Chapter 6: Little Hangleton

  Harry's boots thudded against the creaking floorboards, each step punctuating another spiraling thought in his head. His Unspeakable robes fluttered with every pass he made around the small log cabin. Across the room, his borrowed tawny owl, Euler, swiveled its head with such robotic precision that Harry half-expected it to start dictating a report on him to the Matron.

  "Subject H exhibiting emotionally deviant behavior. Potential threat to dimensional stability. Recommended action: immediate expulsion through the Veil."

  The problem on his mind? Iris Potter. The Girl-Who-Lived-To-Be-Glamourous, apparently. His planar counterpart. His … female counterpart. Harry went over his draft of a letter again and again, with each iteration sounding more absurd than the last:

  Dear Iris,

  Hope you aren't too upset with your boyfriend dying a couple weeks ago! Quick question - can I borrow your Invisibility Cloak? I'd ask my own, but its currently busy sucking out my magic to keep me from literally disintegrating into dust. Oh right, also: I'm you, but with a better nose and a Y chromosome. No need to send sweets.

  Yours from another dimension,

  Harry Potter (The Older Sibling)

  Harry snorted. Ridiculous. She'll hex first, ask questions never.

  But what else could he offer to prove his identity? Shameful secrets? Traumatic memories? "Remember when Aunt Marge inflated like a porcine parade float? Good times." Except here, maybe Aunt Marge was a friendly rabbit breeder.

  Iris' life, from the gossip columns he'd scrounged, read like a Witch Weekly fanfic: Yule Ball princess, star-crossed lovers with Cedric Diggory, and a patented hair toss that allegedly cured post-Crucio migraines. Meanwhile, his most notable romantic achievement at the time was managing to not drool around Fleur.

  He paused, glaring at Euler. "What? You think I need to be more Slytherin? 'Hello Iris, I am an aspiring male model who wishes to showcase your Cloak for a fashion magazine?'" The owl blinked slowly, a feathered monument to disappointment.

  Focus. Even if Iris believed him, Dumbledore's surveillance would intercept the letter. The old man probably set up wards to track messages back to their sender. He didn't want Dumbledore to think he was a Death Eater trying to get at Iris.

  Harry rubbed his scar in frustration, a left-over habit. Plan B? Sneak into Privet Drive. Disguise as … Dudley's long-lost cousin? That wasn't a disguise as much as the truth. Plus, just the thought of him, a grown man, trying to creep into a teenage girl's place made him rather queasy.

  He grimaced. He didn't even know if he could get close to the suburb - Dumbledore's sentinels would surely report his presence. The blood wards might even sniff him out as an "extradimensional intruder". His remains would litter the lawn, right next to Vernon's prized begonias.

  Plan C fared no better. Intermediaries. Right. Iris' friends would help her hex me back into the Veil. The Unspeakables? Useless. Their "historical non-interference" policy was code for "We'll judge you silently while eating popcorn."

  His pacing intensified, boots wearing grooves into the floor. Non-traditional communication. House-elves. Harry stops.

  "Dobby!" He barked the name like a prayer - or a swear. Silence answered. Euler hooted, a sound suspiciously like laughter.

  "Oh, shut it," Harry muttered. "At least I tried. You're just here to stare me and regurgitate mouse bones."

  Giving it up as a bad job, Harry sunk into an armchair next to the contemptuous owl. Different gender. Different life. Different everything. Iris might not even have the Cloak. The Matron didn't know everything - what if this world's James Potter had left it in the Potter vault? Maybe Dumbledore kept the Cloak as a nice comforter? The headmaster was obsessed with the Hallows, after all.

  From the cabin window, Harry gazed into the endless oak forest. Sunlight poked through the canopy, freckling the tree trunks in spots of gold, while shadows danced between the roots. Underneath the trees, a herd of unicorns grazed - their coats shimmering like moonlit snow, horns glinting as they dipped their heads to nibble clover.

  Despite the beautiful summer day, Harry felt the scene was utterly confusing. How could a place this alive, exist within the same walls that housed the Veil's cold whispers?

  The Department was formed of two sections, he'd learned: the Twelve Chambers, containing prophecy halls and ghostly archways, and the Twelve Sanctums - secretive realms even most Unspeakables knew nothing about.

  Fate. Life. He only saw two of these mysterious rooms so far. This "Life Sanctum" was no greenhouse. It breathed, and grew. Vast acres of towering oaks that stretched into a vibrant sky, even more realistic than the Great Hall's enchantments. Unknown indigo vines coiled around tough bark, pale Asphodels lined peaceful forest clearings, and tiny bowtruckles chittered amidst tangled branches. Has to be formed from the most impressive space-expansion charm I've ever seen … or we aren't even in the Ministry anymore.

  His gaze went to the chunk of solid amber, half-hidden by the trees, where the dark figure of his godfather was still resting. The amber glowed with faint light, pulsing with the Sanctum's heartbeat. Life magic, the Matron had called it.

