A/N: R and R peeps. Hope you like the chapter!

Winterfell was in a cold war of sidelong glares and certain parties avoiding one another. And it was all Harry's fault of course. How was he supposed to have known that Jon had begged his father to be sent to the Wall of all places? Then Harry had to go and offer an alternative that made Eddard's head spin and Catelyn glare daggers at him whenever they crossed paths. Jon, it turned out, was seriously considering what he'd had to say.

Then, there was his own people. Percy was mad at him for even asking the boy, Alcyone seemed unsurprised and disdainful, Hermione warned him to be careful, and he'd even reached out to Malfoy only for him to chortle and say that maybe Harry had learned a thing or two about politics, or he was a bloody fool. Harry supposed he should be referring to Malfoy as Draco, given how they were on good terms these days.

"It's rubbish how they treat him, so no, I'm not sorry at all."

"Harry, you are my friend and I've been unbelievably patient through your retreat from our society, so keep that in mind when I say what the bloody hell are you thinking?" Percy was pacing, throwing his arms into the air gesticulating as wildly as he did at Quidditch matches. It didn't look nearly as exciting as it did desperate, however. He stopped before Harry, red in the face and spittle on his lips.

"I'm thinking that you're right, I've been hiding and it's pretty shite you've had to come up here and convince me to do my duty by my people. The reason the government is the way it is, caught between some hard place of being known to Westeros but not intervening is due to people like myself not doing what needs to be done." Alcyone had stayed seated and was quiet with a somewhat unreadable expression on her face that looked frozen between happy and disconcerted, if his own powers of observation could be believed.

"You can't take the Stark bastard. No, you just can't, per the charter you git, can't- bloody hell- invite them into our world, it's not to be done, per the charter. So go apologize to him, now, and tell him the whole sodding thing is off!" Percy's anger was unbridled, his sentences slowly having less syntax and more repetition as he spoke.

"The charter says I can have an assistant to help me understand Westeros. We're all entitled to one, should they be consenting, and we can bind them with Unbreakable Vows until we no longer need of them and then obliviate after. I just happen to need Jon now, and will need him indefinitely. Until I get sufficient votes to change the charter, at which point, well, an obliviate will be pointless." Harry smiled beatifically.

"Gormless, daft knob head. Are you sufficiently chuffed having tossed this on our plate, eh? Lost the plot, you have. A right bloody muppet for a wizard!" The veins in Percy's eyes were prominent, and very red from shouting. Maybe a concern that they'd pop out right then and there, but not before Percy fell over from a stress-induced seizure, if those were even a thing.

His friend would have kept on raving too, were it not for the urgent knocking on his quarters. Alcyone must have disliked hearing Percy's yelling equally as much, for she flicked her wand and the door slammed open, startling the person on the other side and silencing Percy.

"M'lords, m'Lady. There's been an accident. Young Bran, he's fallen from the broken tower!"

"Jon, with me." Harry wasn't a great actor, and he'd always been a terrible liar until he'd gotten a few more lessons on Occlumency after the war. Standard Auror training, and it had gone much smoother than Snape's aggressive forays into Harry's conscience. Still, it had been difficult to pretend he wasn't going to save that child, no matter what.

Percy had fixed his blood shot eyes on him, knowing exactly what Harry was thinking the moment that servant opened the door. He'd had Alcyone ward his room, her magical affinity to his own magic through House Black making them stronger than Percy's. He'd made cursory attempts to bring them down with a goodly amount of effort to prove to them that he was trying to get out, but was failing to do so. Such subterfuge would have been lost on him when he was at Hogwarts. If he hadn't tried at all, it would have been suspicious.

They'd brought his meals to him, at first apprehensive that he'd take his wand to either of them in order to get out, but as the days passed and he didn't attack, they stopped being as wary for their person. Honestly, if he didn't already have a way out he would have hexed them all the way to Dorne and back again. Plus, he couldn't be the first person to save someone from a life-threatening injury? How had Parvati gotten away with it then? Maybe it was because she had some plausible deniability that Doran had gotten better on his own. Or she played the political game better than he and had gotten dispensation for it. But if that were true, why wouldn't they let him help?

