Chapter summary: A name that doesn't fit, a family he doesn't remember losing, a chamber full of wolves waiting for him to make the slightest mistake. If he was who he once was, he would be afraid - but now, he has an ocean's worth of grief and rage to work through, and they look like a good start. Meet Harry Potter.

Author's note: This chapter is written as Harry's stream of consciousness - subsequently, it may be rather confusing. This is not the Harry from the books. His backstory is different (first hint: the Potters didn't died when he was a baby). He's been through something very bad and it's broken his mind. Like you, he tries to piece together what's happened to him. I've scattered clues all around, but if still does not make sense, I have added an endnote to provide more context.


CHAPTER I / CRUELEST MONTH

our victory is our defeat

He loses his family in April. That is what they tell him. It is August now - one month since he was found in the burned-out carcass of an ancient manor, curled around a skeleton no one can identify. Some part of him knows who it is but he cannot put the words to it. Warm, he tells them. Mine. Gone.

Brother, they tell him gently. He was your brother. The Boy Who Lived. Jaime Potter.

Boy who lived? He doesn't look very alive.

They look stricken. They've lost a national symbol, after all. He has lost a - brother, is that the word? No, something more. Something less. Brother: insufficient. More, more. He wants to eat the world raw, swallow it whole to fill the void in his belly. It is not enough.

He drowns in a room that reeks of antiseptic and pungent sorrow. There are white coated men who - pen through the eye, escape from the window, a drop of only fifteen stories will not kill you - talk at him from behind a clipboard. There are grim faced women with severe buns that stare at him, expecting something - want to see a trick, lady? I can pull a rabbit out of a hat because - dared me to learn even though I am a -

He pretends not to listen in hopes they will take a hint and go away.

They don't.

Your name is Harry Potter, they say.

You are twenty years old. Your birthday was six days ago.

You had a mother named Lily Potter, a father named James Potter, a brother named Jaime Potter.

Well. Why the past tense?

Three months ago, your family was captured by the Death Eaters. You were the only survivor.

Do you remember anything?

(I remember an insurmountable shadow.)

They don't realize how sharp his hearing is. Behind the wall someone whispers about acute brain injury and khrushiyo and miracle that he's even conscious at all. They don't realize how strong he is, even as skin and bones. They don't realize until he snaps the metal bed in two and plants a fist straight through the wall and into whoever's speaking - rip out his tongue and drown him in those lies - leaving him choking on his own blood as red-clothed people with little sticks start screeching and pulling him away - a perfect hole, look at that, seems familiar.

I remember that at least, he says, and smiles at them through the blood splattered on his face. Horror, why the horror? It is truth. That is the way of the world.

Red.

The next time he wakes, twelve metal bands are wrapped around his limbs.


"Jaime, you absolute idiot!"

"It's - it's nothing, Har. Ouch, stop poking it! I told you it's not that -nngh- bad!"

"You have a bloody hole carved straight through your chest! Who did it? Tell me. It's Malfoy, isn't it?"

"Hah, look at you - trying to be all manly. Told you 's nothing, didn't I?"


They call him different things. It doesn't matter what they call him. It's not his name. Yet he knows it's not entirely a lie, either, because when someone asks him who he is the first syllable makes its way out of his mouth before he suffocates on it. It's not a lie and it's not truth. What is it? Muscle memory only, lingering in his flesh and bone when the brain corrupts. Gray eyed woman with severe expression: Mr. Potter. Bushy haired girl staring at him with red rimmed eyes filled with revulsion: you bastard. Dark skinned man with red robes: Harry. White beard: my boy. Woman with venomous fangs and a reptile's skin: Lord Potter. Man with haggard, haunted face that latches onto him as soon as he clears the threshold of the room: pup.

Of the five, the last is the only one to comment on his restraints. Each are an inch thick and engraved with runes. Gray eyes fill with fury.

Those are the binds used for criminals. Release him at once.

Lord Black, they are there for his own -

You will release my godson at once or so help me I will bring the entire wrath of the Black family down on your head do you understand me - ?

Sentiment. Silly, but almost sweet. He can snap these metal ties with a single jerk of his muscles. That is why he is lying so still. Let them have their peace of mind while they can. But he likes that someone wants to fight for him.

Is he...

I am sorry, Lord Black, but he seems to have lost all memory.

