AN: Apologies this is a little delayed, got busier at work than expected. There's one chapter left after this one. :)
Harry got a few more pages written on the horcruxes that afternoon, trying to write what he could about Hufflepuff's goblet. He was distracted, knew he was as he kept looking out the window and let his thoughts wander a little, but also knew that Newt was right and Harry would forget some of the details over time.
It was surprisingly tolerable working in the same office as Snape as well, mostly because Snape ignored him.
Snape had not told Harry what he was documenting but Harry figured there wasn't a shortage to the shit he got up to during the war that Newt Scamander probably wanted to know. They'd come to a small shared workspace truce, Snape ignoring Harry's furtive scribbling and sneak reading of the Death archive he'd borrowed, and Harry saying nothing about his grumbling and repetitive quill tapping.
"Does he really tap his quill all day?" Ron asked, as they sat in Fred's hospital room later that afternoon.
"On and off," Harry replied. "He also talks to himself a bit."
Hermione, who was fighting with a Boots meal deal sandwich container, pursed her lips a bit.
"Seems like a bad habit for a spy."
"Unless it's a double bluff," Ron said. "Wouldn't put it past him."
He'd nicked Hermione's packet of cheese and onion crisps and was sitting up near Fred's head, occasionally poking his brother in the shoulder. It was quieter at St Mungo's than it had been a few days earlier, and Harry's chest ached slightly as he realised that most of the wounded from the battle had gone home, gone to long term wards, or hadn't made it.
Harry and Hermione were sitting on the dodgy couch and she nudged him out of his ruminations, passing him the folder of Ministry officiant profiles that Kingsley Shacklebolt had had sent over. All had been vetted as trustworthy to fetch Hermione's parents from Australia, and not surprisingly nearly all were aurors or unspeakables. Harry was slightly surprised that so many of them would be available to go so shortly after the war – weren't there rogue Death Eaters to find or corruption in the Ministry to uncover? But Ron had pointed out that maybe this was the Ministry trying to make up for how badly they'd failed Harry over the past few years.
Harry fought back a yawn as Hermione tapped a photo of an older witch, who looked spry and had kind eyes.
"This one looks like our old neighbour who visited my parents often. Maybe this one."
"All right, Harry?" Ron asked, watching him carefully instead of answering Hermione.
"Yeah," Harry casually answered, "just need a bit more sleep."
He took the file that Hermione had settled on and started scanning the details, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Ron continued watching him.
"Double bluff," Ron repeated, and when Harry looked up with a questioning gaze he was caught. "Not gonna tell us about that bruise on your chest?"
"We all have bruises, Ron," Harry said. The pull to touch his chest, to press against the dull ache, was fierce but he didn't want to bring more attention to it. "It's fine."
"What bruise?" Hermione sharply asked. She'd taken a big bite of her sandwich and barely took time to cover her mouth. Her eyes flicked back and forth between his chest and his face.
"It's a mark," Harry said, trying to snatch the bag of crisps from Ron. "It'll go away."
Ron, with the reflexes of a younger brother, saw the move coming and yanked the crisps out of Harry's reach.
"But it hasn't," he said. "You should tell Mum and Dad about it."
Harry grimaced slightly and crossed his arms.
"I'm not going to ask your parents about a bruise while they're waiting for Fred to get better."
They all glanced up toward Fred, who looked like he was just having an afternoon nap on a small and stark white bed.
"It's from the killing curse, isn't it?" Hermione asked, the files on her lap and the sandwich in her hand all but forgotten.
Harry thought, for a split second, about denying it and saying it could have been from another part of the battle, but they'd been through hell together and there wasn't really a point to lying about it. They would worry, whether it was from the killing curse or not.
"I think so," Harry admitted. "There's not really anything else that could have caused it."
A worried look came over Hermione's face, a determined expression that Harry had seen many times over the year. Harry and Ron shared a quick raised eyebrow raise, knowing that it meant they'd be headed to the library at some point over the next few days. Whatever was left of the library.
"I guess we can wait a bit. It's not like it'll kill you again.," Ron said, relaxing back into his seat. A second later he raised Fred's arm up and dropped it to the bed. "Otherwise, okay?"
"As much as the rest of us are," Harry shrugged. Ron picked up Fred's arm again and made it look like he was casting a spell.
Hermione, who had eaten more of her sandwich, rolled her eyes.
"You know you can't irritate him back awake, Ron," Hermione commented, though she made no move to stop him.
"Yeah, but we don't not know that," Ron reasoned.
…..
Islington, 8 May, 9am
Harry put the takeaway cups of tea and pastry bag down beside him on the bench, sitting back and keeping his feet out of the way of a group of children walking together toward primary. The little square was mostly empty except for pedestrians hurriedly passing through, and an old lady with her dog, walking slowly around the trodden grassy area as the dog caught up on all the day's new scents.
"Shorter list than I thought," Percy said, handing Harry a folder. "Most of the deaths happened at the battle or shortly after. Only a few in the days after."
