Disclaimer –
Everything recognisable belongs to J.K. Rowling. I only take claim for the incantations and characters I have created for myself.

Author's Note –
I'll use italics for letters, thoughts, Parseltongue, and any other forms of verbal and non-verbal expression that seem appropriate. I won't use bold tags for anything except headings.

This is a short fic I wrote last year. As I said in a profile update, I posted it to AO3 when I wrote it, but forgot to do so here as well, so this is me getting around to finally uploading it. It's three chapters, written in first-person POV, and clocks out at about eight thousand words. It's not the best fic I've ever written, but it was in my head and now it's out. I'll be posting one chapter every day or two until it's uploaded.

For the rest of this note, I'll quote what I said over on AO3:

While trying to determine if there's more I want to write for the Negligentia series, my mind kept turning to the other extreme of the premise: of Harry being left at the Dursleys after Voldemort's attack. Unfortunately, once you've accepted that possibility for both Lily and James as characters, the doors are blasted off. I swear, at some point I'm going to write something where they're the big heroes.

I also wanted the brother involved, because he wasn't (so far) in Negligentia, and then I realised I wanted him to be the POV character. Also, I renamed him for this one.

Summary –
After Voldemort's attack, the Potters gave up their son Harry and left him with his aunt and uncle. Eighteen years later, with the war over and the wizarding world at peace once more, they seek him out, hoping to reconnect and perhaps even reconcile. AU, no connection to Negligentia.

–– CHAPTER ONE ––
Invenire

"Are you sure we've got the right address?"

"Yes, James," says Mum impatiently; it's the third time he's asked. "Albus told us it isn't anywhere near a township. It probably isn't even a wizarding locale. You know Apparition is out."

Dad sighs but doesn't reply.

I continue staring out the window, resisting the urge to roll my eyes with effort. I didn't even particularly want to take this trip, and, seeing as I'm nineteen years old, I really shouldn't have had to.

Of course, Lily Potter will have none of that.

I'm not even sure what they're expecting to find once we get there. Understanding? I would wager that ship has sailed. Some sort of fondness? I doubt that. If I were my brother, the one I've only recently learned exists, I doubt I would have any sort of fondness at all for Lily and James Potter, whatever their reasons were.

My brother – Harry, apparently – seems to have done well, seeing as he has his own house at nineteen. All right, I suppose, I could easily have done as well, but I haven't ever wanted for anything growing up, especially money. My brother, meanwhile, was raised by Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. I've never met them – a good thing, as I hear it – but I'm aware from what little Mum has told me about them that they don't like magic, and they like even less the thought of being connected to magic in some way, so it isn't hard to guess that Harry probably hasn't grown up with even half the privileges that I've taken for granted.

Or any, really, beyond the basic ones afforded to any human in Britain. Yet, Harry has his own house, so perhaps there's something else, something that I wouldn't know.

"This must be it," says Mum.

I turn back and take in the sight of the house we are pulling up to.

It's more of a cottage than a house, I muse. It's small, particularly compared to our own cottage inherited from my grandparents, but it has a cosy look to it: I can just see what looks to be a round, stone firepit set into a recess, with brown chairs and a couple of benches lazily spread around it, and I can easily see myself enjoying time here if I owned it.

There are no identifiable parking spaces, but there's a car parked in front of the house, and it's beside that where Mum parks ours.

"I'm not sure what I expected," says Dad as we step out of the car. He flicks his wrist, and his glasses darken against the strong afternoon sunlight. "Not bigger, but … not quite …"

Mum doesn't say anything. Neither do I. Dad sounds a bit judgmental, and if half of what Dumbledore said was true, then he is one of the last people who has the right to. Perhaps Mum realises she's the other.

"Should we – ring the doorbell? Or walk around to the other side?"

"I reckon just walk around," I say, keeping my tone level. "Might as well surprise him."

