The trainers taunted Harry, white and crispy-laced. It was a perfectly nice pair, sturdy and pleasing to the eye, almost new but worn out just enough to be absolutely comfortable. They were also Harry's exact size. Not his current one, which would be, Harry supposed, too easy, but the size he had since turning sixteen. No matter how many times he transfigured the holey Nikes that had been passed from Dudley to Harry after Aunt Marge's dog chewed on them, they ended up his old adult size.

Hedwig's hoot sounded suspiciously like a laugh from where she perched on a stack of cauldrons. The room doubled as storage space and was still cluttered even after Snape shrank most of the boxes and banished a suspicious-looking apparatus that had pinged Harry's Auror senses. All while reciting a long list of threats that would befall Harry should he dare enter his bedroom or lab that was only interrupted by Dumbledore's Patronus demanding to know what was going on.

Behind a double layer of Muffliato around the fireplace, Snape was able to work his spy magic on the Headmaster faster than it was taking Harry to work his on a much easier target. Perhaps the trainers had absorbed the magic-hating sentiment of their previous owner? Harry took a deep breath and cast the shrinking spell again.

The trainers stubbornly stayed the same.

"For fuck's sake!" Frustration welled in him with an intensity he did not quite expect.

Light flashed from his wand, unbidden, and a pair of glass slippers, complete with high heels and crystal bows, stood on the rug in place of the trainers.

At least these seemed to be the right size.

"Going to a ball?" Snape's voice sounded almost amused from the doorway. "I'm afraid I'm out of pumpkins, and I would never trust my lab mice to your transfiguration skills."

Harry glowered at the T-shirt and jeans spread out on the narrow bed. With his luck, they would revert to Dudley's hand-me-downs at midnight. Which would be a real shame, considering how much time he had spent making sure the sleeves aligned.

"Need I remind you that underage students are forbidden from using magic outside the school, Potter?"

"I'm in an adult wizard's residence, so the Ministry has no way to tell."

"Flouting the rules as usual?"

"Again, I'm not actually a child, Professor. With everything we need to do, I must have my magic."

"Not if you are going to be a danger to yourself and others."

"I've got it under control."

Snape pointedly looked at the glass slippers. Then he frowned. "Perform a N.E.W.T. level non-offensive spell that won't do further damage to this room."

Harry shifted on his sock-clad feet and pointed his wand at himself.

"Or to yourself," Snape added. Idiot remained unsaid but heavily implied.

The Disillusionment Charm died on Harry's lips. Grudgingly, he had to admit that Snape was right. He did not want to end up invisible with no way to revert it because his magic refused to cooperate. As usual when in doubt, he decided to summon his Patronus. That one never betrayed him.

Sifting through the happy memories he usually used, he found them all to be tinged with a bittersweet feeling of loss. It had not quite sunk in that he would never see his versions of his friends again until he remembered the joy at seeing Hermione awake at the end of the second year, the relief after Ron came back during their Horcrux hunt, the contentment at standing as a best man at their wedding. Letting go of these moments, he focused instead on the knowledge that he was sparing his loved ones so much suffering to have the future they deserved. This thought was not quite happy, but it had to be enough.

A pearlescent stag jumped out of his wand, and then another one, and another. Soon six Patronuses cramped the small room, awaiting instructions. One prodded a slipper with his hoof, another was nudging Snape to step back with its incorporeal head, and antlers entangled all around them.

"That's quite a herd," Snape said, standing his ground. "Are we expecting the entire regiment of Azkaban Dementors to join us for dinner?"

"Hopefully it won't come to that this time," Harry said, thinking guiltily of Sirius who was suffering the horrible creatures at this very moment. He vowed to get him out as soon as possible; Malfoy's influence in the Ministry had to be good for something.

One of the stags nuzzled him soothingly before they dissipated one by one. Harry watched them in concern. He never thought producing more than one with a single spell was even possible.

"I take it you did not intend this many?" Snape asked.

"Maybe I did." Harry raised his chin.

Snape stared at him for a moment, eyebrows raised.

He deflated. "My magic doesn't seem to handle this change well."

"It stands to reason that if one's mind and soul got sent back in their past body, their magic would be sent too, as the three are inseparably entwined. I suppose in a way, it's similar to possession; self-possession if you will. Most studies agree that if a host body is not equipped to handle the possessor's magic, the results might be unpredictable." Snape seemed to be fascinated with the subject, sounding a bit like Hermione, if Hermione was into Dark Magic.

While glad that Snape abandoned his scepticism about the time travel in favour of scientific interest, Harry squirmed in discomfort thinking about it in these terms. He preferred to leave things like possession to Voldemort, thank you very much.

