A Cynical Voice: Chapters 1 and 2

Hi all, 

Here’s the final chapters for the week. I have changed Chapter 1 a lot. Thanks to TyrantGod for his suggestion on how Hadrian manifests. It makes the interactions between the two much more dynamic, and has given me plenty of ideas. I have also changed the ending.

Chapter 1 - When Harry met Harry

23rd August

Harry bolted upright in bed, a scream dying in his throat. His heart slammed against his ribs as if trying to escape. The nightmare clung to him like cobwebs, refusing to fade: Hogwarts' castle walls crumbling, Dementors descending on London in a writhing black tide, witches and wizards locked in deadly combat as orange spellfire lit up the afternoon sky.

His scar blazed with such intensity that for one terrifying moment, he was certain Voldemort himself stood in the darkened room.

His hand fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table. As the familiar weight settled on his nose, his cramped bedroom at Number Four, Privet Drive swam into focus. The shadows in the corners remained just shadows, no matter how many times he checked them for lurking dark lords.

Harry pushed himself up from the sweat-soaked sheets and stumbled to the dresser mirror. His reflection startled him. His usually unruly hair lay flat against his skull, plastered by cold sweat. His face was pale, making the angry red lightning bolt on his forehead look like a fresh wound. 

His fingers reached up and traced the scar's familiar pattern. The skin burned beneath his touch, as if someone had pressed a hot coal to his forehead.

"What was that?" he whispered, trying to hold onto the rapidly fading details. "That nightmare felt too real..."

"You look awful."

Harry whirled around, his heart leaping into his throat. "Who's there?"

Harry's eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the voice. His hand plunged into his pyjama pocket, finding nothing. His wand—he'd left it by the bed. He lunged for it, snatching it up and pointing it at every corner of his room.

"If I had really been an intruder," the voice drawled, "you'd be in serious trouble right now. First rule: never leave your wand out of reach. Get yourself a wand holster."

A figure materialised in the corner of the room, leaning casually against the wall with arms crossed. 

“Where—who are you?" Harry demanded, wand still raised. 

The figure was tall and lean, dressed in plain black robes. He had Harry's same unruly black hair, though longer and tied back at the nape of his neck. His features were sharper and more defined, as if he were seeing a glimpse of himself twenty years from now, shaped by time and experience. The lightning bolt scar was still visible on his forehead, though faded to a thin white line, barely perceptible against his pale skin.

What unsettled Harry the most was that he could see the wall pattern through the man's figure, like he was a ghost but not quite. Unlike the silvery-transparent Hogwarts ghosts, this apparition had colour and substance—Harry could make out the black of his robes, the tan of his skin, the green of his eyes—yet the floral wallpaper remained visible through him, as if he existed halfway between solid and spirit.

The man pushed off from the wall and walked toward Harry. "No intruder here. I guess that depends on how you define it. I'm something different.”

Harry lowered his wand. "I think I prefer an intruder. Am I going mad?"

The stranger chuckled. "Not yet. Give it a few years. You'll get there eventually."

"Who are you?" Harry repeated.

The man hesitated, as if weighing his options before deciding whether to respond.

"I'm you," he finally said. "An older version of you from the future."

Harry stared at him, mouth opening and closing without sound. His mind reeled, struggling to process those words. 

"You're... me? From the future?" The absurdity crashed against the evidence before his eyes—the familiar features, those unmistakable green eyes, the scar. "That's impossible."

Harry's knees buckled, and he sank heavily onto his bed. “No, this is mad. Time travel doesn't work like that."

The stranger—his future self?—watched him with a patient expression that suggested he'd anticipated this exact reaction.

"I have so many questions,” Harry said. “So many bloody questions I don't even know where to start."

"I'm not going anywhere." 

The man sat on the desk. Unlike a ghost, he didn't sink through it; instead, he perched there as if he had weight. He reached for a quill, but his fingers went right through it. “I can sit on furniture but can't touch or move objects. Strange rules to this existence."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. Here he was, speaking with a ghost-like version of his future self as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He should be more concerned about his sanity, but after three years at Hogwarts, this barely cracked his top ten list of bizarre situations.

His thoughts began to crystallise as the initial panic ebbed away. There was something oddly reassuring about the man, even with his sardonic edge—like finding a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. If he had meant harm, surely he would have struck while Harry was asleep, which meant Harry had time to think this through properly.

Harry paused. Just how much power did this apparition have? Was he merely a passenger in Harry's life, or something more sinister—like the diary that had possessed Ginny? His fingers tightened around his wand. No, he couldn't let his imagination spiral him into another panic.

He straightened his shoulders and ran through a mental checklist, prioritising the essential questions. Start with the basics.

"What should I call you?" Harry asked. "Calling you by my name will get confusing rather quickly."

"Then call me James," the man suggested.

"That's my Dad's name. Associating you with my Dad is too weird."

"Our Dad," the man corrected him. "And technically, I'm old enough to be yours. Now there's a thought—fathering yourself. Even by magical standards, that would be properly mental."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Pick something else."

"Fine. Call me Hadrian. A name I earned, or perhaps was burdened with, in the future. It has more gravitas than Harry, for the role I undertook at least."

"Sounds pretentious," Harry said, before moving on to the next question. "How did you travel back in time? Did you use a time-turner? It shouldn't even be possible."

His recent adventures with Hermione had taught him that. After Sirius had escaped on the back of Buckbeak, he had questioned Hermione extensively on the time-turner. He must have been loopy, because, for a brief moment, he considered using the time turner to go further back, to the day of his parents' death, to save them from Voldemort. It had made perfect sense to him at the time. Unfortunately, Hermione had shot down the idea. Time-turners were extremely limited in their use and could only go back five hours into the past.

"Time-turners?" Hadrian let out a harsh laugh. "No, this is something else entirely. Something desperate. When you've got nothing left to lose, you'd be amazed what magic can do."

Harry's brows furrowed. "Care to explain further?"

"Not particularly." Hadrian's gaze drifted to the window.

"How did you end up like this?" Harry gestured to Hadrian's ghostly form.

"No idea. I sent my soul back and was meant to take over your body, to fix everything. But something went wrong. Instead of merging with you, I ended up like..." he held up his hands, examining their transparent quality, "this. Trapped in your scar where that fragment of Voldemort used to be, but somehow manifesting outside your head as well."