As if they could stop him anyway.

A little known fact about the Invisibility Cloak, the most innocuous of the Hallows, was that it hid your entire magical presence from most detection, enabling its owner to pass through any wards. Granted, if you were within a House's wards that didn't want you in there, you couldn't take the cloak off without nasty consequences. Nor could you find a home charmed with the Fidelius. Point was, there were limitations to its abilities, but here and now, it was perfect for making his escape. Even if using it would mean he gave up his advantage with the cloak for later when they inevitably questioned him on how he left the room.

I'll go with you. If you save him. I'm your man.

Jon had come to him all in a rush in the hours after Bran had been taken by the Maester to a room to assess what had happened to the poor boy's body. It made Harry think on Dumbledore and how as much as the man had abided by the greater good, he had been manipulative, if self-aware of it. Like Harry felt he was now.

The moment that he heard of Bran's fall, he knew Jon was his. The boy would come to him, just like Harry would have given his life for his family, and ask for Bran's life, his whole and uncrippled life, in return for service. Maybe Dumbledore had made mistakes in the past with the similar brand of trust that Harry had put in him, and maybe Harry was taking advantage of Jon when he wasn't sure if the boy wanted to come with him in the first place. But he did know that Jon would have a better life with him. Maybe not safer, not all the time, but more fulfilling. No, Jon wasn't a wizard, but that didn't mean he couldn't know the joy of magic. It was a little more than Albus had offered Harry; the man had tried to preserve his sense of innocence until the very end, long past the point where perhaps it would have been good to divulge that Harry had been a Horcrux.

Now the boy strode determinedly behind him, stoic but anxious. They had little time before they were to leave with Eddard. As they entered the room, Lady Catelyn, who hadn't left Bran's side turned her head slowly towards them, like a tired but alert owl.

"What are you doing here?" Her eyes were only for Jon and Harry knew this could get bad, quickly, with a grief-stricken mother who was probably praying for the accident to have happened to Jon instead.

"Silencio." For a moment, she opened and closed her jaw, fingers clenching at her dressing gown.

"Better idea actually. Incarcerous, Stupefy. Jon, in here." His new assistant moved into the room carefully, almost disbelieving that he wasn't being kicked out, eyes fixated on his brother. Which it was for the best, because Catelyn was looking at Jon with intense hatred that told Harry she would have banished him after trying to annihilate the boy with words. He had counted on the Lady Stark being uncooperative from the get-go. It was strange to think of a grown woman who was only a bit older than him being a bully, even if he could somewhat understand her pain.

"Ok, hang tight to Bran's legs, he won't kick or anything, but just make sure he doesn't move too much if he does." Harry had a bad feeling about this. Outside the window, Bran's wolf howled away, a fraught cry of loneliness and loss winding its way upward to the tower.

Casting a diagnostic spell, Harry could see the usual issues that would come from not eating more than water and honey for the past four days, along with poorly mending bones and nerve damage along the spine. Thank goodness Hermione had put together his emergency potions, and had worried so much about Harry she'd included some of the rarer concoctions, as well as her own discoveries to mend a wizard's magical core and body.

As long as the spinal injury was fresh, there was a good chance Bran could regain movement in his lower limbs. The injury was in his lower lumbar region, which would leave him the use of his arms and some of his torso without treatment. Truly fortuitous it was, that Brand hadn't nicked an artery with a bone shard and bled out inside his own leg.

A bottle of Skele-gro, some nutrient potions, and a few other nameless ones that Hermione had developed for nerve damage were tipped into Bran's mouth as Harry cradled him, Jon watching avidly.

"He can't swallow!"

"I know, don't worry, I've got this." There was a spell that could make a live body swallow potions while in any state. It'd be daft if someone died because they couldn't get liquid down, and wizards had figured that out long ago. It was part of why magicals shook their heads in disgust at injecting anything into a body with a needle, or the cutting into a person, which they considered barbaric. Wand pointed at Bran's throat, the boy began to down the contents of each tipped bottle, the only movement his undulating neck.

