13.Overcast

17th of October, Thursday

His lungs burned with each breath as he moved his weary limbs, which felt stiff and heavy as if made of lead. While Harry jogged every morning, he only pushed himself to the limit every second day, and it was never easy.

It was still dark, with only the barest hint of light peeking from the eastern horizon. Harry didn’t have to light his way since the sky was unblemished by any clouds, and the stars shined brightly, softly illuminating the grass-covered ground below and sparkling like diamonds in the reflection of the silky smooth lake to his right.

As he approached the end of his last lap, Harry steeled himself despite the tiredness and dashed into a mad sprint for the finish line, which was technically just by the three girls waiting for him by an errant pine right next to the lake.

“Morgana’s hat, Potter,” the voice sounded like one of the Carrows, but he was busy heaving heavily and struggling to fight off the exhaustion that weighed upon his limbs as he stopped. He had to keep moving, as the cold, dew-covered grass was not the most pleasant place to rest. “Even Flint doesn’t push the Quidditch team so hard.”

The twins and Lestrange barely ran a third of what he did, albeit slower, but always politely waited for him after they finished, resting from their own runs. It was a small gesture, yet it warmed his chest despite the chilly Scottish air.

All three girls were tightly wrapped in fancy Quidditch training robes to ward off the cold. One of the twins had lit her wand with some modified charm, making it glow softly like a lantern, ruddy light banishing the lingering darkness. As usual, the Slytherin twins were usually expressionless and could look quite eerie with their heterochromatic eyes – both had one green and one blue.

Hestia and Flora weren’t ugly by any standard, especially with their long dark hair, high cheekbones and sharp faces, but they weren’t half as pretty as Juno.

“It does pay off,” Juno murmured, then shook her head. “Let’s go back.”

They were pretty far from the castle, by the eastern side of the lake, where the three girls had tired too much to keep running.

The walk back was slow; Harry was still heaving, and even walking was quite a heavy task. Thankfully, with each slow step, the tension and numbness were slowly bleeding out of him. A hot air charm took care of his damp training clothes, but he’d still have to visit the shower to clean up later.

He idly glanced at Juno. His classmate was fully healed from her brutal ordeal and pushed herself hard. Harry understood Neville’s anger well enough; he couldn’t even begin to imagine how it would feel if Voldemort’s daughter was in school and he had to face her every day. But the outburst of deliberate violence against a girl who had done nothing wrong simply irked him, especially since he had been dragged to officiate. What his former housemate had done was appallingly underhanded, not something Harry ever expected from the usually shy and kind Gryffindor, let alone in the first year. Yet another reminder – this Neville was not his Neville, despite looking almost the same.

Harry still had mixed feelings about Bellatrix’s daughter, but despite everything, the tall, prideful girl was… not unpleasant to hang out with. Always prim, proper, and unfailingly polite, Juno Lestrange was easy on his eyes and fun to duel with. While not as academically focused as Hermione, Bellatrix’s daughter was quite ahead and competing with her kept him sharp, something he sorely needed. Juno had no problems with muggle-borns and got on with Diana well enough, which melted any of his remaining qualms about her.

Going through school again was mind-numbingly dull, although less than he expected. Most teachers were willing to give him advanced tasks and materials – Flitwick and McGonagall seemed the most enthusiastic of them. Quirrell’s classes were a pleasant surprise; the man knew how to teach and did it well. The duelling practice also helped immensely.

Still, a sense of wariness remained deep inside; the distrust towards DADA teachers was something Harry Potter had internalised long ago. But maybe, just maybe, this year would be peaceful and different, or so he hoped.

“Potter,” it was the worried voice of Hestia Carrow, or so he thought, as one of the twins was looking around warily. “Are you sure this path is safe?”

They were walking on a strip of land between the Forbidden Forest and the Great Lake, and the three girls were warily gazing at the ominous treeline that somehow seemed darker.

“As long as we don’t walk into the trees, we should be fine,” Harry said breathlessly, although he was ready to draw his wand immediately. Even if they did enter the forest, the beginning was not too dangerous. “The thestral herd lives around the edges of the forest, chasing away any curious beasts.”

Juno turned to him, curiosity sparkling in her blue eyes, “Thestrals are real?”

