Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The letter, wrapped in a garish pink bow and smelling of cloying perfume that can only belong to Dolores Umbridge, sits on the kitchen table at Number 12, Grimmauld Place. It’s a miracle it hasn’t been destroyed in the days since it arrived. Just the sight of the curly signature at the bottom of the page makes Harry want to vomit. His hand burns where it used to hold a scar that proudly declared to the world, I must not tell lies.

He stares and stares at the written words until his eyes dry up, forcing him to blink rapidly to clear his vision. Still, he doesn’t move, keeps staring at the letter.

It’s been three days.

Sirius and Remus talk in low tones in the living room, where they think Harry can’t hear them. He can, but he ignores them best he can to focus on staring a hole through the parchment adorned with obnoxious pink.

The woman must be grasping at straws, it’s the only explanation. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore set this in motion with the way Harry has been using his reputation to his advantage all summer. Dumbledore has to be desperate to pull Umbridge into their personal war, someone they both despise so strongly.

In two days, Harry will be required to appear before the Wizengamot for something as simple as apparating without a license. It’s only three weeks away from the start of term now, and his blood burns at the thought of Umbridge interfering with this school year.

He wonders why his case is going before the Wizengamot and not the Court of Magical Law as such a small crime should, but in the back of his mind he knows why. He's the Boy Who Lived, after all.

Hermione, stuck in the muggle world for a few more days by wish of her parents, has been sending letter after letter to everywhere she can think of, procuring books on Wizengamot laws, talking to wixen legal counsel to get advice on how to proceed, and bugging every magical expert she knows. The goal is to find a way around the charge of unlawful apparition, no matter what lines they must cross.

Ron, however, has taken a more practical approach. His family has chipped in with moral support and has expressed their anger at the situation, while Ron himself has been strategising with the solicitor the House of Black has on retainer. He and Sirius have made a solid plan of attack, but Harry hasn’t paid much attention to it. Instead, he spends his days thinking, staring at this horrifically pink letter, smelling the nauseating perfume, and plotting Dolores Unbridge’s demise. Draco would tell him to handle this with tact befitting his station, but Harry can’t be bothered. He knows what he has to do.

He’s only twelve in body (thank the Gods for his recent birthday), and now he has to explain to the magical court why he knows how to Apparate, and how he got so good at it when he just now discovered the magical world on his introduction to Hogwarts.

The truth is the best solution, he knows, and he thinks that is what Ron wants him to present to the court, a modified version of the truth.

Harry sighs once more, staring at this pink monstrosity sitting before him that smells like cloying flowers. He can’t be too powerful, can’t present a Dark Lord to the Wizengamot so early before introducing reform into the mainstream culture through Ron and Hermione’s thirty year plan, but he can work his image into a prodigy on all things magic. Nobody can deny his sheer magical strength after the last school year, so that works in his favor.

The day comes, and Harry dons his best robes, ones that Sirius and Draco helped him pick out just a few weeks ago. Sirius’s face is grim as he stands by the fireplace with Remus at his side, but he tries for a smile to reassure Harry. He looks healthier than he’s been in years. 

Harry smiles back, hands in his robes’ pockets. Harry’s tense, his young body coiled taut like a spring, just waiting to burst into action with his wand in his hand. He’s used to battle, to fighting, not arguing his defense in court.

He takes a deep breath, in and out. They’ve got this.

They meet the Black lawyer outside the floo at the Ministry of Magic. The trial will be in the lower levels, the dungeons. Harry has so many bad memories in this place, from during the second war, peacetime, the third war, but he puts on a slightly shaky smile and stands at Sirius’ side for the onlookers, a carefully crafted persona for the public. 

News of the trial must have gotten out by now, judging by the size of the crowds peering at him from every hallway.

Normally, criminal cases are seen before the Council of Magical Law, while only the most important cases are seen by the Wizengamot. Harry doesn’t know whether to be upset or smug about the threat that he seems to pose to the wizarding community. It reminds him of the dementor incident when he was going into fifth year last time around.

He shivers as he steps into the large room in the dungeons. He feels exposed. On the raised seating section in the front of the room, Amelia Bones, as the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, sits to the left of Cornelius Fudge. She’s frowning as she scans the room. Dolores Umbridge sits on Fudge’s right. The Court Scribe sits lower to the ground at Amelia’s side.

The room is dimly lit with torches, highlighting the cracked stone on all the walls and drawing Harry’s attention straight to the fifty Wizengamot members, all wearing purple robes with an ornate ‘W’ inscribed on their left sides. It’s a familiar, bone-chilling sight, a reminder of all that Harry has lost, all that he’s been through.

He sits in the large chair in the center of the room, carefully not wincing as the cursed chains wrap around his limbs to bind him to his seat. Sirius takes his seat in the front row, now wearing his own purple robe, sitting in for the Black family. The lawyer stands at Harry’s side.

Amelia is acting as an Interrogator in this trial, Harry knows, so he meets her eyes first as the murmuring of the crowd dies down. Her brow is furrowed, she’s frustrated. Fudge is the other Interrogator, and he scowls at Harry until Harry pointedly looks away. Now that Dumbledore is no longer Chief Warlock, he sits in the highest row, representing Hogwarts. It looks like there hasn’t been a new election for Chief Warlock, as Fudge is wearing the ceremonial robes for now.

It’s almost time. Harry scans the room one last time, his eyes catching on the heads of all the major pureblood families. Lucius scowls outwardly, something cold in his eyes. Neville’s grandmother looks down at the dark families, mouth pinched. Many others look unhappy to be here, but Harry catches the happy glint in Umbridge’s eye.

Merlin, he hates that woman.

The Ministry has been nervous lately, after everyone found out about Sirius’ lack of trial when he was sent to Azkaban. There were riots in the weeks following his actual trial, protesting the possibility that the Ministry would send an innocent man to his likely death. People worried that if they could do that to one of the most influential families in the wizarding community, how many others could have been tried without evidence or without a trial at all? 

Harry has a feeling that that is one of the reasons why they’re here today, to distract the protestors from the reforms that the Ministry promised all those months ago to appease the riots, though why they think holding a trial for the golden boy is a good idea, Harry doesn’t know. Perhaps they think it will make them look unbiased in the eyes of the people, when all it’s really doing is isolating a young boy and holding him to impossible standards while angering even more people.

Madame Bones calls the attention of the room with a burst of sparks from her elegant wand. Her face is severe. She casts a nonverbal Silencio to dull the voices of excited wixen, making sure all attention is on her. Sound from the stands is muted for now.

“We are here today to judge impartially if the young wizard Harry Potter has broken the laws of the Ministry of Magic.” She glances down from her seat to meet Harry’s eyes. “The law in question is Apparating without a License.”

There’s muttering behind the wall of silence, Harry watches their mouths move. Some are in doubt that a wizard of his age has the skill to Apparate, while others are in awe and some others sneer their distaste. Ron planned for this, Harry knows what to expect.

Harry remains still in his seat, constrained by the cursed chains that he can easily get out of. He puts on the face he perfected with Draco and Neville, a naive innocence in his expression while his eyes remain sad and traumatized. (Give enough Light to make them happy but enough Dark to make them sad, Sirius had joked.)

Amelia looks him in the eye, completely disregarding the lawyer standing at his side.

“How do you plead, Mr. Potter?”

“I have not broken this law, Madame Bones.” It’s true, and Harry fights back a grin as Umbridge gets this look in her eye now that she thinks she’s caught him in a lie, that she’s won.

Now Amelia turns to his legal counsel. Normally Wizengamot trials don’t have lawyers, but Harry is underage and therefore can call upon a representative to defend himself if he wants one. The man nods, approving Harry’s statement.

“Well then, let the trial commence.”

Harry straightens in his chair, ready for anything.

First brought to the witness stand is an employee at a shop in Diagon Alley, someone who saw Harry disappear in broad daylight after he bought books from her. The crowd murmurs, though the Silencio keeps the noise to a dull hum.

More witnesses follow, as if Umbridge and Fudge need as much proof as they can possibly present to the Wizengamot in case they get called out for being biased against Harry. He wants to laugh, but he figures they might not appreciate that.

The evidence continues to pile up, and even Amelia is starting to look despondent in the face of all the damning testimonies, but Harry keeps his face blank, tries not to grin or laugh. He really needs to be more careful in the future of where he uses his magic. Hermione will get into him about how many witnesses there are tonight, he knows.

Finally, the witnesses cease, and attention is firmly fixed on Harry once more.

“Mr. Potter,” Amelia says, face blank of any emotion that it previously held, “Would you like to restate your claim of guilt?”

“No, Madame Bones, I do not wish to do so.”

His representative shifts behind him purposefully, making eye contact with the Interrogators, and nods. The cursed chains tighten around Harry, as if preparing for him to resist with force.

“My client would like to give his defense, if it pleases the Wizengamot,” the man says.

Amelia’s jaw clenches, likely wondering how Harry’s going to get out of this one, but she and the others give their assent nonetheless. Dolores looks smug. Fudge is pale, sweaty, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Harry want to ruin him, a level of greed like Fudge has just been handed the keys to Gringotts.

“The claim against me is of Apparition without a license,” Harry starts, voice perfectly level. “I have not broken this law as I have not Apparated at all in this lifetime.”

There are murmurs of doubt throughout the court, but the silencing charms hold them in. Amelia looks caught between her belief in him and her own doubt at the sheer amount of evidence provided against him.

“It is quite simple actually, the reason for this misunderstanding.” Harry makes direct eye contact with Amelia now, ignoring Dolores and Fudge. “Apparating is a form of unrefined magical travel, forcing wixen through a tube of space of their own design to come out the other end in a different place. It requires three things along with a wixen’s innate magic: destination, determination, and deliberation, as I am sure you all know.”

Harry catches a light in Amelia’s eye now, the forming of an idea like she’s getting what he’s implying. He smirks.

“Other species have more refined methods of travel, similar to Apparition only in purpose. These methods, like how goblins disappear into shadow, light, and stone, or how House Elves pinch space and time around them to fold reality into a kind of opening of fabric where just an easy step can help a being traverse from one place to another without triggering any kinds of wards.”

Amelia’s eyes go wide, and Harry can’t help the amusement that drags into his voice as he continues.

“Some wixen, through study, practice, and an attunement with the neutral or natural magic around them, can replicate what these species do.” Harry lets his gaze roam, touching every person in the courtroom, one by one. “After learning about the magical world, my friend Hermione and I decided to learn everything we could, including the attributes of different beings, including House Elves.”

Dolores is practically snarling, eyes filled with disgust at both Harry and the idea of learning from creatures. Fudge is sweating heavily. He should really get that looked at by a professional Medi-Wizard.

“So, Madame Bones, no, I am not guilty of Apparition without a License. Instead, I simply learned from the teachers I had available and mastered movement through the neutral space of the physical world.”

There’s silence, even behind the silencing charms. Harry meets Sirius’ eyes and raises his chin, lips quirking up at the sight of his Godfather so smug.

“You are implying,” Dolores says slowly, with something dark in her voice that sends shivers down his spine even as he sees no threat from the woman, “that you learned from House Elves how to Apparate?”

“No, not Apparate, simply walk through space without forcing myself through it. You wouldn’t call phoenix travel Apparition, would you, Madame Senior Undersecretary? That’s just silly.”

She grits her teeth.

“Do you have proof, Mr. Potter?” Amelia asks, side-eyeing Dolores with a wary look.

In answer, Harry hums and slips through the surrounding neutral space until he stands before the raised section of the court, hands up to show he is without his wand, that he means no threat. (Wand or not, Harry will always be a threat, but they don’t know that yet. )

There’s a commotion as the guarding Aurors move to protect the crowd in case Harry attacks, though he doesn’t. He only stares up at the three Ministry Officials with a sly grin.

“Would you like for me to return to the chair now, Madame Bones?”

Amelia looks to be forcing down a chuckle, if the twitching of her lips is anything to go by. She's very good at keeping her facade. Minerva does the same thing, and Harry is hit with a reminder of why he is doing this, why he and his coven are working so hard to help where they can.

“I believe you should, Mr. Potter, though I am not sure any of us could force you.”

That’s true, but he doesn’t confirm nor deny, just twists his magic until he is once again sitting in the warded chair, chains wrapped around him. The solicitor at his back clears his throat, an admonishment for the cheek yet also praise for his methods. Sirius chose well with him, Harry thinks.

“Well,” Amelia clears her throat, calling attention back to herself in a burst of sparks, “that concludes Mr. Potter’s statement of defense. I must mention, after that show of magic that we have just been provided with, that this chamber is warded against Apparition, making it impossible for young Mr. Potter to Apparate without causing a feedback loop by overpowering the runic array, which would lead to a considerable explosion. Consider this as you deliberate.”

There's time for the spectators to talk amongst themselves.

Fudge coughs, clears his throat, and with a squeaking voice declares to the court, “Raise your wands if you judge, without a doubt, that Harry Potter has broken the law that he has been charged with.”

A few wands go up, Lumos at their ends.

Harry catches Dumbledore’s eye, strengthens his Occlumency shields just in case. The wizard’s eyes twinkle, but he does not raise his wand to try to condemn Harry. Instead, he looks intrigued. That’s a problem for another day, Harry decides.

“Raise your wands if you judge, without a doubt, that Harry Potter has not broken the law that he has been charged with,” Fudge squeaks again, though begrudgingly this time.

Wands all across the dungeon rise, lit up with the white light of practiced Lumos at every end.

Harry’s heart settles from its rapid pace. He put on a brave face, and he knew he would be able to escape any charge put against him with the help of his coven and his own magic, but being here again, being where he almost got his wand snapped only to be narrowly saved by Dumbledore, is making his body react to the presumed threat.

He steps out of the chains as they go lax around him, opening for him to leave, and meets Sirius at the steps to the seating area. He collapses into his Godfather’s arms, not having to feign his exhaustion for the reporters watching.

“I wanna go home,” he whispers into Sirius’ neck, feeling Sirius nod against the top of his head.

With a quick twist, habit after so long only Apparating in the past-future, Harry and Sirius disappear from the courtroom and step into Grimmauld where the rest of his coven is waiting.

Hermione and Ron pull him onto the couch, cradling him in between them, as Draco and Neville climb on top of the couple to help hold Harry against them all.

Sirius, similarly to his godson, collapses into Remus’s waiting arms in the armchair close to the fire.

The room collectively sighs with relief. It’s over. 

For now.

After the trial, there’s still so much to be done. The coven return to their own homes for the time being, though Hermione is traveling throughout Diagon and Knockturn Alley as the others prepare to return to Hogwarts. She’s always searching for more knowledge, and she will not stop until she finds it.

Draco frees Dobby with a new, clean sock, knitted especially by Molly Weasley. It’s in Gryffindor colors, and Dobby sobs into Harry’s arms for hours after that. Lucius watches on with a sneer, but Narcissa tempers his anger and disgust with a grounding hand on his arm. Dobby disappears to search for work after Harry recommends Hogwarts to the little elf.

The day after the trial, every wizarding newspaper in England publishes a report of what happened in that dungeon courtroom.

It’s everywhere, Ron grins through the bond, you’re famous, Harry. The Boy-Who-Lived is now a Friend to House Elves, the first ever wizard to learn to use their magic.

We’re lucky the goblins agreed to put up an information ward over Azkaban to keep the Death Eaters from getting wind of their Lord’s defeat, Hermione mutters through the bond. Goblins really don’t like it when you skip out on taxes, and their memories are long. Bellatrix won’t be getting out any time soon.

Hm, Harry grins, I wonder what they’d do if they actually got the Prophet in that place.

Ron snickers, My bet is on a club of insane Death Eaters coming at you with no strategy, as they’re so used to doing.

No, some of them are smart, even if they never show it, Hermione says. One or two of them would come up with a plan, gather allies, and strike when they think you’re weakest.

But that would never work, Neville pipes in, because Harry is never that weak.

Harry’s heart warms, Aw, thanks guys.

The next day, Harry makes up his mind on something he’s been thinking about for a while now.

Sirius has reclaimed his place as Lord Black, Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, which comes with many advantages in the pureblood-centric world of politics, but there’s still so much to do, so much to change, and Sirius could be a bigger part of that, if he’s willing.

Harry talks to him about it, late that night as the clock ticks closer to midnight. They’re both awake, sitting by the fire in the living room, and Harry shoots his shot. Remus is asleep upstairs.

“You think I should go into politics?” Sirius says, a look of horror on his face.

Harry smiles at the reaction.

“I mean, I’ll do it if you want me to,” Sirius pouts, “but really? Politics? I hate that stuff, have hated it since I was shoved out of the family for not wanting to torture muggleborns.”

“Think about it, Padfoot,” Harry says, “the things you could get done with the Black family name and your history, all of it. You could fight for Remus’ rights when Umbridge calls for her werewolf registration to be legalized.”

Sirius hums, reluctantly considering his point.

“And,” Harry drawls, “When I turn thirteen, I’ll be able to claim my Heir rings from Gringotts, which means I should probably shadow you to get the full crash-course of Ministry policies and actions.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow, “Is that why you’re throwing me to the wolves, pup? So you can slip your way into the Ministry before you claim your Heir and Lordship titles?”

“Maybe,” Harry grins.

“Fine.”

It’s decided, Sirius will talk to Narcissa and Andy to see what the best way of reintroducing himself into the political world will be, and he’ll do it without complaining. (Not likely, but a boy can dream.)

Shopping takes a whole day between the coven, Sirius, and Remus. Hermione and Neville scour the local bookstores for what they’ll need this year while Harry, Draco, and Ron spend some time in the Quality Quidditch Supplies, perusing the latest brooms. The Nimbus 2001 has been released, and Harry buys one for each of them, even Hermione who detests flying.

Neville comes out of his favorite plant shop weighed down by a trunk full of magical plants, grinning happily. Draco vanishes the trunk to the greenhouse in Malfoy Manor, tucking it safely away so they can continue shopping.

A quick stop at Eeylops Owl Emporium gets Ron a new familiar, one that isn’t an Animagus in disguise. He picks out a frumpy looking owl that Hermione’s new (old in the future-past) half-kneazle, Crookshanks, doesn’t outright hate. The Weasley owl has seen better days, Harry insists when Molly protests the idea, and what’s the use of having an inheritance if not to spend it on his friends?

Draco and Hermione spend time in the Apothecary, whispering to themselves. They end up buying all the ingredients for potions they'll need, and Harry nods when they come out, ingredients dutifully put away into their trunks, shrunk for convenience. They need enough ingredients for their plan involving Snape.

That night, after the others have gone to sleep, Draco and Harry, clothed by dark cloaks with Disillusionment Charms covering their faces, step into Knockturn Alley. They get Dark plants for Neville, books covering rituals and creatures for Hermione, rare books on strategy and astronomy for Ron, and some things for themselves.

No one gives them a second look, not the vampires tucked into alleyways or the hags with their carts of goods calling to the wizards walking briskly down the Alley. From one of these carts, Draco buys an old potions book bound with shapeshifter skin and written by an anonymous wizard from three hundred years ago. He tucks the book into the pouch under his cloak and gives the hag a nod for her service. Harry eyes the writhing snakes in the nearest creature store before he and Draco return to Grimmauld. Someday, when the public realizes that Parselmouths aren’t evil, Harry’s gonna get a snake.

On the day before their return to Hogwarts, the coven is back together once more, all in one place after so long apart.

Hermione flips through a book she's pulled from the Black Library, sitting in the armchair by the fireplace in Grimmauld’s living room. Ron is tucked into her side, his head on her shoulder. Hermione is happy to be back with her friends, her family, after so long of staying with her parents in the muggle world and searching through every magical store she could get her hands on in Diagon, Knockturn, and other shady places.

The rest of their coven is scattered throughout the rest of the room. Harry and Draco relax on the couch with Neville laying on the floor at their feet, looking through a book on dark botany.

“Harry,” Hermione says, letting the book close on her lap. Harry looks up from Draco’s relaxed face and gives her a smile. “I’ve gone through most of our memories of the past-future and made a list of all the financial opportunities there should be.”

Good, that’s something they’ve been wanting to do since the whole Voldemort thing was taken care of. For their future plans they’ll need a lot of money.

“We need to visit the Bank sometime soon to add our names to your account, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Then I can start on our investments.”

“Sounds good,” Harry grins. His coven is really smart, he loves them.

“You should talk with Griphook about Ginny while you’re there,” Ron says. “I know she’ll be different this time around without the trauma from Riddle, but she’s still a goblin warrior, through and through. That kind of thing doesn’t change, and Griphook will want to be aware if there’s a possibility of her reaching out in the next couple of years.”

That’s also part of the thirty-year plan, Ginny becoming the Goblins’ emissary when it comes to wixen kind, just as Ron is the Centaurs’, Draco will be the Merfolk’s, and Hermione is the Elves’.

“Good idea,” Hermione summons a notebook and pen and jots that down on her ever-growing To-Do list. Her eyes are already glazing over as she thinks through their options.

“Apple and Google are vital for financials, especially if we get in this early,” Ron muses. “Netflix is a definite yes, and Amazon certainly wouldn’t hurt, but most of these won’t kick in for a decade. We’ll be playing the long game.”

“Well,” Draco drawls, eyes blinking sleepily up at Harry from his place in his lap, “we can’t do much at our current ages, so by the end of the 90’s we’ll be old enough to actually use that money. The math works out.”

Harry continues carding his fingers through Draco’s hair with a smile, “Smart wolf.”

That night, they split up one last time to retrieve their trunks and pack their final items for the train ride.

Father has been quieter than normal, Draco tells them through the coven bond as they pack. His mind is closed with a sort of smugness that worries me, but Mother made me promise not to read them both as deeply as I would need to to see his secret.

Harry frowns, using his magic to seal his trunk as Sirius and Remus bicker in the background about the importance of quidditch versus academics.

We’ll figure it out, Harry reassures him. Their coven members push behind that sentiment, agreeing that everything will work out, and the bond fills with warmth.

Finally, finally, it’s time to board the Hogwarts Express.

Sirius and Remus floo into King’s Cross with Harry between them. His trunk is in his pocket, shrunken with the best spell he knows, and he is valiantly resisting the urge to clutch at his guardians’ robes.

Harry’s physical body is only twelve now, and with the malnourishment from his childhood he’s still not very big. Sirius has to kneel down to look up and meet his eyes.

“You know to call if you need us,” he says, voice full of gravel, eyes full of emotions, with that familiar Black Family madness lurking in the darkness of his features. “And we’ll visit when we can, alright? Minnie said we can use her floo as often as we want.”

Remus sighs, places a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “She didn’t say whenever we want, cub, don’t worry about that. We won’t be showing up at random.”

Sirius pouts up at the werewolf as Harry smiles.

“And,” Remus continues, “We know you’re not exactly a kid, but if you need anything, and we mean anything, Harry, we’re just a floo call away. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says through the emotion lodged in his throat. “Of course.”

Harry pulls them both into tight hugs one last time, breathing in their scents and holding their magic close as he feels his coven do the same with their families.

Ron and Ginny follow Harry to their usual compartment, their brilliant red hair a calming sight as Harry watches his Godfather wave goodbye. It’s not forever, Harry knows that, but it’s natural to have abandonment issues after everything he’s been through, or at least that’s what Hermione tells him constantly.

Ginny gives him a grin, and he finds himself grinning back.

Over the last two months of summer vacation, Harry and Ginny have become close, though not as close as they once were in the past-future that will never be. Ginny is an excellent Chaser, even young as she is, and she and Harry spent many afternoons, come rain or shine, fighting on the makeshift quidditch pitch at the Burrow. Molly and Aurthur seemed to love this new experience, and Harry knows he’ll have to deal with matchmaking Weasleys in the next few years, but he’ll take the pain just to see Ginny’s wild eyes and fiery red hair in action once more.

