Chapter Text
Ever since Harry was a young child he was scared of closed spaces. Maybe scared was not the right word. He always felt suffocated in them.
Living first in a cupboard and later in a room with bars on the window, Harry had thought freedom might bring relief, and in a way it did, yet the suffocation never left him.
Not a single year of his life had he truly been free, for even after leaving the Dursleys he found himself followed everywhere under the watch of Aurors.
When they were hunting Horcruxes, one could argue Harry had no restrictions for the first time in his life, unless being hunted and wanted counted as such.
With every death of family and friends, the weight around his chest grew heavier, each loss tightening his breath until it felt as though the air itself was slipping away.
So Harry was not truly afraid of closed spaces. What terrified him was the suffocation, a crushing sensation he could never control.
“Harry? Would tea be all right?” Hermione asked softly at his side, her eyes carrying a knowing look. He had drifted somewhere distant again, lost in thoughts he never shared. Ron did the same at times when it was just the three of them.
“Yeah, thanks, Mione,” he replied, forcing his thoughts back into focus.
It had been three years since the Battle of Hogwarts, since victory was declared and so many were lost.
Yet Harry still felt trapped in that time, still branded a fugitive in his own mind, still suffocated, still mourning, still arranging funerals, still cradling little Teddy and telling him stories about his father when he should have been whispering fairy tales before bed.
“We’ve been doing so much work lately at the Department, things I never even began to understand. It’s been chaotic,” Hermione said as she set a steaming cup in front of him.
“I’d say that’s good then, isn’t it? Something the great Hermione Granger hasn’t already heard of or read. The world is still spinning, isn’t it? Or is it about to stop?” Harry said with a faint smile, earning himself a small shove from Hermione.
“It’s good. I… always love learning new things. Knowledge is endless, and I’m grateful for that,” she replied, her words carrying a wisdom far beyond her years.
“I’m glad you enjoy the Department of Mysteries,” he said sincerely, setting down a piece of leftover cake from the one Molly had sent him.
“I do worry, though,” Hermione said quietly.
“Why? Has something happened?” Harry asked, his heart quickening until his breath caught in his chest, the old suffocating weight pressing down on him again. Fear was rising too quickly, sharper than it should have been.
“Oh, no, no,” Hermione said quickly, her voice gentle as she caught the panic written across his face.
“Nothing like that. It’s about you and Ron, and me too if I’m being honest. The way you react, the way you’ve been so quiet lately, it scares me,” she said, fidgeting with her cup.
Harry let out a long breath. “I know, Mione, trust me, I know. It isn’t getting better. I don’t think even time could heal the hole in my chest. I’m sure you feel the same,” he said, watching Hermione nod in quiet agreement.
“I’m seeing a mind healer regularly, and I know you are too. It’s just that the more time passes, the worse it feels. The more I digest, the harder it becomes. Healing is never easy,” he said as he reached for her hand.
“I know, of course you’re right, I just… Do you ever wish none of this had happened? That if only one person hadn’t existed, none of it would have come to pass? Or that the first war had ended sooner, before… before so many people died?” Hermione finished, her voice dropping to a quiet murmur.
“No, I don’t. Why bring myself more heartache with what-ifs? What happened has already happened on a larger scale no Time-Turner could ever fix. It’s a miracle we defeated him and survived, you know. I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful for you, for Ron, and for Teddy,” he finished, steadying his voice so it would not rise.
He knew Hermione would never say such things to hurt him.
“You’re right, I know you are. Those thoughts just keep pounding in my head lately, you know? I thought if I voiced them, maybe it would quiet them.”
Harry knew that all too well. “I understand. Feel free to ramble about whatever you like, just know I might need some warning and a bit of firewhisky for some of it,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Thanks, Harry,” she said with a small smile before taking a bite of cake.
“How are your studies going?” Hermione finally asked after a long stretch of silence.
