A/N: No specific warnings for this chapter.

It was originally going to be much longer, but I decided to split it. Anyway, I hope you all like worldbuilding!

If you like this story, please leave a review or comment - they keep me going!


Chapter Three: Goodbye, Good Riddance

Over the next few weeks, Harry, Ron , and Hermione go over the details of the plan and tie up loose ends. They seek each other in between their daily lives, in the off-moments when Hermione isn't being hounded for overtime at the Ministry, whenever Ron's Auror duties release him for a couple of hours, whenever Molly or George can babysit the kids. They meet at Grimmauld Place as an unspoken rule, the memory of headquarters perhaps too strong to ignore. The notes do not exit its library; there is no doubt that at least one of the rituals they plan on performing is highly illegal, and the morality of the whole affair is murky at best. They write nothing in letters and speak around it during Floo-calls at Harry's insistence. It's only paranoia when Azkaban isn't a misstep away.

Harry busies himself preparing one of the most important aspects of the ritual — the circle. Had he just been traveling back in time or just making a phylactery, drawing up the respective ritual circle would have been quite simple. Performing two highly dangerous rituals at once, however, required creative thinking.

Simply putting one circle inside the other wouldn't work; the different sizes and order of placement would denote one ritual as encompassing the other, which would affect the timing. Overlapping circles would likely negate the runes. Combining them into a completely new ritual circle was a risk too big for even Harry to take. He knew his way around ritual magic — had even created some small ones of his own — but this? This was barely-tested, rarely-documented, highly volatile pieces of magic. He'd have to combine them to an extent, but he maintained — and Hermione agreed — that the extent of it should simply be performing them at the same time.

So how does one stand at the center of two circles without overlapping, combining, or putting one inside the other? All without any extra, interfering magic? The answer came to him while fiddling with the Black lordship ring he kept on a chain around his neck: You add another dimension.

Harry spends the rest of September simply trying to get an audience with the goblins. He'd paid back all the damages incurred when he and his friends broke out of Gringotts on the back of a dragon (Ron and Hermione's fines as well as his own, despite their protests; he was the only one of the three who could actually pay them, and he wouldn't let his friends incur lifelong debts for their pride) but while that may have appeased the goblins enough to allow him back into the bank, Harry found there were many ways they could express a grudge. But perhaps "grudge" isn't the right word. Bill's explanations of goblin culture go over Harry's head, but from what Harry can grasp, the goblins aren't "vengeful" so much as they are bitter. They apparently did not appreciate the wizarding government's complete failure to punish the trio in any way for breaking into and stealing from the bank. (In accordance to the Goblin-Wixxen Treaty of 1752, the Ministry holds jurisdiction over any legal action taken against any witch or wizard who have committed a crime against the goblin nation so long as said witch or wizard makes it outside goblin territory alive, Hermione had recited. Honestly, Harry, do you hear a single word that comes out of Professor Binns' mouth?)

All of this leads into the fact that the goblins would attend him… eventually.

September passes in hours spent in covert meetings with his friends and days spent in the endless struggle that is making an appointment with the Artificer Guild, an international all-goblin guild that is just about the only place Harry could find someone with enough skill in metallurgy to complete the kind of ritual circle he needs. Even if he could find someone else, it is widely known that the goblins are the best metal workers in the world. The fact that the Guild acts outside Ministry jurisdiction in order to maintain complete neutrality helps, of course; they don't care about a random wizard practicing soul magic, no matter what his name is.

Harry sends letters, Floo-calls daily, shows up at the relatively small office that is the Guild branch through a side entrance in the Gringotts building. His paperwork is "misplaced"; he's left kneeling at the hearth for hours before being informed that regrettably, no one is available to take his commission at this time, he should call back tomorrow; when he manages to schedule an audience, he waits in line the entire morning, only to be told to wait in a different line, then a different line, and while every other client is seen to within an hour, he is finally informed that, regrettably, the artificer assigned to him has suddenly become indisposed, would he like to reschedule for tomorrow? For next week? Next month, perhaps? Never, Harry reads between the lines. Give up. He doesn't.

It is only through sheer stubbornness that Harry manages to wrangle any information out of the secretary: His assigned artificer's name is Enruk and he has, apparently and regrettably, had a very unfortunate week. He's had three family emergencies, two medical emergencies, one home break-in that required his immediate attention, and been magically locked into his own office accidentally — all within minutes of being able to meet with Harry.

It's nearly six in the afternoon, he's been waiting a solid ten hours to reach this counter, the eighth consecutive day he's waited as much, his appointment time has been reshuffled throughout the day more times than he cares to count, and the goblin behind said counter is once again trying to feed him some bullshit. This time, the goblin secretary attempts to convince him that no, they can't assign him a different artificer and, unfortunately, Enruk has just been carted off to St. Mungo's after discovering he's severely allergic to the wyvern leather of the gloves his last client had worn when he'd shaken his hand. That's when he hears it.

He's drifting off, only catching about half of what the secretary is saying — looking far too smug to be believable — and that's the only reason he catches the tail-end of the conversation two goblins are having as they walk by. "-morrow, Enruk! Then we shall see."

Harry immediately snaps to attention, ignoring the secretary in favor of the two elderly goblins seemingly heading toward the exit. "Enruk?" Harry asks loudly.

