All for One, One for All - Singing_Siren

Hogwarts has a secret.

In truth, it’s had a secret since the time of the Founders, since four wizards banded together to create a place for children like them, since they built a lovely castle with room enough for many generations of magical beings.

The secret is this: at the time that Hogwarts was created, a hat appeared in the newly built Great Hall. This hat was so infused with magic of all kinds that the Founders were enthralled by it. They listened to fate and kept the hat in a safe place every day of the year but one, and they called this hat the Sorting Hat.

The Sorting Hat was never created, was never brought into being by a Founder. Instead, it appeared out of nowhere. It knows more than it should, and it should be listened to.

But knowledge is lost over the years, and the Sorting Hat becomes regular in the minds of modern wizards. Not even the Headmasters and Headmistresses know this secret of Hogwarts, nobody living does, and the dead are weary of questions.

In the year of 1981, the day that the Killing Curse rebounds and fate shifts , this ordinary hat hums to itself on its lonely shelf with only a phoenix for company.

On the same night, in a place called Little Whinging in Surrey, on a street called Privet Drive, at a house called Number 4, a little boy wails in the cold air with nothing but a thin blanket to keep him warm.

The boy will not be treated well at this perfectly normal house with perfectly painted salmon and peach colored walls. The hat knows this, but it cannot leave its shelf, and it cannot raise a child on its own. The hat knows many things about the world and the people in it. If it could do something to help the boy, it would.

So when a small boy enters Hogwarts with ratty clothes and broken glasses, it acts according to the possibilities Fate gives it.

“Hello,” a small voice says into the Sorting Hat’s swirling magical conscience. He’s young, so young, and little. His voice is high and rough with disuse, and his mind is dark with years of trauma. “How do you sort us, sir? Ron said something about a troll, but I don’t think you’re a troll. Can a hat be a troll?”

The hat hums into the child’s patient mind.

“I am not a troll, Harry,” it says with so much kindness in its voice that Harry bites his lip and closes his eyes even with the hat covering the top half of his face with its enormity.

“Oh,” Harry says, sounding disappointed. “Do you think I’ll get to meet a troll at Hogwarts? Hermione says they’re dangerous, but I think everyone can be dangerous, not just big mountain trolls.”

The hat smiles.

“I do not know, Harry. I hope not, but one never knows in the magical world.” The hat knows that the boy and his friends will see a troll within the next few months, but it will not tell him just yet. He disagrees with the Headmaster’s plans for the boy, but Fate sees all courses of action and picks the one most needed. “Do you know which House you want, Harry Potter?”

The boy winces a bit at the sound of his last name, but he carries on without comment.

“I want to be in Gryffindor,” he says, determination clear in his young voice. “That’s where Hermione is, and that’s probably where Ron will go when he gets up here. I want to be with my friends.”

“Hm,” the hat hums once more. It likes to hum, likes the feelings the sound induces in humans that he judges. “Are you sure, child? You are brave and chivalrous, yes, but do you not possess other qualities as well?”

“Well, doesn’t everyone? Hermione likes to learn, and Ron is ambitious. He wants to be different from his brothers, you know? And I like to think that I’m hardworking and kind like what I heard about Hufflepuffs.”

“You are a very wise child, Harry. Yes, the method that Hogwarts uses to sort its children is a bit outdated, but in the old days, you see, each house was designated for a specific career pathway. Back then the Houses made sense. Now, however, I am not sure they maintain their purpose.”

Harry frowns. “Then why are they still a thing?”

The Sorting Hat laughs, a rumbling chuckle that floods Harry’s mind with warmth.

“Wizards are traditional, Harry,” it says. “Very little changes if no one gives a good enough reason for it to.”

Harry ponders this for a moment. Outside of this little world, the Great Hall is alight with commotion. Harry Potter has been under the hat for a few minutes now, almost six, and nobody had expected their Savior not to be fed right into Gryffindor.

“So what House should I be in?” he asks at last. “Ron told me my parents were in Gryffindor. Does that matter?”

“It might,” the hat assents, “But it is not the only thing I look for when sorting all you young children. I look into your minds, your memories, your thoughts and passions, and I make a decision on where a child would be able to live peacefully for the next seven years. For you, Harry, all four Houses would suit you well.”

Harry swallows. Even in his own head he’s different, strange, freakish .

“No, Harry,” the hat chides. “You are strong, kind, ambitious, intelligent. It would be a bad idea to limit you with just one trait. Of course, I hate to limit any child in the way I have to year after year, but they do not have the same weight on their shoulders.”

“Are you forced to sort us?” Harry feels indignation rise in his chest, but the hat just sighs.

“In a way, yes. It has been my job for a long, long time, since I took a task from Fate and landed in the Founders’ new castle.”

“Fate?”

The hat smiles, both in his head and out in the world full of loud whispers. The hat never reacts externally to what he finds in a child’s head, but it seems Harry Potter is something new.

“You will learn more of that soon, dear child, do not worry. For now, I am afraid we must make up our minds. Which House would be right for you, Harry Potter? I know where people expect you to go, but is that where you should really go? There are Houses where you would thrive and those where you would just survive.”

It sighs once more.

“It is a tricky choice, my dear.” The hat straightens its cloth, making silence fall heavily across the Great Hall. Harry does not notice, not so far into his head as he is. “There are so many possibilities, but I can only choose one.”

The mouth opens, appearing from the many folds of fabric. The hall holds its breath.

“Yes, this must be the one,” it says quietly into Harry’s head. “There can only be one option in the end. This is what must be done.”

Harry wants to ask what’s happening, what decision the hat has made, but a voice stops him before he can.

“HOGWARTS!” the hat shouts, loud enough that Harry wants to clap his hands over his ears. The hall echoes with its cry. It’s the only sound Harry can hear as he pulls the hat from his head, confused, brow furrowed.

He rests the now immobile hat on his lap. Professor McGonagall does not take it from in. In fact, no one moves at all.

“Was that supposed to happen?” he asks in a shaky voice, hands fisted in the fabric of the hat on his lap. His words ring out through every inch of the Great Hall, rebounding back onto him and making him flinch.

“No, my boy,” an old masculine voice says. “No, it was not.”

Harry hunches in on himself.

The man who spoke has a long, white beard and a tall hat. His eyes twinkle as he looks down at Harry from over his spectacles. Harry does not meet his eyes even as he glances behind himself to look at the high table full of staff members.

Harry bites his lip. How has he already caused trouble on his first day as a wizard?

“Albus,” Professor McGonagall says with a thick Scottish accent, “what shall we do now? This has never happened before.”

“As far as we know, at least,” a short man chirps from his seat at the high table. He looks at Harry like he’s a miracle, a riddle he can’t solve. Harry finds himself relaxing under this man’s stare, unlike how he felt when “Albus”, Headmaster Dumbledore, looked at him so steadily.

“We must put him with the Gryffindors,” the Headmaster declares. Harry doesn’t like the way he says it. “I will have a talk with the Sorting Hat after the feast and get this sorted out. For now we will carry on, if no one has any objections.”

There are no objections, and Harry is escorted over to the table of red and gold. He lets Professor McGonagall take the hat from his shaking hands, biting his lip to stop himself from asking to keep hold of it. So far, the hat feels like it’s the only one that’s been honest with him.

He sits quietly next to Hermione with his head ducked and eyes down.

The sorting continues. No one deviates from the normal order of operations, and it ends with a Blaise Zabini. Ron rushes to sit at the Gryffindor table after the hat shouts its name. His eyes are filled with worry as he plops down on Harry’s other side. He hovers a hand over Harry’s shoulder, looking like he’s afraid he’ll freak out if he touches him.

Harry thinks the boy isn’t too far off. He swallows the rising panic and gives his new friends a small, tremulous smile.

There’s a new professor in a turban that makes Harry’s heart sink in his chest. He doesn’t look at the man again.

The feast ends, with Harry having eaten a few bites at the most at the threat of Hermione and Ron’s worried looks. He pushes his plate away when he gets full, not wanting to throw up on his first night here, especially not in front of his new friends.

His robes do not charm red and gold, not like the other first year Gryffindors’ do.

Professor McGonagall walks him to the Headmaster’s office as the prefects lead the first years to their different common rooms. The gargoyle that guards the office opens without the Professor speaking a password. Her face does something funny, and Harry thinks that maybe the gargoyle might not do that very often. He wonders why.

Dumbledore is sitting at his desk. The other Heads of House line the wall opposite the door, faces expectant. Professor McGonagall gestures for Harry to take the available seat before she joins them.

The Sorting Hat sits on the desk between Harry and Dumbledore.

The Heads of House are different in all ways. There’s Professor Sprout, the Head of Hufflepuff, a squat woman with a hat that’s more patch than original fabric. She looks kind. Professor Flitwick, the short man with a cheery grin, is the Head of Ravenclaw. The stern Professor McGonagall is the Head of Gryffindor, of course. And last, Professor Snape is the Head of Slytherin, a tall man with greasy black hair and a hooked nose. The man sneers down at Harry, but he thinks he sees conflict in those dull eyes.

Dumbledore speaks, making Harry jump, “Harry, my boy, do you have any idea why the Sorting Hat would not assign you a House? It is very unusual, I hope you understand.”

Harry doesn’t like that word, boy , but he grits his teeth and shakes his head.

“No, Headmaster,” he whispers. Everybody’s looking at him, staring with keen eyes, and he hates it, he hates it.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, child,” Professor Sprout says with a gentle smile. “This isn’t on you, dear.”

“Yes, quite,” Dumbledore says with twinkling eyes. Harry doesn’t trust them. No adult has ever looked at him that way and actually meant what they were saying. “This is not your fault, Harry. We just want to know if you have any ideas on why the hat did not sort you. What did it say to you, my boy?”

He can’t quite help the flinch this time at the familiar term.

“It said I could go anywhere,” Harry swallows. He looks up to meet Professor McGonagall’s eyes, they’re better than looking at Dumbledore’s and seeing spots. “Then it said there was only one option in the end, and then it called out ‘Hogwarts.’ I don’t know what happened.”

“Hm,” the Headmaster says, “Curious indeed.”

It’s way too similar to the wand maker, Olivander, and Harry bites his lip, clenching his fists to keep himself from sprinting away, his first response to a threat. He’s never been a fighter, he’s a runner. He had to be to survive his relatives.

“Let’s just sort the boy and get this over with,” Professor Snape sneers.

“Patience, Severus,” Professor McGonagall chides. “This is an unprecedented situation.”

“Now, Minerva, Severus has first years to get to, as do you all.” Dumbledore gestures to the Sorting Hat. “Why don’t we try one more time and see what happens? Does that sound good to you, my boy?”

Harry swallows hard, nods.

With shaking hands he takes the hat from the desk and puts it back onto his head.

“Back again, are you?” Its voice sounds curious and a bit despondent. “I had hoped my staff would have trusted me, but it seems too many years have passed. What can I do for you, Harry?”

“I need a House,” he murmurs into his mind. “They want me to have a House.”

“Do you want to be sorted into one of the four Houses?” It feels genuinely curious.

Harry thinks on it for a moment.

“I don’t know. You said I wouldn’t thrive with just one of them, didn’t you?”

“I alluded to that, yes.”

“Then where would I go?” Harry plays with his fingers, looking into the darkness of the inside of the hat. “It… it doesn’t feel right to have a House, but I don’t know why. Do you know why, sir?”

“Perhaps.” The hat sighs, “Circ*mstances have perfectly aligned for you, child. Fate has weaved a tapestry of possibilities that I cannot deny, nor do I want to. I want for you to be safe, Harry, and the best way to keep you safe is to prepare you. That cannot happen if you are in one of the four Houses.”

Harry huffs.

“Then why am I even here? The whole point of this school is to find a House, the books make it seem like. Would I have more than one House or none at all? It doesn’t make any sense.”

He wonders if he should ask to go back to the Dursleys.

“None of that now, child,” the hat soothes. “You are right where you are supposed to be.”

Harry doubts that, but he’s thankful the hat is trying to help calm him down.

The hat continues, “How would you feel about belonging to Hogwarts itself, Harry? That is what the magic of the castle has decided, and that is the thread Fate has chosen to pursue. This will be my final declaration, but if you truly feel this strongly about one House, I’m willing to compromise.”

He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out.

“What would happen? Where would I live, who would I live with? Everybody acts like Houses are the most important thing. What would happen if I had none?”

“Technically,” the hat says in a light tone, “you would have all four Houses. That is what Hogwarts is, after all, a safe place for all magical children no matter the traits.”

“I want…” Harry trails off. He shuts his eyes tight. “I want Hogwarts, if it’s possible. There’s something in my chest, something that tells me this feels right . Is that crazy? Am I going crazy, hat?”

“No, child, you are not going crazy.” The hat sighs. “There are a few causes of that feeling, I’m afraid. It may have something to do with the nature of your scar, the sacrifice your mother made to keep you alive. The magic of Hogwarts finds that magic familiar, related. Or it could be your lineage. If I’m not mistaken, you have Slytherin blood in your veins from your mother’s line. You are likely the closest to the Slytherin Lordship, and Hogwarts is beckoning you towards it.”

“What else?”

“Well, there is the possibility that Fate has intervened more than it normally does. It may have linked you to Hogwarts’ magic early in your life, perhaps right after your parents’ sacrifice. If that is true, then Hogwarts has chosen you for its Heir. These are dark times, Harry. Most believe that Voldemort is dead, but some know that this is not the case. Hogwarts was created to protect its children, but it is just a castle. It cannot help as much as it wants to, and it has elected an Heir to step in where it cannot.”

“But that’s all conjecture, right?”

“Yes.”

Harry leans back in his chair.

“Do it,” he decides with a bit of Gryffindor bravery. “I want to help. I want to keep children safe, I want to do what no one did for me.”

“Alright,” the hat agrees. “Then I think it’s gotta be, HOGWARTS!”

Harry lifts the hat from his head, setting it back onto the desk between himself and Dumbledore. He glances up to meet the man’s eyes and sees a distinct lack of sparkle.

“I’m not sorry, sir,” Harry finds himself saying. He doesn’t know why he says it, but he clenches his jaw and grits his teeth and keeps looking the man in the eye.

“There is no way this brat is not a Gryffindor,” Professor Snape sneers.

“What would you have to apologize for, Mr. Potter?” Professor Flitwick asks, ignoring Snape entirely.

Harry swallows.

“It gave me a chance to reject its decision,” he says, “but I agreed with its original choice. It feels right. I can’t just ignore it.”

The adults share a look, making Harry try to hide a scowl. He’s so tired of adults deciding things without him, of his future being taken by careless wizards who think they know what’s better for him.

“Where should I sleep tonight?” he asks when it becomes clear they won’t say anything.

Dumbledore sighs heavily, “With the Gryffindors. I dare say the other Houses won’t be as welcoming to your circ*mstances.”

Harry frowns. Is he referring to Harry’s new House or his status as the Boy Who Lived? Either could be it, but Harry doesn’t really like the implications towards a bunch of kids. They’re not their parents, they shouldn’t be persecuted like them.