From there, Harry cast a diagnostic on Bran's head, expecting some amount of damage to the cranium. Instead, his skull lit up like Yule in the Great Hall of Hogwarts with pure magic. The wolf cried again, a painful, mewling yowl.

"Jon, whatever happens now, you have to watch the door. Bran's going to be fine, but I need you to not let anyone disturb me. I have to concentrate." It was that same magic from Freki, but this time it was in the boy. And it was one thing to modify an animal's mind to make it easier to exist within it. It was an abomination to suborn the will of a child. And the best part is that Percy couldn't even fault him for saving the child now. Afterall, he had magic crawling inside his head like some kind of parasite, and that was a wizard's domain.

"She's going to kill me after this!"

"She won't remember, trust me. All she'll know is that Bran woke up and his legs are repaired." The boy looked green around the gills when Harry shot him a glance, not contradicting Harry, before hustling to the door.



Harry stood in the darkness, a black starless night that stretched and yawned wide around him. Whatever amounted to floor gave way underneath him and he started to fall. It was Quidditch, the year the dementors attacked and he had plummeted to the ground, colors passing before his eyes. This time it didn't matter if his eyes were open or shut. He fell, and fell more, no ground in sight.

Wake up!

And if you don't?

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, from inside his very bones. You don't own this space, he thought. Tugging and grasping, he latched onto the magic that pervaded the emptiness around him and twisted.

A thousand cries rang out, melodic and agonized. Like an arresto momentum, his descent slowed and the space around him became a thick muck, slipping into his mouth, slimy and cold.

Around him, the black turned grey and misty, his breath coming out in short huffs of white. A single, bloody red eye opened in front of him, bearing down with a power that felt like a mountain, or a river. By the hundreds, more eyes opened to see, yellow, green moss, brown.


The thousand eyes and one were leaves on a weirwood that stretched across the sky, and they bristled away from the light, swaying on their branches as the carved face with the eye bled and glowed so very close to his own. His lips brushed the grotesque carving of the white tree, the sap sticky and hot on his skin.

You are not in the song.

The sound scraped across his lungs, reverberating down in his gut, settling low and heavy in his being. This voice could make it true, it could write him out of the very world, could consume the last of him and rewrite the last vestiges of Harry Potter into the song until no one would remember the notes that made him. They would never sing of him again.

Bran, he choked out. The Weirwood's blood slid down his throat then, seeking his viscera, winding and weaving its way through his magic. Lapping up memories as it oozed through, as Harry fought against it with Occlumency.

Harry's hand on the hearthstone of Grimmauld place, whispering to tendrils of glowing power that were entrenched in the home, telling them to shrink smaller than the laws of physics would ever have allowed, if it had a say in magic. Curtains and rugs rolled up, walls groaned and peeled back like a filthy grey flower, opening itself to the sky above. Everything melting into itself until all that was left was Harry, a bubblehead charm and a midnight-jewel that ate all the light around it settled in his hand. Elsewhere, a handful of pureblood wizards stood in their homes and did the same.

There was Hermione, telling him that he needed to stand in front of the Veil and recite the words. He was- something-, and it meant that he could command the gate to be more than what it was. No one had to know, she said, she would tell Kingsley that she'd cracked the code. It wasn't like Hermione to take credit, but in this they were agreed; knowledge of the Hallows caused enmity between fellow wizards. Best that their continued existence stay quiet.

Gasping, Harry barely managed to withhold the fact that he was the Master of Death from whatever entity was trawling his memories. Whatever it was, was as sleek as a carapace, difficult to grasp, and its seeking a patient thrum through all of his flesh. It rumbled through him, thirsty for more of his mind, as he attempted to lock every door against the crawling, scuttling motion of it inside himself.

Drowning in the weight of the ancient magic, he heard a boy cry.

I can't!


Wet and warm, his mouth was latched onto the carving's lips, consuming its poison, white trunk firm and its red eye staring sightlessly above his head. Arms weak and heavy, he lifted his wand to point at himself.