  Harry felt both gratitude and guilt. He owed the Unspeakables here far too much - he didn't dare to think what might have happened if they'd simply ignored the strange, dying man who fell out of the Veil, or worse, performed "research" on him.

  Lapis had even set him up with money and lodgings - a log cabin right next to Sirius - although he made sure Harry knew it wasn't just out of kindness: "Document your world's magic. Every law, every wand movement, every invention."

  Harry thought that was a very considerate deal. Even if the Department had helped him a lot, he still hesitated to tell them too much about the future; despite their stated purpose of "Neutral magical research and preservation", the harm that his knowledge could bring was incalculable. Better to give them harmless technical details about his world.

  Euler's talons tapped the cage bars.

  Harry looked up with one brow raised. "Oh, now you're ready to help?"

  The owl ruffled his tawny feathers as he puffed up, eyes full of accusation.

  "Alright, alright. Point taken," Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his tousled hair.

  The truth stung. He'd known what he had to do, since the moment he heard he needed "Iris Potter's Invisibility Cloak". However desperately he clung to fantasies of quick solutions - borrow the Cloak, save Sirius, return home - he knew it was never going to be so simple.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  How do you ask an orphaned girl to surrender her father's only remaining heirloom? To remove a protective tool, in the middle of a war, for strangers who'll vanish right afterwards?

  Fragments of memories flashed through his mind like broken glass. Tonks and Remus lying pale and still next to each other … Fred's laugh forever etched on his face … Dumbledore's broken body, falling from the Astronomy Tower.

  Now that he had a chance to fix everything … to lay his regrets to rest … could he really just walk away? Dumbledore's voice came into his head again: "We must choose between what is easy and what is right."

  Euler hooted, wings beating against the cage.

  Harry met his gaze. "Yeah, I know. Responsibility." He had knowledge - crucial knowledge, about horcruxes, about Voldemort. And so, he also had responsibility - to use that knowledge, and save as many lives as he could.

  Harry soared on his Firebolt, the wind tearing at his robes as he threaded through the clouds. Below, the suburbs of London stretched like a patchwork tapestry of emerald and beige, but his mind was elsewhere. The sunlight warming his face felt refreshing after days confined to his cabin, scratching memories onto parchment with a dicta-quill. Every detail mattered - Voldemort's resurgence, the war's key battles, the faces he'd failed to save. Change too much, and his foresight would be lost. Do too little, and the bloodshed would repeat.

  The Triwizard plot's failure to kidnap Iris Potter had already altered the timeline. She wasn't me, he mused, banking sharply to avoid a drifting cloud. Her survival changed everything - including how to deal with the horcrux in her scar. Dumbledore's original plan had honestly been a house of cards: sacrificial love, a compliant martyr, sheer dumb luck. Any number of factors could send it tumbling down. Replicating it would be impossible, so he needed to get allies, and figure out a new plan.

  Which means getting Dumbledore's trust without becoming his pawn. The man was infuriating, yes - a puppeteer who loved his lemon drops and riddles - but also the leader of the resistance against Voldemort. Harry needed his help to get rid of the horcruxes. And if the Order could mobilize sooner, spare the Weasleys, Sirius … Harry narrowed his eyes. He'd move mountains to save them this time.

  Teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts was the answer, even if Voldemort's jinx still haunted the position. It would be worth it, just to keep Fudge's pink toad screeching about "proper curriculum" at the Ministry instead of at Hogwarts. Besides, the role offered more than access to Iris and Dumbledore. It offered control. Students trained to fight, not cower. A generation prepared before the storm. A faint grin tugged his lips. Who better to teach Iris how to defeat Voldemort, than someone who has already done so?

  But before Harry figured out how to become a Hogwarts Professor, a time-sensitive opportunity demanded action, one that could change the outcome of the war. Destroying the bones of Voldemort's father.

  The failed Triwizard plot likely meant the Dark Lord remained a spectral husk. If so, removing "Bone of the Father, unknowingly given" from the equation would cripple his plans. Even if Voldemort had alternative methods, Harry doubted they'd be swift or simple. A delay of years could buy precious time to address Iris' scar, and every second mattered.

  And if Voldemort had already risen with a substitute for her blood? The graveyard might still hold answers and clues about how he'd done it. Potential weaknesses.

  Decision hardened, Harry raced toward Little Hangleton on his broom, the wind biting his face. Below, cars streaked along highways like dark ants. He tugged a crumpled Muggle map from his jacket - no magical shortcuts today. Apparition depended on memories, and he only had a few of the graveyard: flashes of weathered headstones, an ominous yew tree. Apparition also risked triggering wards or alerting Death Eaters, and he'd take no chances.

  Evening fell in the countryside as Harry approached the village. He'd located Great Hangleton first - a bustling town straddling an A-road - before veering east, where the landscape unfurled into mist-covered hills. Nestled between them lay a valley, its shadows disturbed only by the once-stately manor overlooking the hamlet. Riddle Manor. His skin crawled as he recalled a dark room, an elderly man, and a flash of green light.

