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Chapter Text

Only one couple were still battling, apparently unaware of the new arrival. Harry saw Sirius duck Bellatrix's jet of red light: He was laughing at her. "Come on, you can do better than that!" he yelled, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.

The second jet of light hit him squarely on the chest.

The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock.

Harry released Neville, though he was unaware of doing so. He was jumping down the steps again, pulling out his wand, as Dumbledore turned to the dais too.

It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall. His body curved in a graceful arc as he sank backward through the ragged veil hanging from the arch...

And Harry saw the look of mingled fear and surprise on his godfather's wasted, once-handsome face as he fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared behind the veil, which fluttered for a moment as though in a high wind and then fell back into place.

Harry heard Bellatrix Lestrange's triumphant scream, but knew it meant nothing—Sirius had only just fallen through the archway, he would reappear from the other side any second.

But Sirius did not reappear.

"SIRIUS!" Harry yelled, "SIRIUS!"

He had reached the floor, his breath coming in searing gasps. Sirius must be just behind the curtain, he, Harry, would pull him back out again...

But as he reached the ground and sprinted toward the dais, Lupin grabbed Harry around the chest, holding him back.

"There's nothing you can do, Harry—"

"Get him, save him, he's only just gone through!"

"It's too late, Harry—"

"We can still reach him—"

Harry struggled hard and viciously, but Lupin would not let go.

"There's nothing you can do, Harry... nothing... He's gone."

The cavernous room echoed with Bellatrix’s triumphant cackle, a sound sharp enough to cut through the haze of Harry’s frenzy. He wasn’t breathing anymore, not properly. His chest rose and fell like the bellows of some dying beast, his lungs filled with something too thin to be air. 

Sirius was gone.

But he couldn’t be. 

"NO! YOU'RE LYING!" Harry's shout tore out of him, wild and hoarse, as he strained against Lupin’s iron grip with renewed desperation. 

Lupin held firm. "Harry, please," his voice was ragged, barely above a whisper, but it might as well have been the final toll of a death knell. Harry couldn’t accept it. He refused.

"No," Harry gasped, fighting harder, his limbs burning with an energy he didn’t know he had. "No! He’s just—he’s just behind the curtain! Let me—"

Suddenly, a clear, echoing hum stopped him mid-sentence—stopped everyone in their tracks. 

The chamber—no, the air itself—seemed to have been strummed by an invisible hand, concentric rings of energy rippling across the ground and leaving the teeth of everyone it touched vibrating. Harry froze, the struggle bleeding out of his limbs, as he looked towards the very center and source—the Veil which had begun to glow, a faint shimmer at first, like a distant star, before it flared to life, the glow searing against the cold stone walls. 

The Veil snapped and crackled, almost as if it had come alive from its previous dormant state to fight at some unseen force, practically sullen almost at being disturbed from its rest. And as if to pontificate this displeasure, ozone, sharp and bitter, filled the air, making it thick and oppressive, choking out the words on everyone’s lips. 

“My God,” whispered Tonks, her wide eyes fixed on the archway. 

The Veil was moving, not just fluttering like before but rippling, the fabric of it straining as though it was trying to prevent with all its might something from tearing its way through. The humming sound had now become ear splitting and was reverberating and building to a fever pitch. Harry’s heart stuttered, his eyes unable to look away from the arch despite them watering from the pain of the headache induced by the shrill noise. The sight was as fascinating as it was horrifying, like watching and waiting out the throes of birth labours. 

Time almost seemed to slow as it usually did when the anticipation of the end built and built.

And then, with a flash so blinding that everyone staggered back, a figure stepped through. 

Tall. Lithe. Drenched in magic that wasn’t just power—it was presence. The air around them wavered and bent, the light was almost painful to look at, radiating from their skin, their eyes, their very being. And their magic—it was airy and radiant but also brilliant and burning like the sun at its zenith. Oppressing yet merciful Light magic swept over all the occupants of the room like a golden gaze taking stock of the surroundings in a veritable display of power.

Sharp inhales and choked noises sounded in the still and silent aftermath of this unexpected appearance.

But what had actually caused Harry's own stunned gasp was something else entirely.

An impossibility. A miracle.

In the very arms of the figure was a slumped over Sirius Black.

Harry blinked, his mouth going dry, and for a moment he felt like time skipped and stuttered for him, watching the scene before him in a way one might in polaroids. The figure, a man, lowered Sirius gently to sit on the steps of the dais, his expression unreadable but serene. Sirius, alive and breathing, coughed, his hand reaching out to grasp the man’s arm like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

Harry couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His brain was locked in some sort of paralysis as his eyes fixed on the man standing over Sirius.

At the mirage or illusion. Surely he wasn't looking at himself?

But if indeed Trelawney's crystal balls did show the future, Harry fancied that he might see this very image of himself within. Older. Taller. Stronger.

The face was unmistakable. It was his own, yet not—maturity lending it a sharper, more defined cast, inscrutable but for a hint of jaded humor lurking in the edges of his mouth and eyes. But more too than these superficial details was the cloying, humid summer storm power that rolled off him in heatwaves so lazy yet wild, it made one want to stand still and throw their arms open wide under the torrential outpouring. 

"Harry?" Lupin's voice cracked beside him, hoarse and disbelieving.

"That's..." Hermione's breath hitched, her eyes darting between Harry and the newcomer. "But it can't be..."

"It is," Harry whispered, his voice trembling. He felt like his legs might give out at any moment.

Older Harry—if that’s what he even was—finally met Harry’s gaze, his eyes bright and piercing behind gold rimmed spectacles, mirroring Harry's own fascination back at him but minus the shock. The room was gripped in a stunned silence, the battle between the Order and the Death Eaters momentarily forgotten. 

Bellatrix’s triumphant sneer had already faltered. She blinked, her wand still raised, but her eyes darted to her hated cousin, then to the new arrival, her bravado unraveling by the second. 

"Who in the name of—"

"Why," said the older Harry with a slight smirk, his voice cheeky and humored, "is that you, Bella? I'm sorry, it has been awhile since you died."

A strangled sound vibrated in Bellatrix’s throat and her face did a funny twist like she was torn between jeering or raging.

Harry felt a flicker of something like admiration alongside the various other emotions he held—shock, amazement, gratitude—for this other version of himself, a version that could stand before Bellatrix Lestrange and not just fight back, but mock her. His stomach couldn't help but do a flip at that offhand remark about Bellatrix being dead. It implied more about the world the older Harry came from than he could imagine right now.

The older Harry shifted his attention to the room, his gaze sweeping across the stunned faces of the Order and Death Eaters alike, his expression somewhere between amusement and mild irritation, like he was surveying a minor inconvenience. 

"When I say that throwing curses around an ancient magical relic that’s older than most of your family lineages is the height of stupidity—" He interrupted what sounded like a rant with an annoyed sigh, "Honestly, I am already overworked as it is, I did not need a dimensional breach during my administration."

