AN: Wow, what a great welcome back! I don't know how often I'll be updating, maybe once a week or so. But I appreciate all the notes and hellos, and I hope you all had a wonderful holiday. I should note that for my stories I don't consider the cursed child or any of the video games to be canon, so anything related to those that appear is purely accidental.

December 19th, 1998

The rain outside clattered against the windows, in competition with the tin kettle's lid rattling as it came to a boil on the stove. Though it was just gone 6 and people could be heard shouting and closing up shops in the street below, it was dark and unfriendly outside. He could see lights dancing in the rain though the windows as he made the tea, first the soft glow of candle light, an incandescent from the wizard to muggle street progression, and then the harsher blue lights of the City of London in the far distance.

Harry rolled his shoulders and reached for the biscuit tin on the counter, that he kept his tea bags in. The rain looked like it wouldn't take much to turn into a wet snow, and he flipped through the takeaway menus clipped to the inside of the kitchen cupboard door.

"Fred?" Harry called, reading through the list of Indian curries. "Fred, see if George wants Indian."

"Hold a minute, sir," came Fred's smart reply, mimicking an operator.

Harry pulled his wallet out from his pocket and checked how many muggle notes he had in there.

"His highness is agreeable to the request and says 'surprise me'," Fred replied. "He says he's on time for seven."

"Great, thanks, Fred," Harry said. "Sorry for using you as a messenger again."

Fred gave him a smile and a two-fingered salute and wandered off.

Harry sent his order with Kreacher, who was particularly skilled at fetching orders without Muggles realising what he was. Harry took his tea and walked back to his desk at the other side of the flat, sitting back in his desk chair and surveying the work he'd done earlier that afternoon with a quiet satisfaction.

The back of the desk had apothecary drawers but instead of being filled by potion ingredients, they held several different slivers, blocks, vines, and sticks of wood. The drawers on the left side held lengths of unicorn hair, phoenix feathers, and dragon heartstring; tagged by type of dragon, age of unicorn, and name of phoenix. Lined up on his right, under the base of an oil lamp, were small hand carving tools of various shapes and sharpness. Two broken pieces of a wand lay on a leather mat in the middle of the desk, a thin sliver of unicorn hair connecting them.

As he drank the tea, Harry wiggled his fingers and the leaves of a small tree in a jar on his desk waved back. The muggle world had been a relaxing break from fame and war, but he'd missed being able to do magic whenever he wanted.

He glanced up to a small corkboard that he'd placed above the desk, which had wand notes and design sketches pinned to it, and in the middle a note reminding him to see Alice on Monday. In the corner of the board was a small recipe card with watery ring marks obscuring some of the text. It detailed most of the steps for making Draught of Living Death, but one line was missing, and though Harry checked semi-frequently, it hadn't filled itself in in months.

…

"Nothing like a good curry to warm up the insides," George said, a satisfied look on his face as he sat back against Harry's couch.

"Are you sweating, Harry?" Fred joked, squinting at him. "It can't be that hot, can it?"

Harry wiped his face with the blanket that was on his lap and grinned.

"Sometimes Kreacher likes to mess with the spice levels," Harry admitted. He'd only managed to eat half of his curry, but the rest would do for lunch leftovers.

"Well," said George, "It was bloody good and it's our treat. You're doing a favour after all."

"No really," Harry said, shaking his head. "You two are like brothers, there's no charge."

"You can tell Harry's never had brothers, Georgie," Fred said.

"Cos then he'd charge us double," George replied, sporting an identical grin to his brother.

"I can do that if you want," Harry said, putting his bowl down and relaxing into his chair. His sitting room wasn't that chilly despite the rainy night, and the firelight mixed with the low muggle lightning made the flat feel fairly cosy.

"Far too late for that," George said, though he'd lost some of his joking tone. He took his wand out of his pocket and held it loosely between his hands, the honey wood colour shining warmly in the light.

"It's not broken; there's no damage to the wand itself. But I can feel it isn't right."

Harry nodded, holding his hand out for the wand.

"What is it made of?" Harry held it up to the light and ran his hands over all the grooves and knicks of the wood.

"Dogwood," Fred answered, as the matching wand was placed on the coffee table.

"With dragon heartstring," George followed up. "Took a while to get the wands working just right, but once they got to know us…"

"And now what does it do?" Harry asked, holding up his hand as a measuring tape came flying at him from the desk.

"Well, it still works, but it does magic half-heartedly. Cleaning spells don't work right, and at the shop, well. The explosions aren't the same."

"Only you would complain of that," Harry smiled. He put the wand back on the table and scratched his chin. Harry then stood and walked over to his desk, searching through the drawers until he withdrew a small block of light yellowheart wood, caressing his nail through the visible tree rings.

