Chapter Text
12 Grimmauld Place
November 6, 1998
Tick.
Harry Potter stared blankly at the Black Family Tapestry that ran across the span of one of Grimmauld’s informal sitting rooms’ walls. Grimacing, he tried to turn away. To look at someplace else, anywhere else. Failing miserably, it was as though he were under a Compulsion. Barely letting his eyes slide away to look at his surroundings before snapping his attention back to the dusty, half destroyed fabric that was almost tearing apart at the seams. Struggling to take his eyes away from the wretched thing that consumed his every waking thought. Bringing up bad memories. Painful ones.
Tick.
Even in his sleep, he could not get any relief. Any hope of having a short reprieve shattered. Seeing as each time he so much as dared to close his eyes, all he could see were their distorted faces etched in pain, hear their heart-breaking voices, sounds of agony slipping out with every breath—listening to the sound of screaming along with their tormentor’s demented cackling. Listening as those voices grew more and more faint with each passing moment, hopeless to help. Unable to. Useless, like he had never been before.
Tick.
Trapped in this everlasting nightmare of misery and grief, Harry wished dearly for something to block out the memories. But he couldn’t. Oh, he knew that he could do so. He was a Wizard. A powerful one, certainly. He could do so through Occlumency or Mind Healing. But he can’t. Not yet. Not now. Not when the wound was still too fresh. Not when those pained screams were the last chance that he would ever have to hear their voices again. To see their faces again. He could endure this. Endure it. He had been through a lot worse after all.
Tick.
And so, he listened. He listened as the noises went up a pitch higher due to their torturer’s penchant for blood and pain. Listened as those three distinct sounds called out their pain for anyone to hear. Hoping for someone to send some help. Begging for it. He listened till the voices were hoarse. Heart heavy in his chest and a faint stinging at the back of his eyes.
Tick.
It felt like hours before the noises stopped. His whole body had begun to numb. Cold to the touch. Unable to feel anything more. For what could he do? What could he say? That he was sorry? Sorry for not being there? That he was sorry to have relaxed his guard? Sorry to have ever believed that anything good could ever happen to him. It was too late. They were gone. Dead. Too many mistakes were made. Too many things taken for granted.
“If only,” Harry mumbled out, eyes glassy. Filled with numerous thoughts. Countless regrets.
Tick.
Haunted. He was haunted by their ghosts, and he couldn’t do anything about it. This was his due. This was his just punishment. He didn’t think that he would ever escape this. His own personal hell. He didn’t even know if he would be willing to ever want to.
Notes:
A/N: Hey guys!
So, six things you need to know.
1. This is, like, my first time posting my work, so constructive criticism is welcome, though make sure to be respectful. I'd like to hear some feedback and will appreciate your thoughts about my work.
2. I'm a college student. I'm still adjusting my schedule so don't be discouraged or put out if I update infrequently.
3. Another thing, English is my second language, so any mistakes are attributed to either my English teachers or sleep deprivation. *Ahem* I'm kidding, just tell me if you spot any.
4. I already have a rough outline of where I want this story to go (Circle members, plot, etc.)
5. I don't have a beta. I still have lots of stuff going on, so I don't want to make anyone wait if I haven't started with the chapters. I'll let everyone know when I'm open for volunteers.
6. Remember me mentioning that this was my first time posting my work? Yeah, so I'm still unfamiliar with the mechanics of this site. Give me a few weeks to adjust. Thanks.
*checks notes* I think that's everything, maybe...comment down below if you have any questions.
Happy reading! 💜💜
- K
Chapter Text
12 Grimmauld Place
June 3, 1998
It was night, and the fire crackled merrily in the corner, casting shadows on the man's sleeping face. Finely arched brows furrowed, appearing distinctly uncomfortable as sounds of distress escaped from parted lips. Sweat beaded on the man's forehead as the sounds grew louder and more pained; the moisture succeeded in taming the wild curls framing his face while also dampening the rumpled shirt—new ones purchased in Muggle London—in the process.
Tossing and turning, the man's body began to twitch, almost as if his nerves were ignited, needles prickling into his skin and bone. Ghosts of past pain slithered into his veins, phantom aches dragging his body into a soul-deep weariness.
Unseen by anyone, nails grew dangerously sharp and gained a slightly metallic sheen, while numerous scales in different shades of peach and silvery white ran up and down the man’s arms. Normal enough for an inheritance; however, what was odd was that if one looked closely, they would see a small number of oddly textured scales, giving the appearance of hard plates of armor, sparsely interspersed throughout the figure's thrashing body.
A bright flash of light illuminated the room before the deafening clap of thunder shattered the stifling silence.
Jolting awake from where he lay sprawled on the couch, Harry Potter slowly sat up and ran a slightly trembling hand through his hair, wincing when his claw—“Oh, Merlin”—snagged on a knot from the bird's nest that he called hair. Growling in annoyance, he carefully detangled the knots from his hand, grumbling all the while about the inconvenience of surprise creature inheritances.
Harry mused that although the changes were bloody strange, they had only helped him so far: corrected vision, previously misaligned bones now mended, and the lingering aches from his childhood were now nothing but occasional pangs whenever he overexerted himself.
Glancing almost lazily at his arms, Harry wasn’t surprised in the least when scales appeared. ‘At least they looked pretty tough; better for defending himself,’ he had thought on more than one occasion. Harry leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes as he focused on the sounds outside his home, the dreaded creeper's den—Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The rumbling of thunder comforted him, reminding him of nights spent in the shed as he huddled for warmth using any material he could get his hands on—whenever his relatives locked him outside when he didn’t finish his chores on time. Narrowing his eyes at the mention of those people , he cleared his mind of all insignificant thoughts and mulled over the first time these changes appeared.
