Chapter 4

The Unexpected Visitor

In the midst of a long, arduous day of shopping with The Potters, Harry sneaked off to Ollivanders.

His wand - which he had won from Draco Malfoy - worked just fine. However, there was just something off about using a wand that once belonged to somebody else. It was like borrowing someone else's toothbrush. While it would do the job just fine, he'd much rather have his own, clean and untouched by any other wizard. What's more, what if - at Hogwarts, - someone happened to notice he held the same wand as Malfoy? What if Malfoy himself noticed?

No - it wouldn't do. He'd have to buy a new wand. Preferably, he'd get his old one back. The wand chooses the wizard, doesn't it? Perhaps his old wand was still at Ollivanders, waiting for its master. He had more than enough money for this purchase, after working at The Marauder's Broom for over a week. Earlier today, James had helped him set up a new account at Gringgots, which now proudly secured a grand total of thirty-five galleons. He held the rest of his hard-earned salary with him.

After a long walk past the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, he finally reached Ollivanders, tucked in the corner of a winding street. His heart fluttered as he stepped inside the old, shabby shop. He wasn't sure why. There was no reason to be scared - he knew he'd be leaving the shop with a brand new wand.

A bell rang, and hasty footsteps emanated from the room behind the counter. Ollivander was widely regarded as the best wandmaker in all of Britain, but you'd never guess it from the state of the shop. It was small and unassuming, dusty and old. There was barely anything inside, too. A shelf behind the counter brimmed with stacks of thin boxes, some threatening to tumble down towards the creaky wooden floor. On a vase next to the door was a pale, wrinkly flower, rattling as if blown by a cold breeze. The only other object in the room was a stool - its legs uneven - which sat at the centre of the room.

A strange memory struck him, of years before, when Hagrid had sat on that very chair, pink umbrella in hand. Before he could contemplate further, Ollivander emerged from the back room, waddling toward Harry with a walking stick.

"Good morning," he rasped. "A new customer… Here for a replacement wand, I presume?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"Well, sit down then!" said Ollivander, motioning at the stool with his walking stick. Harry did as instructed. "You are a Potter, aren't you?"

He took in a sharp intake of breath. How had Ollivander known? "Yes, sir."

"Any relations to James Potter?"

"He's my uncle."

"Hmmm," said Ollivander, peering at him with piercing grey eyes. Harry ruffled his hair to cover his scar. "Your wand arm, please."

He raised his right arm, and the wand-maker pulled out a long measuring tape from the counter's drawers. It flew over and unrolled itself, before making various measurements in quick succession. It coiled around his chest, before hovering above his head, then sweeping over to his right hand, and so on, without any sort of pattern or logic. When it was done, it drifted back towards Ollivander's wrinkly hands, who hunched down and squinted at the numbers in the tape, humming.

"Your old wand," said Ollivander, putting the tape measure back in the drawer. "Do you have it with you?"

Unconsciously, he draped his hand over his pocket - the one that contained Draco Malfoy's wand. "No, sir, but I remember - it was Holly with a Phoenix Feather core."

Ollivander turned towards the shelves, hands tracing out the various boxes inside. "And who was the wandmaker that sold you that wand, if I may ask?"

"Gregorovitch," said Harry. It was the first name that popped into his head - the only other wandmaker he knew.

"Strange," said Ollivander. "For all the decades I have known Gregorovitch, he has never shown an inkling of interest in Pheonix feathers - too unpredictable, he told me. Perhaps he has grown some sense after all these years… It has been quite some time since I had last seen him. "

Harry said nothing as Ollivander walked towards him, a handful of thin boxes flying overhead. The wandmaker snatched one and opened the lid carefully, presenting it to Harry. The wood was black - definitely not Holly - and far too long compared to his old wand. He picked it up anyway and gave it a wave. Nothing.

The next wand - a bendy white stick with intricate engravings - produced no results as well. The third wand flew out the instant he touched it, swooping towards the ceiling.

"Tricky customer, eh?" asked Ollivander, chuckling as he searched for more wands. "No matter, no matter…"

"None of those wands were holly," noted Harry.

"Indeed," he replied. "You can't expect to have the same exact wand the second time. It is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr Potter. The person you were when you received your first wand might very well be different than the person you are now. It is no guarantee that a wand made of holly will accept you as it had once before."

