AN: Jezuims, again, fanfiction means I don't have to stick to canon. IE Albus gets to be the character I want him to be not the canonic. Please put your hardons to hate Albus away. And here's an outtake of him, partially to pock y'all who have meltdowns over a non-evil Albus, because that is fundamentally who I am.
Trig WARNING: No detail to this but canonically Remus was four and Fenrir did target other children. Remus's initialized trauma is referenced in his thoughts but without detail.
Also animal birth with pretty graphic detail.
Outtake One - Try
Aboforth slammed down his bottle on the bar, "Go to him."
Albus opened his mouth but his brother yelled over him.
"Neglect! You damned bastard! It was neglect that killed her. One person could not fill that void. Arianna loved you, and when she got upset…" He took a breath, "If you don't personally help that boy, Arianna's death will absolutely have been your fault. Just as my son's death was mine. Neglect and fear killed them, Albus. Whatever it is that boy is facing, don't make him face it alone."
Albus nodded, "Thank you."
"Get out of my bar."
Albus stood but said, "You are not alone either, you know."
Aberforth didn't look up as he replied, "I know, I have the goats."
Albus huffed a laugh and departed from the self-inflicted misery his brother lived in.
Albus had fallen in love with a monster, and his desire for power had led to the death of his sister. Something he would never forgive himself for.
Aberforth had fallen in love with a woman, and chosen his misery over her. Which had cost him his son. By isolating himself, Aberforth had appeared to make no further mistakes.
Albus had continued to try, and continued to fail.
Failed to stop Voldemort, who had fled from him at every turn.
Failed to protect the Potters, who ultimately hadn't trusted him enough to be their secret keeper.
And failed to keep Harry safe, whose parents had been killed, his godfather imprisoned, and his godmother, Alice Longbottom and her husband, were worse than dead.
With so many of the Dark Lord's followers still at large, he had gambled on the protection of the blood ward, that whatever issues Petunia would have with her sister, she would love her nephew.
He had been wrong, and even more wrong to not check on Harry himself.
His inaction had proved as destructive as his action.
It was further proof that anything and everyone Albus loved would break.
But his fears were no longer enough of an excuse to avoid Harry, and though he shouldn't be forgiven, though he couldn't take back the harm he had caused, he could still try.
As Severus had said, Harry loved him, and though Albus was wholly undeserving, he owed Harry, he owed the boy everything.
Chapter 7 - Lack of Civility
Harry was released Monday morning before breakfast.
He after a week of bed rest, interesting visitors or no, was metaphorically ready to chew off his own arm, and was well and truly ready for a week of classes.
Even with Umbridge and Snape.
But the universe just seemed to adore fucking with him.
He walked into the Great Hall as the owls were taking back out the windows.
The whole room went deathly quiet when they spotted him at the entrance.
He saw groups of students bunched around people with newspapers.
Harry sighed then asked loud enough for anyone near to hear, "What is it now?"
No one answered, as a group, they seemed to lean away from him.
Great.
"Is this like Chamber of Secrets?" he asked, McGonagall getting hastily to her feet as he spoke, making her way around the table. "Am Grindelwald's heir now or some such rubbish?"
No one answered, only the sound of McGonagall's heeled boots on stone could be heard.
Harry knew Luna wouldn't be here this morning, but finally spotting Ron and Hermione, he made a step toward them.
They looked at him, stricken.
That's when he started to get worried.
"No," McGonagall said, stepping in front of him. "No, Mr. Potter, come with. You deserve a bit of privacy."
He raised a brow, "Like that matters? Whatever it is, everyone else seems to know already."
She shook her head, "To my office, Mr. Potter." She held out her hand and the nearest paper came to her hand and she shrank it in her palm.
He caught the word POTTER in the headline.
Great.
He glanced up to the head table and was surprised at the grief he saw there, even at a distance.
Dumbledore sat still as stone, his face drawn in sorrow.