Scottish Highlands, Hogwarts
May 2, 1998
It was just after the battle when all the dust settled. He had helped in the aftermath when he could—levitating broken structures, healing some small wounds here and there, and lastly, piling up the bodies. It was a thankless job, and his heart felt so bogged down in anger—not guilt—strangely enough, when he saw all the corpses—counted the numbers. That should have been the first sign that something was wrong.
He was in the infirmary, feeling lightheaded, causing him to sway on his feet as exhaustion made his steps heavy when he was flagged down by the terrifying woman that was Poppy—bloody—Pomfrey. “I think it’s time you took a break, Mr. Potter.” The stern voice of the Hogwarts Healer came from across the room, where Harry had been resting after helping to the best of his abilities.
“What?” Harry blinked back spots from his vision as he looked around and realized they were the only people left in the room, except for the unconscious patients that filled the beds. “Take a break, Mr. Potter. Have something to eat, and after, how about you go get some sleep, hmm?” She replied, humming in thought as she flicked a couple of healing spells in his direction.
“No. It’s alright. I’m fine; anyways, it’s only been a couple of hours, right? I can still help, I swear!” Harry argued, looking at her with beseeching eyes, though knowing to yield when she got that familiar look in her eyes.
Tutting at him in disapproval, Madam Pomfrey summoned a potion from the cupboard behind her, making Harry instinctively catch the vial when it zoomed in his direction, almost dropping the whole thing when his arm was jarred by the motion.
‘Well, maybe she was onto something there,’ Harry winced before catching her eyes and nodding once, making the woman nod back before she bustled back to caring for the patients whose injuries, while not life-threatening enough to need St. Mungo’s, were significant enough to require round-the-clock care.
Sighing to himself, Harry had, for lack of a better word, stalked across the room to the tightly shut wooden doors, hesitating for a moment before throwing on his Invisibility Cloak to avoid the crowd of people that his magic detected from the other side.
Opening one of the doors a touch, he peeked out and was unimpressed with the throng of people who were presumably waiting for him – reporters, Aurors, even what he recognized as members of the Wizengamot. Stifling a murderous growl at these people who dared to disturb him, Harry didn’t notice anything amiss with his line of thinking when he was interrupted by his daydreams of leaving the Wizengamot members in the Centaur Clan’s hands, following a familiar clearing of the throat.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, are any of you in particular need of healing? If so, then I recommend St. Mungo's. This place was a battlefield a few scant hours ago, after all,” came Professor McGonagall’s voice, showing just a tiny hint of displeasure.
“Professor McGonagall! Good evening, I’m a reporter from the Daily Prophet. I need to speak with our very own Chosen One – The Man-Who-Conquered,” a woman – fortunately not Rita Skeeter – spoke with a saccharine smile – unfortunately just as unpleasant as the woman herself.
‘Bloody hell, another title?’ Harry scrunched up his nose in annoyance, his eyes narrowing into slits at the woman who spoke.
“Oh, really?” McGonagall uttered in the driest voice that Harry had ever heard from her.
“Yes, yes! We , on the other hand, are esteemed members of the Wizengamot. I’m sure Mr. Potter would be delighted to see familiar faces and, of course, answer our questions after his act of bravery in standing against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” a wizard wearing eye-watering pewter robes with orange stripes said in an imperious manner.
Eyes squinting at the group the portly wizard had gestured to, Harry glared as he recognized them as the ones who presided over his sham of a trial back before fifth year.
“Speaking of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Ministry requests the cooperation of Mr. Potter in answering some questions about You-Know-Who, what he had been doing for the past year during the Dark Lord’s terrorization of Magical Britain, and to ask if You-Know-Who’s demise is permanent this time around.” Bristling at the implications, Harry almost launched himself at the man, only stopping through sheer force of will.
“I see, well, Auror Johnson, was it? There is no need to disturb Mr. Potter with the Ministry’s inane questions at this time of the evening, but if you insist, then I volunteer myself for the Ministry’s questioning. I have, after all, been in contact with Mr. Potter during the entirety of what should have been his seventh year.” McGonagall adjusted her glasses as she looked down her nose at the fidgeting man who had once upon a time been one of her students.
“You have? Well then, would you be willing to share the whereabouts of Mr. Potter in the past few months and what he had been doing during that time?” asked another reporter in front of Professor McGonagall.
‘Just like vultures, encircling Prof—oh, she’s the Headmistress now,’ Harry realized with a jolt.
“I am privy to the fact that he was on a mission entrusted to him by the late Headmaster, along with Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger. Any further details on the matter are classified information, at risk of unbalancing the tentative peace of Magical Britain.” The Headmistress beautifully sidestepped the question, causing the faces of the small crowd to contort, making most of them realize that they wouldn’t get anything substantial from her. McGonagall, looking like the cat who got the canary—not the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes kind, thankfully—let a barely-there smirk tug at the corners of her lips, which transformed into a heavy frown at the group’s complaints.
“Now see here, lassie—” a man who was turning purple in the face thrust a finger at the Headmistress's suddenly pinched expression.
Fingers twitching, Harry barely noticed when he took hold of his wand and began actively casting time-delayed curses on the group. Nothing harmful that would require St. Mungo’s—just mildly irritating things that would bother them without making them think a curse was in effect. When his mind caught up to what he was trying to do, he was shocked but not enough to stop. After all, how else would he satisfy his thirst for vengeance? Offensive as their actions may be, they were still minor enough not to require his more malicious curses to be put to the test. No, those were reserved for scum like Death Eaters and their ilk.
