Death's Alchemist Chapter 5 (Patreon)

Chapter 5

They arrived just outside the gates. Dumbledore looked amused as Harry heaved for breath, but said nothing. Harry couldn’t help feeling that the man wanted to show off a few magical abilities of his own. The thought made Harry want to chuckle, but the sight of the castle ahead dried his throat.

The journey to Hogwarts passed with little conversation. Dumbledore seemed content to allow Harry his thoughts, and Harry was grateful for it. The closer they drew to the castle, the stranger the early afternoon became. He knew these roads. He knew the mountains rising in the distance, the curve of the land, and the way the castle slowly revealed itself beyond the trees. Yet some things felt subtly wrong. Fences stood where Harry remembered open fields. Several paths had not yet been worn into the earth, while trees he remembered towering over the grounds were little more than young growth struggling toward the summer sun.

Then Hogwarts came fully into view. Harry stopped. The castle rose above the lake exactly as it always had, ancient towers catching the afternoon light while the surrounding mountains framed it against the sky. For a moment, thirty-four years disappeared. Harry could almost imagine himself arriving for another school year, Ron complaining beside him while Hermione reminded them both of something they had forgotten. He could almost hear students moving through the corridors and feel the familiar weight of a trunk dragging behind him.

Two days ago, Harry had stood across that same lake with his hand resting upon Albus Dumbledore’s tomb. Now Dumbledore stood beside him. Harry glanced toward the older wizard, then back to the castle.

“You look as though you have seen an old friend,” Dumbledore observed quietly.

Harry let out a breath and started walking again. “Something like that.”

Together, they continued toward Hogwarts.

The front doors of Hogwarts opened before Dumbledore reached them, revealing the familiar entrance hall beyond. Harry slowed instinctively as he crossed the threshold, his eyes traveling across stone walls and staircases he had known for most of his life. At first glance, almost nothing had changed. The castle possessed the same impossible permanence it always had, as though centuries passed around Hogwarts rather than through it. Yet the longer Harry looked, the more differences began revealing themselves. Suits of armor that would be destroyed in the Battle of Hogwarts rested on their perches. Magical firework scorch marks from the Weasleys’ farewell during Harry’s fifth year were missing. Generations of students had yet to arrive and leave their mark on the castle.

Dumbledore walked several steps ahead before noticing Harry had slowed. He turned and watched him quietly, giving Harry the irritating impression that every reaction was being carefully catalogued. “You know Hogwarts rather well.”

Harry glanced toward him. “You’ve already figured that out.”

“I have developed a suspicion.”

“You seem to develop quite a few of those.”

Dumbledore smiled and resumed walking. “They keep life interesting.”

Harry followed, allowing himself another look around as they moved deeper into the castle. Hogwarts was quieter than he had ever known it. The term had ended only recently, leaving corridors that normally echoed with hundreds of voices almost completely empty. A handful of portraits murmured among themselves as Harry passed, while distant footsteps occasionally carried through adjoining halls. The silence made the castle feel larger somehow, stripped of students and the constant chaos that usually occupied every corner. Harry had spent six years learning every shortcut he could find, years later returning often enough that the castle had never completely stopped feeling like home, yet walking beside Dumbledore now felt almost like trespassing through his own memories.

They reached the first moving staircase, and Harry stepped onto it without hesitation. Dumbledore did not. Harry took three more steps before noticing he was alone and looked back. The older wizard stood at the bottom, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

“I was under the impression I was leading you.”

Harry glanced toward the staircase beneath his feet, then toward the corridor it was beginning to carry him toward. He knew exactly where it would land. More importantly, he knew it would put them one floor above the route Dumbledore had originally been taking, where another staircase would eventually deliver them near the staff offices.

Harry closed his eyes briefly. “You did that intentionally.”

“I have done nothing.”

“You stopped walking.”

“I wished to see where you intended to go.”

Harry stepped back down before the staircase could carry him away. “That is called testing someone.”

“I prefer observation.”

“You always did.”

The words escaped before Harry could stop them. Dumbledore’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, but Harry was already walking past him.

“Come along, Professor.”

There was a short pause behind him. Then Dumbledore followed. “You are becoming remarkably comfortable ordering me about.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll survive.”

“I find myself increasingly curious how you know that.”

