Beginning note: First of all, thank you to everyone who read my first chapter! And for everyone who favourited and followed 3 Honestly, it made me get this chapter out so much faster, as with each view, I got more and more happy.

I don't know why, but for some reason, when I asked myself, "Oh, where oh where is Durmstrang," my brain responded with "Scandinavia, duh." It seemed strange for some reason, but I went with it.

And then I typed in what language was spoken in Durmstrang, and BOOM. I see it's in Bulgaria. Well then.

However, for the sake of this story, I'm keeping it in Scandinavia.

Also, to the guest who commented: I'm very happy for you that you don't want to read gay Harry Potter. No one asked you to. I, however, thoroughly enjoy both reading and writing it. But thanks for the laugh ;)

Chapter Two
Revelations

Harry slowly blinked his eyes open, the harsh white light of the hospital room blinding him momentarily. He felt disoriented, his mind foggy as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. As his vision cleared, he noticed a doctor standing nearby, his gaze fixed on Harry, assessing his condition. Another woman stood by the doctor's side, her expression so tense that it made him nervous.

Panic gripped Harry as he realised he was naked under the thin hospital blanket. Despite the modesty, an overwhelming sense of vulnerability washed over him. His hands instinctively clutched the blanket, his knuckles turning white.

"Wh-where am I? What's happening?" Harry's voice was weak and shaky, his throat dry as sandpaper. But no one was close enough to hear him.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling a tightness in his chest as he tried to make out what the two people in the room were saying. The woman was speaking, her voice low and unfamiliar. He could tell from her crisp accent that she was from a different world than he was, a world of privilege and prestige. She spoke with the doctor, an old man with a kindly face and a tuft of white hair.

"Harry, my name is Professor Flett," the doctor said gently. "This is Her Majesty the Queen, Ingrid Olsen. We understand from Mr Linklater that you have been having some difficulties recently?"

Harry had no idea who Mr Linklater was, but he nodded, unable to find the words to express himself. He felt like he was being pulled apart, unable to contain the emotions swirling within him.

"It's alright, Harry. We just want to help," the professor said reassuringly. "We need to understand what happened to you so we can help you move forward."

Harry swallowed hard, aware that the two of them were waiting for him to speak. He felt a sudden urge to tell them everything and let it all out, but he was also aware that the truth would not be easy to reveal.

"I … I'm not sure," he said, his voice trembling. "I don't think I want to talk about it." Trying to change the subject, he asked, "Where am I?"

In a gentle tone, the professor assured him, "You're in the hospital. You're safe now. Just take a deep breath."

"B-but... I was kidnapped!"

The two shared a look but didn't confirm or deny his claim.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he tried to calm down. The unfamiliar woman spoke softly, her voice soothing like a clam balm to his frayed nerves.

"My name is Ingrid. You're going to be alright, Harry. You're not alone anymore." She hesitated, then smiled softly at Harry. "I'm your mother."

Harry laughed, the sound hollow and without humour, but when she didn't laugh with him, he searched her eyes for sincerity, finding a flicker of kindness that began to ease his fear. "What... What happened to me?" he managed to ask, his voice still quivering. The idea that this woman was his mother was ridiculous. His mother was Lily Potter, though sadly, that was all he knew about her.

Ingrid glanced at the doctor before speaking, "You were brought in unconscious. We found you in a dire situation and are here to help you. You're under our care now, Harry."

Harry took a deep breath, trying not to glare, the audacity, honestly.

"What part of I was kidnapped, don't you understand?" Harry said harshly.

The professor gasped as if what Harry had said was wrong, but Ingrid waved at him to be quiet, and he kept his silence.

Ingrid sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Maybe it would be best if you leave me alone with him for a few minutes?" She asked the doctor, who nodded.

"First of all," she said, "I really am your mother."

Harry didn't deign that with a response. Despite this, she continued. "Ten years ago, I gave birth to a baby boy, and he was stolen from me the very same day."

Harry stared, opening his mouth to say something, but her eyes were glazed as if she had gone to relive that memory. He snapped his mouth shut, pulling the covers more tightly around him.

"I fed him once, laid him in his carry cot, and slept when he did. And when I woke up, he was gone."

Ingrid smiled at him again, a little teary-eyed. "You weren't kidnapped because you're my son."

