Synopsis: AU. In a world where Sybil Trelawney is never born, the prophecy remains, but goes unheard. How different will Harry Potter's life be growing up in a world where Voldemort won? How long until a brilliant young man is noticed by the ever more brilliant Dark Lord?
Pairing: Harry Potter and Voldemort, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Grainger, Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass, Theodore Nott and Luna Lovegood.
AN: So I managed to upload a chapter within a month of the last one. Well done me, I've managed the bare minimum ;) Thank you all so much for the reviews, they really inspire me. I hope you like the next chapter. I know the plot might seem a bit meandering, and I hope you don't mind all the tangents. It's just really important to me to fully flesh out the characters.
Chapter 19
January 29th 1997
Harry Potter bundled the heavy winter cloak closer to his skin, suppressing a shiver as he navigated the narrow city streets. It was a freezing early evening in late January, and the streets were coated in a fine layer of snow; not enough to hide the grime beneath, but enough to make the walk slippery and slow his pace. He had to be fast, not least because his inability to cast a warming charm here might cause him to actually freeze to death. Wizarding clothes were light, the wearer able to enable heating or cooling charms at will, but as Harry had entered the muggle world some hours before, he'd shed the enchantments. It was bad enough that this time he had brought a wand, it would be suicide to use it.
He had spent long weeks considering his current actions. There was little else to do. Hermione had only withdrawn further after Draco had departed. He had attempted to pry out of her what exactly had happened, but it had only closed her down further. It had ended in a particularly vicious argument, where both had said things they'd later regret. It hadn't taken long for them to make up, but they now avoided the subject like the plague, even as Hermione spent more and more time alone. Blaise too, seemed endlessly distracted. He didn't seem sad, not particularly, but the already serious young man seemed to have little patience for fun these days. They still ate together, and sat together in classes, but there was a distance growing between them. The weight of secrets, Harry thought. He was more observant than his friends credited him with, and he could see that Blaise was hiding as much as Harry was. Whatever Blaise was hiding, however, he was doing a fair job.
Harry had other friends of course. He'd been to the leaky cauldron with Ron and Terry just last week, and had recently struck up a tentative friendship with a girl in the year below called Luna. She was an odd thing, but had the most interesting ideas on the nature of magic. It wasn't like being with his closest friends though. There was a sort of wall with these people; they didn't know the real him. As time went on, he wondered more and more if his best friends even knew him anymore. They were all keeping so much from each other, where once they had shared everything. It seemed that his closest confidant in recent months had been Tom bloody Riddle. If ever he felt angry at his friends for keeping things from him, he need only remind himself that he kept the infuriating memory of the teenaged Dark Lord under his mattress.
He snapped out of his grim thoughts when he came to an equally grim tower block and began to ascend the stairs. Litter was strewn about the edges of the concrete flights, and the walls were covered in unintelligible graffiti. He grimaced, wondering how he'd never noticed the obvious disrepair of the building on his previous visits. He supposed he'd been too distracted then. He climbed to the fifth floor , quietly moving along the line of flats. When he came to the correct door, he hesitated. He wanted to knock, wanted to go in and say everything he'd wanted to these past months, to confess. He knew it was impossible, however, that this was as much danger as he was willing to put them both in. He took the envelope out of his pocket, the single word Michael scrawled on the front and pushed it through the metal flap muggles used for their post. He paused for just a moment, before walking away.
He had almost reached the top of the stairs when his stomach jerked uncomfortably at the sound of a door opening.
"Harry?" came the soft, shocked voice of his ex-lover.
From his armchair seat next to the Gryffindor commonroom fireplace, Blaise warily eyed the people around him. They were mainly older students; it was past curfew, and most of the younger students had gone to bed already. None seemed to be paying any attention to him, which was how he preferred it. To be safe, he cast a nonverbal charm that would draw attention even further from him, before taking two letters from his inner breast pocket.
The first came in a rich, cream-coloured envelope with neat handwriting reading 'Master Blaise Zabini' in handwriting Blaise immediately recognised. He snorted at the formality of it – Draco would never change. Without hesitation, he neatly opened it.
Dear Blaise,
Apologies for the delay in correspondence. Whilst I had been warned, the rigour of this place took me quite by surprise. I was hardly in the door when a witch who was both disagreeable and unsightly dumped several heavy tomes on my desk and informed me I needed to read and make notes on the lot before the week was out.
