Harry Potter and The Other

The inner circle of the Order of the Phoenix was dispersing to their homes. Only Remus Lupin had no home of his own—official war records listed him as hopelessly dead, his residence registered at the Hogsmeade cemetery, in a mass grave for the defenders of Hogwarts. But only his wife, Nymphadora, lay there—the feisty Auror, passionate nymphomaniac, and clumsy cow. In life, her favorite spell had been Reparo, which she cast dozens of times a day. The sound of shattering glass and the clatter of pots echoed constantly through their home—it was her curvy pink-haired hip knocking over the pot rack or a stack of crystal again. She'd died foolishly too, right in front of him, tripping and stumbling into a passing Avada Kedavra.

Poor Nymphadora. Yes, poor thing. Lupin had never been good at saying no, especially to girls, especially to those with Black-level demands. She fell in love with him, seduced him, and decided for herself that Remus was suitable as a husband. He tried to hide, he explained he was a werewolf, but he couldn't escape, and then came the child... No, Lupin didn't mind children at all. When a young mother cuddles a smiling baby, it's a sweet sight, an idyllic scene. But when that same mother hands him a crying, dirty baby and says, "Oh, darling, here's Teddy—change him, feed him, comfort him, you're not doing anything anyway, and I'm late for work"—that's no idyll.

Right now, Teddy was being looked after by his grandmother, Andromeda. A pure-blood Black. A faded, harsh copy of the lively and fiery Bellatrix. If Bellatrix was passionate, fiery, and mad, Andromeda was sharp, icy, and logical. She wanted Tonks and took Tonks. She laid down the facts for everyone—her parents, pure-blood society, and even Tonks himself. Her daughter was just like her in that regard.

With Nymphadora gone, Lupin would have to live with his mother-in-law. That meant once again hearing, "Do everything around the house, and I'll just be a Black," or "Go earn money, and I'll be a Black." Andromeda had never worked a day in her life—Blacks didn't work. But she was an expert at hinting that Lupin, who only transformed once a month, could spend the rest of the time bringing in money.

But how much does a poor werewolf need? A little job here, a little there, and he's fed. But money poured into the family like into a bottomless pit—Blacks were not accustomed to skimping.

No, she's gone, and gone she'll stay.

Lupin stepped out of the fireplace in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts, hesitating before the flames. Greyback was gone, Voldemort was gone—maybe now even werewolves could have a better life. The backwater community Dumbledore had found him in five years ago would surely take him back.

He grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, tossed it into the fire, and said the familiar address.

"Grey Valley!"

The elite forces of the Order of the Phoenix, five strong, relocated to Britain's stronghold of light, known as "The Burrow." Arthur, Molly, Ginny, and Ron Weasley, as well as Hermione Almost-Weasley. In the small living room, it was immediately cramped like a chicken coop. In fact, the whole ramshackle structure, held together by hope and a few construction spells, might just pass for a chicken coop if cleaned, painted, and cleared of rubbish.

But the Weasleys weren't bothered by such luxuries. What wasn't good enough for chickens was perfect for the red-headed family.

George was working in his joke shop at the time, while Fred stayed home. After he had taken the Draught of Living Death, a piece of wall had struck him pretty hard. He had to be treated. Besides, it was too soon to be out in public—the papers still listed him as dead, and the Weasleys as victims of the Death Eaters' dictatorship. When the fuss died down, and maybe even some benefits came their way, they could set the record straight.

Hearing the noise in the living room, Fred went to greet the family. Ron and Hermione had already scattered to their rooms, and the elder Weasleys stayed behind to chat with Ginny.

"Dad, Mum, what do you think of the new Harry?" Fred asked, appearing before them.

"The old one was better; it's a shame he's not the real one," Molly replied.

"Why's that?"

"The other one was a polite, grateful boy, but this one's spoiled," said Molly, for whom the resurrection of the Potters had been an unpleasant surprise. "Dumbledore could have at least hinted that the Harry at Hogwarts wasn't the real one. Arthur, I told you the headmaster is always scheming, but you just kept saying 'trust him,' 'trust him'…"

"Molly, dear, it was an extremely secret Order operation. Only Albus and the Potters knew, even I was in the dark."

