Archive of Our Own

Beyond Bounds

A Harry Potter Alternate Universe Fanfiction

By Sif Shadowheart

July 1st, 1996; Kings Cross Station, London

Harry heard the warning with the rest of the students on the Hogwarts Express returning from the ancient school for their summer holidays.

London: Fifteen Minutes.  Please ensure all belongings are removed from the train promptly upon arrival.  Thank you.

Hermione turned to him with her usual round of bossing, ignoring - as did Ron and everyone fucking else - the dark expression on his face and the nearly visible Back OFF signal his body language was screaming at all and sundry.

Which was remarkably stupid and altogether very Hermione all at the same time.

She might be the brightest witch of the age but when it came to social skills she could still be astonishingly tone-deaf.

To the point that even Malfoy had left him be rather than risk Harry lashing out.

Like he’d done in Dumbledore’s office.

No one might know why his magic exploded like a shockwave and destroyed the office, but there was plenty of rumors thanks to the portraits of the former Headmasters and Headmistresses of the school and his powerful outburst might not have done much to reassure people that he wasn’t insane but his power now is undeniable.

Resisting the Imperius curse, being the Triwizard Champion, conjuring a Patronus, they might not be the highlights of his abilities but they were the undeniable ones and adding in wrecking an office like Dumbledore’s out of rage certainly made a certain element keep a wide berth of him.

If he was still worried about being believed he would care about that.

Given that Dumbledore’s decisions and choices had led directly to Sirius’s death - though Harry also put the blame where it belonged for that other places as well, among them himself, Voldemort, Bellatrix, Snape, Kreacher, even Sirius himself - Harry didn’t really have it in him at the moment to give a fuck about his reputation or the Headmaster’s or whether people believed him about Voldemort’s return.

He’d done his part.

He’d been the sacrifice and witness, he’d tried to warn them, he’d fallen into the trap, he’d shown them all, if they still wanted to deny the truth and get themselves killed that wasn’t his problem anymore.

Especially since among all of the apologies and retractions and admittances of Voldemort’s return that he’d seen plastered across the Prophet not one of them carried the truth of Sirius.

His godfather had died just as reviled by the people he’d died in part to save as he’d lived and that...that made something hot and burning and dark catch fire in the core of him.

“You need to change, Harry.”  Hermione reminded him after sharing a worried look with Ron.  “You can’t go out on the muggle side of Kings Cross like that.”

Looking over at them, both still a bit drawn from their own rounds of healing after the battle down in the Department of Mysteries, Harry nodded shortly and rose.  Collecting his trunk from the rack, Harry left the compartment with it floating behind him at a flick of his wand, following him in a wordless Levitation Charm that had Hermione blinking in surprise at his back.  She craned out of the doorway for a moment until he disappeared into the boy’s restroom, not even pretending not to be watching him in concern, before ducking back into the compartment.

“Did you see that?”  She asked Ron, who nodded.  “I’ve never seen Harry use a wordless charm like that before.”

“Might have somethin’ to do with the blow up in Dumbledore’s office.”  Ron suggested after a moment’s thought, taking her comment as the concealed question it was.  His friend was smart but there were times when common knowledge about magic eluded her.  It was something he’d run into with both of them actually: Harry and Hermione.  Gaps where things that Ron grew up knowing as commonplace were missing because they hadn’t grown up around magic and other magical people.  “Lots of people have magical inheritances round about turning sixteen.  Start having accidental magic outbursts again and the like until they get used to it.”  He shrugged.

It could also have to do with Harry just not giving a golden shit about other people’s opinions and feelings at the moment too.

Harry often, in Ron’s opinion, tended to downplay himself to various ends and degrees.  Like not rubbing his wealth in Ron’s face.  Or if he could do something that one of his friends couldn’t for example.  Until they asked, it never occurred to Harry to teach them how to use the Patronus Charm or any of the other DADA spells Harry learned last year for the tournament.

Things Harry knew or could do just were for his best mate and he didn’t see much point in talking about them.

So yeah.

Ron thought it was entirely possible that while a magical inheritance might be responsible for Harry’s wordless Levitation Charm, it was equally possible that he’d been able to do that for a while and just never saw the point of flaunting or talking about it.

“Headmaster Dumbledore, Ron.”

Taking that as the end of the subject, he turned back to his copy of Which Broomstick and left Hermione to her fretting, not even noticing until his mother pointed it out that Harry never did return to their compartment or go out to greet his family the way Harry normally did.

Harry had had enough.

He’d been pushed and pulled, cursed and hexed, chased and trapped and maneuvered above and beyond his limits.  He’d been mind-raped by a teacher under the orders of his Headmaster and had his mind manipulated by an insane arsehole.  He’d lost his parents, his godfather, any sense of security or trust in others, and then been fucking possessed by a creature that was far and away more monster than man but at the same time truly monstrous in a way that only humans could manage.

Then - fucking then - when he was at his lowest having just watched his godfather die and been possessed by motherfucking Voldemort, that moment was when Dumbledore decided to deign to let Harry in on the pervading secret that was his entire fucking life.

The wizarding world took and took from him, tearing him down and into pieces for their consumption and then spit him back out the instant he failed to live - either up or down it didn’t seem to matter - to their fickle expectations.

And now it was crystal clear that Dumbledore intended that his life be the next sacrifice for the Greater Good as if Harry hasn’t already bled more than fucking enough on that particular altar.

He was done.

Closing the door to the washroom with a snap filled with finality behind him, Harry set down his trunk and opened it up.  With deft hands, he found his invisibility cloak and the money pouch with the pound notes and Underground pass he’d tucked away last summer after his “adventure” with Mister Weasley.  He’d need them if he wanted to manage what he had planned.

Tucking his school cloak away, Harry closed his trunk and locked it then shrank it with a quiet Reducio and pocketed it.

A swirl of the Cloak and he was ready, putting himself right in front of the doors to the Express and stepping out perfectly in time with their opening as students scuttled about behind him and parents moved in front of him in a seething mass.

Slipping around them with an ease gained from more than a decade of pretending he didn’t exist at the Dursleys and then trained avoiding Mrs. Norris, Filch, prefects, and teachers at Hogwarts, less than a minute after the Express arrived saw him in the muggle portion of Kings Cross station, a minute after that had him on the first arriving train.

And then for all intents and purposes for those waiting on him, Harry Potter was gone.

Ducking around a corner at the Underground station - still wearing his Cloak and getting a bit of a giggle despite his seething emotions at the surprised expressions those around him would make when the turnstiles of the station would “open” all on their own - nearest to the Leaky Cauldron, Harry rested against the wall.

A turn of his head and a steady gaze didn’t find anyone lurking around the alley access point than there should be but given that not much time had passed he doubted that anyone would actually think he was missing at this point.

Sulking somewhere maybe, he’d definitely done enough sullen pouting over the course of the year to make that the Order’s go-to for any out of the norm behavior, but not missing.

Not yet.

He figured with Dumbledore’s hands-off policy concerning Harry and his desire to be alone following Sirius’s...following Sirius, that he had until sundown before anyone really started to panic or worry about him, especially if Dumbledore had an actual way to see his health or the status of the wards at Four Privet Drive.

Besides which, if he can make it passed the Leaky without being caught and remanded back to Privet Drive like a felon breaking parole, they’d probably expect him to show up at the Burrow given that when he decided to fuck off somewhere those were the two locations he’d chosen in the past.

Harry gave it five minutes then when none of the Order members he was familiar with popped their heads out of the Leaky he called it safe enough and made his move.

Dodging around traffic easily enough, he slipped into the dingey pub two steps behind a stuffy-suited wizard who - probably, given what he’d seen of them - worked at the Ministry.

In true credit to what he’d come to expect from the general public, the wizard never noticed having picked up an invisible shadow and Harry managed to dog his steps all the way into the Alley.  Which, seriously?   Voldemort was back, Death Eaters were roaming and raiding, and this guy couldn’t notice that he had someone walking right behind him?

That was asking to get cursed or hexed and showed considerably less awareness than the average Hogwarts student given that they tended to be on alert for a jinx or prank at any given hour of the day and worse than that if they were Slytherins or one of Harry’s friends.

Rolling his eyes and holding in a sigh - he honestly gave Voldemort a week to take over Wizarding Great Britain if the insane ponce focused less on Harry and more on actually being a Dark Lord - Harry ducked and wove his way through the skittering groups of witches and wizards all the way up and through the doors of Gringotts.

One thing he did know was that goblins didn’t give a flying fuck about the status of a person, just about their gold and Harry was going to need plenty of that if he wanted to cut himself free of at least the Dursleys if not the rest of the things tying him down like a good little white lamb.

Removing the Cloak with a bit of a swirl - he thought Sirius would’ve appreciated the showmanship of it if nothing else - he tucked it under his arm and scanned the lobby before politely queuing up behind a witch in robes that looked right out of ol’ Salazar’s hayday and waiting his turn as the goblins and wizarding folk around him alike eyed him with varying levels of suspicion.

Which: fair enough.

It wasn’t every day that a teenager who’d been drug up one side and down the other of a mudhole by the press appeared out of thin air in the middle of a bank lobby.

Even in the wizarding world that was a bit of a surprise.

“Ah, Mister Potter.”  When it came his turn the goblin teller seemed to sneer down his long nose at him.  Not exactly anything new though for Harry.  Though usually the sneering was being done by Snape and his large snozzle and not a goblin.  Still.  Inured was inured.  “You have arrived promptly to a summons.  For once.”

“I beg your pardon.”  Harry arched a brow at the goblin who almost seemed to blink in surprise at Harry’s cheek.  “What summons?”

This time the goblin did blink then growled at something in gobbledegook at one of the runners waiting along the wall.

“Griphook will show you to Fangorn.”

Holding in a shrug, Harry followed.  Whatever crawled up the teller’s arse wasn’t his problem.

He hoped - more for the sake of this Fangorn’s office than anything else - that whatever it was bothering the goblins that they weren’t intending to make one.

He would play nice until he got his gold but once that was over well…

He’d already run out of fucks to give and none to waste on a race of magical beings that hated wizards as much as Harry hated the Dursleys - and for much the same reasons at that.

“Mister Potter, you have arrived in a timely fashion.”  Fangorn, Account Manager for the Black Properties, commented when the magical signature he’d been expecting - though with no actual hope of it arriving - entered his office.

“Yeah, see.”  Harry folded his arms across his thin chest, a mulish expression taking over his face.  “That’s the second time a goblin has said something along those lines to me today and it’s not any clearer why for the repeat.  Care to fill me in or would you rather continue to dance the rhumba on my last surviving good intention until it snaps and costs both of us in time and money?”

Fangorn was taken aback for a moment then he narrowed his eyes and studied the wizard before him carefully.

It took little to determine that while the way the wizard worded the request was extravagant, the intention behind it was solid steel - and that Fangorn could work with.

“It is a reference to your reputation among the goblins of Gringotts to never respond to messages from This Establishment to the point of missing important meetings, incurring harsh penalties, and inflicting a severe disruption of business practices upon us.”

“Huh.”  Harry lifted one hand, scratching at his jaw, then lowered it back into place.  “Funny.  I’ve never received anything from the bank.  Not even a statement.”

“Please, take a seat Mister Potter.”  Fangorn waved one spindly-fingered hand at the client’s chair opposite his desk.  “It seems we have much to discuss indeed.”