“Yeah – huge winged horses, only visible to those who had seen death,” he provided kindly. “I saw the herd frolic around the trees behind Hagrid’s hut one afternoon.”

Much to his amusement, the words made the three girls huddle closer to him, even though he was almost half a head shorter.

As Hagrid would say, and rightfully so in this instance, the thestrals were gentle, misunderstood creatures, but their appearance or magic didn’t do them any favours.

The slow, measured walk had finally chased away the stiff numbness from his exhausted legs, and the pleasant feeling of satisfaction filled his tired body. Despite the difficulty, training was exhilarating, hard to do, but satisfying. It did help that the results were tangible; his stamina had drastically improved after almost three months of consistent, relentless morning runs. And, as that hit wizard guide had promised, his control over the more demanding spells had increased substantially; Harry even suspected that his success with silent casting was owed in part to the runs.

“You seem quite knowledgable,” Flora broke the silence and looked at him curiously. “Kettleburn has us studying flobberworms and pixies in Care of Magical Creatures.”

“I read ahead,” he coughed softly. Harry preferred to avoid lying too much, so he’d skirted around the truth… from a certain point of view. Would anyone even believe him if he told the real story? Not that he had any desire to go and spread it around; the implications weren’t something Harry had any aspiration to delve into.

“I thought you were raised in the muggle world,” the other twin observed, but Juno threw her a sharp glare. “Sorry, that was presumptuous of me – you don’t have to, ah, answer.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind. I am muggle-raised, but that didn’t stop me from reading about magic.” Unless his uncle locked all his books in the cupboard under the stairs. Such things were in the past, but now, Harry would rather die than return to the Dursleys for even a minute more. “How’d you know I was raised in the muggle world?”

Ron had also known the first time, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if his dwelling in Privet Drive was a well-known fact or just something people were vaguely aware of.

“I heard from my father that the ministry had to place your name under an owl ward to prevent you from being flooded with owls and letters,” Flora shuffled uneasily under his gaze. “Preventing anyone from acquiring your exact location along with the less-benevolent mail that might contain nasty surprises.”

Curious, that would explain certain things, yet other questions still remained. “What would happen if someone tried to send me mail?”

“Well, the owl would simply refuse to fly away if the address was not provided by you…”

There was a tinge of embarrassment in Hestia’s reply, breaking their characteristic aloof veneer. Did she try to send him… fan mail?

“Anyway,” Flora coughed. “Do you want to become a hit-wizard after Hogwarts with such dogged training? Or maybe an auror?”

Once upon a time, Harry had said he wanted to become an auror, yet that was not the truth; it was just words spoken because something had to be said. He had no idea what he wanted to do after Hogwarts; heck, he didn’t think he would live to see the day – school was quite a dangerous endeavour, after all, and there were supposed to be a whole seven years of it. The dark lord on the loose didn’t help much, either.

Even now, Harry wasn’t sure he’d live to finish school or what he wanted to do for a living.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted with a shrug. “But being skilled with a wand seems to be mighty useful. What about you three – any plans for after Hogwarts?”

Never again would he be unprepared, Voldemort or not.

“Either a good marriage or a nice cushy job at the ministry,” one of the twins said, making him scratch his head – it was quite… ordinary. Not that there was anything wrong with mundane things.

“What my sister said,” the other one hummed thoughtfully. “But being a curse breaker sounds… interesting.”

If nothing else, at least they knew what they wanted to do, which was far more than could be said about Harry in his third year when he was just studying hard with no particular direction. Not that things were much improved now; his goals were… vague at best. Find the Room of Requirement and the Marauder’s Map, capture Pettigrew, free Sirius, and try to get rid of Voldemort and his Horcruxes in no particular order. Yet, he was making almost no leeway in either of his goals…

With a shake of his head, he glanced curiously at Juno, who had yet to answer his earlier question.

“I want to restore House Black to its previous prestige.” The reply was smooth but without feeling like she had rehearsed it hundreds of times. That said, Bellatrix’s daughter returned to her usual silence, albeit far more thoughtful than before. There was no further elaboration on the exact meaning of restoring prestige and the such, and Harry couldn’t even begin to guess. Pureblood and political things were a headache he tried to stay away from.

