Author's notes: Hello everybody, I'm back once again! In this story we follow Harry through his Hogwarts years as he is sorted into Slytherin, and gradually finds out that not all is as it seems in the castle. There will be footnotes here and there to provide source material and translations of certain dialogue where needed.

I've written around 125 thousand words so far, and I'm over halfway through the planned narrative. I'll be publishing a chapter every week, and in the meantime I'll try to finish the story ASAP!

Big thank you to Yuan, Liz, and Bolshevikmuppet for proofreading and brainstorming! And without further ado, enjoy the story:

It was a dark and cold midwinter solstice. Snow swept through the old centre of the city of Lincoln, and a thin white blanket covered the rooftops and cobbled streets. Strings of Christmas lights and wrought iron lampposts illuminated terraced houses. The town square was packed with the many stalls of a Christmas market and a large crowd among them buying sweets, small baked goods, souvenirs, trinkets, and many other things. A choir sang carols, led by an accordion and their major chords swept gently across the town square.

Towering above the houses and the Christmas market was the Lincoln Cathedral, its beige-coloured limestone towers lit up by spotlights, creating the illusion that it was floating above the hill the old town centre was built on. And inside that cathedral was Colin Creevey, giving a small group of tourists the last guided tour of the evening.

'To close off tonight's tour, I'd like to invite you over to the East Window. Follow me, please!' he said to the group, and they set off past the High Altar, several richly decorated tombs and the great pillars that held up the Cathedral's monumental vaults. Echoes were thrown around of footsteps on the stone, of soft murmurs and Colin's camera bumping against his hip.

He stopped in the middle of the Angel Choir and waited to allow all the stragglers to catch up: two rotund Germans and that one strange man who always lingered at the back and held his face hidden beneath the wide rim of his hat.

'We're here in what we call the Angel Choir, because I wanted to bring your attention to a figure that has been the subject of numerous myths and legends: the Lincoln Imp.' He pointed towards the top of one of the pillars, where two arches came together in a V-shape. 'If you look closely, you can see that the decorations of this part of the wall look slightly different than the others. In fact…'

With one hand he gestured at the mentioned part of the wall, and with his other hand hidden in the folds of his coat he flicked his wand at one of the lights behind him.

'This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Lincoln Imp.' A gasp went through the crowd as the spotlight he turned on illuminated a grotesque from below. The shadows it cast emphasised the malicious grin of its rodent-like face. 'According to local legend, Satan had sent two imps ‒ or demons, or fairies ‒ to earth to cause mayhem. As they were wreaking havoc in this cathedral, an angel appeared from a book of hymns and turned one of them to stone. The other one, however, escaped. And it said that that second imp is still here, haunting the church after all these centuries to search for its friend.' He turned to the group and grinned at their enthralled expressions as they craned their neck to look up. 'But that's just a myth, of course.'

'Who made the imp, then?' asked a young woman at the front.

'One of the Cathedral's builders. This figure is what we call a grotesque. Back when the Cathedral was built in the Middle Ages, churches were meant to be a sort of visual storytelling device, through stained glass, statues, and little figures built into the stone such as this one.' He glanced at the imp sneering down at them. 'So why then these kind of creatures? Well, the thought was that the message of God would connect better with the visiting public if the story the church told was grounded in local folkloric beliefs. And don't be mistaken: belief in fairies, monsters and other creatures was really quite common at the time.'

If only they knew of the Magical Creatures that did exist, he mused.

'All in all, I hope you enjoyed the tour, and that you have learned more about the function of the church building itself. It's not just books we read and people we meet ‒ it's the physical environment around us that can also shape us in a profound way. And this cathedral is certainly one of Britain's most remarkable examples of how aware Medieval architects were of this.'

He brought the tourists back to the central nave of the cathedral and ended the tour there. The group thanked him one by one and they all gave him a generous tip. Colin thanked them profusely, but his attention was constantly diverted to the straggler who was once again lagging behind the others, blending in to the shadowy atmosphere with that dark coat and hat of his.

