Harry gazed into the abyss. Something gazed back.

  No—Not some thing.

  Legion.

  An unblinking host. Multitudes of eyes, every one fixed on him, as though he were the sole light remaining in a world gone dark.

  Or as though he were standing under a spotlight.

  Onstage.

  Receiving an Order of Merlin.

  Which, as it happens…

  “—For uncommon valour and—”

  Yup, they’re still blathering on.

  The pomp and circumstance had grown rather tiring after his first ten post-war award ceremonies. They had been nerve-wracking, once upon a time, but now the internal struggle had transformed from battling stage fright to—

  He clenched his jaw tightly, choking down the yawn. His eyes watered a bit.

  I don’t know if I’ll make it. What’d Sirius say to do… Imagine everyone in their knickers?

  He looked out, and justice was swiftly delivered as his eyes fell upon the Goblin contingent. Gorbdo waved up at him, clad in nothing but pants. Bulging pants.

  Good god.

  Harry kept his upper lip stiff as he nodded back.

  Sirius’ advice always had been utter rubbish.

  “—in the face of mortal—”

  Sigh.

  Harry’s legs were growing restless.

  An itch persisted at the tip of his nose. Scrunching his face failed to bring relief. He’d have to distract himself.

  He scanned the chamber for more familiar faces.

  Stranger. Stranger. Molly. Stranger.

  Wait.

  He panned his gaze back—their eyes met. A young, beautiful, vibrant Molly Weasley. Quite fetching in the springtime of her youth.

  Arthur, you dog.

  Her cheeks were turning rosy for some reason. Oh, right, he was staring at her.

  That’d do it.

  He played it cool, letting his eyes flicker over to her husband, who was making faces down at an infant Bill. His erstwhile mentor was bouncing on his father’s knee in nappies. Warmth filled his chest at the sight, even as other, more complex emotions stirred as well.

  It was bittersweet to see the Weasleys. The bitterness being a product of his own action made the mix of emotions all the more muddled and confusing.

  Next to them sat Fred and George. Except, that couldn’t be right, of course.

  That would be impossible, like travelling decades back in time, speaking with the dead, or seeing the Chudley Canons make it to the post-season.

  Only one other explanation came to mind.

  Must be the Prewett twins.

  It really was hard to tell.

  Their twin smiles pulled him back to better times. And worse.

  Swamps that blocked passage through Hogwart’s corridors. Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. Years of after-class practises on the pitch. The twins causing mischief and dodging all consequences.

  Until Fred didn’t quite manage the juke.

  A frozen comedy mask looking up. Eyes glassy.

  George’s scream tore across his mind. Raw, vocal cords ripping.

  His face a shattered tragedy mask looking down. Eyes pouring.

  Nope.

  “—in the face of horrific—”

  A glint of gold pulled his vision.

  Oh. Narcissa’s here.

  The beautiful, spirited, frighteningly clever young woman he’d spent the better part of a day traipsing through Black family history with, alongside her father.

  Chaperoned by her father.

  It had taken longer than it should’ve to realise that Cygnus had neatly maneuvered him into an informal Introduction with his youngest. Harry had walked straight into pureblood matchmaking, oblivious until he was already in the jaws of the beast.

  It was a right kettle of fish.

  She looked on, a paragon of propriety and composure. Very Cissy. Even after losing nearly everything in the second war, she never lost that.

  A familiar face sat beside her. The woman elbowed Narcissa, winked at him, and was making a general menace of herself. Though her parents, on Narcissa’s other side, seemed none the wiser.

  Yup. That was Andi, alright. Like mother, like daughter, like grandson.

  God, I miss Teddy.

  “—singlehandedly captured—”

  Thinking of his little godson brought his mind back to Olive. To Remus. To that damned article.

  He remembered Umbridge’s rounding up and internment of Muggleborns. Ted had gone and gotten himself killed while on the lam. The total number similarly ‘lost’ to the Snatchers was still unknown all these years later. Andromeda still called his name when she imbibed too heavily.

  He was none too pleased being made the face of a similar movement against the werewolves. Imagining Olive, Remus, or any other number fearing him like some kind of bogeyman… sickened him.

  Whether Voldemort was behind this, or it was just a sign of the times, he couldn’t really say. Not that it changed much.

  Either way, it was time for Harry to pinch his nose and wade into the fetid waters of British politics—to stymie the social currents that Voldemort rode to power.

  Now, if only this ceremony would come to an end.

  He continued to grin and bear it as the droning speech assaulted him.

  · · ·

  He continued to grin and bear it as the chattering assaulted him.

  Hands extended in his direction, grasping.