Snape looked murderous, and the others looked some shade of mournful or appalled.
Even Umbridge looked uncomfortable and unwilling to sneer at Harry.
"What's going on?" Harry demanded. "Everyone in my family is already dead and I'm not dead, not yet at any rate."
If Voldemort's return had made the papers there would be more whispering.
"This way, Mr. Potter."
With one last look at Ron and Hermione, the latter with tears in her eyes, Harry followed his Head of House out.
She made him tea, dragging out the revelation to come.
"Just tell me already," Harry demanded, fingers tapping on the teacup he had yet to drink from.
McGonagall sighed, "It's about your parents."
Harry gave her an exasperated look, "They're dead. There's nothing else that can be done to them."
"Their grave has been desecrated and dug up."
Harry felt as if he had been gut-punched. He placed the teacup down hard on the table in front of him, "What? Why?"
"I am not certain, but the details of the crime scene indicate that it was done so with dark intent by someone from the magical community."
Harry shook his head and said in disgust, "So they've blamed Sirius?"
She nodded, her eyes watching him carefully, "The details are quite graphic, Harry. And nothing good is indicated in this. Aside from the blatant disrespect of the dead, human necromancy is an illegal branch of magic. It's not necessarily a life imprisonment but—"
Harry made a ha Ed sh sound, "Like it matters, like the Dark Lord could be taken alive, like it could somehow make his punishments worse when outside of death there will be no punishment? He's friends with the Dementors."
"Quite," McGonagall said, enlarging the paper. "Your mother's corpse remains but the coffin was broken and James's body is as of yet unaccounted for. The details are immensely disturbing and I am sorry the Aurors did not speak with you, or any of us who would have told you first before thinking of speaking to the Prophet."
Harry felt sick, reaching for the paper.
The picture of the tombstone circled by yellow crime tape, a crude hole in the ground before it, and handprints in the dirt, told him all he needed to know still.
It was the first time he had ever seen his parents' grave.
JAMES AND LILY POTTER'S GRAVE: VANDALISED!
Sometime before dawn on the 6th of October, in Godric's Hollow, the graves of James and Lily Potter were vandalised. Reported by muggles, the horror of the situation was not fully realized until the Aurors arrived.
The grave had been dug up, the coffin revealed, James H. Potter's body had been stolen from its place of rest. But by all appearances, it seems his body crawled out of the coffin itself. The dirt had been churned, as if it were a fresh grave, but the coffin had been broken from the inside.
Untouched, Lily Potter's body was found in its rightful place but—
Harry put down the paper, near throwing it from himself.
Silence filled the room.
Finally, Harry asked, "He turned my dad into a zombie?"
That was disgusting and low even for Voldemort. It was also something he hadn't done the last time around.
Of course, last time, Harry hadn't almost managed to kill the monster over their bond.
That thought eased some of the anger.
Voldemort was running scared.
"I do not know what purpose he could use James's body, but—" she came around the desk, taking his hands in hers. "Harry, you must remember this, no matter what it looks like, no matter what Voldemort tells you, there is no power on Earth that can bring the dead back to life."
Harry nodded, "I know."
Keeping to himself that when Cedric and his mother's ghosts had appeared out of Voldemort's wand, his father hadn't, only a brief flash of white light had followed behind his mother just like there had only been a flash of green light that had preceded her.
"May I hug you?" McGonagall asked.
Harry blinked, he was used to hugs from his friends, mostly, less used to adults doing so. But he was pretty sure this was the first time an adult ever asked permission to hug him.
The Dursleys would never have hugged him and certainly never would have asked permission to slap him around.
He found himself greatly appreciative that McGonagall had asked and he nodded his consent.
She pulled him into a tight hug, "You're going to get through this, Harry. You are not alone."
Neither can live while the other survives.
He hugged her back, thinking he probably wasn't going to make it, but that was no reason for him not to try.
Remus watched Sirius rage.
Remus himself felt too sick, too grief-stricken to feel his own anger.