Harry groaned under his breath, earning a quiet chuckle from the man beside him. They had barely reached the next corridor when the sharp rhythm of footsteps approached from around the corner. Harry recognized the stride before the witch herself appeared, and he felt something inside his chest tighten as Minerva McGonagall stepped into view carrying several rolls of parchment beneath one arm. She was younger, naturally, though not dramatically so. Her dark hair remained pulled into the severe bun Harry remembered, her posture perfectly straight, and the expression she gave Dumbledore suggested that whatever business occupied her morning had already tried her patience.

“Albus,” she greeted before her gaze shifted toward Harry. Harry smiled. He couldn't help it. McGonagall stopped. Her eyes narrowed immediately.

Harry’s smile faded slightly. “Professor.”

The suspicion increased. Dumbledore looked between them with open interest. “Minerva, may I introduce Harry Peverell? Harry, Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and professor of Transfiguration.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Harry said, managing to make the words sound relatively normal despite the absurdity of introducing himself to a woman who had watched him grow from an eleven-year-old disaster into an adult.

McGonagall continued studying him. “Have we met?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly.

Dumbledore looked amused.

Harry corrected himself. “Not to my knowledge.”

“That is an unusual qualification.”

“I’ve had an unusual few days.”

McGonagall’s attention shifted toward Dumbledore, silently requesting an explanation. Dumbledore offered only a pleasant smile. “Mr. Peverell is assisting me with a rather complicated piece of alchemical research.”

“Peverell?” McGonagall repeated, looking toward Harry again.

Harry was beginning to suspect the name would create this reaction everywhere he went.

“Yes.”

“As in the family from Godric’s Hollow?”

“The very same.”

McGonagall’s expression softened only enough to exchange suspicion for curiosity. “I had thought the line was extinct.”

“Complicated,” Harry replied automatically.

Dumbledore coughed into one hand, although Harry was certain the man was hiding a laugh.

McGonagall glanced between them once more. “I see.”

Harry knew perfectly well that she did not. For some reason, that made him feel considerably better. There was something comforting about being regarded suspiciously by Minerva McGonagall. The woman in front of him did not know he had once fallen asleep during one of her lectures, broken school rules with almost professional enthusiasm, or walked into the Forbidden Forest to die, but the expression was exactly the same one she had given him countless times whenever she suspected Harry Potter was about to cause trouble.

“I assume we will be seeing more of Mr. Peverell?” she asked.

Dumbledore’s eyes flickered briefly toward Harry. “I suspect so.”

Harry chose not to comment on that.

McGonagall adjusted the parchments beneath her arm. “Then welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Peverell. I would advise you not to allow Professor Dumbledore’s enthusiasm for obscure magical theory to convince you that meals and sleep are optional.”

Harry blinked. Dumbledore looked personally offended. “Minerva.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

McGonagall gave Harry a final nod before continuing down the corridor. Harry watched her disappear around the corner. “I missed her.”

Dumbledore stopped walking. Harry grimaced.

“You are astonishingly bad at this.”

“I’ve been awake for one day.”

“You have somehow managed to reveal more information while attempting silence than many people manage during interrogation.”

Harry pointed down the corridor. “Library.”

Dumbledore’s smile widened. “This way.”

They continued through the castle, Harry making a deliberate effort to let Dumbledore choose the route this time. The attempt lasted approximately three corridors before Harry found himself automatically bracing for a trick stair that had not yet developed its trick. He nearly stumbled when his foot landed solidly upon it, earning another curious glance from Dumbledore that Harry ignored entirely.

Their progress was interrupted again near the faculty corridor when a broad figure emerged through an open doorway, humming cheerfully while carrying a box filled with several bottles. Horace Slughorn looked almost exactly as Harry remembered him, perhaps somewhat thinner and with less silver in his hair, but there was no mistaking the elaborate waistcoat stretched across his middle or the enormous moustache that seemed to arrive half a second before the rest of him.

“Albus!” Slughorn called warmly. “I wondered whether you were still on the grounds. I have just received a rather marvelous shipment from—”

His eyes landed upon Harry. The sentence died instantly. Harry almost sighed.

Dumbledore gestured between them. “Horace, this is Harry Peverell.”

Slughorn nearly dropped the box. “Peverell?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered.