Harry's mouth dropped open, his emotions swirling between outrage, hysteria and disbelief. But before he could say anything, Ingrid put her hand in her pocket and removed a very familiar trinket.

"T-that's..."

"Yes, Harry. This is what was dropped on the ground. I'll admit Mr Linklater's manner was rather unorthodox. Still, my eldest son, Jannik, has the ability to track magical signatures. However, it only came in on his eleventh birthday. We found you as soon as we could."

She held it out to him, but Harry shook his head. "It did weird things to me when I touched it."

"Yes," Ingrid tilted her head, a soft look on her face. "It did weird things to you because you are not in your natural body right now."

Harry had an urge to laugh again. What lunacy, there was no such thing as body morphing. Even if he saw it with his own eyes, it was because he was tired. Yes. But still, he stayed silent. Magical signatures? That would mean magic is real... which would make sense since he had freed the Boa...

"My snake!" Harry yelled, panicking when it was apparent the snake was no longer with him. How could he forget?

"Is safe," Ingrid said, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder when he attempted to get up. "Seeing as we don't speak Parseltongue, we had to keep it in a cage until you could deal with it."

"What's Parseltongue?" Harry asked, resigning himself to deal with the conversation.

"Y-you...You don't know what Parseltongue is?" Ingrid asked, her face suddenly ashen.

Harry shook his head. "This is the first time I hear of it."

"B-but you spoke to the snake!" Ingrid exclaimed.

"Is that unusual?" Harry asked quietly, looking down at his hands. He had enough experience with the Dursleys for saying or doing the wrong thing. Even his existence was the wrong thing to them.

Ingrid sighed.

"There is only one known person to have spoken it, and he was a Dark Lord in your country."

Harry paled. "M-my country? What do you mean? Where am I?"

Ingrid's lips twitched. "Sweden."

"And where is that?"

"Scandinavia."

It took a while for Harry to get used to the idea that he was in another country, but when he finally calmed down, the Doctor came in again, a grave look on his face. Ingrid was right behind him.

No one spoke for a while, and the longer the silence went on, the longer Harry fidgeted.

The professor sat down at the edge of the bed, but Harry was having none of it. His experience with older men wasn't good, and just because there was a witness didn't make it better. Harry wasn't taking any chances.

Mother or no mother.

Ingrid's expression shifted from concern to deep concern as she gently broached the topic, her voice soft but unwavering, "Harry, there are some concerning signs on your body. It appears... you might have experienced something traumatic."

Harry's face flushed with embarrassment and shame. He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "I... I don't remember," he stammered, lying through his teeth, keeping his voice barely audible.

"We found...the remains of semen on your body," Ingrid said really quietly, her voice a mere whisper that could have got lost in the wind if Harry only ignored her.

Harry went white. He knew exactly what that was from and when it had happened. Looking away, Harry found a loose thread on the sheets and began playing with it.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Harry ground out, glaring at the white sheets, and the white room, and the white everything.

The professor, his tone empathetic, spoke up, "It's alright, Harry. We are here to support you. We need to know what happened so we can help you heal."

The professor and Ingrid exchanged glances when Harry shrugged, and he felt a chill run through him. It was clear that they knew something that he didn't.

"Harry, we have a diagnostic charm that can tell us exactly what happened," Ingrid said, calm yet determined. "It will be completely painless, and tell us the truth about what happened to you. Would you like us to use it?"

Harry hesitated, feeling a weight of fear on his chest. He knew they would discover something dark and hidden if he permitted them, and he wasn't sure he wanted them to know. But he also hoped they were right, and this diagnostic charm could help them find a way out of the darkness. At least it wouldn't be him that had to say it out loud. Harry had no idea what a charm was or how it would tell them what his uncle did to him; it would probably fail, and he'd be safe with his secrets. "Yes," he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The professor nodded and began to set up the charm. He waved a stick, and unbidden, a shiver fell over him. The last time a stick was pointed at him, he had been thrown into this strange and weird world.

"Calm," the professor said.

Harry looked away. From his peripheral vision, he could see the man raising his stick again. It was a delicate movement, a shimmering blue light filling the air between them, gentle yet powerful. He then spoke a few words in a language Harry didn't understand. The light began to swirl around him, slowly at first, and then faster and faster until it felt like he was being enveloped in a cocoon of warmth and comfort. As the charm took effect, Harry felt a strange peace come over him as all the anxiety and fear dissipated.