Harry’s gaze slid to the Carrow twins, the pair of which bore the same family name as his grandmother. It had taken him some time, but he had managed to research the connection mentioned by Fabian Fawley -Fleamont Potter’s wife, Euphemia, was indeed born to the Carrow family.

To the east, the sky was slowly brightening; he pushed his uncertainty and hesitation away and decided to rip the bandaid off right away.

“Err, Carrow,” both twins whipped their heads towards him at the same time. “Did you know we’re… cousins?”

“Indeed,” they chorused, faces blank. It was creepy when they did that. Whenever Harry saw them at school, they looked like expressionless dolls, and even the other Slytherins seemed wary of the sisters. But after a few days, he could safely say they were ordinary girls who were terrible at expressing their emotions. One of them, probably Hestia, tilted her head at him. “We’re third cousins. You didn’t know?”

“Found out… recently,” the words felt heavy on his tongue.

“Almost all the older families in Wizarding Britain are connected at some point or another,” Juno provided.

“You could’ve been raised together if not for my aunt and uncle,” Flora said, but there was no feeling in her words as if she was stating a simple fact. Harry did remember Alecto and Amycus well enough; they were some of those who had escaped a life sentence in Azkaban, just like Lucius Malfoy.

“What Flora means to say is that we wouldn’t mind helping our little cousin,” Hestia elbowed her sister.

“Thanks,” he smiled at the twins, although a sense of wariness still lingered. The two sisters were Slytherins, and Harry would be a fool not to be cautious. His experience with his other cousin, Dudley, wasn’t stellar by any metric either. Still, a small smidgeon of hope bloomed within him, and an idea began to form in his mind, and he coughed to catch their attention again. “Now that you did mention that, I could use some assistance.”

The twins looked quite intrigued.

“Do tell.”

“I am attempting to find the location of a specific item, but nothing inside the library is particularly helpful,” Harry admitted.

His efforts to find the Marauder’s Map were unsuccessful; all he had was guesses. Objectively, it could still be in the hands of the Weasley twins, but from what Harry heard from the rumour mill, they were stuck in detention far more often than he remembered. Even if that was the case, they might not have always carried the map on their persons. And if Fred and George had never found it, Harry wouldn’t have had an easy time either; Hogwarts was not exactly a small castle. In recent weeks, a new, chilling possibility had begun to worm into his mind – the map might have never been created in this world…

“Why not just summon it?” Flora asked.

“Summoning is not that easy for a first year,” Juno interjected absentmindedly, and Harry couldn’t help but agree – he had tried, and the summoning charm still gave him quite a lot of trouble. “Most important items are enchanted against summoning, and perhaps Potter just wants the location only.”

Harry nodded amiably; those were his other qualms about simply summoning the map, which seemed too risky. Besides, his patience was slowly but surely dwindling – none of the goals he had set for himself were even close to succeeding.

“Finding things and locations falls under divination,” Hestia fiddled with her sleeve. “But from what I’ve heard, Trelawney isn’t much good in that particular aspect of the subject.” His disappointment must have shown on his face because she gave him a reassuring smile. “Fret not, cousin; it will take some time, but we’ll aid you.”

He appreciated how all three seemed curious but were subtle instead of nosy about it.

“Thanks,” Harry found himself feeling uncharacteristically giddy. “You can call me Harry; there’s no need for formalities between friends and family.”

“Only if you call us by our names,” Flora returned with amusement.

Juno threw him a subtle yet questioning glance, to which he nodded after a short moment of hesitation. In the end, his housemate was fine, and he wouldn’t shun her for something as silly as her parents.

However, as they passed by Hagrid’s hut, the door swung open, and the familiar half-giant came out, crossbow clutched tightly in his hand. Behind him followed Fang’s booming barks as the enormous black boarhound showed his head through the opened door.

“What are ‘ye three doin’ here so early? Wait, Harry, is that yeh?”

“Yes, Mr Hagrid,” Harry had to fight to suppress the smile that threatened to split his face. “We’re just coming back from our morning run.”

The guilt from not visiting his friend also threatened to erupt, but this time around, Hagrid had not sent him an invitation to visit, and Harry hadn’t, as he was busy with other things. In hindsight, they had only met once at the boats here, so that might have been why.

“None o’ that mister business,” the half-giant happily shook his head and beamed at them, which seemed to intimidate the three girls as they once again stepped uneasily behind Harry. “Call me Hagrid. I was a friend o’ yer parents – yeh can come by me hut fer a cup o’ tea sometime if yeh want.”