The goblin on the right, the eldest of the two, with pointed ears so long they curled downward and had tufts of white hair coming out of them, turns around at his name. A look of deep annoyance overcomes the goblin — Enruk — once he realizes who has called him. His face twists into a sneer, as most goblin's faces do whenever they're forced to interact with Harry. "That's Master Enruk to you, Mr. Potter," he says.

"My apologies, Master Enruk," Harry cedes easily, hurrying to the goblin's side. He has no doubt a renowned artificer holds a mastery. "I'm glad to see you're well. I wish to speak to you about a very ambitious project that would benefit greatly from your skills."

"I'm sure it would," he grumbles. "Unfortunately, my shift is almost over. Come back tomorrow."

"There's still fifteen minutes left of our allotted time, Master Enruk. I must insist."

"By the time we reach my office, there would not be," Enruk says nastily. If looks could kill, Harry thinks.

"Then I'll be brief. I assure you, you won't regret it."

"Your word means nothing to me, boy." The goblin glares, but Harry says nothing to this, waiting. Enruk's frown deepens. The seconds tick by. Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, he waves his companion away and jerks his head towards a door beside the counter, motioning for Harry to follow him. "Most wizards can take a hint," he says, slamming the door open.

"I'm afraid I've always been rather dense," Harry says.

Despite his height, Enruk walks briskly, for which Harry is thankful. It would have been all too easy for him to stall long enough that their scheduled appointment time expired. Through the door is a long, dark hallway, narrow but with a ceiling so high the space feels cavernous. There are office doors interspersed by sconces on the smooth marble walls every few meters. Harry tries not to sag in relief when Enruk leads him through a door labeled M. A. Enruk not two minutes later.

The office is small, though just as high-ceilinged as the hallway, and every surface of it seems to be covered in scrolls of blueprints and small metal trinkets. Enruk climbs a step stool to sit comfortably on the high desk in the middle of it all, not bothering to offer Harry a seat himself. "Speak," he says.

Instead of doing so, Harry reaches into his robes, pulls out his own blueprints, and hands them to him.

"The elements need to be perfectly balanced, taking into account the etched runes," he says after a moment.

Enruk is studying the blueprints intently, frown slowly giving way to a completely blank expression. He picks up an over-sized magnifying glass and studies it closer. Ten, then fifteen minutes pass in which Enruk examines his plans in silence and Harry stands awkwardly in front of the desk. There's a chair but it's piled up with more scrolls, and he's not willing to risk the goblin's further ire by presuming he can move them.

"This… in conjunction, this is…" Enruk's head snaps up, eyes narrowed. "What do you plan on doing with this?"

Harry thought this might happen. As an artificer, Enruk is likely familiar, if not proficient, with ritual magic. Enough to recognize the elements of time and soul, at least, though these specific areas of magic are such fringe and taboo subjects that he honestly doubts the goblin realizes what the individual ritual circles do. It's much more likely he's fishing for clues with his question. Harry certainly hopes so; Ron and Hermione are the only people by far whom he trusts with the information of what is basically a soul-activated time machine.

Keeping all this in mind, Harry tilts his head slightly and considers the goblin. "Does it matter?" he asks. "I will not shame the goblin nation."

The sneer comes back full force. "Your word means nothing to me," Enruk repeats.

"Nevertheless, you have it."

If anything, this makes Enruk's expression sour further. "This… soil component you wish incorporated into the silver ring, what purpose does it serve?"

"I will provide the sand myself," Harry doesn't answer the question. He'd worked very hard to acquire the two pounds of the Sands of Time necessary for the ritual. Breaking into the Department of Mysteries had been much easier back when Voldemort had deliberately set it up for him. "I'll include instructions on its proper handling as well. It's not something one can just touch."

Enruk smiles unpleasantly — not that Harry has ever seen a goblin smile pleasantly, it's just something about the teeth… "I am certain I will figure it out, Mr. Potter," he says, making it sound like a threat.

Harry doesn't doubt he could, given enough time to study the circles. As it is, the old goblin is probably counting on the fact that all goblin-made products come with a clause of re-ownership, meaning Enruk would gain back whatever he made once Harry died. Harry sees no reason to inform him that if all goes to plan, he will never have made it in the first place.

"You will take my commission, then?"

"If you have the gold." Enruk then names a sum that Harry knows is more than triple the amount of gold he would have asked of anyone else. Not for the first time, Harry thanks his lucky stars that Sirius left him the entire Black fortune. He suspects that, were he still alive, Sirius would have been overjoyed at Harry squandering it.

Before Enruk can even begin giving him a bloated overview of how long his commission would take to make, Harry says, "I'll give you double if you can deliver it within a week."

Enruk smiles wider, flashing even more teeth. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Potter."


It was on the second or third meeting at Grimmauld Place that Hermione had brought up the subject of money. The three of them had been sitting at the kitchen island, Harry just having finished pouring boiling water into the cup noodles. Ron and Hermione had been having a slow day at work and had decided to come over for their lunch break, surprising Harry out of his afternoon nap. He'd been eying the cup noodles forlornly — it was times like these that reminded Harry just how much Kreacher had done for the house, and he missed the old elf terribly — when Hermione had spoken up.

"You can't just take money into the past, I hope you realize," she'd said.