“Now off with you,” McGonagall, having resolved the situation, frowned and actively began herding the people away from the infirmary doors against the various protests of the crowd, making use of the suits of armor that were still standing and moving around. Harry put more power into the spell when he heard the Professor sending the group off Hogwarts’ grounds—accidentally turning the mostly harmless curse into a Curse of Misfortune (one that would trigger every time they so much as thought of bugging him or the Headmistress) on the fools, not that Harry knew, nor would he care if he ever found out.
Gratefulness swept through him at McGonagall’s actions, making him decide he really needed to give her something to show his appreciation.
'A bottle of Ogden’s, maybe?'
Slipping out of the infirmary doors when the coast was clear, Harry ruminated on the impulsive thought throughout his walk through the castle—stowing away his cloak when the stairs to the tower came into view.
A hoot diverted his attention as he climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. Turning his head, a relieved smile broke out on Harry’s face as the familiar Great Horned Owl of Tonks winged its way through the window before landing on Harry’s outstretched arm. “Hey, Quill, enjoy the flight, did you?” Harry asked, feeling melancholic as the owl ruffled its feathers and hooted at him, almost like Hedwig did whenever he had asked the same thing in the past.
Gently tugging at the letter in the owl’s grasp, he untied the parchment before unrolling it as he continued walking to his destination, Quill hopping onto his shoulder to preen his hair.
Wotcher, Harry,
We heard the news from Kingsley. He sent a Patronus detailing the battle. It was almost as if we were there in person.
How are things there now that the battle is over? Crazy, I can imagine. I wish we were there, I really do, but you were right in saying that we had a responsibility now, more important than the war. I think Mum’s about to start worshipping the ground you walk on, especially since, when asked, I told her that you insisted we refrain from taking part in the war.
“Smart boy,” she had said. I agreed.
Remus is still mad; honestly, I am too— a little bit— but I can understand your reasoning even as I took a hit to my pride as an Auror and Order Member.
Still, whether mostly mad or not, we are very grateful. If you hadn’t convinced us to go into hiding and stick to a support role, then I wouldn’t have the memories I have with my son. Yes, you heard right. We had a son!
We named you godfather, so if that isn’t proof of our gratefulness… kidding, for the most part. His name is Edward Remus Lupin. Named after my dad, ya know? I think his nickname will be Teddy too.
Anyway, you have to visit when you have time. I know you’ll be swamped by the demands of the Ministry, and if not, then the reporters will attempt to sink their claws into you.
Of course, can’t forget the fangirls and fanboys. I heard they’re calling you the Man-Who-Conquered now, eh? Pretty funny. At this rate, a stick (wand, Ha!) wouldn’t be effective against the general populace of unmatched wixen in Magical Britain.
Good luck with that :)
Remember to stay safe. There are still some Death Eaters out there, especially the unmarked ones. I heard Lestrange escaped the battle, sustaining heavy injuries from her duel with Mrs. Weasley. Unfortunate, really, but what a woman Mrs. Weasley turned out to be!
We’ll keep safe here too. We’ll lower the wards after a month or so.
Congratulations on offing the Dark Tosser,
Remus, Tonks, and Teddy Lupin.
Smiling at the letter, even as he frowned at the thought of the slippery woman who was the cause of many deaths and pain, escaping the authorities once again. Thankfully, she was the only Lestrange left, given that her husband and brother-in-law had been killed just a few short hours ago.
Conjuring a roll of parchment, along with a quill, Harry scribbled a short note before handing it to the impatiently waiting owl, which, with a hoot, shot up into the air, messing up his hair even more. Smiling at the mischievous creature, he put the thought out of his mind for the time being, as he greeted the portrait guarding the entrance to the common room before shuffling inside.
Luckily, the common room was empty, and when he cast a wide-ranging ‘Homenum Revelio’, the dorms were too, according to the negative results, making his shoulders drop in relief.
‘He was alone in the Gryffindor dorms, thank Merlin.’
Walking into the dorms, Harry, with barely a second thought, began casting charms at the door, the windows, and the walls; even the floors weren’t spared as he put up several wards of differing functions that alerted or attacked, depending on the intent of the person in question. It was a good thing that his reading of random books at the library in Grimmauld during the pitifully short time he spent there came in handy.
Stretching, Harry shivered in revulsion as the feeling of dried blood mixed with perspiration seeped through the sticky fabric of his ruined shirt. Turning in the direction of the shared bathroom, Harry thought spitefully that the only thing his aunt had done right was instill in him some manners and a sense of propriety—mostly by doing things differently than his relatives.
He had just stepped out of the shower, drying charms on the tip of his tongue when a bright light burst in front of him, turning into the familiar otter-shaped Patronus of his friend, Hermione. “Harry, listen. I know we should have informed you, but honestly, you had been so busy, and we didn’t want to take your attention away from Hogwarts' matters.” Snorting at that line, Harry proceeded to put on his clothing as he listened to Hermione trying to explain herself without really admitting she was in the wrong, as usual.
“Ron and I decided to head to Australia now instead of later to get back my parents and restore their memories, and since the Ministry is being so accommodating, we requested the use of a two-time Portkey, the return time of which will be a month from now. We decided that Ron and I needed this—to get away from everything.” Stopping in his tracks, Harry frowned heavily, feeling distinctly hurt by the almost casual admission that his best friends didn’t even think to include him. Hell, even a face-to-face conversation to explain their actions would be better than this.
“We thought you’d like the time alone, so the Weasleys wouldn’t disturb you either. Although Ginny tried. I guess you were more exhausted than we thought when you barely acknowledged her.” Harry raised his brows in astonishment.