“Oh, pretty well. I’ve been working on complex charms, learning how to stack them. The professors seem pleased. Ever tried shrinking an Exploding Charm?” he asked.
“Can’t say that I have. I’m glad you enjoy it, though, after…” Hermione trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken.
Harry had begun Auror training after eighth year, managing to scrape together enough N.E.W.T.s, but he had not been able to continue. Working for the Ministry after everything they had done to him only filled him with anger.
Things were different now, but he still could not stomach being the Ministry’s lapdog. He had passed his training with ease, though, facing Voldemort had been the fastest course one could take.
Charms had always fascinated him, as did Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was now studying both at a wizarding university in Pittsburgh, working toward a degree of sorts, and every weekend he flooed home to spend time with his godson and his friends.
Other than that, he was mostly alone. He and Ginny had not been able to withstand the weight of grief after the war. She ended things when they became little more than ghosts haunting the same house.
They needed to heal apart from one another. It was not working well, but at least he was no longer pulling her life down with his own.
“It’s for the best, Mione. I only need seven more credits to graduate, and then we’ll throw a party.” She smiled at that.
“If I’m honest,” he continued, “it’s been good. I’ve had more time to figure out what I want to do, and as you always say, knowledge and education are an investment,” he reminded her with her own words.
Hermione let out a small huff. “And I stand by that. Education is an investment. Whatever you choose to do next, I’m sure this will help you,” she said softly.
“Come to the Burrow next weekend? Please? It’s Ron’s birthday,” she said as she finished her cake.
“Yeah, of course. You don’t have to ask. How could I forget?” he said with a faint smile.
“Oh, with you two it could be anything. All right then, I’ll see you on Friday?” she said. Harry only nodded and walked her to the Apparition point outside his house.
He was left alone once more. Suffocating.
The next morning he went to Diagon Alley. It was the weekend, his schoolwork finished, and he finally had some free time. He decided to look for a gift for Ron, something meaningful, as he had come to treasure giving whenever he could.
The Alley was quiet, still early in the day. Wizards and witches who passed him offered a polite wave or a small nod, never intrusive. That was what Harry liked about shopping in the morning.
He finally settled on a magical accounting kit. Ron had started working at the Joke Shop that year and was taking on more of the management side of the business, often complaining about the lack of proper tools to do the job.
The kit seemed perfect, even if a bit dull and practical, so Harry added a fine bottle of whiskey to go with it, meant to be enjoyed separately, of course.
Satisfied, he returned home through the Alley floo. He had bought a small house on the outskirts of London, unable to remain at Grimmauld Place with all the memories that haunted its walls.
Alone. Ashamed. Depressed. Scared.
No. He could not give in to those thoughts. He knew he had to face them, not sink into them, just as his mind healer had told him.
So he did, or at least he tried.
After a while he gave up, though he did feel a little better, and decided to move on to some practical nonverbal practice. He was getting quite skilled at it.
He had not told anyone, but he had been considering entering professional dueling. He was unsure how his friends would take it.
A week later, after finishing a few exams, Harry stood in front of the Burrow with his gifts in hand, freshly dressed and showered.
Molly greeted him with a warm hug. “Harry! Come in, come in. I can’t leave you alone, can I? You’re far too skinny,” she said, and Harry cringed at the words.
He hated being reminded of it every time he saw her, how scrawny he still was at twenty. He hated comments about his hair, his glasses, his fading scar, but most of all he hated being called skinny. He was trying.
He didn’t comment, though. He never did.
“Happy birthday, Ron. How does it feel being twenty-one? I’m a bit jealous, you can finally drink in the US,” Harry said as he hugged him, and Ron pulled him into a tight embrace.
“Thanks for coming mate. It’s the stupidest rule I’ve ever heard. Why go to university if you can’t get drunk anyway?” Ron asked with a grin, earning himself a sharp slap from Hermione.
