The marble was cold against his cheek.
He was writhing, muscles burning at the strain.
Fingers gnarled, his nails chipping as he grasped at the floor.
Spittle covered his cheeks as he thrashed.
His eyes rolled back, losing vision.
He heard screaming.
His own voice, distant and wrong.
The world narrowed as he felt a spike of ice in the back of his head.
Figures loomed above.
Their stony faces staring down.
Witch.
Wizard.
Centaur.
Goblin.
House-elf.
Watching. Unmoved. Uncaring.
Red eyes opened in the darkness of his mind. A voice that wasn't his, coiling through his thoughts like smoke.
You are mine.
His vision was pinpricks of light drowning in shadow.
No one heard.
No one saw.
No one came.
The Dark Lord was right there, right inside him, and no one lifted their wands.
He was locked away in the cupboard. Forgotten.
Again.
Even after all this time?
Always.
alone
Just over there.
Prone before the feet of the towering, gilded figures of the Fountain of Magical Brethren.
They hadn’t protected him. Hadn’t offered any help. Hadn’t even seen what was staring them in the face the whole time.
The statues hadn’t noticed either.
“Excuse me.”
The voice was close and impatient.
He blinked. His fists were balled and his jaw clenched. When had he—
A wizard in navy robes squeezed past, elbow jostling him as they went by. A current of bodies flowed around his unmoving form.
He was in the atrium. In 1972.
The fountain stood, not yet marred by the battle. Water spurted from the witch’s wand, a gentle burble was produced as it fell into the fountain. The golden statues gleamed under soft light.
Twenty-four years from now, it hadn’t been so. He’d be possessed by Voldemort on these very stones.
He swallowed. His fingernails had bitten into his palms.
That was history, not the future. He wouldn’t let it happen again. Not to him. Not to Neville. Not to some other sod unlucky enough to be born as the seventh month dies.
Which is why he was here.
With a slow breath, he walked down the vaulted archways. The Ministry was dominated by polished black marble. Towering golden effigies of the Wizengamot’s founding patriarchs lined the vast hall, their solemn faces eternally grave.
The heart of Britain’s government was alive. Witches and wizards hurried past, robes swirling, voices echoing off the stone, discordant. Nearby, an elderly wizard was clutching onto a letter that was trying to squirm out of his grip. A young clerk strained to push a trolley of ledgers stacked far above his head, sweat beading at his brow. Likely all to do with cauldron thickness, if he were to hazard a guess.
Some things never changed.
He approached the security checkpoint, entrenched behind a bulwark of dark mahogany. The wall anchoring the guard post was covered in a patchwork of mismatched drawers. A tired-looking official in wrinkled robes glanced up from his desk, adjusting his windsor glasses to peer at him.
“Name and purpose of your visit.” Seemed bored. Fair enough, seemed boring, too.
Harry pasted on a pleasant smile. Be the change you want to see, and all that.
“Halloway. For the House Peverell confirmation hearing.”
The pages of a thick registry began turning in response. Once it stopped, the clerk inspected the page, pausing for a moment. He glanced up at him again, before looking back down to the page and scribbling something onto it.
“Very good, sir.” He gestured toward the main concourse. “Head up to level seven. An escort should be awaiting your arrival.”
“Cheers.”
The lifts stood behind wrought-iron gates, brass gears exposed and polished to a dull shine.
The doors opened, and he stepped in. The sound of fluttering paper wings filled the enclosed space, echoing from the clerestory above, where the bird-like memos danced in lazy circles.
The lift gave a low shudder, gears groaning as it ascended. They rose. Then stopped on the second floor. Birds in, birds out. Then the third. By the time he arrived at the seventh floor, he was pondering the Flock of Theseus.
He took a deep breath and stepped off the lift.
This would be a rather different kind of hearing to the one he’d last attended.
He had a Wizengamot seat with his name on it.
·
He sat.
The door he’d walked through silently swung shut, closing with a solid clink.
Gold veined black Portoro marble covered the walls and held up the room with broad columns. Concentric circles of terracotta and black ornamented the floor. Dark walnut benches were arranged in a semicircle in the centre of the room. Five figures were seated around it, carved sigils announcing their houses and positions.
His hand went to the mokeskin pouch at his waist. The stone was still there. The key. The grimoire. Everything he’d need.
He approached the bench that had been designated for the claimant and took a seat under the eyes of the committee members.
