My darlings! Happy Sunday!

Hehe, I'm so glad everyone liked the last chapter ;) all of your reviews have made me so happy!

The muse has been on a bit of a roll the last few days with Dalliance, she's wanted to write nothing else when I've found time to write. Which is how you've gotten this chapter. Originally the last scene was meant to go a little bit differently, but this way just seemed to flow better. Even if the original premise was the same. I do hope you enjoy this chapter!

Please leave a review and let me know what you think ;)

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.

As always, for Sable and Lais xxx

This chapter is dedicated to Henny and DrWho. WhereAreYou xox, you lovely lovelies you.


Saturday, March 31st, 1979

Potter Manor

Regulus Black's Room

How Harry ended up in here he isn't entirely sure.

Since being here Regulus has barely uttered a word to him-even in passing-so the fact that it's him inside this room is quite strange.

Then Harry recalls how he had followed Kreacher in here, getting lost in the past, in his own time, in his old dimension. Kreacher is meant to be helping out downstairs, but he was blatantly refusing, saying he had to attend to his Master, and that he would help feed the rest of their gluttonous mouths later.

Before he knows it, he is staring at the similar grey eyes of the man he grew to know as a Godfather, and now as a friend. Except these eyes hold no emotional connection towards him, they are brimming with curiosity and nothing more.

"Kreacher," Regulus says, and the House Elf freezes in his tracks, looking up eagerly at his Master.

"Why are you in here?" Regulus asks Harry in a bored tone, however there's now a swirl of cold iron in his irises.

"Kreacher is supposed to be assisting Mipsy downstairs," Harry says after swallowing jerkily, eyes darting in the direction of the smug looking House Elf-standing as tall as he can in spite of the curve in his spine.

Regulus is standing over by the windows on the far side of the room, the wide and tall windows are open, and the fresh Spring breeze is blowing into the room-tousling through Regulus's hair.

There are some books piled on top of the window seat in front of Regulus-most likely he had borrowed them from the library. He tends to spend most of his time in there or in his room in between meals. Harry doesn't blame him, he doesn't really know any of them.

"Kreacher. Go and assist Mipsy," Regulus instructs the House Elf, whose eyes widen a fraction, his shoulders hunching inwards, and the bravado he had moments prior deflates. Kreacher nods regardless, bowing deeply in Regulus's direction before vanishing with a pop.

"Right. I'll just. Um. Leave then," Harry says awkwardly, pushing his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. Harry hesitates for a second, long enough for Regulus to say, "wait."

Harry halts, and waits patiently, bright green eyes gleaming with intrigue.

"What was it like? Your past," Regulus asks softly, taking a few steps in Harry's direction, arms crossed over his chest. He's dressed quite simply, black trousers and a plain black, short-sleeved cotton t-shirt, bare feet.

"You mean if anything you did changed anything?" Harry asks, quirking an eyebrow.

There's a beat of silence, but from the look in Regulus's eyes, Harry can see clearly that that's exactly what he meant.

Regulus's tongue darts out of his mouth quickly, wetting his lips before saying, "well I know, you haven't told the others about what your friend Granger claims you three know." Regulus narrows his eyes slightly, head tilting to the side, "what I don't get is why."

"We defeated him. We destroyed all seven of them-" Harry starts, brow puckering, and he shoves his hands in his jean pockets, Regulus's mouth parts, his eyebrows shoot upwards and there's an incredulous expression on his face, but he doesn't say anything, "-we haven't told them because we have no idea how we're going to get rid of them in this dimension.

We don't have the one you got from him, because he thinks you're dead and in our dimension he borrowed Kreacher whilst he was hiding the locket."

"He already borrowed Kreacher," Regulus says reticently.

Harry takes a step forward, shock splayed across his features, "he did?"

"Yes. Kreacher almost died, it took two weeks to nurse him back to a somewhat healthy state. I was planning to investigate since Kreacher said it was dark, dark magic that the Da-that he was dabbling in. I had actually planned on going a few days after Dorea, Sirius and Granger showed up," Regulus responds curtly.

"This changes everything," Harry says, roughly running a hand through his hair, shock exploding from his expression and body language. There is almost a spark of energy radiating off of his skin, as if Harry's magic is humming and trying to express itself as well.

"Does it really?" Regulus asks dubiously, his hands falling to his sides as he warily stares at Harry.

"Yes." Harry confirms, the word comes out as a happy, cheerful noise-it bubbles out of Harry's throat and dances its way off his tongue.

"It means that we know where it is, and that's one less horcrux that we have to worry about," Harry grins, part of the worry that has been plaguing him is instantly diffused. There's a chance. After all, if they had done it once before, they can do it again. It isn't going to be easy, but a glimmer of hope is peeking through the doubt and anxiety that he had had about the whole situation.

"Why are you smiling, Potter?" Regulus frowns.

