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The first time Leo saw him, he was wandering through an open-air market somewhere in London, completely and utterly lost.
He wasn't supposed to be there. He knew that, in a nagging sort of way, the same way he knew he ought to help his mum out in the kitchen more often and do his homework the day he got it instead of at the last minute. Most of the time he listened to that nagging feeling, but sometimes everything was just too much - the hopes everyone pinned on him, knowing his parents cried at night, the way everyone assumed he was a born hero or incurably arrogant. Knowing he'd been born to die. They'd never said, but what else was he supposed to think about those midnight conferences, or the expressions some of the senior Order members had when they thought he wasn't looking?
It was morbidly fitting. Being the Boy-Who-Lived didn't mean he was the ultimate survivor; his death had just been postponed, pushed further down the line to a time when he'd actually be able to achieve something with it. Maybe if Voldemort had left them alone for a few decades he never would've survived in the first place. Maybe they would've annihilated each other. He would've been remembered as a different sort of hero.
He was going to die.
When he got worried or angry, people wondered why. They wondered if they had a reason to be fearful. He couldn't take that weight, not on top of everything else. So he'd learned to smile, learned to pretend everything was all right, and hadn't that been helpful? Wasn't this so much better than his parents knowing he knew? Ignorance was bliss, after all. This way, they could comfort themselves that he'd be ignorant right up until the last moment. Maybe even the very last moment.
It was the best solution. He knew that. He'd wrestled with the problem through long nights in the dormitory, wishing he could sleep as easily as his snoring room-mates could. This was hard enough for his parents, not to mention everyone else in the Order who actually liked him. He didn't need to make it harder.
But sometimes, it rose up in him, the knowing and the secrets and the lies, and he couldn't bear to be around anyone he knew. The truth was like a butterfly on his tongue, ticklish and eager to escape, and he couldn't tell them, he knew that, he couldn't -
Thus, Muggle London.
It wasn't a foolproof plan. He wasn't close enough to any of the Muggleborn in his year to know whether they lived around here, so he spent every stolen moment with an uncomfortable awareness of the people around him. It wasn't a new feeling, of course. Death Eaters might be anywhere in the magical world. It was honestly a bit of a relief to only be worried about being recognised, rather than being recognised and then attacked.
When he saw the other boy, eyes scanning restlessly across the crowd, his first thought was that he must've seen someone from school. That instant shock of recognition - well, who else could it be? His parents couldn't associate with Muggles, not without risking their lives. He turned back to see who it was -
And saw himself.
He froze for a crucial second. The other boy disappeared into the crowd. Leo came back to life, pushing his way towards where he'd seen him - that couldn't be right, this had to be magic, but who would bother to impersonate him here? Nobody knew he was here!
By the time he got there, he was long gone.
The golden glow of an afternoon alone, surrounded by strangers who had no idea about the threats that surrounded them, was stripped away. What if it had been magic? Was he safe here?
He went home. Pretended he'd spent the afternoon with Ron, who didn't really understand why he wanted to sneak off to Muggle areas sometimes but was quite happy to cover for him. Went to bed early, mind consumed with conspiracy theories.
It coudn't have been magic. He was careful about his hair and nail clippings, and who could've followed him there, anyway? There were spells and potions that could cause hallucinations, but they usually caused the victim to see things they feared. He should've seen bodies. And he should've still been seeing them now.
It'd been his imagination. It must have been.
He managed to keep himself away from that market for almost the whole summer. But September was approaching fast, and, when it came down to it, he'd never been very good at suppressing his impulses.
He went back.
It was a perfectly normal market, full of perfectly normal Muggles. He knew that. But he couldn't help the tension that filled him. What if he saw him again? What would he do, knowing it hadn't just been his mind playing tricks on him? What if -
He ducked behind a stall, heart thundering.
It hadn't been the other-him. He'd noticed that much in the split-second before his instincts took over. Biting his lip, he leaned around the edge of the stall, searching the crowd.
Dursley?
