Chapter Text
The icy tendrils of forgotten time had woven themselves into Lily's bones, each ache a stark reminder of an eternity lost. Panic, cold and sharp as a rogue Snitch, clawed at her throat. Where were they? The suffocating darkness pressed in, amplifying every fear, every question. Beside her, a rustle. James, glasses askew, blinked owlishly into the gloom. His hazel eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, mirrored her own terror – wide, raw, and bottomless.
'Lily?' His voice, hoarse from disuse, cracked like a poorly-mended wand. His hand found hers in the inky void, a lifeline in the suffocating dark.
'James! James, where's Harry? Voldemort… he attacked the nursery… he tried to…' Her voice hitched, choked by unshed tears and a terror so profound it tasted like dust and forgotten spells.
He longed to offer comfort, something intelligent, anything. But all he managed was a strangled, 'I… don't know.' His son, his precious boy, gone? Were they trapped in a wooden tomb, the darkness a malevolent entity pressing in? This couldn't be Voldemort's twisted game, could it?
'What do we do?' Lily's voice, though trembling, held a fierce determination that surprised even her. He licked his dry lips, forcing calm into his voice.
'Our wands,' he rasped, the word a lifeline. 'Let's see if we can…'
Five agonizing minutes later, with only two wince-inducing jabs to James's ribs (a testament to the box's cramped quarters, not his clumsiness, thank you very much), Lily freed their wands. She passed his to him, their fingers brushing in a spark of connection that went beyond mere touch.
With a whispered 'Lumos,' the box was flooded with light, momentarily blinding in its intensity. When their eyes adjusted, Lily took in James. His hair, usually an unruly mess of black, was streaked with silver, and new lines etched themselves around his eyes, lines she didn't remember being there. His familiar face seemed older, weathered, like a beloved book read a thousand times.
He longed to hold her, to feel the solid reassurance of her presence, but the confines of the box mocked their desire. 'Okay,' he said, his voice gruff, 'let's get out of here. On my count, three, two, one—'
'Diffindo!' they both cried, the spell echoing in the cramped space.
‘Freedom. Finally, what greeted them outside the box was anything but what they expected. No verdant fields, no familiar warmth of their cottage. Just… a graveyard. A stark, silent graveyard bathed in the vibrant sunlight.
'We're in a graveyard, James!' Lily's voice echoed, disbelief lacing her words. 'But if we're dead, how can we be here? And you…' She trailed off, her gaze lingering on his silvered hair. 'You look different.'
James touched his face, a bewildered frown creasing his brow. 'And you… older.'
Lily stared back, a chilling thought creeping into her mind. Attacked by Voldemort, trapped in a coffin, then waking up looking decades older in a graveyard? Her blood ran cold. Where was Harry? Surely, whoever buried them wouldn't have separated them from their son… unless…
Lily met James's gaze, finding the same unspoken fear reflected there. The terror of their situation multiplied tenfold. Not only were they lost and seemingly aged, but their most precious treasure, their little Harry, was missing. The silence of the graveyard pressed in, heavy and suffocating, pregnant with unspoken questions and a dread that gnawed at their souls. They were adrift in a sea of unknowns, and the only certainty was the cold fear that gripped their hearts like icy fingers. The adventure, it seemed, had just begun, and this time, the stakes were higher than ever.
'Hogwarts,' James said, his voice tight. 'Only Dumbledore can answer our questions now.'
Lily nodded, her hand tightening around his. Hogwarts. A beacon of hope in a sea of shadows. But would the answers they found there be the ones they sought, or something far more sinister? The journey ahead was shrouded in mystery, and the only way to find out was to step forward, wands raised, and face whatever awaited them in the hallowed halls of their alma mater.
Notes:
Okay, so this was story which I was daydreaming about for an achingly long time, and finally wrote the very first chapter! English is not my first language so please forgive me about grammar, and sentence formation. and this is also my very first fic.
And also, there would be refrences and OCs made by @FloreatCastellum, y'll should definitely check her out she has 200+ stories. Sadly, she's retired and I don't know how to ask for permission, but she always used to give it, so I'm taking my chances. Do tell me about the chapter and some suggestions or any element you want to see in upcoming chapters. Constructive criticism is welcomed.
Chapter Text
The weight of a lifetime's worth of owls, full moons, and adolescent wizarding antics pressed down on Professor McGonagall as she surveyed the final day of another Hogwarts year. Wars, lost loves, the echoes of laughter and mourning from generations etched themselves onto her soul like intricate runes. She perched on the stern Headmaster's chair, a monument to duty even on this sun-drenched day.
Outside, the familiar symphony of summer farewells unfolded. Prefects shepherded excited hordes onto the sun-drenched grounds, carriages awaited, and excited chatter hummed like a swarm of honeybees. A glance at her schedule offered the usual end-of-term drudgery: stacks of parchments, meetings with frazzled department heads, and (she winced) Hagrid's latest plea for 'educational' creatures. The man had a heart as wide as the Forbidden Forest, bless him, but his idea of safety often stretched the definition to its breaking point, leading to countless Ministry inquiries and frantic Auror visits.
Just as she envisioned herself wading through Floo Network repair estimates, a sharp rap on the door jolted her back to reality. Her gaze flickered to the schedule – no appointments until afternoon. Who dared an impromptu audience with the Headmistress?
'Come in,' she commanded, her voice laced with a hint of curiosity. Perhaps one of the new professors, brimming with misplaced zeal? Or maybe a student in dire need of a stern talking-to (and a judicious application of detention)? The possibilities, while limited, piqued her interest.
The door creaked open, revealing what could only be described as a collective apparition. Five familiar faces, etched with time but vibrant with life, stood hesitantly on the threshold. A quizzical look mingled with fear and surprise on their faces.
The man who bore an uncanny resemblance to James Potter sheepishly scratched his head. 'Hi Professor, long time no see, eh?'
The air itself seemed to crackle with disbelief. These were her former students, gone decades ago - James and Lily Potter, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, and Sirius Black, heroes who fell tragically in defence of the world. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a gilded cage.
'Who are you? And what kind of joke is this?' she demanded sharply, her voice a whip in the charged silence. 'What do you want, and how on earth did you pass the security enchantments?'
'Professor, this is us,' Lily's voice was a mere whisper, tinged with desperation.
'You all died decades back! What kind of mockery is this?'
'Professor, truly, we don't know how, but we're back. You can use Veritaserum on us,' the supposed Lily pleaded, her eyes reflecting an ocean of bewilderment.
McGonagall's mind whirred, searching for a question only the real ones could answer. Her gaze flickered to the portrait of her predecessor, Albus Dumbledore, perched above the fireplace. His twinkling eyes seemed to wink knowingly at the visitors.
'What were your animagus forms, and why did you become one?' she asked at last, her voice firm but betraying a tremor of hope.
James Potter's doppelganger, if that's what he was, replied coolly, 'Mine is a stag, Sirius is a dog. We became one… to support Remus' furry little problem, you could say.'
McGonagall could hardly believe her senses. 'It can't be,' she whispered, her voice hoarse. 'But how? And you look so… old.'
'We're the real ones,' squeaked Lily, her voice thick with a lifetime of missed moments.
'Professor, do you know where Harry is?' James asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, mirroring a fear deeper than time.
'And Teddy?' Tonks' voice broke, carrying the weight of an unknown story.
Minerva swallowed, her throat dry. 'They're both doing well,' she managed, the words heavy with decades of unspoken grief and pride.
'Wait, who's Teddy?' Sirius sputtered, his eyes wide with surprise.
'Our son,' Remus said quietly.
The revelation hung in the air, a palpable thread connecting past and present. Before anyone could remark, Professor McGonagall spoke, her voice firm. 'Lily, James, do you know about Pettigrew and the whole story?'
'Oh yeah, we met the others in Hogsmeade, apparently they were all coming to Hogwarts,' Lily replied, her words tumbling over each other in her haste.
'And Sirius, how did you get here? Didn't you…' McGonagall couldn't bring herself to say the dreaded words.
Sirius grinned, his cheekiness undimmed by time. 'Went into the bloody veil? Padfoot to the rescue, of course. Tricky business, but you know me.'
'Professor,' Lupin's voice was tinged with apprehension, 'What has happened since we… what we assume is our passing? I suppose we won the war?'
McGonagall nodded, a myriad of emotions playing across her face. 'Yes, we won, Remus. And a lot has happened. I think it best I contact the Ministry; they'll know what to do. In the meantime, I'll cast a Disillusionment Charm on you all to avoid unwanted attention.'
They all nodded, grateful for her quick thinking. As she cloaked them in invisibility, Dumbledore's portrait shifted subtly, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He had always seen the best in people, even when the world saw something else. As the charm settled upon them, cloaking them in invisibility, a strange sense of unease settled upon McGonagall. The joy of seeing her former students alive was tempered by the unknown, by the questions that swirled like dust motes in the sunlit room.
'Follow me,' McGonagall instructed, leading them out of the office. As they descended the familiar halls, whispers of their past echoed within them - laughter in the Great Hall, tense battles in Defence Against the Dark Arts, stolen moments in the greenhouses. A bittersweet nostalgia washed over them.
Reaching the bustling courtyard, McGonagall instructed them to wait discreetly, their hearts pounding with a mixture of trepidation and excitement.
'Where are you going?' Sirius asked, his curiosity sparking.
'I have to make arrangements to ensure your safety, I will return shortly.' she replied, her voice resolute.
With a final nod, she left them amidst the throng of students, leaving them to contemplate their unexpected return and the uncertainties it brought. What would the Ministry say? How would their loved ones react? And, most importantly, what role did fate have in store for them in this new-old world?
A kaleidoscope of questions swirled in their minds, but one thing was certain - their return was no mere coincidence. They were back, and their presence would undoubtedly shake the foundations of the wizarding world, just as it had done once before. The adventure, it seemed, had just begun, and this time, they were not students but seasoned heroes, ready to face whatever challenges their unexpected second chance threw their way.
Notes:
Thoughts?
Chapter Text
In the wake of McGonagall's departure, an invisible silence settled upon the five returned souls. Gone was the urgency of their situation, replaced by a curious lull amidst the bustling courtyard. They drifted like forgotten spectres, watching the students like portraits come alive. Their own school days, etched in the warm glow of nostalgia, felt light-years away, a different era painted in innocent, blissful hues.
A giggle, tinged with the sweet exhaustion of youth, pierced the silence. A girl with fiery red hair, her face flushed and bright, nudged an olive-skinned boy beside her. 'Merlin's beard, that was a nightmare, wasn't it? Maybe next year, when we're Head Girl and Boy, it'll be different?'
The boy chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. ' If we become Head Girl and Boy, that is,' he corrected with a playful wink.
'Oh, come on, who else would they choose?' the girl scoffed, a hint of mock indignation in her voice.