"I'm not possessing myself," he said firmly.

Snape waved him away. "Spare me the existential crisis. It's simply similar enough of a concept to draw plausible conclusions in the absence of concrete knowledge of the type of time-travel."

"So you're saying that this younger body cannot handle my adult magic properly?"

"Essentially, yes."

"What do I do? We don't have time to wait."

"Since you're apparently familiar with the art, basic Occlumency exercises like meditations and clearing your mind should help you expedite the adjustment."

Harry pushed his hand into his hair. "Yeah, well. I never actually got the hang of those. I just sort of give the intruder a good mental kick."

"I refuse to believe the Headmaster did not instil the importance of clearing your mind to you."

"He wasn't the one who taught me."

Something in his look must have tipped Snape off because he actually recoiled. "Your future does sound more horrific by the hour."

"You don't know half of it."

For a moment, Snape looked as if he wanted to ask something. Instead, he pointed his wand at the slippers and, before Harry could protest, reverted them to their initial form.

"Hey! I worked hard on those," Harry said, mostly to distract Snape from staring at the crumbling, teeth-marked trainers.

Another wave of the wand, and a new pair stood in their place. In black, of course.

"Thanks," he mumbled, putting them on.

Snape gave him a curt nod. "I'm making dinner," he announced, turning around. "You may join me in the kitchen in twenty minutes."

"Let me help you," Harry called after him. At Snape's sceptical look, he felt the need to defend himself. "I'm a decent cook! That's the least I can do considering I'm invading your house."

"Very well. But you're leaving your wand out of my kitchen and doing exactly what I tell you to do."

Snape's fridge, old and seemingly unplugged, was twice as big on the inside but mostly empty, reminding Harry of his own, filled with frozen pizzas and leftovers from Sunday brunches at the Burrow which Molly insisted he took. He had not lied when he had told Snape he could cook, enjoyed it even, but his job took too much of his time and energy to do it regularly. Maybe he could take up some cooking classes if he survived Voldemort for the third time, Harry thought as he peeled the potatoes without magic. Although knowing his luck, he would find himself in the middle of some dastardly plot involving dark magic and guacamole.

From the edge of the garden, Lucius watched the lush topiary displays and flowers in bloom, unspoiled by Greyback's dirty boots and Bella's target practice. Narcissa was reading a letter in the gazebo, a picture of leisure, although he knew how deceiving this look was. Yesterday, they had stayed up well past midnight, as Lucius had clung to her, reluctant to go to sleep for fear of waking up in the bleak future again. His wife indulged him but was on her feet since dawn today, writing correspondence. She took to the idea of freeing Sirius Black with surprising ardour, and Lucius knew when to pick his battles. This was, after all, a woman who extracted an Unbreakable Vow from Severus and made that slippery eel stick to his word, a feat neither Dumbledore nor the dark Lord had managed. He only hoped Azkaban would still be standing by the end of her mission.

A white peacock sashayed across the gravel. Feet tucked so they don't touch the ground, his son trailed it on his broom, nose scrunched in determination. As soon as the peacock turned its regal head, Draco poked it in its side and steered his broom upward, dissolving into peals of laughter at the bird's indignant cries. Lucius chuckled despite himself.

"Don't tease the peacocks, Draco darling," Narcissa said without raising her head from the letter. "You know the rule: brooms are for the pitch only."

"I'm training my Quidditch reflexes!"

"You'll have someone to train your reflexes with very soon."

Draco hovered at the entrance to the gazebo. "Are Vince and Greg coming? They cannot throw a Quaffle without falling off the broom half of the time. Or is it Blaise? He promised to write but only sent that stupid postcard from Italy so far."

"I'm sure he's very busy with his mother's wedding preparation, darling." Narcissa's voice sounded faintly disapproving, although Lucius was sure it was not on behalf of Countess Zabini's unfortunate fiancé—at this point, men who kept marrying her had to be doing it as a form of suicide—but for daring to upset Draco. "No, it's another classmate of yours."

"Please tell me it's not Pansy! She's become such a girl at Hogwarts."

Narcissa laughed just as the main gates swung open. Surprised, Lucius watched Snape and Potter enter, sidestepping the long-suffering peacock. Lucius checked his pocket watch: weren't they supposed to be coming in an hour? Narcissa, however, was unfazed, rising to her feet to greet them with a welcoming smile.

Draco's broom dipped abruptly, the tip almost digging into the gravel. "What's he doing here?"

"Manners, Draco," Narcissa chastised. "Say hello to your Professor and Harry—may I call you Harry?"