Harry's mind snagged on the first revelation. "Hold on—you were trying to take over my body? What would have happened to me?"

"I didn't think about it too deeply. Or, didn't allow myself to." A pause as Hadrian paced to the window, staring out at the quiet street. "War has a way of making the unthinkable seem necessary."

"You absolute wanker," Harry muttered, standing now, fists clenched. "Whatever terrible future you came from, whatever reason you had for coming back in time, it gave you no bloody right to try and steal my life. You had your chance—"

"And I botched it spectacularly," Hadrian cut in. "Trust me, I'm well aware. But we're stuck with each other now, so—"

Harry froze mid-stride as the rest of Hadrian's words finally registered. "Hang on—what do you mean by 'Voldemort's fragment'?"

The silence stretched so long that Harry wondered if Hadrian had gone mute. "Sit down. This won't be a pleasant conversation."

Harry perched on the edge of his bed. "Tell me."

Hadrian walked back toward him, stopping just short of the bed. "When Voldemort tried to kill you that night, something went wrong with his curse. It rebounded, yes, but a piece of his soul—torn apart by his murders—latched onto the only living thing it could find. You. Your scar wasn't just a curse mark. It was a Horcrux."

"A what?"

"Dark magic. The darkest. He split his soul into pieces and hid them in objects to anchor himself to life. You were an accidental one." Hadrian's face turned grimly satisfied. "But when I arrived, my consciousness seemed to have... overwritten his fragment. Burnt it out completely. So there's that bit of good news, at least."

Harry's hand crept up to his scar, feeling nauseous. "I've had a piece of him inside me all this time? Does Dumbledore know?"

"Oh, he knows. Has known for a long time." The bitterness in Hadrian's voice was unmistakable. "He's got his reasons for keeping it quiet, mind. Always has his reasons, our Dumbledore."

"How did you get rid of the scar?" Harry asked, glancing at Hadrian's forehead.

"Took a Killing Curse to the chest and died. Momentarily." Hadrian stated this as matter-of-factly as if discussing the weather.

"Does that mean I had to die?" Harry's throat tightened, making the words difficult to force out.

The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever.

"Yes," Hadrian finally answered. "That was Dumbledore's grand plan. You were to be raised like a pig for slaughter, protected just long enough to die at the right moment. He believed you would have to let Voldemort kill you willingly, to destroy the Horcrux."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. The room seemed to tilt sideways. "And he's known all this time?”

"That you had to die? Yes." Hadrian's tone hardened. "He convinced himself it was for the Greater Good. That's always been his weakness—playing chess with people's lives, moving pieces on a board only he can see. Don't mistake me—he cares for you, in his way. But he cares for the Greater Good more."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry muttered, pressing his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.

"If it helps, his plan worked in my timeline. I survived, through a series of convenient magical loopholes that Dumbledore had suspected might save me. But he couldn't be certain—and he never told you. Never gave you the choice."

Harry lowered his hands, anger beginning to replace the nausea. "So he was just going to let me walk to my death without knowing I might survive?"

"He believed—believes—that you wouldn't be able to walk to your death if you knew there was a chance of survival. That your sacrifice had to be pure." Hadrian's laugh was hollow as he paced the room. "The man's brilliant, but can be spectacularly thick sometimes."

"But now..." Harry touched his scar again. "You said you burnt out Voldemort's fragment when you arrived?"

"Completely. Seems my bumbled possession attempt had one upside—my soul fragment was apparently rather... incompatible with his. You're free of him. That particular death sentence has been commuted."

Harry opened his mouth to make a sarcastic retort, then closed it again. On one hand, Hadrian had freed him from carrying around a piece of Voldemort's soul and being a sacrificial pawn. On the other hand, his future self had been perfectly willing to erase him from existence. The irony wasn't lost on him.

A soft flutter of wings interrupted Harry's spiralling thoughts. Hedwig soared through the open window, looking particularly pleased with herself. Two letters were attached to her leg.

"Good timing, girl," Harry murmured, untying the letters while offering her an owl treat. "I need a distraction."

He recognised Ron's messy scrawl on one envelope and Hermione's neat handwriting on the other.

He opened Ron's first:

Harry —

DAD GOT THE TICKETS — Ireland versus Bulgaria! Mum's writing to the Muggles to ask you to stay. They HAVE to say yes, Harry, you can't miss the World Cup! It's only the biggest Quidditch event in the world! Some of the best players — you've got to see Viktor Krum, he's BRILLIANT! 

Percy's started at the Ministry—don't ask about his work unless you want a three-hour lecture that will bore you to tears. He's been impossible, strutting around like he's Minister for Magic or something.

Fred and George are up to something in their room. Keep hearing explosions, but Mum's given up investigating.

Let me know if you can come! We'll pick you up tomorrow. Even if your relatives say no, we'll come and get you anyway.

— Ron

P.S. Hermione's coming too! Dad's arranging everything. And there's supposed to be something massive happening at Hogwarts this year, Dad keeps hinting about it but won't say what.

Harry grinned at Ron's obvious excitement, then opened Hermione's letter. Her neat handwriting filled the page:

Dear Harry,

I hope you're doing alright and those awful relatives of yours aren't treating you too badly. I've been thinking about you constantly since term ended. It feels strange not seeing you every day. The summer seems unbearably long when I think about how much I miss our talks...

The letter continued with her usual updates about summer homework and books she was reading, but there was something different in her tone—something softer, more personal.

Hadrian had moved to read over Harry's shoulder, his expression softening. "It's already started." 

"What's started?" Harry asked, still staring at the letter. "She's never written quite like this before."

"I was incredibly dense once upon a time, too."

"Huh?"

Before Hadrian could respond, the floorboards outside his door creaked ominously.

His aunt's sharp rap on the door was followed by her shrill voice. "Up! Get up and start breakfast!"

Harry dragged himself downstairs to the kitchen, his mind still reeling from everything Hadrian had told him. His future self followed, walking silently behind him down the stairs, studying the house with a grim expression. When they reached the kitchen, Hadrian watched as Harry began cooking breakfast, his ghostly form moving around the kitchen, examining the Dursleys' possessions with thinly veiled contempt.