Ginny, like Neville at first, gets a curious look in her eye when Harry and his coven do anything too out there (finely-tuned battle instincts that no twelve-year-olds should have, wandless and wordless magic that even the Weasley matriarch can’t accomplish, knowing things they shouldn’t), but she lets her curiosity simmer. Harry knows she’ll bring it up when she thinks they’re ready to talk about it. She’s young, but she’s intuitive.

The coven shares a train car cabin between the six of them, all packed into the two rows of seats, Ron and the girls on one side and the rest of the boys on the other. Luna hasn’t made herself known, not yet, but Harry can feel that silvery aura somewhere further down the train.

Harry is snug between Draco and Neville, their shoulders touching, Draco’s cold hand in his. He’s safe, he knows, but the tingling in his magical core tells him to stay on guard. His instincts are paranoid, but they’re useful, so he listens to them.

News has spread of the trial, Harry’s defense, and his subsequent win. Some are appalled at the Wizengamot’s lack of tact in holding trial against a twelve-year-old, but others, like Dumbledore and the Toad, are wary of Harry’s power level. Harry made a good decision in the defense he gave, but there are always some who will think the worst of those who are different to them.

Already, at least twenty students have come in to see Harry on the train so far, and they still have hours to go before they get to Hogwarts. Ginny looks ready to hex the next one who knocks at their door. (Harry’s heart tightens, but Draco and Neville scoot closer on either side of him, and his grief abates.)

Ginny’s hair is done up in a crown of braids, woven by Ron and his careful attention to detail, and Harry can’t help but stare. It reminds him of harder times, of memories that will never be, of mistakes and love and age. Harry squeezes Draco’s hand, crushes his pale fingers between his own, and breath returns to his chest. She’s not his wife, not the Ginny he knew, she’s her own person, not burdened by the future-past.

“Has Lucius said anything about why he’s been so quiet recently?” Hermione asks, jolting Harry out of his head. He shoots her a thankful look, matches her smile with one of his own.

“No,” Draco shakes his head, frowning, “not yet. I’m hoping that Mother will get it out of him, but Father has always been good at holding onto secrets of his own. The few glimpses that I’ve managed to sneak into his head have been muddled, but I think it has something to do with Hogwarts. That’s all I’ve got so far.”

Ron hums, “Well, we’ll figure it out, whatever it is. Besides, hiding anything from Narcissa is a losing battle, everyone knows that. She’ll confront him and send us a letter by the end of the week, just you wait.”

Hermions nods, her smile wide at the mention of Narcissa.

Eventually, Luna meanders into their train car, long blonde hair falling below her shoulders, and sets herself down between Ginny and Ron. Hermione shifts to sit next to Draco and Harry as Neville takes her place so he can sit on Ron's other side.

“Alright,” Ron starts, calling their attention in the small train car from where he’s now stuffed between Neville and Luna. “What do we need to get done this year?”

Ginny and Neville look slightly confused, but they take it well, Neville catching on through the bond while Ginny is used to the cryptic references by now.

“We need to continue working towards our career paths,” Hermione says, eyes speed-reading her imaginary list. “I know we probably won’t get the actual apprenticeships for at least another year, but we need to prove our worth to our respective masters.”

“And,” Draco drawls, “we need to further immerse ourselves in the cultures that we need to represent. My meeting with the Queen is in just a few weeks.”

“Do you think it’ll go well?” Harry asks.

“Hm, it depends on how loyal she is to Dumbledore, but I will do my best with what I am given. If everything goes right, I’ll be declared their emissary within the next year.”

“Alright,” Ron says, “what else?”

“Colin needs to end up with a good group of friends,” Harry says. Images flash through the bond of the small boy, alive, camera flashing, dead, covered in blood and soot, being carried by Oliver Wood to lay with the rest of the cold bodies. Draco grips Harry’s hand tight.

“I can take care of that,” Luna says dreamily, with a soft smile on her face. “The wrackspurts have been kind to him this year, he won’t have much trouble fitting in.”

Ron’s smile softens as he hums, looking at Luna, “That’s good. We can work with that.”

“The Elves have just started considering my latest contract, so we’ll be working on that for a while,” Hermione says. “I think they’ll like my next draft better, but we still have some time to go before they agree to anything concrete.”

“The Centaurs are okay, we’ve been owling when I can’t get away from the Burrow,” Ron says. “They don’t want to confront the Ministry or anything yet, the stars say it’s not the time for it.”

Ginny narrows her eyes, “You never did tell us how the centaur herd reached out to you, Ron.”

“And I won’t for at least another month,” Ron grins.

Hermione shakes her head at them, eyes alight, and says, “I’ve invested in everything I can think of so far, and the money we already have isn’t small, so we’ll be good for ten years at the most before dipping into our shared vault.”

“While we’re at Hogwarts this year we really need to cement the alliances we’ve accrued,” Draco mutters, probably thinking about his fellow Slytherins. “I want to get to know Crabbe and Goyle better while maintaining a healthy relationship with Theo and Blaise.”

“Um,” Neville shyly raises his hand, making Harry want to pinch his cheeks. Ron gives into the impulse with an even wider grin. Neville takes it like a champ, powering through the manhandling. “I know I’m not one of the ones with important knowledge here, but I feel like we need to do something about Azkaban, something more than just some goblin wards.”

“Do you have any ideas on that, Nev’?” Ron asks with a smile, brushing Neville’s hair back from his forehead. Of all of them, Neville has the Lightest views, which makes his advice definitely necessary in this particular area.

“I mean,” Neville says, eyes hardening slightly, “I know that most of them are very bad people, especially Lestrange, but dementors are horrid and inhumane. If we can find any way to keep them away from the general public while limiting the psychological damage in each prisoner, then I think I could feel better about it.”

Hermione hums, magic flickering around her, “I’m not fond of Bellatrix either, but I agree with you there. Once we get a better hold on the goings on in the Ministry, we should be able to get rid of the dementors. Sirius can probably help with that, with his personal experience and all. In the meantime, we can try to pass some laws that keep minor criminals out of Azkaban, so anyone with minor charges won't have to spend time in that nightmare of a place.”

“I can send a letter to Mother,” Draco says, “and I’m sure Sirius will want to help there, if Harry wants to get in contact with him soon.”

“Good,” Hermione nods. Her magic trembles once more before tucking into the edges of their coven bond, tendrils settling in for the rest of discussion.

“Okay,” Ginny says slowly, “Not that I’m not on board, of course, but what just happened? Are you all really planning to take over the Wizarding World?”

She doesn’t look terrified at that possibility, which makes Harry grin, but there’s youth in her eyes that viciously reminds them that she’s not the Ginny they used to know. She’s eleven, a child, untouched by war.

“Technically,” Ron says. “Yes.”

He looks serious now. The amusement and care that was blatant across his face when he looked at Neville is gone as he looks at his little sister with worry in his eyes.

“But not for any bad reasons.” He reaches out to squeeze her hand. “We just want to make sure that balance is restored, you know? Make sure that people like Riddle will never again have the opportunity to grab hold into a society that’s primed for another war. We can’t let that happen again.”

Harry grips the hands of those closest to him as something dark passes through Ron’s magic, horrible memories invading his mind.

Ginny seems to latch on to the word “again,” as her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t comment on it. She squeezes her brother’s hand, swallows, nods.

“Okay. Count me in.”

Luna chuckles airily, “This is going to be the best year. Well, aside from the Toad, of course.”

Harry stills as the coven bond pulls tight with tension.

“Umbridge?” Hermione asks, barely restrained anger in her tone.

“Yes,” Luna hums, a hint of a frown marring her serene face, “the wrackspurts have been whispering about her as of late. They say she and her cats have moved in.”

Ron curses under his breath.

“That’s not good. We need to move up our timeline on the Toad and the Beetle.”

Harry nods, squeezing Draco’s hand tight. Hermione leans into his shoulder with a grimace even as her eyes flicker with ideas.

Neville, seeing Ginny’s confused face, explains best he can, that there’s a detestable woman who has it out for Harry and seems to have wiggled into a position of staff for the school year. He doesn’t tell her that this has happened before, but Ginny’s eyes sparkle as she looks to be connecting the dots. She’s clever, even at such a young age.

Draco, Andromeda’s voice rings out through the secondary coven bond, making them all perk up, hands going to their wands. Cissy found out what Lucius has been hiding. You’re not gonna like it, I’m afraid.

Draco sighs through the bond, I think we just figured it out as well. This year will be a bit more tricky with Umbridge sauntering around the castle like she owns the place, but we’ll make do. We always do.

Take care of yourselves, Andy insists. Her mental voice is trembling, and Hermione pushes comfort at her magic with all her might. If she touches a hair on any of your heads, Cissy, Minerva, Filius, and I will Avada her ourselves.

Is it bad that I’m comforted by that? Neville squeaks. His eyes are wide, and Ron squeezes his shoulder with a grin.

Andy chuckles in their heads before her magic withdraws.

“So,” Ginny drawls, eyeing them all carefully, “are we going to talk about that too? Or ignore it until you’re all ready to tell me?”

Harry gives her a regretful smile, “Sorry, Gin’. Not yet.”

“It’s fine,” she sighs, dramatically leaning into Luna’s side. “I’ll come to my own conclusions, as long as you all don’t mind being subject to my curiosity.”

Luna rests her head against Ginny’s, pale blonde hair mixing with red.

“Curiosity is good, it’s what keeps the Nargles from getting too close,” she smiles. Her eyes are glazed ever so slightly, and Ginny chuckles into her neck.

“So, Ginny,” Harry grins, “how do you think the Holyhead Harpies' new season will go? Think they’ll finally beat the Magpies?”

Ginny perks up and takes the challenge.

Eventually, the train whistle rings throughout the compartments, and the first years have to group up to take the boats to see Hogwarts for the first time. The five second-years of the coven give Ginny and Luna hugs, wishing them luck with their sorting.

They know where they’re going to go, but watching the sorting is always exciting. Harry almost manages to ignore the fate awaiting them in the Great Hall, the Toad that will be at the high table once more.

“Can you sit with Colin on the boats?” Ron asks Ginny and Luna. He has his planning face on, and Ginny rolls her eyes, recognising it.

“Sure,” Ginny agrees. “See you guys in the Great Hall.”

The thestrals whinny happily when they catch Harry’s scent, bringing a grin to his face. He missed using the carriages last year, mainly because second year is the first year that students get to use them.

They smell the death on him, he knows, but he smiles all the same, runs his hands up and down their snouts until they’re growling out low purrs. Draco chuckles behind him.

Neville can’t see the horses that are so close to Death, not yet, which Harry is glad for, but he’s seen drawings of them, and he lets them have their moment with Harry. Ron and Hermione load into the carriage first, pulling their trunks inside for the rest of them.

While the kids are heading to school, Sirius and Remus floo into the Ministry. Sirius carefully arranges his face and posture into those befitting a pureblood Lord, especially the Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

His robes are clean and visibly expensive. He bought these when Harry recommended he go back into politics, and as much as he hates the idea of it, Sirius can see that it’s necessary, at least for now. Besides, there’s no way he’ll let Harry set out into the Wizarding World alone.

Remus strides slightly to the side and behind him, head ducked. Some of the ministry employees shoot Remus dirty looks, and Sirius tightens his grip on his wand, just in case. Sirius made sure Remus has clean robes, though they aren’t as high-quality as the ones Sirius wants him to wear, not yet. They have to get this done first.

The Department of Magical Identities is a place that Sirius has been to many times, to receive his official Black Heirship title as a young boy, to transfer legal authority to the Potters after his Sorting, to recognise the Lordship title after he got out of Azkaban, and now to register Remus as an official vassal of the House of Black.

Of course, the goblins can take care of most of this, but by going directly to the Ministry Sirius makes sure that the news gets out to the general public. Remus Lupin is no longer a werewolf commoner, no, now he is a Black Vassal with the ability to make change in the political world, with the weight of the House of Black behind him.

It’s a fairly straightforward process. Sirius set an appointment that morning with the Head of the Department, Eric Munch, and the squat man is waiting for them at the doors to his office.

The man rubs his stubble as he glances up and down at Remus, narrowing his eyes in consideration.

“Yes,” he mutters, “this will do nicely.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow, face the perfect picture of a pureblood Lord. 

“Excuse me, Lord Black,” he squeaks. “I meant no disrespect. I was merely commenting on the strength of the spell that will connect you with Vassal Lupin. It will be extraordinary, some of my best work. You see, it feeds off of the bond already present between two wizards, and the bond you share with this man is made of the strongest emotions. Yes, this will be a powerful Vassal bond.”

Sirius fights the urge to crack a joke, pushes down the demented laughter that comes so easily since Azkaban. Instead, he nods, sharing a glance with Remus. His friend looks just as surprised as Sirius feels, though Sirius cannot show it on his face if he wishes to continue with the image of a proper Lord.

“What do you need from us, Mr. Munch?” Sirius asks, voice steady. His wand is safely tucked into its holster on his forearm. He feels no need to have it out here, there is no visible threat.

What follows is as regular as any other Identity Registration, with a pre-typed contract describing the professional relationship that Remus and Sirius will have. They sign their names at the bottom, imprinting their magical signatures into the ink, and Munch instructs Remus to press a bloodied fingerprint to the bottom right corner.

“That is that,” Munch grins. He looks giddy as the bond snaps into place with only a nudge from his own magic. “I am proud to have been of service, Lord Black, Vassal Black. Please let me know if you need more of my work in the future.”

Munch bows low, and Sirius inclines his head in response, Remus doing the same at his side.

As they make their way back to the floo, Sirius bumps Remus’ shoulder with his own, his lips twitching up into the start of a grin.

“What do you think, Moony? Official enough for you?”

Remus sighs quietly, still eyeing the wizards around them, but there’s a new confidence to his posture that wasn’t there before. Sirius takes note of the insignia that has threaded itself into the collar of Remus’ old robes.

“If you insist on getting into politics, Padfoot,” Remus makes eye contact, smiles softly, “I am happy to be at your side. I recognise this is the only way they’ll ever let me stand by you at your level, so yes, I am content with having an official title. Even if I’ll have to wear stuffy robes for the rest of my public life.”

They share a grin, Sirius barely stifling a cackle.

“Good, good.” Sirius straightens his shoulders and glares at the people staring their way. “Now, time to gather allies.”

Sirius is just happy they didn’t run into Lucius or Arthur, as much as he likes the latter man. They have things to do, letters to write, robes to buy. Sirius eyes Remus’ shoes with a subtle disdain. Yes, he thinks, first on the list is clothes shopping.

Walking into the Great Hall is like something out of a dream for Harry. In the years since Hogwarts was destroyed, at least in the future-past, Harry has missed this place with its enchanted ceiling and long, wooden tables stacked full with plates for each student.

Oh, he missed this.

Ron and Hermione take his hands as they walk in, heading towards the front end of the Gryffindor table. He feels Draco’s mind brush against his as the boy strides towards the front of the Slytherin table to settle in between Crabbe and Goyle, across from Nott and Zabini. Neville keeps to Ron’s other side as they slide into their seats, eyes already fixed on the Head Table.

Their year-mates pile in around them, greeting and laughing, bumping shoulders and already trading stories of the summer. Harry meets Draco’s eye over the crowd of students and grins.

The upper-years settle in as well, some shooting Harry and his friends wary looks, some considering, some happy. Harry’s glad they give the second-years a little bit of space, even as he knows he has to get them on his side for the future of his plans.

The professors file into the head table, and Harry feels his coven’s magic pull taut once more.

There she is, the Toad herself, Dolores Umbridge.

Neville and Ron do their best to push their Light magic into the coven link, drowning out the sheer rage that comes from Draco and Hermione’s Dark, but Hermione’s hands start to twitch towards her wand, and Harry has to grab her hand before she curses the woman in such a public place.

Calm, he soothes. We’ll get her soon, but we can’t act yet. We need proof, something that will take her out permanently, something that people can’t ignore.

Hermione breathes shakily through the flood of rage, clutching Ron and Harry’s hands, pulling the Light magic of the bond closer than normal. She lets herself bathe in the fire and sunshine, and her heart calms.

Draco, on the other hand, is completely still. His heart is steady, his breathing is calm, but his eyes are fixed on the head table with such homicidal glee that Harry almost elf-travels over to tackle him before he does something stupid. But Draco doesn’t do anything stupid. He’s a Slytherin, and he is calculated.

We will destroy her, Draco whispers into their heads, and it will be glorious.

Neville idly soothes Draco’s magic with his own blinding sunlight, Of course, Draco. We’ll protect our people, all of them.

Their people, the children of Hogwarts, the wizarding public, anyone who has been taken advantage of by people in power. Neville pushes a feeling through the bond of them protecting the castle, defending the students, laughing with the professors.

Something deep in Draco’s magic, his wolf Animagus, purrs, content.

Yes, we will protect them, all of them. She will not hurt them. Draco keeps his eyes on the head table but moves so his shoulder is against Goyle’s, seeking physical reassurance. The boy looks at Draco with wide eyes for a second before nodding, clenching his jaw in determination and pushing back.

Good, his friends will take care of him, that’s one disaster averted. Harry catches Snape’s eye and nods, respectful. Snape’s mouth twitches, the only sign of his surprise, but he nods back shallowly.

The first-years enter as they always do, in awe of the Great Hall and skittish around the entering ghosts. Luna and Ginny stand next to each other, whispering in each other's ears with big grins. Ginny is looking up at the enchanted ceiling with bright eyes, tracing constellations of floating candles. Harry has to swallow the whimper that wants to escape his throat.

She’s safe, Ron mutters. Tom can’t touch her ever again. We made sure of it.

Harry squeezes Ron’s hand and leans against Hermione’s shoulder with a nod.

Minerva sets the Sorting Hat down onto a stool before the rest of the Great Hall, and it begins. The Sorting goes as expected, with Ginny in Gryffindor and Luna in Ravenclaw. Colin Creevey hops to the Gryffindor table with stars in his eyes, awed gaze skittering from place to place before landing on Harry with a gasp. His new yearmates pull him to sit down before he can make a fool of himself. Ginny looks to be hiding a laugh. Harry’s just glad she got over that crush rather quickly after the summer.

Dumbledore stands after the last first-year has been Sorted and says some inane words, giving his normal beginning-of-the-year speech.

Umbridge clears her throat impolitely, pulling herself to the front of the stand to address the school. It’s almost the exact same speech she gave Harry’s fifth year in the future-past. Harry has to hide his grin behind his hand. His laughter is only tempered by the fact that he’s going to have to put up with her as a DADA teacher for the next year. He makes a mental note to revive the DADA tutoring lessons they set up last year.

The students across all four tables are grumbling by the time Umbridge sits back down, and Dumbledore has a twinkle in his eye that’s equal parts frustration and humor.

The Start of Term Feast begins, and Harry piles his plate high with all the food he can. It’s been a year since his physical body was with the Dursleys, but his body is still not yet at its best shape. Over the summer, Sirius made worried noises every time Harry had to throw up his dinner after eating too quickly. Neville is doing the same now, worried eyes fixed on the amount of food on Harry’s plate.

At the end of the feast, the plates and extra food vanish, making some of the first-years exclaim their surprise, and Dumbledore steps up to give them his final words.

They’re dismissed, finally, and Harry locks arms with Ron as Hermione and Neville walk with Ginny to the common room.

Sleep comes easily that night, curled up in an extended bed with Neville and Ron. Dean and Seamus are used to it by now, they don’t give the larger bed a second glance.

Minerva hands out schedules the next morning at breakfast. She doesn’t look altogether happy, though Harry only knows that from the years he’s spent learning her expressions.

Harry’s glad they don’t have Defense until the end of the day before dinner, though he’s definitely looking forward to when the Houses start to realize that Umbridge won’t be teaching anything practical this year. They’ll probably come flocking to the coven’s DADA lessons in their abandoned classroom.

Minerva glances at Harry as she passes him, eyes questioning. She’s wondering if Harry will start up the club again. He nods. She looks relieved and continues on to instruct the first-years on their classes.

First is a double period of Charms, Harry’s favorite.

Filius greets him with a wide grin before waving his wand to silently bring the chalkboard over, a piece of chalk already writing down directions to the latest charm they’ll be learning.

Class seems to speed by after the summer Harry’s had, full of political bolstering and quiet time with his family.

Lunch comes and goes, then History of Magic, and finally it’s time for Defense. 

The Gryffindors share this period with Slytherin, letting Draco sit with Harry as the rest of them spread out at the various tables. There’s a clear lack of House divide in this classroom, and Umbridge sneers when she sees the blend of gold and silver, red and green. Harry has a feeling he knows what her first Educational Decree as the Ministry Representative will be.

“Now,” she tuts, waving her wand to pass out their textbooks for the year, “you may know me from my position as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, but when we are in this school you will address me as Professor Umbridge. I will not let you slack off as you have for the last year. I am not like your other professors, you will obey my directives or you get detention. Do you understand me, class?”

A chorus of ‘yes’s comes from the already-tired class of students. Harry sees some of the Slytherins give the Gryffindors commiserative looks.

It’s a disaster, worse than Harry remembers it being in fifth-year. Umbridge goes on and on about the importance of caution and nonviolent solutions. Even when she concedes that defensive magic is necessary, she refuses to teach it to them.

I wonder what she’ll target me for this year, Harry muses over the link as Umbridge goes off on a rant about creature rights. I haven’t said anything to be considered lying this time around.

Hermione hums, her mind and magic whirring, I dunno. Maybe something about your problems with authority.

Harry nods slightly, which unfortunately catches Umbridge’s attention.

“Mr. Potter,” she simpers. She’s wearing entirely too much pink, and her perfume makes Harry feel nauseous as she steps up to his desk. “I’m sure your last Defense teacher looked past your tendency to not pay attention when they were talking, but I will not be doing that. Respect is vitally important in the classroom, especially in a subject as volatile as Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” he frowns, trying his hardest not to laugh. She looks smug. “I simply didn’t know that you were teaching at the moment. I assumed you wouldn’t have the bravery to call centaurs monsters in such a professional setting. I guess I was wrong.”

She raises an eyebrow, a sneer starting to make itself known as the other students watch them intently, “What would you call them, Mr. Potter?”

“Magical creatures, or if that’s still too crude for anyone, magical beings.”

“But that’s just not true, now, is it?” She tuts, “And that is why I am here to teach you. Your misunderstandings need to be quelled.”

Ron raises his hand lazily, “If I am understanding this correctly, Professor, you don’t see centaurs as magical beings? Why is that? They’re as sapient as wizards and have a complex astronomical system that often lends itself towards their powerful magic. Just because they don’t have wands and aren’t bipedal doesn’t mean they’re not worthy of respect.”

Umbridge squints at Ron, her own magic turning a sickly shade of pink, and Harry has to cough to hide the laughter that wants to come out. Some of the other students don’t even try to hide theirs.

“Ah,” she purses her lips, “you are the boy who talks to those half-breeds, aren’t you, Mr. Weasley? The one pushing for legal rights and the like for dark creatures? I suppose I will give you the benefit of the doubt, being friends with someone like Harry Potter, but I will not let you talk without permission again.”

She looks around the room, sees the expectant faces, and her face turns a bit purple.

“As for why centaurs should be considered inferior to witches and wizards, I believe that will be touched upon in your textbooks for the year,” she says, chin tilted upwards, trying her best to look regal and imperious. It does not work.

“But could you tell us now, Professor?” Draco asks, eyes wide and innocent. “I’d really like to know what you think on the matter.”

“Well,” she said, her cheeks coloring, “it is rather simple. Centaurs are considered half-breeds at best, and creatures of less than human intelligence at minimum. Their barbaric culture has no room for proper magic, the kind of magic that pure witches and wizards wield, the kind that requires a wand. So you see, Mr. Malfoy, centaurs, as stated by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, are inferior to wizardkind and do not deserve the same rights afforded to witches and wizards. We give them the rights that they do deserve, such as letting goblins handle our gold and house elves take care of our homes. The Ministry is really quite generous in its treatment of creatures.”