“That’s not a good reason,” he says.

His eyes widen as he realizes what he said, and he hunches to brace for impact. No one raises a hand to hit him, no wands are pointed his way. Slowly, he uncurls and fixes his eyes on his hands tangled in his lap. Nothing happened. No one hurt him. He’s okay, he talked back and he’s okay.

“Would you say more on that, Mr. Potter?” Professor Sprout asks, eyes kind even though Harry can’t see them.

He bites his lips, says, “You can’t judge a whole group of people based on one of their traits. This is just like what the hat said, it’s been twisted over the years. Slytherins aren’t evil just because they’re ambitious, Hufflepuffs aren’t useless because they’re kind, Ravenclaws aren’t intelligent because they want to learn, and Gryffindors aren’t heroes just because they like to act first and think later. It’s stupid to think otherwise.”

A moment of silence. Harry fights not to curl in on himself once more.

“But, Harry,” Dumbledore starts, “you must understand that there are prejudices in this world. A large number of Slytherins have parents who supported the Dark Lord, there is a very small chance that they will accept you with open arms.”

“So what?” Harry asks, eyes narrowing, still looking down at his hands. “They’re children.”

“Hm,” Professor Snape drawls, “that they are.”

Harry flushes. Is Snape agreeing with him? He chances a glance upwards to meet the man’s eyes and feels his heart stutter with the approval written clearly across his face. No one’s ever looked at him like that.

“Where would you like to sleep tonight, Mr. Potter?” Professor McGonagall asks, curious.

He stills, eyes flicking over to the stern woman.

“I don’t know, Professor.”

“If I may,” a low voice drones from the wall, making Harry jump with wide eyes. There’s a painting on the wall, one of many, with a man who looks regal. The man is moving, talking. “The castle will provide for its Heir. I think you will find, Mr. Potter, that if you ask for advice Hogwarts will provide.”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“The castle is alive, young man,” the painting smiles. It looks odd on his harsh features. “And it has chosen you to represent it, as I am sure the Sorting Hat has told you. Ask and it will provide.”

“I mean, the hat said something about that, but it wasn’t sure,” Harry says, pursing his lips. “How do you know, sir?”

“Ah, I see I haven’t introduced myself.” The man bows from his seat. “Amrose Swott, at your service. I was Headmaster before my death and have since been connected here in painting form. As such I have a direct connection with the magic of Hogwarts. She has been very excited to meet you, Mr. Potter. I’m glad you accepted your position.”

Harry frowns. He had the choice not to accept? He wouldn’t have, of course, but it’s nice there was that choice. He wants to help keep people safe, keep children safe no matter their parentage.

“Hogwarts is truly sentient?” Sprout asks the painting, awe in her features.

“Of course, dear Pomona,” Swott says with a smile. He strokes his long, red beard. “Hogwarts is a place of magic. She has evolved throughout the years, yes, but she has always been living. I’m sure the Sorting Hat could have told you that if you bothered to listen to it more than once a year.”

“And why have you not brought this up before now?” Dumbledore asks, twinkle in his eye. “We chat daily, Amrose.”

Swott simply shrugs, “It was not relevant. You did not need to know, Albus, it was not the time.”

“And now is the time,” Snape states, raising an eyebrow. It’s very fitting, Harry thinks. He wishes he could pull off that apathetic glare, but he’s always had an expressive face.

“Yes.” Swott nods, looking serious once more. “Troubling times are coming, Severus. Hogwarts can feel it, as can Magic as a whole. You see, Hogwarts is a hotspot of magical energy, it is linked to the state of Magic and has been since its birth. Something is sending echoes throughout the magical world, and Hogwarts has received them.”

That doesn’t sound good. Is this about what the hat said about Voldemort still being alive? Should he bring it up?

Dumbledore and Snape are arguing with the painting as Harry stares down at his hands. He chews on his bottom lip. Surely if it’s important the hat would have told them directly, right? And anyway, the hat said that some people believe that Voldemort is still alive, so these people are probably some of those, right?

“Perhaps, gentlemen,” McGonagall cuts in, “we should let Mr. Potter get to bed. It has been a long day for all of us.”

“Of course, of course,” Dumbledore agrees with a genial smile. “Would you escort him to the tower, Minerva? We’re not quite done here.”

McGonagall’s lips twitch in a minute scowl.

“Yes, well, come along, Mr. Potter,” she says, turning to lead Harry out of the office. “Tomorrow will be a busy day, and I recommend you go right to sleep.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry says. He follows along eagerly, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. When they reach the gargoyle again, he pauses. “Should I ask the castle, Professor? Or would Gryffindor have an open bed?”

“As much as I would like to have you as a lion, Mr. Potter, it is your choice.” She looks genuinely put out by this.

Alright. How does he do this? How does he ask a castle to help him find a place to sleep? He could ask the walls?

“Um,” he says self-consciously, “Hogwarts? Where should I sleep tonight? And maybe for the rest of the year too?”

A beat of silence, then a groan of stone on stone. Harry stills, eyes wide as he watches a door form in the stone wall beside him. McGonagall eyes the wall with a perplexed expression as well.

“Is that normal?” he asks her.

“No. No, it is not, Mr. Potter.”

Oh, well. That’s cool, he guesses.

“Should we open it, Professor?”

McGonagall nods, marching over to the door and opening it slowly. She peers into the outlying room and seems to hold in a gasp, body tensing. She inches forward ever so slightly, making Harry lean in to peek under her arm into the room.

Woah.

“This, Mr. Potter,” she murmurs, “is the Gryffindor common room.”

“Woah,” he says outloud.

He ends up sleeping in a cozy bed with the other first year Gryffindors. The bed shows up when he enters, much to the awe of the other first years. When he gets up the next morning and gets ready for a full day ahead of him, the bed disappears.

“Wicked,” Ron grins.

“Yeah,” Harry mirrors it, “Wicked.”

Things move quickly after that. Classes pass as they would have if he were in any of the Houses. Harry attends them no matter what House he’s joining. He sits at each table at least once every two days, making sure to check in with Ron and Hermione when he can.

The Slytherins don’t seem too pleased to sit with him, but Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode don’t seem to care what the others say behind their backs.

Hufflepuff is very welcoming. Harry likes their common room the best, the warmth to the air and the smell of sweets. His Puff yearmates accept him with open arms, even if a few of them are put off at first by his Hogwarts status. Susan Bones glares her housemates into submission until nobody looks at Harry weirdly when he strolls into their common room at all times of day.

Harry likes the Ravenclaw common room a lot. Bookshelves line the walls, holding everything Harry can possibly think of. There are study tables everywhere, parchment and ink covering every inch of the room. The Claws are less welcoming than the Puffs, but once Harry asks the right questions they turn a blind eye to his presence.

He hasn’t tried to get into the Slytherin common room just yet. He’s a little bit afraid of the older years and the snarls on their faces when they see his small frame. They’re so much bigger than him, it’s unfair.

Ron says Harry’s so small because of his idiot muggle relatives. Even Hermione agrees when she doesn’t have her nose in a book.

In Herbology, Harry partners with Neville Longbottom, the boy from the train with the missing toad. He’s a nice kid, if a little shy. Harry wants nothing more than to wrap Neville up and spirit him away. The kid’s wand doesn’t work, that’s clear to anybody with half a brain, and Harry’s been badgering him into taking a trip to Diagon Alley to see Olivander. Neville just shakes his head and stutters his way through a denial each time.

As for Harry’s sleeping arrangements, it’s a new place every night. Harry absolutely loves it.

He stays with the Gryffindor first years, the Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws a couple nights a week. The castle hasn’t let him into the Slytherin dorms yet, but Harry has a feeling it won’t be long now that Blaise is looking at him with something other than the usual apathy. When he’s not in the House dorms, the castle shows him marvelous new rooms.

There’s the Come and Go Room, the one that the House Elves take so much pride in. Harry likes that room the best. Hogwarts always gives him an extra big bed to sleep in when those nights come around.

Another favorite of Harry’s is what he assumes to be a suite in the dungeons. It makes up for his disappointment from not staying with the Slytherins yet, but not by much. The room has its own kitchen even though he doesn’t use it, the House Elves get upset when he tries to cook for himself. He tells them he’s been cooking for a family of three his entire life, but they just tut and push him towards the table while they cook for him instead.

(Hermione says he shouldn’t have been cooking for the Dursleys, and she’s really smart. She must be right, right? Ron says so, and Ron’s really good at strategy. It’s a wonder he didn’t get sorted into Slytherin.

His new friends have a lot of opinions about Harry’s relatives and his home life.)

A few weeks into the year, as the seasons start to really show their change, Harry makes a decision.

He sits at the Slytherin table all three meals in one day. He ignores the conflicted sneers Draco sends his way and tries his best to talk peacefully with the other snakes. Pansy scowls and postures, but she has nothing on Petunia.

By the end of dinner that night, Theodore Nott has met Harry’s eyes and done something other than look upon him like he’s inferior.

It’s a win in Harry’s book.

(That night, Hogwarts lets him into the Slytherin dorms. His bed is heavily warded, sure, and Draco casts a hex that rebounds onto his own bed and lights it on fire, but it’s a definite start.)

The moving stairs take him where he needs to go every time. The suits of armor bow as he passes their posts in the halls, though only when he’s alone. The paintings nod and given him happy smiles, whispering secrets to him when he has the time to listen.

Harry doesn’t play on a quidditch team, seeing as he doesn’t have a House and he’s only a first year at that. Draco doesn’t throw Neville’s Remembrall, as Neville has Harry and the other Gryffindors to catch him before he flies away too high. There are no “accidents” that trip up his broom in the middle of a game. Instead, he goes flying with the other Seekers and grins when he beats them all at a friendly game. Ron and Hermione watch on from the sidelines, Ron cheering and Hermione reading her book of the day. It’s nice that they come to watch, especially since Hermione couldn't care less about the sport.

One night, a suit of armor leads him to a small room with a mirror covered in draping cloth. The sentient armor removes the cloth and stands at Harry’s side as he peers into his reflection.

He isn’t drawn to the mirror like he would be if he were all alone, though he does have nightmares about a woman screaming, a flash of green light, and pain as a curse rebounds. Dumbledore is not in the room with the mirror, it’s too early for his plans. He doesn’t know Harry has ruined those plans already with his everlasting need to keep the castle safe. Harry asks the suit of armor that escorted him to the mirror to move it to the Room of Hidden Things. It complies with an eager creak of metal.

He won’t let anything hurt these children, he will do the job the adults are not.

He’s happy. Sure, some of the older years sneer at him and point to his scar with admiration he doesn’t deserve, but he has friends for the first time in his life and a castle to call home.

Halloween approaches rapidly, and finally the bubble pops.

Harry doesn’t know how to feel about the holiday. On one hand, he always wanted to celebrate it when his aunt and uncle didn’t let him. On the other hand, it’s the anniversary of his parents’ deaths. On a third, separate hand, Voldemort supposedly “died” ten years ago today.

He goes to the feast and sits with the Hufflepuffs, figuring they’re his best bet. The lions deserve to party, and the snakes deserve to sulk. Susan sits imperiously next to him and offers to hold his hand if the celebrations get to be too much. He really appreciates it.

His head starts to hurt as the celebrations get louder and louder.

Susan squeezes his hand in hers. It helps, but he still wants to clap his hands over his ears and run as fast as he can back to the Come and Go Room. He doesn’t, he sits right where he is and suffers through it.

He can see Neville flinch away from the other Gryffindors, and he wishes he could grab him and drag him over to the Hufflepuffs, but students are required to sit at their own tables during school-wide feasts. He knows that today is hard for Neville because of his parents. He read the news reports from that night when he found the school library.

A high shriek echoes through the Great Hall, casting a silence over the clamorous students. Harry looks up to see a bird of red, orange, and yellow fly through the wall like a ghost. It looks like its on fire.

He’s standing before he realizes it, raising a hand for the bird to swoop down and perch onto. Its talons dig into his skin.

“Hello there,” he says, and his words ring through the silence around him.

ATTACK. TROLL. UNSAFE.

The words burn themselves into Harry’s mind, making him gasp. His eyes water at the heat the bird is giving off.

“Hogwarts,” Harry says, wobbling on his feet a little. He’s used to asking the school for favors by now, and he looks at the closest wall and begs, “Lock down the school. Now.”

Nothing happens for a beat, and Harry’s heart jumps in his chest, but then there’s the monumental sound of stone grinding on stone.

Large walls drop down on all sides of the Great Hall, blocking off the doors, windows, and weak points of the walls. It happens slowly, as if it’s taking a lot of energy for the school to accomplish, and Harry makes a note to look into that as soon as this is over.

“Get everyone in the school here now, please,” he requests to the floor.

Stone shakes and trembles, and new doors open quickly. Students and staff fall through them one by one until the Great Hall is absolutely crowded with wide-eyed witches and wizards.

“What is the meaning of this, Harry?” Dumbledore almost roars from his place standing at his seat, somehow keeping his tone level. His eyes twinkle with something like aggression.

Harry lifts his wand to touch the tip of it to his throat and casts a Sonorus charm so he can be heard over the din.

“There’s a troll inside the castle!” He looks around, taking in the expressions he’s faced with. “I have moved everybody into the Great Hall for now while Hogwarts takes care of the threat, but that may take some time due to Hogwarts’ age.”

He turns to scan the bird who fluffs his feathers in pride.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

The bird eyes him and flicks his fiery tail feathers.

“His name is Fawkes,” Susan says in a small voice, joining him to the side of the Puff table. “He’s a phoenix. He’s the Headmaster’s familiar.”

“No, he’s not,” Harry says without thinking. “He’s Hogwarts’.”

The bird caws, tilting his beak up and preening, wings opening wide to show off a beautiful array of vibrant colors.

“Oh,” Susan blinks. “He’s very handsome.”

“Yes. Yes, he is.”

He runs a hand over carefully preened feathers. A commotion at the head table makes him sigh and raise his hand. Fawkes takes his cue and spreads his wings, flapping a few times as he takes to the sky. He disappears into the nearest wall. Harry wishes he could do the same.

Satisfied that the phoenix will keep watch over the state of the castle, Harry turns back to the staff table.

Professor Quirrell has fainted. Harry scowls. He doesn’t like the man at all. Madam Pomfrey, the healer, casts some quick spells on the man and hovers him over to behind the table where the students can’t see him. Harry shakes his head, changing focus to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore is looking his way with sparkles in his eyes. He has a pleasant smile on his face, but Harry doesn’t trust it, not after he found out that the Headmaster is the one who left him with his relatives. Hogwarts seems to think Dumbledore has his own game he’s playing.

Susan pulls him back to his seat at the Puff table, handing him a glass of pumpkin juice with a worried look.

“Thanks,” he mutters, glancing down into the orange liquid. He doesn’t want to look at Dumbledore anymore, doesn’t think he can without getting more angry.

He sips at his drink and sighs.