I find the culture here to be very odd. You wouldn't approve at all. Everyone is so loud and boisterous all the time, even when we first wake at six AM. Yes, you read that correctly. Six! And the subtle art of sarcasm, something you know me to be quite proficient in, goes right over their heads.
They seem to have no knowledge or understanding of rank, and the name Malfoy didn't so much as make anyone bat an eye. Imagine!
Blaise's lip twitched. God forbid Draco Malfoy be anywhere he couldn't be smug about his bloody lineage.
Still, it isn't so bad. The material is far more advanced than anything Hogwarts can offer, and I reckon if I can survive this place then I'll run rings around Severus. It's hard to believe he went here for his mastership. Can you imagine him dealing with Americans for three years? Really?
I'll try to write when I can, though truthfully, after all the essays I've written in the last weeks, I'm surprised my hand hasn't fallen off. How are you? And Harry? I wrote him a few days ago (apologies he came first, but you know he worries like a bloody hen) and he's yet to reply. Doesn't seem like him.
I'll write something a bit longer soon, but got to dash for now. That bloody harpy has just rung the dinner bell and I wouldn't put it past her to let me starve if I'm late!
Yours tiredly,
Draco.
Blaise felt a shadow of guilt at Draco's letter. Truthfully, he'd given very little thought to how his friend was getting along, being too wrapped up in his own affairs lately. Still, he was happy to know that he was getting along alright, even if he were sure he would be hearing about the early start times and insufferable yanks incessantly for the next three years.
With some trepidation, he placed the first letter aside and picked up the second. This envelope was far more crumpled, and the paper of a much lower quality. The handwriting however, was as elegant as Draco's and merely said 'Blaise'. It was the second such letter he had received, having only recently decided to respond to the first. He took a deep breath before forcing himself to open it.
Son,
I cannot tell you how happy I was to get your letter the other day, even if it was short, it brings me a lot of joy to hear from you. I know you must have a lot of doubts and questions, and I'll answer all of them in time if you give me the chance.
It's hard for me to get much information on the outside world, given my current status, but since learning I had a child I've done everything I can to find out more about you and your life. I hope you don't mind – but I couldn't resist. This may be a little strong for a letter, but all my life I have wanted a son, and here you are.
Blaise grimaced, uncomfortable. It was strong. The man may have sired him, but Blaise didn't know him from Merlin.
I hear you're a Gryffindor! I have to say I'm as pleased as I was surprised when I heard that. Andorra must have been spitting feathers to have a son in my house. I also hear you're close friends with Harry Potter – I can't say as much as I wish I could in a letter, but his Father was like a brother to me. The idea of the both of our sons being friends together at Hogwarts was – well, a light in a bleak world. You're clever too if your ranking is anything to go on. You get that from your Mother, I was never very committed at Hogwarts, I preferred playing pranks and getting up to no good. It was a different time then – I imagine Hogwarts is a very different place now…
I really would like to get to know you better, Blaise. I know my position is complicated, but there are ways to get around these things. I would never put you in any danger, but I'd like it if you'd consider staying with me over Easter. I know it's a couple of months from now, but I wanted to give you time to think it over. I have an unplottable manor on the continent and it would give us some time to get to know one another.
If there is anything – anything at all - you want or need until then, just let me know.
With love,
Your Father.
P.S – I've sent a map with the letter, along with the details of a spell. There's a room which my friends and I used to use at Hogwarts, I figured you could go there if you ever fancied some privacy. I doubt anyone has found it, we used it for four years and no one suspected a thing.
Blaise sighed deeply, glad of the privacy of the spell as he lifted his hands to his head and groaned. What was he going to do? His Father seemed hell-bent on a relationship with him, but as yet he had no idea if he even wanted a relationship. Then there was the fact that he's a member of the resistance, for gods sake. He felt, not for the first time, that he was courting ruin. Was there anything more reckless than this?
He picked up the map with interest and cast a quick tempus. He and his Father certainly had one thing in common – he was curious.
It took a long moment for Harry's still form to turn, and to find his voice again. When he did, it was only a resigned whisper.
"Michael," he said, simply. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was dangerous.
"I..." said Michael. "What are you doing here?"
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, unable to maintain eye contact. "I can't stay, but… But I thought I owed you an explanation."