"We're going to tell everyone else soon...and when we do, I want you to be there," Harry smirks, a boyish charm to him as he turns on his heel and leaves the room with a bounce in his step. Leaving a gobsmacked Regulus in his wake.

"They're all mental, all of them," Regulus says, shaking his head in disbelief.


Sunday, April 1st, 1979

April's Fools

Potter Manor

"Happy birthday Fred and George," Harry whispers.

The raven haired boy is sitting on the edge of the King sized bed, the sun is ascending slowly, and chasing away the night with its long, radiant fingers of colour. The ginger haired boy is passed out beside him, head buried under his pillow, most of the sheets are tangled around his frame. The brunette's ankles are interlocked with the ginger's, and her nose is inches away from the boy's forearms.

They are both slumbering away peacefully-right now at least. It had been a rough night, Ron was inconsolable, grieving the family he had lost, raw unbridled emotions had poured out of the ginger haired man.

Losing Fred had been bad enough at the end of the War. Heck, trying to get George out of bed most days was a waste of time, utterly futile.

It only now seems to be really sinking in for Ron that his family is gone, or at least the family that he once knew. Molly, Arthur, and all of his older brothers are alive in this time-it is the twin's first birthday today after all-but it simply isn't the same.

Ron is petrified when anyone brings up going to see them. He knows it isn't rational, but he refuses to go and meet them. Part of him believes that they will turn him away, shun him, hate him.

Harry and Hermione have offered to go with him, but part of him thinks that he isn't good enough, or that he will be an overwhelming disappointment.

Harry looks at his best mate, and reaches over to squeeze his shoulder gently. Under normal circumstances, Ron would have jolted awake, sense hardwired to survive due to being on the run during the War, but right now he's simply exhausted.

They were all bawling, sobbing, clutching at each other for anything to ground them. Rocking each other in the darkness as it swallowed them whole, choking them and smothering them in its embrace. It was the worst night-collectively-that they had all had since being here, by far.

I need a glass of juice or something, Harry thinks tiredly, pushing up off of the bed and silently padding across the room. There's an annoying itch on his side, and he scratches it as he leaves the room.

The hallways are dead silent, and he flinches at every noise the floorboards make as he descends the grand staircase.

Harry's vision is still slightly impaired by sleep as he heads past the "kitchen table" as everyone called it, even though it's in its own room-so he doesn't notice the figure sitting there with a glass of milk.

Not even Mipsy is awake, which makes it all the easier for him to sneak into the icebox, he has to rifle around for a few moments in order to find the glass bottle of orange juice that he's looking for. He places it on the counter and then goes in search of a glass.

Harry sleepily reaches up and opens one of the cabinets, the hinges creaking as he does so. He quickly locates a glass and grabs it, closing the cupboard and putting the glass on the counter.

He screws off the cover to the glass bottle, picking up the bottle and pouring the juice into the glass until it's three quarters full.

When he's finished, he screws back on the cover, picks up the bottle, opens the icebox and puts it back from whence it came.

Harry grabs his glass of juice and takes a sip as he turns back around to leave the kitchen.

Then he freezes, a jolt of electricity shoots up his spine, his feet are stuck to the floor, growing roots in that moment that furiously furrow into the ground.

He almost sputters on the juice in his mouth, but he swallows it down, the tangy taste spreading across his palette.

Bright green eyes meet hazel green ones. The raven haired boy is staring-dumbfounded-at the frosty blue haired girl. Whose face is alight with friendliness, and her light pink mouth slightly agape as she looks like she's about to say something. However she frowns deeply when she peers closer, then her eyes snap open in a violent fashion.

She tilts her head as if she's confused, and then she says, "James. I know it's April Fools, and you love your wife...but why did you change your eye colour so early in the morning?"

Oh. I can salvage this. I can pretend that I'm James, and no one would be the wiser. Bloody hell, why is she here? On a Sunday. At the crack of dawn, Harry's mind is whirring at a mile a minute, and he then becomes acutely aware of the fact that he is only wearing maroon boxers, and nothing else.

Harry of course glances down at his bare chest, and then back up at Emmeline. Who is now staring at him with fascination.

Emmeline walks closer, she is wearing a black satin top, and a pair of black shorts to match, there's a lace trim across the top's neckline. Her shapely legs are on full display, and Harry has to rip his gaze away.

Harry knows that James and himself look almost identical, aside from the fact that one of them is slightly taller, their eyes, and that they sound entirely different.

"Is it a charm, or did you transfigure them? You always were brill at Transfiguration," Emmeline says, and she's now within arm's reach.

Her voice is a touch deep, but it still somehow sounds light and airy. It doesn't make sense, but Harry senses that she doesn't make sense either.

"James?" Emmeline asks again, but then she takes a step back, and she's pulling a wand from who knows where, and she says coldly, "who are you? You're not James."


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Love,

Indieblue xxx