He leaned back, blinking. It was Dursley, he was pretty sure. He didn't know his room-mate that well - he'd been a bit of a git when they'd met, and Leo had about as much time for that as he did for blood purists - but he'd straightened out. Ended up befriending Granger, of all people. There'd been a bit of comment about that, of course, since Granger wasn't exactly popular, but it turned out between Granger's brains and Dursley's Charms talent they were a terrifying pair to duel against, so that'd died down in the end.
He'd never thought much about them, but now that he was, it was a bit weird. Even after Dursley'd adjusted to magic, he hadn't liked Leo. And Granger, who'd been all too happy to show off what she'd read about his past, had become a lot more distant after they'd become friends.
It probably wasn't weird. She'd probably just learned a bit of discretion, like he'd thought at the time, and Dursley had figured he'd be stuck-up like so many others had, and that was that. But it felt strange, here and now, in this place where he'd seen a doppelganger.
He peeked back around the edge. Dursley was still there, talking to someone. Laughing, even, and swinging a joking punch at his shoulder. He'd never seen him like that before - though, to be fair, Granger wasn't the roughhousing type.
He was Muggleborn. He was probably with an old friend, or maybe a relative. Did he have brothers? Leo wasn't sure - no, wait, he'd said something about having a cousin live with him, hadn't he? Some poor bloke who'd been orphaned. From the way he'd eyed Leo as he said it, he'd gotten the idea the cousin must've been orphaned by Death Eaters, but Dursley'd never said anything concrete about it. He'd barely mentioned him at all, in fact.
He was being stupid. The whole doppelganger thing had probably just been his brain lying to him. Mum liked talking about that kind of thing, about how you could use magic and science together to discover things neither could alone. He'd probably caught a glimpse of Dursley, wandering around somewhere he had every right to be, and just hadn't gotten enough of a look to know it was him, so his brain had come up with a different answer. A terrifying and ridiculous one.
Any moment now, Dursley was going to turn around and see him hiding behind this stall like an idiot. He ought to leave - or go over and say hello, maybe, and then never come back here again. He -
They turned towards him, meandering through the crowd. His mouth went dry as dust.
There he was. The same dark skin, the same messy hair. Green eyes. Glasses.
He moved through the crowd like he belonged there. Leo was suddenly, acutely aware of the discomfort he felt, as if every Muggle in the area would know by looking he wasn't one of them.
They couldn't be exactly the same, surely. If he got close enough surely he'd see some difference - in height, or size, or maybe some subtle difference in the face he couldn't see from here.
Dursley had known him all this time. He'd seen him, and he'd seen this stranger, and he'd never said a word.
Mum was Muggleborn. Maybe this boy was a relative of hers? Maybe that was why Dursley didn't like him - because he thought Leo ought to acknowledge a family he had no idea existed?
No. The eyes were Mum's, but the face, the hair, every other thing - that was pure Potter. It wasn't possible. There hadn't been a Potter squib for ages, and even if there had been they wouldn't have thrown them out, and even if they had he wouldn't have looked like that, he couldn't have had eyes that colour without being an Evans too, and the odds of that...
He felt sick.
Leo pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and hurried away, eyes fixed on the pavement. He couldn't deal with this. Not right now. He didn't even know how to start dealing with it.
The Hogwarts library was a bastion of calm in a school that tended more to rowdiness. It was even more so than usual today: they'd only been back at school for a few weeks, so most of Leo's classmates were outside enjoying the sunshine rather than studying or working on essays. It made the library a rather good place to think.
He just didn't know what to think.
He'd been gladder than ever, these past few weeks, that he knew how to hide his emotions. The last thing he needed was his parents realising how preoccupied he was and wanting to know what had his attention. How was he supposed to have that conversation? "Oh, don't mind me, Mum and Dad, I'm just a little distracted because I met someone who looked exactly like me and I don't like any of the possible answers." That'd go just fantastic.
He'd briefly considered just... leaving it. Not talking to his parents, or to Dursley. Forgetting the whole matter. But, when it came down to it, he'd never been the sort of person who could resist the urge to wiggle a loose tooth. He had to know, even if he hated the answer he got.
And, since he was back at school, that meant asking Dursley exactly what was going on.
Another conversation he didn't know how to start.
He was here in the library too, with Granger. It wasn't that much of a surprise; she loved studying, and Dursley wasn't good at the theoretical material, so the two of them usually spent a lot of time reviewing it. Leo just had to actually go over there and ask him.