He looked up. His eyes were immediately drawn to the lean figure at the centre. He was draped in deep indigo robes, and a tasselled hat threaded with platinum filigree rested atop his head. Silver hair cascaded down, joining the waterfall of a beard that fell from his face. Half-moon spectacles perched low on a long, crooked nose. Blue eyes peered down over the lenses.
Albus Dumbledore, the man with too many titles.
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Grand Sorcerer.
Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.
Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.
He looked down at him, undiminished. He was still the towering figure bearing the weight of the world. The one he’d read about on a Chocolate Frog card, what felt like a lifetime ago.
Looked better than the last time he’d seen him.
A titan, brought to his knees.
A boy who couldn't kill.
A man who kept his vow.
A flash of green.
A fall.
A broken body.
The only man Voldemort had ever feared, in the flesh.
Long time, no see, Professor.
Dumbledore’s was one of five votes. He’d be needing that one. To his right was a face Harry recognized immediately. Black hair gone more salt than pepper, swept back from a high brow. A full beard, neatly trimmed. He'd seen the man’s portrait at Grimmauld Place a hundred times, hung in the entrance hall. Until the night Sirius danced around the thing with a torch, cackling. His godfather had gone a bit overboard that summer. Suppose isolation’ll do that to a sane man, and Sirius, well…
Arcturus Black. The current patriarch of House Black.
Sirius' grandfather.
The resemblance was there, though not in the man’s energy. Arcturus sat perfectly still, eyes boring holes through Harry’s skull, weighing and measuring him. He had seen that intensity in Sirius eyes twice. On the night he’d gone to confront the man who’d betrayed his parents, and again on the night Sirius had arrived to save him from his own idiocy.
Harry's chest tightened. This was a stranger. Not Sirius. Would never be Sirius. But the recognition pulled at him anyway.
Bastard. Bloody fool.
Everything you touch turns to dust. Everyone you love—
And you just keep on.
He bit his cheek.
Weeks ago, he'd stood invisible in Cygnus and Druella's sitting room, listening to them speak about their daughters. About the war brewing. Sirius had always painted the Blacks in broad strokes: fanatics, blood purists, already lost by the time he was old enough to see it. But Cygnus had worried about his girls. Druella was calculating, yes, but not monstrous. They'd been people. Complex, flawed, real people.
Was Arcturus the same?
Harry couldn't tell yet. The man's gaze remained steady, assessing. Reserved. Nothing in his expression gave anything away. Hard to tell if he had a chance here.
Next to him sat another man whose face stopped Harry cold.
A long, angular face. Thin, wire-framed glasses. Dark chestnut hair that refused to lie flat. No doubt, despite rigorous attempts at taming it.
He saw those features in the mirror every morning.
Had to be Charlus Potter, his great-uncle.
The man was studying him with the same quiet intensity Arcturus had shown, but there was a different emotion beneath it, shown through the lines across his face. A look of recognition. Must be he sees the resemblance.
He’d never seen the man’s portrait hung on the mantle, nor any other Potter’s, for that matter. There’d been no one left to hang them. Those faces he should have seen at Christmas dinners, arguing Quidditch standings and long held grudges, sending him birthday gifts and helping him skive off homework.
What could’ve been; in a better timeline.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Could be he’d wrest the flow of what-was-to-come down another channel.
Could be another Harry Potter would grow up, belonging. Wanted. Seen.
Could be…
And it’d be a damn sight easier if he could count on the geezer’s vote.
To Dumbledore's left sat a man whose hands lay flat on the table, fingers aligned. Dark hair parted straight down the middle. He couldn't see a single strand out of place. The man had a toothbrush moustache, trimmed close. He sat back straight, shoulders squared. He wasn't leaning forward like the others or settling into his chair. Just sitting there, perfectly upright, perfectly still, almost like he had a broom handle stuck up his arse.
He knew that face, he was sure of it. He’d seen it somewhere.
Oh. The memory came to him. A memory of a memory, conveniently left in Dumbledore’s Pensieve for an overly curious boy to stumble upon.
Barty Crouch Sr.
That confirmed the broom handle theory.
The war would make him a hero. The most effective hardliner against the Death Eaters. He’d authorized the Killing Curse in self-defense. Then, the Torture Curse to extract ‘time-sensitive information’ from detainees. Then, finally, Imperius to be used to set up ambushes.
A hero.