Which was good because when the charm was finished, the professor and Ingrid looked at each other, their expressions a mixture of sadness and fury.

Unbidden, Harry raised his arms over his head, covering his most sensitive area. He would have tried to hide his privates, but Uncle Vernon had always been too strong, and it was useless. His head was always his default. Curling into a ball, he fazed out.

Snippets of conversation reached him, but he couldn't process it.

"He was raped hundreds of times?!"

"I'll kill them!"

"Calm down, he's having a fit."

He heard a few deep breaths and sniffles, and suddenly, warm arms were around him, holding him in such a gentle way he uncurled slightly. He had never been touched this way. As if he were a fragile porcelain easily broken.

Ingrid was sobbing, and the professor had moved away from the bed. Harry guessed he understood now. They both did. He was dirty, filthy. An abomination.

So why was this woman holding him anyway?

Harry felt a mixture of emotions—fear, anger, and vulnerability. He took a deep breath, mustering the courage to speak. "I... I don't know who did it. I just want it to stop hurting."

If anything, Ingrid sobbed harder, stroking his hair and face.

An odd emotion was building up in Harry's chest. It was bubbling and growing until it burst, and suddenly Harry was crying too. And for the first time, he took the comfort someone willingly gave him.

"Can I take him home now?" Ingrid asked Professor Flett, kissing Harry on his forehead, missing the look of awe he sent her way.

"Yes, aside from the trauma, everything else is healed."

Ingrid nodded. "In that case, Harry, I think it's time we go home."

Under the velvety night sky, Harry stood in silent awe at the grand entrance of the palace, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in the enchanting scene before him. The night air was filled with a sense of magic, and the world seemed to hold its breath in reverence for the moment.

At the forefront of the palace, two majestic swan sculptures stood tall and regal, their graceful forms outlined against the darkness, their eyes seeming to watch over the approaching visitors with serene, eternal wisdom.

To his right, a vast expanse of gardens unfolded alongside the path leading toward the front door. The moonlight kissed the leaves of ancient trees, casting dappled shadows upon the meticulously trimmed bushes and vibrant flowers that adorned the landscape. It was a sanctuary of nature's beauty, a testament to the palace's harmonious blend with the environment.

In the centre of the gardens, a colossal fountain roared with life, its cascading waters catching the moon's silvery glow. The water shimmered and danced as it fell, creating a mesmerising display that seemed to echo the excitement in Harry's heart.

As Harry walked, his eyes were drawn to the intricate balconies and stairway paths that adorned the palace's exterior. They seemed to spiral towards the heavens, inviting curiosity about the secrets they might hold and the stories they could tell.

The entire palace was framed by hundreds of lights, casting a warm, golden glow that outlined the building's exquisite designs carved into the ivory walls. The intricate patterns seemed to come alive under the night sky, telling tales of a history rich with artistry and craftsmanship.

In this surreal moment, Harry was floating in the air, suspended between the reality he had known and the royal destiny that now stretched before him like an uncharted constellation of dreams.

"S-so the professor wasn't kidding," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible against the night's symphony.

"No, he was not," Ingrid, his mother, replied, her voice as soft as a lullaby, a smile gracing her features. Harry finally realised how elegant she looked, her presence carrying a regal grace that matched the surroundings.

"Does that mean I'm..." Harry hesitated, his eyes searching hers for confirmation.

"A prince, yes," she said, fingers gently carding through his hair. A rush of emotions washed over him, a tidal wave of disbelief, awe, and a newfound sense of belonging.

"Wow..." Harry breathed, his voice filled with a mix of amazement and humility. He opened his eyes, allowing her to lead him step by step toward the new life he apparently had. Harry was really a royal. The weight of the realisation settled upon him, filling him with a sense of purpose he had never known before. The journey from pauper to prince was just beginning, and in that moment, under the vast, velvety night sky, he embraced the extraordinary destiny that lay ahead.

He couldn't wait to see how the inside looked.

Every step Harry took into the palace felt like a dream. The marble floors were cool beneath his feet, a luxurious sensation he had never experienced before. He couldn't help but glance down, almost expecting the polished surface to ripple like water at his touch.