It wouldn't be hard. They were sitting quite close to him, after all. He could just hear Granger murmuring something to Dursley - probably explaining something out of the textbook. It'd be more sensible to do it now - this wasn't a conversation he wanted to have in the middle of Gryffindor Tower, with curious ears all around. Privacy was important.
He pressed his lips together hard, staring down at the books in front of him. It wouldn't be hard. He had to do this. He had to know.
Merlin, he was a coward. He would've rather stormed a Death Eater fortress any day. Or fought another basilisk. Basilisks were easy.
He glanced up at them again, and flinched. Granger was looking directly at him, one brow raised. She mouthed something he was pretty sure was Well?
Right, then. No choice left. Other than running away, and that was a really bad choice.
He swept his books back into his bag and made his way over.
"I may be misjudging the situation," Granger said briskly. "But since you don't normally spend time in here unless you have to, which you don't, and since you've also spent a great deal of your time here pretending you aren't watching us, and since that's actually rather distracting, I thought I'd better put an end to whatever it is that's going on here. So?"
"I, uh." He cleared his throat. "This might actually be a private thing? I mean, I'm not sure, but. Um. Private with Dursley, I mean."
"Really," she said, exchanging a glance with Dursley. "I'm going to go find some Astronomy texts, then. If you're not done in ten minutes, you'll just have to talk around me."
He licked his lips as she walked away. He'd hoped that would make things easier, but the words still seemed caught in his throat.
"Go on, then. When she says she'll be back in ten minutes, she means it."
"Right. Um." He cleared his throat again. "I, uh - I saw you. This summer. With someone who looked like me. Exactly like me. And I don't - who is he?"
"You don't know?"
He bit his lip. The apparently-honest surprise in Dursley's voice was... not what he wanted to hear.
"Shit. You'd better sit down." He sighed deeply, pushing his fringe out of his face. "You're not going to like it."
"You're my cousin," he said, for possibly the tenth time.
"Yup."
"And he's my brother."
"Y'know, when Mum said your mum had more or less cut her off after sending Harry our way, I thought she was joking. Guess not."
"But why would they?" he said hopelessly.
"Well, sending a Squib away to live with Muggles is rather frowned upon in today's society," Granger said, dropping a stack of books on the table. "He really didn't know? That explains a lot, I suppose, but it's rather cold. Now, to answer your question further, I suppose it's possible they had good motives - they might legitimately have feared that Harry would be targeted by Death Eaters, or killed in the crossfire if they ever came after your family again."
"Maybe." He certainly couldn't picture his parents as the sort of horrible blood purists he'd heard whispered about when he was a kid, so ashamed they had a Squib for a child that they dumped them in a Muggle orphanage and forgot about them. Then again, he couldn't have pictured this, either. "Is he... I don't know. Is he all right?"
Dursley wrinkled his nose, flicking another glance at Granger. "Well, my parents never liked him much. I think they only took him in because they're getting a stipend, honestly - they like the idea of being upper-class, but up until a few years ago Dad couldn't have paid all that on his own. But they've liked him an awful lot more ever since they found out I was the family wizard."
"Oh. I see." He didn't. But he could see the tension in Dursley's shoulders and the utter stillness of Granger's, and he didn't think they'd explain if he asked. "Does he know I exist?"
"'Course he does," he said, shrugging. "Mum never talked about your lot, but when I saw you here I wrote home and asked her. Didn't write Harry, of course - I was sort of a git to him when we were kids, wasn't sure he'd actually open the letter - but I told him over hols. I don't think he believed me at first, but he does now."
"Oh." It was boggling. He'd known all this time, and so had Dursley, and so had his parents, and how many other people? Uncle Sirius must have. And Remus. Maybe more, but a lot of his mum's school friends had died in the first war. She might not have had anyone left to know her secret shame.
How had Harry felt when he'd found out? Had he been surprised? Probably. He couldn't, at eleven years old, have been as used to being lied to as Leo was. It almost didn't bother him any more. Why fuss when this was just the way things were?
He wanted, very badly, to make a fuss.
