notes: surprised? yeah, me too. hope you guys enjoy this extremely belated chapter and the ridiculous plot being set up! i wish i could promise another update any time soon but, you know. thank you so much to everyone who reviewed though, i read all of them and they always give me the inspiration to keep writing 3

He was dreaming. This, he knew from the hazy feeling of light all around him, like he could lift off from the ground and start flying without a broom. When he opened his eyes, he was standing alone in a room—no, more like a hall, vast and golden and decorated with twinkling silver lights.

Harry looked down. The floor beneath his feet was white wood, but not hard or bumpy to walk on. He was barefoot, as he had been when he'd fallen asleep.

Because Mum would scold me if I wore shoes in bedrooms, you'll get the carpets dirty, Harry, and that's just making more work for the house elves…

But this was not the bedroom he had been in. For one thing, there were no beds. For another, it wasn't crowded with the faces of his family and their family friends. And for a third, it was unlike any room he knew in Queenswood.

And I know most of them, if not all. Wouldn't do for an heir of the House to be lost in his own family's ancestral home.

Shaking thoughts of his home from his mind, Harry focused again on where he was, in this dream. He was alone, still wearing the clothes he had been when he'd touched the griffin cub, and done—whatever it was he had done to Sirius that had brought him back.

And that griffin… I wonder where—

As if the thought had summoned him, the shape of a griffin appeared in the hazy distance, unmistakable with its wings and lion-like body, although as Harry moved forward, the griffin seemed to no longer be a cub; it was growing and shifting, wings lengthening and becoming more powerful to carry the body of a full-grown lion.

He never got close enough to touch it, even with his feet leading him straight down to the griffin. The closer he got, the more the griffin grew, and then it turned and began bounding off down the hall.

Well, I have nothing else to do but follow him…

As he walked, the murals on the hallway came into focus – deep swirls of red over the gilded walls, forming shapes like fire and mountains, some runes he didn't recognize. About five paces down from where he started, a portrait appeared down the hall.

Harry stopped when he got to it. The portrait was his own face.

He blinked. The Harry in the picture frame looked back, stoic as ever. He was standing in what looked like his backyard, wearing a shirt and jeans, holding his favorite broom, his Firebolt. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. Underneath his portrait was a plaque that read: Harry James Potter. 1980—

That's strange, I guess, but this is a dream… right?

In the distance, the griffin made a noise that seemed like a "Come on!" so Harry shook the startlement and kept walking.

Next to his portrait, another appeared. This one, when he stopped and stared at it, was of his father, laughing next to the Great Lake of Hogwarts. Behind him, there were three shadows that might be the other three Marauders, if you squinted. His plaque read: James Daniel Potter. 1960—

Well, that's definitely weirder.

An inkling of what was happening prickled at the back of his mind as he kept walking. Sure enough, the third portrait that appeared was of his grandfather, Fleamont Potter, brandishing his wand with a cheerful flourish at an off-screen enemy, his dark hair in disarray. On his plaque was written: Fleamont Henry Potter. 1908—1979.

Since his grandfather was dead, Harry took the chance and said, "Hi, Granddad."

Fleamont's hazel eyes flicked to him, but he said nothing.

Maybe they're not the kind of portraits that talk back.

The griffin was still going, so Harry followed. His great-grandfather—recognizable by that dark hair and his father's hazel eyes—was the fourth portrait, dressed in significantly more old-fashioned wizarding robes. As he went on though, the faces became less and less familiar, changing from Potter genes to whatever the bloodline had been before they got their name.

The hall seemed endless. His feet were getting tired the deeper he walked. At one point, next to a portrait of a fierce-looking brunette woman who must have been twenty generations removed from him, he stopped against the wall and sank down to his knees, needing a break.

Immediately, the griffin doubled back and fluttered down to sit next to him. Harry heaved a sigh as the animal pressed its head insistently against his arm, nudging him.

"I'm tired, okay?" he said, but opened his arms so the griffin could fit its head there. "What's your name anyway? Can't just call you 'the griffin' all day, even if this is only inside my head."

