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31 October
Under Hogwarts Castle

Ron wasn't sure about anything, except that he couldn't be sure about anything. Henry, who'd always been so disdainful of the whole legend that had grown up around Harry Potter, now turned out to be Harry Potter—which probably meant his 'dad' was Sirius Black, but that didn't make any sense, Sirius Black should have raised Harry Potter to be Dark and Henry manifestly wasn't—and a face on the back of Quirrell's head, underneath that stupid turban, well, that would explain why he never took it off—a face that, judging by the things Henry-Harry had said to it and it to him, must be You-Know-Who himself, hanging around as some sort of ghost that could possess people—

Spellfire and shouting woke him from his momentary trance. Snape and Quirrell were dueling furiously, Quirrell whining for his Master between spells, Snape's face set in a mask of anger the likes of which Ron had never seen. Half the time he wasn't even bothering to speak his spells aloud, simply slashing and swiping his wand in great circles and lines. Dimly Ron recalled the speech Snape had given on the first day of class—funny he should be so dismissive of wand-waving, when he was so good at it on his own account. Quirrell, unfortunately, despite the frightened face he'd shown to his students, was holding his own in the duel, might even be a hair the better of the two.

"I have to help him," Ron muttered, barely aware he was speaking aloud. "But how? I don't know any decent spells, I barely even got levitation to work—"

Movement by his foot drew his eye downward. A hand-sized ball of gray fur waved a paw frantically at him.

"Scabbers," Ron breathed, dropping to one knee to pick up his pet—or was it? Doubtfully, he raised the rat to eye level.

"Was that you he meant?" he asked, flicking his eyes towards Henry-Harry where he lay crumpled on the other side of the room. "When he was talking about someone who did You-Know-Who a favor, and got it blamed on his dad, and then ran away and hid?"

Scabbers winced, but nodded. Then he rose onto his hind legs and made a motion with his maimed paw which could not be mistaken, even without a tiny wand to go along—a swish and flick as textbook-correct as if Jean had been the one to do it.

"You want me to—to levitate you?" Ron stared at his erstwhile pet. "What good will that—"

Between one word and the next, he understood.

"Ready when you are," he said, standing back up.

The pointed gray head nodded hard.

Ron took aim and concentrated. It's Le-vi-OH-sa, Jean's voice recited inside his mind, not Le-vi-oh-SAR…

"Wingardium leviosa," he whispered, executing his own perfect swish and flick.

With the tiniest of squeaks, Scabbers rose into the air.

Edging along the wall, careful never to come into the line of sight of either of the duelers, Ron waved his wand cautiously back and forth, wafting his rat towards them, aiming for the top of Quirrell's bald head, between the two faces. One more moment—just one more—one more—

Now!

He snapped his wrist, ending the spell. Scabbers plummeted from his height, squealing madly, and landed directly atop a pallid expanse of skin, paws already scrabbling. Quirrell screamed at the unexpected contact, lowering his wand for an instant to claw at whatever had just dropped onto his head.

An instant was all that Snape needed.

"Sectumsempra!" bellowed the Potions Master, and Quirrell collapsed without another sound as a massive gash appeared across his throat and chest, gushing blood across his robes and the floor.

Ron bolted back into the shadows to be noisily, thoroughly sick.

The inevitable miserable interval later, he became aware of hands on his shoulders, holding him clear of the puddle of sick on the floor, hands with a surprising strength in their tiny, slender fingers. "J-J-Jeanie?"

"This once, you get to call me that," said Jean, easing him back to lean against one of the stone walls and handing him a cup of water. "Rinse your mouth and spit, and then drink a little when you feel ready."

Obediently Ron rinsed and spat, and sat back cradling the water in both hands, looking his friend over doubtfully. She seemed much the same as ever, except for the lump visible on her forehead just below her hairline. "Are you," he began, lost his nerve, and finished with a cowardly, "all right?"

"Aunt Carrie says I will be, and she's the Healer." Jean touched her head with a rueful smile. "Though maybe I should have let you find some other way to win that game after all. This hurts. Still, it worked, so it wasn't entirely stupid."