Merlin, there’s a troll in his school. There is a Troll in His School! He hates the wizarding world so much. How is this even possible? Shouldn’t the wards keep everything harmful out? He bites his lip and muses over that thought.

He needs to look at the wards soon.

“Is there really a troll, Harry?” Ron’s worried voice asks from behind him, making him jump. “Sorry, mate. But really, a troll? Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know yet,” Harry frowns. “I’ll ask the paintings and ghosts when we get out of here, maybe they’ll have seen something. There are a few trustworthy statues that know everything that goes on in this place, but they like to gossip more than anything. Parvati and Lavender should have some good gossip I can trade for.”

“A troll,” Ron huffs. “Charlie told me about them, said they stink, especially mountain trolls. Do you think this one’s a mountain troll?”

Harry can’t help his smile, “I mean, I guess. I don’t know much about the species, but I guess they’re the most common, right?”

“Correct,” Hermione says, sliding in on Harry’s other side, shooting a quick smile to Susan. Ron shifts on his feet behind her, staying standing even as the Puffs make room for him to slide in next to her. “Mountain trolls are the largest and most vicious breed of the species. Some even make their own tools and clothing.”

Harry grins. He can always trust Hermione to know random facts, even in a crisis.

“Harry,” Susan calls, pulling his attention away from his best friends with an understanding smile, “please don’t think I’m underestimating Hogwarts, but I have to say that I have no idea how a castle can take care of a XXXX beast.”

“Hogwarts is special,” Harry laughs, “even in her old age. One troll is no match for her.”

In truth, he has no idea how she’ll take care of the creature. He assumes she’ll pull him into a wall and keep him there until Aurors can get there to take it in, but it’s also likely that she’lll just shove it through her walls and leave it outside in the forest where it can’t hurt any of her children.

It’s times like this that he’s so very glad to be Hogwarts’ chosen. It seems like nobody else will protect the students, so he’ll step up if he has to, and it seems like he does. Sometimes he can’t believe this school.

It’s not long until the stone walls that raised themselves up fall back down and blend themselves into the floor once more.

Harry exhales a sigh of relief at the sight, smiling as that same relief spreads through the crowd of students and staff like a wave. He points his wand to his throat again and casts the amplifying charm.

“Before you all return to your common rooms,” he says, capturing the attention of the Great Hall, “I ask that you let the professors clear the way and make sure that the routes are safe. Is that alright with you, Headmaster Dumbledore?”

The man can’t do anything except nod, sparklers in his eyes.

Things move quickly from there. Harry walks with the Gryffindors behind Professor McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey, the two witches scanning the halls for any sign of a threat to the lions. The other professors and staff members do the same with the other Houses, escorting them safely to their dorms.

As soon as Harry is sure all the students are safe in their dorms, he opens a door in a normally blank wall and disappears into the dungeons from Gryffindor Tower in a single step.

The Bloody Baron meets him near Professor Snape’s Potions classroom, ghostly chains clinking as they hang from his translucent body. His sign of penance strikes a sharp contrast to the silver blood on his regal clothing.

“Lord Potter,” the man drones, bowing his head in respect. “I assume you are here to see our unwelcome guest?”

“I am,” Harry smiles. “Where is it? A House Elf told me something about some stone and tapestry?”

“Ah yes, Hogwarts has outdone herself this time, my Lord. Follow me.”

The Bloody Baron leads Harry through the hallways of the dungeon, through twists and turns, until they approach a stairway to the ground floor. Usually, a few tapestries of silk and dye hang here to announce the descent into the underground portion of the castle. Now, long strands of fabric hold each of a large creature’s limbs while stone molds around its back to keep it in place.

Harry sighs, looking up at the mountain troll with weary eyes. It’s asleep for now, but there’s no guarantee it will stay that way for long.

“Pipsy,” Harry calls, smiling as a small, gangly elf appears at his feet. “Would you contact the Ministry and ask for a team to come collect one mountain troll? Do not let anybody keep them from entering the castle, not even the Headmaster.”

He’s not taking any chances. The troll got into the castle despite the wards that the Headmaster is supposed to maintain, which means Harry can’t trust the man with something so important as this.

“Pipsy will do this,” the elf nods, long ears flopping before she pops away once more.

Harry huffs and leans back against the wall nearest to him, keeping his eyes on the unconscious troll.

“This is a school,” he says as quietly as he can. “Kids are supposed to be safe here. How messed up is it that a class four creature can just waltz on into a place of learning, a place where children live?”

The Bloody Baron sighs and floats closer. A noncorporeal hand rests just over Harry’s shoulder.

“We know,” he drones. “But that is why we have you, little Lord. You will do everything in your power to keep these children safe. Fate has chosen you herself, Lord Potter.”

Harry stares at the troll. The smell is really getting to him now, standing so close to the source, but he doesn’t look away.

“I hope so.”

He sleeps in the Gryffindor dorms that night.

The next day, while Dumbledore is out of the castle, Harry sneaks into his office. It’s not hard with Hogwarts on his side. The Headmaster was called to an emergency meeting of the Wizengamut at the news of a dangerous creature that made its way into Hogwarts. He has some explaining to do, Harry grins.

He studies the little machines on Dumbledore’s desk with pursed lips.

“I understand better now,” Harry tells the hat that rests on his head, “what you want me to do. Sir, may I ask, what’s the real reason you sorted me the way you did?”

“Well, child, every possibility that I listed was true. It was chance, Magic, and your blood that led you to where you are, but I think Fate and I had a hand in it as well. It does not hurt that Death has favored you since you were young.”

Ignore that last line, Harry, ignore it. Focus on what he can address now.

“Who are you, Mr. Hat? Why are you here?” There, that’s good, don’t think about how Death is actually a real person, being, thing.

“Figured it out so early, eh, child? That’s good. Yes, you may have read that I was enchanted by the Founders themselves, but that is not the case. Fate made me, and she gifted me to Hogwarts to watch over it in times of need. In times of peace, I hide away on my shelf and talk only once a year, but that was not my original purpose.”

“Then what was?”

The hat sighs, “I was to grow alongside Hogwarts. As she gained sentience, so did I, and we learned to protect our children together. But recently that’s changed. The wards are old and brittle, the headmaster has his own game to play, there are enemies within our walls. Hogwarts and I can do nothing without an heir, and avatar, to help us in our actions.”

“And that’s me.”

“It is.”

Great. That’s great.

“I’m just Harry,” he mutters. “Why me?”

The hat chuckles.

“Because you are Just Harry, child.”

That’s not an answer, Harry grumbles mentally, pouting when the hat laughs in his head. He forgot for a second that they’re connected as long as he’s wearing the hat.

“Whatever,” Harry pouts in a fit of childish indignation. “I have History of Magic in half an hour, I gotta go. Will you be okay up here alone?”

“Of course, child. Fawkes will keep me company while Albus is away. He is quite the storyteller, if you can believe it. He also sings the best opera arias.”

Harry snorts, “Sure. Goodbye, hat, I’ll see you next time something goes wrong.”

Most of the school is still recovering from the possible threat the night before, though it’s gone much better than if Harry hadn’t intervened. No one got hurt, not even a scared professor who smells strongly of garlic and has a clearly fake stutter. (Harry has a bad feeling about that man.)

Harry sticks close to his more cautious friends, like Neville, Sally-Anne Perks, and Justin Finch-Fletchley. Even Professor Snape is rumored to have gone easier on his younger students in the wake of the threat, safe as they were.

The Come and Go Room provides him with books on wards, specifically Hogwarts’ wards, when he gets ready for bed that night.

There’s a nice table near his usual bed, an old one with peeling yellow paint that might have once belonged in the Hufflepuff common room. He sits at it and eyes the pile of books laid out in front of him with a wary excitement. He’s never been the best reader, but he likes to learn. This is perfect for him.

He thumbs through the first few pages of each book before anything else, making note of their general contents.

By the time the sun rises over the horizon and floods into Harry’s personalized room, he’s gotten through half of the books. He glances over at the open window with squinted eyes, regretting giving the Room free reign over waking him up every morning.

“I get it,” he mutters to the magic of the Room. “Breakfast time, here I come.”

He heaves himself up and starts to get ready for the day. Sure, he’s gotten no sleep, but he’s used to pretending to be normal under not great conditions, especially after living with the Dursleys. He yawns and meanders down through the castle towards the Great Hall for breakfast, new knowledge of wards tucked away into a corner of his mind.

Hermione sighs when she sees him, glaring until he fills his plate with enough to get her off his case. Ron does the same when he shuffles sleepily in, rubbing blearily at his eyes.

“You may be the heir to the castle or whatever, mate,” Ron huffs, “but you’re still only eleven years old. I don’t care what kind of responsibilities you think you have, you have to sleep and eat regularly if you wanna grow any more. Do you wanna be that short forever, Harry?”

“That’s a low blow,” Harry pouts, glaring back.

“Works though, don’t it?” Ron grins after shoving bacon into his mouth.

“Yeah,” Harry grins back.

He spends the next week learning everything he can about wards. Hogwarts provides notebooks from the Founders and previous Headmasters that detail the ward compositions and changes throughout the years. He studies the maps and runic arrays until he’s seeing them every time he closes his eyes.

Hermione and Susan have to pull him away from the library at least once a day, with a hovering Ron at their side, ready to pick Harry up and carry him to bed to tuck him in. Even Neville frowns when he sees Harry reading by the lake, a stack of books at his side.

Interestingly enough, while Harry is hiding in the dungeons one night before dinner, Theodore Nott approaches and stands just a few feet away. He says nothing as he dumps at least four more books into Harry’s pile. He’s gone before Harry can thank him for his new Warding Manuals.

(He returns them two days later when he’s finally ready to tackle the Hogwarts wards. There’s a sticky note on the top cover with a hand drawn smiley face and a cartoon heart. Nott scowls at the sight, even as his pale skin goes a little pink.)

Hogwarts’ Ward Room is on the ground floor. It’s in a secret room behind one of the most volatile moving staircases, guarded by a large landscape painting of rolling mountains.

He breathes a deep breath before he goes in, wand in his hand and nerves making his heart flutter. He knows he’s just a kid, his relatives reminded him of that every day, that he’s weak and pathetic, a freak . He’s a kid, yeah, but Hogwarts chose him for a reason, right? That’s gotta mean something.

It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before, the glittering runic arrays on crystal pedestals. The room is vast, big enough that Harry thinks it would take weeks to find every ward in here, but he’s only looking for one.

There, in the center of the room, just a few meters from the door, stands the main wardstone.

“Woah,” Harry breathes, eyes wide.

The stone shimmers like black glass or obsidian as he steps up to it. He hovers a hand over the closest rune cluster, skin tingling at the sheer magical energy it gives off. The energy is strong, but it could be better. It’s lost power through the years, and Harry’s here to fix it.

“Okay,” he bites his lip, clutching his wand tighter in his grip. “Simple. Just feed power from my core into the main cluster and watch as it spreads to the others. Don’t give too much or risk passing out. Do not touch the destruction array. That’s for emergencies.”

He repeats his rules as he does what he says, laying the tip of his wand over the central cluster of glowing runes. He pushes power into it for what feels like hours, until his arm starts to go numb. The main rune, a large Elder Futhark cluster that pulses as he feeds it, shines so brightly when he’s done with it that he has to blink back spots.

His wand falls from his hand as he takes a shaky step back. He ends up on his backside on the floor, looking up at the inky crystal that glows with magical energy.

“Woah,” he says again. His voice is raspy. How long has he been in here? “Did I fix it?”

“It’s here,” Harry says, pointing towards one of the nearby vaults.

Griphook mutters what must be a curse under his breath.

“The Lestrange Vault,” he sneers. “Of course that woman has it.”

He opens the vault. It’s full to the brim with gold and artifacts, but Harry shies away from it all. The objects feel weird, like the cursed items in the Room of Hidden Things. He consults the map before he takes a cautious step into the room.

“I think that’s it.” He looks up at a golden cup sitting center-stage on a pile of galleons. “It feels like the Diadem, corrupt. I don’t think anyone should touch it until the shard is completely gone.”

Griphook nods and lifts a clawed hand. The cup levitates and follows them out of the vault where one of the armored goblins wraps it in shimmery cloth.

They take the carts back up to the main part of the bank.

There’s a ritual room near the back of the above ground section of Gringotts, and that’s where Griphook and the trio of armed goblins lead him. A large collection of witches and wizards awaits him in the large, stone walled cavern. Harry can’t help but freeze as he processes the sight.

“They all know the charm?” he asks idly, eyes on a familiar-looking redhead.

Griphook just looks at him with a sneer.

“Sorry,” Harry winces. “Of course they do. Thank you, Account Manager Griphook, for everything.”

He steps into the middle of the ritual circle, and the crowd forms the rest of it without prompting. Harry loves a group that knows what to do (like his fourth year Gryffindors when they run through Defense together every Friday night).

Before they start, Harry casts the diagnostic spell on the cup.

A conjured piece of paper floats into his hand. It reads, Horcrux of Tom Marvolo Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort, a.k.a. The Dark Lord. Cup of Helga Hufflepuff, belonged to Hufflepuff descendant Hepzibah Smith before her death, taken by Tom Marvolo Riddle in 1946 and made into his third Horcrux with the death of Hepzibah Smith as a sacrifice.

It’s for sure a Horcrux. He wonders if Zacharias Smith is related to this woman, one of the Hufflepuff first years.

“Here we go, guys,” Harry says as Griphook hovers the cup to sit at Harry’s feet. “On three, yeah? One, two, three! ”

Like last time, fifty silvery shapes come rushing towards him with a speed that almost makes him flinch if he weren’t so focused on the cup on the ground. There’s a large burst of white light. Harry blinks spots out of the back of his eyelids.

At his feet is a perfectly normal gold chalice, not a trace of Dark magic anywhere near it.

“That was easier than I thought it would be,” he mutters.

“Harry,” a cheery redhead approaches him and gently (ever so gently) claps him on the shoulder. “Good job getting the Nation to listen. They really hate soul magic. You know, you could have told me that you got the map to work. Hedwig hasn’t given me any letters since Wednesday.”

Harry smiles guiltily.

“Sorry about that, Bill.” He bends and picks up the cup, glancing over it and hesitating when he sees the symbol for the House of Hufflepuff. “Did I just find another Founders’ artifact?”

Bill huffs a laugh. “Looks like you did. Blimey, mate. Ron was right about you, impossible boy with a heart of gold.”

Harry grins, a blush rising up his neck.

Later that day, when Harry steps back into his room, he gets to cross a location off the list: Diagon Alley. Flitwick, surprisingly, has no questions for him, just lets him go with a toothy smile and light in his eyes.

Only four more to go, three if he doesn’t count himself (which he’s still not sure how to fix, but he’ll think about that another day). He sighs and tucks the list away with the map in his back pocket, moving his wand into the holster from the Room of Hidden Things. He didn’t bring it to Gringotts, seeing that it was a bad idea to wear a war holster to a bank of warrior goblins.

