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disorganizedkitten · 8 months ago

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We'll Take Our World By Storm Chapter 3

Harry Potter | 2021 | 9,191 | Ao3 | Previous | Masterlist | Next

I hope that was fun. I certainly found it so. But for all these are children that are and will be important, I need to take you back to where we were before: Number Ten, Magnolia Crescent, Nineteen-Ninety-One. It’s around three in the afternoon by now, which sadly means that summer school is out.

“I’ll go without you!” Harry threatens from the bottom of the stairs.

“You’ll wait two minutes for me to finish this braid,” Fay snaps back. She’s in the upstairs bathroom, doing exactly that. She has one half of her hair braided from her neck down and then tied up into a loop, and is braiding the other half down her front.

Harry sighs at the ceiling, and then jogs up the stairs. “Are you sure-“

“I don’t need help,” Fay says tightly. Her next two folds are jerky, and then she takes a breath and the pattern evens out. She reaches the end, and glances over at Harry. “Can you hand me the pins?”

Harry grabs a few bobby-pins and hands them to her one by one. Fay pins up the second braid, giving the effect of having a droopy bow made of hair tied at her neck. Harry sets the rest of the pins on the counter, and then hands Fay her bag. It’s an old messenger bag Vivian made when Fay started Primary School, based off Vivian’s own bag from Before. It has a lot of pockets for organization, and Regulus enchanted it not long after. Fay slings it over her shoulder, and gives him a look.

“You have your card?”

“Of course,” Harry pulls it out of his pocket and shows it off. Fay grins. She doesn’t check for hers, although she’s sure it’s in her bag. If it isn’t, Harry will let her check out books on his.

Fay pounds down the stairs, darting past Harry to get to the bottom first. He gives a shout and follows, stumbling to a stop when he finds Vivian at the door. “Hi, Aunt Vivian.”

“Leaving for real this time?” She teases. Vivian looks a lot like Fay, but her eyes are darker- brown, not silver. And Vivian doesn’t put in the work to keep her hair up beyond ponytails.

Fay sticks out her tongue, bow-braids flopping around with her wide movements. “Yep! When do you want us back?”

“Dinner time,” Vivian says. “Latest.”

Harry gives a lazy two-finger salute, and Fay nods once. She’s been careful about that for years, and even when home time isn’t dinner time, they all refuse to be late without letting someone know - it’s why, despite being eleven, Fay has a flip phone in the pocket of her bag. Together, they aren’t in as much danger.

“I’ve been called in for something, but Ian and Caspian are still here.” Vivian kisses their foreheads.

“Got it,” Fay says. All three leave the house at the same time, after the siblings call up goodbyes to Caspian and he discorporates to come swirl around them in a misty approximation of a hug.

The two of them start walking east, waving to Vivian as she drives away. “I’m so glad we got your supplies when we got mine.”

Harry snorts. “You’re just afraid of the celebrity rush.”

“And for good reason,” Fay says with a scoff. “Ugh. Can you imagine the uproar?”

Harry can, actually. It makes him giggle, a little wistful but mostly anxious and amused. “We’d play hide ‘n seek the entire trip.”

“Ooh we should do that the next time we go!”

Harry grins, apprehension forgotten. “We should! Make it a family day out, you know?”

“Yes!”

“Although Delphi isn’t allowed to shift.”

“No, she should be,” Fay counters quickly, voice rising in her excitement. “And glamours should be allowed too. Remember how excited she’s been about finally getting into Ancient Runes for that project her and her friends are doing? And if we were actually avoiding someone, we’d use everything in our arsenal. Then we could try to pick people out using mannerisms and magic sense instead of our eyes!”

“Fay, you’re a genius!”

Fay grins and flicks her head back, causing her bow to bounce. “Well, I did grow up with you.”

“Guess you had to catch up sometime.” Harry smirks. Fay splutters and then sticks her tongue out. “Race you to the library!” Harry takes off after sticking his tongue out in return.

“Hey!” Fay yells, rushing after him.

They stop running after a few minutes, and walk the rest of the mile and a half. Despite that, when they reach the building, Harry holds the door open for Fay and sticks his tongue out when he says he won. Fay makes a face, but ends up laughing.

They spend an hour in the library, with Harry hunting down books and reading the first chapters of one while Fay works on the 200 piece puzzle in the entryway. Afterwards, the siblings decide to go to the park. Now, in their neighborhood, there are two parks, because it’s actually two neighborhoods with an access road between them. Magnolia Crescent is on the western side, and Privet Drive on the eastern. Sadly, the Library is also located to the east, about a mile and a half from the house.

I suppose you wouldn’t know why them having to walk around Privet Drive is so terrible. We’ll get there. The point is, to go to park, Harry and Fay could either go to the eastern one, which is directly accessible from Wisteria Way, the access road that leads into a third neighborhood to the south. The highway is northwards. Or, they could walk back into Magnolia Crescent all the way, past their house, and down a set of houses towards the western park.

They go to the eastern one, today.

Harry finds a tree to read under, and Fay goes to swing. There’s another group of kids at the park, who drag Fay into a game of Groundies within minutes.

"Is the paper-legend good?"

Harry looks down at his visitor, and smiles. The little, still unnamed constrictor reaches her neck to lay her head across Harry's thigh. "Yes." He picks a blade of grass and puts it in his page, before flicking back to the start of the story.

"What's it about?"

"I'm not sure yet," Harry says. "It's called To Kill A Mockingbird."

"Will you read it to me?"

"Of course. Get comfy." Harry gives her a moment as he puts on his reading voice, something he learned in a household of storytellers. Even with the voice, he doesn’t read in english. He’s talking to a snake, so he translates to snake as he reads. It’s a skill not many have. "When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and his fears of never being able to play football were assuaged-" here, the snake tapped Harry's arm twice with her tail, their signal for her having a question. "he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn't have cared less, so long as he could pass and punt." Harry tapped where he stopped once, and then looked at the snake. "Question?"

"What's football?"

"It's a game where we use our feet-" he gestures at his own "-to kick around a ball and score. Although I think this book is from America, where they call rugby football."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Harry says drily. "Americans don't think like proper snakes enough to clearly name things. They call football soccer. But you play the game by using your feet and a ball! Football!"

"Like family-den," the little snake says sagely. Snakes don't bother with complex names- things are what they are. Harry is Speaker-Who-Reads and sometimes Speaker-Who-Reads-Human-Script if a snake wants to take the time. He was Wrong-Death-Cheater before, and some new snakes still call him that or Greater-Death-Cheater. Fay is Little-Death-Cheater, but before that she was Misspeaking-Hatchling. Adrian is Sun-Human-Nestfather, and Regulus Snake-Charmer or Large-Nestfather. (Sometimes he's Beastspeaking Human Hatchling Of Protector Predator Without Fur, but that's a proper society title among snakes). Caspian is Broken-Magic-Hatchling-Of-Snake-Charmer, or Night-Mist. Sometimes the names change, because the people do too.

"Yes," Harry agrees.

"Hey look, it's the Freak!"

"Blubber-venom," the little snake hisses. Harry looks up, jaw clenched.

A pudgy, white eleven year old with two chins and blonde hair is standing above him, grinning maliciously. Considering he's an eleven year old — and they can only hold so much maliciousness in their bodies — this is impressive.

Of course, this is also Dudley Vernon Dursley, Harry’s maternal cousin, who was raised by 'perfectly normal' people with an abnormal hate for anything not in their worldview, so… Maybe it isn't that surprising.

"When I got my name changed," Harry says drily, carefully closing the book as his snake friend retreats, "I'm very sure there wasn't an F anywhere in it."

Dudley makes a face. His parents don't particularly care if he's intelligent, and puzzles were discontinued after his second tantrum over them.

It's his friend Piers Polkiss who understands Harry's comeback instead, and snarls. "Freaks don't get to pick their nicknames, Freak."

"Does the same rule apply to rats, Polkiss?" By this time, Harry has stood up, leaving his book on the ground with his snake and Fay's shoulder bag.

"You sound crazy when you hiss like that," Dursley says like an insult.

"And you sound like an idiot anytime you open your mouth."

Across the park, Fay finds her way down the stairs to open her eyes and make a face at Jess, who is climbing back onto the main playground floor from her position hanging outside the railing. Fay isn't tall enough to reach up and grab Jess' ankle. Michael, over at the swings, freezes, and then starts creeping back towards the main equipment. Fay sees him and starts towards him and the edge of the playground. "Groundies!"

Michael groans, and Fay is about to run back to the playground when she spots Harry surrounded by her three least favorite neighbors. "On T!" Fay calls, abandoning the game in favor of supporting her brother.

“Two Ten Groundies!” Michael calls, turning to the kids still playing.

"Shut your mouth!" Dursley snarls as Fay comes up beside them.

"What, scared he'll show everyone how much smarter he is?"

Dudley skitters back from her, moments after Piers and Malcolm. Fay rolls her eyes, and shifts her shoulders so she’s ready to punch him.

“No one asked for your opinion!” Malcolm snaps. Dudley is the leader, but he’s scared of magic while Piers is the Bugs Meany to Fay’s Sally Kimball.