Bellatrix snarled, her mask of arrogance slipping. "Who do you think you are, boy? Coming here, acting like—"

"Acting like what? Like I own the place?" The older Harry quirked a brow. "Technically, I do, since I’m the one who stabilized the Veil connecting our worlds. You’re welcome, by the way. As if this isn't beyond the scope of being Minister… why is it that I always have to deal with these things?"

The last bit was spoken in a disgruntled mutter yet Harry still caught it with keen ears and his eyes almost popped out of his head for the second time since older Harry appeared.

"Harry," Sirius rasped from the ground, blinking as if he couldn’t quite believe he was still alive, "what... What the hell just happened?"

"Idiots being idiots, that's what." Then the older Harry’s smirk softened, and for a moment, Harry saw something he couldn't discern in his eyes—fondness, or maybe a deep affection—that was directed at his godfather. But it was gone as quickly as it came. He reached down to help Sirius stand, and though Sirius wobbled for a moment, he remained upright, alive and, impossibly, whole.

Harry’s feet finally obeyed him. He staggered forward, closing the distance between himself and his godfather, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. "Sirius?"

Sirius turned to him, blinking in confusion. "Harry? But... you’re..." His gaze flickered between the two versions of his godson. "Merlin’s beard, there’s two of you."

"And many more out there," the older Harry remarked with a casual shrug of the shoulder, “Though this is the first time I'm meeting an alternate version of myself.”

"How are you...?" Harry started, his voice cracking with emotion. His mind was racing, tripping over itself. "How are you here? How is he...?" He gestured wildly at Sirius, who was still swaying slightly but alive. Alive.

The older Harry shrugged again, though there was something deliberate in the movement this time, as if he were choosing his words with care. "I come from a different dimension. Dimension travel is not exactly a common thing, mind you, but I had to step in before things went completely pear-shaped. For both your world and mine which has the dubious fortune of being the most closely connected to your world."

"So you’re me?" Harry asked, unable to stop staring. His mind couldn’t keep up with the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing.

"More or less," the older Harry said with a small, almost bashful smile. "A version of you, anyway."

"I don’t understand—" Harry’s voice broke again, but he couldn’t finish the sentence. The enormity of it was suffocating. Sirius, alive. Another Harry. Dimensions and veils and...

The older Harry stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. The touch was light, but it carried a weight that made Harry’s heart stutter. "You don’t need to understand it all right now. Just know that I had to come. If I didn’t... Well, you can imagine how this would’ve played out." His gaze slid to Bellatrix, who was watching them with a mix of fury and fear. "And it was simply great luck to have come across Siri the way I did."

Harry swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I... I don’t know what to say."

"You don’t need to say anything," the older Harry replied quietly. "Just… don't let him slip through your fingers again, yeah?" Then he smiled at Sirius with that look again. Sirius in turn was also looking at the older Harry in amazement.

It was at this moment that Bellatrix’s wand hand twitched, a shriek leaving her mouth, “Avada Kedavra!”

“HARRY!”

Several shouts from Sirius and other Order members erupted in the chamber.

The older Harry’s eyes hardened into the cold and unforgiving green of uncut emeralds, and a large crystal shield sprang up between them, shimmering like a wall of pure energy. The magic radiating off it was enough to make the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end.

“How dare you.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room better than any Killing Curse could, filled with a quiet, lethal authority. For a split second, Harry saw the weight of power in his older self’s viridian eyes—a power so vast it was almost crushing, and yet, he carried it with grace, with ease, like he had learned to wear it as armor and wield it like a sword.

Harry stood breathless, his wide, green eyes locked onto the figure beside him—a man who looked so achingly familiar yet so impossibly different. The older Harry, tall and confident, stood with the sort of poise that spoke of countless battles and far too many victories. His robes billowed slightly from his quick movements, and his gaze, sharp as broken glass, was fixed ahead, where Bellatrix had darted into the shadows, her maniacal cackle still echoing through the chamber like a bad joke told to an empty room.

"Think you can stop me, boy? I don’t care who or what you are. You can’t protect him forever!"

Harry’s breath after holding it for a second too long came in short, sharp bursts, his heart still hammering in his chest from the near-death experience. He could still see the sickly green glow of the Killing Curse hurtling toward him, could still feel the cold, clammy touch of death brushing past him—only to be absorbed by the shimmering, crystal shield older Harry had conjured. Even now it gleamed with the sickly green hue of the Killing Curse, Bellatrix's Avada Kedavra trapped inside a crystalline surface that pulsed ominously, like it might just explode at them anyway.

"Bloody hell," muttered Harry, his voice barely more than a croak. "How...?" Distressingly, Harry found himself asking that word more often than naught in the presence of his older, more enigmatic self.

Older Harry glanced sideways, an easy and relaxed quirk to his grin, amusement in his eyes. He twirled his wand once, and the crystal shield absorbed the curse entirely, glowing for a moment before it fizzled out with a sharp hiss strangely like the sound a can of soda opening would make.

"My own creation," older Harry said casually, his tone too nonchalant for the deed he had just accomplished. He sounded as though he were offering advice on a simple spell rather than having just absorbed one of the most unstoppable curses known to wizardkind. “I can teach it to you if you like.”

Harry blinked, dazed. Dumbledore was now moving toward him, having already captured the Death Eaters easily enough, with the exception of the escaped Bellatrix. His expression was unreadable as he gave the older Harry a slow, assessing look. “My boy—”

But rudely, older Harry sighed and, with the slightest roll of his eyes, flicked his wand in a lazy arc. “Not interested, Albus,” he said, voice thick with barely concealed impatience, and in the next second, he was gone, a sweep of robes that shimmered faintly like liquid starlight disappearing after Bellatrix so quickly his form blurred, despite the fact that he didn't actually look like he was running.

For a moment, there was only more stunned silence. Harry could only stare at the space where his older self had disappeared, while Dumbledore’s gaze followed the same path, a glint of something thoughtful in his eyes. Harry swallowed, taking stock on how his throat was uncomfortably dry and how the rest of his body also ached now that there was no distraction.

"Professor—" Harry began, but the headmaster raised a hand to silence him.

“It would seem, my boy," Dumbledore said quietly, though his blue eyes twinkled with a peculiar intensity. "That things are about to become... quite interesting."

.

.

.

Somewhere above the DoM, Bellatrix skidded to a halt, her breath ragged and eyes wild. She hadn’t meant to run, but there was something unnatural about that older version of Potter. His magic—she had felt it, a heavy, scorching presence like sunlight pressing down.

The dimly lit corridor stretched before her, cold and silent, and she grinned maniacally, her lips curling as she raised her wand. No more games. The Dark Lord would see to it that the arrogant boy was dealt with properly.

