Harry sighed with relief as he sank onto the bed. It had been a long day. He’d been sloppy, and if Ginny hadn’t disobeyed and come to his rescue, the Snatchers would have caught him. They needed to have a talk about that soon, but it would probably turn into a shouting match and he was too tired to face it right now. Besides, she’d win in the end like she always did, and he didn’t want to be alone tonight. He closed his eyes. Wordless thoughts and half-formed ideas swirled through his head. It was no use. He just wanted a few blissful hours of blessed sleep; was that too much to ask?
Two identical wands sat on the table. Emerald eyes gazed at him. “Lemon Drop?”
Harry sat up, running a hand through his hair. Damn it! There were too many thoughts. His head felt so heavy and the world seemed to spin slightly around him. He let his head fall to rest in his hands. Weakness seeped into his bones. Tick-tock went the clock. Tick-tock. He counted. Anything to distract himself. Tick-tock.
The door closed with a bang, startling Harry. He turned in a flash, his hand itching for the comfort of a wand. He’d been caught off guard… he was never caught off guard. Not when even the slightest distraction could mean death. His practiced eyes judged the red-haired intruder; tried to read her intent.
His brain finally caught up with his senses and he exhaled. It was just Ginny. He was safe.
“You know,” she said, ignoring his reaction. “I think he’s kinda cute.” She smiled coyly.
“Ginny.”
“No, really. That voice, those eyes… nice bum too.” Her eyes twinkled.
“Please, Ginny.” She frowned at his hunched figure.
“Come on, Harry.” She sat. “I was only teasing.”
“I know. Please, just tease me later.” There was a note of pleading in his voice that surprised her. She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair.
“I thought you were prepared for this.”
“No.” He shook his head slightly. “Not this. ‘The one best suited to help us.’ You all thought it would be another me, but I was sure, I was so sure it would be Dumbledore.” She rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles. Gradually, he began to relax and his tension eased. “I thought…”
“Shush,” Ginny said. “I know.”
“I just wanted to see him again,” Harry continued. “I have so many questions, so many things I wanted to tell him. I really thought it would be him in that circle. Of all the people who’ve died for me, he’s the one I most… almost more than…” His voice caught.
“More than your parents,” she finished for him.
“Yeah.” A sob died in his throat. “Is that… Ginny, is that wrong of me?” His eyes pleaded with her.
“No,” she said at length. “You miss him.”
He turned away. “I miss my parents,” he said bitterly.
“You miss the idea of them.” She reached out tentatively. “But with Dumbledore, you miss the man.” He leaned into her embrace. “It’ll work out, Harry. I know it will.” They stayed like that for a long time as the clock continued its monotonous ticking. This was the real Harry, the lost little boy cracking under the pressure, not the confident warrior he presented to the world. Not even Ron and Hermione ever saw him like this. He’d fight every day until the end of the war, one way or the other, but to be the brave warrior of the light, he had to be the lost boy. He saved her life every day, and she saved him every night.
This was different, though. Ginny knew Harry better than anyone. Knew the twisted threads of guilt and duty that comprised him. The other Potter had touched a hundred different chords in him at once. Notes of sorrow, guilt, anger, and insecurity all resounded through him, and she could hear them all in his voice, and his silence.
“Is he what you were expecting?” Harry’s voice startled Ginny from her thoughts.
“Honestly, I’m not sure what I was expecting.”
“He… me…” Harry laughed but there was no real humor in it. “You know what I mean. He has a point. This is my war, not his. Voldemort marked me. I’m the one who has to kill him. Even if it had been Dumbledore like I hoped, in the end it’s me against him.”
“You’re not alone,” she reminded him.
You can fight with me but you can’t fight for me. No one can. Not even an alternate version of me.”
“Then he’ll fight with you.”
“Will he? I’m not so sure. He’s so different. It’s like looking in a mirror until he opens his mouth.”
“He’ll help.” Ginny nodded confidently. “You’re more alike than either of you think.”
“He’s manipulating us,” Remus wearily. He could feel the beast inside growling, gathering strength. It was getting harder and harder to fight the call of the moon.
“Harry is many things,” said Tonks. “But he doesn’t have a manipulative bone in his body.”
“Our Harry, maybe,” Remus conceded. “But we don’t know anything about our guest. He’s seen our Headquarters and learned our situation, while we still know next to nothing about him.”
“He’s Harry. What else do we need to know?”
“He’s Harold.” Remus corrected. “He’s been watching and analyzing our every move since we brought him here, like a wolf observing his prey.”
“You think he’s a…” Tonks sat up.
