April 26th, 1999.

Dear Harry, the letter read, in a blocky hand Harry normally associated with children.

I tried asking Mr Dedalus if you had a phone or something but he doesn't know. I'm not sure wizards have phones but he said he would send you this letter and the box by owl. I hope it gets to you.

We were cleaning out my bedroom because I still have lots of old toys I don't use anymore, and Mum said to clear out your room too. I didn't want to let them at first, but then Mr Dedalus said to me that you're rich in the magic world and you can afford your own house, so I figured you wouldn't be coming back to live with us anymore. We found some stuff of yours in the desk and behind furniture and stuff, so that's all in the box. I've also put some chocolate in there because I've got loads from Aunt Marge for getting into college, but I'm on a diet again (!) so I can't have it anyway.

I hope you'll give us a call and that we can meet sometime. Mum and Dad don't have to come if you don't want them to. If you want to write back, can you send it to Mr Dedalus because you know how they are with owls.

Best,

Dudley

It was the third time he'd read the letter, but the first time he would be opening the box. He'd told Snape he was going to Grimmauld Place for the afternoon to sort through some stuff he'd left behind, which was an okay lie told for a stupid reason: what was he afraid of? That Snape would barge into his room as Harry was going through the box and demand to know where it had come from?

Maybe it wasn't a concern over anything quite as tangible as that. Maybe it was just that Sandsend was Sandsend, and it had been marred already by the past in a way Harry didn't care for. He would protect it from further desecration by any means necessary.

In the dusty quietude of Grimmauld Place, boxes of the past could be opened safely. The place swam in the past already: there was little that could help it and little that could make it worse.

The cardboard creaked beneath his fingers. Sat cross-legged at the foot of Sirius's bed, he felt in that small moment more alone than he had in a long time.

First came three books. There was History of Magic, volume two; one of Lockhart's Voyages with Vampires, tarnished with something sticky that could have been jelly; and an old copy of Matilda he'd once stolen from his primary school library. He flipped through them, tracing the notes he'd made on the margins: he'd never owned books as a child, and those he'd sneaked out of libraries and Dudley's room and Mrs Figg's bottom shelf, he invariably adorned in sign after sign of ownership, with crayons and pencils and broken glitter pens he'd found in the bin. It was a poor habit. He did it anyway. Just the day before, he'd sat by the fire and drawn a dubious likeness of Artemis into his copy of Dark Magic: A History, and Snape had asked him acerbically whether he'd run out of spare parchment. Harry had thought the comment blindingly hypocritical, since he knew what state Snape's sixth-year Potions manual had been left in, and Snape knew he knew, and Harry knew that Snape knew he knew. But this was just one on the long list of things they didn't talk about, so he couldn't even call him out on it.

He set the books aside, knowing he should dispose of them but wanting to delay the moment. Next came the 1995 calendar, empty except for the red crosses he'd used to demarcate the approaching end of his summer sentence. Then, two joke candy wrappers, from a time before Fred and George had developed a logo. A stack of parchment, creased and folded over, filled with handwriting he recognized.

They were essays, most of them. One unfinished, abandoned midway through when a younger Harry had spilled his ink over the page and hadn't known how to spell it off. Another scribbled so haphazardly he'd known it was a Divination assignment even before he spotted Trelawney's jarring script on the margins, advising him not to 'shy away from the story the inner eye is attempting to tell.'

This one, he must have written in his first or second year, quill still unsteady in his hand and the letters bulky. He read through it now with a smile, recognizing the childish turns of phrase that he hadn't been aware of then, easily spotting the more complex wording fed to him by Hermione or half-copied from a book. I advise that you look up the definition of plagiarism, Snape's flowy script was telling a twelve-year-old Harry. He swiped a thumb over it, gathering the crumbs of desiccated ink on the pad of skin. He had thought Snape possessed of mind-reading abilities, because he could always tell when Harry had been less than original. Now, he realised it was simply that he hadn't been as subtle as he'd thought.

He had been so young, he could hardly grasp it. How could he have believed so strongly in the absoluteness of his experience, how could he have preserved these memories of himself as himself, when he hadn't been himself at all, he'd been an eleven-year-old who struggled to decipher his teachers' cursive and thought he was being sneaky when he swapped a verb in the sentence he'd copied from his manual?

The essay at the bottom of the stack was for Transfiguration and written in a sloppier, more self-assured hand. It was Ron's. Harry expected he should have been surprised to find it here, but wasn't: they used to swap books and borrow parchments and dip their quills in the same ink. A void caved suddenly in his stomach, the feeling of nostalgia cresting until it wasn't nostalgia anymore, it was a deep yearning: he wanted it again, that oneness, that coexistence, the identity shared and certain.