Potter gave a wary nod.

Draco reddened. "Good morning, sir." The polite tone turned into a hiss. "Potter."

Narcissa exchanged pleasantries with Severus and Potter, who both wore comically similar constipated expressions. "I'd love to hear about the school year preparations, Severus," she said. "I'm sure the boys would enjoy some flying."

"Mrs Malfoy—" Potter started.

"Do call me Narcissa, dear. I know you came to see my husband, but it would be a shame to waste such a sunny morning."

His eyes shifted to where Lucius was standing, but Lucius shrugged. Potter's lost expression was highly amusing.

"I'm not letting him on my brooms!" Draco whined.

"I'm not asking you to, Mal—Draco." Potter turned to Narcissa. "As you can see—"

Of course, Draco could never stand disinterest so blatant. "You're just afraid because I'm a much better flyer than you. Let's go," he said imperiously.

Potter looked helplessly at Severus but let himself be dragged to the pitch.

"Father bought me this Falcons jersey at the match against the Harpies two weeks ago. I've got autographs from the whole team, too," Draco said as they walked to the pitch. "I bet you don't even have Chudley Cannons' keeper's autograph, the one Quidditch Weekly named the worst player of the year."

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. They definitely needed to work on Draco's people skills. Potter mostly looked amused, but Lucius could see how the bragging would put off a real twelve-year-old, especially of Potter's background.

A peacock unfurled its tail as Lucius walked past. He looked at it thoughtfully. Perhaps his son's upbringing was a bit sheltered.

"As a teacher, do you think Draco comes off somewhat... bratty?" he asked Severus, joining Narcissa and him in the gazebo.

Severus gave him an incredulous look.

"While his tact is a work in progress, Draco is a good child," Narcissa said firmly.

"He would benefit from friends who are not Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle," Severus said diplomatically. "Although I'm not sure Potter is the best choice either."

Lucius wondered if in his mind, they counted as the 'broom squad parents' Severus had loved to complain about. He supposed they were rather involved in Draco's education, although he couldn't find it in himself to see it as a bad thing.

"This would be both easier and harder had he still been Draco's age," Narcissa said as the boys rose up into the air, a Quaffle under Draco's arm. Potter moved with confidence and ease that betrayed his experience but did not show off, choosing to telegraph his dives and throws clearly.

"Lucius told you everything?" Severus asked carefully.

"My husband doesn't keep secrets from me."

They watched the pickup game in silence for a while. Potter, who had volunteered with the Little League if the Prophet was to be believed, kept trying to offer corrections to Draco's form which Draco predictably shot down. Still, Lucius thought that his son kept up admirably. At least on the pitch, this rivalry with Potter was good for something.

Severus's expression as he followed the game was pensive.

"How's cohabitating with your nemesis' son?" Lucius asked him. He was still irked that Severus snatched Potter from the Manor where he could easily keep an eye on the Boy Wonder. "No attempts to dash away on some heroic adventure?"

Unfortunately, Severus did not rise to the bait. "I can control a class full of unruly hormonal teenagers; I certainly can control one Potter."

"You have to let me meet the boy properly before you barricade yourself in the study again," said Narcissa. "He paints a more contradictory picture than Gilderoy Lockhart."

Severus wrinkled his prodigious nose. "Don't even mention that name. You are both too old to remember him from Hogwarts, but I do well enough. Unless somebody possesses that insufferable twit too, I'll finally live up to the students' rumours and poison our new Defence Professor at a staff meeting."

"Hold on to this plan," said Lucius. "After we complete our mission and the Dark Lord's curse on the position dies with him, Lockhart might decide to stay for another year."

"Don't tell me that rumour is true."

"If Potter's interviews are to be believed, Dumbledore refused to hire the Dark Lord—still Tom Riddle then—to the position back in the 50s, so he cursed it out of spite." It felt irreverent but oddly satisfying to say the Dark Lord's given name out loud.

"The Dark Lord as a schoolteacher," Narcissa mused.

"Perhaps he'd have been defeated much earlier by the power of paperwork, no Potter needed." Severus sounded like a man all too familiar with the unglamorous reality of the profession.

Lucius brightened up. "Another example of Dumbledore's unwise hiring practices."

Soon the boys landed, Draco flushed and smiling. Lucius studied his son, wondering how quickly things were changing. For his part, Potter looked more relaxed than he had ever seen him, allowing Narcissa to skilfully accost him on their way from the pitch without any protest.

Even Severus looked curious but content—or what passed for content for his surly self—and Lucius did not have the heart to tell him just yet that they were likely plotting to free Sirius Black.

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