"So why did you ask what my old wand was?"

"Oh, that knowledge is still quite useful," said Ollivander, heading back towards him with more thin boxes in tow. "What your old wand was made of indicates the person you once were, which directly impacts the person you are now. It helps me make educated guesses."

But the next few wands he tried didn't work either, and Ollivander went back to the shelves to search for more. He waited patiently. The first time he bought a wand, it had taken multiple tries to find a wand that would work on him. Why should this be any different?

When Ollivander finally presented him with his old wand, he jolted. As he had hoped, that wand - his wand - hadn't been sold! He snatched it all too eagerly, yearning to feel its warmth again. It had been quite some time since he had felt the luxury of holding a wand that was truly his, and he had long since forgotten how it felt to do magic with it. With a grin, he waved his wand.

Only for it to blast out of his hand, flashing through the air and crashing at the counter with a bang that reverberated through the whole shop - and probably the whole street. The wand exploded in a burst of chips and feathers. Harry gaped as debris rained on them both, smelling distinctly of smoke. What just happened?

"But that was-" he turned to Ollivander. "I apologise-"

"O-ho!" said Ollivander nonchalantly. "No matter, no matter! I do so love a good challenge." He cleaned the mess with a simple flick of his wand. "I see every customer, Mr Potter, as a puzzle to be solved. Some are easier than others. It is the tricky ones that I love, the ones that make me think - those are the ones that give me the most satisfaction, at the end of the day. Not to worry, we'll have your wand in a jiffy."

The next hour was fruitless. Wand after wand he tried, taking each with a numb hand and waving with an achy elbow. But there was no spark, no warmth, no harmonic symphony, for none of these wands called for him. They were simply dead pieces of wood on the best of cases, and magical objects that loathed him at the worst. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, his back prickling from sitting in that position for far too long, but he was sure that he was slowly losing hope.

At first, Ollivander seemed to be genuinely excited by the challenge. He hummed and grinned, walking with a spark far too bright for someone his age. Every failed wand seemed like a surprise, eliciting a frown and mutters. As time went on, however, he seemed increasingly agitated. Harry almost wanted to call it a day then and there, and try again tomorrow. The Potters must have noticed his sudden disappearance by now, and while Ollivander was much more energetic than his frail frame suggested, he did look rather fatigued.

After about an hour of futile wand-waving, Ollivander approached him with a distinct air of finality. He brought only one box with him, and this one had been retrieved from the room in the back. With shaky hands, Ollivanders opened the box and revealed the most boring wand Harry had ever seen. The wood was straight and polished, with no bends or cracks or ridges - just a thin, smooth cylinder, with a flat edge.

He picked it up and gave it a shake. Nothing. As expected. He looked up at the wandmaker and shook his head. Ollivander heaved a sigh.

"Now that is curious," said Ollivander, scratching his head. "Very curious…"

"What's wrong?" asked Harry.

"The wand you hold now was crafted in my early years of wandmaking," he said. "One of my first projects; it was specifically designed to work for every wizard. You see, the wand has no personality of its own - it uses the most common wood type and wandcore. As a result, it is not quite effective for more powerful or specialised magics - but it should be able to be used by any wizard. Indeed, it has worked for any wizard that has tried it - except for you."

"And… what does that mean for me?"

"It means, Mr Potter," said Ollivander. "that, in all likelihood, no wand of my making will work for you."

"How!?"

"How indeed," said Ollivander. His eyes twinkled. "The wand in your pocket. May I see it?"

He didn't move a muscle, sending Ollivander a deadpan stare.

"Magic, Mr. Potter, leaves traces," he said with a chuckle. "Those keen of mind can sense certain types of magic as easily as a man might notice the chirping of various birds in the background. I have observed the wand you hold in your pocket since the moment you entered. May I?"

He could run. Or try to deny. Showing Ollivander the wand in his pocket could only spawn trouble. After all, Ollivander must have sold it to Malfoy years ago. But a part of him - a confused, desperate sliver of his soul - overcame his logic. He needed to know why no wand would work, and he wasn't sure he could handle a lifetime of a wand that just felt wrong to use. Besides, it was just Ollivander. If he gave any trouble, Harry was reasonably sure he could beat the old man in a duel. Then… whatever happened next, the Unspeakables would have his back. Probably.