But the moment she turned, there he was, leaning against the wall. He was smiling, but it wasn’t a friendly smile; it was the kind of smile you might offer a particularly amusing problem, or a puzzle you already knew the answer to.

She flung a curse over her shoulder, a bright, violent slash of red, but it was almost laughably slow for Harry. With a flick of his wrist, the curse dissipated mid-air, dissolving into sparks.

"The Cruciatus gets old, Bella," Harry called after her, his tone just this side of chiding patronization. "You're starting to bore me."

Harry didn't chase her. Not really. He simply walked, every step languid like he was just out in his backyard. And with each flick of his wand, obstacles appeared in Bellatrix’s path. A wall of shimmering light here, a pool of crackling energy there. He was toying with her, setting up barriers as casually as if he were arranging chess pieces. She hissed in frustration, her dark eyes gleaming with hatred as she realized she was being cornered.

“You think you can toy with me, Potter?” Bellatrix spat, her voice dripping with venom. “You’re nothing! Nothing compared to the Dark Lord!”

Harry's mouth turned into a small o of terribly faked affront. “Oh, Bellatrix, you wound me. It's actually not that flattering being compared to old snakeface, you know?” 

But before he could continue playing, he paused, his head tilting slightly, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes flicked upward, a slender finger reaching up to push up the gold rimmed spectacles that had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose.

The Atrium of the Ministry of Magic they currently found themselves in had an odd stillness to it, the kind that settles after the first strike of a thunderstorm. Broken glass glimmered in the dim light, charred sections of the marble walls hissing from where curses had scorched their surfaces. The Fountain of Magical Brethren, usually a symbol of serene opulence, was a mess of twisted metal, the centaur's arm bent in a way that suggested it had recently been a victim of Bellatrix’s wild retaliation.

And then he finally appeared.

Voldemort.

The air itself seemed to recoil at the warlock's presence, as if the very magic in the place was shying away from the cold, suffocating darkness that poured off him. His serpentine face was set in a twisted smile, his red eyes gleaming with malice. He moved soundlessly, his wand already raised, casting an almost imperceptible shadow over the Atrium as he aimed it directly at Harry.

The moment stretched, the tension snapping like a taut string.

Voldemort’s curse—a deep, violent snake of black—rushed through the air with a hiss, crackling with malignant energy. But Harry didn’t flinch. Instead, with a casual wave of his wand, a blinding flash of light erupted between them, the curse melting against a glowing barrier of pure white magic.

“Riddle,” older Harry greeted, his voice light and cheerful, as though they were old friends meeting for a chat. Humor made his green eyes, so similar to the younger Harry’s, glimmer like the precious gems they resemble. “You’re looking... well.”

Voldemort’s lip curled in disdain, and red eyes narrowed as he took in Harry's appearance. “What is this? An alternate version? No matter, I will relish in killing you as well.”

"You can try. Who knows, maybe you can succeed where my Voldemort failed." Harry’s voice lilted playfully, infuriatingly. Before fury could twist Voldemort's features even more, in a sudden, fluid motion, he slashed his wand through the air, sending a wave of shimmering light toward Voldemort, who deflected it with a snarl. The Atrium lit up, streaks of gold and black colliding in midair, casting sharp shadows across the gleaming floors.

Bellatrix, forgotten in the chaos, stood wide-eyed, caught between awe and fury as her master and her enemy clashed. She took a step back, her lips twitching with something between a sneer and a grimace, clearly considering her next move.

"Don't bother," older Harry called over his shoulder, not even sparing her a glance. "Unless you fancy becoming a casualty, Bella."

Bellatrix froze, her wand trembling in her hand. For a moment, it looked like she might lunge forward, but then, with a growl of frustration, she backed away into the shadows, leaving her master to face this new, impossible version of Harry Potter alone.

Voldemort’s rage was palpable, the air around him distorting as if the darkness itself was writhing in agony at being contained. His wand cut through the air, sending a jet of green light hurtling toward him. Harry looked almost exasperated, his hand moving with the same fluid grace, summoning the same crystal shield that had absorbed Bellatrix’s curse just moments earlier. The Killing Curse collided with the shield, the acidic green energy swirling around it like a trapped serpent.

Harry’s eyes gleamed with humor, something almost like mockery. “Even if I couldn't do that, hasn't history taught you that Harry Potter and killing curses don't mesh well?”

Voldemort’s expression darkened, and in an instant, obscure dark curses rained down, slicing through the air with vicious precision, each one crackling with deadly intent. But Harry moved like a dancer, fluid and effortless. He dodged, blocked, and countered with a mastery that was almost too casual, as if he were more entertained than concerned by the power Voldemort wielded.

“You always were a bit dramatic, weren’t you?” Harry remarked, his tone conversational as he cast a series of glowing barriers that absorbed curse after curse. “All that hissing, all the big speeches about death and power—it’s all a bit exhausting, really.”

At this moment, a crowd burst into the Atrium only to skid to a stop—Dumbledore, Sirius, and Harry among them. Minister Fudge had arrived, too, flanked by a gaggle of reporters and Ministry workers, their faces pale with a mixture of awe and fear. Harry, who had frozen at the edge of the room with Dumbledore and the Order members around him, watched avidly. This wasn’t like any duel he had ever seen. There was no desperation, no frantic movements. Older Harry moved with insulting ease, every flick of his wand appearing flippant yet purposeful—all on top of having the wherewithal to goad his adversary it seemed. In contrast, Voldemort’s magic seemed vicious, wild, almost feral—each curse striking out with venom, but each one met with an effortless counter.

“What’s he doing?” Harry muttered under his breath, watching as his alternate self parried another of Voldemort’s attacks with a laugh.

“Winning,” Sirius replied dryly, his gaze never leaving the scene.

Voldemort, red eyes slitted with wrath, flung his next curse—an almost invisible wisp of shadow—which struck with blinding speed like a black adder. But older Harry’s wand moved faster, summoning a glowing chain of light that lashed out, meeting the snaking shadow with a rope of bright magic. The light wrapped itself around the darkness, suffocating it until it flickered out with a pitiful whimper.

“For a Slytherin, you don't really seem to appreciate the subtleties, Riddle,” older Harry continued, his voice offendingly mild as if he was remarking on the weather instead. “All brute force, all malice. It’s no wonder you’ve never understood true magic.”

“You think you are beyond death?” Voldemort spat, his voice rising in pitch. “You are nothing, Potter. A few extra years make no difference. You cannot defeat me!”

He thrust his wand forward, sending a massive wave of dark energy that seemed to swallow the very light around it, aimed directly at older Harry.

And still, older Harry didn’t break his composure. His wand carved a triangular shape in the air, and from it came not a shield, but a dome of crackling golden light. The energy swirled around him like a storm, each tendril of light hissing and snapping like snakes made of lightning. It collided with Voldemort’s magic, not in a violent crash, but in a slow, almost agonizing push, as if the darkness was being consumed by the light, inch by inch.

