On the tenth day after his awakening, Harry agreed with himself that his life was fundamentally shitty and that, in a past life, he must have committed terrible crimes for fate to shit on him so often.

He was back at St. Mungo's for another round of fundamentally boring tests and, honestly? He was now ready to sell his soul to get out of this madhouse.

Okay. Maybe he was exaggerating slightly. On the other hand, a patient had burst into his room around noon, stolen his chocolate pudding to smear it all over his face, and then run off. It could have ended there, but the man didn't leave on his two legs; he galloped on his hands and feet. An image he was not sure he would ever be able to forget. Afterward, Harry berated himself mentally. What was he complaining about? He was there because his magic was doing things it wasn't supposed to while the pudding thief clearly had... other psychological issues.

Of course, this thought inevitably brought him back to his own psychological problems. Maybe he didn't feel the need to scamper on all fours down the hospital corridors, true, but he was a time traveler, had dreamt of an Entity who had more or less changed his era out of boredom, he was supposed to stop the end of the world, and he was 11 years old. Not to mention the fact that he had stolen the body of a little boy (which sounded incredibly borderline in his head), that his adult magic had migrated into the same 11-year-old body of said kid, and that it apparently risked making each of his cells explode if he overused it.

Did he mention that he was also staying with the Blacks, a.k.a the original racists? Okay. Maybe they weren't pioneers in the matter but being racist, in general, was enough for Harry to have extreme urges of violence.

So yes. His mental health was in decline.

And apparently, using his magic in his state would wreck the body of this kid who hadn't asked for any of this.

Also, Harry sighed deeply in despair for the four hundred thousand and first time that day.

The door to his room was open, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a young healer give him a little smile before giggling with her colleagues.

Because apparently, he had also become the darling of the pediatric wing because he had "adorable cheeks" and a "killer look" that was terribly funny.

Harry hated his life.

That said, on the other hand, being back in the past and having so much free time (meaning the adults around him spent their time locked in their offices discussing his case, leaving him alone) allowed him to try to organize his thoughts and a plan of action.

Melania, the boy's mother, had provided Harry with some information. After all, he was still playing his role as an amnesiac to perfection, so the witch found it normal for the boy to ask her a few questions.

Harry learned that Orion Black - Sirius's father - had started his first year last September, and that Lucretia, the elder sister, had begun her fourth year. He also learned that Orion and Antares were only a few months apart. Orion was apparently a premature baby, and Melania had become pregnant almost immediately after her second delivery - which explained the ridiculously small age gap between the two boys. Melania also mentioned that he got along well with his two elders, that Lucretia was a rather frank girl engrossed in her studies, and that Orion was a leader in the making. She recounted a few anecdotes where, more often than not, Antares was following his older brother like a lost puppy. Apparently, the youngest Black was a shy kid and the type to stay hidden in his mother's skirts. Harry could relate. If he had had a mother, he doubted he would have wanted to spend a single moment away from her. But that was probably because his own mother had been murdered, and he was not impartial.

It pained him even more to understand that Melania had a very close relationship with her youngest. He could see in the woman's eyes that she was constantly searching for traces of her missing son. He was gone, and instead, Melania wasn't sure what she had gotten back.

Her son had been relatively compliant with all the tests, silent and without too many outbursts. He had been a chatterbox before his accident, marveling at everything life had to offer and babbling, babbling, and babbling. Now, Antares was deaf. He was deaf, and a kind of dark aura surrounded him. She felt like her son had aged ten years overnight, becoming more mature, more thoughtful, and much less naive. She terribly missed her child's incessant questions and didn't know how to react. She knew she would never stop loving Antares. And then, the child had raised his voice for the first time in ten years, and she had stared at him as if he were a stranger. Melania Black was lost, whereas her husband had shown to be very mercurial.

One moment, Arcturus regularly inquired about his youngest, the next he seemed to forget he had a second son. One moment, he visited his bedside, the next he claimed to be too busy and that anyway, the child was already more or less dead. Then Antares woke up, and they were told he had lost his hearing - which deeply upset the patriarch. A deaf wizard? A Black, no less? What next? Especially since he really couldn't understand how a broom fall could result in such an injury.