'I dunno,' the boy drawled, feigning innocence, but his sly grin betrayed him. 'Viviane, perhaps? She does seem to have a knack for bossing people around.'
The girl swatted him playfully, a light laugh escaping her lips. 'Cheeky git! You just want to see me wear one of those ridiculous hats.'
Their banter, light and familiar, painted a scene of youthful camaraderie that tugged at the heartstrings of the invisible observers. A flicker of yearning, a bittersweet pang of loss, washed over them. These carefree days, these simple joys, were a forgotten melody from a bygone era.
Lily felt a ghost of a smile touch her lips as she watched a girl with fiery hair, mirroring her own in younger days, nudge an olive-skinned boy beside her. Their banter, light and familiar, painted a scene of youthful camaraderie that tugged at the invisible observers' heartstrings. James, standing beside her, his hand brushing hers in a silent gesture of comfort, felt a similar pang in his chest. These young faces, so full of life and possibility, reminded them of the precious years they had missed, the laughter and tears they had never shared with their own children.
In the backdrop of the students' chatter, a question hung heavy in the air, unspoken yet shared by all five of them. Would they ever reclaim those lost moments? Would they ever find their place in this new world, a world that had moved on without them? The answer, as elusive as the morning mist, danced on the horizon, shrouded in uncertainty.
'The charm's fading,' Remus muttered, his voice laced with urgency, but before he could elaborate, an owl swooped down, landing on his outstretched arm. Despite being fully visible now, the students around them seemed oblivious, their chatter a comforting yet alien soundscape. With a shared, silent understanding, the five retreated into the shadows, the owl following their hurried steps.
'Quick, the letter!' Tonks hissed, her eyes wide with anticipation. 'It might be from McGonagall.'
Sirius, ever the quick-witted one, untied the parchment from the owl's leg. The familiar scrawl of their old professor danced before their eyes, each word brought a mixture of relief and apprehension
After much deliberation, I believe it prudent for you to accompany me to the Ministry. My Disillusionment Charm, it seems, has grown as threadbare as my patience. No need for further enchantments. Take a school carriage to Hogsmeade, by the HogsHead. Arrive discreetly.
Prof. M
A tense silence followed, broken only by the excited chirping of sparrows. 'Well?' Sirius finally asked, his voice ragged. 'What are we waiting for?'
James, ever the Gryffindor, peeked cautiously around the gargoyle. 'Coast is clear,' he muttered, his voice laced with nervous excitement.
With a shared nod, they stepped back into the sun-drenched courtyard, but this time, the familiar space felt strangely empty, echoing the void of their absence and the uncertainty of their return. The adventure, it seemed, was far from over, and the Ministry, with its imposing silence and unknown faces, awaited them like a sphinx guarding a riddle they were yet to solve.
They ventured back into the courtyard, the familiar sights and sounds stirring a maelstrom of emotions. But the bustling square was deserted, the carriages vanished, leaving only a lone thestral tethered to a post, its skeletal head swivelling to watch them approach.
With a shared look of uncertainty, they climbed into the carriage, anticipation and apprehension warring within them. The thestral, however, remained stubbornly still. No amount of coaxing, pleading, or even Sirius's muttered threats of tickles could persuade it to budge.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans. As they were settling in the carriage, the door creaked open, revealing a sight that stopped them in their tracks. Two figures, the very prefects they had been observing, stood there, their expressions a mix of confusion and amusement.
They both looked like they would take another carriage, as they glanced sideways expecting to see other, but there were none and the thestral gave an impatient sound, so they boarded the very same carriage.
They were not laughing anymore, maybe they thought the visitors were some ministry officials.
Sirius, ever the sharp observer, noticed the girl's resemblance to Ginny Weasley. Could this be...? Before he could ponder further, Tonks, ever the impulsive one, blurted out, 'Are you related to Ginny Weasley?'
The girl’s eyes widened, unsure what to say. ‘Er- yeah, she’s my mum.’ she said politely.
'God! You look just like her!' Tonks exclaimed, her enthusiasm a touch overwhelming.
‘Erm- yeah I get that a lot.’ the girl said, who rather looked apprehensive. The boy's arm, Lily noticed, slipped protectively around her shoulder.
‘I’m Tonks, has she told you about me? We bonded over the summer of ‘95. Haven't we Sirius? She was just a little girl back then, of course. Who’s your dad? The last I remember she was dating Harry.’ Sirius gave a bark of laughter ‘No way! Harry? Harry Potter?’
‘Oh yes he was dating, I'll tell you the whole later,’ Tonks dismissively, ignoring Sirius, exclaimed 'No way! This is brilliant!', oblivious to the girl's growing alarm. 'We're practically family! '; 'So?’ She looked at the apprehensive girl again.
The boy's arm tightened around the girl, his voice laced with a newfound firmness. 'Her dad's John Smith, a Muggle.'
Tonks, flustered, stammered, 'Oh, well, that's nice. Of course! Sorry, must have misremembered...'
The girl looked like she had seen a ghost. Something clicked Lily, a ghost! God, we're supposed to be dead. She wanted to punch Sirius who was grinning like a lunatic, before she could say anythig, the girl spoke, her voice barely a whisper, 'I forgot to pick up my Potions textbook from the dungeon. I might need it for my holiday homework.'
'We can get it for you,' the boy said swiftly, his voice leaving no room for argument. He directed the carriage driver to stop, and the two hurried out, leaving the resurrected crew stunned by their audacity.
'Well done!' Lily hissed, her voice sharp with reprimand. 'You scared the life out of her! We're supposed to be dead, remember?'
Sirius blinked innocently, while Tonks offered a sheepish grin. They watched the young couple disappear into the castle, a disquieting silence settling over them.
'McGonagall told us not to speak to anyone,' Remus muttered, ever the rule-follower.
'It's alright, Lils,' James said carelessly, his nonchalance grating against her nerves. This was one of the things about him that had always bothered her the most.
Lily pressed her lips together, her gaze fixed on the village ahead. The Ministry and its unknown reception loomed before them, a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach. The carefree laughter of the students seemed to mock their uncertain future, a stark reminder of all they had lost and all they still didn't know. The adventure, it seemed, was only just beginning.
Notes:
Sorry it took time to update... My exams are going on so there's not much I could write, please be patient :) Do tell me your thoughts on this chapter. Is there anything you would like to see in upcoming ones? And the boy u see is an ooc borrowed from Floreatcastellum. If you read her work you might know who he is! and if you don't i will reveal him in the upcoming chapters,
Chapter Text
The sun, filtered through grimy Ministry windows, cast crooked shadows across the Auror Headquarters' worn flagstones. The air hummed with the controlled chaos James Potter knew all too well – hushed whispers laced with urgency, the crackle of tension from unfinished cases, a symphony of duty and unease played on parchment drums and whispered spells. In his hand, a battered travel mug held the lukewarm promise of caffeine, a poor substitute for a night spent staking an old building,
He weaved through the throng, dodging elbows with the practised ease of a man who'd spent more time navigating crowds than corridors. A wry smile quivered his lips as he passed his dad's office. Inside, his father was locked in a heated exchange with Dawlish, an eternal thorn in his side. James couldn't hear the words, but he could practically feel the sparks flying. A ghost of a smile flickered across James' lips – it was bizarre seeing his dad bellow here, a stark contrast to his usual controlled demeanour at home.
Reaching his office– a glorified cubicle, but it sounded better in his head – he braced himself. Hazel, his partner, was already there, her stern gaze a familiar morning greeting. 'Late, Potter,' she said, her voice flat as a Quidditch pitch after a downpour.
He winced. 'Yeah, Dad wanted a word.' It was a lie, a flimsy shield against the interrogation he knew was coming. The prospect of facing Hazel's wrath after a night of restless sleep was unappealing, and invoking his father was the quickest way to shut down the inevitable.
Hazel narrowed her eyes, but thankfully didn't press the issue. Instead, a file landed on his desk with a dull thud. 'Auror Hodges wanted me to give you this,' she said, her tone clipped
He flipped open the folder, his eyes scanning the neat lines of text. 'She told me to tell you that you're off cases,' Hazel continued, her voice devoid of emotion.
'As if she ever gave me anything more exciting than paperwork,' he muttered, but she ignored him, her gaze steady. '- you're supposed to focus on your final exams and interview and all that Ministry rigmarole.'
Before James could launch into a rehearsed rant about his underutilised talents, a holographic owl materialised beside him, a Ministry memo clutched in its spectral talons. It was from his dad. 'Dinner at Uncle Percy's tomorrow,' it chirped, its voice devoid of emotion.
James grimaced. He loved his uncle, truly, but his dinners were about as fun as watching paint dry. Always complaining about the Auror department causing trouble for the Ministry, always awkward silences punctuated by Percy's droning monologues. He longed for a decent case, something to prove himself, to escape the looming spectre of another excruciating family gathering.
He sighed, shoving the memo into his pocket. Another day of navigating the bureaucratic labyrinth of the Auror department, followed by an evening of Uncle Percy's patronising pronouncements .But hey, at least his sister was coming home today. Misery shared is misery halved, right?
Clicking his tongue, James forced himself to focus on the mountain of reports he had to submit for his evaluation. One of them required interviewing an Auror about their case. What was the point? An Auror's job wasn't to write essays like a first-year, his father certainly didn't have to go through this bureaucratic nonsense. He'd ask Dee and Crispin about their interviewees later. For now, he had reports to tackle, paperwork to conquer, and a family dinner to endure. Just another day in the exciting life of an Auror, James thought with a wry smile, the taste of lukewarm coffee lingering on his tongue.
As he was making his mind to tackle at least one report, his heart skipped a beat. Professor McGonagall, his old professor, walked past his cubicle with a group of… people? A childish excitement bubbled in his chest, but before he could approach her, she entered his dad's office. He was about to follow when a hand landed on his shoulder. It was Dee and Crispin, their faces etched with excitement.
‘Mate, you won't believe what happened last night!' Crispin exclaimed.
‘Spill it,' James said, curiosity piqued.
They ushered him back into the cubicle, Hazel casting them a curious glance.
‘Apparently, there was a… breakdown in the Chamber of Ending,' Dee said, her voice hushed.
'Breakdown?' James' eyebrows shot up. 'That's serious. What happened?'
Before they could answer, he heard rushed footsteps. His sister, Lily, emerged from the corridor, looking like she'd been running. She wasn't supposed to be here!
‘Lily, what's going on?' James asked, channelling his best calming Dad voice, even though his own heart was pounding. 'What are you doing here?'
She gulped, tears welling in her eyes. 'James, where's Dad?' she choked out, her voice thick with panic. 'No, there's no time! Why don't you understand!'
Now, many other Aurors were looking towards them, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern. James' worry grew. What could possibly have happened to bring his little sister here, looking like she'd been chased by Dementors?