"Oh." His voice was so unbearably sad, that Harry had to look at him. To see him. He was shocked to see that the handsome man he'd been so enamoured with had lost significant weight, appearing gaunt. His skin was a sickly grey colour, and Harry's chest tightened at the sight of him.
"Are you… Are you alright, Michael?" Harry asked tentatively.
Michael shrugged and looked away, staring across the city skyline through the open, cracked window. "I've been better. Nothing I want to talk about in a hallway."
Harry nodded, guilt chewing his insides apart. "I just – I just want you to know, that I wouldn't have disappeared like that if I didn't have to. I was trying to protect you."
Michael gave a bitter laugh, the weariness in his body only more evident and his eyes grew distant. "Well I've heard that before."
"No. No, Michael. You have to understand..." he eyed the hallway warily, and steeling himself, moved towards his old boyfriend until they were just a foot apart. Michael seemed to draw away slightly as though to protect himself from Harry's intensity. "I got into some trouble. Big trouble, and if I hadn't stopped coming here then that trouble would have found you."
Michael was not a harsh man. He was easygoing, playful and laid back. He was also unfailingly gentle in a way that was both endearing, and the very reason Harry knew he would never really fall in love with him. However, the glare he shot him then was so penetrating that Harry flinched.
"Do you think I'm a moron? You turned tail and run when you got bored, and now you're only here because your guilt finally got the better of you. I don't need your pity."
Harry shook his head, his chest feeling fragile as he knew how deep the insecurity of his lover. A lover he had abandoned without a word.
"If I could tell you. I could make you understand-"
The fury in his eyes was hot and raw, and Harry felt a deep grief settle in him. "Understand? Understand?! If you had such an issue with fucking a muggle, why did you do it in the first place?"
Harry stilled. The air around him seemed to still too, as he stared uncomprehendingly at Michael.
"Wh-What?...How?"
Michael smiled that bitter smile once more. "You think a normal bloke wouldn't ask more questions, Harry? You didn't know what a bus was, for Christ's sake. You'd never seen a television."
"Are you a…?"
"A wizard? No. My parents were though. I was born a squib – and now I have no parents. I'm a damned abomination in your world, aren't I? You must be disgusted," Michael spat.
"I'm not disgusted," Harry said firmly, mind racing. "I'm relieved – because you must understand the danger this puts us both in."
"Oh, aren't you?" Michael demanded. "Well let me tell you something, Harry. The only member of my family who dare defy the decree restricting entrance to the muggle world is my Uncle Fabian. Even he only comes now and then, but he's made sure I didn't starve and he brings me news. I was very interested to hear that apparently – you're quite the prodigy. Such a prodigy in fact, that the Dark Lord has taken a personal interest in you!"
Harry eyed the hallway again, concerned at Michael's increasing volume. "He hasn't… taken an interest. He's just… I don't know. He seems to have some investment in my future."
"Well, good for you. If only he'd been as interested in my future. I was kicked out of my home – my world – when I was seven years old. As soon as it was clear I didn't have magic. It was all my parents could do to put me in foster care – apparently more conservative types thought it better I just be put down! And that's all thanks to your lovely new friend," Michael whispered harshly. "There's a lot of people he'd rather not exist. But that's just fine by you, I expect."
"That's not- I-" But Harry was lost for words, and Michael seemed to take this as some sort of confirmation. The man stepped back and slammed the door in his face before Harry could say a word. He considered knocking on the door, in trying to reason with him, but every minute he was there he was putting them both in danger. And Harry couldn't be selfish for a moment longer.
Harry arrived back at Hogwarts in a foul mood. He was cold, nervous and upset and it took every ounce of control he had to properly part and re-assemble the wards, and not just tear the thing down. It was a highly complex piece of magic that usually required careful preparation and concentration, but he did it in a daze. The confrontation with Michael had been about the worst possible scenario. Just seeing him had set his stomach writhing with guilt, and the revelation that he was a squib only made him more angry. Angry at what, he didn't quite know. Squibs were not a topic for polite conversation in the wizarding world; the only mention being when the Daily Prophet occasionally ran articles stating that the squib birthrate was at an all time low. Healers that specialised in squibs were also highly sought after, as sometimes the reason a child could not perform magic was not the absence of a magical core but rather a psychological or physical issue that could be repaired. Those who employed their services unfailingly did so anonymously however – a squib in the family was like a black mark. Although research and science were allowing the causes to be properly investigated, and in some cases cured – the old superstitions that it was due to some failing or transgression by the parent remained.
