A/N: Welcome to new and old readers alike. First of all, thank you for joining me on this journey. To new readers - this first chapter is a prologue, set six years before the main events of the story. To old readers - there have been some changes made to help smooth out the plot but hopefully nothing too jarring.

The only thing that's left is the manuscript

One last souvenir from my trip to your shores

Now and then I reread the manuscript

But the story isn't mine anymore

- Taylor Swift

Chapman's Clean & Bright Laundromat was neither clean nor bright. It was a small, murky place with five washing machines and two dryers in one of the many impecunious neighborhoods of Detroit. The battered-down machines had no coin slots and the sparse customer who stopped by had to pay upfront with the cashier. That's to say, if the cashier happened to be awake because Mason Chapman, cashier and owner, was a drunk with a terrible habit of falling asleep in the middle of his sentences.

He was deep in one of these said sleeps when the front door swung open, bringing with it a swirl of icy wind. The bells attached to the door jingled, but Chapman, head resting on the cash box and drooling onto the counter, only snorted and shifted, his half-open mouth revealing a gap-toothed cavern of decay.

"'S closed," he mumbled, eyes still closed.

One could hardly blame him. It was well past midnight, and the city was in the grip of a blizzard the weatherman had warned about for days. These were not times to be about for any reason, laundry in need of washing not at all an exception.

The newcomer, however, did not bother with the drunk man's protests. The pair of emerald green eyes had immediately locked onto the child sleeping on a pile of filthy bed sheets near the broken down vending machine. He approached quietly and squatted over the boy, exhaling a breath of relief when the child's chest gave a steady rise.

He straightened and turned back toward the old man. Though they had never met, he was certain this was the man who had signed the letter delivered to him just days ago. Calling him by name, he said firmly, "Chapman—wake up."

When Chapman failed to stir, the man drew a long wand from his robes. With a swift flick, an indigo string of light shot forward, snapping open the cash box with a bang loud enough to jolt the old man awake. Chapman cursed under his breath, instinctively reaching beneath the counter. But before his hand could close around the weapon hidden there, his eyes caught sight of the lightning bolt scar etched onto the newcomer's forehead. The recognition struck him harder than the spell that had roused him, and his hand froze, abandoning its intent.

"Mr. Harry Potter, sir. You must forgive my manners. I was not expecting you."

"You wrote for me," Harry replied, though in truth, he had rushed to arrive without warning. He hadn't even told his best friends, Ron and Hermione Granger-Weasley, about the trip, so eager was he to show up unexpectedly.

"I would have gladly gone to you," Chapman said with an insincere tone of flattery which only irritated Harry more. "A man with such weighty responsibilities shouldn't trouble himself coming all this way."

Chapman had said as much in his letter, requesting only protection for his voyage. Harry had enough connections to have arranged it with ease too. Yet something in that letter - something about the revelation of this child's existence - had compelled him to cross the ocean instead.

Looking at the child now, Harry couldn't help but question his own impulsiveness. To Chapman, he said, "In the letter - You said he was Lewis Rousell's grandchild?"

A faraway look had taken over Chapman's face but he nodded. "Right," he mumbled, and then a little more hurriedly: "The only son of Rousell's only daughter."

"Can you prove this?"

Chapman frowned. "He has his eyes."

It was as if the words had opened a door, unleashing a flurry of sweeping memories.

You have her eyes, Harry.

"You said he was dangerous."

"Indeed," Chapman nodded. "He has his grandfather's magic."

Harry eyed him suspiciously. "What magic?"

Chapman seemed to take comfort in the direction the conversation was taking. He sounded almost smug when he said, "Surely, you've heard of Lewis Rousell's magic."

Harry's jaw set. Lewis Rousell had been one of the many Death Eaters who fled to the United States after the First Wizarding War. Disillusioned by Voldemort's defeat at the hands of a mere child and wary of the Ministry's crackdown on anyone associated with him, they sought refuge across the ocean.

It was here that Rousell wrote his infamous book,In the Clear, a scathing manifesto on blood purity disguised as a critique of magical society. The book resonated deeply with purists, igniting a wave of hate crimes in its wake and giving rise to a growing faction of fanatical followers who called themselves the Clarifiers.

Harry and Ron had brought the matter to the then Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Rousell is British," Ron had argued. "We ought to take some responsibility for all of this."

But Shacklebolt had dismissed the notion. "He's hardly worth the manpower it would take to track him down."