She’s still proud of that one, despite all three parental units giving matching lectures of “I get why you did it but it was still wrong, and next time don’t break your thumb.” ...Then again, maybe that’s why she’s still proud of it. “I doubt Harry asked for yours either, but here we are.”

“If I wanted advice on good life decisions I’d just do the opposite of whatever you’d say,” Harry says, matching her tone. “But then again, to do that I’d have to listen to you in the first place.” Dudley growls. Harry clenches his fists but rolls his eyes. Fay taps her hand to his right before he folds his arms up to give off a decent unimpressed vibe. “Go read a book, Dursley. Or plant a tree, if you think you can do that without killing it. Make up for all the air you’re using.” Harry wants to say ‘the air you’re wasting,’ but he was raised properly and there are boundaries.

“I’ll tell mum you were being freakish in the park!” Dudley threatens.

This, after seven years outside of Petunia Dursley nee Evans’ custody, is a useless threat. “So? She can’t do anything about it.”

Later, this gang will be the type to throw punches, but for now Dudley tries to shove Harry into the tree, and when Harry catches himself and Fay throws herself at Dudley, he screams and runs off. Piers follows, although Malcolm stays to sneer. “Careful Dunbar, next year we can arrest you for assault.”

“I’d love to see that,” Fay threatens in return, swaying back to her feet. “Especially when you always start it. Maybe we’ll share a cellblock.”

He sneers again but flounces off. Harry breathes out sharply, and Fay lets him grab her hand. He sits down and groans, pulling Fay with him. She lands beside him, but flops sideways onto his stomach quickly.

“I dislike that human,” the little constrictor says, poking her nose out from under Fay’s bag.

“Me too,” Fay hisses. The constrictor starts climbing Fay’s face, and the girl lets her.

“Hello Little-Death-Cheater.”

“Hello,” Fay says, much of the hate leaving her tone. “Have you chosen a name yet?”

“No,” she admits, pulling her tail up so she can curl on top of Fay’s chest. The constrictor doesn’t care which chest she’s on, the heartbeat is the same. “I want my speaker name to mean smart-wise-knowing-advice-old-has-seen-much.”

“Athena? She’s the Greek goddess of wisdom, war strategy, and I think something else,” Harry offers. “Or Thoth, the Egyptian god of knowledge.”

“I’ll consider them,” the constrictor says.

Harry picks his book back up and opens it. “I’m gonna start again.”

“Okay,” Fay says. She listens to a few paragraphs before the jitters start, and she gets up to go join back in on the game.

“Are you trying to be a wrecking ball?” Caspian asks, watching Ian push his lego creation with all of his insignificant upper body strength.

“No,” Ian says, eager to explain the story he is creating with blocks and dolls. “Bad guys knock down! Fire-fight fix!”

“Ah,” Caspian says in his best sagely voice. He’s been dealing with little kids since he was nine, and is luckily still good at it. “Which ones are the bad guys?” Ian waves the two dolls in his hands. “And the good guys?” Ian sets down one of his dolls to point at three other dolls sitting on the ground. “I see. A good team.”

Ian grins and turns back to his game. Caspian looks down at his sketchpad and turns away from the page of eye practice. The dolls’ designs are rather basic, but he can work with them. Caspian starts by sketching a collapsing building. Later, he’ll adapt designs for the heroes and villains and add them to the scene, but for now he works on his perspectives.

Fay and Harry head home around five thirty. Most of their conversation over the short walk is light and random, led by Fay’s wandering focus and Harry egging her on.

There’s one part though, that isn’t.

“I hate him,” Fay says, glaring holes in Dudley’s back as he and his gang wait to cross the highway. Fay and Harry aren’t going to take the intersection, because Wisteria Way is a barely used road and really, they’d just waste time if they went north to the intersection and then back south towards Magnolia Crescent. “Sometimes I wish I could-” Fay’s mouth shuts with an angry clack.

“If you say stab him, I’ll have to inform you that assault is still illegal,” Harry snarks. He loves his sister, and he doesn’t like his ‘cousin’, but Harry ignores them as much as he can, which is a lot more than Fay does. It’s not until Fay’s wide, extraneous movements stop in the middle of the road that Harry remembers. “Too soon?” he asks softly, taking a step back so he’s not leaving Fay behind.

“No,” Fay says. Her voice is high, but her tone and expression are flat. Her fists are clenched. “It’s been four years. That’s plenty of time.” She sounds dead. Robotic, maybe, but mostly drained of emotion. As the Narrator, I can tell you that Fay is actually very upset. She’s already got ADHD, but the rushing in her ears isn’t that. Neither are her clenched fists, or the sudden ghost aches in her chest. No, that would be called PTSD.

“You don’t have to rush through trauma recovery, Fay,” Harry says gently. “Or ignore it altogether. You certainly shouldn’t.” He’s treating her like a spooked animal, which is an accurate description. She’s a spooked fox right now.

“You’re not my therapist.”

“You don’t have a therapist.”

“I’m fine,” Fay snaps, voice rising with the force she’s trying to put into the phrase. She starts walking again, faster now than before.

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

“You are,” Fay says bitterly.

Harry scowls, keeping up easily. “That’s not the same thing and you know it.” He clenches his jaw before he can keep getting upset, and takes a breath instead. “And anyway, you’re wrong. I don’t think any of us are okay with what happened to you. You don’t have to pretend to be.”

“I want to be!” Fay snaps, desperation coming through her tone at last. It gives her an air of life that she’d cut off minutes ago, especially when she turns to speak instead of staring straight ahead. “Papa doesn’t talk about as many cases anymore, I still can’t go to the basement, and I just want to be normal again!”

Harry scoffs. He sounds derisive, but he’s hiding empathy. “Normal? Like the Perfectly Normal Dursleys? Like how it would be normal for a Black to be in Azkaban? Boring and casual?” Harry swallows his next scathing remark, because he’s trying to help Fay, not hurt her, and a guilt trip would hurt.

“No! Yes!” She takes a deep breath and exhales harshly. “I just don’t want to worry,” she says softly. “I don’t want to freeze up and I don’t want any of you to have to watch your words around me.”

Harry shrugs, and steps sideways to bump shoulders. “Like that’s any different from the rest of us,” he drawls. Fay laughs once, despite herself.

“Fine, I’m normal for our household. Happy?”

“Only if you are.”

Fay closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Yeah. I will be. I have to be.” She opens her eyes and makes a face, her next thought slipping in and grabbing hold. “Ew. I’m never going to get a quiet moment at Hogwarts.”

“You could go to Slytherin. People expect them to be creepy.”

This time, Fay scoffs. “No thanks. Ambition? Eh, maybe. But cunning and the ability to live by word games? I’ll trip over my tongue way too much.”

Harry shrugs. “If you say so.”

“Besides, I thought you were going to Hufflepuff?”

“Well yeah,” Harry says as if it’s obvious. “But the Sett is in the basement and the Den in the dungeons, so we’d be close. Certainly closer than if you go to your tower house.”

Fay shrugs. “We’ll see.” This time she shoulder-checks him.

I remember talking about the cores of the houses, but here is something you must remember: Few things stay the way they were intended. A civil rights group can become a terrorist gang. A refuge can become a prison or an exclusive area. Protests can turn into mass violence. Houses made for the sake of sitting like-minded children under certain teachers can become cliques. A treaty for peace can lead to inability to properly prosecute criminals. A shelter for lost animals can become their final home.

Ambition became bigotry and cunning became manipulation. Daring became recklessness and Boldness became stubbornness. Kindness became weak-wills and acceptance became naivety. Curiosity became showing off and interest became strictness.

Red became Heroes, Green became Villains, Yellow became Afterthoughts and Blue became Tools.

These are not what the houses should be.

Thankfully, these are not quite what the graveyard siblings mean.

“Would it help to try looser hairstyles?”

Fay shakes her head. “No. I think- the hair thing is mine. Sure, the start was… that. But I like doing it. Even if no one else understands.”

“Alright,” Harry acquiesces easily. He knows his sister, but at their hearts, technically, they’re different people. Hearts really isn’t the right word here. Cores, perhaps? Yes, I think so. Fay and Harry are different people at their cores, and so Harry trusts Fay to choose what she thinks is best. Usually.

They are children. They can, have, and will make mistakes.

Thankfully, this isn’t one of them. Harry was correct earlier when he said recovery can’t be rushed, and this is him refusing to rush Fay’s.

After a few steps, Fay starts talking quietly again. “Do you think Dad would get me a knife?”

“Probably,” Harry says softly. He doesn’t waste much time before finishing what he’s thinking - like I said, he only trusts her most of the time. “He’d also probably enchant it so you can’t use it on yourself.”

“I wouldn’t!” Fay snaps, turning to glare. Her bow-braids flop with the movement. Harry raises an eyebrow at her, and neither trip on Number Seven’s driveway rock collection. Fay’s indignation drops, and she averts her eyes. “I know you can’t carve scars away.”

“Good,” Harry replies, tone as quiet as hers had been. They reach number nine not long after, and Harry waits until they’re crossing the road to continue. “I bet if you asked, Delphi would build you a glamour for while we’re at school.”

“I’m not planning on wearing anything low cut,” Fay says, blunt and honest. She doesn’t rub her chest, but she does link each of her hands around the opposite wrist.