"Well, not all of it, of course," Ron had said absently, checking his cup as if there were any chance of it being ready after only a few seconds.

"No," Hermione said slowly. "Not any of it."

Vaguely alarmed, Harry had asked, "Why not?"

She'd rolled her eyes. "Our coins have serial numbers, as well as the dates they were minted on. If anyone were to just look down as you were paying them, they might realize you're from the future!"

"No one looks at those things, Hermione," Ron had said dismissively. He'd checked his noodles again. "And if they did, no one thinks 'time travel' first. They'd probably think it's a misprint."

"Or a counterfeit," Hermione shot back. "Which would bring it to the attention of the goblins, who would realize the gold is genuine and draw several conclusions."

"I'll just use old money," Harry had reasoned. "There's more than enough of that in the Black vault."

"Do you think you're the only wizard to think of time travel as a means of doubling their gold? I'd bet my wand the goblins have set enchantments in place to recognize doubles."

Ron swore. "She's right, mate. I remember Bill telling us about the Time Fraud Amendments of… of 1867, I think? You really don't want to take gold into the past."

"Time fraud?" Harry had been indignant. "This isn't some get-rich-quick scheme, I'm trying to prevent a second war!"

Hermione had said "They have no way of knowing that!" at the same time Ron said "Like any of that matters to them."

"We were trying to defeat Voldemort, weren't we?" Ron continued. "It's been fifteen years, and d'you know how long it took me to make a withdrawal last time I went to Gringotts? Five hours! It's not our bloody fault the Ministry didn't pack us off to Azkaban. They have no right to treat us like this."

"They have every right," Hermione had argued. "It's not like they're denying us service. We're just… unlucky enough to be made examples of. They have to prove to the rest of the world that stealing from Gringotts has consequences, don't they?"

Before the two can descend into the old argument any further, Harry cut in, "What about muggle money? I could exchange the galleons now…"

"It's still risky, Harry. Any money you'd get from an exchange would definitely be current. And the exchange rate back into galleons during the eighties…"

Harry had groaned, head in his hands. "Am I supposed to go back with nothing?"

"You could always take things to sell," Hermione offered.

Ron shook his head, then swallowed thickly, mouth full of noodles. "Pretty much anything of value is covered by the Time Fraud Amendments. Jewelry and artworks and books and such. Anything goblin-made goes without saying."

There was a pause in which the three of them ate their noodles, thinking.

Finally, Harry had said, "…Potion ingredients?"

Things like Venomous Tentacula leaves and unicorn tail hair were still covered by the Time Fraud Amendments, Ron had assured them. He also assured them that Aurors have no way of tracking when or where said potions ingredients were harvested — other than the perpetrator telling them outright — so they have no feasible way of upholding that facet of the law. "A shame," he'd said solemnly. Then, "I think we've still got basilisk fangs. Those are worth a lot, aren't they?"

They were indeed. It was lucky that they had enough to spare.

Hermione, as an advocate and legal representative for many magical beings in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, often received small gifts of appreciation. These gifts occasionally included things such as the client's own teeth, hair, or feathers.

("Creepy."

"It's sweet, Ronald. Sometimes these are the only things of value that they have!"

"Yeah, but who in their right mind gifts someone a necklace made with their own teeth?"

"Werewolf teeth are extremely coveted for protective amulets! They can easily sell for forty galleons a piece."

"Doesn't mean it's not creepy.")

Ron agreed to check Auror records for black market dealers active in 1980 for ingredients like the basilisk fangs, which couldn't be sold to the average apothecary. Harry didn't tell him he was more than capable of navigating the black market by himself. One didn't buy tomes on soul magic at Flourish and Blotts, after all; Harry knew Knockturn Alley like the back of his hand. He appreciated Ron's willingness to get that information for him anyway.

For his part, Harry simply bought expensive potions ingredients with abandon. The state of his current bank account would not matter when he traveled thirty-three years into the past. The monetary value of the materials they gathered should be enough for him to live comfortably for a few years without having to worry about work; he would be able to concentrate on defeating Voldemort and coming out of it with an unscathed soul.


And so, with the help of his friends and quite a lot of patience with goblins, Harry finished the preparations for his travel back in time by mid-October.

The preparations for removing his own soul were a completely different matter… Personal. Relatively easy to complete.

There was only one thing left.


This isn't necessary, Harry thinks for the dozenth time.

"Thank you, Minerva," he says, bowing his head slightly towards Headmistress McGonagall across the desk. The portraits of past headmasters pretend to sleep around them, the more daring peek curiously at him between fake snores. The portrait directly behind McGonagall is notably empty. "I know this is out of the blue…"

"Nonsense. I wouldn't deny you an audience with your own child, Harry."

He purses his lips at this, but manages a slight nod.

McGonagall manages to look even more severe in her old age, her eyes piercing. Her hair is beginning to white, but is pulled just as tightly in a bun. She looks like a bird of prey ready to weather the next storm. She sees right through him. "He is your child," she says sternly. "Blood or not, he's yours. You raised him."

"Andromeda—"

"Is his grandmother, not his father. A boy can find family in many places, as I'm sure you know."

Harry is spared the lecture by the subject of their discussion knocking politely on her office door. At her beckons, Teddy enters the room holding a summons and looking nervous. "Am I in trouble, Profe— Harry!"