Harry nodded and put the folder in his rucksack.
"Thanks."
"Is it visible to everyone now?"
"Not sure. To the Death Eaters, it definitely is."
Percy nodded and reached for a cup. "Unplotting this again is rather low on the Ministry list of tasks right now, but I'm sure they'd make an exception for you."
Harry shook his head. All he'd ever been in the wizarding world was an exception, and he wanted that to die with the death of Voldemort. It was enough that'd they'd asked the Ministry for a favour to help bring Hermione's parents home, but Harry didn't want to owe the Ministry anything.
"Though I know Mum won't kick you off the couch," Percy said.
"Maybe," Harry said. "But I'd rather not be a burden."
Percy laughed a mirthless laugh and sipped his tea.
"You fit into this family better than I do."
A passing dog, sauntering along with its elderly owner, stopped to sniff hopefully by the bag of pastries on the bench. Harry smiled a little and shook his head, wondering if the dog would be bothered at all that one was shaped like a dragon.
"I don't think they're trying to make you feel like an outsider," Harry said. "It's just Fred, and the battle so fresh; it'll take time."
Dinners at the Burrow had been quiet and almost like a command check in for the past few days, with one of the Weasley brothers taking notes of who was doing what, going where, and how everyone was doing. But there'd not been much discussion after that, and Harry had seen that no one really spoke to Percy unless they had a direct question.
"I can't say I haven't deserved it," Percy said, almost as a quiet afterthought.
"You went through a lot too, didn't you," Harry quietly asked.
"I am one of the few people who worked under Fudge, Scrimgeour, and Thicknesse," Percy said. "I was first under suspicion for being from a traitorous pureblood family. But then, as time wore on, for persevering under each Minister without facing any hardships."
"People wanted you to suffer?" Harry asked. In the windows of Grimmauld's he thought he saw movement, a glimpse of Kreacher puttering about, and made a note to himself to check in with Kreacher and tell him to be careful at the house.
"They wanted to know what I was willing to do to avoid it," Percy explained. "Many people get demoted or promoted when a new Minister takes control. I knew months ago that I needed out. That I had been wrong all along. But how do you leave the Ministry when Death Eaters are in control?"
Harry blinked, unable to imagine months of being under suspicion at the Ministry. He'd only been there for hours to steal the locket, and he'd had trouble pretending to fit in with the Ministry employees in that short amount of time.
"I'd had no news of the family for so long," Percy said. "My choice, of course. My terrible choice. But at least now I know they're all alive. Mostly."
…..
Harry took the train to Bletchley instead of apparating, preferring to surround himself with muggles completely unaware of the war that had just been fought. There was something innocent and powerful about their boring daily routines that made Harry feel safe, even as he read through the list of those who had died in the past week. It was similar to the Dursleys when he was younger, before he'd faced the dementor at the park in Little Whinging. Up until then Little Whinging and the Dursleys had been so incredibly boring and Muggle that Harry couldn't help but feel relatively safe there.
As his places of safety had slowly been destroyed though, Harry found himself having to carve them out again out of whatever he could.
He skipped the café for breakfast and wandered into his office still reading Percy's notes, not noticing the look that Snape threw him.
"And here waltzes in Mr Potter, uncaring of schedule or promptness in assignment completion," Snape said, slamming shut a book that he had on his desk. Harry was neither impressed nor startled.
"There's no due date," Harry said, dropping his file on his desk with more force than he'd intended. "Just because you have nothing else to do after the war doesn't mean I haven't."
Snape gave him a withering glare.
"How on earth would you know, Potter?" Snape threw at him.
"I don't," Harry said, sitting down and spinning his chair to look at Snape. "And I don't actually care, Snape. I don't see why you do either, because you're not my professor anymore."
Snape looked like he wanted to say something but shut his mouth and huffed out a breath before turning back to his desk.
Harry glanced over his shoulder again to see if Snape was watching and slowly pulled Percy's list out. He'd starred a couple that he thought he'd try, and wrote down the dates and times. Snape usually went for a morning coffee downstairs at half ten, Harry had learned, and that's when he decided he'd go back to the past and see if his theory was correct.
…..
Harry remembered the exact frenetic energy of St Mungo's as he'd walked the halls on the first or second night after the battle. He deliberately avoided going anywhere near Fred's room, where he knew that in this exact point of time the other version of himself was visiting with the family, letter from Newt burning a hole of possibilities in his pocket as they discussed what was wrong and how Fred could be cured.
Spell damages took up an entire floor, though Harry stayed down in the makeshift expansion of the wizarding A&E, side stepping people slumped in various chairs and haphazardly placed beds, holding wounds tight as best they could. His guest was in room five, and Harry slipped between the curtains with moments to go before the pronounced time.
She looked frail and tired, motionless on the bed with her leg wrapped in a giant cloth bandage that wouldn't stop seeping.