Soon after, the American Ministry fell under the control of a new Minister—one clearly manipulated by Rousell. The new regime's policies were cruel and calculated: Muggle-born businesses were shuttered, their travel restricted, and heavy fines imposed for the so-called crime of "stolen magic." Those who refused or couldn't pay were imprisoned. Muggleborn students were harassed at school - often by their own teachers. Ilvermorny sent its last "impure" student home

"Rousell will become an unstoppable force if we do not stop him," Hermione had said at the time. But she was weeks away from having her first child - and on the cusp of becoming Senior Assistant to the Minister.

Harry had known her to be right but his second son had been born by then, and he found it unimaginable to leave his wife alone with a newborn and a toddler in order to fight evils on foreign lands.

Rebel groups formed in the United States with the goal of overthrowing Clarifiers. Most of them were not only unsuccessful but ruefully massacred as well.

They wrote to him, begging for help.

Lewis Rousell's magic is unmatched,one desperate plea had perhaps the great Harry Potter could prove otherwise and free us from this monster.

Then - abruptly - news of Rousell's death arrived.

Most accounts claimed he'd been betrayed and murdered by one of his own—a coup that passed his power to a new tyrant. The horrors persisted, but the letters stopped coming to Harry's desk, and so he allowed himself to believe that, as monstrous as this new leader might be, they lacked the unmatched force of Lewis Rousell.

Surely, the rebel groups in America would soon find a way to end the reign of darkness once and for all, Harry had thought.

In any case, his third child - a red-headed baby girl - had arrived by then, and when she looked at him, he dared not look anywhere else.

And so thoughts of distant evils were set aside for nearly eleven years—until last week, when a new letter arrived. This one came from a man named Mason Chapman, who spoke of a blue-eyed boy poised to carry on his grandfather's reign of terror.

Harry looked from said boy to Chapman, trying to fit the pieces of the timeline together. "When did you join the Clarifiers?"

Chapman's ears turned pink. "I was never a Clarifier," he answered roughly. "I was Rousell's footman." Harry looked at him, not understanding. "Rousell wanted to bring back the glories of yesteryears. He believed in the order of things. Pureblood families serving their dutiful place in society, and squibs like myself serving them as if they were lords and ladies."

"You're a squib?" said Harry, taken back. "But you were involved with his daughter. I can't imagine Rousell would've approved…"

Chapman frowned, though not in offense. Instead, he looked puzzled, as if the answer to Harry's comment lay just out of reach. "I helped her escape," he said slowly. "After her father was murdered, I helped her get away." He paused, blinking as though piecing together a memory, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with what he had managed to recall. "She came to my room the night it all happened - not even yet fully recovered from childbirth - and begged me to help. She needed to escape before it was much too late. I didn't have magic, but I knew secret passages throughout the estate unknown to anyone else…"

"From whom was she escaping?"

Chapman's gaze drifted, his mouth slack, a string of saliva hanging between his toothless gums. "Clarifiers," he said at last. "They wanted the boy."

Harry looked at the boy again. According to the letter, the boy was a few months shy of his eleventh birthday, though his fragile state made him appear younger. Then, a sudden, chilling realization struck him. "You weren't involved with his mother before his birth." A knot tightened in his stomach. "You agreed to help her escape—but there was a price."

Chapman had the decency to look offended by this. "She said she always thought me handsome," he replied defensively. "I didn't want anything to do with her. A Squib like me doesn't need that kind of trouble. But she was a pretty thing—and she knew just how to convince a man."

Harry's stomach churned. Not only was Chapman significantly older, but Harry doubted he had ever been handsome. Anna must have been utterly desperate to reduce herself to seducing such a man. His gaze shifted back to the boy, still drowsy and innocent. Harry focused on him, as though the child's presence might steady the growing nausea within.

He saw it then.

He saw Anna as she must've been then - young, vulnerable, hunted, clutching a newborn in her arms.

Chapman went on, "Xander can control his magic even through complex spells. He was levitating objects larger than himself before his fourth birthday."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Those aren't crimes."

Chapman seemed taken back by the lack of interest. "He's bound to follow his grandfather's footsteps," he said. "Anna was the only one who knew how to calm his magic. She put him in the pantry the night it all happened and petrified him, otherwise-"

Harry spluttered backwards. "He was there when they murdered her?"

It was the slightest movement. Harry wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been staring directly at the boy's face. A tightening of the eyes. The boy was awake. He was listening.

He turned back to Chapman, his anger inexplicably rising. "Where were you that night? How did you survive it?"

"I - I ran." Chapman's face had gone red but he raised his chin as if daring for Harry to chastise him for his cowardness. "They were coming up the stairs - and I knew I was no match against seasoned Clarifiers. You would've done the same if you had been me. You would've ran if you were a simple squib and not the great Harry Potter."