"I have some ideas," Harry finally said. "I think I'll need two or three days. Then you can come back and we'll try it."

"Thanks, mate," George said. "Suppose there's been a few of these requests."

"Some," Harry admitted. "But this is more of a hobby than anything, I can't guarantee it'll work. Ollivander usually suggests people–"

"–Get a new wand," Fred said.

"Right," Harry nodded. "But I didn't want a new one when mine broke. And I thought others wouldn't either. Maybe. I've only done six, disguised as someone else."

Harry's voice trailed off and he shook his head. "He's a bit peculiar, Ollivander, but he did share important wand knowledge when I needed it."

George stretched as he stood, rubbing his tired eyes a bit. It was only half nine, but Harry suspected the Burrow still wasn't quite back to normality yet.

"You add some wood to make it match the person?"

"Or a different core, something. Normally I ask what the person went through," Harry said. He'd stood as well, and had picked up both wands from the table. "It was mad then. I don't really know what happened to most people. Not at the battle, not in the months before," Harry admitted.

"And you won't tell us what you went through either," George pointed out, nodding toward Harry's right arm.

Harry gave a small smile in acknowledgement.

"It's hard to see what will fix things right away. Sometimes I can see when people do magic, or they tell me themselves, what has changed. The wood is standoffish, it fights me, it's cold, it is not the warm comfort it was, that sort of thing," he continued.

Harry turned the two wands over in his hands.

"And sometimes they tell me that they haven't changed, but rather that they're no longer whole."

He looked up at the twins once more.

"I just need a day or so. You can take the loaner wand until then. It takes time to join the cores together, but I think that will do it."

George picked up the portrait of Fred and held it against his chest, hugging it.

"Thanks, Harry."

…

The skies cleared overnight, dropping the temperature further, and the morning felt crisp and fresh. Harry woke in a calm mood, his arm not hurting as much now that the storm had passed. He'd managed to unpack most of his flat the night before, and had used an almost excessive amount of magic to do what he had. He made his way over to the kettle in the kitchen and yawned whilst it boiled, forgetting that he could have used magic to instantly boil it. He was surprised to find two owls at the kitchen window, as the deluge of post-war post and accolades had ceased quite quickly as it became abundantly clear that Harry wasn't going to answer any of it. One letter was from Hagrid, inviting him to afternoon tea, and the other was from the Ministry of Magic.

Harry smiled, pleased with the tea invite though a little reserved about returning to Hogwarts. The Ministry letter he ignored completely, not wanting to deal with the Ministry just yet. Feeling a bit cheerier, Harry took his tea back to the bedroom at the back of his flat. He moved his snitch and table lamp from the makeshift bedside table and popped open the box, digging through the t-shirt wrapped items until he found what he was looking for. It'd only been packed for a month, but Harry still wiped it off and held it up to the light. A small piece of pink fabric, and a chipped bit of wood, in a tiny frame. He put the lamp and snitch back on the box, and went back to the sitting room, surveying the walls. They were old, crooked, and a little bumpy, but Harry found a good spot between the two large windows in the front room, above his desk. A quick sticking spell and the frame was up, on display and a reminder of the first wand he had fixed for a friend.

Satisfied, Harry sat down at his desk and picked up George's wand, a friendly feeling transferring to his palm as he held it. The wand's energy seemed muted, missing something, and Harry flipped his notebook open and started reading his wood comparison chart. He had Fred's wand as well that he'd planned to extract part of the core from to join with George's, but also wanted to see if there was a wand wood that would help with the transition.

…

Hogwarts loomed and looked ever so impressive in the snow. The sun had come out, and the grounds absolutely glittered as Harry passed through the gates. He gave a small glance up to Gryffindor tower and grinned to himself. It wasn't visible from the grounds – never would be – but Harry knew that just up under the window that was between his and Ron's bunk were two little carved figures - a shorter one with wild dark hair, and a taller ginger one. He'd been sad not to come back for his final seventh year, but there'd only been some grumblings of a returning eighth year of students. The general consensus was that they'd be too old mentally, which Harry thought was both true and also an oversimplicity. They'd all gone through war in the end, though he supposed the ones that had actually fought wouldn't have much patience for transfiguration quizzes any longer.

He certainly hadn't.

Harry approached Hagrid's hut and felt his peaceful mood grow as he took in the new and yet familiar looking home. The windows had a brilliance to them that distracted from the scorch marks on the brick, and they overlooked a widened garden and a large paddock that held several bored-looking alpaca-like creatures. The door burst open before Harry could knock and Fang rushed at him, barking happily.

"Fang!" Hagrid called. "Get back in here ye big brute."