Ascendio! It was the spell he'd used to blast himself up from the depths of the Black Lake in the Triwizard tournament, and the first one he thought to use.

Shooting up, his lips wrenched away from the gory elixir that was invading his very soul, skin tearing from where he'd begun to lose himself inside the white bark. The air became clear and free from whatever magic had held him in its clutches as he flew upwards wildly. Summoning his broom, or a mental-magic approximation of one, it appeared in this in-between place that was now a battleground with minimal effort.

Transmutation of foreign magic was not unheard of, but could only be done with preparation. The magic inside him that wasn't his had weakened him, and his own power's effort to purge it had gripped his body like a fever.

It's just a dream.

Behind him he heard the croak of a crow and Bran's voice. Turning around he saw them there, suspended amidst the black. Harry didn't have the staying power to fight with the magic that had so recently tried to consume him utterly.

Accio Bran! He shouted desperately, his mouth thick with his own blood. The boy's body wrenched out of orbit, speeding towards him. Behind him the crow flew after, croaking and calling out for the boy. Fly, fly, fly.

But it was too late for the bird, and as Harry saw the third eye, red and bloody, emblazoned on the crow, Bran's body crashed into his and they fell down and down together.

"Jon... " He'd thrown himself back onto the floor when the connection between himself, Bran and that thing dissolved, slumping down into exhaustion. The boy tripped over his own feet to find his way to Harry's side, scooping up the older man into a sitting position.

"Did it work? Whatever that was, is he going to be ok?"

"I think so, but I need Lord Weasley and Lady Black. My right pocket, pull out the coin in it." Groping blindly for purchase, his entire body shook from exertion and magical core drainage. Jon helped him peel himself off the floor, his hands finding a grip on the boy's arms. Never, not in a million years, had he ever felt his magic so precariously low. The emptiness of it burned in his chest and up to his throat, like the worst heartburn combined with a punch to the gut. He didn't even trust himself to obliviate Lady Stark.

Helped to one of the chairs that had made their home beside Bran's bed, Jon then delicately put his hand into the pocket, which was extendable. Smirking a little, Harry watched as Jon first put his hand all the way up to his wrist, then down to his elbow, the boy's eyes widening like dinner plates at the impossibility of it. Still, he successfully retrieved the coin and presented it to Harry, who took it in his trembling fingers and called with a sliver of magic.

It was painful. So painful to let even a tiny trickle of his magic out with his core depleted and warped, that he winced and grimaced, dropping the Protean Dragon to the floor. His heart pounding and temples throbbing, Jon was shooting him concerned glances as he wavered between checking on his brother and Harry.

Lady Stark was where in the same place Harry left her, angry tears coursing down her thin and haggard face. It was the last thing he saw before toppling over into a startled Jon.

"He'll wake up soon, I think. That last enervate was three times the amount I usually put into it."

The world was slightly blurry as his eyes peeked through heavy lids, and he groaned. Best let them know the enervate had worked, because being hit with one while awake felt like overdosing on pepper-up. He blinked, seeking out the faces of his minders.

"Harry." Hermione breathed his name, her lightly freckled face and brown hair, less frizzy these days, greeting him. Percy glowered at him from the door frame before turning on his heel and stalking out of the room. Harry glanced at his friend and she shrugged amiably with only a little tension in her shoulders.

"Hermione, how'd they convince you to come up here where it's cold?" He mumbled and pushed himself up to a sitting position as carefully as he could. The blood rushed back down from his head and he felt slightly dizzy.

"Since you almost damaged your core and encountered foreign magic, it didn't take much effort. I hate to be the bearer of ill tidings, but you're summoned to the Wizengamot in immediate to provide your memories." Harry looked around. He was in his bedroom, with only Hermione, now that Percy had gone off to sulk.

"Like bloody hell I'm leaving this second, Percy can wait. Where's Jon? Is Bran all right?" Hermione glanced at her watch, something her parents had given her and Harry knew she hadn't taken off since they'd gotten here. Hadn't even changed the time on it either.

