Thank you to my beta readers Ace of Braids, Eider Down, Esseraph, ex-livreira, Kimberly T, nateyeh, Talesoftime, WriterBen01, and thank you also to everyone else who encouraged me to write this fic.

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Mycroft

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Mycroft Holmes was having a truly atrocious day. His incompetent assistant had double-booked him for lunch with the Prime Minister and his parents, and he wasn't sure whom he'd upset more with a postponement. His sister Eurus had been skipping classes again , likely too busy to attend irregardless of tuition fees. The terrorism threat from the IRA was at an all-time high, with an unannounced, unforeseen explosion having taken place in Kent last night. There was a bowl of Halloween sweets sitting on his desk and half his concentration was going towards not taking one.

Mycroft Holmes was a man who prided himself in intelligence and control, and in that moment he lacked both.

None of this, however, measured up to the mystery of the man who had just walked into his office.

Walked. Up three floors, past four levels of security, all while holding a baby .

"Hullo Mycroft," the man said softly. "If you'd be so kind as to keep it down, he's only just fallen asleep."

Mycroft stared. Casually well-dressed. Damp, bird's nest of hair, no raincoat. In his twenties, not his child though he legitimately cares for it. Unmarried. Wealthy. Odd wear-pattern on his right sleeve, almost as if—a wizard, then?

Mycroft had only ever met two wizards, Bagnold and Fudge.

That wasn't what stood out though. Because this office was in London, and—

"It isn't raining."

The man smiled back. "I'd hoped you'd see right through me. In London in my universe on the night after Samhain in 2009, I can promise you it was raining."

The web of facts connected faster than Mycroft could follow. This man needed his help. They were well-acquainted three decades in the future, to the extent that the man trusted and called him by his given name. He needed somewhere to stay and possibly a job, and was counting on Mycroft's curiosity to grant him both.

Mycroft put magic-proofing his security to the top of his mental to-do list. It left only one piece of information open. "Who are you?" Mycroft demanded.

Shifting the toddler onto his shoulder, the man smiled and extended a hand. "Harry James Potter. I was your wizarding counterpart. How do you do."

Oh. Oh this was fascinating. "How do you do," he murmured back, coming to a decision. "You will be joining me in my home until we make alternative arrangements."

His secretary burst in at that moment. "Mr. Holmes, the Prime Minister—"

Spotting Potter, he froze.

"What have I said about knocking, Blainbridge?" Mycroft was bone-tired and it was only lunchtime. "Reschedule my parents. Send a bouquet: carnations and hyacinths."

The buffoon stumbled out of the room, even failing to shut the door. "I'm not sure he's the best choice of secretary," Potter announced. "Anyway, Fudge'll be at the meeting. I can come with, if you want, but someone will need to watch young, err, Henry."

They'd only just met; Mycroft wasn't letting Potter out of his sight. "Blainbridge has fathered four children. Perhaps he can finally be of use."

Potter smirked, tapping himself on the head to turn his hair sandy and his eyes brown. "Alright. Ready, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft wasn't sure to what extent he could trust the man. He didn't like being at a disadvantage, but whatever this was between himself and Harry had the potential to grow into something interesting. For the moment, Mycroft decided, it would be sensible to keep his suspicions quiet.

And then Potter began to lead the way, as if this were his office building, his employees, his car waiting by the kerb.

It was a carefully-chosen move that expressed Potter's comfort and familiarity with his own universe's Mycroft Holmes. With reluctant admiration, Mycroft admitted it was working.

It was also entirely irritating to be in the company of someone who knew more about Mycroft than vice versa. Mycroft Holmes prided himself on intelligence and control, after all.

"You may introduce me as your security, Metis Selwyn. I am a first-generation squib—nobody asks questions after a squib."

What a perfect name, Mycroft approved.

"Minister," Potter greeted John Major once Mycroft had handled the pleasantries. "Minister," he acknowledged Cornelius Fudge.

Their confusion and ire was a pleasure to behold. Oh, was everything this man did a power play? Mycroft felt his delight effervescing quietly in his chest, barely dulled by the perfunctory tea or the news of a civil war nobody had bothered to inform him of.