Thus, Harry learned that, initially, Mr. Black had threatened St. Mungo's with legal action for medical malpractice. Of course, it wasn't Melania who confirmed this, but Healer Golding, who turned out to be quite the gossip. Harry wondered if he had given him this information to defend the hospital's interest. After all, hadn't the caregivers taken great care of the child? Harry almost rolled his eyes. Information was information, no matter the motive behind it, so he didn't comment further.

Finally, Melania assured her youngest that Mr. Black was upset by the news and that he didn't really hate the boy (because Harry had a big mouth and couldn't help but ask).

"You understand," Melania had said, "having a child with such a... peculiarity can be looked down upon in certain circles. Your father has a reputation to uphold, and reputation is everything."

He had raised an eyebrow, doubt etched on his face. Melania had grimaced and asked him to trust her.

And what could you say to that?

Not much, really. Harry dropped the subject. However, the doubt lingered. To him, Arcturus Black considered his youngest son as good as dead, and he was surprised day after day not to have been disowned as Sirius had been.

And then there were the magical accidents and... the turnaround was somewhat disconcerting. The patriarch wasn't speaking to him with words he could understand but... he was acknowledging his presence, which was significant in the end.

Of course, Harry's twenty-six years of life had taught him that some people were simply profoundly avaricious. From his perspective, Arcturus Black had realized that Antares was too powerful for his young age and intended to parade him in front of his pure-blood clique. Except that he was officially recognized as having a disability (or something like that since such a service didn't officially exist) and Mr. Black didn't quite know what to do with that.

In short, Harry had gathered a lot of new information and felt like his head was going to explode. He had no idea how Hermione had managed to make room for so much knowledge in her head.

Thinking of Hermione brought him back to another problem: the end of the world.

Harry was almost certain that his dream wasn't just a dream - because he was a wizard and lots of strange things happened all the time. He firmly believed in the entity that had accosted him in his sleep and honestly didn't know what to make of the mission he'd been given.

He didn't know who would bring about the end of the world - okay, he had been told he was the reason everything was going wrong in the world but Harry chose not to dwell on that because he considered himself relatively okay for someone who had lost a lot.

So, he didn't have much more information than that. Where, when, how - so many questions he had not gotten answers to.

Voldemort was dead for good, and he really didn't see what threat could now loom over the wizarding world. And honestly? He sincerely hoped Tom was definitively dead.

Except that he wasn't anymore.

At least, not yet. Because Harry had realized between the ninth and tenth nights of the year he found himself in, and unless he was mistaken, he was almost certain that Voldemort was currently a student at Hogwarts.

Which... opened up a whole world of possibilities.

Perhaps his death had disrupted the magic, and he wasn't supposed to die, and for that, Harry was meant to bring him back to the side of good.

Perhaps he needed to save Moaning Myrtle to ensure the safety of the wizarding world.

Perhaps he even needed to prevent Dumbledore from becoming the headmaster of the school.

Yes, Harry was still bitter about the fact that Dumbledore had raised him, he quotes, "like a pig for slaughter." It was hurtful. And eight years later (or eighty years earlier), he hadn't particularly made peace with that idea.

Basically, there were too many parameters to consider, and the Entity had thrown him into the lion's den without even a "good luck!" It was more like "figure it out, every man for himself, hasta la vista."

Harry reiterated that his life was fundamentally shitty.

Are you listening to me? asked the magical letters.

Harry responded with a mocking pout and a raised eyebrow. In front of him, Melania Black frowned, registering the information, grimaced, and placed her fists on her hips. The resemblance to Molly Weasley was uncanny, and Harry grimaced in turn.

"I understand," he said, convinced they wouldn't leave him alone until he voiced his response.

I am deadly serious, Antares. You must not use your magic. Not even with the practice wand. You hea... understood what Healer Golding said. You could die, and that's absolutely out of the question.

"I'd like to point out that nothing happened after the room, the bust, the vase, and Bla-Father's clothes," he caught himself just in time. "I'm perfectly fine, for Merlin's sake."