Slughorn’s eyes moved rapidly over him, taking in his age, robes, wand, and proximity to Dumbledore with the speed of a man evaluating a particularly promising investment. Harry knew that look. He had seen it directed toward talented students, famous names, Ministry officials, Quidditch players, and anyone else Slughorn believed might someday become useful. Some things truly were eternal.

“My word,” Slughorn breathed, recovering quickly enough to shift the box onto one hip and offer Harry his hand. “Horace Slughorn. Potions Master. A pleasure—an absolute pleasure.”

Harry accepted the handshake. “Professor.”

“And you are researching with Albus?”

“For the moment.”

“Alchemy?”

Harry nodded. Slughorn’s enthusiasm sharpened immediately. “Remarkable field. Nicolas Flamel visited the school many years ago and gave a lecture I still remember rather fondly. Nearly lost half the classroom when one of the demonstrations produced rather more heat than expected, but marvelous work nonetheless.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Alchemy has a tendency to do that.”

Dumbledore made a quiet sound beside him. Slughorn looked toward Harry’s robes more carefully, apparently noticing the remnants of scorch damage Dorea had not entirely removed.

“Oh dear.”

“Recent experience.”

“Quite.” Slughorn laughed. “Well, anyone studying advanced alchemy with Albus will certainly be worth knowing. You must join me for dinner one evening while you are here.”

There it was. Harry almost laughed. “I’m sure we’ll manage something.”

“Splendid.” Slughorn beamed. “There are several people I imagine you would enjoy meeting. Bright young minds, promising families, a few former pupils who remain rather successful in their fields. Connections are terribly important when one is establishing oneself.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. Dumbledore had suddenly become extremely interested in examining a portrait across the corridor.

“Thank you, Professor. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Slughorn gave him another approving look. “Peverell. Extraordinary. I shall have to ask around—there were stories about that manor when I was younger, you know. Never knew how much truth there was to them.”

“Neither do I.”

That answer seemed to delight Slughorn even more.

“Well! I will leave you gentlemen to your work.” He adjusted the box again before moving down the corridor, calling over his shoulder, “Dinner, Mr. Peverell. I shall remember!”

Harry waited until Slughorn disappeared. “He hasn’t changed either.”

Dumbledore slowly turned toward him.

Harry stared back. A long moment passed. “I’m going to stop speaking.”

“That may be wise.”

Harry started walking. Dumbledore followed, amusement unmistakable in his voice. “Although I confess I would find that somewhat disappointing.”

Harry ignored him and continued down the corridor, allowing the brief humor of the encounters to settle as they approached the older portions of the castle. For the first time since waking in 1969, he had spent several minutes simply existing rather than grieving, calculating, or trying desperately to understand the impossible. McGonagall’s suspicion had felt familiar. Slughorn’s immediate attempt to collect him had been almost comforting in its predictability. Hogwarts was different, but the people within it remained recognizably themselves.

That realization was more dangerous than Harry wanted to admit. He had come here for books. For research. For whatever knowledge might return him to the life waiting thirty-four years away. Nothing more. Dumbledore turned down another corridor and slowed beside a partially open library door.

“Ah,” he said. “Excellent.”

Harry looked toward him. Dumbledore gestured toward the room.

“I believe Professor Flitwick is still here.”

Harry stopped. Of all the names Harry had expected to hear that afternoon, this was the one he had been preparing for since they left Peverell Manor, and preparation did absolutely nothing to soften the effect. Beyond the doorway, the library lay silent. Harry’s throat tightened. Dumbledore glanced at him, but Harry’s eyes remained fixed upon the doorway.

Thirty-four years from now, Filius Flitwick would stand in Harry’s home carrying dinner, reading Peverell journals beside Hermione and worrying that Harry had buried himself too deeply in his work. Two evenings ago, he had been one of Harry’s closest confidants. Today, he had never met him. Harry drew a slow breath. Then he followed Dumbledore toward the door.

The Hogwarts library was nearly silent.

Harry had never seen it quite like this. Without the students occupying the long tables. Without the whispering behind the mountains of books and shelves. The library felt as empty as Peverell Manor. Here, though, the room was bright with natural light and seemed to stretch in every direction.