"I don't understand," says Mum as we make our way around. One hand rises and anxiously fiddles with the rim of her wide-brimmed hat, which she's tucked her usually long, wavy hair into a bun under. "Is this actually Harry's, or did Dumbledore –"

"I can't see Dumbledore giving him the money," Dad replies.

He looks out of place, really, in Muggle summer clothing. Maybe we all do. I suppose Muggle clothing makes as much sense to me as anything, but, preferring robes, I've rarely worn any, so I don't really know their fashions. Dad, of course, is a pureblood, and so is much the same by default. Mum, on the other hand, is perfectly accustomed, if years behind the times, and looks more in place in a bright sundress with odd patterns and strappy sandals, her fingernails painted a bright shade of green. She took pity on us, thankfully, and gave us each a shirt, shorts, and sandals that help us blend in as the Muggles we are not.

It's all very strange to me. Vulnerable, too, as Mad-Eye Moody would say, and yet I can see why Muggles prefer it this way, especially in the middle of the summer. Particularly when the average Muggle has no reason to fear an attack at any given moment, unlike Mad-Eye and I, when he was still alive, and I still had the most powerful Dark Wizard of the era after me.

Not that Mad-Eye would let that excuse a lack of vigilance, I think a bit fondly.

We step around the cottage into a large, open yard, with a remarkable view of the river we'd crossed on the way over: only a beach and a thin line of trees separate it from the yard. The back door is wide open over a small porch, and I can hear music playing from somewhere in the house.

The doorway is situated a few feet above the ground and is reached by a small set of wooden steps framed by oddly elaborate rails. Hanging from one of them is a lacy green bra, half-dried but still dripping water onto the grass below.

I look at my parents. Mum is staring at the bra with raised eyebrows, while Dad is staring out at the beach with a hand over his eyes.

"I guess he isn't alone out here," I offer.

Mum purses her lips but does not reply.

I carefully look away as I roll my eyes; even if she was in the position to have an opinion on the matter, I know full well that my parents married at eighteen.

"Odd that they wouldn't just use a Hot-Air Charm, isn't it?" I comment.

"Not really," says Mum, looking over, "not all wizards just whip out their wands for every little task, and it's certainly hot enough outside to –"

"Oi!" a shout interrupts. "Can I help you?"

Mum and I turn around in unison. A girl approaches us through the trees from the beach – a rather pretty girl, I realise, about my age. She's taller than average and lithe, with lightly tanned skin and thick auburn hair falling in waves around her shoulders, clad in denim shorts and a sleeveless white top that shows her midriff.

She also looks a little familiar, or is it simply that I'm staring a little too hard at how her hair so perfectly catches the afternoon sun, or how tight her top is over her –

"Well, well! That's Jaime Potter, isn't it?" says the girl, her voice thick with an accent that reveals Northern Irish roots. "And the parents, I presume."

I stare harder at her now, no longer quite as caught off-guard – she's clearly a witch, how else could she know about me, but she doesn't look like anyone I knew at Hogwarts in my time there. Yet there's something I recognise about that face, those cheekbones, that light dusting of freckles –

"We're looking for Harry Potter," says Dad. "Have you seen him around?"

The girl raises her eyebrows. "Harry Potter? There's no Harry Potter out here, love."

"Who are you, then?" I ask.

"You don't recognise me, Potter?" She smiles winningly, a hand casually placed on her hip. "No, I suppose you wouldn't. We weren't friends, and it's a few years now since I've been a student at Hogwarts, what with everything after the Triwizard Tournament –"

"You dropped out?" I blurt out.

True, there had been many students, especially before and during my sixth year, who were pulled out of Hogwarts by their parents during the panic over Voldemort's public return, but I couldn't think of any who had left Hogwarts after my fourth year.

Mum and Dad are staring from me to her, confused, but she focuses on me, her heavy-lidded gaze almost occluding her dark eyes.

It only makes her look even more attractive. I wish my parents weren't here.

"I was pulled out," she corrects. "My father decided that I wasn't all that safe in Slytherin once Voldemort had returned."

It surprises me, more than a little, that she can say the name.