Harry noticed Uncle Vernon looking directly through Hadrian without reacting. "They can't see you," he whispered.

"Talking to yourself, boy?" Uncle Vernon barked from behind his newspaper.

As the Dursleys ate, Aunt Petunia slapped a long list of chores onto the table beside Harry. He glanced at it, then decided to seize his chance.

"Er – Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon? My friend Ron has invited me to stay with his family."

Uncle Vernon's moustache twitched. "The family of redheads? The idiotic father who keeps asking me about electricity and his dumpy wife?"

Harry hid a wince. It was hypocritical to call Mrs Weasley dumpy when Uncle Vernon looked like a beached whale wearing a cheap suit. Still, he didn’t react to his Uncle’s words. Getting angry wouldn't help his chances of going to the World Cup.

"They've invited me to a sporting event," Harry said. "They'll pick me up tomorrow."

"And I suppose you think we'll just let you go gallivanting off with those freaks?"

"Well," Harry said carefully, "I was thinking of writing to my godfather about it. You know, Sirius Black? He'd want to know why I couldn't go..."

The effect was instantaneous. Vernon's face drained of colour, and Petunia's hand trembled as she set down her teacup.

"Fine," Vernon spat. "But they're not to come inside the house!"

Hadrian laughed. "Well played. That trick works like a charm every time."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry spent the next few hours pulling weeds in the garden. Hadrian wandered the perimeter of the yard. He would sometimes walk to the edge of the garden, then stop abruptly as if hitting an invisible wall. After a moment of apparent resistance, he would turn and walk back toward Harry.

"I can't go more than ten metres from you," Hadrian said. "Seems I'm tethered to you, like some kind of supernatural leash."

"What do you think went wrong?" Harry asked, wiping sweat from his brow. "With the ritual, I mean. You were supposed to take over my body, right?”

"If I knew that, would I be in the situation I'm in now?" Hadrian replied with a hint of frustration. "I have a theory, though."

"Lay it on me." 

"Our mother's protection."

“The same thing that burned Quirrell?"

Hadrian nodded. "The magic from our mother's sacrifice was never properly studied. Dumbledore claimed it was based on love and left it at that. It's not wrong, but it's incomplete. There's more complexity to it than his simple explanation suggests."

"But you're only speculating," Harry pointed out.

"There is a lot of that when it comes to magic," Hadrian said. "Even after everything I've learned, magic still holds many mysteries. I believe your mother's protection activated when I tried to possess you. Seems it may not just work against Voldemort, but against any foreign soul."

"Even if that soul is technically mine?" Harry asked.

"Our souls are separate from each other," Hadrian replied. "Even if they weren’t, your mother's protection recognises you as you are now—not what you might become in twenty years. To the sacrificial magic, I was just another intruder trying to harm you."

Harry fell silent as he mulled over what Hadrian had said. His mother's sacrifice had created protection far more sophisticated than he'd realised. It wasn't just a shield against Voldemort. It was protecting him from threats he couldn't have imagined—like a time-traveling version of himself attempting possession.

"The first thing you need to do is to interfere with the trace on your wand," Hadrian said, crouching down.

"What are you talking about?" 

"Since I'm stuck with you, it's up to you to change the future. I'm going to be guiding you to improve yourself. Which means you need to be able to use your wand anywhere without the Ministry’s interference."

"Well, I'm not going to say no to an offer like that," Harry said, yanking out a particularly stubborn dandelion. "But there's still so much about this situation that you're not telling me."

"I'll explain everything slowly. But there's too much to do and so little time. The Quidditch World Cup is in two days."

Harry's hands stilled in the dirt. "Does something happen?"

"Yes." Hadrian's face grew grim. "Death Eaters attack the campsite. They torture Muggles, cause panic, and set off the Dark Mark."

“The Dark Mark?”

“Voldemort’s symbol.”

"Did you get through it okay?"

"I did. But there was a victim I didn't know about for a long time after the fact. I would like to make sure they don't suffer like they did last time."

Harry sat back on his heels, frowning. "Hang on—we can't change time. Hermione told me all about it when we used the Time-Turner. Bad things happen to wizards who meddle with time."

"This is different. When I came back, I created an entirely new timeline. The future I came from still exists—I didn't erase it. Think of it like a river splitting into two streams. Whatever we do here won't affect my timeline, but it will create a new future for you." 

"If you say so," Harry muttered. "So, how do I interfere with the trace?"

"By carving some runes into your wand. It’s something I invented in the future. I can’t remove the trace without the Ministry noticing, but I can interfere with the magic that tells them when you're using your wand." 

"I don't know anything about runes," Harry said. "I didn't take the class."

"Another thing we have to correct. You need to send an owl to Professor McGonagall and tell her you're dropping Divination and choosing Arithmancy and Ancient Runes instead, even if you have to enter the third-year class."

Harry frowned. "Do you think you can dictate the classes I attend?"

"You should have never chosen Divination. Our entire time at Hogwarts, we did the bare minimum to get by, even though we knew Voldemort was out there. It's a bit stupid really."

The words hit home. Harry remembered choosing his classes, taking the easy route because that's what Ron was doing. He'd told himself it was fine—he had enough to deal with, between Quidditch and the constant threat to his life. But now, facing the consequences of those choices, the excuses felt hollow. He should have pushed himself harder and learned more, he wouldn't be in this position—struggling to understand basic magical concepts that could save his life.

"Sorry for being mediocre," Harry snarked. "It doesn't help me with my present situation."

"Don't worry. I will guide you through it," Hadrian said.

After finishing his chores and taking a quick shower, Harry slipped out to the street. He glanced around before extending his wand arm. With a deafening BANG, the purple triple-decker Knight Bus appeared.

Twenty nauseating minutes later, Harry stumbled into Diagon Alley, with Hadrian walking calmly beside him, perfectly unaffected by the bus's violent movements. Following Hadrian's instructions, Harry headed straight for the apothecary.

"Ask for diluted dragon's blood," Hadrian directed. "And while we're here, get some nutrient potions."

"Nutrient potions?" Harry repeated quietly, mindful of the shopkeeper nearby.