‘Why would I acknowledge her in particular? I was dead on my feet—am dead on my feet. Woman, I will never understand them.’ He shook his head in confused agitation. “The Weasleys are all gathered in the Burrow, grieving Fred. It’s important for families to be alone together right now considering...” Hardly able to believe that came out of the mouth of one of the most intelligent people Harry had ever met, he chuckled without mirth, his mood brought low by the callousness of those who should have known him best.
When had he shown that he would like to be alone right now? He was only alone because he hadn’t been invited, hadn’t been wanted. He should have been in the Burrow right now, with the Weasleys, grieving for Fred, helping support George, being there for his pseudo-family. But he wasn’t, because in the end, he wasn’t a Weasley. In the end, he was just their son’s friend, their brother’s friend. In the end, he wasn’t family .
Crack.
Harry inhaled sharply in agony, as if something had shattered within him. Rubbing the spot harshly, he listened absently to the rest of Hermione’s message.
“Our Portkey’s being brought out now. Harry, you should get some rest, okay? You’ve earned it. Oh, and maybe give Ginny a chance? She’s been into you since fifth year.” Looking down at the otter-shaped specter in disbelief as it dissipated into thin air, Harry almost wanted to ask if Hermione was under a Confundus Charm.
‘Really? Since when was he ever interested in dating? Didn’t she remember me turning down Cho in fifth year?’
Lips twitching at the thought of Hermione being under a misconception about him, he shrugged it off as inconsequential before making a beeline for where his bed had been, looking freshly made.
Climbing into bed, Harry looked around and quietly cheered when he spotted his target. Saying a quick ‘thanks’ under his breath to the House-elves, Harry reached out to the bedside table where a mouthwatering pair of corned beef sandwiches was placed on a tray, along with a glass of chilled Butterbeer and a slice of treacle tart.
He ate slowly, even though all he wanted to do was shove it all in his mouth like Ron, who—even at his most courteous—couldn't make himself slow down. ‘Refeeding syndrome is a pain to manage.’
When he had finished all that he could manage to fit in his stomach, he put down his plate regretfully. Watching as the tray 'popped' away with a doleful look on his face, Harry cleaned his hands with a ‘Scourgify’ and remembered to cast ‘Recens Spiritus’ to wash his mouth clean of any bits left over from his eating.
Placing his holly wand under his pillow and his glasses on the bedside table, he settled under the covers but only after putting up several more wards around the bed that he had learned on the run, of course. He was bone-achingly tired, but not careless. Moody would have been proud. Constant vigilance and all that rubbish.
Throwing his head back, he sighed deeply while drinking the potion that had been handed to him. The glass vial dropped from his slack grip onto the floor, rolling under the bed as his body sank into the soft bedding.
‘He had earned it, she had said.’ He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the thought. Not that it stopped him from agreeing with the suggestion, his body almost going boneless in pleasure.
He had woken up a few hours later, feeling refreshed and full of energy. Stretching his limbs as he sat up in bed, Harry halted as the cool breeze made him shiver, goosebumps rising on his arms and across his bare chest.
‘Bare?’
He yelped in shock as he caught sight of the state of his ruined clothing in the corner of his eye. Eyes that could see clearly, without his glasses. Harry blinked rapidly, adjusting to the unfamiliar sharpness of the world around him. “Weird," he muttered as he glanced around, taking in how clear everything was, how vibrant. For the first time since he could remember, everything was crystal clear—no smudges, no blurred edges, and no constant need to push his glasses back up his nose anymore.
It could have been overwhelming if not for his recalling just how he had discovered his corrected vision in the first place.
With a frown firmly in place, Harry scowled at the mess that was the remains of his clothing, bed coverings, and canopy. Baulking at the thought of anyone seeing the disastrous state of his side of the room, Harry clucked his tongue in disapproval. With a negligent wave of his arm, a ‘Reparo’ set to work on fixing everything.
Freezing as what he did registered in his mind, Harry Potter focused intently on his arm, his mind whirling through a million questions in one second. “Did I just do wandless magic?” Harry asked himself aloud.
Hoping that it was not a fluke, Harry cast again, this time trying conjuration magic. He concentrated on the way he always felt whenever he prepared to cast a spell—the feeling of magic gathering and building up, subconsciously redirecting it gently to his wand arm, warm magic converging on the tip of his holly wand—well, fingertip now—the pressure and instant relief as the magic was released and used to do his bidding.
‘Reflexio Manifestum’
Opening his eyes, Harry stared, wide-eyed at the result of his spell, using the conjured mirror to observe the changes that had occurred while he was presumably in a deep sleep.
He had always been a bit on the thinner side, mostly due to the Dursleys’ “tender, loving care.” All his progress in achieving a healthier weight at Hogwarts was almost always quelled by the summers he spent back home. Now, though, after what must have been his delayed growth spurt, he had grown a few inches taller. His height of about 5'6” shot up to about 5'11”–stopping just shy of reaching the average size of what he had always considered giants to have.
Harry inspected his nude body, finding with excitement that the scars from his childhood were almost gone. The old scars traced faint lines across his skin; they were still present, if barely, but not impossible to ignore. They had the look of old wounds—faded over time, losing the angry reds and deep purples of their earlier days, settling instead into soft silvery streaks, pale against the natural tan of his flesh. They appeared striking, rather than the mutilated mass of crisscrossed injuries they had looked like before.
Holding back tears at the thought that he wouldn’t have to look at those scars anymore, that he wouldn’t have to avoid the mirror to see his weakness staring back at him, Harry shuddered, his fingers ghosting over his wounds one by one, his eyes flashing as he recalled the stories behind each injury–be it a bruise, a broken bone, or deep welts caused by a belt. He remembered everything. Scars may fade, but magic always remembers. It was imprinted in his very soul at this point.
