The Second String

by Eider Down

Everyone knows Dementors can take souls, but nothing says that they have to keep them. After the Dementor attack in Little Whinging ends disastrously, Harry must find a place for himself in the past, fighting a different sort of war against the nascent Voldemort. Some slash much later.

45. You, Who are on the Road

AN: While I truly appreciate all those who've read this story on ffn, I will be removing it from this platform in two weeks (April 22nd). It will continue to be available on ao3, same title, author Eider_Down.

(Also, my apologies, but ffn keeps smooshing words and lines together. I think I've fixed all of the formatting errors, which certainly means I have not fixed all the formatting errors.

XLV. You, Who are on the Road

An epilogue from multiple points of view

I
This is the story of first friends.
(Spring, 1982)

"—and I don't mean to interfere, really, but he could be putting his skills to far better use than the odd weekend tending amateur Quidditch games or patching up injured drunks." Molly blew an errant curl out of her face with an exasperated huff. "Why, with just a few years of study, he could easily qualify as a Medi-Wizard, or even a Healer. I know he loves his pub, but think about that, a Healer!"

"Be still my heart, Gid, a Healer!" Fabian crooned.

"Hmm." Gideon's gaze slid past his swooning brother to land on little Rhys and Ron across the meadow. Harry, who'd been seeing to their skinned knees, had a gone a strange shade of pale.

Gideon narrowed his eyes. "Back in a tick, Mol."

"Yes, but—oh very well then."

By the time he made his way over, Rhys had toddled off towards the twins—that can't be good.

Little Ron was frowning at a wide-eyed Harry. "Unca Gid, I bwoke Hawwy."

Gideon forced a smile and swung his nephew into his arms. "No worries. Harry breaks sometimes. How about you go keep an eye on the twins while I fix him?"

"Kay." Ron wriggled out of his arms and tromped over to the others.

Harry's eyes didn't blink as they watched the two-year-old join Rhys.

"So…" Gideon sat down beside him. "What bwokeHawwy?"

"He's not him," Harry whispered in a blank voice that made Gideon's skin prickle. "He was born a day later, and I'd thought maybe—but babies' faces look all weird and not…not done, y'know?"

What the hell is he on about?

"I thought it was me being stupid," he continued. "But just now, he just looked at me and—and it was so obvious. Gideon, he's—he's not him."

"I'm not following."

"Ron," Harry bit out. "The Ron here isn't my Ron. The others are themselves, or versions of themselves, but he's a completely different person. Same name, but he's just—he's not Ron. His eyes and his face and his chin and his— his everything! They're all different. He's a total stranger!"

"Oh. Oh, hell," Gideon said, because what else can I say to that?

"I mean, I knew it could never be the same between us, but I never expected…" Harry's voice guttered. "I just thought I'd see him again, y'know?"

"No," he rubbed his temples. "I really don't, Harry. But I can try to imagine."

Harry sighed and leaned into Gideon's shoulder, eyes glued to the boys playing across the field. Whatever they were up to, it seemed to involve not a little digging, and quite a lot of giggling.

"It's funny," Harry finally murmured. "My Ron, he was always on about being in his brothers' shadows. It was really hard for him, I think, being just another Weasley boy." He shook his head. "Damn, I wish I could tell him."

"Hmm?"

"Tell him…he's the only him I'll ever get to have. Heh," Harry snorted, "wouldn't it be funny if he were the only version of that Ron in all the universes? Dozens or hundreds of Freds, Georges, Bills, but only one him. Just that one Ron. I…I actually kinda think he'd like that."

Gideon had nothing helpful to say, so he just pulled Harry closer.

Eventually, Gideon couldn't ignore Molly's beckoning any longer and squeezed his hand. Harry gave him a vague smile and wandered away.

Somewhere in Molly and Fabe's bantering, Gideon lost sight of him.

When Harry finally joined the assembled Weasleys and Prewetts again, he was roaring and had two toddlers wrapped around his legs.

"Hawwy's all better and he's a dwagon now!" Ron informed the group.

"All better?" Gideon muttered.

Harry just shrugged. "And a dragon." A wistful smile played on his lips as Ron and Rhys tumbled over each other to attack a bowl of strawberries. "Could be worse."

II
This is the story of living up to ourselves.
(1 August, 1983)

He and Lily had finally managed to put the girls down and had collapsed on the sofa next to Harry with exhausted sighs and well-earned beers.

Double fudge cake and chocolate ice cream should never be served at a three-year-old's birthday party, James decided. Never ever.

Ari probably won't even remember it! Lils had objected. Harry had nodded emphatically. Really bad idea, James, trust me, he'd said.

James should have listened.

And he definitely shouldn't have given any to the one-year-old Minnie.

So maybe it had been the shock of seeing his angels, his princesses, transformed into crazed warrior-demons with chocolate streaked across their little faces like battle paint, that had kept James from really caring that Lily and Harry had been exchanging looks all evening.

Through bleary eyes, he watched Lils arch a brow, watched the careful shake of Harry's head. Then Lily frowned. Harry bit his lip and looked away.

"Oh someone just tell me," James finally groaned. "You two can't keep anything from me for more than five minutes anyway."

He hadn't meant it to be funny, but Lily's shoulders shook and Harry snorted beer through his nose.

"Er—" Harry said after mopping up his face. "Maybe now's not a great ti—"

"You've been putting it off for years, and I've been enabling you," Lily cut him off. "It's time. It's past time. So do it. Now."

James blinked. It wasn't often anyone but he or Sirius earned that tone.

And then Harry started talking.

xoxoxox

(1 November, 1983, three months later)

It was raining the afternoon that James found himself in the Hog's Head.

The bartender—my son but not my son—served him his drink in silence. Given the disaster of little Ari's birthday party, James couldn't really blame him.

Harry was only doing what he had demanded, after all. I never want to speak to you again! James had screamed after hearing about…everything.

About Peter.

Yet for some reason, his feet had brought him to his s—to Harry's pub today.

Stubbornly ignoring the bartender, James instead stared at the table and let himself wallow in the fact that he may well be a miserable failure.

He hated working for the Department of International Games and Sports. It killed everything he loved about Quidditch. Earlier that day he'd walked out. He wasn't going back.

Same old story, I guess.

He'd hated Auror training and hadn't even lasted through the first year. There were so many rules it left him paralyzed and afraid to make any choice.

He'd hated the few meetings of the Wizengamot he'd attended, the taste of politics sour on his tongue. He'd promptly appointed Lily his proxy.

Because while he may well be a failure, Lily certainly wasn't. She'd finished her program in wizarding law, and Minister Marchbanks' undersecretary had even taken Lily under her wing. Lily was now the junior member of a team embarking on reforms that were sending the staunch traditionalists into fits, even while the more level-headed whispered of a Golden Age of British politics.

His wife's first major project—legislation aimed at protecting the basic rights of squibs—was one of her department's most ambitious yet. What made Lily so committed to it was hardly a secret.

Harry.

James idly spun a knut on the table.

Bloody Harry.

He still didn't quite know what to do with the man who was his son but wasn't. James hated him for lying to them, hated him for what he'd done to Peter, hated him for being so damn brutal, but at the same time so—

Dammit it all, he hated Harry for making him like him.

And if he were honest with himself, James missed him. Since Ari'd been born, Harry'd become more than her godfather, somehow.

The word family haunted his mind, no matter how much he tried to smother that voice.

Every so often he could feel Harry's eyes on him from the bar.

James didn't look up. He hadn't seen him since Ari's party, at first because he was furious. Later, though, he'd had time to think. Introspection wasn't James' favourite pastime, and he hadn't been thrilled with what he'd found.

It's bloody convenient to hate him for all the lies, for Peter, everything.

Because then I get to be mad at him.

Lily's current passion wouldn't let James forget that he hadn't treated Harry all that well when they'd first met.

Or that Dad voted to send him to Azkaban for life.

Fleamont Potter hadn't known he was condemning his own grandson, but that didn't make his actions sit any better with James.

Harry just…wasn't anything to us then.

Sometimes James thought that his son was a better man than he was—lies, murders, and all.

Sometimes James knew that his son was a better man than he was.

If I'd been Kissed and sent here, I'd have been at Hogwarts screaming my name and whinging for help within an hour.

And he couldn't forget Harry's hesitant confession that he'd been disappointed when he'd first met the father he'd never known. Thought him a spoilt prat.

But seriously, the other me died for him. Died for his family. How am I ever, ever, supposed to top that? James was vaguely proud of the man who'd told another Lily to take Harry and run. I'd do that too. I really think I'd do that if the Dark Lord came for Ari or Minnie.

But this James had never actually had to do it.

He drained his drink.

"Shouldn't you be at work?"

James stared at the fresh pint that was placed in front of him, reminding himself that he was angry, that he wasn't going to talk—

"I quit today."

Harry shuffled as though we wanted to sit down. "Good. You hated working there."

James shrugged.

Apparently, Harry took that as an invitation, dropping into the chair across from him.

Minutes dragged by, but the other man said nothing.

Unfilled silences killed James. They were all uncomfortable and sweaty-handed and expectant and—

"I just don't like anything!" he finally burst out.

Harry tilted his head.

Don't talk to him, you berk, don't talk to him!

"I want to like what I do!" James blurted, the flow of words impossible to dam. "And be proud of it! It's all so boring and tedious." He sighed, staring at his napkin. "I must—there must be something for me."

Don't say it, it won't help—

But there was no one else around and James was so damn tired of feeling like this.

"What—what did I—your father—do…where you come from? Before, you know?"

Harry's smile was a brittle thing. "I never heard of anything. I don't think he had time to do much other than the war, and then...well."

"Oh."

The awkward silence returned.

"I just—it's like…I don't want to be my dad," James finally said. "He hated running the company, he hated being on the Wizengamot, but he did it all because he was supposed to, and then he just died. And that was his life. It was a…a…"

A waste.

Harry shrugged. "Well, what do you like doing?"

"Nothing really," James scoffed. "I'm good at things, but there's no sort of job I like."

Well, no job except taking care of Ari and Min.

He frowned.

Honestly, the only thing I've done since the war that really matters is being with them. When Lily's insane schedule had made it obvious that James would have to be their primary tutor, he had dived in with both feet. Hell, he'd spent half his time in his Ministry office sketching out plans for what to teach them next. They were just such wonderful, complicated little people, all brimming with potential.

It's the most fun I ever get to have.

James hadn't expected he'd enjoy having children so much. He'd never even been around young kids before he'd had his own. Without siblings or cousins, James' childhood had been rather lonely, at least until Hogwarts.

Sirius, Remus, and Peter were lonely before Hogwarts as well. It's too bad we couldn't have met sooner.

James squinted at the table.

It's really too bad.

An odd, impossible, exciting idea started taking shape in his mind.

Albus would help.

But we'd need transportation. And I can't even imagine the politics—

Marchbanks cares about education though.

And Lily's got her ear…

Adrenaline flooded his veins. "I could...I think we could maybe really do this."

"Care to share?"

He'd almost forgotten Harry was there.

James couldn't have smothered his excitement if he'd tried. "I want to start a primary school for the magical children in Britain. We'd have to notify the Muggleborn early, but I'm betting Lily's team could make it happen. And we'd have to figure out a location, and a way to get the kids in every day and a ton of other details…but I think I could do it."

Harry stared at him. "You want to run a magical primary school."

"Merlin, no! I'd be shite at running it! I'd have to find someone for that. But I do want to try to work there." James' gut fluttered. "So, what…what do you think?"

A slow smile spread across Harry's face. And there was some emotion there that James' couldn't place—he was rubbish at emotions—but it was good, whatever it was.

"I think it's brilliant."

James hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. "That's—well, great," he grinned.

Three hours later, he packed up the plan he'd sketched out on napkins and drained the last of his pint. "Can you put my drinks on my tab?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You don't have a tab."