He ambles off to dinner with a happy smile and a lighter burden to carry. He makes an executive decision to sit at the Gryffindor table, next to Parvati and Lavender. He needs information, and they’re the best to ask.

Harry leaves dinner with the knowledge that there’s a Horcrux in Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, England.

In the end, it’s easier than he expected. There’s a little House Elf with big, teary eyes and a large amount of hero worship for Harry. Harry calls in a favor with Draco. Harry did him a favor after the first Horcrux was expelled, got him some potion ingredients and a potion journal written by Salazar Slytherin himself, all for the hope of cashing in a favor down the line. He hadn’t expected it to be so soon, but it works.

Draco frees the elf with one of Blaise’s old socks, a downtrodden look in his eyes as he does so. He likes Dobby, he tells Harry, he doesn’t want to let him go. Harry just stares him down until he caves. (The little thing is so happy to be free, it’s worth all the dragon glares he gets).

Dobby, still keyed into the wards at Malfoy Manor, retrieves the cursed object with little to no trouble. Harry wraps it in a Gryffindor scarf he got from the last Quidditch game and tucks it into his bag.

“Thanks, Draco,” Harry smiles, genuine. He warms further when Draco’s returning glare is half-hearted at best. “See you in Charms.”

(Harry likes taking Charms with the first year Slytherins. It’s way more fun than with the other three Houses.)

He thinks about how to take care of this one this time. He can’t organize another meeting on the Quidditch pitch after the last one, that excuse won’t fly again without arousing suspicion from the Headmaster and the other professors. He also doesn’t feel great about going to the goblins, and it would require using a professor’s floo which he doesn’t have an excuse for.

He could teach the older years how to cast the Patronus Charm, but that would take months.

Of course, there is the last viable option, but he’s pretty sure Blaise would never speak to him again if he went for it. He has to balance his friendship with the Slytherin with his need to destroy all the rest of the Horcruxes before Voldemort finds another way to come back to life.

His last resort. Fiendfyre.

No, for now he’ll keep the little cursed notebook in a sealed warding box that the Room provides for him. He’ll come up with something soon, he hopes.

“We need another way to destroy them,” he announces to the brainstorming group the next day. Their sessions became a study group after they solved the patronus problem, but Harry needs some help on this problem and has no other place to go. “The Patroni are too flashy to use again without a better excuse.”

Sue Lu hums, “You wouldn’t have to meet on the Quidditch pitch if stealth is what you’re going for. Don’t you have total control over the wards? You could sneak a large group of people you trust into here and have no one ever the wiser.”

Harry blinks.

“You’re a genius,” he breathes in awe. “I’m getting you something, anything, same as I did with Cedric. He asked for a new broom, of course, but I don’t know if you’re into Quidditch.”

“I’ll let you know when I come up with something.” Sue Li just smiles and goes back to reading her Transfiguration textbook.

He ends up getting her a state-of-the-art trunk with space for at least four libraries inside. She squeals when he presents it to her, hugging him quickly then rushing to pack away all the books she’s acquired in her lifetime. It costs a pretty sum, but it’s so worth it to keep the friendship of such intelligent Ravenclaws.

He scans the diary the day before he’s organized its destruction.

This report reads, Horcrux of Tom Marvolo Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort, a.k.a. The Dark Lord. Diary of Tom Marvolo Riddle, created by Tom Marvolo Riddle in 1942 and made into his first Horcrux with the death of Myrtle Warren as a sacrifice.

Oh, poor Myrtle. He should talk to her more often, maybe investigate why she’s still haunting that bathroom. It probably has something to do with this diary.

He sneaks a group of competent witches and wizards (mainly those employed by Gringotts after a quick owl letter) onto the grounds at midnight when he’s ready. They follow him in silence into the Forbidden Forest. Harry knows these grounds like the back of his hand, knows territories to avoid and paths to take.

There’s a clearing near Acromantula territory that nothing lives near. That’s where they have their little ritual. There’s only two weeks left in the semester, they need to get this done now.

It’s bright and cold even in the summer air, and Harry shivers as the Patroni rush past him to consume the Horcrux in the diary.

He escorts the small group out of the wards and retreats back to the Come and Go Room to lock the diary away in its sealed box. It’s useless now, but Harry doesn’t want to take any more risks than he has to. (He’ll burn the book as soon as he can just to make sure it can’t get any of his more curious students. It wouldn’t do to have the twins possessed.)

Just three left.

School ends, and Harry waves with a smile as he watches his friends board the train back to King’s Cross Station. He’s lucky he has the Goblin Nation on his side or Dumbledore might have succeeded in keeping Harry with the Dursleys over the summer.

Harry continues his search.

Little Hangleton is a small town that absolutely reeks of Dark magic. Harry sneaks into Snape’s floo a week into summer break and follows the map until he finds a dilapidated shack hidden between gnarled tree trunks.

There’s a box underneath the floorboards. Harry levitates it with a strong Wingardium Leviosa , being careful not to touch it. (If he gets anything out of this little Horcrux hunt, its to not touch anything when he doesn’t know what it is.)

Inside the box, he discovers in the safety of the Come and Go Room once more, is a very cursed ring. It reeks of death, something Harry never knew he could sense.

A part of him calls out to the ring, to the feeling of rot , and Harry has a vivid recollection of something the Sorting Hat said so long ago. “It does not hurt that Death has favored you since you were young.” He probably should have asked more about that at the time.

It’s a familiar routine by now, owling capable witches and wizards, organizing a night that they’re all free.

Horcrux of Tom Marvolo Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort, a.k.a. The Dark Lord. Ring of Marvolo Gaunt, heirloom of the House of Gaunt, belonged to Morfin Gaunt before it was taken by Tom Marvolo Riddle in 1943 and made into his second Horcrux with the death of Tom Riddle Senior as a sacrifice. Beneath the Gaunt heirloom is the artifact known to wizards as the Resurrection Stone.

Harry tucks the piece of parchment into his pocket and signals for the group to cast their charms.

It’s over quickly. He walks them back to the edge of the wardline and watches as they apparate away. He sneaks back to his room and sets the ring under his mattress, trusting Hogwarts to look after it when he’s gone.

He doesn’t know what the Resurrection Stone is, but he has a feeling it’s important.

Two more.

The map leads him to a muggle street next, Grimmauld Place. There’s a large blot of black ink focused on one specific house, Number 12. It looks occupied, like an actual house and not the shack that the last Horcrux was in.

Harry stands at the door longer than he cares to admit. He hadn’t expected it to be a house.

Before he can work up the courage to knock, the door opens abruptly and makes him jump. A scraggly looking House Elf peers up at him from his place in the doorframe. Those big eyes are suspicious and just a bit too mad.

“Hello, there,” Harry starts. “I’m Harry, Harry Potter.”

When in doubt, call upon his undeserved fame.

The elf does not move. He’s so still that Harry’s eyes stray to the elf’s chest to check he’s still breathing. Yeah, still breathing.

“I came to retrieve an artifact,” he says instead of the many things he wants to ask. “I don’t know what it is yet, but I know what it feels like.”

“Half-blood will describe the feeling,” the elf grunts, growls.

Harry almost takes a step back at the sound. He looks half crazed all of the sudden. Was it something Harry said?

“Um, well,” he stammers, “it feels weighty, you know? Like a really heavy blanket, or like water crashing down on you, crushing you. Some of them feel like every one of your fears are right in front of you and just staring at you.”

He takes a breath.

“It’s sickly magic, just horrible. It feels like it shouldn’t exist at all, let alone live in an object like it is.”

He might be getting through to the elf if the wide eyes are anything to go by.

“I just want to destroy it,” Harry says, shoulders set. “I hate that it exists, and I just want to take what’s evil out of whatever it’s living in and kill it by any means necessary.”

A beat of silence.

“Kreacher knows what the dirty half-blood is talking about,” the elf mutters under his breath. “Kreacher will fetch Master Regulus’ locket.”

The elf pops away, leaving the door open. Harry hesitantly walks inside, on the lookout for anything that might jump out at him.

The house is creepy. Its wallpaper is cracked and torn, the floor is covered in layers of dust and dirt. The furniture is torn, and Harry swears he can hear the buzzing beating of wings behind a nearby tapestry.

Kreacher, the elf, pops back in front of Harry with a loud crack . He’s holding a necklace, an oblong locket that catches Harry’s eye almost instantly.

The locket is embellished with a serpentine S full of green gems. It takes Harry’s breath away when he first sees it, but then he notes the grime and grease that layer the tarnished metal, and it feels a little less impressive. Even worse is the aura of corruption that radiates out from the locket in every direction.

“That’s it.” He’s sure of it.

Kreacher scowls, “Dirty half-blood will destroy Master Regulus’ locket if he knows what’s good for him. Kreacher will watch dirty half-blood destroy it or Kreacher will kill the dirty half-blood.”

Harry closes his eyes and tries to center himself against the barrage of insults.

“Of course, Kreacher. Can I run a test on it really quickly? Then when the time comes for me to destroy it, I’ll call you, huh? Is that alright?”

Kreacher’s shrewd eyes scan Harry’s expression.

“Kreacher will let the dirty half-blood.”

Good, Harry sighs.

Horcrux of Tom Marvolo Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort, a.k.a. The Dark Lord. Locket of Salazar Slytherin, belonged to Merope Gaunt then Hufflepuff descendant Hepzibah Smith before her death, taken by Tom Marvolo Riddle in 1946 and made into his fourth Horcrux with the death of Tawny Bloomsbury as a sacrifice in 1950.

It’s definitely a Horcrux.

“Thank you, Kreacher. I know how to destroy it.” Harry slips his wand back into its holster and moves back towards the door. “I’ll call you when everything’s ready for the ritual, alright? Listen out for that.”

He leaves without another word. He doesn’t like the feeling that Kreacher gives off, likely from years of wearing that corrupt locket, its magic eating away at Kreacher’s sanity if he had any to begin with.

The ritual takes place the next night. All the regulars show up at Harry’s owl, just pleased to be invited. Bill claps him on the back with a crooked grin.

Harry calls Kreacher’s name before he counts down. The gnarled elf watches as fifty Patroni rush towards the locket and devour the soul shard inside. Harry sees tears come to Kreacher’s eyes, and he feels a little bad about his anger towards the elf in the earlier interactions.

The locket goes next to the diary in its own warded box on one of Harry’s shelves.

The only Horcrux left is the one in Harry, and he has a feeling that he knows where it is. It’s the reason his scar stung when he was around Voldemort’s wraith, the reason he gets flashes of memories he never lived through when he sleeps, just to forget them when he wakes up in the morning.

It’s in his scar, the scar that stretches across his brow in a splintering lightning strike that takes up most of the right side of his forehead.

How can he get rid of it? The Patroni don’t work, he’d know by now if they had. He’d die if he used Fiendfyre on himself, no question. He can’t risk going near a dementor or a hydra.

There’s no safe way to get it out, and Harry is terrified at this realization. He feels sick to his stomach, swallowing down bile as he gags.

Hogwarts’ warm magic runs over his back in calming strokes.

When his breathing finally calms, he grips his wand in a shaking hand and casts the diagnosis spell he’s used more than any other since he learned magic exists. (So many of the Room of Hidden Things’ contents are cursed, so many ).

A conjured parchment floats into his hand.

Horcrux of Tom Marvolo Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort, a.k.a. The Dark Lord. Soul shard of Tom Marvolo Riddle made into his sixth Horcrux with the death of Lily Potter as a sacrifice in 1981. Body of Harry James Potter.

Harry exhales a shuddered breath.

It’s real, he really has a piece of Voldemort in his head. He wants to rage at the thought of his parents’ killer living inside of him, wants to shoot hexes and curses at the wall until he passes out of magical exhaustion.

Instead, he tucks the paper away and lays back in bed.

It’ll be okay, he tells himself. He’ll take care of it. His friends will help if he needs it, and everything will work out in the end. It will be okay.

He spends the rest of summer reading and practicing his wand work. There’s so much to learn and not enough time to learn it.

July 31st comes and goes. Harry sneaks out of Hogwarts to celebrate with his friends in Diagon Alley. They get ice cream and browse the various stores. It’s the first time Harry gets presents for his birthday, and he loves it.

Harry visits Dumbledore before school can start up again.

“What are you gonna do about the DADA post this year, Headmaster?”

If the man is surprised at having Harry walk through his wall and question him so boldly, he doesn’t let it show. He just sighs and peers down at Harry over his spectacles.

“I have put an ad out asking for a competent teacher, but most avoid the position because of the curse.”

Harry snorts, “Well, that’s not a problem this year, is it? I got rid of the curse when I redid the wards last year. Did you not notice, Headmaster? I thought you were connected to the wards the same way I am.”

Dumbledore grimaces minutely.

“You tampered with the wards, my boy? Without permission or help?”

”What exactly do you think I’m here for, sir?” Harry raises his eyebrows. “Hogwarts chose me herself to fix what’s been happening in her walls, and the wards are a big part of that. Besides, I like to think Hogwarts is my adult supervision.”

The Headmaster sighs again, rubs at his temples.

“Well then, I will see about rehiring the Professor that took over for poor Quirinus last semester. Would that be permissible, Harry?”

Harry shrugs. “Sure. She was a good teacher, certainly better than Quirrell.”

He purposely doesn’t respond in kind to the note of passive aggressive overture in the headmaster’s voice. He doesn’t need to stoop to the man’s level. Besides, technically the Headmaster should consult with Harry on all hiring choices since he’s Hogwarts’ direct avatar.

Summer ends, and there’s a whole new group of first years to welcome to Hogwarts. Harry spends the first week helping lost firsties, comforting the homesick ones, sneaking the insomniacs of all years into the kitchens to have midnight hot chocolate, and more.

He thinks it’s his favorite part of his place here at Hogwarts.

Eventually, he knows he’ll have to put a stop to the fun and bring everything back down to earth, but he wants to soak in the warmth for just a little while longer. (He bunks in the Gryffindor dorms with Ron and Neville for the first two nights, then Hufflepuff for two nights, then Slytherin and Ravenclaw. He makes his rounds with a smile on his face and full cheeks after months of regular meals.)

He calls a meeting the next day before dinner. Everyone shows up.

“There’s only one left,” he says. There are bags under his eyes and a rasp to his voice. Ron stands protectively at his side, arms hovering like he thinks he’ll have to catch Harry if he falls from his place standing in front of their brainstorming group.

“What is it?” Susan asks, hesitant at the look on Harry’s face.

“Me.”

Silence. Ron’s hand comes down on Harry’s shoulder, Harry hears him take a shaky breath. He doesn’t know what to say to reassure his friends, his allies, that everything will be alright. He’s barely hanging onto hope as it is himself.

“How do we get it out?” Hermione asks, eyes hard and teary. She comes to stand at his side. “I assume the Patroni didn’t work, so we need another nonviolent method to kill it.”

Harry smiles best he can at his two best friends, his first friends.

“We’ll take care of it,” Padma says. The other Ravenclaws nods along with her, Claws of all seven years. (Harry’s collected students from every year, and he’ll never be prouder about anything else).