"How could he!? Was it not enough to kill him, his wife, and attempt to kill his son!? When is it enough!?" Sirius continued swearing to high Heaven.
Malcolm had excused himself before Sirius had woken to go grocery shopping and various other errands.
"Sirius," Remus attempted to coax, his voice breaking. How could he ever doubt how much Sirius had loved James?
Loved Harry.
Remus knew, of course, he knew it was the same reason Sirius and James had doubted Remus himself instead of Peter all those years ago.
And it had nothing to do with his lycanthropy and everything to do with his fear of being honest, his fear of what his friends and others would think of him.
Remus had been four years old when Fenrir Greyback had attacked.
He didn't remember that night even if he could recall factual what had happened. His mother's disgust and horror, his father's guilt and shame, that had been worse than ripping himself apart in a cage each month.
Having already been a pariah in society, he didn't want to be any more like Fenrir than he already was, and didn't want others to have another reason to look at him with disdain.
Remus had no interest in anyone under age, none whatsoever, thank the fucking gods, but he was gay and he had held a torch for Sirius since they hit puberty together.
Remus hadn't realized it for a long time, and he had lied to himself that he didn't even when he had. And those lies had grown.
James and Sirius had grown distant because they could tell when Remus lied, when he held them at arms' length, and refused to confide in them.
It had been worse than that, however, because, at some point, his repressed feelings had turned to resentment.
Resentment for how close James was to Sirius.
Resentment for how James could always make Sirius laugh and bring him out of his dark moods so easily.
Resentment that James that he loved women, that James could marry the person he loved, that they could have a child and a perfect family where Remus was stuck being the shy lone werewolf, too awkward to date, too secretive to trust…
Remus had feared he would lose them if they knew the truth, and instead, he had lost them all because he hadn't been honest with them.
But perhaps the worst guilt was his own lost faith in Sirius. He had never openly questioned Sirius's prison sentence because he believed it the natural course of things that the man he loved would be evil.
The world would have been a better place without Remus in it, and yet, after everything, Sirius still called him a friend.
Still wanted him around.
"Sirius," Remus said again as the man continued to shake with fury, the newspaper with the picture of James and Lily's desecrated grave bunched in his hands.
Sirius quieted but continued to shake as Remus put a hand on Sirius's shoulder, "He lost the war once, and he will lose again."
Sirius spun on him, the Prophet fluttering down to the floor.
Remus flinched, his shoulders rounding as he expected to be hit or screamed at, but Sirius grabbed him in a tight embrace, burying his face in Remus's chest.
Remus didn't know what to say or what Sirius might say.
But a moment later, Sirius's shoulders began to shake as his voice caught on a sob.
Remus gathered the other man close, curling around him. He spoke into the man's dark hair, "I'm so sorry, Sirius."
Sirius said nothing, his fists clenching at his back as he cried as Remus had never seen him do before.
Crying as if his heart were being torn out… or perhaps his soul.
Remus held him through it all, holding on to him and all his broken pieces, as well as holding back the words, I love you.
In the dungeons of their manor, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy watched from afar as the Dark Lord torture a man who was supposed to be dead.
James sat on his knees, in torn funeral robes that were smeared with dirt and blood. His hands were bound behind his back and he was chained to the wall by an iron chain that was attached to a metal collar around his neck.
It was truly disturbing how much James looked like his son. Since he hadn't aged a day, meaning he was twenty-one, they looked as if they could be brothers, in a few years, perhaps even twins.
This was more acute for Lucius who had seen Harry Potter in a similar enough circumstance just this summer.
James spat blood and looking up through cracked rounded glasses, he said, "That the best you got?"
The Dark Lord laughed, "You'll see what a mistake marrying that Mudblood was."
James snorted.
Lucius couldn't believe James's endurance. He had been being questioned for hours and had enough Veritaserum in his body to cause blood poisoning.
But he hadn't revealed a shred of useful information.