The griffin made a noise that seemed like the verbal equivalent of a shrug. Harry ran his fingers absentmindedly through the griffin's golden fur.

"I don't even know if you're a girl or a boy so it'll have to be a gender neutral name, huh? What about…" He cast around, searching. The hall offered him no clues. "What about Cass? Then you can be a Cassian or a Cassandra. Pretty sure I passed both of those names somewhere down there anyway."

Seeming amenable to this, Cass let out a purr, then bumped its head into Harry's shoulder gently. His exhaustion seemed to fade immediately at the touch.

"Is that your thing? Making me feel better?" Harry asked. Cass did it again and, sure enough, his legs seemed ready to stand again. "All right, then. Off we go again."

He walked and walked for ages, or what felt like ages. He supposed dreams have no real sense of time. The portraits grew more and more ancient-looking, although none of them ever seemed to have dust. The surnames on the plaques had changed so many times he'd stopped keeping track, but he seemed to have walked past at least fifty generations of Potter heirs before the griffin finally stopped.

The very last portrait was hanging on a deep red wooden door. Inside the portrait was a man with a lion's mane of reddish-brown hair and laugh lines around his golden eyes, dressed in red robes and carrying a silver sword. There was a griffin sleeping peacefully at his legs, sunshine slanting over the both of them. In the distance, there was a woman with wild red hair and the silhouette of two boys near her.

On the plaque were the words: Godric Amadeus Gryffindor. 990—1074.

Harry stared at the portrait. Godric Gryffindor looked right at him and smiled. Slowly, Harry turned his head to look back down through the hallway, at all the portraits that lined the wall, all the way down to where he knew his own picture was hanging, and then he looked back.

This makes no sense.

Cass's head pushed gently against his knees, half in comfort and half in command. Harry turned to look at the griffin, unsure if he was meant to go through the door or not, and his gaze caught on another portrait before he could figure it out.

The second to last portrait on the wall was of a man who looked very similar to Godric Gryffindor, in the way that Harry looked very similar to James. He had dark red hair swept across his forehead and blue eyes he must have inherited from his mother set in a strong-featured face. His backdrop was what looked like a wild grove, Hogwarts rising as a shadow in the distance, and there was a silver dagger in his hands as he carved a piece of wood into a wand.

His plaque named him: Julius Godric Gryffindor. 1015—1075.

"Handsome fellow, isn't he?"

Harry jumped and whirled around, reaching for his wand on instinct.

The man standing behind him only smiled. He looked an awful lot like Julius, only slightly skewed, the way Harry and Tristan looked similar but not alike. His hair was a lighter, browner red and his eyes were as golden as Godric Gryffindor's, but his sloping nose and high cheekbones matched Julius perfectly. The main difference was that he was dressed in ordinary muggle clothes, where Julius wore robes.

"Relax," said the man, knocking Harry's wand down with a light touch. "Magic isn't gonna work here the way it does in the real world."

"The real world?" Harry repeated. "Where am—"

He was cut off by Cass letting out a sound that could only be described as a yelp of joy and flying up and straight at the man for the griffin version of a hug, which involved a lot of licking and petting and excited keening.

"It's good to see you, too, buddy," said the man warmly, scratching Cass' head before carefully stepping away from the griffin. "Sorry, you had a question?"

"I had a lot of questions," Harry muttered, watching as Cass curled up around the man's legs and purred contentedly. "Who are you? Where am I? Am I dreaming? Am I dead? Why is there a picture of Godric Gryffindor here?"

"All good questions." The man held up five fingers and began to count them down. "My name is Edan Gryffindor. This is a dream world. You are dreaming. You're not dead. Dad's just here for show." Once his hand was a fist he smiled at Harry. "Does that help?"

"Barely," Harry muttered, but now that he had company and somebody to talk things out with instead of just his own thoughts, he was starting to feel a little more grounded. Even if this man was only a figment of his imagination. "So, you're Godric Gryffindor's son? Why am I dreaming of you?"