Harry had never given much thought to squibs before. Certainly not as much as he had to muggleborns. With muggleborns, his progressive ideas were at least socially acceptable, even if older witches and wizards would laugh and say he'd change his mind as he grew older. Muggleborns were fine, so long as they grew up in the magical world and away from the influence of muggles. Squibs however, well they weren't really a part of the Wizarding world. They had no magic after all. It seemed natural to Harry; muggleborns were witches and wizards born into the wrong world, and squibs were muggles born the same way. However, muggleborn children were taken away by the time they were two or so; the very first flickering of their magic could be detected given the total lack of magic around them. A squib child, however – one couldn't be sure until they were six or seven. Eight even, in some cases. They were too surrounded by magic for it to be detected, and it would be easy to miss the small signs of accidental magic in a magical home, especially if they had siblings. What must it be like to be ripped from your parents, the world you'd grown up in, and abandoned in a world you'd only heard gruesome fairytales about. It made Harry sad, and angry. Though as he stormed towards the castle, a notice-me-not charm firmly in place, he realised he could hardly think of a solution. What would it be like to grow up without magic in a world where 'magic is might'?
When he reached the castle, he headed straight for the fifth floor. It was just before curfew, so no one questioned him climbing the stairs at a quick pace, even if they did notice him. He darted inside the disused corridor and drew his wand, quickly locating and revealing the door to the Marauders room.
He spent an increasingly large amount of time here. The passage of time had assured him of it's secrecy, and so he stored here a depth of secrets. He was fairly sure it could be found, certainly by Voldemort or Bellatrix, but he doubted they'd ever care to look for it. Compared to a dormitory, it was a secure vault. It's where he went to talk to Tom Riddle, to read books he really shouldn't, and practise spells he didn't want prying eyes to see. He knew now that he could trust his dorm mates to say nothing on his absences, and so he'd sometimes sleep here. It had become a bedroom of sorts, and a sanctuary from the world. Right now, he wanted to speak to Tom. He wanted to demand to know why he had always been so hellbent on dividing the muggle and magical worlds. Harry didn't know what answer to expect, but he felt it would soothe the searing guilt he had towards Michael to at least question something he had never even given thought to.
He flung open the door with a careless strength, glad to be somewhere he could safely vent. It took him far too long to register the presence of another in his sanctum. Sitting on the bed, looking absolutely bewildered, was Blaise.
"Harry," he said, so shocked that he wasn't even bothering to hide his emotions. "Salazar, I should have known. I think we need to talk."
It was only as he gestured to the piles of muggle books, magazines, letters and photos that Harry allowed the sinking feeling in his stomach to reach rock bottom.
Hermione walked quickly at her Mother's side, having to almost jog just to match the witch's pace. Even in a night as dark as this, it was impossible to miss the white marble mansion that made up Malfoy Manor. She didn't remember the path from it's wrought iron gates to the door being so long, but then she'd never been out of breath as she attempted it. As they reached the door, her Mother lifted her wand and the dark wooden panels swung open. With not a little trepidation, Hermione followed her Mother inside.
The night had started out normally enough. Her Mother had 'gotten sick of her teenage angst' and taken them to a bar in Rowena's Rest, a wizarding town in south Wales. It was out of the way enough that they wouldn't be disturbed or seen by anyone she knew, and though she was still a year underage, her Mother's infamous presence was enough that no one questioned why a girl in her Hogwarts uniform was at a club in Wales on a school night. She didn't drink much, though she did have one particularly spectacular cocktail that sparkled, giving off little fire dragons that tasted like peaches. Although she was determined to stay tight lipped about her altercation with Draco, a combination of comfort, understanding and mild threats from Bellatrix was enough to have her gushing her soul. She didn't feel good enough, proper enough, for Draco – she was angry at having her husband decided for her – and she was upset that Draco seemed so dead set against her. What's more she was furious with herself for caring.