He sighed, before carefully pulling Malfoy's wand out of his pocket and presenting it to Ollivander. The old man turned, renewed with a burst of energy, hastily walking towards the shelves. Minutes later, he returned with another box. With a wrinkly hand, he opened the lid and snatched the wand inside, comparing it to Malfoy's.

It was the same wand.

Sharp grey eyes met green. His mind raced, heartbeat thudding against his chest. Shit. That wand hadn't been sold too; Malfoy must've been sold a different one, if he even existed here. What the hell should he do?

"No two wands are the same," murmured Ollivander. "Even if you create a wand with the exact same dimensions, using the same exact materials, it will always contain a different essence, a different personality. It is curious indeed that these two wands are magically identical - I can tell yours has seen much more use, but it is, fundamentally, the same. This, I have never seen. It is simply… otherworldly."

Harry gritted his teeth. The secret was out.

"Don't fret, Mr Potter. I take customer confidentiality very seriously," he said, fully rejuvenated. "But this is fascinating. If I was still in my youth, in the peak of my scholarly days, I would have found you an interesting specimen indeed, if only for the experiments I could do… But those days are long gone, and I find myself out of touch from the academic world. Nevertheless, I think this provides the reason behind our current predicament. I amend my earlier statement. It is very likely that no wand made in this world will work for you – not just wands of my making."

"Because I'm not from here?" asked Harry in a whisper, looking at the windows to see if anyone was listening in. "Why would that matter?"

"No wand of this world will belong to you because you, yourself, do not belong to this world," said Ollivander, now pacing, each step accompanied by the thud of his walking stick hitting the floor. "None of my wands were designed with a world traveller in mind. A wand chooses the wizard precisely when it Resonates with the wizard's soul - a wizard's personality. I must admit, what comes next out of my mouth is pure conjecture. Wandlore as a body of theory is far from complete — let alone Soul Theory. However, I suspect that my wands are unable to resonate with you for this reason; your soul is a foreign one. My wands will not know what to make of you; it reacts the way it would when a Goblin or House-Elf attempts to wield it: with uncertainty and apprehension."

He let the words stew in his head, still not quite understanding why any of this would matter. A soul was a soul, wasn't it? His mind wandered to the day he travelled here. The reason he couldn't return to his old world in the first place, as Dumbledore had told him, was that he had died there - his soul had died there, killed by Voldemort's Killing Curse. This world was a world where he had not died. Yet, fifteen years ago, The Potters' son was killed. The Harry Potter of this world had died. So why was he still allowed in?

He was not the same Harry. Their souls must be different. If, in another world, he had died to a stray Killing Curse during the Battle of Hogwarts, would he still be allowed in? He couldn't see why not. There must be some hidden factor in play that distinguished the souls of the various worlds somehow – a hidden factor that made him foreign in the wand's eyes.

Trying to understand magical theory was like deliberately banging your head against a brick wall, though, and he had enough of that in his job at the Marauder's Broom. He shook his head.

"So I can't get a new wand," said Harry.

"I don't see the problem with the wand you hold now," said Ollivander. "Assuming this is yours. Ten inches, hawthorn, and unicorn hair. Reasonably springy, and quite handy for charms. A fine wand indeed."

"It's not - this wand was given to me," said Harry. "My old wand broke. This one works, but it just feels a bit… off. It doesn't feel like my old wand, at least."

"Given to you?" said Ollivander, lips pursed.

"Won in a duel," admitted Harry.

"Then I don't expect it to feel the same, no," said Ollivander. "Wands won from conquest rarely obey their masters fully. They are still bound to you – but by obligation, and not respect, unlike a wand that willingly chooses its wizard. I understand your desire to have your own. While I would recommend going to other wand-makers to see if, perhaps, my judgement was wrong, there is something else you can do…"

Harry nodded, listening with rapt attention.

"You must make your own wand," said Ollivander. "A wand that belongs to you because you designed it to. Wandmaking is a highly personal experience, a process of self-discovery more than anything else. It is through this process alone, I believe, that a wand will be truly yours."

"Make my own wand?" asked Harry, incredulous. "How would I do that?"