'It's alright,' he said soothingly, placing a hand on her shoulder. 'Here, I'll lead you inside.' He took her by the hand and started towards his dad's office, noticing an awkward-looking boy following them hesitantly.
'Dad!' James rapped on the door and pushed it open. Professor McGonagall abruptly stopped speaking, and his dad looked up, his arms folded and his face unreadable. Lily immediately rushed to his side and hugged him tightly.
‘Dad, Dad,' she sobbed, 'there are some people impersonating your and Ted's parents at Hogwarts! They were asking me about Mum!'
McGonagall's eyes darted to the space behind her, and his dad's expression became unreadable. 'Lily, stop crying, honey,' he said, rubbing her back gently. James was utterly bewildered. Dead people impersonating Dad’s parents at Hogwarts? It seemed impossible.
'Harry,' Professor McGonagall said with a grave expression, 'there's something you have to see.' Dad looked at her, still brushing Lily's hair. 'What is it?' he asked, his voice laced with concern.
McGonagall flicked her wand, and five figures materialised before them. James' jaw dropped. Standing there, looking strangely out of place in the Ministry atrium, were none other than his grandparents – James Potter, Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin. His breath caught in his throat. His deceased grandparents, seemingly alive and well, stared back at him with bewildered expressions.
The scene was surreal, a whirlwind of emotions swirling through James. Confusion, disbelief, a flicker of hope, and a deep, gnawing fear. Could it be true? Were his grandparents somehow back? Or was this some elaborate hoax, some dark magic at play?
One thing was certain – his day at the Auror Headquarters had just taken a very unexpected turn. The answers, whatever they were, lay in the faces of those who should have been gone, yet stood before him, seemingly alive once more. And James knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this was just the beginning.
Notes:
The characters - Hazel, Crispin, Dee are the creations of Floreatcastellum
Chapter Text
The harsh fluorescent lights of the interrogation room cast pale, unflattering squares on the five figures, each bound tightly to their metal chairs. James scrutinised them, a strange cocktail of emotions swirling within him like a cauldron of mismatched ingredients – disbelief, anger, and a gnawing sense of unease sprinkled with a dash of, well, amusement. Just a few hours ago, the faces staring back had been eerily familiar – a reflection of his own hazel eyes, a ghost of Teddy’s colourful hair. But the connection had soured, leaving behind a bitter taste of deception and a flicker of, ‘Seriously, couldn't they have picked better disguises?’
Apparently, his initial hunch had been correct. These imposters, as his father so bluntly termed them, weren't the culmination of some bizarre family reunion. No, according to the frantic flurry of activity that had descended upon the Ministry, this was far more sinister. A secret society, whispered whispers suggested, had somehow breached a veil – not the one guarding the Department of Mysteries, thank Merlin – and unleashed these spectral marionettes upon the world.
James snorted, a harsh sound that echoed in the sterile room. Impersonating everyone who'd kicked the bucket in the last fifty years? It sounded like a poorly-conceived prank gone disastrously wrong, not some nefarious criminal scheme.
‘Honestly,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘couldn't they have picked a more convincing disguise for a dear old man sitting at 3 o’ clock? The man looks like he couldn't boil an egg, let alone orchestrate a global takeover.’
His father, usually a stoic figure, shot him a withering look. 'James, this is a serious situation. These individuals,' he emphasised, his voice tight, 'seem to possess… echoes of the deceased they impersonate. Memories, even emotions. It's as if they've tapped into the veil somehow.’
A shiver prickled down James' spine. The veil, the delicate membrane separating the living from the dead, was not something to be meddled with. The implications were chilling, a tangled web of questions and potential dangers. 'So, what now?' he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
‘We interrogate’ his father said bracingly, his jaw set firm. 'We find out who's behind this, what their motives are, and how to stop them before they unleash who-knows-what kind of chaos.’
James hesitated. He understood the urgency, but something didn't sit right. With a hesitant cough, he finally voiced the question that had been gnawing at him: 'Do you think, Dad, considering the nature of this case…'
Harry considered for a moment, his eyes narrowing. 'Well, good thing you reminded me,' he said with a cryptic smile. A tap of his wand on James' chest saw his name tag change to 'Evans' followed by another tap on James' hair, which would surely change its colour in a moment.
'Now you can,' Harry said briskly, 'but you can only spectate. The senior Aurors are going to handle the interrogation.' James sighed, a hint of apprehension mixed with his usual spark of defiance.
'James, be careful, please,' his father said, his voice laced with a hint of paternal concern. James nodded tightly, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders. The imposters may look comical, but the motives behind their arrival were far from a laughing matter. As James stepped into the interrogation room 7, a sense of foreboding settled in the air, a feeling that this was just the beginning of a much larger, and far more sinister, story.
His Dad joined Auror Hodges and went inside the compartment where his dead grandparents, Dad’s godfather and Ted’s parents were slumped in the uncomfortable chairs. The door locked with a heavy thud and James saw his Dad conjuring a chair for himself, from the two-way mirror. He observed that the observer room was buzzing with activity. Trainees, like himself, huddled together, whispering theories and speculations. Many Aurors, not currently occupied with interrogations, milled about, their faces etched with grim determination. Some scribbled furiously on parchment, their quills scratching out a record of this unprecedented event.
But of course, James thought, this was more than just official business. It was a chance to witness history in the making, a front-row seat to a mystery that unravelled at the very seams of the wizarding world. He spotted Hazel in the crowd, her nose practically glued to the glass, her brow furrowed in concentration as she scribbled notes in her notebook. A thrill shot through him, a peculiar mix of excitement and apprehension. This was his chance to prove himself, to show his Dad that he wasn't just a reckless Gryffindor, but a capable wizard with a mind as sharp as his Auror training.
Suddenly, the air in the interrogation room crackled with a false cheer. Harry's voice, usually warm and inviting, boomed through the hidden speakers, laced with an artificial pleasantness that sent shivers down James' spine.
‘Hello,' Harry said pleasantly, a saccharine sweetness that sent a tremor of unease through James. 'I see you all have successfully… navigated your way to the Ministry. Well done on that, I must say.' A hint of a smile played on his lips, but it never reached his eyes, which twinkled with a steely glint. He continued, his voice morphing into a firm, authoritative tone that brooked no argument. 'We'll be asking you some straight questions and we expect you to cooperate fully. Consider this a chance to come clean, before things get…' he trailed off, letting the unspoken threat hang heavy in the air like a Dementor's chill.
Even from a distance, James could sense the invisible pressure Harry was exerting, a silent command that demanded answers.
'We're not criminals!' Lily cried out, her voice cracking with a mixture of fear and defiance. But Harry just sat back in his chair, his emerald eyes boring into hers with an intensity that threatened to crack her facade.
'How did you deceive Professor McGonagall into aiding your… arrival?' he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
A chorus of protests erupted from the other figures. 'Deceive her? We didn't deceive her!' Tonks cried out, her voice laced with indignation. 'She knew!'
‘So, she's in on this little charade?' asked Hodges, a quill poised over her parchment, ready to capture every word.
'No, of course not!' Sirius boomed, his voice thick with frustration. 'We don't know how we're back, but we are! We're not some imposters!'
They sat in a tense silence for a full ten minutes. Harry's eyes, like twin emeralds reflecting a stormy sea, flickered from face to face, searching for a flicker of truth, a hint of deception. The silence stretched on, broken only by the rasp of Hodges' quill scratching across the parchment and the shallow gasps of the unnerved imposters.
'You're… you're Harry?' Sirius broke the silence, his voice hoarse with disbelief. 'Harry Potter?'
Harry surveyed him for a moment, his gaze cool and assessing. 'Yes,' he finally said with a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, 'rather famous, wouldn't you say?' The weight of his unspoken question hung heavy in the air: Did these imposters truly have a connection to his past, or were they merely phantoms playing a dangerous game?
'Harry, it's really us,' Sirius pleaded, his voice thick with emotion. 'I couldn't believe my own eyes when I saw your parents, but it all makes sense. Ask me anything, anything at all. I can tell you about the night you helped me escape, about Buckbeak, or Grimmauld Place.' He added hastily when Harry merely raised an eyebrow in sceptical inquiry.
Harry's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Though his face remained a stoic mask, a tremor of fear, a cold serpent slithering up his spine, threatened to shatter his composure. If these were imposters, and all logic pointed towards that conclusion, then pandemonium would surely break loose. This wasn't just about him anymore – he had a family to protect.
Just as Harry was about to speak, Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice echoed through the room. 'Harry, a word, please.'
Harry sent a questioning glance towards the supposed convicts, then gestured to a bewildered Theia to take over the interrogation.
He came out of the room and was expectantly looked at by everyone in the observation room. His eyes rested on Kingsley who indicated to come outside.
James saw his father leave the room and something told him that Kingsley was going to tell his father something crucial about this situation. A burst of excitement came into his chest and it was the testament of the other people's focus on Hodges interrogation no one spotted him slipping out of the room.
He peeked out of the doorway and glanced both ways down the corridor but didn't see anyone. Curiosity gnawed at him. He wanted to ask the Auror guards stationed outside the interrogation room, but that would surely arouse suspicion.
So, he decided to explore further down the right side of the corridor. There, he spotted his Uncle’s dead twin, Fred, being questioned by a stern-faced Auror Wright. Stifling a gasp, James continued down the hall, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He reached the end of the corridor and hesitated, the allure of eavesdropping on his father and Kingsley's crucial conversation warring with the fear of getting caught.
Just as he turned to retrace his steps, a low buzzing filled his ears. It sounded eerily familiar – the charm his Dad used to communicate privately through walls. Hope sparked in his chest. Maybe he could hear what they were saying after all.
Pressing his ear against the cold stone wall, James concentrated. Faint voices filtered through the stone, muffled but discernible.
'– but it can't be,' he heard his dad's voice, laced with tension.
'It is,' Kingsley replied gravely.
'No spell can reawaken the dead, and you know that.'
'Harry, do you really think I would say something without facts? The Department of Mysteries is positive.'
But he couldn't hear what his father said. James' heart hammered in his chest. These… weren't imposters? The dead were somehow back? A wave of nausea washed over him. All the stories about Voldemort and his Death Eater army flooded his mind. The implications were horrifying.
Wishing he hadn't heard this, James retraced his steps, not back to the interrogation room, but towards his quiet cubicle. This situation was far more complex than he ever imagined, and a cold dread settled in his stomach. He needed a moment to process the unbelievable revelation before rejoining the chaos.
Notes:
Finally a chapter after a long time! Please do comment your thoughts on it. :) xx
Chapter Text
The bewilderment and terror that had gripped them hours ago hadn't lessened one iota. Yet, a small concession had been granted – a swap from the arse-numbing metal chairs to squashy, worn leather armchairs that sighed in relief beneath Lily's weight. The Ministry, it seemed, wasn't entirely devoid of empathy, even for the (supposedly) deceased.