The class is silent. Ron’s magic is almost boiling now, making his hair stand on end, and those seated near him start to scoot away. Harry rests a hand on Ron’s shoulder, sending soothing waves of Gray towards the burning surge of Light around them.

He has to do something before Ron blows up in defense of his chosen people.

“I think that’s bullshit,” Harry says clearly, drawing the attention of the room and a clearly offended Umbridge. “At least centaurs have common sense and magical power, which is more than you seem to have. I mean, you’ve been refusing to teach us anything practical in this class, which clearly shows your lack of skill in the subject, doesn’t it? And if you could cast half the spells you’re supposed to be teaching, you probably wouldn’t teach us any ‘cause then we would see what a horrible teacher you were.”

Umbridge splutters, her face slowly growing redder, clashing violently with her pink robes and perfectly composed hair.

“What’s the matter, Professor?” Harry grins. Ron’s magic has receded back into his magical core by now with the distraction. “Am I incorrect in my assumptions?”

“Detention!” she shouts, panting, suddenly out of breath. “Detention every night this week! You will not speak that way to me, Harry Potter. I do not care who you are, who you claimed to have defeated. I am the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister!”

Harry leans back in his chair, work done.

“Professor,” Blaise Zabini calls from the other side of the classroom, directing her attention away from Harry expertly, “What chapters did you say we were supposed to be reading, again? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.”

Taking this as her chance to recompose herself, Umbridge turns to Blaise and answers, pointedly ignoring the snickering ringing throughout the classroom and the pleased-looking Harry.

“You didn’t have to do that, mate,” Ron mutters under his breath for only Harry to hear. “I could’ve taken it.”

“I know.” Harry squeezes his hand in reassurance and turns back to the useless textbook in front of them.

It’s gonna be a long year with Umbridge at the head of Defense, Harry can already tell.

A few notes end up in Harry’s hand by the end of class, all discreetly asking if he and his friends will be continuing their public lessons. It makes Hermione grin, all teeth, something that makes even the Slytherins look wary.

They spread the word at dinner that night. Their next Defense lesson will be after dinner on Wednesday, in the abandoned classroom on the ground floor, Room Eleven.

They’ll be resuming their prior schedule of Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, with one of those days being assigned to the muggle and wizard culture classes Hermione and Draco teach. At this point that class is just so the two of them can argue about things like this without repercussions, though a lot of the muggleborns and purebloods that attend often come out of it looking like they’ve found an answer to a complex Arithmancy equation.

Detention that night is easy. Umbridge doesn’t yet seem to have her hands on a blood quill, or simply doesn’t yet have the courage to use it on the Boy Who Lived, as she makes him write lines with his own quill for hours.

She glares as he does as she says. He does not show any signs of slowing, of his hand cramping from the hours of writing the same thing, I must not talk back. I must respect my betters.

Finally, as curfew falls, she dismisses him with a huff. He smiles at her happily and politely bids her goodnight, just to piss her off further.

Most of the students have cleared out of the halls and common rooms and into their beds by now. Harry reaches out to the coven bond.

I should probably go check on the vaults at Gringotts, see how things are progressing, he says.

After Hermione and Ron made their 30-year-plan to keep any more wars from happening, they decided to do what they didn’t have a chance to do in the future-past until they were already on the run.

With Hermione’s diligent research and Ron’s chessmaster mind, they contacted Gringotts and requested the Holdings of each Vault they own. It was a lot, the lists of items, Light and Dark, hidden away in all their family vaults. Finally, Ron and Hermione came to the decision that they needed a shared vault. They discovered that through the coven magic they have access to each other’s vaults, but that’s not good enough, they need one for funds to go to to stop any fledgling Dark or Light Lords in the future.

They didn’t know what to use at first, if they should buy a new vault or reuse one of their family ones. Ron saw the use in a new vault, separate from any of them should they have to go into hiding again, and Hermione saw the use in using an old family vault for the magical protections that come with historic vaults. It wasn’t until Luna, spread out in front of the fire with owl feathers in her hair, suggested the Evans Vault that they settled their debate.

Publicly, Harry will gather allies to the Potter name, but privately, the coven will use the Evans name to tie themselves to each other. The Goblin Nation are an honorable people who understand the need for failsafes in war. They won’t tell anyone who asks where Harry and the others are hiding their valuables.

Want anyone to go with you? Hermione asks. From the impressions from her side of the bond, she’s revising her schedule for the year now that they know Umbridge will be making their lives living hells.

I may take Luna, he says, already moving towards the Ravenclaw common room. He knows all the secret passageways in the castle, and he uses those now. If she agrees it is the right time, of course.

He knocks on the door to Ravenclaw Tower, ignoring the bronze knocker shaped as an eagle that asks him the riddle to access the common room.

As always, Luna seems to know Harry’s there before actually seeing him. She opens the door and smiles softly. Her hair flows in gentle waves down from a crown of braids. Harry’s happy to see she has her shoes on, that none of her items seem to be missing so far. It’s only the first day, but he’ll take what he can get.

“I’m afraid I can’t go to the bank today, Harry,” she muses, eyes focused somewhere just over his shoulder. “The Nargles are quite insistent that I weave my feather baskets before Mabon, and I really should get started now. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, Luna,” he smiles back, takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “The option is always open if you want to go. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

Luna’s staying, he says into the coven bond as the girl disappears back into her tower. It sounds like she’s preparing for Mabon. Do any of us usually celebrate that?

There’s a beat of silence before Neville chimes in, Gran likes it, says it’s the best of the old celtic holidays. I’ll talk to Luna about it tomorrow, see what we can do.

Harry sends approval over the bond before it closes once more. He pinches the folds of reality and uses the hard-earned neutral magic of the Elves to slip in between the layers of fabric, stepping out into Gringotts’ main lobby.

The bank is bustling with people, adults that are paying school fees or refilling their purses now that Hogwarts has started up again, now that back to school shopping is over and done with for the next year. They stop where they are when Harry steps into existence, staring and muttering, but Harry’s learned by now not to pay them any mind.

He steps up to the nearest bank teller and bows his head, the kind of bow befitting a human Warrior, below a goblin but higher than a normal wizard.

In Gobbledegook, Harry grunts, “May your gold flow freely in the rivers of the underground.”

His pronunciation is not the best, not yet totally fluent, but the goblin clacks his sharp teeth just the same and returns the greeting. The phrase that Harry used is a formal way of wishing the other goblin good fortune while also acknowledging his own lack of power with anything involving the Goblin Nation, referring to the underground and the rivers of gold that he has never had the pleasure of seeing.

“May your magic aim true in your body made of bone,” the goblin barks in his native tongue. It’s a harsh language, and it’s making the other wixen in the bank flinch with wide eyes.

Harry grins, showing his dull teeth while making sure to look just between the goblin’s eyes, saying he’s not a threat, not trying to offend a goblin of a higher class.

“I am here to talk to my accounts manager,” he says in English. “Warrior Griphook.”

The goblin hums, the sound like gravel in a blender, and uses a nearby quill to scrawl out a note on a piece of paper. The paper fades out of existence, sinking through the stone of the table it is laid on.

Soon, Harry is escorted back to Griphook’s office, furnished with weapons and valuable metals.

He bows to Griphook and says the customary phrase, and the goblin returns it with only a slight sneer.

“I wish to check on the proceedings of the Evans Collective Vault,” Harry says, naming the vault that Hermione and Ron set up in their communications with the bank over owl and elf-travel.

Griphook grunts, “It shall be done.”

He clenches his clawed hand, and a stack of papers appears on the desk before him.

“My thanks, Warrior Griphook,” Harry says in Gobbledegook, bowing his head once more, splaying his hands to either side of him so the goblin can see they’re empty of any weapons. They both know Harry doesn’t need weapons, but Griphook doesn’t either. Goblin magic is not to be messed with.

He gathers the papers and sits in the stone chair that has been conjured for him. Most of the papers detail their financials and investments, but some at the bottom of the stack include the magic involved in creating the Evans Collective as the group that will be used to fund their pet projects in the future (the ones that won’t tie directly back to the coven, they need to be discrete about this account) and gather wealth, ways to hide, ways to defend those they love.

Hermione will be pleased. The vault has been physically and legally set up, in just the few days it’s existed, and the coven’s magical signatures are the only ones able to access it. There is wealth gathering inside the account already, from the various investments they’ve already made.

“Have you found any properties that cannot be linked to any of our family names?” Harry asks, looking up from the papers. They'll need a physical place to hide now that they have the start of the funds to do it.

Griphook clicks his claws together and a piece of parchment floats over to rest on top of Harry’s pile.

“There are three possible locations, two which are isolated and unplottable, and the other just public enough to be overlooked by the authorities,” Griphook says. “The unplottable properties come equipped with land enough for all your needs, and their locations are far from any muggle settlements.”

Harry hums, looking them over. There’s one in Scotland, another in Wales, and a third in a muggle town not far from Cardiff. He scans their information and sends it to Hermione over the bond.

“We will get an answer to you by the end of the month, if that is acceptable,” Harry says. Hermione’s magic is humming as she goes through the provided information.

Griphook nods, clucking deep in his throat to show his assent.

That is all that Harry came here for, all that can be accomplished in this meeting. Soon he’ll be by to talk to a Master Trainer about the possibility of them taking on a human Apprentice, but he needs to talk to Ginny about that first, and that won’t be for a good while, probably not until after winter break.

“We are pleased, Warrior Griphook, and we will bring more gold to you in the future,” Harry declares, setting the papers back on the desk for Griphook to vanish with a wave of his claws. “You are a formidable ally. We will sing your praises to the stones of the Wizarding World.”

Griphook snarls, a goblin smile full of too-sharp teeth, “The Goblin Nation looks forward to working with the Evans Collective in the days to come. You are decent in your way of living, Wizard Warrior Harry.”

That’s the best he’s going to get from a goblin, so Harry nods and smiles in thanks.

When he steps back into his dorm and settles into bed with Ron and Neville, Hermione’s magic is abuzz with excitement from the progress that has been made. She’s in the Room of Requirement, he can tell, reading everything the Room will provide for her.

He drifts off to sleep, thinking,  Ginny will fit right in with them when she grows up.

Detention continues to be boring, with Umbridge switching between having Harry write lines for hours and clean out the closest storage room as punishment. Harry does whatever she bids diligently. He’s had years to learn how to collect himself, and he’s been cleaning for adults since he was about four years old.

If Umbridge thinks she can break him by simple chores, he’ll show her how wrong she is.

By the weekend, after his week of detention has ended, Harry feels a new thread of dark, ritual magic enter the castle. His gut crawls as he uses neutral magic to wash invisibility over himself and step into Umbridge’s office without being noticed.

There it is.

A package of blood quills.

He wonders where she got so many of them, what she’s gonna use them all for. Surely she’s not planning on using them on everyone who gets detention with her, right? He has a bad feeling about this.

We have to wait, Hermione tells them that night, a grim frown marring her face. We need proof of assault before we can do anything about them.

It hurts to pretend he’s not aware of those cursed objects, to think of another student being tortured by this horrid woman with delusions of grandeur, but Hermione’s right. They need to wait until they have proof that she is willing to use Dark Items on children.

For now, Harry breaks enough of the quills for Umbridge to suspect a faulty supplier, not a student who knows more than he should. They may not be able to stop her, but they can try to postpone the inevitable.

The first Decree comes on Monday, only a week into the school year. Umbridge announces it at breakfast and orders Filch to hang posters of it everywhere he can get away with it, just for those who missed the first one.

House Tables Shall Not Be Mixed, the parchment says in bold letters, all capital. In smaller text below, meals will be spent with one’s own House, no exceptions.

She announces it during breakfast, when the tables are already mixed, and Dumbledore watches on as she orders the students to get up and move, just to sit at their own tables.

Draco scowls as the coven gets up from the Slytherin table, only calming as Crabbe and Goyle flank either side of him. Nott looks murderous, though that’s probably because he was enjoying a rather violent discussion about Dark Charms with a Ravenclaw sixth-year. Luna returns to the Ravenclaw table, and Ginny watches her go with a knowing eye. She turns to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville with a frown.

“They’ve started hiding her shoes,” Ginny mutters. “Just two of them, both Ravenclaws, the others are too scared of you all to mess with her.”

Harry’s magic rapidly darkens. Ron freezes at Ginny’s side, his Light magic strengthening until it’s burning the edges of the coven bond.

“We’ll fix it,” Hermione swears.

“We’ll go to Flitwick if we have to,” Neville assures. There’s a silent strength to his clenched jaw. He’s furious, as they all are.

Ron hums, “Maybe we should go to Filius. He’s their Head of House, and we’ve been saying we need more allies. This could be our chance to further our relationship with Filius. Think about it.”

“And,” Hermione says, “if that doesn’t work as a warning to them, we’ll take care of it ourselves. As long as we don’t hurt them, any loss of house points is worth it.”

Draco buzzes into their minds with the coven link, How are we fighting back against this? Umbridge won’t hesitate to use blood quills for the five of us if we publically fight the rules, but there has to be some way to undermine her, right?

Harry grins. I have an idea. Wait a second.

He scoots over to sit next to Fred and George, trying his best to look innocent. They catch his eye immediately, and mischief comes to their smirks.

“How do you two feel about messing with a professor?”

They grin and say in unison, “We’ll take care of it, Harrykins.”

Harry and Luna go to talk to Filius that night before curfew. Filius clacks his teeth, forgetting himself as his eyes narrow at the information of bullying in his own House, and he promises to look into it. Harry is satisfied, and he holds Luna's hand as he walks her back to Ravenclaw Tower. He transfigures some soft slippers for her out of a few loose pebbles.

The Wednesday after the first Educational Decree, Umbridge pays a visit to Harry’s Herbology class. Professor Sprout does not look happy, and Neville’s magic is practically blinding as the Toad talks down to his favorite professor.

It seems that Umbridge has started ‘reviewing’ the professors and their classes. Harry scowls.

“Why is she even here?” Ron asks, glaring at the woman as she walks back to the castle, a sick smile on her face.

Susan hums, “Word through the Ministry is that Fudge is worried about the power Harry and Dumbledore hold. He’s always been paranoid about being overthrown, but after Harry’s show of magical strength with Riddle, the allies he’s been gathering, and the riots that the Ministry has had to deal with since Sirius’ trial, Fudge is a blubbering mess.”

“It doesn’t help that there are rumors going around about what Harry’s going to get up to after he graduates,” Hannah Abbot says with a smile. “All kinds of gossip saying Harry’ll be the next Gray Lord, a position that hasn’t been occupied in almost a century.”

Harry can’t help but smile. He’s the one who started those rumors with a few well placed suggestions. He’s glad they’ve caught hold in the Ministry’s rumor mill.

There’s an odd air about the great hall that night at dinner. Since they’ve been forced to sit at their House tables, folded notes are being sent from table to table in shapes of all animals, and a majority of them are concerning Umbridge.

Harry leans into Neville’s side, laughing along with Ginny’s story of her last flying lesson where Colin and Luna floated into the clouds while Madame Hooch wasn’t looking.

There’s a commotion at the head table, and Harry’s eyes immediately go to the Weasley twins. They’re trying their best to look innocent, but it doesn’t work when their eyes shine with so much mischief.

“Harry, look,” Neville whispers, a smile clear in his voice.

He looks up to the staff table and grins.

Umbrige’s pink outfit is now a Gryffindor red with gold accents. She looks furious, there’s a disgusted look on her face, and she’s already shrieking accusations. Minerva, at her side, sits back and lets her eyes find the Gryffindor table. Her lips twitch in what constitutes a smirk for her. The twins discretely salute their Head of House, making Harry grin.

Dumbledore looks to be trying his best to reverse the transfiguration but is getting nowhere. He turns to Minerva, and she lazily waves her wand over the clothes before visibly giving up with a shrug. Filius stifles laughter behind his hands.

“I think the twins deserve their map back,” Harry mutters under the roar of laughter that flows across all four tables, “don’t you, Ron?”

Ron grins, all teeth, the same grin Harry sees on the centaur warriors when they visit.

“I think that would be a wonderful idea, Harry.”

Umbridge’s Defense classes get worse after that, if that is at all possible. Instead of lecturing the textbook’s prejudiced theories, she starts to make each class read in silence for all of every class. The twins just look even more determined to get her worse next time.

It’s two weeks since term started when a group of Ravenclaws corners Harry on his way back to the Gryffindor dorms. The group is of all ages, led by Penelope Clearwater, Percy’s new girlfriend.

Harry mentally sighs and puts on his best smile. He’s tired from dueling Ron and Draco in the Room of Requirement, but one of the ways they’ve been reaching out to the community is by being open for all sorts of questions from their fellow students, so he pushes down the fatigue and tries to make his expression welcoming.

“What’s up?” he asks, looking to Penelope for an answer. They’ve talked a couple times since Percy started hanging out with her.

She eyes him up and down, says, “We wanted to know if it’s true.”

“If what’s true?” he asks, eyebrows raised. He has a feeling she's trying to get a rise out of him.

“Well,” Cho Chang steps up and smiles at him, “last year, Snape said something about you having gray magic? And those of us who have gone to your tutoring sessions have noticed you talk about light and dark magic at least a few times each week. We read all we could on the subject, but everything we’ve been getting is biased in some way. So, we wanted to ask you directly.”

He waits, watching Roger Davies step up to say his part. Ravenclaws are always so organized, he muses.

“What’s the difference between light and dark magic?” he asks, barely taking a breath before he continues, “How do you know which one you have? Is dark magic really evil, or is it just prejudice from the last few Dark Lords? What do you mean when you say gray magic? Is there a current Light Lord at this time?”

Harry grins. Maybe this will be worth it after all.

“You Ravenclaws always bring me the best questions,” he smiles. “Okay, I’ll take this one question at a time. The main difference between dark and light magic is the subject of the spell and the emotions that power it. Dark magic usually affects the soul and mind, while Light magic usually affects the body and its surroundings. Of course, there are exceptions to all of that, like the Dark Protego Diabolica which forms a shield of fire around the caster, or the Light Mobilicorpus when in the wrong hands, but those are the stereotypical characteristics.”

The Ravenclaws nod, listening intently.

“No, Dark magic is not evil, magic doesn’t work that way. In fact, the Killing Curse was originally created to peacefully execute prisoners and patients with horrible blood curses. Magic is all about intent, you can use a cutting curse to trim fabric or to tear into your opponent, just as you can use a Lumos to light your way or blind your enemy. Having a Dark core does not mean the caster is evil, it simply means they are more fitted towards dark magic and its aspects. The last few Dark Lords have really ruined the reputation of the Dark. Before them, the dark was respected as a natural balance to the light.”

Cho squints, bites her lip, “But, you said yourself that Dark magic usually targets the soul or the mind. How could that be used for good?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Harry smiles. “Some instances of dark magic being used for good can be found in certain potions and rituals. Most rituals are classified as Dark because of the sacrifice that is required, though their aim may be to heal the infirmed or give sanity back to the insane, and all they require is a bit of blood and dark magic.”

“Hm,” Cho hums, nods. “That makes sense, I guess.”

“I’ll recommend some books on the subject. Now, on to the next question. Gray magic is usually viewed as the in-between for Dark and Light. It isn’t neutral exactly, neutral magic is more nuanced than that, but it’s similar. As someone with a Gray magical core, I can use both dark and light spells without any discomfort, difficulty, or consequences, though there are some specifically gray spells that most wixen can use even if they aren’t Gray themselves. You can think of the types as elements, if you want. Dark magic is commonly associated with earth and fire, while Light is air and water. Gray is a mix of the four, though it is also the space between the four. Most common charms and hexes are gray, actually. Helpful spells are the most useful if they’re available to all types of magic users, and Gray magic can be that for us.

“And, Roger, you asked how people can tell what kind of core they have, right? It depends on the person. Those skilled in meditation or Occlumency can visualize their core and project it externally, just as those with a large amount of raw power can do, but the most common way of finding out is an Affinity Ritual. It’s not really a ritual, I don’t know why it’s called that exactly. It’s just a long incantation that will pull a projection of your core to the air around you. For example, if I took the ritual it would be clear that my core is Gray with a Dark affinity, meaning I find dark spells easier to work with than certain, strong light ones.”

Penelope and many others behind her quickly summon parchment to take notes with, and Harry has to grin.

“If you want, I can bring it up in the next Defense lesson,” he suggests. “I’m sure you’re not the only ones who are curious about this.”

“You didn’t answer my last question,” Roger states, tucking his parchment into his robes.

Harry grimaces. “I don’t quite know the answer to it. If you’re asking if there’s a current legal Light Lord? The answer’s no. But if you’re asking about a current, widely accepted Light Lord? Yes.”

“Who is it?” Terry Boot speaks up from behind some fourth-years. Harry has to smile at him even though he doesn’t want to answer.

“Albus Dumbledore,” Harry announces. The Ravenclaws go quiet for a second before spitting questions out left and right. Harry winces.

“Wait,” Penelope calls, making her peers settle almost instantly. There’s a reason she’s a prefect. “You said there isn’t a legal Light Lord. Why hasn’t the Headmaster claimed that title if everybody already thinks of him that way?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.” Harry rubs at the back of his neck. “The only wixen who really know about these sorts of things are those with Dark cores, because most are traditionalists. In the last few decades, the Light side has kind of forgotten their roots, leaving Dark wixen as the main holders of tradition. It’s mostly due to Voldemort and some others, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore doesn’t even know what a Light Lord is. You guys certainly didn’t.”

There’s some mumbling throughout the group, then some nodding.

“Are you gonna tell the Headmaster, Harry?” Terry asks.

Harry grimaces, “I don’t think he’ll want to hear it from me. He’s not too happy that my core’s not Light. He thinks I have a choice in all that and chose to go Dark, either through the people I hang out with or from Riddle’s soul piece that was in my head for almost eleven years. Yeah, Dumbledore would never believe me if I told him.”

Terry frowns, then nods, squares his shoulders.

“We believe you, Harry,” he says. “Send us those books you were talking about, and we’ll start spreading the word about all this. It’s not fair that people think what they think about dark magic, not fair what the Headmaster thinks about you.”

Roger nods, “Let us take care of this, Potter. You’ve done enough for the wizarding world, you deserve a rest for now, especially with Umbridge on staff.”

“Thanks, guys,” Harry smiles. He really wasn’t expecting this when he left the Room of Requirement. Ravenclaws are tougher than most give them credit for.

His Ravenclaw year-mates pat him on the back as he disappears into the Gryffindor common room, a wide smile on his face. That’s one thing taken care of, just gotta get a list of unbiased books together. That shouldn’t be too hard.

“What are you doing?” Ginny settles into a seat across from Draco at their usual library table. She rests her chin in her hand and glances down at the books spread out in front of the blond.

“Researching.”

“Researching what?”

He looks up from the page he was scanning, meets her eyes, and smiles.

“I need to have a better grasp on different religions and customs if I’m going to be communicating with the Merfolk in the Black Lake. They appreciate knowledge in all things, but especially their Gods. I know most of them due to my mother being a Black, but I thought I’d brush up.”

“What does your mother’s family have to do with that?” Aw, she looks confused, bless her.

“Well,” Draco smiles, “different families worship different pantheons. I grew up with a Malfoy for a father and a Black for a mother, leading me to have two main different sets of gods to look to.”

Ginny makes an understanding noise, prompting him to continue.

“Most pureblood families, dark ones for sure, worship the Old Gods from the many different religions throughout the years.” Draco flips a page to run his finger along a long family tree. “Celtic pagan is the most common religion in this part of the world, since most of the Old pureblood families come from those roots, but some still hold onto the other ones, like Old Norse and the Greek and Roman Pantheons. The Malfoys, for example, hold ties to Old Norse and have always preferred the Trickster Deities above all else, but the Blacks have always been a mix of Celtic and Greek.”

He shows Ginny the family tree he had been tracing, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, going back centuries, all with names that come from the stars.