Gasping, Harry hurriedly flicked his eyes over the scars, remnants of his encounters with Voldemort. The result? Missing. The proof of his triumphs over Harry was nonexistent. Suddenly, a burst of joy erupted; he didn’t even stop it from bubbling into laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks as he gazed at his forehead, where the lightning bolt scar was nowhere to be seen. The wound from his resurrection ritual was gone. The bite from the Basilisk? It was as if it had never been there at all.
Along with the feeling of exhilaration came an inexplicable burning anger. Why didn’t everything vanish? Why only Voldemort’s marks on his skin? Why not those of his Muggle relatives?
Harry curled his fingers into his palms, anger pouring out of every line of his body. He pressed them deep until he could feel sharp pinpricks of pain. It was sudden; it didn’t feel like nails at all. It was almost like an owl's talons, like the way Hedwig’s would curl painfully over his shoulder when something displeased her.
Hissing in pain, Harry could feel the blood trickle out. His eyes widened as uneasiness kept his sounds of alarm to himself. Gleaming at him, dripping with blood, the tips of his nails had somehow transformed into claws—making him drop his eyes to his body in surprise. That wasn’t all. As he observed further, something else erupted onto his skin: scales. Like Voldemort’s.
“What?” Harry whispered in mounting horror as he ran his hand over the surface of his left arm. The scales were cool to the touch at first, smooth yet firm, with a subtle give beneath his fingertips. Each scale was striking—some small and overlapping like a suit of armor, others broad and ridged, catching the light in a way that made the peach-like color shimmer alongside the sparkling silver.
“First claws, now scales? Don’t tell me I'm like bloody Voldemort?!” Harry’s voice rose a couple of pitches higher than intended, causing his sensitive ears to ring, making him hiss in agitation—almost like Parseltongue, but not quite—which, in turn, led him to experiment with the sounds his vocal cords could now produce.
‘Hissing? Already confirmed. Chirping? Yes, however, he doesn’t feel bird-like in any way. Also, why does the thought of being anything avian make his scales itch in displeasure? Something to think about later. Growling? Can snakes growl? Whining? Okay, more canine-like traits, even with the scales. Screeching? It sounds vaguely human, though? Wait, did Voldemort make these sounds himself?’
Cracking up at the thought, Harry chanted a mantra he had overheard Sirius mutter once—one that he always kept in the back of his mind for situations exactly like this. Laugh. Laugh because if you don’t laugh, you’re going to cry, and anything is better than crying. Unhealthy advice aside, it helped in this particular situation.
Casting his thoughts back to what he had been thinking about before, he continued, ‘How many sounds were there now? Four—no, five. Okay, so hissing, chirping, growling, whining, and screeching. Good to know.’ Harry shook his head at his scattered thoughts, bringing his mind back to the core of the problem: his “surprise” creature inheritance. ‘This is up there among the top ten worst days of my life. Heh, surprise indeed.’
Rubbing his hands over his face, the slight itching at his back that he had been trying to ignore since he woke up grew increasingly irritating, demanding his attention. Groaning, Harry reached behind him to gingerly touch his hand to the tender spot between his shoulders—screeching in pain as something tore through his back, painting the room around him in a spray of crimson blood.
Pivoting in shock back to the mirror, a chirp of happiness mixed with a squeak of surprise escaped his gaping mouth.
“I can fly? I HAVE WINGS?!” An illegally spellbinding chirp of admiration reverberated through the room as Harry turned this way and that, inspecting his new appendages with an appraising eye.
‘I take back everything I said. Surprise creature inheritances are awesome.’
Notes:
A/N: So, I messed up. *sighs deeply*
What was supposed to be the second chapter turned out to be the third; without the backstory needed, the story would have been all over the place.
So what did I do? I rushed to write this whole chapter in one sitting—with the necessary breaks here and there. My fingers did not thank me when I finished, nor did my conscience, since I was multitasking, writing this while attending Zoom classes. Thankfully, I'm a professional at doing the impossible—just like our boy Harry here!(Remind me to never do an impression of Dumbledore again *shudders*)
Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Tell me your thoughts, and you can even guess the circle members of our darling Gheyo Submissive, Harry Potter!
Fair warning, though: the majority of the circle are OCs that I put painstaking thought into, so you may not get anything right. Still, it was very enjoyable for me to craft the backstories of what I am affectionately calling Harry's Idiots™.Not a very nice name, I know, but some of them deserve it! On second thought, comment down below with ideas for the circle's nickname among close friends and family. (This will not be the official circle name!)
Happy reading! 💜💜
- K
Chapter Text
12 Grimmauld Place
June 3, 1998
The ‘thunk’ of porcelain against the wooden coffee table pulled Harry from his reminiscing, shifting his attention to the exuberant form of his companion.
“Hello, Winky. The weather outside is a bit chaotic, innit?” Grinning toothily, Harry engaged the creature in conversation, gesturing to the thunderstorm raging outside. Beaming at him, the house-elf enthusiastically replied, “The thunders be disturbin’ the oldsey oak tree outside. Branches be falls on the Lordsies gardens—mores work for Winky!”
“Was there any damage to the gardens?” Harry, extremely worried, chewed on his bottom lip. He didn’t want his prized plants to be harmed after all, specifically the more sentient ones. “The gardens be good, even greats! The magic wards be holdings.” Bobbing her head, Winky rushed to reassure her master that his ‘Monster Garden’ was well and thriving.
"That's good; otherwise, they'd be a bit cross with me, especially Thorn and Stalk." Sighing in relief, Harry chuckled lightly, amused by the thought of his precious saplings' anger. Meanwhile, Winky hid her shaking hands behind her back, her mind flashing back to when those two particular plants almost sent her to the afterlife—'Thorn' with poisons, and 'Stalk' by strangulation.