Harry started to deny it but then he thought of all the letters on his desk, begging him for help.

"You went back for the boy though. You brought him to safety."

Chapman's face had the look of confusion again. "I don't remember."

It was an odd sort of response but Harry found himself believing it. He was starting to realize there was a reason for his evident confusion and decided not to waste precious minutes trying to gather information no longer inside the old man's mind.

"I cannot help you, Chapman."

It was the simple truth really. Chapman - though a squib - was still a war criminal and the ministry back home would undoubtedly try him as such.

The boy would hardly fare better. The Ministry would undoubtedly hover around him his entire life, watching for any sign that he might follow in his grandfather's footsteps and punishing him ruthlessly for even the slightest misstep.

Chapman spluttered clearly realizing how poorly his plan was unfolding. "You can't leave him to me!"

Harry looked at him with disgust. "No, you're certainly in no condition to take care of him, but if I reach out to authorities, Clarifiers will surely be notified. Contact the no-maj authorities, Chapman. The safest thing for him will be to stay entirely away from the wizarding world."

Harry drew quiet. The boy had sat up now. He had eyes of blue that Harry now understood would have been proof enough; they were a shade one could never twice encounter.

"I am very sorry about your mother," Harry told him earnestly. "She must've loved you greatly."

He waited. The boy blinked but said nothing, and Harry drew back up with a heavy sigh.

"You can't go!" Chapman cried from behind but Harry's hand was already on the door handle, deaf to the manic panic that had settled in the old man's voice. "You must take the boy with you. You're the only answer!"

Harry pushed down on the handle, and almost in the same exact instant, the room rang with a voice that had not spoken before. "Crucio!"

Harry spun around. Chapman was writhing on the floor, contorting with pain. The boy was standing now, his hair disheveled, and his beautiful blue eyes, colder than the night's howling winds. He blinked finally, the curse on Chapman faltered, then faded.

He turned to look at Harry now. "You need to go," he told him, firmly, as if he was not a boy of ten but someone much older. "He'll take your magic away…" He pointed at the knife that had fallen out of Chapman's hand. Harry had never seen one before but he had heard of them. Clarifiers used them to take magic away from muggleborns. It was a short-term and painful solution, but Harry could see how someone like Chapman would use such a weapon to his advantage.

Harry bent down to pick up the knife. He then walked towards Xander, who quickly scrambled backwards, slamming into the wall. "I won't hurt you," he said, pocketing the knife.

When the boy did not answer, Harry tried again, "My name is Harry Potter. What's your name?"

The boy hesitated and then said, "Xander. Xander Vandenberg."

"Vandenberg?" Harry turned to Chapman, taken aback.

"I offered to give him my name but Anna preferred to give him the name of that good-for-nothing that abandoned her." Chapman looked miserable and though, of course, this could've been due to the fact that he had just been hit by an unforgivable curse, Harry had the distinct feeling that it was more due to the fact that Anna had denied him the proper adoption of the boy.

"He wasn't a Clarifier then," said Harry, trying to grasp at this fragmented story.

"He was-" Chapman started, and then he frowned again. "I don't remember."

Harry nodded quietly. He turned back to Xander. Despite his earlier outburst, he now looked calm and collected; detached, even. "Xander," said Harry gently. "Who taught you that curse?"

"They used it on my mother." Xander closed his eyes tightly, as if trying to push away the memory of it all. "They wanted her to reveal me… and when she didn't… They killed her."

The pain in the boy's voice pushed out every ounce of reason Harry had managed thus far. "Xander," he said quickly. "Come with me. I will take you far away from here. I'll keep you safe - from all of it. I promise."

He reached out for his hand. Xander stared at it for only a moment before taking it.

Harry pointed his wand at Chapman. "I cannot leave him with any memories of you," he explained to Xander. "We cannot risk having anyone follow you. If I do this though, you will never be able to come back here. He won't ever know you again."

Xander looked from the tip of his wand to the old man and then back to Harry. His solemn nod signaled his understanding.

Chapman was only just starting to grasp what was happening. "Now, wait a minute," he stammered, his voice rising with panic. "I never meant no trouble. I won't—"

With a swift, deliberate motion, Harry whispered the incantation, erasing the man's memories of everything that had just transpired. Chapman's expression went blank, confusion settling in as his mind failed to grasp the events. Harry reached into his pocket, pulling out a small bag of gold coins, and dropping it on the table.