Summer sunlight streamed through the high windows and illuminated dust drifting lazily between the shelves, while hundreds of abandoned chairs sat tucked neatly beneath tables that would be covered in parchment, textbooks, and half-finished essays again in only a few months. Even the librarian’s desk stood empty, and Harry found himself enjoying the novelty of walking through the Restricted Section of the library without someone appearing from behind a shelf to demand an explanation.

Dumbledore moved ahead of him with considerably more purpose. “Filius mentioned remaining at the castle through most of the summer,” he explained as they passed between two towering shelves devoted almost entirely to runic theory. “He has been working on several papers, and I suspect there are only two places he is likely to be.”

“His office or the library,” Harry mumbled under his breath.

Dumbledore glanced back toward him.

Harry sighed. “Educated guess.”

“Of course.”

Harry ignored the smile forming beneath the older wizard’s beard and continued after him. The truth was that the answer had required no guess at all. If Flitwick had willingly remained at Hogwarts after the students departed, Harry would have wagered half of Peverell Manor that the man could be found surrounded by books somewhere. Thirty-four years from now, Harry had watched him lose entire afternoons to a single disputed translation and once discovered him asleep beneath a pile of enchantment journals because he had refused to stop reading long enough to return to his quarters.

Dumbledore slowed as they reached another row. “There.”

Harry followed his gaze. At the far end of the library, beside one of the enormous windows overlooking the grounds, a small figure sat almost entirely surrounded by books. Several volumes were stacked high enough to obscure half the table, while loose parchment had spread into the surrounding seats as though Professor Flitwick had gradually annexed more territory throughout the morning. A teacup sat abandoned near his elbow, long since forgotten, and his attention remained fixed upon an open book while a quill moved rapidly across a sheet of parchment beside it.

Harry stopped. For all the preparation he had done since Dumbledore first mentioned the name, seeing him was different. Filius. Not a memory. Not the professor who had taught him in his formative years. Not the man who stood inside Peverell Manor with Hermione only days ago from Harry’s perspective. Nor was he the friend who had spent years arguing over magical theory with him or telling Harry precisely why his latest experiment was dangerous or foolhardy.

This was the same man. Only thirty-four years earlier. Most crushing, perhaps, though, was that he had absolutely no idea who Harry was.

Dumbledore glanced toward Harry briefly before continuing toward the table. “Filius.”

Flitwick looked up from his work, blinking several times as though returning from somewhere very far away. Recognition brought an immediate smile. “Albus. I wondered who else might still be haunting the castle for the summer.”

“Only the particularly unfortunate,” Dumbledore said wryly.

Flitwick chuckled, then noticed Harry walking beside him. His eyes moved curiously over the stranger before returning toward Dumbledore.

“I hope we are not interrupting,” Dumbledore continued.

Flitwick looked around at the extraordinary mess covering the table. “You are, but I suspect that is why you came.”

“Quite.”

That earned another laugh, and the man flicked his wand, charming all the books to move out of his way and create a path as Dumbledore gestured toward Harry. “Professor Filius Flitwick, may I introduce Harry Peverell?”

The reaction was immediate. Flitwick’s smile disappeared beneath surprise. “Peverell?”

Harry smiled faintly. “I’m beginning to think I should expect that reaction.”

“I apologize,” Flitwick said, offering Harry a hand. “The name is simply not one one hears very often.”

“For good reason,” Harry mumbled through his grin to the man.

Flitwick’s curiosity sharpened at the answer, but he did not press. “Filius Flitwick. I teach Charms here at Hogwarts.”

Harry shook his hand. “It’s good to see you, Professor.”

Flitwick paused. Harry felt Dumbledore’s eyes immediately settle upon him. Harry corrected himself before either man could speak. “Your work, I mean. I’ve read some of your work. I’ve been hoping I might get the chance to meet you.”

“Oh?”

Harry hesitated, catching himself before he said something far too familiar. “Professor Dumbledore tells me you have a particular talent for understanding how different kinds of magic interact once they’re forced into the same structure.”

Flitwick’s eyebrows rose, and his eyes shifted toward Dumbledore. “Does he?”

“Perhaps not in precisely those words,” Dumbledore admitted.

Harry glanced between them. “The point is, I’ve been working with something that combines several different branches of magic, and we’ve reached the part where neither of us is entirely certain why it worked.”