Edward "Teddy" Lupin is wearing a thin coat over casual muggle clothing, having no doubt been summoned out of a weekend spent leisurely with friends. Or maybe a weekend spent frantically studying, Harry thinks, noting that his electric blue hair — which turns a very pretty shade of lilac at the sight of Harry — is in a state of disarray. He smiles. "Hi, Teddy."

Nothing's going to go wrong, this is completely unnecessary.

McGonagall stands and nods at the two of them in turn. "I'll give you two some privacy. It's no trouble," she assures Harry before the protest leaves his mouth. "I promised Hagrid to look over his latest pumpkin batch." Turning to Teddy with faint amusement, she says, "You'll be able to stand inside this year's jack-o-lanterns."

As soon as the door closes behind her, Harry catches Teddy by surprise with a crushing hug.

The portrait directly above the entrance, overlooking them, is also notably empty. He notices the occupants of several other paintings around the room leave their own portraits, trying to follow McGonagall's bid for privacy.

Teddy hugs back, but only for a moment before pulling away to look at his face. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

Nothing will go wrong. This isn't goodbye.

"Nothing's wrong. I just came to tell you… I'll be leaving the country at the end of the month. For research. I'm not sure when I'll get back, so it might be a while before we see each other again."

"…Oh."

It's times like these, watching Teddy's hair roots slowly turn gray, that Harry wonders whether his rapid-fire change of colors is a fun way to express himself — a habit developed by someone who holds no reservations about projecting himself to the room — or an honest, subconscious reflection of his emotions. He's never asked, knowing Teddy holds his metamorphmagus abilities close to his heart as a personal connection to his mother. He feels he should know by now anyway.

"Where are you going?"

"Abroad," Harry says vaguely. "Many places. I won't stay in any one place for long."

"But you'll write to me?"

"Of course, whenever I can."

Teddy smiles faintly. The gray of his hair does not recede but it progresses no further. "You better write. I'll set Grandma on you, don't think I won't. She'd find you."

Harry gives a shudder and it's only half for show. Andromeda is a force to be reckoned with, especially when she feels her family has been wronged in some way. "I've no doubt she would. But let's not resort to such drastic measures right off the bat, alright? Give a man a fighting chance."

"Have you told her already? This means you're canceling our Christmas plans, doesn't it?"

"It does. How's school going?"

Teddy's clearly unimpressed at his deflection, but he thankfully indulges him. "Terribly. The teachers are insane this year."

"Well, it's your OWL year."

"That's no excuse!"

The two of them sit down in front of McGonagall's desk and Harry listens to his godson bemoan for a good half-hour the ever-increasing workload assigned to his class this year piling up with his prefect duties and History Club responsibilities. Because Teddy had — for some reason, utterly incomprehensible to Harry — co-founded a History Club with a seventh-year last year, which left him the sole president of said club now the other co-founder had graduated. Teddy's love for the subject — ?! — meant he wasn't willing to give up the responsibility despite the strain it put him under.

"I'm not complaining, though, of course. It's been an absolute blast —" !? "— and everyone's been really great about it, even though I bet it's really obvious I have no idea what I'm doing. Professor Ryans — that's the new History PA — he's been really helpful. He's sponsoring the club and he's the unofficial ghost ambassador. He's really good at talking to them — even the Bloody Baron has entire conversations with him!"

Harry raises his eyebrows; that is impressive. He wonders whether this Professor Ryans is simply good at dealing with the often morbid habits of the dead or whether there truly is a "correct" way to speak to ghosts. And does the same apply to any disembodied soul? "I suppose he must be good at it, having to work alongside Binns all the time," Harry acquiesces. "Why do you need a ghost ambassador?"

Teddy visibly perks up at this, a fire lighting up in his eyes. His hair turns a bright Hufflepuff yellow. But just as he begins explaining — "We're trying to set up a live recreation of some of the most important events in Hogwarts based on ghost accounts. We're holding audition-" — the fireplace lights up with the bright green flames of Floo travel and out steps Neville Longbottom, covered in soot and… something else. It's orange and stringy, and the smell of it reminds Harry of pumpkin juice, oddly enough.

"Neville?"

He does a double take. "Harry? What are you doing here?"

"Good morning, Professor Longbottom," Teddy greets, though it sounds more like a question.

"Hm? Oh, yes, hello, Mister Lupin. I suppose that's why-" Neville shakes his head. "Never mind that. Sorry, Harry, I'd love to catch up, but there's no time." With that, Neville strides purposely towards McGonagall's desk, where he starts rifling through the drawers.

"Is everything alright?" Harry asks, just now noticing that Neville is holding a wicked-looking axe in one hand.

"Erm, well, yes. Sort of. There's just a little mishap with the pumpkins. Hagrid and I were experimenting, see. With muggle synthetic fertilizer. But I think we used too much — aha!" Neville pulls from McGonagall's desk what seems to be an over-sized version of a prefect's badge, big as a dinner plate. Seeing Harry's questioning look, he sighs. "They've developed sentience. Minerva tried to carve one and now they've all awoken."

"…I'm sorry?"

Neville grimaces. "Yeah. So am I." He gives the big badge two quick taps with his wand and leans forward as if speaking into a microphone. "All prefects and Head Students please report to Professor Hagrid's pumpkin patch for crowd control." Harry and Teddy both look down at Teddy's own prefect badge — pinned to his waist — which is transmitting Neville's message in a tinny voice. "I repeat: report to the pumpkin patch for crowd control. Herd the students into the castle. Do not approach the pumpkins. Thank you."