Lily sank into the depths of the cushions, the worn leather whispering secrets beneath her touch. Gone was the sterile glare of the interrogation room, replaced by the comforting, if flickering, glow of a brass lamp that cast long, eerie shadows across the walls. It added a touch of the macabre to an already bizarre situation. James, ever the restless one, bounced on the edge of his seat, one leg swinging a frantic tattoo against the plush carpet. Even the promise of comfy seating couldn't quell the hurricane of questions churning in their gut.
From what Lily and everyone else could glean (and Merlin only knew how this information was supposed to make sense), Voldemort had been vanquished, then resurrected, then vanquished again – all by their very own Harry. They'd been dead for Merlin's beard knew how long, and by some twist of fate or monumental blunder (Lily wasn't entirely sure which), they were back in the land of the living. then. It was enough to make your head spin. Lily craved answers like a Dementor craved happiness. They all did.
Their only interaction so far (apart from the soul-sucking interrogation) had been with a polite, if slightly bewildered, young chap who'd ushered them into this – an office, she supposed, though it looked more like a cluttered bachelor flat.
Lily's eyes swept the room, taking in the grand mahogany desk that groaned under the weight of overflowing manila folders, each looking suspiciously like they hadn't been sorted since the Goblin Rebellion. A motley crew of picture frames, some crooked and dusty, added a personal touch. It wasn't a room, it was practically a studio flat! Wooden filing cabinets marched along the walls like stoic soldiers, while a grand fireplace crackled merrily in one corner. A small, arched doorway tucked away in another corner hinted at further mysteries beyond. And there they sat, marooned in a plush corner, a steaming teapot and a scattering of biscuits their only companions.
But who did it belong to? She wondered.
Apparently, the same thought was brewing in Sirius' mind, though his daring spirit overshadowed any reservations. With a carefree swagger that would have made James proud, he strolled over to the desk and picked up a little brass name plate.
‘Head Auror H.J. Potter,' Sirius boomed, his voice echoing in the cluttered room.
A stunned silence descended upon them. Remus' lips twitched, a hint of a smile threatening to break through his usual stoicism.
Lily couldn't believe her ears. Her little Harry, the babe she'd cradled in her arms what felt like a lifetime ago, wasn't just an Auror – he was the Head Auror? The weight of the title settled on her heart, a mixture of pride and worry churning in her stomach.
Similar thoughts were swirling in James' mind too. Sure, he'd been a dab hand at a duel himself, but Auror training? Never crossed his mind. The revelation hung in the air, thick and heavy, demanding answers they weren't sure they were ready for.
As if on cue, Sirius, unable to resist his natural curiosity, started picking up the photo frames scattered on the desk. Curiosity piqued, the others followed suit, gathering around the desk like children huddled around a glowing Christmas tree.
In the first frame, she picked up, four mismatched heads grinned back at her. Two boys with jet-black hair, just like James had before...well, before the endless night. But now James' hair had streaks of smoky grey, almost like dawn breaking over the Forbidden Forest. Another boy sported a mess of vibrant turquoise hair that clashed spectacularly with his bright green robes, and a girl with hair the colour of a setting sun.
And one by one they started picking up the photographs. There weren't many, but each held a lifetime of stories. The boy with turquoise hair must be Remus and Tonks' son, as they both looked at one photograph with a longing so deep it made Lily's throat tighten. Teddy… hadn't he been called?
There were photos bearing the same four kids at different ages, their faces etched with the passage of time. There were many more photos with a pretty woman with fiery red hair, a mischievous glint in her eyes…
'Ginny,' Tonks said with a watery smile, noticing Lily's confusion. 'Ginny Weasley, she is. And that girl that we met at Hogwarts, must be this same girl.' she added, pointing to a little girl with red hair who was grinning with a familiar toothy smile at the camera.
A lump formed in Lily's throat. Her baby boy had grown up. All grown up. She'd missed his first proper words. The first journey to Hogwarts. First Quidditch match. First date. His marriage. The birth of his children. Everything. She looked at James who was staring at a photo frame with a ferocious hunger in his eyes. A single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down his cheek. It was a picture of Harry, no older than twenty-one, his face alight with the same mischievous grin James had sported in his youth. But Harry's eyes held a depth, a weariness, that spoke of battles fought and burdens borne. It was a look James recognised all too well – the haunted gaze of a survivor.
A choked sob escaped Lily's lips. Her Harry, her little boy, had seen too much, endured too much. A fierce protectiveness flared within her, a mama bear awakened from a long slumber. She had a lifetime of missed moments to catch up on, a lifetime of love to shower upon her grown son. But most importantly, she had questions. Burning questions that demanded answers.
The heavy silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions, until the office door creaked open with a groan like a rusty hinge. A shaft of golden light sliced through the gloom, revealing a tall silhouette. Lily's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum solo in the sudden quiet. But as the figure stepped into the light, a wave of disappointment washed over her. It wasn't Harry.
This young man, undeniably handsome with a mop of unruly chestnut hair, looked vaguely familiar. Beside him clung a young woman, tugging at his robes with a frantic insistence. Surprise flickered across the man's face, quickly replaced by a bewildered expression. 'Er – hello?' he said, his voice slightly higher than Lily would have expected. 'We were just, uh, collecting some papers,' he added awkwardly, gesturing towards the overflowing desk.
Shamefaced, they all scrambled to replace the photos in their frames, the stolen moments of a life they'd missed slipping back into their hiding places. Lily watched, a strange cocktail of emotions churning in her stomach. Relief, disappointment, a flicker of concern for the young woman's nervousness.
The girl, with skin the colour of ripe olives and hair pulled back in a tight braid, cast a nervous glance around the room, her eyes lingering on the occupants before darting back to the man. 'James,' she hissed, her voice barely a whisper, 'we shouldn't be here. I can apologise to him later, but he'll be furious if he finds us snooping in his office.'
James, however, simply brushed her concerns aside with a dismissive flick of his hand. Are all Jameses like this? Lily couldn't help but wonder, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. He crouched before one of the filing cabinets, its brass handle gleaming in the firelight, and with a creak, yanked open a drawer. Papers spilled forth in a chaotic cascade, and the boy delved into the mess.
After ten minutes and multiple drawers that yielded nothing but frustration, the boy – James – emerged from the papery avalanche, clutching a folder in his hand like a triumphant warrior. 'Found it!' he boomed grandly at his nervous companion, who hadn't searched any drawers but instead chewed her lip with growing anxiety.
But just as he was about to show off his prize, the door opened again with a swish. A tall man entered the room, his presence commanding respect. And finally, it was Harry.
He was the same man who interrogated them, during which Sirius, with his usual sharp wit, had wisely recognized him. Lily couldn't believe her eyes, her heart soaring with a multitude of emotions. He had green emerald eyes, identical to hers, that held a depth that spoke of experiences far beyond his apparent years. His dark hair, just as unruly as James', now had streaks of grey, a testament to the years that had passed. And just beneath his eyes, she saw the familiar scar, shaped like a lightning bolt, a permanent mark left by their nemesis, Lord Voldemort. (Sirius and the Lupins had explained a few bits and pieces on their way to the Ministry, their hurried whispers filling the gaps in their understanding.) She captured every detail, her heart overflowing with love and pride. He looked just like James, with a strength and determination honed by hardship, but there was a wisdom in his eyes that James, bless his impulsive soul, had never possessed
He didn't look at them but the two Aurors that were rifling through the cupboards. The boy froze in the middle of the room, like a deer caught in headlights. While the girl looked into hysterics, on the verge of crying.
The carefully constructed wall around Harry's emotions crumbled, replaced by a mask of tightly leashed fury. 'Well, well,' he drawled, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, 'what a delightful surprise! Finding my very own Aurors conducting an unannounced audit in my office. Perhaps you fancy yourselves Ministry tax collectors now, ensuring I'm up-to-date on my Floo network usage?'
‘We, uh,' the girl stammered, her voice barely a squeak. Before she could stammer out an apology, Harry held up a hand, effectively silencing her.
'Look,' he said, his voice low and dangerous, the playful veneer gone, replaced by a glacial coldness, 'James, never rose above a certain level of expectation. But you, Durate,' he said, his voice a low growl, 'I confess, I held you in higher regard.’
'I'm truly sorry, sir,' Hazel squeaked, her voice barely audible. 'I—'
‘Enough,' Harry cut her off, his voice laced with a quiet fury. 'Fetch Auror Hodges, Durate. I'd be curious to hear her justification for this little charade.'
Without a word, Hazel scurried out of the room, her shoulders hunched.
Harry turned to James, ‘If you wanted me to fire you, you could have just said it to me James.’
To the newcomers’ surprise, James rolled his eyes and said, 'Honestly,' he drawled, a hint of amusement dancing in his voice, 'it's not that big of a deal. Merlin's beard, lighten up.' He even reached out, as if to offer a placating pat on Harry's shoulder. Harry flinched back, his expression mirroring Professor McGonagall's most withering glare.
'This isn't a joke, James,' Harry said, his voice low and firm, a chilling echo of his Auror days. 'How many times do I have to drill it into your thick skull? This is my workplace. This is a place of work, a place of respect! Or at least, it used to be until you two decided to play Aurora dress-up in my filing cabinets.'
James, for once, seemed flustered. 'Why the dramatics?' he scoffed. 'Hazel just wanted to double-check a file she submitted—'
'And breaking in like a pair of rogue Pixies was the most sensible course of action?' Harry interrupted. 'Couldn't she have simply asked?'
'You know Hazel's terrified of—'
'Don't patronise me, James,' Harry cut him off, his voice laced with a weariness that spoke volumes. 'This is the height of disappointment, even for you.'
James, for the first time, seemed genuinely taken aback. 'What's the big deal?' he sputtered indignantly. 'We apologised, didn't we? It's not like we were after the Department secrets or anything!'
Harry's jaw clenched tight, his disappointment a palpable weight in the room. 'Sorry doesn't cut it, James,' he said, his voice low and dangerous. 'This isn't just about a misplaced file or a forgotten knock. This is about respect. And frankly, right now, I'm having a hard time finding any for you. Perhaps you should brush up on your Auror training manuals – the chapter on proper investigative etiquette seems to have mysteriously vanished.'
James' bluster died in his throat as a fresh wave of annoyance washed over Harry. The exasperation etched on Harry's face deepened into a grimace as another knock shattered the tense silence. With a sigh that spoke volumes, Harry slumped forward slightly before straightening his robes with a jerk and flinging the door open.
Standing on the doorstep was a young Auror, barely a sprout out of Hogwarts judging by his nervous demeanour. He clutched a piece of parchment in his hand like a lifeline.