The walls around him were adorned with tapestries that told tales of a world he had only read about in books. Kings and queens, knights and dragons, battles and triumphs - it was as if history had been woven into the fabric. Harry couldn't help but trace the threads with his eyes, taking in every intricate detail, wondering at the skill it must have taken to create such art.

The chandeliers above him were like nothing he had ever seen. They hung like crystalline constellations, their prismatic lights casting ethereal patterns across the walls. Harry had never imagined that light could be so beautiful, so captivating.

As he walked further into the palace, Harry noticed the furniture - regal chairs and tables, upholstered in rich fabrics and adorned with intricate carvings. He couldn't resist running his fingers along the smooth wood, marvelling at the craftsmanship.

Voices echoed in the distance, the gentle hum of a bustling household. It was a sound foreign to Harry but welcomed, a reminder that he was no longer alone. It was the sound of life, of people going about their daily routines, and it filled him with a sense of belonging he had never known.

Every corner, every room he passed through, held its own wonders. Bedrooms that looked fit for royalty, libraries with walls lined with books that seemed to stretch to infinity, and drawing rooms where plush sofas invited conversation and laughter.

And through it all, Ingrid, his mother, watched him with a smile, her eyes filled with warmth and affection. Harry couldn't help but meet her gaze, a silent acknowledgement passing between them. For the first time in his life, he felt like he belonged somewhere like he had found a home. It was a feeling he couldn't quite put into words, but he intended to hold onto it with all his heart.

In the depths of the palace, far from prying eyes, Ingrid led Harry to a room that seemed straight out of a fantasy. It was adorned with mirrors, gilded frames reflecting the dim light, and a grand bathtub decorated with intricate carvings of mythical creatures. The room felt warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile bathrooms Harry had known.

Ingrid turned to Harry with a reassuring smile. "Ville, my precious, I understand this must be overwhelming. But remember, you are now royalty. A prince. You deserve the best."

Precious? Was he precious?

"Ville?" Harry questioned, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty.

"Linnaeus Ville Olsen, Your real name," Ingrid replied, her eyes gentle with understanding. "The name you were given when you were born."

"Oh," Harry said, his mind processing this information slowly. "I see."

Harry had never had any connection to his name. He was only ever 'boy' or 'freak'. There were many other names he had been called, but he easily deflected those thoughts. It was okay for him because Harry didn't mean anything to him, just the way Potter didn't. If having a new name came with the territory, Harry was fine with it.

"Okay," he said easily, a soft smile gracing his features as he looked up at the woman. Mother... Mum... Could he get used to that?

Sensing Harry's mixed emotions, his mother gestured towards the luxurious bathing chamber. "Come, let's prepare you for the purification ritual. You'll feel much better afterwards."

A kind and understanding nursemaid entered the room, her presence gentle and reassuring. She approached Harry with a warm smile. "Your Highness, please allow me to assist you. I'm Miss Anderberg."

Harry nodded, his trust gradually growing. He undressed with a sense of vulnerability; his scars and bony frame were a harsh reminder of his brutal life, and he only hoped that no one paid too much attention to how often he was beaten.

Miss Anderberg handled him with the utmost care, her touch tender and respectful. "You're in good hands, Prince Ville," she said, her voice soothing as she guided him towards the grand bathtub.

As the warm water enveloped him, emotions swirled around him for the umpteenth time that day. Gratefulness, overwhelming happiness that was somehow marred with sadness and shock. He was definitely stunned.

Miss Anderberg began the cleansing process, washing away the grime, though somehow Harry was cleaner than he expected, and wondered if the professor or his mother had cleaned him while he was unconscious. He felt a flutter of wonder that anyone wanted to take care of him but squashed it down. Was it likely she was as happy and awestruck as he?

Despite his initial discomfort, her gentle ministrations and the lapping water put him at ease. The smells were fantastic, too.

Harry — no, Ville, he reminded himself, was in heaven. There could be no better pleasure than this.

Miss Anderberg's words were soft and reassuring, guiding Ville through the process. "Close your eyes, Your Highness. Let the water heal you. You are safe now."

And in those moments, as Ville closed his eyes and allowed the warm water to envelop him, he began to believe those words. Safe. Clean. Ville Eero Olsen, the prince who would rise from the ashes of his past, reborn and ready to embrace his destiny.

"It's time for the purification now!" Ingrid said, walking in as Miss Anderberg bowed and left the bathroom.