"I know." James shuffled. "But…I could start one?"

I want to come back. I want to see you again.

His son's (but not my son's) face slid into yet another emotion James couldn't identify. "Yeah. 'Course."

"Thanks." James paused at the door. The anger and hurt still prickled at him, but the edges felt duller, the sting softer.

And Harry had Lily's eyes.

Sod it all.

"You, uh, you haven't been around lately. Want to stop by this weekend? Lily's parents are coming, and Rhys and the girls probably miss each other. And maybe…maybe you and I could play some Quidditch?"

Those damned eyes grew brighter. "Yeah, James. That'd be great."

III
This is the story of a happily-ever-afterlife.
(1 September, 1984)

The first years followed Professor Sprout across a flagstone floor. The drone of hundreds of voices sounded from a doorway to their right, but the professor showed them into a small chamber off the hall.

Charlie listened to her speech about the four Houses breathlessly, repeating Gryffindor, Gryffindor to himself even after Professor Sprout had departed.

"Cor!" a girl with bright pink pigtails gasped. She pointed at a large painting of pinwheeling flowers. "I know who that is!"

A teenager grinned at them through the storm of petals. When Charlie's jaw dropped, she sent him a wave.

"Yeah, me too!" he said. "That's Ariana Dumbledore! My brother Bill told me that during the last battle—"

"—the students all hid in her magic tunnel!" the girl with pigtails interrupted, not to be outdone.

The first years broke into impressed whispers.

"That was wicked," Charlie exclaimed and the painted girl curtseyed.

"Definitely," Pigtails agreed. "And that—" she exclaimed as an older witch in tartan robes joined the girl in the portrait, "that has to be Headmistress McGonagall! She fought the Undead Army!"

The children's whispers turned to excited shouts.

"Oi, uh, Miss Dumbledore? Miss Headmistress? Think we could come back and talk to you sometime?" Pigtails called over the din.

"That'd be wicked," Charlie said.

Beaming, the painted girl nodded. Headmistress McGonagall quirked a smile.

Pigtails grinned at Charlie. "Maybe she'll even let us use the tunnel," she whispered. "That'd be wick—"

"Excuse us," an annoyed voice cut in.

The students turned to find several ghosts glaring at them.

"We're ever so sorry to interrupt," a silvery man whose head sat at a funny angle groused, "but a little attention, please! We wait all year for this!"

A ghost with a sword and bloody robes floated away, scowling, "Upstaged by a portrait again."

IV
This is the story of men who are many things, but not all things.
(1985)

It was a completely ordinary spring evening when something in Harry's mind clicked. He was watching Albus roll yet another strike during their monthly 'Defeaters of Dark Lords Bowling Night' (it was a very select group), when he simply knew.

It's time.

"Hah! Oh, Harry, I'm starting to doubt you can ever catch up!"

Dumbledore's triumphant cry, combined with his purple velour sweatsuit—emblazoned, of course, with a psychedelic phoenix—drew every eye in the Muggle bowling alley towards them.

A knot in Harry's gut that he'd long since forgotten was even there unwound as Albus plopped down next to him.

It's past time. Long past.

Harry stared into the distance, far beyond the alley's nicotine-stained walls. "Albus, before I came here, before the Forest and Ab, back when I was a boy…my name was Harry Potter."

He felt the older man next to him freeze.

"What did you say?"

Harry licked his lips. "My parents were James and Lily."

A hand clasped his shoulder.

"Oh my, Harry, a time traveller? So…so should we be expecting another Potter birth? A little brother for Ariana and Minerva?"

Harry huffed a breath. "No, I was born in the summer of '80. There was no Ariana Potter where I'm from. Just me. "

Albus rummaged for something in the pocket of his robes. "You mean— Ah! I see, of course! You are both a time traveller and a dimension traveller, aren't you?"

Harry nodded, eyes closed.

"Amazing! I never even considered combining eight and twenty-one together!"

The fuck?

"What are you on about, old man?" Harry asked, finally looking over at his friend. The man was excitedly scanning a roll of parchment so long it spilled onto the floor.

Albus laughed. "I've never been one to ignore a mystery, and you've been a most intriguing one. I began compiling this list of—ah— possible explanations for your origins after Aberforth's will was read. I resumed again once I realized that Tom was not your father." He shook his head in wonder. "A time-and-dimension traveller! Oh Harry, it refreshes the soul how magic can always surprise us."

Rolling his eyes, Harry grabbed his bowling ball.

Fuck yeah, STRIKE! Eat that, old man!

"May I ask how you accomplished this?" Dumbledore asked as he retrieved his own bowling ball and moved to take his shot.

Feeling just a bit of a bastard, Harry counted the seconds.

Wait for it…

Albus' arm arced back.

Now!

"Got myself Kissed by a Dementor," he said.

The timing was perfect.

Albus whirled around. The bowling ball slipped from his grip and careened across several lanes.

"Argh!" The headmaster glared and clutched his own back.

"Rotten luck, that…but it passed the line, so it does count as a roll," Harry smirked and recorded a large zero in Albus' column. With a muttered charm, he added a ring of pink sparkles around it.

Glancing up, Harry realized everyone was looking at them again. Adopting the most solicitous expression he could manage, he grasped the headmaster's arm. "Oh, let me help you, sir! You should be more careful at your age!"

Dumbledore collapsed into the yellow plastic seat with a wince. "That was unkind, Harry."

Harry was man enough to admit that his giggle was entirely unmanly.

"Dementors? Truly?"

"Yep. Not my fault, though." He shrugged. "Probably the corrupt Ministry."

The headmaster muttered under his breath and retrieved his long parchment. "Well, I'll be d– 'Kissed by Dementors' isn't even listed, how embarrassing…"

Their conversation was interrupted by old Darla, who dropped off a pint and another–Harry shivered out of professional disgust–Tom Collins for Albus.

Darla smiled what she clearly believed was her most fetching grin. "Here you go, Albie luv," she tried to purr. "You've been in fine, fit form tonight, if you don't mind me sayin'."

Albus smiled at her blandly, but Harry detected the whisper of a spell.

"Why thank you, my dear. Though I notice that the handsome gentleman over there has had his eye on you for weeks now," the headmaster said.

Darla perked up and followed his gaze. "Not at all, Albie, not at all," she murmured and hurried over to wizened old man at a corner table.

"Did you really just hit her with a compulsion spell? Seriously?"

The headmaster affected an air of extreme innocence.

"You ruddy, manipulative coward," Harry breathed.

Albus had the grace to flush. "Well, it was quite mild and she's terrifying. Moreover, I'm absolutely certain Mr. Winthrop does, in fact, fancy her."

Silently, the two friends watched Darla and Winthrop's awkward mating dance.

"Harry," Albus finally said, his smile evaporating. "Tell me everything?"

It really is time.

"Yeah." Harry sat back and took a long draw of his drink. "So I guess it all started when I survived the Killing Curse as a baby—"

The sound of Albus' glass hitting the floor shocked through the alley.

This may be kind of fun.

"You should keep your poncey drinks coming, Albus," Harry said with a grin. "It's going to be a long night."

xoxoxox

"I would have helped you, if you'd come to me," Albus said much later. "You do know that now, don't you Harry?"

He would have helped. I'm sure of it.

Well, pretty sure.

Harry nodded absently, trying not to dwell on all Dumbledore's political games, his maze of priorities...

But he really needs to believe he would have.

And he's my friend.

"Yeah, Albus. I know."

Albus' laugh made clear he saw right through Harry's hesitation. "What would Aberforth say of the pair of us, I wonder?"

Harry snorted. "He'd call us daft, sentimental bastards."

"Well," the headmaster said as he raised his glass. "To the daft, sentimental bastards striving to be better men."

I can drink to that.

xoxoxox

More drinks came and disappeared, only to be replaced by yet more drinks.

"I do find myself wondering," Albus murmured thoughtfully, "who has filled the spots left by the other two Dementors Voldemort took."

Harry froze.

"Not to mention the vacancies from the Dearborns and poor Auror Longbottom."

Well.

Albus shook his head. "I suppose we shall have to keep our eyes open."

Fuck.

"Make my next one a double, Darla."

xoxoxox

"…and thazz my theory," Harry slurred triumphantly several hours later. "Thazz my theory 'bout why the Chunky-Chucud-Cuddley Cannons are rubbish in 'vry poss'ble alternate universsh. It'z science."

Albus scoffed into his drink. "T'd dever pass peer review. Never."

"Academemics," Harry moaned. "You lot…juz' the worst. Tossers. Take all the fun away."

"It's what we live for."

"You—" Harry's finger jabbed into Albus' chest, "aren't nearly as me as pizzed. Pissed. As me. 'S not fair." He scowled as the old man laughed. "An' you lot should live for…for better things an' stuff. Not juz' bein' tossers."

Albus sat back, spectacles askew and eyes a bit unfocused. "And what should we live for instead? Favour me with your philosophy."

Thazz easy.

"Love," Harry proclaimed expansively. "Gotta live for love. See, it'z…it'z…it'z really good. Like, a lot."

"You should have been a poet, Harry."

"Ah, pizoff." Frowning at his drink, Harry fumbled to make his mouth work. "Bet you haven't loved since Grumbleward. Gamblewood. Wald. Tha' guy."

Albus looked away.

"Jezus hell, thazza damn trav'sty, Albus! Juz' 'cause you're ancient as fuck doesn' mean you havta be alone. Must be juz-juz' loads of lonely old bent blokes, yeah?"

"Thank you for your concern," Albus huffed. "But I'm perfectly—"

"Thazz what I'll do," Harry nodded to himself. "Ask 'round, find you a nice ol' poof, into…uh, socks. Socks an' ph'losphy an'…an' ear hair or somethin'.

"I do not have ear hair!"

"An' beards. He'll havta really like 'em…"

Albus poked Harry in the ribs, somehow spilling his own drink in the process. "I require no assistance with—with finding a lover!" he hissed.

"Oh Albus," Harry said with a great sigh, "yeah you do. Like, I mean, a lot."

"Wretched boy."

"Ear-hairy ol' bastard."

"I'm leaving!"

"'m buyin'."

. . .

"Then I'm staying," Albus sniffed as he sat back down with exaggerated dignity, this time knocking over Harry's drink. "So. Simply out of morbid curiosity…whom do you have in mind?"

V
This is the story of a man who served no one.
(1986)

He made sure to use wrecking balls and lovely contraptions called dozing bulls. The place was teeming with Muggle men in bright yellow hardhats, men who spoke loudly and smiled often.

When the first machine struck dead centre over the grand entrance, Argus Filch raised a glass of obscenely expensive champagne that really didn't taste any different to him than the cheap stuff did.

Today, however, was a day for symbolism.

It had taken him six years to get here. Six years since he had left the school with the clothes on his back and a sack of galleons he'd won in a ridiculous bet.

Still, four less than I wasted at Hogwarts.

When he'd stayed at Harry's pub after the war, he'd known it wasn't the place for him.

Argus Filch was done with serving anyone.

And then the bloody Ministry had given the kid an Order of Merlin, First Class, for killing Voldemort. An award Argus was damned sure Harry had earned.

Harry had disagreed and had convinced him that, if Argus wouldn't take the medal, he'd at least take the ten thousand Galleons that came with it.

Well. Argus wasn't a fool.

Having money suited him just fine. Sure, he'd learned he could get along without much, but Argus had never forgotten the sweet taste for luxury he'd had as a child.

Until they stole it from me.

He stroked Mrs. Norris' back and nestled into his chaise lounge as another machine started destroying the east wing.

There goes the master suite.

"Are you planning on going to New York for the shareholders' meeting?" his companion asked in a clipped, emotionless voice.

"Nah," Argus shrugged at the man. "They'll be down twenty percent by the end of fiscal no matter what they do, just like you said. Eh, I'm dumping mine and putting it into that Japanese game thing for the telly. Ninny Toads or whatnot. Harry thought it was a good bet."