One who’d sent Sirius to Azkaban without a trial, without a hearing, without a second thought. One who’d been unaware while his own son was radicalized beneath his roof. Who kept that son trapped in his own mind for over a decade.
Harry looked at the man across from him. Every button done up. Every hair in place. So desperate to hold onto control. So unaware that the tighter he grasped, the more events would slip through his fingers like sand.
Crouch’s gaze was uncomfortable. Like he saw him as a yob, not a potential peer.
Not a vote he’d be counting on.
Next to Crouch sat the last man. Pale blond hair fell past his shoulders. High cheekbones, sharp features. Eyes too large for his face—pale blue, unfocused. Like he was looking through Harry instead of at him. His head tilted to one side. A small smile.
Bloody hell.
That man was a Lovegood, or he’d binge a box of Bertie Botts. That was Luna's face, forty years older and male. The same bones, the same dreamy expression that made them seem not all there.
Archimedes Lovegood. Or ‘Grandpa Archie,’ as Luna called him.
Could do with a friend like Luna about, just now. She always came through, whether you wanted her to or not. Wonder how her expedition was going. She’d taken some boy with her on the Third Great Snorkack Hunt up in the Sami held lands. Imagine she’d find the whole temporal displacement a marvellous adventure.
Harry caught himself before he could smile. Archimedes was watching him with that same placid, searching expression Luna used to wear. Like he could see right through you and found the view fascinating. Hard to tell if that vote would go his way either. The man looked delighted just to be here, like this was all tremendously interesting, regardless of outcome.
Five votes. He’d need three at a minimum.
He felt good about swaying Dumbledore. Might be able to loop Charlus in as well. But the other three were question marks. Nothing for it but to make his case and hope for the best. Not as though he was sunk if it went against him. He’d just have a harder trek ahead.
Dumbledore's voice cut through the chamber, unhurried and resonant. "Mr. Halloway." He let the name echo before continuing. "You stand before this council to petition for the reinstatement of House Peverell to the Wizengamot. A matter of considerable weight."
Harry nodded. Seemed the thing to do.
"For centuries, House Peverell has been absent from these halls. Its name adrift in history, its line believed ended." Dumbledore's gaze swept the room, then settled back on Harry. "Yet history, I find, has a peculiar tendency to repeat itself. Or perhaps, in this case, to reassert what was never truly lost."
Like handing the mic to a theatre kid. The man couldn't help himself.
"It falls to this council," Dumbledore continued, "to assess the validity of your claim and determine whether House Peverell shall take its seat among us once more. The council convenes today with Lords Black, Potter, Lovegood, and Crouch."
At the far end of the chamber, a wizard in plain robes sat hunched over a small desk, quill scratching across parchment.
"The process is as follows." Dumbledore folded his hands atop the table. "You have consented to answer five questions under the influence of Veritaserum. These questions were submitted and approved in advance by all parties present. No other questions will be asked while you are under the potion's effect."
Harry kept his expression neutral. They'd gone back and forth on those questions for days through intermediaries. Grimjaw and Bogrod had been instrumental. Turns out the goblins didn't trust the Ministry’s integrity any more than Harry did. Good job they’d helped him negotiate terms that wouldn't leave him completely exposed. Five questions, all agreed upon, no surprises. No problem.
"Each Lord shall pose one question," Dumbledore said. "Lord Black, Lord Potter, Lord Lovegood, and Lord Crouch will each ask their agreed-upon question in turn. I, as Chief Warlock, shall pose the fifth. We do so on our honour and our oaths to this body."
One by one, the four men placed their wands over their hearts. Charlus moved first, steady and solemn. Arcturus followed, his expression unreadable. Archimedes smiled that dreamy smile as he did it, like he was participating in some lovely ritual. Crouch's movement was precise, controlled, his face set.
"On my honour," Charlus said quietly.
"On my honour," Arcturus echoed.
"On my honour," Archimedes murmured, still smiling.
"On my honour," Crouch said, clipped and final.
Dumbledore inclined his head. "Then let us begin."
A small vial sat on the table before Harry. Clear glass, three drops of colourless liquid inside. Veritaserum.
He'd been under its influence before. Fifth year, in a nightmare where Umbridge had actually gotten her hands on it. Snape had slipped him the antidote afterward, furious that she'd even tried. Harry knew what it felt like; The way the world went soft at the edges, the way his tongue loosened, the way thoughts surfaced without his permission.