Earlier, I told you about Harry’s physical scars. What they looked like, where they were, even if they weren’t visible. What I didn’t tell you is that his are far from the only scars among the residents of Ten Magnolia Drive. Vivian has a line across her right forearm and a bullet wound in her left leg. Regulus is missing his left arm from mid-upper-arm down, and you can find small scratches on most places of his body if you bother to look close enough. Reg is pale as all get-out, so his blend in the most. Caspian can discorporate on command or whenever he’s overwhelmed. Adrian’s scars are definitely the most benign, a mass of scar tissue on his leg from a sharp rock in highschool, and a deep line across his thumb from a scalpel slipping in college. And Fay’s is a twisting, ragged mess of scars across her ribcage, with a slash sideways on her stomach and the only straight line running from her bellybutton to the dip between her clavicles. The top of that one is the only one visible in most clothes.

“Okay,” Harry says. “If you change your mind, I’m sure she could use the incentive.”

“Okay.” Fay opens the front door with a flourish. “Cas! We’re home!”

While life as a whole is interesting, nothing else relevant happens until much later. Noctua the Greater Sooty Owl reaches the Dunbar-Black residence around one in the morning of July twenty-fifth. This may seem an odd time to you, but please think back to the owl lore I imparted upon you after the beginnings. Owls, especially properly bonded owls such as Noctua, will appear when convenient. In this case, that means she returns home at one A.M., entering through an upstairs window, to a child whose night took a nosedive.

Not that you can tell from the window there’s a child in the room. It’s the lone room on its side of the hallway, and instead of a teenager splayed despondently on the bed, there’s a roiling black miasma that covers the comforter and drips down to cover most of the floor.

This is, as I said, Caspian’s scar. He lives with a parasite chewing on his magic, unable to use it to the extent of an average wix, let alone his siblings. Sometimes he can’t pull together into a solid human being, though usually, he can shift on command. But this type of magic, the magic that runs through Regulus, Harry, Fay and Caspian’s viens? The type that fuels Delphi and Dora and Alicia? This is an emotional magic. Some wix gain renown for being able to control magic without a wand. Some people call this wandless, which is a Snake Name if I’ve ever heard one. In children, it’s called accidental.

In reality, it’s just wild. Structured magic is made with wands and rituals. It’s reliable, recreatable... the most scientific type of magic there is. Wild magic is made with movements, feelings and wishes. Both are good with the opportunity to be bad. Both can be learned through hard work. Wix can have affinities for either, and if they don’t like it they can learn the other.

Caspian will never learn structured magic, but he’s learnt enough wild magic to stop the parasite from killing him, as it would most others.

...I seem to have gone on a tangent. You should get used to it.

The point of explaining magic to you readers, whom I doubt have any of your own, is to explain that Caspian is simultaneously tied more and less to his magic than others you meet will be. A bad day for most can mean a few windows or cups shattering, maybe a small explosion. For Caspian, it means physicality takes more work than he has energy.

When Noctua enters the house, slipping through the open window with grace and a whirring, whistling noise that sounds like a bomb being dropped, Caspian shudders. It takes a few minutes, during which Noctua makes herself comfortable on the bedpost, for Caspian to pull himself together.

“Hey Nocts,” he says softly.

Noctua cheeps and moves to his shoulder. She does this for two reasons- the second is to make the letters more accessible. The first is so she can preen him. Caspian may be her owlet’s nestling, but he is her owlet too. Human connections can influence owl claims, but only if the owl allows it. If you believe Noctua is the type to allow it, you are severely mistaken and may be reading too fast. This is an owl who bonded herself to a wizard, instead of the other way around.

Noctua preens his dark hair as Caspian takes the letters off her foot and sorts through them.

There's one to Vivian from Amelia, and then three half-pages. One for Caspian, one for Vivian and Adrian, and one for Harry and Fay. These are from Regulus.

Caspian takes his, because he doesn't need to read his family's, and because Regulus has always been the best for calming him down. Vivian has always been the worst at it, just for the record.

Caspian,

Hey kiddo. Amy says you guys have been worrying. Don't let Viv and Rian psyche you out, I know what I’m doing.

Besides- nothing here is going to take off my other arm.

I might have just found a lead; yes, I know, I say that often, but I am usually right. Stay safe, don’t let the kids cause too many problems. I will be home in time for the dinner with Bones’, so I’ll see you soon.

I love you, Caspian.

Regulus Artcurus Black, Heir of The Most No-

-Regulus. <3

Caspian grins, a little wry and a lot sad, as he reads. It’s all good news, but what he really wants is for his dad to sit against the wall and tell him a story while he falls apart and pieces himself back together.

Anyone else in the household would do it, Harry had even offered before he went to bed, but they never have the same energy Regulus does.

Noctua keeps preening, telling him about her day in short cheeps and chirps, telling him about how well Regulus looks and how nice the old lady was. It doesn’t do much, mostly because Caspian doesn’t speak owl.

If Noctua absolutely needs to tell a story using words, it’s best for her to go find a snake to translate, since the wix in her home all speak parseltongue, which is the official wizarding name for snake language. Well, to be fair, Regulus speaks a couple magical beast-based languages, but he is a terrible translator. He’s too formal.

Caspian appreciates the effort anyway, and reaches up to try and pet Noctua’s back. His control slips halfway through, so instead he merely blows mist through her feathers, but she understands.

Caspian lays back and lets himself melt. Noctua cheeps again and picks at the mist where his shoulder used to be, before taking off with another high-pitched whistle. She narrowly pivots at the ceiling, and then dives towards the windowsill. She lands on it primly and turns her head the required three-hundred-and-sixty degrees to stare at Caspian. She cheeps again.

Caspian’s miasma tightens, not enough to form a human, but to form something humanoid, whose head-cloud tilts. Noctua chirps — quietly, because it’s dark and she’s smart — and then takes off out the window.

Caspian loses shape again and follows her.

It’s interesting, readers, how intelligent animals are. There’s a story I know, not related to this one, where a Guinea Pig reacted to her human-child’s distress. There are stories of dogs checking for breathing, and cats giving headbutts instead of hugs. There are military animals and there are therapy animals. Animals are not humans, but they can be intelligent despite that. Sometimes more than humans, sometimes less. This is one such scenario.

Noctua has spent seven years living in this household, and nine years taking care of Regulus. She knows how to help her owlets and nestlings.

Since she does not have the vocal range to tell Caspian stories, she’ll take him flying until it takes more effort to remain mist on the wind than it does to be solid.

Regulus Black does return around nine the same morning, but before that I have to take you back to another country. Remember Scotland and the castle? Yes, I need you back there.

This is Hogwarts Castle. You'll know well of its existence by now. And you have heard of, if not seen, Minerva McGonagall's existence.

She is a teacher, the head of Gryffindor house, and deputy headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Old and Scottish, her face is lined but her hair is still black. Wixen age much slower; Minerva is sixty-five, and only her wrinkles give it away.

Inside the castle, Minerva has woken up, dressed herself in smart green robes, eaten breakfast, and set up to check letters and build attendance lists.

...I mentioned that yesterday was The Calm Before The Storm.

Today, The Storm Is Brewing.

Minerva lays out the letters and adds the seven names in alphabetical order to the longer parchment she already has. She cross references this with two other lists, one from the Book of Names and one with annotations for MCPS. Unlike many other stories, when she comes upon Harry and Connor’s acceptance letters, she isn’t surprised at all. This isn’t because she’s part of a conspiracy to dispose of Harry, or because she’s a seer, but rather because she is Minerva McGonagall, one of the few reasonable and functional adults these kids will have access to. Which, I’ll admit, is a convoluted way of saying she works with Magical Child Protective Services and has already met Harry in the years since the Godric’s Hollow disaster.

Minerva finishes, and then because Lily Evans and James Potter were some of her favorite students, she writes a letter of her own.

Dear Lily and James;

I am looking forward to teaching your boys. Please make sure they both know I expect excellence; a few years among muggles cannot dampen magical prowess and I will be disappointed if he pretends it does.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts

It's not a long letter. Not one sent with the intent to cause panic. Not one sent to show off that Minerva knows more than the Potters. It's just a short, friendly missive to former students and teammates. She doesn’t remember that the Potters don’t know, or even know that herself. She’s not the MCPS Department Head. Her letter is meant to be teasing and friendly, not ominous enough to shatter family bonds.

Minerva takes it out of her office, down a few floors, and then to the outer tower that houses the owlery. She sends it with an unbonded school owl, and doesn't think any more on it.

On her way back to the castle she runs into Rubeus Hagrid, the Groundskeeper. He has bowtruckles - twig creatures - in his hair, which is bushy and long and grows into his brown beard.

"Good mornin' ‘Nerva!"

"Good morning, Rubeus," Minerva says, slowing her walk. "How are the Acromantula hatchlings?"

Rubeus Hagrid, whom I will be calling Rubeus despite most calling him Hagrid, grins, wide and bright. He towers nearly three feet over Minerva, who is herself five feet and nine inches tall. "They're coming along great! Largest set of survivors so far. Aragog is so proud." It's a project from when they were in school together, nearly fifty years ago. Minerva and Rubeus were Gryffindors, although she was a few years ahead of him. Aragog is the first of their Acromantulas, and the leader of this group.