"You just imagine yourself as his right hand, but in reality…" Molly trailed off and waved her right hand dismissively.

"Molly, not even Sirius knew about it."

"And rightly so, I wouldn't trust that blowhard with a kitten. Served time in Azkaban and didn't get any wiser! Arthur, Dumbledore takes advantage of you, and you let him." The Weasleys still habitually referred to Dumbledore as "the headmaster."

"Dear, you know how much he cares for our children. He even made Ron a prefect."

"Cares? Ginny wasted the best years of her life on a little orphan, and you call that 'caring'? No, Arthur, he could have dropped a hint. And how is she supposed to win over the new Harry now? Ginny, sweetie, did you notice if he was looking at you?"

"Oh, Mum…" Ginny muttered in frustration.

"Ginny, I'm serious. You liked the old Harry, and this one's almost the same. Buck up and show him your best side, he's a great match for you. Fred, do you still have that lipstick with Amortentia, or did you send it all to the shop?"

"There's some left for my little sister, only the best," Fred grinned.

"Mum, I don't want to kiss that chubby Harry," Ginny groaned again.

"What do you mean you don't want to?" Molly cocked her head to the side, glaring at her daughter as if she were about to peck her. "If you kissed Dean Thomas, you can kiss the new Harry!"

"That's just something Ron told you!" Ginny, enraged, bolted past Fred and into her room. Molly watched her go.

"Well. Ungrateful girl. I try and try for her, and she just does things her own way."

"Mum, don't pay attention, it's just Ginny. She's just mad right now. I'll take her the lipstick."

"Go on, Fred. And Arthur, you can still make it to the Ministry. Go, assemble the goblin commission."

The Potters did not transfer from Grimmauld Place to Potter Manor—because they didn't have one. They had a small cottage in Wales, on the southern coast of Britain. It had been purchased as a temporary refuge while the decoy Harry replaced the real one. Seventeen years had passed since then.

Three days ago, they learned of the decoy boy's victory over Voldemort. Dumbledore, who had been renting a Muggle flat nearby for the past year—he had tried to move in with them, but Lily wouldn't allow it—used to come over to the Potters' for Sunday dinners, gleefully collecting newspapers with his obituaries and delighting in each article like a child. He was even pleased with Rita Skeeter's book The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore: negative publicity is still publicity, and everyone knew Rita. But three days ago, he showed up unexpectedly and told the Potters it was time to return from the dead to the living.

For seven years, the old man had been pestering the parents, saying Harry was too fat, but Lily always stood firm in defense of her son. First the victory—then the diet, but for now, the boy needed to eat. And Harry ate. The victory came unexpectedly, and the loving mother was completely unprepared. So Dumbledore called Snape, having previously informed him of the terrible secret about the living Potters. Snape arrived with a bandaged throat, looking haggard and resembling a corpse—apparently, he had been bitten by some snake the day before—but he was still walking. He still hated James, who left the room after exchanging only a greeting with his old enemy. He still loved Lily—or at least, that's what she thought for the first half hour—then she began to doubt it. If a man loves a woman, he doesn't snap at her every word, and all she was doing was explaining that Harry needed to be protected. He remained as much of a grouch as ever.

The next day, Dumbledore gave Lily a dozen potion bottles and a note from Snape on when and how to administer them. Reluctantly, Lily began giving Harry the potions and started limiting his food intake, but Harry was slimming down much more slowly than the potions master had promised. Clearly, the potions were too weak—Lily would have brewed them herself if she hadn't forgotten this delicate, yet smelly, art.

Today, the Potters spent a long time at a meeting, and Harry nearly missed his next potion dose. When the family returned home, Lily immediately handed her son a vial.

"But what about food?!" Harry groaned in despair.

"Sweetie, you know you need to lose a little weight, or Britain won't believe you saved them and not that underfed stand-in. It's just temporary—you'll show yourself to the people, the press, and then you can eat normally again."