"Nintendo," Clark Prewett corrected him. "Excellent prospects, based on current reports," he mused. "I think I'll join you on that one."

Filch nodded and clinked the man's champagne glass with his own. "To rich fucking squibs."

Prewett huffed, the closest thing to a laugh he seemed able to manage.

I wouldn't be here if not for you, Argus added, but only to himself. Clark didn't take to sentimentality. Lots of squibs didn't.

The man did take to numbers, though, and to finding the tricks in any system. He'd taken Filch's Galleons and introduced Argus to a wonderful thing called the stock market.

Prewett had a hefty bit of money himself, but he never spoke of where he got it.

When Argus had asked Harry, the kid had just smiled and said he had a few guesses, and that he was glad they were getting on.

Six years later, the two squibs weren't entirely filthy rich, but they were well on their way.

Rich enough to pay up front for this heap, discount or no.

Indeed, the great estate currently being reduced to bricks and rubble had come at quite a reduced price. Apparently, the young widow who used to live here was hurting for coin to keep herself and her boy in fancy clothes. Argus had been more than happy to take advantage of that. He'd even gotten the house-elves in the deal, just like Harry had asked.

The bloody estate would have been his, should have been his.

If the world were fair, that is.

But he'd learned when he was eleven that the world wasn't fair, a lesson branded on his soul the day his father had stripped him of his name and his home, the day his younger brother had turned his back on him forever.

"What are you doing with the land?" Clark asked.

"Eh, sold it to some daft Muggle cows from Bristol. They want to build a 'retreat.' Something about chakras and mediation." Filch rolled his eyes. "They said the building 'inhibited the land's connection to nature' or some such rot. But they're keeping the ruddy birds."

Clark huffed another not-laugh. "At least you made some nice coin. Put it in Nintendo."

Argus nodded but said nothing. That money, the elves—all of it—was earmarked for something else.

A wrecking ball shattered into the west wing.

Oh dear, there go Abraxas' rooms. So sorry, little brother.

He waved at the foreman, who cocked him a grin and saluted back.

Nice bloke.

Argus Filch—who once upon a time had been Argus Malfoy, before an expected letter never arrived—sat back in his comfortable chair and sipped his expensive champagne and decided that yes, life wasn't fair, but sometimes, just sometimes, it was sweet.

VI
This is the story of a man who moved on.
(1986)

Pei Ho Street was not beautiful after summer storms.

Rivulets clogged with litter snaked through the narrow way and the umbrellas over the stalls were tipped askew. Washing, left to dry on the balconies of the buildings that towered above, dripped down on passersby.

But the rains cleared out the smell of factory smoke that invaded Hong Kong from the mainland, and the humid air—so wet it was as though he were drinking it—felt as foreign and new now as it had the first time he'd breathed it in.

Pei Ho Street suited him.

The people, most of them poor, most of them hard-working, had allowed him to enter their world with no more ripples than a pebble slipped into a pond.

Many would acknowledge him as he passed, and he would do the same, but they didn't naff about, stuffing the full air with empty words.

Some knew what he was.

They would come to his little shop bearing sick children and old mothers. Sometimes they'd have money. More often, they'd come with food or electronic Muggle devices or any other sundries they thought he might accept as barter. Once he'd even taken a live chicken.

At first, he'd accepted so as not to provoke their ire.

At some point, helping them had stopped being a means to an end.

Magic here was different. He'd chosen Pei Ho Street because it wasn't beautiful but it was interesting, and because some of the stalls that crowded the street were also run by magicals.

The people didn't use those words. They didn't really talk about it at all.

But they came to him, and he made deals.

He'd slowly acclimated to his handicap. He didn't notice it so much anymore.

Eventually, he'd started taking commissions for more difficult orders from around the world, quietly earning much more than jade trinkets for devising solutions to more complex problems.

It was satisfying.

He had never been content before, and still wondered at the feeling, running his mind over it like a child's tongue on a new tooth.

It was odd to like the boy who made his favourite dumplings. The teenager talked too much and smiled too freely, but his hands moved with the grace of an artist.

It was strange to find the daughter of the herbalist on his arm one hot summer evening when the streets seemed to steam.

It was stranger still to find himself feeling a tingle in his gut which he could only describe as thrilling.

He'd never even thought the word before, at least not without a venomous twist of his lip.

Yes, Pei Ho Street suited him just fine.

And now, more than five years after he'd arrived in Hong Kong with only a few coins and one arm, a letter came.

He scuttered his chicken off his desk, ignoring the blasted thing's indignant squawk.

It hadn't seemed right to slaughter a bird given in payment for saving a young girl's life. Every day he cursed himself a sentimental fool, but the chicken never found itself in his pot.

The envelope was light and the owl hadn't waited for a response.

As soon as his flesh touched the parchment, a heavy burden, a chain he'd forgotten he was carrying, lifted from his shoulders.

Two sets of handwriting seemed to cut themselves into the page.

Harry Aberforth here nullifies the Unbreakable Vow made to him by Severus Snape.

Gideon Prewett witnesses the nullification as the Vow's original Bonder.

Severus sat very still, staring at the signatures of the men he'd barely known but had once thought he hated with all this soul.

A light chime signalled that one of his potions required attention.

One day he would write to Lily, now that he could. He would tell her of Pei Ho Street. Of the potions he'd invented. Of the dumpling boy and the herbalist's daughter.

Perhaps he'd even tell her of his chicken.

He put the letter in a drawer.

But not today.

Today he had other things to do.

VII
This is the story of the unsinkable.
(1986)

Myrtle Cramer nee Warren sat back and watched the man she'd just poisoned lurch away. Really, you'd think the Brazilians would send someone with quicker wits and a ready wand.

Bloody amateur hour.

Granted, the little concoction she'd put in his drink probably hadn't permanently harmed him, it just made him…amenable to providing her the information she needed.

A flick of her hand had a bartender—hmm, he's a rather pretty one—slinking over to top off her drink.

She winked at him in thanks, and the dear boy smiled.

Yes, very pretty.

He couldn't be older than her Richard had been when he'd gotten himself murdered by a blood-purist shit back in the '50s.

A lifetime ago, Myrtle sighed to herself. She could only shake her head at the silly girl who'd believed once that life could be fair and love was forever. Maybe if her dear-but-stupid Richard had lived, that girl could've kept on, been happy.

But no, Myrtle knew that Richard was gone and her happiness now was built on hard work, good money, and indulging herself whenever she damn well pleased.

Aux Palmistes—or Tortuga City, as the non-locals called it—was ideal for all of that. The old Haitian haven for Muggle pirates still thrived as the centre of wizarding crime in the Caribbean. It wasn't much on the Muggle side, but damn if the magical quarter wasn't positively bursting full of lovely young wizards with broad grins, loose morals, and ready cocks.

She'd have to continue her explorations down that avenue later. Business calls.

Right on time, Myrtle's partner sauntered in and draped himself over the chair across from her. It still irked Myrtle that the prat managed to accomplish such actions as effective sauntering with his silver peg leg.

The eyes of half the people in the nayklib followed him.

"There's a Pombagiras family representative outside snogging a tree," Caffrey Burke remarked. "Your work?"

Myrtle inclined her head. "And now we've got their entire itinerary for the next month. You can set your little armada on them any time you fancy, my dear Captain."

"Ta, love." The man's smile gleamed at her. "Though having an armada actually promotes me to Admiral. Admiral Burke."

"Oh whatever, Caff," Myrtle laughed. "If this pans out, we'll be the undisputed rulers of magical maritime trade in the western hemisphere. Hell, call yourself King Caffrey if you like."

"I do appreciate alliteration," he murmured, a finger tracing his pearl-studded eyepatch. Moments later, the bartender delivered an unordered drink with a beaming "compliments of the house."

"Git." Myrtle rolled her eyes. Having a gorgeous partner—even one with only a single leg and that ridiculous eyepatch—did rather put a cramp in her style. "So how was dear old dreary Britain?"

Burke tossed a packet of parchment onto the table. "You'll be thrilled to learn that the waiting period ended without issue. Myrtle Cramer is now officially dead."

"Tragic."

"My heart breaks," Burke agreed. "Anyway, I added the galleons from your will—thanks for that—to the newest pile for Prewett to launder. It'll be clean and ready for us in a month."

Oh Clark. How I adore a man who knows his tricks, squib or no. She and Burke would never have been able to create their little empire without him.

"Is dealing with Prewett what took you so long?"

"Nah," Caffrey said in distraction, his eye now glued to the arse of a young man across the nightclub. "Spent a few days at the Head. The kid's doing well, said to give you his love and to thank you for the bit you left him. And yes, I brought photos of the sprog."

"Did Harry say what he's going to use the galleons for?" Back in the seventies, Myrtle had been rather surprised to find herself including a tidy little sum for Ab's boy in the will she'd written. She had made a killing on his bullets, after all.

"Probably something tedious and wholesome," Burke grumbled. "It was unbearable there, love. All home-cooked meals, paying taxes, and monogamy."

"The horror."

Suddenly the door of the nightclub slammed open. A giant of a man lumbered toward them, fury scrawled across his face.

The music screeched to a halt.

"There you are, you fobbin' pirate!" the newcomer bellowed. "Dunno how you thought you'd get away with it, but I'm here to—"

The space of a few seconds saw the man knocked unconscious, memory-charmed, and unceremoniously levitated out the door.

"Friend of yours?" Myrtle asked as the music resumed and everyone went about their business. "What'd you do to hack him off?"

Caffrey pocketed his wand, staring at the door in bemusement. "Honestly, I have no idea. It could be so very many things."

They were interrupted by the arrival of the lovely barman and his lovely arse, bringing Caffrey another drink and apologizing sweetly for the unpleasantness.

Myrtles swore under her breath. "I liked that one, you cad."

Smirking, the pirate flipped up his eyepatch and tipped Myrtle a wink with his perfectly healthy blue eye.

"I still can't believe you wear that thing," she huffed. "It's hardly more than a teeny-tiny line at this point."

"It's a horrible, disfiguring scar." Burke pouted. "But I got a new cream for it from that mambo down in Port-au-Prince. Everyone swears she works miracles. The patch stays until my eye's flawless again."

She tossed back a shot. "I'm sure young Mr. Black will be thrilled to get yet another bill on behalf of your vanity."

"Pirate, love," Caff hummed. "What do you expect?" He licked the salt around the rim of his glass with exaggerated gusto as the nightclub watched in breathless anticipation.

I cannot wait until the ridiculous ponce starts getting wrinkles. Myrtle smiled a vicious little smile to herself. A few minutes later, she brightened at the entrance of a veritable flock of scrumptious twenty-somethings squeezed into trousers that were entirely too tight.

There were always more opportunities for conquest in Tortuga City.

VIII
This is the story of old paths through new forests.
(1987)

"…and that's why, all due respect to Mrs. Potter and her supporters, we simply must vote against this legislation. Granting such sweeping rights to the—ah—'vampiric community' will only serve to drain the very lifeblood of our society, our people, and our traditions!" With a grand sweep of his robes, Selwyn concluded his speech and resumed his seat in the Wizengamot.

Git.

Loch kept his face carefully blank, even as Lily was catching his eye with an alarmed look.

She's already used her allotted time.

"Thank you, Mr. Selwyn, for that stirring appeal to our patriotism," Minister Marchbanks said dryly. "Do any other members of the Wizengamot wish to lodge opinions on Bill 1987-45C before we commence voting?"

Everyone on our side has already spoken. The werewolf worried his lip.

Across the room, Lily was making frantic little get on with it motions.

Loch really hadn't planned on saying anything, especially at his very first meeting as a member of Wizengamot.

Not a member, he reminded himself, Just a proxy. He glanced at the enamelled placard in front of him: The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.