  Introductions made.

  Congratulations given.

  “Very brave—”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  “—Valiant—”

  “—Hero—”

  The din of voices buzzed throughout the hall. The crowd swarmed him. A bug flew by—if only he, too, could fly away.

  He wished he were back with the werewolves. The Dementors would be preferable—they were less soul-sucking. He’d even consider another round with a 1000-year-old basilisk.

  They were all here to see a hero, but all he had to give was a poorly puppeted mannequin. His arm extending woodenly.

  Smile plastic.

  Voice mechanical.

  Mind distant.

  A firm handshake, unaccompanied by the usual nattering. He opened his eyes. Well, they were open, but he decided to see what they were showing him. It was a very familiar face, like looking in a mirror.

  “More harrowing than battling the werewolves, eh?” Charlus asked.

  Grinning, he threw a life-preserver his way, “If you’d like a reprieve from these rabid animals, I’d be happy to throw my Lordship around to keep them at bay.”

  “My hero.”

  Charlus was a saint.

  A man among men.

  A true altruist and martyr.

  As he walked to the corner Charlus had gestured to, he looked back once. Charlus stood there, a bastion against the horde. He swore he could see a golden aura emanating from his grand-uncle’s noble countenance.

  Then he saw it wasn’t just the Potters he’d been sent towards, but the Blacks as well.

  “That rat.”

  Once more, into the breach.

  Keep it together.

  Keep it together!

  James’ eyes boggled a bit, even as they shined. He was here! And Merlin’s bloody bones, did he look like a Potter.

  He fidgeted. Caught the fidgeting, and forced himself to stay still.

  Lord Peverell had arrived, shaking hands and greeting his Dad.

  James smiled. Too wide. Don’t want to look mental. He flattened his mouth. Too constipated. Something in the middle.

  Perfect.

  A gnat tickled at his ear. He swatted at it, before quickly composing himself again.

  Why was he standing so straight? No, now he’s slouching. His mum would give him a nasty pinch if she saw this. His dad would laugh at him.

  “And who might you be?”

  Bugger! Did the man Apparate?

  “J-James.” He bit his cheek, then extended his arm, recovering. “James Potter. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  It seemed no one had noticed his bumbling introduction. That is, until he saw Sirius and Andi smirking over Peverell’s shoulder.

  Shite. They’ll not be letting me live that down anytime soon.

  The Blacks were moving in like sharks. He might not get another chance to talk to Lord Peverell once they get there.

  What to ask?

  “What’s it like?” His mouth moved before Peverell could be pulled away. “Being a Hero, I mean.”

  The man looked down at him, consideringly. He seemed to be giving his question some real thought. James looked up, eager to hear something.

  About the fight.

  How to be brave.

  Anything.

  Lord Peverell’s smile turned a bit strange as he replied, “I’m not sure that I’m the best person to ask.”

  “Who could be better to ask than you?” James’ face scrunched up, brow furrowing. “You just got an Order of Merlin for fighting a whole pack of werewolves.”

  Sirius had darted over by this point, shoving his way into the conversation. “They’re dark creatures, everyone’s terrified of them, but you fought them. Like a Hero.”

  Peverell looked at Sirius.

  Then back to him.

  “Acclaim doesn’t make heroes. And most heroes never receive any recognition.”

  The smile had slipped.

  The face that looked so much like an older version of his own aged before his eyes. He looked much more like his grandfather had, before he died.

  Wrinkles appeared, that hadn’t been there moments before.

  “Like the Aurors, then?” Sirius, failing to read the mood, barreled on. “They’re always fighting Dark wizards, and most never get medals either.”

  Mum tried to step in, noticing that Peverell seemed uncomfortable, but his smile returned. He waved her off.

  “No, it is a good question. And there were some heroes that night.”

  He looked back to James and Sirius. “Though, I wasn’t one of them. Nor the Aurors. But I’ll tell you about one if you want to know.”

  They nodded, heads shaking like rattles.

  So, Peverell told them about a girl with a balloon kneazle.

  He called her ‘The Girl Who Lived’.

  He called her ‘The Girl Who Lived’.

  Rita listened to some saccharine story about a squib’s daughter being turned by one of Greyback’s mongrels. Peverell was obviously referencing the girl with the balloon kneazle from the Prophet’s coverage of the attack.

  Like a bug on the wall, she continued to eavesdrop on Peverell’s more private conversations with the Blacks and Potters in a cordoned off corner of the hall.

  She skittered to peek around the edge of the filigreed picture frame she was hidden behind.

  The little snot-nosed bootlickers were hanging on his every word. She fluttered her elytra and rolled her compound eyes.