"It's all over and dealt with now," Fudge blustered, failing to instil confidence in the magical police-equivalent. "You-Know-Who tried to kill a baby, see, and it caused him to vanish."

All the self-control in the world couldn't prevent Mycroft's sneer. "Truly, a magnificent twist of fate. You must be very proud of your people."

Fudge nodded amiably. "Headmaster Dumbledore placed the boy somewhere safe, so there'll be no more trouble. We're rounding up the last of his supporters now. It's a new era the Potters have brought us, better times."

The Prime Minister asked some questions about cover-ups and exploded gas lines while Mycroft caught Potter's eye. Really? he asked with the tilt of an eyebrow.

Potter replied with a shrug. What can I do? it seemed to say.

"And they're calling him 'The Boy Who Lived'? Mycroft interrupted, still watching Potter's reaction.

"It's quite a legacy," Fudge defended.

Mycroft scoffed. "It's quite a mouthful."

Potter just smiled, eyes crinkling.

Mycroft prided himself in his intelligence and control, and right now he knew more than both British ministers and had influence over two Harry Potters. It was like Christmas, his Birthday and Easter combined.

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As soon as they were back in the car, Potter burst into laughter. "Merlin," he gasped, barely stopping another round of undignified giggles. "Did you see Fudge's face!"

Mycroft deigned to smile in return.

"It's quite a legacy, " Potter parroted, then began laughing anew.

It seemed Potter, too, enjoyed knowing more and having more control than Britain's 'most powerful.'

No wonder he'd been so familiar with Mycroft's alternate self. He could tell they'd be getting along swimmingly.

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Harry

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He'd never intended for it to happen. Harry had been The Boy Who Lived, then he'd been The Man Who Conquered. After a year camping in the woods, he hadn't been interested in going back to school.

They all moved on with their lives: Hermione finished her NEWTs and began working her way up the Ministry. Ron let Shacklebolt fast-track him through Auror training, dragging Harry along with his sheer enthusiasm. Ginny and Luna went Snorkack-hunting in Sweden.

Somehow, Harry had gotten left behind. He hadn't been interested in putting himself in dangerous situations anymore. He hadn't wanted special treatment or attention. Harry'd barely blinked and it was already the three year memorial, and still he'd had no idea what he was doing with his life.

When they asked him to give a speech, he pointed to Neville. When asked his opinion on the latest werewolf regulations, he brought in Bill and Fleur. When offered the seeker's position for the Appleby Arrows, he recommended Ginny. While the rest of them lived , Harry helped Andromeda raise his godson, and visited his therapist.

In time, he was invited to join Andy's monthly poker games with Augusta Longbottom and Amelia Bones*. The three of them had more cunning in their pinkies than Malfoy had in his entire house. Of course, that was a lower bar now that Malfoy manor had been sold off to pay reparations.

Harry hadn't realised he didn't know how their world worked until the poker club had provided him with a real education.

Suddenly it made a lot more sense when the Undersecretary asked him his opinion, or the Muggle Liaison requested an audience. It was a game of politics that Harry had been playing all his life, whether he'd realised it or not. Thankfully, it was much easier once Harry knew a bit more about what he was doing.

Sometimes he felt like Dumbledore, treating the world as a chess game, and it terrified him.

They were human lives, not pawns and knights to be manipulated. But still, a nudge here, a word there—it was startlingly simple. Until one morning, when he woke up with a sound in the back of his head like a river washing pebbles down a bank. Until one morning where he stopped being The Man Who Conquered and became Just Harry , as in, "Harry, could you read over this legislation," and, "Harry, what do you think we should do about Azkaban," and, "Harry, anything we should teach differently this year?"

He could hear them, the pulse of his people , always throbbing in the background. It was as if magic herself had given him the ability to feel what they were thinking, what they needed, and the best ways he could go about fixing things. Some mornings he wondered if Dumbledore had held the same power. It'd explain why the man had always seemed a bit mad.

Harry watched his people thriving and realised that no, he had far, far more power than Dumbledore ever did.