“Thanks, guys.” Harry takes a deep breath and tries to center himself. “But I’m fine for now. We’ll work together like we’ve done all year, nothing can stop us if we combine our strengths.”

Fred and George snort, though they look a little teary. “Inspiring speech, Headmaster Potter.”

Harry playfully scowls at the two. They beam back at him.

“Let’s go over everything again,” Marcus Flint demands. “What do we know about these soul shards?”

That’s how it starts.

They continue long into the night, everyone stays past curfew. The Ravenclaws promise to raid the library for anything that might help. The Hufflepuffs offer hot chocolate and warmth, the things that Harry gives out freely to Hogwarts students who need it. The Gryffindors stick to his side like glue, always on the lookout for a threat that’s inside of him. The Slytherins, even Draco and a begrudging Pansy, reach out to their various connections and report back with possible potions and spells Darker than legal in nature.

A week passes. They have some theories that might work, but nothing concrete.

Harry attends classes and doesn’t give up hope, he can’t. It’s not dire, as far as he knows, he’s safe until his scar starts hurting again. He doesn’t know if Voldemort has come back as another wraith yet, but he knows that the Horcrux in him will react if faced with Voldemort’s main soul piece.

(He tries not to think of burning shadows beneath his palms, or the possibility that he didn’t kill Voldemort when they burned each other alive. Cho and Marcus say he probably only weakened the wraith. It’s not a very comforting thought.)

The moving staircases still take him where he needs to go, though that’s not always where he wants to go.

He ends up finding teary-eyed older years more often than he thinks. They’re at the right age to start dating, he learns, and most of them are going through their first ever heartbreaks.

Harry is useless with dating advice, but he can create a door that leads to the kitchens and sit them down to talk it through. (He learns so much .)

“The shard is in your head, right? Your scar?” Cho Chang questions intently. At Harry’s nod she continues, “Then it’s different from the other ones. Your magic is probably wrapped around the piece of soul, keeping it contained but also protecting it from outside forces.”

She’s very smart for a third year, and Robert Hilliard, a seventh year, looks impressed at her side. Cedric just grins with pride. (They’re gonna be dating soon, Harry swears).

Luna Lovegood, a first year that showed up one day at one of their brainstorming sessions, hums. She’s odd, but Harry likes that about her. She knows things that no one else does, with her invisible creatures and dreamy eyes.

“If only we could see the magic,” she sighs, glazed eyes looking off into the distance. “Or maybe we could put a Patronus inside Harry’s head.”

Harry blinks. Something about that sounds familiar…

“How could we put one in my head?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

Luna hums again, sways to an imaginary breeze. “There are many things about the mind we don’t know, Harry Potter. It’s obscure, dazed, dark. If only there were a way to cast a light inside that darkness. I bet you’d scare all the Nargles away.”

Harry bites his lip. Whatever it is that he’s reaching for is just on the edge of his mind, it feels like he can taste it.

Marcus grunts, eyes wide, enough excitement in the noise to call the attention of the entire room. Harry gets pulled out of his thoughts abruptly, eyeing the Slytherin sixth year with trepidation.

“You okay, mate?” Ron asks, side eyeing the mammoth of a teenager.

“Occlumency,” Marcus grins, showing off crooked teeth and wild eyes. “We get someone to go into your mind and cast a Patronus. If that doesn’t work, we can go to Snape. He’s a master Occlumens and Legilimens. It’s perfect, Potter, your mindscape should show the soul shard and the magic that surrounds it. You’d just need to turn that magic into a Patronus.”

Harry lets out what sounds like a whimper.

“Is it that simple?” he asks. His voice is high. “I’ve been learning Occlumency since I got to Hogwarts, and I think I’m pretty good at it.”

Marcus’ grin turns feral, a sight that’s more fitting to his harsh features.

“Okay,” Harry exhales, “gifts to Cho, Luna, and Marcus.”

Cho looks surprised, but Harry just shakes his head when she goes to protest his decision.

“Trust me, Cho, you helped more than you know. You’re getting something expensive, maybe that new broom you’ve been looking at? Luna, let me know if you need anything. Marcus,” Harry grins, showing too many teeth, “you get anything you want from Borgin and Burkes, no questions asked.”

Safe to say, Marcus is elated.

“I’m concerned about the intensity of the spell,” Hermione hesitantly brings up. “The other pieces took fifty powerful casters to get enough power to destroy them. We can’t let fifty people into your mind, Harry, that wouldn’t end well. Would the power of just one Patronus Charm be enough if it’s cast in your mindscape?”

Harry hums. “Only one way to find out.”

Now to find someone he trusts enough to let into his head, his safe space. He doesn’t think he could find the Horcrux alone, especially since he’s been exploring his mindscape for the better part of a year now.

He could train up one of his friends, but he’s read that Legilimency is very complicated, dangerous to the unpracticed and unskilled.

Professor Snape is always an option, but he’s not sure he wants the man to go poking through his mind like that. There are things Harry doesn’t want anyone else to see, his memories of the Dursleys at the forefront of that. There’s a reason he hasn’t given any interviews with the Daily Prophet , despite their many requests.

(His friends know most of it. The cupboard, the chores, the beatings, the Harry Hunting. Ron gets a dark look in his eyes when Harry can’t bring himself to eat for fear of throwing it back up. Hermione and Cedric watch Harry fly on the weekends with careful gazes, waiting for him to get hurt. Susan owls her aunt Amelia Bones every weekend to ask for updates on Harry’s guardianship status. Neville works quietly beside Harry in the greenhouses when he has a silent day, a quiet day. Even Malfoy stops using the word Freak after he sees Harry violently flinch away.

He loves his friends.)

Oh well, he has time. The Horcrux in his scar hasn’t made itself an issue yet, so he’ll take his time deciding how to get rid of Voldemort for good this time.

“Hogwarts, can you come into my mind?” It’s a question that comes to him as he’s getting ready for bed one night.

Her magic hums, thoughtful. Harry gets the sense that she’s never tried.

“That’s alright,” he says. “You’ll be my backup if I can’t find anybody, set after training a seventh year and before going to an adult.”

Hogwarts hums disapprovingly, like she always does when he refuses to go to an adult with a problem he has.

“Can you blame me?” he asks softly.

A sigh. Sympathetic and sad.

“It’s okay. I’m here now, I have a home and a family. I’m sure I’ll warm up to some adults eventually, but for now I have you and the others. I’m okay with that.”

The blankets tighten around him, and he smiles. He likes Hogwarts’ blanket hugs.

A week passes. The brainstorming sessions continue, Harry goes to his classes and helps lost little first years, Hogwarts shoves books on Occlumency towards Harry with an insistent furor.

He practices all he can in between his Hogwarts duties. (If he avoids Dumbledore, that’s nobody's business but his own).

There’s a first year named Ginny who’s Ron’s little sister. She watches Harry with wide, adoring eyes. Harry sinks into the background when this happens, hiding behind Ron until the twins can draw the girl’s focus away from him. Ron just sighs and flushes from his head to his toes.

“Sorry about her, mate,” he says. “She grew up reading about you. Or, I guess, not you , but the story version of you.”

Harry grimaces. “I wonder if I could get them to stop printing those. I mean, I understand that they’re fictional and made for entertainment, but it seems like nobody else does. Griphook could look into that for me.”

He sends an owl to Gringotts when he finally has enough of Ginny’s adoring looks and Colin Creevey’s nonstop camera. Griphook sounds positively delighted to start communicating with the publishers and writers of the Harry Potter book series. Harry’s happy for the goblin, even if he himself wants to stay out of the limelight.

Cedric draws him aside one day after dinner with a worried frown, eyes warm.

“Harry,” he starts, and Harry has to blink away something that he won’t call tears at the sheer concern in his voice. “When’s the last time you were outside of Hogwarts?”

He squints. He doesn’t understand why Ced is asking him this.

“I went to Diagon for my birthday,” he says, voice tilting up at the end. “Why?”

“You need to get out more.” Cedric lays a calming hand on his shoulder, face clearing a bit as he feels muscle and more than just bone under his hand. Harry’s filled out through the year he’s been at Hogwarts, and Cedric couldn’t be any prouder. “I know that you have a job to do here, but Hogwarts can take care of herself for a bit, can’t she?”

“I guess,” Harry frowns. “The wards have enough power to last a while without me, but what would I do? I have everything I need here.”

Ced smiles.

“I don’t know, have fun .”

“But I have plenty fun here,” Harry tries really hard not to scowl. He doesn’t understand.

Cedric sighs. “I guess what I’m saying is that I think it might be good for you to do something outside of the castle: meet new people who aren’t students or staff, see a professional Quidditch game, or go on a shopping spree in Diagon. Do something that’s not taking care of us all, Harry.”

Harry worries his lip with his teeth.

“Okay, I get the general idea, but why? Do you think it’ll benefit me in some way? I mean, I know I’m not the most normal kid, I couldn’t be to live at the Dursleys, but I like who I am.”

“I think,” Cedric says carefully, “that you should get to be a normal kid, if just for a while. I’ve read some books on child development, you know, if Quidditch doesn’t work out I want to go into a profession that deals with kids, and most of them say that new experiences help build character. They recommend that kids who have gone through trauma should kind of… rewrite those memories in a way that they can build on them in a way that’s healthy and helpful.”

Harry thinks on that for a moment. Cedric’s thumb sweeps over the arch of Harry’s shoulder reassuringly. (He refuses to entertain the thought that Ced and Marcus are like the fathers that he never had).

“Alright,” he says at last. “Okay, sure. I’ll ask Oliver about upcoming Quidditch games.”

Cedric beams, and it makes Harry’s heart flutter. He can’t help but smile back.

“Good.” Cedric ruffles Harry’s hair, then pushes a little on his shoulder. “Now get out of here. I think I saw that Colin kid asking around for you in the library.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. He’s out of the hall and into the Come and Go Room within a minute. He doesn’t take chances when it comes to overeager kids with hero-worship problems.

He takes Ron to see the Chudley Cannons play Caerphilly Catapults. It’s a tight match, but the Catapults pull out for a win in the end.

It’s one of the best times Harry’s had in his life.

He gets season tickets for all the nearby stadiums. Ron and Oliver switch off on who goes with him, though not without lots of pouting and bribing. (Harry does the bribing. He wants to spend time with both of his Quidditch-obsessed friends).

His days are looking brighter, and he owes it all to Cedric’s interest in his secondary career choice and his worry for the twelve year old boy who protects everyone but himself.

He gets Cedric new Seeker gloves and waves away all of the boy’s protests. It’s how he shows his appreciation, as people are starting to realize, so Cedric just huffs out an amused sigh and takes the gift with a lot of thanks.

Harry walks through the halls of Hogwarts with a bright smile on his face that outweighs the fear that stays in the back of his mind at not finding a way to get rid of his Horcrux.

He plays Seeker matches with his friends and helps lost little first years. More than that, he goes through his life with his head held high and his friends at his side.

(He exchanges letters with Bill on the theory of living Horcruxes, but the man hasn’t seen anything like him before. There haven’t been any living Horcuxes before. Harry’s the first that anyone has heard of. Even Gringotts is at a loss).

The DADA professor is an amazingly talented woman named Demelza Twycross. She has roots in the Ministry, but Harry won’t hold that against her. He watches her for the first few weeks of the semester, though she did well catching students up after Quirrell last year, and he thinks she’ll be good for Hogwarts’ Defence position.

She specializes in defensive spells, mainly ones that rely on layered spell chains. Harry is in awe of the amount of spells she can cast in one go, shielding on top of transfiguration on top of offensive spells.

He watches her duel Professor Flitwick one weekend in their newly formed Dueling Club. Flitwick wins, he’s been a professional dueler for years, but Twycross puts up a good fight.

Hogwarts points him subtly towards the Headmaster’s office when the man is out of the school, running an errand of some kind.

There’s a cloak in one of Dumbledore’s drawers that feels like the ring that used to be a Horcrux. It doesn’t feel like Voldemort, but it feels like death, rot . Harry feels bad about going through the Headmaster’s stuff, sure, but he can’t let the man have something like this in Hogwarts. (Especially when it calls out to Harry so strongly).

He takes the cloak and finds out it’s an invisibility cloak. Ron says they’re rare and really expensive, but he doesn’t know why it seems to like Harry so much. He also doesn’t know why Dumbledore has one.

Next, while Harry is in the Great Hall the day after he takes the cloak, Hogwarts hums in his ear at the sight of the Headmaster.

Harry pauses, setting his glass of pumpkin juice back down onto the table beside his plate. He scans the Headmaster for anything off, but he doesn’t see anything. What? He wants to ask Hogwarts, but at the moment he doesn’t want to draw much attention to himself. Hogwarts feels weird against his core right now.

Another buzz, more insistent this time, but not worryingly so.

Harry’s gaze locks on the Headmaster’s wand.

Oh, oh, he thinks. That wand feels exactly like the cloak and the ring. It’s only because of his proximity to the high table that he can feel it, he thinks, as he hasn’t felt it before. He’s lucky Susan dragged him to sit at the closest end of the Hufflepuff table for dinner tonight.

He whispers into his glass so only Hogwarts’ magic can hear him, “Do I need to take that one too?”

A hum, happy this time. Harry sighs, resigned.

Okay, he can do this, he can steal Albus Dumbledore’s wand for no good reason other than a sentient magical castle telling him to and an odd tugging he feels towards it.

How should he do this?

After dinner, he knocks on the door to Dumbledore’s office, hoping like hell that the man won’t answer. His heart sinks when the Headmaster calls him in. He shares a grim look with the normally stoic stone gargoyle that guards the way.

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Harry starts, trying to suppress the panic he feels rising up in his gut. “Can I talk to you?”

This is a bad idea. Why is he doing this?

“Of course, my boy, have a seat.” Dumbledore’s eyes are sparkling as he smiles genially.

Harry hates that, my boy, can’t the man see him flinch every time he uses it? Nevermind, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Harry needs Dumbledore’s wand. He sits gently across from the Headmaster.

He bites his lip, worries it between his teeth.

“Sir,” he starts unsteadily, “I’m about to ask you to do something that you might not agree to, and I can’t tell you why I’m asking it.”

Dumbledore hums. His lips purse in a bit of a thoughtful frown before he can correct it, but his eyes don’t lose their sparkle.

“You may ask, Harry. I cannot punish you simply for asking a question.”

Harry’s not sure that’s true, but he pushes on nonetheless

“I would like to duel you.” It’s the only way he can think of to get the wand, though he’s not sure how he’ll come up with a way to keep the wand after he has it, if he can get it from this accomplished wizard.

Dumbledore chuckles, an eyebrow raised.

“Is that so, my boy?” The way he says it makes Harry want to frown, but he carefully controls his expression. He needs this to work.

“Yes,” he says, determined.

The Headmaster considers him for a moment.

“I have to decline, Harry. I don’t know what your reasons are, but I expect I would disagree with them.” He looks suspicious.