"Alas, this is not something I can fully guide you with. For the wand to be yours, it must be made through your own will, determination, and knowledge – through experimentation and inquiry. I am not saying you cannot seek help, whether it be from books, or from asking questions to esteemed wandmakers – by all means, feel free to do so – but what I am saying is there needs to be a struggle. Wandmaking for one's own self can be seen as a ritual; the process itself directly contributes to the end product."

"How long would it take?"

"It's hard to say," said Ollivander. "As with most things, it depends on the wizard's skill and luck. For a reasonably talented wizard with no prior experience in wandmaking and alchemy, I believe several years would be a realistic goal – though doing it in under a year would not be too unreasonable."

Well, fuck. He didn't have that long until he went to Hogwarts. He seriously doubted he could get it done within a few weeks. This meant he had to go to Hogwarts with Draco Malfoy's wand. At least he now knew Malfoy didn't hold the same wand, in this universe.

"How long does it take for you to make a wand?" he asked.

There must have been thousands stacked on the shelves, and perhaps even more in the other room. Surely it took Ollivander much less than a year.

"Most of my wands take a day to craft," said Ollivander with a smile. "But I have the luxury of freedom, and a century of knowledge and experience. None of the wands I crafted were made for a specific person in mind. I create wands, and the wands choose the wizard with the greatest fit. If I were to create a wand for myself, I shall work with the constraints of my own soul, and it would inevitably require more time."

And so, minutes later, it was with an empty hand that Harry left Ollivanders. He sighed and headed for the bookstore.

Clayfoot Cottage was in absolute chaos.

Lily frantically cooked their lunch, the clattering and pattering of various kitchen utensils echoing even all the way up to Harry's room. James was at his workshop testing new broom designs, most of which had swooped over to the nearby forest. Liza, meanwhile, was still in her room.

And Harry… Harry was just there to enjoy it, to bathe in the mundane domesticity of it all. He still ached for his friends, but there was a newfound sense of relief born from the knowledge that no dark wizards wished him dead. None from this world, at least. Anytime he began to enjoy this feeling, a profound guilt began to weigh on him like a bag of bludgers; his friends didn't have the same luxury he had.

He gritted his teeth as he busied himself with cleaning the living room. He did this with utmost care, making sure to keep every surface shining and spotless. Distractions. It was all he could do to keep himself sane, and away from the thoughts of his past.

Apparently, Liza's boyfriend was coming over for lunch today. They would head to the Burrow afterwards, joining the Weasleys to watch a match between the Holyhead Harpies against the Chudley Cannons. Liza had apologised for not having any spare tickets for Harry, but he didn't mind. He wasn't sure how he'd fare seeing the Weasleys of this world.

The doorbell rang, and Lily called for Harry to take the door. He complied, grateful for another distraction. The problem with mindless distractions was that they were… well, mindless. He had nothing to think about when doing these tasks, so those thoughts would eventually worm itself back in like a parasite, slowly seeping all his energy.

Harry answered the door with a smile, excited to see just who Liza's mysterious boyfriend was. For a moment, he didn't recognize the face that stared back at him. He was a boy, perhaps the same age as Harry, with pale skin and sharp features. He had a mop of white blond for hair, and warm grey eyes.

He looked so different that it took him a moment to fully register everything. Somehow, his face looked a bit more youthful. His hair was messy, a far cry from the sleek, gelled-back hair he was used to seeing. And his fashion… he was drenched in Holyhead Harpies merch: a bright green cloak embroidered with the Harpies' coat of arms, a T-Shirt inside with the text "Hail the Harpies!", and a scarf slung on his shoulders with a picture of Gwenog Jones zooming across it. Despite all this, there was still no mistaking him.

He was looking at Draco Malfoy.

Harry murmured a swear under his breath.

"Draco!" Liza surged past him, embracing the blond boy.

Harry stepped back, feeling dizzy. That face, though slightly different, incited a flicker of memories: a prone pale body limp on the floor, clothe swamped with blood; a bearded white man falling off a high tower, arms splayed; Hermione's tortured screams, faint from the distance but no less haunting, accompanied by Ron's frantic begging and pounding on the walls.

"-oh, and this is Harry – the cousin I told you about in my letters," Liza was saying. "Harry, this is Draco."

Malfoy smiled at him. A genuine smile. Aside from his physical appearance, there was something different to the way he held himself. His posture was far more relaxed, body language exuding friendliness rather than hostility.