"Hi Hagrid," Harry replied, giving Fang pets on the back of his head. He followed the overly enthusiastic dog into the hut and watched with amusement as Hagrid floated teacups and a giant teapot that could double as a child's bath toward the table.

"Warm enough for ye?" Hagrid asked, pointing his wand at the fire and beefing up the flames.

"It's working well then?" Harry asked, as he dropped his coat on the back of his chair.

"Like the day I got it," Hagrid beamed. He held his wand up to admire it, and Harry sat to take hold of his cup of tea and warm his hands. 16 inches, oak wood, he remembered. With a slight pink ribboning throughout. Hagrid's wand was extremely powerful, Harry had found, likely why it had continued to slightly work after being broken.

"I'm glad," Harry said. "It should have been done a long time ago. I'm surprised Dumbledore hadn't pushed for your pardon."

"Ah, Dumbledore had bigger things going on to handle," Hagrid interrupted. "I have it now, and that's what matters."

"I suppose," Harry said. He took a big sip of tea and sat back in the chair, relaxed. He'd been excited about coming to see Hagrid, to break up his day, but didn't know what to talk about now.

"How's the new place?" Hagrid asked. "You could have come here, you know. Plenty o'space for a quidditch coach."

"It's all right," Harry said, patting Fang on the top of his head. "Not sure I could come back here though. Feels like I grew out of this place already."

"We all need a break sometimes," Hagrid nodded. "I've never been much in the muggle world, of course…"

"It's very safe," Harry said. He dug through the box of shortbread that he had brought for them. "In a very boring sort of way."

Hagrid looked a bit flummoxed at that, and Harry considered that Hagrid was the sort that thought fire-breathing dragons were cute.

Before Harry could explain any further though there was a sharp knock at the door. It clearly wasn't a threat, as Fang had barely raised his head, but Harry's hand drifted down to his side, where he could grab his wand easier.

Hagrid, meanwhile, threw open the door without a care for the fact that it was December and bloody chilly out.

"Professor!"

McGonagall was dressed in an ornately embroidered cloak, the sharp points on her shoulders covered by a small dusting of snow.

"Hagrid, apologies, I did not know that you had company."

Her voice was an odd mixture of warm and yet strong, and a smile grew on her face when she saw Harry.

"Oh, it's all right, Professor. We're just having tea, always room for one more," Hagrid said. He'd closed the door, and with his giant presence Harry felt like the hut was perhaps a little too small for the three of them.

"Well," she said, before unclasping her cloak. "It would be nice to have a cup and a chat."

Harry scooted his chair over a bit to make room for McGonagall, grasping his mug carefully so none of the tea sloshed out. His right hand had started to ache again but Harry was used to it and slyly pulled the cuff of his sleeve down to hide the scarring on his hand.

"Mr Potter, I trust your return to the wizarding world has been uneventful."

It was more of a statement than a question, and Harry thought for a second before shrugging.

"There's less violence," Harry finally said.

"I suppose that's a start," McGonagall said, though Harry could tell from her pursed lips that his answer wasn't quite the one she was hoping for.

"I've not been back long," Harry explained further. "People still look at me like they are waiting to see what I'm going to do next."

"Will you go for the Ministry?" Hagrid bluntly asked. "Never really saw ye as a Ministry man meself."

"I don't think so," Harry said, glancing at McGonagall again. "Though I appreciate your help with the OWLs for being an auror."

McGonagall nodded. Harry suspected she understood his desire not to be an auror any longer.

"You've yet to receive your NEWTS, however," McGonagall told him. "I dearly hope you plan to study for them."

"I've always studied for exams," Harry replied, with a sly grin.

"See that you do," she told him, holding her cup to her lips. "I'm sure you would find employment without issue, but best to have things done properly."

"I have a new project already," Harry pointed out. He pushed the box of shortbread he'd brought toward her, thankful that Hagrid had stuck with serving those and not his homemade rock cakes. "I'm reworking George Weasley's wand, since it hasn't been working well for him since..."

Hagrid's expression faltered and Harry felt a twang of uneasiness. No one knew how to talk about the twins now, and everyone seemed to dance around the topic.

"Wasn't sure if he'd be needing it," Hagrid finally said. "The fixin'."

"They put on a brave face," Harry mused. "You know, they've even started pranking people with George's portrait. They had a number of portraits made, and they've been stashing them places."

Harry took a large bite of shortbread and washed it down with tea. McGonagall had a melancholic look and glanced at the snow out the window.

"Mrs Weasley doesn't like to think about it. Them planning for one of them to die. But I reckon there's just as many portraits of George somewhere. They always liked to think ahead."

"They did," Hagrid agreed, letting out a heavy breath. "Gave me a portrait before they left Hogwarts, you know."