Harry sat in the lone empty visitor's chair, hands steepled in front of his face, elbows on his knees. He felt sick, the smell of the hospital and the coppery-mud on the bandage invading his nostrils and churning his senses.
She would die in three minutes, according to Percy's list. Harry checked his watch and glanced around the room, but there was still no one coming. Blood loss, the report had said. A curse that got into her artery and had been missed by the mediwitches.
The time passed, the air thick as the seconds seemed to stretch impossibly. Harry sat back in his chair as a bell started to ring in the room, likely a monitoring charm going off. Harry kept a very close watch, startling as a mediwizard ran into the room and Harry thought he saw more movement out of the corner of his eye. He swung his head back and forth, searching, unsatisfied, as the mediwizard put his hand on his forehead and nearly dropped his wand. This wasn't the first tonight, and it wouldn't be the last.
Harry stood after a moment, side stepping the mediwizard and his paperwork and turning to leave. The room had calmed; a level of anxiety slipped away.
…..
The next name on the list was Lavender Brown.
Harry slipped back in time to a few days earlier, walking the now familiar corridors of St Mungo's, and going to the Dai Llewellyn Ward. Lavender Brown lay in a darkened room, her parents by her side holding her hand. Harry remembered her being attacked by Fenrir Greyback, but hadn't seen the injuries up close. He really didn't want to; had seen enough blood and savagery against the schoolmates he'd grown up with over the last few days; and couldn't stop seeing them in his mind when he closed his eyes.
Harry waited unseen by the door for five minutes, checking his watch as the time approached. All around him healers, mediwitches and wizards, and visitors roamed the corridor in a dazed chaotic manner. It wasn't quiet, moans and worried conversations from other patients and families echoed down the boring beige walls, floating past the nearly silent room Harry was watching. He saw the tears rolling down Mrs Brown's face, the wringing of a worn handkerchief by Mr Brown as he sat and stared at his daughter. But Harry never saw the shadow man, despite his frequent checks of all figures that passed him.
He did one last check in the corners of the room, finding nothing, before looking back toward the bed. Harry was the only one to notice that Lavender had stopped breathing, but he knew her parents would shortly.
You cannot change the past, Newt had said.
….
The next one on the list had died at home, and Harry arrived a mere minute before the man died. A Death Eater, he'd gone to hiding at home but couldn't stop the curse that he'd been hit with during the battle. Harry purposefully didn't try to find out any more information, but made his way to the sitting room window and peered inside, searching. He saw no one other than the Death Eater, who glanced his way for a second before slumping back in his chair. Harry shook his head, wildly looking around, but there was no one else there. Would someone find the man's body? Harry didn't know, and in the present, it had already been a few days. He felt frustrated though, as it appeared that his theory was proving incorrect. Just as he pulled himself out of the past though, Harry thought he saw the shadowed man standing by a tree at the edge of the garden.
"What?" Harry muttered, staring at the bookmark. Had he actually found him?
"You'll want to be careful," a soft voice said, causing Harry to grip onto the 1998 book with a stranglehold.
He took a few steadying breaths and turned around, finding himself under the kind gaze of Queenie.
"Everyone throws themselves into the past at first, and not just for what Newt has asked them to," she continued, her smile gentle as she kept eye contact. Harry now knew that Queenie was an even stronger legilimens than Snape was, had heard them discussing it in the office, and he knew whatever he did to try and hide his thoughts would be fruitless.
"It's to help my friend," Harry offered, figuring that not going into the details might be easier than trying to explain what his actual theory was.
"Yes," Queenie agreed, and then she glanced down toward Harry's chest in a way that made Harry shift uncomfortably. He hadn't told anyone other than Ron and Hermione about the bruise, but she knew all the same. "Just mind that you can't give it all for your friends. You have to take care of yourself as well."
She gave him a squeeze on the shoulder, and then quietly left the room.
…..
Harry got curry for lunch from the local Indian place that Aleksander had told him about the day before. It smelled good and it was warm and it counteracted his frustration about Fred, the shadowy figure of his dreams, his lack of sleep, and the giant pause they were all feeling where they couldn't move forward.
Harry had never thought, before learning about the story of the Deathly Hallows, that death had been an actual entity. He knew that death wasn't quite as final in the wizarding world as the muggle one, had certainly seen and interacted with enough ghosts to have shown that.
He wiped his face and wrapped up his empty curry container to throw out later. The stone was in his pocket again; it's regular place since he'd picked it back up from the forest. Harry was fairly certain he didn't need the actual wand, hadn't when he'd fought Voldemort, but he'd brought his invisibility cloak with him just in case.
Dumbledore had been so confident that controlling the hallows meant that Harry could control death, and he hadn't exactly been wrong as Harry didn't know how else it was possible for him to have survived the killing curse again and then Voldemort in a one-on-one duel.
The book on death that was in the archive certainly suggested that Death was an actual being that Harry could speak to, interact with, potentially barter with. But only if he could find it.