He'd never expected his life to become so, well, unexpected.

Seven years ago, he'd thought things couldn't get any better for him than walking through the village to his job and having person after person meet his eyes. They'd meet his eyes and smile, sometimes with an enthusiastic, "It's Loch, the Hero of Hogsmeade!"

Two years ago, he'd thought things couldn't get any better for him as he walked through London as the new assistant of the great philanthropist Sirius Black.

"Remus used to say that the world won't save itself," Sirius would say with a sad smile, "so it's up to us."

And so Loch had helped Sirius get started saving the world with the man's "Society for the Protection and Equity of Werewolves."

The world wasn't saved yet though, not by a longshot.

Not to mention, Sirius Black was shite at politics.

Thus Loch somehow found himself in thick robes and a silly hat, sitting as the proxy for the House of Black in the most powerful room in Britain.

"It won't be easy, being the first werewolf in government," Harry had murmured when Loch had told him about the position.

From her seat on the dais, Marchbanks was giving Loch a look.

But it wasn't easy to work in a pub when everyone hated the fact that I existed, either.

Loch felt his pulse start to thrum.

And it wasn't easy to raid Azkaban, or to get the werewolves to rescue Hogsmeade.

A shiver of adrenaline shot through his hands.

I don't think I've ever done 'easy,' come to think of it.

"Well then, do I have a motion—"

"Jobs not done yet," Harry always said.

Loch stood up.

The Wizengamot stared, some in open hospitality, but more than a few looks were friendly.

The werewolf took a deep breath and found his spine. "Actually, Madame Minister, I'd like to respond to the traditionalists' position."

IX
This is the story of a boy who was loved.
(1980-1991)

His first steps were across a pub floor. After a moment of transcendent joy, his unsteady little legs gave way and he fell into the arms of a laughing werewolf. Nearby, a vampire snapped photos.

He learned to count in the workroom of a clock shop. One through twelve, over and over again. When his Uncle Fabian mentioned something called 'thirteen,' the little boy's eyes grew very wide.

Sometimes he had bad dreams. Or the sounds from below filtered up just enough to wake him, despite the magic that was supposed to keep them out.

On those nights, he'd toddle out of his room and go to Aunt Ariana. She would smile and he would smile, and then they'd twirl and whirl in their own silent dance until he was ready to go back to bed.

He knew she was dead, like his mother and father were dead, but that didn't really seem to bother her much. Which was nice.

Sometimes his dad—

—who said the boy shouldn't call him Dad, since his real father had been a really good man, and his daddy ("I'm really your godfather") didn't want him to ever be forgotten. But the boy didn't understand why he couldn't have both and decided to ignore his dad because he could be really silly—

Sometimes his dad smiled at him a little sadly and said he had his father's eyes. And sometimes his dad ruffled his hair and said he had his mother's smile.

But most of the time his dad just said he loved him.

One day when he was five, an old lady stopped the boy and Mr. Pel as they walked through the village for his very first day at the first-ever magical primary school.

The old woman clasped her hands and wiped her eyes, going on about how he was 'such a poor dear,' and 'isn't a shame he doesn't have any family?'

The boy frowned, thinking of his dad and his other dad, and all his uncles and aunts at the Head, and everyone in Ottery St. Catchpole, and Godric's Hollow, and Hogwarts, and everywhere.

He was pretty sure that Mr. Pel wasn't really that mad at him when he told the old lady that 'of course I have a family' and that 'I'm very sorry you're dumb.'

Being that thick seemed a sad thing.

But then his dad made him sweep floors for a whole week and warned him that he 'couldn't call old ladies dumb until he was at least fifteen, and then only when they really, really deserved it.'

His dad was unfair sometimes.

The best thing about his house was that it wasn't just a house and there were always people over. And the people in his house loved telling stories.

The boy listened.

He learned that his Grandpa Aberforth had been a very kind and fair man. No one ever said the words, but the boy could also hear the things that they didn't actually say. Grandpa Aberforth helped people when they needed it and he was grumpy with everyone equally.

Being kind and fair seemed fine things to be.

Though it was hard sometimes, especially when Draco and Hermione were fighting over the finger-paints at school again and he couldn't really think of anything kind or fair to say to either of them.

They made Ari's dad look tired too, so he didn't feel so badly about not being kind all the time.

He learned that his father had been a very brave man who'd lost his whole arm in the war, standing up for people who couldn't fight for themselves.

The boy was proud of his father and thought he had done very brave things.

So when a tall man came into the Head and was mean to Miss Cordelia because she couldn't do magic (but she made the best hot chocolate, so really what did it matter?), the boy told him that he 'was dumb and mean and that he needed to get the hell outta my house right now, dammit!'

His dad made him wash pub dishes for a whole week because 'six-year-olds don't get to use grownup words, you know that.'

But his dad also told everyone that the tall man wasn't allowed in their house ever again. And Miss Cordelia grinned and put extra marshmallows in his hot chocolate and said he was a 'right little hero.'

The boy learned that his mother had been wicked smart and had gotten people to behave themselves by being clever, and that she'd been a real-life actual spy during the war.

Being wicked clever and sneaky seemed brilliant things to be.

And so when he was seven and his dad—

—no, his other dad, the red-haired one who he was supposed to call Gideon but who was really also Dad—

And so when he was seven and his dad looked a little sad because his dad said he didn't understand why they should get married because everything was already perfect, the boy thought long and hard about his mother.

The next time they were visiting Aunt Molly and all his cousins, he drew a picture of his family, and made sure to write everyone's names in his best, glittery letters.

When his dads were chatting with Aunt Molly, the boy ran straight up to her and said, "Lookit, Aunt Molly! I drew our whole family! See, there's me, and my dad, and my dad, and the Weasleys, and Uncle Fabe, and Mr. Pel and—"

The boy pretended he didn't notice when Aunt Molly's face got a kind of scary red color. His godfather—really my dad—rolled his eyes and sighed.

Gideon—but really my dad too—smiled.

Later that afternoon, the boy pretended he didn't hear Aunt Molly nattering on to his dad about the importance of 'a stable home life and commitment, and for goodness' sake, Harry, just get married already!'

A month later his dads got married in a little party at his house and everyone was happy. Well, except for Uncle Hagrid, who cried a lot.

After that, his dads finally quit trying to get him to call them Harry and Gideon.

Really, who calls their dads by their first names?

(Dean's dad wasn't his real father either, and he still got to call him "Dad," so honestly.)

There were so many others who came to his house, so many others to listen to.

The boy listened to his Great-Uncle Albus, who seemed to like talking to the boy just as much as he liked talking to grownups.

The old man loved magic. The boy had never met anyone who loved magic like Uncle Albus did, loved it so much that he spent as much time as he could learning every single thing there was to know about it.

Learning and knowing so much seemed…well, they seemed an awful lot of work, actually.

But then, when the boy was nine, Uncle Arthur took them all to a huge music concert where band after band played. Ron and Ginny and the others got bored and went off to play, but the boy couldn't move. He sat by Uncle Arthur with his mouth hanging open and his eyes feeling like they'd never blink again.

He wanted to learn and know everything about how to make music like that.

His dads weren't quite as excited as he was, but they found an old piano for the public room and put a set of drums in the stable, and didn't complain too much when the boy got to work learning and knowing.

And even old Madame Frobisher, whom his dads found to teach him the piano and who smelled like burnt cabbage, couldn't make him want to learn any less.

Then one day he left home to get on a train to his new school. His dad wouldn't stop hugging him and muttering about weird things like trolls and spiders, though honestly, the boy was eleven now, and that had to mean that dads didn't need to fuss anymore.

Especially not in public.

His other dad just smiled and murmured in his ear that 'everything was going to be fine.'

Of course it is, the boy thought, as he waved at all the milling first years he knew from his time at Hogsmeade Primary.

Draco and Hermione were already arguing.

Figures.

Later that night, the boy sat on a stool and a professor named Sprout put a hat on his head.

The Hat rather reminded the boy of Madame Pomfrey, who was always funny and asked him questions she actually expected him to answer.

"Hmm," the Hat murmured thoughtfully. "I dare say you could fit well in any of the Houses. Does one in particular tickle your fancy?"

The boy frowned and thought very seriously for a few moments.

Lots of the people who came to the Hog's Head had opinions on this. And all the Weasleys. And Mr. Pel. Hagrid. Madame Rosie. He'd spent the last month hearing about why Gryffindor was the noblest choice, and that Ravenclaw would get him far, and how Hufflepuff was the best house overall, and that Slytherin would teach him how to live in the real world.

The boy had listened.

But all his dads ever said was that they loved him and hoped he loved school and that he had to write once a week, 'no excuses,' or they'd 'send Hedwig to peck his ears.'

"Young man?" the Hat prodded.

He finally shrugged a little. "I think all of them sound pretty brill."

The Hat's smile made his head feel warm.

"Well, in that case, I think it better be—"

One of the tables burst into applause.

Grinning, Rhys Dearborn went to join his House.

X
This is the story of better worlds, not best worlds.
(1991)

Philomela Tremblay had gotten a letter.

Not the letter, of course. It was far too late for that.

And Tremblay wasn't her name anymore.

She and her family had waited for her Hogwarts letter to come. Her father's glances had grown darker with every passing day. Her mother had turned her eyes from her only daughter and fixed them on the window instead.

No owl had ever come for Philomela through that window.

At least I don't have to worry about being too thick to make Ravenclaw now, Philomela had thought bitterly as she sat at the Muggle bus stop. The strange coins in her hand had a queen on them, and would hopefully be enough to take her...somewhere.

The bus had been loud, and there hadn't been a single chandelier. The seats were too hard, the colours around her too bright. It's something called plaztek, I think.

There were so many new words to learn, and none of them were incantations.

Philomela had exited the bus at its last stop, a grimy part of a Muggle city that was all chipped stone and shattered glass. Her stomach had rumbled, and the sky'd turned grey.

Her mother had always tucked her in and kissed her brow with a murmured "I love you."

Her mother was a dirty liar.

The rain had started to fall.

The unfamiliar money her older brother had silently pressed into her hand hung heavy in her pocket.

She didn't know if it was enough to find a place to sleep that night.

Philomela had hunched her shoulders and fumbled through the storm to a ramshackle building with broken windows.

That's where the owl found her.

The letter it bore was written on parchment, though there was no Hogwarts seal.

Dear Miss Philomela,

It has come to our attention that you have recently turned eleven but were not admitted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We write to offer you a place at our institution, the Dearborn House, should you desire it. We provide schooling, shelter, and the chance for a better life. Our owl shall await your response, should you wish to request further information. If you are in distress, please do not hesitate to ask for our assistance. Someone will come to you immediately.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Celeste Prewett and Miss Cordelia Aberforth
Directors, The Dearborn House
Hogsmeade, Scotland

Philomela stared at the letter.

The letter didn't use the word, the one which her parents had muttered as they banished her from the manor house, but every line seemed to scream you're a squib, you're a squib.

It could be a trick.

It could be dangerous.

But she'd heard the name Prewett before (a pureblood name, the voice of her mother whispered approvingly). Something about the Dark Lord that had fallen the year she'd been born. Sometimes her father had furiously spat that name alongside another.

Aberforth.

Heroes' names.

Philomela was pretty sure that wizarding heroes didn't have time for people like her.

But the abandoned building really wasn't all that dry, and she still didn't know how much the strange coins and pieces of paper in her pocket were worth. So she scratched her finger in dirt and scrawled a response on the same piece of parchment.

Please help me.

The owl left with the letter.

Philomela watched it wing through the storm and reminded herself that hope was just disappointment that hadn't happened yet.

xoxoxox

The first thing Philomela noticed about the Dearborn House was the laughter.

There were children laughing here.

Squibs laughing.

Mrs. Prewett, a pretty woman—a witch, she's a witch!—with blonde hair and kind eyes, smiled at Philomela's surprise.