The Dark Lord was saving the Cruciatus Curse, but still… those other methods were nowhere near pleasant.
Lucius, though he would never admit it, knew he would have broken already.
"She destroyed you, didn't she?" James asked.
The Dark Lord sneered, "You know well her fate, you woke beside her, did you not?"
Lucius swallowed back bile. He had done some pretty horrendous things in his life and witnessed even more, but defiling graves was a bit beyond the pale even for him.
He couldn't fathom waking beside his own wife in the dirt.
It seemed wholly uncivilized.
But James Potter seemed immune to the Dark Lord's words as he snipped back, "Where's your palace, snakeface? If you killed my wife, if you killed my child, then I know she won. Isn't that how you lost your body?"
The Dark Lord backhanded him, "What do you know of that?"
James fell back in a rattle of chains but did not bow his head, "Do you think you were the only one who dabbled in the Dark? The only one clever enough to invent spells and the arcane."
"She was a mudblood."
"She was a genius," James said around a bloody smile. "A brilliant polymath. She crafted that ward, a blood ward. Whoever killed her would be the one whom her ward protected Harry against. You think the prophecy matters? It never did. It just described your own conceit. You signed your own fate when you killed them. Now you're grovelling in the shadows, barely clinging to life with a handful of followers you bullied into remaining, not out of loyalty, but fear."
"You think you've won?" the Dark Lord asked, voice pitched higher in amusement.
James continued to smile, "Opinion is a flitting thing,
But Truth, outlasts the Sun —
If then we cannot own them both —
Possess the oldest one —"
"What are babbling about? I haven't done much to you, yet."
No, the Dark Lord was playing with him before the real pain began.
Leave it to a Potter to be resilient to conventional torture and Varittium Serum.
"Emily Dickinson, my wife's favourite poet. I preferred Mary Oliver myself: I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed," the crazy man said blithely to his captor who had every intention of torturing him back into his grave.
In response, the Dark Lord just stared at him in confused silence.
Potter treated this as an invitation to elaborate, "Dickenson is morbid:
"Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.
We slowly drove—He knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—"
He finished with a shrug, "Morbid as hell. Or at least, I thought so then, I find it brings me comfort now."
"It will be the only comfort you have," the Dark Lord said, raising his wand.
The Dark Lord had not refuted Potter's words about the blood ward, too focused on the torture to remember his audience.
Lucius could only stare.
Lily Potter.
The Evans girl?
James's little Mudblood wife?
She had been the one to defeat the Dark Lord?
He looked up to meet his own wife's gaze, her disgust was clear on her expression.
Narcissa had never taken the Dark Mark, unlike her eldest sister, had never been a true believer.
Discovering that the Dark Lord's empire had fallen at the ingenuity of one mudblood girl, hardly twenty years old, did not improve her opinion.
Lucius realised he would need to find a different place for his son to go over the summer.
Or Narcissa might just kill him in his sleep and flee with Draco to France.
Harry kept talking to the Thestral as put both hands inside her.
The mare's head was resting on Luna's lap as the female cried through her contractions.
Knowing there were two more foals coming after the first, Harry had gotten on his knees in the dirt behind her as soon as he saw her.
Last time, Luna said that the mare had died with two of the foals stuck inside her.
So knowing the first one had come out, Harry was ready to hurry them along, knowing the mare would need her strength.
Being as skeletal as the Thestrals were, Harry could see the outlines of the foals shifting as well as the mare's hip bones spreading to make room.
Setting aside the grossness was easy in the face of her pain as she screeched toward the skies.
The other Thestrals lingered in a circle around them. The mares were watching the two humans while the males watched the forest as one of their own called out in agony.
Harry's hands found the hooves and he reached in further, searching for the head.
He moved carefully but not without strength. Luna and all the books said that as precarious as births could be, anything equestrian wasn't as fragile as a human baby, get them out and they would be on their feet in minutes.
Taking both legs at the knees as the foal's hooves breached, Harry found the head and then reached further back to the neck.