  Harry landed soundlessly behind a copse of gnarled trees, double-checking his disillusionment charm. He gripped his wand tightly. This mission was reckless, and normally he'd scold himself for even considering it. If Death Eaters - or worse, Voldemort - spotted him here, he'd doom not just himself, but Sirius as well.

  What reassured him was the mysterious thrum he felt beneath his skin. A week ago, the Matron's reference to a "force field" had sent him looking for a connection to the Cloak. Late nights in the Department of Mysteries had finally borne fruit: he could sense a shimmering haze that clung to him like a blanket. It was responsive, almost like a living thing. When he fed it magic, the blurred barrier would thicken, and he would vanished from view - as if he had just thrown the physical Cloak around himself.

  Only, he wasn't merely invisible, but detached from reality itself. Even spells like homenum revelio and Unspeakable detection methods passed straight through him, as if he was only empty air. Harry had confidence that if he tripped any wards, or stumbled upon Death Eaters, the ability would ensure they found nothing.

  Little Hangleton was shrouded in twilight. Mist swirled like he was in a Pensieve, barely covering the peeling walls of the village houses and the overgrown gardens filled with nettles. A damp, earthy smell hung in the air. Harry idly wondered if any Muggles actually lived here, for he couldn't see a single person on the road.

  His boots dug into the dirt road as he went, each step deliberate, each breath measured. Unspeakable robes swished, the hood casting his face into shadow. His fingers flexed on his holly wand as he observed the surroundings.

  A crow took flight from a skeletal oak, its cry cutting through the silence. Harry froze, his heartbeat speeding up. A greasy, creeping chill ran down his collar, at odds with the warm summer night. There was a phantom tingle in his scar, even though he knew this world's Voldemort should have no connection to him.

  The graveyard lay silent ahead. Its iron gates were twisted like broken teeth. They creaked as he pushed through, stretching his nerves raw. His feet sank into dark mud that he almost imagined was trying to pull him into the earth.

  "Homenum Revelio," he murmured, the spell pulsing into the stillness. Nothing answered. No shift in the air, no sign of movement.

  He withdrew a ward compass the size of a dinner plate, its brass face tarnished. The arrow twitched like a trapped insect. It spun, slowly stopping. Click. The arrow landed on "Nothing detected". Harry tensed his jaw, wondering if he'd borrowed a defective tool from Lapis. The village was too quiet, too still - even the mist seemed to hold its breath.

  A shadow, at the edge of his vision.

  He whirled to the right, wand raised, but there was only the outline of a small church, its spire blending into the glum sky. In front was a large, spindly yew tree, with its branches hanging over the graveyard like a spider.

  The compass vanished into his robes, its empty verdict still eating at him. Harry pressed forward, wild ivy brushing his legs like grasping hands as he walked to the graveyard's heart. Headstones leaned crookedly, their engravings erased by time and lichen, but he barely saw them. Cedric's face flashed in his eyes - wide-eyed and pale. He could almost see the boy's dead body, lying on the ground among the tombstones. The wand trembled faintly in his grip.

  The Riddle plot emerged in front of him. Dead rose bushes ringed the area, their dry thorns bristling. The marble headstone loomed, its grandeur cracked and faded by grime that coated the surface. Thomas. Mary. Tom Riddle Snr. The Riddle family's names were barely legible. Behind, the Angel of Death towered, wings spread as though mid-plunge, its scythe frozen in a downward arc. The statue's face was eerily smooth - no eyes, yet Harry felt its gaze pierce him like the cold seeping into his marrow.

  The stench of rot intensified. Beyond the plot, the stone wall marking the edges of the graveyard was little more than rubble. And there, atop the hill, Riddle Manor hunched - a carcass of decaying timber and stone. Its windows gaped, empty sockets staring down, while the roof slumped like a broken spine. Harry squinted, straining to see if there was any movement inside. But there were no hints of light, no stirring of shadows.

  Looking around again to make sure no one was around, Harry took out his wand. He stared at the patch of earth in front of the Riddle headstone, where he remembered Pettigrew had once extracted Riddle Senior's dusty remains. It looked undisturbed, with weeds grown on top of the dirt; but magic could have easily fixed the hole. Harry needed to check if the remains were still there. If they were, he would vanish the whole thing, putting an end to Voldemort's plan.

  He raised his wand, the incantation on his lips–

  Crunch.

  Frozen, Harry stood perfectly still to hear past the pounding of his own heartbeat. Silence. Then - another sound. Not wind, but footsteps.

  Lunging behind a nearby tombstone, Harry winced as his knee caught on the hard marble. Cold sweat trickled down his neck as he peered into the gloom.

  Shapes emerged. Two hooded figures, gliding like wraiths through the sea of graves. In the arms of the shorter figure there was a bundle of robes, as if he were holding a baby.