Dear readers, it was very difficult to write this chapter. I spent two months not writing a single thing, then wrote most of this in the course of two days (the natural life-cycle of creator's block). So, it might be badly written at times, there may be typos, etc. If I felt emotionally strong enough to wait and if I wasn't pressed for time, I'd leave it before publishing, but I needed to do this now, because the next chance I'll get is weeks from now. I turn nineteen this week. It's high time I sought another wild adventure, even if that means disappearing off the radar to find myself again (sorry I keep doing that!).

I'll edit this a little tomorrow morning, as well as publish the last chapter.Enjoy this one. It's been an insane ride. Writing this for you has meant the world to me. -Angstier x


80 – Beyond Death

He was trying to stand up. The room kept spinning around him wildly, as if the entire earth were working against him to keep him held down. He heard someone move, footsteps. Nott was near. Dizzily, he spoke.

"I need to get up..."

"You've been in bed for weeks," said Nott. "It's not a good time to –"

Harry slipped. He felt hands on his waist and shoulder, heaving him back towards bed, until he eventually agreed, wordlessly, to lay down. It occurred to him that this new body was smaller and younger than his old had been. He wasn't a child, nor a teenager, yet he was full of a long-forgotten surge of energy.

"Will you stay here?"

Harry could barely comprehend the question, which he supposed was an answer in itself. Stiffly, he nodded and lay his head back, feeling the blood rush past his ears and pulse in his chest.

"I thought I did something wrong," said Nott quietly. He was moving back to his chair, his attention fixed on Harry. "When you wouldn't wake up, when you kept shaking... I don't know what you saw in the realm between life and death, but something tells me I wouldn't want to find out."

"You can't have known," murmured Harry drowsily. "I'm glad you... glad you brought me back..."

Even as he said it, memories were floating back to him. Any time he closed his eyes be caught flashes of that swirling, infinite pain. He remembered that for an indescribable amount of time, he had felt as if he weren't human at all. He had felt disconnected, both from himself and from his past, neither in a time with Tom nor in his old childhood, his future...

"Why did you bring me back?"

It was a logical question, but the moment Harry asked it, staring blankly at the ceiling, he thought he may have given away his state of mind. He didn't want to be stuck in the realm between life and death – he would have given anything to have never gone there at all – but being back here, being thrown into still silence felt unnatural. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve this friendship.

"I tried to save you the moment I could," Nott explained calmly, "the moment the Dark Lord ordered for your body to be taken away – I took my chance. Only, I was being watched. Something about my readiness to take possession of your corpse struck curiosity in Lestrange. He knows the art of Necromancy. He knows there's a great deal of powerful magic involved with rising the dead... Traitors of ours were always disposed of under strict rules, even though magic to regenerate the dead are few and far between."

"So, he kept an eye on you?" asked Harry groggily. "For how long?"

"For years. I think he knew I was closer to the Order than anyone had ever guessed before. By the time his two sons and daughter-in-law were sent to Azkaban, he went a little mad. It wasn't long after the Dark Lord's downfall. He was terrified, like many, that you would return before the Dark Lord and take control. So, it's been three years..."

"That was brave of you," said Harry in a faint voice. It was a familiar voice, he realised.

"I didn't know how the magic worked," Nott carried on, brushing off the comment. "I spent almost two years hunting down books on Horcruxes themselves. There were some horrific instructions, suggestions of sacrificing innocent lives – even of a child. Obviously, that was an easy way out of it and I was unwilling to do it. I studied the arts the best I could and found a way of regenerating a body – the same way most books instruct."

"There was supposed to be a potion," managed Harry, his head spinning wildly. He didn't know why he cared, but he was confounded, disbelieving. "It was to – "

"To generate a body," added Nott helpfully. "I know. I did that, I made you a new body, but you didn't awaken, not even after I preformed the spell to summon your soul. You were too weak. You've been like this for weeks. I needed something stronger."

Harry brought a hand up to his head, which was full of hair. Looking down at his hands, his body, he thought it looked like his old self. Curiosity caught him. "How did you get my body back?"

Nott didn't answer. He looked forlorn, as if it hurt him to see Harry so hopeful.

"How did you do this?" Harry asked again. "It's been three years. How did my body survive?"

Nott hesitated. Harry waited, staring across the room into those tired blue eyes.

"It... it's not your body," he explained quietly.

"Not my –?"

"You know how Regeneration Potions work."

Harry did. Regeneration Potions required a great deal of ingredients that were hard to obtain, plus a few that were far easier. He had a memory of Wormtail standing in the graveyard upon Lord Voldemort's rebirth. He had murmured the spell to himself, pacing this way and that way, preparing the great cauldron for Voldemort's tiny, infantile body. 'Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son...'

"My father's bones," Harry murmured. "I don't suppose it was hard obtaining them. That's about the only good thing that's ever come of his death – and I'm not sure it's even a good thing..."

Nott remained still, saying nothing.

'Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed, you will revive your master...'

Harry felt sick at the idea. "What servant sacrificed a piece of themselves for me?"

"I did."

Nott held up a hand. On his left, he was missing his ring finger. Harry tried to sit up in shock, about to protest, but a sad smile caught Nott.

"It was my honour," he said. "After everything you did for me... besides, the Werewolves would have gotten to me, if it weren't for you. If you catch Lycanthropy because of my bad blood, I'm terribly sorry. This is the best I could do."

"I won't," Harry assured him, unsure whether or not he was right.

'Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe...'

"And my enemy?" he asked. "Who –"

"You have a great deal of enemies now," Nott reasoned. "That wasn't hard to obtain. I didn't kill anyone, don't you worry about that. Merely had a conversation with someone who had long since deserved it..."

Harry could imagine. He wondered for a fleeting moment whether Nott had captured Lestrange, but that would be much too obvious. Any Werewolf, any low-level Death Eater, would have done well enough.

"I used Phoenix tears," Nott told him. "It's far weaker than snake venom, weaker still than Basilisk venom, but it's the best I could do on short notice, for the sake of immortality. It took care of both regeneration and the immortality and purity usually found in Unicorns. I was unwilling to slay any innocent creatures for this."

"That was smart," Harry told him, impressed. "Did you – did you use Dumbledore's Phoenix, Fawkes?"

"How did you know?"

Harry shook his head, something like laughter welling up in him.

"A lucky guess."

It was too brilliant. Even if it had taken three years, this potion was significantly stronger than the one Wormtail had mustered in the year he spent travelling, terrified, with Voldemort's tiny body. Only one thing bothered Harry.

"How could you bring me back, if I didn't possess a child? Where did you find my soul?"

"I found you a few times, actually," said Nott calmly. "You took to wandering through Muggle forests, possessing does and stags when you could. I caught sight of you, even captured you, but I don't think your soul was very conscious in these momentary bodies. You kept fleeing. When I summoned you back into your new body, I used your Horcruxes to summon you within the forest."

Harry was bemused. He didn't remember any of it. "You found one of my Horcruxes?"

"Yes. When the Dark Lord fell, it was already too late to return you to your old body, but I knew it would be safe to search the headquarters for any vital items. You told me it would be fourteen years until he returned – I sought the Mask you had left behind."

"He – he didn't destroy it? Tom didn't break my Horcrux?"

There was wonder in his voice. It arose curiosity in Nott, who studied him from across the room. "He couldn't, clearly."

There was something flat about his tone. It was as if he disapproved of something. Did Nott think Harry was going to bring Tom back merely because he hadn't destroyed a part of his soul encased in an object? Harry's head was spinning. He wanted to say that he wasn't going to bring the Dark Lord back, that he had no intention of going anywhere near Tom again, but he couldn't. He wasn't sure why. A long, strong silence dragged on. Up until Nott rose from his chair.

"I'm going to leave you to rest for a while," he said. "It's late and I'm sure you're tired. If you need anything, just call for me."

Harry nodded, shifting where he lay.

"Nott?"

He stopped at the doorway, his tired face kind.

"Thank you."

For the first time that night, something like a smile crossed Nott's face. He turned away only momentarily at the sound of a child's voice calling. It must have been Theodore. Harry became aware of the fact that he was in Nott's own home, where the wooden floors and plump furniture was warm and welcoming. It made him feel safe for the first time in years.

"There's no need to thank me," said Nott. "I already owe you so much."

With that, he left. Harry was left with his own thoughts. It was a long time before he drifted off to sleep.

– X –

When Harry awoke, it was to the sight of winter sunlight shining through the bedroom window in a whirl of watery blue, grey, and yellow. Everything around him was sill, quiet, and crisp, as if the dawn of day had brought no disturbance upon the house so far. Harry imagined Theodore asleep in a room nearby, Nott asleep in another, while he lay on his side, eyes transfixed to the view outside his own bedroom window. There were birds singing joyfully. There were trees, bare and brown, swaying calmly in the harsh winds, droplets of water raining down from them like diamonds.

He had never seen something as beautiful as this new day. After the chaos of his shattered soul wandering these last few years, the chaos of working alongside Tom, of seeing what he saw, the prospect of gentle nature and the comfort of Nott's home seemed impossible. For the longest time, Harry did nothing more than lay in bed, forgetting his dreams, watching the earth pull the sun's great weight across the sky. He wondered what he had done to deserve this peace. Outside of any concept of time, he felt calm. The guilt clutching onto him was immense.

Eventually, he did get up. Guilt is what forced him to. It took him a long time to find his balance, but when he did, clutching at the bedposts, cupboards, and walls, he felt like he was doing something right for the first time. As quietly as he could, he made his way across the landing at the top of the stairs, where his bedroom was. He knew the bathroom was in the next room. He headed inside the room and tried to close the door shut behind him.

The room was grey. It faced west, meaning the shadow of the rest of the house cut out any sunlight, showing it only on the small view of the far away fields. Harry felt as if he was ruining the peace of the new day. Shaking violently, he couldn't stand on his two legs and his hands clutching at walls barely helped. He moved over to the sink. When he caught sight of his own reflection through the mirror, he froze.

James Potter was staring back at him. He looked as if he was supposed to be at the prime of his life, except his cheeks and brow were hallow, as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. It occurred to Harry that that might have been the case. He felt almost the same as he had when he was young – in a similar body, at a similar height, with the same weight and same figure and same hair – but there was no mistaking the difference between his father and his own appearance now. Except for the eyes.

Harry no longer had Lily's eyes. The emerald green was gone and now shone a brilliant crimson. Unlike that of Lord Voldemort's eyes, however, which had snake-like slits for pupils at the use of Nagini's venom before his rebirth, Harry's pupils were round with fear. Amongst the crimson, there were flakes of gold in his irises. His eyes stared back at him with the fire and power of a Phoenix.

"Harry?"

A soft knock on the doorway should have warned him, but Nott's shining blue eyes came as a surprise to see. Harry quickly looked away from him, ashamed of his own mutated form. He reached down for a tap, overwhelmed by how strange water felt for the first time. Twisting his head, he reached down for a handful of water, shivering.

"Are you alright?"

Harry tried to nod. It was difficult. His whole body ached, especially his neck, as if he wasn't quite there. He was distracted by his father staring at him every time he glanced in the mirror. His heart was racing, as if he had been caught in the middle of a violent crime. He couldn't get his thoughts together. For a while, he tried to regain his bearings, cupping water up to his face. It made him feel pure. It was an illusion. Eventually, he voiced his thoughts.

"I... I don't know what I am, anymore."