“I’ll definitely visit sometime soon!” Harry nodded cheerfully at the half-giant, who beamed at him in return before urging Fang back into the hut.

He did miss all his friends, and while this Hagrid wasn’t his Hagrid, Harry wouldn’t mind reacquainting himself with the gentle half-giant once more. It did help that the gamekeeper wasn’t a silly eleven-year-old.

“Merlin’s might,” Flora hissed with a shiver. “That was so terrifying.”

“What?” All Harry could do was blink in surprise as the three girls looked like they had met an angry Voldemort and fought a couple of rounds with him.

“That man is scary,” her sister muttered, and he noticed her hands were shaking while Juno had her wand in her hand, knuckles going white. “I’ve seen him pull out a tree as if it’s a weed with his bare hands.”

“Last month, I saw him manhandling an angry Hippogryph as if it was a harmless kitten,” Juno’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched. “And they say he goes wrestling with trolls in his free time!”

“Well, yeah, he’s quite strong,” he coughed, feeling somewhat abashed. “But Hagrid’s not dangerous… just misunderstood.”

Harry had the feeling that his words didn’t assuage their unfound fears but shrugged it off – it wouldn’t take long for them to realise Hagrid was one of the friendliest faces around. A few minutes later, they finally reached one of the courtyards.

19th of October, Saturday

“It’s been quite a while, Amy,” Alfred smiled at her from the opened door, and she had to fight off the urge to reach out and mess up his hair; her brother hadn’t been a child for quite a while now. “I was afraid you’d be too busy to come.”

Alfred, a stocky man with a dark reddish mane of hair and bushy eyebrows, was her youngest and final surviving sibling. Edgar and his family were slain by Travers and Snape, and Jonathan died in the crib from a bad case of dragon pox. While Travers was sitting in a nice warm cell with dementors for company, Snape had walked free because of the lack of evidence combined with the pardon Dumbledore pushed through the ministry.

Yet the cutting curse that had slain Edgar was unique, not from any known old grimoires. Amelia Bones would know – she had spent years combing any traces of it at home and abroad. It was a newly made curse, but sadly, that wasn’t much to go of. In the end, the only known Death Eaters who dabbled in spell creation were Augustus Rookwood and Severus Snape, which wasn’t particular proof of anything, but Amelia clung to her suspicions.

It was not like Alfred didn’t have trouble at school with Snape, and from what Amelia knew, the accursed potion master was vengeful and petty.

Sadly, there wasn’t much she could do since Bagnold had given the bastard a full pardon for everything under Dumbledore’s advice and protection.

Amelia shook her head, chasing the unpleasant thoughts away and coughing apologetically at her brother, who patiently awaited by the door.

“Sorry about that; I have a lot on my head.”

“Well, none of that pish posh, come in, ” Alfred urged her. “Eleanor has prepared a delicious dinner.”

The mention of food did remind her of her rumbling stomach, and the head-auror headed inside. The insides of her brother’s house were warm and cosy, the wooden beams and panels giving it a welcoming, rustic feeling, finally allowing her to relax after a harrowing week at work.

When she entered the kitchen, she was enthusiastically greeted by a tight embrace from her petite sister-in-law, which Amelia awkwardly returned.

Eleanor was a short half-blood witch with a saccharine smile and a love for hugs. To this day, Amelia wasn’t sure how to deal with her sister-in-law, who had gotten pregnant in their seventh year in school, but hasty marriage or not, she did make Alfred happy, which was the most important part.

“Hello, Aunt Amelia,” it was the squeaky voice of Duncan, her seven-year-old nephew, who sat by the table with a large grin.

“Hello, Duncan,” she pushed away her exhaustion and smiled kindly at the boy, who was a carbon copy of his father. “Where’s Alan?”

“Asleep in his crib upstairs,” her nephew gave her a toothy grin. It wasn’t a big surprise – her youngest nephew was just born a few months earlier and still spent most of his time sleeping.

As soon as they all sat at the table, her sister-in-law waved her wand, and three steaming servings of steak and kidney pie appeared before them.

Amelia dug into the dinner with relish; while Eleanor might have been too grabby, she was a talented cook.