Flitwick’s attention immediately sharpened. “Worked?”

Harry grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

That earned a small laugh from the Charms professor, though his curiosity was unmistakable now. “And I take it this unexpected success is why the two of you have come searching for me?”

“That and your charming personality,” Harry answered without thinking.

Flitwick blinked.

Dumbledore slowly turned toward Harry.

Harry realized the joke had come far too easily, exactly the sort of remark he might have made to the Flitwick he had known for years. He cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward Dumbledore. “He mentioned that too.”

“I did not.”

Harry looked sharply toward him. “You could help me here.”

“I find the current situation considerably more informative.”

Flitwick chuckled, already beginning to clear a section of the table. “Whatever the explanation, I suspect it must be interesting if Albus has crossed the castle looking for me during the summer.”

Dumbledore reached inside his robes. “Interesting may be understating it.”

That changed the professor’s expression immediately. He flicked his wand several times over his shoulder, sending books back to their shelves and creating room for the three of them to sit with ease. “Then I suspect this is not a social call.”

“Unfortunately not,” Dumbledore admitted.

As the two took their seats, Harry nearly reached across to move Flitwick’s abandoned teacup farther from the parchment—the man had an irritating habit of forgetting where he placed it—before catching himself and allowing his hand to fall instead.

Dumbledore sat opposite Flitwick. Harry took the chair beside him.

“For the moment,” Dumbledore began, “I would appreciate your discretion.”

Flitwick leaned back. “That is an encouraging beginning.”

“There has been an unusual magical event near Godric’s Hollow.”

“How unusual?”

Dumbledore looked toward Harry. Harry looked back. “Extremely.”

Flitwick’s eyes lit with interest.

Dumbledore sighed quietly. “I should have anticipated that word would have the opposite effect from what I intended.”

“You came looking for a Ravenclaw and announced an extremely unusual magical event,” Flitwick replied. “What precisely did you expect?”

Harry laughed. Flitwick looked toward him, and Harry wished the man across from him were the friend he remembered, rather than a stranger who likely thought he was mad.

Dumbledore reached inside his robes and removed a folded piece of parchment. “Harry has been working with an unusual form of alchemy. During the course of that work, he encountered a symbol with which I believe you may be familiar.”

Flitwick took the parchment. Harry watched his expression carefully as he unfolded it. The amusement vanished. Flitwick adjusted his spectacles and pulled the parchment closer. “Where did you find this?”

Harry and Dumbledore exchanged another glance.

“That,” Dumbledore said, “is part of the problem.”

Flitwick’s attention returned immediately to the page. “The central rune is Welsh.”

“That was my conclusion,” Dumbledore replied.

“Very old Welsh.” Flitwick ran a finger beside the symbol without touching the ink. “Though this surrounding structure is not part of it.”

Harry leaned forward. “It’s instruction.”

Flitwick looked up.

Harry pointed toward one of the lines extending from the center. “The rune establishes the concept. Those lines direct magic toward it.”

Flitwick stared at him for several seconds before looking back down. “Yes.”

Watching the man’s mind work always made Harry happy, and his expression must’ve shown it, because Dumbledore looked at him knowingly. Of course he did.

Flitwick reached instinctively for his quill. “What was being directed?”

Dumbledore hesitated.

“Three separate magical sources,” Harry answered carefully.

“Identical?”

“No.”

“Produced through the same method?”

Harry shook his head.

“Same material?”

“Not remotely.”

Flitwick stopped writing. His eyes slowly lifted toward Harry, his face showing an incredulous, familiar expression. “You directed three independently created magical sources through the same structure?”

“They were converging into a single reaction.”

Flitwick frowned. “That does not make them the same, and in all likelihood their intentions were each different in this equation.”

Harry went still. Dumbledore’s attention sharpened.

Flitwick turned the parchment around and began sketching beside the original design. “If three different enchantments originate from different materials, different methods, and different intentions, then the magical character of those objects cannot simply be ignored because they eventually share a destination. You have accounted for the amount of magic being directed through each pathway, but where did you account for provenance?”

Harry pulled the parchment closer. “I assumed the alchemical structure normalized the magic before convergence.”

Flitwick looked at him. “Did it?”

