Harry paused before a conveniently placed mirror just outside the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster’s office.
He was already late, but punctuality could wait.
Right now, appearance mattered more.
With careful fingers he adjusted the green-and-silver necktie at his throat and smoothed down the few rebellious strands that had escaped his control.
Potter men were infamous for their untamable hair; it was one of the many reasons he was glad the name no longer belonged to him.
Satisfied, Hadrian Remus Black—Harry to his friends, his teachers, and nearly everyone else except the most pedantic Ministry clerks—gave the password.
“Goo-Goo Clusters.” The ridiculous name of some American sweet Dumbledore had discovered still made him grimace.
The gargoyle sprang aside, and Harry climbed the moving staircase.
“Come in, Harry,” Dumbledore called before he could even knock.
The young Slytherin sighed.
He would never say it aloud, but he had always found the habit rude—an old man’s way of reminding visitors who held the power before they even crossed the threshold.
Four days had passed since the chaotic end of the Triwizard Tournament, and only now had the Headmaster summoned him.
Four days, with a resurrected Dark Lord and an army of fanatical Purebloods on the loose.
Rather lax, Harry thought, for someone supposedly leading the resistance.
He had forgiven Dumbledore years ago for his indirect role in sending him to the Dursleys.
What he could not forgive so easily was the man’s persistent attempts to reconcile him with the family that had discarded him—and that he had proudly walked away from.
So the scene waiting inside the circular office came as no surprise.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, unusually somber.
For once the famous twinkle was absent; today the Headmaster looked every one of his considerable years.
A flicker of concern stirred in Harry’s chest before he crushed it.
Annoyance was safer.
To the Headmaster’s right stood an empty chair clearly meant for him.
Beside it sat two men Harry was genuinely pleased to see: Severus Snape, his Head of House, and Sirius Black, his adoptive father.
Their relationship with Snape had evolved from wary truce to something approaching genuine mentorship.
Sirius, still gaunt from Azkaban, had claimed Harry as his heir to the shock of Wizarding Britain.
Helping free Sirius and later forging an uneasy peace between him and Snape ranked among Harry’s proudest achievements.
To the left of the desk sat the Potters—James, Lily, and James Jr., better known as Jim.
The Boy-Who-Lived.
The Supreme Git of the Universe, according to the T-shirt Harry had gifted him on his thirteenth birthday.
Though identical twins in theory, the differences were obvious: Jim’s wild hair, his aggressively Gryffindor attitude, and the jagged V-shaped scar on his left temple.
Harry’s own scar, usually dismissed as the result of falling masonry, was something far more interesting—Sowilo, the Norse rune of power and victory—though only his Ancient Runes professor knew the truth, and she kept her knowledge close.
As Harry entered, James and Jim turned matching glares on him.
Predictable.
Honestly, Harry thought, it’s not my fault you both kept trusting the wrong people.
Lily did not glare, but Harry still avoided her eyes.
The gulf between them was different from the one that separated him from his birth father and brother—perhaps even harder to cross.
“You’re late,” James said coolly.
“Am I?” Harry replied with bright cheer as he took the empty seat.
“I don’t recall being given a specific time. Only to come as soon as possible. I stopped by to check on Theo first.”
“That’s no excu—”
“Yes, thank you, Lord Potter,” Harry cut in, still smiling the particular smile he reserved for the especially dense.
“Your observation is duly noted. I shall strive for greater punctuality in future.” He turned smoothly to Dumbledore while James fumed.
“I’m here now, Headmaster.”
Dumbledore remained silent for several long seconds.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
At last the old wizard spoke.
“Before we begin, tell me—how is young Theo?” Harry’s smile faltered for the briefest moment.
“Theo No-Name is doing as well as can be expected, sir. Assuming the final legal hurdles are cleared, Sirius will adopt him formally as Theo Black. I think it’s wonderful. I’ve always wanted a brother.”
He resisted the urge to sneer at Jim.
He had been working hard to curb sneering among his fellow Slytherins.
Besides, the statement was only technically a lie; Theo—and Neville—had been his brothers in every way that mattered for years.
Jim snorted.
“You snakes deserve each other. Maybe you can get matching Dark Marks.”
Harry rolled his eyes.
The other boy was still sore about the graveyard at Little Hangleton.
Typical Gryffindor—blaming everyone except himself for charging headfirst into disaster.
Sirius growled.
James tensed.
Wands might have been drawn if Dumbledore had not snapped.
“Enough!” The Headmaster’s voice cracked with rare anger.
“The time for this bickering is over. The Dark Lord has returned, and the Ministry refuses to acknowledge it. Voldemort is already gathering his Death Eaters. Things… things have changed.”
The break in Dumbledore’s voice silenced the room.
For a moment the legendary wizard seemed almost fragile.
“As of now, Jim, you will cease your constant harassment of your brother and the other Slytherins. While Slytherin House has historically been tied to the Dark Lord, I cannot ignore what Harry has accomplished in turning many of them—and even their families—away from Voldemort. I will not allow House Potter’s bigotry to undermine those fragile alliances any longer.”
Jim and James shrank in their seats.
When Dumbledore continued, his voice had returned to its usual calm.
“Before we address the true purpose of this meeting, I wish to discuss the current mood in the DMLE and the Wizengamot regarding Voldemort’s return. We may not have another chance.”
Sirius and James exchanged a cool glance.
Sirius nodded, and James began his report on the state of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Harry leaned back in his chair, only half listening.
Things have changed, Dumbledore had said.
Harry studied the three people who should have been his family.
They had never quite managed the role, so he had gone out and built one of his own.
Some things, it seemed, would never change.
As his birth father’s voice droned on, Harry reflected on the choices—some his, most made by others—that had brought him to this moment.