Voldemort let out a furious hiss, his wand dripping with dark energy. He sent another volley of curses, each more vicious than the last, but each was met with the same effortless deflection. The golden dome of light around older Harry crackled and grew, expanding outward until it surrounded Voldemort, trapping him within.

The Dark Lord’s red eyes widened, a flicker of something—fear, perhaps?—crossing his features as the tendrils of golden light tightened around him. He raised his wand to strike again, but the light hissed, sparking with painful intensity, and Voldemort let out a sharp gasp, his grip faltering.

“It won’t last, Potter,” Voldemort spat, his voice low and venomous, but there was a strain in his tone now.

“Maybe not,” older Harry mused, a thoughtful moue of his lips. “But I think it’ll still be long enough to prove a point.”

And with that, the golden dome seemed to pulse, the tendrils of light tightening around Voldemort’s figure like chains, until with a final, sharp snap, the Dark Lord Disapparated with a rage filled shriek, leaving nothing but the faint scent of burnt ozone in the air.

The silence in the Atrium was almost deafening after that. For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of magic, the remnants of the duel slowly dissipating into the air like a fading storm.

Harry blinked, adrenaline still rushing in his veins jist from watching. He turned to look at older Harry, who was now idly twirling his wand between his fingers, as though the duel had been nothing more than an amusing diversion.

"Well," older Harry said, turning to face his alternate self, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "That was the most fun I've had since getting a security detail."

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts was charged with the weight of disbelief and wary fascination. Every eye was locked on the older Harry Potter, who lounged in one of the high-backed chairs with a casual arrogance that seemed entirely unshaken by the scrutiny. 

His emerald eyes—brighter and keener than his younger counterpart’s—twinkled with mischief that was part Marauder and part—disturbingly—Dumbledore. But there was also a sharpness behind them, a depth of experience that made everyone take him seriously in a way younger Harry never really got.

“Let’s get this straight,” Moody growled, his magical eye whirring as it fixed itself on the older Harry. “You expect us to just believe you’re some alternate version of Potter? Convenient, isn’t it, showing up here right in time to duel Voldemort at the Ministry?”

“Quite convenient,” Snape interjected, his voice dripping with disdain. “And suspicious. Potter”—his dark gaze swept to younger Harry briefly—“barely manages to keep himself alive in a duel, and we’re to believe this older, more self-assured version of him has somehow mastered the Dark Lord?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” younger Harry muttered under his breath, flushing.

Older Harry didn’t seem fazed in the least. He idly twirled his wand between his fingers, his gaze drifting back to Sirius with unabashed interest. “You’re all remarkably mistrustful,” he said lightly, his voice tinged with amusement. “And here I thought Order meetings were all tea and biscuits.”

“Answer the question,” Moody barked, his expression stormy.

“Oh, fine,” Harry said, sighing in a put upon manner. “Yes, I’m from an alternate dimension. Yes, I’ve already dealt with Voldemort. And no, I’m not here to overthrow your little club—tempting as that might be.”

And with some regret, he added wistfully, “I do have an administration to run that would implode with incompetence without me.” It was clear older Harry would indeed like to stay and cause some chaos if not for his duties waiting for him back home.

“Arrogant as ever,” Snape muttered.

Remus stepped in, his tone calmer but no less cautious. “It’s a lot to take in,” he admitted, his sharp eyes studying the older Harry carefully. “And you do seem… different.”

“Well, I’d hope so,” older Harry quipped. “Growing up does that to people. I like to think I've turned out quite well.”

And younger Harry could only agree with envy as he cast surreptitious looks at the older Harry's clearly taller and more filled out physique. Still slender, but definitely less scrawny and more healthy.

Sirius, who had been unusually quiet, finally broke his silence. He leaned on the back of younger Harry’s chair, his expression a strange mix of curiosity and amazement. “I’ve got to say,” he began, his voice a touch hoarse, “it’s… mind-boggling, really. Seeing what you look like grown up. For one thing, you don't look as much like James anymore.”

Everyone ignored the snide “must make up for that with an even greater inflated ego than his father” input from Snape.

Remus nodded thoughtfully, tilting his head as he regarded older Harry. “It’s true,” he said. “Your resemblance to James has softened. Your features… they’ve become more Lily’s as you’ve matured. The eyes were always hers, of course, but now it’s the shape of your face, the expressions.”

“Hmm,” older Harry mused, his eyes flickering with mischief as they landed on Sirius again. “I’ve always thought I struck a rather stunning balance between them.”

Everyone was staring at him now, and Sirius couldn’t help but meet older Harry’s gaze with a sheepish grin. “Do I have something on my face?” Sirius asked, his tone light and teasing despite the tension in the room.

Older Harry’s smile widened, and he leaned forward slightly. “Not at all,” he said, his voice softening. “It’s just… it’s been a while since I’ve seen my Sirius  so...” His emerald eyes swept over Sirius’s gaunt features, lingering on the hollowness in his cheeks and the wildness in his hair. “Pale. Drawn. But still… crazy hot.”

The room went utterly still.

Sirius choked on air, his delicate, long-fingered hand flying to his chest as though to confirm he was still breathing. 

Younger Harry went crimson, sinking deeper into his chair in confused mortification. 

Remus blinked, momentarily at a loss for words, while McGonagall’s lips thinned into a disapproving line. Moody muttered something about being too old for this nonsense, while Snape’s eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline.

“Crazy… hot?” Sirius finally croaked, his voice strangled.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” older Harry said, his tone breezy. “You've probably been told that before.”

“That’s… that’s not…” Sirius stammered, clearly flustered. His face had gone a shade of pink that younger Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen before.

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore interjected, his voice calm but tinged with amusement, that twinkle back in his eyes again, “we might redirect our focus to the matter at hand.”

“Yes, please, ” younger Harry muttered, still blushing furiously. He really didn’t want to know about what his other self got up to with his own version of his godfather. And if his stomach squirmed something strange then it was probably because he was feeling hungry.

The older Harry sat back in his chair, utterly unbothered. “Fine, fine,” he said, waving a hand. “Ask away.”

Dumbledore’s expression shifted to something more solemn, though his eyes retained their usual twinkle. “I must admit, my boy, I’m curious about your world. How did you defeat Voldemort there?”

Older Harry’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by something more thoughtful. “Horcruxes,” he said simply.

A collective murmur rippled through the room. Some of them clearly not familiar with the word. But of course, Dumbledore was not one of them.

“Ah.” Dumbledore stroked his beard, “I had suspected…”

“Mind filling the rest of us in, Albus?” Sirius asked sharply.

Dumbledore sighed. “The darkest of magic in which a wizard or witch splits their soul by committing the most evil act and then housing it in an object of choice. All for the sake of immortality.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. Everyone was digesting the information. 