"To fix the damage from years of Dursley care. But don't take them until after the World Cup. Your body will need time to adjust to its explosive growth, and you have to be in your best condition if you're going to play the hero."

Harry also brought a runic inscription set and parchment paper. He only had a day to get the runes right and remove the trace before the Weasleys picked him up. A tall order, considering his normal writing was barely legible.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry practised drawing each rune until his hand cramped. It had taken him several hours, but watching the precise lines emerge from his careful strokes, he felt a spark of satisfaction.

Hadrian leaned over his shoulder, occasionally gesturing to correct a line or angle. 

"Not bad," he said, examining Harry's latest attempt. 

Even with all the practice, mastering runes wasn't something that came easily to everyone. Maybe he had an affinity for Ancient Runes. The thought made his earlier class choices seem even more wasteful.

Spending so much time drawing runes gave him plenty of opportunity to stew over his decisions at school. He remembered Hermione's excitement about Ancient Runes, how she'd tried to explain their practical applications in curse-breaking and warding. But he'd dismissed it, choosing instead to follow Ron into Divination where they could skive off and make up predictions about their tragic deaths. What a waste.

Harry laid out his tools—the runic inscription set with its silver blade and moonstone inlay, dragon's blood, and fine brushes. He measured his wand carefully, marking three sections with faint dots. Through the magnifying glass, the holly grain stood out in sharp detail.

"Steady now," Hadrian murmured. "Remember, three precise strokes for Algiz."

His hands steady, Harry carved Algiz first, each stroke precise and shallow. Three drops of dragon's blood seeped into the protection rune, triggering a pulse of warmth from his wand. Dagaz followed, its mirrored diamonds demanding intense focus. The transformation rune accepted the dragon's blood with another magical surge. Finally, he etched Ehwaz, the movement rune taking shape stroke by stroke.

Following Hadrian's instructions, Harry sliced his thumb, hissing as blood welled up. He pressed his thumb to each rune, smearing them with blood. Silver light flared briefly before the markings vanished, leaving no trace of his work.

Harry gripped his wand tightly, pointing it at the book on his desk. "Wingardium Leviosa."

The book rose smoothly into the air, hovering steadily at eye level. He waited, counting the minutes, expecting a Ministry letter to arrive. After five minutes of nothing happening, a grin spread across his face.

"Let's try something more complex," Harry said, turning to face his wardrobe. "Expecto Patronum!" 

The silver stag burst forth and pranced around his room. It searched for a threat but when it didn’t find one, it vanished. Still no owl.

Harry grinned. The runes had worked. 

"I still can't believe we managed to produce a full corporeal patronus at thirteen," Hadrian said. "It just goes to show how much potential you have. And I’m going to squeeze every last drop of it out of you."

"Are you going to teach me some amazing spells?" Harry asked. "You do want me to play hero."

Hadrian shook his head. "I doubt I could teach you anything significant in a day. Remind me, what spells do you know at this point that will help at the World Cup?"

Harry counted on his fingers. "Well, there's Expelliarmus for disarming. Impediments to slow someone down. Stupefy for stunning, though I've only practised it a bit with Hermione. Petrificus Totalus for body-binding." 

"I forgot how bad I was at your age," Hadrian muttered. "Still, you don't need powerful spells to take down your opponent. We can start with your accuracy.”

“My accuracy is fine.” 

"We shall see about that. Try and hit me with a Petrificus Totalus," Hadrian ordered.

Harry frowned, walking over to where Hadrian stood. He reached out a hand, which passed straight through Hadrian's chest.

 "How am I supposed to hit you? The spell will go right through you."

"Don’t be a smartass," Hadrian said. "Now, stand over there and get started."

Harry moved to the opposite side of the bedroom and raised his wand. "Petrificus Totalus!" 

The jet of light shot towards Hadrian, who simply stepped sideways, letting the spell crash into the wall behind him.

Hadrian snorted. "Are you even trying?" 

Harry's eyes narrowed. He gripped his wand tighter and suddenly released several body-binding spells in quick succession. "Petrificus Totalus! Petrificus Totalus! Petrificus Totalus!"

But Hadrian dodged each one effortlessly, weaving between the jets of light as though they were moving in slow motion. Although he lacked a physical body, it seemed the man had retained all of his agility and experience.

"Can't you cast your spell non-verbally?" Hadrian asked as he sidestepped another bolt of magic. "Shouting out the incantation makes them much easier to dodge."

"It's not taught until our sixth year," Harry said, lowering his wand as he caught his breath.

"So? What's stopping you from learning it on your own?"

Harry stared at him. "Do you realise how hypocritical you sound right now?"

"I wish I had someone to push me to do better. I only started to find my motivation when I was entered into—" 

Hadrian stopped abruptly. "Oops, I shouldn't reveal that yet."

"What are you hiding?" Harry demanded.

"Not hiding," Hadrian corrected him. "I will tell you before the time comes. It's not going to do you any good knowing about it now as it will only stress you out."

That sounded ominous, but that didn't mean he wanted to be left in the dark. He opened his mouth to demand answers, when Hadrian interrupted him.

"If you manage to hit me, I will tell you."

Harry nodded. He proceeded to try and hit Hadrian with his spells, attempting anything he could think of. He started moving around the cramped bedroom, ducking behind furniture and firing from different angles. His aim grew more precise with each attempt, but Hadrian still looked far too casual, weaving through the jets of light with an almost bored expression. 

At one point, Harry cast three spells in rapid succession, aiming at different heights, only for Hadrian to leap, twist and slide between them with the fluid grace of someone who had spent years duelling for his life.

After several minutes, sweat drenched Harry's t-shirt and his lungs burned with effort. His frustration mounted with each failed attempt, driving him to push himself harder, but his movements became increasingly sluggish. A final desperate volley of spells missed their mark by inches, and Harry's legs finally gave out. He collapsed onto his bed, chest heaving. 

The gap between his current abilities and what he needed to become had never felt so vast.

"Why haven't you written to Sirius yet?"

Harry looked up. "Is that something you did in your timeline?"

Hadrian nodded. "Didn't you have the vision about Voldemort killing Frank Bryce?"

"Who?"

Hadrian started pacing, a frown creasing his forehead. "Of course. Since you don't have Voldemort's Horcrux in your head anymore, you have lost the connection that lets you see into his mind."