He smiled and nodded at the Germans complimenting him on the choreography with the lights. But a sheen of sweat began to form on his head as they made to depart, meaning he'd be left alone with this stranger, who was inching towards him with nary a sound.

The two Germans gave him a tenner and turned away to amble towards the grand entrance. Their footsteps drew quieter and Colin turned to the mysterious man now standing close to him.

He cleared his throat to break the shroud of silence that had descended over them. 'Did you enjoy the tour as well?'

'I certainly did,' the man replied in a low voice. 'Great trickery with the lights as well. Like one of those Muggles said: it's just like magic!'

'W-what?! Who are you? What is the meaning of this?' His eyes darted to the entrance, where the last people of his group slipped outside. They were truly alone now.

'Come on, Colin,' said the man. 'Don't you recognise your old childhood hero anymore?'

He lifted his hat and revealed green eyes behind round glasses, and a scar on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt.

'Harry Potter!' Colin gasped. 'What… what do you want from me?'

'Lower your wand,' replied Harry. He took his hands from his pockets and opened his palms. 'See? I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to have a short chat. I assume you have an office here somewhere?'

'It's in another building,' said Colin, hoping his voice didn't tremble as much as his hands did. 'You… you're not going to hurt me?'

'Of course not,' said Harry. His smile looked painfully disingenuous. 'Well then ‒ lead the way.'

They walked through the cathedral in silence, their footsteps echoing through the empty nave. Colin cast a glance around it but saw no one else. Whatever his intentions may be, it seemed like Harry Potter had indeed come alone.

He kept his hand clenched firmly around his wand in the pocket of his coat. They exited the church through an oak door and walked alongside the wall of the old garden, whose gracefully twisting paths, grass fields, trees and herb beds were covered by a thin layer of snow. Colin unlocked the door of the visitor centre and flicked on the lights as they went inside. He went dazedly through his normal routine of hanging up his jacket and storing away his badge and camera, careful to keep an eye on Harry, who closed the door and leaned against it.

'What do you want from me?' he asked, placing his wallet on the counter and counting today's tips.

'Seems like you've got it well sorted for yourself here,' Harry commented. He strode towards him and placed a galleon on top of the pound notes laid out there. 'It can't have been easy, having to leave the Wizarding World after all those years you spent at Hogwarts.'

Colin sighed. 'No, it wasn't. But it is what it is. I made it out and I'm alive.' He slid the Galleon in the small pocket of his jeans. 'Thank you, by the way. But where have you been, then? People've been saying the wildest things about you. That you died… or that you were apprenticing to become the next Dark Lord.'

'Oh… I've been here and there. Long story.'

'So you're not… with Him?'

Harry stared at him, but Colin could not read his expression. 'No,' he said. 'Did you really think I was?'

'Well…'

Harry scoffed. 'Never mind that. There's a writer, living here in this town. His name is Claudius Cuculiformus. I reckon you've heard of him?'

Colin blushed. 'Yes, of course I have.'

'Still read his books, then?'

'I don't know if I should answer that question.'

'No, perhaps you shouldn't,' said Harry stiffly.

'What about him, then? What do you want from him?'

Harry edged closer. 'I want you to tell me where he lives.'

'I can't tell you that!' protested Colin. 'In fact, I haven't even seen him once! They say he's become a total recluse.'

'But you do know where he lives.' Another step closer. Colin stared up at him, a jitter coursing through the hand that clutched his wand by his side.

'What are you going to do to him?'

'I'm going to give him something that will make him the happiest man in the country,' said Harry. 'And then I'll leave again. So: tell me his address, Colin. Now.'

'I…'

Rapid as a pouncing adder, Harry sprung forward and grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt.

'Listen to me very carefully: I've seen things no one should deserve to witness. I have knowledge of things that would leave you reeling in disgust… I may not be with Him, but trust me when I say that you don't want to cross me.'

Colin swallowed. He could see every hair that made up his untidy stubble, every red vein in his eyes, and a strong waft of whisky crept over him as the man who had once been a fellow student panted in his face.