"We've got about twenty minutes. Jon was taken to King's Landing with the others after taking and Unbreakable Vow with Percy, Alcyone as the binder. Bran woke up almost immediately after you collapsed from magical exhaustion, doesn't remember a thing. I was able to make it up here within the hour and examine the both of you. There was nothing in his mind from the fall, or what was happening while he was comatose. It's like he was obliviated." Catching his bearings fully now, Harry went to stand up and get dressed.

"Keep talking, where is Bran now? Did someone deal with Lady Stark?"

"Bran is in King's Landing awaiting further examination, though it unlikely will be helpful. He's thoroughly ensconced behind blood wards in an attempt to keep out any foreign magic. There's something more to him now, more magical, but we haven't had the chance to determine what. Lady Stark has been given dispensation for Portkey access to Bran until we're ready to send him home and Catelyn's memories were modified after viewing. There is some tension in all this, politically." She stopped, waiting for Harry to finish buttoning up his robes after quickly scourgifying his body. It wasn't a spell meant for cleaning up skin, but during the war it had suited them when they couldn't bathe. He was used to the roughness of it.

"So, politics?" Completely dressed now, he started grabbing things he'd want to take with him. His Moleskin pouch, his old wand with the phoenix feather instead of the Elder Wand, which he tucked into his charmed pocket.

"It's been difficult to convince these people that we had nothing to do with the boy's fall. It's been accepted that his injury was magical in nature, but trying to explain that it wasn't us to highborn parties that haven't seen magic in this world in their entire lives has been an uphill battle. The only real good we have out of it, is that you saved Bran and he's fully recuperated, even if he's missing his memories."

"Looks like we've got our work cut out for us then."

"You're coming to take your seat at the Wizengamot?"

"Yeah, aren't you?"

"I guess I am." She blushed.

"And Malfoy?" He smirked at her knowingly. Another flush of red crossed her cheeks.

"Yes, him too."

"Good. I'm glad. Also pretty happy you've decided not to lecture me about my magical core and my 'saving people' issue cropping up again." He teased her, reminiscing of the times she'd warned him to not go running off into danger at the drop of a hat.

"Your lecture is forthcoming Harry. Don't think I've forgotten!" She sniffed, a little more haughty and righteous than she'd even been as an eleven year old when they'd first met. Probably because she was right more often, and about this. He deserved to be yelled at a bit, and he supposed Hermione probably was the best person to make him feel at least a little foolish for rushing in like he had.

"I need to meet with Draco after the Wizengamot, privately, and I don't want others knowing that I am. Do you think you could help?"

"Of course. And Harry, I took the liberty of restoring your potions bag. I'll call Draco now." She pulled out a two-way mirror, and Harry had a flash of sadness for friends and family lost who had once held their own mirrors.


"Princess." Harry rolled his eyes and exited his bedroom, not wanting to get in the middle of their flirting. Which mostly involved Draco saying incendiary things and Hermione getting more and more worked up until she threatened him with bodily harm. At which point, Draco would smile with too many teeth, delighted, and dare her to. Harry really didn't want to think much about what happened afterward.

Percy was seated primly on the couch, looking out of place on the fluffy and inviting cushions in his handsomely cut robes. He looked like a general ready for battle, sans Auror bracers and defensively spelled clothing.

"I'd chastise you, but I'm not Hermione, nor am I in the habit of doing things I consider to be a waste of time."

"You're learning, Percy!" Harry grinned broadly. He waved his hand at Harry in a gesture of long-suffering patience.

"The real issue is the cloak. I can tell you right now what's going to happen. It's an artifact, and all artifacts of use to our collective society, besides those which are inherited by right of blood, are on permanent loan to the Wizengamot."