"Do you..." He paused, biting his lip, because this, this felt presumptuous, but... "Do you think he'd want to meet me? Or that he'd agree to?"
"I can write and ask, if you want," Dursley said. "I don't know if he could get up here that easily, mind."
He blinked. "But - wouldn't the Muggle-Repelling charms work on him? Or, wait, no, Filch is in here, but -"
"They do work, actually," Granger said. "I have some theories about that. But they aren't actually that hard to circumvent."
"When she's doing it, anyway," Dursley said, grinning. "But, look - I don't want to brush you off, I know this is a lot, but I've got this stupid Transfig essay to write - don't know why I let you argue me into taking so many NEWTs, Hermione -"
"Because raw Charms talent will only get you so far and you need genuine qualifications to get a job after Hogwarts?"
"Something like that, yeah."
She rolled her eyes, a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. "I'll make a scholar of you yet, Dudley."
"No, you won't. Promise."
"I'll, uh, leave you to it," Leo said, standing suddenly and wincing as his knee hit the table. Granger waved him off without so much as a glance, eyes already returning to the books all over the table.
"I'll let you know when I've heard from Harry," Dursley said. "And, uh. Sorry for being a git? I figured your parents would've told you. Couldn't work out why you didn't come over to say hello, or ask about Harry."
"No, that's - that's fine. I can see why you would've thought that." He swung his bag over his shoulder. "I - thanks."
Granger lost no time, immediately starting up a lecture about Transfiguration theory. Had she thought about becoming a teacher? She wasn't exactly a popular tutor, he had to admit. Maybe she just liked Dursley enough to be patient with him in a way she didn't usually manage.
Dursley. His cousin. What would his life have been like if he'd known that from the start?
He'd said the split between their families was Mum's fault. Leo wasn't so sure about that; he'd asked his mother about her family once after Christmas, and the story she'd told him - a close bond that'd degraded partially because of the years they'd spent apart but partially because of her sister's jealousy over magic - had rung true to him. He'd known that she wanted her sister back, even if he hadn't really understood why she'd want to rekindle a relationship with someone who'd hurt her like that.
Had she thought that'd happen to him and Harry if they'd stayed together?
He shook his head as he ducked out the library doors. That was a series of questions that could only be answered by two people, and he still wasn't sure if he wanted to ask them. There wasn't any point in dwelling on them.
The division had to have come from both sides. His aunt's jealousy, and his mother's need to keep a divide from Harry. How could she have possibly explained abandoning him without also explaining magic, and giving him something to be jealous of? Maybe they could've overcome it if Harry had stayed, since she wouldn't have had a reason to keep away. Or maybe his aunt would've kept her distance until she realised her son had magic.
Or: what if Dursley had realised he didn't know, all those years ago? Would they be friends now? Would he have a part in that easy camaraderie that he and Granger shared? Or would that old secret - and every other secret he kept clutched like a fist around his heart - have driven them even further apart?
This was pointless. It was all pointless. Why dwell on a possible future that never happened? That wasn’t what he had to deal with, here and now. He had lies, and secrets, and strangers who shared his blood. That was it.
He didn’t go down to dinner. It probably wouldn’t attract too much attention; his classmates were used to the fact that he got tired of the crowds sometimes, after all. They’d probably just assume he’d gone down to the kitchens.
“Leo?”
Or not. Ron was peering in the door, eyebrows raised.
“Oh. Hi.”
“Not hungry?” There was a hint of incredulity in his voice. “I asked Dobby. He said you hadn’t come down.”
“No. Not really.”
Ron entered the room, slinging his bag on his bed. “You should’ve come. There was treacle tart.”
“Yeah.” It’d been a joke once. The only time he ate as much as Ron did was when treacle tart was on the menu. He didn’t remember when it’d stopped being funny.
"You right, mate?"
"I - yeah. Just thinking." He hesitated, words trembling on the tip of his tongue. How many lies could he tell before he suffocated under the weight of them? "It's about someone else's secret. Kind of. But if they're all right with it I'll tell you later."
Ron turned to look at him, frowning. Whatever he saw only caused the frown to deepen. He didn't push, though. "If you're sure. But, y'know..." He shrugged awkwardly.