He was in at his elbows now as he told the mare to push and he began a steady —but smooth— pull forward.
The foal breached, about the size of a young goat, its wing's stuck to its sides like a butterfly's wings still in a chrysalis.
Harry picked him or her up, placing them far behind himself away from its mother's straining legs and wings.
One of the other mares who also had a foal born a month earlier, strode forward to greet the new life.
"There's one, mama," Harry told the Thestral. "Two more."
She screeched at him, sounding pissed.
Luna crooned to her, singing a song Harry had never heard before but her voice was lovely.
So lovely even the mare relaxed a bit as Harry reached back inside her, searching for the next foal. He found another pair of legs, and he felt for the knee joint, checking the bent of the legs.
"Next one is the right side round," Harry told Luna with relief. Gently directing the hooves forward, He waited until the foal was closer before he pulled. "Come on, mama. It doesn't get easier the long"
Unlike humans, equines had quick births, thirty minutes on average, there wasn't really a guideline on Thestrals and sucked that Hagrid wasn't here, but Luna had been researching this since they had arrived back at Hogwarts.
Quicker was better.
The Thestrals being as smart as they were, the mare understood him and began pushing again.
The second was slower going, Thestrals, like most horses, were built for one, not two —and definitely not three— young.
But the foal emerged without injury, if a bit smaller and a little shaker its older by minutes sibling.
Harry reached right back in, fearing the last one would be the troublemaker.
And sure enough, he felt hooves.
All four hooves.
"Hold on, mama," Harry said, reaching in past his elbows, resting his head on her trembling rump to get as far in as he could.
"What's wrong?" Luna asked.
"On its side," Harry said, gritting his teeth as he searched for the head. The front legs were longer than the neck, so hooves then head. Any other direction was near impossible for the mare to get out without intervention and if too much time passed after the water broke, the foal would suffocate to death.
"Alright, found the head, hold on, mama, breathe, we've got you, we've got you—"
Painstaking minutes passed as Harry got the foal right way round. They were lucky Thestral foals weren't as big as mundane horse foals, they might have needed a surgeon and that was not in Harry's ability set.
Good thing he had already done this with a Hippogriff mare and foal before Voldemort had attacked his mind. Said Hippogriff had only had a single foal and Harry had seen first hand how it was meant to happen.
"Gottum! Go! Come on, mama, last one, last one—"
This foal came out faster but not as cleanly as the others.
Blood, flesh, and fluid spilled onto Harry's already messy lap as he got the foal out. The foal had come out with part of the afterbirth.
Which wasn't great for the foal who was now trapped in the gooey mess.
"Good girl, good girl," Luna praised as Harry frantically pulled the gore away from the foal's face.
It was trying to breathe but having been in the longest and having its face covered, it was visibly struggling, its movements both jerky and sluggish.
Harry's heart was thundering as he got its face clear.
The foal gasped, eyes rolling as it tried to stand.
"Luna?" he asked.
She got up, praising the mare as she did so, coming around to take care of the third foal.
Harry went back to the mare, helping her through the rest of the afterbirth. Being carnivorous scavengers, Harry pulled it onto a clean tablecloth they had brought along with them for the mare to have later.
This mare would need a lot of time to recover and having carried three foals, she was low nutrition even with Luna and Harry bringing her extra food for the last few months.
Finally, though, after three hours, the mare was sitting up, nursing her foals, two females and one male.
Luna and Harry changed into clean clothing.
The sire of the foals didn't let them leave herding them toward the mare.
It was a chilly night but curled up next to each other beneath the wing of a Thestral in a bed of soft moss, Luna and Harry slept just fine.
They woke the next day to the chirping of foals, Harry and Luna spent the morning laughing chasing and being chased by a tiny pack of baby winged Thestrals beneath sunlight spilling through the canopy of the Forbidden Forest above them.
AN: Thoughts, foals, or feedback on the chapter, pretty please?