I own it not.
The truth. It is a beautoful and terrible thing, and therefore should be treated with great caution. Albus Dumbledore
James jumped only slightly at the voice, and then glanced around the room. It was in even better condition than the rest of the school with most of the room entirely intact, as though it had been left alone for the past thousand years. Small, fragile-looking instruments stood on delicate-looking table, spinning and making soft whistling noises. In the corner was a large cabinet, in another a forgotten bird's perch. Stairs led up to another landing and on all of the walls were portraits.
But there was no one else in the room. Just James, Molly, Charlie, and Sirius. Yet James was sure he'd heard it...and that voice so...right, so achingly familiar it seemed to reach down to his bones, striking an old, long-forgotten cord, making him feel both exited and anxious, safe and calm.
"Hello, Harry." It was all James could do not to jump. He felt Charlie's arm on his shoulder, noticed Molly slipping her hand into Charlie's, saw Sirius's body tense. And there still was no one in the room.
And then James saw it. A picture, bigger than the rest, directly behind a large oak desk in the middle of the floor. In it was a man, an old man with a long white beard, a crooked nose on which was perched half-moon spectacles and blue eyes. Twinkling blue eyes that seemed to pierce through James' skin and see inside his soul. The man was smiling, looking happy and...proud. "I knew you'd get here, eventually, though you took rather longer than I'd hoped. And of course, Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger came along for the ride." The old man inclined his head to Charlie and Molly. "And Sirius too. Always the protector." James heard Sirius make a noise in the back of his throat but he didn't answer.
At last, James found his tongue. "I think you've got it wrong. Everyone's got it wrong, sir. I'm not Harry Potter. I didn't do all these great things. I didn't save the world from a dark lord. I'm not even magical."
The man sighed, and something clicked in James' head. This was, it had to be, Dumbledore. The same Dumbledore that was buried in that beautiful white tomb. The tomb that had started all of this. The Dumbledore who had been Headmaster in the time of the great Harry Potter.
"Ah, Harry, you never did see yourself as special. But the fact that you know all of these things proves that you are Harry, you see?"
James didn't see, of course, and he glanced at Charlie and Molly for help. As he turned his head, he was hit with another wave of memories, powerful memories like the ones by the tomb. He closed his eyes, and he was a young boy, covered in blood, showing Dumbledore the sword. No, he was fourteen, a boy had just died, and he was hurt, a bird standing on his knee. Now he was seventeen, laying a wand on the desk in front of a portrait after a very long day.
"Harry, you okay?" Charlie knelt next to James. He had doubled over from the pain of the memories. It took both boys a second to realize what Charlie had just called him. James looked at his red-headed friend. Charlie, who had been his best friend since they were children, who had helped him so many times, who was identical to this person, Ron. Ron, who had died in a war. Charlie had called his Harry.
And that was the first time that James thought there might be a possibility that all of this was true. Maybe he was Harry, not just a look-alike or a descendent but the real Harry, the great person who had lived a thousand years ago.
Dumbledore smiled at him, his eyes knowing. James looked around the room again and realized that he knew it. Not some vague recognition that he'd been here before. He knew this place. Over there was where he'd first been sucked into a Pensive. There was where Fawks the Phoenix had perched. There was where he (or was it Harry?) learned that he would have to defeat the Dark Lord in order to live.
"What's that?" Sirius pointed to an old hat. More patches than anything, the hat stood frayed and insignificant in comparison to the other things in the room, yet it held its own special brand of magic.
James found himself talking at the same time as Dumbledore and Molly. "It's the Sorting Hat."
Charlie looked up in surprise, then said, slowly. "I wonder if it still works." James caught the look that Charlie was sending him and knew what it meant. The Sorting Hat, he now remembered, could look inside a person's head, tell them who they were, what they could become. Maybe the hat...
"Try it on." Dumbledore offered happily, his long-fingered hands crossing in front of him. "It's getting talkative nowadays, upset, you see. Doesn't have anyone to try it on."
James gulped, again looking at his friends for support. All three nodded encouragingly back at him, and James knew that he had to do it. He had to see, even though he thought he knew...but for sure. He had to know for sure.
Slipping the hat over his head, James found that it fell past his glasses down to his nose. Biting his lip, he waited for something to happen, like when he's been sorted into Gryffindor. Only it wasn't him. It was Harry.
Was there any difference between James and Harry now?
"No."
It was the hat. The small, sly-sounding voice echoed right in his head, saying words only he could hear. "And there never was. You, James, were always Harry Potter. Since the day you were born. You just never knew it. Yes, your friends too. You were born for this, Harry. Like you were a thousand years ago. I wish you luck on your mission."
What mission? What was the hat talking about?
"You know what I mean, Harry. You've always known."
What? James tried to prod the hat for more information, but it was like a switch had been turned off. The hat said nothing else. As James took it off his head, and the office came back into view, he realized two things.
He was no longer James. Just as Charlie was no longer Charlie, nor Molly , nor Sirius. Possibly, he had never been James. He was Harry Potter. He had a job to do.
He had to recreate Magic.
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