'So, Colin, you will tell me where he lives,' Harry hissed, bringing his face so close to him that they almost touched. 'Or I'll rip the information from you right where you stand.'

Colin squeezed his eyes shut. 'Drury Lane,' he whispered. 'Forty-six. Just south of the Castle.'

No one in the Christmas market paid any attention to him as he entered the town square. He stopped to glance at the street name and the house numbers and then crossed through the square, past the stalls, past the families, past the choir.

The lights were out at 46 Drury Lane, but the curtains were open and so the small living room was faintly illuminated by the many Christmas lights outside. Bookshelves adorned every wall and displayed countless books, magazines, loose pieces of paper and parchment, here and there a few faded, yellowing postcards, and small vials containing a white fluid. There was nothing else in the room other than a table in the centre. Papers, rotting remainders of meals, dried up fountain pens and quills were strewn over the top.

Buried there was a man, sat by the table and facing the window, gazing out onto the scene outside as he tried in vain to remember why there were so many people outside. The table and the mess around it made it impossible for him to manoeuvre past it in his wheelchair, but going outside was far from his mind these days anyway.

There was a knock on the door. The man looked up, but said nothing and remained motionless. Another knock, a pause, and then the lock clicked and the door opened, letting Harry Potter inside. The murmur of the crowd died away as the door closed.

'Hello? Anyone home?' he called. 'Lumos.'

He opened the door to his left and encountered the living room, but froze at the sight of a pair of watery eyes reflecting in his wandlight.

'Hello?' he asked again.

'Who's there?' the man asked, his voice frail from lack of use.

'You're still alive, then?'

'I suppose I am. Who are you?'

'My apologies,' said Harry. He took off the hat and placed it on the windowsill, next to a few plants that had died a long time ago. 'I didn't want to be recognised on my way here. Figured nobody would recognise me wearing a hat. Normally I never wear these stupid things, see.'

The man stirred as he recognised who stood before him. 'H-Harry Potter,' he wheezed. 'How honoured…'

'The feeling is not mutual,' Harry replied stiffly. He leaned to his right and switched on the lights in the room. Before him, in between the bookshelves, half buried in the mess that surrounded him, sat an old, withered man. His face was pale, paler than Harry's, his blue eyes looked dull and dry, and his thin face was bordered by thin strands of silver hair. He wore a sloppy cardigan that had quite a few spots on it.

'I suppose…' the man said, 'I suppose you deserve to be angry with me.'

Harry nodded, then frowned as he took in the wasted state of the room.

'D'you mind if I…' he gestured around the room with his wand.

'Please.'

He flicked his wand, creating a bag, and then waved it around in a grand arc. The rotting food, the dust, the silverfish gnawing at the paper and the dead potted plants flew through the air and disappeared into the bag. Several vials on the shelves tinkled in the flowing magic, the papers stirred, the man's listless hair waved around in the fetid air. Harry directed the mountains of waste into the bottomless bin bag and the magical winds died down. One last flick, and the bag disappeared with a small pop.

'Thank you, my boy,' the man said. 'Please, sit down, and tell me why you've come.'

Harry pocketed his wand and took seat in the only chair in the room, across from the man.

'You've got a lot of explaining to do, Mr Cuculiformus,' he said. He stuck his hand in his coat and produced a small flask of whisky. 'D'you mind?'

The man named Claudius eyed the flask. 'I suppose we should stop calling you "boy", should we?' He sighed. 'Go ahead. As for my explanation: age has taken away a lot from me, but it has also given me the time to reflect on what I've done, and...' he hung his head. 'I'm deeply sorry."

'Sorry?' repeated Harry. 'You're sorry? Sorry doesn't even begin to do justice, old man. You've exploited me and my fame without ever asking if I was even okay with it. You've written fairy tales about me, made every witch, wizard and child in this country believe in this… lie about me, before I even realised who I was! Can you imagine the shock it must have been when I first came to Hogwarts and found out that everybody has been reading these ludicrous tales about me? Do you even realise what that did to me?' He slammed his fist on the table. Loose pens rattled against the surface. 'There's a long list of people who are guilty of making my life as a wizard a hell, but you're definitely somewhere near the top!'