“No!” Remus shook his head emphatically. “He wouldn’t have been able to hide that with Bill and I in the room, but the wolf recognized him as a predator.”
“What’s that mean?” Tonks had learned to trust Remus’ primal instincts.
“Nothing in and of itself. No matter how much he would have denied it, Albus was one too. Something happened in that other world to make Harold this way, because while our Harry’s a soldier and a leader, he isn’t a predator. If we want Harold’s help we have to stop expecting him to act like Harry. They’re different people. I just hope that’s a good thing.”
He met Tonks’ worried eyes. He wanted to reassure her, but he couldn’t find the strength to lie.
Down the corridor, past the clumsy children’s drawings and fading school reports still proudly pinned to the wall, two wizards stood vigil. They didn’t know who they were guarding. Perhaps a spy who had been Polyjuiced into Potter, perhaps a long lost twin. It didn’t matter. Orders were orders. Their families were dead or rotting in Azkaban, and they had sworn to serve the Phoenix till victory or till they too died. That might mean sneaking though Wizarding Britain and entering labor camps to provide food and hope, assassinating a witch as she walked down the street, maybe even torturing Death Eaters until they screamed their answers and howled their secrets. And sometimes it meant guarding an unlocked door in the dead of the night.
On the other side of that door, the room was practically bare. The Order did not entertain many guests. A single bed with a lumpy mattress was the only furniture. Two conjured orbs of fire circled around, casting a soft blue light. The man from another world lay motionless on the bed, so still that he could almost be mistaken for a corpse. Then he exhaled, so slowly it was nearly imperceptible, monotonously in and out, in and out. Harold James Potter did not dream. While all around him people were whispering about him in excited voices, while Remus Lupin pondered long after Tonks had fallen asleep, while Ginny Weasley comforted her restless boyfriend, Harold Potter’s mind was empty. Not a single solitary thought fluttered across his consciousness. There was only the peace of blissful nothingness. And so he passed the night.
Harry strode into the cafeteria still rubbing his eyes.. Most of the Order was asleep at this hour, or on night watch. He liked having these moments to himself. Alone in the early morning chill, the world seemed a distant dreamlike place. A cup of tea, a few slices of toast, and the momentary illusion of peace. For an hour, all was right in his world.
Except this time he was not alone. The first pale rays of light streamed in through the window, illuminating his counterpart engaging in a strangely friendly conversation with Luna Lovegood. Harry frowned and kept his eyes on them as he waited for his toast.
Two former Aurors stood on guard by the door. It had seemed a sensible precaution last night, but as Luna’s bubbling laughter echoed in his ears, Harry couldn’t help feel slightly guilty. Anyone who could make Luna laugh couldn’t be too bad. It had been too long since he’d heard that sound. Her father’s death took a part of her away, left her just an echo.
Harry approached their table cautiously. His doppelganger might be able to make Luna clap in delight, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk to him. There was something fundamentally wrong with the other Potter. It made Harry’s skin crawl.
“Please join us.” Harold didn’t even look up. Harry sat, unnerved slightly.
“Good morning, Harry,” Luna said. “We were just discussing the Singing Sunbird of South Essex.” Harry turned to his counterpart in annoyance, but didn’t see any mockery in his face.
“I saw it once,” Harold said. “A little disappointing actually… it sang off key.” He shrugged.
“Well.” Luna smiled. “I think I’ll leave you alone with yourself.” Harry started to protest but Luna was already skipping away, humming happily. Harry blinked. She hadn’t skipped in years. He turned back to find two familiar eyes regarding him silently as he ate uncomfortably.
“My eyes are really green,” Harold said at length. “I always knew that, of course, but I never realized quite how green.” Harry glanced up uncertainly. There was something disquieting in Harold’s tone. “So Harry, am I a prisoner? ‘Cause it was hard to miss the armed guards outside my door last night.”
“The door was unlocked,” Harry said.
“Indeed, but I still had to spend a good fifteen minutes convincing them that a little jaunt to the cafeteria was okay.”
“It’s been a hard few years. Maybe we’re a little paranoid.”
“Maybe,” Harold agreed. “Speaking of which, why is your HQ a Muggle school of all places?”
“Problem with Muggles?” Harry asked sharply.
“Not at all. Muggles can be most useful, but your location doesn’t strike me as the most practical.”
“It’s the last place Voldemort would think to look. He’s been scouring all of England for years now, but we’ve remained hidden in plain sight.”
“Congratulations,” Harold said. “Though forgive me if that seems to be your only victory to speak of.”