Yes, he knew how it felt.
It compelled you to answer direct questions. Kept you from speaking falsely. But if the question was poorly phrased? Not his problem.
I must not tell lies.
He picked up the vial. The five men watched him.
Harry tilted the vial back and drank.
The room stretched
Out Inward ward
Fog
d
e
s
c
e
n
d
e
d
Thought
S L O W E D
hiS moutH waS cottoN
Tongue Turned To Rubber
the fugue took hold
“Are you descended of the Peverell line?”
Harry flickered
Out then in
An outsider
“Yes.”
Impostor.
“Were you born as the rightful heir to your line?”
Time moved. He did not.
“Yes.”
Illegitimate.
“Can you produce genuine ancestral artefacts to support your claim?”
Dead. Alive. Neither. Both.
“Yes.”
Thief.
“Do you intend to use this seat in service of wizarding Britain?”
An eternity passed. It took just a moment
“Yes.”
Alone.
“Were you recognized by your family as the child of the prophecy?”
The wheel turned. A full revolution. Again. Again.
“Yes.”
Inevitable.
|
|
drip
|
|
|
|
drip
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
drip
Awareness snapped back into place as the final drop hit his tongue.
He grinned.
Every answer true. Not a one honest.
Fortunate they hadn't thought to account for temporal displacement when drafting those questions. Never let a little thing like the truth get in the way, he always said.
Five faces looked down at him. Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. Archimedes's eyes had gone wider. Even Crouch’s ever pinched expression had somehow changed. Almost looked not to be carved of stone.
He straightened in his chair as Dumbledore spoke. "Let us move on to examining what evidence you’ve brought to support your claim. What do you offer?"
Harry reached into his mokeskin pouch, retrieving a pair of white cotton gloves. He pulled them on slowly, then withdrew the book and placed it on the table. "First, my family's copy of the Peverell Grimoire. Time's taken a toll, but we've managed to preserve it. Well, most of it."
The dragon leather cover was worn, pages clearly missing. The spine bore no title, but the sigil pressed deep into the leather made its significance plain. The Deathly Hallows.
The Lords rose and approached. Dumbledore conjured a pair of gloves and lifted the cover with care. The parchment inside had yellowed but remained intact, ink dark and unfaded. He turned one page slowly. Then another. Each page earned a long pause.
Crouch spoke first. "This is no script I know of."
"I'd imagine not, Barty." Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles, peering down. "It appears to be Old Ogham. Rarely seen in bound works. It is primarily found on stone inscriptions around the Irish Sea." He stroked his beard. "I must admit, my own knowledge of the language is somewhat limited. I believe you may be more familiar, Archimedes?"
Archimedes Lovegood leaned in, wide, owlish eyes poring over the page.
"Oh, yes. It seems to contain some rather novel techniques for binding enchantments to objects." A dotty smile wandered across his face. "As you may know, we Questers have long theorized the Peverells created the Hallows themselves. This may be the closest thing to proof we've yet seen."
Wonder if he's ever seen a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.
The eager Quester was picking up steam. "Why, this might support Fawley's Third Conjecture—"
Arcturus cut in. "Yes, yes. We've all read your pamphlets."
That drew Archimedes' attention, his smile growing brighter. "My word! Truly, Arcturus? I'm ever so pleased to have your readership!"
A vein throbbed on Arcturus's neck.
Charlus smoothly interjected, "Well, Albus, is it credible?"
"Without question."
The Lords turned to look at Harry.
Dumbledore's fingers lingered on the grimoire's edge. Seemed he'd convinced the old man. Or nearly, anyway. Archimedes was practically vibrating, probably already imagining what else the book contained, what theories it might support. Could probably count on his support, just so he could earn himself another look through the book. Charlus gave a small nod. Hard to read what he felt about it. Arcturus's expression hadn't changed in the slightest. The man still seemed to be watching him more than the grimoire. And Crouch… still looked constipated.
Two votes he could count on. One likely. Two question marks.
Not enough.
The next piece of evidence would be the key.
·
He plonked it onto the table.
Charlus reached for it. "May I?"
"By all means. Just mind the teeth."
Charlus grinned and plucked up the key to the Peverell Vault. He turned the mottled iron over in his hand, the edges worn smooth with age. The sigil of House Peverell was etched onto the head of the key. Harry pulled papers from his pocket, passing them to Crouch.
