Nymphadora Tonks pinched the bridge of her nose, leaning back in her chair after finally completing the report. It had been more difficult than usual; she hadn't been able to focus. A deep-seated loneliness had plagued her since her thirteenth birthday, a feeling that intensified when she realised the others had not returned with her. A sliver of doubt had taken root, whispering that the ritual had failed, that there hadn't been enough magic to bring all four of them back.
Feeling Salazar in Diagon Alley had been a shock she was no longer expecting. In that moment, she hadn't found the courage to seek him out, the memory of how things had ended between them in their past life still a fresh wound. Back then, she hadn't been a warrior, despite being an excellent duellist; her talents had always leaned towards Healing. In this new life, however, she had thrown herself into the Auror Department and was now in her final year of training. To graduate, she needed to complete a placement under a senior Auror. Having been trained by Alastor Moody at the academy, she had hoped he would be her supervising mentor for this final step.
But the Head Auror, Rufus Scrimgeour, had other ideas, sidelining Moody because he was "too old and paranoid." Tonks snorted. The real reason, she knew, was that Scrimgeour was intensely jealous of Moody, who was a far superior Auror even with one eye and half a leg missing. The thought brought a grim smile to her face. Scrimgeour had likely pushed for the legendary Auror's early retirement simply to remove a political rival.
"Nodding off on the job?"
"No, Kingsley," Tonks replied, opening her eyes. In the doorway stood the very Auror assigned to her placement. Kingsley Shacklebolt was a good man, a rarity in the Ministry and someone she was beginning to count as a friend. "Just meditating. You should try it. Good for the soul."
"Doesn't work for me, Nymphadora."
"Don't call me that," she groaned. "You know I hate that name."
"Scrimgeour wants to see us."
That was unexpected. The "boss" gave orders to full Aurors, never to trainees. This was highly unusual. She hoped it had nothing to do with Sirius Black. When the news of his escape broke, she had immediately confided in Kingsley that Black was a distant relative—her mother's cousin. Hiding that fact would have been a catastrophic mistake. Still, his escape was a complete mystery; no trace of dark magic had been found, which had baffled everyone.
As they waited outside Scrimgeour's office, which was currently occupied by the Minister for Magic himself, Tonks's mind drifted again. She remembered her first actions after awakening in this new life. The ritual specified they would re-emerge within their own bloodlines, and she had been desperate to learn who her parents were. Her mother was a Black who had been disowned for love, an admirable sacrifice. Yet, the answer she sought lay with her father, a Muggle-born wizard. It was proof of what one of her old friends had always maintained: magic never vanishes, it simply hides in the bloodline, waiting to resurface.
She was no longer alone. That feeling in the alley had confirmed it, though it had unnerved her enough to make her flee. Things were about to change.
"We can go in," Kingsley's deep voice rumbled beside her. "You're awfully quiet today, Tonks."
"Just thinking."
They entered the office to face their grumpy boss, closing the door behind them. It was going to be a very long day.
In mid-August, Harry was strolling through Diagon Alley when he felt it. It was the second familiar essence he'd recognised, the second of his friends. This time, he wasn't going to let them slip away. He casually scanned the crowd, letting the feeling guide him until he pinpointed its source: Neville Longbottom. Neville was Godric.
Harry watched from a distance. Neville stood with his grandmother, who was loudly admonishing him for having "forgotten" his school supplies list, among other failings that would have crushed any normal thirteen-year-old. It explained so much about Godric's behaviour these past two years, his deep-seated inferiority complex. He could see Neville holding his tongue, a feat of restraint that surprised and amused Harry in equal measure. After a moment, he decided to intervene.
"Hello, Neville. Good to see you," Harry greeted, a charming smile playing on his lips. "And this must be your grandmother, I presume?"
"It is, Harry."
"A pleasure to meet you, Madam Longbottom."
"Harry Potter," she said, her stern demeanour softening. "The pleasure is all mine. Neville, you never told me you were friends with Mr Potter."
"It never came up, Grandmother," Neville replied with a shy act that seemed to satisfy the old witch.
"Would you mind if I borrowed Neville to do our shopping?" Harry asked smoothly. "I have my book list right here; we can share. I'm sure you have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Indeed. I have business at the bank. I'll meet you both at the Leaky Cauldron in an hour."
As she swept away, Harry turned to his friend. "You lost it on purpose, didn't you?"
"I didn't lose it," Neville said with a shrug, a ghost of a grin on his face. "But she expected me to, so..."