“This is my mum’s side of the family. She raised me to worship the Greek Pantheon alongside the Celtic celebrations that are popular within pureblood spheres. It’s said that our ancestors made a deal with Erebus, the Primordial Being of darkness and shadow, along with Nyx, the Primordial of Night. In return for aid when we need it, we name all our children after the stars in their domain. I was told we made this deal with Astraîos, a second generation Titan of the stars and dusk. I’m not quite sure which of these is true, but the more recent generations of Blacks favored the Titans, Giants, and Olympians more than the Primordials like the older generations did.”

“How do you know all of this?” Ginny looks up from the book, finger still on the most recent Prewett that married into the Black family. He looked like her mother, they have the same eyes.

Draco smirks, “I have a friend who is hundreds of years old. Also, magical creatures live longer than most humans do, and with the right incentive they are often willing to tell tales of the days of old. I’ve found that Merfolk tell the best stories, but you have to be careful not to take anything too literally with all their singing.”

“I thought dark families hated creatures?” She looks confused, and Draco wants to hurt anyone who made her think this.

“That’s a more recent thing,” he scowls. “Around the time Riddle came into favor with the dark families, ideas started to change. Before then, at least before the last century, creatures were practically worshipped.”

Ginny cocks her head in question, making his scowl fade back to a smile.

“Magical creatures are descended straight from the gods, without the interference that humans are born with. They have direct access to the magic of the earth and soul, something humans can only learn with time, skill, and practice. Most wixen thank their Deities in everything they do, mainly without realizing. In every breath there is a prayer to the creator they follow, with every step, every thought, every action, there is worship. There are other kinds of prayer, of course, and most families pray to their pantheons alongside this worship to their creator, but this is the baseline of human magic.

“Creatures, on the other hand, know what they come from. In the same way every breath you take is an indirect line to the Being that created you, magical creatures are directly created from their Gods’ magic. The European Goblins of the Goblin Nation are descended from the Old Norse Ymir, the Merfolk in the Black Lake are straight from Hellenic Greek’s Primordial Pontus. House Elves and Centaurs have a sort of mix of origins and worship, with Elves coming from nature, be it Gaia and Khaos, the Egyptian Ma’at and Atum, or Mother Nature Herself, while Centaurs have followed the Greek, Etruscan, and Roman Gods throughout the years with an interest in anything Divine, though the ones in the Forbidden Forest come from the Mad Titan Kronos.”

“Woah,” Ginny’s eyebrows raise. “That’s a lot.”

“That’s not even scratching the surface,” Draco grins. “There are other pantheons and religions that are uncommon in Britain these days, the smaller ones like the mythology specific to Native Tribes on each continent, bigger ones like Hinduism and Buddhism, even newer monotheistic ones like the branches of Christianity and such.”

“Why are you researching if you know so much about all this?”

“Well, it’s different to know these things and to put them into practice. My Greek knowledge will only get me so far with the Merfolk, I also need to learn my family history so I can present myself to the Queen in the way proper to my status.”

Ginny hums, looks down at the list of Old Families in the book. “How come I don’t know any of this stuff? The Prewetts and the Weasleys are both Sacred Twenty-Eight, but the most Mum taught us was the Celtic holidays when we were little.”

“Well,” Draco winces, “like I said, once Riddle got involved, things started changing. If I’m remembering correctly, both of your family lines were Celtic more than anything else, though some of the older Prewetts favored the Egyptian Pantheon before they married into the Rowle and Selwyn families and converted to their main deities.”

Ginny chews on the inside of her lip, thinking, and Draco softens.

“If you want, I could help you look into this stuff. No pressure, of course, but it’s nice to know where you come from, even if it’s just to know.”

He hums, looks over his family tree once more.

“I’ll have to pray to some of the important Black Gods before the meeting. Because of the Black Madness, we’ve always favored the unpredictable ones, like Hekate, Lyssa, and Tykhe. You’d probably think of Ares, Artemis, and Athena since they’re gods of war and battles, but the Blacks have never been one for strategy of any kind other than bloodshed. Even Mother and Auntie Andromeda have a touch of the madness, though they do enjoy Athena and Artemis on their good days…”

His words turn to mumbles as he gets lost reading another book, this one on Ancient Greek burial customs, and a soft smile comes to Ginny’s face. Maybe Ron was right (for once), Draco doesn’t seem so bad.

The Black Lake is calm. This early in the day, sunlight is only just starting to stream into the water and scatter across its surface.

Draco stands at the edge, looking down into the great body of water. He knows what lives inside, and he has to take a deep breath when he sees the giant squid looking up at him from not too far away.

He’s wearing tight clothing, though not too tight to restrict his movement. Hermione calls this a makeshift-wetsuit, though Draco doesn’t quite know what that means, something muggle. His hair is loose, not slicked back as it was when he was younger.

He’s spent the last week studying up on the merfolk culture in the Black Lake, and he’s prepared.

Neville gave him a good supply of gillyweed from the upper-year green houses. They squirm in his pockets. Draco grimaces in disgust as he palms one and brings it up to his mouth, gagging at the smell of it, then drops it into his mouth and forces himself to swallow hard.

His skin itches, tingling, and he wades into the cold water, casting a nonverbal and wandless warming charm on his body, though he'll only need it for a minute.

It’s an odd feeling, breathing water through gills placed on either side of his neck. In and out, inhale and exhale, trying not to choke on the fluid that enters his throat. His hands are webbed, propelling him through the water as he ducks down into it, embracing the feeling of cold around him.

Not far from the shore, Draco runs into three merfolk, each handling their own kind of weapon. They’re guards to the queen, he knows from what he’s read and those he’s met with before now.

The layers of mud and moss that line the rocky lake floor feel slimy against his feet as he grounds himself to greet the guards. He can’t sense any grindylows around, so he sheathes his wand and bows his head, keeping his eyes on the merfolk, just in case. The books that detailed greetings were slightly lacking.

The first of the three wears the smooth, bright jewelry that denotes him as a merman, though their specific species also go by naiad, siren, and selkie. The other two are mermaids, with necklaces of rough rocks draped across their necks and coral piercing their skin across the bare stretch of their arms and torso.

Draco keeps his head bowed and stretches his arms out to his sides, twisting so the backs of his hands are showing. It’s a greeting that comes from centuries ago, displaying the lack of tattoos and scars that denote being from a rival clan.

The taller mermaid does the same, showing off the pieces of coral and dark marks of ink that twine around her wrists and hands. She seems to be the leader of this small group.

All three of them have green hair coated with different kinds of algae and yellow eyes that remind him of Crookshank’s. Their tails are silver-blue, like the shadows of a Patronus. Their weapons vary, with the merman holding a pristine trident, the taller mermaid with what looks like axes tucked into folds of her skin at her sides, and the other mermaid hoisting a shimmering spear.

They look less humanoid than Draco would have assumed as a kid, with their snub faces and the tendrils and frills that line their heads and sides, but he doesn’t dare think that makes them lesser than him. He knows they could kill him in less than a second, that their culture is more complex than most other humanoids.

The merman sings a lilting melody, “We take you to the Queen on the orders of our waters. If you dare to enter our villages with spite in your heart, you will be struck down. Do you understand, mammal?”

“Yes,” Draco replies similarly in Mermish. He’s glad he spent so much time studying the language, even though his own melody is stilted and wavering. “I swear on my magic not to attack without being attacked, to only defend myself in the waters of the Queen.”

The head mermaid tilts up her chin, showing she’s pleased with his declaration as her frills dance in the water to expose her neck. Swiftly, she turns and leads the three of them deeper into the lake.

They swim on. 

Deep enough into the water now, Draco starts to see stone structures, houses and stores and the like. Frilled heads peak out of windows as he passes, eyeing him warily. Those that swim through the streets stop and watch him swim by, their faces blank.

The Queen, Murcus, meets them past the village as they get into the city proper, with towering structures and an open court where hippocampi and grindylows lay in waiting, tied to underwater carriages and carts. This open court holds the Queen and her guards, about twenty of them spread throughout the clearing. Queen Murcus doesn’t sit on a throne. Instead, she flits about between five crystals that float in the water around her, tied to the sandy floor by thin strands of seaweed that overlap until they become strong enough to hold them.

The mermaid is beautifully dangerous with the stones embedded into her skin, a silver tail that’s been shredded by claws and teeth, and the crown of shells and steel that rests on her head, nestled between tendrils of anemone-like tentacles. Her piercing yellow eyes meet Draco’s gray ones, and Draco drops to his knees into a proper bow. He ducks his head to bear the back of his neck to the queen, his arms to his sides.

This is a mermaid who has dug channels for rivers out of solid stone, who has bested every opponent she’s ever faced, who can control the currents with only a flick of her tail. She deserves all the respect Draco has for her.

“Rise,” she sings. Her voice is the same as the voice in the golden eggs form the Triwizard Tournament, a voice that sways with the currents and the tides and soaks down Draco’s back until he feels drenched with sacred water. “Why have you asked this meeting, little one? The old wizard already has our vows of protection for these waters, and I doubt you have come to ask us to revoke them.”

Draco pushes himself upwards until he’s floating facing the queen. She’s tall enough that she still towers over him.

“I seek an alliance with your people, Oh Shredded Queen,” he says, meeting those yellow, slitted eyes. “I am part of a coven that mixes Light with Dark, and Gray leads. Our Light Gray is a centaur at heart, and our Dark Gray is an elf. Soon, a goblin will join our bond. We wish to ask the favor of this Queen, so our coven can swim towards being whole.”

Mermish is a melodic language, made from song and lyrical rhyme. It contains flowery language and words that don’t mean what humans think they mean. It is the language of metaphors, and Draco capitalizes on this now.

“You speak as if you have an affinity to my people,” the Queen sings, floating towards him slowly, “But these waters cannot recall your song within their depths more than once before. Are you of this place, little one? Or are you from the water without taste?”

“I am from another place entirely, Bloodied Queen, and this place exactly.” He glances around at the city and armed guards. “Once, in a time of great peril, I asked to be taught by your people. I did not get the chance before tragedy struck, and I have returned to ask once again.”

She narrows her eyes, swishes her fins, “Ah, I see. Kronos has touched you and your kin, little fish. You are lucky Lady Nyx favors your leader so.”

“I am,” he says, ducking his head against her shining yellow eyes. “Tykhe has always favored my line when Ananke’s final thought comes to a close. It seems I am no exception.”

She watches him as the water sways around them. Her tendrils coax a dull, gray fish out of the shadows nestled between them, playing with it, cleaning its scales as it glides against them.

“The Kentauros have made their predictions,” she says at last, her fins calming the moving water. “We have sung our own as well. You would not wish for my people to remove their binding vows of rope and chain to the old wizard?”

“I would not,” he assures. “I simply hope for an alliance with your people. I wish to learn everything I can about your cultures and customs in the waters. If you decide to revoke those vows in the future, that is of no consequence to me, though the old wizard and I have never been the best of allies.”

She hums, “We will consider this, young fish. For the present moons, you will recede to your castle. Message will flood your shores when our decision is made.”

He is escorted back to the beach by the three merfolk who directed him to the Queen’s court. They swim in silence. Draco is lost in thought, though he remembers to bow to the three before they descend back into the depths, hands bared in respect to their clan, their tribe, their kingdom, their Queen.

That went better than he thought it would. He studied for it, of course, but merfolk are loyal to the songs of binding that they’ve sung, and Draco wasn’t sure if they would consider binding themselves to him when they already are bound to Dumbledore.

It went well, he sends through the coven bond. Queen Murcus will think through our offer and return her answer in the next month of the moon cycle.

Great, Hermione sighs in relief. Now just have to get through Umbridge’s Decrees and gain more allies. I miss when second-year was boring.

Harry snorts, It was never boring, you were just petrified for some of it.

Hermione sends an owl to the goblins on the second to last day of September, informing Griphook that they’ve made their decision on the property they would like to purchase. They’ve chosen the unplottable land in Scotland that houses enough room for everything they could possibly need.

They pay for this purchase with what they’ve made so far from Hermione’s investments, along with the spare galleons in the Slytherin vault. It will be a while until they reveal Harry’s Slytherin Heirship, so any purchases at this time shouldn’t lead back to him and his coven, leaving the Scotland Manor disconnected from them.

They receive a warded stone from Griphook the next day. It reeks of portkey magic, and they tuck it away until they know they’ll have time to explore their new Manor.

Interestingly, the property used to be a fortress before the magical family that lived there disappeared. Griphook tells them that muggles got to them in the time of witch hunts. Hermione takes involved notes on the warding that the goblins have registered at the Manor, just in case.

This is the place that they’ll go if they need to go into hiding again. It’s improbable, especially after all the work they’ve done so far, but the future-past has scarred them all. They need the failsafe.

The first month and a half of school is spent reaching out in their freetime to various wizarding families that have a history of attending Hogwarts. The Potter name, through Harry and his coven, has gathered resources and allies over the last year, but they still lack official alliances to make their position in the Ministry well-known. There’s also the fact that the coven is made of twelve-year-olds, but Draco sneers at the people who point this out and lets Harry give them the sales pitch. They are the ones who defeated Voldemort, after all.

While dodging Umbridge’s shrewd gaze in the halls, the coven works on building trust with their fellow students.

Draco quickly starts reaffirming his Slytherin alliances with those in his year. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, although belonging to Death Eater families, swore themselves to Draco’s side when they were children. Their fathers arranged it years ago, and even as Draco has turned to the side of the Boy-Who-Lived, no deals have yet been broken.

He gives Gregory a new book on dueling spells and Vincent some new dragonhide clothing. He owls both their fathers, the heads of their family lines, and requests a formal alliance, from the Crabbe and Goyle names to the Potter name, and vice versa.

Draco makes his wishes plain in his letters, as these men have never been the most intelligent, though they escaped Azkaban after the first downfall of Voldemort. He receives replies from both of them within the week, agreeing to hold the ceremonies on the day Draco proposes. He presumes they’re doing this more to keep their families safe than from any true devotion to the Chosen One and his cause.

Theodore Nott is tricky, Draco remembers from the first time around, but he values knowledge above all else, and this is what Draco appeals to in the boy. There’s no chance of an oath of allegiance from Nott’s father, as the man will be a Death Eater until the day he dies, but Theo and Draco used to play together when they were young, and that’s worth a lot in the circles they live in.

“Two years,” Theo muses, barely glancing up from the tome on Dark Arts that Draco managed to buy him. “If the Golden Boy and his friends can keep this up for at least two years, I’ll formally pledge my allegiance to him, but no sooner. Until then, consider me neutral to Potter’s politics.”

Draco takes his word with a firm handshake, letting the boy go back to reading about all the gruesome ways to mutilate your enemies.

Blaise Zabini is next in Draco’s immediate group of friends. Given who his mother is, he clearly respects power, and he would do anything to have an advantage on the people around him. Anathema Zabini is dangerous as a person can be, and Blaise takes after her fully. Draco gifts him a new potions kit, one specially made to brew the darker, more advanced concoctions.

When subtly prompted, Blaise lazily gazes down at Draco and hums, “Mum would be open to negotiations as long as she isn’t required to stop hunting, of course.”

It takes everything in Draco not to shudder. His mother is the most notorious black widow in the Wizarding World, though she hasn’t yet been convicted for any of the deaths of her seven husbands.

Agree to negotiations, Harry says through the bond, and Draco relays it to Blaise.

They won’t allow her to kill whoever she wants, but Anathema Zabini is not someone who people allow to do anything. She does what she wants and nothing else.

Pansy Parkinson is vital for Draco’s plans within Slytherin for the next decade or so. In the future-past, she was devoted to Draco, trying to make a name for herself by ingratiating herself to the Malfoys. Now, she watches Draco and his coven with wary eyes, making a scathing comment every so often. She’s jealous, Draco knows, and not because of any romantic feelings or political gain. She’s hurt that he left her behind so easily, that she’s no longer the center of his attention, and Draco tries his best to remedy that while keeping healthy boundaries. 

He leaves well-made art supplies on her desk in the girls’ dorms with a note thanking her for her patience. She settles quickly after this, that malicious gleam in her eyes gone, even as she eyes Hermione warily, like being a muggleborn is contagious. They’ll train her out of that with time, Draco knows.

Pansy’s parents are well-known purebloods, the Parkinsons being a family of the Sacred 28, but they were never declared Death Eaters in Voldemort’s first life, and Draco appeals to that when he owls them to ask their opinions on the political climate. Their response is swift, citing their frustration with the Light and their restrictions to Dark families. Draco sets a meeting for the next weekend for them to meet with Harry and consider allying themselves with him.

The meeting goes well, but the Parkinson's refrain from an official allegiance, preferring to wait and see how everything turns out. Draco respects this, even as he wishes they would give in. The coven could use their Ministry contacts in the future.

The rest of the Slytherin second-years are split by their opinions of Draco and his coven. Millicent Bulstrode, Tracy Davis, and Daphne Greengrass, for example, consider their options well and owl their parents for advice before hesitantly allying themselves with the Potter name, while the other three boys sneer and try to hex Draco when he approaches, hexes that he quickly redirects as he keeps his face blank, eyes amused at the attempted assault.

Marcus Flint, fifth-year and Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, disappears for the weekend after watching Draco reach out to some others. He comes back with an envelope sealed with the Flint stamp, containing a formal oath for alliance from the head of the family. He doesn’t acknowledge it afterwards at all.

The Carrow twins, third-years, curse Hermione at every opportunity, though none of the curses get through her shields, and Draco takes that as a clear statement of opposition.

Most of the Slytherin Quidditch team have forged a tentative relationship with Draco and the coven, though that might be from the expensive, state-of-the-art brooms that Draco’s father buys for them all, which is not a bribe despite whatever Harry says.

It goes better than Draco expected, with most of the higher-up Slytherins either regarding the coven neutrally or positively. He forges some official alliances and keeps other families close by guaranteeing them a spot in the future if they agree after a set time, like with Theodore Nott and the Zabini’s.

Though it’s natural to form these sorts of alliances in Slytherin, somehow it’s easier with the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs in their year, given the abundance of muggleborns, halfbloods, and Light families in general that Sort into those Houses.

The Bones can’t swear an official alliance, not with Amelia Bones as the Head of the DMLE, but Susan smiles at them in the Great Hall at meals and gives subtle nods when they pass each other in the halls.

Ernest Macmillan, Ernie, hears Harry’s proposal in silence. The next day, the Macmillan owl lands on Harry’s shoulder at breakfast with an official pledge of mutual alliance. It’s good to get another family from the Sacred 28, even a family that usually takes a backseat to politics like the Macmillans do.

Lavender Brown presents Harry with an official oath by way of letter from her parents, adding the pureblood Brown family to the coven’s list of official allies. Hannah Abbot, of the family formerly of the Sacred 28, says her parents insist on meeting Harry themselves before making a decision, and they become allies by the end of that week.

Ravenclaws are harder to win over, as they typically research until they run out of parchment, then keep going, but Hermione and Ron have this down to a science by now.

Terry Boot’s family, the Boots that helped set up Ilvermorny so long ago, owl Harry and ask to correspond regularly until they come to a definite conclusion. Hermione and Ron write to them for the next few weeks, alternating who writes when. Michael Corner’s parents send an oath before they have the chance to approach the Ravenclaw, asking for a political alliance, wishing for protection against any future threats, same as most of the halfblood families that swear to Harry.

Anthony Goldstein gives Harry a grin and a firm handshake as his mother, the head of his family, talks with Ron and Neville about the creatures, both flora and fauna, in the Forbidden Forest. The alliance is sworn an hour later. The Goldsteins are powerful, but so is Harry Potter. The alliance, as all of the ones Harry swears, will go both ways.

Sue Li, a halfblood Ravenclaw, has connections through her muggle family members. She and her father give Harry until the end of the school year to come up with a contract that fully benefits both parties in the muggle and wizarding worlds. Hermione beams when she hears the news, already running through terms and conditions in her head.

Some upper-years sign on as well, their families benefiting from allying with the Boy-Who-Lived, seeking protection from the group of twelve-year-olds who defeated Voldemort, or simply wanting security. Harry and his coven advertise safety and security above all, for all types of families. It’s a relationship built on mutual favors and protection. Among the upper-years who reached out are Marcus Belby, Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordan, Alicia Spinnet, Roger Davies, Oliver Wood, Cedric Diggory, and Cho Chang, though those are only the ones that the coven interacted with back in the future-past. There are other minor families that ask only for a bit of protection.

The twins pull another prank a week into October.

Harry hears about it while walking towards Charms that day, stilling when he hears the familiar shrieking of an enraged Umbridge. He drapes neutral magic over himself and makes sure he’s invisible before approaching Umbridge’s office.

The sickening pink walls are still there, so Harry peers further into the room and has to bite his tongue to stop from cackling.

All the magical picture frames with cats inside have been replaced by dogs of various types. Umbridge stands with her wand pointed towards the nearest one, a howling dalmatian, and shouts a harsh Difindo! Nothing happens.

The twins are really getting better with their sticking charms, Harry muses to himself, grinning, and heads to Charms.

“Godfather,” Draco says, voice level in the way his Father raised him to mimic. “Harry and I have a proposal for you.”

Severus looks up from his desk, tests and notes neatly stacked in front of him, and eyes the two of them like they’re going to attack. Draco lets amusement shine through his eyes to help calm his godfather.

“A proposal?” Snape drawls. There’s a curious glint in his eye, but his face stays blank and his voice stays low, gravel in his chest.

Harry steps forward, making eye contact even as Severus stares into his soul, and says, “As you’re well aware, Remus Lupin is a werewolf.”

Snape’s lips twitch like he wants to sneer, but Harry continues before he can retort.

“I know that you don’t get along, mainly due to the faults of my father and his friends,” Harry says, “but that means you know better than most people that a werewolf on a full moon is difficult to control.”

The man seems to consider this and inclines his head, waiting for more of an explanation.

“Harry and I,” Draco smiles, lets his eyes shine, “believe we might have found a way to improve the wolfsbane potion to return human awareness to the wizard when they are in wolf form.”

“How is it possible,” Snape raises an eyebrow, drags out the word like he’s questioning their sanity, “that two second-years have found this improvement while there have been hundreds of smarter wizards who have tried and failed throughout the years?”

“They weren’t us,” Harry chirps cheerfully.

Draco lightly swats his shoulder, turning to face his Godfather.

“We have resources that they did not,” Draco says. “If you agree to work with us, I will gladly give you access to them.”

Such resources include the library in the Chamber of Secrets along with the letters of notes Hermione and Draco have been exchanging with the Flamels after rescuing their stone from Dumbledore’s hands last year.

Severus arcs an eyebrow, looking like he might actually be considering this proposal.

“But,” Harry interrupts, and he feels his heart speed up, “before we can enter into any partnership, you and I need to talk, Professor Snape, without the restrictions of societal graces or professional boundaries.”

Snape looks like he’s swallowed a sour lemon drop. His eyes scour Harry’s face, and Harry does his best to project honesty, truth, and a little bit of fear along with a load of determination.

The man nods once, brisk, and sweeps his wand through the air, making the papers and objects on his desk tuck themselves into various drawers and cabinets.

Draco squeezes Harry’s shoulder with a look, You know we’re here for you. Call if you need anything.

Harry licks his lips, nods back. I know. Thank you.

As Harry turns to face a sneering Severus Snape, Draco leaves the classroom, locking the door behind him. It’s all going as planned, but here comes the hard part. Harry never got to say any of this, do any of this, in the past-future. Snape died, and his portrait never gave any satisfying answers.

“I need you to treat me as an adult for the next few minutes,” Harry says, and even to him his voice sounds dull and monotone. “Because this won’t work if I can’t say what I need to. Is that alright with you, Professor?”

Snape’s eyes dart back and forth rapidly. He nods.

“Right,” Harry clears his throat. “Okay. I guess I wanted to start by acknowledging how much you’ve grown since the beginning of last year. I know that to you my opinion counts for next to nothing, but your behavior since we defeated Riddle has seen a rise in participation in class. More importantly to me, Neville hasn’t flinched at the sound of your voice since after Yule last year, and that is worth more to me than you can imagine.”