"Nice to meet you," said Harry stiffly.

"Wotcher," said Malfoy. "Liza's told me all about you."

Even his accent was different, though there was something familiar about it he couldn't place.

"Oh, we should fetch dad," said Liza, taking Malfoy's hands. "He's still up at his workshop, and mum's been calling him down for hours. Have I ever shown you his Workshop, by the way? It's awesome! You coming, Harry?"

"I need to help Lily with lunch," he said.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and trudged towards the kitchen. There, he found Lily, who had finished cooking and was now placing all the food into plates. He took a moment to take in the savoury scent of Lily's cooking, rich in texture and brimming with a hint of spices.

Harry helped her without a word, scrubbing clean pots and plates and pans with a quick wave of his wand, before sending them to scuttle back to their respective compartments. Lily nodded at him with silent gratitude, and he continued cleaning and tidying, various kitchen utensils and cutleries flying above their heads like a hailstorm. He was quickly mastering these household charms, being able to do most wordlessly. They were pretty easy once you figure out-

Crash. Harry swore, ducking as a splatter of plate debris rained down on him. He apologised profusely to Lily, fixing the mess with a quick Reparo and continuing the job. It had been weeks since his meeting with Ollivander, but he hadn't made much progress on that front. He just didn't have the energy, these days.

Eventually, he ran out of tasks to do, and he paced around aimlessly, because there was really nothing else to do but to confront-

"Draco Malfoy," he said, looking at Lily incredulously. "Liza's boyfriend is… Draco Malfoy?"

Lily raised an eyebrow as she opened up the window, levitating a few cloche-covered plates and sending them hurtling out towards the dining gazebo.

"What's wrong with Draco?" she said. She rushed towards the sink to wash her hands. "I assume he's different in your world?"

"You could say so," said Harry, chuckling darkly.

He stared out the window, watching Liza yell at her father to get down from the Workshop. James poked his head out the window, slunk back in, and a second later flew out with a broom, hovering down in a spiral.

"How different was he?"

"He was a death eater," said Harry. "His whole family were."

"Well," said Lily. "He's very different here."

"You don't say," muttered Harry. Malfoy was grinning good-naturedly as James patted him on the back, pointing at something in the workshop. What an unnatural expression to spot on Malfoy's face.

He turned to Lily, meeting her eyes.

"If Draco became a death eater," said Lily. "Then… the War never ended in your world, did it?"

For some reason, his heart panged at the question. It took him a while to answer.

"It did end," he finally said. "But only for a while."

He offered nothing more than that. Lily peered at him, as if waiting for more, before turning her gaze towards the window and straightening up.

"About bloody time," she said, shaking her head fondly at James, voice padded with faux cheerfulness. "Come on."

He followed her out the kitchen, and then out of the cottage. The weather had been terrible these past few weeks, as if the summer sun had suddenly decided to go on vacation. The grass they tread on was damp, splashing water onto his boots, and the lake seemed to be higher than usual. Today, however, the sky was a piercing blue, no clouds in sight. The breeze brought with it a woody, dewy scent, and the lush gardens around them added a cacophony of floral aromas. They followed the stone path down towards the dining gazebo – Liza, James, and Malfoy were already there.

"You don't have to do this alone, you know," said Lily. "I don't know what you went through in your world, and I can't imagine how you must feel right now, leaving your world and your friends behind… but you don't have to deal with it alone. We're here for you, Harry.

"When I lost my son, I was devastated. I didn't know what to do with myself. It… wasn't quick, but I found that talking to other people – people that truly cared for me – I think that really helped. Talking to James, to Remus, to Alice – without them I don't know what I would've done. I understand if you're not comfortable talking about… your past, and you don't have to – but it does help, in my experience. We may not have raised you, but James and I still care for you, and Liza practically admires you."

A lump formed in his throat, like a stubborn rock lodged in a narrow pipe, and his eyes grew misty. He looked away, focusing instead on the forest nearby. It would occasionally echo out strange sounds, and Liza claimed a demiguise – a large beast that can turn invisible at will – lived inside it. He scanned the wiry trees guarding its entrance. Was it one of Liza's jokes, or was it true an invisible being lived somewhere beyond those leaves?

