thoughts had gone to
Voldemort, wondering if the man was up to something nefarious. But then he glanced at the
calendar, and remembered.

Ron and Hermione would be taking their first OWL exams that morning. In another life,
Harry would have been right there with them.

In some ways he was glad for the way he’d done it — sure, it had been exhausting to get
them all done in a four-day period, but it had been private and quiet and far less build-up with
only a handful of people knowing he’d even done it. Also, if he’d stayed at Hogwarts, he
would have been stuck taking Divination and never discovered his interest in Arithmancy and
Ancient Runes.

As he got ready for the day, he wondered absently how his friends were faring. Had
Hermione put herself in the hospital wing with her study anxiety? Perhaps the distraction of
Umbridge had stopped her from revising 24/7… or it had just made her determination to do
well a thousand times worse.

He remembered back in the summer, when he’d suggested she might have a calm and easy
OWL year without him there. He snorted to himself — such things didn’t exist in Hogwarts,
apparently.

With little else to do with his day, he bid goodbye to his godfathers and flooed over to the
twins’ flat. The living room was empty, but he could hear vague explosion noises coming
from up in the attic. Grin tugging at his lips, he made a beeline for the spiral staircase.

The attic space in the building had become the twins’ workshop — plenty of space, and
plenty of ventilation for any accidentally toxic potion fumes. It fascinated Harry every time
he was in there, whatever the boys were working on.

To his surprise, Fred was up there alone, stood over a large cauldron that was occasionally
emitting tiny explosions. Harry knocked on the doorframe, not wanting to disturb the
redhead. “Hi, Fred. Am I okay to come in?”

“Morning, mate. Stay behind the line and you should be fine,” Fred directed. The line was
just a painted circle on the floor around the experimentation zone, denoting the active ward
line in case of emergency. Harry kept on his side of it, moving over to the chair in the corner
that had become ‘his’. “George is over at Mum’s; he’s, ah, attempting to gather some gnome
hair for a thing.”

Harry winced. “Oh, boy. Bet that’s going well.” Fred grinned in response. “What are you
brewing?”
“Not sure yet. I was aiming for something that would make stuff turn to rubber when the
potion is poured on it. Don’t think it’s going that way, though.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose; that certainly sounded intriguing. “Anything I can help with?”

“You can load the animation charms on that box of Decoy Detonators, if you want,” Fred
replied, gesturing with the hand not stirring the potion towards a box on George’s desk. Harry
grinned, jumping to his feet. He’d worked on those before, he knew the spell set no problem.

“Sirius got Kingsley with the Jungle Juice last night by the way,” Harry piped up, watching
Fred grin.

“No way! What happened?”

Laughingly, Harry relayed the events of the night before; Sirius asking Kingsley for a
friendly nightcap only to end up in absolute stitches as the man sprouted dark fur and could
only roar like a wildcat for twenty minutes. Three drops of the juice in someone’s drink
would induce random animal traits — it was Sirius’ new favourite thing. So far he’d pranked
Kingsley, Tonks, Arthur, Remus — multiple times — and even Harry once. Every incident
had been different. Harry had quite enjoyed his brief time as a part-rhino, even if the horn had
broken his glasses.

“Brilliant,” Fred enthused. Every time Harry told either him or George about the Marauders
enjoying their products, they lit up like they’d just won the lottery. Harry wondered how long
it would take for them to realise their idols actually now idolised them in return.

The pair worked and chatted companionably — interrupted occasionally by the odd noises
coming from Fred’s cauldron — until they heard the telltale whoosh of the floo downstairs.
“That’ll be George,” Fred said unnecessarily. “I can finish those up later.”

“Don’t be daft; I’ve started them now,” Harry insisted, reaching for another Detonator. He
stuck his tongue out at Fred. “I’m not just here to see George all the time, y’know. I can live
for a few hours without seeing him.” Harry had been aware since he’d started fancying
George that Fred would always be part of the package, and he enjoyed the company of both
twins. In different ways, obviously, but Fred was just as much an important part of his life as
George was, by now.

“Oh, I know,” Fred replied casually. “I was thinking more you might want to catch him
before he can hop in the shower, heal his bruises and pretend his whole adventure was easy.
He’s been chasing gnomes for hours, I bet he’s a disaster.”

Harry snickered — Fred raised a good point there. “I’ll be back up in a bit, then.”

“If you join him in the shower, don’t forget to silence the ceiling!”

Harry’s cheeks were burning as he’d left. “That was one time.” How was he supposed to
know how well sound carried from the bathroom up to the workshop?
Hurrying down the staircase, he slipped into George’s room, stifling a laugh at the sight of his
boyfriend. He was indeed a disaster — hair in absolute disarray, one spot rather thin where it
seemed a gnome had tried to retaliate on the hair-gathering. His jeans were splattered in mud,
his bare arms scraped and bruised and filthy. “Did you get everything you needed, at least?”

George jumped, whirling around and grinning sheepishly at Harry’s expression. “More than,
thankfully. Little buggers really made me work for it, though.”

“I can tell.”

“How long have you been here? I didn’t think you’d be over ’til later.” George stripped off
his dirt-streaked t-shirt, and it took Harry a second to realise he’d been asked a question.

“Oh, yeah— I got here about an hour and a half ago, maybe two? Tonks got called into work,
had to cancel. I’ve been keeping Fred company while he brews, and charming some of the
Detonators.” His ogling was shameless as George stepped out of his jeans, and the redhead
wiggled his eyebrows playfully.

“Glad to hear my brother put you to work.” He stepped closer, dropping a kiss on Harry’s
lips. “As tempting as you are, I have gnome bites in so many places, and it’s kinda killing my
libido right now,” he admitted ruefully. Harry snorted.

“Need a hand healing them?”

“Nah, they’re all reachable, thanks. I’ll maintain my pride and not let you see just how many
of those tiny blighters got me.”

Snickering, Harry rocked up on his toes for one more kiss. “I’ll be upstairs when you’re
done, then.” He ran a gentle finger over George’s new bald spot. “You might want a bit of
hair regrowth potion, too.”

George’s face fell in dismay. “Is it bad?”

“It looks fixable,” Harry assured. He winked, then patted George gently on the bum. “Go on,
go shower and pull yourself together.”

Laughing, George saluted and hurried across to the bathroom. Harry returned to the
workshop, and Fred looked surprised to see him back so soon. Harry rolled his eyes. “We’re
not as horny as you seem to think we are,” he insisted feebly. Fred just fixed him with a
pointed look. “Okay, he got bitten by too many gnomes and needs to tend his wounds in
privacy,” Harry confessed, determinedly ignoring the redhead’s cackling laughter as he
returned to his Decoy Detonators.

.-.-.

Once George was clean and healed, he joined his brother and boyfriend up in the workshop.
Harry didn’t notice him for the first five minutes — he and Fred were too busy working on
stretching out the seemingly never-ending slime-like substance the contents of his cauldron
had become.
“You’ll have to figure out if this stuff is harmful to consume,” Harry said, arms stretched as
far apart as they would go, holding a window-pane-sized piece of the blue-green goop. It was
still all in one piece, trailing across the floor to where Fred held the other end. “It just keeps
growing! Imagine giving someone a piece of it and telling them it’s chewing gum.”

“You’re onto something there,” Fred agreed excitedly. He sniffed at the piece in his hand
experimentally.

“Please don’t eat it,” Harry begged. “I don’t want to tell George I killed his twin brother
while he was in the shower.”

“That’s why there’s two of us,” George cut in amusedly, startling the pair. “A backup for
when one of us is inevitably done in by our own stupidity.” He stepped carefully into the
room, eyeing the situation. “Do I want to know what you were aiming to achieve?”

Fred launched into an explanation, and Harry let his eyes roam over George’s form. Now
dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a Puddlemere United t-shirt, he was looking a whole lot
better, with just a couple of red patches on his arms from the more vicious gnome bites. His
hair was back to normal, too, which Harry was incredibly glad about. He loved George’s
hair.

He realised how distracted he’d become when George ducked down to kiss him on the nose,
grinning. “Am I handsome again?” he asked, running a hand through his fiery locks with a
smirk. Harry matched his expression.

“You’re alright, I guess.”

“If anything’s going to kill me up here, it’s your flirting,” Fred declared from across the
room. “Please, Merlin, help me clean up this mess so I can kick you both out.”

Between the three of them, they managed to wrestle the goop back into the cauldron, where
Fred slammed a lid on it and spelled it shut. “I’ll test it later, see what we can make with that
little disaster child of my brain.”

“How many of your products have come from accidents?” Harry asked bemusedly. The twins
grinned.

“There are no accidents, only genius we didn’t plan!” they chorused in unison.

“Now go make eyes at each other somewhere else,” Fred ordered, gesturing to the door.

“Fine, fine,” Harry mock-grumbled. “We’ll make lunch, come join us when you’ve finished
up.”

George’s hand slipped into his on the way downstairs, and once they were in the kitchen he
pulled Harry into a deep kiss. Harry groaned, melting into the embrace.

“You’re in a good mood,” he commented once they parted. “What was that for?”
George grinned at him, keeping him close. “I love that you and Fred get on so well,” he
admitted quietly. “I mean, my whole family, but…” He trailed off, and Harry thought he got
the idea. George couldn’t date anyone who didn’t accept Fred with open arms as well.

“Fred was my brother long before we got together,” Harry pointed out. “Ever since you
pulled the bars off my window and flew me away in the night.” Somehow, from his pre-teen
hormone-addled brain, George had become the knight in shining armour while Fred had
remained firmly in the ‘brother I wish I’d always had’ section with Ron. Even then, he’d
recognised the difference in the twins, and been drawn to one over the other.

George’s face darkened briefly at the reminder of the Dursleys, but it didn’t stay long. “I’m
just happy I don’t have to worry about choosing between you. Or about you deciding you
fancy him much better instead.”

Harry made a face to show exactly how he felt about both of those things. “First off, Fred’s
straight,” he pointed out. “Second, gross — you’re my favourite Weasley and you know it.”
George’s grin widened. “As for making you choose, don’t be ridiculous. He’s your twin
brother; he was here long before I ever was. There’s plenty of room in your heart for both of
us.” He patted George’s chest pointedly. “Besides, you’d never make me pick between you
and Ron.” He was reminded of what Fleur had said, back in France, about them becoming
family soon — in her mind, Harry had been a Weasley long before anything had happened
between him and George, and would continue to be one even if their relationship didn’t work
out. He didn’t like to ever think of that outcome, but he knew that if the worst did happen, he
wouldn’t lose his redheaded adoptive family, any more than he could ever lose Sirius and
Remus.

He turned away to start rooting through the cold box, entirely unaware of the besotted look
that crossed George’s face. “Speaking of Ron, I wonder how he’s doing,” he mused,
speculatively eyeing a vine of tomatoes for the juiciest-looking ones. “He’ll have had his first
exam by now.”

He noticed George’s shoulders tense when he turned. “Oh, yeah; it’s that time already, isn’t
it?” the redhead realised, blinking. “Blimey. I hope Lee’s doing alright — he always used to
get really wound up the night before first exams, even when he said he didn’t care about
them. Fred and I had to practically drug him asleep before our OWLs.”

Harry frowned sadly — he forgot sometimes that the twins had friends they’d left behind,
too. It might have only been a month since they left Hogwarts, but a month without contact
was difficult for anyone. “Katie will look after him, I’m sure.” With only the regular end-of-
year exams to contend with, Katie Bell was no doubt working overtime to make sure her
older teammates were taking care of themselves through their exams. She had done it during
the twins’ OWL year, always making sure Alicia and Angelina didn’t push themselves too
hard. Lee might not technically be on the team, but he was as good as after his years of
commentating — and often Katie had mothered him when she’d given up on trying to make
the twins care about their upcoming exams.

“Yeah,” George agreed quietly.

As Harry began to fry bacon for BLTs, he watched George, seeing the shadow in those brown
eyes. He cursed himself for bringing up exams and Hogwarts to begin with. “You’ll see them
in a few weeks,” he assured; there was now officially less than a month until the school year
ended. “You can show them everything you two have been working so hard on. They’ll love
it.” He grinned. “You can show Lee the anonymous donation you received.” The donation
had been Sirius’ way of paying for everything he and Remus had bought. The twins clearly
knew it was him, but it had been done in a way that they couldn’t argue with, not without
irritating the goblins.

“I bet Lee can’t wait to get his hands back on our books,” George remarked, snorting. Lee,
with his accountant mother, was the financial realism to balance out the twins’ boundless
creativity. Sure, the twins were great with money — growing up with so little had taught
them that — but things like balancing accounts and filing taxes and pricing stock had always
been left to Lee.

Still, the shadow didn’t quite shift from those coffee-brown eyes, and once the sandwiches
were done Harry bumped George’s hip gently with his own. “Do you regret it?” he asked
softly. “Not staying ’til the end?”

George was silent for several moments, staring into the open cupboard in front of him. “I
think part of me will always regret that we didn’t get one last train ride home, like proper
graduates,” he admitted. Harry slid an arm around his waist, squeezing him gently. He knew
that thought all-too well. “I regret that we couldn’t stick it out with our friends, keep them
safe a bit longer. But I don’t regret not being there for exams, and I don’t think Freddie does
either. We can always take them later in life — hell, if Fudge’s still there to kick up a fuss, we
can do what you did and go to France for them. But we’re doing what we love now,
regardless of grades, and… I think we might actually do pretty well at it.”

Harry beamed — that was the first time he’d ever heard George say anything positive about
the shop’s future, or his own skills. Usually he would just wave Harry off with a ‘we’ll wait
and see’ or ‘you’re my boyfriend, you have to say you like it’.

“Besides,” George added, turning to face Harry. The shadow had faded, replaced with the
sparkle of mischief Harry so adored. “If I’d stayed at school, I still wouldn’t have kissed you
by now, and that is truly heartbreaking to consider.” He smirked, lifting Harry to sit on the
countertop, the height difference disappearing between them.

“Oh, good,” Harry murmured. “Now I don’t feel like such a selfish dick for being so glad
you’ve been here all month.”

George barked out a laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “I wouldn’t change any of this for the
world,” he declared, cupping Harry’s face with one hand. “I can’t believe we managed to
keep our hands off each other for so long.”

“It all worked out in the end,” Harry replied with a smile. All their pining and heartache had
been worth it eventually. “It’s been kind-of brilliant, to be honest, having this time with you
without everyone else sticking their noses in. Umbridge might be a demonic bitch, but she’s
given me a perfect excuse for not telling Ron and Hermione yet.” If he’d been able to write to
his friends, there was no way he could have kept it from them — not without risking an
explosion when they learned he’d been actively keeping it secret for months. Now, he could
have his two months with George without any prying friends or siblings, and have the
entirely legitimate excuse of letters being too dangerous to send.

“I wonder who’s gonna be more shocked; Ron or Mum,” George remarked, snickering.

“My money’s on Ron,” Harry replied, trying to imagine the look on his friend’s face when he
discovered the truth. “At least your mum knows I’m bent; pretty sure Ron hasn’t figured that
one out yet.”

“He’s that blind?” George asked, eyebrows raised incredulously. Harry snorted.

“‘Fraid so.” Harry hadn’t ever had to come out to anyone, so to speak; either it came up in
conversation, or they assumed from his fairly obvious ogling and complimenting of various
men. Subtext had served him fine so far — but subtext was a language Ron did not speak.

“Blimey. Almost makes me want to keep it secret through the summer, just to see how long it
takes him to figure it out.”

“We can, if you want,” Harry offered. “There’s no rush on my end.” He wasn’t going to push
George to go public any sooner than he wanted to — the more people who knew, even if
those people were their friends and family, the higher the chance of someone slipping up at
the Prophet getting wind of it. They might pretend they no longer cared about the Boy-Who-
Lived, but they still referenced Harry in their articles semi-regularly. They would jump on the
chance to write something about his personal life.

“Don’t be daft.” George slotted himself between Harry’s knees, arms twined around his neck.
“If you think I’m going to have any kind of restraint in showing how absolutely mad I am
about you in front of my entire family once they’re all home and the shop’s open, you’ve got
another thing coming.” He grinned, kissing Harry quickly. “We are going to be so sickening
Ron won’t stand to be in the same room as us.” His eyes softened, expression becoming
earnest. “I love you, you nutter. I’m planning to make that very, very obvious.” Harry’s heart
stuttered in his chest. George winked. “Gotta make sure my claim is in place when you’re the
darling of the wizarding world again, make sure no one can steal you away from me.”

Entirely lost for words, Harry forgot to breathe. I love you. George had never said those
words before. They had been implied, Merlin, a thousand times over. But it was so much
more to actually hear them from his boyfriend’s mouth.

“I love you, too,” he blurted once he found his voice. He beamed, gripping George’s
shoulders. “Fuck, George, I love you so much — there is no chance of anyone stealing me
away, even if the entire sodding wizarding world tries.” He met George’s lips eagerly, trying
to push all his emotion into the kiss, chest feeling ready to burst. When they finally broke for
air, they were grinning at each other. “You’re not the one who has to worry,” Harry remarked,
“I’m still the delinquent maniac who got expelled. Give it six months, you’ll be one of the
hottest young entrepreneurs in Magical Britain — I’ll be fighting the blokes off every time
you leave the flat!”
“You mean that’s not what Mad-Eye’s been training you for all these months?” George asked,
feigning a wide-eyed look of concern.

Harry smirked; it wasn’t, but he was not above using that training to make sure people
backed away from his boyfriend. “Only some of it,” he teased.

George smirked back, then ran a gentle hand through Harry’s hair. “Looks like you’re sorted,
then,” he joked. “Maybe I should have Tonks show me a thing or two. I know you, Potter,”
he added before Harry could interrupt. “You might be saying you’ll wait until the time is
right, but I know damn well you’ll be out there the next time Voldemort shows his ugly face,
ready to take him down. And you’ll do it, too — you’re too relaxed to still be worried about
how to beat him.” His eyes shone confidently. “You know how to kill him, and you’re ready,
and I’d bet the whole damn shop he’ll end up dead for good the next time he picks a fight
with you.” Kiss-swollen lips quirked wryly. “And I’m not just saying that to get into your
pants later. Though I wouldn’t say no,” he added with a wink.

Harry vehemently wished that Fred wasn’t bound to appear at any second — he couldn’t give
less of a shit about lunch right then, not with George looking at him like that; like he didn’t
have a single doubt about Harry’s ability to win them the war, and soon.

His confidence almost made Harry believe it, too.

 Chapter 30
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

As the week drew on, Harry grew more and more anxious. He wasn’t sure why — misplaced
exam-based anxiety for his friends, perhaps? But that seemed ridiculous. It also wouldn’t
explain why his dreams were curiously blank, and he woke up each morning with the anxiety
tripled and a lead weight sitting in his gut.

George theorised it was because the end of the academic year was nearing, and usually Harry
would have had some sort of dangerous adventure by now. “You’re bored, is all,” he soothed,
rubbing Harry’s shoulders one night, the pair of them on the sofa at the flat while Fred was
out with some girl he’d met in Fortescue’s. “For the first time you’re actually prepared for all
hell to break loose, and it hasn’t happened yet. It’ll pass once school’s over.”

There was solid logic to his reasoning, but it still didn’t sit right to Harry. He was restless,
spending most nights back at Grimmauld because he couldn’t sleep and he didn’t want to
keep George up with his tossing and turning.

He told the Order about his suspicions, but when he couldn’t provide more than just a gut
feeling they told him he was probably just overreacting. Those who knew him well — the
three aurors, Sirius and Remus, and the Weasleys — promised to be vigilant, but there was
little they could do with no idea where any potential threat might be coming from. Harry just
hoped his vague sort-of warning would be enough, if the worst happened.

The few dreams he did remember all held Cedric Diggory’s glassy-eyed face, his body limp
on the grass, a cold voice hissing ‘Kill the spare’. Those were the nights he wished he’d
stayed at the flat, that George was there to hold him until he stopped shaking from the
memory.

He couldn’t go through an event like that again.

But Voldemort gave away nothing through Harry’s scar, and though Harry read the Prophet
cover-to-cover each morning there were no signs there, either. It was quiet. Worryingly so, in
fact.

Remus, ever the level-headed member of the family, pointed out to Harry one evening that
while he felt like he’d faced Voldemort every year around this time, only his first and fourth
years had actually been true battles with the Dark Lord.