"Slytherin," mutters Dad, the hint of a scowl in his voice.

The girl ignores him. "What are you here for?" she asks. "If it's to see Harry, well, I can't say I'm pleased, but I won't speak for him. I know –"

"I thought you said he wasn't here?" says Mum, her chin slightly lifted.

A roll of the eyes meets Mum's challenge as the girl turns to look at her. "I said there wasn't a Harry Potter here. He's never used your family name, has he?" There is no hint of subtlety in the girl's reply. "If you want to speak with him, love, you'd best take note of just who you think he is, because he isn't yours."

"Who are you?" I ask again, partly for my curiosity and partly to diffuse Dad, whose hand is starting to twitch. "I swear I've seen your face before …"

"Well, yes," she says, rolling her eyes again. "We had Potions together for four years."

Her eyes lazily take in Dad's irritated posture and Mum's look of mild disdain.

"Would you care for a drink?" she asks. "We've got water and Butterbeer at the minute, and maybe some sodas, too. I'd offer you something stronger, but we haven't got much left of our alcohol except maybe half a bottle of Firewhisky, and, well, that's ours."

The offer, to my amazement, effectively disarms Mum and Dad.

"Harry will be a bit yet," the girl elaborates. "He took the boat out for a ride while I had a quick kip on the beach, but he's never gone long on his own. Go on, then, have a seat by the firepit and I'll grab a few drinks – what'll you have?"

"Butterbeer," I say, a bit hesitantly. Mum and Dad both mumble requests for water.

The girl beams, and it's all I can do to not blush at her when she's quite clearly dating my newfound brother. "Be right back, then," she says, and she disappears into the cottage. I stare after her as I sink into a chair.

What is wrong with me? She's attractive, yes, and easy to fancy, but …

"Charming, isn't she?" says Mum tonelessly. Dad's answering grunt is noncommittal.

I sigh. "I expect we're the last people she would have expected to see," I offer. "I reckon I can't blame her."

"What does she know of it?" says Dad, his tone somewhere between soft and irritated.

This doesn't seem worthy of a response, and I know Dad probably isn't looking for one.

We sit in silence instead, listening to the water and the far-off cries of nearby residents, and it isn't long before the girl returns with two large glasses of iced water and two bottles of Butterbeer.

"Thank you," says Mum, Dad echoing her a beat later.

I smile a bit embarrassedly. "Thanks," I say as well.

"Certainly," she says, taking another seat. She tucks a foot under the other leg and sips her Butterbeer. "I apologise if I've been a bit rude. You honestly did take me aback, though; I didn't expect you lot even knew where we lived, never mind a visit …"

"Will you tell us who you are, then?" I ask hopefully.

She looks amused. "Tracey," she says. "My family name is Davis."

Dad blinks. "Davis isn't a wizarding name I recognise."

"That's because it isn't a wizarding name," says Tracey, "at least, not for us. My mother is the witch in my family; my father is a Muggle."

"That explains why you look comfortable in Muggle clothing," I say before I can stop myself.

Tracey laughs. "I grew up in Ballycastle. I reckon there were no other wizards or witches for miles and miles; didn't even know I was one until I was about seven or eight years old. Made me right popular in Slytherin." She smiles and adds, "Mind you, I've kept up some of my old friends there, so it wasn't all that bad in the end. That idiot Malfoy and his mates made it difficult for us in the early years, though …"

Having had a long, difficult history with Draco Malfoy myself, I decide not to comment.

"I've followed some of your work," Tracey says to Mum. "Your paper on the time constraint for Polyjuice Potion was fascinating, Mrs Potter."

Mum looks bewildered, as though she has never heard of Polyjuice Potion.

"I – thank you," she says after a beat. "Yes, I researched that quite a bit more than most."

"I thought you must have; it was quite well-documented compared to papers from some of the other Potions Masters I've read before …"

I glance at Dad as Mum and Tracey chat for a few minutes about Potions. He's staring out at the river, occasionally sipping his water, looking rather out of sorts.

