Fingers gnarled.
Mouth foaming.
Eyes rolling.
His sanity strained.
Mind being swallowed whole.
Just over there.
Prone before the feet of the towering, gilded figures of the Fountain of Magical Brethren.
They hadn’t protected him. Hadn’t offered help. Hadn’t even lifted their wands. Instead, they had stood unmoving, deaf to his screams and blind to the Dark Lord that was right before their eyes.
The statues hadn’t noticed either.
Not like anyone had warned them, to be fair.
Harry swallowed a derisive snort. That was history.
His.
And he wouldn’t let it repeat itself. Which is why he was here.
With a deep breath, he continued down the vaulted archways of the atrium. The Ministry was dominated by polished black marble. Towering golden effigies of founding patriarchs lined the vast hall, their solemn faces set in eternal judgment.
The heart of Britain’s government was alive with activity. Worker bees buzzing about, bureaucratic drones of the ministerial hive-mind.
Ahead, the security checkpoint sat entrenched behind a bulwark of dark mahogany. The wall anchoring the guard post was covered in a chaotic patchwork of mismatched drawers. Askew, tilted, and shifting.
A tired-looking official in a pinstriped waistcoat glanced up from his desk, adjusting his Windsor glasses to peer up at Harry.
“Name and purpose for visiting the Ministry today?”
“Halloway, for the House Peverell confirmation hearing.”
The pages of a thick registry began flipping in response. The clerk inspected the relevant page, pausing for a moment to glance up at Harry again, before returning to the page and scribbling something onto it.
“Very good.” He gestured towards the main concourse. “An escort will be waiting for you on level seven.”
Harry inclined his head and tread the familiar path to the atrium.
A very different sort of hearing awaited him this time.
The lifts stood behind wrought-iron gates, brass gears exposed and polished to a dull shine.
The doors opened.
He stepped in.
The sound of fluttering paper wings filled the air, echoing from the clerestory above, where the birds danced in lazy circles.
The lift gave a low shudder, gears groaning as it ascended.
They rose.
Birds in, birds out. Same flock, different wings.
Harry stepped off the lift, just another piece joining the same old board.
There was a Wizengamot seat with his name on it.
· · ·
He sat.
The doors Harry had walked through creaked closed behind him with a solid clink.
Five figures sat around a semicircular table in high backed chairs, carved sigils announcing their houses. Dark walnut panelling lined the walls, polished smooth by time.
At the centre a lean figure in deep indigo commanded the room with effortless authority. A tassled hat, threaded with platinum filigree, rested atop his head. Silver hair cascaded down, joining the waterfall of a beard that fell from his face. Half-moon spectacles perched low on a long, crooked nose. Blue eyes peered down inscrutably over the lenses.
The last time he’d been with the man, they had barely escaped dying in vain, ripped apart by Inferi. The Horcrux had already been taken. They arrived back at the astronomy tower, and then…
A titan, brought to his knees.
A boy who couldn’t kill.
A man who kept his vow.
A flash of green.
A fall.
A broken body.
The only man Voldemort had ever feared.
Long time, no see, Professor.
To the Chief Warlock’s right sat a man Harry knew well, though they’d never met. He’d seen his portrait hanging in his own study. Black hair, streaked silver at the temples, swept back from a high, furrowed brow. A full beard framed the sharp angles carved into his face.
Arcturus Black, patriarch of House Black.
And more significantly, Sirius’ grandfather.
Unwelcome, unearned fondness stirred in his chest. The resemblance to his godfather was striking.
Sentimentality was treacherous like that. Ignoring reason.
It continued to do so as he noticed the man seated next to Arcturus.
He bore features Harry saw in the mirror every morning:
A long, angular face.
Thin framed glasses.
Untamed, ink-black hair.
This was Charlus Potter, Harry’s great-uncle and Lord of the house.
His own house, only days ago. That he’d been the sole member of. The sole survivor.
He’d been trying not to think about it. There hadn’t been time to allow it. But with these three faces in front of him, it wasn’t something he could escape any longer.
The Potters were alive.
Harry had no family.
But, their survival was all the reason he needed to fight. To gain power. To smother Voldemort’s rise in the crib.
He drew a breath and snapped back to the present past, away from his former future.
Sort yourself out, Potter.
He looked to the final two members of the council.
A slight man met his gaze, a small smile on his face. Long, pale blond hair framing his symmetrical features. High cheekbones and uncomfortably large, ghostly blue eyes. His head was tilted to the side, seemingly gazing through Harry.
Dreamy expression. A faerie’s features. Spooky blue eyes. That’s a Lovegood.