Consider yourself lucky. Listen to me - and stop rolling your eyes, by Merlin, it's a figure of speech - I know it's very frustrating. I assure you we're looking for a solution, but in the meantime, no magic. The specialists' tests are clear. You risk severe internal damage. Haven't you spent enough time at St. Mungo's?

Harry wanted to respond, but seeing the terrified look on the Black matriarch's face, he kept his mouth shut.

Generally speaking, yes. Melania was right. He was tired of being sent back to that damned hospital every other day. On the other hand, he was desperate. He was a wizard, for Merlin's sake; how was he supposed to stop the end of the world without his magic? Harry was annoyed.

I hate my life, he thought, crossing his arms.

The witch's gaze softened a bit and became slightly amused, and Harry, not without grumbling, uncrossed his arms. No, he wasn't the type to sulk.

In reality, he was frustrated. He had the distinct impression they were mocking him. He knew his body and knew perfectly well that nothing had happened to him after the so-called magical incident.

Well, of course. He knew Harry Potter's body. Not Antares Black's.

Maybe he had indeed had a terrible headache afterward. But that was because the Entity had tampered with his body, not because he had used magic, right?

Right?

A voice chuckled at the back of his head, and Harry decided to ignore it.

"How am I supposed to manage next year?" he asked.

Speaking felt strange now. He sensed that his vocal cords were struggling to produce a so-called normal sound. He knew the result was far from as composed as usual. He was an out-of-tune instrument on top of everything else.

We will find a solution, Melania repeated.

Harry doubted it, but he said nothing. He was terrified at the thought that the seven months of waiting before his start at Hogwarts would turn into an eternity.

Being the mature adult he was, he turned on his heels and went to Antares's room. They had returned (once again) to Grimmauld Place in the late afternoon with the boy's mother - the father being absent as usual, and the sentence was passed immediately.

The room had regained a relatively tidy appearance. This time, the remnants of the damage had disappeared as if nothing had happened, and Harry, after ensuring no one had followed him, closed the door behind him.

And because he hadn't changed in two days and was still clearly opposed to the rules, he focused his mind on a wooden toy sitting on a finely crafted shelf. The next moment, the object floated towards him.

Harry waited a few moments. He expected the backlash of his magical act, but nothing came. No headache, no intense pain. Just the comforting warmth of his magic, purring under his skin.

"This is nonsense," he said to no one in particular.

A movement behind him made him turn, and he silently cursed upon seeing Melania Black now standing in the doorway. She looked furious, and Harry, for the first time since his arrival, was overwhelmed with a sense of shame.

Harry wiped his sweat-drenched forehead with his arm, muttering curses under his breath. It might have been January, but the heat inside Melania Black's greenhouse was stifling. Surely, magic was at work because there was no way such an old house and its glass greenhouse could retain heat so well, Harry mused.

Next to him, the house-elf paused to give him a brief glance before resuming its weeding.

Harry couldn't believe he was being punished. He was twenty-six years old, yet Melania had sent him to toil like a child, under the watchful eyes of the house-elves. He was supposed to pull out the weeds because the theory was that he would be too tired to even think about using magic deliberately.

And honestly? It was working perfectly. Harry was exhausted. It had only been an hour since he was on his knees in the massive flower beds, pulling out weeds with his gloved hands and the strength of his muscles alone.

Kreattur, the house-elf with some 80 years less on him, was an excellent overseer, and whenever Harry showed signs of taking a break, he felt the creature's large, bulbous eyes on his back.

"This is unbelievable," he muttered to himself.

The house-elf turned towards him again.

"I wasn't talking to you," Harry grumbled in its direction.

Which wasn't very nice or polite, but it was Kreattur, and he was a first-rate nuisance, so Harry didn't feel (too) guilty.

He pulled out one weed, then another, before collapsing onto his backside and then lying flat on the short grass, utterly breathless.

"Alright," he finally said. "Alright. I think I'm going to be sick."

Arcturus and Melania were in the midst of a heated argument. Harry couldn't quite grasp the details, but he was willing to bet it had something to do with a Black son being sent to work with the house-elves—a rather degrading notion from a Pureblood perspective. Especially since working without magic was akin to working like a Muggle. And that, needless to say, was not to Arcturus's liking.