“Anything to drink, Amy?” Her brother was looking at her with amusement, and she realised she had forgotten her manners and coughed to cover her embarrassment.

“I’ll take some chocolate liqueur.”

It was some muggle spirit that her sister-in-law bought from the muggle world, but Amelia found the subtle sweetness of the drink just to her liking. With an amused smile, Eleanor went over to the cupboard and swiftly returned with drinks for everyone.

“I always knew that the DMLE was hard work, but you look like you haven’t slept properly for weeks,” her brother sighed. And he was right; as the head auror, Amelia had to do extra hours when there was trouble, and trouble was plentiful right now. “Is director Fawley still hung up about the Gringotts robbery?”

“He is,” she hummed and took a sip from her liqueur, enjoying the soft sweetness lingering on her tongue. “Yet you know how the blasted goblins are – they still say nothing was taken from the vault and refused to cooperate. And then there’s the paperwork and endless bustle around the ministry elections.”

“At least those will end tomorrow at the Mot,” Alfred said. “Fudge seems to have gathered popular support, while Macmillan is simply too stubborn and rigid to gather enough backing.”

Amelia had a similar observation – Fudge was an easy choice here as the man was a career politician without too big a standing. Someone amiable enough who wouldn’t take too drastic steps yet could still be influenced. The less could be said about the overly proud Macmillan, the better. She suspected that her brother would cast his vote with Fudge tomorrow anyway.

“I sure hope so,” Amelia muttered darkly. “Yet those are far from the only problems.”

Duncan seemed to have grown bored of the adult conversation and the dinner and yawned tiredly.

“Finish your dinner,” Eleanor chided her son, who grumbled and began forking at the remnants of his pie.

“Ah, the Wiltshire Warlock,” Alfred leaned in and whispered so his son wouldn’t hear. “I thought it was just a rumour?”

“You know I can’t speak about ongoing investigations,” Amelia hissed at her brother.

“Sorry,” he nodded softly and returned to his meal. “You know how we Ravenclaws are with our thirst for knowledge.”

“A fancy way of saying you have an insatiable appetite for gossip.” The words made her brother chuckle with delight; some days, she still forgot how he was a dozen years younger than her.

But yes, Alfred was right – there had been another murder last night. There had been a dark wizard doing ritualistic killings for nearly a month, yet it was all kept under wraps with the upcoming elections. Such blatant murders of muggles hadn’t happened since the blood war.

Yet, it wasn’t the usual modus operandi of the Death Eaters, for they attacked muggles for entertainment while there was an actual purpose here. The DMLE would have easily classified the kidnappings and murders of young girls of thirteen as some muggle serial killer if not for the odd circumstances that aligned with astronomy and arithmancy all too well. Inevitably, someone from the investigation had failed to keep their mouth shut, and rumours were all over the place – naming the dark wizard in question the Wiltshire Warlock after the place of his first killing.

It was a load of work and investigation, and as a head auror, Amelia had to coordinate all of it. It didn’t help that Fawley, the Head of DMLE, was in his last year and planned to leave no cases unsolved and pushed everyone to the limit, which left the lion’s share of it at her feet.

Yet, they weren’t even close to catching this culprit; the evidence was scarce, and whoever did it was experienced enough to cover his tracks well.

With a shake of her head, Amelia pushed the woes away from her mind and took another sip of the sweet liqueur.

“How’s Hufflepuff treating Susie?”

House Bones traditionally had members in all four houses, but Amelia was the only one in Hufflepuff in the recent generations.

“She loves it there, Amy,” Alfred’s grey eyes softened, reminding her of fog. Her brother tried to treat all his children fairly, but Susan was his favourite – the little princess of Bones. Yet, his expression quickly darkened. “However, there seems to have been some trouble with the Potions professor.”

Hogwarts had a single Potions professor, and just the thought of him made Amelia freeze. “Snape? What did he do?”

“Singling her out in class at every mistake, coupled with subtle insults,” her brother sighed. “Nothing against the Hogwarts rules, of course, but I still filed a complaint to the boards of the governors.”

“Not that they could do anything if Dumbledore blocks them,” she tiredly ran a hand through her red locks. “The number of auror trainees who had to take additional potion courses in the last years has drastically increased.”