“Your second year was just one of his horcruxes, and as for your third — that was sort of our
fault,” he added sheepishly, gesturing to himself and Sirius.

“You didn’t mean to forget your potion,” Harry said immediately.

“Maybe not, but I definitely meant to drag poor Ron to the Shack by his leg just to get at
Wormtail,” Sirius replied brightly. His smile faltered. “Y’know, I don’t think I ever actually
apologised to Ron for that. Remind me to do that, once he’s home.”

“Our point is,” Remus continued, shooting his lover a look of fond exasperation, “not every
June has to bring about a battle for your life. You haven’t spent all year snooping around and
picking up shoddily-dropped clues from Albus; why should you finish the year with another
grand confrontation?” Ever since Harry had told his godfathers exactly what had happened
through his school years, they seemed to agree with him that Dumbledore had orchestrated
far too much of it.

Everyone around Harry was trying to convince him he was jumping at shadows, and Harry
tried his best to listen to them. But he felt like someone was scratching nails down a
chalkboard just out of his field of vision, constantly — a sharp, grating sensation prickling
the back of his neck whenever he tried to relax. It was infuriating.

Something was coming. He could feel it.

.-.-.-.

He was in the corridor again. He hadn’t been there in a while. If he’d had eyes to roll in this
dream, he would have rolled them — was Voldemort still trying to get him with this prophecy
bullshit? He was walking faster than usual at least. The black door swung wide open for him
as it always did, leading into the circular room with all the doors. He went through the same
second door, and then the third, a sense of urgency flooding his veins. Whatever was here, he
needed to get to it.

He was in the Hall of Prophecy. His dreams hadn’t taken him this far in a while. Usually he
woke up before that happened. He half-ran past the rows and rows of tall shelves, turning the
corner at aisle ninety-seven — turning down the aisle, not looking at any of the shining orbs.

There was a shadow. A dark shape at the end of the row — no, two. Two black-cloaked
shapes slumped on the floor. Unease began to claw at his belly. Harry saw his own hand rise,
wand ready, the spell gathering before the words even touched his lips. “Crucio.”

One of the shapes screamed and writhed. Harry’s heart tripped — he knew that scream.

“Lord Voldemort is waiting,” he drawled, high and cold.

The tortured figure slumped into a shuddering puddle of fabric, and beside them, the other
shape rose, coming further into the light, revealing bushy hair and determined dark brown
eyes. “You’ll have to kill us if you want to get to Harry,” Hermione declared fiercely, only a
hint of fear in her voice. Her school uniform was rumpled and bloodied beneath her cloak.
“We won’t tell you where he is!”

Beside her, Ron made a hoarse noise of agreement, dragging himself into a sitting position.
His red hair stood out bright against his chalky skin. So did the blood dripping from his lip,
where he’d bit into it while trying not to scream.
“Oh, I shall indeed,” Harry replied in cruel amusement. “Quite happily. But first, you will be
useful. We have hours ahead of us, yet — plenty of time to hear you both scream.”

Harry raised his wand again, and he was laughing, but he was screaming. He was
screaming, his heart hammering against his ribs, and then his hip blossomed with pain—

.-.

Harry woke still screaming, sprawled on the hardwood floor of the library, having rolled off
the sofa he’d been napping on. His hip was sore but his head was worse, his scar red-hot and
throbbing. He clenched his teeth against the urge to vomit.

He lay there for several long moments, waiting for his heartbeat to calm down, for the
adrenaline pouring through his system to fade. At the moment, all he wanted to do was run to
the Ministry and rescue his friends, fuck whoever got in his way. But he couldn’t — he was
better than that, now. He knew better. He had more skills, and the back-up of the Order.

And, the more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. Ron and Hermione had
exams to sit; someone would have noticed they were missing by now, if it were true.

Running a hand through his hair, Harry laughed, his throat still raspy. Did Voldemort truly
think him so reckless as to dive headfirst into danger without even questioning how the man
would get two Hogwarts students out of the castle in the middle of the day during exam
week?

A voice in the back of his mind was still begging him to go for them, to save them before it
was too late. Hermione’s terrified face burned itself into his eyelids, Ron’s screams echoing
in his ears. He shook them away stubbornly. It was all fake.

Voldemort had been sending him fake visions all year, in those journeys down the corridor.
He was just getting more elaborate now. More daring.

Harry knew he had been anxious for a reason.

He dragged himself back up onto the sofa, taking a steadying breath to think through his next
steps.

Voldemort didn’t know what Harry had been up to all year. He was expecting the same
impulsive, foolhardy Gryffindor Harry he’d faced each time prior, the one who didn’t trust
adults and believed he had no one and would throw himself in front of a curse without
thinking twice, if it was to save someone he loved. The Harry who would absolutely sneak
into the Ministry to go and save his friends, no questions asked.

He would be expecting Harry to go to the Department of Mysteries.

What kind of ambush did he have planned?

His pulse raced for an entirely different reason, now. Before he could think things through
any further, he raised a hand. “Expecto Patronum.” At once, Prongs sprung forth, bowing his
enormous antlered head to Harry. “Go to Bill Weasley. Tell him: It is coming. Prepare the
ritual. I will be there soon.”

Prongs snorted noiselessly, then bound across the library and disappeared in a cascade of
silver light. That was one thing sorted.

He rose to his feet, ignoring the faint tremor of his hands. Now to prepare the others.

Sirius and Remus were in the living room, and their faces immediately morphed into
expressions of concern when they saw Harry. “What’s wrong?” Sirius asked.

“I had a vision. It’s a fake,” he added before they could become too alarmed. “But it was a
convincing one. Voldemort wants me to believe he’s got Ron and Hermione, down in the Hall
of Prophecy. That he’s torturing them.” The bastard likely knew that no mail was getting in or
out of Hogwarts without being checked, that Harry had no way of confirming his friends
were safe.

Both men paled. “Are— are you sure?” Remus asked hesitantly. Harry gave a sharp nod.

“Unless he’s already there himself, which would be impossible. Also, someone would notice
Ron and Hermione not showing up to exams.” Hermione Granger missing an OWL would
practically make the Prophet in its absurdity. “Harry Potter’s best friends missing?” His lips
curved bitterly. “We would’ve heard something, even with Hogwarts the way it is.”

“So why do you look like you’re headed to war?” Sirius had a look of trepidation in his grey
eyes. Harry smirked.

“Voldemort wants me to come to the Ministry to save my friends. I’m going to do exactly
what he wants. But,” he added when they both made to protest, “I’m going to bring a few
friends of my own. And I’ve got a trick up my sleeve he doesn’t know about.”

“I— the horcruxes?” Remus breathed, wide eyed. All Harry did was keep smirking. He didn’t
say a word, but he didn’t have to — his godfathers read the implication, and he saw both their
shoulders slump in relief. “Are you sure?”

“About as sure as we can be.” They were attempting a ritual they’d pieced together from
ancient writings, that had never worked as intended to begin with, and may not agree with the
amount of Voldemort’s soul within Harry’s body. But all the tests pointed towards success,
and that was a good enough chance for him.

“What do you need from us?” Sirius asked, and at that moment Harry could easily see the
auror in his godfather, eyes sharp despite twelve years of grief and isolation, wand ready.
Remus, too, turned into a warrior in front of him; eyes flashing gold, lips pulled in the
slightest hint of a snarl, limbs poised like a predator. Moony was going to play, today.

“Gather the Order. Everyone you can,” Harry instructed. “I’ll need time to— to do what I
need to do. Get everybody together, tell them what’s happening, and have them come to the
Ministry in say… two hours.” Voldemort was expecting Harry to come alone, and
presumably thought he was as helpless as a muggle. There was no need to get there
immediately.

“Straight to the Department of Mysteries?” Remus checked, a touch of a growl in his voice
already. Harry nodded.

“If you can. I don’t know how many Death Eaters will be there, but I can take a guess.” If
Voldemort was planning to have Harry reveal the prophecy, he would want as many of his
loyal followers as possible there to hear it. And then to watch him kill the boy destined to
defeat him. “If possible, get a message to Madam Pomfrey, too. We might need her.” Harry
desperately hoped they wouldn’t, but he didn’t want to leave that to chance.

“Harry,” Sirius said, stepping up to place a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll send you a patronus
once we’re ready to go. Promise me you won’t go to the Ministry before you have that signal.
We can’t afford for you to be ambushed alone; you’ve come a long way, but you still can’t
face all his elite by yourself.”

Harry bit his tongue before he could point out that Voldemort wouldn’t do anything
permanent until he had the prophecy, and Harry could easily stall him until then.

“It’s too dangerous for a patronus,” he said instead. “I need to go to Bill and Fleur. Once
we’re done, I’ll send them here, to join you all. Once they’ve arrived, you’ll know I’m
headed to the Ministry. That’ll have to be enough.” It was the only heads-up he could risk
giving, just in case.

Sirius clearly didn’t like it, but he didn’t argue. He pulled Harry close, kissing him on the
forehead. “We love you. Be safe, and fight well.”

When Sirius stepped back, Remus took his place; he, too, kissed Harry’s forehead, then
rubbed his nose along Harry’s cheek with a quiet growl. “We’ll be right behind you. We love
you,” he echoed.

“I love you both. I’ll see you soon.” Harry took one last look at them, stomach squirming,
and strode from the living room.

The clock was ticking, but before Harry left the house he had one more thing to do.

“George Weasley.”

The familiar grinning face appeared in the surface of the mirror. “Hey, you!” George greeted
warmly — and then faltered at the look on Harry’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s time,” Harry declared, watching the blood drain from George’s face. “I had a vision of—
whatever, it’s not important. Sirius and Remus are gathering the Order, you two should get
over here.”

“Where will you be?” George questioned immediately. Harry bit back a grimace.

“I have to go do something at Gringotts,” he replied evasively. “I’ll meet you there. I just… I
needed to call, before I go.”
“Don’t you dare do anything stupid, Potter,” George warned, brown eyes grave. “You
promised, remember?”

“Nothing stupid,” Harry agreed. His heart ached; he wished he had the time to go over to the
flat, or at least wait for the twins to come over to Grimmauld. To kiss George one last time.
But he had to get to work — and he worried that if he could hold George again before the
battle, he might not be able to let go. “Be careful, okay? You and Fred both. Watch each
other’s backs.”

“Have been since day one,” George replied with a wink, attempting a smile. His face
softened into an expression that had become very familiar to Harry in the last few weeks. “I
love you, Harry. And I believe in you. Go kick that Dark Lord’s arse, yeah? I’ll see you when
it’s all over.”

Chest tightening, Harry smiled back. “I love you, too.” He looked at George for a long
moment, wondering what else he should say, a million different things battling for space in
his mind. What could he say, when it might be the last thing he said to George, ever?

He grit his teeth. He couldn’t think like that. George believed in him — both of them would
make it out okay. He would have the rest of his life to say all those things in his head.

“I have to go,” he sighed; Bill would be expecting him by now.

“We’ll gather the defensive stock and head on over,” George said. That made Harry’s heart
lighten a little; with the breadth of protective and battle-related products the twins had come
up with this year, it would give the Order one hell of an advantage. “See you soon,
gorgeous.”

Harry simply raised his fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to them, pressing it to the mirror.
Then he let the connection fade, pocketed the mirror, and straightened up. He had work to do.

.-.-.

Luckily, Bill had keyed him in to the Gringotts staff floo for this very situation. He appeared
in the familiar offices, and was pleased to see Jenna waiting for him. Her face was drawn,
and she startled when he burst through the floo. “Good,” she said simply, nodding. “Come
on.”

Harry followed her deeper into the catacombs of Gringotts. Through the staff atrium, down
several stone-hewn corridors, further and further underground and down a narrow stairwell
into a small antechamber. There, the rest of Bill’s team were gathered, all of them in plain
grey ritual robes. Bill’s bright red hair, loose around his shoulders for once, stood out brightly
against the dull clothing. He hurried over to Harry with a grim expression on his face.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, both hands on Harry’s shoulders as he looked the teen in
the eye. “Harry, I trust you, but I— we need you to be sure. There’s only one chance at this.”

“If I ignore the vision he’s sent me, the Ministry will fall,” Harry returned, knowing without a
doubt that Voldemort would consider it the ultimate insult for Harry to ignore his twisted
summons. The Ministry wouldn’t just fall, it would be razed to the ground. “If I go without
doing this, I can maybe hold my own against him, but it’ll show my hand. It has to be today,
Bill. This is it.”

Bill’s blue eyes bored into his for a long moment. Then he nodded, and pulled Harry into a
tight hug. “With you all the way, mate,” he promised gruffly. When he pulled back, he was
practically radiating determination — gone was the concerned older brother, and in his place
was a warrior ready to do what was necessary. “Makali needs to check you over, before we
can get started,” he explained, gesturing to the corner of the room where the goblin waited
next to a wide stone ledge. “He’s got a robe for you, too. You can duck into that little alcove
to change, I promise no one will peek.” A faint teasing lilt to Bill’s tone made the tension in
Harry’s shoulders ease ever so slightly.

“Right. Just as we planned, then.”

He retrieved his robe from Makali, hurrying into the alcove to strip down. Luckily this wasn’t
a ritual that required the user to be cleansed, but he still didn’t want anything on his person to
disrupt the natural flow of the magic. These robes were the next-best thing to going skyclad
— all his clothes, his possessions, even his glasses must stay outside. He couldn’t even wear
contacts.

The world slightly fuzzy thanks to his lack of eyewear, Harry exited the alcove and turned to
the short grey-and-blond mass that he assumed was Makali. The goblin healer was gruff but
efficient, murmuring under his breath in his native tongue as his magic rippled over Harry’s
skin. Harry lay down on the stone ledge so that every part of him could be checked — and so
that Makali could carefully daub his forehead with a tincture that was supposed to strengthen
his connection to the horcrux within him. As soon as the liquid made contact with his skin,
Harry hissed sharply.

“Does it burn?” Makali asked, concerned. Harry shook his head.

“No, but it definitely works.” All of a sudden he was feeling Voldemort’s emotions like he
was inside a vision; the anticipation, the blood-thirst, the rage. It seared through his scar,
blurring his vision even more. But Harry pushed it away — it was nothing he couldn’t
handle.

Makali finished up swiftly, and a much taller grey-and-blond mass hauled Harry carefully to
his feet.

“All looks good to me,” Dec declared softly. His hand cupped the back of Harry’s head,
holding him to study him closely, and Harry knew that if he could see properly, he’d see the
man’s violet eyes turn glassy and ethereal. “Nasty bugger’s locked in there nice and tight.
Probably as good as we’ll get it.” He ruffled Harry’s hair. “You ready?”

“Let’s do this.”

With Dec’s arm guiding him, he entered the ritual chamber.

Harry vividly remembered the ‘dry run’, as they’d called it, where the team had run through
exactly what the ritual would entail and what was expected of him. He hadn’t been brought
down to the chamber itself, as Gringotts had a policy of allowing no entry unless it was to be
used. There could be no magic outside the ritual used inside, either; not even to light the
candles or fill water bowls. The balance of the ritual chamber was a delicate thing.

If the circumstances weren’t so dire, Harry would have been utterly in awe of the space. It
was a huge natural cavern, the stone walls flecked with the occasional vein of ore or
gemstone that had not been touched. Any detail to the place, such as the shallow steps down
into the main basin, had been done by hand entirely without magic. The floor was polished to
a high sheen, a perfect ring of pure platinum inlaid in the very centre. The only metal to be
entirely neutral to magic. He wished he had his glasses, if only to admire the tiny details that
surely had to be present in such a splendid place.

Harry could feel the magic in the air as he let Dec lead him to the centre of the platinum
circle. There was a smaller piece of platinum here, a mark of the absolute centre, and Harry
knelt down so the mark was directly below his heart.

“We’ll let you know when we’re ready,” Dec murmured, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. Then he
was alone.

Sure, the others were working swiftly around him to set up for the ritual — lighting candles
and painting runes and measuring distances perfectly — but there, inside the circle, Harry felt
acres away from them all. The magic here was strongest, pulsing through his very bones. His
own magic practically vibrated with the need to meet that pulse. But he couldn’t yet.

At last, they were ready. The nine members of Bill’s team — a magically powerful number,
and a powerful connection between them — stood at equal intervals around the edges of the
circle. Seven of them held lit candles made with various potions, while directly in front and
behind of Harry were the twin goblins — one held a crystal amplifying orb, and the other
held Salazar Slytherin’s locket. Harry could feel its slick, oily magic calling to him,
recognising like for like in his scar.

He locked eyes with the twin in front of him — Kalax, the elder of the two, the one with the
locket — received a sharp nod, and began to chant.

At first, when discussing the ritual, Harry had been worried he wouldn’t be able to remember
all the details. He could hardly fathom that fear now; the words fell from his lips like a
waterfall, not a single doubt in his mind about what was to come next, the chamber’s magic
rising to meet him. Absently he heard the cursebreakers around him begin to chant as well,
anchoring his own magic, sending it searching far and wide for the remaining pieces of
Voldemort’s soul. Harry focused hard on the magic within his scar, the soul residing there —
he almost had to forget himself and put everything into the foreign soul, pretend it was part of
him, pretend it was all of him. This, he knew, was the biggest risk of the ritual.

Either it didn’t work, and the ritual failed to allow him to disperse the remainder of the soul.

Or, it did work, and the ritual was so thorough it ejected everything it did not consider to be
part of him at that time; namely, his actual soul.
But he didn’t have the space to fear, or worry, or doubt. He only had the space to trust.

His eyes fell shut as he continued his aspect of the ritual — it didn’t matter what the others
were doing, not really, as long as he could feel their combined magic bolstering his own. The
ritual had been designed by a dark lord, not a ritual master; it didn’t contain much in the way
of detail during the ritual itself. All the detail had been in the preparation — the potions in the
painted runes, what the candles were made of, the tincture on Harry’s forehead. If he were
looking for his own soul, it would have been daubed over his heart.

He felt the magic build and build, pulling and searching, his scar throbbing icy-hot. He
pushed through it all, repeating the chant he now had burned into his eyelids, thinking with
all his heart of how desperately he wanted penance and freedom and rest. How he wanted to
eschew all artificial connections to this earthly realm.

Had he been able to see — had his eyes been open — he would have seen the ritual chamber
light up with an ethereal purple-black glow, the amplifying crystal filled with black light. The
candles held by the seven anchors were burning down far quicker than should be possible,
spilling wax over their hands and onto the stone, but not one of them complained or broke
from their chant. They were trained professionals.

Suddenly, there was a tug — like someone was trying to rip Harry’s brain out through his
scar. He couldn’t help but gasp, spine arching backwards, eyes flinging open though too
blinded by magic to actually see. He grit his teeth and fought the tug, knowing instinctively
that this was a piece of himself he did not want to lose to the ritual.

The twins’ chanting rose in volume, and the locket in Kalax’s hands burst open abruptly,
releasing a cloud of black smoke and the most unearthly, soul-piercing scream. Kalax did not
drop it, did not even flinch, her voice steady as she continued to chant.

The black smoke dispersed quickly into the magic of the chamber, and Harry felt it like a
punch to the gut. His scar ached — not with pain, but with loss.

He finished his cycle of the chant, then fell silent. All his concentration turned towards
staying upright; if he fell in the circle, if his heart moved from centre before the ritual was
finished, there would be dire consequences.

His pulse thudded in his ears as he watched — the seven anchors raised their candles in
unison, and with a shout the flames extinguished abruptly. Silence echoed through the
chamber. Harry didn’t dare move.

At last, Kalax bent over, set down the open locket on the edge of the platinum ring, and drew
a gnarled finger through the ash-drawn rune between her feet.

It was like pulling the plug in a bathtub. The build-up of magic disappeared with a whoosh
that left Harry dizzy. The team began to file out — Fleur helped Harry to his feet, and
escorted him out of the chamber when he discovered his knees were wobbly.

Once they were back in the antechamber, Harry gladly accepted his glasses, the sudden
sharpness of the world making him wince. “Did it work?” he croaked hesitantly, turning to
Kalax.

The goblin gave a sharklike grin. “The locket is inert,” she declared. “As there was no
outcome which involved one soul piece dispersing but not others, we can only assume the
rest of the Dark Lord’s soul has gone where it belongs.”