'Sir, sorry to interrupt,' the Auror stammered, his voice barely a squeak above a whisper. He glanced nervously between Harry and the rest of them. 'But it's, uh, snowing in the lunchroom. And, well, there are a lot of people showing up, you see, and I couldn't get any lunch. No offence meant, of course.' He added the last part with a weak smile, his cheeks flushing red.
Poor Harold, however, remained blissfully oblivious to the silent drama unfolding behind Harry's back. James, his face a picture of dawning mortification, was frantically gesturing for the boy to be quiet. But Harold continued, completely missing the silent cues.
'So, I was wondering if you might sign this note? They say the chaps in Magical Maintenance perk up a bit quicker if they hear from the big cheese himself.' He finished with a hopeful smile, completely oblivious to James' frantic hand gestures behind Harry's back, urging him to be silent.
Harry, with a sigh that spoke volumes of his exasperation, pinched the bridge of his nose. The room held its breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion. 'Right,' he finally said, his voice low and dangerous, laced with a sarcasm so sharp it could cut glass. 'Let's get this little charade over with. What was your name again? Harold, wasn't it?' He squinted at the name tag.
'Yes, sir, Harold Davies,' the young Auror chirped, completely missing the hostility in Harry's tone.
‘Well, Harold,’ Harry said, ‘did I mention that I was resigning?’
'Resigning, sir?' Harold blinked, his smile faltering slightly. 'But… why? You seem perfectly healthy!'
'Oh, I think you misunderstood me. Resigning, not retiring. I believe my true calling lies in ensuring this glorious department remains a well-oiled machine of inefficiency. Magical Maintenance, here I come!'
James couldn’t contain a snort of laughter, which unfortunately reached Harry’s ears. Harry turned, his expression steely, and beckoned them with a finger. 'Come along,' he said, his voice low, leading them out as if marching to war.
The door closed, and the newcomers’ looked at eachother. Unsure what to say or what to do. The past few hours were the most overwhelming hours of their entire life.
James, unable to contain himself any longer, chuckled, a sound that grated on Lily's ears like fingernails on a chalkboard. 'Looks like he inherited your way with words, Lily,' he said with a mischievous grin. Lily shot him a withering look that could have curdled milk on the spot.
‘It’s very good that Harry became an auror.’ Remus said after some time. ‘In my opinion that boy has already been an auror since he's eleven.’ He added with a smile playing on his lips.
Sirius quite agreed with him. Harry's seen things even highly trained wizards have not faced. His mind swirled to that fight in the department of mysteries. How Harry has managed to keep him and his friends alive till the help came. How he was duelling with his cousin and the next moment he was vacuumed by that veil…
A tense silence settled over the room, thick enough to slice with a butter knife. It stretched on for what felt like an eternity (though it was probably only half an hour) until the oak door creaked open once more. This time, it was James who emerged, looking sheepish and clutching a dusty cardboard box. Trailing close behind was the young witch, Hazel, also burdened by a similar box. She now wore a mask of apprehension and a hint of what could only be described as mortified embarrassment. In fact, she was glaring at James' back with all the ferocity of an angry Hippogriff, who seemed blissfully unaware.
With a nonchalant toss, they deposited the boxes near the overflowing bookshelf that dominated the far wall. And immediately set about rummaging through their contents. This time, however, it was only the girl, Hazel, who was actively searching. James, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten the purpose. He was now exploring the grand office with the wide-eyed wonder of a tourist lost in Diagon Alley for the first time.
Hazel emerged from the dusty archive, arms laden with a teetering stack of leather-bound tomes. With a muttered incantation, she conjured a mountain of parchment scrolls, quills that danced impatiently in their inkpots, and ancient manila files that threatened to overflow from the overflowing box. Settling onto the worn rug near the overflowing bookshelf, she began excavating knowledge with the focused intensity of a gnome tunnelling for treasure.
James, ever the explorer, poked his head through the doorway. 'Merlin's beard, Haze! This office is like a hidden flat! Bedroom, kitchenette, and a grand bath' he exclaimed, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. 'Extra incentive to become Head Auror, wouldn't you say? Think of all the napping opportunities!'
Hazel, however, remained nose-deep in a leather-bound tome, ignoring James's cheerful rambling. He, ever the oblivious one, continued his exploration. 'Wow, look at these song discs! Going all the way back to the 1700s! Tradition to leave one when you resign, isn't it?' James marvelled, now hovering by a beautiful oak cabinet. 'Blimey, puts the pressure on, doesn't it? Imagine your successor judging you based on your music taste. Wonder what embarrassing diddy I'll leave behind when I become Head Auror? Probably a goblin war chant remixed with Death Metal.' he chuckled.
Hazel muttered darkly under her breath, not bothering to lift her gaze. 'A collection of bedtime lullabies, most likely.'
'What's gotten into you?' James finally inquired, his amusement fading. 'Still fuming about the near-sacking incident, are we?'
Hazel's quill screeched to a halt, replaced by a glare that could curdle dragon's milk. 'Near-sacking? James, are you daft? We were caught snooping in the Head Auror's office! If he'd sacked us, I wouldn't have blamed him a bit!'
'Merlin's beard, Hazel,' James sighed, rolling his eyes. 'Do you honestly think he would fire us over a little harmless ferreting? Half the department would be out on their earlobes if that were the case. He's just in a right tizzy about something – Dawlish, no doubt. Poor Harold also suffered his wrath. Anyway, the point is, he's not going to fire us, especially you. You're far less trouble than I am,' He winked, a mischievous glint in his eye.
'Here, shove that book over,' James said, snatching the tome from her grasp. ‘I'll handle our little detention. You dash off on that date with Mark. Don't worry about me, I'm practically a detention veteran by now.'
Hazel appeared flustered, a blush creeping up her neck. 'I can't just leave you with this, James. I know it was your fault we're in this mess, but I'm just as responsible. Besides, if he finds out I ditched, it'll look even worse.’
James scoffed. 'We're not back at school, Haze. Besides, I've faced more detentions than you've had treacle tarts. I'm practically a detention veteran now. Trust me, I can handle this.’
Hazel hesitated, a flicker of doubt clouding her normally determined expression. 'Are you sure? It looks awfully dull. Translating ancient gobbledygook? Seems pointless, even for Ministry work.'
James scanned the document with a practised eye and grinned. 'Exactly! He's probably giving us the busywork treatment. Thinks he can torture us with parchment and ink. Well, let him stew. You go, Haze. I fancy a night in with a good book myself.'
Hazel hesitated for a moment, then a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 'Alright, alright,' she conceded, muttering a begrudging thanks under her breath. As she turned to leave, she couldn't help but glance back at James, now hunched over the dusty documents with a determined frown. A flicker of warmth bloomed in her chest – maybe James wasn't so hopeless after all.
James settled into the chair with a theatrical groan, flipping through the dusty pages with all the enthusiasm of a troll forced to attend a tea party. A sly grin tugged at his lips as he peered over the top of the tome.
'Well, hello there!' he boomed, his voice bouncing off the cluttered office walls. He extended a hand, a touch too eager, towards the bewildered couple. 'James Evans, the name's James Evans. Delighted to make your acquaintance.'
Lily and James, still reeling from the whirlwind of emotions that had brought them back to the Auror office, exchanged a confused glance. Lily started to introduce herself, her voice tentative, but James cut her off with a flourish.
'Oh, no need for formalities, I assure you. I'm quite familiar with all of you, legends of the Wizarding World, of course.' He added a theatrical bow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. A pointed glance went towards the older couple, a hint of a question mark hanging in the air. 'And you two, well, growing up in Godric's Hollow certainly gives you a sense of… local flavour, wouldn't you say?'
But before they could say anything, the office door creaked open again, revealing Harry. His face, as it had been all day, was a mask of stony concentration. He seemed to be scratching his forehead but seeing them he swiftly slides his hand in his hair.
'Where'd Durate go, James?' he asked, his voice clipped, as he shuffled through a drawer in his desk.
James, perched on the edge of a spare chair, puffed out his chest in a mock display of heroism. 'Sent her home, old bean. Took responsibility for our little, erm, misunderstanding.'
'Oh, how terribly grown-up of you,' Harry drawled, the sarcasm dripping from his voice like treacle. He slammed his heavy messenger bag shut with a dramatic thud that echoed through the cluttered office. 'Clearly, you've learned your lesson about taking matters into your own hands.'
James's brow furrowed. 'And?'
'And,' Harry continued, packing his bag with exaggerated slowness, 'remember to put out the fire before you skip off for the night.’
James spluttered. 'What fire? Merlin's beard! Don't you know the script for a selfless act of heroism? It's supposed to be, “Well done, James, now off you go and spread your wings of righteousness!” You can't seriously expect me to decipher this mountain of dusty parchment, can you?'
Harry gave him a withering look. 'Lesson number two, James: good deeds rarely come with parades. We'll leave in two' he added to them, his voice clipped.
'Honestly,' James whined, stretching his legs out comically long, 'this is pure torture. Translating goblin tax codes from the reign of Grobbins the Grim?
Harry, apparantly used to his theatrics, merely grunted in response, his emerald eyes glued to the parchment. James, sensing a lack of immediate sympathy, upped the dramatics.
‘Alright, alright,’he conceded with a theatrical groan. ‘Looks like I'm stuck translating this dusty goblin code while everyone else enjoys their evenings. Guess a little souvenir-borrowing deserves a harsher punishment than I thought.’
'Actually,' Harry said, leaning back in his chair, 'you might be surprised. Grobbins the Grim was notorious for his cunning tax strategies. Perhaps a little goblin accounting wouldn't hurt you, considering your… shall we say, “liberal” spending habits.'
James chuckled. 'Touché. But seriously, can't we find a more… stimulating form of detention? Maybe guarding Floo Network headquarters? At least then I could intercept some interesting inter-departmental gossip.'
'Tempting,' Harry mused, a playful smile tugging at his lips, 'but then you'd probably use that information for more mischief than good. Besides, Percy would have my head if I turned the Floo Network into a gossip hotline.'
James sighed theatrically. 'So, I'm stuck with goblin gibberish?’
'How much have you translated so far?' Harry inquired, raising an eyebrow.
'A few paragraphs,' James replied nonchalantly.
'And how many of those paragraphs,' Harry continued, his voice laced with amusement, 'did Hazel Durate manage to translate?'
James gulped. 'A few… maybe?' he repeated, his voice barely a whisper.
Harry let out a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Fine,' he conceded. ‘You're dismissed. Let's go,' he added, addressing his parents with a hint of forced cheer in his voice.
Without missing a beat, James shot out of his chair like a rogue Bludger, propelled by the sheer joy of escaping goblin tax code. Harry watched him go with another sigh, this one tinged with a hint of amusement. He tapped his messenger bag with his wand, and it rose obediently into the air, levitating beside him. Flinging his coat over one arm, he gestured towards the door with a curt nod.