"Mum, just a little piece of cake, please?"

Lily's heart was torn. On one hand, the glory of being a hero, on the other—a hungry child. Her dear and beloved son, her one and only…

"Alright, cut yourself one slice. Just a small one!"

"Sure, Mum."

Harry-not-Dudley rushed to the kitchen, where, after glancing around cautiously, he quickly poured the potion down the sink and, with a clear conscience, took half the cake. Not the whole cake—just half. Compared to the whole, it was indeed a small piece.

Stepping out of the fireplace into his old but still sturdy home, Snape immediately made his way to the bar. He pulled out a bottle of cognac, sniffed the cork, and held the bottle up to the light.

Snape was deeply disappointed. In the world, in people, but most of all, in himself. Where had his brain been twenty years ago? No, his eyes were where they should have been, but where was his mind?

The most frustrating part was that his Lily hadn't changed one bit. She was exactly the same as twenty years ago, but back then, he found her behavior endearing. His heart had been shattered forever when she chose someone else over him.

And now he was ready to give that arrogant James a diamond the size of a house. Because this poor fellow had spared him the nightmare of being Lily's husband.

Seriously, how could such a pretty woman turn out to be such an absolute shrew?

Snape glanced at the bottle, put the cognac back, and took out some rum. He poured two fingers' worth into a brandy glass and leisurely downed the fragrant, viscous, fiery liquid. A warmth spread through him, and everything felt carefree.

Ah, that was nice…

At Grimmauld Place, Sirius and Dumbledore remained. Having returned to Britain from the warm climes of Brazil, Sirius had settled once again in the ancestral Black home. It was safe there, but gloomy, dirty, and uncomfortable. The last house-elf of the family refused to clean the house and couldn't cook either. Even his coffee was awful.

But the drinks here were good. And you didn't need a house-elf to pour a drink—just walk to the bar and pour it yourself, which is what Sirius did. He wasn't plagued by any emotional turmoil, but people drink for all sorts of reasons. Out of sorrow, out of joy, or out of sheer boredom.

Sirius was bored.

After drinking, he wanted to eat. Or rather, gorge, since he couldn't cook, and he tried to avoid eating Kreacher's cooking. But now was the time to indulge.

Surely that wretched elf could prepare something simple? Like slicing some sausage, for example.

Sirius took a deep breath and resolutely called out:

"Kreacher! Kreacher!" And after a pause: "Where have you disappeared to, you Mordred's spawn?!"

No answer.

Albus Dumbledore always felt at home in other people's houses. In his youth, he had been a charming fellow; in his maturity, a promising scholar; and in his old age, a respected and honored guest. He was always welcomed warmly.

And now, he walked through the Black mansion as if it were his own. After all, Sirius was in charge here, and Sirius couldn't care less about his ancestors, eating right out of Dumbledore's hand. Albus had even managed to convince the last of the Blacks that he had spent twelve years in Azkaban for his best friend and, of course, for the greater good. If Sirius had sacrificed so much for the Light, what did a mere house matter?

This house would serve the cause of the Light. Tom Riddle was not the last Dark Lord in history, and Albus himself was not yet old. More villains would arise, and the Order of the Phoenix would once again gather for Molly's pies. Once all the benefits were reaped from this Dark Lord, they could start looking for a new one.

Dumbledore thought about the boy sleeping on the third floor. Could he be a future Dark Lord? No, probably not—he was too simple, too selfless, too gentle. He would offer all his cheeks to be slapped rather than strike back.

Let the boy live in peace. With the right talk, he could fade into obscurity and spend his life quietly proud that he had saved all of Britain. That would be a fitting, worthy conclusion to the Voldemort saga.

The boy hadn't woken up yet, but he could be awakened. Or Dumbledore could sit beside him and wait, showing concern for him—it would be easier to guide him to the right mindset that way. Yes, that was the proper course.

Dumbledore ascended to the third floor, approached the bedroom where they had left the young victor of Voldemort. He cast an Alohomora on the door and entered.

The boy was not in the bedroom.