Ville nodded, wrapping arms around himself as he stood in the water, which had somehow stayed the same, perfect, comforting temperature.

"What do I need to do?" Ville asked as his mother stood near the tub, her stick held loosely in her hand.

"For now, just stay where you are. The water has magically refreshed itself, and everything from your cleansing has been removed."

Ville nodded dumbly, pretending he fully understood what was happening, but honestly, he didn't. What was he purifying?

"And this..." he gestured around himself at all the oils and fancy paraphernalia within the tub gently floating throughout the water. "Is supposed to turn me into my... real body?"

The very idea was ludicrous, and if he had so much as mentioned something like this to his aunt and uncle, they would have murdered him. But Ingrid inclined her head, the stick twirling effortlessly in her hand. She obviously seemed to think something would happen, and remembering what happened when he touched the trinket in the zoo, he was inclined to agree.

"What is that?" He asked, knowing it served some purpose as he had seen it numerous times, and something magnificent happened each time. Her face paled at the question, but she sighed and turned fully towards him. "Ville, this is a wand. It's a conductor of our magic."

"Ah," he said. "Right."

"Alright," she responded, smiling again, "Stand up straight and follow any prompt I give you during the incantations."

Ville nodded and stood to his fullest possible height, feeling his back muscles move with him.

"I will begin now, darling." His mother's voice carried to him as if she were using a microphone. Probably more magic. And deep within him, his emotions stirred again. Darling. This woman was so lovely!

As the runes on the chamber's walls began to shimmer with a radiant glow, Ingrid's incantations resonated with ancient power. The magical energy permeated the room, and Ville watched in awe as the mirrors opposite the tub came to life, reflecting the mesmerising dance of light and magic.

The enchanting display left Ville spellbound; it was beautiful and enchanting, and he never wanted it to end.

Amidst the spectacle, something extraordinary happened. Ville felt his very being undergo a profound transformation. His body seemed to blur and ripple like a reflection in disturbed water. It was a disconcerting sensation, as if his very essence was being reshaped, moulded by forces beyond his understanding. And yet, familiarity washed over him. Yes. He thought, yes, it was happening again, just like his mother said it would.

Ingrid's voice, though muffled as if coming from a great distance, instructed him, "Dunk under the water, Ville; it's the final step."

Ville didn't especially like putting his head underwater, remembering all the times his uncle had attempted to drown him when he fought too hard, but this was a woman who had been good to him, and he didn't want to ruin this for her. So he lowered himself into the water, submerging himself fully, allowing his eyes to shut.

But as he complied, an unexpected battle erupted within him. His mind clashed with his soul, a struggle that sent shockwaves through his entire being. It was a push and pull, a war raging within him, each part of him vying for dominance.

The sensations grew overwhelming, and suddenly, Ville's world shattered into a series of disjointed fragments. His muscles seized, and he felt as though he were being torn apart from the inside. Darkness closed in, and he descended into the depths of unconsciousness.

Ville's world was a disoriented haze. He felt disoriented and weak, as though he had been caught in a mighty whirlwind, only to be dropped back into reality. The world was a blur of colours and shapes, but as his senses slowly sharpened, he realized his head was cradled in someone's lap.

His vision cleared, and for the first time in his life, he saw the world with startling clarity. The mirror opposite him reflected a boy with golden-brown cascading curls framing his face down to his chin. His dark eyes were deep pools, almost black, reflecting a mix of confusion and fear. His skin was tanned, utterly different to the pale complexion he had known as Harry. But the most remarkable difference lay on his forehead, where the once vivid scar now appeared as an old, faded mark, a faint white line in the shape of lightning.

His gaze shifted to the boy holding him. This must be his older brother, Jannik, whose hair was shorter, curling around his ears but sharing the same golden brown hue and dark eyes. They were like mirror images, separated only by a slight difference in their hair.

The room reverberated with voices, and Ville's ears picked up the distinctive tones of his mother, Ingrid. She was in a heated argument with someone, her words laced with desperation and worry. But Ville was too spaced out to focus. The presence of family enveloped him like a warm, protective cocoon, stirring a longing in his heart. It was a sensation he had never experienced before, a yearning for connection and acceptance.

Still, the fear and uncertainty had taken its toll on Ville. He felt weak and exhausted, and the confusion of everything around him was overwhelming. Despite the excitement and changes, he was unsure of what the future would bring and the consequences of believing his situation no matter how real it seemed.