Next to him sat the final man, a stiff-backed figure, hands carefully arranged, bearing a stony expression. Dark brown hair was coiffed in exacting precision, a clear part down the middle. A handlebar moustache and a monocle, of all things, completed his look.
Harry flipped through his internal Rolodex, trying to find a match for generic Victorian gentleman A.
He found sod all.
Que sera, sera.
Dumbledore drew the proceedings to order.
“Mr. Halloway, you stand before this council to petition for the reinstatement of House Peverell to the Wizengamot.” He spoke at an unhurried pace, voice filling the chamber. “A matter of no small weight.”
Hearing no question, Harry simply nodded.
“For centuries, House Peverell has been absent from these halls, its name adrift in history.”
A pause.
Dumbledore’s being theatrical again.
“Yet history, I find, has a habit of repeating itself.”
His gaze settled on Harry.
“It falls to this council to assess the validity of your claim. The council now convenes with Lords Black, Potter, Lovegood, and Nott.”
At the far end of the chamber, a court scribe perched over a small desk, quill scratching on parchment.
“Mr. Halloway, you have consented to answer five questions, each agreed upon in advance, under the influence of Veritaserum.”
“Each Lord shall ask one question, on their honour.”
The four nodded in assent, placing their wands to their hearts.
Harry lifted the tincture that had been set before him, pausing for a moment.
I must not tell lies.
Hiding a smile behind the vial, he shot it back.
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His body, and most of his mind, had been left exposed to the potion’s effects. A sliver of self remained behind Occlumency shields, ready to reassert control if the terms were broken.
· · ·
The room stretched.
Outward.
Inward.
Fog descended.
Thoughts slowed.
His mouth felt dry.
Tongue clumsy.
The fugue took hold.
He watched.
“Are you descended of the Peverell line?”
Harry flickered. Out. Then in. An outsider.
“Yes.”
Impostor.
“Were you born as the rightful heir to your line?”
Time moved. He did not.
“Yes.”
Illegitimate.
“Can you produce genuine ancestral artefacts to support your claim?”
Dead. Alive. Neither. Both.
“Yes.”
Thief.
“Do you intend to use this seat in service of wizarding Britain?”
An eternity passed. It took just a moment
“Yes.”
Alone.
“Were you recognized by your family as the child of the prophecy?”
The wheel turned. A full revolution. Again. Again.
“Yes.”
Inevitable.
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drip
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drip
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· · ·
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drip
The final drop hit his tongue.
Awareness snapped back into place.
Harry grinned.
Every question had been answered truthfully, though not at all honestly. It was fortunate the agreed-upon list hadn’t accounted for temporal displacement.
Never let a little thing like the truth get in the way…
Five faces looked down with keener interest than before.
He straightened in his chair as Dumbledore spoke. “Let us move on to examining the evidence to support your claim. What do you offer?”
Harry reached into his mokeskin pouch, retrieving a pair of white, cotton gloves. He donned them with deliberate care, then withdrew a book.
Slow. Careful.
Placing it on the table, he answered, “First, I have my family’s copy of the Peverell Grimoire. Time has taken a toll, but we’ve managed to preserve it.”
The dragon leather cover was worn, and some pages were clearly missing from the book. Its spine bore no title, but the sigil, pressed deep, made its significance plain.
The Deathly Hallows.
The Lords rose and approached to examine the artifact.
Dumbledore conjured a pair of gloves as well, and delicately turned the cover. The parchment inside had yellowed but remained intact, the ink dark and unfaded. He slowly turned one page.
Then another.
Each page was treated to a long pause.
Nott spoke first. “This is no script I know of.”
“I’d imagine not, Peregrine.” Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles as he peered down. “It appears to be Old Ogham, something rarely seen in bound works. It is primarily found on stone inscriptions around the Irish Sea.” He stroked his beard and continued, “I must admit, my own knowledge of the language is somewhat limited. I believe you may be more familiar, Archimedes?”
Archimedes Lovegood leaned in, wide, owlish eyes poring over the page.
“It seems to contain some rather novel techniques for binding enchantments to objects.” A dotty smile wandered across his face as he went on, “We Questers have long theorized the Peverells created the Hallows themselves. This may be the closest thing to proof we’ve ever seen.”
Like father, like son. Wonder if he’s ever seen a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?
The eager Quester appeared to be picking up steam. “Why, this might support Fawley’s Third Conjecture—”
Arcturus cut in. “Yes, yes. We’ve all read your pamphlets.”
That drew Archimedes’ attention, his smile growing brighter. “Is that so, Arcturus? I’m ever so pleased to have your readership!”
A vein throbbed on Arcturus’ neck.
Charlus smoothly interjected, “Well, Albus, is it credible?”
“Without question,” affirmed the man with too many titles.
The men turned to look at Harry.
He reached into his coat pocket.