Her Mother, who would usually only find amusement in her 'adolescent moping' was unusually attentive. She'd informed her, quite avidly, that she was more than good enough. She'd even been somewhat apologetic about arranging the thing without discussing it with her, although not overly so. Bellatrix wasn't a person who gave much time to guilt, after all. The tension seemed to ease off her shoulders as they talked, but very suddenly it had all been interrupted. Her mother had hissed, grabbing at her left forearm before paling considerably. Without a word, she had grabbed Hermione and apparrated them to Malfoy Manor, where they now found themselves. She gave no explanation as she hurried along, only barking an order at Hermione to stay close to her. Hermione knew enough to be worried.. It was very rare for the dark mark to be used as a method of communication now the worst of the war was over, used only in dire emergency.
Waiting for them at the foot of the stairwell was a grave-faced Narcissa. As Bellatrix began berating her with questions, she only shook her head, gesturing upstairs. Hermione was not asked to follow, but nor was she asked to remain, so she followed them closely as they ascended in silent haste. They were guided to the east wing, to a bed chamber. Hermione hesitated only a moment before following them inside, but once she had she couldn't help the little gasp that escaped her.
The Dark Lord was laying on a bed at the centre of the room, his handsome form pale and shivering. Blood coated his clothes and he seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness. Around him were Lucius, Severus and a couple of Death Eaters from his inner circle, all wearing the same terrifying look of despair. Although Severus was performing quick ministrations, the others were stilled into uselessness by their shock. Their shock became perfectly understandable as Severus began to speak.
"I've slowed the bleeding," the man announced, eyes hard. "But unless a cure is found, he will be dead within days."
"My Lord? Master?" asked her Mother, eyes wide and fearful at his bedside. "What happened?!" she barked at the room at large.
Lucius was the first to come out of his stupor. "He was attacked. We were in Asia, fighting a rebel militia there. The Dark Lord came more for morale than anything, but..." he paused, swallowing. "We were surprised. A powerful wizard attacked us – our Lord had it well in hand of course, but he was caught by a spell. It didn't seem to have any immediate effect, and the wizard was slaughtered, but in the minutes that followed the Dark Lord… collapsed."
Bellatrix blinked rapidly, her hands tightening with fury. "Healers?! They can identify it – reverse it."
Severus shook his head. "We've had the best on offer on hand, and no one knows what the damned thing is."
Bellatrix howled with rage and fear, a nearby vase exploding. Hermione, feeling quite faint, ducked out of the room.
What did this mean?
Blaise gestured at the books, as Harry silently locked and warded the door behind him. His expression was impassive, and Harry had no idea how to react.
"So this is the secret you've been hiding? Muggle… stuff?" Blaise asked, calmly. His tone seemed merely confused which gave Harry some courage.
"I found this place a year or so ago. I was trying out a new spell and it...appeared. I suppose I've used it as a sort of bedroom since," he explained, evenly.
"Interesting reading material," remarked Blaise, raising an eyebrow.
"I..." Harry tried not to panic. "It was here in the room when I found it."
"And you've read it?" continued Blaise, his tone so bloody neutral.
"Yes," he said, seeing no reason to deny it. "It was interesting."
Blaise nodded. "And that's all it is? Reading stuff you found here?"
Harry hesitated a moment before nodding. He could see it had been a mistake when Blaise levelled a glare at him.
"Don't lie to me," he grated out. "Don't I deserve better than that?"
Blaise withdrew something from his pocket, a note. Harry's heart seemed to stop as he realised what it was, what a fool he had been. It was a card from Michael, something he'd given him a while ago after they'd been dating a time. He'd thought it a little silly, it was their two month anniversary or some such, but it was sweet.
"Dear Harry," Blaise read aloud. "Thank you so much for being around these last months. I'll never forget the first time we kissed, or when I took you to that play and you'd never heard of Shakespeare but said you thought we were like Romeo and Juliet – you never explained that one! I hope we have many more memories to come. Love, Michael."
Blaise threw the card down, and Harry, quite without realising it had sunk to the floor. He was sitting against the wall, his mind whirling with all the consequences that were sure to come of this.
"I-I don't know what to say," he said, miserably.
"You've been going to the muggle world," Blaise bit out. "I'd naively hoped it to be a different Harry, but of course you're the centre of every scandal lately."
Harry, unable to say anything in his defence, merely nodded. It felt like his whole world was crumbling. If Blaise told, and surely he would, he'd be castigated by his peers. He'd be dangerous, criminal. The Dark Lord was sure not to spare him a second time, and he certainly wouldn't spare Michael. Feeling pathetic and defeated, his eyes watered, and he furiously cuffed the tears away.