Harry glanced over at the man. He was red and clearly fuming. Yet, far from being intimidated, Melania was retorting to every word thrown in her face. Thoughtfully (and somewhat impressed), Harry finished his meal.

Upon hearing his announcement, Kreattur had hastened to fetch his mistress. However, it was Mr. Black who had shown up, seething, and had transported him to the sitting room with magic. He had ordered drinks and food to be brought for his son before going off to berate his wife.

Without being entirely certain, Harry thought he caught words like "shame" and "embarrassment" on the patriarch's lips. He reckoned he was starting to get the hang of it, that maybe with some practice, he could learn to read the lips of those around him, when he was sent to bed without further ceremony.

You had better go to bed immediately, boy, the magical letters said.

Harry pressed his lips together. Arcturus sometimes reminded him of Uncle Vernon, and the gods knew how much he could despise that man.

However, out of fear of repercussions, Harry went to bed exactly as he was told.

This time, he was able to finish his night without being interrupted by the entity.

On the morning of the eleventh day, Harry was woken up by Kreattur. Judging by the lack of daylight, it must have been very early, and when he asked the House Elf for more details, he merely pointed down the hallway with his grayish finger.

Grumbling, Harry sat up in the wretched crib (which he glared at for good measure) and reached for his glasses that he no longer possessed. Then, grumbling a bit more, the adult in a child's body got up, quickly washed, dressed in the lacy horrors laid out on his dresser, and deigned to poke his nose into the grand salon where he knew he was expected for breakfast.

He found Melania Black seated at the table, accompanied by her husband. The discussion they were having ceased when the two wizards noticed the presence of their youngest.

Good morning, Antares, said Melania. Arcturus gave him a nod before motioning for him to join them at the table.

Harry did just that, muttering a "Good morning" under his breath. Next to him, a House Elf whose name he didn't know hurried to slide eggs and pie onto his plate before disappearing again.

I see you're still upset, the damned letters danced before his eyes.

Harry had to restrain himself from swatting them away. Instead, he shrugged.

He wasn't necessarily upset about weeding a garden but more because he was being prevented from practicing magic. That deeply frustrated him. Additionally, he struggled with being treated like a child simply because he appeared to be one. Obviously, it was impossible for him to let the couple know that he was an impostor who had taken the place of the second Black heir—for obvious reasons such as not wanting to die on the spot, for instance.

Your mother asked you a question. Do not shrug your shoulders.

Well. Alright, maybe the surprise of the day wasn't the early wake-up call but the fact that Arcturus made the effort to use magic to make himself understood.

That drew all of Harry's attention to the conversation.

"Forgive me, Mother," he said.

Melania gave him a simple smile.

Your father and I have discussed it, she said, not without casting a severe glance at the man who took care to avoid her gaze. And we have made a decision.

Ah, Harry thought. This is the moment where they throw me out, I suppose. He pressed his lips together. Despite himself, a pang of disappointment arose in his chest, and too occupied with wondering why, he missed the most important information.

A slight nudge on his shoulder made Harry lift his head to look at Arcturus.

Do not look down when someone is speaking to you.

Harry wondered if inviting him to go to hell would be a good idea. He was distracted by Melania.

I'm not sure if you remember, but I have a very demanding job and I cannot stay here to watch over you all day. Your father also has important matters to attend to at the Ministry. And it goes without saying that after what happened last night, it is not possible to leave you in the care of the House Elves either. She paused to make it clear to her son that he had disappointed them the night before by using magic after being explicitly forbidden. We have decided that you will accompany me instead. We are leaving this morning so you can familiarize yourself with the place and we will return on weekends.

Harry blinked stupidly.

"Sorry," he said, truly bewildered by the conversation. "Where are we going?"

Melania frowned before giving a rueful smile.

Of course, you don't remember. I teach Wizarding Politics and Economics at Hogwarts. I have a few free hours here and there and used to come home to take over from your tutor after my classes. However, as your health is, shall we say, delicate, I would prefer to have you by my side in case of any problems. I have discussed it with Headmaster Dippet. He has no objection as long as you agree not to cause any trouble.

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it.

Hogwarts. He was going to Hogwarts seven months early.