Shuddering, Winky smiled tremulously at her crazy master—more insane than her former Death Eater master, even!—before quickly deciding to change the subject. “What's be the Master's plans fors the day?” Snapping her fingers, the creature set to work making tea for two, her pale face gaining an adorable flush at being treated so warmly by her sworn master—joining the Lord for tea every afternoon. What blasphemy! Her former masters would have had her iron her ears if she had even thought about it.
“Well, it’s been almost a month, and I still haven’t gotten any closer to finding out anything about what I am, aside from the vague mentions of ‘Gheyo’ in the Family Grimoires.” Glowering at the thought of his slow progress in researching to gain some information, Harry hissed in agitation, scales rippling through his skin before vanishing as he forced himself to relax.
“Winky bes sorry for not givings any help.” Winky couldn’t help but apologize, feeling guilty for not having helped her master more with his inheritance. “It’s alright, Winky. It can’t be helped. Your former family didn’t have any creature blood, after all. Besides, you are already helping me by taking care of both the house and me.” Gently patting her hand, Harry consoled the poor elf who looked about to hit the bottle. ‘Note to self: Keep alcohol away from the recovering alcoholic.’
Harry continued when the house-elf only looked at him pitifully, “I have no choice but to ask for help.”
“Even when I don't want to,” Harry added, scowling. “Whos is being helping Master?” questioned Winky, taking a sip of her tea.
Growling under his breath, Harry considered his options, quickly discarding those people who would either report it to the proper authorities-Hermione, or couldn’t keep their mouth shut to save a life–Ron. "I have no idea. Any suggestions, Winky?"
“Hows about those Lupin’s, Master? They being like yous family.” Winky earnestly tried to help, but Harry only shook his head. “They’re still under Fidelius. I can’t risk that. Moreover, although I love them, I don’t think I can trust them, seeing as—well…” Harry grimaced at the mess that was his history with Remus Lupin.
“Why?” Winky looked so heartbroken at the thought that he was helpless but to tell the truth. “I can’t trust that Remus will be there for me when he wasn’t after my parents died or when Sirius died. He didn’t even think to write a letter after third year when he dropped the bomb that he was one of my father’s best friends. Plus, we don’t know his stance on ‘Dark Creatures’ other than werewolves, and he hates werewolves.” He explained, rolling his eyes while saying the words ‘dark creature.’
Anger could be seen flashing across Winky’s face as she summoned her favorite weapon—a rolling pin. “Don’ts be worrying Master! If he hurts yous again, he be dealings with Winky!” the house-elf declared, overprotective ever since Harry finalized the bond between them.
“He’ll never be in a position to hurt me, Winky. Emotionally or otherwise, and if he does? Well…” Here, Harry chuckled darkly, his eyes flashing as he showed Winky his fangs, which were dripping with the highly corrosive substance known as Basilisk venom. “…I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” Harry smirked at Winky, who grinned back at him in frenzied delight.
“Good!” With that said, Harry and Winky chatted about trivial matters for the rest of the evening.
Scottish Highlands, Hogwarts
May 3, 1998
It was the morning after his discovery, and now that Harry’s thoughts weren’t clouded by the numerous possibilities that his inheritance had given him, he was trying to formulate a plan to keep his new status as a creature—possibly connected to Voldemort—a secret. “Should I tell anyone?”
‘NO!’
Startled by the voice that seemingly came from nowhere, Harry almost fell into a panic attack—thinking that Voldemort had come back from the dead. He shook his head at that hysterical thought. Voldemort was dead. Quite permanently, if he did say so himself, despite the fact that there wasn’t a physical body to prove otherwise. ‘Stupid Voldemort. Dramatically turning to ashes in the end. Becoming dead really doesn’t stop him from being a total nuisance to others. What an arse.’
A huff of laughter echoed in his mind, followed by the words, ‘Peace, Harry. I am not that dramatic piece of filth with the rotting magic. Neither was it his doing, per se, to turn into ashes. I am afraid that the fault lies with us.’ Harry froze, then suddenly closed his eyes and counted to ten. He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly through clenched teeth. “Would you mind telling me who you are and kindly getting the hell out of my head?”
Trilling sadly, the voice gently replied, ‘I am afraid that I cannot do so. At least not until you decide to either accept me or suppress me.’
“Acce—Hey! Don't think that I didn’t notice you dancing around the question! Answer, and don’t you dare try to manipulate me or lie; I have a way of knowing those kinds of things,” Harry hissed threateningly at the voice. ‘I am not trying to deceive you; that would be a disservice to myself. As for your other questions… Simply put, I am you. Your creature side, to be precise. I have been active since the night our parental Circle was ripped away from us—two by Death and one through the machinations of a fool.’ The words were said with a bit of a growl.
Processing that information, Harry pushed aside all other thoughts as he demanded answers. “What do you mean you are me? I think that I, or the Dursleys, or anyone for that matter, would have noticed if I suddenly sported wings or scales! And what’s this parental Circle thing? I think that I can understand it a bit. James and Lily Potter both died, ergo taken by Death. Are you saying that I have another parent out there? How can that be?”
Letting out a deep breath that Harry felt somewhat offended by, the voice chided him. ‘Merlin! How can you breathe through that? Let a Dragel breathe a little, would you? Wow. You may not like the bookworm’s habit of word vomiting, but you are much the same yourself.’
Face flushing at being called out, Harry fired back, “I still want answers, creature or not!” Harry wasn’t sure, but he could somehow feel his creature rolling its eyes. ‘So, first things first: I don’t know everything about being a Dragel—which is what we are called, by the way. All I know is some stuff that I vaguely remember from our Mera—Dragel’s version of mum—reading out loud to you when you were a youngling.’