…..
Bletchley, 8 May, 2pm
Harry had been very hesitant to visit this particular time, this particular death, and as he stepped onto the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower, he felt a gnawing dread growing inside, infecting and deepening the pain in his chest.
The Dark Mark's green light lit up the tower only enough to see Dumbledore and Malfoy, the former maddeningly calm as he faced Malfoy's wand. Harry took his opportunity to walk around the tower, knowing he couldn't be seen, but still feeling the same fear he'd had on the night.
He watched Draco, hand wavering as his wand pointed at Dumbledore, his harsh words heavy across the crisp spring night air, reaching the compassionate expression of the headmaster. Harry watched as Dumbledore stalled, breaking down Malfoy's motivation and actual drive to finish his task, knowing what was to come and knowing now that Dumbledore had planned it. And maybe he'd been right to, as Malfoy had spared Harry when they'd been captured. Maybe it was enough to have made Malfoy reconsider.
Harry listened again as they argued about Snape, Malfoy insisting that Snape was a Death Eater through and through, Dumbledore gently, but with absolute confidence, disagreeing.
As the others joined the audience — Fenrir with blood dripping down his chin and the Carrows arguing with Dumbledore — Harry couldn't look at his past self, terrified and under the cloak, watching with horror as everything unfolded like the worst theatrical play.
It was close now, Harry thought, as Snape burst across the ramparts with his wand in hand. Dumbledore's tired, pleading expression was too hard to look at, too hard to hear again, and Harry turned his eyes away as Snape sent his curse. His eyes moved toward the stairs, and it was there he found the shadow figure, staring right back at him.
"Hello, Harry," the figure said, completely ignoring everyone surrounding them on the tower. Harry refused to look back and watch as Dumbledore fell, and felt the rage burning again at the unfairness of Dumbledore's death.
"Who are you? Why can't I always find you?" Harry demanded, both surprised and yet not to have found him here. He was an older man, an age north of Dumbledore's but otherwise impossible to discern.
The man simply twisted his head up, the worry lines on his face more evident under the glow of the Dark Mark in the sky above.
"You've never tried in the present."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, to demand to know how, when he felt himself being forcibly removed from the past.
"How dare you?" Snape seethed, hand clamped on Harry's shoulder as he pulled him up and out of the chair.
"Let me go," Harry said, trying to shrug off Snape's hand. "How did you even know where I was?"
"Wanting to vilify me again, is it?" Snape demanded, ignoring Harry's question. "Remind the wizarding world of what I have done?"
"No —" Harry started, bumping back into the chair.
"A glutton for punishment maybe?" Snape continued. "Reliving the worst memories you have?"
"Punishment?" Harry asked, feeling very off footed in the conversation.
"You won the fucking war, Potter. Do your assignment here and leave the rest of it well alone."
Snape stormed off, slamming the door to the library and rattling the pictures and books on the walls. Harry blinked, surprised, still trying to make sense of what had happened. An angry Snape was not exactly a stranger to Harry, but usually Harry knew why he was angry. In this case it was likely because Harry was watching the night that Snape murdered Dumbledore, but the glutton for punishment remark seemed to be more about Harry than Snape.
He shook his head as he walked back to their shared office, suspecting—correctly—that Snape would not be found there. Harry glanced at his desk where his papers were, noting that they appeared to be untouched. It was entirely possible they'd been rifled through, as Snape had been a spy and would have done it in a way that Harry wouldn't know.
Fuck, Harry thought, running his hand through his hair. He'd been given his answer, meet Death in the present. And he'd pissed Snape off in the process. Well good, Harry thought, uneasily. All's fair and all that.
…..
The light was on in the kitchen at 4 pm when Harry returned to the Burrow, grey skies rolling in from the west and dropping the temperature sharply. There was a single candle lit in the kitchen window, one that Harry knew had been there since the beginning of the war and was a sign of warmth and welcome restfulness.
Now it reminded him of a lighthouse, a solitary guard over the family whilst they all waited.
Kreacher stood at the kitchen sink and hummed an awful tune to himself as he cubed meat to put in a pot nearly larger than himself. Mr Weasley sat with Charlie at the table, quietly discussing how long Charlie was staying in England. Ron and Hermione were at the other end of the table, preparing vegetables for dinner and occasionally being glared at by Kreacher. The radio was on, but Harry didn't recognise the channel.
"Hey Harry," Ron said, nodding at him. "Grab a peeler, would you?"
Harry eyed the pile of potatoes that were next to Ron and rolled his eyes slightly, but still sat down in the chair next to him.
"You're a wizard, you know," Harry said. "We can do this by magic."
"There's something relaxing about doing it the muggle way," Hermione said, picking up another carrot to peel. Harry wasn't too sure about that, but he knew Hermione was anxious about her parents so didn't question it.