Ingrid's eyes met his, filled with relief and concern.

Tears welled in Ville's eyes as he realized the significance of this moment. For the first time, he felt the overwhelming presence of family, a force that pulled at his heartstrings. It was both beautiful and painful, a testament to the love he had been denied for so long.

She hurried towards him, her wand at the ready. With a swift incantation, she bound the boy she was arguing with against the wall, ensuring a safe distance between them.

Ville's mind swirled with confusion, pain radiating from his body, his muscles aching from the aftermath of whatever happened to him. He tried to speak, but his voice came out weak and raspy. "Wh-what's happening? Who is he?" His eyes flickered to the bound boy, searching for answers in the depths of his piercing gaze despite how young he looked.

Ingrid's voice was steady but laced with worry as she replied, "Ville, my darling, it seems the purification ritual had an unexpected consequence. That boy claims to be you, but I don't trust him. We will discover the truth, but you must rest for now. You've been through a great deal."

As Ville's confusion deepened, he clung to his mother's words like a lifeline. The world around him blurred again, and he closed his eyes, succumbing to the overwhelming exhaustion that washed over him. Ville's mind buzzed with questions, but for now, he let the darkness pull him into its embrace, hoping that the pieces of this bewildering puzzle would fall into place when he woke again.

The morning sunlight gently roused Ville from his slumber, casting a warm glow across the room. He stretched and smiled, feeling an unusual sense of contentment wash over him. Jannik, his older brother, was already awake, his dark eyes meeting Ville's as he stirred. His brother's hand was against Ville's head, gently carding his fingers through his hair that had somehow tangled overnight. That had never happened before.

"Miss Anderberg is here and waiting to help us dress for the day," Jannik said, his voice soft yet filled with brotherly reassurance.

Ville couldn't help but marvel at the luxurious surroundings as they made their way to the bathroom. Jannik patiently guided him through the steps of their morning routine, explaining the purpose of each skincare product and demonstrating how to use them. Ville watched closely, absorbing the knowledge like a sponge.

Once ready, Miss Anderberg helped them dress in exquisite outfits, ensuring perfect detail. Ville felt excitement at everything around him until he remembered the night before, and a well of trepidation overcame him as he imagined the events that awaited them downstairs.

Their mother greeted them with a warm smile when they descended the grand staircase. It was she who spoke next, her tone serious. "Boys, I've had to take some precautions. The boy, who claims to be Harry, is locked in the dungeon for his and our safety. It's time we go and retrieve him. The goblins can test his blood and tell us who he really is. However, I won't tell them how he came about."

Ville looked at her, a niggling feeling that she wasn't saying everything. "How did he come about?" he asked, frowning when he saw Jannik trying to subtly shake his head no.

His mother sighed, sitting at the head of the table and gesturing for them to sit. Jannik did and gestured for Ville to take the seat opposite.

"Wow!" Ville said, staring at the table with wide eyes. "I've never sat at a table before!"

He noticed the two exchange another glance, but it wasn't cruel the way it was with his aunt and uncle.

"We only have a few weeks until you start at Durmstrang," his mother said as the food arrived.

"Our school," Jannik said, putting the napkin primly on his lap.

"For magic." He clarified, then stopped talking as he started to eat.

"Yes, so we will need to get you started on some tutoring to help you fit in at Durmstrang." His mother said.

Ville looked at the food uncertainly. "I..." he hesitated, but when no one raised an objective or a hand to him for interrupting their meal, he continued. "I'm allowed to eat?" He asked, so softly the words were lost in the air.

But perhaps the many magical things about mothers enabled Ingrid to hear him. "Of course!" And then, seemingly changing routine based on the gobsmacked look on Jannik's face, she went and hugged him.

"Me too!" Jannik pouted, and she laughed, walking around the table to embrace him.

The air was warmer after that, and with a secret delight, Ville helped himself to food with proper permission for the first time ever.

In all the excitement, he forgot all about the strange boy.

What must have been a bodyguard came up moments after they finished eating and were relaxing in a sitting room.

"All ready to go then?"

The boy glowered.

Oh yeah, the weird boy. Wonder where he came from, mother never answered. But it didn't seem like the right time to ask again.