“Continue,” Harry said nothing more on the matter, even though it would have been nice to have known everything that was happening to him and not just stumble along blindly.
‘Now, I said active, but the reality was that as soon as I woke up, I felt suppressed. I think it had something to do with your being a container for that filth’s mangled soul. That is also why I did not communicate with you yesterday. I was busy dealing with the fallout of your full inheritance coming in, becoming free, healing what I could of your many injuries, and fixing our soul.’
“What’s wrong with our soul?” Harry felt a frisson of fear run through him at that admission. ‘Many things. Things that I am not qualified to help with, but do not worry. I am sure that we can find help somewhere.’
Resigned to having his soul remain in a delicate situation for an indeterminable amount of time, Harry gestured for the voice to continue. ‘Thirdly, Dragels are creatures who form polyamorous relationships called Circles. To conceive, a Dragel mateship needs three participants: a Sire to supply the seed, a Bearer to carry the young, and then the Third, the one who provides magic to support the development of the fetus. I am sorry to say that we do not have any living parents in this plane of existence anymore.’
Harry felt confusion for a moment before an image of a man flashed through his mind. “Sirius.” Tears filled Harry’s eyes at the apologetic whine he received, confirming without words that the man he lost, the man he got killed, was his parent. His Third. A painful keen left his lips as sobs began to wrack through his frame, grieving for the man all over again. The pain was different this time. Back then, he didn’t know. He hadn’t gotten the chance to know. But the few instances where they interacted—be they by floo, letter, or face-to-face—were some of the few times in his life where Harry felt safe, loved, whole.
Crooning a long, mournful cry, Harry tried to ignore the attempts of his Dragel calling out his name, attempting to drown in his self-loathing and guilt. 'Harry!' The fifth shout of his name did the trick, drawing him from his wretched thoughts. Sniffling, Harry wiped his tears and hollowly asked, “What?”
A whine of distress echoed in his mind until his Dragel spoke again. ‘I promise you, Harry. One day, not now, but in the future, you will know that it was not your fault.’ Ignoring Harry’s protests, the voice persisted. ‘One day, you will feel secure in the knowledge that your Third did what he did out of love for you. In the future, you will smile once again when thinking about him. You will not mourn the things that could have been; instead, you will celebrate his life, the way it should be. I believe that Sirius will truly appreciate that.’
Falling silent at this strong opinion, Harry changed the subject, discreetly wiping away his tears. “By the way, what did you mean by accept or suppress you?” His mind going back over their conversation, Harry was stuck on that point. ‘Regarding acceptance or suppression, it is rather straightforward. You either accept me and we move forward as one being, or you suppress me, and then you will be a normal Wizard once again.’ This time, the voice spoke mechanically, almost as if it knew what choice he would make.
Harry felt angered by that thought—no one ever asked him about his wants or opinions. Almost everyone in his life decided things for him without his input, always assuming he would go along with it. Then he felt a curl of shame, for how could he blame his creature side for assuming that he would ever want to mutilate himself like that—‘like what Voldemort did’ —when his actions over the years showed Harry doing just that? Blindly following the orders of a man who had shown him, an abused magical child, just a touch of kindness? So Harry really couldn't blame it–him. For almost the first few years of his life, he had dreamed of being normal, being accepted by the Dursleys, and being part of the family. Then along came the Wizarding World, where there were already preconceived notions about who he was. So, he did what he had to do to survive and blend in, or else they’d catch on and maybe send him back to Number 4.
“They wanted Harry Potter—The Boy Who Lived, the Savior. Not Harry, Boy, or Freak.” Huffing out a breath, Harry spoke to his Dragel, making a decision that he hoped wouldn’t come back to bite him.
‘Are you saying?–’
The truth of the matter is, he had never been normal. Not for a single day of his life, and if what his creature side was saying was true—and Harry was inclined to believe it was—then his parents were creatures too. Dragels. Like him in every way that mattered. James, Lily, Sirius. His parental Circle. “Normal is overrated anyway. I prefer a bit of chaos in my life. Furthermore, I don’t think that I can go back to a life with nothing exciting happening. I actually think that would be what does me in and not any magical nonsense.”
Grinning at the sound of his creature’s pleased rumbles in the back of his mind, Harry added with a small smile, “I need a challenge. A goal to work toward, so if being one would help me not feel like there’s something wrong with me, something missing, then I accept.” A flash of magic brightened the room and then faded just as quickly, leaving Harry standing stiffly in the center of the dormitory as he felt the changes take effect.
His senses, already heightened by his inheritance, increased even more, causing him to sneeze a few times from the information overload that his nose was scenting through the room and beyond. His magic, previously at the top of his year group and then some, grew by leaps and bounds, making Harry wonder how he had ever functioned without complete access to his magic that he had now. He had a feeling it wasn’t entirely false to state that he was the most powerful being currently on Earth.
Because, by Merlin, he had known that he was powerful. You couldn’t exactly be the Dark Lord’s equal without matching him in strength of magic, after all. In spite of that, he had never truly felt powerful—like the world lay beneath him, so that with a snap of his fingers, the whole world would tilt on its axis to dance to his tune, obeying his every command—until now. ‘Morgana! No wonder Voldemort had delusions of grandeur if he felt like this every time.’
Harry’s scrutiny of his magic came to a screeching halt. ‘I knew that I forgot something.’ Harry groaned as he realized that he had forgotten to ask how he managed to turn Voldemort into dust and if he could use that power again.