What would it be like to be a demiguise? To be able to hide from anything – from anyone, to be unseen whenever it wants? It would be great, at first, but after some time it must feel pretty lonely… He tried to swallow the lump, and while it remained, it seemed to have shrunk slightly.

"I'll consider it," he said. "Thank you."

Lily beamed, squeezing his shoulders.

"Your birthday's coming up, isn't it?" she said.

"Yeah, but there's really no need to do anything special-"

"Nonsense, a wizard's seventeenth birthday is a very special day."

"Eighteenth," corrected Harry. "But I'm fine, really, there's no need to celebrate or buy gifts — well, treacle tarts for breakfast would be nice, but other than that-"

"We're definitely taking you to a nice restaurant," said Lily firmly.

Sensing nothing he could say would change her mind, he smiled. "That sounds nice, thank you."

For a moment, Lily's face fell.

"You really don't need to do anything, Lily," he said reassuringly. "Being allowed to stay in your house is more than enough for me."

"It's not that," said Lily. She set her eyes towards the great lake beyond. "I've just remembered - we usually celebrate Harry's – our Harry's – birthday by visiting his grave on Godric's Hollow. If you don't mind, maybe we can find a nice place to eat up in the village, or maybe I could reschedule–"

"It's fine," he said, though inwardly he pondered the absurdity of the situation. He'd be visiting the grave of his alternate self, who had been no older than a toddler. Well, he supposed it was no stranger to his current predicament, with Malfoy being the boyfriend of his alternate self's sister.

"I'm sorry, this must be very strange for you." Lily met his eyes. She added softly: "Sirius is buried there too. James told me you knew him."

The lump in his throat swelled once more, and he tried to swallow it back down. Sirius' death was so long ago now – at least, it felt like it – but he would never be able to forget what it did to him. It was still a fresh wound, after all those years, only covered by well-made bandages. When he first arrived in this new, strange world, the thought of meeting Sirius again was the only thing that ignited some excitement over his new life, even though he knew it wouldn't be the same – it would never be the same.

Godric's Hollow was a peaceful, quiet village enveloped by rolling green hills. Thin patches of trees streaked like scabs on the landscape. The village itself was worn and overgrown. Lush shrubbery ripe with fruit bordered the gravelled roads, and vines sneaked down from brick roofs towards moss-covered walls. The sky was the colour of snow, and there was a heavy feeling to the air not altogether caused by the impending threat of rainfall.

Harry trailed behind Lily and James, Liza walking alongside him, unusually quiet. The residents of Godric Hollow, all well beyond their middle ages, greeted them as they passed. They all knew James and Lily from the short period they lived here, and all were curious of his identity. Only for this occasion, they had decided beforehand to call him 'Henry'. It didn't hurt to be cautious.

The graveyard was set right next to the church, a weathered building the shape of a shoe, with a spire at its tall end. The whole area was surrounded by a brick fence, on which Liza sat. Harry debated between sitting here and following James and Lily, but his curiosity got the best of him.

He gave the two some space as they grieved for their son, and instead explored the other graves. It was much the same as it was back at home, only with the obvious omission of his parents'. One particular headstone stood out to him, one that he didn't recognize. It was black, and stood tall and firm. Engraved were the words:

SIRIUS BLACK

November 3, 1959 - October 31, 1981

A chill trickled down his spine. The day Sirius died… It couldn't be a coincidence. And the fact that he was buried here, of all places. It was like the final piece of the puzzle had clicked into place, and Harry finally understood what had happened.

How unfair was it that, in both worlds, his godfather was taken far too early? The Sirius he knew had died shortly after getting a small taste of freedom - false freedom, and the Sirius of this world had died after barely reaching adulthood. His salvation was the knowledge of the existence of multiple worlds; there must be one out there where his godfather led a happy, fulfilling life. The thought of it stiffened his resurging anguish.

He felt Lily and James approach him, stopping by his side. They said nothing, nor did he. He didn't want them to feel as if they needed to explain anything to him, similar to how they had treated him. After a while, it was James who first spoke.

"It was my biggest regret," he said. "We were still in hiding. My parents died, both of them, days apart from each other. Dragon pox. Nothing could've been done. I haven't seen them in almost a year, and I wanted – needed – to go to the funeral, to say my final goodbyes."