Harry meets Snape’s eyes, not letting the man get away from this.

“Severus,” Harry says, ignoring the indignation rising in the man’s eyes, “I know that you and my mum were friends. I know that you had no idea Dumbledore sent me to live with Aunt Petunia. I know you took a vow to keep me safe all those years ago. I know that I look too much like my father for you to ever truly respect me or appreciate my company. I know these things for reasons I cannot share. I can only hope that you find the strength to look past my appearance and your past, because I will be in Draco’s life for as long as I can, and I know you’re important to him.”

Harry licks his lips, considering what he’s about to say.

“If, somehow, we learn to work together in the future, I know Draco would be extremely pleased. Of course, this has no bearing on what Draco came to discuss with you today, I will be providing the things needed for the improved wolfsbane potion no matter what happens between us. I have ingredients that many people would never get their hands on in centuries.”

He breathes out, meets Severus’ eyes.

“But I hope we can come to some sort of truce, for Draco’s sake. You’re really not that bad, I’ve come to find, and I know Mum would be proud of the man you’ve become in the last year.”

Harry can see the internal argument in Snape’s eyes even as the man’s face and posture give nothing away. He’s a master spy, after all.

“Mr. Potter,” Severus grits his teeth, then corrects himself, “Harry. Why did you insist on having this conversation? Surely it would have been less painful for both of us if we could have continued to ignore each other.”

Harry smiles sadly, “Because, Severus, you’ve changed. I haven’t heard a genuine complaint about your teaching methods since term started, and I know that’s because you’ve started seeing us as children again instead of spoiled brats too stupid to follow simple instructions. I’m proud of you, and my Mum would be too. I needed you to know that.”

Severus runs his hands over his face, letting loose a long sigh. His hands are shaking visibly now, and Harry knows their time together will come to an end soon.

“Can you think over what I’ve said today?” Harry asks, straightening up, trying to clear his face of anything Severus could interpret as pity for his situation.

“I shall.” Severus removes his hands from his face, and his expression is blank once more. His voice is monotone when he says, “Send Draco back in if you will, Mr. Potter. We have work to do.”

Harry smiles, nods.

This might work out after all.

Umbridge posts a new Decree late at night halfway through October. Harry Vanishes it as soon as he sees it, his magic sparking with rage.

Dolores Jane Umbridge Has Been Appointed High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, it reads.

It’s happening again, Harry snarls into the coven bond. She’s positioning herself into a place of power to regulate this school, and I will not let it happen. As much as I dislike Dumbledore at the moment, Fudge is clearly reaching with his political power.

He’s a paranoid bastard, Draco agrees. We won’t let him get Dumbledore this time around, I promise.

Umbridge looks far too smug at mealtimes that day, and Harry wants to hex to her oblivion, but Hermione holds his hand tightly each time the woman appears in his sight. Harry hears the creaking of Hermione’s bones as he squeezes with all his might.

There’s a Wizengamot meeting the next morning, and Harry feels in his bones that it will be important. Sirius will be attending, as well as Severus now that he has reclaimed the Prince family seat. Harry and Hermione crawl down into the dungeons to visit Severus after lunch.

Harry outright says why they’re visiting, thinking Snape will be more appreciative with the blunt honesty.

“You can’t be so daft as to believe they haven’t warded against house elves since your little show at your trial,” Severus sneers. He’s clearly uneasy around Harry, but he’s also more calm than Harry’s ever seen him.

“If they have,” Harry says, sharing a glance with Hermione, “then we won’t use elf-travel.”

Severus looks intrigued.

“Goblins have a lovely way of traveling through stone, Professor Snape,” Hermione smiles. “And the Wizengamot chamber is mainly stone, if I am remembering correctly. I’ll visit our goblin allies tonight to see if they can help.”

Severus sighs, grits his teeth, “What do you need from me?”

“We were hoping you might consider voting very carefully when it comes to it tomorrow,” Harry grimaces. “We’re still not sure what’s going to be proposed, but I have a feeling Umbridge is behind it.”

“That woman,” Snape sneers. “Very well, I will consider my options carefully.”

Harry grins.

One of Warrior Spearjaw’s Apprentices, Ironhold, coaches them through goblin-travel. They aren’t able to do it themselves, though Harry knows it’s possible for a human to learn to stone-travel, as they haven’t spent enough time training for it as they did elf-travel in the future-past, but Ironhold and his sister, Goldhoard, are assigned to take them where they need to go.

Harry and Ron are the only ones going to see the Wizengamot meeting, so they each get a goblin to take them. From there they can use their neutral invisibility to hide away in a corner and watch the meeting.

He’s not totally sure why he thinks this meeting will be important, dangerous, but he’s learned over the years to trust these sorts of instincts.

Ironhold ties a silver rope around Harry’s waist, Goldhoard doing the same to Ron on the other side of the room. The metal rope, woven with minute strands of flexible silver, tightens around his waist until it starts to hurt, and Ironhold nods, satisfied.

“Goldhoard and I will be waiting in the stone,” Ironhold grunts in Gobbledegook. “You will stand in the air, and you will tug on the silver when you wish to leave.”

Harry nods, seeing Ron do the same. They’re ready.

It’s odd, traveling through stone like a goblin. Harry’s skin feels heavy, craggy like a cliff side, and his heart slows until he’s sure it’s stopped beating. He feels like he’s breathing through quicksand. The stone of the chamber they stand in has become one with the minerals in his body, and he feels himself sinking, traveling through veins of ores and stone until Ironhold tugs him into position in the stone beneath the Wizengamot chamber.

Quickly, Harry and Ron call upon their neutral invisibility, and their goblin guides push them above ground.

Harry has to take in a gasping breath as his heart kickstarts in his chest once more. He blinks, eyes settling on the grand room full of Lords and Ladies.

Sirius sits on the other side of the room, looking stiff in his stuffy robes. Remus isn’t with him, it’s a full moon day, though Sirius seems to be talking to Lucius from across the aisle of the family seats. Severus is tucked into a row near the bottom of the stands, holding the Prince seat with a sneer on his face.

Dumbledore smiles pleasantly at the Light wizards surrounding him. He sits at the Headmaster seat for Hogwarts, with the Dumbledore crest sewn into his robes. He holds many seats in the Wizengamot.

Harry and Ron watch the meeting start, listening intently as they debate meaningless things like cauldron thickness.

After an hour of this, Dolores Umbridge raises her wand and steps forward with a horrible smile. Harry pulls his coven bond close so the others can see what he sees. Ron does the same.

“Ehem,” Umbridge pointedly clears her throat. “As the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, I propose a new series of legislations.”

Harry grits his teeth. He has a feeling he knows what’s going to happen.

It happens exactly like it did in the future-past. Umbridge proposes the anti-werewolf legislation, and her speech is so passionate, she truly believes what she’s saying, that Harry can see some of the Light witches and wizards nodding along. It makes Harry sick.

Before she can finish her speech, Sirius violently raises his wand, a Lumos already lit at the tip. Harry grins, all teeth, a goblin grin.

“Where are your facts, Dolores?” Sirius all but snarls, using a personal form of address to spite the woman. Her cheeks go red in rage. “If you had done any research, you would know that werewolves possess none of the qualities that you have listed. They are not bloodthirsty , nor evil. In fact, the only danger werewolves pose occurs on the night of the full moon when they have not taken a wolfsbane potion. And, in recent months, rapid progress has been made in refining the wolfsbane potion to nullify the ferality of a werewolf almost completely, leaving their human faculties intact when transformed. Have you done any research at all, Dolores?”

She sputters, eyes wide, and practically shrieks “Of course I have! My sources are regarded highly in the wizarding world! How dare you question their research!”

“I dare because they are incorrect,” Sirius grins, all teeth. “Ask any known researcher of werewolves, or even werewolves themselves as they are classified as thinking beings, not the half-breeds you claim them to be.”

Severus clears his throat, raising his wand to speak for himself. Harry holds his breath.

“I feel that I have more personal experience than you do in this instance, Madame Umbridge,” he drones. Sirius freezes, eyes wild, but he does not interfere. “When I was still in my schooling, I was almost maimed by a werewolf on the full moon. Since then, I have been perfecting an improved version of the wolfsbane potion with two unnamed colleagues of mine. I can say, with all of my considerable knowledge and experience, that werewolves are not what you claim to be.”

He purses his lips, clenches his jaw.

“And,” Severus continues reluctantly, “I must agree with Lord Black at this time. The legislation you have proposed is barbaric, taking legal rights away from thinking beings. ”

Sirius’ eyes widen, and he shares a hesitant nod with Severus.

Slowly, other Lords and Ladies raise their wands to give their agreement with Severus and Sirius. Lucius reluctantly does the same, and even some Light wixen raise their wands to agree, looking disgusted with Umbridge for even proposing what she has.

Harry thinks Dumbledore looks conflicted. He’s not sure why, though he knows Dumbledore is Light to a fault, and Harry hasn’t had good experiences with Light Lords in the future-past, especially ones who think the Dark is corrupt, evil.

Fudge puts it to a vote, looking pale as he seems to realize his undersecretary has lowered her social status in the eyes of the Wizengamot. Amelia at his side looks pleased with the woman’s self-destruction.

The legislation does not pass, and Harry grins as he tugs on the rope of silver wrapped around his waist. The last thing he sees of the chamber is Umbridge’s face slowly turning purple in a mixture of rage and embarrassment.

Near the end of October, the water of the Black Lake flares with light and song. Quickly, before the rest of the castle can take notice of the spectacle, Draco steps onto the shore and kneels as a messenger merfolk rises from the waves, designated so by their wrist cuffs of steel.

He is handed a shell, a polished one that shines in the moonlight. The messenger nods their frilled head before ducking back into the water.

Draco jumps back to the Room of Requirement, slinking through neutral space, and lands on the large bed the Room provides. He holds the shell to his ear, as his studies have taught him to with song-shells, and listens to Queen Murcus’ soothing voice with a growing smile.

She has agreed to his proposal, as long as he does not ask her to break her vows to Dumbledore. 

He’s glad she agreed. He’s not sure if he could take losing another culture if a new war breaks out and decides to eliminate an entire species. That’s part of why his coven are doing what they’ve been doing with the Hogwarts species of magical creatures, to learn and preserve their lives the best they can after seeing so many beings die at the hands of the Light Lord and his army.

Draco lays back on the bed and sighs. If another war breaks out, at least he can help the merfolk of the Black Lake. That’s all he wants.

Quidditch tryouts fall on a Thursday this year, on the last Thursday of October, which isn’t great for the second-years who have Astronomy that night, but they show up in high spirits nonetheless.

Harry, already guaranteed a place as Seeker from his performance last year, is happy to watch the tryouts from afar. There’s not much a Seeker can do to help people practice, as they’re usually more removed from the game than Chasers and Beaters. The twins use their positions as Beaters to ‘help’ with the tryouts with manic grins. Oliver Wood ends up banishing them to the outskirts of the pitch after they hit one of the third-years off his broom.

Draco doesn’t need to bribe the Slytherin team to get in, though he does it anyway. He’s a good enough Seeker after playing against Harry for all these years that Marcus Flint takes one look at him and says he’s in.

Ginny watches the Gryffindor tryouts from the stands with envy. Harry assures her that she’ll be Chaser next year when she’s allowed to join. She grins at him and goes back to watching the team practice. Colin Creevey sits next to her, taking pictures with his muggle camera that light up the field and distract some of the players.

Some of the students watch Harry’s newest broom with wide eyes as he practices dives and feints like he was made for it, zipping through the sky like his raven form. He smirks at some of them and puts on a show for those who’ve finished tryouts.

Draco just shakes his head, though his eyes follow Harry all the same.

In the end, all of the people who joined in the future-past join this time as well, and Hermione notes that down in her enchanted notebook where she keeps all her notes on time travel.

Ginny sneaks into one of their dueling sessions not long after Quidditch tryouts. She’s wide eyed in the face of the rapid spellfire and violent destruction that the coven leaves in its wake, but she does not cower, does not shake.

She puts her foot down and demands to be treated as one of them. They start training her that day. She has a mean Bat-Bogey Hex and quick reflexes from living with the twins all her life. Her instincts are good enough that she leaves the training session with only a mild bruise on her ribs, though the coven goes easy on her.

They don’t give away any of their secrets, and she doesn’t ask for any. She’s content with training her skills in the Room of Requirement every chance she gets.

Luna meanders into the Room in Ginny’s second session, sitting daintily on the top of a cupboard summoned by the Room at her request. She watches with wide eyes as Ginny duels them, one at a time. She smiles as they correct her form gently.

In the sessions to come, Luna does not join in the fighting, and nobody asks her to.

She is vicious in a fight, her father taught her to be when she was young, when she lost her mother, so she doesn’t worry about her skills on the battlefield. She sits and watches her friends with warmth in her eyes.

Neville is powerful these days. He’s only twelve, yes, but he shares a coven link with four very powerful wixen, and things transfer subconsciously. He’s able to hold off two of them without breaking for an hour at least. Ron pats him on the back and grins after a duel well-fought.

When Harry receives notice that the Headmaster wants a word with him, he’s not surprised.

He’s looked back on their interactions last year, and he doesn’t feel great about them. Yes, he has issues he needs to work out in regards to Dumbledore, but he feels guilty when he remembers how he got back at him, how he stripped him of his place in the Wizengamot and put a dent in his reputation.

But then he remembers why he did it. Albus Dumbledore is manipulative and has always been. He controlled Harry in the future-past down to every last detail, and he placed the Boy-Who-Lived with his abusive relatives without a thought for his safety.

A part of Harry’s mind, the part that sneers with rage and hatred, the part that wants to destroy the world and be done with it, this part wonders if that was Dumbledore’s plan, leaving him with the people who would destroy his self-esteem and his trust.

Harry’s not a kid anymore, and he’s certainly not going to let Dumbledore walk all over him once again. He will establish boundaries and warm the man if he starts crossing them.

Hopefully Harry can do that without blowing up once more. That would only give more credence to Dumbledore’s ridiculous theory that the Horcrux in his scar has been turning him evil for the past eleven years.

The gargoyle lets him in with a muttered, “Gumdrops.”

He wonders how Dumbledore will play this as he takes the stairs. Will he have that twinkle in his eye? Or will he treat Harry like an adult for once?

His question is answered quickly. He sits down in the allotted chair and glances up to see a mix of both the options. That damn twinkle is there, but it’s muted. Dumbledore is looking consideringly at Harry, and Harry matches his stare with one of his own.

“Headmaster,” he says respectfully.

“Harry,” Dumbledore smiles. It’s lost the pep that it once had, it looks more natural. “Do you know why I have called you here?”

“I do not, Headmaster.” He has his suspicions, but he’s not willing to give them away.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle once more, and Harry has to stop himself from sighing.

“I wanted to check up on you, dear boy,” he says. “I am glad to see your group of friends growing.”

Harry swallows a retort. He tries to forget what the man said about his parents last time they talked. He knows he’ll have to duel his coven later to calm down, use up all his magic until his emotions stop buzzing in his ears.

“I know that the staffing this year is not what we had hoped for, but I do wish you are enjoying your time here. I have heard of the lessons you are giving, and I have to say, I am very proud of you, my boy.”

Don’t react to that, Harry tells himself, don’t shout that you’re not his boy. Calm. Breathe, in and out, in and out.

Dumbledore pauses here, looking at Harry expectantly.

“Thank you, Headmaster, but I’m just doing what our Defense professor should. I know Umbridge wasn’t your first choice, that you didn’t really have a choice at all,” Harry says, grimacing as he ducks his head for effect. “I just wish she was gone, or that she would actually teach us something, anything. The fifth and seventh-years are panicking about their OWLs and NEWTs, and I’m the only one willing to teach them.”

Dumbledore hums, nodding, “I understand, Harry. Do not worry, dear boy, nobody will stop you from teaching your peers. I only worry for your own schooling.”

“My grades are fine, Headmaster,” Harry smiles genuinely. He knows he should be analyzing each word out of the man’s mouth, but he can’t right now. Dumbledore is worried for him, and he’s being sincere when he says it. Hopefully that means the man isn’t too far gone in his idea of the Greater Good.

“That is good, my boy.” Dumbledore smiles, eyes twinkling. “Now, I was wondering if you would help me understand something. If not, that is perfectly fine. I know that we have not had the best of starts.”

Harry nods, “Of course.”

“Well then,” Dumbledore straightens slightly. “Would you mind explaining some things to me, dear boy? I would be blind to not notice the moves you have been making politically, and I have seen your friends and your godfather do the same. May I ask your goal in all this, Harry?”

Of course this is what he’s been called here for. Harry bites his lip as he chooses the best way to answer.

“I want to make the world a better place,” he says, meeting the man’s eyes. “I know that’s probably beyond my control, but I can’t keep seeing magical creatures and cultures be punished just for the type of their magic. And Hermione and I have been working on things we could do for muggleborns and muggle-raised wixen that come into the wizarding world. I mean, I didn’t have the best introduction, with Riddle and all, but Hermione and I weren’t taught anything we’d need to know to fit in here. We couldn’t write with quills and ink, and we knew nothing about the government or blood status besides what we learn in first-year. There were no introduction packets to welcome us, just a professor before we were shoved into the deep end head first.”

Dumbledore frowns, “It is an admirable goal, my boy, but I fear you are focusing too much on muggleborns fitting in instead of keeping their own culture.”

“But that’s the problem, Headmaster,” Harry insists. “Wixen already have a culture. I have no problem with muggleborns keeping their own culture, but you wouldn’t visit Japan and expect people to conform to your morals and etiquette, would you? It’s similar, if you think about it. Why can’t we preserve wixen culture while accommodating muggle culture? If people like the Malfoys can do it, anyone can.”

Dumbledore strokes his beard, eyes focused over Harry’s shoulder.

“You have given me something to think about, Harry, and I thank you for that.” He meets Harry’s eyes. “I just wish you would have more care with how you speak. I would never wish you to censor yourself, of course not, but I doubt everyone will be as accepting as I am.”

“I understand, Headmaster,” Harry bows his head slightly. He’s kind of amazed that Dumbledore hasn’t thrown him out in a rage for talking back to him, but then he remembers who he’s dealing with. Dumbledore was never cruel, even when he manipulated children’s lives like chess pieces.

Hopefully, this talk has actually given Dumbledore something to think about. Harry hopes he’s not lying just to lull Harry into a false sense of trust.

“You may go, my boy, I heard there will be quite the Gobstones game tonight in the Gryffindor common room.” He smiles, eyes twinkling, and Harry removes himself from the room with a smile of his own.

Thank Merlin that’s over.

In the three days leading up to Samhain, there’s an odd buzzing in Harry’s veins, an ache in his bones. He’s felt this once before, the hours after he died the first time and learned he was the Master of Death.

Hermione points out the significance of Death in Samhain, which makes the timing of this buzzing make sense, but Harry wonders why it didn’t feel like this last year. The last time Harry heard from Death or felt it in any way was when he harnessed its power to destroy Riddle’s horcruxes last year. Surely if Death wanted recognition, it would have affected him before now, not after more then a year has passed since it returned Harry and his coven to this time.

But no, as Samhain approaches, Harry’s magic gets stronger. He overpowers almost every spell he casts with his wand and has to start casting wordlessly and wandlessly just to make sure he doesn’t harm anyone around him. Filius has been watching him in class with a thoughtful frown.

The day finally comes, and Harry wakes up feeling like he’s high. Ron hums into his chest, wearing a dopey smile. Neville snorts, shimmying up until he can press his face into Harry’s neck with a grin.

“Why’s the world so funny?” Neville murmurs into his skin. He laughs, “Funny.”

There’s an audible pop, and a new weight lands on top of Ron, making their pile of bodies groan, though that quickly turns to hysterical laughter. Blond hair tickles Harry’s nose, and he reaches around Ron and Neville to pull Draco closer, brushing the hair out of the way with a grin.

“I feel like I’m high,” Draco cackles into Neville’s ear. “Like that time Astoria and I booked a muggle hotel after Scorpius turned three, and we had so many magic mushrooms. Are we spinning right now? I think we’re spinning.”

Another weight lands on the other side of Ron, and Hermione groans into his red hair.

“Did we try goblin drugs again?” she croaks. “I swear I can taste colors, and they smell amazing.”

Harry cackles, he can’t help it. Draco’s hair is back in his face and Neville is choking laughter into his neck. Ron shifts so Hermione can drape herself across his back. Harry’s breathing is coming slowly with all the weight on him.

“Um, guys?” Seamus’s voice interrupts their laughter, and Harry gets one look at the boy’s overwhelmed face before cackling harder, clutching his coven to his body.

“Why are there five of them?” Dean asks, peering over Seamus’ shoulder. It prompts a new round of laughter.

“Do you think we should get McGonagall?”

Harry sucks in a breath through laughter and manages to say, “No, we’re fine, just give us-- give us a minute. Oh Merlin, I feel like I’m floating.”

“Did you guys get into the twins’ candy stock?” Dean smirks. “I’ve been trying to find it for weeks! Where’d they hide it?”

Draco giggles into Neville’s neck and wiggles, ignoring the Gryffindor in favor of reaching out to his magic with a hum. He twists the folds of space on muscle memory, and the next thing they know, they’re in the Room of Requirement.

Harry fully cackles now that they’re alone.

“Oh dear gods,” he gasps in between giggles, “what the fuck is happening? I swear I didn’t eat anything from the twins.”

“It,” Hermione rolls over, takes a deep breath, tries to push down her own chuckles, “it has to be Samhain, that’s the only answer.”

“How is Samhain the only answer?” Neville huffs, hiding his smile in Harry’s neck once more. Draco pushes Ron to the side until he’s on Harry’s other side, so he and Neville are sharing Harry’s neck. Ron rolls onto Hermione with a snort of laughter.

“I mean,” Ron grins, “he has been feeling weird leading up to it, right? And it makes sense that what would affect Harry would get us too through the bond, right?”

Harry’s laughter dies down slowly, and he clutches his friends close as he smiles wide.

“Why do we feel like we’re high, though?” he asks. “What’s that got to do with Death?”

Hermione, through a haze of giggles, manages to cast a calming charm on herself. She takes a deep breath, rubbing a hysterical Ron’s back.

“Samhain is the day when the veil is thinnest,” she says, looking over to lock eyes with him. “What if Death is reaching out now that it’s at the height of its power? That rush of recognition combined with the death magic so heavy in the air today could be causing our symptoms.”

She casts calming charms on the rest of them. Harry relaxes back into the bed the Room has summoned for them, thinking that over.

“That seems logical,” he says, “though my relationship with Death has never been logical.”

“Fuck,” Ron groans, “we’re gonna have to keep applying those calming charms all day.”

“Death better give me a big power boost for putting up with it today,” Harry muses.

Eventually time comes for breakfast, and they have to leave the Room of Requirement. Hermione drags Ron along while Draco and Neville link arms with Harry. Dean and Seamus shoot them curious looks as they enter the Great Hall. Harry tries his best not to giggle as Draco sits at the Slytherin table between Crabbe and Nott.

Luckily, it’s a Saturday. Harry doesn’t think he’d be able to bear sitting through classes without overpowering his spells or breaking down in laughter.

It’s too cold to lay on the shore of the lake until lunch, so they roam the halls, arms linked. Hermione and Neville disappear into the library an hour in, and Ron elf-travels into the Gryffindor common room to play a game of Exploding Snap. (He doesn’t quite notice the looks he gets when he appears by the fire in a cluster of fifth-years. The calming charms may be wearing off.)

Harry and Draco wander through the school, arm in arm, giggling to themselves.

That’s how Minerva finds them, collapsed in the Transfiguration hallway, leaning on each other, laughing like fools.

Harry’s eyes light up when he sees her, “Minerva! You’re here!”

“No, shh,” Draco puts his hand over Harry’s mouth, “that hasn’t happened yet, raven-boy. We’re twelve! Look, the castle’s still standing, isn’t that weird? I wonder if mum would build the castle again for me if I asked.”