Nott straightened up from the doorway, his expression serious.

"You've been through a massive transformation, Harry. A trauma. It will take you some time to get used to this body – both mentally and physically."

"What – what am I supposed to do?" he asked desperately. It was a trembling, hoarse whisper that terrified even him to hear. He wished he didn't have to put all of this on Nott. "Where am I supposed to go?"

"You can stay here for as long as you like. I've been preparing for this for years. You needn't worry. You need time to get back onto your own feet again."

Harry wasn't sure. He was terrified of everything that was happening, to the point where his head began spinning and nothing around him felt real. Every time he looked up, he was haunted by those crimson eyes. He was no longer his father's son, but not quite his father either. He was closer than he had ever been before to the creature that Lord Voldemort became.

"Can you fix this?"

He was referring to his own eyes. Nott didn't ask questions; he knew what Harry meant. Stepping forwards, he stood a few meters behind Harry, watching him refuse to engage with his own reflection.

"We'll change your whole appearance, eventually," Nott explained calmly. "For the sake of disturbing no one. We wouldn't want a scare to arise at the supposed resurrection of James Potter. People might begin to think the Dark Lord had risen again. Turn around."

Harry turned to face him. Nott had his wand at his side and made no hesitation to begin the magic that would alter Harry's appearance. He stood patiently, hands on the sink behind him, hoping that this would make things clearer.

"Is that better?"

Nott gestured towards the mirror. Harry faced himself once more. Through the clear glass, his eyes shone a brilliant blue.

Harry started laughing. Broken, hysterical, he tried to hush himself, but found that he couldn't. It wasn't until he saw the confused look on Nott's face that he had to explain himself.

"Now I fit right in, don't I?"

He found that he was right. When Nott invited him down for breakfast kindly, Harry caught sight of a toddler standing with his hands wrapped around the baluster at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at his father and the new guest curiously. Theodore was a serious-faced young boy with eyes just like his father's. Even when they headed into the kitchen and Nott beckoned for his son, Theodore was reluctant. He was a smart child.

Nott's kitchen was large and comfortable. There was a dining table in a joint room across from it, where Harry took a seat. The quiet, peaceful atmosphere at first made him feel welcome, but soon made him realise what a monster he was to this world. Even though his eyes no longer shone a terrifying crimson, he felt a sense of loss within him when he watched the life of Christopher and his son. Theodore was helping Nott to prepare food and collect the right cutlery and plates. How cruel, how sickening it was that Harry should disturb the home life of a child.

As soon as Nott began cooking, Harry realised how hungry he was. This basic human need, this desire for survival, was enough to remind him just how inhuman he had become these last few years. He spoke openly with Nott over breakfast, breaching subjects that were appropriate in the company of a child, until their food was gone and Harry felt at peace. Theodore was too young to be left on his own for very long, but Nott made an effort to clear half an hour to have a serious conversation with Harry by noon. He brought him to a room at the back of the house.

Years ago, this had been a library. The walls were still lined with bookshelves, but much of the space had been left blank, as if Nott were in the process of moving out. In the centre of the room was an ink-splattered desk and chair. There was a fire in one corner, cupboards and shelves full of curious instruments across from it. It felt like home to Harry.

"I thought you might like to have an office here," Nott explained, moving across the room. His attention was fixated to Harry's reaction. "It's not much, but it's a good space to write in."

"Brilliant," said Harry honestly. Something like a smile found him. "Thank you."

"I knew you'd need a lot more equipment than I could supply on quick demand, so I thought I might ask you: what will you need, to set up an office again? Theodore and I will head into Diagon Alley later this evening."

Harry couldn't express how grateful this gesture made him. His head began racing as he tried to decide then and there which books he lacked, what equipment and information and supplies he'd need. Until it occurred to him: he wasn't sure exactly what he was going to be researching.

"What should I be looking for?"

The question was stark, honest. After the fall of Lord Voldemort, the fall of the Death Eaters, it felt as if this were a solid end. Picking up the pieces from here seemed impossible. Not only was the wizarding world broken three years ago, but Harry felt broken beyond compare. It terrified him.

"You have a new life," said Nott helpfully. "You can do whatever you like with it. Obviously, I don't expect you to jump right back into work – you need time to gain your bearings. But Harry, this is your chance to work freely, away from any other eyes."

There was pale sunlight shining in from a window behind him, highlighting the fact that his dark hair was not black like Harry's, but brown.

"The war is over," Harry argued. "There's nothing I can do to change that."

"Yet you know the future, don't you?" Nott asked him feverishly. "You know what happens next, to everyone. If there's anything we can do to prepare for the future, why not start here?"

There was hope in his voice. It struck a sense of longing for a different future in Harry's heart. After everything he had seen, after all the lives he had lost, he felt tired. Yet here Nott stood, hopeful, wondering, yearning to hear that maybe there was a way to move forward. Maybe despite the death of Tom, Evadne, and thousands of others, there was a reason to go on.

"I would love to," said Harry quietly. "I would love to prepare for the future, to stop the events that took over my childhood... but what am I supposed to do? I – I feel like I've lived this a thousand times."

"So, you know it well."

"But it's painful. All of this. I can't go through reliving this forever..."

"I'll help you get through this," Nott swore to him. "Anything you need, anything at all, I'll bring it to you. Together, we can find a way to change the way things turned out."

Harry was tempted by the idea. Even standing here, gazing at Nott's hopeful eyes, he felt as if there was some tragic pain worth fighting for. They were in the eye of the storm, holding into faint hopes and visions of the future. It inspired him. Until a low idea took hold of him.

"Why do you trust me?" Harry asked him in disbelief. "What makes you think I won't – won't just turn around and decide to resurrect Lord Voldemort now I have the chance?"

"For the same reason no one else is doing that exact thing. The first war was harsh on all of us, Harry. Most of the Death Eaters, despite their years of promised loyalty, are tired. You've been broken, you've been torn apart... After everything you've done for me, I don't believe you're wicked. I know that you've sinned, but I've seen where your heart resides."

Harry didn't believe it. He stood up straight by the edge of the desk in his father's body, feeling as if he didn't deserve this chance. He didn't deserve Nott's incredible kindness.

"I might know what happens," said Harry in a low voice, "but I know something else too. I can't change fate. I've tried, Christopher. I've tried so many times..."

This didn't bother Nott. His strength inspired some hope in Harry, who was reluctant to let go.

"The Dark Lord could not change fate either," Nott remarked, his face full of brooding wonder. "He could not kill you as a child, because the Prophecy already foretold your power and the consequence of your equality to the Dark Lord."

Harry stared at him, shaking his head slowly.

"That was love," he said. "My mother's love is what saved me, not the Prophecy."

Even as he said it, a horrid idea occurred to Harry. It was true that the moment the Prophecy spoke of his equality to the Dark Lord – the moment, perhaps, that he was sent back in time – Voldemort could not kill him as a child. It was written in prophecies that the Dark Lord would mark him as his equal. The idea made him freeze. He understood what Nott meant.

"Unless... that's what Dumbledore told me," he said slowly. "He told me my mother's love saved me, so I would always put love first. So I'd fight for her, not question it..."

Nott considered the theory. For the first time, he looked guilty.

"Dumbledore is wise," he said. "He could have been honest in stating his opinion. It's merely my personal belief that something more powerful had to have influenced the Dark Lord's downfall..."

Harry shook his head in disagreement. His opinion had been formed. By standing alongside Lord Voldemort as an equal, a rival, he had ensured that the Prophecy had to have happened. That's all fate meant to him. It happened the way it did because just by being there, Harry himself insured it must. His head was spinning at the thought. He reached up a hand to rub his tired eyes.

"If I'm honest with you, I don't know if I can ever change fate..."

"What about after fate?"

"Sorry?"

"Well," Nott began, moving across the room to a nearby shelf, "life will go on, even after your death. At the age of seventeen, you will be defeated by the Dark Lord, despite anything you choose to do before then. Yet once you have fallen, once your teenaged self is thrown through the clockworks of time... how might you carry on your life, free of fate?"

Harry had never considered it. He stood, bemused, watched Nott reach for an inkwell, parchment, and quills. It had seemed impossible to him that he'd get anywhere near this point in history in the first place, yet here he was. He was immortal. Ten, twenty years would eventually seem like a blip upon his lifetime. Nott knew it well. He had returned to the desk with a roll of parchment in hand. He slid them across the table to Harry.

"Anything you need to get started, write it down in a list. Save any extreme items for a later date – I'd rather not take Theodore to Knockturn Alley at so young an age."

Harry reached for the quill without question. Inspiration was taking over, despite his reluctance to even maintain hope that he could change the future. Here was a perfect chance to rebuild his life, to get everything back into order; a chance that terrified him. It would be another ten years before Voldemort returned, but to Harry that felt like no time at all.

"This is what I'll need..."

Nott listened carefully to the list he wrote down, making sure to take note of the book titles and requirements for each set of equipment. It was another hour or so before he headed out into wizarding Britain with Theodore and in that time, Harry sat alone, thinking. It wasn't healthy to brood, because he knew he was falling into a habit that might take years to break, yet he didn't mind. His life was broken. He couldn't relax until later that day, when Nott returned with a trunk full of books on magic, the Dark Arts, and other subjects, a bag full of rare ingredients, rolls of blank parchment, and boxes full of stones and crystals and charms.

"This is perfect," he said, overwhelmed by how quickly things were being set up. "Thank you."

Nott helped him to move everything into his new office, followed shortly by Theodore, who remained silent and curious. They kept the conversation light in front of him, but behind the pleasure of sorting books and arranging equipment, Harry knew he wasn't the only one thinking about war. The day passed by pleasantly, with Nott and Theodore showing Harry the gardens, upper house, and lounging area by the evening. It was a weekend in November and the comfortable life Nott had built for himself became more and more tempting with each passing hour.

When evening fell and Theodore was put to bed, Nott invited Harry for a cup of tea down in his quiet kitchen. Harry couldn't believe any of this was real. Throughout the day, he had felt like a nameless drifter, a ghost disturbing the otherwise perfect peace that the father and son had found after the death of Evadne Nott in this house. It startled him when he was shaken out of a moment of reflection to the sight of Nott handing him a steaming cup.

"Thank you."

"You must be tired," Nott mentioned, noticing the way Harry's hands shook when he placed the tea down on the table. "It's stunning to me that you could even make it out of bed today."

"I've got a lot to see," Harry joked, trying to make light of the situation, despite how his neck ached and his organs felt like they were pulsating in some sickening confusion to keep him alive. "This is a brand new world, to me."

Nott smiled pleasantly, taking the chair opposite him. He rubbed the warm cup between his hands, lost in thought.

"We've seen so much," he observed. "The Muggle World Wars, Grindelwald's war, the Dark Lord's first rise to power. Sometimes I wonder whether it's worth fighting at all. If I didn't have Theodore... well, I'm not sure where I'd be."

Harry was surprised. He had considered this as being Nott's main motivation for willing preparing for the next war already, but he hadn't expected him to voice his feelings so early on. When he looked upon Theodore, when he saw how hard Nott had worked to maintain a stable home life on his own, he knew immediately why it was worth fighting. He let Nott speak, taking in the words attentively.

"Voldemort may have taken Evadne from me," Nott carried on, unusually calm, "but I have one thing he'll never have. No matter what happens, no matter who I lose to this war, I'm not going to forget about it. I won't let my memories of her die and I won't stop loving her... this is what he cannot understand..."