He folded his plagiarised second-year Potions essay and slid it into his back pocket. He wasn't sure he would actually show it to Snape: theirs was hardly a past to look back on, and he didn't want the man's anger to tear at the warmth he felt handling it. It was nice to imagine he would show him, though, and that they could both be normal about it.

Matilda, he would keep as well. Maybe there was nothing normal about him after all: missing Hogwarts was one thing, but missing his childhood was surely a sign of a devolving mind.

A broken crayon lay at the bottom of the box: it was the plum purple he'd disliked. On the first page of Matilda, he'd outlined his hand with it. He remembered it now like no time at all had passed: squinting in the dim light of the cupboard, holding in the squirm as the crayon caressed the inside of his fingers, the frustration when the outline came out jagged and not half as nice as when he'd seen his aunt do one for Dudley. He'd drawn himself long monster claws to make up for it.

It shouldn't have been a good memory. The cupboard door had been locked. The book had been stolen. His hand had been so terribly tiny. But it felt good to remember, he didn't want to stop, and he felt that yearning again, deep and dark and entirely misplaced.

There was a sound downstairs. Harry straightened, his grasp on the flimsy paperback slipping.

Then, there was nothing but sound.

Voices and footsteps, clatters and clangs and thuds, and had Kreacher been organising school trips to the Black residence behind Harry's back or what?

Feet thundered on the stairs. Harry gripped at his wand, scrambling to stand only to slip on Lockhart's useless book; his head knocked against the bedpost before he'd managed to find purchase, the burst of pain bringing him neatly into the present.

He eased the door open with a foot, wand at the ready. The tunnel vision from the bump lingered, but it was enough to see Ron and Hermione, halfway up the stairs and struggling with each other's buttons, and thank God for that, because there were things Harry couldn't unsee.

'Hey!' he yelled, mostly to cover up the breathy sounds they were making, and then lunged forward to grab at Hermione's wrist when she startled back and off the stair, ankle twisting toward an unpleasant drop.

'Oh,' she wheezed as she awkwardly straightened, shrugging his hand away. 'Oh God, Harry. What are you doing here?'

'It's my house,' Harry pointed out. He was working very hard on not looking at Ron, who was trying to button up his shirt, red-faced and mute. 'So, you know. I'm here.'

Downstairs, something banged. A shrill voice made a happy exaltation. Harry realised that if he went to investigate, he could avoid conversation.

He pushed his way between them, padded down the stairs and followed the noise into the sitting room. He blinked. When he opened his eyes, the house elves were still there.

There must have been at least twenty. Thirty? Fifty? They were moving about and talking, apparating and disapparating and emerging from the kitchen and back in, impossible to keep track of and impossible to conceptualise as static beings. They were events, there and not, hundreds and hundreds of them one after the other.

'What—'

'I was going to tell you, Harry!' Hermione was just behind him. 'I was going to Floo call you in a moment, I swear, but all of this, it's happened so fast—Ron and I, we've gone to see this elf breeder, remember, I've told you about all those purebloods returning their elves, right? And, well, it turns out that this breeder wasn't taking his back at all, and it's not just him, either, even though they're obligated contractually and by wizarding law, only they figured, since there's no demand for elves, they're not going to bother paying for their upkeep! Can you imagine?'

Harry nodded lamely, not entirely sure he was following. 'You didn't buy all these elves, did you?'

Ron snorted. Hermione looked incensed. 'Of course not! We told him we were going to get back to him, and then we went and started asking around, and we found this elf in Diagon Alley who told us about these homeless elves who've been hanging around—anyway, we found them, and then they led us to the others, and—'

'And we've sort of invited forty-three elves to stay at your place,' Ron concluded. 'Give or take. Sorry, mate.'

'I'm so sorry, Harry,' Hermione pleaded. 'This isn't a permanent solution, of course, but they've got nowhere else to go if their breeders won't take them back, and if we have them all together in one place, that is such an incredible source of information, and we can—I'm going to take this to the Prophet, or—I haven't decided what I'm going to do, exactly, but once this gets out, it's—it's so big, Harry, I had no idea, this is against every house elf protection law imaginable and get this—Thickey, that breeder, he's sold some elves to Hogwarts, and it turns out, the school board pushed through a motion to fire several elves, too, because of the drop in attendance—which means some of these homeless elves have come from Hogwarts! Can you imagine?'

Excitement shone in her eyes. Ron's face was still red from mortification, but it was set with satisfaction, too. They looked nothing alike, yet stood identically poised, like they were one model painted for distinction.

Harry imagined telling her no.

He didn't want to, of course not, because why would he? But he imagined her face falling. He imagined the easy happiness fading from Ron's expression as it twisted in surprise. He imagined telling her something like, my house my rules, which sounded like the kind of thing Uncle Vernon might have said. Or Snape. He imagined telling Snape that they had this in common, too, stoking the flames of guilt and resentment, the hurt on his face.