"Come on, Harry, you're a smart boy." Edan gestured down the hallway he had walked, at the fifty generations of portraits. "Surely you've figured it out by now."

I have… but that doesn't mean it makes sense.

"Why don't you put it in simple terms for me?" Harry suggested.

Edan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, moving past him to look at the portrait of Godric—of his father. "As simple terms as I can get them: you're here because you're an Heir of Gryffindor. This is the hall of your ancestors. It only exists in dreams, but it's still real. And I am here because I have a mission for you. And a gift."

With a flourish, he pressed the brass door handle and let the door swing open. Harry turned to look inside and found himself staring into what looked like a study—leather sofas, armchairs, a wooden desk in the center, walls lined with bookshelves, and lamps glowing golden. There were two men sitting on one of the couches, engaged in quiet conversation.

One of them had short, dark hair and green eyes half-hidden behind glasses, a similarity too close for Harry to be comfortable with. He didn't look familiar, aside from looking like a fun-house mirror reflection of Harry himself—tall, lanky, dressed in green, but just different enough that they didn't look related.

And the other one…

"Padfoot," Harry breathed, and in the next moment he had crossed the room without even planning to. "You're alive."

"I'm alive," Sirius agreed, and wrapped his arms around Harry in a hug so tight, he could suffocate from the amount of love. "Thanks to you, kiddo. All thanks to you."

"I don't know what I did," Harry admitted, pulling back to study Sirius' face—just as bright and alive as he remembered it. "And why are you in my dream?"

"Special circumstances," Sirius said with a grin, ruffling his hair. "I was sort of caught between worlds while I was asleep and this is, let's say, a place for the in-betweeners." His face darkened momentarily. "Not necessarily by choice."

"Am I in between?" Harry asked, brow furrowed. I don't remember almost dying, but then again, that doesn't mean I didn't…

"Yes, but not because of anything bad," Sirius assured him. "Did you know you're the Heir of Gryffindor?"

"I surmised, yes," said Harry dryly. "From the hall of portraits down there."

Which still doesn't really explain… anything. Like why Dad didn't tell me, or Tristan.

A memory came to him, suddenly, of being down in the Chamber of Secrets and watching the ghost of a boy from many years ago declare himself the Heir of Slytherin, the same boy who would become…

Maybe that's why he didn't.

Voldemort has enough reasons to hate us.

That memory transplanted itself with an image of the other man in the room currently, whom he hadn't paid nearly enough attention to since he'd noticed Sirius. Now that he looked closely, the man looked less like himself and more like Tom Riddle than anything else.

Although Riddle and I look uncomfortably similar anyway.

"Sebastian," said the man, upon noticing his staring, and extended a hand. "Sebastian Slytherin, if it matters."

Harry did not shake his hand. "Sorry?"

Sebastian's lips quirked in a fascimile of a smirk. "And here I thought the Slytherin Potter would be a bit more polite."

"Knock it off, Seb," Edan warned. "Sorry about him, he's… a Slytherin."

Harry couldn't work out if he should be offended or not, so he turned to Sirius instead so he didn't have to worry about it. "Are you going to tell me what I'm doing here?"

"You have a choice to make," said Sirius, and suddenly all traces of humor were gone from his face. He lowered his voice. "You used Edan's griffin to bring me back to life. That's the sort of thing you need a trade for. A debt."

Harry narrowed his eyes, looking around to where Edan and Sebastian were standing nearby. Edan had a bottle of beer in his hand and smiled at him cheerfully. Cass was curled up at his feet, purring in contentment.

"I didn't plan to use his griffin," Harry protested. "Cass just showed up. And how is that his griffin if he's been dead for a thousand years?"

"Funny story," Edan piped up. "Griffins can reincarnate, like phoenixes. Zephyr—sorry, Cass—has been waiting here in the dreamscape for a worthy Gryffindor Healer to require his services, and here you are."

"Things happen for a reason, Harry," Sebastian said, and raised his glass in a toast. "You'll find that's the explanation for a lot of things, being an Heir of the Founders."