Harry tried to nod delicately, unsure what consolation he could bring. "He made a mistake, turning you into a rival."

"I'm not sure he truly saw the consequence."

Harry was sure. In his latest years, Tom's views had been warped and narrowed by pressure. It occurred to him that Nott might expect him to hate Tom, to conspire against the Death Eaters. If Harry were in his position, he would do anything to seek revenge against whoever had murdered his lover. Guilt found him.

"Christopher... I don't believe in the Order, anymore. If this is what you want from me, if you expect me to fight alongside Dumbledore again –"

"That's not what I want."

Still, Nott's voice was calm. He might have spent months leading up to this point, so determined to get his point known that he was willing to speak about everything that broke his heart, everything that destroyed him, just to let it be known to Harry.

"I don't believe in war," he carried on quietly, "and I've spent enough time alongside you to know you feel the same. What we have here isn't a force to oppose the Death Eaters. In our position, I don't think we stand a chance against them. Yet what we do have is time. The Dark Lord could not predict how his own twisted determination set you ahead in this race. He couldn't predict that committing a crime so dark – the murder of a child – could offset the scales so severely..."

"So, that's why you brought me back?" asked Harry curiously. "To take my chance to prepare for the Dark Lord's return? Why?"

"It was too perfect," Nott told him in a rush. "Having found out about your Horcruxes, having been there to see Lily and James and their son and watch your Horcrux break because of them – I knew this was my fate. I was supposed to bring you back, Harry. I was supposed to be here – don't you see that?"

He was excited. Neglecting his steaming mug, he had brought one hand up to his neat brown hair. The more Harry's mind raced, the more he struggled to summon an argument. After all they had been through, after the way everything fell into place, he felt as if he were bound to Nott. Without the other, neither of them would have been so willing to defy the Dark Lord and work against him.

"I never would have been in the Order if you hadn't introduced me to it," Nott explained. "I never would have been introduced if you hadn't told me to stand up for what I believe in, if I hadn't attempted to save that child from the Werewolves whilst getting bitten myself. Harry, you never would have been able to withstand the Dark Lord rise to power if you didn't have someone, somewhere, questioning this war alongside you. Even – even Evadne's death..."

His voice broke. Harry's lips parted as he tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. All of this made sense. It felt futile to try and deny the coincidence of what they had been through and futile to add in his own troubled thoughts. As if he were a long way away, he kept his eyes fixed on Nott, who carried on speaking in a low voice.

"This is my fate," he said. "I need to know what happens next."

It became clear how conflicted Nott had become these last few years. Alongside rising Theodore alone, in a world where every other Death Eater had gone on the run or into hiding, Nott had dedicated himself to bringing Harry back to life, overcoming a tremendous amount of research just to do it right. It was a tremendous amount of responsibility, to be amongst Nott's only reason for living. So much so that Harry wasn't at first sure what to do.

"I can tell you the future," he said, "but Christopher, I can't make any promises that we have the power to change fate."

"Will you think it over?"

He was desperate, yearning. It was the last wish of a man who was dying inside. Harry watched him closely, wishing that he could make promises, wishing he could free him from the heartbreak of his lost wife and broken home.

"We have years to decide how to approach the new war," Nott reminded him. "Won't you try?"

Harry couldn't make promises. They must have agreed on that. There was only one thing he could say. "I'll try... I can tell you what happens. I just need time..."

Nott wasn't satisfied, but something changed. He looked down at his cup, thinking. Harry took a sip of warm tea, letting it burn his lips gently.

"Sometimes I think you're too bright for this world," he mused, feeling comfortable admitting it. It played on his mind a lot, these last few years. "You have a brilliant mind and Tom saw that in you, but he overlooked your heart."

Nott was bemused. "I could say the same to you."

Harry didn't believe it. He found himself smiling. "You're much brighter than I am, Christopher. Brighter than Tom, when it comes to the real world."

They didn't say much more after this. Harry wasn't sure they needed to. When he finished his tea, he admitted in defeat that he needed to sleep. Nott let him go without question. He headed upstairs after a short goodbye, wondering whether Nott felt at all the same way about the mad events that had taken place of the last few decades.

His bedroom was quiet and welcoming when he returned to it. A magical fire ignited itself upon his arrival in an ancient fireplace at the far end of the room, illuminating the maps and illustrations of curious beasts on the walls and creating a shadowy reflection of his silhouette on the nearest windows. Harry's mind was at peace when he found fresh clothes to change into, but even as he made his way towards the bed for sleep, strange ideas were playing on his mind. He brushed it off as nothing more than the after-affects of spending far too many years in the realm between life and death, rolling over in his bed, but the feeling only grew stronger.

In the low light of embers burning in the fireplace, Harry stared, unfocused, at a chair across the room. He was perfectly comfortable, perfectly content with the idea of sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, dread began growing stronger. He knew, instinctively, that his dreams were going to bring him nothing but ill thoughts. At least when he was on the verge of death, he hadn't been able to form thoughts. Now, as he lay awake, fighting fatigue, his thoughts came fully-formed. Ideas and memories flickered across his brain at a thousand miles an hour, as if three years of escaping life had caused thoughts to bunch up in desperation to be heard. He understood why he had spent weeks in a dream-like state that terrified Nott.

Hours passed. Harry let the thoughts wash over him, replaying long-forgotten memories of people who had passed in and out of his life, some of them victims of war, others more fortunate souls who had avoided his bad luck altogether. He felt like a bad omen. For the longest time, he couldn't work out whether the guilt that captured him, clawing his eyes awake, came from crimes he had committed or the mere act of witnessing and doing nothing about the families, hearts, and lives that had been torn apart by Death Eaters.

One of the worst thoughts, the one that reoccurred most to him, was of Tom. Having floated above the river of Death with his nose an inch from the surface for three years, Harry knew well what Tom was going through now. His shattered soul, torn from his body and wandering, was experiencing that unbearable frenzy and would remain there for a great number of years. Despite the crimes he had committed, despite the decades of mistakes that had lead up to this point, Harry wouldn't wish such torture upon any soul. There was no serenity in that unnatural state of being. It played on his mind over and over again. It made his heart race. It forced his eyes open.

Long ago, at a far kinder point in time, Harry and Tom had made an agreement. Horcruxes had been a secret shared between them and them alone. Knowing this, they had made a promise to bring each other back, should Death occur for any reason. The agreement had seemed straightforward enough, especially in the light of such dangerous work amongst Dragons, Giants, the Dark Arts, and unpredictable Death Eaters. The promise now brought Harry nothing but pain. Voldemort would remain in a state between life and death for another decade, unable to even possess the weakest of animals for long, while Harry lived. There was no greater betrayal. No Death Eater knew about Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes but Harry and Nott, yet neither of them would bring him back.

The guilt worried Harry. At first, he allowed himself to play with the idea of bringing Tom back. It made him feel no less guilty; to betray Nott would shatter his heart as much as leaving Tom did. Then, in an hour of clearer judgement, Harry played with the idea of fate. He knew all of this was meant to happen. He was not alive to bring Tom back to life early. He was alive because Nott needed him to be here. It was difficult for him to remember why. Harry had gained time. That's what this freedom meant, more than anything. He had time to hide his Horcruxes, time to defend himself, time to live alongside Nott and think about fate.

He wouldn't be able to get back to sleep with the thoughts that haunted him. Upon admitting this to himself, Harry rose from his bed in a dream-like state. He spotted a bathrobe handing on a nearby chair and reached for it, draping it over his shoulders. Quietly, he made his way downstairs. There was no light underneath Nott's bedroom door, which told him he was alone. The study-room that Nott had gifted to him welcomed him like his bedroom had, with a warm fire. Before sitting down at his new desk, Harry took a lantern hanging by the fire and ignited it with a small shred of wood from a log. The ritual brought him a sense of calm relief that he knew he'd soon become familiar with.

There were rolls of parchment and fresh quills waiting at the desk. Harry took them up with gratitude upon sitting down, placing the lantern on the desk's surface nearby for light. Without hesitation, he began writing. The words seemed to pour out of him, as if the thoughts that captured him in the night were visions of the work he needed to accomplish. Without a goal in mind, nor any logical reason to do it, Harry drafted his thoughts on war. He wrote up theories on Voldemort's first reign of power, as well as what he knew about the formation of both the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix. On one roll of parchment, he began a theory on war, while on another, he wrote what he remembered.

Was he becoming a historian, Harry wondered? After a few hours, the idea made him laugh quietly to himself. Whatever the goal for this was, in his tired, delirious state of mind, he found that the more he wrote, the more thrilled he felt about it. It was as if the ideas that haunted him, these unpleasant memories, became concepts worthy of praise by the mere act of recording them. There was something so pure, so honest about recording the truth as he knew it. Bringing back events long forgotten and making the neglected stories of lost soldiers, victims, and contributors of war known transformed the harrowing responsibility into something of worth.

Harry wrote until his hand was numb against the pressure of quills and his spinning head was exhausted into a blissful composure. Although the sun was not yet up, he knew it was late. He had earned sleep for the first time in what felt like years and wanted nothing more than to stumble back up to his bedroom, but something made him pause. He had spotted a small box on his desk, behind the rolls of parchment, when he pushed his chair in towards the desk. He recognised the shape of the box as one that normally carried wands. In curiosity, he reached for it. What he found inside thrilled him.

It was a wand. Although he hadn't died with one on him, he recognised this one at once as Draco Malfoy's; the weapon he had used in the years before obtaining the Elder Wand. Nott must have stolen it back from the headquarters alongside the Mask for him when Voldemort was banished. Harry wondered whether the missing items had caused panic amongst Death Eaters. Even an incident so small could have, perhaps, struck fear in many for a Dark Lord's return. It reminded Harry that he could take over the Death Eaters and assume Lord Voldemort's old position, if he so desired. The idea didn't tempt him. He kept Draco's wand where he found it.

Having earned it, Harry slept well that night. He awoke late the following day with no memories of what he dreamt about. He was grateful that Nott had let him be. When he showered, dressed, and headed down to the kitchen, he found that Nott and Theodore were eating lunch. They invited him to sit at the table alongside him and Nott found him something to eat. The simple gesture reminded Harry just how pleasant it was to be in a wizarding home that didn't demand the use of a House-Elf. This reminded him of Hermione. Memories flooded back to him.

"Did you sleep alright?" Nott asked him pleasantly, levitating a plate of toast towards him. He had noticed Harry's hands on his forehead, rubbing his skull in stress. "I couldn't help but notice, you were up writing."

"Yeah, I was. I slept well – had too many thoughts last night, that's all."

Nott was glad to hear it, Harry noticed. It made him feel comfortable. There was a kind smile on him, as if he felt there could be nothing better than Harry setting his mind to the upcoming war in the hope of being ready for it. They didn't discuss it that day, but this was more due to Nott's patience and his preoccupation with Theodore than anything else. Harry took his chance to remain silent, hoping that if more time passed, he might be able to make better sense of what it was, exactly, that he hoped to accomplish with all of this.

A week passed by swiftly, in which Harry spent the majority of his time reading or writing alone in his study. He knew it would only be a matter of time before Nott grew curious about his behaviour, so he began to prepare an explanation in his mind for the work he was undertaking. The more he dedicated himself to his work, the more sure he became that he had a chance understanding the war and all sides of it. He had hope, for the first time in his life, that there was a way out of fighting. If he could get his thoughts in order, if he gave himself enough time form his own opinions about everything that had happened to him, past and present, he knew he could find peace.