“What if I challenge you in public?” Harry snaps. He rubs his forehead with a sweaty palm. “I’m not saying this to be rude, Headmaster, but I need to duel you. I’m not doing this out of pride, or hubris, or even for fun. I have a reason, and I can’t tell you until I’m done with my task.”

He might be lying a bit. He has no idea why he needs the wand, just that Hogwarts wants him to have it.

“You would challenge me to a public duel?” Dumbledore looks taken aback. “All for a reason you can’t explain to me.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m afraid that is what will have to happen, dear boy.” He looks sad as he says it, eyebrows furrowed and lips turned down.

Harry nods, jaw clenched. He stands abruptly. He hadn’t expected that to work, of course, but he had hope that the Headmaster might have been amenable to his cause, even if he doesn’t know what that cause is.

“I’ll see you in the Great Hall for lunch tomorrow, Headmaster.”

He leaves through the wall, sinking into the stone and stepping out into the Come and Go Room with a shaky breath.

“I’m not so sure about this, Hogwarts,” he whispers to the wall. “I can’t beat Dumbledore in a duel, but I can’t just steal his wand either. Do I really need the wand? Is it necessary?”

Hogwarts sighs, a creak as wind rushes through her walls. It’s times like this that Harry hates that she can’t communicate with him directly.

Instead of words, a book lands on his ratty, yellow table.

The cover reads, The Elder Wand, A Wand Throughout Time .

Harry reads the first few chapters with bated breath. He learns about a special wand that chose its wielder with the core being the tail hair of a thestral, an animal of death. The owner of this wand must accept death, though the book doesn’t mention what form of death or death of yourself or others.

There’s a picture of the wand, hand drawn in black ink that looks centuries old.

It matches Dumbledore’s wand exactly.

“I understand now,” he tells Hogwarts. “It’s powerful and full of death, but why can’t I let Dumbledore keep it? I don’t like him having things that might affect the students, sure, but he’s had this wand for years without hurting any children with it, right?”

Hogwarts hums assentingly.

Harry could steal it while Dumbledore is asleep, but the book says that the wand won’t let him use its true power that way, he has to win it.

“Why do I want the wand’s power? I don’t want power, I only want to keep people safe.”

Hogwarts clucks her incorporeal tongue and uses her magic to flick through the book once more, leaving it open on one of the pages near the end of the, frankly, massive tome of knowledge.

“The Elder Wand is connected intimately to Death,” the book reads. Harry isn’t surprised at that. “One of the most prominent myths on its creation involves the Peverell brothers and their interactions with Death, the primordial being. This might be due to the thestral hair core, or it may be because of this wand’s history with the death of its wielders.”

Harry sighs, running a hand through his mop of messy, black hair.

“Okay, so I need this wand because I’m connected to Death right? That’s what the Sorting Hat said, something about Death favoring me. I’m guessing that’s Death the primordial being and not the general concept.”

Another hum of assent.

“But why? I don’t understand why I can’t just use my own wand to keep protecting the school.”

Hogwarts huffs, quite like a child who’s not getting her way. Another book appears on the table, taking the first one’s place. This one is bright blue, covered in constellations and dancing tea cups.

Divination , it proudly declares in a cursive font.

Harry sighs in resignation.

“I need the Elder Wand because of something that’s coming in the future? How do you even know that? You’re a sentient castle.”

A trickle of playful magic that ruffles through his hair and sounds like laughter.

“Okay,” Harry nods, pushing the Divination book away. “I’ll get the wand tomorrow, no matter what. Then I can be prepared for whatever’s coming that you seem so insistent about preparing me for. Wait, is that why you’ve been making me shoot spells on practice dummies recently? I thought that was just to strengthen my Defense grade.”

Hogwarts practically cackles.

“I’m glad someone’s finding joy in this,” he mutters.

Lunch comes the next day, and Harry’s nerves have settled into steel wool, coarse and tough. He has to do this if what Hogwarts tells him is true. He has to be strong enough to protect his students.

He stands after the Great Hall fills with chattering students. His expression must be serious enough to draw attention, because the Gryffindors he was sitting with quiet and still.

He presses his wand to his throat and whispers a spell.

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Harry projects, his voice amplified. He does not shake or stutter.

(This feels like a step in the right direction, no matter how hard it is. He doesn’t hate Dumbledore, but he doesn’t trust him with the safety of children, especially not with a weapon of mass destruction in his hand at all times).

“I challenge you to a Wizard’s Duel.”

He does not look around to see his peers gawn and glare at him with a slew of emotions across their faces. He does not look down to see his friends’ betrayed faces stare up at him.

“Name your terms and your Second.”

Harry’s eyes do not leave Dumbledore’s, and he sees the exact moment that the man realizes Harry is not playing a game. The twinkling stars in his eyes stutter and dim with a resolute stillness.

Dumbledore stands, mouth set firmly in a disappointed frown.

“If you truly insist on this, my boy, then I cannot ignore you,” he says in a low voice that echoes throughout the hall. “But I wish to implore you once more, do not do this. I do not know your reasoning, and I fear I never will, but I cannot condone this rash action so soon after your entrance to the wizarding world, Harry.”

Harry just stares.

“Name your terms and your Second,” he states again, voice steady.

Dumbledore’s shoulders fall. All hope of convincing Harry leaves his expression in one rush.

“No permanent harm,” he sighs. “My Second will be Professor Filius Flitwick. And yours, Harry?”

“No permanent harm,” Harry agrees. “My Second will be Marcus Flint.”

Murmurs flow through the hall around him. His choice, above just challenging Dumbledore, the Beacon of Light in the wizarding world, Harry has now chosen a Dark Slytherin to defend him should he fall.

“Name your time and place,” Harry says next.

Dumbledore looks to grit his teeth minutely, “In the Transfiguration Courtyard in half an hour.”

Harry nods, one fluid motion, and turns sharply on his heel to march out of the Great Hall. He can’t take the stares right now, not while he’s getting ready to take Dumbledore’s wand in what will definitely be the fight of his life.

He hears his friends follow him out.

When they get far enough away from the crowd of clamoring students, Harry sheepishly turns around and meets his friends’ suspicious gazes.

“Hi,” he says, exhaling shakily. He turns to Marcus, “Sorry to volunteer you without your permission, but you’re the best fighter I know.”

Marcus glares, the only expression his face can make at the moment. Harry sighs.

“What the hell did you just do, Harry Potter?” Susan almost shrieks, eyes so wide Harry worries for her vision. “It is not a good idea to challenge the Headmaster of Hogwarts and the Defeater of Grindelwald to a duel!”

Harry grimaces. “Yes, I know that.”

“He’s stopped two wars, Harry!” Hermione declares, jaw dropped to the floor. “Two of them!”

“Technically only one,” Harry says without thinking. “People think I won the last one.”

“f*cking Helga,” Cedric breathes, genuine fear in his face, “Dumbledore’s going to kill you. This is the end of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, he’ll never be seen again. Hogwarts has no Savior now, he’s been killed by the Supreme Mugwump of the ICW.”

“I think you’re overreacting a little bit,” Harry frowns.

“Why, in Merlin’s name, did you think this was a good idea, Harry?” Ron asks, begs.

“I need his wand,” Harry says, interrupting Cedric’s next tirade. His friends go silent, watching him like he’s gone mad. “Hogwarts says I need his wand, and the only way to get it is to win it fairly in a duel or take it from his hands when he’s not paying attention.”

“Why did you not just do that last one, mate?” Ron asks, puppy-dog eyes in full force. “He knows you’re coming in a duel, you won’t be able to surprise him and take his wand while he’s expecting it.”

Ah, that’s something Harry has been putting aside since he decided to do this.

“I know,” he says. “I could have come up with a better idea if I had asked you all, but I was kind of in a rush. Hogwarts was insistent about me getting this wand. Plus… I didn’t think you guys would approve, so I just took my first thought and ran with it.”

“Of course you did,” Hermione sighs, looking disappointed but resigned. She shakes her head and runs a hand through frizzy hair, “Okay, okay. We need a plan. How can we surprise Dumbledore enough for him to relax his grip on his wand? We only have twenty minutes now, we need ideas quickly.”

Harry relaxes a little, knowing that his friends aren’t mad at him, that they have his back no matter what.

When the time comes, Harry meets Dumbledore in the Transfiguration Courtyard. He steadies his heart rate.

They bow.

Professor McGonagall calls out their motions as they move, since she has appointed herself the referee, holding their wands ready. Harry focuses on the magic he can feel in his chest and breathes as steadily as he can.

“Begin!” McGonagall shouts, stepping out of the direct path between the two duelers.

Harry casts a shield charm on instinct, though Dumbledore just stands there. Harry frowns.

“I will not hurt an underage wizard,” the old man announces. How noble of him.

Harry swallows hard and concentrates. If he squints, he’s sure he can see the low shimmer of a Protego in front of the Headmaster. None of his spells will get through that, he needs something else to distract the man.

A swish of his wand and a muttered spell causes the ground at Dumbledore’s feet to shudder and crack, creating a small, localized earthquake. Harry sees a hint of surprise on Dumbledore’s face for a moment before the man flicks his own wand and stops the tremors.

“Harry, my boy,” he starts, but Harry casts another spell before he can finish.

He’s learned a lot from his new DADA professor, but the most he’s learned from Professor Twycross is how to weave spell chains together.

Confringo, Petrificus Totalus, Protego.

Using three spells at once, in one complicated motion, makes him pant for breath.

Dumbledore counters them all with calm movements, letting them shimmer against his shield spells and Finite s.

Harry grits his teeth, “ Avis! Oppugno! Expelliarmus! ”

It’s a shot in the dark, but he needs to get Dumbledore’s wand, and the disarming spell would do the trick if he can only get around the man’s intense shields.

It doesn’t work. Harry needs to try harder. He’s starting to sweat, and he’s really glad that Hogwarts has been pushing him harder in the last few weeks.

Stupefy, Wingardium Leviosa, Accio, Expecto Patronum!

That last one is what he’s counting on, the element of surprise. Sure enough, as soon as Dumbledore is done dismissing the first three spells, his eyes widen. A silver form rushes towards him, taking shape as it flies.

It’s enough for the wizened old wizard’s shields to falter.

“ Expelliarmus! ” Harry shouts, wand arm outstretched as far as it can go. His face is turned up in a snarl, baring his teeth, and he fears that he’s never looked more violent, more like Voldemort, than right now.

The Patronus reaches Dumbledore, obscuring his vision as it finally takes a Corporeal form. His wand flies out of his hand at the same time, landing softly in Harry’s outstretched palm. (The Elder Wand feels cold against his skin, a reassuring cold that keeps Harry’s thoughts away from the burning of the wraith against his hands).

Harry’s Patronus pauses right in front of Albus Dumbledore’s face.

A silver thestral snorts when faced with the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the former master of the Elder Wand. The thestral shifts until a dragon roars and flicks its tail towards the cowering crowd, spitting silver flames. The dragon morphs until a unicorn points its long, elegant horn towards Dumbledore’s heart. The unicorn shimmers and gulps until a griffin shrieks its displeasure, then a basilisk, then a swan, then a giant squid, then a wailing ghost, a pack of Grims, an owl, phoenix, more, more, more.

Round and round, like a faulty boggart, Harry’s Patronus spins until Dumbledore takes an unsteady step back in the face of it. He looks to be gasping for breath. Harry does the same with the Elder Wand in his grasp.

The crowd of students and staff alike are silent, frozen in their places.

Harry swallows hard and swipes the Elder Wand to cancel the Patronus Charm, muttering a brief Finite as he stares at what is supposed to be an expression of his soul.

His lungs stutter in his chest, and the silver fades.

He stares into Dumbledore’s eyes for a moment before turning to the side and throwing up, heaving and gasping until he’s blinking back black spots and clenching clammy hands.

There are people around him, hands pulling him up, magic pushing him onto a conjured stretcher. Madame Pomfrey’s familiar magic washes over him, making him relax.

His eyes close, the light too much against his eyelids.

There’s a flutter of sound before everything goes dark.

The Elder Wand never leaves his hand, no matter how hard Dumbledore tries to pry it from his white-knuckle grip.

He wakes up to low muttering. He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but he can recognise Dumbledore’s frustrated voice and a harsher Madame Pomfrey demanding that the Headmaster get out of the hospital wing. Harry can’t help the smile that rises to his face at the mediwitch’s passion for defending her patients, even if that patient is Harry.

A familiar hand holds his own, making him falter in opening his eyes for just a moment. It’s Ron, Harry would recognise his calluses and scars anywhere. What is Ron doing here, holding his hand of all things? He should be in class or out with Hermione and Neville.

His other hand clenches around a long, thin wand of unfamiliar wood. It’s cold against his skin, a sharp contrast to Ron who runs warm.

“Harry? You awake, mate?” Ron sounds worried.

Harry tries his best to open his eyes, squinting up at red hair and a face full of freckles.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Ron breathes. The lines around his eyes relax. (He shouldn’t have worry lines, Harry thinks, why does his best friend have worry lines at twelve years old?) Ron turns to where the voices are still arguing. “Madame Pomfrey! Harry’s awake!”

There’s rustling as two bodies rush towards him at different paces.

Madame Pomfrey’s face comes into Harry’s line of sight. She sighs.

“Silly boy, going up against a grown wizard,” she mutters under her breath, casting a barrage of diagnostic spells that light up the air around him. “Magically exhausted yourself is what you did, trying that Patronus Charm with no prior success at it. Yes, that’s right, Mr. Weasley and friends told us all about that.”

Harry sheepishly smiles.

“Sorry, Madame Pomfrey,” he rasps. His throat is dry. She tuts and helps him drink some water.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what all that nonsense was about, then? No, I didn’t think so. At least Minerva and Filius thought to have me on standby, or else you would have passed out before I spelled some potions into your stomach.”

She dismisses the diagnostic spells, waving her wand through their colors and shapes with a sigh.

“Silly boys always coming into my hospital wing with issues that could easily be circumvented with a proper discussion,” she scoffs, handing him a few potions and gesturing for him to take them. He grimaces at the taste. “That’s good, Mr. Potter, very good. Well, I suppose it’s over and done with, but I better not see you back in here so soon, is that understood, Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry nods. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“If that is all, Poppy,” Dumbledore rumbles suggestively.

Madame Pomfrey huffs and makes herself scarce. Harry wishes she wouldn’t go so quickly, leaving him with only Ron and Dumbledore for company.

“Now, my boy,” Dumbledore sighs. “Will you finally tell me why you needed to duel me so urgently?”

Harry thinks it over. He could tell the truth, that he needs the wand for a possible future event that may or may not even happen. He could lie, say something about proving his magical strength to fit in with the other second years.

He doesn’t want to lie. He can be Slytherin when he wants to, sure, but he likes being straightforward when he can be.

“Your wand, Headmaster Dumbledore,” he starts. “It’s the Elder Wand. Hogwarts was very insistent that I take it, along with the cloak and the ring I got from Voldemort’s hometown. There’s something about them that likes me, calls to me. I think that’s why my Patronus was so weird.”