Not for the first time, I bite my tongue to keep from asking why they're even doing all this. Why the hell would they think Harry wants anything to do with us now? Why not, anyway? We're twins, which means Harry came of age a couple of years ago as well.

He's got a house, he's clearly with Tracey, so why would he want to have anything to do with the estranged parents he's never known?

Or, I think glumly, an estranged brother?

But I hadn't known Harry was my brother. Perhaps Harry had known. The Dursleys would surely have told him all about the family that had given him up to them, assuming they had known about me. If they had, though, he never told me.

Though I suppose I'm not surprised, when I don't even know who he was at Hogwarts. He didn't go by Potter even then …

I suddenly realise, having zoned out, that I'm staring at Tracey. She looks over and meets my eyes, a bit amused, before turning back to her awkward conversation with Mum.

That's when it hits me.

I didn't see her around much, being a Slytherin who only shared Potions class with me, but I can suddenly picture her as she was then: a mousy girl, her auburn hair longer than it is now, who looked rather out of place among her housemates.

And I remember a boy, her closest friend, also Sorted into Slytherin. I can't quite place him in my mind – it's been too long for that, I guess – but I know he was quiet, especially if you compare him to Malfoy and his lot … and his surname was Evans.

I haven't given a thought to Evans – Harry, rather – in years because I haven't seen him in years. He and Tracey were, to me, just another couple of Slytherins, if more tolerable than the ones I dealt with most, and they'd vanished from the periphery at Hogwarts without me having even noticed. Mum's maiden name is Evans, but it's common enough a surname that it never occurred to me there could be a relation, especially when I can't remember him so much as sharing even a slight resemblance to us.

Harry must have left Hogwarts at the same time as Tracey, but why hadn't he stood out to me before then? We presumably look alike – Mum and Dad have told me that he was my identical twin – and yet I hadn't noticed him …

The idle chat between Mum and Tracey peters out, and then Tracey sits up a bit straighter, looking between all three of us. "So, satisfy my curiosity before Harry comes up," she says. "Why now?"

"I don't think it's your business," Dad says slowly.

Tracey snorts. "What, you think I'm out here just visiting an old school friend?" she replies with an unimpressed look. "I'm the one who's family to him, Mr Potter, not you and yours."

"He is our son."

"Oh, he is, is he? I suppose that means you didn't ditch him to those relatives, what was it, a fortnight after Voldemort attacked you all?"

Mum sucks in air through her teeth, and Tracey glances at her with a heavy-lidded gaze that now suggests to me that she has somehow weaponised indifference itself.

"Do that all you'd like, love. It doesn't change anything."

"It doesn't matter what some old parchment says," snaps Dad. "He is our son, our blood, and that trumps whatever it is you think you –"

I manage to smother a sigh. I know what Tracey's going to do. Sure enough, she casually lifts her left hand, displaying a glittering gold band on her ring finger that I'd missed earlier.

Come to think of it, she had even specified that Davis was her family name, not current.

"Again, no," she says, sounding a bit amused now.

Dad stares at the ring as though he's tempted to rip it off and chuck it into the river. Mum merely sighs. I decide to ignore both, instead letting it slowly sink in that this girl is, by blood at least, my sister-in-law.

"You remember me now?" says Tracey, nodding at me.

"I – yeah, I reckon I do."

Her look softens a shade.

"Don't mind what I said earlier, mate," she says. "I didn't really expect you to remember the little redheaded girl from a different house who shared all of one regular class with –"

"Trace!" shouts a voice from the beach, and I can't help jumping. "You up at the house?"

It's both familiar and unfamiliar to me all at once. I hadn't even heard the boat, its approach or it being shut off.

"I'm sitting by the firepit, love!" calls back Tracey. "We've got guests!"

"Guests?" says the other voice, closer now. "Why would we – ah …"

He clears the trees and enters the yard, and Mum and Dad stand up, and I suddenly realise I'm already standing, staring for the first time – knowingly – at my brother.