There was, of course, no way to tell for sure, but knowing how much time this team had put
into the ritual Harry was happy to take that as the best confirmation he could get.

“Did he feel it, do you think?” Emine piped up softly, worrying her lower lip. She didn’t even
seem to notice Makali healing her wax-burned hands.

Harry took a moment to concentrate on his scar — something that was much easier than
usual with the tincture still present. “He doesn’t feel any different,” he said slowly. He
imagined that if Voldemort had felt any of what had happened, Harry would know — anger,
confusion, even fear; one of them would be present in the Dark Lord’s mind, and therefore in
Harry’s.

“Let’s hope he won’t notice the potion, either,” Conrad remarked grimly.

Harry had almost forgotten about the potion aspect of it all. His stomach churned — it wasn’t
over yet.

With that reminder of the work yet to come, the team gathered tightly, watching as Harry sat
back on the stone ledge. Thanax handed him a small wooden box; inside was the potion,
swirling pale-blue and faintly glittering within its vial. It was barely more than a mouthful,
but Harry was assured it was potent stuff.

“Don’t take it yet,” Makali warned, appearing at Harry’s side with a white cloth. Reaching
up, he carefully wiped the tincture off of Harry’s forehead, then smothered the whole scar in
a creamy cleansing potion. Instantly, Harry’s headache eased, his awareness of Voldemort
returning back to its usual state.

He grimaced, imagining what might have happened if he’d taken the purging potion with the
binding tincture still in place. “How’s he looking, Dec?” Makali asked. Harry glanced over at
Dec, who surveyed him with his mage-sight.

“Far as I can tell, he’s ready,” the Irishman replied. He flashed Harry a grin. “Bottoms up, eh,
Potter?”

Harry tried to return the grin and, at Makali’s reassuring nod, downed the potion in one large
gulp.

It was like swallowing fire.

He doubled over in pain, pursing his lips firmly against the instinct to vomit. Someone
squeezed his shoulder in assurance. Through pain-hazed eyes, he noticed something black
and viscous begin to drip from his forehead. It sizzled when it landed on the stone floor by
his bare feet. The fire in his belly spread along his veins, surging through every single inch of
him. Had there been any other spells or enchantments on him, or potions in his system, they
would have been purged as well. But the main purpose of this potion was the horcrux, and it
seemed to be working.

Harry couldn’t have said how long it took, only that he was immeasurably glad when it was
over. The pain subsided, and he sat up — looking straight at Dec’s beaming grin. “Aye, that’s
much better,” the mage-seer announced. “I can actually look at you now!”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Did that mean… “It’s gone?” he checked. Dec nodded.

“Not a trace of it on you; only your own magic. Blimey, I’d love to do some tests on your
core right now — but obviously, there isn’t the time,” he added quickly, as if just then
remembering why Harry had come to the bank in the first place.

The nausea in Harry rose for an entirely different reason. “He’s mortal.” The words didn’t
seem real.

“By all our calculations, yes,” Conrad replied. “Now what?”

“Now I go to the Ministry,” Harry said instantly. He glanced down at himself. “Should
probably get dressed first, though.”

Jenna blurted out a slightly hysterical giggle.

“Bill and I will fight with you,” Fleur told him, silver eyes defiant. By her side, Bill nodded.

“Goblins do not spill blood in the wars of wizards,” Kalax said, her eyes hard. “But we wish
you all the courage and valour of the goblin warriors of old. We shall guard the vaults,
whatever today’s outcome.” Thanax and Makali nodded in agreement. Harry offered them a
bow.

“I appreciate that. I don’t expect any of you to fight with me; we have people for that.” He
looked at Jenna and Emine, at Conrad and Dec; none of them would be particularly useful in
a fight, and they would be the first to admit it. “You’ve all done your part. Wars aren’t just
about fighting.”

The four of them looked relieved. “We’ll be here when you get back,” Conrad assured him.
“If… if there is further work to be done.”

If the ritual hadn’t worked, he meant. Harry’s stomach tightened at the very prospect.

“Bill, Fleur; you two go meet the others at Headquarters,” he instructed, already pulling his
boxers on beneath his robe.

“Are you not coming too?” Fleur asked with narrowed eyes. Harry shook his head.

“I’m going straight to the Ministry.” He smiled wryly. “Don’t want to keep him waiting, after
all.”
Chapter End Notes

Ohhh here we go~

 Chapter 31

The Ministry atrium was empty when Harry arrived. He’d expected as much, but it still made
the hairs on the back of his neck prick up.

He didn’t waste any time — for all he knew, Voldemort himself was waiting in the
Department of Mysteries. His scar would no longer act as an early warning system;
something he was sure he’d be glad about eventually, but right now just made him anxious.
He’d grown so used to having that connection to make him aware of Voldemort’s moves. He
felt exposed without it.

Had he not been so focused on the destination, he might have been amused that this journey
was so similar to the one he’d taken the last time he’d been in the Ministry building; the one
where he’d been expelled. There was no brief stop at Mr Weasley’s office this time, though;
just straight down to the bowels of the Ministry.

Like in his dreams, he walked down the dark corridor towards the plain black door. Like in
his dreams, it was open when he reached it.

Unlike his dreams, the room went dark and the walls began to spin as soon as the door was
shut.

His magic fizzled in preparation at his fingertips, fully recovered from the ordeal of the ritual.
Perhaps he should have waited for the Order. Perhaps he had been too hasty with the ritual,
should have let the Order handle this whole thing and taken more time to train.

He shook his head. There was no time for doubting himself.

The walls slowed to a halt — Harry now had no idea which door he’d entered through, nor
which one he needed. He grimaced; Department of Mysteries indeed.

He opened the door directly in front of him, discovering a long, rectangular room seemingly
filled with large glass tanks. Something swam in the depths of that murky green liquid, but
Harry sincerely doubted they were fish.

Not wanting to get involved in whatever the fuck the Unspeakables were working with down
here, he shut the door again.

Again, everything went dark, and the walls span.

“I need to visit the Hall of Prophecy,” he declared into the empty room, hoping on the off
chance that might work. The blue flames on the wall seemed to flare brighter for a moment,
and the walls began to slow again. Once they stopped, Harry opened the door in front of him.

“Huh,” he murmured, staring into a familiar room glittering with diamond-bright light.
“That’ll do it. Thanks.” Shaking his head at the baffling sentience of magic, he entered the
room.
Now that he could see it clearly, no longer rushed through by his dream-self, Harry could see
the room was filled with all manner of gleaming clocks and time-pieces. At the far end of the
room was the tall crystal bell-jar that filled the room with light, and Harry hurried towards it.
Before he could reach for the door beside it, something caught his eye and he skidded to a
halt.

“Blimey.” There was a hummingbird inside the jar, drifting up on the current within — only,
when it drifted back down again, it reverted into a scrawny little bald scrap of a chick, and
then all the way back into an egg. He watched the hatching cycle once over, eyes wide. Then
he glanced over his shoulder at all the timepieces in the room. “Surely they aren’t all…” He
trailed off. The Ministry couldn’t possibly have that many Time-Turners, could it? Not all
just sitting unguarded in a room in the basement?

He thought for a second about the various incompetencies of the British Magical
Government, and realised that yes, that was exactly something they would do.

“Not my problem,” he muttered to himself with a scowl, shaking his head and resolutely
opening the door to the prophecy hall. This room was just like it had been in his dreams — lit
with the eerie blue-flame candelabras, endless shelves covered in rows and rows of dusty
glass orbs. The temperature dropped significantly, and Harry shivered.

On high alert, he edged into the room — he was not alone, but that was all he knew. It could
be Voldemort himself down here or a welcoming party of Death Eaters, or both. Harry hoped
it wasn’t both; he didn’t want to have to fight in this room. Not only was all that glass a
health hazard, but it would take forever for the cavalry to get down here to help.

Adrenaline running through his veins, Harry forged ahead, checking the numbers on each
row. In his dream, he’d found Ron and Hermione at the end of row ninety-seven. When he
reached the row, it didn’t seem any different than all the others. Body tense, he crept down
the aisle.

Nothing.

There was no one there. Harry frowned — he’d expected someone. Even if it was just a
couple of lackeys in masks come to kidnap him for their master. Unless…

Harry turned to the shelf of prophecies with a sickening sense of realisation. There, written
on a yellowing label beneath an orb that was entirely identical to all the other orbs, was his
name.

S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D

Dark Lord

And (?)Harry Potter

Of course. Harry wasn’t here to fight, or to be stolen away like after the Triwizard.

“I’m not your fucking errand boy,” he groused, glaring at the prophecy orb.
“Oh, such language.” Harry whipped around, raising one hand warily, cursing himself for
allowing someone to sneak up on him. Moody would have his hide for that!

It was Lucius Malfoy, his white-blond hair hidden by the hood of his cloak, but his voice
utterly unmistakeable. All around Harry, black-robed figures melted from the shadows, their
wand tips lit threateningly.

“What’s this?” Malfoy drawled, clearly amused. “You don’t even have a wand?” The Death
Eaters around him tittered. “What are you going to do, Potter; fight me like some filthy
muggle?” His compatriots laughed louder.

Harry wasn’t phased. He smirked, folding his arms over his chest. “I reckon I could take
you,” he replied evenly. “If you’re anything like your son, your nose’ll break pretty easy.”

Malfoy hissed, stepping closer. “Awfully cocky for an unarmed boy, aren’t you?” His wand
drew level with Harry’s nose. “Perhaps the rumours are true — did you crawl back to your
pathetic muggle relatives after your wand was snapped? No one thought it possible, but there
was no trace of you having procured a new wand. No sign of you in any magical spaces.”
The man chuckled coldly. “Couldn’t bear to show your face, I’d imagine, after your fall from
grace. Tell me, Potter; did it hurt, knowing your adoring fans were so quick to cast you
aside?”

“Can’t say I really noticed,” Harry said with an unconcerned shrug.

“Hurry it up, Lucius,” a female voice snapped from the man’s left. Harry felt dread gather in
his stomach, an absolute certainty that beneath that hood was Bellatrix Lestrange. “Make him
hand it over and let’s kill the little whelp!”

“I’m not giving you anything,” Harry argued — falling back on Gryffindor bravado was
always a great stalling tactic. He wished he’d checked the time at any point after leaving
Gringotts — he had no idea how long he’d been there, no idea how much time he’d given for
the Order to gather. They would have started to mobilise shortly after Bill and Fleur showed
up at Grimmauld. He wouldn’t be by himself for long.

He hoped.

“I don’t believe you have much of a choice,” Malfoy retorted.

“Ron and Hermione aren’t here,” Harry said. “You don’t have them, do you? You don’t have
anything I want.”

He gritted his teeth through Bellatrix’s mocking and the other Death Eaters’ laughter. They
didn’t need to know he’d pegged the vision as a fake immediately. They might start to
question his presence, otherwise.

“We have your life, in our hands,” Malfoy pointed out. “Retrieve the prophecy and give it to
me, and I will let you walk out of here and return to your pathetic muggle life, as if the
wizarding world had never heard but a whisper of the name Harry Potter.”
Harry snorted despite himself. “You don’t think I actually believe that, do you?” he asked. “I
give you this — prophecy, was it? And you just let me skip off into the sunset?” He glanced
back at the shelf where the prophecy sat. “What does Voldemort want with some Christmas
tree ornament?”

Bellatrix screeched so loud Harry was surprised the glass orbs weren’t shattering. “You dare
say his name!” she wailed, lunging forward. Malfoy’s arm flung out to stop her.

“Now, now, Bella,” the man soothed. “You will get your turn. Should Potter here need a
little… encouragement.”

“Why don’t you get it yourself?” Harry retorted, though he already knew the answer.

“Only those mentioned in the prophecy are allowed to remove it from the shelf,” Malfoy
explained. “You see, Potter; that is all there is to it. Give us the prophecy, and you can turn
your back on all those sheep who abandoned you, everyone who turned their backs at the
slightest sign of trouble. You don’t owe any of them. You don’t owe Dumbledore — if he
cared about you, he’d have you back in his precious school by now, would he not? No, the
old man is too busy to worry about even you, his precious Golden Boy. Your friends have not
offered their help, not a single person has spoken out in your favour. They just expelled you
and washed their hands of you, didn’t they?” Malfoy shook his head mock-sympathetically.
“Oh, how that must have hurt.”

Harry bit back a smirk. If only he knew. “My friends still care,” he insisted, letting his voice
waver a little. “There was nothing they could do, not with Fudge in your pocket! You’re the
reason they expelled me!”

While he spoke, he mentally counted the Death Eaters and surveyed the shelves around him,
pulling together a plan. This was the worst place for a fight; he had to bring it to somewhere
the Order could meet him.

“They expelled you because they did not believe you,” Malfoy snapped.

“ENOUGH!” Bellatrix screamed, raising her wand. “Pick up the prophecy, Potter, or we’ll
make you. Crucio!” Harry made to duck the spell, but he needn’t have bothered — Malfoy
shoved Bellatrix aside, sending the spell flying wide.

“Don’t attack, we need the prophecy!” he reprimanded. Harry bit his lip, taking the best
distraction he was likely to get, and launched into action. In a split second, he’d reached out
and pulled the prophecy off the shelf with his right hand — while his left send a discreet
burst of magic towards the shelves on the other side, snapping three of them clean in half and
sending a cascade of glass and prophecy-shadows to the ground. In the chaos that followed,
Harry shoved his way between the Death Eaters behind him, sprinting down the row of
shelves towards the exit. As the Death Eaters realised what he was doing, they began to fire
spells at him — he dodged easily, and they only hindered themselves as their spells caused
more damage to the shelves, obstructing their way after Harry.

He could hear Bellatrix’s scream of rage, and the shouts of other Death Eaters trying to
follow him; he raced towards the door he’d come through, flinging it open and hurling
himself back into the room full of timepieces.

Hoping desperately that the Order was on their way by now, Harry didn’t hesitate — he could
already see the first couple of Death Eaters drawing closer to the door. Sprinting straight
through the sparkling room, he found himself back in the circular chamber. He made to close
the door, to send it spinning once more, but a burst of sickly yellow spellfire shot through the
doorway; he flung himself backwards to avoid it, and it was just enough of a pause for the
Death Eaters to start flooding in. Many of them had lost their masks, their robes dusty and
ripped from the shattering glass. Malfoy was in the lead, pale eyes enraged. Not sure what
else to do, Harry lunged across the circular chamber and reached for the nearest door, relief
filling him when it opened. But that relief was short-lived.

He hadn’t found the door to the lift back up. Instead it was some sort of viewing chamber, the
floor sunken and carved into rows of stone benches, steps leading down to the bottom where
a single dais stood, holding a stone archway that made Harry cold just looking at it. There
was a tattered black veil hanging from the archway, fluttering in a breeze that didn’t exist.

The entire room felt Wrong, but Harry didn’t have much of a choice; Malfoy and the others
were hot on his tail. He hurried down the steps inside the room, trying to put as much space
between himself and the Death Eaters as possible.

“Give it up, Potty!” Bellatrx cackled, sauntering in his direction. Her hood and mask were
gone, her face just as pale and unhinged as it had looked in the newspaper. “You’re unarmed
against the Dark Lord’s finest, you don’t stand a chance! Hand over the prophecy!”

“Unarmed, am I?” Harry smirked, transferring the prophecy to his left hand, raising his right.
“Just try me.”

And then the fight began.

He got in a couple of good shots purely through the advantage of the Death Eaters being
utterly gobsmacked by his wandless casting. Malfoy screamed remarkably like his son as
Harry’s bone-breaker curse caught him in the thigh, and another Death Eater ran right into the
path of the strangulation hex Harry had initially aimed at Bellatrix. He went down, and didn’t
get back up.

“That’s not Potter!” One of the Death Eaters exclaimed. “It’s Dumbledore in disguise, or
something!”

“Of course it’s Potter, you idiot; he’s holding the prophecy!” Bellatrix argued. When she
turned back to Harry, it was with her wand raised and her teeth bared. “Ickle Baby Potty did
some growing up while he was out of school,” she drawled. “Thinks he can fight like a big
boy. We’ll see.” At her last snarled words, she began casting his way. Harry shielded and
dodged, trying his best to keep his footing on the steps of the viewing room. It was slowing
all of them down, casting without falling down the stairs. Harry was suddenly glad for all the
times Kingsley had harped on about footwork, making sure he could keep his balance even in
an earthquake.
With dozens of spells coming at him, Harry didn’t get much of a chance to cast any of his
own in return. Between his screams of pain, Malfoy was yelling at them to be gentle with
him, to be careful of the prophecy, but it seemed the bloodthirsty Death Eaters didn’t care
about that anymore. They were too eager to put the cocky teenage boy who dared to fight
them in his place.

Harry was more than happy to let them try, but he hoped some sort of reinforcements arrived
soon. He was desperately outnumbered.

Almost as if summoned, all of a sudden more people began to burst through the open door.
Harry’s heart soared at the sight of Sirius and Kingsley right up front, their wands raised. The
Death Eaters cried out in alarm, whipping around to defend from this new enemy, and Harry
grinned.

“Alright there, pup!” Sirius called cheerfully as he duelled his way over to Harry. “What you
do to old Malfoy over there?”

“Broken femur,” Harry replied, sending a leg-locker at a Death Eater and watching him
tumble down the steps towards the dais. Sirius barked out a laugh.

“That’s my boy!”

Despite Harry’s reluctance to get much closer to the creepy veil archway, he was being edged
further and further down the stairs as he duelled; everyone was, keen to get onto somewhat
level ground. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Remus duelling a pair of masked
Death Eaters with Dedalus Diggle at his side, Tonks and Moody tearing their way through a
whole huddle of black-robed figures, Fred and George back to back and grinning widely as
they fought.

The Death Eaters still outnumbered the Order members, but the Order was holding its own.
Harry was glad for Sirius beside him as the pair of them fought the enraged Bellatrix. She
had the higher ground, forcing them further and further into the basin of the room.

“Give up the prophecy or I’ll kill your flea-bitten dogfather!” Bellatrix screeched. Sirius
laughed.

“Oh, dear cousin; your insults have lost a bit of their bite,” he taunted. “Was it all that time
you spent screaming for your master, three cells down from me? He didn’t come, did he?
And he hasn’t come now.”

“Crucio!”

Sirius screamed as the spell hit, falling to his knees in pain, and Harry’s heart stuttered. He
immediately sent a cutting spell in Bellatrix’s direction — it just grazed her side, tearing
through her robe, and by her shout of pain Harry knew he must have hit skin, even if it hadn’t
caught full-on. It was enough for her concentration on the spell to falter, and within moments
Sirius was back up on shaky legs.
By now, they were cornered against the dais. Harry could feel the strange, cold magic of the
thing calling for his attention, but he resolutely ignored it, focusing on the duel. “Harry, he’s
not here,” Sirius said. “I want you to take the prophecy and run. We can catch this lot — Bill
and Fleur warded the place tight — but if he’s not here, you shouldn’t be either.”

Harry wanted desperately to argue with him. His fight was here regardless of whether
Voldemort was brave enough to show up. But if the room was warded… Voldemort wasn’t
going to make himself so vulnerable as to show up in a room full of Order members.
Although— Harry didn’t see Dumbledore anywhere in the room. Where was he??

“He’ll come,” Harry insisted. Even without his scar he could tell that — the prophecy was off
the shelf, one of his Death Eaters was sure to have relayed that by now.

He wanted the prophecy, and he wanted Harry. He would come.

“Then go wait for him,” Sirius argued, deflecting a nasty-looking curse from Bellatrix.

“How the hell am I supposed to get out of this?” The room was utter chaos, and he was right
in the centre of it all.

Sirius grinned. “I’ll cover you.”

Then, he reached into his robe pocket and pulled out something Harry recognised very well; a
Decoy Detonator. “Run!”

The next minute, the noise level in the room doubled, the Detonator doing its job of being as
distracting as possible. Harry felt Sirius’ hand gently push at his shoulder, and he began to
sprint for the steps. He couldn’t hear spells called over the noise, but he saw Bellatrix on the
move towards Sirius, and didn’t hesitate to shoot a non-verbal bone-breaker her way. It hit
her on the arm — unfortunately, her left — and she shrieked, turning back to Harry. Cursing
under his breath, Harry kept sprinting; she wouldn’t hit him while he was moving, not while
he still held the prophecy.