The look on Dumbledore’s face would have made him laugh the day before, but now he’s just tired.

“I know, sir,” he says, closing his eyes, “I shouldn’t listen to strange magic that calls out to me. And I know, I should have just told you outright, saved us all some trouble, but I couldn’t.”

He opens his eyes and stares into Dumbledore’s sparkling ones.

“I don’t trust you with my school, sir. I don’t know if it’s because of my feelings about you being the one to leave me with the Dursleys and not even check up on me , or if it’s because of the possessed professor in first year, but I cannot let you have such a powerful weapon in a school , sir. I just can’t.”

Harry steels himself against Dumbledore’s absolutely sorrowful expression. He looks destroyed, like he’s been betrayed, a betrayal of the highest caliber.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Harry raises his chin. “But I have a duty to the children of this school, and I will not forsake it like you have been doing.”

“Harry…” Dumbledore trails off, his voice shaking for once in all the time Harry’s known him. “My boy, dear boy, I cannot tell you how much I have regretted what your muggle family did to you, but it was for the best. You could not have grown up in the wizarding world, not with Voldemort still alive while everyone thought him dead.”

Harry sighs.

“In the little more than one year I’ve been at Hogwarts, sir, I have managed to find and destroy all but one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes. Please tell me how I have done that when you had ten years to do so.”

The Headmaster looks even more devastated.

Harry feels a bit of guilt, a bit of regret, for the old man. He’s just a man, really, it wasn’t his job to take care of everything before Harry could get to it. But, no. No, that’s not true. Dumbledore made himself the leader of the Light, made himself the Headmaster of a school . He should have protected the children under his care when he became those things. He should have looked after Harry in those ten years he was being abused by his relatives. He should have kept a possessed professor out of Hogwarts at the first sign of trouble, the troll.

He should have actually looked for the Horcruxes like Harry did.

“How did an eleven year old do all of that before you could, sir? I don’t understand it, and I’ve been trying for so long now.”

Dumbledore swallows shakily. He looks properly rattled. There are no twinkles in his eyes, just the hint of tears.

“I’m afraid we might chalk that up to hubris, my boy. I thought I would have longer to prepare you for your fate, to research and collect information on the Horcruxes that the Dark Lord made.” He rubs at his temple and pushes his glasses up to rest across the bridge of his nose once more. “I am old, Harry. I have played people like chess pieces in my own personal game, all for the greater good, and I think… I think that in that process I forgot what I needed to remember.”

“And what’s that, Headmaster?” Ron asks, mouth set in a grim line, eyes hard as he glares at the man in defense of Harry. It warms Harry’s heart. Dumbledore just seems to crumble further.

“Free will is a beautiful thing,” Dumbledore whispers. He sounds old, more his age than Harry can remember him ever sounding. “People are not just the useful skills that I need to win a war. Children are not soldiers.”

Harry watches a tear slip down the old man’s cheek.

“Children are not soldiers,” Harry agrees. “I think that somewhere between the prophecy and the death of my parents, you forgot that, didn’t you, sir?”

Dumbledore doesn’t even look surprised that Harry knows about the prophecy. (In truth, Harry is guessing. The only reason he could come up with that Voldemort would come for him as a baby was a predestined proclamation, real or fake. Dumbledore’s lack of shock to the word only confirms Harry’s theory).

“I think I did, Harry.” The Headmaster sighs, low and weary. “I think I did.”

Harry lets him sit with that realization for a bit, then makes a split second decision. He’s been honest so far, can it hurt any more?

“I can’t give you back the Elder Wand, sir. I can tell just by holding it that it belongs with me. When I was sorted, the Sorting Hat said something about Death favoring me. I think that’s what it meant, that objects made by Death would cling to me. The ring and cloak certainly do, sir.”

Dumbledore sighs once more, though he gives a strained smile as he stands, brushing his hands on his long, extravagant, bright robes.

“I expected as much, my boy. That’s alright, I have my own wand to use. I have a feeling the Elder Wand was only in my possession briefly so that you could acquire it in our duel.”

He looks almost back to normal, if it weren’t for the tightening around his dull eyes and the croak in his voice. Harry wants to comfort him, but he doesn’t.

“I will see you soon, Harry,” Dumbledore smiles softly. “I have some rethinking to do for the time being, if you will permit me. Goodbye, Harry, farewell, Mr. Weasley.”

He leaves, robes and long, white beard swaying quickly with each step he takes.

“Blimey, mate,” Ron breathes. “You’re a minecart ride to be around, you know? I don’t know how Susan does it. Did you know your Patronus will probably make national news? Luna thinks it’ll hit every newspaper by nightfall in an emergency edition.”

Harry smiles, a weak and growing thing.

“That’ll be fun,” he says. “It’s not like I’ve ever been in the news before, has it?”

Ron snorts. Looks at him with fond eyes, brushes a strand of messy black hair out of his eyes, obviously thinking we need to get that cut soon . It’s so like Ron that Harry wants to cry, wants to sob into his first friend’s arms and never let go of him.

Harry breathes through it and clutches Ron’s hand in his.

No one approaches Harry about his Patronus after his trip to the hospital wing, though Ron is right, it makes national news. No one seems to know what to make of it.

Dumbledore is silent about the whole affair.

He and Harry share an affable nod when they pass each other in the halls or see each other at mealtimes.

Harry has all three items that feel like death, like rot , and he wonders if there are any more.

Winter break approaches, and Harry resigns himself to staying in the castle and helping the homesick students feel more at home.

He’s surprised, though he probably shouldn’t be, when the Weasleys invite him to the Burrow for Christmas and Cedric invites him to his house for Yule. Cedric’s dad isn’t a big fan of Harry’s, he’s not a big fan of anyone but himself really, so Harry politely declines. They agree to meet up on the first of January, all of them.

The Burrow is amazing. Harry’s in awe that the building is even still standing, but he loves the random rooms and the towering, tilted height that make up its structure. Molly Weasley is everything Harry has ever wanted in a mother, if a little overbearing.

The twins delight in showing Harry all their products (they want to start up their own shop, and Harry loves that idea). Ginny blushes and challenges him to a game of Quidditch. Bill greets him with a crooked smile and a clap on the back. Percy, Prefect Percy, watches over his siblings with love, though Harry can see discomfort in his eyes at all the noise and bright colors.

(For Christmas Harry gets the boy powerful wardstones that muffle harsh stimuli. Harry’s had enough problems with loud noises in his life to know what it’s like).

Charlie, one of Ron’s older brothers, works with dragons. Dragons! Harry thinks he’s in love. He asks the man if dragons speak Parseltongue, but he doesn’t know. Harry resolves to find out as soon as he can. Ron just sighs and tells him he isn’t getting anywhere near a dragon if he has anything to say about it.

They go to Diagon Alley on the first of January and meet up with the core group of the brainstorming session. Cedric, Marcus, Susan, Ron, Neville, Hermione, Luna, Fred and George, Cho, Blaise, and Nott. (Draco couldn’t get away from his parents. His father, Lucius, really doesn’t like Harry).

They’re walking down one of the side streets, peering into various windows and pointing at things they like to see.

Harry laughs at one of Cedric’s jokes, watches Cho lean into the boy’s side with a wide grin. They’re cute together. Susan elbows him when she catches him looking, a warm smile on her own face. They share a look, a look that says “we made that happen.” It’s true, Cedric and Cho would never have gotten so close without the ‘little’ (not truly little, it spans almost a quarter of the students now) study group Harry formed to find answers to his Horcrux problem.

Ron and Hermione bicker on Harry’s other side, Neville joining in every few minutes or so to give his own teasing remarks.

Harry’s happy.

“ Avada Kedavra! ”

Oh. It happens so quickly. A flash of green light. Two words. Shouted with so much hate and malice that even without the spell Harry’s heart would have stuttered and stopped. He feels like Dudley just punched him in the stomach with all of his strength.

As it is, he barely sees the face of his attacker before his eyes flutter closed. He’s falling, falling, falling . He hits the ground, but it’s not the uneven cobblestone of Diagon Alley.

He opens his eyes to a white, milky space. He swallows, which is weird ‘cause he can’t feel his body. Does he have a body? He doesn’t think he does. All he can see is that horrible white that’s making his eyes hurt. Oh wait, he doesn’t think he has eyes.

Something in his chest relaxes as he gazes up at a dark, flickering shape.

The shape looks vaguely like a person, kind of like a thestral, a mix between the two. Shadows fold over themselves to form pockets of void-like space, darker than the darkest black. Harry watches them shift like clouds on a sunny day, drifting ever so slightly to the side. The dark shadows contrast comfortingly with the stark white of the place Harry’s found himself in.

He blinks.

“Am I dead?” He heard the Killing Curse before he fell, before his eyes closed. “Did they get anyone else? Are my friends okay?”

The figure sways slightly to an invisible breeze.

“The curse was aimed at you, child,” they say in a raspy, dragging voice more fitting for screams than this. “No one else was hurt.”

That’s good, Harry thinks. He blinks up at the white, plain sky and sighs.

“I knew I would go out like this,” he mumbles, “when I least expected it. Susan calls it my Potter Luck.”

The figure breathes out a shrieking sort of sound that Harry thinks could be a laugh. Where he thinks he should shiver and shudder in horror at the sound, instead he relaxes further into the flat, white floor.

He realizes this figure hasn’t answered his first question.

He asks it again, “Am I dead?”

The being sighs.

“That is yet to be seen.”

Harry bites his lip, tries to look where the figure’s face should be but finds his eyes shifting to the side.

“Is the Horcrux dead?” It makes sense, it’s the only way they came up with to truly get rid of the soul shard.

“Yes.”

Harry breathes a sigh of relief. His head falls back to hit the ground, and his eyes close. That’s good, that’s… that’s good. That means Voldemort won’t have Harry tethering him to the land of the living.

“Is he still out there? His wraith?”

He would hate himself if he left his friends behind in a world with Voldemort still in it, though he doesn’t suppose he has much choice in the matter. He could always come back as a ghost, but that’s not very plausible. Besides, it’s not like it’s his fault he died. Hopefully.

“That is yet to be seen.”

Harry wants to cry.

“What can I do to keep him dead, all of him?”

The being sighs, a harrowing sound like wind sweeping through the rotted remains of an old, wooden house. Harry almost smiles at that, if it weren’t for the solemnity of the situation, it reminds him of the Shrieking Shack on the border of Hogwarts’ wardline.

Harry opens his eyes when an answer doesn’t come. The figure has reached out a hand for Harry to take, probably to get him off the floor. He takes it.

It’s odd standing in this white space, there are no landmarks to help him orient himself against the dizzying vastness, only the fluttering shadows of this figure. Harry licks his lips and sways on his feet, staring at the figure through the rush of nausea that comes up.

“Will you help me, child?” the being asks. It has no mouth, no face, no matter how much Harry looks for one.

“Who are you?”

It’s a weird sensation to feel someone smiling at him without actually seeing it or hearing it in a voice. He doesn’t know how he knows that this figure is smiling, but he does.

“I am Death,” it says in a voice that clicks like grinding gears. “I am the end of the line, what comes for everything in the end, the void, the night. I am all this and more. Will you help me finally take Tom Riddle, child? He has been going on too long, has been avoiding me for years. No one can outrun Death, not even a so-called Dark Lord.”

Harry never expected Death to be so long-winded.

“I’ll help,” he says. He doesn’t even need to think about it, of course he’ll help. His whole life has been leading up to this (Harry hates that, but it’s true). There’s no other answer he can give.

“Thank you, Master.”

What? Harry blinks, shaking his head.

“What does that mean?”

There’s that eerie feeling of Death smiling again, then, “You have collected all my Hallows, child, which makes you my Master, the Master of Death. Don’t get confused, you cannot order me to do something that goes against my nature, but you are to be my mortal representation in the world of the living.”

“But I’m dead,” Harry says. He passes over the other things without comment, he doesn’t want to think of them too hard. (He might have a habit of not acknowledging things that are important in the large scheme of things until they’re too late).

“That remains to be seen,” Death chuckles, the sweeping wind once more.

Harry sighs. Death isn’t very good at answering questions so far. He has so many questions, so many things he can ask, but he has a feeling Death won’t answer any of them without copious amounts of ambiguity.

“How can I help?” he asks instead.

“Tom Riddle’s soul is in pieces,” Death says. “The pieces have been destroyed, yes, but they are still in pieces in the realm of the In Between. They cannot pass over while separated. I cannot sew them back together without the help of my Master, my connection to the In Between and the Day, Eos, Ushas, Pangu, Phanes, Ra, the Fifth Sun, Tonacacihuatl, also known as the living world.”

That’s an infodump of names. Harry thinks he recognizes some of them as gods and goddesses, but he’s not sure about the rest.

“But how do I reunite them, sew them back together? Do I have to find them?”

Death shakes what would be its head.

“No, I will do that. I have enough control over the In Between to do at least that. Your job will be to bring them together. Can you do that, my Master?”

Harry swallows.

“I can try.”

“Good, very good. I have chosen a good master indeed,” Death muses.

Wait, chosen?

“You chose me? Is that why I felt the pull to those things that felt like death?”

There’s the weirdest feeling that Death is proud of him.

“Yes, I chose you from birth. I choose you in every possible reality. I will choose you when I can. You are my Master, Harry James Potter, even when you are not born as Harry James Potter.”

Well that clears up nothing. Okay, that’s fine. Harry can work with this.

“Where are Voldemort’s soul pieces right now?”

“I will fetch them for you, child.”

Death waves what might be a hand, with long, thin tendrils of shadowy fingers. The white of the In Between, because that has to be where they are, shivers at the motion like ripples of a disturbed lake.

Six shadows start to form in the air in front of Harry. They seem to struggle, writhing until they come into view as screaming, elongated faces not unsimilar to Voldemort’s wraith.

“And the wraith,” Death says, splaying out its fingers, palm facing upwards. “Here is our dear Tom Riddle.”

The wraith from Quirrell flares into existence, screaming, shrieking, tearing itself in two. It’s weak, fading, and Harry feels a horrible sympathy for the torn soul. He shoves it back down as he remembers what this man did to his parents, to his own soul. Who can tear their own soul to shred without any remorse?

“What do I do with them?” Harry asks, eyes fixed on the main wraith. (He wants to destroy them for good, but he knows he needs to save them deep in his heart).

Death says nothing.

Okay. That’s fine, that just means Harry has to solve this on his own. He hasn’t done something by himself since he got to Hogwarts, but that’s okay. He can do this.

He approaches one of the Horcrux shadows. Chills run down his spine as he gets closer, his skin prickling, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. It feels like he’s approaching a predator. He wonders why it feels like this when in the living world he never felt this way around any of the Horcruxes.

What does he have to do? He has to put the pieces back together. How does he do that? He doesn’t know. He could physically force them together, or wish them to fuse again, or something .