What are memories but fragments of reality, misinterpreted, taken apart and savoured, twisted beyond all meaning? Simply because they are truant from their place does not mean they are inextant. The places they once filled resonate with things beyond speech. He cannot remember, but he knows.

He is still my pup, says the man, fierce, proud, grieving.

Warm, almost, in this cold white room. Over black hair and grey eyes he sees an overlay of blonde and the blue of an endless sky.

Aches.


"Do you remember the first time we met? No, I don't suppose you do. You were only five, then. Your father had hidden you behind his legs but you looked at me with such passionate defiance - I still remember your expression. It is such a pity you did not grow to your full potential."

"Are you done monologuing? Just get to the part where you kill me. Listening to your voice is giving me a headache."

"Now, now... is that any way to treat your host?"

"Is this any way to treat your guest?"

"I wonder, Harry Potter - what will you sacrifice for your brother? What will you give up for him?"

"Don't you dare lay another finger on him! When I get out of here, I swear I will make you pay... every hair you harm, I will inflict on you tenfold. That's a promise."

"Cute, not the least so because you will never be in a position to do so. You do not have that power. But you do have the power to control your brother's suffering. Now answer my question."

"...everything."

"Oh? Then... shall we play a game?"


Expectation is dangerous. Expectation begets disappointment. He knows this - has always known.

Yet the others do not. They come to him as he lays spread-eagle on his back, chained by silk threads. The polite do not gawk; the malicious sneer. Does this seem like weakness to them? They keep him this way because he allows them to. What else can bind a god, if not pride?

A god? He is no god. He is human.

What lies.

Cyclic visitor list. Take one end of the sheet and stitch it to the beginning, then spin it around and around. Like clockwork, they come.

Beard man: ostensibly to check on his health, but never once makes any overture to it. Truthfully wants to know if volle de morte has learned of the prophecy - pah! Glass enclosing prophecies are nothing more than stale air.

Dark skinned man: who did it? do you remember anything?

Silly man. Will I tell you so you can let him escape?

Bushy girl, accompanied by red boy: you bastard, how could you kill your brother like that?

Fingers twitch. Can kill them if they would like to find out how to die. Live up to their words. Was not his fault. Not his... red, red, everything is red, everything is wake up wake up wake wake

Repeat.

Repeat.

Clock ticks: tick tock, tick tock, tick tock tock tock

Make them stop. Make them drop.

Endless monotony.

And then - blonde man. Wrong shade of blonde. Wrong expression. Wrong everything. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Sneering at him, like he is scum, an ant, he will crush this ant underfoot. Flex arms, break metal. Savour that change in expression from superiority to fear. Hand around neck, soft and fragile, fluttering pulse like little bird. They all die the same; peasant and prince all shit themselves when the sword goes through their belly. The dead curse those who run: lily livered cowards, they spit as they die, but hah! At least they have a liver still.

Kill now? Easy snap. Crunch, crunch... the squelch of pulped flesh seeping between fingers. But no. Too easy. Sweet, soft, a child's innocent lullaby:

Let me tell you a story. A man tried to kill me once - the fool thought he could catch me unawares with a knife in the dark. My brother wanted to tear him limb from limb, let the sky rain red with his blood. But I told him no. Do you think I let him go out of mercy? That is what Brother thought, too. So the fool flees the guards, runs and runs and runs back to his little backwater village to find an empty, dusty house. His wife and child had left a few days ago for undisclosed reasons. The neighbours would not meet his eyes.

A few days later, he receives a delivery. What do you think is inside?

Lean back, smiling.

My brother - did you know him? Yes, of course you did. He was the golden boy. Everyone loved him. I was forgotten. I said I hated him because I didn't know the word love. It was the closest in my vocabulary. But Brother loved me so - did you know? He always said he would kill me last. Is that not love?

Why do you cower?

Why so pale?

That is love.

Thundering footsteps sound in the corridor, heralded by raised voices. The door shudders but does not open; the runes flickering on a sheet of notepad paper, stuck to the knob, makes sure of that.

For three months I lay in that dark cell. I remember what you did to me. I do, I do, even if the memory itself is truant. You have branded your truth onto my bones. Alone, I am the one who carries it.

They call me a liar but I pay my debts. Remember what I said? Good.

Here: a present.