Harry and McGonagall followed Hagrid's gaze to where the portrait was, on a side table with some other photos and paintings. He was completely unsurprised to see that it was just George in the painting, and that there was a large empty spot where Fred would have been.

The mood in the hut had turned sombre, but not uncomfortably so.

"Now that it's over and we can look back," McGonagall started, "it was too much that we asked of you at such a young age. Of all of you."

"It had to be done," Harry said, shrugging. He'd made peace with being the chosen one years ago, though sometimes still kept himself up at nights feeling guilty for his friends getting hurt trying to help him.

"It is something we need to teach, to learn from," McGonagall continued. Hagrid nodded.

"Teach the wars, the lessons, the behaviours. We need to prevent this from happening again."

Harry wasn't sure what she was looking for in response, so he kept silent.

"It is almost the anniversary of the Massacre of Godric's Hollow," she finished, trailing off in thought.

"I saw that in the paper yesterday," Harry carefully acknowledged.

McGonagall stared at him. "And the Burning of Dartmoor next month – it is difficult to teach of an event about which no one knows the exact details, you know."

"I can't help you," Harry calmly said, staring back. After a moment, she nodded very slightly and her lips twitched.

"Severus says the same thing."

"I'm sure not as politely," Harry pointed out, amused. He stood and used magic to send his mug along to the sink. "Thank you for the tea and the chat."

"Severus also runs away after I mention the Massacre and the Burning," McGonagall said over the top of her teacup, and this time she was smiling.

Harry smirked and flicked his cloak over his shoulders.

"Tastefully exiting. Good bye professor, bye Hagrid."

…

Godric's Hollow, December 24th 1997

There was enough snow on the ground to showcase a picture-perfect village Christmas Eve, though the unusually cold night meant that most were staying indoors and the streets were deserted. Harry felt unnerved, exposed in the open, and he could tell that Hermione felt similarly. The church bells rang out as they entered the cemetery, echoing toward the village square. Harry couldn't help glancing around with nearly every step they took.

It took a while to find the Potter's grave, and Harry felt a flash of jealousy upon finding it occupied, even though he knew they wouldn't be alone. The snow had been wiped from the front of the stone, and a small candle had been placed on top of it.

"We got your message," Harry said, keeping his distance from Snape. He still hadn't fully decided how much he trusted Snape yet, and he knew that Hermione had her reservations as well.

"You wouldn't be here if you hadn't," Snape said. His voice sounded worn, but his eyes were sharp and his movements quick as he monitored the cemetery around them. Dressed in his regular teaching robes, Harry thought he looked like the same as he ever was, but thinner.

"Why should we trust you?" Hermione asked, her wand drawn. Snape may have been their professor once, but after months of hiding, defence was all they thought about.

"Potter knows why," Snape snapped. He looked like he was going to say something else, but stopped.

"We aren't staying long," Harry bluntly said, accepting Snape's statement. "Dumbledore was very clear on what the next steps were."

"I am not here on any request or planning by Albus Dumbledore," Snape said, sounding cross. "Your friends are being tortured, Potter. You must move faster to end this war."

"It's not exactly easy, Snape. I can't just call him for a duel to end everything," Harry argued back.

"You probably could," Hermione said, considering. "But we're not ready for that."

"I am aware," Snape said. He didn't look at Hermione at all, but instead was focused solely on Harry. He was, for Snape, being fairly polite to her at least, Harry thought.

"How? You don't know what we're looking for," Harry said, certain that Dumbledore hadn't shared the horcrux information with Snape.

"Don't I?" Snape asked. "I don't need to be told to see the evidence and put together the hints."

He looked grumpy and cold, like he'd had a long several months of no sleep and constant vigilance.

"Fine. Any bits of information that would help hurry things along then?"

Snape said nothing and Harry nodded.

"Right. So, continue on as is."

"Hogwarts is no longer safe," Snape said. He stood straight and then sighed a little, as if the venom he'd carried through the years of Harry's time at Hogwarts was running low. Finally, he nodded at the cheap looking candle he'd placed on the gravestone.

"That is not a candle. Use it wisely, and apparate before it lands."

Both Harry and Hermione's faces schooled into a confused expression, but Harry shortly realised that Snape meant he'd have to throw whatever was in the glass at his attackers. Or at a horcrux.

Harry looked at it, at the red wax melting around what looked to be a glass phial. He reached down under Snape's watchful eye, his fingers grazing the top of the gravestone. A crackling sound snapped across the air above them and Harry spun around, steadying himself against the gravestone with his hand. Black shadows burst into form around them, death eaters appearing exactly as they had done in fourth year.

"Hello, Potter. So glad you finally came to pay respects."

"HARRY!"