This was the key.
· · ·
He plonked it onto the table.
Charlus reached for it. “May I?”
“By all means,” Harry said easily. “Just mind the teeth.”
Charlus grinned and plucked up the key to the Peverell Vault. He turned the mottled iron over in his hand, the edges worn smooth with age. The sigil of House Peverell was proudly etched onto the head of the key.
Harry pulled papers from his pocket, passing them to Peregrine.
“The writ of vault entitlement.”
The men hmmed and hawed over Harry’s hard-earned legacy vault. It was just about the tidiest bit of evidence a claimant could conjure up.
Praise Merlin for Grimjaw and Grodbug greasing the wheels at Gringotts.
Harry rolled the stone around in his pocket.
It was just about time.
The Lords conferred.
Murmured.
Nodded.
Robes rustled and quills scratched.
They’d come to a consensus, apparently. Everything was in order. Quite compelling.
But…
“We understand you have a final piece of physical evidence to present. A relic of your family?”
Dumbledore and Archimedes were quite keen. Even Charlus leaned in, interested in what was to be revealed.
Harry smiled and withdrew his hand, fingers closed around the stone.
“Indeed, I do.”
Extending his arm, he uncurled his fingers.
A tetrahedron.
Clear obsidian.
An impossible internal etching.
A Line, inside a Circle, inside a Triangle.
It did not glow. There was no pulse of power.
It simply sat there.
A lifeless stone in a room of magic.
Archimedes gasped, his hand going to his chest, clenching around something hidden beneath his robes.
Charlus, too, had stilled. His breath caught for a moment.
But Dumbledore…
The lines of his face deepened. A wet sheen blurred his vision.
Decades passed in a moment. Things remembered. Things forgotten. A deluge.
Love.
Loss.
Joy.
Pain.
Sorrow.
Longing.
Silence descended. No one dared break it.
“You and your friend searched long and hard for this, Dumbledore. I think you’d best be able to verify its authenticity.”
Dumbledore’s gaze snapped from the stone to him. Harry could see the question on his lips, but the call of the stone drew him back.
Albus swallowed hard, collecting himself as his shaky hand reached out.
Harry met his watery gaze. “Turn it three times and think of her,” he said softly.
The old man’s eyes widened. Harry had never seen him caught wrong-footed.
He dropped the stone into the man’s open palm.
A gift.
Dumbledore glanced from the stone to him.
A deep breath in.
Turn
·
Turn
· ·
Turn
· · ·
A deep breath out.
Dumbledore blinked, his eyes red.
Slowly, he raised his sleeve and wiped his face, cleaning it.
Tears. Snot. A mess.
The most powerful man in the Wizarding World, unravelled by a talk with his sister.
The five men had waited in silence. No one had spoken a word. No one had looked away. An unspoken agreement had passed between them.
Let him have this.
Dumbledore cleared his throat, having pieced himself together.
“There is one matter left to discuss. You affirmed under Veritaserum that you were the subject of a certain prophecy…”
Peregrine turned to Harry.
“Before that, Dumbledore, I have a question that’s been nagging at me, if I may?”
Dumbledore nodded, seeming unbothered by the interruption.
Nott peered at Harry through his monocle, the light gleaming off it.
“Why now?”
Harry met Nott’s gaze, then turned to Dumbledore and smiled.
“How fortunate I can answer both questions with a single response. Allow me to share the prophecy. It was first spoken in the time of the Three Brothers… and has been passed down to this day.”
Harry cleared his throat and channeled his inner Trelawney:
“Two brothers shall fall, while the third walks with Death.
The Hallows shall scatter, their makers forgotten.
The third brother’s daughter, last named of his line.
Her bridecloak, a secret to bear.
The world shall burn, a greater good, twisted.
Closer than brothers. A battle, heart-breaking. To the victor, a stick made by Death.
Three years hence, the child arrives—
Bearer of the river’s stone; the dead house, resurrected.
And Death’s good son shall catch the one who flees.”
Archimedes Lovegood had leaned so far forward, he risked levitating right out of his seat, his expression rapturous.
Dumbledore sat very still.
“I have every reason to believe that prophecy.”
Charlus looked winded. One hand trembled slightly, resting atop the table, as he gave a small nod.
“As do I.”
Arcturus and Peregrine appeared far less affected, though they observed Charlus and Dumbledore with a bit of interest or concern.
Hard to tell with the purebloods.
The older men sat in the stilted silence for a few more moments, then Dumbledore broke it.
“Very well. Then let us proceed with the vote. All in favour of Mr. Halloway’s confirmation?”
The wands went up.
The wands went down.
“Allow me to be the first to formally welcome you back to Wizarding Britain, Lord Peverell.”