The boy was walking funny, led by the bodyguard who had gone down to fetch him. When Ville stared long enough, he realised the boy was being led by a shimmering leash. His mouth dropped open, and when the boy saw him staring, glared at him so venomously, Ville gulped and looked away.

"Let's go," the bodyguard said.

As they left their home and ventured into the lively, magical street, Ingrid, Jannik, and Ville were accompanied by their personal bodyguards, one of whom held the boy's enchanted leash.

The morning sun cast long shadows across Skugggatan, the heart of Stockholm's magical district. The air crackled with magic as witches and wizards hurried along the cobblestone street, their faces alight with various expressions.

Ville's eyes widened as he took in the enchanting scene. Buildings adorned with glowing sigils and shimmering enchantments lined the street, their windows filled with magical curiosities. Ingrid and Jannik led the way, their strides purposeful. Ville followed, his senses overwhelmed by the magical world's sights, sounds, and scents.

Passersby, recognizing the royal family, respectfully bowed and curtseyed as they passed, acknowledging their presence with reverence. Though unfamiliar with such customs, Ville tried his best to return the gestures, his movements uncertain yet genuine.

They approached the bustling heart of Skugggatan, which, according to Jannik, was similar to a place called Diagon Alley. The grandeur of Älvrikets Skattkammare — the Swedish Wizarding Bank — came into view. Pillars carved with intricate runes supported the grand facade, and a pair of imposing goblin guards stood sentry at the entrance.

With a flick of her wand, Ingrid immobilized the boy who claimed to be Harry, rendering his arms immobile as if bound behind his back. Despite his restrained state, he held a defiant glare, his eyes locked onto Ville.

"Did they even tell you who I am or why I'm here?" the boy sneered, his voice laced with bitterness, a challenge hanging in the air.

"They say that you're Harry Potter," Ville replied, his voice steady, concealing the doubt that gnawed at him.

The boy laughed, a harsh, terrifying sound, and Ville looked away. "I came from you. Your existence created me."

Ville just looked at him. "So I'm Harry Potter!" The boy said emphatically, glaring for emphasis.

Ville's eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement dancing in them. He decided to play along with the charade for now. "Is that so?" he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Funny, you don't look like me."

"You'll regret this!" the boy said.

"If you say so." Ville shrugged, easily pretending this information wasn't like a tidal wave too strong to stop. "But I just think you are a snotty know-it-all."

"Fuck you." the boy snarled.

Of all blasted things to say!

Ville was tempted to snitch, but hopefully, after the next few minutes, they'd be rid of this strange phenomenon of an existence.

The formidable entrance to the Swedish Wizarding Bank stood in the heart of Stockholm, nestled among ancient cobblestone streets. Its grand facade bore intricate runes that glowed with an ethereal light, guarding the secrets within. Ingrid, Ville, and Jannik found themselves inside the bank's opulent marble halls, where stern-faced goblins conducted their business. An air of tension surrounded them as they approached the counter, leading the boy who claimed to be Harry.

The goblins scrutinized the boy with calculating eyes, their expressions betraying nothing. The head goblin, an imposing figure with a long, silver beard, spoke in a voice that echoed through the hall. "State your name and purpose."

The boy hesitated momentarily before replying defiantly, "Harry Potter."

The room crackled with potent goblin magic, and Ville watched in awe as the goblins performed their mysterious ritual. A drop of the boy's blood dripped onto the ancient tome, and the atmosphere seemed to vibrate with an otherworldly energy. The goblins chanted in low tones, their voices weaving intricate patterns in the air.

As the blood seeped into the parchment, Ville felt a shiver crawl down his spine. The room remained hushed, anticipation hanging thick in the air. The boy's defiant expression faltered, his confidence giving way to uncertainty.

After what felt like an eternity, the head goblin spoke, his voice carrying an air of grim revelation. "His claim is tainted with falsehoods," he declared, addressing his mother, though it was clear all three boys were paying attention. "This boy carries a fractured soul—a blend of two beings. The essence of Harry Potter resides within, but the dominant force is unmistakably Tom Riddle, born on December 31st, 1926."

Ingrid's eyes widened in shock, mirroring Ville's own astonishment. The revelation hung heavily in the air, a sinister truth revealed through ancient magic. Ville's hands trembled at his sides; he couldn't understand the anger he was feeling or where it came from.