Claudius raised a hand and shakily rubbed his face. 'I know… And I've got no excuses.'

'You've still got them laying around here somewhere, haven't you?' Harry continued in the same heated tone. He took another swig and shuddered as the Firewhisky made its way down. He then stood up, and flicked his wand. 'Accio!'

Several books and magazines pried themselves loose from their place on the dusty shelves and flew into Harry's arms. Claudius clenched his jaw, an action that made his grotesquely pale and hollow cheeks stand out even more. Harry started to browse through the titles.

'The Boy Who Lived, written by Claudius Cuculiformus,' he began, dropping a brown book on the table with a thud. The flask shook dangerously. 'Written in 1984. 'Harry Potter and the Cursed Caverns,' a thin comic book fell down on top of the book. 'Written in 1985, right after your first book had its second printing. And then you got the taste for success, didn't you? 'Harry Potter and the Dismaying Dementors.' Another comic book added to the pile, 'Harry Potter and the Basilisk's Lair – really, Claudius, that's surprisingly prophetic of you, considering you wrote it when I was seven; ah, here we are: Harry Potter and Aïscha Qandischa – Supernatural Temptress of Morocco.' He looked up and raised an eyebrow. Claudius' cheeks tinged red – the first sign of colour on his face. 'Something in here for all ages and audiences, I suppose?' He dropped the last few books as well, and they crashed down on top of the already existing pile. The flask of whisky toppled over, spilling liquor over the table and onto the floor. Its strong odour permeated and mixed with the already present smell of rot and decay. Harry lifted the flask again and cleaned up the liquid with a flick of his wand.

'I thought I could lift the spirits of the witches and wizards in this country,' mumbled Claudius. 'I thought I could make our beacon of light into a true hero…'

'You saw a hole in the market and exploited it,' Harry interrupted. 'Pocketed quite a bit of money with it, didn't you? Don't lie to me, Mr Cuculiformus… I know when you're lying. I always know…'

'What do you want of me?' asked Claudius. 'Are you here just to torment an old man on his last remaining days? Are the rumours calling you the next Dark Lord really true?'

Harry hesitated. 'That depends. How far gone are you, exactly?'

Claudius' mouth formed into something that might have been a grin. 'Take a good look at me, Harry,' he laughed. 'I'm already dead. I'm just waiting for the day it'll come for me.'

'Just old age, or…?'

'The mind is gone,' Claudius sighed. 'I can barely remember anything: my morning routine, my meals, what I'm supposed to do after those or at any given moment ‒ which resulted in the state of this house being… well…' he gestured around the room with a weak, trembling arm. 'And I can't, for the life of me, remember why there are so many people outside.'

'It's midwinter, nearly Christmas,' said Harry softly, following Claudius' gaze and staring out the window. 'They're going out with their families… Celebrating the Holidays together.' He grimaced and quickly took another sip of the liquor, then looked back at the man sitting across from him.

'Ah,' said Claudius, still staring out the window past Harry's shoulder. 'Now I remember.'

'Nobody has come to visit you in a long time, have they?'

Claudius hung his head.

'I felt the Muggle-repelling spells when I approached your house, so that explains the lack of Muggles. But don't you have friends in the magical community?'

Claudius closed his eyes. 'Not anymore.'

'You were good friends with Bathilda Bagshot, weren't you? And Gilderoy Lockhart?' asked Harry. He stood up and browsed the bookshelves to have a closer look at the cards that the man had placed on them. He saw old Christmas cards, birthday cards, a few "get well soon!" cards. Names fitted by: Horace Slughorn, Bathilda Bagshot, Rita Skeeter (Harry's jaw clenched when he encountered her name), Gilderoy Lockhart, Horace Slughorn, and other names he didn't recognise. All of them were covered with a sheen of dust.