He was halfway up the steps, ducking spells and sending back when he could, Bellatrix
haring after him despite her broken arm. He hoped the rest of the Order didn’t think he was
bailing out on them, that they understood his strategy. They had to — they knew what he was
there for, right? They knew his goal above all else.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he kept running; it didn’t matter what the Order thought
of him, as long as they kept fighting.

He was getting closer and closer to the door now; then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a
bright flash of light, and a familiar head of red hair fall crumpled to the ground. His heart
jumped into his mouth. The twins were dressed identically, and he hadn’t seen the face —
was it Fred or George?

He looked around for a moment, trying to spot the other twin, but he couldn’t — and
Bellatrix was gaining on him. He had to move now, before it was too late. Resisting
everything in him that said to turn back and see if the twins were okay, he kept going to the
door, jumping through and slamming it shut.

“I need the exit!” he yelled as soon as the doors began to spin. He didn’t wait a second once
they stopped, powering through the door directly in front of him and crying out in relief when
it showed him the corridor to the lift.

“Atrium,” he panted, ignoring the cool tone of the automated voice. “Atrium, now!” His eyes
were fixed on the door at the end of the corridor, praying it wouldn’t open, praying that
Bellatrix wouldn’t come crashing through. She could call her master, that was fine — but
Harry had to get away from her long enough for that to matter.

Thankfully, the lift pulled away, rocketing upwards. Harry looked at his left hand, at the
ordinary-looking glass orb he’d somehow kept safe through the whole endeavour. A wild
idea popped into his head. He began to chuckle to himself.

And he threw the orb at the floor, smashing it to pieces.

Like the other smashed orbs in the Hall of Prophecy, it immediately released a ghostly white
figure. Harry’s eyes widened incredulously at the sight of Professor Trelawney, speaking in
the same raspy tone she had once warned him about Peter Pettigrew reuniting with his master
in.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, her ghostly form fading. “So the old bat did get it right now and
then.”

The prophecy was exactly what Dumbledore had told him, after his trial. He grit his teeth;
such a vaguely worded thing, the entire reason his parents were dead. The cause of all the
problems in his life.

No more. He was going to end this, tonight.

By the time the lift arrived at the atrium, there was no trace of the prophecy within the orb.
Harry wondered if that was it gone forever, or if they would magically reform once the
shelves were repaired. He had no idea how prophecy magic worked — or, indeed, how
anything in the Department of Mysteries worked. That place was batshit and he wanted no
further part in it.

The atrium was still empty, but not for long; only thirty seconds or so after he arrived,
another lift rattled to a halt and out spilled Bellatrix Lestrange, her left arm cradled to her
chest. “You!” she screeched, throwing a blood-boiling curse his way. “I’ll get you, you little
brat! Hand over the prophecy and maybe I’ll let you die quickly.”

“Sorry, can’t,” Harry replied cheekily, holding up his empty hands — and ducking three more
spells in quick succession. “Smashed it.”

“What?” Bellatrix’s already pale face grew even greyer. In her shock, Harry hit her with
another cutting curse, this one hitting her in the leg. “Impossible! Accio prophecy!” Nothing
happened. “Accio prophecy! Accio prophecy!”
“Why didn’t you do that twenty minutes ago?” Harry asked her, baffled. He’d just assumed
summoning spells wouldn’t work on the thing. “You’re too late now. You’ll have to crawl
back to your master and tell him you lost to a wandless fifteen year-old. Send him my
regards, will you? Maybe a nice cruciatus curse or two, I’ve heard he likes those. Tell him I
haven’t missed him in the slightest.”

“You can tell me yourself, Harry Potter…”

Harry whipped around at the sibilant drawl — stood in front of a fireplace was the Dark Lord
himself. He looked angry. “Tommy!” Harry greeted, grinning. He wasn’t worried about
turning his back on Bellatrix; she had dropped to her knees as soon as her master had arrived,
and she wouldn’t dare cast at him with Voldemort in the room. “Glad you could make it; I
was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

“You’re awfully brave for a boy with no wand,” Voldemort hissed. Harry’s grin widened.

“Oh, didn’t you hear? I don’t need one.” He sent a whip of fire towards Voldemort, who went
imperceptibly wide-eyed for a moment and instantly dispelled it with water.

“Impossible!”

“Clearly not. See, once I was freed from the… constraints of the Hogwarts curriculum, I
found myself learning far more interesting things.” He ducked a cruciatus curse, and
retaliated with a blister hex. “You didn’t really think I buggered off back to the muggle
world, did you? Are you daft?”

“Your arrogance in the face of certain death is impressive. So very like your father,”
Voldemort drawled. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, heard it before. Look, are we gonna duel or what?” There was no way he was
going to sneak any sort of fatal magic past the Dark Lord’s reflexes; the only way would be
to outlast him.

No pressure, or anything.

Before Voldemort could reply, the fire flared green. Dumbledore stepped out, as graceful and
calm as if he’d just popped in for tea.

“Do you have some kind of last-minute alarm?” Harry asked him, bewildered. “Do you just
sit in a room and wait until something goes ding and tells you everything is almost over?
We’ve been here for ages.”

“My apologies, Harry; I was caught in a spot of trouble elsewhere.” Indeed, on closer
inspection, Dumbledore’s robes were a touch singed, and he was showing faint signs of
fatigue.

“Come to save your precious Golden Boy, Dumbledore?” Voldemort spat, eyes flashing
bright red. In a move that almost had Harry losing his composure, Dumbledore raised his
wand — and transfigured a nearby vase into a squashy armchair, which he then sat down in.
“On the contrary, I rather think Harry has things under control.” His eyes flickered to Harry,
just for a moment, almost in challenge. Harry got the message clearly; you insisted you could
handle this. Prove it.

Voldemort let out a snarl of rage and shot a spell towards Dumbledore, which dissipated
against the elderly man’s shields.

“You heard the man, Tom,” Harry called, drawing Voldemort’s attention. “This is our fight.
That’s what the prophecy said, isn’t it? The one I smashed,” he taunted.

“You truly believe you, a puny little boy, have the power to vanquish the great Lord
Voldemort?”

“Oi,” Harry remarked, offended, “I’ve grown like four inches since you saw me last; enough
with the puny.” Voldemort growled and threw a cruciatus his way. Harry dodged it. “Yes, I
believe I have the power to vanquish you. So let’s duel, and test that, shall we?” He wanted to
end this.

Voldemort’s thin lips curled in a cruel sneer, and he raised his wand in a mockery of formal
duelling position. Harry smirked at him.

And the duel began.

If anyone had asked Harry what spells he used against Voldemort in that duel, he would’ve
needed a pensieve to tell you; everything happened far too quickly, his magic responding to
intention more than fully-formed spells. It was more intense than any duel he’d had in the
past; even when all five of his trainers had gone against him at the same time. Not only did
Voldemort fire off plenty of killing curses, but he threw all manner of dark magic that Harry
hardly recognised and didn’t dare shield against. All the dodging was getting tiring, but Harry
hadn’t spent all year training for nothing. He summoned vases and loose brick and even
several bodyparts from the Fountain of Magical Brethren to protect himself, firing back
whatever he could manage. He was making Voldemort work for it, too.

The Dark Lord might have experience on his side, but the age that allowed that experience
was beginning to show; he, too, was tiring. At one point, he cast a spell that was supposed to
turn the water of the fountain into a cascade of tiny ice needles in Harry’s direction, but they
melted and splashed to the ground before they could reach him. Harry snickered.

“Starting to get tired there, Tom?” he taunted, smirking. “Only fair, I suppose; you are getting
on a bit. You should be more careful in your old age.”

“Impudent little whelp!” Voldemort hissed. “I am immortal, and my age means nothing in the
face of that.”

And there was an opener Harry couldn’t possibly resist. “Immortal? Are you absolutely sure
about that?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dumbledore sit up straighter in his chair.

“I have performed more powerful and terrifying magic than you would ever dare—“
“Oh, yeah, no, the horcruxes, I know about those,” Harry cut him off. For the first time, he
saw fear flash through Voldemort’s eyes.

“Impossible,” the man spat, gaze narrowing. “One of my faithful is a traitor after all. I will
discover who, once I have rid myself of you. Avada Kedavra!” Harry twitched his fingers and
the spell smashed into the golden centaur’s left arm.

“No worries; it was Regulus Black, he’s super dead now,” Harry assured. “Not that it matters,
as you will be soon as well.”

“Knowing of my horcruxes means nothing,” Voldemort retorted. “You cannot best me until
you have destroyed them all! And I can always create more!”

“Splitting your soul even further? Wow, yikes, that would be a bad idea,” Harry pointed out.
“You’ve barely got any left as it is. Can you feel it? Your magical reserves aren’t quite what
they used to be?”

Voldemort’s teeth clenched, and Harry knew he was on to something. “See, after you sent me
that rather pathetic attempt at a vision trying to convince me you had my friends, I went to go
visit some people at Gringotts, who I’ve been working with on this fascinating old ritual.” As
Harry spoke, he continued to duel, finally feeling like he was close to gaining the upper hand.
“Turns out this old Germanic bloke — way back before it was even Germany — did what
you did and then came to regret it. Decided he didn’t want horcruxes anymore. Anyway, the
specifics aren’t important, but long story short; he invented a ritual that allowed the holder of
a fragmented soul to forcefully dissipate all pieces of that soul, except for those anchored in a
living human body. Made him totally mortal — less than, even, with only a quarter of his
soul left.”

“You think you can force me to undertake this ritual?” Voldemort laughed. Harry grinned
brightly.

“Oh, no need, don’t worry. That connection between us you’ve been playing with all year?
The one that lets me see into your head? That was a present, from the day I killed you the
first time. Shit present, by the way, I hate it. But it did come in handy for this. Piece of a soul
anchored to a living human body? Check!” He jerked a thumb at himself. Voldemort stared.

“You…”

“I got rid of all your horcruxes,” Harry confirmed. “Didn’t even need to go on a treasure hunt
for them. One ritual, followed by a quick purging potion to deal with the bit inside me, and
voila — Dark Lord Tommy, mortal once more.” He dared to pause, seeing Voldemort looked
too apoplectic to continue casting. “So, does it feel any different? We couldn’t tell if you’d
notice when we were doing the ritual. I suppose there’s so little of your soul actually left
inside you, it’s probably hard to tell.”

Voldemort’s teeth bared in a snarl, and another killing curse shot towards Harry. Harry
dropped to one knee, feeling it singe his hair as it sailed over his head. It was closely
followed by another; this one wildly off-target, creating an enormous scorch mark on the
wall.
Harry grinned. Voldemort was getting sloppy. Perfect.

“You lie, Potter!” the Dark Lord shouted. Harry jumped to his feet, raising his right hand.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

He saw a flare of green out of the corner of his eye, but ignored it, his focus entirely on the
man in front of him. The incantation for the cutting curse clear in his mind, Harry forced the
magic from his fingertips — and watched the pale blue blade of magic slice clean through
Voldemort’s neck.

Voldemort’s head dropped to the marble tile, and his body slumped beside it a split second
later, blood pooling around him. Harry stared, heart hammering against his ribs.

He’d done it.

“It’s Potter! Using magic! Aurors, arrest him!”

Harry whipped around. The flash of green had not, as he’d assumed, been another killing
curse — it had been the flare of the floo, signalling the arrival of Minister Fudge and his
usual entourage of aurors and officials.
 Chapter 32
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Harry stared incredulously at the Minister, who wore pinstriped pyjamas beneath his cloak.
“Arrest him!” the portly man shouted again. The aurors flanking him did nothing.

“That’s… that was You-Know-Who,” one auror declared dumbly, eyes wide in horror.

“It still is, technically,” Harry told him, stepping up to the body and nudging it with a foot.
“He’s just dead now. Most of his followers are down in the Department of Mysteries. And
Bellatrix Lestrange—“ Suddenly remembering the woman, he turned to look at the last place
he’d seen her. She was still on the floor in supplication. When Harry approached her, there
was a pool of blood around her, and an experimental nudge confirmed her to be entirely
lifeless. “Wait, never mind, she’s dead too. That one was also me — must’ve been that
second cutting curse.” He shrugged unrepentantly. One less psycho in the world for the
aurors to deal with.

“What— what is the meaning of this!” Fudge spluttered, looking a little queasy. “You— you
were expelled. We snapped your wand!”

“You did,” Harry confirmed cheerfully. He looked down at himself, grimacing at a series of
small cuts bleeding a trail down his left arm. When had he gotten those? He placed his right
hand over it, murmuring a healing charm. “I learned to manage without.”

Fudge made an incoherent noise, and finally, Dumbledore approached.

“Cornelius,” he greeted, as if they’d just bumped into each other while shopping. “I’m afraid
you’ve missed rather a lot here tonight.”

“Dumbledore!” Fudge exclaimed feebly. Dumbledore smiled at him.

“Indeed. Aurors,” he turned to the men behind Fudge, “if you would gather your forces and
proceed to the Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries, you will find a rather
impressive number of Death Eaters bound and restrained beneath an Anti-Disapparition
ward, waiting for you to bring them to justice. Many of them may be in need of medical
assistance, if you choose to give it. I believe Lucius Malfoy may lose his right leg, if he is left
much longer.”

Several people gasped at the name. Harry grimaced. “That one was me, as well,” he
volunteered sheepishly. “They’re all wrapped up downstairs, then?” Vivid memories of
seeing a redhead hit the ground unmoving flashed through Harry’s head. If the fighting was
over downstairs — evidently had been since before Dumbledore had arrived — where were
the Order?

How many others had fallen?

“Albus, I need to see them,” he said insistently.

“Now, see here, Potter!” Fudge started, but was ignored.

“Everyone is under Poppy’s tender care,” Dumbledore told him, blue eyes twinkling. “The
floo to my old quarters is still the same. Go, I will handle things here.” He glanced over at
Voldemort’s corpse, and reached to squeeze Harry’s shoulder. “Well done, Harry. Very well
done. Rest, now; you have earned it.”

Harry didn’t need telling twice. Ignoring the handful of Ministry workers gawping at him,
and the Minister himself, Harry strode over to the nearest in-tact fireplace and tossed in a
handful of floo powder.

“Albus Dumbledore’s Personal Quarters, Hogwarts.” He stepped in, and the fire flared
purple. “Phoenix.”

With a whoosh of flame, he was leaving the Ministry far, far behind.

.-.-.

While a small part of Harry was tempted to snoop in Dumbledore’s quarters while he had the
chance, the far bigger part of him needed to make sure his friends were okay. He found the
exit, which led into the headmaster’s office behind a secret bookshelf. The office was utterly
spotless, and had clearly been empty for some time. Harry smirked to himself, remembering
the twins telling him how the gargoyle refused to allow Umbridge entry.

Luckily, the stone creature had no such qualms about allowing Harry exit; it sprang aside
once he reached the bottom of the staircase, and he began to sprint through the halls of
Hogwarts, following a path he knew like the back of his hand even after all this time away —
the path to the Hogwarts infirmary.

He didn’t come across anyone — which didn’t really surprise him, considering the time of
night — but he half expected to have set off some sort of alarm Umbridge might have set.
Where was she, to not notice a dozen or more people being brought into her infirmary?
Perhaps the curse had struck after all.

But that didn’t matter, not now. He picked up the pace as he approached the hospital wing,
and burst through the door. Everyone in the room looked up and froze, some drawing their
wands.

Harry looked around. It was the busiest he’d ever seen the place — every single bed seemed
to have someone in it, and four more people at their bedside. He forced down the nausea at
seeing it all, eyes scanning desperately until they hit a cluster of red. He looked at the person
in the hospital bed — awake, staring at him, pale-faced and bandaged around the stomach.

And definitely Fred Weasley.

Harry’s gaze moved to the identical form sat in the chair beside the bed, and he almost sank
to his knees in relief. George was bloodied and bruised, but not in a hospital bed. He was
alive.

The redhead stood, stepping forward with wide brown eyes, and Harry didn’t hesitate for a
second — he flew across the room and straight into George’s arms.

“Oh thank fuck you’re alive,” he exclaimed, hugging George tightly. “I was running and I
saw a twin get hit and I wasn’t sure — I couldn’t stop, I had to keep going— but I thought—
one of you went down, I—“ He let his gaze drift to Fred, who was grinning faintly.

“That’s what it takes, is it?” George remarked teasingly. “All this time, and one little battle
with Death Eaters is too much for you to tell us apart?” His brown eyes twinkled. Harry
choked back a sob. “We’re fine. Fred got hit with a gut-twister curse, but we got him out
quick; he’ll be fine by tomorrow night, Pomfrey says.”

The words echoed through Harry’s head. A gut-twister; another green curse, but a paler shade
than the killing curse. Still lethal, but not instantly.

Fred was going to be fine. George was fine.

They’d made it out the other side.

He looked George square in the eye. “I did it,” he declared hoarsely, the enormity of the last
few hours finally sinking in. “George, I did it. Voldemort’s dead. I killed him.”

He vaguely heard several gasps ring out as his words were heard by the others in the room,
but he didn’t care; they didn’t matter in the face of George’s wide-eyed gaze. Slowly, a grin
crept across his face, like he hardly dared believe it. Then he adjusted the hold he had on
Harry, cupped the back of his head, and pulled him into a fierce kiss.

“You absolute marvel, Harry Potter,” he breathed once they parted, chocolate eyes bright and
full of love. “Marry me.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He chuckled, and kissed him again. “Ask me again when
I’m old enough,” he declared. Then he paused. “When am I old enough?”

“Eighteen, pup.” The cheerful interruption startled him. He turned, spotting Sirius sat up in
the bed opposite Fred, his ribs wrapped with bandages. Sirius smirked at him. “Glad to see
you were worried about the rest of us, too,” he teased. Harry flushed. Remus, sat at Sirius’
side, rolled his eyes.

“He’s truly dead?” he asked, hand wrapped tight around Sirius’. Harry nodded.

“Beheaded him with a cutting curse.”

“That’s my lad!” That interruption scared him so much he jumped out of George’s hold —
just in time for Mad-Eye Moody to clap him on the shoulders with both hands, shaking him
triumphantly. “Knew you had it in you!”

Harry grinned back at the man, chest puffing with pride.

Only then did he begin to notice the other people in the room — the many, many other people
in the room. Not only were half the Order crammed in there, but Harry saw Ron and
Hermione, Ginny and Luna Lovegood all sat around a hospital bed containing — “Neville!”
Harry yelped incredulously. “What are you doing here? You weren’t— you weren’t at the
Ministry!”

“You weren’t the only one fighting tonight, mate,” Neville retorted, offering a weak grin. “Us
lowly students had our own scraps to deal with. Nothing like the sound of yours, though. You
— you really killed him?”

“I killed him,” Harry confirmed, wondering if those words would ever stop sending relief
crashing through him. He realised something abruptly, and his smile widened. “I killed
Bellatrix Lestrange, too.”

Neville froze. “You— you what?”

“Bellatrix is dead. It was sort-of an accident. Cutting curse to the leg — I was trying to piss
her off, but I guess she bled out…” He shook his head. “Either way, she’s dead.”

The other Gryffindor looked like his entire world had just been turned upside down.
“Blimey,” he croaked.

Suddenly, Ron let out a strange, almost yelping noise. “But you— and George— he kissed—
Harry,” he whined, wide-eyed and utterly bewildered.

Harry couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. He felt George’s forehead press against his
shoulder as the redhead lost his own composure, doubling over in his laughter.

“Ron, you git,” Fred groaned. “It hurts to laugh!” That set George off even harder, and as
Harry tried to gather himself he felt the adrenaline begin to drain from him, now the fight was
over. His knees wobbled — all of a sudden, he was the one leaning on George, his
boyfriend’s arm winding around his waist.

“Easy, love,” George murmured, moving him to sit on the edge of Fred’s bed.

The next thing Harry knew, Madam Pomfrey was in front of him and scanning him with her
wand, tutting quietly. “To think, I almost went a whole year without having you in here,
Potter.”

Harry snorted. “Couldn’t have that, could we?” She shot him a scolding look, and set about
healing the multitude of wounds he hadn’t even noticed he had. After some fussing and a
tired attempt at an argument, Harry was coerced into a bed beside Fred’s, and he had to admit
it did feel good to lie down. Everyone who was conscious was staring at him, many of them
flicking their eyes to George with blatant curiosity, but no one said anything until he was
settled and Madam Pomfrey had stepped away.