Every night, Harry was haunted by the idea of Voldemort's wandering soul. He had a reoccurring dream, in which – by some unrealistic twist of events – Tom's soul wandered from the depths of the Albanian forest and discovered that Harry was still alive. In anger, his soul would find its way to Nott's home and Harry couldn't stop it. The nightmare carried on further, creating a story in which Voldemort took possession of Theodore Nott's childhood body during the night. Harry had visions of the boy appearing at the end of his bed, his eyes red slits like that of Nagini, his voice high, frail, terrifying.

Although Harry knew it was nothing more than a dream, he couldn't shake this feeling that he was working against time. He had taken up the habit of staying up until dawn, only awakening when he heard Nott moving about the house. One of these mornings, Harry decided it was time enough to speak about the thoughts on hid mind. He didn't dare repeat his nightmare, but focused instead on a more pressing problem.

"I want to bring Tom back."

Nott was patient. Even with the fatigue of early morning, he tried to understand, thinking the words over slowly while he waited for the kettle to boil. His brow was furrowed, his lips a thin line. Harry wasn't going to revoke his argument; they could discuss it slowly. They had years.

"I don't mean now," he explained quickly, realising his tired mistake. "I don't want to bring him back the way others will. I know the next war has to happen in order to fulfil the Prophecy and my childhood has to go the way it always did. Instead of interfering, I want to work out a way to avoid the war from the point of my death..."

"Your death as a teenager?"

"Yes."

Nott still wasn't convinced. He began searching a nearby cupboard for loose tea, his back to Harry, who recognised how uncomfortable and unsure all of this made him. He tried to think of a better way to word the thoughts and feelings that had tormented him since his rebirth.

"The way I see it, I'm left with two options. Hunt down Tom's Horcruxes and get it over and done with while he's dead, or follow the Prophecy for a while and find a way to make things right."

Nott might have been personally in favour of the first option, yet Harry trusted he could hold two opinions at once. He continued to make his way calmly across the kitchen, indicating for Harry to head towards the dining room table in the conjoint room. Without question, he conjured two cups, waiting for the brew to settle when they were seated.

"You're dealing with the most powerful Dark Lord this world has ever seen," Nott reminded him plainly, his voice devoid of any particular anger, but firm nonetheless. "If you even dared to go near his soul as things stand –"

"Then he'd take possession of my body in the forests of Albania and return faster than ever, more powerful than ever," Harry finished flatly. "I know that, I've thought it over already. I wont go looking for him – that's a mistake another wizard is going to make in six years, a wizard named Quirrell."

"Quirrell? I thought the Dark Lord didn't return until your fourteenth year?"

"He won't," Harry assured him. "Voldemort won't raise to full power for another four years after Quirrell."

"Then who was this wizard?"

"A Dark Arts fanatic," said Harry shortly. "He went out in search of Voldemort in hope of gaining recognition, in preparation for a year at Hogwarts as my Defence Against the Dark Arts tea–"

There was a clatter of glass; Nott had almost spilt his tea over himself. At the thrill of panic, Harry was reminded instantly that Theodore Nott would be stuck in the same year as him at Hogwarts, taking the same classes and seeing the same Professors. This might have been what struck Nott's curiosity in the first place. As a father, he surely wanted to know what to expect for his son's unsure education alongside the Boy Who Lived.

"Nothing will happen to Theodore!" explained Harry in a rush. "Voldemort doesn't even come back properly – really, he's nothing more than a trapped soul. With Quirrell, he'll only be there for a year, until I kill him to keep the Philosopher's Stone safe."

"When?" gasped Nott, his lips parted in bewilderment. "Why would you have the Philosopher's Stone? You – you killed a Professor?"

"Well, no, I –"

Harry stopped. He felt as if he were repeating an old dialogue, a story so old that it may as well have been a dream – and a mad one, at that. Explaining this to a fresh mind made him sound mental and unstable. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"Dumbledore didn't expect any of this to happen – it was just a bit of luck, really, that I even managed to stop Quirrell. It –"

Nott was lost. He was thinking it over, frozen. He must have started doubting everything.

"Look, it'll be alright," Harry told him swiftly. "The point of this was, I'm not going to search for Voldemort just yet, alright? It's Tom I want to save, not the monster he's about to become."

Reluctantly, Nott tried to take his word for it. He took a sip of tea.

"There might be no saving him..."

The idea didn't bother Harry, likely due to his inability to consider the possibility of failure as a whole. He felt too sure of the theories he was drawing up, too sure of his ultimate love for Tom. It may have been ignorance, but he was willing to take apart the situation and discuss it with Nott in hope of finding a way through this.

"If that's the case – if there's no taking Tom back – then I'll let that happen," he swore. "He's going to be weaker than I, Christopher. Far weaker than the both of us. In your lifetime, I swear I'll never let him hurt another soul after this war – after the Prophecy has done it's bidding."

"If you decide to do this, it could disrupt what the Prophecy called for."

In respect, Harry considered this, but couldn't see the problem. He felt bitter towards the Prophecy as a whole. More bitter, still, that it would be over a decade before he could make a change, because of fate. The idea played on his mind over his cup of steaming tea, which he sipped slowly.

"I've been bound by fate for a long time," he told Nott in a low voice. "I've been trapped for years by my own past, my future. Except, I think this was always supposed to happen."

"In what way?"

Harry didn't answer at once. He was speaking from his feelings alone, which often felt too frail to make clear sense of.

"Well, the existence of the Prophecy proves as much, doesn't it? I didn't go back in time to change who Tom was. No matter what my take on war was, no matter how hard I tried to change my own fate, I wasn't there to prevent war. I was there to learn from it."

For the first time, Nott looked up in wonder. He was alert with it – interest waking him up far more than the tea had. "You think so?"

"I do," said Harry solemnly. "This war, this destruction – that was always Tom's fate. Whatever force sent me back in time must have known that. Tom's fate was decided long before I met him, long before he was even born. The minute the World War broke out, I think he was meant to be what he became. He was born into chaos... I thought it was my place to change him, but how could I have changed a child who grew up under those conditions? How could I fix the love he had lost when his mother died, when his father walked away before his birth?"

Nott didn't curse the idea with any alternative suggestions. Instead, he mused the matter over slowly. Nothing in him could ever replace the pain of losing Evadne to Voldemort and the Death Eaters, but while they discussed Tom as a human to contemplate, not a Dark Lord to fear, it began to make sense.

"The root of all of this is war," Harry reasoned quietly. "No matter anyone's choices, that was the cause of all of this pain, all of this anguish. Tom was damaged beyond repair when I met him and so was I, so were a lot of us. After all the things I saw, after all the people I lost... I knew there was no hope of changing it. I was stuck in the grey. I wasn't able to change who Tom was, but I knew who I was. That's really the best I could have done. I knew I loved him, I knew I loved who I lost..."

Nott watched him in distress, his palms rubbing against the edge of his cup. All of this was going way beyond the boundaries he had set upon Evadne's death, far beyond the empathy he was willing to bless the Dark Lord with – or even the Order – for the irreplaceable loss. Yet Nott possessed a high level of intelligence, great enough to understand that bad situations often arose from a series of reactions, rather than from wicked decisions.

"That's no excuse for what he did," he said eventually, his voice nothing over a whisper.

"I know," Harry admitted, "but I couldn't have stopped him. More than that, I know he couldn't have stopped himself."

"I know that you love him, but I stand by what I said: there might be no saving him. Even if you lived a thousand years, you couldn't bring back those we lost."

"But there's no good and evil here," said Harry defensively. "If we're going to start speaking about putting witches and wizards to Death for being responsible for innocent lives lost, we may as well plot Dumbledore's assassination too."

To this, Nott rose his eyebrows in defeat, as if to say 'good point'.

"I'm prepared to take that risk," Harry carried on. "I'm prepared to spend a hundred years repairing the damage done to Tom, as well as the damage he did, because with the curse of immortality, what other choice do I have? He can't die until I do, yet if I die, I won't be able to kill him."

Nott was bothered by curiosity. "Why can't he die before you?"

Harry hadn't explained the situation yet, not to anyone. That felt impossible. Nervously, he drew in a deep breath, trying to make sense of the information he had been told what felt like a hundred years ago in Snape's memory.

"We're bound together," he explained shortly. "When Voldemort went to Godric's Hollow to murder me as a child, his Killing Curse backfired. I'm sure you know that part – it's what banished The Dark Lord in the first place, but it's also the reason why he and I are so connected. By trying to kill me, by marking me as his equal, he shattered his own soul and killed himself. Only, the mistake didn't just kill him. It imitated the creation of– "

"A Horcrux."

He spoke the words cleanly. Harry waited for his reaction.

"I've been studying Horcruxes for years," Nott reminded him placidly. "I know how they work. Does that mean you're the Dark Lord's living Horcrux?"

"Yeah, it does. As long as I live, he cannot die. Which makes it a bit easier to decide what to do."

Something changed in that moment. Harry might have missed it if he had looked away, because it didn't last long, but a strange expression crossed Nott's face. There was a blazing look in his eyes, as if for one still moment, he considered his chances of overthrowing him. Then, as soon as it arose, the look faded. Nott drained the last of his tea before speaking. His voice was soft.

"If I'm honest... I can't imagine two better wizards to deal with this than you and I. In the off chance that Lord Voldemort indeed cannot be saved, we alone know his secrets. We alone have the power to overthrow him. He couldn't change your mind in fifty years – it's unlikely that he'll be able to change it out of war."

Harry nodded in honest agreement. He wondered dully how close Nott was rivalling Tom and himself. He would be willing to bet that they were something close to equal in power at their best, with the exception of Harry and Tom having created Horcruxes. Despite his trust and his respect for Nott, Harry's more subconscious mind began wandering to thoughts of the wand tucked away in his office, which he hadn't yet taken up the habit of carrying around.

"You've seen the children of war, Christopher. Once the next war ends, and in the years before it, I'll do everything I can to grow stronger in preparation for approaching Voldemort."

The idea was settled. Nott sat back in his chair calmly.

"I suppose it goes back to the same thing," he mused. "It's crucial that we don't change fate."

It comforted Harry to hear it from him, but he was cautious. Nott's docility was almost too good.

"I have faith in you," Nott then told him seriously. "You are amongst the strongest wizards of our twisted generation, Harry – of Theodore's generation too. I admit, however, that my heart and my interest in the war relies on nothing other than keeping my son safe. Especially if that means standing alongside you to end the war the moment the Prophecy is fulfilled upon your teenaged death. I couldn't bear for him to live his entire life in war..."

"I understand," said Harry honestly. "That's what I want too."

"If you decide to change," said Nott quietly, his voice strange, "then don't allow it to happen during his lifetime. Can we agree upon that?"

Harry was blank. "I'm not going to –"

"You cannot promise what you don't know. All you can do, Harry, is vow to me that you will allow my son to live a stable life. So, I ask you again: can we agree upon it?"

Although he would never admit it, Harry was threatened. There was a fierce, cold edge to the way Nott held himself, the way he spoke. His friendly demeanour had fallen, revealing precisely why he had succeeded as such a loyal Death Eater for decades and how his heart had frozen at the death of the love of his life.

"I promise you, I want to end this war, Christopher. This doesn't have to happen anymore – it doesn't have to be this way. I promise you, I'll give Theodore a safe life, alongside the hundreds of thousands of others who could be spared by war."