Snape, while an incompetent teacher, was a master potion-brewer, which left him exceptionally well-connected. The more obscure or difficult potions were ludicrously expensive and nearly impossible to make for most wizards and witches, rendering the services of a master brewer invaluable.

“I can see why now,” Alfred’s face darkened. “Snape gives instructions and explains very little about the subject’s intricacies. I might have to find a Potions tutor for Susan the coming summer should this continue.”

Amelia would have offered to teach her niece if she wasn’t so swamped at work.

“I can try and reach out to Andromeda if you wish,” she proposed.

“No need, I will handle this myself,” Alfred waved dismissively. “And I’d rather not risk provoking that mad dog Arcturus right now. He’s on the warpath against the Longbottoms already.”

“Wait, what happened?”

While Amelia finished her meal, her brother quickly explained the thorny children’s spat between Juno Lestrange and Neville Longbottom and its ugly consequences. No wonder House Black had stirred to make so many moves in the last week and put pressure upon the random businesses – or not so random, considering that Longbottom probably had a share there for them to attract such misfortune.

Eleanor ushered Duncan upstairs to put him to sleep, and Amelia quickly gulped down the remainder of her drink and stood up.

“It’s time I leave,” she declared, feeling tipsy.

“You’re tired and not exactly sober, Amy,” her brother coughed and tugged on her sleeve. “You might just splinch yourself. Sleep here – the guest room and a change of clothes are always ready for you.”

A most welcome offer – truth be told, Amelia was too tired to make the journey back home. The path of least resistance it was.

20th of October, Sunday

Despite everything, teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts in Hogwarts turned out far more satisfactory than he would have thought. Dumbledore’s attention was expected, but the feeling of adoration and almost unwavering trust from the students felt intoxicating.

The previous teachers were not very competent, consistent, or skilled.

A careful word here, a practised phrase there, and the crude reality of the wizarding world was bared open before the children, hungry for knowledge, guidance, and recognition. After all, why would he lie when the naked truth was just as strong a tool as any other?

The sheer amount of influence that a popular teacher enjoyed was frankly ludicrous. Yet, Dumbledore observed carefully, if from afar, and any hasty moves would not be beneficial.

So much potential, Potter, Lestrange, Greengrass, Longbottom – all of them already had one foot on the road to greatness, despite being only first year. There were many others, like Rosier, Tonks, and even a few muggle-borns, of course. But it didn’t matter; he would take joy in teaching and subtly plant a few seeds in the budding minds of the students. His show of prowess alone garnered him quite a lot of goodwill regardless.

For now, there were more important things to do and too many avenues to pursue. Yet, any mistakes would be too costly, and the setbacks unacceptable.

Choices, choices.

Patience was paramount; he would observe how things aligned and subtly nudge them in his favour; let it not be said that he could not be flexible if necessary.

Thankfully, Hogwarts’ library was the largest in the magical world; even after Dumbledore had hidden quite a few tomes, there were still new things to read and more knowledge to be gained.

“Quirinus,” Snape’s unpleasant voice forced the DADA professor to tear his eyes away from the old treatise on the symbolism of magical ingredients. “May I have a moment of your time?”

He couldn’t help but notice that the Potions professor was once again carrying a different wand – made of willow, not hawthorn. For some reason, Snape had two wands and alternated between using them.

“No problem, Severus,” he gave the greasy man a friendly smile. “But I only have half an hour more until I must leave for my date with Sybill.”

Snape didn’t bother to hide his disgust from his face, the fool.

It was the third such date, and things between him and the Divination professor were progressing quite well.

“I believe you claimed to have some experience handling trolls.”

“That is true,” he hummed in acknowledgement. “How may I be of assistance?”

“I am in need of fresh ingredients for my newest experiment,” the words came out slow and quiet but intrigued the DADA teacher. Snape’s skill and talent in Potions were nearly unmatched, and the only thing he seemed always to keep sharp. From Quirrell’s knowledge, the Potions master had at least eight unique recipes to his name, and it appeared he was going for a ninth one.

Getting troll ingredients was not easy or cheap, and they were rarely fresh, explaining why this conversation happened. While dumb, the bumbling brutes weren’t easy to slay and tended to stay together in groups, making them quite dangerous.

This, however, seemed like an interesting opportunity.

“What do you need – mountain, river, or forest trolls?”