"This isn't a place to hide from the world, dear. It's a place to be part of the world."

Through the big windows of the cosy front room, Philomela spied a few teenagers playing some sort of game with a ball.

"But they're…we're squibs!" Philomela blurted.

Miss Cordelia Aberforth, who looked like a princess but couldn't do magic, arched an eyebrow. "So?"

So?

As if that was all there was to it.

Mrs. Prewett sighed. "I used to think more like you, you know. When I was younger. There was a boy in town whom everyone thought a squib. Caradoc and Guin Dearborn, who used to own this house, treated him like family, but the rest of the village didn't receive him so well. And I—I didn't treat him well." She smiled. "Now he's my brother-in-law."

Philomela glared. "So you just feel sorry for me and guilty about that? I don't need—"

"I stopped feeling guilty quite a long time ago," Mrs. Prewett interrupted calmly. "And I don't pity you, dear. But I do want to help you. That's why this house exists. Our two main benefactors, Mr. Filch and Mr. Aberforth, both understand the challenges you'll face. You're a strong girl, I can see that. You don't need us. But that doesn't mean you have to be alone either."

"Aberforth," the girl repeated and looked to Miss Cordelia. A squib, she's a squib. "Are you his wife then?"

"Good God, no," the woman laughed. "When I was younger, I was in a bad spot and Mr. Aberforth helped me. Since my family had disowned me and I needed a surname, I eventually took his, as a sort of thank-you. A few of our residents plan to do the same, or take Mr. Filch's name, when they come of age."

Philomela bit her lip and thought hard.

The children outside were laughing again. A goat had entered the game, chasing one of the boys.

They looked happy.

Happy squibs. There are happy squibs.

"So…so what do I do here then?" Philomela floundered.

The two women shared a glance. "You live here. You learn," Miss Cordelia said. "Whether you want to find a place for yourself in the wizarding community or transition to the Muggle one, we can help you. You start to build a life for yourself here."

"I don't have any money—"

"You don't need any. Eventually, you'll find a job and make your own, but until then Misters Filch and Aberforth, along with other outside donors, take care of all costs."

A girl, probably a few years older than Philomela, wandered down the stairs and into the room.

A curious look, a shy wave.

Philomela surprised herself by waving back a little.

Half an hour later, she tucked into a heaping plate of roast beef and vegetables served by Dobby, the sweetest house-elf she'd ever met. Her new…friend Brigid chattered on about things to do together in Hogsmeade.

Philomela chanced a smile. She hadn't made it into Ravenclaw, but maybe she'd found a place in a good House after all.

XI
This is the story of boys who lived.
(2 August, 1995)

Other than being the hottest day of the year, it had been an exceptionally ordinary August the second, 1995.

Anticipation bubbled under Harry's skin anyway. This could never be an ordinary day. Not for him.

When he came entered the pub after leaving Gid's workroom at the clock shop, the kids were packing up their things.

What? Don't go out tonight, please, not tonight—

Harry clamped down on his sudden alarm. Things were fine. "So where you are you off to?" he managed as Rhys shrugged a plaid shirt over some lurid old tee—

"Wait—is that m—is that a Billywigs shirt?" Harry sputtered. He didn't really need to ask. He'd spent months wearing the same damn thing while living in the Forbidden Forest.

Rhys grinned down at the spinning neon flowers. "Innit great? Wayne spotted it at the Jumble. Cost me almost a month's allowance, but it's totally worth it, yeah?"

"You actually paid money—?"

"It's vintage, Dad." Rhys rolled his eyes. "Trust me, it's cool. And I'm for Muggle London tonight, remember?"

"What? No, I—why are you going to London tonight? I don't think that's a good—"

The teenager sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. "Dad, I asked you two weeks ago! The band needs ideas, inspiration! Lee's mum got us tickets to Pearl Jam, they're, like, impossible to get even with magic, and—"

Shit.

"And I—I did say you could go, didn't I?"

Ariana snickered.

"Yes, Dad, you did. Twice."

Shit.

"And are you," Harry faltered, "you're going too, Ari?"

She flipped her long braid over a shoulder. "As if I'm going to waste my night listening to a bunch of yowling Yanks with bad hair being oh-so-angry-at-the-world."

"I bet you still snog your Weird Sisters poster. Merlin, you have no taste!" Rhys shook his head in disgust. "Anyway," he added viciously, "she has a date."

"A date." Harry blinked. "With whom?"

"It's not a date date," Ariana said in a rush. "Just some friends going to Diagon. Lisa, Tracey, Sally-Ann and…a few others."

"Seamus," Rhys supplied, batting his eyelashes.

"Seamus Finnegan?" Harry sank down onto a barstool. "You're going on a date with Seamus? Didn't—didn't he put Droobles in your hair?"

Ari scoffed. "Harry, we were eight when he did that."

Next to him, Pel started chuckling.

"Look, please, please don't tell my dad," Ari begged. "You know how he'd get. Tonight's really just a…a thing. With people and stuff, you know?"

"Wow," Rhys said. "A thing with people and stuff? That clears it all right up. "

"Shut it," she hissed back.

"Yeah," Harry said vaguely. "I—Ari—yeah."

Ariana squealed and kissed him on the cheek. A second later and she had Flooed away.

Rhys waved and then he was gone as well.

Seamus Finnegan. Another me is dating Seamus Finnegan.

"You alright there, my friend?"

"They—she—Seamus—and that bloody shirt's vintage now?" Harry put his head in his hands. "I'm…I think I'm getting old, Pel."

"Well, I expect everyone your age is coming down with that. Nothing for it." The old lawyer eyed him. "An' I take it you're on your way south as well?"

Harry took a deep breath. They'll be fine. The kids will be fine.

The anticipation thrummed under his skin again. "Yeah. I am."

xoxoxox

Not long now.

Harry circled the neighbourhood again, memories from a lifetime ago swirling in his head.

In a few minutes, I start arguing with Dudley and his gang.

He realized he couldn't remember any of the other boys' names.

In a few minutes, the summer turns to ice.

Wisteria Walk remained as quiet and dull as ever.

His feet brought him back to Privet Drive, probably for the last time that night. If Mrs. Number Two was his Mrs. Number Two, her fingers were probably already itching to ring the police.

I'm a very suspicious-looking person, after all.

He glanced at the watch that Ab had wanted him to have, that Fabe and Gid had made. It had a few dents now, some scratches…

Any minute now.

Any minute now, and I come full circle.

The night felt too still.

Too quiet.

Too—

"I wondered if I'd see you here," a voice cut through the silence. Harry's wand was already out as he whipped around. "I thought I might."

A tall man in a military uniform stood under the street lamp. The buttons on his jacket gleamed, the dark fabric that stretched over his muscular frame was perfectly pressed.

"Who—"

"It's good to see you, Potter."

Potter? Who the hell—

And then the man tilted his face, and there was something about the nose and eyes…

Oh my God.

"D—Dudley?" Harry could only blink, knowing he was right the moment he said it.

Nodding, the soldier—holy shit, that's Dudley!—approached him. "So tell me this, Potter. How the sodding hell did I end up unconscious on this street in the winter of '78? Because I gotta say, I've been really, really curious."

What the—bloody what the—

"Huh?" he said blankly. "Oh—uh, Dementors." At Dudley's flat look, Harry rushed on, his mind feeling as wrong-footed as his tongue. "Er, sort of wraith things—they used to guard the wizard prison. Invisible to Muggles and they can…Well, they sort of steal your soul and send it to different times in parallel universes."

Incredibly, his cousin—holy shit, that's Dudley!—grinned. "So, fucked-up magical monsters. That's pretty much what I figured."

Harry's laugh was all confusion and adrenaline.

"So—so you're here," he heard himself saying, "and, hell, Dudley, you're, what, a soldier? Corporal Dudley Dursley or something?"

Dudley snorted. "It's actually Petty Officer Dudley Vernon."

"You—you named yourself Dudley Vernon? Seriously?"

"Hey, I had to come up with something on the spot, don't take the piss!" Dudley smiled with a confident air that set Harry's mind to boggling again. "But yeah. I enlisted in '81. Had a bit of a rough time adjusting to, well, everything. I'm sure you remember how I…what I was like back then."

"Er—yeah."

"Well, I was like that," Dudley started, staring down at his hands and idly playing with the gold band on his left ring finger. "And then I was here and all alone and had no money. Mum and Dad…Of course they didn't recognize me when the social services people contacted them."

Harry winced. 1978. Does he even know what happened to Vernon in this world?

"So I had to make my own way, I guess," the other man coughed awkwardly. "Anyway, it turned out I wasn't actually stupid, just being stupid. So I eventually got my shit together and joined the Navy when I turned eighteen."

This...this is the weirdest thing ever.

"I'm glad it worked out okay for you, Dudley," Harry fumbled. "It was pretty messed up for me too. But things are good now." He fished in his pocket for his flask and took a deep swig.

Because if this doesn't call for whiskey, I don't know what does.

"Want some?"

Dudley smiled that easy smile which seemed so at home on his face and so not like Harry's memory of the boy he had been. "Ta," his cousin said. A moment later he was sputtering and red-faced. "The hell is this?"

"Oh, sorry. It's just Firewhiskey. Wizard stuff."

"Blimey." Dudley rubbed his eyes. "Could have used that in the Falklands for sure."

Harry's jaw dropped. "Shit, the Falklands? Even I know about that!"

Dudley just shrugged. "My first assignment, actually. Wish I'd paid more attention in school, could've stayed away if I'd known what would…" He stopped himself, eyes growing distant.

I know that look.

"Yeah. We had a war too. I know."

The other man just nodded. "So, you still in the wizard army or whatever?"

"Not the obeying orders type. I own a pub, actually."

"A magical pub?" Dudley asked. "I bet you get all sorts in there!"

"Eh, mostly normal folks. Vampires, werewolves, hags, half-giants…just folks." Harry couldn't help relishing how wide his cousin's eyes went.

"Hell," Dudley shook his head, "I can't imagine what Mum would..." His voice trailed off and he went back to playing with his wedding ring. "Look, my wife's really good at emotions and all that stuff, and she thought I should come tonight. I've pretty much told her everything about…about how things were at home. And Nancy says—she's my wife—she says that the best amends come from living well." He cleared his throat awkwardly and looked Harry full in the face. "And I've really tried to do that, for a long time now. Live well, I mean. See, those Dementoid things—"

"Dementors," Harry corrected absently.

"Shut it, you tosser, I'm being sincere here," Dudley said. "Anyway, those Dementor things showed me a lot about myself that I…well, I didn't like. And especially since my kids were born, I've really thought about what Mum and Dad—and me—did to you. And I just wanted to say I'm sorry. Really sorry." His confident air faltered again, and for a second Harry only saw a scared fifteen-year-old boy. "And I've really tried to live being sorry. If that makes sense."

The wounds caused by the Dursleys snapped awake and started stinging Harry for the first time in years, but the old hatred for Dudley was just…gone.

God, we were only Rhys and Ari's age when we lost everything.

When Harry found his voice, it sounded too deep and too raw to be his own. "Thanks, Dudley. I'm…it's just good to see you."

And to Harry's shock, it really was.

He shook his head to clear it. "I'd wondered what happened to you after…Wait, did you say you have kids?"

Dudley brightened. "Two girls and a boy. Oldest just turned ten."

"I've got a teenage boy myself."

"Really?" His cousin's blue eyes twinkled. "Always took you for a poof, Potter."

Dudley knew before I did? That's just obnoxious.

"Well-spotted, you git."

Laughing, Dudley took another swig of Firewhiskey before handing the flask back. "To life turning out okay, Harry."

"To life turning out okay."

He couldn't feel the burn of the whiskey at all.

"Well," Dudley said, "I best be getting home. Nancy'll do her a nut if I don't tell her right away about all this. She thinks magic's the most brilliant thing ever."