“Are… are you two drunk?” Minerva looks aghast, eyes wide and mouth open.

Harry laughs, leans his head on Draco’s shoulder, “Of course not, there’s no wizard mead in the tunnels, Minnie. You know that.”

“I am going to assume you’ve been caught unawares by a potion,” Minerva purses her lips. “I should get you to Madame Pomfrey.”

“Poppy!” Draco cheers. “I miss her, she used to make the best chocolate cake. Did you know that, Minerva? Have you had her cake yet? Or does that come in a few years? Time is so weird. Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey.”

“Shh,” Harry bumps his shoulder, “that hasn’t come out yet! Doctor Who was canceled years ago, remember?”

“Utter gibberish,” Minerva mutters to herself, already casting a patronus to summon Poppy.

Harry squeals at the sight of Minerva’s cat patronus, fiddling for his wand and muttering the incantation with a furrowed brow. His stag bursts forth from his wand in a cloud of silvery mist, and he grins up at Minerva’s surprised face.

“Learned that in third year, Headmistress, thought you knew that,” Harry grins wide.

Minerva frowns.

“Mr. Potter,” she says, “what are you talking about?”

“What d’ya mean, Professor?” His eyes widen, a picture of innocence.

“Minerva,” Poppy comes rushing down the hallway, wand already out and casting diagnostic spells on the duo, “I came as soon as I could. Ms. Granger and Mr. Longbottom are already in my ward with similar symptoms.”

Harry and Draco giggle at the names of their friends. Poppy levels them with a serious look.

“Should I be expecting a call about Mr. Weasley soon?” she asks them. Harry nods with a grin.

“Harry!” Draco punches Harry’s arm weakly. “We forgot the calming charms!”

His eyes go wide as his jaw drops, “Oh shit!”

Minerva mutters something undignified under her breath, sharing a look with Poppy.

“Can you two walk, or shall we float you to the hospital wing?” Minerva asks.

Harry grins, “We can jump!”

In less than a second, they’re gone. Harry twists neutral space around them until they’re on Hermione’s hospital bed, giggling like school children. Draco climbs up to snuggle into Hermione’s side, and Harry does the same in Neville’s bed next to hers.

Hermione sighs, running her fingers through Draco’s hair.

“Forgot the calming charms, then?” Hermione asks.

Neville smiles, holding Harry close, “Wonder who found them.”

“That would be me, Mr. Longbottom,” Minerva almost-growls, entering the hospital wing in a rush of breath. Poppy enters right behind her, looking grim.

She casts a few spells on the four of them, barely blinking as Ron lands on Neville’s bed, pushing Harry out of it. She hovers Harry back up into his own bed without thought.

“What are we dealing with, Poppy?” Minerva asks quietly. Her eyes don’t leave the second-years. She’s never seen them act this way, she looks worried.

“It seems,” she pauses, squinting at the readings from the spell she just cast, “that Mr. Potter is suffering from an excess of magic. The other four are showing sympathetic signs of the same, but their cores are calm, unlike Mr. Potter’s.”

Hermione casts calming charms on the three giggling twelve-year-olds with an amused smile.

Harry sighs into Neville’s chest as he calms down, abandoning the bed Poppy hovered him into so he can cuddle with his boys.

“Mr. Potter,” Minerva calls, a serious undertone to her voice, “would you care to tell me why you are suffering an excess of magic today?”

He freezes. Fuck. His memories come rushing back. Hopefully she tracks everything he’s said today to the delirium.

“Um,” he looks up at her from his position on top of Neville, “I dunno.”

Hermione clears her throat, “What he means to say, Professor, is that it’s Samhain. Harry’s magic reacts fairly strongly to the magic of this holiday in particular, and it seems that his magic has been exciting ours through proximity.”

Minerva raises an eyebrow, “Is that so, Mr. Potter?”

“Yeah,” he says, sheepish. “Sorry. This didn’t happen last year, but my core says that’s why this is happening. It’s rather insistent.”

“That’s alright,” Poppy says, finishing her wand movements. “I’ll give you five some calming draughts for the rest of the day. They’ll last longer than the charms, overpowered as Ms. Granger’s are.”

Harry grins.

“Thanks, Madame Pomfrey.”

Poppy and Minerva shake their heads, leaving to collect some calming draughts from the potions supply.

Ginny and Luna stride into the hospital wing as the five coven members are being dismissed under strict orders to take the draughts every five hours. Luna links arms with Draco with an airy sigh.

“It really is wonderful how overzealous the Crow gets when it’s his birthday, isn’t it, Draco?”

Draco thinks that through, puzzling her words over in his head, then smiles. She’s talking about Death.

“Yes, I think it is, Luna.”

Ginny taps her foot against the hospital floor, glaring at her brother and Harry both.

“I’m getting tired of the secrets,” she scowls. She eyes the potions in their hands and her features soften, “Though I could probably wait a little longer before I demand answers.”

Ron presses a kiss to his sister’s head and smiles, “Thanks, Gin’.”

They take their potions and retire to the Room of Requirement, dueling to get rid of their extra energy and magic.

Harry expends more magic than he ever thought he was capable of holding, ending the session by collapsing into a panting wreck on the couch the Room provides. Neville collapses next to him.

“Is it gonna be like this every Samhain?” the boy asks, breathless.

“I hope not,” Harry responds. “We’d run out of calming draughts so quickly.”

Neville snorts, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder.

Death comes to Harry at midnight.

It comes with a tugging against his magic, a flare of light from his wand, unprompted. Harry peers up at the cloaked figure without fear. He knows this being won’t hurt him, won’t hurt his coven. The rest of them are asleep on the Room’s bed.

He gets up and sits on the floor in front of the fire, putting up privacy wards as Death trails after him.

He has so many questions, but he doubts he’ll get the answers he’s looking for.

“Hello,” he says instead, settling cross-legged and staring up at Death.

“Hello,” it echoes, drifting down into a seated position. Its voice is layered, like thousands of voices on top of one another.

“May I ask why you’re here?” Best to stick to his manners for now.

“You may, Master,” it croaks. “I thought it time we met.”

Harry doesn’t protest that they’ve met before in all the times Harry has died over the years, he pushes those comments down. Besides, they’ve never talked like this before. This is definitely new.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” he says, bowing his head in deference.

There’s an odd rasping sound, and Harry gets the feeling that Death is laughing. It sends a shiver down his back.

“Do you know why we have sent you back, Master of Mine?” Death asks, tilting its head slightly to the side in question. The human mannerisms don’t look right when the only thing visible is its black cloak.

“No,” he says. “But I have theories. Will you tell me?”

“I will not,” Death rasps. “Time says it is not yet time, and she is always right.”

Harry bites his lip, forcefully stopping himself from asking more questions. “Alright.”

“Though Fate has taken an interest in you, the only one to truly master me in my own domain.” Death laughs again, making Harry’s hair stand on end. “It is your birthright, to be my Master. Fate will see that eventually. They are young, younger than Life and I.”

Harry’s grateful to get any information, vague as this is, so he holds his tongue and listens.

“Harry Potter, my Master,” Death hums, a great wailing sound. “Do what you must do, that is all I can give you for now.”

Harry nods, grateful. That’s more than he started with.

“I will see you next year when the veil is thin.”

Death disappears in a wave of darkness, streams of shadow overcoming Harry until he blinks his eyes open once more to see empty space in front of him.

He sighs, making his way back to the bed in silence, and tucks himself behind Draco.

They’ll deal with this in the morning. (And ignore the side eye Poppy and Minerva give them, pretend like everything’s normal.)

The twins dye Umbridge’s hair a variety of colors the first week of November, starting on the first and going through the rainbow until Dumbledore has to make a public speech about ‘serious consequences to whomever is responsible.’ He’s started to eye the Weasley twins with suspicion, but he has yet to accuse them of anything.

Minerva simply pretends not to see the twins when she catches them planning for their next prank. It’s nice to know that they’re not alone in opposing Umbridge, even if the staff can’t openly oppose her without blowback from the Ministry.

On the seventh, the last day of the twins’ prank, a nauseating violet, the first Quidditch game of the season is scheduled.

Slytherin and Gryffindor line up on the pitch, each of their captains giving speeches. Harry catches Draco’s eye over Oliver Wood’s shoulder and gives him a nod. They’ve muted the coven bond for now, just so they know there will be no cheating through the link.

The match starts. Harry raises into the air, flying lazily in circles over the rest of the pitch. Draco’s not far behind him, making his own laps, searching for the snitch.

They’re almost evenly matched as Seekers, though Harry has always had a natural talent for flying and spotting a glimpse of gold among a crowd of players. Harry scans the crowded stands carefully, trying to see that golden flash.

The score is 60-40 to Gryffindor. Harry sticks out his tongue to Draco as they pass each other in their own sweeping circles. Draco sends a mild stinging hex at him, just enough for Harry to scowl dramatically in his direction, not calling the attention of Madame Hooch at the move.

There, Harry thinks, carefully schooling his face into neutrality at the sight of the snitch.

He leans forward until his chest is pressed into the length of his broom, accelerating as quickly as he can, rolling upside down to avoid a bludger one of the Slytherin Beaters hits his way. He ducks into a steep dive, heading straight down towards the pitch, chasing the golden snitch with all his focus.

Draco is behind him, Harry can sense his shadowy magic right on his tail. They’re so close to each other that Harry’s broomtails are scraping Draco’s clenched fists.

At the last second, not five feet from crashing into the ground, Harry reaches out a hand and grabs the snitch. He pulls up just in time, seeing Draco do the same at his side. Draco pouts as Lee Jordan announces that Gryffindor has won the game.

Draco growls in the now-open coven bond, even as pride seeps through.

Harry holds out a hand, grinning, and says, “Good game, Dragon.”

“Good game, raven-boy,” Draco grits out.

The rest of the Gryffindor team surrounds Harry, sweeping him off his broom with a wave of wild roars. The crowd on the stands is cheering with all their might, though the Slytherins are booing whenever Harry looks their way. He smiles at them, winks, and he catches some laughter amongst the sea of green.

Gryffindor has won the first match of the year, and Harry can’t stop smiling. His coven sit close in the common room, even Draco and Luna, as they listen to the twins dramatically describe Harry’s dive.

It’s a good day. It’s easy to push back the thought of Umbridge and her Educational Decrees, the somber silences that sometimes fill the halls.

One spare weekend in November, Harry and Draco investigate the Scottish Manor the coven purchased back in September through the goblins.

They activate the portkey Griphook sent them, wands in hand. It transports them into a field of yellow-green grass with no structures in sight. Harry reaches out with his magic until it finds the Ward Line, the boundary of the Manor.

Draco approaches first, waiting at the edge to let the magic feel his intention. Then, quickly, he slices open his palm with a cutting charm and lets his blood fall to paint the grass red at his feet. Harry steps up next and does the same. The magic of the Ward Line pulses once, twice, and shudders as it accepts its new owners.

They made the decision to call this new manor the Seiche House, or in English the Hideaway. It’s not exactly a ‘house,’ more of a castle or a fortress, but it works.

They don’t have any house elves, they probably won’t for a while now, but they know all the cleaning spells they need to get this place up and running again. Hermione and Draco will tackle the larger rooms, reconstructing the fallen arches and walls, while Harry and Neville take care of the lands, weeding and getting the greenhouses in better shape. Ron will fix whatever he can, though he’ll be working more on the blueprints for what they’ll do with this place when they get more free time.

For now, they survey their new property.

Harry squeezes Draco’s hand, healing them both in the process, as they look up at the castle. The grass surrounding it is long and untended, and the stone is cracked and ragged.

“It’s ours,” Harry whispers into the wind.

“Yeah,” Draco squeezes his hand, bumps his shoulder with his own. “We should probably start the gardens up before the animal pins, we’ll need food for the hippogriffs, kneazles, and crups.”

Harry grins. He’s looking forward to getting this place together, even if it’ll stay out of the public eye for the intended future. This will be where they grow the things they’ll sell, though that will take a few years to get up and running. This will be where their steady income comes from and into the Evans Collective Vault.

Once they get their side businesses started, the money from the investments will be transferred to their personal vaults, the ones that can be connected to them publicly.

“Neville and I will get on it,” Harry says. “He’ll want a place to store his dangerous plants where his Grandmother can’t access them.”

“Hm,” Draco hums, biting his lip, “‘Mione and I should get started on the entrance hall when winter break starts. I’m sure there are a lot of faulty walls and roofs in there that we don’t want coming down on the kids’ heads.”

Harry’s grin widens as he catches Draco’s vision of Ginny, Luna, and Neville settling into the Hideaway in the years to come. He can’t wait.

“What color do you want?” Ginny asks, fiddling with the containers of nail polish Harry set out.

Ron eyes them critically, “Gold.”

“Really rocking the Gryffindor colors,” Draco smirks, pointedly gazing at his potent red hair.

“Like you can talk,” Harry snickers, pulling at Draco’s green and silver-painted nails. “Slytherin to the extreme.”

They share a smile, soft and warm. The rest of the Gryffindor common room bustles around them, and their coven sits in a loose circle near the fireplace. Ron’s layered dress flowers out around him, providing a pillow for Hermione to curl up on around him.

The other Gryffindors gave them a few odd looks when Harry brought out the nail polish and Ron came down wearing his comfiest dress, but Harry and Neville glared until they looked away. The purebloods that follow the Old Ways accept it as normal, but some of the wixen who grew up in the muggle world aren’t as accepting. Hermione accounted for that in their long-term plan.

Luna sighs dreamily and admires Draco’s nails from where she’s draped across his and Harry’s laps.

“It’s too bad you can’t paint your claws,” she says with a smile. “I think your fur would go great with green and silver, like a boomslang wrapped around your paws. Don’t you think that would look handsome, Harry?”

Harry licks his lips, meets Draco’s eyes to see him similarly holding back laughter, “Yeah, Luna, I think he would look great with painted claws.”

It’s times like these that Harry’s thankful for Luna’s Sight, or her version of it anyway. They don’t need to tell her that they have Animagus forms, she knows, just like she knows about Harry being the Master of Death and the lives they lead in the future-past. Oh, he loves her, so much.

Hermione shifts from her place pillowed on Ron’s legs, a familiar look on her face. Harry feels a smile build on his face. She has an idea.

“Ron,” she says, looking up at him with mischief in his eyes, “how would you feel about wearing a girl’s uniform for the next couple of days?”

“That would be brilliant,” Ron grins. Ginny hums from where she’s carefully painting his nails red, silently asking why, not breaking concentration.

Draco matches Ron’s grin. 

“Umbridge would throw a fit,” he says. “It would show the purebloods not corrupted by Riddle that she’s not really Dark, and the Light would just have another reason to hate her. Sure, most muggle-raised wixen don't have the Dark background that most purebloods do, the one that says stuff like this is natural and acceptable, but they don’t like purebloods who hate the way Umbridge does, and that’ll get them on our side.”

Hermione hums, “Yeah, the muggle world doesn’t have the best views on gender and sexuality these days. That won’t change for a decade, at least. But, Neville can deal with the Light if Draco deals with the Dark. No one will say anything about what Ron wants to wear.”

“The other day,” Ron says, “Colin came up to me and asked why I was wearing nail polish. He was genuinely curious, said his muggle cousins told him it was only for women, and was wondering if it was different for wizards. He got the best look in his eyes when I told him anyone can wear things like that, muggle or wizard, that it was society that told people not to. That kid’s gonna grow up to be an amazing wizard, I know it.”

“And this time,” Harry says, “he’ll get that chance. Nobody will touch him if we have any say in it.”

They know the consequences of Colin’s death, and they’d rather not repeat a third war because of it.

They put the plan into action that Monday. Hermione lends Ron her spare uniform, and he twirls in the skirt for a solid ten minutes before breakfast. Harry and Neville have to drag him away from the mirror.

I missed wearing skirts, he sighs into the bond, sitting at the Gryffindor table with the others. He dutifully ignores the looks he’s getting from purebloods and muggleborns alike. It seems that some of the purebloods have forgotten the old ways. Harry’s not surprised.

I’ll get you a dress for your birthday, Hermione smiles softly, resting her hand on the back of his neck.

Harry looks up at the staff table and has to stifle a cackle at the shade of purple that Umbridge’s face has turned. She looks absolutely furious, it’s amazing. Snape’s lips are twitching like he’s fighting a smile. Filius and Minerva’s faces are placid, amused yet professional. Dumbledore looks like he doesn’t know quite how to react to this, the same way he looks when the Houses mix in classes.

It doesn’t take long for Umbridge to start preaching her ‘pureblood’ views on gender and expression. Clearly the opposite of what she expects, the Slytherins shoot her glares every time she opens her mouth.

DADA rolls around, and Ron settles into a chair next to Draco, skirt splayed around his legs, nails proudly painted a vibrant red and gold. Draco loudly compliments him on his outfit and his nails, and Umbridge fumes from her desk. The Slytherins and Gryffindors band together in this instant, shooting compliments Ron’s way and glaring at their professor.

It takes until dinner for a new Decree to be posted on every door in the castle.

Students Shall Wear Their Own Uniforms , it reads, then in smaller text below, Boys will wear male uniforms and girls will wear female ones, no exceptions.

It’s not just the purebloods that react to this, to Harry’s surprise. All the witches of the school who prefer not to wear skirts and dresses rage when they see the Decree, and Harry can’t blame them. 

Ron marches up to his brothers in the great hall with a scowl, wearing his own uniform once more. He's fidgeting, looking stiff in the trousers. The three of them share matching frowns as they talk. The twins pat Ron on the back and nod, determination in their eyes. Percy looks up at the staff table with a considering look. Harry hopes he isn’t planning to side with the Ministry this time too.

Umbridge is averaging one Educational Decree every month, Hermione tells them after dinner. Luckily, it’s the beginning of November, and they’ve already gotten their Decree for the month. Time will tell if Umbridge escalates.

Skeeter writes an appreciative article on Umbridge’s methods the next day. She uses quotes from students that have no memory of giving them, just of saying them to their friends.

Hermione pulls out a fresh piece of parchment as the Prophet is spread throughout the four tables. She’s scowling, writing furiously with her endlessly-inked quill, adjusting her plans for Rita Skeeter as Ron reads the article beside her.

“We’ll take care of her too,” she mutters under her breath, eyes alight with anger. “Give me four months.”

Harry senses when the punishments begin. The part of his magic that has always been sensitive to the natural magic of the castle screams. It’s after dinner, before curfew, and Harry shudders from his place on the Gryffindor common room’s side couch.

“It’s started,” he mutters. His coven surrounds him in an instant, but he’s already in motion. “Fred, George, come here!”

The twins startle from where they're sitting with Lee Jordan, on their feet at an instant.

“Harrykins?” Fred says, worried.

“What’s wrong, ickle second-year?” George asks.

Harry takes a steadying breath, “Do you know who has detention with Umbridge tonight?”

They share a look, communicating without words in the way they always do.

“Alicia,” they say in sync.

Oh Merlin. Alicia Spinnet. One of Gryffindor’s Chasers, a friend to the twins, Lee Jordan, Katie Bell, and Angelina Johnson.

Harry’s magic flares around them, making the air crackle with unstable electricity.

“Meet her after her detention,” Harry says, voice monotone. “Don’t let on that you know anything, but she’ll need to have her injuries checked and documented.”

“Injuries?” the twins ask, tone darkening. “What injuries?”

Harry meets their eyes, deadly serious, “We can’t go to the authorities, Umbridge is here representing the Ministry, she’ll just say that the Minister authorized her to use them.”

“To use what?” Lee asks, coming up behind the twins. He looks furious.

“Blood quills,” Harry sneers. “This is the first time she’s used one on a student, I promise.”

“We can teach you the spells to document the marks and heal them,” Hermione says, eyes shining with rage. “We’ll need to do this with everyone she punishes until we can get rid of her. Blood quills are harmful when used repeatedly, and their residue can bind the victim to their written words.”

Fred and George nod. Lee sprints out of the common room to fetch Angelina from the library.

“Can I ask a favor from you two?” Harry swallows hard, looking into their matching eyes.

They nod, serious.

“We can’t let her get to the lower years,” Harry says. “We’ll be doing the best we can to get them out of their detentions by blaming ourselves, but we will need help to protect them all.”

“Harry,” Fred frowns, “you are a lower year. You can’t take this upon yourselves.”

“We have to,” Harry states, tone grim. “We’re the ones who publicly defeated Tom Riddle once and for all. If the wizarding world sees that Umbridge has been basically torturing us for fun, there’s no way they’ll stand by her side. Fudge will have to abandon her to the press.”

“We don’t like this,” George scowls. “You’re just kids.”

Ron exhales heavily, “We haven’t been just kids for a long time. We’ll be fine.”

Of course, they won’t be letting Neville, Ginny, or Luna take any of the blame from the lower years, they actually are kids, even if Neville shares a link with the four of them, but the twins don’t need to know that, yet.

So that’s what they do.

There’s no guarantee that every detention with Umbridge will be using a blood quill, so they don their invisibility and watch each punishment, determined to intervene if they see her use those horrid things. They cause commotion in the halls when Umbridge so much as even looks at a first-year with that sadistic superiority in her eyes. The twins take the blame for every incident in the castle, even if they had no part in it.

The first time Harry gets detention with a blood quill, his coven surrounds him, covered in neutral invisibility to stay hidden from Umbridge.

I will not disrespect my betters, he carves into his skin each night under the watchful eye of Dolores Umbridge.

The twins share the spells they use with their friends throughout all four Houses, and soon everyone knows them. They document the injuries and magical signatures of the blood quills on pieces of parchment, each House hiding their own stacks of paper where they won’t be found. They drain the binding magic from each wound and try their best to heal them.

Despite their best efforts, some of the first and second-years end up with blood dripping down their hands. Their Houses take care of them. House rivalries mean nothing when a Ministry employee is carving letters into children’s skin.

It’s late, long after class let out for the day, and Andy settles into the comfiest chair in the Hogwarts staff lounge, some other professors at her side. She’s missed this, missed these people around her that she grew up around or grew close to in the last war.

She’s seen what Dolores has been doing through the secondary coven bond she shares with Harry and his friends. This is the only way she knows that she can help, distract the other professors while the children take care of their own. It goes against everything in her, but she knows that this information can’t yet get out, they don’t have the political power to get rid of that horrible woman just yet.

Pomona passed out some firewhiskey a few minutes earlier, enough that Andy’s still sipping on it now. Her secondary coven is safe, she can feel it through the bond, so she relaxes best she can with Dolores out and about in the castle, stirring up trouble. This is one of the few places Dolores won’t come, probably because none of the other professors want her here.

“How are you, dear?” Minerva questions. Her eyes are kind as she settles in next to Andy, and Andy melts a little when she hears the lilting accent in Minerva’s voice, when she feels the woman’s magic against her skin.

“Good,” Andy smiles. “Ted and I have been enjoying having Nymphadora away for the time being, though we miss her dearly. Ted hasn’t stopped making bread since she left, and we can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing so far.”

She sighs, looks over the others in the room, then continues.

“It’s been nice talking to Narcissa again,” she says quietly, so that only those near her can hear, Aurora Sinistra, Minerva, Severus, and Poppy. She misses her old coven, but she’ll take this.

“I always hoped you two would make amends,” Minerva says with a smile. “You were inseparable in your school years, I remember, we never saw one without the others. I am glad you two were able to forgive each other and yourselves for all that’s happened.”

Andy ducks her head, “Me too, Minnie.”

“Yes,” Aurora hums, blushing slightly as the attention is drawn to her, “I remember hearing tales about the Black Sisters when I was in Hogwarts. If I recall correctly, I missed Narcissa by a few years, but there were many rumors about the three of you, probably all exaggerated.”

Poppy glances aside to make eye contact with Minerva, and they share a smile.

“I’m sure we can tell you what’s true of what you heard,” Andromeda says, eying her old professors with a hint of weariness.