"Yeah. I know."
They didn't talk about their emotions much. He figured that was pretty normal for blokes. But he was suddenly, painfully aware that he'd take a curse for Ron. Without even stopping to think.
It wasn't fair, clinging onto his friendship with Ron like this. Not when he knew he'd leave him behind in the end. Wasn't he allowed to be selfish sometimes, though? Having his best mate beside him was the only way he'd made it through so many hard times - back when someone'd started a rumour in second year that he'd defeated Voldemort through dark magic, so of course he was the Heir of Slytherin, or during the Triwizard Tournament last year when it seemed like everyone else in the school thought he'd put himself in because he was jealous someone else might become more famous than him. He'd stood beside him through the worst of it. He'd even gotten into a few fights over the nastiest whispers, despite Leo's attempts to hold him back.
He didn't know how he'd make it through without him.
"Mate?"
He flinched, suddenly aware that Ron was still studying him, a line etched between his brows. "Sorry. I guess I have a lot on my mind."
"Right." He stepped closer, setting a hand on his shoulder. "We're gonna beat him, you know. The way the Order talks about it sometimes, it feels like we're gonna be fighting them forever, but we won't. They just think that 'cause they haven't let us go up against them yet. The Death Eaters won't know what's hit them."
"Yeah. I know." He plastered a smile on his face. "I'm just - I'm really tired. I'm going to go to bed."
"Sure, mate." He patted his shoulder awkwardly and stepped back, glancing away. "I'm gonna go down, have a word with Angelina. G'night."
"Good night." He sank onto his bed, pulling the curtains closed, listening for the telltale click of the door.
How was he supposed to do this?
He'd known Ron since he was four. They'd bonded over Quidditch and frog-catching long before they'd understood enough about the world around them to know their parents had introduced them so Leo could have a "safe" friend. Someone whose parents were in that small circle his parents trusted. He'd spent almost as much time at the Burrow as he had at his own home, through the years.
How could he keep lying to his best friend?
How could he tell him the truth?
It wasn't long until Dursley approached him again. He and Harry had been able to come up with some sort of plan that'd allow him to make it up to Hogwarts in time for the coming Hogsmeade weekend.
"It's easier than getting him onto school grounds," Granger explained, examining the pile of beetle cases in front of her for damage. "Not that we couldn't, but it's rather irresponsible to sneak someone who hasn't any magic through somewhere as dangerous as the Forbidden Forest. Or to sneak into it at all, really, but needs must sometimes."
It was probably better if he didn't address that. No matter how curious he was about what could possibly have led rule-abiding Hermione Granger to sneak into the Forbidden Forest.
He trekked out to the village alone that morning. He'd given Ron some excuse - he didn't think it could've been much good, since he'd felt so guilty the entire time that he didn't actually remember what he'd said - but it'd been enough to get him out of their traditional Saturday morning amble around the village.
He wished he hadn't lied to him again. But it wouldn't be fair to Harry to spring a surprise visitor on him, and how was he supposed to explain this? He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't actually seen Harry himself, after all.
Dursley was lurking just outside the village. Granger wasn't with him. In the library, he supposed - or, no, that was unfair. Even the Ravenclaws came out of their tower to enjoy a Butterbeer or some sweets, after all. She'd probably just decided not to get involved in whatever drama was going to happen, which seemed like a pretty good choice to him.
"Come on," Dursley said, gesturing him away from the rest of the village. "Might've been nice to meet in the Three Broomsticks, but he's a bit obvious, especially considering you've got your very own adoring public. There's a clearing not too far away where you two can talk."
Not too far away was, as far as Leo was concerned, inaccurate - he should've said over multiple hills, at the very least - but there was actually a clearing, and an unsettlingly familiar boy in it. He stood up as they approached, brushing dirt off his jeans.
"Hi. Nice to meet you, I guess."
Leo took the offered hand, eyes raking over him. Just as he'd thought, they weren't quite identical close up; Harry was shorter and skinnier than he was, had a different style of glasses, and had a spectacular jagged scar on his forehead. But the real difference was in the way they held themselves, he thought. He'd always been uncomfortably aware of the eyes of his so-called adoring public, and he'd learned to compensate with good posture and a ready smile. Harry didn't bother with any of that. He slouched, and his shoulders were rounded, and he had absolutely no compunctions in showing his dubiousness as he gave Leo his own up-and-down look.