"I don't want to leave if he still might die," Charlie suddenly said, louder than he'd intended to. Ron's peeler clanked to the table as he dropped it, and Percy, who'd entered from the sitting room, hesitated in his step.
"We have to keep on," Mr Weasley tiredly said. The radio, which had now gone to a cheery commercial, seemed to have grown excessively loud, and was advertising for a celebratory holiday now that the war was over.
"Fuck that," Charlie said, standing up so quickly that his chair fell over behind him. Without warning the radio exploded to pieces and Kreacher, with the reflexes of an elf who'd long served a family with anger issues, cast a spell to contain all the pieces. "He's my little brother. I'm not leaving."
Charlie stormed off out of the kitchen, though Harry thought it was less of anger but more of frustration that Charlie, like the rest of them, couldn't do anything to help. And there was that feeling again, Harry thought, the twisting of his stomach, where he knew he could do something but wasn't fully sure on the next step or if he'd come out on top.
"We're not leaving either," Ron said. "We chose an auror who's going to go to Australia."
Mr Weasley nodded.
"Your mother will appreciate you staying home," Mr Weasley said. He glanced toward the counter, where the kettle was, but didn't rise from his seat. "They're going to move your brother to the Janus Thickley Ward."
Percy, who was sitting closest to the kettle, rose to brew some tea for everyone. Harry wondered how much tea the Weasley family went through normally, and if it had doubled in the past week that Fred had been in hospital.
"That's for long term patients?" Harry asked, remembering how they'd seen Neville's parents there.
"Yes," Mr Weasley said. "They can still make improvements."
It was optimism that was perhaps a far reach, but it was what they needed at the moment and no one contradicted him.
"Mine is the blue one, next to Harry's," Mr Weasley added. Percy's hand paused for a long moment over the mug cupboard shelf, before picking up the blue mug for his father and then the slightly smaller yellow one that Harry preferred when he stayed with the Weasleys. Harry swallowed a slight ache in his throat that had instantly appeared at the realisation that Mr Weasley remembered his mug preference of all things.
"Where've you been during the day, Harry?"
Harry picked up another potato to peel and nodded in thanks to Percy for the tea.
"Work, I suppose," Harry said. "I've been tasked with documenting everything that happened over the past year."
"You're being paid for this? By the Ministry?" Mr Weasley asked, his hands circling the mug that had been placed in front of him.
"Yes. It's not the aurors, or the unspeakables," Harry replied. In the sitting room the grandfather clock chimed for the quarter hour. "It's with Newt Scamander."
"You're at Bletchley," Percy suddenly said, sitting down opposite Harry.
It wasn't a question, and Harry's hand paused with his mug halfway to his mouth.
"You know about Bletchley?"
"I was the junior assistant to the Minister," Percy said, blandness to his voice. "I knew about a lot of things, and some that I perhaps should not have."
"What's so important about Bletchley?" Ron asked. Though she continued neatly peeling carrots, Hermione had perked up beside him and was listening intently to the conversation.
"Harry, you didn't tell us it was in Bletchley," she said.
"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Harry asked. "Milton Keynes, Bletchley. They're right next to each other."
"Bletchley Park was a very famous, and very secret, intelligence unit in the second world war," Hermione said. "This is where the Allies broke the enigma code that the Germans used."
"Code breakers?" Ron asked, tossing a potato into a small bowl of water. Kreacher muttered as the water splashed.
"Ciphers," Hermione nodded. "They built an entire machine that would decrypt the daily coded message that the Nazis used. I think the machine is still there."
Mr Weasley, who'd been sitting at the head of the table and staring into his mug of tea, showed some signs of interest.
"I wonder if that's why Newt chose that location," Harry murmured.
"Probably," Hermione said, dumping the now chopped carrots into a bowl. "Without the work of Bletchley Park code breakers, the muggle war would have lasted much longer and it was very possible that that Allies might have lost."
"I wonder what the machine looked like," Mr Weasley said, his voice quiet but a small spark of curiosity present.
"I think you can go see it, Mr Weasley," Hermione told him, smiling gently.
…..
He felt a lot braver under the colourful patchwork quilt on the spare bed in Ron's room, next to his friends, seeing the stars outside through the tiny window. Tomorrow, Harry decided, he would face Death.
Harry didn't know what Death would be like in person, but based on the Tale of the Three Brothers, and the notes in the Archive book, it seemed that Harry would need to watch for trickery and word play.
"It's weird, innit?" Ron suddenly said, speaking into the rafters of the sloped ceiling. There was a lone candle lit as Hermione was reading, but neither Harry nor Ron had fallen asleep.
"What is?" Harry asked.
"There's no next step. Voldemort's gone, we're done school –"
"We are not done school," Hermione interrupted, not lowering her book.
"–there's nothing set left to do," Ron finished.
"I think that means we're supposed to get jobs?" Harry offered. He didn't really feel a desire to do so right away, and he sort of hoped to spend a proper summer with Ron and Hermione without the thoughts of war hanging over head.