He waited a moment for the tightly-wound - and if his aura was any sign, both deeply grieving and deeply raging - wizard to sit then continued.

“I won’t fill your head with the minutiae of the correspondence from This Establishment that you apparently have never received, Mister Potter.  Instead, I propose that we handle the business for which you were summoned and then circle back around the problem of missing messages and potential causes, agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“You were summoned here today, Mister Potter, as per the guidelines set down between the goblins and the Ministry of Magic pertaining to the device known as the “Veil” in the Death Chamber of the Department of Mysteries.  Per these guidelines, when a witch or wizard has passed through the Veil, they are classified as deceased and their contingencies pertaining to their death: to wit, their last wills and testament or any other similar legal document, or failing that the pervading laws of inheritance for Wizarding Great Britain, are to be carried out.”

Now, that?  That made the dark fire inside Harry still for the first time in more than a week.  However, that state of clarity didn’t last for long, as soon they were set to circle back around to the problem of the missing summons and set off a whole new Incendio sure to ignite Harry’s temper.

“Now.”  Fangorn silenced whatever questions the wizard had about the peculiar wording of his statement with a severe look.  “Sirius Orion Black the Third was the last blood-born and named member of House Black and as such was the sole inheritor of the entirety of the Black estate including their Lordship - though that is a tangle of Devil’s Snare you’ll have to clear up with the Ministry itself if you’ve any interest in it - and as such and considering your blood relation and status as his bound godson, you are now the sole inheritor of the Black estate with some small amounts set aside per the terms of his will for a few beneficiaries that will be likewise informed personally.”

He handed the wizard the thick portfolio containing all the information on the Black estate and allowed that to settle into the teen’s mind alongside that rather fascinating barely-tapped well of rage that if one wasn’t looking for it - as well as a goblin able to see auras - they’d never find it behind the placid Boy Hero mask.

Fangorn was interested to note that the first thing the wizard did - even before taking a moment to salve his grief that spiked at being handed the portfolio - was turn to one of the enchanted pages, review it, and then cast the appropriate spell that would lock down one of the properties to anyone but him, even to the point of tossing out anyone present.

“This,” Fangorn handed over another portfolio that had been left with him as a contingency for just this scenario.  Though to be honest the Potter account manager hadn’t thought anymore than he had that Potter would show up this time.  “Is the accounting of the Potter holdings in accordance with the law of Wizarding Great Britain which states that as at least three independent bodies - Dumbledore, a representative of the ICW, Barty Crouch as a ministry department head, and several school officials - agreed that you were to compete in a competition for of-age witches and/or wizards you were thereby emancipated as of 31 October 1994.”

Before Harry could react for that - which honestly could’ve gone in any direction - Fangorn continued as Harry grabbed the portfolio.

“However, there are certain restrictions in place that have nothing to do with the legal status of the account holder and instead to do with the maturation process of your magical core, therefore you will not have access to your full inheritance until that occurs.”

Thinking that that was actually sensible, Harry was rather convinced that it was a restriction that either predated common ministry standards or had been put in place by the goblins themselves.

Given Harry’s history, it was an uncharitable thought that was justified if mean-spirited.

“Is that everything you’d planned to tell me?”

“It was, yes.”  Fangorn laced his fingers together and rested his hands on the leather desk blotter.  “However, your comments upon arriving at This Establishment have brought to light irregularities that leaves me with little recourse but to educate a client of This Establishment in matters that are normally beyond the purview of an account manager.”

Translation, Harry thought, someone fucked around and now I have to clean it up.

“There are perhaps a handful of reasons why a client would not receive communications from This Establishment.  Given your age, status, and home in the muggle world, several can be easily discounted.  This is unfortunate.”  Fangorn informed him solemnly.  “As thus the, as you might put it, quick fixes are removed from your choices of how to handle matters going forward.  This Establishment deals solely in the physical world.  Gold.  Blood.  Craftsmanship.  We do not dabble in the magics and ways of wizards.  Do you understand what I mean by this, Mister Potter?”

Harry ran that bit back and forth through his goblin-to-wizard translator and came up with an answer - and wasn’t best pleased by the implications.

“You mean to say that whatever it is that’s mucking about with my mail is some form of wizarding magic or doing and Gringotts isn’t likely to be able to fix it directly, don’t you?”

“Quite so, Mister Potter, quite so.  To be blunt, This Establishment does not even have the resources outside of perhaps some of our wizarding employees to discover the means by which our communications have been disrupted.  This vexes me, Mister Potter, I am greatly vexed and so shall the Branch Manager be when he is informed.  What then shall we do about this problem, Mister Potter?”

Harry once again wrangled his temper and knee-jerk reaction - along with quite a few other reactions that followed right on the tail of losing his temper - and thought about what he did know about goblins, the goblin nation as a whole, and Gringotts in particular.

“You said that Gringotts deals in physical matters.”  Harry landed on what he thought might be a compromise that will placate the goblins and keep them from thinking they owe him or some nonsense along those lines.  “Does that include healing?  Or weaponsmithing?  Or harvesting rare potion ingredients and auctioning them?”

Fangorn’s smile at his client’s cunning was chilling for a wizard to see.

“Why as it happens, Mister Potter the answer to all of those is: yes, yes This Establishment most certainly does have interest in those matters.”

Leaving Gringotts the next day via Portkey after the most intense rounds of healing he’d ever undergone - Madam Pomfrey would be jealous - at the hands of goblin healers, Harry felt like he’d been turned inside-out, scrubbed down with steel wool, turned right-side-out and then hit with a Scourgify that would make Molly Weasley envious.

Needless to day: he hurt, the cure was almost worse than the damage, and if he saw a smiling goblin again in his life it would be too damn soon.

The sadistic bastards.

Granted, given the laundry list of things they’d healed from brittle bones from malnutrition on down the line to his most recent brush with magical exhaustion after trashing Dumbledore’s office, he wasn’t shocked that he felt like hammered hippogriff shit.  Merely that he’d prefer to never undergo goblin-style healing ever again.  It was effective.  That he was exhausted and felt raw but wasn’t in actual pain for once - and could see without his infamous glasses, couldn’t forget that bit - was a ruddy miracle.  He’d never say it wasn’t.

He just wished that his list of injuries, disorders, curse-hex-jinx effects, and so on wasn’t quite so extensive in the first place to require him to be passed from healer to healer like the world’s least-wanted hot-potato.

Harry was now several inches taller - which wasn’t much of an accomplishment - at five foot six, though he’d been warned that even goblins could only do so much and he wasn’t likely to grow any further, free of all non-magical scars or damage, and no longer had to fear waking up for his chronic pain to smack him in the face.

Spell damage when combined with the effects of his childhood apparently.

Not his favorite discovery but sadly not the most upsetting thing he’d learned in the last twenty-four hours either.

What Fangorn had been dancing around saying - as he couldn’t actually prove his theory and didn’t want to get in trouble with the Branch Manager - was that Harry might be laboring under what were called bindings, a form of wizarding magic that goblins hated almost more than anything else.

One of the healers hadn’t been as circumspect and told him flat-out that that was the obvious answer once he’d seen the list of injuries Harry had been subjected to and asked some pointed questions about how Harry and/or his magic had reacted.

Binding Magic could act on any part of a witch or wizard - body, mind, magic, soul, anything - and could do almost anything that had to do with either binding things together like the marriage bonds wizards use or on the other hand bind things away.

Like a magical ability being suppressed.  Or set a behavior and bind it to someone’s mind.  Or to regulate a child’s accidental magic.  Or the one that twigged it for the goblins, bind a copy of a person’s magical signature to a certain object to direct mail owls.

The possibilities were, literally, endless and depended on a wizard or witch’s imagination and moral flexibility.

Given that Harry was dealing with Albus Dumbledore, he was rightly both terrified and supremely pissed off if he was the one involved with using binding magic to redirect and control his mail.

And that was if that was where Dumbledore stopped, but with his temper as precarious as it currently was, Harry wasn’t going to lose himself down that dark and winding thought spiral or he’d spend the day lost in a rage, and to be selfish, he didn’t have the time to waste like that on the elaborate fucking manipulations of Albus Dumbledore.

The goblins had pointed him in the right direction to search and he had the Black Library at his disposal and no way for anyone to get through the wards on Grimmauld Place now that it was locked down.

He’d sort it out the same as the goblins had sorted out any issues he had in body, blood, or bone - as Fangorn had put it.

They were taking care of the basilisk carcass, they’d put him back together again better than new, and he was the new owner of a two-way portkey between Gringotts and the foyer of Grimmauld Place.

Between a coin purse linked to his vault, the requests he’d left with the goblins on what to do regarding his affairs until he became magically mature, and the Black Library, he could handle things on his end.

He had to.

He’d been paying attention to Fangorn’s wording after all.

Sirius wasn’t dead, he was beyond the Veil and couldn’t return, making him for all intents and purposes dead to this world.

But dead in whatever waited beyond the Veil?

Now that was a different story entirely.

“No no no!  Kreacher won’t!   Kreacher won’t serve dirty half-blood master!”

“Kreacher.  Go behead yourself with the guillotine in the attic immediately.”

July 3, 1996; Grimmauld Place

Day 1.0

Harry adored the lock-down function that Sirius’s paranoid-as-fuck ancestors had layered over Grimmauld Place.  As he figured that by now his location after flying the coop two days ago was an open secret - at least among the Order - he’d been expected at least an owl or Howler.  Nope.  Owls couldn’t get through the wards.

Even house elves couldn’t make it through them as Harry found out when the portrait of Sirius’s dad that Harry found in the study directed him to the ledger that held the entire warding scheme as well as the ability to write in exceptions.

It was unexpected to say the least, but much appreciated as it allowed Harry to close a couple of loopholes that would’ve occurred to Dumbledore sooner rather than later.

He supposed that hearing his argument - screaming match - with first Kreacher and then Walburga had, erm, enlightened more than a few of the living portraits regarding events surrounding and since Sirius’s death.

Or it might’ve been something else entirely, they were portraits, he wasn’t exactly an expert on their thought patterns or capabilities and none of the ones he’d interacted with had been shining examples of deep thought.

But for whatever reason, many of the portraits had accepted his presence at Grimmauld Place and hearing his explanation to Orion - the bunch of painted eavesdroppers that they were - regarding his intention to find a way to figure out what bindings had been used on him and then undo them, had chimed in with particular books to search out in the library or gotten into debates regarding which rituals were best for that sort of diagnostic, and so on.

That Orion’s “gift” of the master control of the wards let Harry lock them all into Grimmauld Place and would keep them from visiting any of their copies - like, say, Phineas Nigellus and his Headmaster portrait in Dumbledore’s office - was already more than he’d expected.

Magical portraits were actually helpful for more than playing glorified messengers or door locks, consider Harry shocked.

After dealing with Kreacher and putting up a Permanent Sticking Charm on the drapes blocking Walburga from screaming her head off, talking to Orion and adjusting the wards, Harry had gotten busy setting up Grimmauld Place for his purposes.

Which was simple.

Harry had a vastly limited amount of time to start clearing out the mess that he was entangled in and kept him effectively a prisoner of the wizarding world.

In addition, while Dumbledore would likely play benevolent grandfather allowing his rebellion for awhile - the actual longevity of such dependent on how focused the old man got on other things - he would get tired of it eventually and when that happened Harry had to be ready to counter him.