“You two figured it out, then?” Arthur asked, a soft smile at his lips as he watched George
immediately take Harry’s hand. Both of them looked at him with raised eyebrows, and he
chuckled. “I know what it looks like when one of my boys is in love. Harry, you were harder
to read, but… I hoped it would work out.”

“I— how long has this been going on?” Molly questioned, taking a half-step towards them.
Harry grimaced.

“We’ll answer everyone’s questions, I promise, but — not tonight?” he begged.

“Give the man a break, Mum,” Fred piped up. “He’s just killed a Dark Lord after all.”

There was a pregnant silence after his words. None of them could quite believe it. Harry let
his gaze scan the room, and began to notice some absences.

“Who did we lose?” he asked, dread gathering in his stomach. George’s hand tightened
around his.

“Harry…”

“Tell me,” Harry insisted, pulse picking up. He sat up in his bed, counting off Order
members.

“Vance was killed by Rosier,” Moody said matter-of-factly. “We lost Doge pretty early on in
the fight, too. Diggle’s at St Mungo’s — he needed more than Poppy could give him. He’s in
rough shape.”

Harry read between the lines with a sickening sense of horror; Diggle might not last through
the night. “Where’s Kingsley?” he asked suddenly, realising the bald auror was not in any of
the beds, or stood beside them. It had taken him a moment to recognise Tonks, with her hair
dark and long across her pillow, asleep in a bed across the room. But Kingsley was nowhere
to be found.

“He’s fine,” George assured, stroking a thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. “Fawkes came
to pick him up just before you got here; to go sort out the mess in the Ministry, I guess.”

Harry slumped back in relief. Thank Merlin for that.

A selfish part of him was glad that all the people he cared about seemed to have made it out
okay. He had been so sure, so convinced he would lose someone close to him. Sure, he didn’t
know the degree of injury in the room, but for everyone to be at Hogwarts instead of St
Mungo’s spoke for itself.

Speaking of Hogwarts; “So where’s this illustrious Headmistress of yours?” Harry asked,
turning to the small cluster of students around Neville’s bed. “I can’t imagine she’d be
thrilled to find us all in here.” Not that he cared at this point.

Ginny smirked widely, and Neville and Hermione both blushed.

“Well, uh,” Hermione began awkwardly. “Umbridge is in St Mungo’s too.”

Harry gaped at her. Suddenly, it all came spilling out — how Hagrid had brought his half-
brother back from his mission to the giants, and he’d asked Ron and Hermione to help him
with Grawp while Umbridge was out for blood. How Umbridge’s people had come for
Hagrid during their Astronomy exam, and McGonagall had gone down trying to help him.

“He might be a giant, but we couldn’t just let him live in the forest all alone,” Hermione
expressed earnestly. “Not after we’d promised Hagrid we’d help him.”

“I still don’t understand how this ended up with Umbridge at St Mungo’s. Or how you three
got involved,” Harry added, glancing at Ginny, Luna and Neville. Luna gave him a wide
smile.

“Ginny and Neville and I were caught by the Inquisitorial Squad while we were trying to
redecorate Professor Umbridge’s classroom,” she explained airily. “It just so happened to be
the same time that Filch caught Ron and Hermione trying to go into the forest.”

“We were graffiti-ing her walls with stinksap,” Ginny said shamelessly. “I guess she assumed
the five of us were all working together. Malfoy was making a big fuss about it all, saying we
were trying to sneak Harry into the castle — maybe he was told to create a distraction at the
school while his daddy was in the Ministry. Next thing we know, Hermione’s spinning some
story about a weapon Dumbledore built in the forest, and the five of us are leading Umbridge
on a merry little adventure.”

The story got even wilder from there, Hermione explaining her plan to get Umbridge to cross
paths with the centaurs.

“I didn’t want to get her seriously hurt or anything,” she defended. “But we needed
something to make her not want to come back next year. I figured a run-in with the centaurs
would do that.”

Apparently, it all would have been fine had they not also found Grawp — or rather, had
Grawp not found them — while Umbridge was busy riling up the centaurs.

“Everything went a bit pear-shaped from there,” Neville said with a faint grimace. “The
centaurs tried not to hurt us, but Grawp’s a big guy. Also, Umbridge didn’t like that we’d lied
to her. She cast the Cruciatus on me after I broke my leg and couldn’t dodge it. The centaur
leader didn’t like that at all; he helped us get to safety and his herd went to town on
Umbridge.”

“How did she get to St Mungo’s?” That was Remus, who seemed to be in the same state of
horrified fascination as Harry while listening to the story.

“The centaurs chucked her out after a couple of hours,” Ron said with a shrug. “Filch and a
couple of the seventh years brought her up and flooed her straight to hospital. Hour or so
later, you lot started showing up.”

“Well.” Harry shook his head, amazed. “I apologise for ever thinking you’d have a normal
year without me. Those are some serious Potter-level shenanigans.”
“We try,” Ginny replied sweetly. All five of them looked incredibly proud of themselves.

Merlin, Harry had missed them.

All of a sudden, Madam Pomfrey bustled back into the room. “I’ve had word from Albus,”
she declared, and every eye in the room was on her. “He has explained tonight’s proceedings
to the Minister, and the aurors have detained the surviving Death Eaters. With Professor
Umbridge… indisposed, he will be returning to the school tonight.” A cheer went up, but she
cleared her throat. “However,” she continued pointedly, eyeing the group. “The Ministry has
not been informed of exactly who participated in tonight’s battle, and having all of you in
here is not the best thing for the continued secrecy of the Order. I’m afraid I’ll need those of
you who can do so to go home — and those injured who do not need to remain under my care
to get set up at Headquarters. Not so fast, Mr Potter,” she added, when Harry made to swing
his legs over the edge of the bed. “You’re to stay here tonight.”

“But— I got expelled?”

“And the Minister wishes to speak to you in the morning. You cannot do that from a house
under the Fidelius charm.” Her face softened. “Umbridge is gone, Potter. You will come to no
harm in this castle.”

Something in Harry’s shoulders relaxed. It still felt strange, being in the school, but it was
weirdly comforting to be allowed to stay the night in the hospital wing. That was where he’d
ended up after every previous confrontation with Voldemort, after all.

Beside him, George looked between Harry and Fred with a conflicted expression on his face.
Madam Pomfrey sighed. “Misters Weasley, you may have decided to end your education
prematurely, but you are still technically students enrolled in this school. Also, with so many
of your… distinctive inventions used during the battle, I don’t believe there is any use in
attempting to deny your involvement. You may both stay. Besides, I don’t want you leaving
that bed for even a second until tomorrow, Fred Weasley; you’re still at risk of torsion,” she
added warningly, pointing a scolding finger in his direction. Fred gave her a thumbs up.

“You’re the boss. Staying right here, I swear. No torsion for me thanks.”

Pomfrey eyed George, and the way he was perched on the edge of Harry’s bed. “Separate
beds,” she declared briskly. “No funny business, or I will throw out the one of you that is
currently uninjured.”

“We’ll be good,” Harry promised. If it meant keeping George with him, he’d deal with
sleeping in adjacent hospital beds.

With the knowledge that the Ministry would be coming in the morning — which, by now,
was only a few short hours away — the Order began to make their leave. Every single one of
them came to say goodbye to Harry before they left, every one of them congratulating him on
his actions that night. Mrs Weasley hugged him tightly, kissing his forehead, before doing the
same to her twin sons, and then Ginny, Ron and Hermione for good measure. Moody,
levitating Tonks on a stretcher, just clapped Harry on the shoulder and went on his way.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, pup,” Sirius promised, leaning heavily against Remus now he was
out of bed. Of all the people the Minister shouldn’t see in there, the animagus was at the top
of the list. “Floo if you need anything.” He squeezed George’s shoulder, then leaned in to kiss
Harry’s hair. “So bloody proud of you, kiddo. You were amazing.”

Harry blushed. “So were you. I wouldn’t have survived without you at my back,” he insisted.
“Go get some rest, both of you. You’ve earned it.” Just because Remus could walk under his
own power didn’t mean he’d come out unscathed; his torn and bloodied robes made that very
clear.

After a hug and a kiss from Remus as well, the pair limped through to Pomfrey’s office to
floo back to Grimmauld. The last of the departing Order members was Bill — and Fleur, who
was barely conscious and clinging to him like a koala. He approached Harry’s hospital bed,
raised his wand, and murmured a quiet spell. Harry felt a tingle of magic wash over his
forehead. Only then did Bill crack a relieved smile. “It’s gone,” he breathed. Harry’s chest
tightened.

“You’re absolutely sure?” He hadn’t felt anything from Voldemort since taking the potion,
but he was still worried the soul fragment hadn’t fully dislodged. That there might still be
some part of Voldemort left alive.

“Dec taught me that spell,” Bill assured. “You’re all clear. You did it.”

“We did it,” Harry corrected. “I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without you and the team.”
Merlin only knew how long the war might have lasted, how many people might have died.

Bill’s smile widened, and he ruffled Harry’s hair. “Glad we could help.” Then he winked.
“And I’m very glad to see you two finally admitting things.” He bumped George’s shoulder,
ignoring the tongue the redhead stuck out in response.

“Your mum’s gonna go mental when the shock wears off,” Harry said with a grimace. He
smirked at Bill. “Fancy sharing a bit of the family drama and putting the contents of your
desk drawer to work?”

Beneath his freckles, Bill paled. “How do you know about that?” he hissed. Harry almost told
him that Fleur already knew, but he didn’t want to ruin that for Bill. Instead, he just tapped
his nose conspiratorially. Bill’s blue eyes narrowed. “You little shit,” he said eventually,
snorting and straightening up. He adjusted his hold on Fleur, looking at the much smaller
gathering. “We’ll be back tomorrow, I want Fleur to get checked out once she’s back on her
feet,” he said. “For the love of Merlin, try and stay out of trouble for the next twelve hours,
alright?”

Silence fell when he left, the room only holding the five students and the three not-quite-
students.

“What was all that about?” Ron asked. “With Bill?”

“What was that spell, Harry?” Hermione queried. Harry, who had thought Ron was referring
to his teasing about the ring in Bill’s desk, made a face.
 “I’ll explain in the morning,” he promised. He still wasn’t sure how much he was willing to
tell people, and he sure as hell wasn’t coherent enough to make that decision now. The
exhaustion was rising swiftly.

“Let’s just all get some sleep, yeah?” Fred suggested loudly, giving his younger siblings a
pointed look. “Been a hell of a day.”

“I quite agree, Mr Weasley,” Pomfrey said, returning to the main ward with a pale green
potion, which she handed to Fred. “You four—“ She turned to the cluster of students, “off to
bed with you. You can come back in the morning, but there’s no need for all of you to stay
here tonight. I’m sure the rest of your houses will be delighted to hear the news about the
headmistress.”

“Might want to keep a lid on the, ah, other news, though,” Harry suggested tentatively. “See
what the papers say in the morning. Don’t want to cause a fuss.”

“Right, yeah,” Ron agreed. He got to his feet, looking a little awkward. Once again, his eyes
were flickering between Harry and George. “We’ll see you all in the morning, then.”

Ginny, Luna and Hermione all hugged Neville, and the next thing Harry knew he was
receiving the same treatment.

“I always knew you would succeed,” Luna told him matter-of-factly. “The nargles told me
so.”

Harry blinked. Yeah, he was too tired to figure that out. “Thanks, Luna,” he said instead,
smiling at the girl he had never met but who seemed to be a stalwart part of the friend group
he’d been missing all year.

At last, there were only five of them in the room. “You can take that bed, Mr Weasley,”
Pomfrey said, using a set of quick spells to have fresh sheets on the bed beside Harry. Then
with another wave of her wand, she had both George and Harry changed into striped
pyjamas. “I’ll be back to check on you before breakfast.”

Watching to make sure Fred took his potion, she then bustled off to her office, presumably
where her own quarters could be accessed. Harry let out a long sigh, running a hand through
his hair and grimacing at the feel of gritty pieces of blood and prophecy-glass still tangled in
there.

“Get some sleep, love,” George urged, pulling him into a kiss before reluctantly heading over
to his own bed. “It’s all over, now. You can rest.”

The words hit Harry like a punch to the chest, echoing through his mind as he laid down and
closed his eyes.

Finally, he could rest.

Chapter End Notes

Y'all didn't really think I would kill off someone important without tagging for character
death, did you? :P
 Chapter 33
Chapter Notes

The two chapters after this one are basically just unrepentant fluff and I'm not remotely
sorry. I think we all need some fluff these days~

Harry awoke slowly, to the feel of blunt-nailed fingers carding through his hair. “Mm,
George, time izzit?” he groaned, eyes still shut. He felt like one giant, exhausted bruise.

“How the hell does he know it’s you?” That was Ron’s voice. Harry scrunched up his nose,
the memories of the night before flooding back to him. He cracked one eye open, just in time
to fuzzily watch George raise a pointed eyebrow at his younger brother. Ron’s face went
bright red. Somewhere, Hermione giggled.

George turned back to Harry, expression softening, and he gently slid Harry’s glasses onto his
face. “Good morning, oh great Saviour of Magic,” he greeted with a teasing smirk. Harry
blinked. Then he groaned.

“How bad are the papers?” he asked flatly. George chuckled.

“Full of shite, as always.”

“Oh, joy.” Harry cracked a yawn, making an attempt at sitting up. A twitch of his fingers
revealed it was a little after nine. He glanced over at Ron and Hermione. “Shouldn’t you two
be in class or something?”

“Classes are cancelled ’til the end of the year,” Ron explained. “Thanks for waiting ’til our
exams were over for all this, mate. I’d hate to be trying to remember all the goblin names and
such after all this.”

“Dumbledore’s back,” Hermione supplied. “Well, technically. He’s at the Ministry helping
sort everything out right now, but he’s been reinstated as Headmaster. McGonagall gave a
speech at breakfast — Umbridge no longer works here in any capacity.” She looked relieved,
and Harry noticed her unconsciously rubbing the back of her right hand.

“Thank fuck for that,” Harry muttered.

“While I don’t appreciate your language, I can’t fault the sentiment, Mr Potter,” Madam
Pomfrey remarked, bustling into the ward. “Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Sore, tired. Magical exhaustion for sure,” Harry told her, taking mental stock of his
situation. “Don’t think I’ve got any injuries, though.”
She scanned him anyway, then gave an approving nod. “Take it easy for the next few days,
you’ll be right as rain. And you’re in luck; Minister Fudge is too busy to leave his office
today, so that particular meeting can wait until you’re feeling better.” She shook her head in
amazement. “Fighting Voldemort himself wandless and coming out with hardly a scratch.
Only you, Mr Potter.” Harry grinned, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Here, eat up.” At
her words, a tray with a steaming plate of food and a cup of tea appeared over his lap. Harry’s
stomach growled ravenously. Suddenly, he was starving. “Mr Weasley, how are you feeling?”

For a split second of panic, Harry worried George was hiding some sort of injury from him.
Then he realised the witch was talking to Fred, who was sat up in the bed beside him.

“Like that porridge I had earlier is all I want to eat for the next week, quite honestly,” the
redhead replied. Pomfrey frowned.

“Yes, it’ll take a few days for your intestines to readjust. Small meals and nutrient potions for
you, young man — if you can eat some toast at noon, I’ll let you go.”

Fred brightened up, nodding, and Pomfrey moved to fuss over Neville, who had Ginny and
Luna at his bedside.

Harry began to tuck in to his breakfast, wolfing down the full English he’d been supplied.
“Merlin, I’ve missed Hogwarts food,” he moaned softly. George reached over and stole one
of his fried tomatoes, and Harry glared at him with a mouthful of beans. The redhead winked.

“I can’t believe we didn’t see this before,” Hermione said, drawing the attention of the pair.
“How long has this been going on, between you two? You weren’t like this at Christmas.”

Fred coughed to hide a laugh as Harry and George glanced sheepishly at each other. “Nothing
actually happened until the twins left school,” Harry told her.

“Sorry, are we calling two years of mutual pining nothing, now?” Fred cut in pointedly.
Despite his stomach ache, he seemed to be getting a huge amount of joy in watching the pair
of them squirm.

“Two years?” Ron repeated incredulously. “You never said anything!”

“There was never a good time,” Harry sighed. “It’s— it’s complicated, alright?” He knew he
could attempt to explain six ways from Sunday and his two best friends still wouldn’t
understand.

“He’s my brother though, mate.” Ron looked slightly ill at the thought of Harry and his
brother being a couple. “And I thought you and Ginny had a thing? You gave her your
firebolt!”

Across the room, Ginny burst into laughter. “He gave me that broom so I could make Malfoy
cry, Ron,” she explained. “I told you a thousand times, there’s nothing between us. I have a
boyfriend. And apparently, so does he.” She smirked. “Didn’t expect it to be George, mind,
but it’s been obvious for years that Harry’s queer.”
From the looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces, it was not obvious to them.

“You’d better get used to it, Ron,” Harry warned. He was too tired to put up with any shit
about his love life — it would be bad enough when the press caught wind of things.

“Well,” Ron blustered, “you two better have thought this through. You’re both family — if
you break up it’ll be another Percy situation all over again.”

“Why do you think it took us two years?” George retorted. “We’re not idiots, little
Ronnikins.”

Ron turned wary blue eyes to Harry, who sighed. “Look, Ron. I— it’s always been George,
alright?” He looked at the brown-eyed redhead sat beside him, his heart positively aching
with love. “Don’t worry about us messing up the family. We won’t let that happen.”

George, unable to help himself, leaned in for a chaste kiss. “Love you, too,” he murmured.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione whisper something in Ron’s ear, her gaze
knowing.

Whatever she said, it ended Ron’s complaints there.

Harry’s tray disappeared once he’d finished his breakfast, and he raised an eyebrow at his
boyfriend. “Do I get to see the Prophet now?” he asked pointedly. George huffed.

“Oh, if you insist. You won’t like it, though,” he warned as he handed over a newspaper.
Harry unfolded it over his lap, eyes immediately drawn to the headline - The Boy-Who-
Vanquished; Wandless Harry Potter Kills You-Know-Who in Ministry Ambush.

“Boy-Who-Vanquished?” he complained. “Really?”

Ignoring his friends’ amusement, he kept reading.

Luckily, thanks to the mysterious absence of Rita Skeeter, the article wasn’t too
sensationalised. But it was very clear that the information had all come from second-hand
sources. Namely, Dumbledore. The old man had spoon-fed the journalists with everything
they could want for a fantastic article, keeping most of the real facts vague and obscured.
There was only a mention that sources revealed Voldemort was planning to attack the
Ministry that night, and that because of this the Order was gathered. No mention of Harry’s
vision, or the fact that he had made the call for war. Indeed, Dumbledore made it sound like
Harry had let the Order go in first and do the majority of the fighting against the Death
Eaters, and just waited up in the atrium for Voldemort.

There was no mention of Dumbledore’s own late arrival, and it was heavily implied that the
headmaster had helped Harry during his duel, rather than sitting in a conjured chair and
watching it like a soap opera. As well as that, the article went on for several paragraphs about
how Harry had been trained in secret by the headmaster and a group of secret tutors. It
practically suggested he’d been expelled as a ruse to do exactly that; Fudge trying to cover
his own arse, probably.
There was also no mention of the prophecy, just a brief mention that Voldemort had been ‘in
search of esoteric magics’ in the Department of Mysteries.

The article finished by assuring that the Unspeakables had confirmed that Voldemort was
indeed dead for real this time, and that the body had been verified and would be cremated
along with those of the deceased Death Eaters who were not claimed by family.

The only Death Eaters mentioned by name in the article were the ones who had escaped
Azkaban earlier in the year, confirming them as either dead or re-captured. The rest, the
Prophet declared, would be sent to trial in due time and their names and crimes would be
released when the facts had been gathered.

Harry wondered how long it would take for enough facts to be gathered for someone to
finally throw Lucius Malfoy under the bus.

“Y’know,” he declared once he reached the end of the article. “I think the only bit they
actually got one hundred percent right is that I beheaded Voldemort.”