"Please, Blaise – I'm not… I'm not a traitor. I just… I was just curious, and then there was this man and… Please don't tell anyone," he said, struggling to formulate the words. It felt like his heart was hammering a mile a minute.
Silence. The silence seemed to fill the room and consume all the air in it. Finally Blaise spoke.
"Do you seriously – honestly – think I'd tell on you? Knowing the consequences?" The words may as well have been acid with the way he spat them.
Harry raised his head, not daring to believe his ears. "Wh-what?" he stammered.
"I am so sick of trying to get this through your thick orphan skull," Blaise ground out. "I am your friend. No – you know what – you are more than that. You've been by my side for six years, Potter. We've been through everything together. Who was there the day my Mother died? You were at my side the whole time. You're my fucking brother. My stupid, irresponsible, selfish prick of a brother – but my brother nonetheless. How dare you think I'd betray you like that, you fucking dishonour me."
The intensity of the statement took Harry by surprise. Tears returned to his eyes, but they were tears of relief, and shame.
"Blaise… Thank you. Really, I just… If anyone found out, I thought-" Harry tried to articulate.
Blaise rolled his eyes. "Don't look too pleased. You're lucky it's me. You cannot do this anymore, do you hear me? It will get you killed, Harry. You're lucky it hasn't already."
Harry nodded, drying his face and feeling embarrassed, and rising to his feet. "It's where I was today. I went to say goodbye. He… didn't take it well."
Blaise nodded absently, sighing. He seemed to take in Harry's shaken form, and then pulled him into a hug. Harry returned it fiercely, honoured by the loyalty of one of his best friends.
"I'm sorry I haven't been around much," Blaise said, after releasing him. "I've been preoccupied. I feel like you're bound to get up to trouble when I'm not paying attention," he teased, easing some of the tension out of the room.
Harry sat down at the edge of the bed, using his wand to tidy the books away. Blaise sat by him after a moment.
"What have you been doing?" Harry asked tentatively. "And how did you find this place?"
Blaise eyed him for a moment before sighing with exasperation and looking to the ceiling as though asking for a divine intervention. "I suppose I can't berate you for hiding all this from me and then keep all my cards to my chest, can I?"
Harry frowned as Blaise pulled a letter from his breast pocket and instructed Harry to read it. As he did, he couldn't contain his utter confusion. By the time he reached the end, he merely stared at Blaise in amazement.
"I thought your Father was dead?" he said after a full minute, perplexed.
"As it turns out, that was not my Father. My Father is Sirius Black, and is very much alive."
"Black?" Harry's mouth all but fell open. "As in the House of Black?"
"As in it's heir. It's Order of the Phoenix, blood traitor, presumed dead heir," Blaise added, as if to add to the pile of unbelievable revelations.
"Merlin's balls," Harry swore. "And you're worried about what I'm getting myself into?"
Blaise gave him a tired smile. "Perhaps I'm taking a leaf out of your book, Potter."
Harry felt a bit numb, so much had happened in the space of the last few hours. "He was my Dad's best friend?"
Blaise nodded and shrugged. "Yeah. I had no idea how to feel about that one."
Harry turned to his friend, concerned. "What are you going to do? Do you think-"
The scream took him by surprise.
Especially given it came from his own lips.
Fire was dancing through his veins, and ice was freezing his organs. Pain like he had never felt ripped through him, and suddenly he felt like he was choking. Dimly, he was aware of Blaise shouting for his attention. Of the door being opened and his friend pushing him out. Calling for help.
Darkness engulfed him.
Turning. Whirling. He felt like he was swimming in white light, like water and yet not. Explosions of emotions and thought crossed his mind, but left just as quickly, dancing away from him. No concept of self, just an aimless drifting. Something was wrong, but what was wrong? What is wrongness? What am I? Blue light. Not blue, another colour. A colour he had never seen before.
Then suddenly, he found himself standing on a marble dais. He remembered himself, remembered the events of the last moments and yet felt nothing but an ethereal calm. Like apparitions, three ghostly, beautiful and identical women appeared. Somehow, nothing felt odd about that.
"Hello, little Harry Potter," said one of them, smiling. "We were not expecting you."
Another of them, a gentle smile on her face, added "And that's the strangest thing to happen since we created time."
One day I will end a story with Harry not in mortal peril. Today is not that day.