"James wasn't himself back then," said Lily softly. "A year in isolation took its toll, and losing both his parents… I needed to accompany him, just in case. I thought we would be safe – it had been a year of hiding with no incidents, and the Fidelius charm was supposed to be unbreachable. We… we let Sirius and Peter babysit Harry, and I made a device that would instantly apparate us if there was trouble."

"Peter took Sirius out when he wasn't looking," said James, a rough edge to his voice. "And then he killed Harry."

"I'm sorry," he said.

He couldn't comprehend the guilt they must have felt. He empathised with it, thinking of the deaths that could have been avoided had he given himself up before the Battle.

"Please tell us," said Lily, a sudden hunger in her voice. "Our alternate selves – what did we – how did you live?"

That was it. The erumpent in the room. The question he'd felt drifting in their heads ever since they met him, just waiting to be spoken. Waiting for the right time.

"They called me the Boy-Who-Lived," said Harry. "Voldemort himself came to the house on the night of Halloween. My parents were there. My father died instantly."

He hesitated. Would it hurt for Lily to know the truth? That she could have given up her life to save her son's? He worried over how this would affect her, but she deserved the truth. After weeks of him dodging questions, giving half-truths… after all they've done for him, they deserve this much.

"My mother stood in front of me. She - she begged for Voldemort to take her out instead of me. Voldemort wanted to spare her, told her to stand aside so he could kill me. She didn't move, and I guess he lost his patience and killed her. And… that choice she made, it made the difference. When Voldemort tried to kill me, the curse rebounded and hit him instead. Ancient magic, according to Dumbledore. Powered by a mother's love. I was the only person known to have survived the Killing Curse, with only this–" he rubbed the scar on his forehead. "as a remnant."

Lily shook, and James embraced her. Harry stepped away, giving the couple some privacy. Minutes later, she calmed enough to say: "Thank you. For telling me."

He could tell it affected her more than she showed – James, too – but he nodded, saying nothing.

"Hold on," said James, forcing a chuckle. "Does that mean you killed Voldemort, as a baby?"

"I became known for it," he said bitterly. "Famous for something I did when I was in my nappies."

"But you said the War continued," said Lily. "How could it have continued after Voldemort's death?"

"He returned," he said. "He had these objects which tethered him to life, basically making him immortal. He came back to life in my fourth year."

"That's horrible," said Lily.

"To say the least," he said, chuckling. "He wouldn't stop hunting me, with the prophecy and all. My friends and I spent the better part of a year destroying all those objects that kept him alive. Then… There was a battle at Hogwarts. Voldemort gave me an ultimatum. Give myself up, or… well, you get the idea."

"You sacrificed yourself," said Lily. "but I don't understand – how are you here, then?"

"My mother's sacrifice tethered me to life," he said. "I don't know, Dumbledore explained it better than I could've. But I couldn't return to my old world, because I had died there, so I guess I was sent to another world instead."

There was silence, and for a moment he was, for some reason, scared to hear their reactions. But then Lily approached and embraced him. He stiffened, but he let himself be hugged.

"Thank you," she said. "for sharing."

It was like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. In letting someone else know his secrets, he had shared the burden that had been holding him down all this time. Some of that burden he still carried, and he knew part of it would still be there till the day he died, but sharing it with someone brought some much needed relief. He didn't know why he hadn't done this earlier – what had he feared for, exactly?

There was no judgement in their expressions, no pity. No further questions asked, as if they were intimately familiar with his boundaries. Just understanding, and an appreciation that he trusted them enough to share this.

"Sirius must've raised you, then," said James.

"For a while, yeah," said Harry vaguely. The Dursleys were a different topic entirely. Save that for another day. "Best godfather I could've had. He died in my fifth year. I walked straight into one of Voldemort's traps, Sirius came to save me, and got killed by Bellatrix Lestrange. I might as well have gotten him killed."

He shared more than he should've, but once he started, it was difficult to stop. He looked down at Sirius' headstone. They hadn't built one back in his old world – there was no body to be recovered, and there was no place to put a headstone anyway.

James put a hand to his shoulder – his version of Lily's embrace.

"I know how you feel," he said. "I blame myself everyday for Sirius and Harry's death. Hated myself for it."

"Does it get better?"