It was McGonagall who broke the silence. “Horcruxes?” she repeated, her voice sharp with alarm. “Does that mean he split his soul more than once?”

“Seven times, actually,” older Harry replied nonchalantly, though there was a conspicuous absence of the easy smile he usually had. “I’d hardly call it creative, but it was effective. Took years to track them all down.”

Dumbledore’s face was grave, though his voice remained measured. “And these vessels?”

“Due to the law of dimensional differences, you must keep in mind that they might vary from that of my world.” Older Harry warned helpfully to which Dumbledore nodded in understanding. 

Seeing this, older Harry began to rattle them off casually, as if reciting a shopping list: “Peverell's ring, Riddle's yew wand, Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem, my holly wand, and…” His gaze flicked to younger Harry briefly before he added, almost reluctantly, “me.”

The room erupted again.

“You?” Sirius barked, his protective instincts flaring immediately. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”

“It means,” older Harry said, his tone soothing but firm, “that Voldemort accidentally made me a horcrux the night he killed my parents. Don’t worry, I got rid of it. Though…” He cast a wry glance at younger Harry, his gaze trailing up towards his scar that was mirrored on his own forehead, only not as faded. “You’ve got that to look forward to.”

The younger Harry looked as though he might be sick. “I… what?” And that was not even mentioning that his wand—or rather the other version of his precious holly wand—was also turned into a horcrux. That was double the sense of violation.

“Relax,” older Harry said, his grin back in place. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Well, maybe it is. But you’ll survive.” Though his tone was flippant, it was clear he was not as cheerful as he claimed. And everyone noticed that the wand older Harry wielded was not actually the holly wand Harry had but a lighter colored wood, with a greenish tint.

Dumbledore raised a hand to quiet the room, his hand not once ceasing in their thoughtful strokes of his beard. “Very interesting choices. From the order in which you listed them, am I right to think that it was deliberate?”

At older Harry’s nod Dumbledore chuckled slightly and murmured as if to himself, “Of course. Tom would not have used his wand without being sure of the ritual first.” 

Though even Dumbledore was astounded at the other version of Voldemort being so audacious as to flaunt his own horcrux in plain sight like that. He suspected that this other young Tom might very well have been the first and only wizard to turn his own wand into a horcrux.

Eventually, looking up again, Dumbledore said sincerely, “Your generosity is appreciated, my boy. And what can you tell us of the final battle? How did you manage it?”

At this, older Harry’s expression suddenly turned enigmatic, a knowing smile curving his lips. Instead of answering, he drew that peculiar wand of his. “Let me show you.”

To everyone’s surprise, he made a small cut on his index finger, swiping the blood along the length of the wand. The blood was instantly absorbed within the span of a single breath. 

Then, a low, haunting melody began to emanate from the wood, building slowly, resonating in a way that seemed to vibrate in their very blood. The music grew louder, more complex, until it hit a crescendo—and with a brilliant flash of fire, three phoenixes appeared.

The largest was pure gold, its feathers shimmering like molten sunlight. Beside it, a white phoenix with feathers tipped in hues of pinks and reds perched elegantly, while a vermillion one flecked with cobalt flapped its wings in fiery bursts.

“Meet my familiars,” older Harry said, beaming with pride. “Anqa, Konrul, and Suzaku.”

The room was utterly silent, save for the soft, musical cries of the phoenixes. Even Dumbledore looked stunned, his own phoenix, Fawkes, flashing into the room in response. Fawkes trilled a low, curious note, and the golden phoenix, Anqa, answered, their voices intertwining in a song that brought tears to McGonagall’s eyes. Even the harsh lines on Moody's face softened.

“How…” Sirius began, his voice hushed with wonder. “How is this possible?”

“They’ve been with me since I was a child,” Harry explained, his gaze fond as he watched the phoenixes. “The golden one, Anqa, can even travel between dimensions. They’re how I’ll get home. Much more comfortable than navigating the Veil, I tell you.”

The room remained in awe, but the older Harry’s eyes flickered back to Sirius and then to younger Harry, his smile softening. “But maybe,” he said, almost to himself, “I’ll stay a bit longer.”

*

The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with its usual pre-class hum of conversation and clinking cutlery. Harry trudged in with Ron and Hermione, feeling slightly better after a hot shower and a good night’s sleep—or as good as he could manage after everything that had happened. He was halfway to the Gryffindor table when he heard it.

The low murmur of whispers.

It started as a ripple, like the early warning of an approaching storm. Then the ripple became a wave, spreading across the room in a tsunami of shocked gasps and furious whispering. 

Harry froze mid-step and glanced around, his stomach flipping as he realized every eye in the room was now trained on him—or, more accurately, the man walking up to him from behind.

Older Harry strode in with the kind of confidence that defied the oppressive stares. His emerald eyes misted with nostalgia as he glanced at the wide-eyed students and gaping staff. “It's been awhile. Who knew I would come back to her for a visit in such a way?” he remarked, patting the stone walls of Hogwarts fondly. And then as if in an afterthought, green eyes focused back on the young, curious faces around him. “Just as nosy as ever, though.”

Ron muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Blimey.”

Hermione, always composed, adjusted her robes and whispered, “This was bound to happen.”

Harry groaned. He could feel the weight of the entire school’s gaze pressing down on him like an overbearing hand. “Didn’t you say you'd go to the kitchen's instead? We’d have gone with you if you wanted company!” he hissed to his older self.

“And miss the chance to meet all your adoring fans?” Older Harry shot back, grinning. “Not a chance.”

The Gryffindor table was already abuzz with excitement, students shoving aside platters of toast and bacon to make room for the spectacle of the two Potters. Parvati leaned over to Lavender, whispering furiously, while Seamus gawked as though he’d just seen Merlin himself. Even the Slytherin table looked intrigued, though Malfoy wore his usual sneer, albeit with an edge of unease.

As they sat down, the chatter only grew louder, especially when the morning owls swooped into the hall, dropping the Daily Prophet into eager hands.

“Here we go,” Hermione murmured grimly as Colin snatched up a copy and let out an audible gasp.

The front page was emblazoned with a moving photograph of older Harry’s duel with Voldemort in the Ministry Atrium. The headline screamed, "MYSTERIOUS DUELIST STUNS WIZARDING WORLD: WHO IS THE STRANGER WHO FOUGHT YOU-KNOW-WHO?" The image showed older Harry mid-spell, golden light arcing from his wand, while Voldemort’s expression twisted in fury.

The hall erupted in chaos. And not just because Voldemort's return was confirmed. 

“That’s you!” Colin squeaked, pointing at the photo and then at older Harry with wide eyes.

“Bloody hell, Potter,” Dean muttered, craning his neck to get a better look at the paper. “When did this happen?”