He met his counterpart in the middle of a Statute crisis. Mycroft Holmes, The British Government, had put up enough cameras around London to capture twenty eight apparations in one afternoon.

"Ah, you must be him then," Holmes had greeted. "Do you call yourself The Ministry of Magic, then?"

"It's just Harry," Harry had said. They'd shaken on it, and that had been that.

.oOo.

On Rose's second birthday, Hermione had smiled blankly at Harry and told him, twice, "I'm so glad you could make it."

On Hugo's second birthday, Ron hadn't even noticed that Harry was there.

On Teddy's sixth birthday, Harry overheard the boy asking his grandmother who the man with the glasses and the scar was. 'I'm not sure, maybe one of your mum's old friends. Don't mind him,' Andromeda had replied, and Harry had shattered.

They were louder than ever, the people who resounded in the back of his mind. They murmured and muttered, plotted and planned. He knew exactly what his people were doing, and they could find him when they needed him. Thanks to the strange magic that came with being a Government, Harry could go anywhere he wanted and blend right in. Even his friends' eyes passed over him like he didn't even exist.

He stopped changing his clothes and replaced daily showers with cleaning spells. Eventually, he vanished all his mirrors, tired of his own mug.

Mycroft was the only person who still saw Harry for who he was. By the time they figured out how to turn off the way everyone's eyes passed right over him, it was too late. Harry was lonely. He was exhausted.

He was bored.

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"I didn't think you'd come here," Harry said to his friend.

Mycroft shuffled himself into a sitting position, clutching his now-folded umbrella like it might help him if he fell. Below them, the cars sped by, muffled by the drizzle. "It's better not to have such thoughts alone, I've learned."

Harry looked up, wondering whom Mycroft had lost to that particular lesson. "It's almost like flying," he said instead, turning back to the view below. The cars were just streaks of yellow and red lights.

Mycroft did not ask what happened. He did not ask how Harry was feeling. He did not tell Harry that he shouldn't let go and— "You said you've died, once before. There was a train."

"Yes." Harry knew it wouldn't be Dumbledore coming to meet him. In the back of his mind he could hear his entire nation rustling, groaning, stretching out. It was almost louder than the cars. "I was given a choice: get on a train to go on , or go back."

"It's not oblivion you want. You come here too often for that."

Shame rushed to Harry's cheeks. He might have realised that Mycroft was always watching. Tonight shouldn't feel any different. He'd been bored before, he'd felt the same grey apathy tinging on everything he did. And yet, the road below might as well have been a siren.

"Your godson would be devastated."

Harry could feel Mycroft's eyes on him, but he didn't turn to look. "He'll forget soon enough. My friends barely recognize me, can't remember who I am." He didn't need to see Mycroft's face to know the man could see right through his excuse.

They sat and listened. The rain stopped, leaving their clothes clinging with damp.

"Let's say, for a moment, that there's a third train in the station. Not onwards, not here, but backwards instead?"

Mycroft's eyes were steel blue, but they'd never felt so warm. Harry felt a spark come to life inside him. In the back of his mind, his entire nation was holding its collective breath.

"Backwards." The word felt glorious on his tongue. Yes, war had been dreadful, but it had made him feel alive . He thought about what he'd have to do, affairs he'd need to settle. Bags to pack, letters to send, a successor to saddle. Already, his heart was beating a bit faster. "Hmmm."

The man beside him was radiating a smugness that was far stronger than his fear of heights. "I'd say I'll miss you, but I suspect you'll be seeing me very soon indeed."

"It won't be the same," Harry said, reaching out and squeezing the hand that was holding Mycroft's umbrella safe from a very long drop.

Their eyes met. Mycroft wasn't smiling, but the crinkle around his eyes was real. "Perhaps, my friend," he said, shuffling back from the edge and climbing to his feet, "Perhaps it'll be something better."

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I've completely reworked this due to popular demand. Thanks for all your support, I wouldn't be writing this without you.
A few content warnings: character death, mentions of depression including brief suicidal thoughts, non-explicit Mycroft Holmes/Harry Potter and Eurus Holmes/Joan Watson, mentions of past Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald. There are canon psychopaths and 'sociopaths' who will be acting accordingly.