"Herd?" Teddy asks rather wryly.

Neville hums in agreement, apparently missing the tone. "They're flocking to the spectacle. I'll have to review basic plant safety next week — they should all know better by now. It's all fun and games until somebody gets eaten." At Teddy's concerned gasp, he adds, "Oh, no worries. They're just pumpkins. They can't actually digest anyone. It's just, you know —" he waves the axe "— a hassle. And a waste of pumpkin."

"You're trying to salvage them?" Harry tries not to laugh.

"Of course! It's not their fault they're sentient." Neville steps into the fireplace with a fistful of Floo powder. "Nice seeing you again, Harry. We should have lunch some time. Mister Lupin, the badge goes over the heart." Then with a "Hagrid's Cottage!" Neville is off in a flurry of green fire.

There's a quiet moment in which Teddy pins his prefect badge to his chest with a near-imperceptible sigh. "Duty calls, I guess."

"I'd have thought you'd be more excited to watch Professor Longbottom battle a horde of giant, feral pumpkins with an axe."

Teddy clutches his chest in mock-offense. "I am going to shepherd all those stray students into the castle, just like I was told to do. If I accidentally summon my camera and, by whatever magic, some photographs of the epic battle make their way throughout the school tomorrow — well, that'll be a coincidence, I think." At Harry's raised eyebrow, Teddy gives a shrug. "I can multi-task."

Harry takes one last good look at his godson as he stands. His hair is still yellow, though a shade paler than before, and a good deal messier than when their conversation began. He's developed a habit of running his fingers through his hair whenever he's excited or nervous; he'd kept doing it during their conversation. The prefect badge is slightly crooked, like the smile he gives Harry when the latter hugs him one last time. Merlin, are they the same height? "Alright, Teddy. I'll see you s… as soon as I can. And send me a copy of those pictures."

Teddy pulls away with a little huff. "They'll be waiting for you here. Make it back by winter hols."

Harry smiles sadly. "…Goodbye, Teddy."

There is a weight to his words, it is almost palpable. Perhaps Teddy can feel it, because he frowns uncertainly, pauses. Harry notices his eyes are green today — a vibrant, bottle green, just like his — and he's confused by the sudden lightheadedness that overcomes him at the sight, the sudden wrenching feeling in his heart. He thinks — for one desperate, irrational moment — that it simply isn't worth it. All this planning, all this effort, the lying — it simply isn't worth having to hear his godson say goodbye. Harry's broken soul cannot put a name to this painful feeling, cannot explain why this single word would hurt so much. He thinks, perhaps, there had been a time when the answer had been obvious.

He feels… disjointed. Cold.

This isn't goodbye, he reassures himself, not understanding why he needs to.

Teddy seems to have arrived at a conclusion because he says, so firmly it sounds more like a demand, "I'll see you later, Harry." Then he smiles, and with a final wave goodbye, he's out the door.

Harry listens to his godson's footsteps rapidly descending the spiral staircase and fading away, immobile. When he can no longer hear them, he sighs and leans against McGonagall's desk. "Still spying for Dumbledore, then?" he says, looking up at the portrait in front of him, directly above the entrance.

Severus Snape's portrait is notably no longer empty where it hangs looming over the room. "Rest assured, Potter, that if I were spying, you'd have no way of knowing it. Albus is under the impression that you are unhappy with him." Snape sneers in case there was any doubt about what he thinks of Harry's unhappiness. "He thought you would not want to see him. There was the implication that you left in… less than amicable terms."

Harry runs his hand through his hair in frustration and scoffs. "Yeah, you could say that."


His relationship with Dumbledore was not an easy one. He wavered heavily between idolizing the old headmaster and thinking him a selfish fool, depending on the day.

The months before discovering the damage done to his soul, that liminal space between winning the war and discovering soul magic, was time spent in awe of the man. Walking to his death had been the most difficult thing Harry had done in his life; if he was being honest, Harry was glad he hadn't had to live with the knowledge that he'd have to die all throughout the Horcrux Hunt. He honestly did not know whether he would have been strong enough to do so. Forgiving Dumbledore for keeping this from him was easy enough, especially after finding out the old headmaster had planned on Harry surviving despite this. Any leftover resentment was assuaged by the knowledge that everything had turned out all right.

This changed, obviously, once he viewed his soul. Here was something Dumbledore had not foreseen, he'd thought bitterly. Here lie the consequences of meddling old fools playing with the lives of others. Who did Dumbledore think he was, giving him hope without even researching the necessary soul magic? Horcruxes can only be destroyed when the vessel is damaged irreparably, Dumbledore should have known this! Who did he think he was, putting Harry's very soul on the line with only his half-baked theories to lean on?