Harry wanted to sink into the floor. Older Harry, on the other hand, was the picture of nonchalance as he propped an arm on the table and calmly helped himself to a piece of toast. “Great shot, isn’t it?” he remarked, glancing at the paper. “The Prophet journalists are shite but their photographers have quite the eye.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Harry muttered, trying to ignore the blatant stares.

“I’ve been told,” older Harry replied, smirking as he snagged a treacle tart from his younger self’s plate.

“Hey, that’s mine!” Harry protested, glaring at him.

“Consider it a tax,” older Harry said, biting into the tart with a maddeningly satisfied expression. “Future you deserves a taste of the past.”

Ron laughed then choked on his pumpkin juice, while Hermione rolled her eyes.

Despite himself, Harry felt a grudging mix of irritation and admiration. The audacity of his older self was staggering. It was hard to reconcile the self-assured man beside him with the version of himself who could barely navigate a class without losing points for Gryffindor. Minister of Magic? Harry thought incredulously. Yeah, right.

But before he could dwell on it, a chorus of giggles and whispers caught his attention. He turned just in time to see a group of seventh-year girls glancing at older Harry, their cheeks pink as they leaned toward each other.

“Excuse me,” one of them said boldly, stepping forward. “You’re, um, Harry Potter, right? From another world?”

“Yeah, that's right,” older Harry replied smoothly, flashing her a charmingly crooked grin.

“That’s so… fascinating,” she said, twirling a strand of hair. “You must have so many incredible stories to tell.”

“Oh, you’ve no idea,” older Harry said, his tone teasing as he leaned slightly closer.

Harry felt his face heat up. What was his older self doing?!?! Better yet, who was this bloke and what had happened to him to become so… so…!

It wasn’t just the girls. A Hufflepuff boy from the next table was eyeing older Harry with what no one could possibly have misunderstood as platonic, and even the Ravenclaws were approaching, a gaggle of them stammering out questions about advanced dueling techniques.

“Right, that’s enough!” Harry burst out, standing abruptly. He grabbed older Harry’s arm and began dragging him toward the doors, his face burning. “Come on. Out.”

“What’s the rush?” older Harry asked, looking innocently confused, but that gleam in his eye knew exactly what had his younger self's knickers in a twist.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look before hurrying after them.

The crisp morning air was a welcome relief as they reached the shores of the Great Lake. The giant squid’s tentacles lazily broke the surface, sending ripples across the water. Harry finally released his older self’s arm and rounded on him. “What was that about?” he demanded.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” older Harry said, shrugging. “I’m a man of many talents.”

“You’re insufferable,” Harry snapped, though there was no real bite in his words.

Ron, grinning, chimed in, “But you’ve got to admit, mate, it’s a bit mad seeing you like that. I mean, you—you dueled You-Know-Who !”

“Technically, I won, ” older Harry corrected, leaning casually against a tree.

“Those spells,” Ron continued, his excitement still not having worn off from yesterday. “What were they? I’ve never seen magic like that before!”

Hermione, always the scholar, seized the opportunity. “Yes, the duel was remarkable. But I’m curious about the theory behind it. You used Light magic, didn’t you?”

Older Harry’s grin softened into something more thoughtful, and he looked at young Hermione like he was seeing instead his own world's Hermione. “You always were quite sharp, weren't you?” he said, reaching out to ruffle Hermione’s hair affectionately. She flushed but didn’t pull away.

“Light magic,” he explained, “is as powerful as Dark magic, but it’s harder to master. It requires precision, focus, and a lot more restraint. Where Dark magic thrives on chaos, Light magic feeds on balance.”

He held out his wand, murmured a soft incantation, and a shimmering sphere of golden light appeared, pulsating gently in his palm. It cast a warm glow over their faces, and Harry felt a strange sense of peace wash over him.

“It can heal,” older Harry said, letting the sphere float upward, “but it can also destroy, if necessary.” He flicked his wand, and the sphere shot out over the lake, where it exploded in a burst of blinding light. The water hissed and steamed where it touched.

“Brilliant,” Ron breathed, mouth gaping slightly with awe.

“Impressive,” Hermione agreed, though her brow furrowed slightly. “But… surely such powerful magic has consequences? Overuse must come with side effects.”

Older Harry’s grin turned wry. “Right you are,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Yes, we all hear about Dark magic and their very bad, no good side effects but there are just as many consequences to overusing Light magic as Dark magic. But , unlike Dark magic side effects which are usually permanent, Light magic users can alleviate it fairly well enough.”

“How?” Ron asked, genuinely curious.

Older Harry hesitated for only a second before replying with the same nonchalance he’d displayed earlier when flirting with Harry's godfather. “Sex magic.”

The reaction was immediate and not unexpected.

Hermione sputtered, her cheeks flaming as she tried to form a coherent response. Ron turned as red as a tomato, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Harry, for his part, buried his face in his hands, silently willing the giant squid to drag him into the depths of the lake.

“You—you’re joking,” Hermione finally managed, her voice an octave higher than usual.

“Not at all,” older Harry said with a straight face, though his lips quivered in a badly suppressed grin. “It’s surprisingly effective.”

Ron made a strangled noise, while Hermione flailed her hands, for once unable to speak eloquently. “But that's not—what is even—I mean the theory —”

“Well, if you really must know—” Older Harry began.

“Actually, we really rather not.” Harry interrupted flatly.

“Well, you're a prude. Was I ever such a killjoy before? Must be the Dursleys. It's always the Dursleys’ fault.”

Harry’s lips twitched in spite of himself.

“But, just in case you want to know later, y'know for when you begin using Light magic, there are quite some useful books on the subject in the Black family library at Grimmauld Place.”

“...Um, thanks.” Harry managed to utter through the embarrassment. Though he did wonder if such books would still be there after Mrs. Weasley had done so much cleaning. Didn't seem like reading material the older witch would've approved for someone their age currently.

“You’re welcome,” older Harry said, bowing slightly.

As his younger self groaned in mortification, older Harry chuckled. “Relax,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It's totally natural. And fun. You’ll find out eventually.” He winked.

“Please stop. Way too much info.” Harry muttered, glaring at him half-heartedly.

But despite the teasing and the embarrassment, Harry could admit he would be the most reluctant to say farewell to the other. Older Harry was like an older sibling he never had, just there to be embarrassing but always looking out for him, something he always envied Ron for.

And as they stood by the Great Lake under the morning sun, Harry soaked in the sense of camaraderie—a strange but undeniable bond that still managed to span time and dimensions.

Chapter Text

1. The First Scandalous Encounter (a.k.a. The Moment That Started It All)

The moment Harry set eyes on Sirius Black, he could feel that restless factor in his blood perk up and take notice.

It wasn’t the Sirius he knew, not quite. This one was younger, thinner— sharper, with the look of a man who had spent too long in the dark and was still relearning what it meant to stand in the light. His hair was longer than Harry remembered, wild waves that framed a face both arrogant and tired. He was leaning against the back of his younger self’s chair in Dumbledore’s office, his arms crossed, his eyes bright with intrigue. He looked good —even gaunt and wild, there was something undeniably magnetic about him.