"I did have a nightmare," Harry said slowly. "Now that I think about it, it must have been related to you."

He told Hadrian about the brief images that had lingered in his mind when he first woke up—Hogwarts, Dementors descending on London, witches and wizards locked in combat.

"We must have a connection of our own. Does that mean I'm a..." Hadrien’s voice trailed off.

"What?" Harry prompted.

"It's been bothering me that your scar hasn't faded now that you are free of Voldemort's taint," Hadrian said. "It's almost like I'm a Horcrux myself."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Chapter 2 - A New Wand

24th August

The next morning arrived with Hadrian waking him early for another sparring session. He seemed determined to improve Harry's accuracy before they headed for the Quidditch World Cup.

Harry saw the downside of Hadrian being tethered to him, with the lack of privacy, and being unable to run away when Hadrian annoyed him. The constant presence of his future self felt like carrying a particularly opinionated shadow—one that critiqued everything he did. 

When he pointed this out to Hadrian, he was told that he had complete privacy when Hadrian was not materialised in the world, and simply was a passenger in Harry's scar. It alleviated Harry's concerns somewhat, but Hadrian was free to materialise whenever he wanted. 

Harry asked what it was like to be stuck in his head, watching events unfold without the ability to directly intervene. Hadrian admitted it was frustrating—he'd come back to take direct action but was now reduced to giving suggestions that Harry could ignore. 

They didn't bring up the subject of the Horcrux again. Neither wanted to admit to the possibility that Hadrian had simply replaced Voldemort's soul fragment with his own. The implications were too disturbing. In the end, it didn't matter anyway. Hadrian would be stuck with Harry for the rest of his life, and couldn't see a way to extract himself from Harry and obtain a physical form. 

For the next thirty minutes, Harry practiced casting the disarming spell with increasingly smaller wand movements, aiming to hit Hadrian. Though he didn't succeed in hitting his target, Harry could see himself visibly improving.

After training, Harry took a shower and sat on his bed to wait for the Weasleys' arrival. Harry had packed his trunk the night before, eager to escape Privet Drive for the remainder of the summer. 

As he waited, Harry pulled out his wand, turning it over in his hands. The holly felt warm against his palm—familiar, yet somehow not quite right. He had noticed it during training, but hadn’t brought it up with Hadrian.  

"Something's off with my wand," Harry said. "It's working, but it feels... reluctant. Like it's not sure about me anymore."

Hadrian studied the wand with narrowed eyes.

"I suspected this might happen," he said. "When the Horcrux was destroyed, it changed your magic. You're more purely yourself now, but that self is different from the one who first matched with that wand."

"But this is my wand. It chose me."

"It chose a boy who carried a fragment of Voldemort's soul," Hadrian corrected. "That boy no longer exists."

"So what do I do?" Harry asked. "I can't go to Hogwarts with a wand that's only half-working."

"You need a new one.”

Harry frowned. The thought of replacing it felt like abandoning an old friend.

"Changing your wand is common in the magical world," Hadrian said. "People change all the time, and sometimes their magic changes with them. Particularly after significant events."

Harry turned the wand over in his hands once more. "I'll ask the Weasleys to take me to Diagon Alley. I need to see Ollivander."

Hadrian nodded.

"Wait a minute." Harry shot up from his bed, the realisation striking him suddenly. "Will you influence my new wand? Will it choose me, or some combination of us?"

"I don't know," Hadrian admitted. "It's possible. We're in uncharted territory here."

Harry wasn't pleased by his answer. Whether it was Voldemort or an older version of himself, it felt like he was never truly himself—never just Harry. Always carrying something extra, something unwanted. 

Several minutes later, Hadrian spoke up. "The Weasleys should be arriving soon. They're coming through the fireplace. Last time, they found your Muggle relatives had boarded it up."

Harry winced. "That won't end well."

"It doesn't," Hadrian confirmed. "Your cousin ends up with a four-foot tongue, courtesy of the twins' prototype sweet."

Harry couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "Now that I'd like to see."

Almost on cue, a tremendous crash echoed from downstairs, followed by Uncle Vernon's bellowing roar. Harry hurried down the stairs with Hadrian following him.

The sitting room had descended into absolute chaos. Dust and debris filled the air as Mr Weasley and the twins tried to extricate themselves from what remained of the electric fireplace. The pristine cream carpet was now covered in soot and fragments of plaster. Dudley had wedged himself behind the sofa, his hands clutched protectively over his bottom.

"Sorry about that!" Mr Weasley called cheerfully, adjusting his glasses. "Should have sent word ahead—Muggle fireplaces aren't usually connected to the Floo Network, you see. Had to get special permission—"

"What have you done to my living room?" Uncle Vernon thundered, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple.

"It's quite fixable, I assure you," Mr Weasley said, pulling out his wand, which only made Uncle Vernon back away faster, dragging Aunt Petunia with him.

"Put that away!" Vernon hissed.

Fred and George, meanwhile, had spotted Dudley. They exchanged identical mischievous grins that immediately set Harry on edge.

"Hello, Harry's cousin," Fred said brightly.

"Fancy a sweet?" George added, pulling something from his pocket.

Before Harry could intervene, Dudley—driven by his perpetual hunger—had snatched the colourful toffee from George's outstretched hand and popped it into his mouth.

The effect was instantaneous. Dudley's tongue began to swell and elongate, rapidly surpassing the length of a normal tongue until it flopped onto the carpet, now nearly a metre long and still growing.

Aunt Petunia threw herself onto the floor beside her son, trying to tug the now purple tongue out of his mouth. Uncle Vernon was hurling ornaments at Mr Weasley, who was attempting to approach to help.

"Not to worry!" Mr Weasley shouted over the chaos. "It's just an Engorgement Charm—I can sort him out—"

As Mr Weasley finally managed to reduce Dudley's tongue to its normal size, Hadrian's gaze shifted to the twins, who were looking remarkably pleased with themselves despite Mr Weasley's scolding.

"How much gold do you have on you?" Hadrian asked suddenly.

"I still have plenty left over from our shopping," Harry whispered.

"Good. We're going to be doing business with the twins," Hadrian said.