Harry opened his mouth. Then stopped.

Flitwick tapped the parchment. “Or did you assume it did because the reaction continued?”

Harry stared down at the equation. There it was. The question Harry had missed. Not an answer. Not a miraculous solution. Just the simple, infuriating question that forced Harry to reconsider everything preceding it. Exactly what Filius Flitwick had always been best at. A grin slowly spread across Harry’s face.

Flitwick frowned. “Why are you smiling?”

Harry picked up a spare quill. “No reason.”

“I rather suspect there is one.”

Harry began writing beside Flitwick’s notes. “I think this is going to work.”

Flitwick glanced toward Dumbledore. “Does he always do this?”

Dumbledore smiled pleasantly. “I am beginning to suspect so.”

Harry shook his head and continued writing while Flitwick leaned closer to the parchment beside him. Within minutes, the research the Charms professor had been conducting when they arrived had been pushed almost entirely toward the opposite end of the table, several open books now buried beneath pages of Harry’s reconstructed calculations. Harry could hear Flitwick quietly muttering portions of the equation word for word as he followed along, occasionally repeating a sequence beneath his breath as though committing it to memory for a lecture he intended to give later that evening. Harry found the habit painfully familiar. Thirty-four years from now, he had watched the man do exactly the same thing whenever they discovered some new magical principle buried inside a Peverell journal, and for several minutes it became surprisingly easy to forget that this version of Filius Flitwick had known him for less than an hour.

“Stop.”

Harry did instantly, his quill freezing against the parchment as he stared at the sequence he had just written. Nothing about it seemed unusual. It was the same basic arithmantic structure he had used countless times to regulate the magical heat that started the furnace.

Flitwick leaned closer. “How did you ignite the furnace here? Incendio? A prepared enchantment? Or did you use intent-based magic through a non-verbal spell?”

“A non-verbal charm,” Harry answered. “Almost every experiment I conducted began the same way. I would control the flame directly and adjust the temperature as the reaction progressed.”

Flitwick’s expression tightened. “Then that needs to be accounted for.”

Harry frowned. “Why?”

“Because you were no longer dealing with an ordinary charm with a very specific function.” Flitwick reached across the table, scratched through one section of Harry’s formula, and began rebuilding it beside the original. “If this reconstruction is even remotely accurate, then I doubt you had ever attempted to channel that much magical energy toward one centralized point before. Your furnace was not simply providing heat by the end of the experiment. It had become part of a larger magical system, and you were feeding intent-based magic directly into it while simultaneously regulating the reaction.” His quill moved rapidly. “This would isolate the furnace from your active magical intent and allow the heat to remain a fixed variable rather than one responding, however subtly, to the wizard controlling it. I doubt this alone caused the failure, but it is another instability. One of perhaps a dozen. Possibly even a hundred.”

Harry said nothing. His eyes remained fixed upon the altered equation while the hope that had crept into him earlier began to retreat. Every hour seemed to uncover another possibility. The Hallows themselves. The rune. The provenance of each artifact. His lack of foundational alchemical training. The Elder Wand existing at two different points in its own history. Now his own magical intent might have contaminated the reaction through something as ordinary as the way he lit the furnace. Harry had spent five years believing he was slowly approaching an answer. In less than two days, Dumbledore and Flitwick had shown him how many questions he had never known to ask.

“This must have created quite a spectacular magical backlash,” Flitwick said eventually, and there was enough accusation in his tone that Harry almost smiled.

“I was the only one in the house.”

Flitwick looked up sharply. “You could have leveled a neighborhood.”

“Good thing I live on top of a hill far away from any other houses, then.”

The answer came far too cheerfully. Flitwick folded his arms. Harry knew that look. It was not precisely the same expression the older Flitwick would eventually give him whenever Harry suggested testing an enchantment without adequate shielding, but it was close enough that Harry had to suppress another smile. Dumbledore, however, was no longer looking at the calculations. His attention had settled firmly upon Harry, and the amusement that had accompanied much of their afternoon was gone.

Silence settled over the three of them as they stared at the parchment. Flitwick eventually leaned back in his chair, covering part of his mouth with one hand while his thumb and forefinger caught thoughtfully at the ends of his moustache. Harry remembered the habit. It meant the man was no longer merely reading the problem. He was assembling it. Several seconds passed.