"Right." Ron took a tiny sip of water and let it soothe his throat. "But what I meant was…" There wasn't, he discovered, a good way to say it, only more and less bad ones. "Are you really Jeanie? Jean Gray? Is that who you are?"

"Yes." Jean settled herself on the floor beside him, her brown eyes steady on his face. "It is. That isn't the name I was born with, any more than Mal's is—" A small motion of her hand indicated her cousin, across the room, gazing into the standing mirror You-Know-Who had pointed out earlier. "—but it's the name I have now, and it means the person who I am. And who I am is your friend." She looked away for a moment. "If you're still willing to have me, after I've been a part of lying to you so much. I am sorry for that, Ron, truly I am, we all are, but we didn't have any choice, it could have meant all our lives if anyone else had known about us—"

"It doesn't matter," said Ron, and found as he said it that it didn't. "Not when Henry, Harry, whoever he is, not when he's—" His voice squeezed off before he could utter the final word.

"I'm not sure he is, though." Jean pointed. "Look what Meghan's doing."

Ron looked, and then looked again, and felt his throat tightening once more, but this time, instead of sickness or sorrow, it was hope. Little Meghan Black was leaning over the boy who had been, who was, her brother, and inch by inch, moment by moment, was lifting him into a sitting position, was talking to him as though she expected him to respond—

Black-lashed lids fluttered, lifted, blinked once or twice, and green eyes focused painfully on Meghan's face. She grinned and reached over to one side, coming up with a pair of round-framed glasses, which were taken from her with great care by a pale-skinned hand.

Harry Potter was alive.

---

31 October
Under Hogwarts Castle

Severus wasn't sure he had ever experienced so many emotional shocks in so short a period, not even on the day he'd seen his dearest friend Sorted into the House he loathed above all others. First to find out Harry Potter lived, then to see him, apparently, die—to kill his killer with the help of a barely-trained boy and a rat, and then to discover that such vengeance had been unnecessary after all—

"Excuse me, sir," said Mal's voice at his elbow. Severus turned to discover the boy holding out his cupped hands, in which rested a glistening scarlet crystal. "Would you take this?"

Momentarily immune to further shock, Severus simply nodded and slipped the Philosopher's Stone into an interior pocket of his robes. "So you have no wish for gold or everlasting life?" he said, moving over slightly on the bit of fallen pillar he was using as a seat, inviting Mal without words to share it. "That was the criterion placed on the Stone's enchantment, you know. Only one who wished to find it, but not use it, could receive it from the Mirror."

"Gold, I've got. Two family fortunes, Malfoy and Black, both of them at my fingertips whenever I want." Mal grinned briefly as he sat, a hint of his mother's wicked sparkle lighting his eyes. "Not that Mum would let me do anything stupid with it. And everlasting life…wouldn't that get boring, after a while? You'd run out of things to do, and start looking for new ones, and that's how people go bad or mad. I'd rather just live my life, thanks. Especially without Moldy-snore to bother us any longer."

Severus had to lean back against the chamber wall to support himself through his fit of laughter. To hear Lucius Malfoy's son calling his father's Master by the most disrespectful of nicknames, to see him unwilling to fall prey to the most common temptations of the world, would in itself have made a fitting ending to this night of wonders, to say nothing of the rest of what had already occurred.

"Besides," Mal added casually. "If I really want a Philosopher's Stone, I'll make my own."

"Not if your grades in my practical classes remain at their current level, you won't," Severus countered immediately. "Do not think I haven't noticed you checking Miss Gray's work to see how closely yours matches."

Mal looked stung. "But Professor, I thought teamwork was supposed to be a good thing!"

"Teamwork, Mr. Black, is not another word for cheating…"

From across the room, Narcissa watched them with a small, fond smile.