"Nah," Ron said, stretching out in bed. "Reckon we've earned some time doing nothing."
This time Hermione did lower her book and Ron waved his hand in the air to signify he was adding an amendment.
"Except for bringing Hermione's parents home, and helping mine around the house."
"And helping your brother," Harry said. There was a spot above his bed where a Chudley Cannons poster was starting to come loose from the rafters, but instead of fixing it with magic Harry just watched it flutter slightly as the ghoul in the attic moved about.
"Yeah," Ron said, raising his leg and scratching it. "Mum said they might look into bringing him home, if he's well enough. If he's just… sleeping… he can stay with us."
Harry nodded and once again thought of the morning, feeling more driven to finally face Death.
"Hey Ron," Harry said, sitting up and leaning on his elbow. "Do you know if there's a way, or... I don't know. Would you trade absolutely anything for Fred to be okay?"
"What are you planning, Harry?" Hermione asked, before Ron could answer.
"Maybe something stupid," Harry said, noticing that they both looked immediately concerned.
"As in, 'try to go off and hunt for horcruxes on your own' stupid?" Hermione asked.
"I wanted to keep you safe," Harry insisted.
"Or 'walking into the fucking forest to be killed by Voldemort without telling us' stupid?" Ron said, and there was an edge to his voice that told Harry that Ron had mostly forgiven him, but not fully. That Harry had miscalculated how much he'd be missed.
"Uh, well. It's just… in the Tale of the Three Brothers they bested Death, right? And he offered them a prize?"
"Yeeesss," Hermione slowly answered. Her book dropped to her lap. "But Harry, two of the three of those backfired against the wizards."
"Yeah, but what if I gave them back?"
He could see Hermione's frown as she tried to think through the process and what the risks were. Ron was too far over, on the other side of Hermione, but Harry knew that he was also trying to strategize.
"Does Death even exist?" Ron finally asked, his voice a little rougher than it normally was. Harry knew he'd made the right decision to tell them.
"I don't know," Harry said. "I met up with Dumbledore when I was in the in-between. But never saw an actual Death."
"But it's something you want to try?" Hermione asked. "I don't…I'm not sure if you can trust Death. If it exists."
Harry took a breath and thought for a moment, but they waited for his answer without pushing. The room was the same size it had always been but they'd grown over the years and now it felt cosier and more intimate. And easier to talk about risking death for life in the dark.
"I think it's something I need to do," Harry finally said. "I don't think one person should hold onto the hallows. And it might be the only way I can save Fred."
"We," Ron said, finally turning to look at Harry. Harry didn't need any more candle light to see that his eyes were a bit wet. "We can save him."
"I don't know if you can go with me," Harry said. "I'm not arguing, I just…"
"Doesn't matter," Ron announced. "You're not going alone. Ever. Not for something like this again."
…..
Crunching gravel was an interesting sound, Harry thought, as he walked along the path around the lake. Hogwarts hadn't really had it; they'd run along flagstone in the corridors to class, wood in the dormitories, grass on the quidditch pitch, and peat and tree roots all through the forest. Even the crumbled castle wall debris scattered all over the footpaths and Hogwarts grounds during the battle hadn't had the sharp crunch of the gravel and dirt path of peaceful Bletchley Park.
Harry continued along the path to the south, stepping off and onto the grass, toward a bench that was nestled in the trees. It was early in the morning; people who worked at the Bletchley mansion arriving and chatting to each other as they went to their stations. The park officially didn't open for another hour, but Harry had an overwhelming confidence that he would not be seen.
Ron and Hermione had joined him, refusing to let him leave the Burrow without them, and sat in full view on the bench nearest the mansion where they could see Harry.
He only had to wait a few moments before a familiar looking dark figure walked through the trees to his left and approached his bench.
"Lovely morning for a chat," the man said, sitting down next to Harry. Closer up his features were actually distinguishable; an older man in old fashioned clothing, whiskers slightly too long at the sides of his face, hands relatively clean though slightly twisted from age.
"You've been waiting for this for a while," Harry said, his hands loose in his lap.
"Approximately seven days," the man said. "But I am not in a rush."
"Why?" Harry said. "Why have you been in my dreams? Why are you in the past?"
"Is that why you called me here? To ask who I was?" the man asked. His tone was gentle, and Harry felt calm and unthreatened, which wasn't quite what he'd been expected.
"I came to barter," Harry said, making eye contact. He fished out the horcrux stone from his pocket and then pulled his invisibility cloak from his jacket. "For Fred Weasley's life."
The old man glanced down at the invisibility cloak with a fond look on his face before speaking.
"He is not dead."
"He's not alive, either," Harry argued, clutching the hallows closely in his hands.
Silence fell between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Harry worded his next sentence carefully.
"You have a hold on him, but he's still holding on to here. What will it take to let him go?"
"I don't," the man said, relaxing back against the bench. "It is you, Harry, who is keeping him here."