With one last glance they exited the office. Lily, watching Harry walk ahead of them, his cloak billowing slightly behind him, felt a sudden epiphany hit her with the force of a rogue Stunning Spell–
Their Harry has grown up.
Notes:
This chapter is mostly pointless fluff... But I enjoyed writing it all the same. :)
Please do share your thoughts in the comments. They give me an extra boost encouragement and happiness!
Chapter Text
A shiver danced down Lily's spine despite the Ministry's brisk air. The labyrinthine corridors of the Auror Department felt endless, each turn revealing another curious glance or barely muffled gasp. Harry seemed oblivious, his stride purposeful. Yet, a tightness around his jaw betrayed the disquiet stirring within him. It wasn't like the bustling halls of Hogwarts, filled with the comforting murmur of students and the gentle scent of parchment and potions. This was a place of sharp angles and hushed whispers, a stark contrast to the warmth she craved after their extraordinary return.
Finally, they emerged into a vast circular chamber that shimmered like a galleon forged from moonlight. Two dozen golden lifts, each emblazoned with a strange insignia, stood sentinel around the edge. Harry, his brow furrowed in concentration, marched towards one pulsating with an orange glow.
Lily watched as he pressed the ornate buttons, but the lift remained stubbornly shut. A tense silence descended, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of Harry's foot. He jabbed the button again, his frustration growing with each unanswered summons. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a dented travel mug, the faded inscription 'Auror Headquarters – We Keep the Magic in Order (Mostly, thanks to caffeine)', in peeling gold letters.
Lily longed to offer him a word of comfort, a reassuring touch, but the weight of their impossible situation held her tongue. This world, once so familiar, now felt alien, a stage play where they were awkward extras stumbling through their lines. Taking a deep breath, Lily forced a smile, hoping to dispel the gloom that threatened to engulf them. 'Perhaps it's malfunctioning, dear?' she said lightly,
'Maybe,' Harry muttered, more to himself than to her. Rapping his wand on the door with mounting impatience. Now, they could hear a muffled voice from within, ‘... No wonder Durate the the Portuguese and the French ministries didn't want to take you, it's a favour we're doing on you to tolerate your incompetence – And don't you say anything, you're not better than her, at least –’
'Dawlish,' Harry bellowed, the sound echoing through the chamber, ‘If you're quite finished with your Ministry-approved harassment session, perhaps you could open the lift so we can get to actual work, unlike some folks around here -’
He was cut off by the hiss of golden doors opening, revealing a wizened old man with a nose that rivalled a particularly grumpy gnome and two very familiar faces – James Evans, his expression a mask of barely concealed annoyance, and Hazel Durate, looking mildly bewildered.
The old man, presumably Dawlish, looked at them with undisguised contempt, his wrinkled nose seeming to curl even higher in disdain. Harry stepped into the lift, his messenger bag bouncing with each stride.
He locked eyes with Dawlish, a silent duel passing between them that James couldn't help but notice, a look that would put Lily's most withering glare to shame.
Dawlish, however, held his ground. They stood there, a tense tableau, the air thick with unspoken animosity. Hazel shifted her weight nervously, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden shift in atmosphere. James, however, remained unfazed, his hands stuffed in his pockets, a smug 'take that' glinting in his eyes.
‘May I know why you’re harassing them?’
Dawlish's face contorted further, if that were even possible. 'I want them on my service,' he grumbled, throwing a dirty look at James. 'But clearly they think they own the place and have no respect for senior authorities.'
'Oh, please,' Harry countered, pressing the basement button without breaking eye contact. 'Disrespecting senior Aurors? I don't think anyone understands that better than me.' The lift doors hissed shut behind them.
'But you don't see me cornering them and abusing my power to the full extent, do you?' Harry's voice echoed faintly through the metal doors.
Dawlish snorted. 'Don't play innocent, Potter. It's high time you leave your hypocrisy at the door. Weren't you the one lecturing these idiots and handing out detentions mere hours ago?’
'Yeah, because they're my idiots, Dawlish. They represent me,' Harry said 'And I certainly didn't intimidate them. You can criticise, reprimand – you have the authority. But what you were doing…' He trailed off, the distaste evident in his voice.
Dawlish scoffed again. 'And by the way, Durate is with Hodges, so you can't have her.'
'I don't want Durate, I want James,' Dawlish said, a smirk evident
‘You can’t have him either,’ Harry said quite sharply this time, ‘He’s dismissed from all work.’
Dawlish, a smug smile splitting his wrinkled face, flourished a document in Harry's direction. 'Thought you'd said that, Potter,' he chirped. 'Officially, he isn't dismissed until he fills out this form. And wouldn't you know it,' he continued, his voice dripping with faux sympathy, 'it appears to be… entirely blank.'
Harry's jaw clenched. He didn't bother to grace Dawlish with another glare, instead turning his annoyance towards James. A flicker of exasperation danced in his emerald eyes.
Harry pivoted on his heel, emerald eyes flashing with newfound resolve. 'Well, Dawlish,' he drawled, 'he's already on my service.'
A sardonic chuckle escaped the Auror's lips.'Don't lie, Potter. We both know you're bluffing.'
'Bluffing?,' Harry interrupted, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips, 'He's assisting with Project X.'
James attempted to jump in. 'Right! And we're making cracking progress, wouldn't you say —' He cut himself off abruptly as Harry subtly nudged his foot, a silent plea for him to stay quiet. Thankfully, Dawlish seemed oblivious to the exchange.
The older Auror scoffed. 'Wasting your time on that one, Potter. You'll never achieve what you're after.' His voice dripped with a heavy dose of condescension.
'Funny, that's exactly the encouragement I felt I received from you at our last little meeting,' Harry countered pointedly.
Dawlish's face twitched. 'There's no point in pretending, is there, Potter?' he pressed, his voice laced with a hint of desperation.
Harry met his gaze unflinchingly. 'Indeed. So, here's the deal,' he said, a slow smile creeping across his face. 'If we don't succeed with Project X...' He paused dramatically, letting the tension build in the air. '...you can have James for a week.'
'A week? You can't be serious!' James sputtered again.
Dawlish's eyes widened in surprise. 'You're serious, Potter? There's no backing if—'
'I do what I say, Dawlish,' Harry interrupted, his voice firm. 'And you know that better than anyone.'
Dawlish seemed to deflate slightly. 'Fine then,' he grumbled, 'I'll hold you to your word. One month.'
'One week,' Harry countered swiftly.
James, who had been fuming silently throughout the exchange, finally exploded. 'Excuse me! You can't just bet on me like I'm some prize hippogriff!'
Both Harry and Dawlish ignored him, their gazes locked in a silent duel.
'Fifteen days,' Dawlish conceded with a grimace.
'Two days,' Harry shot back, his amusement evident.
Dawlish threw his hands up in exasperation. 'Fine! One week it is.' He glared at James, a predatory glint in his eye. 'So, what can I do to him?'
Harry's lips curved into a mischievous smirk. 'What do you want to do to him, Dawlish?'
Dawlish blinked, momentarily flustered by the unexpected question. 'So, if you lose, I get James for a week, right?'
'With my full blessings,' Harry agreed, a hint of a smirk lingering on his lips.
'And if you win, what do you get?' Dawlish asked, suspicion lacing his voice.
Harry's gaze turned steely. 'Anything you have,' he said coolly, 'I wouldn't want it.'
At Harry's audacious demand, a strangled snort escaped James, quickly echoed by a muffled guffaw from Tonks, who had apparently joined them unnoticed in the lift. The Aurors, however, remained stoic in the face of such amusement.
'But that's not fair!' Dawlish sputtered, indignation colouring his cheeks.
'Since when did you become the Ministry's arbiter of fairness, Dawlish?' Harry retorted, rolling his eyes with an expression that could have curdled milk.
Dawlish bristled, his bushy eyebrows threatening to disappear into his hairline. 'No, you have to take something,' he insisted, puffing out his chest in a display of mock authority.
'Fine then,' Harry conceded with theatrical flourish. 'How about… your opera tickets?'
The lift doors hissed open with a dramatic flourish, perfectly timed with Harry's declaration.
Dawlish spluttered again, momentarily speechless. Finally, he managed a strangled, 'Fine,' He gave Tonks a disgruntled look before practically bolting out of the lift.
'Since when did you start listening to opera?' James demanded, bewildered.
'I don't,' Harry said brightly, sipping from his dented mug. 'But Dawlish does.'
James looked thoroughly impressed, 'Project X, eh?' James inquired, a playful glint in his hazel eyes. 'Sounds hush-hush and terribly important.'
Harry shrugged, a noncommittal flicker in his emerald eyes. 'One could say that.'
'Well, you better win it, then,' James declared, clapping Harry on the shoulder with a force that sent Lily shooting him a warning look. ‘It’s my sanity that is at stake.’
Harry grinned, a hint of challenge flickering in his emerald eyes. 'Let's just say,' he replied smoothly, 'my efforts will undeniably be inversely proportional to the amount of mischief you manage to stir up for me’
Hazel, no longer a silent observer, let out a soft, hesitant laugh. It was a sound both unfamiliar and comforting to Lily, a reminder of a life she could only grasp at through fragmented memories. The laugh, like a gentle breeze, seemed to clear the air after the tense encounter with Dawlish. Lily, tentatively, allowed a smile to curve her lips. Here, in the sterile confines of the descending lift, a sliver of hope flickered within her. Perhaps, just perhaps, this strange new world wouldn't be so overwhelming after all. As long as she had Harry by her side, as long as they had each other...
But a flicker of uncertainty remained. Knowing Harry, the boy she once knew, had been a simple thing. Now, this man beside her, burdened by the weight of years she couldn't share, was a mystery waiting to be unravelled. A thrill, a tremor of fear, danced along her spine. This new normal, this new Harry, was an adventure far grander, far more daunting, than anything she could have ever imagined.
Notes:
Sorry, it's incredibly short chapter and just tons of pointless fluff and shitty jokes. I myself is not happy with this as it dosen't tell anything about the story. But the last few days have been very very overwhelming for me so I wanted to write something pointless. This chapter is going to be continued in the next one too.
Anyway, do comment it makes me so much happy that I can't even describe it!
xoxo
Chapter Text
The elevator doors clanged shut with a finality that echoed through the dimly lit Ministry corridor. Harry, brow furrowed beneath a mop of untamed black hair, took a long pull from his chipped travel mug and with a jab worthy of a bludger to the back, he slammed his finger on the worn 'Atrium' button.
With a jerk that threatened to spill his drink, the elevator lurched upwards, its ascent punctuated by the groaning of ancient mechanisms and the occasional, agonising halt between floors.
A disembodied voice, crisp and cool like a winter breeze, echoed from unseen speakers.
‘Level Three: Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.’