“To study, of course. Merlin, Ron,” was her reasoning. Her irritation faded quickly as she rose on her tiptoes to give him a small kiss.
Harry turned his gaze aside, almost unable to bear the sight of their small moment of happiness, and hating himself for the feeling it stirred.
The party proved a godsend. For a few hours, and with a few drinks, he managed to lose himself.
Ron looked truly happy, and he loved the gift Harry had chosen for him. That, at least, filled Harry with a quiet sense of pride.
He dreaded going back home, yet he dreaded staying as well. Seeing George always brought back the shadow of Fred, the absence of him striking like a sharp pang in Harry’s chest. He had never truly recovered from losing Fred.
Seeing Ginny was civil, but knowing she had moved on carried a hurt of its own.
He decided to leave around midnight, once Ron and his brothers were clearly wasted. Harry was more than a little drunk himself.
He began slipping on his coat.
“Harry, wait,” Hermione said as she came to his side.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I… made a decision tonight after seeing you,” she said at last, breaking a long stretch of silence.
“What is it, Mione?” he asked, gently patting her shoulder as she began to tremble, a flicker of worry rising in him.
“N-nothing, really. Nothing I can tell you. But after tonight we might not be friends again. I don’t know, I hope for the best. You need to know I’m doing this for all of us, but mostly I’m doing it for you. I love you, Harry James Potter. And I believe we would be friends in every universe,” she finally finished.
Harry was trembling. “Hermione, what… what’s going on? What are you talking about?” he asked, watching as she wiped away a few tears.
“Nothing, Harry, I’ve just had too much to drink. But I need you to remember that, all right? If I cease to exist, remember it.” She gave his cheek a gentle pat.
“Hermione,” he said more firmly, “you’re scaring me.” He admitted the words with a tightness in his voice.
“Sorry, Harry.” With one final hug, a farewell that felt too final, she slipped a beautiful, delicate bracelet onto his wrist.
“Keep it on for me? Promise me, Harry.” She met his eyes with unwavering determination.
“Okay, I will. I promise I will, if it’s you asking. I don’t like this, Hermione. Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, we’ll fix it, all right?” he said, his promise drawing a sad smile from her.
“Yeah, I know. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, all right? I’ll explain everything then.” Harry could only nod as she turned away, as though meeting his eyes had become too painful.
It was all too much for him, but he was determined to confront Hermione tomorrow. Whatever it was, they could face it together.
He toyed with the delicate bracelet as he lay in bed, his mind turning over everything that had happened.
Tomorrow. He would talk to her tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came. The next time he opened his eyes, he was seated on a train, with Ron and the twins beside him, chattering over a pile of chocolates.
The twins. Plural.
Harry gasped as he jolted awake, and suddenly every eye in the compartment was fixed on him.
“You all right, mate?” Fred asked. Harry knew it was him; he had spent enough time studying and quietly admiring Fred to recognize him instantly.
“Is this a dream?” he asked them quietly.
“Well, I feel rather insulted. I am dreamy, though,” George said, earning a smack from Ron and an eye roll.
Harry felt his throat tighten as he looked at Ron, younger than he remembered, with no trauma shadowing his eyes, no hatred, no sorrow. Not yet.
No, it couldn’t be. He couldn’t be in the past. He couldn’t go through it again. He couldn’t lose Fred again. He couldn’t lose them again. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. And this time, he might not win.
“Mate, breathe. Did you take something?” Ron asked, his face tightening with concern.
“No, I… I just had a really bad dream, I think. Are we on our way to Hogwarts? When do we arrive?” he asked, while in his mind another question pressed louder: What year is it?
“Harry, you really are on something. You don’t look yourself. Maybe an hour or so until we get there, you should get into your robes,” Fred said, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to refuse. He could never refuse those eyes.
Harry only nodded quietly, prompting the three Weasleys to exchange uncertain glances. He pulled out his robes, relieved to see they were still Gryffindor’s colors. A brief glance at his books showed fourth-year subjects, and from that he assumed they were entering their fourth year.