"Funny. I thought you'd be taller."
"Me too, honestly."
Harry flashed a grin, transforming his face for an instant. "That's the miracle of childhood nutrition for you. So, I hear I'm not the only one who got lied to. How's that been working out for you?"
Dursley cleared his throat. "I'm gonna go for a walk. Don't kill each other, all right?"
"Yeah, yeah." Harry waved him away, narrowing his eyes. They were every bit as piercing as Mum's, he noticed. "So. Worse or better, finding out now instead of a few years back?"
"Worse." He probably should've hesitated. Harry was a stranger to him, after all. But he wanted to know him, the way he'd wanted to know Mum's family before she told him about how things had fallen apart between them. Hungrily, desperately, longingly.
"I guess they've had a lot longer to actually mention anything to you." He took his glasses off, polishing them on the hem of his shirt. "Look, I'll be completely honest: I have no idea what we're supposed to say to each other. I mean, I understand why you wanted to meet me, and I'd be a liar if I said I'd never imagined meeting my long-lost brother and immediately becoming his dearest friend. But in reality, we're two complete strangers who happen to have a common history. You know practically nothing about me, while I know an uncomfortable amount about you, since Dudley thought it'd be good for me to know what was going on in your life - which sounds utterly mad, by the way - and that puts us in a rather strange position. What am I supposed to do, list off factoids about my life until you feel like you know me? Because, to be brutally honest with you, I don't like that plan. I don't like talking about my life, or my history, or the secret sad depths Hermione is utterly certain I possess. The best you'll get out of me is glibness and shallow details and possibly a few lies where the truth isn't nice enough to tell."
"Oh."
"Sorry," he said, grimacing as he put his glasses back on. "That may have been too much all at once."
"Maybe a little." Lying didn't seem very helpful, except in the sense that lying was always, always necessary in his life. "But now I know you a little better, I suppose."
"That's true. I did give a few things away there." He flopped back onto the ground. "Maybe I should try to make you give a few things away too. I mean, Dudley really just told me the public-appropriate things about you - not that that'd be public-appropriate for everyone, but things are different for celebrities, aren't they? Do you have a secret crush, perhaps? I'd be utterly safe to tell, because I don't have the faintest idea who anyone in your world is. I could never, ever spill the truth."
He sat opposite Harry, settling his robes around himself carefully. "Haven't you heard? I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, and whether you believe it or not, Voldemort's back. I have better things to do than go around mooning over people."
"Lies. Everyone's got time for that." He pushed himself upright, frowning. "Wait, no. Actual lies. You're lying about... something."
"What makes you think that?" He was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the sun in his eyes, the prickle of grass on his legs. Was he that obvious?
"I'm good at telling when people are lying to me," he said, shrugging. "Especially when they're this bad at it. Hasn't anyone called you on it before?"
"I'm not -"
"Come off it."
He sighed, rolling his eyes. "I was saying, I'm not bad at lying. I'm actually quite good at it."
"You're like a bloody pane of glass."
"It's probably easier when it's your face doing the lying."
"You might have a point there. So?"
He looked away.
"Think about it this way," he said, voice low and coaxing. "It's not like I could tell anyone your deep dark secret, right? Well, other than Dudley, and he'd hit me if he thought I was breaking a confidence. He's gotten awfully picky about morals ever since he met Hermione. But, other than him, I know literally nobody from your world, and it's not like I could tell anyone from mine without making them think I was utterly mad. If it's something you're embarrassed about... well, who cares? We're practically strangers to each other. There's no downside here."
"I can think of a lot," he said, sighing.
Wouldn't it be so much easier this way, though? No more stumbling through his day aching with the knowledge that this was a secret he had to carry alone. Maybe he wouldn't have to spend so much time fighting his own desire to spill if he knew someone, somewhere, knew the entire truth.
"If I tell you," he said, low-voiced, "I can't undo it. And it's... it's not nice. It's horrible, and I wouldn't blame you for wishing you didn't know afterwards."