“The Black Sisters shared one mind,” Severus mutters, mainly to himself. He looks uncomfortable as everyone glances his way. “It was quite a spectacle when we were children, the way they talked and acted, the power they held, the power they shared.”

“It’s true,” Andy says. “We grew up in each other's minds due to Cissa’s natural legilimency, so we were basically one person until we got to Hogwarts and had to be separated by year. It was kind of like the bond Magical twins share. That meant that we knew something was wrong when Bella hid her thoughts from us purposefully, a block that kept us from her mind.”

“That was when Riddle got his hooks into her,” Severus sneers. His eyes are dark as he muses over his next words. “Even with my low-level sensitivity to Mind Magic, I watched his tainted form of Dark invade her mind. I was pulled in as well, of course, but Bellatrix got the most of his propaganda, his power.”

“And then I left,” Andy grimaces, “and Cissa pulled away from the bond with Bella. Everything fell apart. Even when Bella got out of Azkaban, their minds stayed separated, and the bond would never have been fixed without Harry’s intervention.”

“Hm,” Aurora muses, “that boy is truly something.”

Andy grins, “You don’t know the half of it.”

She settles in to listen to Poppy weave a tale of the mischievous students that end up in her hospital ward.

The end of November approaches.

The mood of the castle is odd. The older years are somber with the weight that has been placed on them to keep their younger housemates safe and protected, but there is still joy, there is still life.

Colin Creevey is constantly taking pictures with his muggle camera. The twins have been buying the pictures from him with the sweets they make, a trade.

Harry poses for pictures with his coven at his side, grinning at a little Colin with too-large robes that hang off him at odd angles. Ginny and Luna sit with the boy in the classes they share, and Harry is confident Colin is happy.

“You have a brother, right, Colin?” Harry asks one day as they walk together in the halls.

Colin nods, wide-eyed, “Yeah! His name’s Dennis. He wants to be a movie maker when he grows up!”

Harry’s heart breaks.

“Do you want to know a secret?” he asks, keeping his grin with sheer will power.

Colin nods so hard he looks like a bobblehead.

“I think your brother’s a wizard too.” He watches the boy’s eyes grow even wider, his mouth hanging open. “See, I have this friend who’s a Seer, right? She says that soon there will be another Creevey at Hogwarts. Do you think that could be Dennis, then?”

“Woah, yeah,” Colin breathes out. “Wicked!”

Harry finds time before the month ends to meet Sirius and Remus at Gringotts.

He needs to check up on the state of the Evans Collective Vault, and it would probably be a good idea to restock on some potion supplies in Diagon while he’s there. Sirius and Remus suggested lunch in between chores.

Griphook gives enough information that Harry knows their new investments are going well. The goblin’s grin is all sharp, pointy teeth, which Harry mirrors back best he can.

Remus stops at the bookstore while Sirius and Harry disappear into the nearest Quidditch supply store, roaming the aisles for anything they can find. The three of them meet up at a nearby restaurant and ignore the looks they get from the other customers. It’s not every day that Harry Potter, a werewolf, and Lord Black show up to eat with the common crowd. That thought makes Harry chuckle.

After lunch, Harry returns to Gringotts alone.

“We’ll be letting the public know I am the Heir of Slytherin soon,” Harry tells Griphook, who grins toothily. “We need to wait until before winter break so the school doesn’t get bombarded with owls, but I thought I’d warn you now.”

“Good,” the goblin sneers, eyes light. “Gringotts and the Goblin Nation look forward to doing business with you publicly, Heir Slytherin.”

“I’m not thirteen yet,” Harry chides.

“No, Warrior Harry, not yet,” Griphook grins, “but you are close. The money that has been steadily accumulating in the Slytherin Vaults will provide for the entire Nation when it gets back into circulation. We look forward to it.”

Harry nods, smiling, “Then I bid you farewell, Warrior Griphook. Let your gold flow and your enemies fight you head on, without cowardice in their hearts.”

December begins with a Quidditch game between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Harry and his friends show up to cheer them on, and Harry cheers the loudest when Cho catches the snitch, winking playfully at Cedric.

After the game, Cho and some of the other Ravens ask Harry to teach them to duel, saying they’ll need to know if Umbridge refuses to teach them.

Thankfully, Filius agrees to teach a class on professional dueling without much fuss. Harry heavily implies it will have to be kept secret from Umbridge, and Filius grins with all his teeth, a proper Goblin grin. Since he told Filius about Luna's bullying, the man has been less subtle in his goblin mannerisms. Harry loves it.

Word spreads that the next DADA tutoring session will be taught by Professor Flitwick and will cover dueling. Most of the students involved are sick and tired of Umbridge’s teaching, and the crowd that shows up to the converted classroom is easily three times the size of the usual crowd of students that need help studying for their OWLs and NEWTs.

Harry carefully arranges his face into one of wide-eyed innocence. He’s going to need it with what he knows is coming.

On the dueling platform, Draco whips his wand towards the ground and calls, “Serpensortia!”

There’s an awed silence as a large boa constrictor slithers from the wand towards Flitwick. The snake is hissing, ready to do what its creator demands of it, and Harry steps forward almost automatically, hissing back at it before it can approach a determined Flitwick.

“Calm, serpent,” he hisses, ignoring the looks of fear around him, ignoring the commotion of students backing away from him. “Safe with Speaker, no attack needed.”

The boa stills and lifts its head, tongue flicking out as it sways back and forth like a cobra, “Want back to warmth, Speaker, tell Creator to send Serpent back to warm space.”

Harry smiles.

“He wants to go back to where he came from, Draco,” he says, as if he hasn’t noticed the wands pointed at him. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, but he ignores it. “He says it was warm there.”

A beat of silence, then someone nervously clearing their throat.

“Harry,” Susan starts, hesitant, “do you know what you just did?”

He furrows his brow, looks up from the snake to meet her eyes.

“What are you talking about?” He looks around and sees the wary looks he’s getting. “Is it the snake? I can banish him if it’ll make you guys feel better, but I think he’d prefer it if Draco does it.”

“Harry,” Neville says gently, stepping up to put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “not everyone can talk to snakes like you can. It’s a bit of a surprise to see it for the first time.”

“Oh,” he purposefully relaxes his shoulders, looking around until he meets Filius’ eyes. “Is it bad, Professor?”

Filius’ face softens.

“Of course not, my boy.” He steps up so everyone in the crowd can see him, shoulders straightening like he’s preparing to give a lecture. “Historically, Parseltongue, as the language is called, has been used in all types of magic. It can be used to heal, protect oneself, and even make magical oaths.”

“But it’s Dark, isn’t it, Professor?” Lavender Brown speaks up. She’s frowning.

“It can be,” Filius smiles gently at the girl. “Just like any other magic, it can be Dark, Gray, and Light, depending on who is using it and their goals for the spells they cast. But no, speaking it in general is not any more Dark than casting a Lumos, Miss Brown. In fact, Parselmouths are far more common in other countries such as Egypt, Greece, and South Africa. It is only in Wizarding Britain that such a talent is regarded as purely Dark or evil, mainly due to the stigma put upon it by Tom Riddle’s reputation.”

Some of the clustered students shiver at the name of Voldemort, but Harry is pleased to see some of the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors nodding, considering what they’ve just been told.  Most of the Ravenclaws who cornered Harry in September about light and dark magic are looking smug, sharing smirks. The Hufflepuffs look at ease, and the Slytherins watch Harry consideringly.

“When did you know you were a Parselmouth, Potter?” Marcus Flint asks.

“I mean,” Harry considers, cultivating his answer to get the best reaction, “I’ve been talking to the snakes in Aunt Petunia’s garden since I was old enough to pull weeds, so since I was four, but it was only a year later when I found out that wasn’t normal. Aunt Petunia wasn’t happy with me after that. It was one of the first signs of my ‘freakishness,’ as she would say.”

He chews on his lip, ignoring the looks he’s getting. They planned this, his coven and he, and he has to get this next part right if they want the reaction that they need to move forward with Harry claiming the title of Heir Slytherin.

“After that, I guess I learned not to speak to the snakes in public ‘cause the punishments made the conversations less than worth it. It came in handy sometimes, if one of the garden snakes saw one of Mrs. Figg’s cats wander off, but I had to be careful not to reveal where I got the directions if I didn’t want Uncle Vernon’s belt to the back.”

It’s true, all of what Harry is saying is true, even though he’s so far removed from the emotion of the memories. It’s been decades since he had to live with his relatives, he’s 47 for Merlin’s sake, and he can’t help but relish in the reactions he’s getting. If this had happened the first time, in the future-past, things would have gone so much better. He bet Filius would rather kidnap Harry than make him go back to the Dursleys. That would have been a fun childhood, Harry muses.

Before he realizes, there’s a bundle of wild brown hair in his arms. He blinks down at Hermione before holding her tightly in return.

“What’s wrong, Mione?” This wasn’t part of the plan to gain sympathy from the students, to get rid of the bias against Parselmouths.

She pulls her face out of his neck, looks at him with wide eyes and a wavering frown.

“That’s not normal, Harry, any of it. No one should have treated you that way.” She sniffles, and Harry can see that not all of this is an act, not all of this is improv on Hermione’s part. Her eyes hold the same sadness she used to express when he came back to school from the Dursley’s every summer, starved and scarred. “You’d tell me if Sirius and Remus ever did something like that to you, wouldn’t you, Harry?”

He doesn’t even need to think about that, “Of course I would, Mione. You’d be the first to know, but I don’t think they would do anything like that. They’re good people, good guardians. Sure, Sirius has some trauma to work through from Azkaban, but he’d rather lock himself in his room than hurt me in any way. Trust me, Hermione, after years with my relatives, I can tell.”

Her magic tangles with his, and he knows she understands. He’s being serious, he can tell Sirius and Remus won’t hurt him, no matter what, and he’s trying to reassure her covertly that he won’t put up with abuse just because he finally has his Godfather back in his life.

Neville, Ron, and Draco pile onto the two of them, squeezing them tight. Ron and Neville clasp his hands while Draco rests his forehead on Harry’s shoulder. The snake has long since been banished back to where it came from, and Harry lets himself relax into his coven’s hold.

You did good, Draco whispers into his head, into the bond. I’m sorry you went through all that, Harry, but it’s over now. Things will start to change now that the news is out in the open. And if anyone wants to persecute you for being a Parselmouth, you have an army of concerned students standing in their way. It worked.

Good. Harry hums into Hermione’s hair and catched Filius’ eye from where the man stands, still on the dueling platform. His eyes are soft, kind, and his magic is tentative in reaching out, but it’s a calm earthen color that reminds Harry of Gringotts.

Harry clears his throat, pulls away from his friends, “Well then, we’re here for dueling practice, aren’t we? I wanted to see Professor Flitwick wipe the floor with Draco.”

There are a few laughs that interrupt the pensive silence, and Draco grins.

“We all know I can’t beat the best dueler in the country,” Draco says, stepping back up onto the platform. “But, I bet I can lose with style fit for a Malfoy.”

Harry chuckles, grinning. He leans into Ron’s side and watches Filius easily deflect each of Draco’s spells, backing him into a corner.

News spreads fast. By breakfast the next morning, everybody is looking either terrified by Harry, in awe, or sad about what he’s gone through to get here.

The staff at the head table look down at Harry with pity in their eyes and intrigue in their expressions. Snape does not look at Harry at all during the meal. Dumbledore looks disappointed, as if it’s Harry’s choice to be a Parselmouth.

He catches most of the Ravenclaws giving him considering looks. They’ve been spreading the books he got together for them on the types of magical cores, and Harry spots Cho talking animatedly to Cedric about the intricacies of gray magic. Seems Harry’s claimed another Gray witch. He smiles. A letter lands on his plate, script in Hagrid’s rough handwriting. Harry grins. Hagrid wants to meet up after classes today to see if Harry can talk to the snakes that linger around Hagrid’s hut. He wants to know what they eat so he can feed them in the winter.

Harry glances up to meet Hagrid’s eye and nods, eyes wide with happiness. Hagrid smiles back, jolly as he always is when the situation involves his animals.

Umbridge has an evil glint in her eye. She smiles as Harry catches her gaze.

He’s not looking forward to her class today.

A new Daily Prophet article lands on their plates not long after they sit down to eat.

“The Boy Who Lived,” it states in dramatic lettering, “The Dark Lord Born Again?”

Harry grimaces as people look his way, their own copies of the Prophet clutched in their hands. Some of them look scared.

I’ll move Skeeter up on the list, Hermione grumbles through the link. She can’t keep doing this to you.

Yes, she can, ‘Mione. Harry sighs, casting a quick Incindio at the copy of the Prophet that still sits in front of him.

You could sue her, Neville suggests.

Maybe.

Classes pass quickly with something to dread, a double period of Herbology, lunch, History of Magic, and finally Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Harry marches into Umbridge’s class like a soldier marching towards his death. Hermione and Ron flank either side of him, like the old days of the second war. Draco and Neville get seats just behind the three of them.

Umbridge zeros in on Harry instantly. 

Don’t pick a fight, Hermione warns.

She’ll give me detention no matter what I do, look at her face, Harry scowls internally. The woman looks smug, like she’s just discovered the reason Fudge assigned her this post at Hogwarts, and Harry can’t really deny it that much.

Proof that the Boy-Who-Lived is a Parselmouth, making him have at least a tangentially Dark magical core, would be something that would help Fudge calm the riots at the Ministry, both for knowing that the Dark Lord wasn’t really dead all those years and for falsely imprisoning Sirius.

Umbridge must feel like she’s hit the jackpot.

It doesn’t take long for the woman to see something she can punish him for. This time it’s simply having ink on his collar, a dress code violation by Umbridge’s standards.

“Detention, Mr. Potter,” she declares, chin tilted up in a way that surely makes her feel superior. “Every day this week.”

Harry doesn’t argue, just simply nods. He inwardly smirks at the scowl she makes when he doesn’t fight back, when he doesn’t give her more ammunition to punish him with.

Detention comes that night with a smug Umbridge. Harry sits in his usual seat and eyes the blood quill in front of him as he would a venomous snake, with amusement.

“Unlike the other teachers at this wreck of a school,” Umbridge starts, her voice like nails on a chalkboard, “I will not be letting you get away with breaking the rules. You will do lines for as long as I wish, and you will not complain. If you do, I’m sure that I, as the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, can make sure that you regret it."

He thinks he knows what’s happening here. Umbridge thinks she can expel him. Her eyes are alight with the power she thinks she now holds. Excitement rises in Harry’s chest as he calculates a proper response.

“You can’t get rid of me, Professor,” Harry says, face blank. “By the next school year, I’ll have a seat on the Board of Governors.”

“They would never accept a halfbreed like you, Potter,” she tuts.

“They won’t have to,” Harry smirks. “I’m the Lord of Slytherin House by magic and conquest. I own one fourth of the school. Well, I will when I turn thirteen. So, you see, Professor Umbridge, you can’t expel me. I cannot be expelled at all actually.”

Her jaw clenches, and her face starts to steadily get redder.

“And one more thing, Professor,” Harry sits up straighter. “We all know you’re not a Selwyn like you’ve always claimed to be. We know your father was a janitor and nothing more. Personally, I have nothing against the profession, but what you’re trying to do is Line Theft, Professor. That’s illegal.”

Her eyes go wide as she stutters out enthusiastic protestations.

“How dare you speak to me this way! I am your superior!” She brandishes her wand, probably just for show, but Harry doesn't flinch, doesn’t even look at the wand.

“You are nothing but a pawn for the Ministry to use to smooth things over with the public,” Harry almost sneers. He’s fed up with this woman and her horrible voice. “The riots are escalating, and Fudge is trying his best to regain control of a situation he will never be able to control. The only reason he appointed you as High Inquisitor, Professor, was to get you out of his way. You’re valuable to him, sure, but Fudge is paranoid, he’s actively insisting that Dumbledore must be out to get him and has sent you to spy on the Headmaster for him.”

Harry stands, hands on his desk, imitating Sirius when his Godfather looks imposing.

“Now,” he drawls, “are we going to continue this detention, or shall I take my leave?”

Umbridge sneers, breathing heavily, “Write your lines, Mr. Potter. You will stop when I tell you to.”

He calmly sits back down, pulling a blood quill closer and starting on writing his lines down on the stack of parchment he’s been provided with. He will not flinch, will not whine. He knows that she watches him closely for any sign of pain, so he doesn’t give any to her.

It takes all his Occlumency skill to block out the pain of this quill scarring and scratching at him down to the bone.

Despite the information of Dark, Gray, and Light magic that’s been making its way through the student body, there are students who still sneer at him in the halls, who turn the other way when they see him. Whether because of ignorance of fact or being unaware of it, Harry’s had enough.

At dinner the next night, just two days after the Parselmouth thing came out, Harry sighs, catching one of his fellow Gryffindors giving him a dirty look.

“I’ve had enough,” he mutters to his friends, barely giving them warning before he stands and climbs onto the table, Vanishing plates to make room to stand.

Some of the great hall falls to silence, but it’s not enough, not all the attention is on him.

“Attention!” he shouts, casting a Sonorus on his voice. Silence falls rapidly. “Thank you. I would like to inform all of you, before the Prophet gets to you and your families, that I will be claiming the Heirship of Slytherin, and the Lordship when I come of age.”

Silence as they gawk up at him. Some of the Slytherins shift, looking uneasy.

“I have a right to the title by Magic and Conquest,” he says, looking around, meeting people’s eyes. “I will be claiming my titles on my thirteenth birthday, all of them.”

There, let them stew in their curiosity for a while longer. Dumbledore looks like he’s swallowed a particularly sour lemon drop. The twins pat Harry on the back as he sits back down, grinning at the possibilities he’s opened for them. Harry just shakes his head with a smile.

Detention goes the same as it always does, leaving Harry with a bleeding hand and a blank face.

The Prophet runs a story the next morning, declaring Harry the next Lord Slytherin, and he can’t help but grin at the title. Now that his Parselmouth abilities and his titles are out in the open, he’s actually looking forward to the future Hermione and Ron have planned for them all. Well, as long as he can keep another war from breaking out. The Slytherin title will help a lot in his political goals.

I really need to clean the Chamber, he muses over the link, scanning the article as he does so. The basilisk is alive this time around though, so I should probably clear it with her first. Besides, Slytherin’s library will probably be useful in this life as well.

Hermione nods, reading her own newspaper, Sounds good. I’ll owl Griphook about claiming your inheritances on your birthday. Shouldn’t be too difficult.

“Bloody Skeeter,” Ron grimaces, reading the subtle disparaging marks the woman managed to sneak into her article. “We need to take care of her soon.”

Ginny shoots her brother a look at his phrasing, but she doesn’t push in such a public place. Harry’s proud of how far she’s come.

Somehow, Harry suspects Filch, Umbridge learns of the Defense lessons his coven have been teaching.

A new Decree is up before lunch.

All Student Organizations Are Henceforth Disbanded, any student in noncompliance will be punished.

Harry stares at the poster for what feels like hours, rage simmering to a fine point inside his head. Ron is a beacon of fire beside him, Draco an eclipse of darkness so thick that magic starts to create static in the air around them.

Hermione snarls, jumping through neutral space so quickly that it makes an audible tearing sound, and Harry knows she’s transformed into her Animagus form, already in the Forbidden Forest hunting down some poor mouse. She’s a margay wild cat, and that little bugger is vicious when it wants to be.

“I’ll go after her,” Draco mutters. He disappears with a pop, transforming into his wolf form as he does so. They’ll run through the forest together until they’re calm enough to return to the school.

Lunch comes, and most of the students that have been coming to the coven’s lessons send Harry worried glances. Harry nods to them all, reassuring them nonverbally that he’ll work something out.

What are we gonna do? Neville asks through the bond, his magic tangled in strands of light.

We have a couple of options, Hermione says as she shares a look with Ron. Chamber of Secrets and the Room of Requirement are the most obvious, though we could probably ward our classroom with enough magic to keep only Umbridge out, but that wouldn’t help if one of our students decides to snitch.

Harry sighs, I’ll look at the blueprints in Slytherin’s office tonight, see if there are any places we’re missing.

He considers sending a message through the snakes in the dungeon walls to warn the basilisk he’s coming, but he decides not to bother her. She’s probably sleeping. He uses the entrance in Myrtle’s bathroom and makes his way to the main chamber. He needs to clean this up soon, maybe harvest the shed skin for Snape and polish the stone until the grime is gone.

Salazar’s office is in a sideroom from the main chamber. Harry hisses a command at the cobra slithering where the door should be, and the snake emerges from the wall to make a door handle.

It’s exactly how he remembers seeing it before Hogwarts was destroyed in the future-past.

Salazar was not an orderly person, no matter what the historical texts say, and there are piles of parchment spread around the floor and the desk. Harry waves his hand to stack them on the edge of the desk, clearing the floor.

He uses a simple summoning charm to call the blueprints to his hands.

They’re intricate, and it’s amazing to see how the castle has changed over the years since these were drawn.

It doesn’t tell him anything he doesn’t know, besides mapping out the tunnels of the Chamber of Secrets in more detail than the one he made when he was younger did.

He sighs, placing the parchment back on Salazar’s desk.

Library it is then, Hermione says into the bond.

Salazar’s library is fantastic. Harry spent weeks reading the Parselscript tomes and journals the first time around, so he passes that section with little hesitation. None of them will have what he’s looking for.

Hermione joins him, appearing next to him as he skims the bookcase holding different grimoires. Her hair is messy, and she looks like she’s been running through the woods for the past few hours, which makes him smile.

They settle down at the library table with a stack of books for each of them. Harry flips through one on magical languages and their properties, then goes to one about binding oaths. They can’t let Umbridge find out about their Defense lessons like she did last time from Marietta Edgecombe.

Hermione seems to have found one of the first versions of Hogwarts: A History, one actually written by all four of the Founders.

Harry flips a page, scanning it for anything about secrecy wards.

“Oh Merlin,” Hermione whispers, eyes wide as she stares down at the journal she’s reading. She looks up, meeting Harry’s eyes, “Hogwarts is alive.”

“What?” Harry blinks, trying to figure out what she’s talking about. “Do you mean its magic? We’ve always known the castle has a mind of its own.”

“No, no, no,” she shoves the journal in front of his face, “look here. All four founders put their magic into the ward stone at the center of the property with the intent on making it sapient! It worked for a while, but when the founders died and these books were sealed in the Chamber, the new Headmasters and Heads of Houses had no idea they needed to renew the wards every fifty years or so.”

That’s ridiculous. Hogwarts can’t be alive, it’s a castle! But Harry’s felt the way the wards greet him after a rough summer, seen the staircases move just to trip up bullies.

“Oh Godric,” he moans, putting his face into his hands, “Hogwarts is alive.”

Hermione grins, pulling at the coven bond until their covenmates have had time to view their memories of the past minute. Draco and Neville appear silently across the table with wide eyes.

“We have to renew the wards,” Draco insists, wand already out like he’s preparing to do it right now. “That’s probably why Riddle was let inside the castle! The wards should have been keeping all threats to the students out, but they’re too weak.”

Harry bites his lip, tilts his chin up to look at the stone ceiling of the library.

“What if we make a deal with Dumbledore?” he asks.

Hermione hums at his side, catching on, “In exchange for a peaceful summer, we will teach him and the Heads of House how to renew the ward stone. Everyone benefits.”

Neville and Draco conjure chairs and sit across from them at the table, already summoning books of their own to read.

We have to change our summer plans, Ron, Hermione broadcasts. This might throw the next few years out of loop with our thirty-year plan, but it will be worth it.

Of course, ‘Mione, we’re not gonna let this beautiful school sleep for any longer, Ron smiles back through the bond. His fire flares in excitement. I’ll get to work revising the plan while you guys search for a place for Defense lessons.

Harry takes one last glance at the journal Hermione is holding before going back to his own pile.

It takes the better part of a couple hours, but eventually Harry finds something.