Harry frowned at both of them, then at Cass. "Okay, fine. I borrowed your griffin. What's the price, then?"

"Well, you did use Cass to save Sirius' life," began Edan haltingly.

Sirius set a hand on Harry's shoulder before he could snap at his ancestor. His touch calmed him down almost immediately.

But this isn't fair—I didn't know I was making a bargain.

But, needled another voice in his head, sounding suspiciously like Remus, wouldn't you have made any bargain to save Padfoot's life? No matter what the cost?

Maybe… but I would have at least liked to know the cost first. That was, after all, how Slytherins liked to do things.

"The price," Sirius told him quietly, "is that you help them save Hogwarts."

Edan smiled again. "We call it the mission of the Heirs."

Queenswood Manor

"How long is he going to be like that?" Elissa asked. The fire glittered off her red hair where she sat curled up next to it, Tristan solemn at her side.

Sirius rubbed his eyes and offered her a tired smile. "He'll wake up soon. He just used up a lot of energy with that little stunt."

And he's busy shooting questions at the children of the Founders, but that's another issue.

Harry was still sitting slumped in his chair, Cass curled up quietly in his lap. Nothing at all seemed to be happening from this side, but Sirius knew he had left his godson alone in the dreamscape, trying to piece together the puzzle that Edan and Sebastian were giving him.

I suppose I have my dear cousin Bella to thank for that.

"You kids should go get something to eat," James suggested. There were murmurings from the four of them, but he sent the kids a look and soon enough, Tristan, Elissa, Ron, and Hermione all filed out to go find Lily and the others. Sirius waited until the door clicked shut behind them before turning to James.

"You never told me you were the Heir of Gryffindor," he accused.

"I wasn't allowed," James protested. With a deep sigh, he sank down into the chair on the other side of Sirius' bed, across from Harry. "I only had my powers unbound at seventeen, and by then the war was in full swing, and Mum and Dad worried…"

"That if Voldemort found out, he would target you," Sirius finished. He looked over at Harry, his dark hair sliding into his eyes, his glasses slightly askew. A rush of terror washed over him for a second. "But he went after you anyway, without even knowing, didn't he?"

James let out a quiet laugh. "Funny how life works out, huh?"

Sebastian's words echoed in his head: Things happen for a reason. Especially for an Heir of the Founders.

"We shouldn't have kept so many secrets," Sirius mused, twisting his hands in the red blanket at his waist. "From each other… from everyone else."

"No," James agreed, looking sidelong at him. "We shouldn't have. Where were you, when you were asleep?"

"In between worlds, I think." Sirius thought back to that room with the green leather sofas and the mahogany wood everywhere, to Edan and Sebastian sitting there—the son of Gryffindor and the son of Slytherin. "They called it a dreamscape, for the Heirs of the Founders. Said I was there on a fluke, because of the curse Bella put on me, and how Harry stopped her."

"What did he do?" James asked, gaze focused on his son. There was an edge of apprehension to his voice, like he wasn't sure he wanted the answer.

What did Harry do? Good question. What does he ever do?

"Saved my life," said Sirius. "If her curse had worked, I would've frozen and fallen into that Veil and died. Harry pulled me back but he was using raw magic, and it tangled up with Bella's, and mine, and that's why I went comatose. And now he's…" He paused, glancing over at James. "Have you ever dreamed of them?"

"Them who?"

"The sons of Gryffindor and Slytherin."

James' brow furrowed. "No, can't say that I have. Am I supposed to?"

Sirius shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not an Heir."

"Lucky us," James teased. "Who are the sons? I don't think we studied them in History of Magic."

"No, I suppose they've been lost to history." Sirius rubbed his beard, shaking his head. "I don't know, really. Maybe it was all just a dream hallucination."

"I don't know," said James doubtfully. "That was some pretty strong magic back in the Department of Mysteries. I wouldn't be surprised if it was real."

"I guess we'll find out when he wakes up," Sirius said softly.

"Yeah," James agreed, watching his son sleep. "I guess so."