"Thank you kindly, sir," Chapman said, his tone empty of recognition. "You and your boy have a safe night now. It's getting rather cold out there."

They turned and walked out, the sound of the blizzard's wind swallowing the door's closing echo.

"I was able to see some of his memories as I took them out," said Harry, his voice low, like the murmur of a confession behind a closed partition. "He was awful to them, Ginny. I'm not even sure what made Anna stay. Maybe it was fear of being alone. She was so young."

He had known her age, of course. He had studied Lewis Rousell closely enough to know the man had had a daughter late in life. The exact date of her birth had been kept private, but Harry knew she'd been in Ilvermorny during her father's rise in power. Still, seeing her in those memories, her youth struck him in unexpected, shattering ways.

He cleared his throat. "In any case, it was clear someone else had tampered with Chapman's mind. Quite recently, too."

"Clarifiers, you reckon?" said Ginny.

As soon as Harry had arrived with Xander, she had taken over completely, feeding the boy and dressing him in a pair of Albus's old pajamas. Xander was asleep now, but Ginny still sat by his side, her hand brushing the hair from his forehead.

"I considered it," Harry admitted, returning to her question, "but then why didn't they take the boy away?" He shook his head, running a hand through his messy jet-black hair. "This was madness, wasn't it? Of course, it was. Sneaking the grandchild of a mass murderer across the ocean and into our home… But, Merlin, Ginny, if you'd seen Chapman—seen those memories—you'd have done the same."

"No," Ginny said with great practicality, tugging the sheet up to cover Xander's shoulders. "I'd have hexed the shit out of him. International law be damned."

He felt a small smile press on his lips. "That is probably true."

"Come on now, Harry."

Ginny led the way into the hallway, her steps sure in the quiet darkness. The corridor was wide and shadowy, with only the faintest glow from beneath a nearby door. She pushed it open, and soft light from an enchanted candle spilled across the room. Their daughter lay sprawled on the bed, her blanket discarded on the floor, and her dark-red hair a tangled halo over her pillow.

"She'll be glad for the company," said Ginny, her eyes warm with quiet reassurance. "She's been miserable ever since the boys left to Hogwarts."

She closed the door gently, and Harry spoke again. "I will keep a careful eye on Xander was he grows. Clarifies will continue looking for him, undoubtedly. I'll need to teach him how to use his magic for good, or else someone else will eventually show him how to use it for evil. If Clarifiers continuing rising in power, I'll-"

"Let me stop you right there," said Ginny, her finger pressing down on his chest. "Xander isn't you. You're not Dumbledore. He's not some weapon we prepare for war. This story isn't that story."

Harry stared back at her determined amber gaze and then nodded slowly.

They didn't speak for some time after that. It wasn't until they were laying in bed that Ginny finalized her plan. "We'll need to strike a deal with the tabloids. I don't want his face plastered everywhere."

As always, Harry was amazed by his wife's ability to think of absolutely everything. "That's good thinking."

Ginny propped her head on her bent arm, her expression serious. "No one can know his connection to Rousell. It would be reckless—and dangerous."

Harry agreed. "We won't tell anyone except for Ron and Hermione."

But Ginny shook her head. "Hermione's set to become the next Minister for Magic. Do you know what this would do to her career if this all came out? It wouldn't be fair."

Harry was silent, then nodded. "We'll tell them his mother was murdered by Clarifiers. That's true enough. We'll tell them he had no one else in the world. That's true, too. We'll tell everyone that."

"We will tell that to Xander too," said Ginny, her voice now so quiet, it was hardly audible.

Harry turned to her, not understanding at first. But the resolute look in her amber eyes revealed the final piece of her plan. "Ginny," he breathed, horrified. "We can't. I can't."

She sat up, her features firm with resolve. "He knows how to do the Cruciatus Curse, Harry. Merlin knows what else he learned from Chapman—or his mother. Anna might have fled her father's murderers, but she could have been a purist like him. He needs a true fresh start. He can only get that if his memories are erased, too."

Harry didn't argue again. He pressed his face into her neck, burying his doubt there. She tugged gently at his hair, kissing his forehead and murmuring quiet reassurances.

Eventually, his lips found hers, and she kissed him back with equal need. Tomorrow, he would erase Xander's memories. Tomorrow, they would take away the darkness that had followed him since birth. Tomorrow, they would introduce him to their daughter and show him his new home. Tomorrow, a new chapter would begin.

But tonight, they would lose themselves in each other and forget about tomorrow.

A/N: Thank you for reading along. I hope you've enjoyed this first chapter. Please feel free to visit me at my tumbler: quill2parchment :)