"Well, Iolanthe Peverell married Hardwin Potter and the Cloak came down from Ignotious' line. It's mine by rights and I think given the way the Hallows make even the most well intentioned people absolutely barmy, it's best it stay with someone who wouldn't use it for ill. If they don't agree, just bring up Voldemort as being one of those loonies, then Grindelwald." What he didn't want to say was that he'd tried to 'give' the cloak to both Hermione and Ron, for safe keeping. Instead the blasted thing turned up in his drawers, closets, and one time in the shower. It liked, if an inanimate and mindless object could, being on his person or around him. Like some kind of a lost, but bloody useful, puppy.

He also very much did not want to mention the wand and black gem that sat heavy in his pockets. They too, wouldn't leave his side.

"They'll argue that the artifact's power is too much for one family, that its status should make it belong to the collective, as we have so few things left to our people. Failing that, they'll change the laws. You should have never revealed it."

"Who knows? You? Hermione?"


"Ah, well, so everyone."

"Everyone who matters and isn't on your side, yes." Sighing, Harry moved to sit down, summoning an armchair from nearby to rustle over to him.

It all came down to whether Percy was truly on their side. He'd never be a replacement for Ron, just as Draco wasn't. But perhaps it was time to let more people in on the secrets they'd kept since Hogwarts. From his bedroom, he could hear his best friend's laughter through the Muffliato. Times weren't perfect, but they were getting better. His first goal was to reconnect with his daughter, and begin making a life for them, the one he'd denied when he'd lost Ginny and his sons. And his second was to finally integrate the wizarding world with everyone else. To offer the good things within it to the masses, and improve everyone's lot. For this to happen, he needed more than himself.

With that, he decided to tell Percy about the nature of the cloak, at least. He considered an Unbreakable Vow, or some other binding oath, but he would honestly rather just learn if he could trust the man in front of him to keep his secrets. Though a small niggling sense of doubt reminded him that his parents had trusted Pettigrew once, and look where it got them. This, however, was a small matter. If the Wizengamot found out it couldn't have the cloak because the cloak wouldn't have them, what would they even be able to do?

"It won't matter. The cloak won't leave my side for long, quite literally. It's been tested, and you know how thorough Hermione is."

"You mean, it's bound to you as though it's a familiar?"

"Something like that, yeah. They can't own it, it already has a master and would never stay locked up. Trust me."

"Trust you."

"Ok, ok, we once put the damn thing in a Gringotts vault and it still showed up an hour later, cheeky thing that it is. Pretty sure there's nothing here that will contain it or stop it from finding its way back to me." Percy grinned then, and he looked a little like Ron when he did so.

"You're telling me, you could… willingly surrender the cloak, and it wouldn't stay with them, yes? Do you think you could make it stay somewhere with your will for long enough that its loss wouldn't be tied to you?"

"Oh. Oh that's clever. That, I think I can do." He pulled the cloak out, allowing it to swirl tantalizingly in front of Percy. Sometimes he suspected the thing liked to show off. It was mostly the deep color of wine, but had whorls of patterns climbing up from the base of the garment to blend in with the dark purple. It was exactly as it had been the first day he received it at Hogwarts.

"May I?"

"Sure. It's got limitations. Mad-Eye was always able to see it, or at least see something. Hominum Revelio or versions of the charm reveal your presence."

"Mad-Eye had the eye of Odin."

"Is it actually made by a god? I mean, I don't even know if the cloak was made by Death or not."

"The Wizengamot is out on that one. I've read all our documentation on it, and it seems like it's held up to a lot of testing, but with no way to confirm its origins. It hasn't worked for anyone since Mad-Eye died either." Harry suspected, but did not wish to confirm, that the eye of Odin required a sacrifice, probably the holder's eye in return for its activation throughout that person's life. The Hallows had needed him to accept death willingly, that much he'd been able to discern. He didn't quite think he was immortal either, but he had mastery over some things related to death. Including the Veil. It was the dementors avoiding him, however, that clued him into the matter.

He still felt the numbing cold and sensation of all the love and warmth being shucked from him when he encountered one. But they failed to focus their empty stares his direction, passing over him as if he didn't exist. If it had been anyone but Ron with him the first time that happened, his secret might have been found outright. After, it was Hermione who insisted that he test the limits of his abilities and Ginny who made him follow through.