Somehow.

The sad, desperate, disgusting truth was that so long as Dumbledore was alive and Harry was within his purview, Harry seriously doubted that he would or could ever fight free of him.

So, you know, there was that.

Harry wasn’t planning to kill him, he wasn’t that far gone - though he reserved the right to be out for blood depending on what he eventually found regarding the bindings diagnostics - but the point stood: something had to give for Harry to be free.

Knowing that Sirius was probably alive where/whatever was on the other side of the Veil?

Now that, he thought, was a piece of information with real potential.

Kinda like his slight-of-hand abilities honed from having to steal food and leftovers from the Dursleys, he thought, holding the device he’d stolen from the Department of Mysteries up to the light as it swung on its golden chain.

The device was larger than the one Hermione had used but otherwise much the same: an hourglass filled with golden sand suspended within a series of rings.

Time.

Harry needed time to figure out what his bindings were, to make plans, to learn, to be someone or something other than a pawn in Dumbledore's giant chess match, the latest martyr in the Headmaster’s neverending crusade for the Greater Good.

Funnily enough, thanks to early years spent as a nearly-starving thief in what was supposed to be his own home, time was something he now had, along with a townhouse with multiple levels, a massive library, and the ability to feed and take care of himself without the oversight of an adult.

July 24, 1993 (Calendar)

Day 21.3; Actual time passed: approximately 70 days; Harry’s approximate age: 16

“The crystals on the doors were an excellent idea, Arcturus.”  Harry - currently on his third time turning for that specific day or the fourth live-through of 24 July - walked into the Black library on the second floor of the townhouse and slumped over his study table, speaking to one of the main portraits in the library - Sirius’s grandfather.

“Almost walked in on yourself again?”  The former Lord Black asked, amused at this particularly strange - but vastly entertaining - descendant.  He like many of his fellows had been less-than-pleased when the Black Lordship passed out of the main line to his Dorea’s grandson but at least this Lord Black wasn’t insane from imprisonment or a blithering idiot.  Small mercies.  

To Arcturus in his painted and frozen state, young Harry’s cause was just: freeing himself of the vile and evil bindings placed on him to live as a free wizard.

That said, he wished there was a better way than this rampant abuse of a time-turner that had his descendant aging four times as fast as was natural and set on a course to reach his magical maturation in a matter of months instead of another year.

Though one thing that Harry couldn’t push, time-turner or not, was the actual date of the world around him much to the young wizard’s chagrin and frustration.

The next date for magical rites Lughnasadh - which was actually fitting since the teenager needed to perform a truth seeking ritual to discover what bindings had actually been placed on him rather than those they were merely speculating about - wasn’t for another week.

Young Harry could study the ritual further, he could keep himself occupied with dueling the automatons in the dueling salle or run laps in the ballroom, but from the moment he decided on the ritual he was going to use until the date actually came for him to perform it, Harry was stuck.

However, and this was where some of the more cantankerous portraits in Grimmauld Place were won over, Harry hadn’t allowed that to derail him or change his routine in any way.

Instead, he simply switched focus for this portion of time to studying more commonplace magics or polishing his dueling skills or any of the other things that filled his days - both the original date and the repeats that he allowed himself after a few debates with Orion, Arcturus, and even Phineas Nigellus over how much he should use the time-turner.

Living a day four times was the compromise they’d come up with, for at most a year.

The portraits feared - rightfully, though getting Harry to admit it was a struggle for a living being to care about - that if he was allowed too much time to dwell apart and focus on himself and his skill without distraction that he might sink into it and become a hermit.

As it was for every eight days lived - or conversely every third day that actually passed for the entire world and not just Harry - they’d gotten an agreement from the teenager to spend it as much outside as possible and with a preference for being out among people even if all he did was go to one of those strange muggle films.

“Yes.”  Harry admitted with a groan.  The crystals in question served as a warning system for when one of the Harrys was occupying a room.  After all, as Hermione said: terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time.  “I write down my schedule and keep to it, but the comings-and-goings sometimes can muddy things up.”

“Maybe shouldn’t have killed off the house elf then.”

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes.  His immediate temper had cooled after living more than two months via time-turner, but he still was unforgiving of betrayal and his inner rage was just as sharp and burning.  Kreacher betrayed Sirius, Kreacher didn’t want to play nice with Harry - and he did try - now Kreacher was dead and good riddance.

“And kept around a spy for Bellatrix who I could never trust: sure.  When you put it that way it’s so appealing to have that bigoted little arsewipe hanging around.”

“You truly have inherited the deplorable Black temperament, child.”  Arcturus sighed but let the subject drop.  “Though your masking of it improves apace with your meditation practice.”

It wasn’t Occlumency, but meditation was a cornerstone - or so the books Harry had read stated quite emphatically - of any attempt to undo bindings on both mind and magical core without having to undergo dangerous and potentially lethal blood rituals that danced over and back across the lines between Dark Arts and ritual magics.

Call him crazy, but even Harry wasn’t impatient or impulsive enough to risk his life and sanity on a dangerous ritual when the application of hard-but-tedious work should, supposedly, handle all but the worst of the types of bindings he’s read of over the last weeks.

“Well, what doesn’t kill me…”  Harry shrugged.

“At this point alights your temper more often than making you stronger, don’t spit Dumbledore’s platitudes at us.”  Phineas Nigellus piped up from where Harry had moved his frame next to Arcturus.

“Hello, Phineas.”  Harry waved to the painting.  “Always a ray of sunshine.”

“Cheeky.”  Phineas snorted, then settled in for the morning’s work.  “What is the topic of the day?”

“More potions theory, specifically on possible substitutions.”  Harry pulled an open notebook and an ingredient compendium closer, ready to take notes and debate with the pair of former Black Lords.  “Cassiopeia pointed out that there’s no guarantee wherever I end up after passing through the Veil will have the same resources and I’d rather still have magical healing as a possibility rather than having to go muggle.”

“Just so.”  Phineas snorted and got ready to lecture.

It almost made him nostalgic for his days as a teacher.

Almost.

August 1, 1996

Day 29.0; Actual time passed: approximately 98 days

There weren’t many days that Harry didn’t use his time-turner to repeat, but after three months and change of ritual tutelage under the various Black family portraits and study in the Black Library, any day where he performed a ritual would by necessity have to be one of them.

The high days or rites days - depending on the age of the text and/or who was speaking - were magically dense or abnormally magically active already.

Adding in time-turner shenanigans to that didn’t seem like a good idea to Harry who didn’t have the basis in magical theory that literal generations of Blacks had to call on and an even worse one once it had been explained to him by Cassiopeia just how bad of an idea it was to mix time magic with ritual magic.

Harry had no intention of surviving both Voldemort and goblin healing only to turn himself into a gerbil on accident or skin himself or some of the other gruesome possibilities the eminent Black magical theorist layed out for him in exacting detail.

The first week of repeating days was the worst for Harry.  He’d never liked being confined once he’d gotten a taste of semi-freedom at Hogwarts.  That he was doing it to himself this time instead of at the wishes of the Dursleys or Dumbledore barely lessened the itches and jitters of marking entire floors off limits except for a certain repetition of a day or needing to stay out of the garden lest he run into himself.

So on this day he took it easy as he had none of the normal worries about running into himself dwelling in a repetition of the day and driving himself mad.

Well.

Madder.

As he was actively planning on what many would label an elaborate and extravagant form of suicide - very fitting for the last Lord of House Black then in his opinion - after shedding every last bond restraining any and every part of him it could be argued and likely successfully in any court of law, wizarding or muggle, that Harry Potter had quite spectacularly lost his mind.

Honestly, after the mudslinging the Prophet had done for the prior year at the behest of the Ministry of Magic, it wasn’t even that hard to believe.

Harry went about his day, reviewing the plans for the ritual with the main Blacks he talked to for knowledge about rituals, having a language lesson with Asterion Black who was apparently something of a polyglot - and it was something not filled to brimming with magical theory for him to focus on - filling in what even the most lax of the Black portraits consider an absolutely appalling lack in his education.  He enjoyed his meals, basked in the sun, and just... lived in the moment.  Dumbledore was sure to come knocking soon now that his birthday had passed with no sign of Harry leaving the wards of Grimmauld Place for him to be snatched up.  He’d enjoy the peace while he could.

Then just before dusk fell, Harry walked down to the basement of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place prepared to finally have a complete answer for what Fangorn had meant.

Come hell or high water, Harry was going to know what all had been done to him.

And if his research and the assurances of the portraits held true - exactly by whom.

Harry gasped and fell to his knees as the candles of the ritual circle flared, his blood pooling out onto the prepared parchment and pulling at his magic with a strength that Harry could tangibly discern from his core.

That was a trip back down memory lane to third year.

He hadn’t felt such a drain on his magic since learning the Patronus charm, not even the events of the Tournament or the Battle in the DoM had affected him with such sudden and intense strength.

Which was both good and very, very bad.

Good because it meant that the ritual was working correctly according to his research.

Awful, horrible, terrible because it meant the ritual was working correctly and that the bindings he was laboring under were either of a high number or great strength or - and he was Harry Potter so he was willing to bet it was the or - worst of all possibilities both.

After a time that could’ve been hours but was probably minutes despite whatever bullshit his magical core tried to feed him, the candles of the ritual guttered out and the pull on his magic stopped, Harry lifting his head from where he’d allowed it to bow.

It wasn’t like there was anyone watching for him to show off for or impress with bravado, and it wasn’t like he was going to convince himself that he wasn’t worn down by the cost of the ritual by being stiff necked.

Sighing, he rocked forward on his hands to build up momentum and convince himself to stand, picking up the parchment on his way and then proceeded to wobble his way out of the locked ritual room and up the basement stair to the kitchen where a meal and some sugary hot chocolate was waiting for him under stasis charms on the advice of Orion who was the most parental of all the portraits.

Knowing that if he read the list - and it was one hell of a list - of shit that had been done to him: body (or blood and bone), mind, heart, magic, and soul; the most complete accounting possible covering the seven major systems of a witch or wizard, he wouldn’t eat Harry ignored it for the moment, setting it completely aside at the end of the table and focusing on the plate and hot chocolate alone.

Stubborn to his bones, he made it all the way to the study where he found his main advisers: Orion, Arcturus, and Phineas Nigellus, already waiting on him.

Harry settled into the comfortable chair and then lifted the parchment, reading it twice all the way through from top to bottom then he set it in view of the large portrait over the desk that the trio were crowding into and strode out of the room.

It was controlled.

It was steady, measured, and exacting.

It, all told, scared the ever loving shit out of the trio of former-Lords, who swiftly turned their gazes to the parchment to discover the exact cause of the spine-tingling display from the fiery protege.

Blood and Bone

Magic Heart Mind and Soul

Bonds of Hari James Potter

Major Bindings:

Familial:

Bond Father: James Charlus Potter

Bond Mother: Lily Jane Evans

Bond Godfather: Sirius Orion Black III

Bonds Cousins within the fifth degree: ….

Immediately the long, long list of cousins who Harry shared blood with stood out to them, as did his legal name being the Sanskrit Hari rather than the Anglo-Saxon Harry, while that the ritual still recognized Sirius as being alive and the bond active instead of dead filled the former-lords with both cheer and dread.

Cheer, for their family hasn’t truly ended.