“Listen,” he announces, hearing the others still and give him their attention. He drags his finger over the dried ink of one of Salazar’s journals. “The armor stands dotted around the castle have a degree of magic in them, right?”

They nod.

“Well, Salazar used them a lot to get into the Chamber from anywhere in the castle. It just took a hiss of Parseltongue, and then there was a new entrance to the tunnels. He also says that he used them to hide from Godric more than once when the man was itching for a duel.”

Harry quickly reads another paragraph silently, then continues.

“He says that he set up a code with each set of armor so that his favorite students could have private potion brewing rooms,” Harry paraphrases. He looks up, meeting Draco’s eyes, “I bet those codes are still in action. We could pick one and ask for a large enough room for lessons, then we could ward it to hell and back so that Umbridge can’t enter.”

“But what about any traitors?” Hermione asks, brow furrowed.

Harry nods, looking back down at the book, “I think the stands have a degree of Legilimency in them. Not enough to really do anything with the information they gather, but Salazar says they can read intention pretty well. That’s how the armor stands knew what kind of room to create for Salazar’s students.”

“So,” Draco muses, “hypothetically, we could set the requirements of the armor to search each student for intent to betray the club to Umbridge?”

“Yup,” Harry grins. He meets Hermione’s eyes, “You up for that? We could probably get word to everyone by the weekend at the latest, but we need to set this up first.”

She hums, considering.

“It shouldn’t be too hard, especially if Slytherin already set it up for us. We’ll need your Slytherin House magic to talk to the armor stands and rewrite their magical code. Then, we’ll probably need to test its passive Legilimency, just in case.”

“Then that’s settled.” Harry stretches and sends the book back to its shelf with a whispered spell. “We’ll get started on it tomorrow.”

It really is as easy as that. With Harry’s Slytherin magic, it is quite easy to talk to the sets of armor and reset their passwords. Draco uses his Legilimency to check the armor’s own, and they use Neville and Ginny as test subjects, telling them to stare into where the eyes would be in the helmets and give the password.

It works. The room that the armor set gives them is big enough to fit most of their usual students, and with a few expansion charms, it’s ready.

Ron spreads the word through his carefully crafted chain of gossip that reaches throughout every House.

Judging by the look on Umbridge’s face come next Saturday, she’d probably tried to find the secret lessons and only found the empty classroom on the ground floor of the castle. Harry grins at the rage in her eyes.

Luna wanders up while Harry and Ron are walking through the halls, gazing at the paintings and portraits decorating the walls.

“Harry,” she muses, eyes fuzzy in their usual way. “I was wondering, is the Patronus a Dark spell?”

Harry startles. He was not expecting that from Luna. He looks around, noting the now-curious students that happen to be around them, most of them Gryffindors and Ravenclaws.

“Well,” Harry bites his lip, considering the question, “it has aspects of Dark magic, yes, because it comes from strong positive emotions which connect the magic to the soul and the mind. But, I think it’s more Gray than anything. All types of cores can learn to cast it, though those who lean more heavily towards Light or Dark will have more trouble.”

Ron nods, “Some are exceptions, like Dumbledore. His Light magic is so strong that his Patronus is solely made from Light magic, and he is able to cast it easily. Harry’s Patronus is a mix of Light, Gray, and Dark, which matches his core. Add to that his powerful magical strength, and he learned the spell within a couple of months.”

“That is interesting,” Luna smiles. “I wonder if the shape of the Patronus mimics the magic that goes into creating it.”

Harry grins. He can see where this is going.

“Actually, the shape has very little to do with the magic that goes into creating it.” He looks around to meet some of the Gryffindors’ eyes. “Dumbledore’s Patronus takes the shape of a phoenix, which is actually a Dark creature. Yes, it is often depicted as the epitome of Light, but the core of a phoenix’s magic is restorative and related to death, making it Dark. Technically, creatures don't have the Light and Dark distinctions, but we would consider it Dark just the same.”

“The Headmaster has a Dark Patronus?” Oliver Wood asks, aghast. He’s not prejudiced against the Dark, not as some of the other lions are, but he can still see the dissonance in what Harry is saying.

“Technically, his Patronus is Light,” Harry says with a smug grin. “But yes, the shape is Dark.”

Oliver goes pale, and one of his Ravenclaw friends comes up to put their hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not uncommon for the shape to oppose the magic,” Harry concedes. “Mine is based off of my father’s Animagus form, and my father was as Light as can be.”

Ron nods, “In fact, it’s rather typical for the form of a Patronus to oppose the magical core of the user. Since the Patronus spell in itself is more Dark leaning, it makes sense that it requires a contrast of emotion and soul.”

“That makes sense,” Luna nods, and Harry knows their part in this is over for now. Time to let the rumor mill do its job.

Lucius is pacing, and it is giving Narcissa a headache.

“Darling,” she says through gritted teeth, rubbing her temple, “our son has put his full support behind the Potter boy. That will not be reversed. We will have to put aside our opinions and support Harry Potter if we do not want to lose our Dragon. It is as simple as that.”

Lucius snarls, “I love our son.”

“I know,” Narcissa’s eyes soften. “I love him too, more than anything. That is why we will lend Potter our political backing. Do you agree, Lucius?”

He walks over to lean his head on her shoulder and sighs.

“I agree,” he says. “But I will not consort with Mud-- Muggleborns unless our Dragon asks me to do so.”

Narcissa presses a kiss to his blond hair. She may not agree with her husband on his views of muggles and muggleborns, but she loves him. Even if their marriage was one of convenience, he is her best friend, and it is her duty to keep him safe in this life.

“Thank you, darling.”

This is enough for now, the love they share for their son. They’ll back him in almost anything he’ll do, even if it goes against Lucius’ beliefs.

The Weasley twins strike at breakfast.

It’s a spectacle, two firework dragons dancing through the air, just above the tables of students. The dragons roar and spit sparks as they weave in and out of one another, fighting for the right to reach Umbridge first.

The professors quickly put up shield charms as the dragons barrel towards them, but they pass right through the shields. The whiskers of one touch Umbridge’s hair, and the flames of the other reach her horribly pink outfit. In a blink, Harry watches as the pink turns black with a dirty algae coating and her hair grows until it hits the floor.

The whole hall is laughing as the dragons bow to their chattering audience before disappearing in a flash of smoke. Even Minerva and Filius are chuckling, though Dumbledore seems to be hiding his smile beneath a disappointed frown.

Harry watches as many of the nearby Gryffindors whistle and pat the twins on the back, grinning wide.

He missed them, the twins. Ron leans into his side as Umbridge stalks out of the great hall, red with embarrassment. The twins are still alive, Ron’s arm says as it wraps around Harry’s waist. Harry presses a kiss to Ron’s forehead, grounding him against the bad memories. Neville does the same on Ron’s other side.

It’s amazing to see the twins in action, and Harry swears on his own magic that he’ll make sure that never changes.

The weekend before term lets out, Harry has two official stops to make.

First, a quick trip to Gringotts.

Technically, Harry has already claimed the Slytherin Heirship by Gringotts’ standards. However, it’s only polite to inform Griphook that he’s officially donning the title. Harry pricks his finger to add drops of his blood to the parchment Griphook brings out, officially transferring the Slytherin Vaults to Harry’s total control. He’s not thirteen yet, but he’s the only Slytherin remaining, so he automatically takes over the Heirship, and when he turns thirteen, the Lordship.

Most pureblood families have roots in every other pureblood family out there, so Harry isn’t the last one eligible for the Potter Lordship, so Gringotts sees him as only the Heir, same with the House of Black and Peverell.

Griphook happily vanishes the bloodied parchment, saying, “May your vaults be full and your gold be flowing, Warrior Harry.”

Harry returns the greeting with a toothy grin.

Next, a visit to the Department of Magical Identities. For Harry to claim the role of Heir Slytherin in the Ministry’s eyes, he must register and test with the DMI.

Eric Munch, the man who helped Remus become part of the House of Black, welcomes Harry into his office with a friendly smile. He looks excited and a little ragged around the edges, Harry likes him instantly.

“Mr. Potter,” Munch grins, shaking Harry’s hand vigorously. “So great to meet you.”

“You as well, Mr. Munch.” Harry sits on the other side of the man’s desk.

“Now,” Munch flips through some of his papers, “I believe you are here to claim your different Heirships, yes?”

“That is correct.” Harry’s heart flutters, excited.

This is really just a clerical formality, but it means Harry will be a Lord in the eyes of the Ministry when he turns thirteen, and Harry cannot wait. He’s missed being an adult, or at least the authority that comes with it, and this Lordship will grant him this once again.

“Alright, I need you to sign here, here, and here,” he motions with his wand and highlights certain parts of the paper, then pulls out another couple pieces of paper and does the same. “I’ll need your full name and your magical signature.”

This way is better than the goblins’ way of confirming identity with a blood quill (Harry’s had enough of blood quills recently), just pushing a bit of magic into the quill to imprint his signature as he signs his name.

He signs the last line and pushes the papers back to Munch.

“Is that it?” It seems kind of anticlimactic.

“You were expecting some kind of flash of magic, huh?” Munch grins. “That only happens once you put your Lordship rings on.”

“Are there not Heirship rings?” Harry asks, tilting his head in question. He didn’t really get to claim them when he was a kid the first time around.

“There are,” Munch nods, “but you would only need one for Slytherin at the moment, and that depends on whether you actually want it. Most Heirs get theirs at the start of legal maturity, thirteen, but you are technically eligible for your Slytherin Heirship ring now. It’s up to you.”

Harry bites his lip. On one hand, it’ll be flashy and declare his authority clearly and without debate. On the other hand, does he really want to wear the ring around all the time? He knows from Draco and Neville that they give certain magical protections, which could be very useful with Harry’s political goals.

“I think I’ll wait for the Lordship signet,” he decides. It’s not worth it to get the Heirship now and replace it with the Lordship in just a few months.

“Alright then.” Munch vanishes the papers with a wave of his wand. “You also wanted to appoint a mediary for the next six months?”

“Yes, until I turn thirteen,” Harry agrees. “I don’t want my Wizengamot seats going empty just because I’m a few months short of the age limit.”

“Understood,” Munch nods. “Here’s the paperwork. Same process, sign your whole name and imprint your magical signature. Next, I’ll need you to give the name of your intended intermediary.”

Harry does as instructed, cleanly printing his own name alongside Andromeda Tonks’.

“Hm,” Munch’s brow furrows. “Pardon my assumption, but I thought you would claim Lord Black as your stand-in, Mr. Potter. The papers won’t stop talking about the familial relationship you two have.

“Ah,” Harry grins, “I would have, but Sirius has his own seats to take care of. Mrs. Tonks has no other commitments to her House, and she used to be a member of the House of Black. She and I have similar interests, and her position in Sirius’ family makes her the perfect intermediary for my own Houses.”

“Of course, of course,” Munch smiles, vanishing the papers once more.

Is that it? No other papers appear on the desk between them.

Munch stands, offering his hand for Harry to shake. “If you have no other questions, then our work here is done! Please do come again if something comes up, Mr. Potter, I’m here to help.”

Harry smiles, “Thank you, Mr. Munch, I will. Have a good day.”

And that’s that. Harry’s back in the castle by dinner, ring-free, and no one suspects a thing. Though, if things work as he thinks they will, his claim will be in the papers by morning. The Ministry has more leaks than a sinking ship.

He dreads seeing what Rita Skeeter will type up for this. Her opinions on him being a Parselmouth were plainly offensive, going on about Dark magic corrupting their ‘Savior,’ and many other biased claims. Hermione casts Incindio on instinct when she sees Skeeter’s name on the byline these days.

Harry wonders what Dumbledore will think of his latest action. The man wasn’t very happy when the Parselmouth thing got out to the public, probably because it is just more proof of the Horcrux’s corruption in Dumbledore’s eyes.

Harry has to sigh when he thinks of the twinkle in the Headmaster’s eye when the Prophet lands at breakfast the next day.

“Lord Slytherin Takes Center Stage!” Skeeter declares in her latest article. Harry idly wonders who leaked his visit to the DMI yesterday.

Hermione scowls and sets her own copy on fire with a wave of her hand.

February, Hermione assures in the bond. Everything will be ready by February. All of the bribes she’s taken, all of the bribes she’s made, proof of her illegal Animagus form, and even transcripts from the people she’s blackmailed into telling lies just so she can report them. Just a few more months, and she’ll be gone.

Thanks, ‘Mione, Harry bumps her shoulder with his. Love you.

Love you too, little bird.

Now, Harry can start really moving politically. He can use Andromeda to propose legislation through his seats in the Wizengamot and gain allies who don’t see him as only a child playing with politics.

Nobody wants to say no to Heir Slytherin, and Harry will use that until he’s sure a third war will never break out.

After break starts, Harry and his coven can start the real work on Seiche House, reconstructing the interior while making sure the outside is solid enough to build onto. Neville’s practically vibrating with excitement over the prospect of making his own greenhouses.

Harry can’t wait to make his own Quidditch pitch in the land just South of the property. He’s looking forward to training in it when Grimmauld gets too cramped with Remus and Sirius around.

He wonders if they’ll ever tell Sirius and Remus about their Hideaway. He wonders if he should feel guilty for wanting to keep this one thing to himself.

Before Hogwarts releases them for winter break, Harry is called into Dumbledore’s office for a meeting. It’s the day before they leave, and Harry can’t help but think the timing is purposeful.

He knows what this will be about. Dumbledore hasn’t looked him straight in the eye since the Lord Slytherin reveal.

Harry has barely sat down in his usual chair when Dumbledore starts speaking. The man doesn’t bother with any pleasantries, and something in Harry’s chest sinks.

“Harry,” he starts. His tone is low, full of a kind of sorrow that makes Harry want to run as far as possible from this office. “I have let you down, dear boy, and for that I will never forgive myself. Tom’s soul impacted you more than I thought possible.”

Harry clenches his jaw, bites his tongue to keep from retorting.

“You must see it now, Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore pleads, his eyes intent. “Your parents were Light, the Potters have always been Light. The only possible way for you to be a Parselmouth, for you to have a Dark magical core, is if Tom’s horcrux corrupted you. You cannot deny it any longer.”

Harry closes his eyes, shakes his head, and tries to breathe deeply through the hurricane of emotion in his chest.

“You’re wrong,” Harry opens his eyes to meet Dumbledore’s. “My core is a perfect mix of all the Houses I have inherited. Yes, Potters are notoriously Light, but I am not simply a Potter. I am a Peverell, a Black, a Slytherin. Because all of these Houses have claimed me through magic and blood, my magical core is Gray. Riddle has nothing to do with it.”

Dumbledore shakes his head with sad eyes, “You are blinded by your faith, dear boy. You have been taught to accept the Dark by the Malfoys and Sirius, and that is making it easier for the corruption in your scar to take hold of your mind.”

“Sir,” Harry grits his teeth, inhales and exhales deeply, he’s losing his patience with the old man. “With all due respect, you do not know half of what you think you do.”

“You are too far gone,” Dumbledore mutters, eyes shining with what look to be tears. “I should have seen it before, the Darkness from your scar. You are corrupted, dear boy, and I have let it happen. I only hope you can forgive me.”

Harry stares at the man. Is he serious? Does he truly believe this strongly that Dark magic is Evil? He really is the Light Lord, Harry’s heart sinks.

“I see I can’t convince you,” Harry says. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries or titles that convey respect. He has no respect left for this man. He stands. “I will take my leave. Goodbye, Professor Dumbledore.”

“Wait,” Dumbledore almost shouts, pushing himself up from his desk with wide eyes, “there is a ritual, one that could cleanse you of the corruption Tom left in your soul, Harry. You must take it, it is your last hope.”

Harry shakes his head.

“You aren’t hearing me, Dumbledore,” Harry looks down his nose at the man in pity. “There is no corruption. I was born the Heir to Light and Dark Houses. I am a Parselmouth. I have a Gray core. These are things you cannot change, even if you put me through this cleansing ritual. There’s nothing to cleanse.”

It’s true, the ritual would accomplish nothing. Things like that only target Dark Influence, like remnants of an Imperius Curse or a Crucio. All of the Dark magic in Harry’s core is tied down, fused in a way that can only mean it is his own and not Riddle’s at all.

Harry turns as he reaches the door to the office, looking back at Dumbledore one last time.

“I will do the ritual if you insist, but only if you swear to accept the outcome, no matter what.” Harry scans the man’s face and only sees relief. He truly believes that Harry is still under Riddle’s control. It disgusts Harry. “Happy holidays, Headmaster.”

Harry leaves, heart heavy in his chest. Dumbledore says nothing, doesn’t call after him or try to hide his relief at the compromise at all.

The seven of them load onto the Hogwarts Express with matching grins on their faces. They pile into one compartment with a few expansion and cushioning spells, squeezing between each other until they’re packed into the seats.

Harry will go with Sirius and Remus to Grimmauld Place for the start of winter break, while Draco and Neville go to their homes respectively. Ginny and Ron floo back to the Burrow with the twins and a tired-looking Percy, while Hermione elf-travels to her parents house with a parting hug. Luna and her father are off to find a mysterious new creature that’s never been heard of before.

In his free time, Harry travels to Seiche House, starting to work on cleaning the rubble of the fortress’ fallen walls. Draco is there as well, most of the time, working on the entrance hall. Hermione has taken to shuffling things around in the main living room until they have a place to settle after a hard day’s work, and Harry spends a lot of time lounging on the couch with a book from Salazar’s library in hand.

Sirius and Remus notice his disappearances, as by now Grimmauld is clean and in order and it is no longer necessary for Harry to be working on the extra rooms day and night, but they don’t ask where he’s been going. They respect his autonomy, even when they treat him as their child to look after. Harry appreciates it immensely.

It only takes two days for Dumbledore to owl Harry with a place and a time for the cleansing ritual, and Harry burns it to ash when he’s sure he’s memorized the information. Sirius scowls over his shoulder at the remnants of the letter. He’s muttering something about interfering old men under his breath.

Harry goes where Dumbledore directs him.

Severus and Poppy hold the ritual on the grounds of Hogwarts, empty of students for once, and Harry kneels at the center of the ritual circle with a blank look on his face. Dumbledore stands just outside the circle, watching the magic work with a keen eye.

Nothing happens.

Severus nods, pleased. He looks like he expected this outcome, and so does Poppy. Dumbledore is pale. His eyes are hazy, not quite believing what he’s seeing, and Harry can’t even feel pleasure as the man draws in a shaky breath.

“I told you, Sir,” Harry says, pity in his eyes as he rises from the center of the ritual circle. “Riddle’s magic left me when his horcrux did. Anything you see is all me.”

“It can’t be true,” Dumbledore mutters. He fingers his wand like he’s ready to stun Harry, and Harry only shakes his head. “It cannot!”

Harry sighs, turns to Poppy and Severus with a low nod.

“Thank you for your help,” he tells them both, then back to Dumbledore, “I will see you when next term starts, Headmaster. I advise you to think through what happened here today, and perhaps revise what you thought you knew when it comes to Dark magic. Goodbye.”

He disappears, stepping from Hogwarts into Seiche House, collapsing into the couch Hermione transfigured for them in the living room.

He sighs again, rakes his fingers through his messy hair.

Maybe this will be good, maybe Dumbledore will learn from this. Harry doubts it.

Severus and Minerva meet a week into the break. They settle down for tea in Minerva’s office. Severus sneers at the red and gold decorations that line the Head of Gryffindor’s office.

Severus sets his cup back down, looking just over Minerva’s shoulder.

“You’ve noticed, then,” he drones.

“Indeed,” she nods. Her face softens from its stern stare, and she says, “There have been so many clues. I am sad to say that I did not notice until Halloween, when I found them talking nonsense in my hallway.”

Severus’ lips quirk.

“They called me Minnie,” Minerva purses her lips to hide her smile.

“Hm.” Severus’ eyes are alight. Then, more seriously, “The boy knows things he could never know.”

“Andromeda has been looking at me like she’s seen me die,” Minerva mutters, looking down. “It is only recently that we have become good friends, but when she thinks I am not looking, she stares with grief in her eyes.”

“So we are in agreement,” Snape scowls. “However improbable it seems, the five of them, Potter’s original group and Andromeda Tonks, have somehow traveled in time.”

Minerva closes her eyes, breathes out slowly, “We cannot rule out traveling dimensions. These children are powerful, and Andromeda is no squib either. We’ve seen how motivated they are to keep each other safe, I think there is nothing they cannot do when they put their minds to it.”

“Even time travel?” Severus’ voice comes out in a whisper, as if the topic is too ridiculous to give words to.

“I believe so.”

Severus sighs, “I fear for the wizarding world with those five in our midst. They have made significant political steps in the past year and a half already.”

“Severus,” Minerva says, steadily keeping eye contact, “I trust their motivations and their actions. It may seem like they are too powerful, unstoppable, but can you truly see these children doing anything to irreparably harm others?”

He sighs again, pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s too much. He can’t believe he’s even considering that Potter and his friends managed to break the laws of space and time. It’s ridiculous.

“No,” he grits out. “I suppose not. What should be done, Minerva? Shall we simply watch as they manipulate the wizarding world into entrusting their safety to them?”

She swallows, considers his question.

“Yes.” She nods and picks up her tea once more. “If something goes wrong, we will step in. Until then, we will observe.”

Fine. It’s not like Severus wants to get involved anyway. He’s happy simply being a Potions Master, happy taking care of his Slytherins and sneering at Dolores. He will listen to Minerva’s declaration and take a step away from the chaos that Potter and his little friends will inevitably create.

He sips his tea and retreats into his mind, into a place where Potter never went to Hogwarts, where he was born a squib and never needed to save the wizarding world from the Dark Lord.

Yes, he will sit back and watch.

Hermione jumps back and forth from her home to Hogwarts to collect the piles of evidence the Houses have collected on Umbridge’s crimes. She compiles them meticulously, highlighting the dates, names, and details that will get the most attention from the press and the Ministry. She won’t get to use it yet, but Ron will start leaking some of the information to the Prophet and the Quibbler within the next month, so when they’re ready, Hermione and her coven can destroy Umbridge without any roadblocks.

With that taken care of, she starts gathering her evidence on Rita Skeeter. Hermione has tons of time at her disposal, as her parents are working most days she stays at the muggle Granger household. She does what she does best, gathers evidence and creates plans with backups after backups.

Ron comes over every so often to lay on her bed and help sort through her books to find something useful, and Hermione loves him for it. She cannot wait to marry this man again.

She sends owls to the Flamels every few days. They’ve asked for her advice in mixing wards with alchemy, and Hermione has many opinions on the properties of alchemically changed metals and their interactions with the Elder Futhark Rune Systems. She talks to Luna and Ginny by owl when she’s not working on her various projects.

She helps Draco set up an owl system with his fellow Slytherins, mainly Blaise and Theo, just a simple secrecy spell so Nott Senior doesn’t suspect Theo is involved with Draco in any way.

Many Ravenclaws from the year before send her almost daily letters, asking for clarification on the books she’s sent them. She grins when she hears back from them, knowing they’re expanding their world views in the way she and Ron have planned from the start.

Hermione works on the interior and stability of Seiche House when her parents are at dinner parties with their work friends, staying well into the night until the room she’s chosen that day is in fine form.

It’s good to be away from Hogwarts, though she misses it. She likes the free time not taken up by classes, even if those classes are too easy anyway, but she also likes schedule, routine. She knows that by the end of break she’ll be clawing at the walls.

Yule comes with a heap of presents, celebrating at Malfoy Manor as they did last year. The coven piles into Draco’s bed that night, pressed against each other for warmth and comfort. Even Ginny and Luna start to relax around Narcissa, though Lucius makes himself scarce at all times besides meals.

Before they know it, they’re back on the Hogwarts Express, headed to school once more.

Ginny has the same look in her eyes that Neville had the day after the coven defeated Riddle, like she's sick of being left out, and Harry shares a look with his coven. They'll find a good time to explain everything after they get settled in. That will have to be enough for now.