Stop screaming. It is only a hand, not even a head. Replace it with your red money. Is this not mercy? Look at me. You have only yourself to blame. On your knees - pray for salvation. There is none to be had, but no harm trying. No one will come to save you next time. So run, run, run back to your little Manor, and if one day you receive two little packages...

Did brother love you too?

No.

He would have killed you first.

Door. Screaming. Red.

This time, he wakes with twenty-four restraints and a laugh that sticks like knives in his throat.


"- just hang in there. Don't fall asleep again, you know you can't. Listen to my voice. Shit, was it Malfoy this time? He's always been vicious. I can't believe - no, I can, Dad's always said you can't trust the Malfoys, but doing something like this... Draco's in my class, you know? I wouldn't say we get along, but we're still... hey, Harry, look at me..."

"What's that...expression for? I know I'm as... as handsome as ever..."

"Of course you are. Just don't fall asleep."

"Jaime... tell mum I'm..."

"Stop talking like that!"

"I didn't expect to... last this long, if I'm... being honest. The Longbottoms lasted... ten minutes, didn't they? I think they've put me under for... for at least fifteen by now, ev'ry time. So before I lose my... I love you, baby brother, and I'm... sorry I couldn't..."

"Harry?... H...ry! Do...n't...me...!"


They want to put him in the glass room with the white because he is mad, they tell him with spittle flying everywhere, how could he maim a lord of the house?

I pay my debts tenfold, he says.

They are surprised he can speak. Occasionally mutters a few words to certain people, but never to beard man. Never to red clothed people. To black he smiles. To bushy and red he stares. They all thought him mad until now. He speaks clearly, eloquently, with a strange accent, a harsh guttural bite to the syllables of his words. But he speaks nonetheless.

Clear and cold as the wind above the clouds.

Mister Potter, do you know what you have done?

He took my family, he says. I took his hand. Not fair trade. Lenient. Don't you think?

Mister Potter, there is no way to -

I am a lord now because he killed the lord my father. I am a lord and you will treat me as such. Tell me, then, you who were so eager - what is the penalty for killing a lord of the house?


"Hey, Harry. They're coming for us. I'm sure of it. Dad and Sirius are probably tearing apart the whole continent by now. Not to mention Dumbledore... greatest wizard of our time, right? They'll find us... you just gotta hang in there. You've protected me enough. Now let me do the same for you. We just have to wait. Lestrange laughs every time he walks by and finds me talking to you, 'cause he says you're... I don't believe him, though. I know you're still in there. You're tougher than all of us combined. You just hafta hold on."


A new red robe - one with long gray hair despite his youthful face, brown eyes that look almost yellow when the light falls flat. He sits by the bed and says not a word, only stares, a drowned man.

This is Auror Ingemar, Lord Potter, says the dark skinned man who used to talk at him. Clipboard is gone, but tenseness in face remains. He is assigned indefinitely to be in charge of your welfare.

Close book, hands fold on lap, back tight and straight. Ingemar - name? wrong, do you think you can fool - stares with piercing eyes.

Ostensibly to protect me from others, he drawls. Or is it the other way around? Is he to report my every move to you?

I understand your frustration, but you should not have -

Ah. He opens his book again, directing his words to the page. He cannot read it. These letters... they make no sense to him. And yet they do. A faded, distant memory that has remained unoiled for eons.

It is not frustration. If you cannot understand my reasoning, then you have no point in being here.

Lord Potter, if you remember anything, then please -

Let you do the work? One eye slants up, poisonous green, glowing with magic that did not use to run in his veins. I know how this song begins and ends - I have seen it sung a thousand times hence. The poor man has no shield. The rich man only needs to point a finger to redirect the charge.

Smile.

Dark skinned man flinches.

Why do you think I took his hand?

You still wish to know? Very well. Listen closely, for I do not repeat myself. Imagine a box where your head touches one end and your feet the other. Then crush it tenfold. How does it feel? In that darkness, in that box, you - hear things. You have always been powerless. You were always the one that never quite fit, the expendable piece. The only power you have is to pray to the gods of no voice. You pray for someone to find you. For someone to save your family because you have failed to do so. In the end, you pray to die. There is such pain.

You remember only screams that are not your own. All ninety seven days of it. Every minute, every hour of terror, with nothing but death's tongue tickling the inside of your skull. You watch them waste away. And then... you are alone.