Harry glared, but the anger quickly faded into fatigue. “After the Ministry fell, we fought hard. We lost most of our number when we attempted to free the political prisoners from Azkaban.” Harry paused. So many dead. He could still see their faces, hear their dying screams. “The hunt for Horcruxes lasted a while, but our primary concern has been survival.”
“Understandable,” Harold said with a nod. “That’s the prime motivation of all species. If I understood Hermione correctly, then Voldemort is down to two.”
“Yeah, we managed to find the Cup and the locket before we were forced to abandon the search.”
“Presumably, you destroyed the diary in your second year...” Harold’s voice trailed off questioningly.
“Basilisk fang,” Harry replied.
Harold smiled nostalgically. “And the Basilisk itself…?”
“Pulled Gryffindor’s Sword from the Sorting Hat.”
“Unorthodox,” Harold said. “But obviously effective.”
“You didn’t…”
“Not exactly, but essentially correct.” Harold chuckled. “We seem to have led a charmed life.”
“Yeah.” Harry smiled ruefully. For the first time, he felt almost comfortable in his own presence. “It’s not like I plan on it. I just have a…”
“Saving people thing.” Harold interrupted. Green eyes met green eyes in understanding.
“You’re going to help, aren’t you,” Harry said. It was not a question.
“That’s who I am.” Harold said. Harry nodded. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe they really were essentially the same. That’s when the alarms began to sound.
All through the night, Voldemort had felt the itch grow steadily stronger. First it had felt faint, like the ghost of someone else’s feeling. So far away that Voldemort wouldn’t even have noticed if he hadn’t been alert and waiting for just such a sign. This was ancient magic, deep magic. It tasted of dust and decay, smelled of rotten flesh. It was dark and intoxicatingly powerful.
Voldemort smirked. The Order had no idea what they were playing with. His smile faded. Neither did he, not really. The last time it had merely been a pulse, but he could feel it still. Even now the itch twisted and writhed in the back of his head as the strange alien power continued to build to an inexorable climax. Voldemort was attracted to its dark and glorious song, but what did it mean? What was that wretched Order up to? He needed to know. This was their last desperate gamble, and all the more dangerous for it. Knowledge was power, and Voldemort had none. His enemies had concealed their movements well. He acknowledged their resourcefulness even as he cursed them. A man could always be judged by the quality of his enemies.
For the first time in years, Voldemort stretched out his consciousness and tentatively probed the thin thread of connection with Potter. He had learned long ago that while this link allowed him unprecedented opportunities to manipulate the boy, it also gave the little brat access to his own plans. This was therefore a risky maneuver, no matter what he told his servants. Slowly, softly Voldemort approached his opponent and could feel the waves of uncertainty, apprehension, and calm. So Potter was preparing for battle, but against whom?
As he probed further, Voldemort felt something he did not expect. The connection, the strange and utterly unique connection with Potter, diverged inexplicably like a fork in the road. Cautiously, he explored the new, even more tenuous, path. It was as if the bond itself was uncertain whether it should exist or not. He bent all his will upon this new development. It felt distant, almost removed from reality yet a part of it.
Voldemort recognized the sensation. He had spent over a decade in such a state, but this was subtly different. There was substance and there was an unshakeable sense of wrongness. Without warning, Voldemort struck an Occlumency shield the likes of which he had never before encountered. He probed and prodded, but the shield held. He could feel the other mind observing him coolly. He struggled, but the other’s features remained shrouded in darkness, save for the eyes. Those emerald eyes glowed at him angrily .
“I see you,” a voice rumbled. For a second, Voldemort’s mask slipped. That voice! He knew that voice. He retreated quickly and opened his own eyes. His head hurt and the itch was still there, but he smiled. The mystery was solved. Lord Voldemort understood now.
Reality twisted and distorted. A deep and primal wrongness filled the air. Plastic chairs still lined the deserted classroom and a strange pentagram was burned into the floor. The world seemed to ripple and space folded back in on itself. Reality flickered, and suddenly there was a portal where no portal had been. Lightning danced around its perimeter as it disgorged eleven figures in perfect formation. A cold-eyed woman stood in the center.
“Clear,” Corporal Rayne said.
“Clear,” Gavrilov echoed.
“Clear,” Regulus agreed. The woman nodded. She glanced down at the manacled prisoner at her feet. He was in relatively good shape despite several years in Azkaban and his eyes blazed hatefully.
“Mudblood,” the prisoner managed through gritted teeth. The woman’s expression didn’t alter. She drew her knife and casually slit his throat.
“Goodbye, Malfoy,” Hermione muttered. As the last of his life ebbed away, the portal seemed to solidify and become tangible.” Bridgehead established,” Hermione said. “Move out.”