His rage had waned, however, the more he researched soul magic. Nearly everything was theoretical, the practice being so taboo. What little practical knowledge there was tended to be Dark and focused on necromancy, and written records of it were both rare and illegal. He eventually found the text that Dumbledore must have based his theory on — Necromantic Ritual Components by Antares Black[*] — which theorized that certain souls may find their way back into their bodies without living aid given there was already a connection strong enough to another still-living body. The theory was sound, as far as Harry could tell, if optimistic. It might have even applied to him, given that Voldemort used Harry's blood for his body… had there not been a horcrux in the way. There was no literature on living horcruxes, not even theories. Truly, Voldemort had been a pioneer in the field. Harry couldn't, in good conscience, blame Dumbledore for not knowing of the damage that reviving in such a way would cause his soul. No one could have known.

This is why, when he received his DADA Mastery and began teaching at Hogwarts, he was inclined to speak to Dumbledore's portrait as one would speak to an old friend. More than that, he needed guidance. Even three years after the end of the war, after stating time and time again that he would not be pursuing a political career, the world demanded his leadership. It seemed no matter how many times he told the press he would be teaching kids ages eleven to seventeen — not working with or within the Ministry, not catching any more Dark wizards, not staging any more revolutions or surviving Killing Curses — he remained a legend, representative of all the good witches and wizards of Britain. And when he refused the role — Harry Potter: Too Powerful to Care?; Boy Who Lived Makes Quick Retreat; What the Savior of the Wizarding World Could Be Teaching Your Children; Defense Against the Dark Arts or Indoctrination? The Origins of Potter's Army — the rumors started. Dumbledore's portrait had helped him through the wild accusations and demands, having experienced exactly the same thing after defeating Grindelwald only to continue teaching Transfiguration at Hogwarts.

Sometimes it felt as though Dumbledore was the only one who understood. The crushing weight of the world on his shoulders. The lies, the secrets. The… guilt. They spoke of Grindelwald and Voldemort, of love and souls, justice and death. They spoke of the state of the wizarding world, of expectations. Of Hogwarts.

The first time Harry attended the Hogwarts staff Christmas party, Headmaster McGonagall gifted him a portrait — a picture of a plush purple armchair in front of a roaring fireplace, unoccupied. Just as Harry was about to ask, the inhabitant of the painting stepped into the frame.

(Harry, my boy.)

It was a brother portrait, McGonagall had explained. So that Harry would no longer have to set up camp in her own office every single time he wished to speak to Albus. She'd looked at him pointedly while saying this and Harry had flushed as the small group of teachers staying at Hogwarts for the holidays laughed amiably at his expense.

(I'm — ah — sorry about that, Professor.

How may times must I tell you, Mr. Potter? You may call me Minerva.

Harry, then.)

He'd hung the painting in his office, where they could chat in private as Harry graded tests and essays, and tried to draft polite refusals to the then-constant Ministry letters trying to persuade him of finishing his Auror training, of getting more involved in politics. The refusal was easy, but the politeness was harder to come by as the letters grew more insistent. Dumbledore's portrait would talk him through it.

The first major disagreement came in the form of a letter — not from the Ministry, but from an angry mother demanding to know why her son was receiving barely an Acceptable in DADA class, and granting him permission to "motivate him with a quick and firm hand," as if asking teachers to hit her child was normal. Concerned, Harry spoke to the child, a painfully timid third-year Ravenclaw who refused to express himself in anything more than shrugs and nods or head shakes for the first three tutoring sessions Harry had offered him. After about a month of paying attention to the child, Harry had a bleak enough picture of his home life to try and do something about it. Dumbledore, however, did not.

(Children have a small frame of reference, Harry. They tend to exaggerate their woes.)

At twenty-two years of age, well into his second year of teaching and having watched Teddy grow into a happy four year-old, Harry had a newfound idea of how children deserved to be treated. He had been surprised at how truly new this idea was to him — that children shouldn't be hit or neglected by family, that he wouldn't wish that on anyone. He'd never been on the other side of the situation, never been in a position of power in which he could actually do something to help. Things that had seemed inevitable as a child suddenly looked like inexcusable lapses of responsibility. He'd thought he'd understood, before this. He'd thought there had simply not been another way, that the adults in his life were just as limited in power as he had been. He'd thought as little as possible about the Dursleys.

Standing there, in front of Dumbledore's portrait in the middle of his office, staring in disbelief at his old mentor's twinkling blue eyes, he saw not the apologetic helplessness he'd subconsciously expected…

(It is not in our place to interfere with the way families discipline their children.)

…but simple refusal.

And Harry had snapped. How many people had turned away from an injustice when they saw it simply because it wasn't their place to help? When had that ever stopped Dumbledore before? What kind of person did Dumbledore think Harry was, that he would turn a blind eye now, after everything? What reason did he have for doubting the child's words, with trust so hard-earned and clearly afraid? What reason had he had all those years ago, to belittle Harry's own struggles, to doubt his words? Why had nobody taken his casual descriptions of an abusive household seriously? Why had nobody helped him?

And where did Dumbledore get off, telling Harry he shouldn't help either?

The portrait had come down, after much angry shouting on Harry's part, and been Silenced and stuffed upside down behind a heavy bookshelf, facing the wall. Harry had marched to McGonagall's office immediately afterward, still fuming but determined to appeal to the highest authority available.

He did not find the support he wanted.

(I know it's different in the muggle world, but when a magical child is truly mistreated, one can expect their magic to act up. Rest assured, unless this student is having problems controlling their magic, it's unlikely that to be anything serious.)