He reached out a hand that Harry didn't hesitate to shake.

"I'm really glad you came, Dudley."

"Me too. You'll be in touch, Potter, I hope." His cousin flashed him another smile and started walking towards a car parked several houses down.

Harry didn't even realize he'd had the thought before he was voicing it.

"Hey, Dudley! Wait!" The streetlamp gleamed on his cousin's face. "Look, I can send you this special dog tag. If you're ever in trouble and need help, you can use it to call me, and I'll come. Do you…do you want one?"

Dudley regarded him solemnly for a long moment before he nodded. "Yeah Harry, I really would."

A strange surge of relief coursed through Harry. "Okay, I'll send it then."

"Make sure you use an owl, yeah?" Dudley said. "Nancy and the kids'll be over the moon at that."

Harry stood on Privet Drive and watched his cousin's car pull away. Long minutes ticked past. Mrs. Number Two was staring at him through her curtains. Mr. Number Five scowled from a window.

A young woman came out of Number Four and put some rubbish in the bin. She shot him a curious glance, but said nothing.

She looks nice.

The night stayed warm.

When Harry got home, Gideon was just stepping out of the shower. "How'd it go?"

Crossing the bedroom in three long steps, Harry kissed him. "Rhys is spending the night at Lee's. Bar's covered," he said in a rush as he shucked off his shoes. Another kiss and his trousers were kicked away. "And I've never, ever had an August third, 1995."

"Should start it off right, then," Gideon grinned, tossing his towel to the corner. "Your August second turned out okay, I take it?"

Pulling his husband into their bed, Harry's eyes flicked over to their family clock. His hand was pointing straight at Home.

"Yeah." Harry curled into Gideon. "Everything turned out perfect."

0-0-0-0-0-0

Elsewhere

0-0-0-0-0-0

XII
These are the stories of the lost and the found.
June 1995

Nappy Clank burst into the Hog's Head. "Heard somethin' big went down on the Tournament!" he exclaimed. "Ol' Rosie's turnin' up her wireless for High Street."

Dung and Dalcop shared a glance and drained their pints. After a moment, Pel shrugged and followed them out the door. "I'm c'min back, don't you close down!" he called over his shoulder.

Aberforth Dumbledore scowled at his empty pub. "Blast 'em all," he muttered and trudged down to the kitchen for a cuppa.

A dead man was waiting there.

Bloody fucking—

Ab may be old as dirt, but he could still draw his wand faster than most.

The dead man just stared. "Ab…you're…you're dead."

"And you've got some nerve wearin' a dead man's face," Ab shot back. "'Specially a ruddy war-hero's!"

The man who looked like a Doc Dearborn straight from the '70s dazedly shook his head. "You're dead and—oh Merlin. I'm dead too, aren't I? The Dementors, oh fuck oh—" His eyes sharpened so quickly that Ab took an involuntary step back. "Did they get Guin? And Rhys? Dammit, Ab, where are my wife and son?"

If Ab were good at anything, it was knowing when a bloke was lying, and when a person had lost the plot.

He ain't lyin'…and he don't look right, but he ain't gone 'round the twist either.

"I just—the Death Eaters were attacking and then—and then the Dementors came and I told Guin to run—" the man gasped. "And—and then it was night and our house was just, it was just gone, and you're here and you're dead, and oh God, my family!"

Ab lowered his wand. Lad had the look of a man who'd lost everything that mattered.

He knew that look.

"I don't understand what you're on about," he said, gently as he could. "So sit on down, I'll make us some tea, and then you can tell me everythin'."

The fake Doc Dearborn dithered but finally sagged to a seat. "Okay."

July 1995

"Order a' pasties for Yarda," Ab called down into the kitchen.

"Okay."

The old prostitute giggled as that piece of shit Yaxley sneered. "What a charmer! That new man of yours is as short on words as he is on arms."

Ab fixed the sad sack with a glare. "Wish I could say the same of others."

Pel chuckled into his beer.

The Death Eater did have a point though. The Dearborn lad… Folks get broken and can't be fixed. It happens.

Some days Ab almost believed Doc's mad story, even the bits about Ab himself adopting some lost lamb of a boy. Most days he suspected his first impression had been crap and that Dearborn's mind had gone.

But…

But the lad knew how to cook decent enough, could tend a bar, even fed the goats right…and he moved through the Head like he truly did own it.

Mental or not, Doc Dearborn acted like he was at home in the Head. And the look on the man's face when he found out that the widow Guin Dearborn had disappeared in the late '70s and that there was no record of a Rhys Dearborn ever existing—

Some things a person just can't fake.

So Ab kept him on, gave him a room and what little pay he could afford. With the ruddy Dark Lord back, it wasn't as though he could send the bloke out into the world.

And besides, Ariana had taken to him.

2 August, 1995

The lass couldn't stop shaking.

Ab barely had time to wonder if he'd keep finding lost souls from the past in his kitchen when a sobbing Doc Dearborn barrelled in and enfolded the woman in his arm.

xoxoxox

She was as comfortable in the Head as her husband was, Ab couldn't deny it. Even through tears and kisses, she moved through it as natural as anything.

So when the pair grew frantic that their baby was nowhere to be found, the old barkeep saw that everything this Doc Dearborn had told him was true.

When the couple fell apart, throats hoarse with cries for "Rhys!," Ab knew there was nothing he could say.

Different worlds. Different times. Bloody hell.

Their grief was so desperately raw, so obscene to witness, that it was a relief when Albus' damned phoenix patronus popped in.

"Aberforth. Harry Potter has been killed. An intruder was found at Hogwarts with an impossible tale. There will be an emergency meeting of the Order in one hour. Please, Ab. Please come."

His brother's voice sounded nearly as ragged as the Dearborns' did.

With a heavy sigh, Ab interrupted the couple. "I think you'll be wantin' to come with me."

xoxoxox

The world had gone insane and Alice Longbottom almost cared.

An older Albus and Moody continued to stare at her with obvious distrust, despite bloody hours of questioning. Kingsley Shacklebolt—the rookie she knew damn well had died during the Ministry Invasion—watched her from the shadows.

A skeleton that looked like a middle-aged Sirius Black blinked blankly from a corner.

Nothing seemed real since she'd been Kissed and had woken up in an impossible Hogwarts untouched by battle.

But Black…she knew that look, the look of a person who'd been cracked open and had everything that mattered ripped out.

This is real, whatever this is, wherever it is, it's real.

Murmurs and tears and crowds of people raving about Black's godson dying filled the halls of the dilapidated house to which they'd finally brought her.

The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, my arse.

And then people wearing the faces of Doc and Guin Dearborn Flooed in, and Alice went for her wand, forgetting that Moody was "keeping it safe."

When a very alive Aberforth Dumbledore followed behind them, she could only stare.

Albus was doing the same, actually gaping at the Dearborns. "It seems," he finally said, "we have much to discuss."

xoxoxox

The night passed in arguments and disbelief, in shock and confusion, and everything was so, so loud.

After she'd spied pictures of the kid who'd been Kissed, Alice had known that there was a lot she didn't understand.

Harry really was a scrawny little kid, a voice in her mind had mused through her numbness. Was he really that small when I first met him?

She'd shaken her head and turned her attention back to her drink.

When Doc Dearborn had pulled the worn Prophet clipping about the battle at Loch Morar out of his wallet—mumbling hollowly that it wasn't every day a man's wife was proclaimed a hero on the front page so of course he'd kept it—the explosion of noise was deafening.

Alice had tuned it out. There were only so many times she needed to hear oh my god, it's really Harry! and he's so tall! and Merlin, that's James next to him! or Harry's dating who?!

The picture had been taken the same day her Frank had died.

It wasn't lost on her that no Frank—nor Alice, for that matter—was attending the Order meeting in this universe.

Still, she made herself listen as they told the impossible story of little Harry Potter, and she listened to the Dearborns tell the tale of what they knew of their Harry Aberforth.

When Guin finished, whispering in a broken voice about the day she and her husband had been Kissed, everyone turned to Alice.

Fine.

"Well," she sighed, motioning for one of the redheads to fill her glass again, "I was only around for a few months longer than the Dearborns. Most important thing that happened next, other than Harry finding your kid—he was fine," she cut herself off as the Dearborns started sobbing. "Well, er, yeah, he took good care of him, from what I saw. But aside from that, the next thing was when Harry broke into Azkaban—"

Everything got loud again after that.

xoxoxox

"That's it?" Moody burst out when Alice finished her story. "You're on the tower and You-Know-Who's attacking and then you don't know what happened?"

Alice shrugged.

"So we don't even know if Harry won!" Molly Weasley cried. "That poor boy, and all those children and his parents and—"

The room burst into angry muttering. Dumbledore attempted to restore order.

Even the sour-faced man standing in the shadows looked pale.

Black punched the table. "Dammit all!"

Alice shook her head. Like it's my fault I got Kissed. Arses.

"Oh c'mon." The youngest of the red-haired boys—Rob?—shouted over the din. "We all know what happened, don't we? It's Harry."

"Ron, dear—" his mother started.

"No!" The kid glared around the room. "What's wrong with all of you? It's Harry. Even when he goes wrong, it turns out right. That's just—that's just the way it is."

Guin let out a choked sob.

Ron sighed and shook his head at the Order members. "You should all know by now, really. Harry…he just doesn't know how to lose, even against Voldemort. Hell, especially against Voldemort. Of course he won." The boy's eyes softened as he looked awkwardly at the Dearborns. "And don't worry about your baby. Harry'll take care of him. No question."

"Yeah," one of the twins said, eyes bright. "'Course he won."

"And of course he'll look after your kid," the other added. "Harry…I think he gets stuff like that."

The teenager with thick brown hair chewed her lip.

"Hermione?" the first twin prodded.

The girl's eyes darted helplessly around the room. "There are so many possibilities, I can't even think of them all."

The Ron kid reached over and squeezed her hand.

She stared at him, still worrying her lip so much Alice expected it to start bleeding. "We simply can't be sure of what happened, but…" Hermione turned and smiled tremulously at Guin. "But I know he won. I just do."

Alice ignored the adults' dubiously hopeful looks and disbelieving snorts. She couldn't look away, though, when the youngest Weasley boy caught her eye, even as Albus moved the discussion onto what recent events meant for this world's war against Voldemort.

It's Harry, the boy had said, as though that explained everything.

Stupid kid, Alice wanted to think.

Except—

Except Alice suddenly realized that she believed him. Believed the kid down to her bones, despite it being daft and idealistic and bloody childish and—

It's Harry. Of course he won.

She huffed out a breath, shocked to realize she was smiling.

The boy gave her a solemn nod before turning back towards the headmaster.

XIII
This is the story of marauders.
(1 September, 1995)

Sirius Black choked down another swig of Firewhiskey and took aim.

Splat.

"Eee!"

Splat—splat.

"Eee!"—"Eee!"

Neither the whiskey nor the squeals of his victims were making him feel better.

"Really, Sirius?" sighed a voice from the drawing room's doorway. "That's animal cruelty."

"Molly wanted us to clean." He shrugged and pointed his wand at another Doxy creeping out from the curtains. The ball of glue he conjured plastered the creature to the wall with another splat. "Just doing my part."

His friend sighed again—really, Remus could win the bloody World Championship in Resignation—and grabbed the bottle.

But instead of getting on his case about drinking a smidgen more than was really recommended, Remus flumped down next to him and motioned for him to share.

Another Doxy started cautiously climbing the drapes. Sirius didn't have it in him to care. "We failed him, Remus," he finally muttered. "We were supposed to protect him and we failed him."

"I know." There was another sigh because of course there was.

"He should be on the train to Hogwarts today."

"I know."

They drank again.

Three Doxies now.