They shared a knowing smile and entered Flourish and Blotts. While Neville gathered his required texts, Harry moved to the history section. He was determined to find out what had happened a thousand years ago to so thoroughly tarnish his name. He had been suspicious of Muggles, yes, and had proposed measures to protect the school's secrecy, but the idea that he wanted Muggle-borns dead was a disgusting lie. He searched for records from their time, but there was precious little, as if it had been intentionally erased.
"Got mine. I thought Rowena was the historian among us," Neville said, appearing at his side.
"I want to know how they misrepresented all of us," Harry whispered. "Especially how the Chamber came to be seen as my weapon against Muggle-borns."
"What happened down there last year?" Neville asked, his voice low.
"I had to kill Rhea to save the Weasley girl," Harry said, a pang of regret surfacing now that he was fully himself again.
"Rhea? I don't know how you come up with these names."
"Greek mythology is fascinating. Rhea hid Zeus to save her children. It felt like an appropriate name for a secret guardian."
"Come on, let's get some ice cream. There's something I need your help with."
They made their way to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. The owner, recognising Harry, insisted their ice creams were on the house—a perk of fame Harry felt conflicted about but accepted nonetheless.
"Privacy charms are up," Neville said once they were seated. "Tell me everything."
"It started with Polyjuice Potion and a trip to the Slytherin common room," Harry began, recounting the search for the Heir. "Then, in February, we found Tom Riddle's diary in the girls' lavatory."
"The same lavatory that was your personal laboratory?" Neville raised an eyebrow.
"Yes. Not a coincidence, I think. Ginny Weasley had thrown it there. That diary... it was a Horcrux."
"What makes you so sure?" Neville asked, his face paling. The very concept was a sacrilege.
"It could think for itself. It held memories. In the Chamber, Riddle's spectre was forming by draining Ginny Weasley's life force. He was a boy of sixteen."
"So Tom Riddle, as a student, created a Horcrux. That's the work of a Dark Lord, not just a dark wizard. And yet, the world only knows of Voldemort."
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Harry said quietly. "Rearrange the letters."
"Ah. Go on."
"We found the entrance. Lockhart, the fraud, tried to wipe our memories, caused a cave-in, and I was left alone to face the basilisk." Harry paused, omitting certain details. "Riddle was there, a madman calling himself the Heir of Slytherin. He set the basilisk on me. He called it a guardian against enemies of the castle."
"And you were an enemy?"
"Apparently. I regret not adding more specific commands to her. Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, brought me the Sorting Hat, which produced your sword. The phoenix blinded the basilisk, and I did the rest. I destroyed the diary, and the girl recovered. Physically, at least."
"A phoenix only appears out of loyalty to its master," Neville pointed out.
"I know. At the time, I told Riddle that Dumbledore had not truly left Hogwarts, that he was never as far away as he thought."
"Ambiguous enough to count, I suppose." They ate in silence for a moment. "He's still out there, isn't he? As a spirit."
"Yes. I saw him during first year. He made more than one Horcrux," Harry stated, his voice flat. "When he tried to kill me as a baby, his soul was so unstable that a piece of it broke off." He tapped the scar on his forehead. "I don't think his soul can withstand being torn apart again."
"Blimey. How many could he have made?"
"Making one is madness enough. I have no idea."
"Before we lift the charms," Neville said, "what do we call each other?"
"It depends on who's listening, Godric," Harry said with a grin. "It would raise a few eyebrows in the Great Hall."
"True." Neville dismantled the privacy ward. "My grandmother told me the Wizengamot has voted to place Dementors around the school."
"They've lost their minds," Harry said with biting sarcasm. "Surrounding a school full of children with soul-sucking fiends. A brilliant idea."
"The Minister's doing. Grandmother is furious, but Dumbledore could only get them to agree not to enter the grounds. All because they think Sirius Black is coming for you."
"What would Black want at Hogwarts?"
"They won't say. Anyway, Ron's already arranged for you to travel to the station together, I assume?"
"He has. The Weasleys are arriving at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow."
"You're not usually one to just go along with others' plans."
"I know," Harry smiled thinly. "But things are going to get strange enough as it is. Let's just say the boy who scraped by on his homework is gone. So is the one who acted without thinking."
"I understand, Salazar. Harry Potter is growing up this year. I think we both are. Which brings me to what I needed your help with."
"Name it."
"I can't access my original wand until I'm of age. I'm using my father's. Grandmother says it honours him."
"That's sentimental rubbish. You need a wand that chooses you," Harry said firmly. "Right then. We're going to Ollivanders to get you a proper wand, and three wand holsters."
"Three?"