"The writ of vault entitlement."
Just about the tidiest bit of evidence you could ask for. Hard to argue with a bloody vault key, innit? Thank Merlin for Grimjaw and Bogrod greasing the wheels at Gringotts. The Lords conferred quietly. After a moment, Dumbledore straightened. Harry rolled the stone around in his pocket. Time to close the deal.
"We understand you have a final piece of physical evidence to present. A relic of your family?"
Archimedes and Dumbledore leaned forward. Seemed they were quite keen. Even Charlus sat up a bit straighter. Harry smiled and withdrew his hand, fingers closed around the stone.
"Indeed, I do."
Extending his arm, he uncurled his fingers.
A tetrahedron of clear obsidian. Impossibly etched from within. A Line, inside a Circle, inside a Triangle. There was no glowing or pulses. No real sign the thing was anything more than a mundane river stone.
Archimedes gasped, his hand going to his chest, clenching around something hidden beneath his robes. Charlus went very still, while Arcturus and Crouch hardly reacted at all.
But Dumbledore…
The lines of his face deepened. A wet sheen glossed his eyes. Small pools formed at the corners. His hand stopped halfway to the stone. It hung there, quivering. His mouth opened. Shut. Opened again. Nothing came out. He blinked rapidly. His jaw worked.
Everything he’d lost, right there, and he couldn’t even reach out to seize it.
No one moved. No one spoke. Even the scribe's quill had stopped scratching.
"You and your friend searched long and hard for this, Albus. I think you'd best be able to verify its authenticity."
Dumbledore's gaze snapped from the stone to him. His mouth opened slightly. Then his gaze dropped back to the stone.
Harry met his watery gaze. "Turn it three times and think of her," he said softly.
The old man's eyes widened. He'd never seen Dumbledore look like that.
He dropped the stone into the man's open palm.
A gift, long overdue.
Dumbledore glanced from the stone to him.
A deep breath in.
turn
·
turn
· ·
turn
· · ·
A deep breath out.
Dumbledore blinked rapidly, his eyes red rimmed. Slowly, he raised his sleeve and wiped his face, cleaning it. Tears. Snot. A right mess. The most powerful man in the Wizarding World, unravelled by a chat with his sister.
Five men sat and waited in silence. No one spoke a word. No one looked away. And, as a matter of fact, no one saw.
Let him have this.
The old man cleared his throat, seemingly having put himself back together.
“There is one final matter to discuss. You’ve affirmed, under Veritaserum, that you were the subject of a certain prophecy?”
Crouch turned to him. “Before that, Albus, I have a question that’s been nagging at me, if I may?” Dumbledore nodded, seemingly unbothered by the man’s interruption. Crouch’s gaze was intense.
“Why now?”
He met Crouch’s beady little eyes, then turned to Dumbledore and smiled.
“How fortunate, that I can answer both questions at once. Allow me to share the prophecy. It was first spoken in the time of the Three Brothers, and has been passed down to this day through my line.”
Dumbledore nodded agreeably, and Harry cleared his throat, channelling his inner Trelawney:
Two brothers shall fall, while the third walks with Death.
The Hallows shall scatter, their makers forgotten.
The third brother's daughter, last named of his line.
Her bridecloak, a secret to bear.
The world shall burn, a greater good, twisted.
Closer than brothers. A battle, heart-breaking. To the victor, a stick made by Death.
Three years hence, the child arrives—
Bearer of the river's stone; the dead house, resurrected.
And Death's good son shall catch the one who flees her.
Archimedes had leaned so far forward, he risked levitating right out of his seat, his expression rapturous.
Dumbledore sat very still. “I have reason to believe that prophecy.”
Charlus looked winded, one hand trembling slightly where it rested atop the table. He gave a small nod and cleared his throat. “As do I.”
Arcturus and Crouch remained relatively unmoved. Suppose it’d take more than a miracle of magic and impressive sounding bit of hogwash to truly shake those two. They did appear to observe Charlus’ and Dumbledore’s countenance with a bit of concern. Or interest. Hard to tell with purebloods, really.
The stilted silence held for a while longer, then Dumbledore broke it.
“Very well. Then let us proceed with the vote. All in favour of Mr. Halloway’s confirmation?”
The wands went up.
The wands came down.
“Allow me to be the first to formally welcome you back to Wizarding Britain, Lord Peverell.”