"Oh do pass on my congratulations," Minerva says lightly. "And Mosag is doing well?"

"Laying eggs doesn't do much to 'er," Rubeus says. "Biggest issue is that she's getting old. I think they'll just have to dote on grandkids next year." Mosag is, of course, Aragog’s mate. Luckily they don’t breed like black widows.

Minerva, who has a few grandchildren of her own, understands the sentiment. "They’ll get more freedom that way, not having to deal with as many tantrums.”

Rubeus hums. “They’ll all be living together, though.”

"I suppose that's true." Minerva changes direction, so instead of going to the castle she was going towards the hut on the grounds. This is where Rubeus lives, and has since he stopped being a student. "Do you think you'll have time for another visit this month?"

"Ah course!" Rubeus says cheerily. "Any idea what time works best for 'em?"

Minerva purses her lips. "I think he'll be another of the bad ones," she admits. "Probably a Slytherin or Hufflepuff."

"Pink and blue for the cake, then?"

Minerva smiles, glancing over at her friend. "Yes. Perhaps some orange or silver too."

"I'll make sure they're good and ready," he promises.

“Thank you. Do you want Regulus’ notes before you go, or compare after?” “I think only triggers first,” Rubeus says, as usual. He has long since grown out of letting others do his thinking for him, especially when it comes to children.

Connor Potter is eating a late breakfast when the Hogwarts owl knocks on the window. Obviously, this confuses him. He already has his Hogwarts letter.

This isn’t an official letter, as I hope you guessed.

Lily picks the letter up and opens it, leaning on the kitchen counter as she reads.

Now. You don't know everything that's happened. I do, but I'm a Narrator and therefore get special privileges. What I'm trying to say here, is that while Lily has some information you don't, you also have some information she doesn't.

Such as knowing Harry's general health status and residence.

Right about now is when Lily realizes that Harry has magic.

You're welcome.

[Cathy-]

[Sally, I’m working.]

Lily does not do too well with this information. Not because she doesn't want him to be, but rather because it means she has missed many events she didn't need to, and that her sister has been lying for years.

"Mum?" Connor asks, watching as Lily's face goes pale, the hand holding the letter beginning to shake. "What happened?"

Connor feels usease growing, although for a different reason than Lily's. His dad is an auror, and there's always the chance of something going wrong. This is where his thoughts go, instead.

Lily shakes her head loosely, only peripherally noticing her older son. "It's- there's- McGonagall said-" she takes a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. "I need to go."

Connor lunges away from the table and wraps a hand around his mom's wrist before she can apparate.

Apparition in the Wizarding world is not a term used to refer to spectres, but rather a method of transportation. Among whom I believe you readers are, the concept is easier explained as personal teleportation.

Lily twists on her heel, dragging Connor with her as she pops out of their home in Somerset and over to Surrey, which is just southwest of London.

"Mum, what happened?!"

“It’s your brother,” Lily says breathlessly.

Connor freezes for a moment as Lily keeps walking down the street. “Hadrian?”

“Yeah,” Lily agrees.

Lily knows this neighborhood. She has been here four times before, once ten years ago, twice seven years ago, once three years ago, and doesn’t stumble as she walks through the area towards Number Four, Privet Drive. Connor doesn’t know the area, but he follows Lily as she storms through the place.

“What’s- you don’t usually get letters.” Connor’s voice is small and unusually anxious. “It’s normally feelings, right?”

“Yes,” Lily agrees. “It’s-” she sighs. “I don’t think he’s in danger, Connor.”

“What was the letter?”

“He’s been accepted at Hogwarts.”

It takes a couple of minutes for Connor to parse through to what that sentence means and why it's causing panic, in which they reach the house in question. Privet Drive doesn’t contrast Magnolia Crescent much, but it does have its differences. One of which is that instead of being full of people who personalize their cookie-cutter houses, Privet Drive Residents would rather match. The street is full of brown townhouses that share walls with each other’s garages, instead of the white and black singular houses found across Wisteria Way.

“Oh,” Connor says numbly. Hogwarts accepts magicals only, and as I said, often the prestigious ones. He looks at his mum as she knocks. “Does that mean I can meet him?” Connor's voice is as faint as Lily’s when he asks.

“Yes, you should,” Lily agrees. She knocks again, less sharp and more forceful, pounding.

Connor feels some mix of elation and lingering nervousness, although now it doesn’t carry as apocalyptic of a feel. He’s heard of Hadrian, seen baby pictures from before Lily and James sent him away. Connor can’t remember ever hearing Hadrian’s voice, though, because he hasn’t. Hadrian hadn’t learned to speak fully before they were separated. Connor is glad his mum cleared it up though- it’s much less taxing to be anxious about a new person than it is to be anxious about one you already know dying.

The door opens and then slams in their faces.

Lily frowns and raps again, harder.

Inside, Vernon Dursley fumes. He, like his son, is extremely obese, and more bad tempered than he is heavy. “Pet! Your freak of a sister is here!”

Petunia Dursley skitters out of the kitchen, eyes wide. Her thoughts all carry to the tune of ‘What did the freak boy do now?’ Petunia is blonde, like her son and husband, although hers is dirty enough to almost be brown. Her neck is long, and her face narrow: it’s a sharp contrast indeed, for Petunia is underweight and tightly controlled where her family is obese and impulsively emotional. “I’ve got it. Take Dudders out the back.” This order comes for a few reasons, one is that she doesn’t want her precious son to be exposed to magic, and the second is because her son would be the first to expose their lies.

When Petunia opens the door, she smiles tightly. “Honestly Lily, you’re such a worrywart.”

“You didn’t tell me!” Lily snaps, in no mood for niceties.

“Excuse me?” Petunia asks, panic shooting through her. There are rather a lot of things she hasn’t told her sister.

“Where is my son?” Lily says instead, pushing her way inside the quaint home. Connor follows, and he cases the place first, looking for signs of his little brother. The issue is he doesn’t see any. All the picture frames, of which there are a lot, only include the Dursleys and family on Vernon’s side. Connor doesn’t know these people, but he knows his brother will have dark skin, even if he dyed his hair as he grew up.

There are no pictures that fit that description.

Lily notices the same thing faster, when she looks around a minute later.

“He’s- out at friends,” Petunia says shakily. “Why?”

Lily turns a glare on her. “Hogwarts just owled me,” she says venomously. “Hadrian is magical. So where is my son?”

“You gave him away!” Petunia snaps back. “He’s not yours anymore.”

“I thought he would live better without being teased by magic!” Lily snaps. “You were always jealous, Tuney, don’t try to deny it.”

“So you’d rather give us a blight on our household?”

As the sisters keep fighting, Connor looks around more. There are video games, but they’re all either in poor shape or very new. There’s trash on the floor and the couch looks overused. He slips away and into the kitchen, which is pristine apart from the half-eaten snacks on the table. The cupboard under the stairs has locks, which Connor finds weird, because they’re old, but they obviously lock on the outside and are opened with a key from inside. They look like a terrible child-proofing technique. He’s pretty sure muggles know better.

“I visited! Why didn’t you just tell me then?”

“It was more worth it to keep the kid and get the money,” Petunia sneers behind him.

Connor makes a face at her greed, as it reminds him of some of his least favorite society adults. He sneaks up the stairs next, which isn’t any more helpful than the downstairs. There are four bedrooms, one which is full of, forgive my language, trash and crap. Unbeknownst to Connor, this is Dudley’s second bedroom, where he keeps all of his unnecessary possessions that cannot fit in his main bedroom. Connor moves on. The next is Dudley’s main bedroom, which is a mess but includes clothes and a bed. Then he finds the master bedroom, and the guest room.

Connor very quickly realizes either his brother is a terrible slob, or isn’t living here. The prospect causes fresh terror to rise in his gut. If Hadrian isn’t here, where is he?

Connor takes the stairs back down two at a time, and pauses to look at his mum and aunt.

“You make no sense!” Lily spits. “Vernon is always bragging about how much he makes; you should have just sent Hadrian back!”

“I couldn’t!” Petunia snarls.

“Whyever not?” Lily rolls her eyes as she scoffs.

“I killed him!” Petunia shrieks.

I killed him.

The words echo around the house.

Connor trips on the last step.

Lily takes a breath, eyes wide, breathing shallow, ears ringing.

It doesn’t change what she heard.

Despite appearances, or assumptions I may have given you earlier, Lily Potter loves her children. She can, has, and will die for them. It’s obvious, then, that hearing this is wounding.

Another breath, wherein Petunia covers her mouth in horror and Lily nearly shuts down. She would have, grief overpowering anger, if Connor hadn’t gasped. The sound yanks Lily out of her spiral, and she turns away from her sister and to her son. Her bright eyes are wet as she reaches out and drags him to her. Her mind is reeling. Every time she visited, pulled by panic, pain, and a bond she still doesn’t understand, Petunia insisted that Hadrian had no magic. Petunia refused to let Lily ever see Hadrian.

She very sharply regrets ever listening to Petunia’s demands, even on their logical days.