Dread was self-explanatory as with Harry’s - or, er, Hari’s - suspicions confirmed convincing him not to blithely waltz through the Veil in the Death Chamber would be the next thing to impossible and they’d have a better shot in convincing the teenager to take up murder as a thrilling sport for a pasttime.

One of the other portraits popped in from their frame in the dueling salle with good news.

Their young lord was just conjuring and blowing up and repairing glass bell jars.

He hadn’t completely lost his shit in true Black fashion and gone to try and off a Dark Lord or his former Headmaster or anything along those lines.

Considering how eerily calm he’d been after reading what they were reviewing at the moment, that was a clear sign that he’d actually been listening to their talks about revenge and patience and successful plotting.

Blood:

Binding: Basilisk Venom [Bound by Phoenix Tears, 6/18/1993]

Binding: Phoenix Tears [Bound by Basilisk Venom, 6/18/1993]

Binding: Blood Magic [Bound by A.P.W.B. Dumbledore, 11/1/1983]

Bone:

Binding: Healing Magic [Bound by T.M. Riddle, 10/31/1981]

Binding: Animagus Talent [Bound by A.P.W.B. Dumbledore, 11/1/1982]

Binding: Misra Familial Heritage [Bound by A.P.W.B. Dumbledore, 11/1/1981]

The only explanation that the portraits could think of for the broken bindings on Harry’s blood and bone classifications - which were essentially how a witch or wizard would curse or effect another person’s body with a binding since trying to bind organs, or muscles, or the entire body itself was a tricky business even for magic when there were curses that worked perfectly well with much less effort - was that the healing he underwent at Gringotts stripped those bindings in the process.

It was only a theory, Harry would have to ask the goblins and hope for an answer, but that wasn’t likely considering how circumspect his account manager was about the bindings in the first place.

Of the broken bindings, the portraits were willing to assume that at least three of the six were unintentional.  Mainly because while the basilisk venom and phoenix tears were introduced to his bloodstream at the same time, no one in their right mind would do so on purpose and they’d heard the story of the Chamber.  As for the healing magic - a witch or wizard’s innate ability to heal wounds faster than a muggle - binding, given the date and name involved it was safe to say that that was likewise an accident.  Most likely a consequence of the events of that night as none of them would jump to believe that Voldemort stopped in the middle of killing the Potters to bind away Harry’s natural healing magics.

The remaining broken bindings weren’t so benign in intention.

Blood magic, animagus talent, and any heritage that Harry should have expressed before his healing from his Misra Family heritage?  That was only a portion of his genetic code and not a power?  No, there was no rightful or righteous reason for those to be bound away.  None that any of them could think of.

But to create a weaker, lighter, whiter savior for the wizarding world?

Oh yes, that played exactly to what they knew of Albus Dumbledore, especially hand in hand with the remaining bindings that layered over their young lord so tightly that all of them were impressed he managed enough independent thought to break away to Gringotts and begin the process of ripping Dumbledore’s shackles away.

The way it read: a slow, gradual alteration of Harry’s innate abilities and personality, was far more insidious than even Phineas who’d witnessed his share of the Headmaster’s plotting would’ve credited the man as being capable of.

But there it was, the evidence clear for anyone to see and put the pieces together.

Truly, Dumbledore was a master of his craft.

If it’d been done to anyone else, the Black Lords might’ve even admired it.

But he hadn’t done it to anyone else, he’d done it to their penultimate heir, and for that they would encourage young Harry in whatever revenge he deemed suitable for such Machiavellian machinations.

Though they were interested to see that three bindings had broken by Harry himself - one each on his magic, heart, and soul - or from the bindings being weak to begin with and breaking with time and not being reinforced or tampering from the other bindings being placed or some other explanation that as portraits they weren’t thinking of.

At least it was three less bindings that their young lord have to work through.

With many more left of various make - and more than a few concerning notations - that was more than enough for anyone to have to deal with.

Magic:

Binding: Parseltongue Talent [Bound by A.P.W.B Dumbledore, 11/1/1981]

Binding: Blood Magic Talent [Bound by A.P.W.B Dumbledore, 11/1/1986]

Binding: Magical Core, Fifty Percent Locked [Bound by A.P.W.B Dumbledore, 11/1/1990]

Binding: Magic Use Notice-me-Not keyed to Unaware Muggles [Cast by A.P.W.B. Dumbledore, 11/1/1981]

Heart:

Binding: Forgiveness Compulsion [Bound by A.P.W.B Dumbledore, 11/1/1987]

Binding: Blood Protection Rite Anchor [Bound to Maternal Blood Family Relation by A.P.W.B. Dumbledore, 11/1/1981]

Binding: Loneliness Compulsion [Bound by A.P.W.B Dumbledore, 11/1/1988]

Mind:

Binding: Occlumency Ability [Bound by A.P.W.B Dumbledore, 11/1/1985]

Binding: Distrust Compulsion [Bound by A.P.W.B Dumbledore, 11/1/1984]

Binding: Logical Processing Ability [Bound by A.P.W.B Dumbledore, 11/1/1989]

Soul:

Binding: Maternal Blood Protection Rite [Cast by L.M.E. Potter, 10/31/1981]

Binding: Horcrux Container [Cast by T.M. Riddle, 10/31/1981]

Binding: Horcrux Containment [Cast by A.P.W.B. Dumbledore, 11/1/1981]

Minor Bindings:

Binding: Magical Trace for Underage Citizens [Ward, Cast by M. McGonagall, 9/1/1991] [Currently inactive in Magical Home]

Binding: Mail Redirection Ward [Cast by A.P.W.B. Dumbledore, 11/1/1981]

The Black Lords could not and would not blame their young Lord of their House for his rage after reading what was written in blood and magic had been done to him.

Albus Dumbledore was truly a genius, weaving the bindings seamlessly to the point that if it weren’t for the issue of missing mail it likely never would’ve been discovered.

Evil, wicked, and vile as well to do such a thing to another living being but recriminations wouldn’t help their living descendent.

Though they learned a fear or weakness of Dumbledore’s just from reviewing the list of bindings: blood magic.

There was no logical reason to lock down such a rare talent that Harry likely never would’ve discovered on his own other than if he’d taken some sort of test for rare magical abilities than sheer fear.  They couldn’t blame him for being afraid.  The Black portraits and family in general had a healthy fear of blood mages as every pureblood family does.

The only type of magician more dangerous than a blood mage - especially to their own blood if they were in a position of authority such as head of a house - were the sort of idiots that dabbled in soul magic and ended up stark-staring-mad.

Which explained quite a bit about Tom Riddle now that they saw the evidence in Harry’s own blood staring at them in the word: Horcrux.

With no wands to bring to bear for Harry’s defense, no real power of their own outside of the minor abilities of those of a magical portrait, they did all they could within the confines of their reality: they taught him, advised him, and kept him from going insane from lack of socialization as he relentlessly, doggedly, patiently focused and meditated and learned Occlumency and performed rituals.

Unpicking and unraveling or straight-up breaking each and every binding placed on him bit by bit, piece by piece, until there was nothing of them left but the scars on his psyche they left in their wake and a diamond-hard resolution to leave the wizarding world to suffer the wrath of the Lords and near-gods they’d made for themselves.

One, a dark and wrathful creature that they quaked to behold.

The other, a mysterious false prophet promising goodness and mercy.

The funny part was, to Harry at least, that on any given day and knowing now what he did, sometimes even he questioned which was which.

October 31, 1996; Gringotts London

Day 121; Actual time passed: exactly 394 days; Harry’s Age: 17th birthday

“Ah, Mister Potter.”

Harry had to appreciate that no matter the bullshit he pulled or what he inherited from whomever, to Fangorn he was still and likely always would be merely Mister Potter.

There was a comfort in that, especially when surrounded by a bunch of pompous dead bastards who were devoted to the cause of trying to hammer pureblood manners into him whether he wanted them or not.

Kinda like Asterion who would ignore him for days if Harry didn’t give his language lessons the attention the dead polyglot felt they deserved or Illythia Black who’d married into the family from House Prince and become the sort of potions teacher after becoming intrigued by the other portraits teaching him that would have even Snape cowed with a single sneer if he bumbled something under her exacting - if painted - gaze.

He’d estimate that a quarter to a third of the time he spent learning under various portraits it was lessons or areas of study that he never would’ve chosen of his own accord but that he learned anyway because it was a welcome respite from working on his bindings or trying to master Occlumency without someone around he could trust to actually test his progress.

Fangorn did a quick inspection of the wizard, finding himself impressed - if half-against his will - with what he found.

While he wasn’t certain how the wizard was going about his changes, he’d managed to at least undo part of the magics binding him and somehow speed up his magical maturation.  Interesting.  Very interesting.  That both the Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix were on constant alert for the young man merely compounded the respect that the goblins of Gringotts were slowly granting to him whether he sought it or not.

Anyone who could whip both the self-titled Lord Voldemort and Albus Dumbledore into a frothing rage was the sort of personage that the goblin nation enjoyed having as a client.

Even one with as mad of plans as Harry Potter.

Though whether he was mad or not was the sort of thing the goblins left for the wizards to hash out.  From what Fangorn could tell he was merely...resolved while simultaneously coming off as juggling founts of banked raged and apathy.

The goblin healing combined with whatever progress on unbinding the young wizard had managed looked good on him nonetheless.  His client wasn’t nearly as skinny.  A stiff breeze didn’t threaten to blow him off his feet.  His skin was darker, the actual bronze of his paternal great-grandmother’s Misra family rather than the sickly paleness he’d previously worn while his magical scars had healed to the silver-white of old healed wounds.

“I see you have achieved your magical maturation.  Facilitations.  This as you know grants you full access to your inheritances.”

“Thank you, Fangorn.  Have you the estimates I asked for last time?”  Harry asked as he sat in the clients chair at the account manager’s wave.

“I have, and must ask again if you are certain on your course.”  Fangorn tapped the portfolio in front of him with his claws.  “The fees, even for so good a customer as one who provided This Establishment with the first basilisk harvest and auction in more than a century from a confirmed hunt, will be exorbitant.”

“I am.”  Harry nodded firmly, jaw set.  “All of it liquidated and exchanged for gold and silver blanks and bars with the exception of the entails, Grimmauld Place and the contents of my trust vault.  I’ll come for it in June, no matter the fee.”

“Half, Mister Potter, and even that only because the Branch Manager appreciates your deeds.”

Harry hid an internal wince.  Ouch.  A fifty percent exchange and processing fee to remove his inheritance - except for the exceptions he specified - from the wizarding world.

Well, the portraits had warned him.  Even if the goblins didn’t know his ultimate plan they knew he was moving his wealth away from the wizarding world - and therefore them.  They weren’t going to be happy about it and exchanging it all to muggle money just to rebuy in gold would likely cost him even more.

“It will be done, Mister Potter.”  Fangorn handed over the required paperwork and a Blood Quill.  “Upon your signature.”

“Thank you, Fangorn.”

“Fifty percent Mister Potter, in addition to the other services This Establishment has provided you over the last months.  Believe me: it’s my pleasure.”

Harry activated his portkey, landing in the foyer of Grimmauld Place with an ease gained from more than a year (his time) spent using magical travel anytime he wanted to leave his refuge and Mad-Eye Moody was lurking outside his wards.

It was a simple system since other than Dumbledore - who he always knew when he wasn’t at the school and simply didn’t leave on those days thanks to the Marauder’s Map - only Mad-Eye had the ability to see through his Cloak.