"One for you, one for me, and a spare. Your grandmother will see me, the Boy-Who-Lived, with a holster and wonder why her grandson doesn't have one. It's about appearances, Godric."
"That would never have occurred to me."
Half an hour later, they returned to the Leaky Cauldron, purchases in hand. They made a show of presenting the holsters to Madam Longbottom, carefully concealing Neville's new, perfectly matched wand.
The night before leaving for Hogwarts, Harry couldn't sleep. A shouting match between Ron and Percy over a Head Boy badge echoed from the next room, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley kept shooting him nervous glances whenever Sirius Black's name was mentioned. Something was definitely afoot.
He rose at dawn, dressed, and coaxed a grumpy Hedwig into her cage. He found Mr. Weasley alone in the pub's common room, reading the Daily Prophet.
"Harry! You're up early."
"Excited for the new term, sir. Hogsmeade trips and all that."
Mr. Weasley nodded, pushing the newspaper aside with a hesitant gesture. "There's something you ought to know, Harry. Something the Minister... and Molly... don't want me to tell you. But I think you have a right."
"What is it?" Harry asked, his tone serious.
"Sirius Black," Mr. Weasley said, his voice low and urgent. "He escaped from Azkaban to come after you."
"He wants to kill me," Harry stated. It wasn't a question. But why now? "Thank you for telling me, Mr. Weasley. I'll be careful."
"I knew you'd be sensible about it."
Mrs. Weasley's arrival cut the conversation short. Soon the rest of the Weasleys and a bright-eyed Hermione joined them. Before they left, Harry discreetly settled his bill with Tom, paying the remaining six Galleons for his silence. The trip to King's Cross in the Ministry limousines was surprisingly comfortable. At the station, Harry grabbed a trolley, flanked by Mr. Weasley and a puffed-up Percy, clearly acting as his guards.
On Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, the air was thick with excitement. Harry felt a prickling sensation, the feeling of being watched, but couldn't spot anyone staring. He, Ron, and Hermione soon found an empty compartment—almost. A man was fast asleep by the window, his face pale and scarred, his robes shabby and patched. A strange feeling of caution washed over Harry, but Ron and Hermione were already settling in. He levitated his trunk onto the rack and joined their debate about Hogsmeade.
"I'm telling you, Hermione, the Shrieking Shack is overrated," Ron was saying. "Honeydukes is where it's at. It's a temple of sweets."
"Don't you worry, Ronald Wonka," Harry interjected with a grin. "We'll have time for everything. I'm rather curious about the Shack myself."
Hermione laughed at Ron's bewildered expression. The old Harry would have hidden his literary knowledge to avoid offending his friend. The new Harry didn't care.
"I can't believe your aunt and uncle actually signed your permission form," Ron said.
"I made them a deal," Harry replied coolly. "They sign the form, I disappear for the summer."
"But Harry, that's dangerous!" Hermione protested. "You can't be on your own! What if something had happened?"
Before Harry could answer, the compartment door slid open to reveal Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry asked, his voice calm.
"My father won't forget what you did, Potter. Costing him his position on the board."
"Everyone is responsible for their own actions," Harry replied smoothly. "Your father played a dangerous game, and it nearly got someone killed. He's lucky he wasn't directly linked to it."
"He had nothing to do with the Chamber!"
"Didn't he? I'm sure you're familiar with a certain diary, with the name Tom Marvolo Riddle on it," Harry said, watching as understanding and horror dawned on Draco's face. "Riddle opened the Chamber. His diary, which your father slipped to an innocent student, was capable of draining the life from anyone who wrote in it. It could have been you, Draco. I remember you picked it up once. Your father was willing to risk you."
"No... my father would never..."
"Your father's a murderer!" Ron bellowed.
"Ron, that's enough," Harry said, turning a commanding gaze on his friend before looking back at Malfoy.
The shouting stirred the sleeping man, who shifted under his cloak.
"Who's that?" Malfoy asked, suddenly wary.
"Our new professor, apparently," Hermione said curtly.
The Slytherins departed, Draco casting a final, terrified glance at Harry.
"What was that about, Harry?" Hermione asked, looking at him with a strange expression. "Last year, you would have punched him."
"Time will tell if it was the right move," Harry said enigmatically.
Neville arrived a moment later, and the journey continued peacefully until, with a violent lurch, the train screeched to a halt. The lights flickered and died. An unnatural, bone-deep cold seeped into the compartment, draining all warmth and happiness from the air. A terrifying scream echoed in Harry's head.
"Dementors?" Neville whispered, his voice trembling. "They're not supposed to leave the perimeter."