The elevator doors opened with a ding and one armed witch, Lily recognised her from their interrogation, Hodges entered levitating a heavy looking bag.
She smiled warmly at them, ‘Going home?’ she asked.
‘Just about.’ Hazel said politely.
Hodges smiled in response and with a flick of her wand, levitated the heavy-looking bag between herself and Evans. 'Alright, young man,' she said, her voice warm, 'ready for the big phase?'
Evans, ever the charmer, grinned. 'Born ready, Auror Hodges.'
Hodges' eyes flickered to Harry, who merely raised an eyebrow in response, a silent question hanging in the air. Suddenly, the lift lurched violently, throwing them all off balance. With a sickening thud, it came to a halt, the doors stubbornly refusing to budge.
'Blimey,' Evans groaned, exasperation lacing his voice. 'These infernal contraptions are always on the fritz. You lot really should suggest getting on top of maintenance, eh? Especially considering,' he added with a pointed glance at Harry, 'it's only going to become more of a bother in the coming days.'
'What exactly do you mean by 'coming days'?' Harry asked, a sliver of suspicion creeping into his voice.
Evans waved his hand dismissively. 'You know, just the usual aches and pains that come with, well, you know,' he said with a wink.
Hodges let out a dark chuckle at this, and Hazel smiled ever so slightly, while Harry simply arched an eyebrow even higher.
Lily couldn't help but stifle a smile. This Evans boy had guts, that much was clear. Cheeky with not just his immediate superior, but apparently, his superior's superior as well. Merlin only knew where he got his nerve.
Evans sighed dramatically and slumped against the wall. 'By the way,' he drawled, pointing at the levitating bag, 'what's in that?'
A slow, sly smile spread across Hodges' face. 'Just some... medicinal supplies,' she replied in a voice dark enough to be mistaken for a Dementor's lullaby. 'People are seeing this situation as an opportunity, you see, thinking that everyone is too busy to frown about their not so legal trade. It weighs nineteen point nine kilos, should I round it up to twenty?' she added, her gaze flickering to Harry.
Before Harry could answer, Evans piped up again, a glint of mischief in his eyes. 'Or,' he suggested brightly, 'we can report it as nineteen and keep the remainder for... personal use, shall we say?'
Harry shot him a withering look. 'I don't think anyone's in the mood to deal with any dodgy dealing, Hodges. Leave it in the evidence room,' he told Hodges, firmly ignoring Evans who was echoing 'wink, wink' in the background.
'Oh, come on now,' Evans groaned, 'there's no shame in a little indulgence! Look at Hazel, she's a recovering alcoholic, but you're not ashamed of it, are you, Haze?' he asked, his voice laced with mock concern.
Hazel flushed scarlet under the sudden spotlight. 'I – no,' she stammered, flustered. 'Stop it, James,' she hissed, her voice laced with exasperation. 'I was never an alcoholic!'
Evans, however, simply offered her an exaggeratedly sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
‘I think we should get undercover to catch all these smugglers.’
'Undercover, eh?' Harry drawled, swirling the dregs of his tea in his chipped mug. A glint sparked in his emerald eyes, a flicker of amusement battling suspicion. 'Sounds positively thrilling, straight out of one of those ridiculous Muggle detective novels.'
'Precisely!' Evans practically vibrated with excitement. 'Think of the disguises! The codenames! We could craft entire backstories for ourselves, blend right in with these shady characters.' A mischievous grin splitting his face. 'I, for one, would be Montague 'Monty' Wickersham, son of a vengeful ex-Auror, haunted by the ghosts of past brawls and drowning his sorrows in Firewhiskey,’ Hazel shot him a pointed look, but Evans merely winked. ‘And you, my esteemed colleague,' he added, turning to Harry with a theatrical bow, 'what secret sorrow burdens your weary shoulders?'
Harry, however, merely raised an eyebrow, a single word escaping his lips in a dry monotone. 'Angry Boss,' he muttered dryly.
'Angry Boss!' Evans boomed, throwing his head back and laughing. 'Playing to our strengths, Sir! Now that's what I call brilliant!'
With a groan that echoed through the cramped metal box, the elevator lurched upwards. Ages seemed to crawl by before the disembodied voice announced, 'Level Five: Department of International Magical Cooperation.'
The doors hissed open, revealing a vision of disdain. A man, seemingly sculpted from ice, stood there. His face was pointed, his white-blond hair, the colour of aged parchment, was tied back in a ponytail that spoke of a man who didn't suffer fools gladly. A cologne, expensive and overbearing, hung about him like a suffocating fog. He glided into the elevator, the cramped space shrinking further with his arrival. The doors clanged shut with finality, trapping them all together.
'Afternoon, Mr. Malfoy!' boomed James Evans, his voice a cheery counterpoint to the tense atmosphere. The man offered nothing more than a curt nod in response, his pale eyes flitting across the occupants before landing on the 'Atrium' button. He pressed it with a force that suggested he'd rather be Apparating directly there.
Lily, standing beside James, couldn't help but feel a flicker of recognition in the man's features – an echo of the arrogant smirk she remembered all too well from Lucius Malfoy. A silent exchange of glances passed between Remus and Tonks, a silent question hanging in the air. Evans, seemingly oblivious to the tension, tried to catch Harry's eye with a playful grin, but the older man appeared to be studiously avoiding any form of interaction, his green gaze fixed resolutely on the flickering light above.
The lift lurched upwards with a groan that sent shivers down spines. Its ascent wasn't a smooth glide, but a series of juddering stops and starts, punctuated by the occasional heart-stopping clunk. Finally, the cool voice of the Ministry witch echoed through the confined space, pronouncing their liberation: 'Atrium.'
The doors sighed open, revealing the bustling heart of the Ministry. The newcomers all turned expectantly towards Harry. But Harry stood stock-still, his gaze fixed not on them, but on the vibrant chaos of the Atrium beyond.
A ghost of a smirk played on Hodges' lips as she nodded curtly to Harry. With a heave, she wrestled the hefty bag out of the elevator. Hazel offered a quick nod to Harry before following in her wake, disappearing into the throng of the Atrium.
Evans, however, remained rooted to the spot. His gaze darted between Harry and Malfoy like a hummingbird flitting between blossoms, a silent amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. He pressed his lips together with exaggerated effort, as if trying to stifle a snort of laughter that threatened to erupt at any moment. The tension in the elevator was thick enough to slice with a rusty Cleaver, a delicious tension that only Evans, it seemed, could truly appreciate.
Ten minutes bled by, measured only by the rhythmic ticking of James' watch, punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the elevator light and the occasional creak of the ancient machinery. Lily watched, a silent observer, as both Harry and Malfoy remained stubbornly rooted to the spot, their gazes pointedly avoiding each other. The air thick with a silent duel of wills. Even Evans, his usual cheer momentarily dampened, seemed to sense the weight of the unspoken animosity hanging in the air. Lily shifted uncomfortably, the tension a physical weight pressing down on her.
Finally, with a groan the elevator lurched upwards. The cool, disembodied voice announced their arrival with a metallic twang, 'Level Nine: Department of Mysteries.' The doors wheezed open, revealing a grumpy-looking man with a belly that threatened to burst from his robes. He lumbered in, casting a withering glance at the occupants before occupying the corner furthest from Harry and Malfoy.
As if on cue, Malfoy made a hasty exit, his purple velvet robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud. Only then did Harry finally break his stance. He straightened, his gaze sweeping over the remaining passengers before landing on his companions. He gestured towards the open doors with a curt nod, his emerald eyes unreadable.
As they exited, Evans, who seemed to have finally regained his composure, leaned in towards Harry with a conspiratorial grin. 'Now that,' he declared, his voice barely a whisper, 'was the most entertaining lift journey I've ever experienced!'
They made their way through the long corridors. The Ministry corridors here were a far cry from the bustling chaos of the Auror Department. These passageways were long, echoing tunnels, cloaked in an eerie quiet. The occupants, too, seemed to wear a mask of severity, their movements clipped and purposeful.
'Spooky lot, aren't they?' Evans murmured, his voice hushed in the oppressive silence. 'Makes you wonder what kind of shady business they're up to here.'
Harry, lost in thought, offered only a noncommittal hum as his gaze snagged on a group of young officials huddled together, their dark robes whispering secrets. He studied them intently, a furrow creasing his brow as if searching for a familiar face.
'Harry,' Remus broke the silence, his voice low, 'was that Malfoy in the lift with us?'
Startled from his reverie, Harry blinked. 'Huh? Oh, yeah,' he mumbled, his eyes still glued to the group ahead. 'Must be on Ministry business.'
'Just strolling into the Ministry like that, as bold as brass?' Remus pressed, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
'Hmm,' Harry grunted, a muscle twitching in his jaw. 'There was a... an understanding reached. Look,' he said, finally turning to face his companions, his voice low and urgent, 'I know this is all a bit mental right now, but trust me, alright? Just give me a bit of time to sort things out.' His voice trailed off, more to himself than to them.
'Is it about 'Project X'?' Evans piped up, his voice brimming with childish enthusiasm. 'Come on, you can tell me! Dawlish thinks I'm on it anyway. What if he asks?'
Harry shot him a withering look. 'Dawlish knows perfectly well you're not involved, James. He's not a complete numpty. But for your information,' he stressed, 'it's a bureaucratic squabble. Aurors versus the Department of Mysteries. Bickering over who gets to lead the investigation into this whole… resurrection business.'
A grin split James' face. 'Ooh, and you don't want the Unspeakables to take charge, do you?' James interjected, a mischievous glint in his eye.
'Obviously not,' Harry said dryly. 'They turn into insufferable twats when given any authority. All pomp and condescension. Anyway, keep this under wraps. The last thing we need is the Daily Prophet stirring up trouble with another sensational headline.'
'Right,' Evans said, a mischievous glint in his eye, ‘for your information the particular twat you’re looking for didn’t even come today.’
Harry's brow furrowed in concern. 'Why not?'
'Probably picking out a suit for a wedding that isn't even his,' Evans quipped helpfully.
The remark earned him a sharp glare from Harry, which he conveniently ignored, whistling a tuneless melody as they continued down the hushed corridor.
Half an hour and five flights of stairs later, they emerged into a scene straight out of a Ministry bureaucrat's wildest dream. A vast car park sprawled before them, a sea of gleaming black automobiles – the official Ministry fleet, no doubt. Each car gleamed expensively under the sickly green Ministry lighting, a stark contrast to the usual magical means of transportation.
'Apparition's been blocked nationwide,' Harry explained, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. 'Minimum Floo travel only, so we're taking the Muggle route.' He craned his neck, scanning the rows of identical vehicles. 'Through there,' he finally pointed, leading them towards a sleek black Range Rover.