“How far did you come back?” Flitwick asked quietly.

Harry was not surprised. He glanced toward Dumbledore, who offered neither warning nor objection. Flitwick had seen the temporal rune, heard about the magical backlash, and noticed the familiarity Harry kept letting slip. There was little point denying what he had apparently worked out. More importantly, Harry trusted him. The man sitting across from him might not have earned that trust yet, but Harry could not separate him from the friend he remembered.

“Thirty-four years.”

Flitwick’s hand tightened against his moustache before slowly dropping to the table. Whatever fascination had occupied his face moments earlier disappeared.

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

The words caught Harry completely unprepared. Flitwick lowered his eyes toward the parchment. “That must be very difficult.”

Harry’s throat tightened. Of course it would be Flitwick. Dumbledore had been kind since finding him, extraordinarily so, but the older wizard’s mind naturally gravitated toward the impossible problem Harry represented. Time travel. The Hallows. Alchemy. The Peverells. Every revelation created another mystery, and Dumbledore could not help wanting to understand it. Flitwick had done the same for the better part of an hour, tearing into Harry’s calculations with obvious enthusiasm, and yet somehow he had been the first person to simply look at Harry and recognize what the equation actually meant.

Thirty-four years. Ron. Hermione. The Weasleys. His life.

Harry swallowed before managing, “I’m going to get back.”

Flitwick nodded without hesitation. “Then I hope I can help.”

Harry looked at him with gratitude.

“Alchemy is not my area of expertise,” Flitwick admitted. “I could hardly claim more than a rudimentary understanding of its broader principles, and I suspect Albus would take considerable pleasure in demonstrating precisely how little I know.”

“I would never.”

Flitwick gave Dumbledore an unimpressed look before returning his attention to Harry. “But the magical structures surrounding your work are another matter.”

“You know runes,” Harry interjected immediately. “Perhaps better than anyone.”

Flitwick’s eyes lifted at the familiarity of the compliment, though this time he chose not to question it. After a moment, he nodded. “Yes. Runes, charms, magical intent, enchantment architecture. Those I understand rather well.”

“Then that’s enough.”

Flitwick glanced toward the enormous collection of calculations spread across the table. “I suspect it will have to be.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, studying the two of them with that irritatingly knowing expression Harry remembered all too well. “Remarkable.”

Harry glanced toward him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That means something when you say it.”

“Frequently.”

Flitwick chuckled before gathering several of Harry’s loose pages into a cleaner stack. “Leave these with me.”

Harry hesitated. “Those are the only reconstructions I have of several sequences.”

“And Hogwarts contains several copying charms, Mr. Peverell.”

Harry stared at him. Flitwick smiled innocently. Harry looked toward Dumbledore. “He’s already doing it.”

“Doing what?”

Harry shook his head. “Never mind.”

They spent another hour dividing the work between them. Flitwick identified several runic references he wanted to compare against older texts in the library, while Dumbledore marked sections of Harry’s reconstruction that required more foundational alchemical study before they could meaningfully dissect them. By the time they finally began clearing the table, the original research Flitwick had been conducting before their arrival had vanished beneath a new collection of notes, references, copied equations, and questions written in three different hands.

Flitwick looked at the disaster surrounding him and smiled.

“I suppose I know what I’m doing with the rest of my summer.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry said, though the protest came without much conviction.

“My dear boy, you have presented me with an unknown temporal rune, several magical structures I have never seen before, and a problem involving thirty-four years of displacement.” Flitwick climbed down from his chair and began gathering several books beneath one arm. “You would have considerable difficulty stopping me.”

Harry laughed.

“Tomorrow?” Dumbledore asked.

Flitwick glanced toward Harry. “Morning?”

Harry nodded. “I’ll be here.”

“Excellent.”

The word hurt more than it should have.

Yesterday, Harry had looked through the window of Peverell Manor and remembered another promise he had made to people thirty-four years away. Sunday remained impossibly distant, and nothing about today had brought him closer to keeping it. Yet as Flitwick returned to the table and immediately began rearranging the books around Harry’s copied equations, Harry felt something inside him ease for the first time since waking in the past.

He had not found his way home. Not yet. But somehow, impossibly, he had found one of his friends.

Again.