Suddenly, the warm feeling of another hand met his and squeezed. He looked up and met his brother's eyes, who smiled at him so gently that he calmed.

"I demand an explanation," His mother said, her voice trembling with anger and fear. "How is this possible? How can he be from 1926?"

The head goblin regarded her with a twisted smile, his eyes glinting with malevolence. "Time travel is a peculiar phenomenon, Your Majesty. It seems this boy's existence is a disturbance in the very fabric of time itself."

Ville watched as his mother's knuckles turned white with how hard she was clenching her fingers into a fist. "What do you intend to do with him?"

The goblins exchanged sly glances. "We wish to keep him," the head goblin said, his tone dripping maliciously. "His presence intrigues us."

"No," Ingrid said firmly, her voice carrying the weight of authority. "He will leave with us."

The goblins seemed to consider her words momentarily, their expressions inscrutable. "Very well, Your Majesty. Do you need to make a withdrawal?" one of them asked, the words laced with mockery.

His mother's jaw clenched, her resolve unyielding. "No," she replied tersely, rising from her seat. This time, the goblins made no move to stop her, though as she walked toward the door, the head goblin's voice cut through the silence.

"Do you know who Tom Riddle grew up to be?" he asked, his eyes fixed on Ville, although he directed his words at Ingrid.

Ingrid turned back, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Who?"

The goblin's grin widened. "Voldemort."

Ville couldn't understand why she paled, why she suddenly looked like everything was falling apart. The name couldn't mean that much, surely.

As they reached the door, the goblins spoke again.

"Voldemort," one of them hissed, the name laden with venom. "He is the reason young Harry Potter lost his parents. A dark wizard of unspeakable power and malevolence."

Ville listened intently, absorbing the weight of the words. His mind struggled to comprehend the magnitude of what had befallen his family. Confusion, fear, and rage churned within him, threatening to consume his very being. He understood now why his mother's face was drained of colour. He was sure he was, too. But unlike her, he had yet to learn decorum. He didn't care about being a gentleman or a prince; all he wanted to do was kill the boy who had destroyed his family.

It seemed his mother wanted to herd them out before more drama could be revealed. But the goblins weren't finished.

"Admit it, fake Harry Potter," the goblin sneered, admit to your deeds.

Suddenly, Jannik's arms were around him, whether a comfort or a vice, he didn't know, but he struggled, even as he shook.

With an annoyed sigh, Tom turned to look at Ville, a sneer in place, his voice venomous. "Yes, I killed the Potters. Your father didn't even have his wand. And your mudblood mother begged me to save you. A fat lot of good it did her. She died, didn't she."

Ville's world shattered. The words echoed in his ears, resonating with the painful truth he had been sheltered from for so long. Without thinking, he tore himself away from Jannik's comforting grasp. Anguish fueled his movements as he cornered Tom, pressing him forcefully against the cold stone wall.

"You took everything from me," Ville growled, his voice low and menacing. "But now, I know who you are. And I will make you pay for what you've done."

His fist connected with Tom's jaw, a raw manifestation of his fury and pain. Each blow felt like a release, a desperate attempt to channel the overwhelming emotions surging through him. The taste of blood filled Ville's mouth, but he didn't relent. He couldn't. He didn't care if Tom was hurting him; he was too far gone.

Ingrid's voice broke through the haze of Ville's rage. "Ville, stop!" she cried, her words barely reaching him. But he couldn't stop, not now. The years of pent-up frustration, the sense of loss, and the revelation of Voldemort's atrocities converged into a storm of violence.

He kept hitting, each strike echoing his heart's torment.

"I don't care," Ville hissed, not recognising his own voice. "I'm going to kill you," he promised.

The room spun around him, and the last thing he registered was the feeling of his knuckles connecting with Tom's flesh before everything went black.

End note: Welllllllll - Harry always ends up unconscious, doesn't he? Little shit that he is. (But we love him.)

For any confusion:

Although Ingrid and Jannik experienced Harry's seizure as well as what happened during (essentially the purification ritual spitting out a living, breathing CHILD), they wanted to see what the goblins had to say about it. Sometimes, the goblin magic detects things the eyes do not.

According to them, the soul had time-travelled. (Or the person that was Tom Riddle at that point in time.)

So yeah, the entire Royal Family is experiencing confusion now. (And on Harry's part, anger, loathing, hatred, sadness...) etc.