It makes some sense that Hadrian is dead, and yet makes none at all. Lily has felt him. She needs more information, to find out how and why her rituals failed, she needs- Lily needs to mourn and think and- something doesn’t add up here.

It will, reader, but not yet.

She drops a kiss on Connor’s crown, trying to comfort him while reassuring herself that at least one of her children is definitely alive. After a moment, her thoughts return to Petunia. She is not discussing infanticide with the victim’s brother in the room. “I think there’s a park down the road,” she whispers into his hair. “Go over there, I’ll-” she pauses when her voice cracks, and presses her wand into his hand. “-pick you up later. After I figure this out.” And she will, eventually. Lily prays that this will be like the time before, even as she knows the chances are terribly low.

Petunia should hope she gave Lily's son a proper funeral.

Connor gives her back her wand, flashing his own, which he snuck into his pocket before breakfast.

Lily nods and then stands up, turning to look at her sister. It’s not quite a glare, but it is heavy with betrayal and intent to receive answers. The unnaturally bright color only thickens the atmosphere. That storm I mentioned?

It’s here.

Connor takes a step towards the door when she lets go. He’s not crying yet, just breathing heavily, but that will happen later, once it sinks in. See, Connor has heard of his brother. When his parents are feeling nostalgic, or when the Weasley twins do something ridiculous, Hadrian is mentioned occasionally. But most often? Most often, which luckily wasn’t all that often, Connor heard about his brother during late nights or dark days in the basement, when his mom wrote runes and chanted and probably broke the law - sometimes she would talk about him. But Connor has never considered him actually dying. Getting hurt, sure. Glowing eyes and flowing blood had given that impression plenty when he was young. But he has never considered death as a possibility.

Connor closes the front door behind him, and stays there for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut. The tears have started now, and then his aunt is talking again, and he can't make out the words but he doesn't like the tone. He clenches his fists and starts walking down the unfamiliar road, completely lost within minutes.

Now, earlier that day, around nine o’clock I’d say, Adrian Dunbar floos into Amelia Bones’ office within the Ministry of Magic. Floo travel is… well it’s not hard to explain the action but I consider the name disingenuous: it’s derived from the Flue Chamber in a fireplace, which is the inside of a chimney. Nominally it makes sense, however floo travel works by sucking the traveler down into the flames, not up like a Santa Claus ripoff. The Floo Network is a series of magical fireplaces across the world, and since they are imbued with magic when they’re built, one does not need a magical core to travel among them.

“Good morning,” Amelia says warmly as he stumbles out of her person-sized fireplace. Adrian has not mastered magical travel, even this many years later. It could be due to his lack of magical core, or he could simply not have the best equilibrium. Personally, I advocate the latter, because even wixen aren’t perfect- indeed, many stumble whilst they travel.

“Good morning, Amelia,” Adrian says, grinning. He has a bag of medical basics thrown over his shoulder, and his hair is tied behind his head per the usual.

“You remember how to get there?”

“Yep.” By which he means ‘Probably, so long as the hallways don’t move.’ It’s a valid concern in magical buildings - his own house does it.

“Good luck, then,” Amelia bids, opening her office door. “Lift’s on the east side today.”

“Of course it is.” Adrian rolls his eyes. He’s not sure why magic is allergic to being coherent. “Can I use the floo again for lunch?”

“Certainly.” Amelia doesn’t add a clause about not messing with her stuff, because Adrian isn’t the type. “I might not be here though.”

“Alright.” Adrian bids her farewell and heads into the hallway and bullpen, crossing to the lift. He waves to James Potter on the way, who grins back since his hands are busy trying to wrangle on the red overobe that is his department’s uniform. They're not friends, but they're both friend ly enough to smile at strangers in the mornings. James doesn’t know Adrian, he barely sees Adrian and has no reason to note his existence beyond the Sunshine Person he sees every now and then. Adrian does know James, most people do for some reason or other, but Adrian knows him because Regulus had a dart board with his face for six months. It was taken down after Reg got custody of Harry. Adrian doesn’t really care about James’ existence - people change, gossip is rampant, and he’s never had to interact with the man personally. He is also unaware of Noctua’s vendetta, but to be fair not even Regulus knows about Noctua’s vendetta. That is simply a Noctua thing.

Otherwise, nothing important happens as he delves into the bowels of the Ministry, down the lift and through ill-lit hallways towards a spinning entryway. The Department of Mysteries, where he's working today, is a giant circle, magically enhanced to connect everyone inside to everything inside.

Adrian has to stop and stare when he leaves the circular entryway and enters the Death Chamber.

The next room is… heavy. That's the first word to come to mind. As Heavy as the hospital when his kid was dying or his morgue when it’s full. Heavy like an unsolved murder, or a fresh crime scene. Like Vivian’s tone when talking about her family. Like the little notebook no one wants to open. Heavy like a funeral, like a memorial, like the sudden, crushing reminder of how terrible humankind can be.

Heavy like its namesake.

“What room are you looking for?” The comment rips him out of his thoughts. Adrian jumps, turning quickly to the speaker. She’s got Black Family silver eyes, but it takes Adrian a minute to recognize them between the different shape and the darker skin tone. Her black hair is dry and messy, bundled on top of her head. Her green earrings are the only color visible around the grey shroud that qualifies as an Unspeakable Uniform.

“Entropy, inside the Death Room.”

She nods, a sort of bobbling movement that reminds Adrian of the teenagers he’s raised. She’s young. “That’s this way, Itzcalli’s in there today.” She starts walking around the large, odd room, and Adrian follows. He’s never been inside this area of the Ministry of Magic, which I forgot to explain, but is a government building hidden under London proper and sprawls beyond physical capabilities. They only got clearance to let him look at bodies from magical cases two years ago, and those few are usually delivered to the muggle building. This is a special case, including a decomposition spell that could only be slowed by bringing the bodies here.

Adrian noticed as soon as he walked through the door to this department why the spell was halted. The entire room feels like a graveyard, something mournful and heavy that presses upon him. Morgues have a similar feeling, but this is stronger, somehow. It looks like a stone stadium, bigger than his house that slants down to a podium and an archway with a black veil, the thin fabric being blown by wind Adrian can’t properly feel.

He stays very far away from that one, for more reasons than the overwhelming anxiety that rears in his chest when he looks at it for too long.

"How do they design the departments?"

She turns around, walking backwards around the high bench. "It's a circle," she says, gesturing. "So Entropy is the room between Time and Death, and Grief connects me to Love. I have rooms for Thought and Space too, but they don't connect physically. Limerence connects Love and Thought, and Dimension bridges Thought and Space. On the other side is Travel, which connects Space back to Time."

"There were twelve doors, though?"

She grins. "And only five of those connect. If Entropy could be accessed straight from the entry, you wouldn't be here." She sounds exceedingly smug.

Adrian nodded, admitting her point. They reach another pathway up and down the stadium, and the Unspeakable turns upwards. “I’m guessing the other rooms are classified?”

“Yep. Some of them do loop in here though, and if you take that door-” she points at the next pathway over, directly opposite the door he entered through. “You’ll find yourself in Thought, and the one beside it loops into Space.”

Adrian huffs exasperatedly. “Magical blueprints must be murder to read.”

His guide laughs, even as she turns away to enter the right doorway. “Unspeakable Medina,” she calls, still smothering laughter. “Doctor Dunbar is here, from the DMLE.”

“I’m not actually from the DMLE,” Adrian cuts in a little awkwardly, but the humor from before keeps him going. He has worked with wixen enough to not be exceedingly anxious, but had he not already made a friend he would be much more nervous. Not all wixen are open to working with muggles - it’s a concept that’s caused Regulus much stress, especially as he can’t shadow Adrian everywhere as he can with Vivian.

...Not sure if I’ve mentioned it yet, but that’s what non-magical people are called, muggles; they’re generally never told about magic, and less likely to work with it. Of course, being told does not necessarily equate to knowing that magic is real, but that’s a rather large debate for another time.

Adrian spares a moment to wonder how she knew his name, before remembering that the Ministry gives out name tags to visitors. His today says Dr. Dunbar, DMLE investigation, which is probably why his guide assumed that was where he was from. Sadly, proper Ministry workers don't do the same, so he can't use that to learn her name.

"Hello." He says, catching up to his friend and waving towards the next witch.

The Unspeakable looks up from the papers on the dissection table to smile at him. She too is shrouded in grey, but she has bright yellow ribbons tied through her hair and dark brown eyes. Itzcalli Medina is Hispanic, compassionate, and tired. The Death room isn't her usual area of expertise - out of the five 'workshops' in the Department of Mysteries Itzcalli usually works in Love. She, like many Unspeakables, is willing to work with many types of magic, and has worked before with Adrian's guide to find connections between life, love, and those who escape death.

"Morning," she greets. "You're the muggle contact?"

"Yes," Adrian says, not missing how his guide's eyes widen as she does a double take. "Adrian Dunbar." She doesn’t seem upset, just curious.

“Be careful who you give your name to,” she says, tone a little sharp but- she’s not adverse to Adrian being here, she’s worried about him.

Adrian glances back at her, working through the possible insult to find the advice buried in it, and he smiles wryly. “Telling and giving are different things.”

Both Unspeakables relax at this. His friend smiles wryly in return, and then turns to Itzcalli. “You don’t need me here, right?”