Harry had barely restrained himself from continuing his tirade, had just left curtly and tried to appeal to Professor Flitwick, the student's Head of House. It was with growing despair that he listened to the short professor go on, apologetic but firm, about how no one would believe the word of a thirteen year-old who refused to speak most of the time over the word of his very outspoken mother. How there was no proof of anything, how accidental magic would most likely erase any proof within the hour if it was ever even there. He tried to comfort Harry by claiming that accidental magic would also protect the child if he was in any true danger, that he could rest easy with this knowledge.

But Harry had his own, first-hand knowledge, and so he knew none of his professors' arguments had any basis on reality. As he spoke to other members of the Hogwarts staff, however, he was forced to admit this was much bigger than Dumbledore's personal failings. Only one other teacher seemed to share his concern over students' home lives — Professor Carrie McCall, the Muggle Studies teacher, who had also been raised in the muggle world. The entire wizarding world seemed to hold very backwards beliefs about how children should be treated, and a very narrow definition of abuse that did not take into consideration their mental or emotional wellbeing. Even within this narrow definition, there was hardly any legal action a concerned adult would be able to take to rectify the situation.

It took months — nearly a year after their argument — for Harry to pull the dusty portrait from behind the bookshelf and warily place it back where it had hung in his office. They'd stared at each other for a long time.

(I'm not giving up on this. Hermione already has some ideas. I'll use all the weight I hold as Savior if I have to.

…You're a braver man than I was, Harry. I would expect nothing less.

Hmph.

Would you explain to me where I went wrong? Please?

Oh, I will.)

They would have many other, smaller arguments, and revisit this one in particular any time Harry thought Dumbledore showed signs of forgetting it. It occurred to Harry that the old headmaster had never seemed so real, honest, and human in life as he did as the portrait of a dead man. It was a sobering thought, especially once Harry started counting his own secrets. He wondered sometimes, how the rest of the world perceived him. He wondered whether the public already saw him as a distant, wise, powerful war hero whose opinion could sway the Minister, who could lead the wizarding community if they so needed. He wondered how many people believed the rumors that he was at Hogwarts not to teach, but to recruit. How many looked to him and saw a cunning manipulator? He called in a lot of favors trying to pass legislation protecting the rights of children, it was true. He had thrown his name around like it was a party favor. Did that make it wrong?

He could forgive Dumbledore his mistakes, his inaction. He needed to forgive Dumbledore and his mistakes and his inaction. He would look at the same Ravenclaw boy — years later, which is how long it took for the Ministry to actually investigate, and saw bitterness in those young, resigned eyes — and needed to know he could be forgiven.

(Does it get easier?

Failing? No, Harry.)

Harry kept coming back to Dumbledore, despite their disagreements, because he was the only one who understood. Oh, the portrait knew nothing about Harry's research into soul magic, knew nothing of the various… experiments Harry had had to conduct to truly understand how souls worked. Harry wouldn't trust anyone with that knowledge, not even a painting, not until he absolutely had to. But then, that's exactly why he was so sure Dumbledore understood, even without knowing. Some things were better left unsaid.

No, Dumbledore's portrait knew nothing of Harry's dive into soul magic, which is why it was surprised when Harry confronted the painting about his soul one day, eleven years after the Battle of Hogwarts, on the last week of term. Harry had been numb and blank-faced, hovering oddly somewhere between emptiness and rage. He'd just realized he would never see his parents again, had just spent the night desperately searching for the Resurrection Stone and failing.

(I wonder… whether you thought I owed something to the world, or perhaps you thought that I, as a good soldier, simply had no right to myself, to my own soul?

…Harry? What-?

Or maybe… maybe you thought that was the only way to really be rid of us. Maybe I underestimated you, and you knew exactly what you were asking me to do, exactly how I would be destroyed. Did you think I was contaminated? That I did not deserve an afterlife?

Harry! What are you talking about?

I was happy! I was ready! I wanted to move on — and you convinced me not to!

I do not know what you are talking about-

I was DEAD! I should have STAYED dead! I SHOULD HAVE DIED!

Dear lord, Harry! How long have you had these thoughts?

WHY? WHY? WHY DID YOU TELL ME TO COME BACK? Had I not done enough? Had I not already given my life to the war, to the fight? What more do I have to give? Why isn't it over? I-i-it should be over. Why? Why didn't you just let me die?!

Harry. My boy, please — what are you saying?)

It hadn't mattered how Harry phrased it. It didn't matter that, eventually, Dumbledore's portrait had pieced together enough of Harry's pleading and accusations to form a vague idea of what Harry was talking about. It didn't even matter that, once the portrait had figured out that Harry had spoken to the real Dumbledore after taking the Killing Curse eleven years prior, it had tried to answer him.

(Is it truly so difficult to believe, that I simply did not want your death on my conscience?

DAMN YOU AND YOUR CONSCIENCE!)

It wasn't a real answer. Harry could not think of it as a real answer, because it had suddenly become irreversibly clear — this wasn't Dumbledore. This was a painting, made to look and speak and perhaps even think like him, but it wasn't Dumbledore. His mentor was dead, had been dead for more than a decade. He had never apologized for leaving him with the Dursleys, never been forgiven. He had not sat jovially next to Harry as he graded papers, or talked him through frustrating Ministry invoices. He had not given him tips on keeping the students' attention while lecturing, or reminisced about the silly things first-years would write on their exams when they didn't know the answer on a test. He had not listened to Harry when he explained the different kinds of abuse and why they all mattered, or helped him write his speeches. He had not been there for Harry. Dumbledore had died. Dumbledore was dead, and had moved on without him even as he told Harry to go back. Dumbledore had left him and Harry was never going to see him again.