Is that sufficient? Then go. Leave me.

Ah, little lord. Why do you stay?

I am in charge of your safety, says the one they call by a false name. Why do you address me as little lord? I am no lord, merely a guard.

It is a truer name than what you call yourself now. You cannot fool me, he says with a sharp-toothed smile, and ing's breath catches deep in his chest. Something like grief passes over his face; something like loss. A lord displaced still carries the air of a lord. I call you such because that is what you are.

Someone - very long ago - has said that to me before.

Oh? Then he was no fool.

He reaches out and on the back of ing's hand, traces two intersecting bent lines. It makes ing's fingers curl into a fist. It makes him tremble. X marks the spot, but this one is imperfect. That's why there are two.

No... he was the farthest from it. His name was -


"- Harry, I... I'm not losing faith in them, but it's been... a month, at least. I don't think either of us are going to last much longer if we keep waiting. We're going to have to move. It's time to take things into our own hands. Just hang on... I'll get us out of here, promise..."


His body heals. His mind - fractured - does not.

He makes a list of things he can remember. The handwriting is shaky and illegible. Something about the messiness displeases him greatly, even as the other part of him could care less about penmanship. How is he to write runes now if he can barely control his hand for all its shaking?

Runes? He knows no runes - mother would not let him touch them because he was a -

Head hurts.

List. Return to the list.

- black dog (fen don't you dare - bring that into my room, padfoot!)

- resentment (why am I not - like my brother, mother? why was I born - a failure?)

- prophecy (you will save us - you will kill us)

- fly (powerful currents of air beneath his feet - a stick holding him aloft)

- falling (infinite galaxies - empty sky)

- father (disappointment, shame, disgust - laughing as he throws him into the air, hugging him tight)

- mother (powerful but powerless - angrily wielding a broom handle as she chases her husband, who holds the shrieking baby)

- brother (i love you he says but then he leaves and it hurts so - don't worry har I'll protect you, 'cause it's what brothers -)

- pray (father don't let me die here in this wasteland i want to go home - oh gods, let someone come, someone, anyone, it's so dark and they won't stop screaming, all my - fault all my - fault - mother, mother please - why didn't you tell me that my fate was to die?)

Fire.

Ing leaps to his feet, stick snapping out and a jet of water blasting him back. Fire sputters and dies. Script is illegible, soft rounded letters and spiky jagged runes slurring together, mixing and dispersing like his memory.

That was wandless magic, says ing, trying to sound disbelieving but it comes up short.

Scoff. Palm tingles. How pathetic - burning himself with a low-level fire spell.

Wand? Is that what you call that silly little stick you are waving around? You do not need it.

Wandless magic is a very rare sort, Lord Potter.

Once the healers are finished chewing him out for his recklessness, they tell him he can go in three days. If you can do something like that, they say, then you are well-healed. But... it is remarkable, really. You've never had any training. There's nothing like it.

Where do I go? he asks.

Home, they say.

Home? He thinks of a white manor gleaming gently in a forest of trees. He thinks of a golden castle resplendent in the morning light. Which is home? What is a home when its people are dead and gone?


"...I saw You-Know-Who today. I expected him to look like a... a monster, or something. Like those stories mum and dad told us about, y'know? All scaly white skin and no nose, shrieky voice and all. I had it perfectly laid out in my head. But he just looks...normal. Until you look into his eyes. I think that's even more terrifying. Harry, I'm... I'm scared. I know Dumbledore says I'm supposed to fight him, but I..."


The day before he is discharged, Black bursts into the room, wild hair in disarray, eyes even wilder.

Harry, he says. Don't listen to a single word they say. You have no obligation to -

A second man walks through the door. He has sallow, vicious eyes that lay claim to everything their light touches, a fierce resentment written in the grooves of his brow. Tall and thin. Black calls him le strange. A fitting name - he is indeed strange.

Ah, Potter, he says with a malicious sneer. You are looking better than the last time I saw you.

Ing has to hold Black back from planting his fist into the man's face. He feels a resonating anger building inside of him, like with blonde man - but no, he will bide his time.

Why the violence, and so like a filthy muggle? You realize I came by a few weeks ago to check on young Lord Potter's progress. We are kin, if distantly, and it is such a shame what happened to his family -

What message do you have? says ing sharply. Speak now or leave.