Harry nearly fumbled the stone from his hand as he stared at the man, his brain scrambling to understand.
"I..what?" Harry said, "I do want him to be here. I want –"
"Precisely. And so it is also you that won't let him go."
Harry's mouth dropped and he nearly forgot to breathe.
"No," Harry finally said, standing up so quickly that he nearly knocked the bench askew. "He's getting better. The healers…"
"The healers are doing an admirable job," the man said. "But it will soon be time to choose."
Harry glanced wildly to his friends, who were sitting calmly on the bench and didn't appear to be able to see the true conversation that was happening.
"You are safe, Harry," the man said.
"I don't feel safe," Harry snapped, still standing far away from the man. From Death. "I haven't felt safe my entire life."
"I know," the man said. "And I will explain. But you will need to choose soon."
"Choose what?" Harry asked, putting the stone back in his pocket. "You said I am the one that won't let him go. What does that mean?"
"You know what it means," the man gently said. "You hold the hallows, and you died a week ago."
"I am still alive," Harry firmly said, pressing his feet into the earth to ground himself, to feel the stones and the dirt and the life of nature around him. "I am not … I'm not you."
"For now," the man answered. "You are to become one of us. But as you managed to return, you have a choice."
"I can choose if I want to become death," Harry repeated, laughing hysterically. "Or what? Just die? It's been a week since the battle, and you're just telling me this now!"
He turned and started pacing, the serene grass of the grounds soft under his feet and giving him a strong urge to tear into it, to destroy it.
"It hardly seemed like the right time to tell you shortly after your victory," the man said, to which Harry gave a withering look.
Harry threw the stone in anger as far as he could, launching it toward the lake that stood between them and the old huts of Bletchley.
"A brief moment is what I get after the war, to be normal. And it doesn't even really count because nothing is normal," Harry continued. "But that's all this… this…"
"Time," the man supplied.
"Time was." Harry finished, feeling cheated once more.
"But it was something," the man gently said. "It was what I could delay."
Harry scowled and kicked the foot of the bench.
"Don't act like you care," Harry said. "Like you're the one who is on the cusp of finally living a normal life and having that snatched away again. I don't want this! I don't want any of this destiny or prophecy or whatever the fuck it is now."
"I do care," the man said. "It is precisely why I have waited. I too had to make this choice once, a long time ago."
Harry stopped with his pacing and glared at the old man.
"You were human."
"I was. The original human owner of that cloak."
Harry felt some of his anger seep out, to be filled with confusion, but he was still too riled up to sit again.
"Ignotus Peverell," the man said. "And I know what you will have to give up. I know how difficult the choice is."
"Do you," Harry said, his hand running through his hair in frustration.
"Of course. You could save your friend or you could allow chance to decide. But if you choose to save him, you will never fully be part of the living again."
Harry stared at him, his stomach churning violently and his face feeling flush. He needed to get out, to flee, to go somewhere safe.
It hadn't been enough.
It hadn't been enough that Harry had lost his parents, had grown up unloved, had been marked in the wizarding world. Had been targeted by Voldemort. He now had to choose between life and death for his best friend's brother, and for himself once more.
"Fuck!" Harry let out, and with a messy and loud-sounding crack, he dug his heels into the gravel and apparated away.
Ron and Hermione managed to see the last of Harry's reaction and disappearance, and sprang into action.
"Shit," Ron said, already drawing his wand to dissapparate. "Let's check Grimmauld."
….
Harry landed in Newt's office in a daze; his thoughts whirling through his head, as he stumbled into the corridor. A version of Death itself. He could choose if Fred lived, he could forever change the Weasley family and pay them back for everything they'd ever given him. But Ignotus' warning clenched at his heart like a cold iron fist. The control over Fred's survival came with a cost once more, and it made Harry sick to his stomach to think about.
It was absolute bullshit that he was forced to choose again, Harry thought. Harry hoped that Snape was there, that he could scream at Snape and unleash the anger boiling up over his throat with acidic fury. Had it not been enough to be the chosen one once? Harry seethed, throwing open the door to their shared office and relishing in the flinch he saw from Snape. Had it not been enough to sacrifice himself to put an end to Voldemort? To suffer unwanted through childhood, hunted through his time at Hogwarts, and to die before he reached 18?
"Calm yourself, Potter," Snape warned, rising to his feet and making himself look as imposing as he could over Harry. Harry didn't back down.
"How did you cheat death?" Harry demanded, standing close enough to Snape to smell his aftershave, the coffee he'd had over lunch. The memories Snape had given him flashing in his mind, of Snape facing Voldemort, promising his life to Dumbledore, broken down after Lily had been murdered. "How are you still here?"
"Why shouldn't I be?" Snape challenged, daring Harry to say that he didn't deserve it.
The many reasons were on the tip of Harry's tongue, waiting to be yelled out, slashed at Snape like tiny knives. The sharing of the prophecy, the horrific treatment at Hogwarts, the killing of Dumbledore, the fact that Snape was a horrible person. Had been.