The moment this agreement was set, everything fell in place. The grace of the action stunned Harry from the moment it began, but he decided to go along with it rather than and brood about fate itself. They had the same view on war: After watching the progression of Lord Voldemort's power, seeing corruption within the Ministry, and watching the frail argument of the Order of the Phoenix, they had no desire to fight. Instead, with knowledge of the future, they were going to make defences. For weeks at a time, Harry and Nott discussed the probability of his childhood going the way it always had and made plans to intervene if anything went wrong. They drew up plans to work against the Death Eaters, to weaken them in every way, to ensure that by the end of the war, Lord Voldemort would not stand a chance against them.

They trained in magic, some weeks. In others, Harry dedicated everything he had to recording history in the hope of teaching Nott what to expect. They agreed upon the idea of reaching out to others in the upcoming years, quietly raising a group of peace-makers who wouldn't strike until the exact height of the wizarding war. Harry sometimes grew tired and irritated of attempting to repeat the wild, traumatic events of his own childhood, but Nott listened to him with tender patience. It had always been incredibly easy to speak to him and Harry was grateful of that now more than ever. The more Nott learnt about him, the more astounded he was. Harry couldn't help but hope that the stories about his childhood still made sense in relation to who he had become.

Preparing for war was difficult work. One of the contributing aids to the long hours Harry spent hunched over his desk, obsessing over the future, came from the thrill he got out of completing his work and discussing it at length with Nott. It felt right to be doing something so meaningful, so true to who he was at heart. Living alongside the Notts became a hugely important part of Harry's life and working style. Something about having a stable home to live in, having Theodore to look after, and having Nott to stand alongside created a perfect balance for his state of mind between living and spending hours at a time locked in his study, analyzing magic.

Harry felt at home for the first time in decades. In the first few months, he was withdrawn and nervous about infringing upon Nott and Theodore's lives, but taking part of the simple parts of life brought him closer to them, until eventually he felt safe. He dedicated a lot of time towards looking after Theodore when Nott was away, cooking meals alongside him, spending time out in the gardens, helping Nott through the pre-Hogwarts education that Theodore needed. There was something so honest, so pure about dedicating so much of himself just to see the child smile. It made Harry realise that in order to reach his fullest potential with the work he intended to do, he needed time off to live in the real world too.

He remembered the first time he truly bonded with Theodore. It was a memory that he cherished and reflected upon with a faint smile when he was feeling particularly solemn. Nott had gone away to speak with a wizard interested in a paper he had written about a theory on magic, leaving Harry to care for Theodore alone for a day. At first, Theo had been meek. He distrusted anyone who was not his father, so Harry calmly went about his day, acting as if he hardly noticed the boy trailing behind him curiously.

When he fed the cats, bats, toads, and owls that lived in and around Nott's home, Theodore had watched him critically from afar, petting the two brooding cats as they passed by. When he set to making them lunch, Theodore stood in the kitchen with him, but he hadn't dropped his serious expression. When he read Theodore a section of his favourite book, the boy sat and listened with interest, his face lighting up at the best pieces of dialogue and descriptions of Dragons, adventures, and a strange cast of witches and wizards. When, a little later in the day, Harry decided to brew a simple Healing Potion for good measure, he finally found a way to get through to Theodore. He discovered that Theodore had a knack for potions and took great joy in searching through the ingredients laid out on the table when Harry asked for them.

It seemed to create an instant bond between them. Theodore was a bright young boy who listened well to the education Nott and Harry gave him. In turn – and sometimes together – they brought Theodore outside each day to pay attention to the gardens and the plants they grew within it. They took him out to Diagon Alley when they needed to buy anything, took him out on day trips to further parts of the country when life at home became too much. They read books to Theodore every night before sleep. They allowed the boy to brew whichever potions took his interest. They showed Theodore fantastic displays of magic when he requested it in the evenings they spent by the fireplace, cats curled up around them.

Nothing brought Harry as much happiness as looking after Theodore. There was something so precious, so powerful about the love he felt for Christopher and Theodore. Living a proper life, dedicating a part of himself to a soul as pure as Theodore's, reminded Harry that in all his life, he had never been given the luxury of a proper family. The closest he had ever come to feeling as safe as he did now, except in the gentle hours he had spent alongside Tom, was when he had been at Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione. Some nights, when the lights were low and Nott sat beside him by a fireplace, reading to Theodore, caring for him, Harry wished it wouldn't be any other way.

Harry bought Theodore his first broomstick – a gesture in homage to his own father. Christmas came only a few months after Harry's rebirth, giving him a chance to express what this family meant to him. Nott had disapproved of the present at first sight, until they saw Theodore zoom from room to room, laughing and grinning in wild glee. It was a sight that would soon become common within the house, until years passed, Theodore grew taller, and Nott enforced a rule that he could only play outside on a full-sized broomstick. Through every kind of weather, in his younger, stronger new body, Harry often flew alongside Theo, training him to play Quidditch, using the imitation of his father's body like a doppelganger to live a full life as a new thirty-year-old father.

Despite having died at Voldemort's hand years ago, Harry still owned a great deal of gold from the time he spent treasure-hunting with Tom and the Death Eaters, building up their empire and their side of the war at a more ignorant time of his life. Nott was far from poor, but Harry contributed to household needs and took pleasure in being able to supply this family of his with food and gifts – without spoiling Theodore too much. As an only child and a very serious boy, however, Harry wasn't scared that he'd ever spoil Theo's bright mind. They encouraged Theodore to have as much of a fair-minded view of the world as they could manage, all the while working together on their plans to put an end to the upcoming war.

One night, when Theodore was seven years old, Harry discovered what lasting affects the love for his family had upon his life and his state of mind. He had been working all day, drafting letters in private to witches and wizards interested in the anonymous papers Nott and himself worked on, their studies on war, magic, and politics. In the euphoric satisfaction of having finished a day's work, he had turned to the living room, where he was shortly joined by Christopher and Theodore, who had finished their lessons for the day. Theodore was troubled.

"What were you studying today?" Harry asked curiously when he noticed this, worried about Theo.

"We're studying the Muggle World Wars," Nott told him. "I told Theo about the battle between Dumbledore and Grindelwald that took place after it – he's fascinated by it. I've been trying to explain to him all day why Dumbledore didn't kill Grindelwald."

"Grindelwald went to prison," added Theodore in a rush, speaking to Harry. "Dumbledore should have killed him – he was a murderer!"

For a moment, Harry was surprised. He was well-versed in the horrific acts that Grindelwald had committed in his lifetime and understood that in the eyes of a child, the horrors of Inferi, Dementors, Muggles tortured, lives lost, and Ministries torn apart could hardly have sounded like anything worthy of forgiving. What surprised him, however, was Theodore didn't usually support murder.

"By killing him, wouldn't Dumbledore have become just as bad as Grindelwald?" asked Harry, his smile long gone. "Murder does terrible things to people, Theodore. It tears you apart. I think Dumbledore always knew that. No matter how bad Grindelwald was, Dumbledore knew that he couldn't kill him. He wanted to give him a chance."

"Grindelwald didn't deserve a chance!"

"It was the right thing to do," remarked Nott helpfully. "Grindelwald did a great deal of terrible things, so he was left alone in prison to think about what he did for the remainder of his life."

Theodore thought hard about this, his lips pressed together in a comical frown, as if he was biting back his theories. He looked at the ground for a while, until an idea sprang up within him and he spoke up.

"Did Grindelwald regret killing people?"

A soft look found Nott, who reached out a hand to hold Theodore's shoulder. "If he doesn't regret it yet, he will one day. Witches and wizards live for an exceptionally long time when in the right conditions, after all. Grindelwald has nothing to think about except all the things he did with his life, much of which few would forgive him for. That fate may be worse than death."

Theodore thought over his father's word exceptionally calmly. That struck a certain amount of respect in Harry – not that he needed any more reason to love the boy that he considered as good as his own son. He sat for a long time in his armchair, enjoying Theodore and Nott's company, incredibly glad that he could be a part of their lives. Theodore was growing up to be a tall, thin child, so much like his father. It was strange to witness the open wonder in his young face and the wizened intelligence in Nott's. His words were washing over Harry as he explained the concept of war, death, and murder to Theodore, who listened with interest. Harry couldn't grasp onto a single thing he was saying.

He was distracted by a deeper thought of his own. Through all that had happened, he couldn't decide what had changed in Dumbledore. If he had been so fair-minded even upon locking up Grindelwald, a man he had loved, then why had he decided to join the war? Harry understood that the Prophecy needed to be fulfilled. It had become a huge part of Dumbledore's life and his fate to ensure that Harry's life became what it did, but it seemed like a twisted loss to him. Dumbledore was amongst the most intelligent living wizards, yet here he had been: his values ripped from him for war, his judgement askew.

Gently, subtly, Harry thought about death. He had witnessed it throughout his entire life, had been born into a fate that swore his own death at the height of the greatest war to take place in the century of two Muggle World Wars and three Wizarding Wars. Theodore remembered his mother's death. Harry remembered standing on the grounds of Hogwarts Castle at the age of fifteen, where Hagrid would bring forth Thestrals that Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, and Theodore Nott alone could see. They would stand there, affected by the chaos of their losses, three children of war.

Harry knew Death well. He had heard the death of his mother, he had felt the loss of both parents. He had watched the deaths of Cedric, Sirius, and Dumbledore before the new war even began. After losing them, he would keep on losing those he loved, keep on witnessing the deaths of Dobby and Remus and Tonks and others, until the war engulfed his entire life and left him with no choice but to die. When, by some whirl of events, he was thrown back in time fifty years, he would be set there only to witness death from a very different point of view.

Trapped in his own mind now, Harry gazed upon Theodore and Nott as if they were a very long way away. Nott said something serious to Theodore, explaining some complex concept that Harry was deaf to. All he could think about was the murders he had committed. A man's throat being cut, a woman shaking a crying, a House-Elf possessed. Children cowering and screaming for help, a man who's eyes seemed to pop out of his skill. A mother cradling a child in her arms, begging for mercy, begging the Dark Lord to choose her instead, to kill her instead –

Harry shook his head. It banished the memory momentarily. He could remember his mothers death more than he remembered what it was like to be loved and nurtured. He shook his head again in desolation. When he looked upon Nott, all he could see was the love he felt for the man who tried so hard to bring his son a decent life despite the death of his mother. They were two souls with dead lovers, waiting for peace, clinging onto the last thing on earth that mattered. Theodore. Family. After all that they had been through, after all that they had seen, this was all that mattered.

Harry tried to stand abruptly. The moment he made the movement, it became clear that he was battling devastation. Nott and Theodore looked at him. Stunned, intoxicated by the anguish and fear that tormented him, Harry tried to explain himself. He excused himself shortly, unable to prevent it but terrified that he would scare Theodore. Suddenly, he was in the hallway, climbing the stairs, heading into the bathroom. The light switched on, he reached the toilet, he vomited instantly. The rancid smell filled his nose and he gasped for breath, but the pain in his chest, pulsating with every single beat of his heart, overthrew his entire being, encapsulating him.