Twenty chaotic minutes later, after hasty goodbyes to the shell-shocked Dursleys, Harry found himself spinning through the Floo Network. He tumbled out of the Weasleys' fireplace.

Before he could even steady himself, a blur of bushy brown hair engulfed him. Hermione's arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her familiar scent of parchment and vanilla surrounding him. The hug lingered several seconds longer than usual. Harry ignored Hadrian’s snickering. 

"It's good to see you too," Harry said.

Hermione stepped back, a faint pink tinge colouring her cheeks. "I've been so worried. Your letters didn't say much about how the Dursleys were treating you."

"Same as always." 

"Mate!" Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "Are you ready for the Quidditch World Cup?”

As Ron chatted animatedly about the Chudley Cannons' dismal performance and his excitement for the World Cup, Harry noted Hadrian staring at everyone with an intense, almost hungry expression.

"They all look so young," Hadrian murmured. "So unmarked."

There was something in his tone that made Harry's stomach twist uneasily.

After Mrs Weasley had fed him to the point of bursting and his belongings had been deposited in Ron's room, Harry found himself alone with Hadrian again.

"Go find the twins," Hadrian instructed. "Now's the perfect time to purchase some items."

Harry slipped away, climbing the creaking stairs to the twins' bedroom. Even from the landing, he could hear muffled explosions and hissed curses coming from behind their door. He knocked, and the noises abruptly ceased.

The door opened just enough for Fred—or was it George?—to peer out suspiciously.

"Harry! Just the man we wanted to see," he said, grabbing Harry's arm and yanking him inside before quickly shutting the door.

The room looked as though a whirlwind had torn through it. The beds had been pushed against the walls to accommodate a massive table laden with bubbling cauldrons, scattered ingredients, and what appeared to be half-finished sweets in various alarming colours. Papers covered in complex diagrams and calculations were pinned to every available surface.

"Welcome to our research and development department," George announced with a theatrical sweep of his arm.

"What can we do for you?" Fred asked, perching on the edge of the table.

"That was impressive, what you did to Dudley," Harry said, channelling Hadrian's words. "I was wondering if you have products that might be useful for... well, distractions. Or temporarily incapacitating someone."

The twins exchanged intrigued glances.

"Why would you need such things?" George asked, leaning forward.

Harry shrugged. "I seem to find myself in dangerous situations quite often. Having some tools on hand might be helpful next time I run into trouble."

"Wise thinking," Fred nodded approvingly. "We may have just the things you need."

They led him to a chest tucked beneath one of the beds. George pulled it out and flipped it open, revealing compartments filled with an assortment of curious objects.

"Basic Dungbombs, of course," Fred began, pulling out several small, round objects. "But we've been working on a more potent version—"

"Twice the stench, half the size," George finished.

They showed him several more items, but only two items interested him. The Dungbombs and the Smoke Pellets, an item that created thick, impenetrable clouds when thrown.

"And these are our pride and joy," Fred held up what looked like ordinary boiled sweets. "We call them Canary Creams. Still in testing, but they briefly transform the eater into a large canary."

“I don’t need those,” Harry said. He reminded himself to never accept food from the twins.

Harry purchased a substantial quantity of the Dungbombs and Smoke Pellets.

"How much for all of this?" he asked, reaching for his money pouch.

The twins named a price that would have made Ron faint, but Harry counted out the Galleons without hesitation. Fred and George stared at the small pile of gold with matching expressions of disbelief.

"This is brilliant," George breathed. "We can increase our bet at the World Cup now."

"You might want to place your bets with the goblins who'll be there,” Harry said at Hadrian’s prompting. “They're greedy, but they never go back on a wager. Unlike humans."

Fred raised an eyebrow. "Know something we don’t, Harry?"

"I heard some rumours," Harry said, pocketing his purchases. "Thanks for these."

Back in Ron's room, Harry turned to Hadrian. "What was that about? Why send the twins to bet with goblins specifically?"

Hadrian's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Let's just say I'm settling an old score. The goblins will lose quite a bit of gold when Ireland wins, but Krum catches the Snitch."

"That's what happens?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Indeed. And the twins will make a huge profit that helps fund their joke shop," Hadrian replied. "Though in my timeline, they bet with Ludo Bagman, who paid them in leprechaun gold that vanished hours later."

"Should I make a wager of my own?”

"It's up to you," Hadrian replied with a shrug, "but you're rich. It's not like you need it."

"Are you sure?" 

Harry knew he had a vault full of gold—had seen the piles of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts that his parents had left him—but he'd never thought of himself as rich. 

Although, he still didn't really understand the magical world's economy. Everything about it seemed strange and disconnected from the Muggle world he'd grown up in. A wand cost seven Galleons, but what did that actually mean? How much work went into earning a Galleon? How did wizards measure value?

"Besides," Hadrian continued, interrupting Harry's thoughts, "I have countless ways to make you more money if you need it."

"Oh, I definitely need it.”

=-=-=-===-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry entered Diagon Alley with Mr Weasley. The cobblestone street was busier than usual, with families gathering supplies for the upcoming school year.

"I've got to pop into Gringotts for an errand," Mr Weasley said. "You'll be alright getting to Ollivanders on your own?"

"I'll be fine," Harry assured him, already moving toward the wand shop. 

Someone collided hard with his shoulder. He stumbled, catching himself against a shop window, and found himself facing Pansy Parkinson. Her dark hair was pulled back severely, emphasising her round face—and, Harry noticed with surprise, the dark shadows beneath her eyes.

"Watch where you're going, Potter," she snapped.

Before he could respond, she'd already pushed past him, disappearing into the crowd.

"What's her problem?" Harry muttered.

"Don't judge her too harshly," Hadrian said quietly. "She's not what she seems, and is dealing with a lot."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You know her?"

"I do. You will too in the near future."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked, lowering his voice as a group of witches passed by.

"She's the person you're saving at the Quidditch World Cup."

"Huh?"

"So eloquent." 

The implications finally registered. 

"Over my dead body," Harry said flatly. "Pansy Parkinson? She's someone who clings to Maloy and insults me at every turn.”

"Please," Hadrian sighed. "I know you have a people-saving thing. Do you want me to go into detail exactly what happens to her? It starts with two Death Eaters disarming her before pulling off her—"

"Alright, I'll do it," Harry interrupted hastily. "Let's just get my wand sorted."