"Get rid of the anger Potter. You won. Let it go," Snape said, when Harry had taken slightly too long to answer.
"What would you know about what I'm feeling?" Harry growled, clenching his hands together tight enough that he knew he'd find marks from his fingernails in the skin later.
"You aren't that daft," Snape said, a backhanded compliment that failed to knock Harry off balance.
"Pretend that I am," Harry said, glaring up at Snape. "Enlighten me."
"Enlighten you?" Snape asked. "It wasn't enough to give you my memories, but instead you want every sordid detail about how I tried to control everything after your mother died?"
"Control?" Harry said, taking a step back in confusion. "You ran to Dumbledore. He controlled…"
"Me?" Snape dangerously asked, an ugly smile forming on his face. "The seventeen years I was in servitude to atone for her death?"
Harry didn't have an answer for that, which was just as well as Snape wasn't done.
"I will never say this again Potter. You already paid the price to win. What do you gain by being angry and trying to control even more?"
Fred, Harry thought, plainly and clearly and with a deep ache for the Weasley family. He could fix that pain.
But he'd never be fully human again.
…..
Harry apparated back to the Burrow and landed in a run, scattering a few gnomes as he kicked up some stones. The kitchen was empty as Harry burst through the door, his chest aching with each breath. The clock told him that most of the Weasleys were out at the hospital, but Ron was apparently home and it was Ron and Hermione he wanted.
He'd been through a whole war with them, sharing most of what needed to be done once they'd finally gotten through to him that they weren't leaving. He'd tried to hide his fears midway through the year when he'd known he was the final horcrux. But not now, now he'd reached his limit.
"Harry."
Harry caught himself on the banister and paused, his foot on the next stair up. Percy's room still looked mostly the same inside, a time capsule to a few years earlier, before he'd left.
"Percy," Harry said. "I have to see Ron."
"This first," Percy said, his voice determined. "It won't take long."
"Can it wait a…"
"I know what you are," Percy levelly said, his determined gaze pinning Harry to the step he was on.
What you are.
Despite the overwhelming pull to go upstairs, to find Ron, Harry let go of the banister and went into Percy's room. There had been some small changes inside: Percy's old clothes resized with magic, his ministry posters torn down from the walls. A thick file on the desk, open to the photos of the people he'd given Harry information on.
"I know what you are," Percy repeated, glancing calmly to the file. He said it with the absolute conviction of a Ministry higher up who spared no room for denial.
"I don't know what you mean," Harry managed, his dull chest ache strengthening with each heartbeat. The last time he'd lied to Percy felt like centuries ago, at Hogwarts, and Harry didn't think Percy believed him now.
"The wizarding world in general looks upon the hallows as nothing but a fairy tale," Percy continued. "But it worked for you. The wand worked. And that cloak you have. And if I'm right, which I am, the stone worked as well."
The fucking stone, Harry thought, which had brought him so much comfort as he took his final steps in the forest, and which was now somewhere in the bottom of the Bletchley Park pond.
Harry said nothing in return, not denying, but also not wanting to explain that yes, the stone worked and that without the stone he probably wouldn't have been brave enough to walk to his death.
Percy nodded, understanding Harry's silence.
"It also means you're the master of death," Percy said, summarising as if he was wrapping up a bloody presentation at work. Harry nearly laughed out of ridiculous anxiety, because no, he wasn't the master. He was apparently a version of death, but this wasn't the time for petty corrections.
"What do you want, Percy?" Harry finally asked, the quiet words heavy on his lips.
Percy swallowed thickly and finally looked like some of the confidence he'd held was slipping. He straightened his shoulders though; his neatly folded work jacket collar crisp around his neck contrasting with the bit of hair at the nape that gave away that Percy hadn't cut his hair in a while.
"I don't belong here with them anymore," Percy announced. "I wish to propose a trade. Myself, for Fred."
Harry's mouth dropped slightly open as he stared in surprise.
"What?"
Percy's mouth tightened, as if he'd run out of the bravado he'd used to ask the first time. Harry was still processing the question, but also considering Percy's struggle to fit back in with the family, his treatment of them over the past few years.
"Myself for Fred," Percy repeated, his certainty slightly less firm. "I... Fred and George are a unit. And they are already accustomed to me not being here."
"Harry?" Ron said, bursting into the room. "What happened, where have you been?"
Harry blinked a few times and glanced at Ron. The past hour had been nothing but whiplash, and Harry still felt a pressing reminder that he needed to make his decision soon, and that it would change the rest of his life.
"Percy, I…I can't," Harry said, shaking his head. He needed to speak to Ron and Hermione, needed to be upstairs in the small orange room, where he was safe and could talk about how he once again had to make the most difficult choice possible.
Percy didn't look disappointed, but instead seemed more unwavering as he nodded and closed the file on his desk.
"Consider it, please," Percy said instead, and turned his back to them both.