“Nah,” Itzcalli shakes her head. “They assigned us Devon for this one.”

Adrian’s guide makes a face. “Good luck with that.” She steps back and waves lightly. “It was nice meeting you, Doctor Dunbar. See you at lunch, Calli.”

“You as well.” Adrian waves.

“You better!” Itzcalli calls after her as she descends the stadium steps again. Itzcalli turns back to Adrian. Merely looking at her exhausted smile makes his body ache, but he’s inordinately excited. Guessing by Itzcalli’s lack of movement, though, he’ll have to wait to start.

“Which room is hers?” Adrian asks to fill the time.

Itzcalli hums, following Adrian’s pointing. “She works in the Death Chamber. Her desk is by the veil.” Itzcalli shivers. “I went to pick her up in person once, and it was terrible. Now I just send her a Patronus when I need her.”

“It is… heavy, around here,” Adrian agrees, looking around the Entropy room.

Itzcalli smiles without humor. “Death is heavy, Doctor Dunbar.”

Adrian pretends he believes her without exception. “Of course it is.”

Itzcalli blows nonexistent hair out of her eyes. “C’mon, we have an extra pair of robes somewhere here that you can use.”

“I brought scrubs.”

Itzcalli gives him a look. “I know what those are because I’m muggleborn,” she says steadfastly, “So trust me when I say that Unspeakable robes are way better. For one thing, they absorb curses.”

“Do you get cursed often around here?”

Itzcalli laughs, back to him as she walks the length of the combined office-morgue-and-mini-department. “Way more than you think. Most of it comes off objects we’re studying, but there have been inter-department murder attempts.”

Adrian does a double take. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” Itzcalli says fervently, looking back over her shoulder to make a face. “The aurors can’t even do much about it because the point of Unspeakables is we can only discuss work in the Department.”

“Is that going to affect me too?”

Itzcalli pauses, and looks back at him from her position- climbing a wall? He’s not sure what she’s up to. Neither am I, honestly. “Good question. The Unspeakable oaths bind to a magical core, but you don’t have one - unless you do, and it’s just too small to use?” she hums. “I’m going to look into that sometime.” She drops from the ceiling, a silver robe thrown over her arm. “Ta-da! Enchanted against Time Sand, Light and Dark Curses, Compulsions, Portkeys, Blood, and more!”

Adrian shrugs it on with a smile. “I appreciate it.”

Itzcalli gives him a searching look. “You’ve dealt with nonhumans before, haven’t you?” Adrian shrugs a vague yes, and Itzcalli drops the subject. “Anyway. Devon’s late, which is a little surprising because he’s a pedantic jerk but then again he’s working with me, so.” She rolls her eyes, but the annoyance is quickly buried under a smile that promises chaos. “Wanna get a headstart on the case?”

“Sure. Where are the bodies?” Adrian’s grin doesn’t quite match, but he is excited.

“Right-” Itzcalli spins, the yellow in her hair contrasting the dark decor. She stops for a second to orient in an unusual room, and then points. “this way!” Adrian laughs a little and follows her towards the opposite wall, which now that he looks is made of cold lockers.

The labels on the lockers are parchment, and the cabinets are some pale stone that steals light. Everything here seems old, and as Adrian reads the tags he sees it’s not just a feeling. “How old is this Department?” Adrian asks, not looking away from the tag. M. E. Warren, 1943. That was before he was born.

“As old as the Ministry itself.”

Itzcalli and Adrian jump at the new voice. There’s a man with dark skin, light eyes, and dreadlocks leaning against the doorframe from Time’s side of the room. He has a necklace featuring the rune Dagaz over his robes, the silver only visible because it shines. Lighting in the department comes from enchanted sconces set along the ceiling - considering how large the main Death Chamber is, it's no wonder the lighting matches the atmosphere.

“Morning, Devon.”

“Medina,” he returns, his smile obviously fake. Adrian takes a moment to brood about being in the middle of two fighting wixen, and then he shrugs. Adrian’s here for science, and he’ll deal with the people in the middle. He knows Itzcalli isn’t bad, and Devon might not be either.

"You're the muggle?" Isaac Devon asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Adrian Dunbar," he offers the name without a hand.

Devon's smile is slight and hard, but he moves on anyway, pushing off the wall to point out the right locker. "The body's over here."

Itzcalli is already standing at the locker in question, and she re-

Okay, seriously? This is important information, but I'm sensing rather a lot of disinterest. Why?

Oh.

...is that the problem? I suppose I did leave you in an emotionally charged moment earlier, but I am trying to get through all the important bits.

You don’t care. Alright, my apologies. I’ll take you back. We were with Connor, right? Yes, we were. He’s walking through the neighborhood cluster that contains Magnolia Crescent, Privet Drive, and Wisteria Way. And he’s crying, because- well if you forgot why he’s crying I do have to wonder how many of these words you’re actually reading.

Now, it takes Connor a little while to find a park, turning corners and crossing roads as he tangles himself deeper into the suburban jungle. Despite getting terribly lost, he does find the park, so it’s probably okay.

Oh, who is he kidding?

Nothing about this is ‘okay.’

Connor has heard of his brother, but it’s always been assumed that Hadrian was alive, just somewhere else. He had assumed there was a chance, you know? If he spent enough time in the muggle world, if he asked the right questions, he could see his brother. They could go out for lunch someday. He had never been prepared for this. How could he have?

Hadrian was sent away for safety reasons - although really they should have kept him longer to ensure he didn’t end up like Caspian - and Connor grew up watching Lily work to ensure he stayed safe, far away from their painfully-in-the-spotlight family. Connor thought Hadrian was safe. He had been told Hadrian was safe.

How could this have come from that? How could he- do you understand how terrible it is, to hear of the death of someone you could have been close to, without any idea of when you lost that chance? How he died? Why he was killed?

Although, Connor supposes as he crumples under a large willow, that there is no ‘why’ good enough to justify killing anyone, especially a child. Connor hides his face in his knees, but he can’t disguise his shaking breath. How could his Aunt do that? And then lie, maybe for years?

How could she live with the guilt?

“Hey,” someone says, and the words are accompanied by the sounds of someone sitting down beside him.

Connor is… really, really not in the mood for strangers today.

“Are you okay?”

It’s… not the question Connor expects to be asked, but he accepts it anyway. He doesn’t look up, but he shakes his head.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

To a stranger? No, he doesn’t. Connor shakes his head again.

“Okay.”

Beside him is the subject of his thoughts. Harry leans back on his hands, ankles crossed as he gives his companion some quiet company. Ian is happily in a sandbox, and Harry lets his eyes wander to him instead.

The Magnolia Crescent park is nearly deserted today, so Harry noticed the moment the other kid arrived. Harry hasn't figured out who he’s sitting beside yet, but to be fair neither has Connor.

What Harry has figured out is that the newcomer is crying, and even if he won't talk about it, Harry has found that most of his resident family enjoys commiseration or someone else telling a story while they cry.

In his family, it’s usually a story; after a few minutes of commiseration, Harry begins to speak. “Ian’s new too,” he starts, still mostly watching the toddler even as he glances at Connor. He's never seen Connor before, but he knows most of the neighborhood kids by face if not name. “We’re not sure how long he’ll be staying; my aunt was going to look into it today, actually.”

Connor does look up then, because until now he hadn’t noticed the park’s third occupant. He finds Ian quickly, and then buries his head again.

“We don’t usually get our hopes up for permanent placements,” Harry explains. “I think we’ve had four, outside of Fay, Cas, and I, since I joined. Although I guess Fay isn’t really a permanent placement, since she’s a bio kid.” He shrugs. “The foster system is a mess of semantics.”

Connor snorts. He didn’t see any other kids, so he has no idea who his companion is talking about, but most of his attention is drawn by ‘foster system’. This isn’t something Connor knows, considering he’s ten and has never needed that type of knowledge.

“Foster system?” Connor asks, unknowingly the first words he ever says to his little brother.

“Yep!” Harry says. “I’ve lived here nearly all my life, but I was in Privet Drive for the first few years, up ‘till I was four. Then someone actually noticed that the aunt and uncle weren’t fit for custody and my other uncle took me in instead. Uncle Reg’s a certified foster parent, which is how he got custody in the first place. Now I live here with him, Cas, and the Dunbars.”

“Huh,” Connor says, parsing through the information. He still doesn’t know what most of it means. Harry stops talking, sensing Connor’s focus waning. “What do foster parents do?”

“Foster parents take in other people’s kids, sometimes as part of a family arrangement, and sometimes so that kids with bad families can be somewhere safe. It’s not a perfect system,” Harry looks up at the trees. “But it’s got a good heart.”

Connor snorts. An imperfect system with a good heart sounds like society, he thinks.

“Sounds useful,” he says instead. “How do they find out who has bad families?” The question is pointed, but not because he’s really mad at his companion. He’s wishing someone had used it to save his brother. He hasn’t yet realized they did.

“Reports of suspicious behaviours,” Harry says. “That’s where it tends to go wrong. The clever ones can fool investigators.”

Connor hums, and Harry lets silence reign as Connor’s thoughts chase each other around his head. Connor wipes his tears and sets his head on his knees, instead of in them. “Why did you come over here?”