What had initially in his decision to hide himself away had appeared to be total self-exile - Merlin he’d been a dramatic little shit during that first break from the wizarding world - had ended up being a period of far greater freedom than he’d ever experienced before in his life.  He could come and go at will.  He could - and did - study whatever magic or muggle knowledge he wanted.  He could - and did - practice vicious battle magics in the dueling salle or spend a day merely staring up at the movements of the stars in the observatory he’d found hidden in the garden.

Harry could, and did, whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.

It was official: he was addicted to freedom.

Yes, he was still working at total freedom, several of his bindings were still at least partially intact and he had no fucking idea where to start with being a Horcrux, but it was still more independence than he’d had before and he was never going to give it up.

Including magic that had long since been banned in Wizarding Great Britain but Harry had been born with a natural inclination towards: Blood Magic.

Tonight was Samhain and he intended to take everything he’d learned about blood magic since arriving at Grimmauld Place and forge it into both sword and shield for his benefit - and for his enemies to tremble to behold.

Pacing down to the ritual room in the basement, Harry stripped off his - found, he’d raided all of the bedrooms for clothes and books and other items - soft sweater as he passed the kitchen table and dropped it onto the surface.  At the rack mounted on the basement wall next to the ritual room door Harry left his wand behind and picked up an aged ritual athame that according to the portraits had belonged to Asterion Black’s wife Esmerelda that felt compatible to him.  Or at least didn’t threaten to stab him or have their handles grow hot to the touch when he came near.

Magic could be amazing but it could also be a pain in the ass, making a tool less a tool than a magical partner for rituals or creating spells that wouldn’t allow anyone of “impure” origins be able to open certain books or journals.

There were some parts of Grimmauld Place and the Black heritage that Harry couldn’t access even as the Lord of the House and it was aggravating in the extreme.

Thankfully those were few and far between as while some of the past Blacks were pureblood fanatics, many of them were also sensible and knew that they couldn’t totally control the choices made by their children or descendents.

The athame was a simple, clean curve of silver without other embellishment beyond the emerald embedded in the butt of the hilt the size of a quail’s egg and perfect in clarity without a single blemish hiding in the stone.

Which was like a lot of blood magic.  Simple, clean, without embellishment.  More a matter of will and magic and power than complex runic grids or arithmancy calculations like some forms of spellwork or ritual magic could be at times.

With blood magic what it came down to was what a witch or wizard could do and thereafter what they would do - nothing more and nothing less.

And Harry with rage in his heart and a mind sculpted by the vast imagination of muggle fiction could think to do quite a lot with the proper means and motivation.

Slicing deep into his own arm, Harry commanded his blood to pour and flow.  Rushing out of his veins and arteries not in a trickle but a flood.  Were he another person, were he anyone but a Blood Mage, it would have been a lethal wound.  Were he not a Blood Mage, he would have lost consciousness long before the last drop of blood dripped down from the tip of his athame as his blood rich with and tied to his magic, coated both himself at his command and the stone floor of the ritual room.

For a Blood Mage’s systems weren’t closed but connected.  Blood to magic, magic to soul, soul to heart, heart to mind, mind to body, body to blood and so on in a never ending loop.  So despite his body being emptied of blood, he lived.  His magic pulsed all around him, and his blood obeyed his every command whether to coat his bare skin like armor or be as mist in the air - so long as his magic remained strong he could maintain the control of his blood.

Steadying himself from the rush that always accompanied such a large and encompassing use of Blood Magic, Harry breathed in the lingering pain of the open wound on his right forearm and then breathed out the next step in the blood ritual - his chosen spell.

“Fiendfyre.”

Without the need for a focus when his magic perfused his very blood and veins, the lethal and nearly uncontrollable cursed fire bloomed into enraged life all around him, immediately taking on the form of a fierce - if reduced in size - Hungarian Horntail dragon which had a bit of a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth as he felt the Fiendfyre roar and batter at the wards containing it.

Then came the hard part: “Bind,” he commanded his blood, the red life-water whipping up from the floor and out from the thin covering over his body into chains as hard as goblin-forged steel, wrapping and looping, and binding the cursed fire as the dragon form it had taken snarled and snapped and roared its rage.

Harry clenched his jaw and felt his muscles tense and throb with strain as the spell fought his control on two fronts.

And then he bore down on his blood and the curse trapped within it and pulled both into him.

His blood rushed with alacrity back into his veins and arteries, once more perfusing his body and moving with the will of his heart.  The fire it had bound and contained at his command wrapped around his arms and shoulder caps, searing at first into his skin before cooling as his magic and will and ritual overpowered it.  Flames and dragons and fierce creatures of all kinds made of flame danced up and down his arms from wrist to shoulder - the mark of a Blood Mage’s true talent and mastery of the lost art.

Most blood mages - from his readings and the portraits stories - tended to claim water for their own.  A natural compliment to blood magics, it was the easiest of the elements for a blood mage to choose to master for their final challenge to prove their talent.  Harry wasn’t content any long to be counted most mages and found fire to be best suited for his personality the more he stripped away the controls and bindings and compulsions he’d once been under.

Not the least for what a Blood Mage - if they had the willpower or sheer stubbornness - could do with fire once they bound it as theirs to call.

With his arm wound open and a fierce, unyielding desire locked in the forefront of his mind, Harry watched as at his command dozens of tiny blood bubbles formed in the air the size of a pea with nothing, other than the sheer oddness of them, to warn their targets of what these simple oddities hid among them.

“Go,” he sent them seeking with a flick of his fingers then pressed his left hand over his open wound and sent a strong pulse of magic into the gap to heal himself.

A thin line was all that was left behind though for the next week Harry found himself drawn and in need of extra food and sleep to recover from the strain of the night.

Though when he considered the look that dear old Tom likely had on his face when a third of his followers - Potters and Blacks of the blood, one and all - suddenly self-immolated unless they were sheltered under wards specifically designed to guard against blood mages like, for instance, Hogwarts; Harry found temporary exhaustion and a growling stomach more than worth the price he paid.

It didn’t do, after all, to piss off a Blood Mage who was also the Lord and Head of a House one had a strong blood-tie to.

No, it didn’t do, at all and Harry wasn’t shy in the least to remind the Death Eaters exactly why that was.

“How many lost, Lucius?”

“Dozens, my lord.  All bearing the Dark Mark, including Bellatrix, my lord.”

“Interesting.  And yet, young Draco still lives?”

“He does, my lord.”  Severus reported stoically.  “Whatever spell that was cast appears to have been repelled by the Hogwarts wards.”

“A lost spell, then, Dark and forbidden.”

Lucius shared a glance with Severus where they both knelt at the Dark Lord’s feet, both glad that their Lord’s temper had been exerted on other members of their ranks before the time came to give their own reports into the matter of Samhain.

“My lord,” Lucius spoke up already fearing for his life.  While the Dark Lord’s first rages were over regarding the substantial pruning the Death Eaters underwent at an unknown enemy’s magic, giving him bad news never was a safe endeavor.  “Given those involved there may be an answer.”

“Indeed?”

“Blood Magic, my lord.”  Lucius hunched down a bit closer to the floor as if he could avoid the rough end of the Dark Lord’s temper by being potentially out of his eyeline.  “Each of your followers who burned to death appear to have been recently related or intermarried with either House Black or House Potter, and with the boy being missing…”

“And you Severus?”  Voldemort’s voice went low and hissing, betraying the instant wash of rage he felt at the mere implication of that child’s involvement.  “What does the Old Fool make of these events?”

“The Potter brat has been out of the Light’s grasp for several months, my lord, and while his intelligence was always lacking,” Snape sneered.  “With proper motivation his power is unquestionable, with his vaunted Patronus held up by the Old Fool as proof of such.”  He hesitated a long moment then continued after a sharp look from blood-red eyes.  “Combined with his deplorable temper and ability to evade the Old Fool’s every attempt to reclaim him, it is possible that Potter uncovered skill with Blood Magic.  As his own mother displayed facility in the forbidden art, it is not out of the question.”

Voldemort narrowed his gaze on two of his most useful tools at the mention of his ignoble defeat at the hands and foresight of Lily Potter.

She would have made quite the Death Eater if it weren’t for her unfortunate origins and even more unfortunate choice of husband.

“Find him.”  He ordered, gaze swinging out over all of the gathered Death Eaters and not just the pair at his feet.  “Whatever it takes, I want Harry Potter found!”

December 25, 1996; London

Day 176; Actual time passed: approximately 821 days; Harry’s Age: 18

Harry woke up with a pounding head - among other parts of him - and a general state of confused fog.

Yesterday for him had been one of his “goof-off/mental-health” days and feeling down while the world celebrated Christmas and even the portraits came down after their Yule feasting a couple days before, Harry had quite literally taken the day off.

Way off.

Out of the house, losing himself in muggle London, not-thinking-about-a-thing off.

He wandered for hours from what he could recall, drifting into coffee shops when he got hungry, just moving with the people as they rushed about doing last-minute shopping or went to or left church services.

And eventually he found himself carried along with the tide into a tucked away bit of a pub, nursing a pint with other lost souls who weren’t reveling in the festive season.

Then one pint became two, two turned into four, and about there things went from a bit vague to downright foggy.

But as his back twinged, his ass and throat felt raw, and there was both a bloke and a bird in bed - someone’s bed, it certainly wasn’t one of Harry’s back at Grimmauld Place - with him, he could imagine what at least some of those events were.

The girl - well, woman, the morning light wasn’t forgiving and it was clear she was at least in her early twenties if not older - had bottle-blonde hair and a bevy of tattoos marching up and down her back while hickies dotted her collarbone, neck, and what he could see of her ample breasts that weren’t hidden by the cheap bedsheets and looked too large for her thin form.

The guy was her opposite in almost every way - ebony dark to her pale, head shaved short and as dark black as Harry’s, and plumped with soft working muscle that probably hadn’t seen a gym in his life.

Both were attractive in their way, and even in sleep curled together with a familiarity that made it clear while they were strangers to Harry, they certainly weren’t to each other.

Shaking his head in bemusement - but despite what he would’ve thought not all that long ago not a hint of bashfulness or shame - Harry sat up and set about relocated his clothes and boots.  Other than a few minor irritations, he felt...pretty good actually.  Even after losing his virginity to a pair of strangers.

(And oh wasn’t Sirius sure to have a laugh about that!)

Harry felt calm and loose and relaxed despite the hangover, with not an ounce of his previous holiday blues to be found.

Feeling a bit whimsical as he moved his way through the tiny bedsit of a flat that wasn’t much more than an all-purpose room with bed and kitchen plus a bath, Harry stopped and looked back at the pair of muggles who had no earthly clue that they’d well-bedded a Blood Mage and one of the most famous people in wizarding Britain the previous night.

Smiling, and bidding them a mental goodbye, Harry tapped his fingers to a piece of paper from the notepad by the phone and transfigured it into an orange-tipped pink rose.

Happiness tipped in passion, along with the memories of the night it was all he had to offer them, with a bit of a charm to help things along if they kept the rose.

He hoped they did.

If for nothing else than a bit of whimsy and a reminder that not everything Harry touched turned to ashes in his hands.