It was a good thing that dementors hadn't come with them. Not that anyone had tried.

Percy's hands ran the length of the cloak, admiring the soft pile of it and the thrumming veins of magic woven into every stitch. He knew exactly what it felt like to hold it and look; it was exultation, jubilant and wild, the cumulation of magic into something so precious and beautiful that defied attempts to deconstruct or destroy it. Artifacts like this were aspired to, worshipped, coveted. They defined what the pinnacle of what their society should look like, according to wizard mores. Their use was often secondary to the inspiration that possessing them provided.

"Thank you." Percy said finally, gently passing it back to Harry as he deliberately looked away from the garment.

"You're welcome. Want to flesh out the plan further?"

"Yes, is Hermione still on the mirror?" Harry shrugged helplessly at Percy, not willing to interrupt his friend. Percy had no such compunctions and sent a small stinging hex that George had invented to seek out a specific person within the caster's radius. It was helpful for 'poking' people in class who might be sitting behind you and not be caught with your wand facing them.

It reached Hermione and there was a muffled shout and some rustling before she stormed out of the room.


"Wait, no, that wasn't me."

"I already put up with Draco, and I certainly don't need you joining in."

"But it really wasn't me!"

"And you expect me to believe it was Percy?" The soul of innocence, Percy looked wide eyed at Harry and then Hermione, guileless.

"Sorry Hermione." He apologized. It wasn't an argument he could win. But he glared at Percy and when Hermione crossed behind Percy as she walked, the least mischievous of the Weasley clan had the gall to wink at him.

It occurred to Harry, that being less than gregarious in the Weasley family was to have your identity shrunk into whatever space was left in their dynamic. Ron had always struggled with who he was next to his more dangerous and outgoing older brothers, serious Percy and the larger than life twins. Even Ginny competed with him on the basis that she was a bloody good flier and the only girl. If Percy didn't have a sense of humor, it would have been because there wasn't any room left for him to have it. It made Harry miss the whole rest of the Weasley clan terribly, and then alternatively feel guilt that their passing had allowed a person like Percy to express a more playful side. He tried to imagine Ron in this world, and felt the distant ache that Ron would have been good at keeping the rest of them going. Keeping them all together instead of continually stuck picking up the pieces of their broken lives.

Still, he wasn't going to let Percy get away with it. He'd have to think up something suitably good to prank him with. It's what Ron would have done. Harry wasn't above some dung bombs.

Hermione settled into her own chair and it shrugged itself around her to help get her comfortable.

"We've got about ten minutes before you go before the Wizengamot. I think you should hand over the cloak, a sign of good faith, and call it to you later. Don't let them make you swear oaths to give them mastery over the cloak, you are lending it only. I'm not sure what would happen if you did, but I think given the nature of, well, everything, it would come back anyway." Hermione was trying not to mention his status as Master of Death. Neither of them were sure if he could give away the cloak permanently.

"And when the cloak disappears?" Harry asked.

"That's the tricky part. I'd say you should call it back to you in a specific location. We've been able to get that to work before, but try to pick two or three spots for the cloak to go to. It will pick one, go there and you would be able to omit the truth by saying you don't know where the cloak is, exactly. Of course you'll need places where you won't run into it happenstance, like your trunks or library. Or even one of our room's trunks. They'd have to ask you if you might know where it is if they question you under oath. You've resisted the imperious before and you're an Occlumens, I'm sure that the oath won't be able to hold you as tightly, as they'd never be authorized to use the kind of oath that would." Hermione had the same idea as Percy, which was unsurprising.

"Worst comes to worse and I bollocks this up, I'll just say it won't stay put and keeps coming back to me." He sighed.

"Let's not let it come to that point if we can help it. We'll play it like Hermione said and get through it."

Harry sighed again, and stood up with the rest of them, Percy extending the Portkey out in front of him.

"Are you ready then?" Calling his trunks to him as a few more items marched their way inside before the lids closed tight and belted up, Harry nodded in agreement, the heavy suction of the Portkey taking the three of them to King's Landing.