He grits his teeth and forces his hand into the nearest Horcrux. It feels like ice against his skin, but his hand doesn’t go through it all the way, just a little, like Quirrell’s wraith. He tests out a theory and shoves the Horcrux towards its other parts.

It jolts unsteadily, like it’s relearning how to exist in a physical form. Harry thinks he knows what that feels like. (He looks down and sees he has a body now, and the thought that it’s not his real body, that his real body is lying dead in Diagon Alley, makes him want to throw up).

The Horcrux knocks into its neighbor and shudders again at the contact. Harry watches with bated breath as the two hum and inch towards each other.

There. The two fuse with another bump from Harry’s determined, chilled hand.

Okay, now to do that with all the others.

The six Horcruxes merge into one shadowy soul, screaming its heart out. Harry winces as the sound starts to grate at his ears. It’s not too loud, just a shrill whining that reminds Harry of Aunt Petunia’s broken television from the summer of ‘89. That static sound wouldn’t leave his head for days after it got stuck like that.

Now to deal with the wraith. Harry turns to face Death and eyes the screaming soul held in its palm.

He wraps his fingers around the large, writhing mass of Horcrux and drags it over to Death. He stands in front of the being and takes a shaky breath. This is it. Either it works and Voldemort is gone for good, or Voldemort goes back to the land of the living and kills all the people Harry cares about.

Or maybe this whole thing has been a hallucination, or Harry’s own personal Hell, and nothing he can do will save his friends and family.

He hopes that’s not the case.

Harry exhales slowly and clutches tighter at the bundle of Horcrux. He takes a step forward, dragging it closer to the wraith Death holds. (He wonders if he has the strength to do this, the strength to kill a man).

All it takes is one good shove, and the Horcrux is forced inside of the wraith, uniting Tom Riddle’s soul one and for all.

Tom Riddle, Voldemort, dies screaming.

Harry smells burning, though he knows it’s only his imagination. His hands prickle from the cold of the spirits, but he swears he can feel the fire of Voldemort’s burning wraith on his skin. Any moment now, his body tells him, he’ll wake up in the hospital wing to see a very worried Ron Weasley and Susan Bones.

But that’s not what happens. There’s no fire on his skin, no ash to smell in the air and burn itself into his nose.

He watches the wraith dissipate with empathetic eyes.

Death sighs when the soul is fully gone. It seems tired, like a great burden has been lifted from its primordial shoulders. Harry wants to console it, tell it that Voldemort is finally gone, but he doesn’t have it in him.

“Is he gone now, Death?” He’s not sure he wants to hear the answer.

“Yes, child. Tom Riddle is gone. He will not be coming back if I have anything to say about it now that he is in my realm of control.”

“That’s good.” Harry looks down at his feet. He’s barefoot, which is odd, but he guesses he doesn’t need shoes in the In Between.

“Master,” Death says, and Harry swears it sounds hesitant. “You will forever have my gratitude. Tom Riddle was the itch that I could never scratch, and because of your actions I can finally take solace in his end.”

Harry sighs. He looks up to meet what would be Death’s eyes, twin pits of never-ending despair that automatically relax Harry’s shoulder in recognition and familiarity.

“I’m tired,” he says. He doesn’t know why he says it, but he does. Uniting Voldemort’s soul has taken more out of him than he expected, especially since he’s supposed to be dead, getting hit by the Killing Curse and all. (For the second time in his life).

“I know, sweet child,” Death coos, the sound of ruffling feathers and a hurricane whipping through trees. “And I can let you rest in my realm, or I can offer you peace where you wish to stay.”

“What? What does that mean?” Harry narrows his eyes. Why can’t Death just give him a solid answer?

“Do you wish to return to your friends, your family, your Hogwarts? I can give you this, dear Master, but you have to want it, you have to wish it with all your heart. If you are truly tired and wish to move on, I will not blame you. Fate and Chance have put you through so much in your too-short lifetime. I will honor your choice, child.”

Really? Is Harry hearing this primordial being right?

“Why?”

Death sighs, the death rattle of a dying man. It’s comforting.

“Because despite the weight we have put on your shoulders, you are still a child, Master. You deserve to be happy, and I do not think you will be happy in my realm without those you consider family.”

Death tilts its head, peering down at him.

“You need to protect people, Harry James Potter, and you can best follow this purpose while alive. You are needed in Hogwarts. Even Fate recognises this, though Chance may throw a wrench in Fate’s plans, as always.”

It’s too much, this talk of concepts like they’re gods. Harry puts his head in his hands, rubs his palms against his cheeks, drags them against his eyelids.

“I want to live,” Harry says with finality. “I don’t care about anything else. I want to go back to Eos, Day, whatever you call it, and I want to keep my friends alive. I don’t want any other kid to go through what I had to go through, and that means I have to go back. Can you make that happen?”

Death smiles , and this time Harry does shiver. He swears he can see its teeth, sharp like daggers, digging into unsuspecting flesh.

“Your wish is my command, Master.”

Just like it started, it ends.

Harry wakes up as he falls. His eyes flutter open just as they’ve closed. He feels weightless for a moment, but then he hits the cobblestone pathway with his back with full force. He grunts, air leaving his chest.

There’s screaming around him, high-pitched shrieking that sounds so different from the sound in the In Between that he forces open his eyes and peers around his weak body. He’s laying on the ground, in between legs of posturing wizards with wands waved and faces harsh with lines of anger and fear.

He glances up to see his would-be attacker restrained by at least three spells, all overlapping and creating a tortuous experience for the receiver.

Cedric stands between Harry and the threat, Marcus and Cho at either side of him. They look fierce like this, war ready. Harry had hoped to never see his friends like this, but he’s glad it’s the older ones if it has to be any of them.

“Ron,” Harry croaks, ignoring the wide eyes of the people near his face, “help me up. Now.”

Various hands pull him upwards until he stands behind a frozen Cedric. The boy, more a teenager now really, stares at him with fear in his eyes, and something in Harry whimpers and keens. He knows why his friends are looking at him like he’s a stranger, but he can’t address it right now.

A mess of a man suspended with vines and chains shivers in fear as Harry stares him down. Harry doesn’t recognise him, but that doesn’t mean he’s not an enemy.

“Hello, there,” Harry says, only balancing on his weak legs with Marcus' arm around his back. “Who are you, then?”

The man shakes. Spit dribbles down his face, making Harry grimace in disgust.

“Anybody know who this is?” he asks the general crowd that has gathered around him, though most have backed away from him in fear.

A voice pipes up from the back of the crowd, “That’s Peter Pettigrew, Mr. Potter. He was a friend of your father’s. I would recognise that wand-hand anywhere.”

Harry sees Garrick Ollivander make his way through the crowd. He trusts the man not to lie to his face, though he’s an odd man who says way too much to vulnerable children. Harry hesitates before nodding.

“Can anyone else back that up?” He can’t just blindly trust anymore, especially not now that he’s been hit with the Killing Curse twice now.

“I can,” Marcus grunts. “I’ve seen pictures of him with your father. When I made the Quidditch team, I did a deep dive into previous team members and their strategies. James Potter and his friends were well-photographed back in his day.”

Harry scowls, eyes fixed back on the short, pudgy man literally shaking with fear.

“He was friends with my father? And he just shot a Killing Curse into my chest?”

“Yes,” a familiar voice drawls. Snape shoulders his way into the center of the crowd, a feral sneer on his face like Harry’s never seen before. “What makes this more interesting is that Peter Pettigrew is supposed to be dead, killed eleven year ago by the man who betrayed your parents’ location to the Dark Lord and blew up an entire city street in Muggle London.”

Pettigrew, if that is who this is, shrinks back even more at being confronted by Professor Snape.

Harry sees it happen before it does, a twinge in his magic letting him know right before Pettigrew’s form starts to shift and twist into a shape decidedly not human.

Harry throws out his wand with a sneer, snarling a Stupefy! right as Pettigrew turns into a brown rat, a very familiar brown rat. The spell hits him in the chest, such a small target that Harry can’t believe he actually hit it, and the rat slumps to the ground in a lump that has Ron sagging into Hermione’s side.

“That’s Scabbers,” he cries, face flushed and eyes wide. “That’s my rat, that’s Scabbers. I- I was wondering where he went, when Harry rebooted the wards he disappeared, but that’s him! Oh Merlin, my rat was a man. I think I’m gonna throw up.”

A careless wave of Snape’s wand conjures a bucket for Ron to hold under his chin. Hermione and Neville bookend him with protective expressions.

“ Wingardium Leviosa, ” Harry mutters, levitating the rat closer so that he can see the missing finger on its small frame. “That’s Scabbers.”

Professor Snape practically snarls. He conjures his Patronus with a flick of his wand and whispers softly to it, doing this two more times. The Patroni set off in different directions, rushing at their caster’s orders.

The sharp crack of Apparition makes Harry jump, his control over the floating form of Scabbers faltering.

Another spell catches the rat before he can hit the ground. Oh, thank Merlin. Amelia Bones steps into the clearing, face stern and unyielding. Harry collapses fully into Marcus’ grip, letting the burly sixth year take all of his weight. Susan holds his hand not gripping the Elder Wand.

Madame Bones regards the rat with distaste.

“Severus,” she says, glancing towards the professor. “I got your message. Moody and his apprentice are on their way with a cage for the Animagus.”

Three more cracks of Apparition. This time a man with a peg leg and a moving eye, a witch with vibrant pink hair, and Dumbledore himself. The first of the three, the man who Harry assumes to be “Moody” due to his age and scars, carries a clearly warded cage just big enough for a rat.

Amelia floats Scabbers into the cage and physically dusts off her hands like she’s touched something disgusting.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore starts, face stern and worried (real worry in his non-sparkling eyes), “are you alright? I came as soon as I could.”

Harry lifts his head to look around himself, leaning the rest of his weight on Marcus and Susan. The regular people of Diagon are still looking at him like he’s come back from the dead, and he guesses he has.

“I’m okay,” he says. “But someone should really do a study on how surviving two Killing Curses affects a body.”

Dumbledore gapes, before his gaze flicks down to the Elder Wand with a flicker of recognition. The man school’s his expression before anyone else can see it, nodding and watching him with worried eyes.

“Severus,” he says, “get young Harry to a healer, quick as you can. We will take care of the Pettigrew situation.”

Snape nods sharply then rounds on his heel to put all of his students in his sight. He seems to count them all before sighing and motioning with his wand for all of them to move closer together.

“I will use an emergency portkey to St. Mungo’s,” he mutters. “Everyone will hold on or will have to arrange their own way of traveling. Somebody make sure Mr. Potter’s hand is on the portkey when I activate it, there is no room for error.”

Susan helps him hold onto the disc that Snape enlarged from his robes. Harry’s eyes are slipping shut now that the danger’s passed. His mind is settling down.

He feels the horrible feeling of being pulled through a tube and squeezed out like toothpaste, and everything finally goes black. (He hates the amount of times he’s passed out in his lifetime, it’s way too many times).

When he wakes up, when he comes to in a hospital he's never seen before (he's never been to a hospital, he thinks), a sorrowful Albus Dumbledore explains with great difficulty the betrayal of James and Lily Potter.

He learns of a man named Sirius Black who the Ministry has taken out of Azkaban and is getting the best medical care possible. A man who was supposed to be Harry’s Godfather, a man that was illegally convicted without trial.

Harry’s magic lashes out when he hears this, stronger than it has since the Dursleys locked him in his cupboard for four weeks straight. (His cupboard smelled horrible with things he didn't want to think about, he was emaciated and his skin was almost translucent when they finally let him out, they fed him crackers and stale bread when they could be bothered to).

Ron and Marcus stay at his side through it all, calming stray tendrils of magic and holding his hands to keep him together.

Peter Pettigrew, also known as Scabbers, has been fed Veritaserum by the Ministry and has given testimony that implicates himself as a Death Eater and makes clear the innocence of Sirius Black.

Amelia Bones heads the investigation. She escorted Sirius personally from his cell in Azkaban to St. Mungo’s. Susan hasn’t left her aunt’s side.

(Everybody wants to know how Harry survived the Killing Curse a second time. Harry doesn’t have a good answer for them).

Harry’s scared.

Things are changing so quickly. He wants to floo back to Hogwarts and hide in the Come and Go Room. Hogwarts always knows what to do to calm him down.

He asks Dumbledore to take him back, but the Headmaster shakes his head sadly.

“You need to be monitored closely, my boy. Surviving one blow of the Killing Curse is unheard of, let alone two. When the healers clear you you may go wherever you like, but, until then, please let the very capable healers watch over you.”

Harry grits his teeth and lets it happen.

Ron tells him he’s only been out for a few hours. (Harry is privately amazed that the Ministry has gotten so much done in so little time, they’ve never worked this hard for anything before from what Harry’s read).

Harry licks his lips and clenches his jaw, fingers tightening around the Elder Wand he hasn’t let go of since the attack started.

“I met Death,” he says to nobody in particular. His friends are crowded around him, all touching him in some way as he lays in his hospital bed. He sinks into their touches eagerly. “It’s kind of terrifying, but in a comforting way.”

His friends watch him with wide eyes, but he only laughs and leans into Marcus’ heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Seriously,” he says, grinning. “Death looks kind of like a thestral.”

“He’s finally cracked,” Fred sighs mock-sadly.

George nods, holding a fake hat to his chest in grief, “Our poor Harrykins, the Killing Curses got to him in the end.”

“Idiots,” Harry shakes his head. His heart flutters with joy even as he turns the conversation into something more serious. “It instructed me on how to reunite Voldemort’s soul in the In Between, the place between life and death. I molded his soul back together and pushed him into Death’s realm.”

He bites his lip, looks up at the ceiling.

“I killed him,” he admits. “By pulling him back together, I killed a man. And the thing is… I don’t feel sorry.”

He glances around, meeting each of his friends’ eyes.

“I mean, I hate that I had to do it, I hate that he became who he was, sure, but I don’t regret pushing him into death.” He swallows hard. “He did that to himself when he cut himself up, all I did was make him whole again, right? I just, I keep thinking about it, and I can only feel sadness that he became what he was and relief that he’s gone.”

Ron tightens his grip on Harry’s hand. His expression is serious, solemn.

“That’s okay,” he assures. His eyes hold Harry’s as tightly as his hand holds Harry’s own. “It’s okay, Harry. It’s not your fault he did what he did. It’s okay.”

Harry takes a shaky breath. His eyes burn.

His friends all chime in with similar sentiments, crowding in closer to help him breathe. (Maybe it’s because of the cupboard, the trauma, but Harry’s always breathed better in tight spaces, with people he loves around him. He relies on this at Hogwarts, with all the stone walls and small spaces perfect to hide in).

Tears finally fall, but Harry thinks he’s gonna be alright.

He can be a kid again with his friends by his side, and if he plays his cards right, he might get a Godfather out of this horrible situation. (He really hopes Sirius can get healthy soon. Harry needs a sane adult in his life that isn’t a professor or a Ministry official).

All for One, One for All - Singing_Siren - Harry Potter (2024)