I see Sirius is not the only rude one here... very well. Harry Potter, you have a duty to the wizengamot to uphold. The council expects you present at our next meeting two days hence.

The what? What a ghastly name.

Le strange's sneer widens, even as satisfaction and dark amusement writes itself across his brow. So it is true. The only living scion of the Potters is addled in addition to being a - well.

Finish that sentence and you're going to be tasting that shit in your mouth very acutely, says Black.

Why, Sirius, I meant no offence. Lord Potter, are you offended? Mm, no. I see you're not the sort to be. You're not the sort to be anything now. Can he even speak? No matter. Harry Potter, despite your unfortunate circumstance, you are required in Wizengamot as a lord of the house. Missing another session will incur serious penalty.

If they give the Potter seat to anyone, it will be to me, Black spits. You'll touch Harry over my dead body.

Well, so long as you're sure, dear Sirius. Do come by the Manor sometime, won't you? Bella misses you.

Le strange leaves. Black whirls on him.

Harry, why didn't you say anything? I know you're not -

He sits straighter.

Why should I? Let them believe what they will. I do not scream before I bite. That is silly.

Don't go. Don't play their game.

Ah... and why not? I have a family to avenge. I know his face. I know his voice. His laugh. He laughed when...

Grief is thick on Black's face. Ing is now holding him up rather than back.

Then why do you keep silent when Shacklebolt comes? He is the head of the Aurors - he can help you.

He would lock them into a little silk cage for a few weeks - a month, maybe, and then gold will grease palms and they will slip out like oil, one by one. Is that helping? No... I've learned that if you want something done properly, you have to do it yourself. I pay my dues.

Fear.

Harry, you are barely twenty years old. Lestrange and Malfoy - and their Death Eaters - are all twice your age with thrice the resources. Of course I will help you - anything you ask - but it's suicide. Not to mention you-know-who...

Rest assured, I will not fail when so much rests on my success. I will not - I shall not let them down again.


"Tonight. It's got to be tonight. I heard Malfoy say that You-Know-Who is going to be coming again tomorrow, and I... we're finally getting out of here, huh? Gotta say, I won't miss this cell. When we get out we're gonna raise so much hell that Malfoy won't ever see the light again. I have a whole list, too. I know who's a Death Eater now. And... there's some things I gotta... tell you when you're okay again. But it can wait. We'll have all the time in the world."


Ing is tall and wiry, but he has enough muscle hidden beneath those red robes to lift him easily from the bed and arrange him carefully into a wheelchair. The clothes - his father's lordship robes, for the summons came too suddenly for him to have another set made - hang loosely on his body, almost slipping off one shoulder. With his hollow cheeks, too large eyes, thin body, he looks like a young child playing dress up in his father's clothes.

Ing had offered to shrink the robes, but he refused. This is exactly the impression he wants to give them. How he dresses will not matter to these vultures - they seek to claim something that is his by blood, by right, by grief. Their verdict has long been decided even before the bodies of his family had cooled. He could wear a burlap bag and it would make no difference.

Let us go, Ing.

Ing wheels him through the double doors of the grand wizengamot chamber, only to find that the wizengamot had already been assembled. Ninety-nine pairs of eyes gaze down at him from the raised seats. Ing stiffens. He is not surprised. These power plays are so rudimentary he feels embarrassed for them.

The grand chamber is built like a coliseum. They are no less savage than the lions that rip into those unwilling slaves, though they hide viciousness beneath a flesh smile and platitudes. But they do not realize that he will not be the one to die, today.

Ah, Lord Potter - it is good to see you here after all. Unfortunately, I must inform you that your guard is not allowed inside the wizengamot, says Lestrange. I can personally assure your safety. None here shall bring harm to you.

There is no need to address me so formally, Lestrange, he says. Are we not all equals here? You called my father Potter before me, and now I have taken up his seat and his name. As to Ing - well, he is under orders by the Aurors to watch over me. It would be a shame if there were any...incidents, no?

His eyes drift to the empty seat near the front.

I am sure that will not be a problem, says Beard Man firmly, casting a stern look at Lestrange. Let us begin.

Portly man with bowler hat stands up. Red face, sweat on his palms.

Ah, Harry, he says in a jovial tone. I believe you have been told why you are here today?