'Don't worry about it, Hermione,' he managed, jaw tight. 'Honestly. They can stay however long they want. They'll need money for food, right?'

'Oh, no, Harry, we'll figure it out, we'll start up a fund or the Ministry—'

'No, I know, but that will take a while. Like you've said, this is a right mess. But for now, I'll ask Gringotts to send in some. Just tell me how much—'

Hermione embraced him. He imagined taking it back now, her body tensing in shock. She squeezed his back in gratitude. He didn't deserve it.

After that, the elves made dinner. There was food everywhere, piles of it on the floor and the table and the chairs, and Harry, Ron and Hermione were pushed onto the sofa and offered a selection of dishes as the elves sat about on every possible surface, exchanging food and conversation, courteous when watched but increasingly assured in the crowd. Hermione looked full to bursting though she'd barely touched her food. She told Harry all about how 'amazing' Ron had been, how he'd got this or that piece of intelligence, how he'd made this or that comment at the exact right time, and Ron allowed her to go on while smiling contentedly into his plate. When she fell silent to munch on her meal, he spoke up, the conversation thus never disrupted. They were like two arms, Harry thought, of one and the same person.

He could show them the old essays. But they were too taken by their accomplishment and visions of the future, it would only be awkward if he suddenly brought them up. They'd pretend to be interested, of course, but he couldn't take being humoured.

An ancient elf, grown over with white hair and wrinkled around the mouth, approached Harry with a plate of sausages.

'You are Harry Potter,' he croaked. 'You are young master Teddy Black's godfather?'

People tended to come up with a few defining features before that, but he supposed it was true enough.

'Yeah,' he said, then realised, 'wait, did you say Teddy Black?'

'Yes, Master Potter. Tabby's heard all about the young master from Kreacher, sir. Will he take control of the house once he is come of age, Tabby wonders?'

Harry would need to have a discussion with Kreacher. Even as he thought it, he realised the chances of convincing the elf to refer to his beloved little master as a Lupin rather than a Black were slim to none. 'I don't know,' he said honestly. 'Maybe. How do you know Kreacher?'

'Tabby knows many elves,' Tabby shrugged. 'Kreacher was buying a toy from Tabby for the young master and Tabby was curious, not a crime.'

'Wait, do you mean the cups? A set of wooden cups?'

'Yes, sir. Tabby works with wood, his magic agrees with it, sir.'

'Tabby,' Hermione leaned in suddenly. 'What do you mean, he bought them from you? I thought house elves didn't handle money?'

Tabby huffed. 'Money! Tabby would not dirty his hands with gold!'

'I don't mean any offence,' Hermione added quickly. 'I'm just curious.'

Tabby eyed her suspiciously but seemed to decide there was little harm in it. 'Tabby sold it to Kreacher for seals, Miss.'

'Seals?'

He lay one small hand flat, then snapped the fingers of the other. Several red seals appeared on the open palm, each bearing a different crest. Harry supposed they must have been taken off correspondence after it had been read and discarded.

'And house elves exchange these with each other? To buy things?' Hermione's eyes shone. She seemed unsure whether she would be allowed to touch, so her hand hovered in mid-air, awkward and earnest. 'How have I never heard of this?'

'Why would Miss hear of it? Miss is not a house elf,' Tabby reminded her, sounding like he worried over the state of her mind. 'Would Miss like a sausage?'

Hermione shook her head, then nodded, then frowned as she seemingly realised she hadn't understood the question. Ron rolled his eyes at Harry and snagged a sausage off the platter to place on Hermione's plate.

'No, thank you,' Harry said when the platter was pushed toward his chest. He didn't feel particularly hungry, and Snape expected him for dinner. A house elf invasion should have been a fair excuse for skipping a meal, but Sandsend was an upside-down world of no reason.

Tabby gave a small bow, then lowered himself onto the ground to Harry's side to consume his sausages in silence. Hermione was talking about currencies and clandestine economies, most of which Harry didn't understand.

He imagined kicking Tabby in the back of the head. He sat near enough that it wouldn't have been a hard feat.

Last week, he had cancelled his visit with Teddy. This was why.

He tore his eyes away from Tabby and fixed them on his plate. This was all Snape's fault, for silently hyper-fixating on the past. This was Ron and Hermione's fault, for being better people than Harry was. Whoever Harry was. In the claws of death at Hogwarts, in his cramped cupboard at the Dursley's, he used to at least know that much.

He was supposed to be getting better. Instead, he felt like he was only getting worse, in an entirely new way.

A bit of a downer ending, but Harry's just In A Mood in this one, isn't he.

Thank you all for reading. Draco's POV coming on Sunday.