  Her ‘investigation’ was turning up some interesting details, however. The initial story failed to mention some squib named Arabella Figg—the one who’d apparently triggered Peverell’s intervention and notified the Aurors.

  So many angles. Which one to take?

  The tragedy of a young Girl Who Lived? The incompetence of the Aurors? The salaciousness of a young, single squib woman having Lord Peverell’s personal contact?

  Opportunities like this didn’t come about all too often, even for a fly on the wall. This could be her chance to finally do more than brew coffee and run the front desk at Witch Weekly.

  Glancing around again, she noticed two young women from the Black family. Sly smirks and little nudges from one to another. A slight blush on the blonde.

  She scuttled along the wall, tapestries of long-dead greybeards offering cover as she made her way to them.

  The taller brunette looked like the cat who caught the canary.

  “—explored any of the bedrooms with him?”

  What’s this? A scandal?

  The blonde fought to maintain a passive face, though her eyebrow’s twitching betrayed her admirable attempt. She exhaled audibly through her nose before responding.

  “Nothing so crass, as you well know.”

  The taller girl’s smile only grew, almost Cheshire in its intensity.

  “Hmm, is that so? But I recall you saying you narrowly escaped a rather thorough soaking, Cissy?”

  The question was clearly faux-confusion, but that didn’t make it any less of a story. A sister’s teasing could be nearly as juicy as a gossipmonger in uncovering leads.

  Cissy choked and lost her battle against the heat rising to her cheeks.

  “Don’t you talk to me about indiscretions, Andi. I’m not the one sneaking around Muggle London doing Merlin knows what!”

  The words were whispered sharply, so it would remain a little secret between the three of them—unless it found its way into a story. She’d have to follow up on all this.

  Contrary to her expectations, Andi didn’t deny it or appear upset. She did, however, look a bit apologetic.

  “Alright, I’ll stop. Though, if Mother and Father have their way, I expect you’ll be seeing him again quite soon.”

  If anyone looked carefully in the drapery, they’d notice the uncomfortable sight of a smiling beetle as Rita settled in.

  Do go on…

  It had gone on and on and on and on.

  Harry waved his wand and crumpled into the gelatinous, water-filled blob he conjured. The Yank’s ‘waterbed’ was not the most comfortable for intimacy, as he discovered during a conference in America a few years ago, but it surely felt nice to bob about on when one needed to dissociate in peace.

  He plucked off his glass, and tossed his forearm over his brow.

  The world slowly swayed back and forth.

  Dark.

  Quiet.

  He’d done it, something he’d wished desperately for, year after year.

  He’d met his father.

  Not exactly in the manner he’d always hoped, but…

  Strange. Being hero-worshipped by your 12-year-old dad.

  He snorted, and pulled his arm from his face. That was honestly not the most strange experience these past few weeks, either. He rubbed his eyes, pulled his glasses back down, and twirled his wand.

  The bobbing blob transformed into a firm, straight-backed office chair.

  On his desk sat a stack of dinner invitations. Enough to fuel his fireplace for the evening, if he were so inclined. Though, he’d spare the two he’d received from Charlus and Cygnus.

  Looking back to the stack, he sighed and began sorting them. If he was serious about playing this political game and weakening Tom’s power base, he’d best choose some of these aristocrats to play nice with.

  Eventually, he’d need to be hosting his own banquets, though… The dilapidated half-ruin wasn’t exactly the sort of setting that most lords and ladies were accustomed to.

  The place needed a proper mending and a groundskeeper.

  Hadn’t he planned on finding a House-elf? There was too much to do, and things were being forgotten or put off.

  He was only one man.

  He leaned back, sighing. Turning his head, he saw the Peverell Grimoire on his bookshelf. His deciphering of the Old Ogham was slow-going.

  Yet another task he’d had to put on hold.

  Though, the Grimoire reminded him of something peculiar he’d not given much thought to.

  He reached his arm into the mokeskin pouch, elbow deep, fishing around before he withdrew it. In his hand was a glimmering gold galleon. One that he’d found in the chamber.

  The chamber that had been sealed for millenia.

  With galleons that had only been in use for a few centuries.

  He turned the coin on its side and examined the serial number along its ridge. It was a large number, meaning this was not one of the older coins. In fact… He pulled out a handful of freshly-minted galleons that he’d received in exchange for some of the Gask Ridge artefacts.

  The serial number on the newly-minted coin was smaller.

  Meaning it was older.

  Yes, ‘Strange’ was a fitting word for the life of Harry Potter.

  Now that he was Harry Peverell, it had only grown Stranger.