Disclaimer and Other Not-Fun Legal Matters: I do not own the characters or world of Harry Potter. All Potterverse-related things belong to J.K. Rowling. No copywrite infringement is intended. It's not plagiarism, it's fanfiction, please don't sue me!

For the most part, this story does not follow HBP or DH canon. I may incorporate elements of those stories, but I definitely have my own plot in mind, and so I had to break canon in ways both big and small (not that I really minded; I love breaking canon). Additionally, I don't like to follow the fact that Harry was born in 1980. I moved his birth year to 1988, pretty much because I felt like it (and because I didn't want to deal with anachronisms).

September 01, 2018

The eleven-year-old boy followed the stern, elderly witch closely, feeling very small as they walked through the stately castle. He had lived in opulent manors his entire life, but there was something magical about this place, something special. After the first five hallways and two moving staircases, he stopped trying to keep track of where they were going; he merely followed the witch.

They stood before the phoenix statue that marked the entrance to the Headmaster's office for a moment. The boy took a deep breath, clutching an expensive, leather-bound journal. He wondered if he was ready to do this. Was he ready to meet the most famous wizard in the world?

Before he could compose himself, the statue had moved, he was being propelled up the staircase, and the witch had opened the office door and ushered him in.

"James Malfoy, Headmaster," she said in her Scottish brogue.

The Headmaster had been writing, his head buried in his parchment. However, when he heard the boy's name, his head snapped up, and he stared at the boy, who stared back.

The Headmaster had gone through some of the most horrific ordeals in human experience, but none of it showed on his thirty-year-old face. His black hair was as thick and unruly as it had ever been, his face still unlined, his eyes as deep and as bright a green as always.

As the boy examined the Headmaster, the Headmaster observed the boy. Thick, unruly black hair, pale skin, green eyes… Just add glasses and an infamous scar, and he could've been looking at himself nineteen years ago.

"Hello, James," the Headmaster said, standing. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
"Hello, sir," James said politely.

For a moment, they merely stared at each other.

"How's your mother?" the Headmaster finally asked quietly.
James shrugged. "Same as always, sir. She wanted me to give you this."

He offered the Headmaster the notebook he'd been carrying. The Headmaster took it slowly, not sure he wanted to see what was inside, and at that moment wishing that James had been enrolled at any other magical school in the world than Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"Was that all?" he asked the boy, who nodded and headed for the door. "Oh, and James?"

The boy turned, one eyebrow slightly raised in an expression that the Headmaster recognized all too well. Despite the painful twist of the knife in his heart, he smiled.

"Congratulations on being Sorted into Gryffindor."

James smiled back and left. Harry Potter watched his young stranger of a son leave his office, then looked down at the notebook in his hand. It was black leather, with a family crest embossed in silver, and three initials beneath it.

ASM

Harry sighed heavily, the knife digging in further. Those three letters represented a world of pain, a whirlpool of emotions. Did he really want to open this book and rip open all those scars again?

Did he have a choice?

He took the book and retreated to his private quarters. Waving his hand to give himself a bottle of Butterbeer, he sat in his favorite armchair and opened the book.

At first, he just looked at the writing. Black ink formed into a graceful, elegant script, the letters precisely formed. Not a mistake on the page or a stroke out of place. Just like her. He flipped through the book; every page had been perfectly filled. It looked like a diary, or a very long letter.

Flipping back to the first page, he braced himself, and began to read.