After adjusting to the heavy yet comforting blanket of magic that surrounded him, Harry settled on a course of action. Leaving the cozy walls of Gryffindor Tower, he opened his mokeskin pouch, took out a battered piece of parchment, and pointed his wand at the blank canvas. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” Lines bloomed across the page, the once-empty parchment coming to life with a burst of magic. Tracking his eyes over the Marauder's Map, Harry quickly spotted the set of footsteps belonging to Minerva McGonagall. Nodding his head firmly, Harry turned on his heel to head toward the Headmistress, placing the map back in his pouch.
As he moved through the corridors, memories of the years he spent at this school consumed him. Happy moments, such as going to the library to study with a long-suffering Ron and an animated Hermione, joking around with the Weasley twins, and learning about the wonderful thing that was magic contrasted with sad instances like the times when the whole school turned on him, the constant dangers he faced, and finally, the battle yesterday.
‘Countless lives lost because of a madman’s desire for control.’ Harry was disrupted from his melancholy thoughts by a playful tugging of his magic. Hesitantly reaching out with his magic, he felt it. The magic of Hogwarts, and by Godric, was it beautiful. Pausing his movements, he was almost swallowed by the sensations that the magic was drowning him in. Parsing out the confusing mess of the rest of Hogwarts’ message, Harry got the strongest impressions of four things that it—She was trying to tell him.
Home. Safety. Apology. Gratefulness.
It was apologizing. The school was supposed to be a safe place. It was meant to be a haven for Magic’s beloved children. But due to the negligence of the wards and the fact that a Horcrux was sucking the life out of her, she was helpless to do anything. “I understand. I had a leech sucking the magic out of me as well.” Harry, feeling awkward, tried to comfort Hogwarts. He sensed that his platitudes weren’t helping when he felt a burst of righteous fury and indignation brush against his magic.
Thankfully, she wasn’t inclined to dwell on heavy things. Then she was thanking him for his help, his sacrifice —something that only a handful of people knew. But since it took place on school grounds, of course, she would know. She understood the price he paid to save everyone, to save the students, and for that, she was so grateful. Harry's breathing hitched at the depth of love and gratitude flowing from the walls into his being as he trailed his hands over the aged stone, rough against his fingertips.
Harry slowed his steps, feeling that this might be the last time he set foot in this place, stirring a faint pressure in his chest. Knowing better than to question his gut feeling, Harry simply took in the presence of Hogwarts. It was still breathtaking; the crumbling parts of the castle did not detract from the beauty of such a magnificent piece of architecture that had stood the test of time. He grinned brightly as he realized that the castle survived the war too. Like some of its occupants, it emerged a little battered but all the better for it. Smiling fondly at the memories created in this ancient building, he rounded the corner of the hallway. Spotting his quarry, he called out, “Headmistress, I–” Putting up a hand to stop him in his tracks, the Headmistress smiled, “You are leaving, are you not?” Smiling wider when Harry gave a single hesitant nod, McGonagall sighed lightly before she stated, “I had expected this. There is no need to give any excuse, Mr. Potter. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You, of all people, I believe deserve a break.”
“Call me Harry, Professor. I’m not a student now. I don’t know if I will ever be so again,” Harry confessed, the pain in his eyes visible to the woman who smiled sadly at him. “I will if you call me Minerva, Harry, and although I regret that you cannot finish your education, I believe that it will be good for you.” Getting away from painful memories, she didn’t say, but Harry heard it anyway. “I believe so too.”
A comfortable silence settled between the two before McGonagall cleared her throat, sniffling as she turned to Harry and suddenly pulled him into a hug, one that he gratefully accepted. Burrowing into the embrace, Harry inhaled the comforting scent of his professor, imprinting it in his memory. ‘Gingersnaps, lemon, and something distinctly feline.’ Harry looked amused at the feedback that his heightened senses received. Pulling away from the hug, Harry thanked her profusely as she escorted him through the doors. “Thank you, Minerva, for everything.”
“You are very welcome, Harry.” Minerva smiled affectionately at him before turning to head back inside, wiping her tears along the way.
Whirling around, Harry considered the vast land in front of him as he strolled along the familiar pathways, glancing at the shortcuts and hidden trails he had used many times in the past. As he crossed the grounds, he unfurled his magic from where it lay lazily coiled around his chest, right where his heart pumped lifeblood throughout his body. He sent his magic—potent and heady now that a part of him wasn't suppressed—into the ground. He focused on sending it to the soil to encourage healthy growth and to repair the damage that had been wrought less than twenty-four hours ago.
This would be his final gift to Hogwarts, to Her. Because for all that she felt she owed him, Harry believed wholeheartedly that she saved him.
Although restricted, Harry suspected that she made life easier for him while he was a student. Maneuvering the staircases to lead him to his desired location each time—something he knew she didn’t do for other students. Making Dobby tell him where the Room of Requirement was. Hiding him from everyone when he simply wanted to be left alone. Giving him a safe place. Giving him a Home.
For all the hurt that this place caused him, it was also home to some of his happiest memories.
Eyes flicking back, Harry took one last look at Hogwarts, his first home. From afar, it looked untouched—picturesque, hiding the shadows of war that had ravaged all of Wizarding Britain. The castle stood in the distance, brimming with Life, an antithesis to the battle that took place just a day ago where the dense feeling of Death was overflowing.
Harry smiled as he turned on the spot, summoning his magic to disapparate. “She’ll be alright.” Harry hoped that someday he would be too.
Notes:
A/N: Hello, everyone!
I intended to post this yesterday, but life got in the way. *shrugs*
This is my favorite chapter by far. I love everything about it!
Hope you all enjoy this. Oh, and I also added some dates to help you guys keep track of the timeline. If you go back to chapters 1 and 2, you will see that I fixed them! Hopefully, that helps.Happy reading! 💜💜
- K