But his bags, his trunk, he had never had those before. They looked new, expensive, and far too flashy, nothing Harry would ever have chosen. He had always hated showing his money, hated anything extravagant. All he had ever wanted was to fit in, not stand out.
It wasn’t how the ride in fourth year had begun either. He was certain he hadn’t been sitting with the twins then. It had been just after the awful events at the World Cup, a memory that surfaced sharply and made him flinch.
He tried not to appear uneasy, forcing himself to blend in until he could understand what was happening. Still, his eyes kept drifting to Fred’s face. Merlin, Fred, beautiful, lively Fred. Not dead, not pale, not bloodless.
He pulled on his robes quickly and sat back down.
“Here, mate, you need this,” Ron said, handing him a Chocolate Frog. Harry took it and nibbled at it, realizing he wasn’t doing a very good job of acting normal.
The door slid open, and a small figure in Slytherin robes appeared, looking frightened yet holding themselves with quiet determination.
“I-I need my books. Dad accidentally packed them in your trunk,” the small boy said shakily, or at least Harry thought it was a boy.
Harry looked up and found himself staring into his own eyes, green, wide, and filled with fear. Fear of what, he could not tell.
The boy had the same black, messy hair as Harry, though it was long and neatly braided. He wore no glasses, yet his face was nearly identical to Harry’s, only softer, more feminine, carrying a resemblance closer to Lily.
Harry’s breath caught, his mind struggling to process what his eyes were seeing. “Books?” he managed at last.
“Y-yeah! Books, I’ll be quick, just let me get them. I have to have my books, Harry. If not, I-I’ll tell Papa!” the boy blurted, his voice rising enough to make Ron frown in irritation.
“No need to shout, Slytherin rat,” Ron said harshly, and the boy’s eyes grew glossy with unshed tears. Harry felt a sharp pang in his chest at the sight.
“Ron,” Harry said, his voice gentle but firm, earning surprised looks from everyone in the compartment.
He couldn’t make sense of what was happening, but his heart ached deeply for the small boy.
“Okay, let’s look. We’ll find your books,” Harry said as he stood, lifting his wand. With a silent Levitation Charm, he brought the heavy trunk down.
George let out a low whistle. “Nonverbal, huh? Someone’s been practicing.”
The small boy’s eyes widened in awe. “Wow,” he whispered, though the lingering alarm never left his face.
Why was the boy so skittish? Why were the small Slytherin’s books in his trunk? And who was this 'Dad' he spoke of? This was definitely not the fourth year Harry remembered.
The trunk thudded against the floor as Harry opened it. “Well, go on then, take a look. I’ll hold it open,” he said.
The boy quickly dug through the trunk and pulled out five heavy volumes, all second-year textbooks. So, he was a second year.
Tristan F. Potter was clearly written across each book, and Harry felt his stomach twist. Who… who was this boy?
Harry felt an immediate surge of protectiveness toward him, a fierce urge to cast away the boy’s fear with a single spell.
“Did you get them all?” Harry asked softly, and the boy gave a small nod.
“Good.” Harry shut his trunk and lifted it with ease, watching as the boy struggled under the weight of the books in his arms.
“Let me,” Harry said, lifting his wand to levitate the books.
“Show me where you’re sitting. I’ll come with you,” Harry said, already stepping forward.
“W-why? A-are you going to make fun of my friends?” he asked, his voice trembling with fear.
“It’s heavy. I won’t have you carrying those on your own,” Harry said, deliberately ignoring Tristan’s question.
Tristan looked close to tears, uncertain of what to do. Why? Were they unkind to his friends? Harry guessed they must be Slytherins too, and perhaps that was the reason for their unkindness.
Slytherin and Gryffindor usually didn’t get along, but it was almost always the Slytherins making their lives difficult or at least starting the trouble. This, though, this was something entirely different.