'Sometimes I remember them,' said Claudius. 'It used to help me, but now…'

Harry was silent for a moment.

'Lots of art history books… And you've got memories here as well,' said Harry, peering at the thin vials containing the ghostly white fluid. 'What kind of memories are they?'

'I can't remember,' said Claudius, his voice trembling.

'Do you have a Pensieve here?'

'I can't remember,' Claudius repeated, choking back a sob. 'I can't even remember my own name, just this pseudonym that I've chosen for myself.' He lifted his cardigan, revealing a sagged belly, and felt his navel with an index finger. 'This is the only proof I have that tells me that I once had a mother… But…' His hands shook, and dropped to his sides again. A tear leaked out of his eye. 'But I can't even remember what she looked like anymore.'

Harry pressed his lips together in a thin line, and took his place at the table again. 'Do you still write?'
Claudius sniffed and pulled his cardigan back down. 'It's the only thing I do these days. If I do anything at all.'

Harry grabbed a few loose sheets off the table and skimmed through the text. Sentences were scribbled down in a writing that was hardly legible, and many of them were either incomplete or incomprehensible.

'If on a winter's night a traveller,' he read, frowning.

'I must ask you again, Harry,' said Claudius softly. 'Why are you here? Shouldn't you be out there as well? Doing shopping for…' he squinted, 'Christmas?'

Harry placed the sheets back down and looked up. The corners of his mouth trembled but he showed no emotions otherwise. 'I was going to ask you for a favour,' he said in a neutral tone. 'Lord knows you owe me. But I suppose with the state you're in, it's going to be difficult.'

Claudius cocked his head. His neck loudly cracked in the silent room. 'But what could you possibly want of me? I cannot take care of myself, let alone help someone else.'

'Yes, indeed. That does make this rather complicated,' said Harry. 'Oh well…' Then he screwed the flask shut and stood up.

'W-wait,' called Claudius as Harry turned away from him. 'At least… tell me your proposal… Please.'

Harry paused, schooling his features before he turned back to face the old man.

'It's a writing job,' he said, and for the first time since the conversation started, there was a brief spark in the old man's eye, but it disappeared as soon as it came.

'Nothing would bring me more joy, Harry,' he said. A sob interrupted him. 'B-but I can't. You've seen what I write these days,' he gestured at the papers on the table and scowled. 'Now if there's nothing else, I'd ask you to please stop tormenting me further ‒'

'I've got the source material,' said Harry, and Claudius fell silent, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Harry opened his coat and reached into his inner pocket, far deeper than should be possible in a normal coat. He kept his eyes on Claudius ‒ who was completely rooted to his seat, spellbound ‒ and revealed a small leather-bound map. He placed it on top of the books that he'd summoned earlier, enlarged it with a tap of his wand and opened it up to glance at the first few pages. Silence reigned for a moment.

'What is it?' Claudius then asked. He made an effort to sit up straighter, but in vain.

'On my very first day at Hogwarts, when I was eleven years old,' he said after a moment's hesitation, 'I started writing in a diary. I've kept it up more or less every day since then.'

Claudius' eyes, if possible, widened even further, and his breathing quickened. 'I never knew,' he said.

'No one does.'

'So you're saying…'

'Truth is, Mr Cuculiformus,' Harry continued, 'I'm sick of all the lies and fables that everyone believes about me. People run away from me, thinking I am either Voldemort's apprentice or his rival Dark Lord. People think I'm a mythical sorcerer, they see me as a storybook character. It wouldn't feel right to leave all these rumours and fables out there without at least doing something to rectify them.' The spark was back in Claudius' pale blue eyes, but this time it stayed. 'And I'm about to embark on something that… won't exactly put me in a good daylight if people didn't know the reason behind it. That's why I came here. Do you think you could do this for me?'

Claudius grunted, and this time managed to sit up straighter. 'I suppose…' he said, his voice stronger now. 'I suppose I could do one last story.'

'One last story,' Harry repeated. A muscle near his eye twitched. 'Do you think you're up for it?'