---

31 October
Under Hogwarts Castle

"You did it, love," said Carrie, helping her son sip from a goblet of potion she'd conjured—or should I be Aletha now, and think of him as my foster child? So many people, so many choices…

"Yeah, but that means it's going to start." Harry leaned back against the comfortingly furry form of Padfoot the dog, eyes half-shut, complexion paler even than his natural tone (which looked, to her unaccustomed eyes, distinctly unnatural, especially compared to Meghan, who was cuddled against his side). "Everything we managed to get out of, get away from, it's all going to start up now, worse than before. All that rubbish about The Boy Who Lived, or maybe The Boy Who Lived Again, or whatever stupid nickname they decide to hang on me this time, and I don't want it—"

Padfoot barked once, looking up at John, who sat down beside him and eased his arm behind Harry. A moment later, Ryan—or is it Sirius again?—had emerged from the canine shape. "So why should you have it?" he asked, grinning in the insouciant style which had captivated female hearts throughout his years at Hogwarts. "Why should any of us? Cissy, Carrie my love, I finally got that thought of mine to hold still, and it's a doozy."

"Enlighten us," said Danger in her best imitation of Narcissa's most languid pureblood tones, making Narcissa herself cover a smile with one hand. "If you would be so kind."

"Why should we stop hiding?" Carrie's husband spread his hands wide. "Why should we ever stop?"

"Because this isn't who we really are?" hazarded John, but Carrie could see him thinking under the words.

"Who says?" Ryan snorted. "Come on, Moony, you're not going to tell me you turned into a different person just because you've finally got a name that doesn't sound like somebody pulled it out of the listings of Werewolves R Us! We've been building the lives we have now for the last ten years. We've got friends, and a good home, and work that really matters, that makes a difference in the world. What have Harry Potter and Sirius Black and Remus Lupin got? A whole bunch of notoriety and reporters hammering down their doors. Poor sods."

"So we would continue as we have been." Carrie examined the idea and found it good. "The Blacks and the Grays, and the other Blacks." She glanced at Narcissa, who was nodding slowly. "Living at Hesperus Manor. Doing our jobs. Raising our children, or visiting them at school." Another glance located Mal, in earnest converse with—well, well. Her courtesy nephew was apparently debating points, and holding his own, with one Professor Severus Snape. We'll have to see what that comes to, if anything…

"And as far as the rest of the world is concerned, nothing happened here tonight," said Danger, turning to smile at Ron and Jean, who were making their slow way forward, listening with every evidence of interest. "People already think Voldemort's been dead for the last ten years. I see no reason they should ever have to know anything else."

"You mean—" Green eyes lit up with hope. "I can still be—"

Carrie leaned forward, kissed his forehead atop the lightning-bolt scar, and traced a symbol on it with her thumb. "You are my son, Henry James Black, and let no one tell you differently," she said as the wash of warm brown spread outwards from that spot once more, making Meghan squeal with glee. "Only how did you learn that counterspell, young man? I'm sure no one here taught it to you."

Henry grinned. "I'm the son of a Marauder," he announced proudly. "We have ways."

"A Marauder?" asked Ron, sitting down between Carrie and Danger. "Fred and George have this thing they call the Marauder's Map…"

John and Ryan exchanged looks.

---

From an interview with Narcissa Black, published in the issue of Witch Weekly dated 9 August, 1992

"I was very happy, of course, to see the confession written by Peter Pettigrew and owled to the Auror Office made public this past autumn, but it was old news to me. I've been in contact with my cousin Sirius for several years now, most recently when he wrote to congratulate me on my remarriage, to an old schoolmate of his. He found himself a pleasant little rabbit hole to dive down, and he's been raising Harry Potter as James and Lily would have wanted—safe, happy, and above all, free.

"I have sometimes asked Sirius if he and Harry would consider making a public return to the wizarding world. The politest answer I have ever received is, 'When a pack of Exploding Snap cards plays croquet with Fwoopers and knarls.' Even now that the truth about his actions of eleven years ago is known, I fear my cousin has been too badly injured by the readiness of the public to believe the worst, and has no desire to subject himself and his godson to an endless siege of reporters.

"So, to answer the question that was asked: No, I don't believe I'll be seeing Sirius Black or Harry Potter strolling through my door any time soon—Henry Black, you wipe your feet when you come into this house, and the paws of that great monstrosity you call a dog as well! And tell your Uncle Severus and Aunt Carrie to find a stopping point for whatever they're brewing with your cousins, Danger says dinner will be ready as soon as your Uncle John gets home—I beg your pardon, where were we? Oh yes, Sirius and Harry. To tell the truth, I wouldn't be surprised if no one in the wizarding world ever heard from them again."

And no one ever did.

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