“It’s that inaccurate?” Hermione asked, looking horrified. Harry felt a twinge of guilt; for the
first time, Ron and Hermione hadn’t been right beside him through most of his adventures.
They’d been living a completely different life to him this past year, and he’d kept them in the
dark about almost all of it.

“Just about. Dumbledore didn’t call the Order, I did; Voldemort tried to trick me with a vision
into thinking he was torturing you and Ron down in the DoM — he wanted me to come and
pick up the copy of the prophecy about us so he could steal it from me and figure out how to
win.” Harry flashed Hermione a quick grin when he saw her face go chalky. “It was a pretty
convincing vision, but I knew it would take more than the Dark Lord himself to drag you out
of Hogwarts on the same day as your OWL exams.”

Hermione flushed, smacking him lightly on the arm, while Ron laughed.

“What happened next?” The call from across the room startled Harry — he hadn’t realised
Neville, Ginny and Luna were listening in. He looked around the ward, gave his exhausted
magic a mental nudge, then reached out and tugged. Neville’s bed levitated over, trading
places with the one on Fred’s other side. The Gryffindor boy startled, his eyes going round.

“They really weren’t kidding about the wandless magic thing, then?” Neville asked in awe,
while Ginny and Luna hurried to join the group.

“No, that part was true too.”

Slowly, Harry told his friends about his adventure the night before; Fred and George only
knew about the vision and the part of the battle they were there for, so they were just as
enraptured by his description of the fight against Voldemort.

“Dumbledore just sat there?? He did nothing?” Fred repeated angrily. Harry shrugged.
“He’s always trying to test me, you know that. He probably would have stepped in if it
looked like I was going to fail.” Privately, Harry wondered if the headmaster hadn’t been
trying to teach Harry a lesson, refusing to aid him after Harry had spent all year insisting he
was better off without the man’s particular brand of ‘help’. If he had, well; that had backfired
on him quite spectacularly.

“Does it bother you, that the Prophet makes it sound like Dumbledore did half the work?
Training you and everything?” Ginny asked. “Even I know that he didn’t teach you a thing in
the last year. You wouldn’t let him,” she added with an amused grin.

Biting his lip, Harry mulled the question over. Had it been a year ago, he probably would
have been spitting feathers, watching his own efforts and contributions be downplayed in
favour of the headmaster, the old man manipulating the story for his own benefit once again.
But, quite frankly, Harry was far too tired to care about all that.

“Not really,” he said eventually. “The important thing is that Voldemort’s dead for good. The
Prophet and the public were never going to know the full story — and even if they did,
they’d twist it with rumours until it was barely recognisable anyway.” He’d had plenty of
experience with that over the years. “If Dumbledore wants to take the praise and the credit,
that’s his problem. I just want to get on with my life; quite frankly, the less the public think I
had to do with it, the more likely they are to leave me alone.”

“Think you might be asking a bit much there, mate,” Fred replied. Harry grimaced — yeah,
that was always going to be a long shot.

“But the Prophet talks as if your wandless magic is just a fluke,” Hermione argued, looking
upset. “Like you had to try really hard to make it work enough to kill Voldemort. You’ve
been doing wandless magic easier than regular magic all year!”

“And how long before someone decides that makes me as much a threat as Voldemort?”
Harry pointed out grimly. “I don’t want to make a big fuss over it, Hermione. I know what I
can do, and the people whose opinions I value know what I can do. That’s the important
thing.” Anyone who had seen him training for more than five minutes in the last year would
know that Dumbledore’s version of events was utter bollocks. Harry didn’t care what the
public thought of him.

“You’re going to let him get away with all this, then?” George asked, watching him carefully.
Of everyone there, he knew the most about how frustrated Harry was by the headmaster’s
rampant manipulation of the public. Harry sighed.

“Yeah. I don’t think arguing would get me anywhere. I don’t want to sound like bloody
Lockhart,” he added wryly. “Besides, it’ll come out in the Death Eater trials that I showed up
long before the Order, and stayed fighting through the majority of it. They’ll all say they
didn’t see Dumbledore anywhere downstairs until the end.” The lies would start to fray
around the edges, in time. “People will think what they want regardless. If they want to
worship him for something he didn’t do, that’s fine by me. He’s getting ancient anyway, he’ll
be dead before the next big mess arrives.”

“Harry!” Hermione scolded, even as the rest of the group snickered.

“What? It’s true!” Wizards might have longer lifespans than muggles, but Dumbledore was
pushing even that. “He likes to think he’s the lynchpin for all this, but he’s not — now
Voldemort’s gone and the Death Eaters are mostly rounded up, the people in the Ministry
who have been trying to make real changes will finally have the space to do that. The school
should finally be able to get a decent Defence teacher that stays longer than a year. People
can get on with their lives again, regardless of what Dumbledore is doing.”

He knew, from being around various members of the Order all year, that there were dozens of
people waiting in the wings to start getting magical Britain back to rights. Now that the threat
was over, and Fudge was about to come under fire for denying Voldemort’s return for a whole
year, that change could begin. Albus Dumbledore didn’t have nearly as much to do with it as
he liked to think he did.

“I might write the Prophet about one thing, though,” he said suddenly, amusement lighting
his eyes. “Ask them to stop with all the bloody nicknames, I mean, seriously.” They’d used at
least five different ones in the article, and all of them were terrible.

George grinned mischievously. “You mean you don’t want to be called the Wandless
Conqueror? Or the Saviour of the Light?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Harry scowled.

“If you ever call me any of those things, I will lock you out of your own damn bedroom,” he
groused. Ignoring the scandalised looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces, George’s eyes lit up in
challenge.

“As if you’d deprive yourself, gorgeous,” he drawled huskily.

“Oh, Merlin, make them stop,” Fred groaned. “I’m nauseous enough without you two making
eyes at each other. Get used to it, kids,” he added to Harry’s gathered friends. “They’re like
this all the time. It’s disgusting.”

“Don’t be jealous, brother dear,” George replied. Fred flipped him off.

“You should read the other article, Harry,” Luna said suddenly, gesturing to the paper. Harry
frowned at her.

“Other article?”

The blonde girl flipped through several pages of various nonsense about the Ministry attack,
as well as an article about Umbridge that Harry would definitely be coming back to, before
pointing to a small headline in the corner of the paper. Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

‘Peter Pettigrew, Death Eater — Caught Alive in Ministry’.

It was a small article, tucked away in all the other sensationalist news from the defeat of
Voldemort. All it said was that Peter Pettigrew, who had previously been thought murdered
by Sirius Black, had been one of the marked Death Eaters caught in the Ministry ambush, and
that Head of DMLE Amelia Bones had declared that enough evidence for an inquiry into the
sentencing and incarceration of Sirius Black.
“Oh, shit, I didn’t see that one,” George muttered, squeezing onto the bed beside Harry to get
a proper look. Harry leaned against him, heart hammering against his ribs.

“Sirius is going to get a trial,” he murmured, stunned. Hermione gasped.

“Really?”

Harry nodded. “They caught Wormtail last night. I hadn’t realised he was even there.” His
head swam at the news. Had Sirius seen it yet? Was he even awake yet? He’d been in pretty
rough shape last night. Harry wished he was back at Grimmauld, wished he could see his
godfather celebrate this wonderful news. Sure, he’d have to go through a trial, but if he
requested veritaserum…

“Sirius will be free,” he croaked, tears beginning to well in his eyes. He turned to the redhead
at his side. “George—“ He was cut off by a firm kiss, stealing the breath from his lungs.

“I know,” George soothed, beaming when they parted. He stroked Harry’s cheek. “I know.
You can go see him later.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and suddenly a small crowd was flooding into
the hospital wing. Right up front was Remus, and his eyes immediately landed on Harry, then
to the newspaper in Harry’s lap. His face lit up. “You’ve seen it, then?”

“Moony, how is he?” Harry asked immediately, holding out his arms. Remus hugged him
tight.

“He’s fine. A bit sore, but nothing permanent,” the werewolf assured. “He’s over at the
Ministry right now, talking to Amelia.” When he pulled back, Harry studied him; he looked
ten years younger already. This was one hell of a weight to have lifted off his shoulders.

“You can do something to help, Harry,” Bill cut in, approaching with a grin. He pulled
something out of his pocket, handing it over to Harry. It was a folded piece of parchment with
the Gringotts seal. “I got this from Stonehook; the Ministry has given Gringotts permission to
unseal your parents’ wills for the trial. They just need your stamp of approval.” He held out a
small stick of bright blue wax. Harry tore open the parchment and scanned the missive
within, his heart lightening with every word. Within seconds, he’d melted a blob of wax onto
the bottom and pressed his signet ring in. Once it set, the seal sparked with magic, and the
parchment vanished in a flash of gold.

“Thanks, Bill.”

“Happy to help,” Bill replied, beaming. “Sirius deserves it.”

“You all do,” Fleur agreed, hobbling up to Bill’s side. She still looked shaky, but she was
beaming. Harry immediately tucked his legs up, gesturing for her to sit on the end of his
hospital bed.

“You should get Madam Pomfrey to take a look at you,” he urged, glancing around to see
where the matron had gone.
“That’s what we’re here for,” Fleur assured, patting his shin. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Harry waved her off. “I’m just glad it’s all over.”

There were many vehement noises of agreement. George kissed the side of his head.

Remus sank into the chair between Harry’s bed and Fred’s, and gave Harry a brief update of
how things were going in the outside world. From the sounds of things, it was total chaos; the
whole country was beginning to realise how deep the Death Eaters had infiltrated the
Ministry, and how incompetent Fudge and his ilk had been to let them. “Malfoy’s name has
already leaked to the public, thanks to some St Mungo’s staff,” the werewolf supplied,
smirking. “Don’t be surprised if Draco leaves school early. Sirius expects Narcissa will be
able to plead coercion and will move the pair of them to France once Lucius is recovered and
sentenced.”

“Good riddance,” Ron muttered, looking gleeful. “Any luck, he’ll transfer to Beauxbatons.
Imagine our last two years of school without Malfoy!” His gaze immediately went to Harry,
and then he faltered. At his side, Hermione bit her lip.

“You could come back to school now, Harry,” she suggestive tentatively. “The papers already
made it sound like your expulsion was a ruse. Now Dumbledore’s back in power, and Fudge
is trying to save face… I bet they’d let you get a new wand and come back for next year.”

She looked so hopeful, but Harry sighed. “I think that ship has sailed, Hermione.” After the
last year of relative freedom, he couldn’t imagine going back to school and having classes
and curfews and house points.

“But— you could take your exams over the summer. I’ll help you study, you’d pass them no
problem, I bet!”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Fleur cut in, startling Madam Pomfrey, who was busy murmuring
healing spells over the part-veela’s lower back. Somewhat awkwardly, Fleur reached into her
purse and handed an envelope to Harry. “Maman sends her love, and her congratulations.”

Harry wondered how Fleur had sent word of Voldemort’s defeat back to France so quickly, to
have heard back from Apolline already. Then he opened the envelope, and realised what
Fleur actually meant.

He was holding his OWL results.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered. Beside him, George had frozen.

“Go on,” he urged softly. “Open them.”

With trembling fingers, Harry unfolded the parchment fully.

Dear Mr Harry Potter,

Enclosed are the results of your International Ordinary Wizarding Level examinations, as
certified by the Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France. Congratulations, and best
wishes on your future education, from all here at the Department of Magical Education.

Sincerely,

Apolline Delacour.

O.W.L Results: Harry James Potter

Transfiguration: O

Charms: O

Herbology: EE

Potions: O

Defence Against the Dark Arts: O

Ancient Runes: O

Arithmancy: O

Care of Magical Creatures: EE

Astronomy: O

History of Magic: O

Harry stared, unblinking.

“Well?” Remus pestered impatiently. George propped his chin on Harry’s shoulder, reading
the results for himself. He snickered, eyes lighting up.

“You fucking nerd,” he declared, smacking a loud kiss on Harry’s cheek. “Eight Os, two Es,”
he said louder, addressing the rest of the room. Fleur squealed in delight.

“That’s brilliant, Harry!” Remus enthused, wrapping him in a hug that also grabbed George
thanks to his current limpet-like state. “Sirius is going to be over the moon when we tell
him.”

“I— what?” Hermione blurted, face bewildered. George plucked the parchment from Harry’s
hand and waved it at her.

“Brainbox here took his OWLs in France a couple weeks back,” he explained, beaming.
“You’ve got a bit of competition, by the looks of it!”
Hermione snatched the results from his hand, scanning them carefully.

“Oh, Harry! Is that where you disappeared off to for those four days?” Mrs Weasley asked,
looking a mix of proud and disapproving. Harry nodded.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he said with a small grimace. “I just didn’t want to make a fuss.
I stayed with Fleur’s family, her mum organised everything for me.”

“I… you… Harry,” Hermione spluttered, wide-eyed. “You took all those exams in four days?
That’s impossible!”

“Nah, just a bit of a tight schedule,” he replied. He really didn’t want to get into it over
academics with Hermione, and he hoped she didn’t make too much of a big deal about it. He
hoped she wasn’t jealous.

“Blimey, Harry,” Neville remarked, “you really have been busy this year, haven’t you? First a
Dark Lord, now acing your OWLs; you’re making the rest of us look bad!”

“Bit sickening, isn’t it?” George agreed, though his face said otherwise. “The rest of us mere
mortals are not worthy!”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry muttered, shoving his boyfriend gently. “It’s not that big a deal.
Studying is easier on my own schedule.” Besides, he was learning things much harder than
OWL material all year; studying the curriculum had been something of a break. Hermione
was still staring at him, speechless.

“Nerd,” George repeated, grinning. His brown eyes glittered, and Harry knew he was only
restraining himself from more lewd comments because of their audience.

“Looks like you really have outgrown Hogwarts after all,” Ginny said, clearly impressed.
“Does that mean I can keep your firebolt a bit longer?”

Harry snorted. “Ask me again at the end of the summer.” He would finally be able to fly
again; he might not be able to give it up after that.

“It’s a bit of a shame, though,” Neville sighed. “It’s been quiet without you around. Weird.”

A sigh escaped Harry’s lips. “It’s been weird not being here,” he admitted, not even willing to
pretend otherwise. “I’ve missed Hogwarts. But coming back, being a normal student
again…” He shook his head. “It feels like a step backwards, y’know?”

After the last year being treated mostly as an adult — and the last couple months being able
to see George as much as he wanted — he couldn’t go back to being cooped up in the castle.

“I might have a solution, if you’re interested, Mr Potter.” That was Madam Pomfrey, and
Harry looked at her with raised brows. She smiled. “I meant it when I said you have a natural
affinity for healing magic. If you’d like to nurture that affinity, I’m sure I could arrange with
the headmaster to take you on as my apprentice. You’d have time in the castle and be able to
see your friends — even join some of the NEWT classes, if you wished — but you would be
able to go home at the end of the day.” Her eyes flicked pointedly to George, and Harry felt
his cheeks heat, even as his jaw dropped.

“I— really? You think I have that talent?”

“I think you have far more talent than you’re aware of,” Pomfrey confirmed. “I’d be happy to
help you develop that talent, and figure out how best you’d like to use it.” Her face softened.
“Hogwarts is still your home, Mr Potter. If you want it.”

Clearing her throat, she straightened up, fussing with some empty potion vials on Fred’s
nightstand. “Take the summer to think about it. I won’t be offended if you say no — I just
wanted you to have options.”

“Thank you,” Harry blurted. He felt everyone’s eyes on him like laser beams, waiting
expectantly for him to declare he’d be coming back to the castle in some capacity. “I’ll let
you know soon.” He wanted to talk it over with his godfathers, and with the twins, and
maybe even Moody and Tonks and Kingsley.

Most of all, he wanted at least a month to relax after defeating Voldemort. His future could
wait until then.

.-.-.

As promised, Fred was discharged at lunch time, after he kept down some toast and a nutrient
potion to Pomfrey’s satisfaction. Under Mrs Weasley’s watchful eye, Harry flooed with the
twins to Grimmauld Place.

The house was entirely empty, but for Kreacher. Harry had expected as much; Sirius was still
at the Ministry organising his trial, and everyone else who might swing by the house was
busy sorting out the aftermath of Voldemort’s fall.

Harry’s bit was over. He could hand it off to the adults, now.

Fred was still a little unsteady on his feet, so Harry and George helped him up to the twins’
room and settled him into bed.

“I’m just gonna go back to sleep for a bit, so if you two could fuck off and go be adorable
elsewhere…” Fred drawled, smirking at them. George rolled his eyes, cuffing his twin gently
round the head.

“Yell if you need anything, Freddie.” His hand moved to ruffle Fred’s hair, then he turned to
Harry. “You heard the man! Let’s go be adorable where he can’t see us.”

Harry laughed, but obligingly took George’s hand and left the room. They headed up to
Harry’s room, and Harry immediately began unbuttoning the hospital pyjama shirt he’d been
sent home in. Apparently, the house elves were struggling to mend and clean the clothes he’d
battled in.

“Ooh, hello,” George drawled, eyes darkening as he watched more of Harry’s chest be
revealed. Harry smirked, letting the shirt drop to the floor.
“Down, boy,” he teased. “Celebration sex can wait for later; I’m still bloody exhausted.”

George’s expression turned sympathetic, and he pulled Harry into a loose embrace, pressing a
kiss to his bare shoulder. “I’m not surprised.” He hummed, and Harry felt the tension leak
from his shoulders, his body curving gratefully into George’s. “Come on, let’s get you into
bed.”

“Promises, promises,” Harry muttered, making George chuckle.

The pair of them stripped down to their boxers, collapsing onto Harry’s mattress without
even bothering to pull back the duvet. Harry snuggled in close to George’s muscled chest,
and finally he began to feel some kind of peace.

George’s fingers carded through his hair gently, his other hand resting on Harry’s hip.
“You’re amazing,” he whispered. “You killed Voldemort before your bloody sixteenth
birthday, Harry.” His tone was full of awe. Harry tried his best to process the words, but they
felt almost like a foreign language — he’d spent half his life working up to this moment, he
couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“Rejoining the wizarding world is going to be a nightmare,” he said instead, grimacing at the
thought of the media circus that would greet him any time he went somewhere magical for
the next few months. How long would it take for things to die down?

“They’ll get bored after the first few times you tell them to fuck off,” George assured with a
chuckle. His arm tightened around Harry. “I’m just so glad you made it through okay. Merlin,
when you left the fight— I knew you were going to find Him. If Fred hadn’t gone down right
then, I would have followed you. It damn near killed me to watch you go off on your own
like that, without being able to tell you I loved you one last time.”

“If you had followed me, he would have killed you,” Harry pointed out, fingers curving
around George’s side, trying to hold him impossibly closer. “You kept Fred safe, and you
kept yourself safe.” He swallowed thickly. “If I’d come out of that battle only to hear you’d
died…” He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to continue the thought. The minutes between
leaving the Ministry and reaching the hospital wing, the time when he hadn’t known if
George was alive — it was the longest, most painful few minutes of his life.

George’s lips pressed to his forehead. “I’m fine. It’s over.” Harry felt those lips curl into a
smile against his skin. “We don’t have to hide in front of the family anymore, either.”

That made Harry grin, even as nerves bubbled in his belly — everyone was still in too much
shock to properly interrogate them, and he was dreading when that changed. But they all
seemed happy for the pair of them. He had plenty of people on his side.

“Yeah. Or… anyone else?” he broached tentatively. “I mean, if I’m coming back to the
wizarding world— if people are going to have their noses in my business all the time… I
don’t want to lie about this. About loving you.” He felt George tense. “And since you’re
about to become one of the most successful young businessmen in Diagon Alley, I don’t want
anyone thinking you’re single, either,” he added half-jokingly, trying to ease the tension.
“If… if you’re okay with that?”
George shuffled down so they were eye to eye, his gaze bright. “Harry,” he began, voice
choked with emotion. “As if I was ever going to let those vultures get those claws into you
without making it very clear that I’m the lucky bastard you’ve chosen to love. I thought
maybe I’d bring it into the new fireworks line — have them spell out ‘George and Harry 4-
ever’ or something like that. Maybe put out an ad in the paper?” He grinned. “At the very
least, print it on some t-shirts.”

There was a beat of silence, then Harry dissolved into giggles, rolling them over until he was
straddling George, pinning him to the bed. “I love you so much,” he declared fiercely. George
smiled back, face full of so much adoration it made Harry’s heart ache.