And this painting — this enchanted canvas that was such a mockery of a man — it would never give him a real answer because it had not been there, had not been the one to tell him to come back. It wasn't Dumbledore.

(INCENDIO!)

It wasn't anything at all.


Harry rubs his temple with a big sigh. "…You could say that," he repeats softly.

Snape looks at him expectantly, arms crossed, and arches one eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm not going to tell you what happened," Harry clarifies. "You're a terrible gossip. I really shouldn't fuel your habit."

The looming portrait of Snape looks so offended it's almost comical. But he recovers quickly. "You two are truly cut from the same cloth. Neither can express an ounce of consideration to those you have clearly designated as… lowly servants. I see all these years as a 'professor' have taught you nothing of respect." He manages to channel so much disdain on the word professor that Harry can practically see the air quotes around it. "Tell me, Potter. Did you think I decided to expose myself to your presence because I wanted to say goodbye when you decided to insult me? Or was it simply too entrenched a habit to break?"

Harry didn't want to speak to Snape right now, and had in fact insulted Snape in the hope that he'd leave, but Harry wasn't about admit that. "Alright, Severus," he says in the same tone a parent might employ when indulging a child. "Go on, tell me what you want."

For a moment, Snape looks angry enough to leave, but then his expression darkens. His voice is low and dangerous when he says, "Albus believes you are desperate and distraught. He seems to think that we all have reason to fear what someone such as yourself might do when… afraid."

Harry tries very hard to keep his expression blank, but he doubts Snape misses his sharp intake of breath. How much has Dumbledore been able to glean from that last argument? Harry doesn't remember the day clearly enough to be sure of just how much he might have revealed. But most importantly, Harry needs to know whether the damned portrait shared his suspicions with anyone capable of stopping him.

"Who's 'we'?"

Snape sneers back. "What kinds of places are you visiting, that you felt the need to say goodbye to your godson?"

"What are you implying?"

"Merlin forbid I imply anything that doesn't spare your fragile feelings."

They stare at each other, at an impasse. Harry does some quick thinking.

"I think both you and Dumbledore should keep your respectively large noses out of other people's business," he says. "But if you really must know — I'll be going to the continent, but I won't be staying there for long. Perhaps America, at some point."

Lying has never been easy for Harry. He finds it simpler to skirt the truth, to hide and mislead. He truly does plan on visiting the continent in his near future — Albania, to be precise; if all his research into the subject was correct, Voldemort hid Hufflepuff's Cup in the same tree in which he'd found Ravenclaw's Diadem before his fall in 1981, and had only placed it in the Lestrange vault after his revival. Harry would need to retrieve the Cup once he made it to 1980, so he would indeed have to visit the continent.

And after all this was over, Harry would like to revisit Central America. He had a lot more freedom to work there, with soul magic being considered morbid — and reserved to a few select communities — but a perfectly reasonable area of study.

"And what, pray tell, will you be doing there?" Snape asks through a sneer.

"Research, didn't you hear?" Harry tsked. "You're losing your touch, Sev."

"Do not," Snape hisses. "Do not. I know what you're doing. You're as subtle as a knife to the neck. Shall I afford you the same favor? Very well — I know exactly the type of magic one researches when 'desperate and distraught,' Potter. You're a fool if you think you'll find solace or strength or whatever it is you're looking for in the Dark Arts. You will find yourself alone and persecuted — nothing else!"

"Speaking from experience?" Harry asks before he can help himself.

"Albus should have given up on you years ago," Snape goes on as if Harry hadn't spoken, nose high in the air and looking down at him in disgust.

Harry sighs and, despite himself, calls out just as Snape begins to walk out of the frame. "Se— Snape! Professor — wait! Please." Snape pauses, half out of sight. "Look, I'm not researching dark magic. I'm not distraught or anything like that. The research — I just need to find some people I've lost touch with. It's… personal. You don't have to worry."

Snape studies him for a moment. Harry is hyper-aware of the other half-dozen portraits in McGonagall's office still listening in to their conversation. It's true, he thinks and tries to convey so on his face. It's true.

"…Albus will be glad to know."

If Harry knew Dumbledore at all, and if he read the situation correctly — who knows what Snape is thinking at any time, really? - then Dumbledore would not have told anyone his suspicions at all, and Snape came here of his volition after drawing his own conclusions.

Harry gives him a small smile. "That wasn't a message, Professor. It was just for you."

Snape scoffs. "Goodbye, Potter. And good riddance."


A/N: [*] = The name "Antares Black" is a reference to the Perfectly Normal series by BrilliantLady, which I just wanted to recommend. It's a pseudonym that a fairly manipulative Harry uses to avoid getting in trouble later on in the series. I absolutely love this fic, we see a realistic take on emotional abuse and how it might have affected Harry. Voldemort as an unlikely mentor, Harry the unwitting mentee - but this isn't a dark!Harry story, no, this boy wants to be a doctor and would appreciate if everyone could just get along and let him be normal, please and thank you. I can't recommend it enough.