"They said—fuck, Mooney, they said I called him Squibbulus!" Sirius finally bit out. "I can't believe—how—that's just—"

"Puerile, mean-spirited, and frankly uncreative?" Remus supplied.

"Well, that's a bit harsh. I'm sure it's at least founded on a decent Latin diminutive and—"

Remus rolled his eyes. "Nobody cares, Padfoot."

Sirius sat back and decided that more drinking was the only sane option.

He found himself wondering how many Doxies constituted a 'swarm.'

"We may have failed him," Remus said slowly, breaking the silence. "But we can be happy he didn't fail himself. You heard them—he's grown up, and he's grown up well. And he got to know James and Lily, that has to be worth something. And the…other versions of us," he paused thoughtfully. "He trusted us. Them. Fought with them. That's worth something too."

"Dearborn told me last week that we beat the snot out of each other in a barfight. I got into a fucking barfight with my godson!"

"I'm sure he went easy on you," Remus said, because Remus was a tosser.

"Hmpf." Sirius scowled. "And—and the little shit took me—his godfather—back to Azkaban!"

His friend hummed thoughtfully. "Well, you can take comfort in the fact that at least one Sirius Black got to help tear the place down."

Sirius blinked. That's not a bad point.

It was definitely a swarm of Doxies now. Sirius grabbed his wand.

Splat.

"Eee!"

"That really is mean."

Splat.

"And immature."

"I agree, perfectly puerile—"

Splat.

"Eee!"

"—but it's fun."

Splat.

"Hey, I was gonna get that one!" Sirius shouted.

"Too slow, old dog," Remus grinned and took aim again.

Splat.

For a long time, there was nothing but splats and squeals and drinking. Sirius couldn't help but smile a little. It tasted of guilt and regret, but things tasted like that to him most of the time anyway.

Eventually, every wall of the room was covered with thick lumps of glue and helpless Doxies.

"So," Remus sighed. "Harry Potter became a secret rebel who ran the Hog's Head, worked with Albus Dumbledore, and raided Azkaban. That's not how I expected this summer to go."

Sirius snorted.

Remus took a long shot of the dwindling Firewhiskey and tossed him the bottle. "To Harry Aberforth!"

"To Harry Aberforth," Sirius echoed. "My transdimensional pirate godson who's fucking Molly's dead little brother."

Remus choked on his drink, sputtering and giggling.

"Y'know," Sirius finally said, "those ships still sail out of Widdy Island, I bet."

"Please don't tell me you want to be a pirate now. We're nearly out of liquor."

Sirius blinked. That actually hadn't been what he was thinking.

Though…now that's an idea.

"Dunno, maybe after all this madness…Sirius Black…pirate," he murmured, tasting the words rolling off his tongue. He shook his head. "Captain Sirius Black…hmm, better, much better…"

Remus rolled his eyes.

Sod him. "Captain Sirius Black…of the pirate ship…Marauder…"

Almost.

His friend heaved yet another long-suffering sigh.

Sirius smiled. "The Dread Pirate Black, Captain of the Marauder. And, of course, his faithful first mate, Moony the Killjoy."

Remus chucked a wad of glue towards his head.

Reality hit Sirius even as he ducked out of the way.

Maybe he'd gone barmy stuck in Grimmauld for so long, maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe it was the realisation that Harry had gotten to grow up, but a bubble of happiness suddenly swelled in his chest. It was ridiculous and now just was not the time, but he hadn't felt this good in forever.

Laughing, he transfigured Remus's shirt into a pink ruffled abomination of a pirate blouse. "How about Maudlin Moony? Moony the Glum? Bitey Remus? Moony the Can't Let His Best Friend Have Any Fun But Has To Go Around Rolling His Eyes and Sighing All the Bloody Time?"

The werewolf rolled his eyes. And sighed.

"See? See? Keep that up and I might not make you my first mate."

"Mangy cur," Remus muttered, huffing back into his armchair.

"There, that's the spirit! Knew you had it in you."

XV
This is the story of potential.
(1 September, 1995)

"Make sure it's locked," Hermione ordered as the twins hurried into the compartment. Outside, students thronged through the aisles of the Hogwarts Express, catching up on each other's summers and breathlessly repeating the news of Harry Potter's death.

"We know, we know. Keep your hair on," Fred said and raised his wand.

"And we'll add some of those anti-eavesdropping charms Mrs. Dearborn taught us," George added.

Spells cast, the five teenagers looked at each other in the sudden silence.

"So we all know why we're here," Hermione started, fumbling with her hands. "We're going to do this?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Dunno why you keep asking that. Yes, Hermione."

Ginny nodded. "Can we just get started? What did everyone bring?"

"I, er, borrowed some books from the Black Library," Hermione said, opening her bag to reveal a veritable mountain of texts with titles like Murder Most Successful and Everything You Didn't Know You Needed to Know About Not Dying. "I'll start going through them to look for promising spells."

Humiliating to Hateful: Hildegard the Hag's Hundred Heinous Hexes burst open and started swearing loudly. Hermione sighed and cast a Silencing Charm on it.

"Well, we're delighted to provide the war effort with the complete compendium of our inventions and experiments," Fred said with a grin as George lifted a massive scrapbook made from brightly-coloured parchment held together by Spell-o-Tape, string, and blind luck.

"Professor Lupin gave me a Defense book he and Sirius had bought for Harry," Ginny said quietly. "They were going to give it to him for Christmas, but…" Her voice trailed off.

No one seemed to know what to say.

"That'll be really helpful," Hermione finally spoke into the silence.

"And what about you, ickle Ronnie?" Fred said in a too-bright voice. "What goodies have you brought to help train us up?"

Ron's ears turned a vivid pink as he pulled several slim volumes from his bag.

"What the hell," George gasped. "Enchantment in Baking? Charm Your Own Cheese? Are these housekeeping books?"

"So what?" Ron snapped back. "The Dearborns said Harry used spells from books like these all the time in battle! And half your stuff has to be illegal, and all Hermione's probably is! These we can actually use!"

The other four looked at each other.

Fred blinked. "That's…that's really clever, Ron."

Ron grunted and glanced at Hermione.

"Yeah," she agreed with a slow smile. "It really is."

"You got all these from Mum, didn't you?" George groaned. "A prefect who borrows housekeeping books? Ooh, she's gonna be revolting."

Ron just shrugged and flipped through Bobovilla's Building Bewitchments, watching Hermione's smile out of the corner of his eye.

XVI
This is the story of giving what we can.
(Late December, 1995)

Alice didn't want to look at herself. One glance had been enough.

That's not me. I could never look like that, that's not me.

But the Alice laying in the hospital bed—

Everything about her was too scraggly, too faded, like a broken doll left forgotten in a cornfield...

—the Alice in the bed was her. Could have been her.

She resisted the urge to scratch the face she was wearing. Using Polyjuice always made her itchy.

Raised voices sounded on the other side of the curtain. Dumbledore. An angry woman who sounded—

Oh hell. Augusta's here.

Alice knew that she should probably go, that convincing the headmaster to sneak her into the ward had been a very bad idea. But she'd spent months searching out bloody horcruxes for Dumbledore, so she'd bloody well earned this.

And here she was, in a universe where Frank still lived. Maybe, maybe somehow, she had thought.

She scoffed. Maybes never work out.

This Frank wasn't dead, true. But he sure as hell isn't alive. Looking at him felt like she'd dug up her Frank's coffin and peered inside.

There was a slight breeze, and a nervous sort of shuffling sound.

Alice turned to face the newcomer. They were far too quiet to ever be Augusta.

Oh.

He looks like Frank.

No, he doesn't.

No, he looked like her, but he felt like Frank.

"I know who you are," the tall boy—Neville, his name is Neville—said. "Ron Weasley told me."

Alice touched her Polyjuiced face.

"I know who you are," Neville repeated, mouth set in a firm line. "And I already have a mum. She's not—she can't—she got hurt, but she's still my mother."

Fine by me. I'm no one's mother. That's just the way it is.

Alice nodded slowly. "I know."

Pursing his lips, Neville glared at one of the plants set about the Longbottom's area.

Something gingerly tugged on her sleeve. The boy gasped.

Alice turned to see her other self's frail arm reaching for her, though the woman's dull eyes were fixed on some point over Alice's shoulder.

"Wh—what?" Alice stammered. "Do you—can I help?"

The silence felt interminable. Finally, the other Alice stretched out her other hand, bony fingers clutching—

Oh.

I haven't thought of these in years.

"She—she—those are for me!" Neville hissed. "They're mine!"

The other Alice tilted her head, almost looking at her son.

With a gentle glance at his mother, the boy deflated. "It's just...sometimes—sometimes she gives them to me. Nothing else, just those. I—I don't know why."

Alice stared at the crumpled Droobles bubble-gum wrapper the other Alice had given her. "I know why."

The kid looked at her with eyes like twin moons.

"When I was young, everyone thought for a while that I was a squib," she said slowly. "I was lonely. Hurt. There was a girl in the nearby village—a Muggle girl—and I spent some time one summer with her. She didn't know about magic and she didn't care, see? It didn't matter. We were just friends."

For a moment, Alice thought her other self met her eyes.

With a small smile, the Auror started shaping the sticky blue paper. "When I was sad, Sharon—that was her name—she'd take sweet wrappers, and make—"

Neville blinked at the tiny, misshapen blue flower into which she had folded the Droobles paper.

"—and she'd make them into flowers for me. Sharon said flowers make everyone a little less sad."

Neville sat down heavily next to his mother. "All this time…she's been trying to give me flowers? Oh, Mum."

Alice looked away from the pair, feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur.

"Thank you," Neville said, forcing her to turn back. "I never would have known."

"You're welcome."

The kid made an odd sound, something like a strangled, hysterical laugh, and wrenched his eyes back to the shelves of plants that framed his parents' beds.

"They really are beautiful," Alice murmured. "In—in my world, Augusta turned every plant brown. They must be your work?"

A frown darkened his face and his hands balled into fists. "Yeah, I'm good at Herbology…But it's the onlything I'm not pants at, okay?"

Merlin. What the hell has Augusta been filling your head with?

She shrugged. "Everyone figured me a squib, but I showed them in the end. Not to worry, you will too. And even if you aren't great at magic, other things matter more anyway."

The boy sat very still.

"Besides," she continued, "Herbology can be wicked, even in a battle."

A flat look of disbelief, an expression so like Frank's, was Neville's only response.

"Hey, I'm serious! One of my favourite battle spells, Terraeunda, is really just an overpowered Herbology charm."

Neville's brow crinkled. "What did you do with that?"

Her stomach did a little flip. This…this was the first time since Frank died that she'd actually wanted to have a conversation with someone.

"Well, one time I knocked Azkaban over with it."

He stared at her.

"Oh, and I used it to help take out an army of Inferi," Alice added.

"That's—wow," Neville breathed. "I am good at Herbology…maybe—maybe you could teach it to me sometime?"

Alice reached out and tentatively touched his hand, fully expecting him to flinch away.

He didn't.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "I guess that'd be nice."

A nod and a hesitant grin.

He has my smile.

Weird.

She carefully tucked the Droobles flower into her pocket, feeling just a little less sad.

XVII
This is the story of a good man.
(26 December, 1995)

Ab hated whenever his brother waltzed into his pub, acting as though frequenting places like the Head at four in the morning was completely natural for him.

It was past closing after the Head's busiest day of the year, which just set his teeth on edge all the more.

Nothin' good ever comes along with him.

Albus smiled at him mildly.

Bastard.

"Quite the meetin' the other night," Ab kept his tone neutral. If I get arsed off, he gets to be the ruddy logical one.

"Given the excellent progress Moody, Longbottom, and Weasley have made," Albus said, "I decided it was time to disclose the existence of the items to the entire group."

"That's a sweet enough way to put it, I s'pose." He started wiping down the bartop again.