The bell above Ollivander's door announced their arrival with a delicate chime. The familiar smell of dust and magic enveloped Harry as he stepped into the dimly lit shop. Thousands of narrow boxes lined the walls, each containing a wand waiting for its perfect match.

Mr Ollivander appeared silently from between the shelves, his silver eyes widening at the sight of Harry.

"Mr Potter?" His gaze flicked to Harry's pocket where his holly wand rested. "Has something happened to your wand?"

"It doesn't feel right anymore," Harry explained awkwardly. "It still works, but it's like we don't quite fit."

"It happens. May I?"

Harry handed over his wand. Ollivander examined it closely, murmuring to himself.

"The wand is perfectly sound, which means the change is in you, Mr Potter." His silvery eyes seemed to peer straight through Harry. "Something significant has altered your magic."

For the next hour, Harry tried wand after wand in Ollivander's shop. Each one having produced increasingly dramatic reactions that left scorch marks on the ceiling.

"Curious, most curious," Ollivander muttered for perhaps the twentieth time. "I've never encountered someone whose magical signature has altered so dramatically without external cause."

"Perhaps there was an external cause," Harry said. "Something happened recently."

Ollivander paused. "Something significant enough to change your magic?"

"You could say that," Harry replied, reluctant to elaborate further.

The wandmaker studied him for a long moment. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter. That is an immutable truth of wandlore."

He returned the cedar wand to its box and ran a finger along a shelf, seeming to communicate silently with his creations. Finally, he withdrew a slender box of faded blue velvet.

"Dragon heartstring and elder," he announced, presenting a pale, almost bone-white wand.

Harry reached for it, but Hadrian gave a sharp, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"Actually," Harry said, drawing his hand back, "I don't think that's the one."

Ollivander's eyebrows rose fractionally. "You haven't even touched it, Mr Potter."

"Call it intuition," Harry replied.

After trying several more unsuitable wands, Ollivander finally stopped Harry from reaching for another box. He stood very still for a moment, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, then nodded as if coming to a decision.

"I believe we need something custom," he declared. "Would you permit me to craft a wand specifically for you? It is not a service I offer lightly, nor one many can afford."

"Custom?" Harry repeated, surprised. "You mean, made just for me?"

"Precisely."

At Harry's nod, Ollivander disappeared into the back of his shop, returning moments later with a large wooden case. He set it on the counter and opened it carefully, revealing compartments filled with different woods, cores, and other materials Harry couldn't identify.

"Touch each one," the wandmaker instructed, gesturing to the array of components. "Tell me which calls to you. Don't think—simply feel."

Harry's fingers hovered over the materials, feeling Hadrian's intense focus as his future self moved closer, watching the process with an expression of profound concentration. Harry closed his eyes, letting his hand drift over the various woods. When his fingers brushed a piece of pale wood with a subtle reddish hue, warmth spread up his arm, a sensation like recognition.

"Rowan," Ollivander identified. "Interesting choice. Historically used for defensive magic. The Scots believed it guards against enchantment and bewitchment. It's associated with clear vision and strength of purpose."

Next, Ollivander presented several cores. Harry's hand was drawn immediately to a crimson feather that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light.

"A phoenix feather," Ollivander said, "though not from Fawkes, I should clarify. This came from a phoenix that appeared briefly in the Cairngorms a decade ago. Only left three feathers before disappearing. An independent spirit, even by phoenix standards."

Hadrian moved to Harry's side. "Ask about adding a second component. It's unusual but not unheard of."

Harry hesitated, then spoke. "Sir, is it possible to add something else? A second element?"

Ollivander's silver eyes widened slightly. "You are full of surprises today, Mr Potter. Yes, it is possible, though rarely done. It creates a more complex wand, more difficult to master, but potentially more powerful when properly aligned with the wielder."

He opened a smaller compartment in the case, revealing more materials.

"These are catalysts and stabilisers," he explained. "They bind the primary components and can enhance certain qualities."

"The silver," Harry said immediately, reaching for the thread.

As his fingers touched it, the thread coiled around them briefly, like a living thing recognising a kindred spirit, before settling back into place.

"Thestral hair bound in silver," Ollivander said quietly. "Most unusual. The silver provides control and reflection, while the thestral element connects to those who understand mortality. Together with Rowan and Phoenix feather..." 

He paused, studying Harry with renewed intensity. "This combination speaks of someone who has faced death and been fundamentally changed by the experience."

Harry swallowed hard, avoiding Ollivander's penetrating gaze.

Ollivander placed the components in a separate box. "The wand will take several hours. Such a wand cannot be rushed."

"How much will it cost?" Harry asked, reaching for his money pouch.

"Two hundred Galleons," Ollivander replied. "Custom work is not subsidised by the Ministry."

Harry winced. “I need to visit Gringotts to draw out some money.”

“You can pay when you pick up your wand.”  

Harry left Ollivander's shop and made his way to Gringotts.

"I expected something more dramatic, I suppose," Harry admitted to Hadrian. "Rowan and phoenix feather with a bit of thestral hair and silver. It sounds rather ordinary when you say it aloud."

Hadrian's expression was caught between amusement and exasperation. "What did you expect? Some legendary combination that would transform you into Merlin overnight?”

"Well, when you put it that way—" Harry began defensively.

"That's not how magic works," Hadrian interrupted. "Not real magic, anyway. The wand is just a tool. It channels what's already inside you."

They paused beside Flourish and Blotts, stepping out of the flow of foot traffic. 

"You have potential, Harry. More than you realise," Hadrian continued. "But there are no shortcuts. Not even a custom wand crafted from the rarest materials can make you powerful without putting in the work."

Harry nodded. He understood what Hadrian was getting at. He wouldn't have a crutch to make him great. No Boy-Who-Lived status or plot armour like his mother's sacrificial protection would guarantee his survival anymore. The path forward would demand genuine effort—studying, practising, and mastering magic through discipline rather than desperate necessity. He needed to work hard, just like everyone else.

Even Dumbledore and Voldemort, with all their natural talent, hadn't relied solely on innate gifts. They'd spent decades in relentless pursuit of magical knowledge, experimenting with spells and pushing the boundaries of what was possible. Their power hadn't come overnight but through years of dedication that had transformed them into the two most formidable wizards in Britain.