"Yes," said James. "It's - It's not like the guilt is gone, because it'll never go away. What changes is how I react to that guilt. It gets better. It takes an excruciatingly long time, but it does."

"Thank you."

James squeezed his shoulders, before stepping back.

"Your watch," he said. "If Sirius didn't give you that one, then who did? I assume Remus, then?"

"It was actually Molly Weasley," he said with a smile. "The Weasleys took me in after I became best friends with Ron. I became part of the family, in a way."

"I'm glad they took you in," said Lily, a genuine smile crossing her face. "I couldn't have asked for a better family to do so. I didn't know them very well, but Molly and Arthur are good people. And Ron's a good kid."

"Yeah," he said wistfully. "He was."

After that, James and Lily went back to visit their son's grave. Talking about the Weaselys, about Ron, had brought him even more relief. He was glad they did this.

He stared one last time at Sirius' headstone, before retreating to Liza. She still sat on the fence, face unreadable as she gazed at her parents. He took a seat beside her.

Buried deep in his new routine, the rest of the summer went by quickly, if not uneventfully.

On weekdays he worked at The Marauder's Broom, continuing their research for the new Moony broom and helping Remus manage shipment for bulk orders. He spent his free time at home poring over books on Wandlore.

Wandlore was even more difficult than he first imagined. Even in the most introductory of books, he was expected to have a rudimentary understanding of Alchemy. He regretted not taking Ancient Runes after learning that most of the important works on alchemical theory were written in runic script, with only poor English translations. Hermione had been right; taking Ancient Runes wasn't that useless after all. Magic was, apparently, best described with the language of runes. He borrowed Liza's books on Ancient Runes and caught up with several years worth of the Hogwarts curriculum, giving him just the barest understanding of runic scripts.

With all that studying required beforehand, he didn't have the time to even begin making his wand. He suspected he'd only be ready once he was at Hogwarts.

Thankfully, some of what he had learned during broom making had surprising connections to wandlore. Choosing the wood for your wand, for instance, is akin to choosing the wood for your broom. Indeed, only the woods that are considered "wandworthy" could be used to create brooms.

Encouraged by Lily, he did spend some time revising for his NEWTs, though even after everything he still found it terribly boring. With his broom making research, as with his study into wandlore, he had a concrete goal in mind. Spending hours digging into books didn't faze him too much, because he knew at the end something would come out of it: something he could touch and use, something that he actually cared about. The exams were an abstract, faraway thing. Still, he studied.

Liza's OWLs had come out and she earned near perfect scores. While he was never the most competitive, he did think it would be rather embarrassing if he was known as the only academically incompetent Potter.

Outside of his studies, Draco would occasionally come over, and Harry tried his best to get along with the boy. He was an entirely different person to the Malfoy he knew, but it was difficult not to equate that pale, pointed face with his old nemesis.

From what he'd learned, both of Draco's parents had been sent to Azkaban after Voldemort's downfall, and he was placed in the custody of Andromeda Tonks. Knowing that Draco had been raised alongside Tonks explained a lot about his personality – as well as his tendency to say "wotcher."

He kept resisting Liza's attempts to bring him along to the Burrow, not quite ready to meet the faces of his old friends. Seeing Draco was one thing, but seeing Ron, Hermione, Ginny… He wasn't sure yet he could handle seeing the lack of recognition in their faces as they met.

The last days of summer creeped in. For the first time, Harry dreaded its end.

Sorry everyone for the incredibly late update! Life happens, you know the drill. I struggled a lot with this chapter. There were many scenes that I just decided to remove, but I think I'm fairly happy with how it turned out. Sorry if it's a bit boring - all the chapters that has been posted so far are just the set up.

Yeah, Liza's boyfriend is Malfoy. Before you pull out your pitchforks, I'm not the biggest fan of Malfoy either, but when I first came up with this fic's concept I thought it would be really funny if Harry's sister's boyfriend ended up being someone he hated. I still think it's funny. Sue me. Shoutout to the person on AO3 who somehow figured it out.

I'm so excited for the next chapter. Harry is finally going to Hogwarts, and we get to learn a bit about the Triwizard Tournament. Hint: It's going to be nothing like the Triwizard Tournament you're familiar with. Hopefully it's gonna come out faster than this chapter did.