Harry doesn’t look down, watching leaves move instead. “I don’t like letting people cry alone.”

It’s a nicer answer than Connor had been expecting. He dreads the day he’ll have to personally deal with good liars; up till now, other children have often admitted eventually that they were sent by parents. “Oh.”

Harry doesn’t respond.

Connor looks over and his heart skips a beat. Harry’s marked cheek is on the right side, which is away from Connor, but the resemblance is there anyway, especially because Connor has been thinking about it recently. “What’s your name?” he asks, not noticing how his voice has gone light and teary suddenly.

Harry’s head snaps over at the tone change, and Connor gets to watch as Harry recognizes him in return. Harry’s eyes, a dark green that doesn’t match their mother’s but could have once, widen, and he blinks once.

“Harry Potter,” Harry says, composure slipping. “Er- Hadrian; both are true. You’re-?”

“Connor,” Connor says.

They take a moment, both of them, to examine the other and compare to themselves. Harry’s hair is longer, but it’s tied into a bun that reminds Connor of someone from his dad’s school photos. Connor’s is short and wild, not an afro but something of the same effect. They each got one parent’s eyes. Connor finds his eyes drawn again to the lightning scar, the one he’s only seen once, in a final family photo before they split. He thought it was black from infection then. It’s still black though, so he assumes his hypothesis was wrong.

“Your scar never healed,” Connor finds himself saying absently, reaching up until his fingers nearly brush it. He doesn't, though, too scared he'll vanish the apparition.

“Neither did yours,” Harry responds, staring at the oddly pink mark. He doesn't reach out. This isn’t quite as weird for him as it is for Connor, because Harry occasionally reads the newspapers, and Connor has occasionally been in them.

“Curse marks don’t,” Connor shrugs. “I-” he gestures helplessly, chest tight even as the rest of him feels oddly floaty. “I thought yours would have.”

Harry shrugs in return, a little awkwardly but his voice is falsely casual when he speaks. “Some things just have to leave a mark, I guess.”

The twins are quiet, eyes intent.

"How are you here?" Connor asks, in the same breath Harry begins.

"What are you doing here?"

"You first," Connor says.

Harry acquiesces. "Like I said, I live here. Why are you here?"

Connor is quiet, feeling his heart climb up into his throat at the reminder.

"Connor?" Harry asks, picking up on the sudden dropping mood.

Connor searches Harry's face again, a little desperately, and then he closes his eyes, because he can't say this to Harry's face. "We came to visit my aunt," Connor says, trying to line up the facts in front of him. It doesn’t work. "Mum and I were supposed to pick up my little brother."

Harry watches the pain on Connor's face and hides a wince. "Did they say he didn't want to come with you?"

"No. They said he's dead."

"Petunia said what?" He spits, and Connor jolts, eyes snapping open, because the vitriol is so removed from the tranquil atmosphere that it sets his heart racing again.

He watches his enraged brother, and thinks of the row from earlier. He swallows. "I don't think she meant to tell mum. She sort of yelled it as they were fighting."

Harry buries his face in his hands. "Oh, I despise her."

Connor watches. Things are, again, not adding up. Or… not again. They have yet to make sense to Connor. "How are you not dead?"

Harry peeks around his fingers, unwilling to spit out the entire story; "It's… a long story."

"Sounds like our lives," Connor says with a snort.

Harry has to agree to that. It really does. "Do you know what resuscitation is?"

"No," Connor admits. He feels a bit like an idiot, having to ask so many questions, even though he shouldn't. Growing up is about learning the world, and he and Harry grew up differently.

"When a heart stops, or a person dies, it's possible to restart the heart if someone does it right. And if you keep blood flowing, then there's not as much damage when the healers actually wake them up. At least, that's how it was explained to me. Not sure what gets damaged, because you still have to heal, but-" Harry shrugs, dropping his hands from their earlier gesticulating.

"They can just- bring you back to life?"

"Yes but no? It only works if you do it right away."

Connor hums. "Someone brought you back."

"I came back," Harry confirms. "Any other questions?"

Connor stares hungrily instead of answering. He can't think of any right now, but he feels a question bubbling under his ribs, more than one maybe, unformed but yearning.

Harry lets him, but his own focus is on how improbable this is. He had… planned, in a sense, how he was going to go about dealing with the issue of having a twin brother when they met at Hogwarts, with differing plans based on their house layouts.

This meeting nicely crashes through those plans, chews up the rubble, and makes soup.

And that is assuming this isn't a particularly creative and clever plot to kidnap him or get information, but Harry is ten and doesn't think that highly of himself.

"Not yet," Connor finally admits.

"Ri!" Ian shrieks, making his presence known again in the sandbox. "House!"

Harry glances away from Connor to see what Ian means. He shifts, and smiles when he notices the mounds. "It's a very nice house, Ian."

Ian grins and goes back to building.

“Who’s that?” Connor asks.

“Ian,” Harry answers. “He’s been here two days.”

Connor hums.

The silence stretches, and Connor hates it. Harry can’t see his discomfort, but he can tell anyway. He prepares to stand and kill it, but Connor speaks first.

“How did you-“ He sighs, looking at the sky. “Are you sure you’re okay? She can’t hurt you again?” She can’t kill you again, Connor doesn’t say.

“Yes,” Harry promises, settling down and threading his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Never again.”

Connor watches, and then nods. “Good.”

Harry smiles weakly, but this conversation makes him uncomfortable and now that he has his brother he wants to think of something else.

Connor eyes him as he falls silent, and kind of wants to pry, but this is the first time he remembers meeting his brother, ever, and he knows most people don’t spill their guts right away. He’s not going to mention his random childhood coma or other drama, and he’s not even sure he wants to hear the story behind Harry’s short death. It’s terrifying enough as a concept.

The silence reigns until Harry comes up with a question, random as it is. “This is weird. How do I know you’re even the real Connor Potter?”

Connor snorts, because while many people have asked in awe if he was ‘really Connor Potter?!’ they’ve never needed confirmation. The scar on his forehead has always been enough. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Harry doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have a set caper that would require this, and he doesn’t feel like it’s needed, either. Harry shrugs instead, because he already said it. “I’ll figure it out,” he says languidly.

Connor raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And how do I know you’re the real Hadrian Potter?” He… hasn’t considered this possibility yet, but since Harry suggested it, Connor feels paranoia clinging to his skull.

Harry shrugs. “I’m alive?” Connor snorts, but he quiets down quickly. Harry looks at him, concern and worry climbing his chest. He meant it as a joke, something instinctual that brought livelihood back to their dead conversation. Not to actually worry Connor. “Here,” he pulls his library card out of his pocket. “I haven’t kept my school IDs with me,” he admits, “But it counts, I think.”

Connor looks at the card like he doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t, for a moment, and then Connor recognizes enough pieces of the design to realize what it is. “Oh! I don’t have mine,” Connor admits. “We don’t go often.”

“I go all the time.”

“Cool.” Connor shrugs. “Is there a good one around here?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “There’s not a true magical section, but it’s got a lot of good fantasy-fiction.”

“Cool.”

"What's your favorite book?" Harry asks before the awkwardness can take over.

Connor stops to think. "I'd go with the Big Friendly Giant, probably. Yours?"

"Alice In Wonderland by Lewis Caroll."

Connor squints. "Isn't that an adult book?"

Harry snorts, but he acquiesces too. "I needed help reading it the first few times," he admits. "But I know what most of the words mean now, and it's a fantastic universe. Lots of wordplay."

“Yeah? Like what?”

And then Harry is smiling, excitement unhindered, as he explains his favorite parts and the metaphors that took him the longest to get. Connor watches, and he thinks honestly that this is what Ron means when he talks about Ginny's love for espionage. It's something Ron and Connor are terrible at (they've tried), but it makes her happy. Connor's been in such situations a few times, watching as the Weasleys or Neville start talking about things he doesn't understand or follow but they're passionate about.

This is four times better.

"I think it would be fun to make an amusement park themed after it," Harry says, winding down. "Or just enchant a teakettle or something for smoke signals."

"The shrinking and growth potions sound fun," Connor says. "We could sneak around mouseholes." Ginny would love it, he thinks. And Fred and George should never be allowed to touch it. The Yellow and Blue duo are menaces.

"Or snake dens," Harry grins. Somewhere to their left doors slam and someone starts yelling about not being late. Harry looks over.

Connor knows this won't last, but he wants it to. He watches Harry's awareness shift and mourns it, just a little. "You like snakes?" He asks, just to draw Harry back.

"Yes!"

Connor grins. "Me too. Dad took me to meet an Occamy once, she was the rudest snake I'd ever met, but her feathers were so pretty! Not quite the color of the sky, more of a green-blue gemstone, or pool water."

"Whoah."

Connor grins, both at the reaction and the memory. "What's your favorite snake?"

"Mostly I know garters, but there was a random cobra who'd come to hang out a few years ago. I'm not sure what happened to her."

Connor flops backwards, turning to look at Ian. The toddler looks nothing like him or Harry. What had Harry said earlier? Foster care?

"Who do you live with now?"

Harry looks over, but stays sitting up. "Uncle Regulus, Aunt Vivian, and Uncle Adrian."