"What, you're telling me you couldn't just wave your wand and make me forget?"
"Of course not! That's - that's horrible, doing that to anyone."
"Good." He fixed his gaze on Leo's. "Because, from what I've heard, your lot can be rather cavalier with that spell. I certainly don't plan to ask for it, no matter how awful whatever it is you're carrying around is."
"Right. All right." He looked away, down at his hands. There was a patch of dry skin on his thumb, he noticed. He ought to do something about that. "It's to do with when we were attacked. Before you were sent away. I don't know how much Dursley told you about the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing -"
"Enough."
"Dumbledore - the headmaster, the only one Voldemort was ever afraid of - he thinks for him to die, properly, I have to too."
The room was very silent for a moment. He didn't look up.
"He told you that?"
"Of course not." He couldn't help the bitter curl to his lips. "He told me Voldemort was always going to be obsessed with me, because I'd beaten him, and by the way he'd come after us - after me, I mean, because nobody ever mentioned you were there - because there'd been a prophecy saying I was the only one who could beat him. He gave me a little bit of the prophecy, but not the whole thing, because that would be too dangerous. I suppose what he meant was that he was afraid I'd run away if I knew I'd have to walk to my death in the end. No, I found out because I knew he'd left bits out, so I stayed up late to listen to my parents talking, and I heard them crying. Because they didn't want to bury me."
"But they didn't tell you either." Harry's voice was curiously flat.
"Why would they?" he said, shrugging. "Why make me think about my own inevitable death any earlier than I have to?"
"Why wouldn't they? What, did they think it'd be too hard to explain it? Didn't want to have to face the facts any earlier than they have to?"
His head jerked up at the disgust in Harry's voice. "That isn't -"
"You haven't told them you know. Because you don't want to upset them, I suppose. Well, that's bullshit. They're your parents. It's their job to comfort you, not the other way around."
"Our parents." He didn't know how to address the rest of that. It was...
"No matter whether they had good motives for dumping me or not - and believe me, I've read Hermione's theories on the matter, at length; there's absolutely nothing you could add there short of a confession on their parts - they still left me. They aren't my parents. They're yours. I'm glad you seem to like them, since that means they haven't done their jobs completely incompetently, but they're failing you right now. They ought to have told you as soon as possible. Do they really think it's better if they leave it until the last possible moment - assuming, of course, that there isn't some way around it that they're ignoring because they're too wrapped up in their own feelings, which frankly seems plausible to me. Someone ought to tell them what they're doing wrong. Possibly me, since you don't seem inclined to do it."
"Uh."
"Do you suppose we could get from here to wherever they live and back before you have to be back at school?" he added, propping his chin on one hand. "I think it'd come across better with you standing sadly in the background. Or, alternately, trying to stop me from telling them, so they can see exactly what kind of problem I'm talking about."
"No? The Knight Bus wouldn't take a student from Hogwarts during the term, and anyway this isn't a good idea -"
"Yes, it is. Come on. Dudley said the bartender in the Hog's Head lets students do whatever they like - I bet he wouldn't stop us going through the Floo. I'll have to borrow somebody's hat, I suppose -"
He stopped short at the crest of the hill, looking down.
"Harry?"
"I think," he said, "you'd better come here."
He hurried up to him, heart in his throat. Was there somebody there? Had someone heard -
There, lying in the dirt, was a damp-cheeked Ron Weasley.
"Oh," he said faintly, taking a step back. "Um. Ron, I -"
"You are not going to die," he said, shoving himself upright, ignoring the dirt on his robes. "I won't let you. We're going to fix this, Leo, you hear me?"
"Good," Harry said. "Finally, someone with some sense. Maybe we should workshop this before we confront your parents. It's always nice to be able to hand someone a solution to a problem they hadn't bothered trying to fix. I say we go get Dudley and Hermione - because that's a brain you want on your side, unless you have some kind of allergy to smart people - and talk it through. Yes? No? Any comments?"
Ron cast him an utterly confused glance, but didn't hesitate. "Yes. I'm not letting him do something that bloody stupid."
"I like you. Come on, weird redhead stranger. Let's go save the world."