"We could use your help, Aberforth. The information you gather here is, of course, most appreciated, but if you would accept a more active role—"

Sod this. You want to talk? Fine, we'll talk.

"Dearborns told me you were askin' after the boy's scar," Ab interrupted. "If it ever pained him, 'specially 'round Riddle."

There was no need to say the boy's name. There never was.

"An old man's curiosity."

Bastard!

"You worthless piece of—" Ab surrendered to his boiling temper. "More pretty words!"

"Please, calm—"

Ab grabbed his brother by the collar. The way Albus' hand twitched for his wand and his eyes widened gave Ab a sharp pang of pleasure.

"I know you, Albus," he spat. "And I know when you're lyin'. So you tell me. You tell me about the boy and that damn scar!" Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice reminded Ab that the boy wasn't anything to him, hadn't ever been and wouldn't ever be, no matter how much the Dearborns spoke of him.

But the way folks felt didn't always make sense. He'd been tending a pub long enough to know that. And not making sense sure as shit didn't make the feeling any less.

"Is he one of them? Is he?"

Albus' eyes darted about, looking everywhere but him.

It was all the confirmation Ab needed, really. A silent Albus was a goddamn guilty Albus. But still, he wanted to hear the words, he needed—

Ab punched Albus in the face.

The sound of half-moon spectacles shattering wasn't nearly satisfying enough.

"Tell me!"

His brother sagged in his grasp, blood flowing freely from his nose.

"Yes," Albus whispered. "I believe he was one of Tom's...containers."

Sudden comprehension froze Ab's fury into spears of ice in his veins. "And you…you were goin' to kill him. No—what I'm I sayin'? That ain't your way. I'm bettin' you were goin' to arrange things for him, weren't you."

It wasn't a question, and both of them knew that.

"Yes." The fight in Albus evaporated even as his voice broke on the single word. "I swear—I swear—I had been trying, searching everywhere to find other options, any other options, before he…before it was no longer an issue." Albus closed his eyes. "But yes, Aberforth, I was going to see to it if I had to. So far as I knew, it was the only way."

Shoving Albus to the floor, Ab went for a bottle. Well. At least he's done with the pretty words.

But getting his brother to drop his pretences and actually admit something brought Ab no thrill of victory. Downing a shot, he felt as old as Albus looked.

Blood dripping from a broken nose to the floor measured the silence.

"You said 'was'," Ab ground out. "He didn't take it with him? He's…he's free of it, wherever he is?"

"I believe so," Albus sighed, finally conjuring a cloth for himself. "Neither Auror Longbottom nor the Dearborns could say the scar ever troubled him, even when facing that world's Voldemort. I believe—at least, I want to believe—that the Dementors may have removed it and saved him in the end."

"Convenient, that."

For once, his brother said nothing. Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks.

Ab slumped down onto a barstool and nursed his drink. Albus picked himself up from the floor and joined him.

"Gonna fix that nose?"

Grimacing, Albus applied a healing spell before conjuring a shot glass and grabbing the bottle.

"Drinks ain't free."

"I know, Aberforth."

"Hmpf."

Ab closed his eyes, savouring the burn of the whiskey. Now was about the time his ruddy brother should bugger on off, but Albus showed no signs of leaving. The man was just so damn exhausting.

"You really are a bastard, Albus," he sighed. "And I'm a bloody fool."

Albus nodded, shoulders drooping. "But we both try," he said quietly. "That has to mean something."

Tripe.

The brothers drank together.

Eventually, a few coins jangled on the bartop. About bloody time he shoved off.

"For whatever it's worth, Aberforth," Albus said with a heavy sigh, "I am grateful that it was you who found him first, in the other world. That child...he deserved you."

Ab bit back the bile he wanted to hurl at his brother. The bile he always wanted to hurl at him.

That routine had just…gotten tedious.

Everything about us got too damn old a long time ago.

"The you there died," Albus said, voice soft as snowfall. "I would not have it be so here."

Ab heard him walking to the door, heard it creak open—

I'm gonna regret this.

"What do you mean by 'more active role' in this daft quest a' yours?"

The feeling of his brother pausing, weighing how much—or how little—he could get away with divulging, filled the room.

"I believe I have located another of the objects. A ring. But it's—I—I—" Albus faltered and Ab's eyebrows shot up.

"You what?"

"I think I have a much better chance of destroying it if you accompany me."

Ab turned and stared.

Albus shrugged. "I don't want to do it alone."

Well fuck me thrice. Never thought he'd say somethin' like that. Ab scowled at the bartop. Maybe it was the man's honesty, or maybe Ab had gone soft, but— "Fine then. I'll go."

"Really?" his brother's jaw dropped.

"Bah, don't get used to it. And don't you schedule your little adventure for a Friday or Saturday—I got a pub to run!"

"Of course."

"And nothin' before noon," Ab added. "Don't much fancy fightin' that bloody early in the day."

Albus quirked a smile. "We can start destroying the Dark Lord on a weekday at a reasonable hour, you have my word…and Happy Christmas, Aberforth."

"Hmpf."

The door closed behind his brother.

Ab didn't move for a long time.

xoxoxox

"'..and now the prince appeared to Cinderella. Takin' her by the hand, he danced with—'" Ab stopped reading when he realized his audience wasn't paying a lick of attention.

His sister was peering down the hall from her frame, her eyes wide.

The soft, muffled sounds of lovemaking filtered to them from the far bedroom.

Aw hell, they should'a used a damn Silencin' Charm.

Ariana grinned.

Truth be told, Ab had to smother his own smile. The Dearborns had gone through a helluva rough patch, what with being ripped away from their boy and their world. Hearin' two people falling in love again…well. Maybe it did his own rusty heart some good.

Turnin' into a right creepy old tosser.

"That ain't for little girls to hear," Ab finally muttered, throwing up a Silencing Charm.

After bidding a pouting Ariana good night, he trudged off to his room.

Pyjamas on and candle burning low, he turned in his bed as always—wincing at his creaking back—and smiled at the photograph of the girl he'd once loved so very, very long ago. "G'night, my dear."

She waved back, forever young and forever gone.

All was silent in his bedroom, but he could feel someone staring at him.

Ab tugged his blankets up to his chin and willed sleep to come.

He was definitely being watched.

Blast it all.

Scowling, he snapped open his eyes and glanced at the new picture he'd tossed on a side-table, a Christmas gift from the Dearborns that he wasn't sure he wanted.

The enchanted newsprint photo of Harry Aberforth after a battle stared back at him from its new frame. The kid's face was covered with mud and blood, but his back was straight and his eyes were clear.

He knew that those eyes would be green in real life, though he'd never seen them himself.

Blast it all, indeed.

Ab surrendered with a sour "G'night then, lad." Snorting at himself for being a sentimental old fart, he blew out the candle.

But really—

Late at night when it was just him and the snow and his own silences, Ab could admit things to himself.

But really, I reckon I would'a liked to have known him.

Lad doesn't seem half a fool.

In the darkness of the Hog's Head, a painted child smiled as two people loved each other, and an old man's sleep was guarded by the girl he'd never marry and the son he'd never meet.

The End.

Thank you for reading.

The most ebullient and sincere thanks go to my dearest friend and beta Averagefish (ffn id: 8207725). Meeting you has been the best part of writing this fic. I am so grateful to know you (and, of course, for the opportunity to bask in your effervescence). Please preen, my friend.

Notes

Chapter Title: This is the first line of the famous folksong "Teach Your Children" (1969) by Crosby, Stills, and Nash. It's a good song.

Argus Malfoy: This was my head-canon when JKR was still publishing. Both Abraxas and Argus are names related to creatures/monstrous humanoids in Greek mythology, and in the movies Filch's hair always struck little me as a "hard-times" version of Lucius'.

Mrs. Celeste Prewett: This is Celeste the Gladrags girl with whom Fabian had a fling (and whom he treated quite poorly). I like to think Fabian grew up more than a little when it came to relationships and eventually wooed Celeste after she (rightfully) gave him quite a hard time.

The Dearborn House: I envision this still belonging to Rhys, while Harry and Filch's foundation are renting (and building onto) it. When Rhys becomes an adult, I see him having the option to terminate the lease and let the Dearborn Foundation move elsewhere, but I don't suspect he'd actually do so. The Head's his home, and I like to think he became friends and playmates with a lot of the children at the House.

Dementor Vacancies: A few things:
1) Yes, Dudley was Kissed after Harry, and he filled the second void left when Voldemort Kissed a Dementor. Thus, he shows up in 1978 whereas Harry arrived in 1976. Because I forewent the villain's monologue, a lot is left unclear for Harry et al. But we know that V. Kissed three Dementors trying to up his power between 1976 and 1980, so this makes 3 vacancies in-world.
2) Of course, Doc, Guin, and Alice were Kissed, which could offer more vacancies (it depends on if the Dementors thought they had to uphold the contract once/when the Ministry had technically been destroyed. I blithely decided to ignore all this.
3) As for the third vacancy left by Voldemort Kissing Dementors: when I planned this out, I wanted to write a shorter sequel, a "buddy cop" comedy/drama about Moody and Amelia Bones chasing down a Bellatrix Lestrange who'd been Kissed and popped into this reality in 1979/80 but didn't surface until after V's fall. I don't think I'll do it now, but that was the idea.

Doc, Guin, and Alice in the Canon World: Doc appears on the evening of the Third Task and thus fills the vacancy left by Barty Crouch, Jr., whom Fudge had Kissed in canon. Guin and Alice appear on August 2, thus filling the vacancies left by Harry and Dudley.

Things I Didn't Include:

-I cut a scene between Guin and Alice in the canon world in which it's revealed that Guin knows Doc isn't her Doc, but another from a very similar universe. Nonetheless, "he's Doc and I'm Guin, and that's got to be enough." It strikes me as unlikely that all three were shifted into the same parallel. At any rate, the scene seemed too angsty (even for me) for the epilogue, so I cut it.

-A scene between James and five-year-olds Hermione and Draco at Hogsmeade Primary (James' school) didn't come together. The two kids argued over finger-painting philosophies and a rather fluffy James Potter came to realize all sorts of fluffy things.

-I envision Harry and James taking Sirius out to drink once a year to tell him the truth about Harry. Sirius always gets blindingly drunk as a result and forgets everything, so this becomes an annual thing over which both Potters angst. What they don't know is that Sirius wasn't all that drunk the first time, and is just faking it to fuck with them (and for the free booze.) Maybe one day he'll clue them in. Maybe.

-Harry eventually met Luna Lovegood in 2002, when he attended her wedding to Fred Weasley. The twin loved his bride's surname so much that he happily became Fred Lovegood, to everyone but Molly's amusement. The twins and Luna even named their second business venture—an adults-only 'toy' store in Knockturn Alley—"Weasley Lovegoods."

-Hagrid continued to be the most awesome guy ever. And, because I just don't give a shit anymore, let's say he also met some nice person and also had a happily ever after. These are the ridiculously long notes to an epilogue: everyone gets laid!

- Speaking of everyone getting laid, Poppy eventually met Peadar Burke (briefly seen in Arc II, Caff's older pirate brother). They embarked on a torrid love affair that lasted until their eventual deaths. Every summer the two would abscond on a pirate ship to some warm, exotic locale and do many delightfully naughty things to each other.

-Albus Dumbledore continued to enjoy bowling, headmastering, chamber music, and politicking. Since everyone's getting laid now, let's have Albus hit it off with some lovely old bent dude who's not bent on world domination. At any rate, he and Harry shared a close friendship until Albus' eventual death sometime far in the future.

As for what happened in the canon world…I have no idea. But let's say that they fought and they won and leave it at that.

Finally, my beta AverageFish is an exceptional writer with a series of Time-Travel-Fix-its, some on ffn (ffn id: 8207725) and more on ao3 (check out archive of our own works/ 25236877-with no spaces. Please go read them and show your general enthusiasm and/or support.