"They're the guards of Azkaban," Harry explained grimly to a confused Ron and Hermione. "They shouldn't be on this train."
A cloaked, skeletal figure glided towards their door. Harry and Neville drew their wands, but before they could act, the professor was on his feet.
"None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks," he said in a surprisingly firm voice. "Leave."
The Dementor ignored him, its rattling breath turning towards Harry.
"Expecto Patronum!"
A silvery wolf erupted from the professor's wand, driving the Dementor back and out of the train. The warmth slowly returned. The professor broke off pieces from a large bar of chocolate and handed them to each of them. As the rich sweetness melted in his mouth, Harry felt the chill recede. The remedy was new to him, a discovery from an age he hadn't lived.
"Eat," the professor said. "It will help. I'm going to have a word with the driver."
Albus Dumbledore was not a happy wizard. Fudge had gone behind his back, authorising Dementors to search the Hogwarts Express. It was a reckless, dangerous move. It was only because Remus Lupin, his new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, had been on that train that a disaster had been averted.
A sharp knock came at his office door. The portraits had already told him who it was.
"Come in."
The two Ministry Aurors assigned to Hogwarts entered his office. From behind his desk, Albus Dumbledore observed them carefully. One, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was a senior Auror of considerable skill. The other, Nymphadora Tonks, was a trainee on her final assessment—essentially on probation. To have a senior Auror babysitting a trainee, all in the name of protecting his school, was an arrangement he found less than ideal. Had he been given the choice, he would have requested Alastor Moody, a man whose paranoia he could at least trust. Instead, he had these two. He would have to watch them closely.
"Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon, Headmaster Dumbledore," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, his deep voice calm and respectful.
"I will not deny my surprise that the Minister saw fit to assign you to the protection of my students," Dumbledore began, his voice mild. "My primary concern is that your presence here does not disturb the normal rhythm of the castle."
"You have nothing to worry about, Headmaster," Shacklebolt assured him. "We are here solely to ensure the students' safety. We will be ghosts."
"You will be quartered in the old masters' wing, which is currently unoccupied. I shall announce your presence at the Welcoming Feast this evening. There will be no need for you to attend classes or wear any sort of uniform."
"Understood, Headmaster," Tonks said quietly.
"I trust the Minister has informed you of Sirius Black's presumed objective," Dumbledore continued, his gaze pointed. "However, hovering around young Harry Potter will not be productive. It is best he is not made to feel like a prisoner in his own school."
He watched the two Aurors for a reaction. Tonks's expression tightened almost imperceptibly at his last statement. Dumbledore recalled Moody's reports on the girl; he remembered her as a student here—undisciplined, but with a core of tremendous courage. He subtly extended his senses, a gentle probe of Legilimency to gauge her thoughts on the matter.
He met a wall. Solid, immediate, and unyielding.
Dumbledore withdrew, startled. The young woman was a far more skilled Occlumens than her file—or her flighty demeanour—suggested. Few Aurors bothered to master that difficult art anymore. This made her an unknown quantity, and he would have to be cautious; after all, Black blood ran through her veins. He let the silence hang for a moment. A formal complaint of illegal Legilimency would cause a significant political headache.
From his perch near the door, Fawkes let out a soft, melodic trill. The phoenix's intelligent black eyes were fixed on the trainee Auror, and Dumbledore watched as she met its gaze without flinching. For a moment, a silent understanding seemed to pass between them. Fawkes's approval was a powerful endorsement, suggesting that she had indeed broken from the darkness that so often clung to the Black family name. A relief, to be sure.
"You will take your meals in the kitchens. Are you familiar with their location?"
"I am not," Shacklebolt admitted.
Albus Dumbledore fell silent again, observing them. Shacklebolt had been a sharp Ravenclaw, respectful of the rules but with a talent for bending them when necessary. Tonks, a Hufflepuff, had a brilliant academic record that belied her clumsy exterior. She didn't answer his question verbally, merely shaking her head once.
"On the corridor leading to the Hufflepuff common room, there is a portrait of a fruit bowl. You need only tickle the pear, and the door will open. Miss Tonks will know the portrait I speak of."
"I never saw it," Shacklebolt said, glancing at his partner with a questioning look.
"Ravenclaws don't often have reason to frequent the basements," Tonks remarked simply. She then looked to Dumbledore. "Do you think it would be appropriate for us to head down now, before the students begin to arrive? If we are to be ghosts, it's best we start immediately."
"A very astute observation, Miss Tonks," Dumbledore said, a hint of genuine approval in his voice. "If you'll excuse us, Headmaster."
"By all means. Welcome to Hogwarts."