Harry stared, utterly unashamed. Probably looking quite thirsty too.

Sirius, the poor man likely picking up mixed signals, shifted under the weight of the gaze, unsure whether to touch his face self-consciously or smirk back with a hint of the young rogue who had been buried under years of guilt and suffering. "Do I have something on my face?"

Harry’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. “No, it’s just been a while since I’ve seen my own Sirius looking so... gaunt. Pale. Drawn.” He sighed dramatically, tilting his head. “And still ridiculously hot.”

Sirius choked. His younger, more innocent self turned red. The entire room froze.

“I… what ? ” Sirius sputtered, his voice somewhere between scandalized and reluctantly flattered.

“This is entirely unnecessary , ” Snape muttered, his lip curling in disgust.

Dumbledore twinkled. McGonagall shared an exasperated look with Moody.

For the first time since they had all shuffled Harry into the Headmaster's office, the wariness in the room shifted—not into trust, but into something far worse.

Resignation.

2. The Dursley Interruption (a.k.a. The Suffering of Vernon Dursley)

Number Four, Privet Drive had seen its fair share of bizarre incidents over the years—flying cars, an army of Hogwarts letters, and even a house-elf levitating a cake—but nothing could have prepared Vernon Dursley for the utter freakishness that arrived on his doorstep that evening.

The golden shimmer of phoenix fire faded, leaving Harry, Sirius, Remus and Tonks standing on the perfectly pruned lawn of Number 4, Privet Drive. The house looked exactly as it always did: neat, sterile, and utterly devoid of warmth. Sirius scanned the place with a critical eye, his lips twitching in distaste.

“Not much to look at, is it?” Sirius remarked, his voice low and unimpressed.

“Never thought I would see it again in such a way,” Harry said with a faint smile. “It's been, how long? Since the summer before my 1st year at Hogwarts actually.” 

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Things are certainly different between our worlds.”

“Yep. But in some ways they stay the same.” Harry rocked on his heels and bumped his shoulders with Sirius’. “Like how it was my dear godfather who arrived to take me away just like today.”

Sirius's grey eyes warmed and an interesting shade of pink crept up his cheeks. Their faces had somehow become much closer than before, and a strange sort of tension could be picked up even by the oblivious Tonks who looked back and forth between the two with a very exasperated Remus standing arms crossed at her side— 

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF—!”

The door to Number 4 burst open, revealing Vernon Dursley, purple-faced and puffing like a steam engine. His mustache bristled with rage as he stomped onto the lawn.

“You! Freaks! On my property again! And what is this—this—disgusting display?!” He waved a sausage-like finger between Harry and Sirius, his eyes bulging with fury. “Freaks and now... faggots?! Disgraceful! You think you can just—”

Harry sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose as if Vernon were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. He inclined his head politely to his companions, muttering, “Give me a second. This won’t take long.”

Before anyone could respond, Harry flicked his wand with practiced ease.

There was a loud pop followed by an explosion of color. Where Vernon Dursley had been standing a moment ago, there now stood a garish Pride Day float, complete with rainbows, glitter, and an oversized inflatable unicorn perched on top. The float blared cheerful music, and a banner unfurled from the side, reading: “LOVE IS LOVE!” in flashing letters.

Sirius blinked, taking in the scene, before bursting into laughter. Tonks snorted so hard, her hair changed to all colors of the rainbow—appropriately matching given the scene. 

Now it was Remus’ turn to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

3. The Burrow Incident (a.k.a. The Time the Weasleys Learned Too Much)

It had all started off so well. Breakfast at the Burrow had been warm and chaotic, filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, sizzling bacon, and the occasional argument between the twins and Ron. Harry had seated himself beside Sirius, a devious smirk already forming as he stole the last piece of toast from his younger self’s plate.

And then—because restraint had never been his strong suit—he turned to Sirius with a lazy grin and, voice dripping with deliberate suggestion, murmured, “You know, Paddy, in my world, breakfast with you usually involves a lot less clothing.”

Silence.

Dead, suffocating, horrified silence.

A fork clattered against a plate. Someone inhaled a mouthful of pumpkin juice the wrong way. Fred and George’s identical faces lit up like Christmas morning.

Sirius blinked. He cleared his throat, and with a slender hand held up to his lips that now sported an involuntary grin even as a flush traveled up his neck, “Do tell.”

“You will do no such thing! ” Molly Weasley’s scandalized voice cracked like a whip through the kitchen.

Harry turned just in time to see her gripping a wooden spoon like it was a weapon of mass destruction, her face a shade of red so deep it rivaled her hair. Next to her, Arthur was frozen mid-sip of his tea, his wide eyes darting around the room like he was watching a particularly intense Quidditch match.

His younger self bravely stole the toast back, clearly getting back at his older self's antics in the only way he knew that didn't involved an outright duel in the Weasley's dining room. 

Ron, meanwhile, was making a series of strangled noises, his expression teetering somewhere between admiration and absolute horror. Hermione had her hands over her face, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like why am I here.

But the twins—oh, the twins were delighted.

“Blimey, Harry,” Fred said, elbowing George. “Didn’t know you–or well, any version of you—had it in you. Or is it due to the thick skin that comes with being a politician, eh Minister Potter?”

George nodded, eyes sparkling. “So tell us—does Padfoot prefer morning snuggles or—”

“OUT!” Molly bellowed, brandishing the spoon. “OUT OF MY KITCHEN THIS INSTANT!”

4. The Diagon Alley Debacle (a.k.a. When Kingsley and Moody Lose Faith in Humanity)

The aftermath of the Death Eater attack on Diagon Alley was still fresh—the scent of smoke lingered in the air, a few storefronts smoldered despite the efforts of several witches and wizards working to repair the damage. Among the targeted establishments was Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, its front window shattered and the sign hanging askew. But the most important part was that Florean himself had been saved from being dragged off by Death Eaters, all thanks to one particularly infuriating alternate-dimension Harry Potter.

And what was the hero of the hour doing now?

Sitting in Sirius Black’s lap, shamelessly licking a popsicle like he was starring in some scandalous rom-com.

Kingsley, normally a bastion of stoic calm, stared blankly into space, his mind likely attempting to reboot. Beside him, Moody had his one good eye twitching while the magical one spun in frantic circles, as if trying to locate some explanation anywhere in the vicinity.

“Sweet Merlin,” Moody grumbled. “When they said there was gonna be an attack, I didn't think they meant one on my eyes.”

“I’ve officially lost faith in reality,” Kingsley muttered.

Meanwhile, Sirius, to his credit, had gone past scandalized and landed squarely into the realm of helpless amusement. He tilted his head back against the chair, exhaling through his nose as Minister Potter stretched languidly in his lap, all too pleased with himself.