February 1, 1997

Day 215; Actual time passed: approximately 1001 days; Harry’s Age: 18

Harry spent his eighteenth year - by his reckoning - recalculating his opinion of dancing, music, and clubs in general.

His mystery lovers over Christmas had opened his eyes to a new world, especially once he reclaimed his memories using Occlumency, and he was very curious about repeating some parts of that night.

With him in seclusion and a price on his head from two magical factions - or so it would seem considering how often Mad-Eye seems to haunt the street outside Grimmauld Place - casual was all he could offer.  Harry didn’t know much of anything about relationships.  He’d never had one himself and his experiences of them were all second or third hand.

When this came to muggles that meant the “normal-and-proper” way things were done on Privet Drive - which left him with a thimbleful of information about anything other than unhappy marriages and the occasional adultery scandal.

Imbolc had him itching to get out of the house but unlike previous holidays, Mad-Eye was camped out and Dumbledore was away from Hogwarts so that left him with no choice but to occupy himself in the townhouse as was happening more and more often following the school’s winter break.

He didn’t know what fire had lit under Dumbledore’s ass at Yule.  He certainly hadn’t done anything other than get blind drunk and shagged stupid.  Not like on Samhain.  But in the end what was behind Dumbledore’s absences wasn’t as important as it curtailing the limited freedoms he’d come to enjoy when it came to leaving his house.

With an itch under his skin and zero desire to sprint up and down another flight of stairs or do any other kind of workout or even practice his dueling, that really only left Harry with his last-resort for physical activities: cleaning.

And since he’d been playing semi-hermit for over two years now by his accounting, there wasn’t much left of Grimmauld Place to clean.

Especially after that run of leaning household charms before Lughnasadh when he was stalled on learning about - let alone working on - his bindings.

Over the months that had come and gone with the time-turner, Harry had amassed quite the collection of soft sweaters, broken-in jeans, fine robes, books, knives, and even an old wizarding tent that he’d salvaged from the various rooms and the massive attic of Grimmauld Place.  A lot of what he’d found was rubbish, or only good for spell practice of one sort or another, but room by room and closet by closet he’d sorted it out.  Grimmauld Place likely hasn’t looked better in decades from what Sirius told him of his childhood.

Still, there were a few spots that Harry had been putting off, but now he was down to the just one: Kreacher’s hidey-hole in the boiler room.

Kreacher’s carcass had gone the way of the other house elf heads: immolated in his early practice with fire spells.

Now all that was left of the insane old thing was a nest of rags and rubbish that would give Filch or Molly Weasley a coronary to have it dwelling in a place under their care.

Lifting the rags one piece at a time with a Levitation Charm, Harry shook them in search of any of the Black heirlooms and rubbish the barmy old elf had secreted away from Mrs. Weasley’s cleaning spree and Mundungus Fletcher’s sticky fingers.  He followed the Levitation with a Vanishing Charm, then repeated all the way down to the floorboard, leaving himself with a pile of odds-and-ends among the dirt.  Every last piece of the remnants stank of dark magic and curses now that Harry was familiar with the sensation on its own and not just the miasma Grimmauld Place once exuded.

Silver candlesticks and goblets were sent to the kitchen.  They’d be good for practicing Cursebreaking with Orion and Cassiopeia once he cleaned them up.  A signet ring with the Black Crest was sent away to a cubbyhole in the study.  Whoever ended up with the place after Harry left could keep it or toss it or sell it for all he cared.  Call him Lord Black all they liked but Sirius hadn’t wanted anything to do with that title and neither did Harry for all the perks it supposedly granted.

Given that those perks came hand-in-hand with bullshit like arranged marriages and literal generations of traditions - or as Harry liked to call it peer pressure via dead arseholes - to weigh him down, he was going to pass thanks.

A dagger with a broken blade was sent off to the pile of miscellaneous rubbish he used for regular spellwork practice, transfiguration and charms and the like.  Nearing the end of the pile he was left with a couple of dull knuts, what looked like a dented brass pocketwatch, both of which he sent off to join the dagger, and last but not least a silver locket.

He could easily see it was silver, as it shone like nothing else in the pile of near-rubbish, including the cursed candlesticks.  The chain was thick and well-made, if scratched here and there, and the locket the size of a goose egg.  It was the locket that had him pausing and eyeing the thing in suspicion for long moments.

It would have done even if he couldn’t feel the ill-intent of the thing roiling off of it in waves alternately sickening and seductive.

That it was just the locket that felt that way to him suggested that it wasn’t a run of the mill curse this time.  It was something more, restricted to the gleaming oval with its emeralds and diamonds set into an “S” shape.  Even if Harry wasn’t Harry he’d know to be wary of such a thing, that all-but-screamed Slytherin at him and had such a heavy weight of magic around it.

“Now then,” he murmured, as used to talking to himself by now as he was anyone else, even with the portraits around and muggles to shag to keep himself sane.  “What kind of beastie are you?”

The magic of the locket recoiled a moment after he spoke, Harry’s brows jumping up into high arches in surprise at the reaction that spoke of far too much sentience for his comfort then switched from sickening/seductive to seductive/coy.

And that, Harry decided with a roll of his eyes for Slytherin bullshit - whether the people or the House at this point he didn’t really discriminate - was enough of that.

Calling forth his bound element, Fiendfyre coating the surface of his hand in every nook and cranny completely protecting his skin without so much as causing it to get a bit dry, Harry struck down with all the speed of a veteran Seeker and plucked the locket from its place on the floor.

Clenching his fist with the silver turning molten inside of it, Harry grit his teeth as a sharp intense spike of pain shot through his forehead for the first time in ages and the locket gave an unearthly wail before billowing black smoke that reminded him far too closely of Voldemort’s disincorporated state.

The metal and jewels burned to nothing at all - even ash being obliterated in the embrace of Fiendfyre - and after long moments where nothing but a miniature dragon made of flames raged in the palm of his now-empty hand he recalled his element and sent the dragon back to rest.

Though this time it chose to bed down wrapped around his wrist as if keeping guard against whatever-the-fuck Voldemort had done to that locket instead of preening on his shoulder.

He waited another moment as he absently waved his wand and cleared away the rest of the dust and grime in the boiler room to see if Tom would strike back at him.

But now, as it has been since Samhain, his scar remained quiet.

If Voldemort knew what Harry just did - whatever it in fact was that he did, though he had his suspicions with what he housed in his scar - he wasn’t reacting to it at the moment.

All to the good then.

Harry might not know how many Horcruxes the manky old wanker made.  Or if there even was a limit to such a thing.  Everything he’d read, every last sickening page on the matter of tampering with souls only ever referred to the damn things in the singular.

That Harry had a horcrux in his head, that he’d destroyed one - well two now he supposed - that he knew of or could guess at...it wasn’t anything any of the resources he had could help him with.

All he could really do was learn all he could, everything he could, and when the time was right walk into the Veil and never look back.

Whatever the Veil was, it didn’t break a godparent bond though it did nullify what Harry’d read the effects and uses of such a bond were supposed to be.

He just had to hope that whatever powers a horcrux had, they weren’t the sort of magic that the Veil couldn’t tear to shreds.

It was all the hope he really had on the matter since he wasn’t about to die and be a good little martyr.

Fuck that.

And if Tom dared to try and follow Harry beyond the Veil, Harry would fuck him up in ways that even a damn Dark Lord would have a hard time recovering from.

May 1, 1997, Beltane; Grimmauld Place, London

Day 305; Actual time passed: approximately 1398 days; Harry’s Age: 19

Harry opened his eyes when he felt the foreign magic brush the wards on his home for the last several years as he counted things.

He hadn’t been trapped there - though it felt that way at times - but he would be the first to admit that he was looking forward to a change in routine no matter how dangerous.

And he made no mistake about the matter: Dumbledore had left him alone this long due to an overfull schedule, not out of any desire to actually allow him to remain out of his control.

It was likely only Dumbledore’s ignorance in the matter of Harry’s shedding the various fetters that tried to permanently bind him into a mold of Dumbledore’s making - with a hint of Tom’s unintentional work here or there and a spicing of mental/emotional scarring from the Dursley’s tender-loving-care - that he’d made it this far unattended.

Harry had honestly expected the Headmaster on or around the beginning of the school year when he failed to arrive for his sixth year.

That Dumbledore had been stricken with a strange rotting curse according to the Prophet and had his hands more than full trying to keep Tom from slaughtering his way across England were the most likely suspects in Harry’s opinion keeping the old man from tearing through his wards with Fawkes sooner.

From the scant handful of letters Dumbledore had sent him - and gathered at Gringotts for him once Harry had broken that binding and redirected his mail there - Dumbledore had taken a stance of patient grandfather allowing the amusing rebellions of a child.

Condescending in the extreme but very in character nonetheless for their prior interactions.

Hedwig was put out with him for her lack of work and ability to stretch her wings save for the rare letter sent off to Remus, Neville, or Luna - the only ones who hadn’t thoroughly irritated him in one form or another while he’s been tucked up and out of reach - but it was what it was.

Harry had learned his lesson about magics hidden in otherwise innocuous objects.

Gringotts could earn their fifty-percent of the Potter-Black estate with handling a few curses, hexes, jinxes, and stripping spells, portkeys, and even potions off of his mail for him before he collected it in person at the Bank on his out-the-house days.

He and the Headmaster had carried out a bland - if snarky on Harry’s end - correspondence that allowed the Headmaster to rest comfortably in his opinion of Harry simply taking a dip into Black-family-style histrionics and epic pouting, and the old bastard had in turn left him at it before descending now that he’d gotten tired of it.

Dumbledore to the rescue to pull the Savior of the Wizarding World out of his sulking and force him to shape up and put his neck on the chopping block of the Headmaster’s plotting and Tom’s fury.

Yeah.

Cause Harry was going to let that happen.

At least Dumbledore had had the decency - or Harry’s Potter luck was still holding out well enough - to show up before Harry did any rituals for the holiday and exhausted himself into a stupor.

It would be annoying to say the least if Dumbledore snatched him up and - if he went looking for the bindings and saw them gone - tried to reapply them.

Because Harry was that kind of idiot who was once bitten by someone he’d trusted and just let himself be used and abused over and over and over again just taking it and never striking back.

Sure.  Under compulsions maybe.  But Malfoy and Aunt Marge alike could testify to the fact that even under the Headmaster’s bindings that his good-nature had limits.

Dumbledore was about to find that out for himself.

Harry didn’t expect that he was going to appreciate the lesson or that he himself would come out unscathed.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to enjoy it any less for the danger it inherently carried.

He’d chosen this path almost a year ago as the world turned.

He wasn’t going to back away from it now.

Harry had all of an instant to plan, summoning his effects from the rack outside the ritual room and rising to his feet then closing and locking the door to the ritual room.  Dumbledore would have to break the warding on the door manually.  Even a phoenix couldn’t get through the ancient wards on the Black ritual room.  It was warded specifically against anyone or any thing that might disturb a ritual at an inopportune moment to disastrous effects.

He wrapped the chain of his time turner thrice around his left wrist, as much a dare as it was a red herring, then slipped the two-way portkey in the form of a heavy men’s signet ring with a blank face on his hand and held his wand loosely in his hand.

There was no point in putting on his shirt.  He wanted Dumbledore off his stride.  He’d seen for himself just how powerful and innovative he could be when push came to shove.  And he’d pass on being trapped inside a water sphere by the old bastard like Tom had been for a few moments in the ministry atrium, thanks.