Harry’s mind was in shambles, he couldn’t make sense of what was happening. All he knew was that he wanted to help the small boy who seemed on the verge of tears, the boy who looked like Lily, who looked like Harry.
“I’ll just put the books in your trunk and leave, all right?” Harry said quietly.
“I’ll carry a book at a time, that’s f-fine,” Tristan said, his voice unsteady.
“I don’t want them to explode or something when you leave,” he added quietly, recoiling into himself. Merlin.
“They won’t, I promise. Come on, Tristan, lead the way.” At the sound of his own name, the boy looked up in shock before finally starting to move, Harry following close behind.
They reached a compartment a minute later, filled with children around Tristan’s age, all laughing and chatting. The moment Harry appeared behind him, the conversation died, and every pair of eyes went wide, fixed on him.
Harry had been right, they were all Slytherins. It wasn’t surprising, most students kept close to their housemates, and there was nothing wrong about that.
One of them, a blond boy with short hair, even drew his wand, holding it ready at his side. Merlin, what was happening? Why were Tristan and his friends so hostile toward him if Tristan was, if he truly was, Harry’s brother, or at the very least a relative?
“Where’s your trunk?” Harry asked at last, breaking the heavy haze that hung over them all.
Tristan only lifted a hand and pointed to the luggage rack above.
Harry kept the books floating with a charm while simultaneously bringing down Tristan’s trunk with ease. After years of studying charms, he could perform such spells in his sleep.
He opened the trunk carefully, placed the books inside, and then levitated it all back into the rack neatly, every spell cast nonverbally.
The young Slytherins stared at him in open shock.
“Well, that’s done then. Do you need anything else?” Harry asked, still careful with his tone.
Tristan shook his head.
“Okay then, I’ll see you at the feast,” Harry said, turning to leave.
“T-thank you!” Tristan blurted before Harry could turn away, his eyes still wary yet holding the faintest glimmer of hope.
“You’re very welcome. If you need anything, let me know,” Harry said gently, ruffling Tristan’s head without disturbing the braid. He couldn’t help himself, it was the same instinct he had with Teddy, and something about Tristan stirred it in him just as strongly.
Tristan looked startled and recoiled slightly from Harry’s touch, though he said nothing and made no move to stop him. Harry finally turned away, his mind swirling with confusion from the entire encounter.
This wasn’t his past. He didn’t know that boy, didn’t understand why Tristan was so afraid, or why Ron had spoken so harshly. Even if the boy was a Slytherin, he was still just a child, and Ron would never have acted that way.
And the way Tristan had said Dad and Papa, did he mean James? Was his father here, alive? The thought made Harry’s stomach twist until he felt he might be sick as he returned to his compartment with the twins and Ron.
“Mate, since when are we nice to your slimy brother?” Ron asked, his tone not angry but edged with surprise.
“Well, I got tired of being mean,” Harry said, unsure if it was the right thing to admit. Ron looked completely stunned.
Brother. Tristan was his brother. Harry reached that conclusion on his own, their similarities were far too great to ignore. He looked so much like Lily. Lily… could she be alive? The mother who loved him so much she was able to deflect a Killing Curse?
“Trying to get out of detention with the master of Potions, huh? Think being nice to your brother will get you on his good side? Sneaky,” George grinned.
Fred was watching him closely. “Yeah, Regulus always had a soft spot for your brother. Don’t be offended, but Tristan is definitely his favorite son.”
What? Regulus? Regulus Black? R.A.B.? Not Snape? Favorite son? None of it was making any sense.
Harry glanced down at his hands and saw the small black bracelet, and in an instant he remembered the conversation he had shared with Hermione only a week ago.
What if he had been stopped in the first war? Before so many died? She had asked him.
And the way she had cried yesterday, as if she were saying goodbye, as if he would never see her again.
Hermione, what had you done?