“I love you too. And I’m looking forward to being very smug about that in front of reporters
over the next few weeks, alright?” The redhead’s smile turned mischievous. “It’ll be fun to
have people other than Fred to make uncomfortable with how besotted we are, won’t it?”

Harry grinned back, leaning down for a long, languid kiss. “They’re going to hate being in
the same room as us,” he agreed, laughing.

He knew this joy wouldn’t last forever — that it would surely turn to frustration once he
stuck his head out of the little bubble he’d remained in for the last year, once he had to tackle
Fudge and the Prophet and all the other idiots of the world. But right now, Harry would revel
in the joy, because it was the best he’d ever felt in his entire life.
 Chapter 34

It was July 6th, 1996, and Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was officially open for business.

Voldemort had been dead and gone for around two weeks, and the wizarding world was still
regaining its footing, but the twins had decided not to delay their grand opening — people
were ready to celebrate, and they were more than happy to provide.

It was still weird for Harry, walking openly through Diagon Alley. He didn’t do it often, not
wanting to be hounded by reporters and fans and even the odd Voldemort supporter who tried
to hex him dead. But in a way he was glad for the way things had worked out; it meant he
could be exactly where he wanted to be when the shop opened.

Stood in a small crowd of Order members in the corner of the shop, watching Fred and
George absolutely flourish.

The shop was crammed full to bursting, a riot of colour and noise and activity in exactly the
way the twins had hoped it would be. Lee Jordan and the three chasers of the Gryffindor
quidditch team were working the tills and frantically fetching more stock, while the twins
were in the middle of the main floor, happily demonstrating their wares to an awe-filled
crowd. Harry saw plenty of familiar faces — several of whom waved discreetly at him, if
they saw him hidden between Tonks and Remus, clearly understanding he was trying not to
draw attention. Sirius already had a crowd of his own on the floor above, relishing in his new
status as a free man, and he was happily aiding in keeping the spotlight off Harry.

Harry wanted to be there for Fred and George, but he didn’t want to monopolise their big day.
If the crowd began to notice that Harry Potter was among them, it would turn into a circus of
a whole different kind. So Harry kept his head down and just watched, his heart fit to burst
with pride.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to see Bill grinning expectantly. “Heads
up,” he whispered, his other arm around Fleur’s shoulders. “Mum’s here.”

Harry whipped around, immediately looking to the shop entrance. Somehow, among all the
chaos of the fall of Voldemort’s regime, the whole lot of them had managed to continue to
keep the secret of the twins’ shop from Mrs Weasley. Arthur knew, of course — Harry was
beginning to realise the man was far more observant than anyone thought, and far more like
his twin sons than he was willing to admit — but Molly had been kept utterly in the dark.
Until now.

The redheaded matriarch’s eyes looked ready to fall out of her head as she goggled at the
inside of the shop. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she looked up at her husband, who was
beaming with pride in it all. She said something that made Arthur grin sheepishly before
replying. Harry wished he had an Extendable Ear to listen in.

There were tears in Mrs Weasley’s eyes by the time she spotted the twins in the midst of it
all, and the next thing they knew she was weaving expertly through the crowd towards them.
Harry glanced to George, wondering if he’d noticed yet, but he seemed too engrossed in the
show he and Fred were putting on. At least until Molly reached the front of the crowd. Fred
dropped the box of Skiving Snackboxes he was holding, and George stopped mid-sentence.

Harry daringly moved closer, and he felt Bill and Fleur keeping close behind him. He wanted
to see how this played out.

“You… you did all this?” Mrs Weasley stuttered, looking around the packed shop. “All these
things, they’re all your inventions?”

“Yeah. All our silly little pranks,” Fred replied, just the hint of bite to his voice. Mrs Weasley
sucked in a sharp breath.

“Oh, boys, I— I had no idea. You never said… why did you never say anything?”

“You would have stopped us,” George pointed out. “You were always trying to get us to
focus on finding a proper job. But this is it, Mum — this is what we want to do with our
lives. And without bragging, I think we’re gonna do pretty well with it.”

“George— Fred— oh!” Mrs Weasley exclaimed, overwhelmed. She wasn’t even trying to
stem her tears, and she rushed forward to bundle the pair in a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you
both! I’m sorry— I didn’t understand— I had no idea!” she said again. “This is wonderful,
my darling boys — look at this! You did all this by yourselves! Where did you even get the
money for this?”

Harry was surprised when George met his gaze over his mother’s head — he hadn’t expected
the redhead to notice him approaching. He should’ve known better. The redhead made a
beckoning gesture, and wriggled out of his mother’s embrace.

“We had a bit of a hand starting up,” he admitted. “Then it all sort of grew from there.” As
Harry drew closer, George reeled him in by the hand, winding his arm around the shorter
boy’s shoulders.

“I gave them my Triwizard winnings,” he confessed to the stunned woman. “I didn’t want the
money, and they’d just been scammed out of about that much by Ludo Bagman. But
everything else was these two, building the business up from scratch,” he insisted. “My
money was a drop in the ocean compared to what they earned to get to this point.”

People were staring, as they always did when Harry was present, but Harry was only focused
on the woman in front of him, and the twins at his sides. “Your sons are incredible, Molly,”
he told her, still feeling strange calling her by her first name. “They might not be working for
the Ministry like you wanted, but they’re absolute geniuses, and they’re going to change the
wizarding world with their inventions. They deserve every bit of this success.”

“Oh, Harry, dear.” Mrs Weasley could barely get the words out, her emotions utterly
overwhelming her. She squeezed the three of them in a tight hug, and when she released them
her husband was stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.
“Why don’t we let the boys get back to work, Molly, love?” he suggested gently. “Take a
look at these marvellous things they’ve made.” He beamed at the twins. “This really is quite
fantastic, boys. You should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished — we certainly are.”

“Yes, of course!” Mrs Weasley agreed immediately. “So proud! Oh!” She wiped at her eyes
with a handkerchief. Harry squeezed George around the waist encouragingly, and the redhead
reached out to take his mum’s hand.

“We have a flat up above the shop, too,” he told her. “Why don’t… how about you and Dad
come over for dinner this weekend? We’ll cook, we can talk about all this properly.”

Mrs Weasley burst into a new round of tears, and Mr Weasley tucked her into his side. “That
sounds wonderful, boys. Just give us a time, and we’ll be there,” he assured. “Come on,
dear.” He gently led his wife away to compose herself in privacy. Harry looked up at the
twins, who both seemed shellshocked by the whole exchange.

“I’d say that went well,” he declared, startling both of them. George grinned somewhat
shakily.

“Don’t say that until after the dinner,” he joked. “Which you’re part of, by the way.” Harry
went wide-eyed, opening his mouth to protest, but George cut him off. “We had your
godfathers over for dinner, and I know it was about showing the Marauders the shop, but it
was also— more than that, y’know?”

Harry, who still vividly remembered George trying so earnestly to impress and charm Sirius
and Remus, nodded.

“I know you’re practically family already. Hell, Mum probably loves you more than she
loves me, sometimes,” George added wryly. “But… I’d like you to be there for dinner with
my parents. As my boyfriend. So we can show them the shop, and show them this. Us.” His
smile turned a little shy, hope shining in his eyes. “Is that okay?”

Harry didn’t see how he could possibly say no to that — even if the thought of facing down
Mrs Weasley as her son’s new boyfriend, without any of the rest of the family there to deflect
to or hide behind, had his palms growing sweaty. He nodded again, and George beamed at
him.

“If you two are going to snog, can you take it to the back room?” Fred cut in bluntly,
amusement oozing from his tone. “I don’t want you distracting the customers any more than
you are already.”

Indeed, when Harry looked up, they’d gathered something of a crowd — he and George had
already gone public in the Prophet thanks to being photographed kissing outside Gringotts
over a week ago, but they’d been fairly absent from the public eye ever since, and people
were keen to know more.

Harry blushed fiercely, and even George’s ears were pink. “Right you are, Freddie,” he said.
Then, to Harry’s surprise, George was whisking him towards the tills, ducking through the
crowd waiting to pay and past Katie Bell, who snorted as they passed. The noise level
immediately dropped once they passed the threshold of the back room, and George kept
going until they were tucked away in the corner behind a stack of boxes. He pulled Harry
close, hands dropping to the seeker’s hips.

Harry reached up to run a hand up the front of George’s purple dress robes, his heart
hammering against his ribs. “You sure you don’t want to be back out there?” he asked in a
whisper. “You two were having fun. I didn’t mean to interrupt; I just wanted to check things
were going okay with your mum.”

“Trust me, Potter,” George drawled, voice going husky. His thumb slid under the hem of
Harry’s t-shirt, stroking bare skin. “I’m exactly where I want to be right now.” Then he leaned
in, sealing his lips over Harry’s, groaning softly when Harry’s mouth parted beneath him.
Harry leaned into the kiss, up on his toes as he pressed himself closer, trying to deepen the
angle. With a growl of annoyance, he shifted his hands down and yanked on George’s thighs,
shoving him back against the shelves and using his magic to hold him aloft — the way he’d
done the first time they’d kissed, the way he knew drove George wild. The redhead moaned,
hands sliding up the back of Harry’s t-shirt, gripping at his shoulders. Harry wished they
could apparate upstairs and go straight to George’s bedroom. His erection strained against the
fly of his jeans, George’s legs wrapped tight around his hips.

“You looked so fucking sexy out there, y’know that?” Harry gasped, George’s lips
immediately latching onto his throat, biting just hard enough to send sparks of pleasure
across Harry’s skin. “In your element, surrounded by fans, showing off the stuff you’ve
worked so hard on.”

“Got a competence kink, Potter?” George rasped teasingly, heels digging in as he arched
against Harry.

“You know I do.” By this point, even just a short few months into their relationship, George
knew pretty much every kink Harry had — that Harry himself knew about, at least. “A
possessive streak, too. Maybe I should be kissing you like this where everyone else can see,
make sure they know you’re mine.” He’d seen the adoring looks from plenty of customers
throughout the morning, as well as many considering glances towards the love potion type
products.

George cupped his cheek, meeting his gaze, brown eyes bright with lust and love and a dozen
other emotions that made Harry’s heart flutter. “Pretty sure they know already, love,” he
assured playfully. “You said so in the newspaper, remember?”

Harry grinned — yeah, he’d been pretty clear about his relationship status, when some idiot
Rita-Skeeter-Wannabe had asked him in the middle of the Voldemort press conference if he
was looking for love now he was the saviour of the wizarding world. Harry had shut that
down very firmly, declaring his love for George without hesitation. And Merlin, had that felt
good.

“How much longer ’til closing time?” he asked, pressing George harder against the shelves,
his need evident.
“Few more hours, I’m afraid,” George replied, fingers tangling in Harry’s hair and pulling
him down for another kiss. “Freddie’ll kill me if I bail out now, as tempting as you are.” He
smirked, the sight sending a hot pulse of want straight to Harry’s gut. “Think I can stay back
here another ten minutes or so, though. Put me down and I’ll give you something to tide you
over ’til tonight.” He licked his kiss-swollen lips pointedly. Harry’s heart stuttered. He was so
hard it hurt.

“What if I don’t want to put you down?” he retorted, squeezing George’s arse pointedly. He
shifted his hold, making George grip tighter with his legs, and moved a hand to part the
redhead’s dress robes, searching for the fly of his dragonhide trousers. “I’ve got a better
idea.”

George moaned as Harry squeezed him through his trousers — and then there was a shriek
that made Harry almost drop the redhead. George’s feet hit the ground and Harry spun
around, his eyes going wide at the sight of Ron and Hermione staring at the pair of them.

“Oh fuck,” George muttered. Harry felt the mortification rise with the heat in his cheeks.

“I— Fred told us to— we came to get more fireworks,” Hermione blurted. “He said there’s
more. Back here. We didn’t mean to—“ She cut herself off, looking anywhere but directly at
Harry or George. Ron, on the other hand, seemed to have gone catatonic.

“Ugh, fucking Fred,” Harry grumbled. “He knew we were back here.” He glanced at George.
“Your brother’s an arsehole.”

“I’m putting Puking Pastilles in his dinner tonight,” George said by way of agreement. He
was a delicious-looking mess, still half propped up against the shelves, and Harry desperately
wished the interruption hadn’t utterly killed his arousal.

“Fireworks are over there,” he said, gesturing to the opposite side of the back room. “Very
back, left side shelf.” As he said that, someone appeared from the area he was pointing at,
two boxes stacked in their arms. Katie froze when she saw the four of them, then grimaced
apologetically.

“My bad, guys, I thought they knew where to find stuff,” she said, hefting the two boxes into
a still-dazed Ron’s arms, smiling when he instinctively gripped them before they could hit the
ground. “You probably should find a better place to get your dicks out, though — don’t you
literally live upstairs?”

Harry choked. “You— When did you come in here?”

“I’ve walked past you both like four times in the last ten minutes,” she told him, laughing.
“You just looked a bit busy, so I didn’t interrupt.”

Harry hadn’t thought it possible to blush any harder than he already had been.

“Alright, alright; all of you bugger off,” George groused, glaring at them. “Bloody perverts.”
Hermione squeaked, opening her mouth as if to protest, then shut it abruptly and turned
around, practically dragging Ron with her. Katie just kept laughing, offering a lazy salute
before leaving the pair alone once more.

George groaned, letting his forehead fall against Harry’s. “Fuck,” he whined, making Harry
chuckle.

“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” he promised, tangling his fingers in George’s hair. “We
should probably get back out there, though. See what else is running low.” At this rate, the
twins would be out of stock entirely before the end of the week!

“Mm,” George said, though he clearly had no intention of moving, wrapping his arms around
Harry’s waist. “Couple more minutes. Let me just enjoy this for a bit longer.” He smiled
against Harry’s cheek.

“This day will power one hell of a patronus,” Harry agreed, nuzzling him gently. The shop
was the twins’ dream, not his, but he was so fucking happy for the pair of them, Harry felt
like he could conjure a whole army of patronuses himself.

“Told you,” George murmured. “Everything I’ve ever wanted, all right here.” He squeezed
Harry pointedly. “Doesn’t get much better than this.”

Harry thought about it — the only things he’d ever truly wanted in his life, really dreamt
about and wished for, were for Voldemort to be gone, for a family of his own, and for George
Weasley to be his.

“You’re right, there,” he agreed, somewhat hoarse. Then he smiled tentatively. “Guess we’ll
have to start thinking up some new dreams to work on.”

George grinned back, kissing him firmly.

“Oh, Harry, love — I’m sure we can come up with a few.”

 Epilogue
Chapter Notes

Here we are, folks. One last, fluff-filled chapter for your enjoyment. Huge thanks to
everyone who's been supporting this fic; all your lovely comments and kudos have
really been a light in an otherwise pretty dark year for me. Merry Christmas to those
who celebrate, and a restful break to all regardless of celebrations/faith. Stay safe, be
happy, and I hope 2021 brings nicer things for all of us <3

Now, enjoy!

Harry tucked his knees up against his chest, leaning into George’s side as the two of them
watched the clock on the nightstand tick closer to midnight.

“I don’t know why I still do this,” he muttered, shaking his head ruefully. “I’ve had people to
celebrate my birthday with for years now.” He was no longer the little boy alone in the
cupboard, greeting July 31st with a sad smile and a fervent wish that this year, something
would be different.

George kissed his temple. “It’s tradition, love,” he pointed out. “I like it. I get to be the first
one to wish you happy birthday,” he teased, making Harry roll his eyes.

“You’d be the first even if we went to bed like normal people,” he pointed out. He’d been
living at the flat fulltime with the twins since he’d graduated his apprenticeship with Poppy
— since he’d walked the stage alongside his friends graduating with their NEWT results.

Going back to Hogwarts hadn’t been a difficult decision once he’d been offered the healer’s
apprenticeship; it let him keep in touch with his friends and yearmates, while still come home
to either his godfathers or his boyfriend every night. It gave him something to do while
George was busy working, and it gave him something to work towards himself — now he’d
graduated, he would be starting as a Junior Healer at St Mungo’s in September, one of the
youngest they’d ever had.

“But this way I get to do it twice — now, and when we wake up.” George smirked
salaciously. “Unless you’ve got objections?”

Considering George’s way of wishing him happy birthday usually involved at least one
spectacular orgasm, Harry had no objections whatsoever. He said as much, and George kissed
him.

“I thought so,” he replied, smug. “Now hush, it’s almost time.” He was practically vibrating
where he sat, which Harry found a little strange, but he didn’t question it — perhaps George
was just thinking about his plans for the surprise birthday party later that Harry wasn’t
supposed to know about.

Settling back against his boyfriend, Harry turned his eyes back to the clock, a happy bubble
rising in his chest as it got closer to midnight. This little ritual of his might feel childish and
unnecessary, but he couldn’t deny it also made him happy — to think about how far he’d
come in the last few years. He was a long, long way from being the boy in the cupboard
anymore.

“Ten, nine, eight,” George began to count in his ear, breath sending pleasant shivers down
Harry’s spine. Harry bit his lip to keep his smile from overtaking his face, watching the
numbers tick down, until finally the clock struck midnight, and a tiny, silent firework erupted
from the top, spelling out the words ‘Happy Birthday Harry!’. He laughed delightedly, only
for the sound to catch in his throat when a second firework went off, similar to the first, but
spelling out different words entirely.

‘Marry me?’

He snapped around to look at George, eyes going wide when he saw a dark purple velvet ring
box in the redhead’s hand. George’s fingers shook as he flipped the box open, revealing a
gorgeous platinum ring engraved with delicate runes, studded with tiny diamonds around the
whole band.

“I don’t know if you remember,” George began softly, voice trembling. “After you killed
Voldemort, when you came to the hospital wing — I was so relieved you were okay, so
amazed by everything you’d done, I— I asked you to marry me. And you said—“

“Ask me again when I’m old enough,” Harry finished for him. Of course he remembered,
vividly — how could he forget the way his heart had leapt at the question, even though he’d
assumed George was just swept up in the emotion, that he wasn’t being serious. “George…”

“If you want to wait, that’s fine,” George insisted hurriedly. “Eighteen is still young. But I—
I know you, Harry, and I know that no matter what this world throws at us, I want to be by
your side when it happens.” He flashed a nervous grin. “Hopefully it’s less dramatic things
than the last seven years, but even if it’s not — you’re it for me. You have been since I was a
stupid little third year, weirdly fascinated with his little brother’s best mate. Since I fell in
love with you when I was fifteen. Since I first kissed you.” His eyes glowed bright in the dim
light, the sparks from the fireworks still hovering in the air. “I’m yours, Harry. Forever, if you
want that. Whether we get married now, or in five years, or never at all — you’re everything
to me, and I don’t want to go a second of your adult life without making it clear that I will
love you ’til I die and beyond. So…” He trailed off, glancing down at the ring in his hand.
“What d’you think?”

Harry looked down at the ring, then looked up at George — his beautiful freckled face was so
full of hope, even with the hint of fear in his eyes, the worry that he was throwing himself out
there and it would end badly. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, his fingertips
tingling, and all he could do was grab George’s face and pull him into a hard kiss. George
made a muffled sound of surprise, but kissed back earnestly, and when they parted the
redhead looked dazed.
“How soon can we get married?” Harry blurted, not wanting George to think for a second
that his answer was anything other than a resounding, enthusiastic yes. “I don’t wait to wait. I
want to be your husband.” The word felt perfect on his lips, and George blinked at him,
before a smile started to creep up on him.

“Really?” Harry nodded. George beamed at him. “Well, I, uh— about that, actually.” He
glanced to the side in the way he did when he was about to own up to a prank. “Y’know that
surprise birthday party you think I don’t know that you already know about?” Harry nodded,
perplexed. George bit his lip. “Well… it’s not actually a birthday party. Not really. It’s kind of
— a wedding? If you want it to be?” Harry’s jaw dropped, but George carried on hastily. “I
didn’t tell the whole family,” he assured. “In case you didn’t want to. But Fred and Mum
helped, and Moony and Padfoot, and Bill put me in touch with the same minister who did his
wedding. All everyone else knows is that they should wear their best dress robes, and come
to Hogwarts before noon.”