Any way he could throw off the professor, any distraction he could bring to bear, anything he could think of at all to swing things his way he would do it.

For his survival and freedom - and yes, a taste of revenge - he would do anything at all.

The door clicked open with a soft snick, opening to the sight of a weary Dumbledore in a moment that wasn’t lacking in meaning even if it wasn’t the showmanship of Dumbledore’s flaming out of his office last year, leaving his audience in awe of Fawkes.

“Oh my dear boy.”  Dumbledore said, sadness dripping from his voice.  The year hadn’t been as kind to the Headmaster as it had been to Harry or so it seemed if the withered right hand (look at that, the Prophet had gotten something right for once) and the subdued navy blue robes were any sign.  “What have you done to yourself?”

Harry’d seen himself in a mirror every morning.  He could see from another’s perspective why that might ask such a thing and even in that exact tone.  His dark-rust bound flame tattoos that were as much magic as they were adornment didn’t hide his magical scars from prior years even as they swirled and twisted up his arms.  His skin was significantly darker with his Misra heritage unlocked, his scar on his forehead and face shining silver against the bronze of his skin.

Against his darker looks his eyes were an even more startling green, even more so without the glasses he no longer needed.

And scattered across his chest - and back though the Headmaster couldn’t see them yet - were the runic tattoos common to men of House Black, the results of various rituals carried out over the time he’d been hidden in Grimmauld Place and under the auspices of the multitude of Black witches and wizards now dead and gone.

Like those Sirius had possessed, hidden among his muggle ink, one of the only remnants of his family lessons that he’d never spoken a cross word about.

To a Light wizard like Dumbledore, Harry must look like half of his nightmares wrought in flesh and blood.

“I shattered, Headmaster.”  Harry told him with polite honesty.  “I shattered in rage and grief just like the nicknacks in your office.  Then I shattered every last bond placed on me.  Every barrier.  Every binding meant to make me something other than what I was born to be.”

“Dark Magic is dangerous, my dear boy.”  Dumbledore slowly shook his head, wand slipping out of his sleeve as his eyes darted first to the ring on his hand and then the time-turner around his wrist, conclusions - erroneous and otherwise - starting to come together.  “It is a parasitic disease that has poisoned you and must be lanced out for…”

“For what?”  Harry interrupted, truly curious about which way the old bastard was planning on taking his speech as the fetters Harry kept on his rage started to be mentally unleashed one by one.  “For my own good?  Or for The Greater Good?”  He smirked when the Headmaster blinked, visibly taken aback.  “Portraits remember everything, Headmaster.  With them around, the past is never truly gone and buried no matter how hard someone tries.  I’m curious though: did you double-bind my blood magic affinity because it terrified you or did you do it because my potential was a problem for your elaborate ploys to control the wizarding world?”

“Well,” Albus mentally changed gears.  “I see there will be no civility to be found here, my boy.”

“No, not from me, not ever again.”  Harry agreed with that, nodding, matching Dumbledore move for move as the old man lifted his wand.  “I won’t join Tom but I won’t be yours to sacrifice either you controlling, manipulative, self-righteous tosser!”

At that, Albus slashed forward unleashing a whip of flame aiming for the wand - Tom’s brother wand - in Harry’s hand, only for the boy to laugh, dodging out of the way and tearing the flames from his control.  They spun and twisted between his wand and free hand then lashed back at Albus in a torrent of volcanic heat, the Headmaster tossing up a shield of water, shouting Aqua Eructo, and turning the incendiary wall to steam.  A flick of his wand cleared his vision only for a soft pop to reach his ears and no Harry to be seen.

Narrowing his eyes, Albus turned and ran with a speed that belied his age, a tracking spell slipping with practiced ease from his lips.

In the foyer, Harry cursed that he’d been unable to learn Apparation from the portraits - the dangers of splinching far too great - as he bolted as soon as the portkey dropped him for the ballroom.

Fighting someone who was still as strong as Dumbledore in an inclosed space was a suicide plan.  He needed space, and plenty of room to dodge and maneuver.  The ballroom it was.

Harry had just enough time to activate the ward that would keep even the most destructive of magics contained within the room and protect the rest of the house when he had to turn and deflect a Stupefy from the Headmaster’s wand as the experienced wizard tracked him down.  A flick of his free hand had the doors to the ballroom slamming closed and locking, even as his phoenix core wand tossed up a shield against the Headmaster’s attempt to disarm him.  Firing back with a chain of offensive spells mixed with pranking spells - imagination was the key to dueling according to Arcturus - he darted and dodged all around the open room speckled with pillars as he tried to gauge whether the Headmaster was tiring or his spells were weakening at all from the curse damage he already suffered from.

If he was, the old bastard wasn’t showing it as he easily batted away or shielded against every spell Harry sent at him.

Damn it.

Barely darting out of the way of a lightning spell - or something like it - as the Headmaster easily paced in a circle, not having to move much at all to keep up with Harry, he let out a curse as it threatened to shatter the pillar he’d used to avoid it.

“You’ve gotten strong, Harry.”  Albus was willing to admit that much even as he used much of his skill to appear unbothered no matter how trying it was to avoid or counter many of the boy’s spells.  And unlike Albus’s assumptions, other than capturing any attempt of Albus’s to use fire - his own favored area of offensive spells - and turning it back against him two-or-three fold, Harry wasn’t using Dark Arts to do it.  Much of the boy’s spells were rare or obscure, yes.  But nothing actually illegal.

Yet, anyway.

For the first time, he actually believed that Harry Potter might be able to fight Tom and win, at least with more training.

That, however, wouldn’t deal with the true blockade that Harry Potter presented to defeating the Dark, so while interesting, it didn’t really matter to Albus beyond the increased difficulty it presented to his well-considered plans.

“But you’re still just a boy.  What do you truly believe is there to be gained from this unseemly display, hmm?”

Little did he know it, but appealing to Harry’s temper in a belief that he would make a rash decision - which, granted, there was plenty of supporting evidence for why that should work - was exactly the wrong decision now.

This Harry Potter wasn’t the Harry Potter of a year ago.

No, he was a different animal altogether.

His rage didn’t control him anymore, he controlled it.

And he knew exactly how to use it.

“All I’ve ever wanted, headmaster.”  Harry answered as he stepped out from behind the pillar with his wand tucked into his belt.  His neck and upper body were coated in a light sheen of blood red and flames - now alive and not mere tattoos - wreathed his arms and hands.  “My freedom.”

The Headmaster’s eyes popped wide in shock.  Never in even his wildest considerations of Harry’s potential had he believed that he would have been able to break his bindings on his blood mage.  And failing that that he would be able to master it and the more powerful uses it could be put to.

“It was you.”  Albus breathed, shaken to his core, lashing out with a spell that Harry didn’t block though he made a face as it hit the time-turner on his wrist and shattered it.  “ You’re the one who slaughtered the Death Eaters with blood magic.”

“Blood magic, fiendfyre, and a dash of authority as the head of two wizarding lines.”  Harry smirked wickedly, his eyes flashing with inner fire to match his outer flames at the loss of his time-turner though he didn’t waste time channeling the anger into his spells.  “Yes.”

With no more ado, Harry opened his hands and the flames roared off of his body.  Creatures created of rage, cursed fire, and blood magic whipped around the Headmaster, here a dragon and there a basilisk, wolves and foxes nipping at his heels and great falcons and eagles darting for his eyes.  Albus fought them with great whips and shields and walls of water as Harry stood there watching as steady as a rock and never faltering a moment in his mental control of one of the most destructive magics known to the wizarding world.

Then suddenly he moved, his arms darting out and fists closing around chains as thin as fishing line but as unbreakable as titanium that glowed a bloodthirsty red in the light of the fiendfyre and wrapped around Dumbledore’s wrists.

Teeth clenched and arms burning, the flames coasted up the chains and settled back in place on his upper body as Harry planted his feet, one ahead of the other in an almost lunge then he heaved with all his strength and used the chains and shackles to throw the older wizard into the closest pillar with a mighty crack.

The blood chains shattered with the impact and sweat dripped down Harry’s face as his body trembled before the crumpled form of his former mentor and Headmaster.

“Accio Dumbledore’s wand!”  He commanded, one hand darting out to catch the slender and knobbly piece of wood that had fallen from the Headmaster’s grip as he collided with the old stone of London bedrock supporting Grimmauld Place.

Wand in hand, Harry came to stand over the beaten form of who he once thought had to be the greatest and most powerful man in the world.

“My freedom for your life, Mister Dumbledore.”  Harry layed out the terms.  “Tom’s a problem you helped create, he’s your problem now.  Find a new savior for the wizarding world.  I won’t be a martyr - for them or for you.”

With that, he dropped a knut onto the headmaster’s form as faded blue eyes dragged themselves warily from Harry’s burning gaze to the wand in his hand, the old man not saying a word as the portkey activated and set him down none-too-gently outside the gates of Hogwarts.

Harry, high on the fact that the portraits were right and blood magic was Dumbledore’s weakness - along with a healthy dose of arrogance regarding his own power and underestimating Harry’s own - tossed back his head and laughed.

A flick of his wand - his new wand, he supposed, it seemed to work for him anyway - had the wards of the townhouse now blocked to Dumbledore’s magical signature, something he didn’t have a sample of beforehand to use.

As he turned to walk away - fuck did he need a meal, a drink, and twelve hours of sleep - his attention was caught by a ring that had apparently fallen off of Dumbledore sometime during the fight.

It was a simple thing.  Just a blackened piece of what looked like river stone set in a silver band.  A symbol he’d never seen before was etched into the face of it and it gave off one of the strongest sensations of magic he’d ever felt outside of a wand.

It felt like his Cloak or his new wand.

It felt like home.

Blinking, Harry cocked his head and cast every spell or curse detection diagnostic he knew at it before shrugging when they came up blank and levitated it with a flick of his new wand to float its way over to his workbench in the basement.

He’d want to test it some more but at the moment it seemed innocuous.

Now, about that meal and drink...

Far away in a castle hidden in the Scottish highlands, an elderly wizard opened a drawer in his desk and removed a wand long kept safe there.

It was an unyielding length of polished applewood, fourteen inches, with a core of dragon heartstring.

A most loyal friend, that the wizard had neglected to spend time with for anything but keeping it supple with fresh beeswax every season, and now returned once more to his hand as his longtime and hardwon Elder Wand was now in the hands of a wizard that in many ways was still more boy than man.

Even so, thinking back on the duel that had raged through more than one room of Twelve Grimmauld Place, a single thought continued to ring in his mind:

Oh, Harry my dear boy.  What have you done to yourself?  

Perhaps like Tom it was no surprise at all that a wand with Fawkes’s tailfeather had chosen the young Potter heir.

Though unlike Tom, Albus didn’t believe that the creature that rose from the ashes of Harry Potter was one of malice, wrath, and destruction - though in his wicked spells and leaping fury there were certainly shadows of it nonetheless.

No.

Whoever the wizard who once was Harry Potter was now, Albus didn’t think him a dark lord terrified of his own death.

That that very fact made the child far more unpredictable and thusly far more dangerous Albus didn’t care to think of.

At the very least, he’d curbed part of Harry’s significant tools that the boy had to call to hand and carry him down his chosen path.

What more Albus could do in the little time he had left than that...well, that would have to be a thought for another day.