“Are you trying to kill me, Harry?” Sirius asked dryly, fingers twitching against Harry’s waist where they’d instinctively settled.

Harry took another exaggeratedly slow lick of his popsicle, meeting Sirius’ gaze with a coy look out of wide green eyes. “Oh, babe, if I were trying , you’d know.”

His younger self, sitting off to the side and still with his school purchases miraculously still intact after the raid and battle earlier, glared over the top of his sundae. “Why are you like this?”

“Because life is short, and I believe in making the most of it. You should be taking pointers, mini-me,” Harry said pointedly, finally popping the rest of the popsicle into his mouth and sucking it off the stick in a way that had Sirius turning a deeper pink and Kingsley rubbing at his temples like this was the worst migraine of his life.

Florean, however, merely chuckled as he wiped down his counter. “You know, I rather like this one. Saved my life and appreciates a good frozen treat. Keep him around, won’t you?”

Moody let out a grunt. “ You would think this is normal.”

5. The Breaking Point (a.k.a. When Harry Comes To An Interesting Revelation)

“Mate, I don’t know what to think,” Sirius muttered to Remus in the corner of the drawing room. “Is this normal? Is he like this all the time?”

Remus, pinching the bridge of his nose, sighed. “Sirius, I haven’t even had one cup of tea today. Please.”

But of course, the topic of conversation—the insufferable, shameless, infuriatingly charismatic Minister Potter—was right there, sprawled lazily on the ancient Black family couch, watching them (Sirius) with way too much interest.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Harry smirked. “Just admiring you.”

Remus groaned.

Sirius, never one to back down, smirked right back. “Starting to think you might have a thing for me.”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” Harry shot back.

Silence. There seemed to be a lot of those recently.

Sirius blinked. “Wait, what—”

“I mean, not you you ,” Harry added, stretching. “But let’s just say, in my world, I don’t have to imagine what kissing you would be like.”

Remus physically left the room.

Sirius gawked, looking like an unsure virgin for the first time, even more so than when he actually was one. (Fake it until you make it and all that. One of Sirius’ life mottos.)

But for once, it was the reaction of Harry's younger self that was the most interesting. In fact, there was an almost thoughtful look on his face as he sat in the window nook petting Hedwig.

“Don’t—don’t just say things like that!” Sirius sputtered.

Harry cast a subtle knowing look in the direction of his younger self before he grinned back at the flailing man who still managed to appear elegant and loose-limbed in his fluster. “Why not? It’s fun.”

+1. The Time He Was Finally Put in His Place

Minister Potter had faced many formidable opponents in his time—Dark Lords, corrupt politicians, a literal horde of dementors, and even the occasional overzealous Quidditch fan who still insisted on trying to steal a lock of his hair for a potion. But nothing, nothing , could have prepared him for the sight of both his Sirius and his Regulus Black stepping through the smoking dimensional portal burnt open by Anqa's flames that had unceremoniously appeared in the middle of the battle ravaged Hogwarts grounds.

It wasn’t so much their arrival that shot the familiar thrill of pleasure-pain into his usually unflappable soul—it was the expressions they wore.

Sirius had that look —the one that usually preceded him dragging Harry off by the collar to give him a good spanking over reckless behavior (often before helping himself to a flushed and hard Harry still face down in his lap). Regulus, on the other hand, was the picture of cold, refined menace, his sharp grey eyes promising painful (“too much, never enough, pleaseplease…”) consequences for whatever nonsense Harry had gotten himself into this time .

His younger self and his friends Ron and Hermione—still fresh from battle—stood frozen nearby, their mouths slightly agape. The entire courtyard, bustling only moments before, had gone dead silent.

Harry, for the first time in his life, considered running. He might be a glutton for punishment, but the thought of hours of writhing on sweat-soaked sheets and being teased with no release in sight still had him feeling a little weak.

“ Well ,” Sirius drawled, crossing his arms, “this explains a lot.”

“Does it?” Regulus asked mildly, though his tone was dangerously soft. “Because I personally think it explains far too little about why our beloved decided to abandon his duties as Minister for Magic to gallivant through dimensions and shamelessly flirt with his other godfather.”

Younger Sirius—the Sirius of this world, that is—made an offended noise. “I’d like to object to being referred to as other Sirius.”

“You don’t get a vote,” Regulus said smoothly before turning his death glare back onto Harry. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Harry, knowing full well that nothing he said would save him, took the only route he knew: shameless deflection.

“Regulus,” he said with his most endearing expression, wide green eyes and all, “babe, did I ever tell you how much I love—”

“No.”

“Siri, Paddy, don't you know I adore—”

“Nope.”

Harry winced. Damn. That usually worked.

Younger Harry, though still bewildered by the whole situation, let out a low whistle. “Damn, you really did it this time.”

“Shut up, you,” Harry grumbled before sighing and finally conceding defeat. “Alright, fine. I may have briefly shirked my Ministerial duties—”

“You vanished for nearly two weeks .”

“—oh! A day to a month conversion. Better than I expected—”

“ Two. Weeks .”

“—but in my defense, I technically saved this world from Voldemort. That should count for something, right?”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. Sirius sighed, stepping forward to grip Harry’s face between his hands. “Harry,” he said, voice full of fond exasperation, “I love you. You brilliant wizard, hero of two dimensions, and insufferable little shit.”

Harry blinked, relaxing a little. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

Regulus, true to his serpent colors, chose that moment to strike. He stepped in close, trailing fingers down Harry’s arm, his voice silk-wrapped steel. “And for your crimes of flagrant dimensional rule-breaking, public indecency , and giving me premature grey hairs, your punishment is—”

Harry swallowed, a flush that was equal parts trepidation and anticipation crawling up his cheeks. “Punishment?”

Regulus smiled. It was not a reassuring smile but it was a knowing one.

“—to be dealt with when we return home.”

The portal behind them rippled ominously. Or maybe it was just phoenix fire.

“Oh, fuck ,” Harry muttered as Sirius and Regulus each grabbed an arm and began dragging him toward his impending reckoning .

Younger Harry watched them go, turning to his friends in sheer disbelief. “I— what just happened?”

Ron shook his head. “Mate, I don’t even want to know.”

Hermione, ever the scholar, merely adjusted her bag and pondered, “Is there a set conversion rate to dimension travel? To think only a fortnight passed in their world but a year in ours! How fascinating!”

Bonus:

“You’re telling me,” Sirius wheezed after a long silence, “that another version of me and another version of my dead brother —who happens to be alive in their world—are in a threesome with Harr—er, older Harry ? ”

“I need a drink,” Remus muttered.

Harry, still young but no longer innocent, “...”

Fred and George, eyes shining with the door to new possibilities opened before them, “Brilliant!” “Kinky!”

They looked at each other, “Brilliantly kinky!”