His eyes met Harry’s hopefully. “Harry James Potter,” he declared, steadying himself, “you
are the love of my life, and the other half of the part of my soul that isn’t attached to Fred’s
— would you do me the absolute honour of becoming my husband… in about twelve hours?”
He held up the ring box with a shaky smile.

Harry could hardly breathe, emotions welling up in his throat — but that didn’t stop him
reaching for the ring, nodding vehemently. “Yes,” he gasped out eventually, tears leaking
from his eyes. “Fuck, George, yes, I want to marry you, today.”

George almost dropped the box in shock, but he quickly regained his composure, fumbling
for the ring and sliding it onto Harry’s finger. It fit perfectly, the metal quickly warming
against his skin. Harry couldn’t stop staring at it. They were engaged.

“I need to get you a ring,” he realised suddenly, eyes going wide. “Fuck, is there enough
time? And dress robes! I don’t have any good enough to get married in, George, I—“ He was
cut off by a firm kiss, and when they parted George was chuckling.

“Relax, love. I’ve got it all covered,” he assured. “Sirius has your wedding robes. Fred’s
holding on to a ring that matches that one for me. I told you; everything is sorted. We just
have to show up, say our vows, and snog in front of all our friends and family.” He squeezed
Harry’s hands. “Happy birthday, my gorgeous fiancé.”

The delight on his face at using that word was obvious, and Harry briefly thought that it was
a shame they’d be getting married so soon, and he wouldn’t be able to enjoy calling George
his fiancé for very long. But, he thought, then he’d get to call George his husband, and that
was so much better.

The empty ring box clattered to the floor as Harry tackled George, pinning him down against
the mattress with a predatory light in his eyes. “What time do we have to be at Hogwarts?” he
asked, running his fingers up George’s bare chest. The redhead swallowed tightly.

“I told Fred we’d be there at eleven. Ceremony starts at noon.”

“Good.” Harry leaned down, kissing a path up all his favourite freckles on George’s sternum,
eventually pausing with his nose pressed to the older man’s. “That means we’ve got plenty of
time to fuck as an engaged couple, and still have a good night’s sleep, then go get married
and have a great time and come home and fuck as husbands.”

George’s eyes darkened, one of his hands reaching for the vial of lube on the nightstand.
“You’re full of the best ideas, Potter,” he declared.

“That’ll be Potter-Weasley to you, soon,” Harry retorted impishly. George sucked in a sharp
breath, and Harry saw the bulge in his boxers twitch.

“Which way did you want?” George offered, holding out the lube questioningly. Harry
smirked.

“I want you to fuck me,” he declared brazenly, smirk widening when George whimpered.
“Then, I want to get some sleep, and I want to wake up and fuck you so hard you’ll be seeing
stars right up to the moment I put a ring on your finger and claim you forever.” He smiled
sweetly, hand resting on George’s stomach, feeling the muscles jump excitedly with every
word. “How’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” George breathed. He sat up, pulling Harry into a desperate kiss. “Fucking perfect,
Merlin, you’re so perfect, I’m so lucky.”

“Save it for your vows,” Harry teased, already wriggling out of his boxers. When they were
both naked, Harry on his back with a pillow under his hips, George settled between his legs
and leaned up for a kiss.

“I love you so much,” he breathed reverently. Harry kissed back, heart soaring.

“I love you too.” He grinned suddenly, a thought popping into his head. “Merlin, if I could go
back and tell twelve year-old Harry that he’d be marrying you on his eighteenth birthday, his
poor little head would explode.” He’d been so incredibly infatuated, even then.

George grinned back. “Gonna be one hell of a story to tell the kids, hey?”

The confidence in his words, the fact that he didn’t even question that one day they would
have children — Harry didn’t think it was possible to love the man any more than he did at
that moment.

Then George slipped a slick finger inside him, and proceeded to prove that wrong many,
many times over before they eventually passed out from exhaustion.

Fuck, noon felt so far away.

.-.-.-.

They arrived at Hogwarts a little after eleven, with damp hair and a slight hitch in George’s
walk, and a lovebite peeking above Harry’s t-shirt collar. Sirius was the one to greet them,
and he eyed them over, laughing. “You two are a fucking mess,” he declared, reaching out to
ruffle Harry’s hair. “Happy birthday, pup.”
“It’s my birthday,” Harry retorted unrepentantly. “And my wedding day. I’m allowed to be a
mess, as long as I clean up in time for photos.” His wedding day — he would never get tired
of saying that.

Sirius chuckled. “True enough,” he agreed, glancing fondly down at his own wedding ring.
The laws on werewolves marrying had been repealed within the first week of Minister
Amelia Bones taking office, and the pair had married in a small ceremony just days after.
Harry distinctly remembered Sirius with a far bigger mark on his neck, begging Harry to heal
it up before he had to walk down the aisle.

“Where’s Moony?” Harry asked, looking around. They’d flooed into the man’s rooms — he
had regained the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher once Umbridge was
officially fired, and held it ever since. While he and Sirius technically still lived at
Grimmauld, they were more often than not found at the castle, especially now Harry had
properly moved in with George.

“Out in the grounds, helping set up. And no, you can’t see it,” Sirius declared, shooting a
spell at the windows to obscure the view outside. “You also need to say goodbye to each
other, for a little while. It’s tradition. Harry, your robes are in my room; George, yours are in
Harry’s — Fred’s waiting for you there.” It was technically the spare room, but it was
occupied by Harry more than anyone else in the last few years.

Harry pouted, turning to kiss George. “See you soon, love,” he murmured, hugging George
tight.

“Don’t miss me too much,” George teased in reply, kissing him once more and crossing to
Harry’s room. Sirius wrapped an arm around his godson’s shoulders, leading him into the
master bedroom.

“It’s a good thing you said yes, pup,” Sirius remarked. “Would’ve been a really weird
birthday party if you hadn’t, what with the formal robes and the wedding cake and whatnot.”

Harry snorted. “As if I’d ever have said no.” He’d have married George the day after he
killed Voldemort if it had been legal.

Sirius opened the wardrobe and pulled out a set of robes, and Harry’s heart clenched. They
were beautiful. Silk-smooth and a muted silver colour, the hem was embroidered with runes
in bright purple thread. The Potter family crest was on the left breast — and just below that,
slightly smaller, the Black family crest. Harry’s breath hitched as he reached out a finger to
touch it.

“You’re the heir to the family, and my son in all but blood,” Sirius told him, voice rough with
emotion. “I’d be honoured if you’d wear this crest to get married. The Black family… it’s
meant a lot of bad things, this last century or so. But between you and me — and Andy and
Tonks, of course — I think we’re well on the way to redeeming it. I think it’ll do some good
to honour it today, if you’d like.”

“I— I’d love to, Sirius,” Harry assured softly. “It’s perfect.” His fingers moved to the crest
above; the Potter crest. The crest his father would’ve worn on his own wedding robes, over
twenty years ago now. “I wish they could be here to see this.”

Over the years, Harry had made peace with all the things his parents would never see. It was
a long list, and he couldn’t spend all his time hurting over what might have been. But Merlin,
if he could only have them back for one thing, he wished it could be his wedding to the most
amazing man in the world.

“I know, kiddo,” Sirius said, hugging him close. “But they’re here in their own way.” He
tapped Harry’s chest, right over his heart. “And they’d be so bloody happy for you. Old
Prongsy would be glowing with pride about his son marrying a prankster,” he joked.

Harry tried to imagine it; his dad gushing about his new son-in-law to anyone who would
listen, his mum helping Molly keep everyone in line, both of them walking down the aisle
with him. His heart ached.

“You and Remus will walk down the aisle with me, won’t you?” he asked hopefully. Sirius
kissed his forehead.

“We’d love nothing more in the world, Harry,” he assured. “Now come on; let’s get you all
pretty for your future husband.”

.-.

The next half-hour was a whirlwind for Harry; he got dressed in his wedding robes, and
Sirius helped him attempt to tame his hair. Remus appeared partway through, nearly crying at
the sight of Harry — and then actually crying when Harry asked him to accompany him
down the aisle. Molly ducked in for a brief moment, looking resplendent in her own dress
robes, and she seemed to have given up fighting the tears a while ago if the handkerchief in
her hand was any indication.

At last, he was being escorted by Sirius and Remus through the castle, both men dressed
handsomely in shades of blue. Harry was practically skipping on the way down, eager to get
things moving. George had already made his way down with Fred, according to Harry’s
godfathers. As the elder of the pair, he would be waiting at the altar for Harry.

At the castle doors, the trio drew to a halt, and Harry eyed the two older men in confusion.

“The altar is set up by the lake,” Remus informed him. “We said we’d wait here until they’re
ready for you. And — I have one more thing, for both of you. All of us.”

Sirius seemed just as surprised as Harry, as his husband pulled a long, narrow box from his
robe pocket, which was clearly charmed bigger inside. Remus shifted anxiously from foot to
foot. “I’m sure Sirius has already said as much, cub, but I want you to know that we love you
so very much, and you will always be our son — no matter how old you get, or what
happens, you’re our boy.”

“You’re gonna make me cry, Moony,” Harry complained, earning a weak chuckle.
“Good,” Remus teased playfully, before sobering. “I know Lily and James would love to be
here to share this day with you. And somewhere, they are. But I thought, just a little extra
way to carry them with us on this special day…” He removed the lid from the box, and Harry
gasped. Inside lay three white lilies, the stems attached to three identical silver pin-clasps,
shaped like little stag antlers.

“Oh,” Sirius breathed softly. Remus smiled.

“It’s not the same as having them here, I know—“

“Moony, it’s perfect,” Harry enthused, reaching out with reverent hands to pick up one of the
lilies. With Sirius’ help, he affixed it to his robes on the right side, opposite his family crests.
Then Sirius and Remus pinned lilies on each other, directly over their hearts. Seeing them
there made Harry’s spirit soar — it was the perfect way to combine both his sets of parents,
for all of them to accompany him into this next stage of his life.

All of a sudden, a blur of silver dashed towards them; it was Fred’s fox patronus. “We’re
ready when you are,” the patronus declared, before vanishing.

Harry felt his heart leap to his throat, his stomach squirming with nerves. Sirius grinned at
him.

“Let’s go get you hitched, shall we?”

The three of them linked arms, and began to walk.

Harry almost tripped over his own feet when he saw the crowd by the lake. Rows and rows of
silver chairs ties with purple ribbons, each occupied by someone he cared about — the
Weasleys and Hermione; Luna, Neville and his other school friends; the whole Gryffindor
quidditch team; Hagrid in a huge chair near the back, already crying into an enormous
handkerchief. Dumbledore and McGonagall beside him, along with Poppy and most of the
other professors; even Snape, who Harry had become cordial if not somewhat friendly with
during his apprenticeship. The Delacours were there along with Viktor Krum, and the Order,
and Bill’s Gringotts team. Charlie had come back from Romania for the occasion, a fresh
burn scar creeping across his jaw. All of Harry’s friends, all the important people in his life,
gathered here for him. Even those who had come for George were familiar to him — their
lives had been twined for so long, it was hard to find a person who could say they were only
here for one half of the wedding party.

And, best of all — not a single journalist in sight.

They drew closer, soft music playing from an enchanted string quartet on the shore. The aisle
was laid with silver fabric and strewn with white, blue and purple flowers, leading up to an
ornate silver arch wound with flowers and ribbons and sparkling lights, over the raised
platform of the altar.

Under that arch stood George Weasley, and Harry’s heart lurched.
George’s wedding robes were dark purple, embroidered with silver to form the same runes
that Harry’s held. The Weasley family crest was displayed proudly on his chest, the robes
accentuating his muscular form. His eyes were fixed on Harry, his mouth ever so slightly
agape — he looked like he was staring at the most incredible thing he’d ever seen in his life.

Harry knew how he felt.

“You ready, kiddo?” Sirius whispered in his ear, snapping his attention away from the
redhead. Harry beamed at him, and nodded. He was so ready.

With Sirius on his left and Remus on his right, he walked down the aisle in time with the
music, the guests standing to watch him pass. He could see several people dabbing at their
eyes already. His own emotions were too jumbled to cry — all he could do was smile at
George and put one foot in front of the other.

Beside George, Fred and Arthur stood in blue robes similar to Sirius and Remus’, and both
were beaming. Fred winked at Harry, giving a pointed glance at his twin and then wiggling
his eyebrows. Harry bit back a snicker.

“Hey,” George greeted softly, once Harry arrived at the altar. “You look stunning.”

“So do you,” Harry breathed in reply. He could hardly believe this gorgeous man was about
to become his husband.

Sirius and Remus unlinked their arms from Harry’s, and in turn they hugged him, each
pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, then a kiss to their fingers which they touched to the lily
and antlers at his chest. “We love you, kiddo,” Sirius whispered. “And we love that man of
yours. Go get him.”

“You deserve this,” Remus added. “This, and all the joy he’ll bring you in your life to come.”

Harry nodded, kissing each of them on the cheek, and then turned around to accept George’s
hand, stepping up onto the platform.

.-.-.

Several hours later, if you had asked Harry how his wedding ceremony went, he couldn’t tell
you. He couldn’t tell you the words he gave in his vows, or what George said in return, or
what the minister had been like — all of that had blurred in his memory. The only thing he
could remember was a pair of brown eyes shining with more love than he ever thought he’d
see directed at him. That, and the warm flood of magic as they were officially bound together
for life, allowing George’s magic to nestle in beside his own in his heart, where it belonged.

Now, the party was in full swing — there were literal fountains of champagne and butterbeer
and firewhiskey, a constant supply of fireworks overhead, a large dance-floor and upbeat
music, and a long table groaning under the weight of all the food. The cake had been cut —
after Harry spent at least half an hour admiring the masterpiece Molly had made for them,
insisting it was too beautiful to eat — he and George had danced for the first time as spouses,
and there had been several embarrassing speeches courtesy of George’s siblings and Harry’s
godfathers.

He was married.

A familiar muscled arm slid around his waist, and he grinned as lips pressed to his cheek.
“Hey there, husband,” George greeted, practically giddy as he said the word that made
Harry’s heart flutter. “Brought you a drink.”

Harry accepted the flute of champagne and took a sip, leaning his head against George’s
chest. His gaze was on the dance-floor, which was packed with people. Molly and Arthur,
several drinks in, danced with Bill and Fleur’s daughter between them, the almost-one year-
old both confused and delighted by the whole affair. Nearby, Bill and Fleur themselves
danced slowly, taking advantage of the child-free time. Fred danced with Angelina, Luna
with Neville, and at the edge of the dance-floor Sirius and Remus were wrapped up in one
another like the whole world had disappeared. Their own wedding had been small and rushed
and informal, and Harry was glad the pair could celebrate with him like this, the way they
hadn’t for themselves. They’d been too keen to just get married while the law was on their
side to think about a reception or anything like that.

“Harry, look.” George nudged him in the side, gesturing discreetly towards one of the tables.
Harry frowned at first, then went wide-eyed — Hermione was sat at the table, and Ron was
approaching with a look of determination on his face.

Harry held his breath as Ron stepped up to Hermione, offering his hand. He said something
Harry had no hope of hearing above the music, but whatever it was made Hermione’s jaw
drop. She stared at him for a long moment, long enough that even Harry was beginning to get
anxious, before she grabbed his hand, yanked herself to her feet, and planted a firm kiss on
the redhead’s lips.

Ron looked utterly gobsmacked for several seconds after they parted, but eventually he
pulled his brain back into gear and grinned at Hermione, saying something that had her
smacking him gently on the arm. That didn’t stop her from accompanying him onto the
dance-floor, stepping into his embrace like it was exactly where she belonged, swaying to the
music with her head on the tall redhead’s chest.

“About bloody time,” Harry muttered, grinning. He’d been watching them for years, waiting
for one of them to get a clue.

“If only we’d gotten married sooner,” George teased.

Harry took another sip of champagne — he’d lost count of how many drinks he’d had by
now, but it was definitely enough that he could feel the bubbles all the way down to his toes.
Though that could’ve just been his joy; he felt like he could fly without a broom, his heart
was so full of happiness. He turned to his husband, looping his arms around the taller man’s
neck. “Thank you,” he declared. George cocked his head curiously.

“What for, love?”

“This — all of it. This whole day has been perfect. You pulled it all together and I didn’t
suspect a thing, and everyone was here, and it’s been such a great time, and you look so
fucking gorgeous I can’t believe I get to spend the rest of my life with you.”

George grinned at him, cheeks flushing faintly.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you that champagne,” he joked. Harry grinned.

“But you did, because you’re the best husband, and I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” George replied, arms winding around Harry’s waist. They swayed together,
almost dancing, in time with the music. “I’m glad you liked it. I worried for a bit that you’d
think I’d sort-of taken over the whole thing — I didn’t know if you’d want to be involved in
the planning or anything. Fred told me to quit being daft and trust my gut.”

“Smart man, your brother,” Harry said wisely. George winked.

“And yet you picked this twin. No refunds,” he added with a laugh. Harry leaned up to kiss
him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promised. “Seriously, though; I love everything about today. All I
wanted was to marry you as soon as possible — I’d have signed papers in a Ministry registry
office. This… this was better than anything I’d ever imagined.” When it came to planning a
wedding, Harry wouldn’t have even known where to start. George had taken all that into his
own hands and somehow managed to pick everything perfectly, without ever letting Harry
know that anything was amiss. Harry had been utterly convinced he was going to have a
normal birthday party, right up until George told him the truth. “Just goes to show how well
you know me,” he mused. “You gave me my dream wedding and I didn’t even know I wanted
it.”

George preened, his relief visible. “I just wanted to make you happy.”

“You do,” Harry assured him. He could hardly contain the happiness this man brought to him.
“Every day, love.” He grinned suddenly, mischief in his gaze. “Speaking of making me happy
— how much longer before we’re allowed to leave?”

George’s gaze darkened. “It’s our wedding,” He pointed out. “We can leave whenever we
want.” He glanced at his watch. “We should probably leave this lot to it, though. Go back to
the flat. Fred’s staying at Angie’s tonight.”

Arousal prickled across Harry’s skin, his brain already stuck on the thought of peeling
George out of those incredible robes. “Let’s go, then.” He grabbed George’s hand, intent on
dragging him to the edge of the apparition wards, but George didn’t move.

“We should say our goodbyes, first,” he pointed out. “We won’t get to see everyone for a
little bit.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, perplexed.

“Well…” George drawled, smile threatening to overtake his face. “Usually, after people get
married, they go on this little thing called a honeymoon…”

Harry gaped at him. “George, what...?”

“For the next month, you and I will be touring Europe,” the redhead revealed. “Everything’s
covered at the shop, you don’t start at the hospital until September — we’ll start in
Amsterdam and work our way around.” He was grinning at the utter shock on Harry’s face.
Harry could hardly wrap his head around it — a whole month? A tour of Europe?

“How the hell did you manage to swing that?”

“Little help from family — Bill and Fleur, Charlie, even Viktor gave me some good
recommendations. Ron’s gonna cover some shifts at the shop, and we’ve got enough new
releases lined up to cover the summer without me there.” George’s face softened, and he
leaned in for a kiss. “You deserve to be spoiled rotten, my love, and you’ll get all that and
more on this trip.”

All Harry could do was gape at him. Not only had George gone to the trouble of organising
the perfect wedding to surprise Harry, but he’d arranged an amazing honeymoon too! “I don’t
deserve you,” he said once he could form words again. George winked at him.

“Well, you’re stuck with me now, so tough,” he teased, sticking his tongue out. Harry’s gaze
zeroed in on the redhead’s mouth, pulse picking up.

“You’ve done all this just for me,” he murmured, thumb stroking the nape of George’s neck.
“I think it’s time I did a little something for you in return, hmm?”

George’s gaze darkened as he leaned into the touch. Then he coughed awkwardly, glancing
around, remembering where they were. “Let’s start making our goodbyes, yeah?” he urged
quickly. Harry grinned at him.

“The sooner we get home, the better,” he agreed.

They had a wedding night to enjoy, and a honeymoon to pack for, and then a whole month to
spend seeing new things and revelling in each other’s company. They hadn’t so much as
taken a weekend away in the entire time they’d dated, both too busy with work and education
and family. Harry couldn’t wait to have nothing but George to focus on, and nothing to do but
whatever took their fancy.

And after that, well — they had their whole future ahead of them, together. And it was
looking pretty damn bright, from where Harry was standing.
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