Connor… has no idea who any of those are. He tries to place the tree he's under instead. "You mentioned kids too, earlier?" It’s not an aspen, but it could be oak or willow.

"Yeah, there's also Fay and Caspian. And Ian, now."

Connor blinks, and then snorts. “Okay so,” he holds up his hand to count them out. “Your name is Hadrian, his name is Ian, and you live with people named Caspian, Vivian, and Adrian?”

“Yes,” Harry says around a laugh at Connor’s tone.

Connor actually laughs then. He loves this. The apprehension from earlier has long since vanished, he's comfy, and he's learning about his brother. “Was the matching on purpose?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry grins. “They didn’t name Fay Favian.”

Connor snorts. “Is Fay a nickname?”

“Short for Faith."

He nods. “I wonder if there are any nicknames for Connor?”

“Lily and James only call you Connor?”

“Not even close,” Connor shakes his head. “But none of their nicknames are short for my name.”

“What nicknames do they use?”

“Sweetheart, Bucktooth,” Connor pauses before adding the last one. "Sometimes Their Little Immortal." There are others, but even out of the ones in the vein, perhaps especially from their number, few stick.

Contrary to his worries, Harry laughs. "Cute."

"What about you? Any embarrassing nicknames?"

"None of your nicknames are embarrassing."

"Bucktooth is terribly embarrassing," Connor corrects him, opening his mouth to show off his teeth. It's embarrassing in a good way, though. "What do they call you?"

"Harry, mostly. Aunt Vivian is Viv, Adrian is Rian, we call Caspian Cas, you know Fay’s, and then there’s Uncle Reg.” Harry shrugs. “Otherwise they’re all jokes like Casper or Changeling.” He’s leaving out the ones he doesn’t like. Squirtle is the first to come to mind. Later there will be Hades.

“Changeling?”

“Legend says the fae used to steal human babies and leave other fae in their place.”

“Creepy,” Connor says bluntly. Harry shrugs.

“It’s not too bad if they steal from the right house.”

Connor frowns up at him, but doesn't contest it. The way Harry said it… There was something there Connor doesn’t get yet, and he isn’t going to start an argument he’ll lose.

“Think Con would work as a nickname?”

Connor shrugs. “Why not? It does the job.”

“You’re discussing names without me?”

Connor jumps as the snake appears in the grass beside his head. Harry doesn’t. Connor smiles slightly and greets her at the same time Harry does.

She raises her head to greet them in return. “Hello, Greater-Death-Cheater-” Harry makes a face at the title. Connor wonders why- it’s fitting, which makes it a good one. “Who is your companion?”

“This is my clutchmate, Connor.”

“No proper name yet?”

“Actually yes,” Connor says, looking at the little boa. He shifts so he can sit up. “I’m Night-Dandelion.”

Harry giggles. Connor shoves him blindly, which doesn't stop the laughter.

The brown snake seems to judge the name, before doing an approximation of a shrug. “There’s been worse.”

Harry buries his head in his hands. “Please don’t insult him."

“What’s your name?” Connor asks before he can explode from the emotional flux his little brother defending him causes.

The snake puffs up. “It is under deliberation and has yet to be picked,” she says, as sagely as a baby boa constrictor can be. She turns to Harry. “If your clutchmate and nestmates are half speakers, why do Sun-Human-Nestfather, Unhatched-Mother, and Night-Mist not speak as well?”

“I have no idea.”

“Mum and dad are speakers too,” Connor says. “It's fun when we’re out, dad will make fun of people, and mum and I see who can go the longest without laughing.”

Harry grins sideways at him. “Have you been caught?”

Parseltongue is weird in Harry’s family. He hadn't considered whether or not his blood relations would share the skill. Fay and Regulus do, although he can't remember if Caspian can too. Caspian’s skills are unreliable.

“A couple times,” Connor admits sheepishly. “Still fun though.”

"Did you bring your book?" The snake asks, cavalierly changing the subject. The twins let it happen.

Harry shakes his head. "I did, but I'm not reading right now."

"Your book?" Connor asks.

"Speaker-who-reads."

"I read to them," Harry explains, because as nice as the boa is, titles don’t explain everything.

"Why?"

"It's a good way to practice, and it's fun. Plus, snakes are a bit like kids. They're funner to talk to when you know what they're talking about or have a topic in common."

Connor 'huh's. He's never thought about that. "I thought snakes were inherently smart."

"We are," the boa says, flicking her tail imperiously. Harry squints, wondering if she's the cobra reincarnated. It's an eerily reminiscent gesture. "But even smart creatures can learn better, night-flower."

"...not… my name," Connor says, but he doesn't expect it to make a difference. Snakes can be stubborn.

"Coin?"

Connor blinks at Harry. Did he miss something? "What?"

"Still trying to think of nicknames," Harry explains. "Not a good one?"

"No idea," Connor says. Harry looks at Ian again. Ian's still in the sandbox, though now he's laying down.

"Is he making sand angels?"

"What's a sand angel?"

"Snow angel but sand."

Connor doesn’t recognize that phrase either, so he assumes it’s a muggle thing. Godric’s Hollow is a mixed community in name only; this muggle neighborhood is more inclusively mixed than Godric’s Hollow. There have been enough incidents without obliviators visiting that everyone here knows about magic to some degree - and technically, Regulus hasn’t broken the Statute of Secrecy. Loopholes are a clever man’s best friend.

Godric’s Hollow just hides magicals among the muggles, giving the impression that there’s a bunch of Elitists trying (and failing, depending on who you ask) to rough it. The separation is noticeable, and honestly a little pitiful. There’s keeping a secret, and then there’s segregation.

I find one more tolerable than the other.

Connor pushes himself up, deciding to go see. He’s learning loads on this expedition to the muggle world, wizarding home nearby or not. “Can we go see?”

"Sure," Harry agrees, moving to stand up too. They head over, and yeah, Ian’s waving his arms and legs in the sand. Harry smiles, and it is still the best thing Connor’s seen. He thought he’d seen it all when Harry was talking about Alice in Wonderland, and he was wrong. “You having fun?” He asks, leaning over Ian’s head. He looks so proud, so fond, that Connor finds himself mirroring the expression.

“Yeah!” Ian calls happily. “Join!”

Harry looks at the sandbox, which is… really just the entire playground box. “Alright.” He sits down and looks up, pausing for a moment to just look at his brother, who’s looking at him like he hung the sun. “You coming?” It makes something in his chest tighten because he hasn’t done anything to deserve that look, but at the same time- Harry’s not happy that he had no chance to plan, but he is very happy he got to meet Connor.

Connor looks down at his brother, who has yellow sand peppering his dark hair already, and shrugs. “Sure.” He doesn’t flop bonelessly like Harry did, instead sitting down gingerly. The smile falls from his face as he does. He’s not a fan of sand. It’s itchy.

It’s even later when Harry poses his next question- well, not his next one. Children are fickle and their minds wander, but this is perhaps the next one whose answer I deem important. “…Newspapers say you still live in Godric’s Hollow?”

“Yeah.” Connor hums. There are clouds moving quickly across the sky, but Connor can’t feel a breeze. “Do you… remember?” The question is hesitant, low.

“Not that one,” Harry says without missing a beat. Despite his speed, he matches the mood. “You?”

“Not much.” Connor shakes his head and then regrets it. Sand is gross, and now it’s all over his neck and in his hair. He remembers a lot, considering he was younger than two. “Lots of lights.”

Harry closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t remember that day. He doesn’t remember the attack on Potter Cottage. He remembers other injuries, he remembers Number 4, Number 10, and Number 8. He remembers an aching neck, a pinched back, and a searing shoulder. He doesn’t remember the bright lights Connor does.

Connor doesn’t respond for a few minutes. “This is so weird.”

“Which part?”

“I’m meeting you!” Connor throws his hands up, eyes bright. They flop back into his sand angel’s sleeves a moment later. “I always thought… it wouldn’t happen until I was an adult.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “I forgot… you thought I was a squib, right?”

“Yeah,” Connor agrees. “Were you planning on meeting me?”

“Yeah,” Harry looks over at his big brother, a tendril of apprehension building but he stamps it down. They’ve done great so far. “I wasn’t sure if you knew I existed. We’d talked about a couple different ways you could react.”

Connor hums. He hates it when he does that, imagines all the ways something could go right and then all the ways they could go wrong. It’s annoying and usually only manages to upset him. It’s why he tries to listen to his impulses first. “I’m glad we met.” Connor doesn’t think the words say enough.

“Me too.”

Harry’s words don’t seem to either, but Connor can hope. He keeps his face seeking the sun, but glances sidelong at Harry. Harry’s looking at him, expression almost as fond as when he talks to Ian, even if there’s more hope than assurance. This is okay, he decides. This is better than okay, really, it’s good. Connor looks back at the clouds and breathes, feeling the knot of emotions in his chest slide over each other and loosen.

This is good. He’s okay. Harry’s okay, too, which is so much better than Connor expected a few hours ago. Lily will come find him, and he can explain, and they can meet the foster parents, and Connor will have a brother again.

He doesn’t remember the first time, no, but this was just like making a friend, and he knows he’s okay with that, wants it even.

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