'If you think it would redeem what I've done,' the old man continued, meeting Harry's gaze. There was a focus in there that had been absent before. 'Then yes, Harry, I accept this offer.'

Harry's mouth curled up into a smile. 'Excellent!' he said. He bent over the table and placed the leather tome, containing different books and loose pieces of parchment, in front of Claudius' nose. The man regarded it as if he was a little boy in a candy store.

Harry cleared his throat. 'Of course, there's a lot that happened around me, that I didn't include in the diaries. Small details of school life, news stories, big events; things like that. I don't know if that's going to be a problem…?'

'Oh,' said Claudius. He chuckled. 'No, I think I'm prepared for that.' He grabbed the wand that had laid in his lap this whole time, and waved it with shaking hands at a book shelf behind him. A wooden box skidded forward and floated gently towards him, landing in front of him on the table, next to Harry's diaries. Claudius opened it and showed its contents, revealing…

'Newspaper articles, letters, cards, diaries,' said Harry. He chuckled. 'Yes, I suppose you could call that "well prepared", alright. You'll need a bit of fantasy still to fill in the blanks – but then again: that's why I approached you in the first place, didn't I?'

Claudius tore his gaze from the treasure tome in front of him and flashed him a toothless grin.

'Well, I think that concludes my visit then,' said Harry. He grabbed the flask and hid it in his coat again. 'Thank you for accepting this assignment, Mr Cuculiformus – and good luck with the book.' He waved goodbye and ambled back towards the hallway.

'Wait!' Claudius called. He rolled his wheelchair towards the gap in between the table and the bookshelf, but his wheel got stuck behind the table leg. He couldn't get through. Harry stopped and turned around.

'Why now?' asked Claudius, his breathing laboured from the movement. 'Why didn't you approach me earlier?'

Harry furrowed his brow and then sighed, and he seemed to deflate with that simple action.

'I've lost everything,' he admitted, his gaze faraway. 'My parents, my friends, my home, if you could call it that… the love of my life…' His face crumpled, and he hid it behind his hands for a moment. Then he rubbed it with vigour, sniffed once, and looked back at the writer. 'I've gone through hell, Mr Cuculiformus, as I'm sure you'll find out soon enough. And now my time is up. Somewhere along the way I've stopped caring about that.'

He turned back and opened the door that led to the hallway.

'Where are you going?' Claudius asked.

Harry turned back one last time.

'I'm going to do us all a favour and bring an end to the story.' And with that he exited the room. Claudius heard the front door open and close again, and then a soft pop that announced Harry's final departure.

Then his attention was drawn again to the tome in front of him. He felt the rough texture of the binding and leafed through the pages. The handwriting was ugly, but Claudius was used to that, and he could make out most of the words. Harry hadn't lied; there was one entry for almost every day, some longer, some shorter.

The spark of inspiration finally rose up in him again, and it ignited into a flame that spurred him into action. Soon enough he was sorting through the newspaper articles, magazines, and other small things he'd collected over the years. He gave his wand an erratic wave and the used pieces of parchment containing the nonsense he'd written the past few months flew up in a small conjured whirlwind and then disappeared. Then he grabbed a clean piece of parchment, dipped his quill into the ink and set the tip at the top left of the page, making decisions as he started sketching the structure: third person, with the focus on Harry, and occasionally a wider scope than the boy's own perspective if a situation needed explanation. He jotted down a hasty list of the people that would feature the most in the story. And here and there wrote down a note of passages that needed references and footnotes, to make it more accessible for the readers. Lastly, he deliberated where the story should begin.

He placed the quill back into its stand and leafed through the leather tome, all the way to the last few pages. And as he suspected, Harry had indeed written down what he was planning on doing. Claudius sucked in his breath as he read through the last few entries, and breathed out shakily when he reached the end. He placed his elbow on the table and leaned into his hand as he processed what he'd just read, and what that would mean for the story. Finally it became crystal clear to him that there was only one logical point that could mark the start of his narrative. He grabbed his quill, pressed the sharp point to the parchment, and began writing.