No, no, Albus had other things to worry over now than how Harry had chosen to destroy himself.

For now he had memories of the duel at the townhouse to copy and review, and an investigation into a promising cove on the coast to begin.

There would be time enough to handle the problem of Harry Potter and his intractability - a nearly unbreakable will, which was no real surprise but was frustrating nonetheless - another day.

July 31, 1997

Day 397; Actual time passed: exactly 1490 days; Harry’s Age: 20th Birthday

Harry slowed down after his duel with the Headmaster.  What with the barmy old bastard destroying his time-turner and all.  Arsehole.  Couldn’t control him without the bindings so he tried to curb Harry’s ability to live life in fifth gear while everyone else was still stuck in first.  Merlin forbid that Harry actually survive or anything.

The news not a week later that Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had been murdered tasted oh-so-sweet on his tongue.

Not only that, but murdered in his own school, by one of his most trusted professors, with the help of Draco Malfoy via smuggling Death Eaters into the school.

If it had been anyone else involved but Malfoy and Snape, Harry would be tempted to send them a congratulatory gift.  Maybe a fruit basket.  Or a nice Howler that did nothing but laugh and cheer.

Something.

But it was them who had made his school life consistently frustrating compared to a few others that had made it intolerable, so Harry privately celebrated the demise of the wizarding world’s puppet master with a bottle of Firewhiskey and the cheers of the Black portraits ringing in his ears.

And he waited.

He spent more time mingling freely under glamors or concealing cloaks on the Alley with half of the problem keeping him isolated nullified, worked on running through the bulk of his trust fund that he wasn’t taking with him, and otherwise prepared.

He knew it needed to be either his birthday - according to the calendar - or close to it.

After more than a year of nothing that could be directly tied to Harry and with Dumbledore dead, Tom would be sure to ring in his supposed coming-of-age with a hurrah.

So Harry filled enchanted trunks with the Black Library and other books he found or bought as he learned under his own power and the guidance of the Black portraits.

He collected the gold and silver from the goblins, along with a weapon he’d had custom forged and imbued with the basilisk venom from his kill.

The war rapier wasn’t the Sword of Gryffindor by any stretch: a wider-than-normal length of goblin-steel with a cutting edge that would never need sharpening and an elegant sweeping hilt without other ornamentation, it was however just as deadly and far more suited to Harry’s height and the style of swordplay the automatons of the duelling salle taught him.

With the addition of the basilisk venom, even if he never needed it for anything other than a bit of last-resort overkill he’d have the option.

He knew nothing about the world - or realm, or whatever - on the other side of the Veil.

Only that he could feel his bond with Sirius now that the bindings that had been piled onto him were mostly stripped away, and he knew that whatever lurked beyond that Sirius was there.  He was alive.  And Harry wasn’t going to abandon him there.

His trunks of books were joined by another of potions ingredients, and another yet of shelf-stable potions.  The trunks were shrunk and tucked away in the enchanted pack he’d found lurking next to the old wizarding tent - just a bit of canvass and some support poles for show really - which went into the weather-beaten leather pack next.  Clothes, food, even packs of bottled water all went into the pack with his riches - both tangible in the case of the gold and silver - and metaphorical in the books and potion supplies.

And he waited.

The wand he won from Dumbledore and the ring with its riverstone that had fallen to the floor and left behind went into a wand holster and his hand.  His phoenix feather wand was attached to his calf.  Ever since he’d won the strange knobbly wand, he’d noticed himself casting easier and faster with it than his old friend he’d had since he was eleven.

In one boot his athame, in the other the pocketknife that could undo any lock from Sirius.

Dressed, pack in place, Cloak hiding him, Harry sent off Hedwig to Remus for the very last time with the ward-key to Grimmauld Place and a request for him to take care of her, and then Harry found an out-of-the-way corner of the Ministry and he waited.

And the moment Tom attacked, under the cover of the chaos of spellfire and screams, Harry thinned the Death Eater herd a bit more floor by floor, bodies hitting the floor as if struck down by a ghost, then stepped through the Veil and into whatever waited beyond the boundaries of all the wizarding world knew.

Elsewhere, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr., the self-titled Lord Voldemort, let out a hair-raising shriek as his soul - one of several pieces - was torn from his body to rejoin the others.

The Gate guardians had their duty after all - and it was to judge the souls that passed through their Gate.

Harry was found... unobjectionable.

The piece of another hiding in his forehead however, was found quite wanting.

When written of in the history books, many speculated that the Dark Lord Voldemort was somehow struck down by the Dementor’s Kiss.

Others who knew of the Child of Prophecy insisted that the Boy Who Lived sacrificed himself to save them all.

Neither were right, however, they did make for very good addendums to the legend of Harry James Potter.

Raised a lamb, died - as far as they were concerned - as nothing less than a lion.

July 31, 1998; Gringotts London

It was months mopping up after the invasion of the Ministry and the death of Voldemort coming within moments of each other.

Some Death Eaters and sympathizers had lost their spine with the loss of their leader and did their best to scatter.

Others who’d only been serving out of fear of him and his most ardent supporters vanished like so much smoke, as if they’d never been involved at all.

Still that left the true supporters and while Voldemort had been killed early in the incursion, the Dark Lord had torn through most of the hit wizards protecting the Minister before he’d suddenly keeled over mid-fight and left his army to fend for themselves.

It wasn’t so easy as the Death Eaters immediately surrendering but in time Wizarding Great Britain started to recover and things mostly went back to the way things always were.

They buried their dead, mourned them and the missing, and carried on.

But there were a dozen or so people who didn’t have it quite as easy as getting on with their lives, even if that meant for the likes of the Malfoys their patriarch getting carted back to Azkaban.  Members of the Order of the Phoenix and a few teens too young to join during the actual fighting, they were the ones who both buried friends and family members and mourned for the missing.  Mourned for Harry and Dumbledore alike.

So it was that they were all more than a bit surprised to be called to Gringotts for the reading of Harry’s will as his death had never been confirmed and most of them were still holding out hope of Harry turning back up or being found through some miracle.

He was Harry.

He just couldn’t be... gone.

The summons for the will reading rather effectively killed that hope, even if there were those like Ron Weasley who still hoped it was a mistake right up until they were all ushered into a meeting room - along with a few people who almost none of them recognized - and a goblin with an aide scuttling after him with a large crate took his place at the head of the room’s table.

“Per the wishes of our former client, Hari James Potter, known as Harry, his last will and testament is now being carried out precisely one year after his legal death.”  Fangorn began.  “Mister Potter was very thorough regarding his plans and wishes for his estate, however there were a few legalities that blocked some of them.  To that end.”  He snapped his fingers and the aide rushed to a pair of people: one a witch who bore a striking resemblance to Narcissa Malfoy only with pure black hair and wearing a muggle dress and the other a total stranger of a wizard in a sharp black suit; giving over to each a ring box and a portfolio.  “And per the wishes and will of the late Lord Potter-Black, the Black Lordship and entail pass to Andromeda Tonks nee Black, as neither you nor your husband or offspring now nor ever have borne the Dark Mark of Lord Voldemort.  Similarly, the Potter Lordship passes to the nearest relative of Potter blood that Gringotts could locate in this case Gregory Potter of Salem, Massachusetts.”

Andromeda shared an arch look of surprise with her muggleborn husband Ted, finding more than a little amusement at the former cast-off being the Lady of the House.

It was the sort of irony that her dear - if wild - cousin Sirius would’ve enjoyed and likely part of the reason he’d made his halfblood godson his heir after him instead of letting it fall to Narcissa’s boy.

Taking that as a dismissal - and not knowing any of the other people in the room though recognizing many of them from news reports - the new Lord Potter, of the secondary branch that immigrated to the States and helped found MACUSA, took his leave with a nod to the others and a murmur of condolences for their collective loss.

From what he understood, Harry Potter had been quite the promising young wizard.

Harry’s nearest and dearest murmured amongst each other at the strange turn the will reading had taken, especially Tonks on whom the reality of being the next in line for the Black Lord-er Ladyship had just hit like a ton of bricks turning her hair a sickly yellow, then quieted at a look from the goblin estate manager.

“For the unentailed assets of Mister Potter, he made the following arrangements: the property of Twelve Grimmauld Place, London, and all its contents is hereby left to one Remus John Lupin, free of all liens or encumbrances.”

Fangorn passed over the magical deed and the symbolic iron key for the front door, knowing full well that the werewolf didn’t need it as Harry had sent the wolf a portkey that allowed him in and out of the townhouses wards before he left.

“His only request is that you continue to care for his owl, one snowy named Hedwig.”

“Yes, of course.”  Remus said gruffly, swiping at his teary eyes with one sleeve as his wife Dora wrapped her arms around him, her mother holding their son Harry Remus Lupin, named for his bestfriend’s son who’d died too damned soon.

“The contents of his trust vault and the remainder of his assets are to be split equally between the charity fund of St. Mungo’s wizarding hospital and the scholarship fund of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”  Fangorn’s aide handed off vault keys for the funds to first the current Headmistress Minerva McGonagall and then the representative of the hospital who followed the example of the new Lord Potter and took his leave.

Fangorn waited for the door to shut firmly at his back and then stared down the gaggle of wizarding folk crowding the meeting room.

He nodded at his aide to began passing out black-bound leather journals to each of them from the stern headmistress to the youngest present one Luna Lovegood.

“These journals were left in the care of the Bank and are all that he left for the rest of you.  I bid you all a good day.”  With that, Fangorn rose and left them to their fussing and fighting and wailing as he knew such things went.

“What the bloody hell…”  Ron scowled in confusion as he turned the journal over in his hands for a long moment.

“That can’t be right.”  Hermione blinked, then looked over at Remus.  “What about all of his personal things?  Are they at Grimmauld?”

“No.”  Remus answered her after a long pause, having opened his own journal and realized what it was, quickly getting lost in it.  “No they’re not.”

“Oh my goodness.”  Molly sniffled, wiping at her eyes as what she held hit her right in the heart.  “They’re communication records.  Copies of letters we wrote him, and his responses that he never sent.”

“The only person I’m aware of being in contact with Mister Potter during the time he was missing was the Headmaster.”  Minerva noted, as her brows rose at the down-right-snippy response to her initial scolding letter and then responses that softened as her worry grew.

“We got letters,” Neville gestured between himself and Luna even as he opened his own journal and saw that there was a lot more there than he’d expected because he had gotten letters from Harry.  “But nothing like this.”

“Oh, Harry.”  Hermione began to weep, tucking her head into Ron’s shoulder as his arm came up to cradle her.  “What did you do?”

“We’ll never know.”  Remus said pragmatically, though he’d venture a guess as he traded a look with first Mister Longbottom and then Miss Lovegood that they had a better idea than anyone else.  “He didn’t want us to know.  Whether that was of his own accord or some secrecy on the part of Albus, there’s no telling.”

“He’s really gone, isn’t he?”  Ron whispered, heartbroken and feeling like he’d let his bestfriend down all over again.

A feeling he’d gotten more than used to over the last thirteen months - give or take.

“Yes, he’s gone.”  Remus nodded, though after talking to the portraits at Grimmauld he had an idea about where and why he was considered legally dead.  Not that he’d ever shared it.  If ever there was a pair of wizards who deserved their freedom it was Sirius and Harry.  “It’s time we let him go and let him rest in peace.”

“May he rest in peace.”