He mourned over those he had lost. He regretted the murders that had been committed by his own hand – he regretted it in that instant more than he had ever allowed himself before. Something about seeing Theodore's innocent views on murder, seeing Nott teach him that no one deserved death for the crimes they had committed, tore Harry apart. He found such comfort in the serenity of his love for Nott and Theodore, his love for Tom, his love for his old friends, his old family, that he couldn't hold it together anymore. He couldn't live another day pretending that the ill actions he committed had any value in this real, pure, honest world.

There were footsteps behind him. The bathroom door closed. Nott was there, as he always was.

"Harry?"

He raised his head a little, fighting the way his thoughts span wildly. He wasn't going to be sick again, but he understood instantly that this remorse was going to kill him. Trembling, he tried to get up. He felt hands on his shoulders. Nott turned him until they faced each other.

"What's wrong with you?" he pleaded, staring closely. "What's come over you? Are you ill?"

Harry shook his head violently, trying to fight the darkness that was closing in. He couldn't explain what he was going through. Blood pounded through his veins at such a high rate, he thought his heart might be fighting its way through his chest. It was as if his father's heart, sickened by what Harry had become, was trying to distance itself from him or kill itself in the process.

"I... I regret..."

At once, as if he had spoken a spell, Nott understood. If he hadn't been here, if he hadn't stood there for all these years to lend him a chance, Harry didn't know what he would have done. Going through remorse after the creation of a Horcrux was a horrific trial. What's more, Harry had created multiple Horcruxes. No one in living history had experienced the remorse of more than one Horcrux at a time and few wizards, very few, had survived the remorse of a single one. The fear overtook him. It shot through his body, terrifying him, almost thrilling him, as if this final reveal was worthy of one moment of corrupt euphoria.

Through hazy eyes, he tried to find Nott's silhouette. The only thing keeping him balanced were the hands grasping his shoulders.

"Christopher," he whispered, "I'm going to die."

To his astonishment, the man in front of him began smiling. Joyfully, brimming with relief, Nott held onto him, holding him, grinning at him.

"Yes," he said in a rushed voice, "you may die one day, Harry... but this is a brilliant thing."

Despite himself, Harry believed him. He trusted Nott, he had faith in him, even when his mind and heart felt as if they had turned against him. Even with this impending fear, the realisation that he and Nott and Theodore and everyone would all die, as everyone dies, he was relieved. To be here with Christopher felt natural. To face this remorse, to hit this realisation, to feel Nott's hands upon his face – it was natural. He was turning mortal. He was going to die.

Nott lead Harry through to his bedroom, where he was told to rest. For a long time, he sat on the edge of Harry's bed, explaining to him that it was unlikely he would greet death tonight. Gently and full of elation, he explained what he knew about Horcruxes and the process of breaking away from them. They concluded that tonight, both the Sword of Gryffindor and Mask would break, as the Pocketwatch had broken. Harry was overthrown by thoughts of death, by the fear of dying now, before he could make things right. The thought hurt him more than any other. He needed to make things right. He needed to make up for what he had done. In that moment, both Nott and himself knew it was going to happen.

It took weeks for Harry to recover from that night. When he did, the change was astounding. He wasn't scared of death anymore. He had wizened a great deal in the last year and had grown to understand that if he were to die now, he would die in peace. From the very act of accepting love for it's beauty and accepting the chaos of life, he had fulfilled everything he needed to fulfil within himself. The dead didn't scare him. Facing his old friends, his family, meant everything to him and left him feeling no guilt, because he understood why things had worked out the way they did. There was a reason why he lost the war, a reason why he had fallen in love with Tom, a reason why he had made the mistakes he made. That was his path to follow. He had learnt from it.

Harry survived the destruction of his Horcruxes. In relief and gratitude for the life had had been blessed with, he remained within Nott's home for the duration of Theodore's childhood. They brought him up together. They educated him and taught him how to cherish love, because they knew that one day Theodore would grow up, move away, and find a life of his own. He would face wild adventures and explore the world and find happiness in some work, some form of art, some family while his father grew old. It was the natural progression of life. It was all that really mattered.

When Theodore turned eleven, they sent him off to Hogwarts. Nott was naturally worried about the many dangerous events that were going to take place in the next few years, but Harry was knew how life went. He felt safe. With no child to look after, he often wandered from Nott's house to find other work, to live a different life, yet he always returned. Always, he came back to Nott to speak about the way he felt, to make sure he was alright, to explore grey magic, to create a grey side to the war. They rejoiced that Theodore was sorted into Slytherin, feeling no doubt.

When Theodore wrote to his father in disgust about the Slytherin gangs formed by other Death Eaters' children, Nott wrote back to him calmly. Theodore was a quiet, decisive young boy who was more than able to think for himself and make his own decisions. Although there was much about Christopher's life that Theodore still didn't understand, Harry and Nott had explained to him gently over the years how the war had affected their early lives. Whatever stories Theodore might have been told by other children, he believed in his fathers. He knew why his mother had died.

Years flew by like grains of sand falling through an hourglass upon Harry's return to mortality. What had felt like a lifetime to him as a child now felt like nothing more than months at the most. Those wild adventured he had had up at Hogwarts Castle, those golden days he had spent with Ron and Hermione, couldn't be experienced again in Harry's reprise. There was something about having a child's mind, experiencing magic for the first time, that had made seven years at Hogwarts feel so long. Harry witnessed the events of his younger life take place again and was amazed at each turn of fate, each time it organized itself and repeated itself like he had always known it to. The years escaped his grasp quickly. He watched it from a very long way away.

When the Dark Lord was brought back by Quirrell in Theodore's first year at Hogwarts to steal the Philosopher's Stone, Harry and Nott remained calm, knowing he would be vanquished. When the Chamber of Secrets was opened, they instructed Theodore to stay away from some of the more dangerous Slytherins, who were excited by the idea of pleasing Salazar Slytherin. When Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban, they told Theo to remain calm about it. And when, during the Triwizard Tournament, Lord Voldemort rose from the dead once again, more terrifying than ever before, Harry told Theodore to keep safe. Christopher Nott was summoned to war.

Nott would have preferred to have it any other way, but he had concluded years ago that he must work alongside the Death Eaters as a spy for three more years. He would use the Dark Lord's faith in him to weaken his forces from the inside, ignoring the Order, focusing on his belief in grey magic. It was his involvement that stopped the Death Eaters from overthrowing Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, and Luna in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. Never could a group of untrained students be so fortunate, yet the Dark Lord's rebirth had warped his mind and wit. His hatred for the young Harry Potter threw off his judgement, allowing Nott to remain a spy. Voldemort believed and feared that his Death Eaters were weaker than Dumbledore's students.

By Theodore Nott's sixth year at Hogwarts, in a time when young Harry discovered the Half-Blood Prince's book and outshone all other hard-working students in potions, Harry emerged one final time from his work to visit Dumbledore, whose death was going to have a huge impact on how the war ended. In faith, Harry knew he needed to warn his old Professor about the strange twist of events that had lead to his very existence. He wrote a letter by owl, under his old school name, requesting the meeting. Dumbledore had agreed to it. In caution, he suggested that they meet outside of school.

Dumbledore was patient with him when they spoke. In fact, almost the moment they met up, something about the calmness of the environment of this Order's safe house brought peace to them both. Harry would happily have greeted Dumbledore unarmed, unprotected, falling into the warm hands of faith. He was meant to be here.

"I've been waiting a long time to hear from you, Harry..."

Harry accepted it without comment. It failed to surprise him that all along, Dumbledore knew he was still out there.

"From what I understand," said Dumbledore pleasantly, "you now know everything that did and will happen during your childhood."

Harry nodded.

"Meaning, of course, that you know how it ends."

"Yes."

They were sat facing each other in a large wooden table. The safe house around them was uncommonly quiet, protected by the aid of magic. Although this was the safest room Harry had ventured into in years, he could have laughed at the excess of paranoia. Despite being a mortal once more – a fact that he felt Dumbledore could sense – Harry was unafraid. Bravery burned in the centre of his chest and grew stronger with each passing day. It focused his attention on the matter at hand. The words came to him easily.

"There's something vital I need to tell you, Dumbledore. Something I think you've been expecting for a long time..."

He spoke of Horcruxes. Without hesitation, he shared what he knew and remembered about the training Dumbledore was putting his younger self through up in the walls of Hogwarts Castle. He explained how important it was that they carried on hunting Horcruxes – even going so far as to admit which of Dumbledore's theories were correct upon the items Voldemort had chosen to conceal a shred of his soul within. Some part of Harry was happy to watch Tom's Horcruxes hunted. Dumbledore had done a great deal of work in single-handedly uncovering the truth about Tom Riddle.

Then came the most important aspect of Voldemort's creation of Horcruxes. Harry spoke about the night the Dark Lord had been vanquished, when a piece of Voldemort's soul had broken off from the rest, attaching itself to the only place it could: to baby Harry's innocent soul. Dumbledore knew about this part already. He understood why this mistake had happened, what it meant now, and how it had completed the Prophecy's final requirement. What he didn't know was the final piece. Blinded by love, regret, and pain, Dumbledore would not be able to see it clearly on his own.

"You have to tell me," Harry told him evenly. "Dumbledore, I need to be told the truth from you. At the age of eighteen, at the height of war, just when all of Voldemort's other Horcruxes have been eliminated, I'll need to sacrifice myself to him once more."

Anguish found Dumbledore at these words. It flooded to his face, it made him hold still. Although he had long since theorized about the fate of Harry Potter, Dumbledore had been unwilling to reveal the truth to the boy. Even as he looked at Harry now, full of shame, he remained reluctant.

"I won't be an easy thing, telling such a young boy that his life is over..."

"I know," Harry told him, "and I won't understand it."

Dumbledore knew it. He had added up the evidence of Harry's life at Hogwarts fifty years ago and had discovered, surely, that because of fear, because of denial, Harry had turned his back on the Order to fall in love with Tom. It terrified Dumbledore. It stopped his progression. He must have known that it was because of his timing that Harry turned out the way he did. Only, because of fear itself, because of hesitation, Dumbledore was only ensuring now that the same thing happened all over again.

"I know you're dying, Dumbledore," said Harry, uninterested in voicing what they already knew. He wanted to reveal something new. "You'll die before you ever get the chance to tell me personally. The moment you reached out and tried to take possession of Death by hunting Voldemort's Ring, you missed your chance to admit the truth to me. In spite of that, though, you have a spy working alongside you. Severus Snape."

Dumbledore hadn't expected him to know this. Cautiously, he regarded Harry, who kept speaking.

"Snape alone will know when Voldemort's defences are weakest. He alone will be able to get the message across from me – to tell me before the end of the battle what really happened. That's how you'll let me know that I have to die."

"Is that what happened before?"

This was Dumbledore's last hope. Clearly, he was holding into his desire to change fate, to make things happen a different way than he knew he must. Harry became aware that by having this discussion, he might have risked Dumbledore taking his advice as nothing more than a guideline for exactly what he must avoid to alter fate. Harry shot him a look of wisdom greater than his younger body seemed at first capable of holding.

"It's what's meant to happen, Dumbledore. All of this was meant to happen."

Not for the first time, Harry felt older and wiser than Dumbledore. He had witnessed this war twice over, had gone through huge amounts of of pain, trial, and loss just to figure out why all of this had to happen in the first place. Dumbledore was lost, because he was facing these challenges for the first time. He regarded Harry with utter astonishment.

"It is incredible," he said weakly, "how these things coincide. I suppose we are left only to discus one final thing. Your plans for battle."

"I'm not going to fight."