Part of him had always known this, but hearing it from Hadrian—a version of himself who had learned these lessons too late—made the reality sink in with new clarity. The fact that his future self had traveled back through time, risking everything to correct these mistakes, spoke volumes about what was truly at stake.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

25th August

The Quidditch World Cup campsite bustled with activity as wizards from around the globe gathered for the biggest sporting event in the magical world. Colourful tents stretched as far as the eye could see, some adorned with moving flags, others emitting strange noises or occasional puffs of purple smoke.

Harry trudged alongside the Weasleys, his bag slung over one shoulder. His new wand sat in the custom holster strapped to his forearm—a purchase Hadrian had insisted on making when Harry picked up his wand. 

Hermione walked beside him, her bushy hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, her eyes darting about to take in every magical oddity they passed. 

"This is extraordinary," she whispered, watching a witch conjure birds from thin air to entertain a group of giggling children. "There must be anti-Muggle charms layered for kilometres."

"Dad says they've been planning the security for months," Ron added from Harry's other side. "Had to modify the memories of the Muggle who owns the land. Poor bloke thinks he's agreed to host a birdwatching convention."

Harry smiled, but his attention was divided. Hadrian walked ahead, scanning the crowd with practiced vigilance. Occasionally, his future self would turn to look at someone with such intense recognition that Harry found himself following his gaze, wondering who these strangers would become in his life—or who they had been in Hadrian's.

"Hermione," Harry said, seizing a moment when Mr Weasley had stopped to chat with a Ministry colleague. "I wanted to tell you something."

Her eyes met his with immediate attention. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong," he assured her. "Actually, I sent an owl to Professor McGonagall yesterday."

"About what?"

"I've asked to drop Divination."

Ron, who had been pretending not to listen, whirled around. "You what?"

"I've asked to drop Divination," Harry repeated more firmly. "And I've requested to join the third-year Ancient Runes and Arithmancy classes instead."

Hermione's face lit up with such genuine pleasure that Harry couldn't help but smile in return. "Harry, that's wonderful! Those subjects are so much more practical. Ancient Runes especially have applications in nearly every advanced branch of magic."

"Blimey, mate," Ron groaned. "You're abandoning me to Trelawney? And taking on two of the hardest subjects? Have you gone mental?"

Harry shrugged. "I just realised I need to take my education more seriously."

"But we were going to have an easy year!" Ron protested. "Those classes are loads of work, and with Quidditch—"

"I'll manage," Harry said. 

Hermione suddenly threw her arms around Harry's neck. 

"I'm so proud of you," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I can help you catch up—I've got all my notes from last year, and we can study together."

When she pulled away, her cheeks were slightly pink, but her eyes shone with something Harry couldn't quite name.

"Oh brilliant," Ron muttered. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Ginny kicked him in the shin.

Harry frowned slightly. He sensed that whatever Ron was about to say wouldn’t be nice. What was his problem?

Hadrian drifted back toward them, his transparent form passing through an oblivious family of Bulgarian supporters. 

"This was predictable," he murmured. "Ron's always been threatened by academic excellence. Or anything else that causes him to fade into the background. He’s not a bad person but he could do with some growing up."

Harry wanted to defend Ron, but couldn't quite form the words. Hadrian wasn't entirely wrong—Ron had always been prickly about achievements, whether it was Harry's fame or Hermione's cleverness. 

"It’s only one class," Harry said, trying to smooth things over. "And I'm not giving up Quidditch."

Ron looked slightly mollified, but still disgruntled. "Just don't turn into Percy, alright?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Wanting to learn isn't the same as being Percy."

They continued walking, weaving between tents decorated with shamrocks or the Bulgarian colours. Mr Weasley pointed out various Ministry officials and international wizards of note as they passed.

"We've got two tents," Mr Weasley announced as they reached a small clearing with a sign that read 'WEEZLY'. "Girls in the smaller one, boys in the larger. They're a bit snug, but magical, of course."

As they began setting up, Harry caught Hadrian staring intently at a point in the distance. Following his gaze, Harry spotted a cluster of expensive-looking tents.

"Those are the Slytherins," Hadrian said quietly. "The Malfoys, Goyles, Notts, and others. Remember what I told you."

Harry nodded imperceptibly. In the early hours of tomorrow morning, after the match, Death Eaters would attack the campsite. And somewhere in that chaos, Pansy Parkinson would need his help.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry's legs ached as he climbed ever higher up the stadium's seemingly endless spiral staircase.

"Blimey, how much farther?" Ron groaned beside him, his face flushed with exertion.

"Top Box," Mr Weasley called back cheerfully. "Prime seats, courtesy of Ludo Bagman!"

Hadrian climbed the stairs alongside Harry, unbothered by the physical exertion. 

"Last time," he murmured so only Harry could hear, "we sat right behind the Malfoys. Lucius was particularly unbearable."

"Keep going, nearly there!" Mr Weasley called.

As they climbed the final flight, the sounds of the stadium engulfed them—thousands of voices blending into a roar, and magical fireworks exploding in emerald and crimson bursts. The energy seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

They emerged into the Top Box, its luxurious setting a stark contrast to the utilitarian stairwell. Plush purple chairs with the Ministry seal awaited them, and the view of the pitch was nothing short of spectacular.

Harry settled next to the house-elf who sat alone in the second row. The small creature—Winky, he recalled from Hadrian's briefing—flinched at his presence, her large eyes widening further.

"Hello," Harry said softly, careful not to draw attention.

The empty seat beside Winky wasn't truly vacant; Hadrian had explained about Barty Crouch Jr, hidden beneath an Invisibility Cloak. Harry could feel Hadrian's spectral form hovering anxiously behind him, monitoring his every move.

The spare wand in his pocket pressed against Harry's thigh. It was something he had obtained earlier. Just like in Hadrian’s timeline, Harry would lose a wand in the Top Box, except it wouldn’t be his own.

He just needed to wait for the chaos to begin after midnight. And hope that everything went according to plan.

So, what do you think? I may need a new title for the story, now that Hadrian is not just a voice in Harry’s head. Feel free to share your ideas.

Thanks for reading.