He smiles coldly.

That information has not been made privy to me, though it is quite easy to guess. My father has always been outspoken against the majority opinion. He holds two seats on this council, and it is now the majority's opinion to wrest these seats from his cold dead hands. Tell me, Minister - am I wrong?

Harry, my boy, we are only concerned for your welfare.

Minister, in these chambers, I am neither Harry nor your boy. I am Lord Potter.

Potter, there is no need to be vulgar, Lestrange drawls. The wizengamot is only concerned for your wellbeing. You may be the eldest son, but you were never meant to be Lord Potter, and you do not have the requisite training. That was your younger brother. Or do you not remember?

I remember more than you think.

Moreover, it is a law of wizengamot that a squib shall not hold the position of Lord. In such an instance, the seat is passed to a regent until such a time comes that magical blood is spawned in the line.

Lestrange! Black roars.

He raises one eyebrow, settling into his wheelchair like a throne. Oh? You seem so convinced that I am one of these - squibs, you call them. What exactly are they?

A murmur rises in the silence of the chamber.

Look upon your newest lord and weep! Lestrange bellows with laughter. A squib? What is a squib? One with no magic in their veins, only filthy blood, like you. No doubt you got it from your bitch of a -

I will not have such language in my court, Beard Man says. His voice does not rise in tone but his magical signature elevates and dampens over the room, causing some to shudder. It is only a tickle on his skin. It amuses him, fills him with dark rage. If Beard Man has a teaspoon of magic, then he has an ocean, and it roils deep beneath the cold calm surface, heavy with grief.

Then surely you would have no trouble defeating this lowly squib in combat? You have thrice insulted me and mine - I am in the right to call upon this settlement by honour of death. To the victor goes these seats of blood. Will you not accede? Finish what your people have started. Let there be no other interlocutors.

Harry, wait - hold on, Dumbledore, he doesn't mean it, don't -

I mean every word, he says crisply. Well, my Lord Lestrange? Do you fear to back up your claims?

The sneer is lined with madness.

I only fear what will happen to you if I accept. Challenging me in a moment of your weakness. That is a mistake.

Your forethought is appreciated but unnecessary. I ask you again - do you accept?

Ing's hand tightens on his shoulder. Are you sure, he whispers. You don't have to do this.

Dumbledore, I can take Harry's place. Let me go instead -

Sirius, he says. Don't.

I will not show you mercy a second time, Lestrange warns as he sheds his outer robe and begins making his way down, spinning his wand through his fingers.

(Hah! Let him go. He'll get eaten by the wolves, brain dead as he is - look at him, how pathetic.)

(Jaimejaimejaime you said you would never leave me)

A second time, he breathes, then chuckles. You should not have shown me mercy the first time. It will be your death.


"I can't stop thinking. I'm just so... jittery. There're legilimencers in here, you know, and sometimes I wonder if they've already plucked my thoughts straight out of my head. If they already know. If I don't make it... I want you to know that you're the best big brother I could have ever asked for."


What is your name? Ing asks. There is a note of finality in the question.

He smiles, turning to look at the silver lord, and whispers, "I am -"


- A bloodstained, desperate face, moon-like in its pale fragility. Hands manoeuvre him into a standing position so that he is draped across a broad back, scraped thin by hunger and torture. A thumb brushes across his unresponsive face, the blank eyes, the drooling mouth. A kiss on his forehead. Shaking hands clasp over his own.

The distant baying of hounds.

"Don't worry, Harry. I'll get us out of here. We'll be safe, I'll protect you - 'cause that's what brothers do."

.

.

.

.

.

o ye gods of no voice
let victory taste of blood
on my lips

.

.

.


Endnote (spoilers!): Here are the bare bones (because I always get yelled at for being too vague). This is certainly not everything - there's far more hinted at in this chapter. Harry Potter was born on July 31st, the first squib in the Potter line in seven generations. Jaime Potter, his younger brother by three years, was born on July 30th and a candidate for the prophecy. The Potters were abducted by Death Eaters and Harry was the only survivor. No one knew how he survived. He was expected to die or go insane from the torture he had experienced, but what they got was something far worse.

What else do you think happened? Who's "Ing"? I love it when readers tell me what they noticed because I'm like aw yessss they got my obscure references

night xx