Surprise seemed out of the question by this point. Dumbledore wanted nothing more than to understand what comes next, no matter how insane it might sound. It was a sign that something huge had changed within him. He now trusted Harry with the fate of their world.

"I plan to heal fighters," said Harry calmly, "alongside a group of others."

"Tell me about your plans."

Harry did. He explained his relationship with Nott, even going so far back as to describe the years they had spent corrupted by a need to be loved. He described how their friendship grew, how Nott knew about a part of him he had long forgotten. The more he spoke about the perfect balance between them, the more Dumbledore's sharp attention focused in on it. He was amazed. Something about the conversation felt like a final discussion at Dumbledore's own death bed; the circumstances and complexities of the war fell into perfect harmony, until clarity revealed itself. Harry spoke until the truth was known, speaking it an old story, an old song.

"I want you to know," he said eventually, "that I understand why you needed me to die in order to kill Voldemort. After seeing these wars, after experiencing what Voldemort's reign of terror is like, both personally and from afar, Dumbledore, I know you had to give me up to death no matter how much you loved me..."

This was his forgiveness, his apology. Although he was no longer the child Dumbledore had helped raise and love these last few years, as Harry loved Theodore, much of Harry still remained the same. It always had, through all the conflict he had thrown himself into, through all the confusion, anger, sorrow, angst, and ire. Harry had descended weakly into the grey in pain at the losses of the second war and of Dumbledore's betrayal, then had risen to be strong within the grey in pain at the losses of the first war and of Voldemort's betrayal. He was in perfect harmony, having learnt to understand all sides of conflict.

There were tears in Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes. Whether from remorse at the death of young Harry, in regret for his inability to tell the boy sooner, or in painful relief at the news that these was a force outside of the Order of the Phoenix who refused to join the war, but intended to put an end to it, Dumbledore was grieving. It didn't startle Harry. He watched his old Professor in admiration.

"I have been a fool..."

With these words, Dumbledore expressed his regret for entering the war. Harry wanted to tell him that he understood the circumstance, that nothing could have stopped Dumbledore from doing what he did once the events of loving Gellert and fearing Voldemort's power came together, but he knew there was greater power in his silence. He didn't need to say a word.

"I suppose," said Dumbledore placidly, "if you are indeed here in preparation for ending the war with grey magic, if you indeed intent to revoke the pain of fighting by bringing in Healers to fix the mistakes made, and if you are indeed well-informed of my approaching death, perhaps you also might be here to make one final request. Upon my death, do you wish to obtain my Phoenix, Fawkes?"

Gently, Harry nodded. It had been another major reason for him coming here.

Dumbledore only smiled. Beyond surprise, he understood that this gift might be his only solid contribution to the force Nott and Harry had created. Even if he must die, Fawkes would be there for him to spread the message he could not. In that moment, Harry understood that Dumbledore wanted nothing more than to join him.

"I initially planned to give Fawkes back to Gellert, as a sort of farewell," he said placidly, "yet this is a far better use..."

Arrangements were made. In the months that followed, Dumbledore contributed to the non-side of the war. He would leave Hogwarts for weeks at a time alongside hunting Horcruxes, often venturing out for no other reason than to inquire about the future that would go on after his death. It gave him security. His intelligence, his heart, and his support gave peace its final chance and summoned the influence and interest of sorcerers from all around the globe. Although he would never live to see whether it came true, Dumbledore put his faith in Harry's plans. In his final year of life, he faced remorse, revoked his argument on war, and found peace.

Harry had witnessed Dumbledore's funeral before, but he decided to watch it again from afar when the time came around. There was something wholly important to him about witnessing the crowd of people who gathered in dedication to the personal and historical influences Dumbledore had had within his life, whether or not that praise was what he died standing for. Harry observed the funeral alongside many witches and wizards who had joined Nott to fight the upcoming war. They were the only ones who knew about the influence Dumbledore had on their own cause.

Up on a mountainside by Hogwarts, where many Grey Sorcerers gathered during the day, Harry waited until evening for his final message from Dumbledore to arrive. Since they had made the agreement before his death, Fawkes knew instinctively to seek Harry's company. He had been lamenting Dumbledore's death. Harry watched him soar around the highest towers of Hogwarts Castle, the red of his feathers shocking even against the red sunset. Fawkes would not forget about Dumbledore, not in all the years of immortality. Even when he soared closer and landed upon Harry's outstretched arm, it was clear he would mourn death. For another year – one last painful year of war – Harry stayed in the company of Fawkes, waiting for the Battle of Hogwarts.

It happened very fast. The moment Dumbledore died, the moment a younger Harry left Hogwarts for good, the second war beat down upon them with greater terror than memory could prepare Harry for. He watched the events unfurl as they always had, read the names of every victim of war written in newspapers. He heard stories and allowed the mistakes and tragedies of war to on without his influence, focusing only on the influence he might have on that one crucial moment that everyone waited for with baited breath. He waited for the moment when Harry Potter would face Lord Voldemort for the final time.

The Battle of Hogwarts came. Many of Nott's Healers infiltrated Hogwarts Castle in the early hours of the raging war, but Harry had minimal interest in these chaotic hours. Invisibly, he worked alongside others when the fighting broke out. He avoided duels, using the light of spellfire to heal anyone who had fallen, whether they be students or Order fighters or Death Eaters or unknown. To those most dangerous, he paralysed them gently and trusted the Grey Sorcerers would soon come to protect and guard them. Unseen, unknown, the scales of war were slowly tipped, neither in favour nor against Lord Voldemort's wrath. To put an end to conflict, they saved the lives of all who fell.

Nott had dropped fighting for the Death Eaters at the first chance he got, knowing well enough that by this point, he needn't pretend for a single moment longer that he was one of them. He was clad in robes of grey, alongside Harry and the others. When Harry entered the battlefield, he held Fawkes on his shoulder and used his tears to heal peoples' open wounds, because the Phoenix cried deeply at the sight of such death. The worse the fighting grew, the more restless Fawkes became, until Harry released him. Fawkes took flight, singing with a sorrowful purity that overwhelmed all who heard him.

The sight of a Phoenix soaring high above the storming war became a signal of peace, a sign of the work of the Grey Sorcerers. He couldn't heal as many people without Fawkes' help, but Harry still had tremendous influence over those around him. Whoever fought most fiercely, whoever caused the greatest number of deaths, became a personal victim whom Harry would follow, unseen, until he got a chance to stun them. There was no guessing how many kills he prevented, but regardless of numbers, Harry put an end to conflict without thinking. By fixing individuals, by preventing killers from defeating their enemies, he was restoring peace and stopping conflict.

In a few days, months, or years, some fighters might decide, within St Mungo's, or Azkaban, or far away in a remote hiding place, that getting Stunned and ripped from battle was the best strike of luck that ever happened to them. Others, it was true, might spend their remaining years in bitter regret for not murdering more of their enemies. The only thing Harry cared about was ensuring that everyone, be them Death Eater, Auror, Order member, or student, had an equal shot at redemption and those who clutched to hatred for the rest of their lives would struggle to fulfil their bloodlust. Instead of tipping the scales in any direction, it made more sense to tip them over altogether.

When the battle took an hour-long intermission at Voldemort's request, a fire of bravery, wonder, and triumph rose up in Harry's chest. This was what he had spent decades waiting for. His younger self was soon to discover the memories that Snape had left for him, that Dumbledore had kept from him until this very moment. Harry needed to witness how his younger self would react to news of his impending death. He headed for Dumbledore's office early, parting from the rest of the Grey Sorcerers, who had withdrawn from the cover of combat to avoid revealing themselves to the Order, Hogwartians, and Harry Potter himself.

It happened as if in a dream. Undetected, invisible, Harry waited up in Dumbledore's office with serene patience for his younger self to arrive. He came rushing into the office with a small vial of silver memory in hand, breathing quickly, looking around for signs of a threat. He spotted none. His attention was focused wholly on one thing: the Pensieve. Boldly, attempting to hear a dying man's wish, younger Harry had tipped the memories into the basin, before falling into it. What came next was clear enough in Harry's head for him to seek no second glance. Snape's memories played themselves in order.

When the younger Harry Potter emerged from the Pensieve, having learnt the truth, he stood still. The secrets Dumbledore had kept from him for all of his life crashed over him in waves, until his face grew pale, a mask of horror. In the low light, Harry's eyes ignited – not in bravery, compassion, or inspiration, but in fear. He was going to die. He had been brought up for no further reason than this exact moment. To die at the right time. To die when Dumbledore wanted him to. In a betrayed, tormented rush of disbelief, young Harry broke. He was left with two choices: fight until death, or greet death kindly.

The much older, much wiser Harry remembered what he went through next. In had always been in his nature to fight bravely, to defend his friends, to keep on trying in the hope that luck would save him one more time. Seeing his younger face now, his eyes unfocused, his lungs heaving in the precious few remaining gasps of air, he understood why his instinct had been to fight rather than give in. There was a moment in which young Harry's eyes rose up, full of hatred, full of pain, to the portrait of Dumbledore hanging on the wall. He didn't believe in his old Headmaster. He didn't believe that hope was lost.

As quickly as he had arrived, young Harry span around and darted for the door. A surge of inspiration had taken possession of him: he was going to fight, he was going to overthrow Voldemort. Harry, glad in grey, followed the younger part of himself from the office, down the spiral staircase. He was calm about it when he lost sight of himself, who was speeding down the halls of Hogwarts Castle in bold courage. Young Harry's plan had been to fight alongside his friends and kill Voldemort before killing himself, but fate didn't appreciate his creativity.

He watched himself speed towards the Great Hall, desperate to find Ron and Hermione. With burning interest, he wandered like a ghost through what might as well have been a memory, keeping his eyes fixed on Ron and Hermione's faces. The three of them stood nervously in a scene where the dead were counted, until younger Harry pulled his two friends aside.

"What did you see?" asked Hermione desperately, her eyes huge. "Harry –?"

"We have to keep on fighting," Harry had answered seriously, his limbs visibly trembling. "Come on – we've got to kill Nagini!"

He had been so hopeful, so earnest. How he had even expected to get through Nagini's protective sphere, Harry still didn't know. He watched his two best friends demand answers to what had happened, watched their faces glow in concern and fear. Harry didn't want to see what happened next. In a few short minutes, the battle would start up again and he would be parted from Ron and Hermione forever. He didn't bother to retreat to the Grey Sorcerers. He knew what he must do.

The battle started up too soon. When it did, when Voldemort finally concluded that Harry would not, in fact, come to him in the Forbidden Forest willingly, the consequences were severe. It was all a blur, a vivid memory come alive for the last time. Harry had seen once before how the Giants thrashed against the walls of Hogwarts Castle, how the Acromantula scuttled from the depths of shadows, how Werewolves, although untransformed, bit and tore at flesh. He watched the Order fall before him once more. He saw the bodies of countless fighters pile up and lay still, torn, bloody.

The Death Eaters were winning, lead by a determined Lord Voldemort, whose violence and fury was perpetuated by Harry's failure to give himself up. While the scales were being tipped dramatically in Voldemort's favour, there was only one thing that the much older Harry could do. He followed his younger self, Ron, and Hermione through the raging war. He watched the three of them try desperately to fight their way through Death Eaters to Voldemort and Nagini. The remaining fighters had been forced to retreat into Hogwarts castle.

Death was everywhere in sight. Cold murder caused the bodies of students to pile up amongst the corpses of Aurors, Order members, teachers, and others. Death Eaters were dying too, often in great numbers, but as long as Voldemort fought, few of this enemies stood a chance of survival. He had failed to flood Harry out, both his young and his old self. Lord Voldemort was taking hold of Hogwarts Castle, commanding the Dragon-trainers to thrash the great beasts against the higher towers, allowing the Acromantula to flood it's halls, ordering Giants to mutate the face of the place he had once called home. Feeling unworldly calm, Harry strode to where Ron and Hermione duelled Death Eaters with Harry Potter.

The truth of the matter was, young Harry was too grieved by Dumbledore's betrayal to fight. With the knowledge that he must die, every spell he threw visibly emerged with the reluctance of his own dismay. No matter what he did to fight alongside and protect Ron and Hermione, he was going to die and was going to lose them too. Harry watched his younger self falter and stumble neurotically, desperation taking hold. They were fighting an unjust number of Death Eaters, locked in an endless shower of spellfire that defaced the halls of the castle, deafening all who were near. He fought in a blaze of delirium alongside Ron and Hermione, until the last fatal blow was made.

An explosion blew through the corridor where Harry Potter fought, promptly ending the duels nearby. Harry had expected it, had protected himself from it, but that didn't stop his ears from ringing painfully, his sense of direction lost in the haze of falling stones, rubble, and twirling smoke. The reaction in the next few seconds would haunt Harry Potter for the next fifty years or more. Many Death Eaters had been killed and injured by the explosion, but behind them, a hoard of others rushed forwards to take their chance. They seized Harry.

Behind him, Ron and Hermione were dying. Stunned, unarmed, they couldn't do a thing when a Death Eater, as a last thought, shot the sword of a broken suit of armour through Ron's back. He had been trying to protect Hermione, who was covered in fallen stones. Harry Potter's voice echoed through the halls as he cried after his friends, pleading for them to answer. The Death Eaters were taking him away. In victory, in rejoice, they were dragging him out to Lord Voldemort. For a moment, the older, wiser Harry watched his old friends. He watched when the Grey Sorcerers flooded in at the sight of death, intent upon saving the lovers. Although Harry Potter needed to see his friends die, the moment he turned his eyes away, fate was malleable.

Harry had no time to lose. Any moment now, the final battle was going to come to an end out in the courtyard. He could hear his younger self screaming, crying out, thrashing against the Death Eaters' grip. He followed the voice, still invisible. Withdrawing his wand, he followed the Death Eaters, until he met a sight that had haunted him in nightmares since the last time it had happened. Having won the war, the Death Eaters gathered on the outskirts of the courtyard, their eyes locked to Harry Potter. Harry moved swiftly to the centre of the gathering crowd, until he was in the ring. For the first time since his childhood, he saw first-hand what Tom had become.

Lord Voldemort stood tall in robes of black, wand at his side. He didn't acted in haste upon seeing Harry Potter, but instead gazed upon him in awe. Enthralled by his own success, Voldemort stood still. There was hatred burning in his red eyes, his pupils slit, his nostrils flaring. Even the Giants had frozen amongst Death Eaters, understanding that in this moment, the Dark Lord had won the war. The only light throughout the scene, beyond the fires burning down Hogwarts Castle, came from Nagini's sphere, which swirled by Voldemort's side. It had been a sight that tortured Harry in his last minute of life.

"One of you," hissed Voldemort to his Death Eaters, daring to play in his final moment of triumph, "give the boy his wand. I want you all to know, he had a standing chance..."

There was a clatter of wood. A Death Eater had thrown the wand back to Harry. Voices could be heard laughing from the crowds that gathered. The Death Eaters wanted to see him pick the wand up from the ground like a Muggle. Broken, trembling, Harry Potter refused to take his eyes from Voldemort. He crouched down. The Death Eaters laughed further. He pocketed his wand. The scene grew quiet. Harry Potter had refused the Dark Lord's wishes. He wasn't going to fight. It was the last act of bravery he could obtain after losing everything.

Voldemort was not angry. Instead, his head tilted with childlike curiosity. Why, after everything, had the boy decided to sacrifice himself? What would happen now, if Tom murdered the man who taught him how to love? One spell, and all of this would be over...

"Harry Potter," Tom whispered. "The Boy Who Lived..."

That was the end. That was when fate had been met. In the same instant that his younger self closed his eyes, accepting death, a weight hit Harry's shoulder. Fawkes had found him. Stunned, drawing the attention of Lord Voldemort, Harry became possessed by wonder. He stepped forwards just as Lord Voldemort raised his wand. He removed the Disillusionment Charm, revealing his position. There was fear in Tom's eyes. Death Eaters turned to look at him, unable to believe what they were seeing. As Lord Voldemort's equal, eyes burning red and gold with Fawkes' spread wings, Harry looked more like his father now than he ever had before.

Lord Voldemort pointed his wand at Harry Potter.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

There was a flash of green light, then something far worse. With an explosion great enough to destroy the house in Godric's Hollow, Voldemort's Killing Curse again backfired.

Billows of smoke rose up around Harry, who had long since protected himself with the aid of magic. He was out of the full range of the explosion, but he stumbled nevertheless, genuinely stunned. He tried to make sense of what had happened, his ears ringing, his head pounding, but he couldn't see a thing. Voices were shouting, cries could be heard from the Death Eaters nearby. He knew many witches and wizards had been killed. When the thick smoke around him cleared, it revealed a gruesome sight.

Lord Voldemort's body was nowhere to be seen. There was splatters of blood everywhere, Harry's blood from the Dark Lord's own veins. Death Eaters were strewn this way and that, their bodies in pieces or else withering in pain from loss of limb and from the verge of death through dedication. Harry heard people screaming, those further away shouting orders and demanding to know what happened. All that remained in the centre of the explosion was Nagini's sphere. Harry's eyes locked to it. Any moment now, the sphere should break, but he wouldn't allow it to happen.

Blind to the Death Eaters, who searched for their Lord, Harry shot a spell at Nagini's sphere. She was withering violently, which told Harry everything he needed to know. In a trance, he summoned Nagini to him. She was locked down her cage by magic that no snake could possibly overcome, thrashing against its walls. Although he did not intend it, Harry had won this war. The Grey Sorcerers, lead by Nott, were emerging from the shadows, taking over the stunned Death Eaters, who didn't believe any enemies of theirs still stood. Fights broke out, some attempted to run, but Harry was blind to all of it. Having captured Nagini, he looked up for only one reason.

His childhood body remained perfectly preserved where it had fallen. It was saint-like, saved from the full affects of the explosion by some twist of fate. There had been no one here to protect Harry Potter against the Killing Curse Voldemort cast, no one to take the fall for him, but magic had done its best. Rubble and debris was strewn around him, markings of an explosion headed Voldemort's way. Harry Potter lay peaceful, a hint of breath causing his chest to raise and fall rapidly, but he wasn't conscious. Harry knew what was happening inside his own head.

Dumbledore would greet him at King's Cross station, in the bright dream world of his own mind. There, he would offer Harry two options: return to life, or take a train towards death. Having seemingly no reason to live, Harry would reject the idea of returning to the Battle of Hogwarts. Because he was tormented by guilt at having lost the war, having lost his friends, neither would he choose to take that long ride with Dumbledore to death. Instead, in a moment of broken conflict, Harry would choose to save a scarred, wounded body hiding underneath a chair. Voldemort's body. His piece of shattered soul. Although he did not know it, his last moment of bravery had won him the war. He had killed Lord Voldemort. He had completed the Ouroboros, fulfilling the Prophecy.

The living Harry, the Second Dark Lord, was free and left with a choice. Free from fate, free from the Prophecy, he could do what he thought best for the world. Lord Voldemort was not gone. As long as Harry's soul remained on this earth, as it did, Voldemort could not die. It didn't matter what happened to Harry's body – he could be hit with a Killing Curse, he could be stabbed with a Basilisk's Fang, he could be ripped from his body and torn apart, born again, but Tom's soul was bound to his. That was why his younger self had the option of living again: because Voldemort was not dead. When Harry Potter drew his last breath, dying upon the battlefield where he had faced Lord Voldemort bravely, it gave Harry perfect clarity.

How funny, Harry thought, how tragic it was that there had been no reason for him to create his own Horcruxes after all. Strangely, it was nothing more than mere backup for Tom and himself. If he still had any left, all of Harry's Horcruxes should have worked perfectly to keep not only himself alive, but Tom too. Since he had none left, the only thing that ensured his immortality now was the final Horcrux that he held within his grasp: Nagini. The only way he could die was if all of both his and Tom's Horcruxes were gone and they were both killed. If they both floated in the realm between life and death with not a single Horcrux on earth, they would die – or be stuck in limbo forever.

Voldemort's body had just been destroyed. Much like when Harry was a child, the shattered soul was wandering, but there was no child for it to cling onto this time, no innocent, pure soul to bond with. Instead, Tom's soul was drawn to a much more powerful source – a living, breathing Horcrux. Nagini was the perfect vessel for him to retreat to, as he had always planned. She was strong, easy to control, and she was supposed to be tucked away safely in the Shrieking Shack for the dangerous part of the battle. Voldemort's plan, if all else failed, had been to use her body as an escape from Hogwarts, should Harry, as his true equal, ever attempt to defeat him. The problem was, Harry had known about this plan for decades.

Voldemort intended for the protective bubble to break around Nagini the moment he took possession of her and forced a way out of it, but Harry was preventing it. Nagini was stunned, her brain warped by the shattered soul of Lord Voldemort taking over. She was ruled by a desire to run and keep running. She was circling in her cage. This meant Harry had plenty of time to escape Hogwarts without even Voldemort realising the severity of the circumstance. Free of the Prophecy, he could make his own decisions. He had decided long ago to save Tom.

"Harry?"

Nott's voice interrupted the stunned state he had fallen into. When he turned to meet the blue eyes staring at him, he realised it might be for the final time. There was no chance that he could carry on his life here in England. An overwhelming sense of love and honour found Harry, growing ever-stronger at the sight of blissful happiness in Nott. Stories would be written about this moment in history, of their unknown force restoring peace during war. Nott hoped this would influence many wizarding movements in the future to prevent further wars happening, but Harry cared for only one thing. He had become Tom's equal and they would soon live in harmony.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes," Harry told him, beaming wildly. "I found him."

After everything they had been through, after all the battles they had faced, this is where Harry would part with Nott for the final time. He felt not a moment of regret about it. Having build a family, having raised Theodore, having overcome an incredible feat with Nott, he knew their lives had been well-lived. He would never forget it.

"Christopher... I can't tell you how much this means to me."

Nott only grinned more wildly, happy for Harry, in full faith that from this point on, everything was going to be alright. "I can say the same for you."

There were voices calling out, calmly, wizards asking after Nott's opinion on the Death Eaters they were capturing. It took his attention momentarily, but he was reluctant to leave.

"You should go," Harry told him gently. "You've got a lot of celebrating ahead of you."

Nott's bright eyes looked upon him for the final time. He was full of both sadness and relief. For a moment, both in pain and in joy, he struggled to express how he felt.

"Good luck, Harry... and thank you."

He turned away. Harry watched him go. He would become known, at least amongst peace-makers, as a leading figure in all of the work he had committed himself to these last few decades. Nott would live a full life, to an old age, being known for who he was at heart. Harry turned away from the scene. He needed to be alone with Tom. He would take them far, far away...