Lily eyed the car with trepidation. Five adults crammed into a Muggle vehicle? Uncomfortable, to say the least. But as they reached it, Harry surprised them all. With a flick of his wand and a muttered incantation, the back door swung open, revealing an interior that defied the laws of physics. The seats magically expanded, creating ample space for them all. It wasn't just roomy from the outside, it was positively palatial within. Plush leather seats beckoned, and a tempting aroma of biscuits wafted from somewhere unseen. A golden kettle sat nestled in a hidden compartment, promising a warm cup of tea on the journey ahead.
Lily couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at this unexpected luxury. The Ministry, it seemed, wasn't above a touch of creature comfort, even in their Muggle-esque vehicles.
'Blimey!' Evans exclaimed, his eyes wide with appreciation. 'Where'd you nick this beauty?'
Harry's lips twitched at the corners, but his reply remained dry. 'Didn't you hear, James? Took up a new side hustle – chauffeuring Ministry officials around.'
'Can't you answer a simple question without drowning it in sarcasm?' Evans countered, his gaze still lingering on the plush interior.
'Depends,' Harry drawled, a glint in his emerald eyes. 'On the level of stupidity the question itself possesses.'
A mischievous glint flickered in Evans' eyes as Harry slid behind the wheel. 'Fancy giving a chap a lift?' he inquired, his voice laced with a hint of wheedling.
Harry shot him a withering look. 'Not happening, James'
'Why not?' Evans protested, his face crumpling into a mock expression of hurt. 'Can't you do this much for your most loyal, most intelligent, most courageous, undeniably handsome, and –’
‘Slightly obnoxious,' Harry interrupted, his voice dry.
Evans' face fell. 'Rude,' he muttered, kicking at a pebble on the ground with an exaggerated sigh, he began to saunter away, each step slower than the last.
Harry watched him go for a moment, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Then, with a heavy sigh that spoke volumes of his current burden, he started the engine. The sleek Range Rover purred to life, and after a few smooth manoeuvres, it rolled up to a guarded barrier that stood resolute in their path.
Harry scowled at the unyielding barrier. A frustrated honk ripped from the car's horn, but the barricade remained stubbornly impassive. Just then, a tap on the window startled him. He rolled it down to reveal a man in his late sixties, ensconced within a glass-walled cubicle beside the barrier. The man was nose-deep in a newspaper, his expression one of utter boredom.
'Would you mind terribly opening this barrier?' Harry asked, his voice laced with a touch of impatience.
The man grunted, finally lowering his newspaper. 'Apparition licence for verification, sir,' he droned in a monotonous voice,
'My – well, blast it all, Percy!' Harry muttered under his breath. 'Can't you use my badge, or perhaps my wand?'
The man's face remained impassive. 'Negative, sir. Rules are rules.' He promptly returned to his newspaper, the rustle of pages a stark contrast to the tense silence within the car.
‘You can't use my badge or my wand? But this… this cardboard contraption is perfectly secure?'
‘Rules are rules, good sir.’ he repeated from his newspaper.
With a sigh that spoke volumes of his current burden, Harry mustered a forced cheer. 'But surely, sir, you recognize me?'
The man finally lowered his paper and squinted at Harry. 'Blimey, you're The Harry Potter!' he exclaimed, his eyes immediately darting towards Harry's forehead.
'No, no,' Harry replied with a dry, uncomfortable smile. 'I'm a Harry Potter. We come in six different outfits, you see.'
The guard seemed unfazed by Harry's sarcasm. 'You look different in person,' he remarked, tapping the newspaper with a wrinkled finger.
'Well, let's just say my life isn't quite as rosy as those Daily Prophet photos make it out to be,' Harry deadpanned. 'Now, can we please be on our way?'
'Can't open it, mate,' the guard droned. 'Got this nifty device here that reads your licence number and lifts the barrier in a jiffy. Why don't you just hand it over? Sorted in no time.'
'But I don't…' Harry began, his words cut short by a deafening honk that reverberated through the enclosure.
'Right, but the thing is, I don't…' Harry's words were drowned out by a deafening honk from behind. He growled in frustration, muttering a string of curses under his breath.
With a resigned sigh, Harry started to reverse the car, only to reveal a gleaming black motorcycle. Lily felt a pang of nostalgia as she remembered Sirius's motorbike, its engine a familiar roar in their younger days. Her gaze travelled to Sirius, his face etched with the passage of time, his once-raven hair streaked with silver. A flicker of sadness crossed his features, a silent echo of those lost days.
The motorcyclist, clad in a full leather get-up and dark shades, had all the swagger of a cliché Muggle movie 'cool guy.' He swaggered over to the guard's booth, licence in hand (a licence Harry very much lacked). The barrier rose with a groan, and the biker revved his engine, the sound enough to shatter eardrums. Just as he was about to zoom past the car, Harry's voice cut through the roar.
'James! Stop!'
The motorcycle screeched to a halt, and the rider slowly manoeuvred it closer to the car. He removed his helmet and shades, revealing James Evans with a mischievous smirk plastered on his face.
'Well, well, well,' he drawled. 'What can this obnoxious person do for you today?'
'Cut the act, James,' Harry said sternly. 'You're coming with us.'
James raised an eyebrow. 'And what if I refuse?'
Harry simply met his gaze, and that apparently settled the matter. 'Alright, alright,' James conceded with a chuckle. 'Of course I'm coming.' He swiftly parked his motorcycle and practically leaped into the passenger seat.
'But I'm driving,' he declared, a mischievous glint in his eye. 'Before you say no, remember, it's my licence, the barrier thingy read. Makes perfect sense, doesn't it?'
'Since when did you start caring about rules, Jim?' Harry sighed, but he relinquished the driver's seat without further protest.
'Drive safely, please,' Harry pleaded as they passed through the now-lifted barrier.
James chuckled. 'Too late for that, isn't it? First stop?'
Harry pondered for a moment. 'Islington,' he finally said.
'Consider it done,' James replied with a flourish. 'Though just a heads-up, my rates are quite high.'
'Just shut up and drive,' Harry muttered, a small smile playing on his lips.
Lily's gaze drifted out the window, the bustling London streets blurring into a kaleidoscope of colour. Yet, her focus remained stubbornly fixed on the reflection staring back at her from the car window. It wasn't the unfamiliar cityscapes that tugged at her heartstrings, but the sight of Harry, her small, cheerful boy, now a man navigating the chaos with a quiet determination etched on his face.
The years had flown by in a blink for her, a stolen eternity trapped between worlds. Here, in the speeding car, surrounded by the tangible evidence of a world that had moved on, the reality of her absence hit her with a jolt.
This was Harry, wasn't he? The boy she'd given her life for, the boy who was destined to save their world. But a stranger stared back at her. The lines etched by worry on his forehead, the way his emerald eyes held a depth that spoke of hardship endured – these were experiences she'd never shared with him.
A bittersweet ache settled in her chest. This was the man she'd sacrificed for, but a part of her yearned for a connection deeper than duty. In this new reality, the question loomed large: would she ever truly know the man she'd saved?
Notes:
Sorry have to repost the chapter due to some edits!
Do tell me your thoughts or question on it, I LOVE reading and replying your comments, and makes me happy that you got happy for what I've written and they give me extra boost of encouragement and confidence to write!
And I'm also thinking to have a tumblr account so i can reply to your ask in real time, what you guys think?
xoxo
Chapter Text
The sleek Range Rover glided effortlessly down the rain-slicked streets of London, its engine a low, comforting purr that was almost soothing amidst the disarray of the city. One moment, they had been crammed together in the oppressive confines of the Ministry lift, and the next, the vibrant tapestry of London unfurled before them. Houses, some mundane and others delightfully peculiar, zipped past in a kaleidoscope of colors.
Suddenly, Sirius's voice shattered the tense silence like a crack of thunder. He turned in his seat, his face a weathered map of curiosity and unease. 'Harry,' he rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse, 'are we heading for Grimmauld Place?'
Harry, who had been hunched intently over a piece of parchment, paused, quill poised mid-stroke at the sound of his name. He glanced into the rear-view mirror, catching a fleeting glimpse of Sirius’s expression—a muddled blend of anticipation and dread. A knot of anxiety tightened in Harry’s stomach. 'Er—yeah,' he stammered, carefully choosing his words. 'But it’s not like that anymore! I took down your mum’s portrait and tidied the place up a bit.' The last part slipped out in a hurry, the image of Sirius’s face contorting in discomfort flashing through his mind. 'And, well, a few years back, I gave it to Remus’s son—Teddy, you know? So it’s completely fine. Liveable, even.'
Evans, who had been manoeuvring through the crowded streets with surprising deftness, grunted a question as he took a corner a little too sharply for Lily’s taste. 'Floo from there to the cottage, then?' he asked, his voice bubbling with an enthusiasm that grated against Harry’s nerves.
Harry shook his head, exasperation threading through his tone. 'Can’t. Our Floo network’s been completely blocked. The owls are being monitored, and if that weren’t enough, Kingsley has set up a good old-fashioned Auror stakeout while the Daily Prophet vultures circle overhead.'
Evans let out a groan that rivalled the wind whipping past the car. 'But driving to Devon will take ages!'
'It takes only about three hours if you shut up and drive,' Harry said nonchalantly, his eyes still fixed on the parchment in his lap.
Evans perked up, his voice taking on a hopeful tone. 'At least we can stop for a cuppa, can’t we?'
Harry, however, dashed his hopes with a dry chuckle. 'Can’t,' he muttered, his attention unwavering from the parchment. 'Apparently, I’m due in Ireland within the next few hours.'
A spark of excitement flickered in Evans’ eyes. 'Off to meet the Irish mob, are we?' he chirped, his tone buoyant, if somewhat misguided.
Harry remained stoic, his emerald gaze locked on the parchment. The rhythmic scratching of his quill filled the silence that settled like a weight in the car. Finally, Evans broke the stillness with an exaggerated sigh.
'Right then,' he conceded, stretching the words out dramatically. 'I’ll take that as a yes.'
For half an hour, they drove in quiet contemplation, until at last, they reached Grimmauld Square. Lily had never visited the place, but she knew enough about the sort of family Sirius hailed from to feel a twinge of apprehension.
'Just stop here,' Harry said.
'We’re still ten minutes away,' Evans replied, surprise lacing his tone.
'I know, but the reporters would be around the house, so you lot should sit here,' Harry said, unbuckling his seatbelt, his voice a mix of exasperation and resignation. He stepped out of the car, the cold air nipping at his ears.
Harry swung open the back door of the car, tilting his head slightly as he called out, 'Remus, Tonks.' To his surprise, not only did Lupin emerge, but the Potters, Sirius, and even Evans piled out, eager to see the Lupins off. The air was thick with anticipation and the steady patter of rain, creating a curtain of sound that softened the moment.
'I’ll see you soon,' Harry said, meeting Remus’s gaze. Tonks caught him off guard by enveloping him in a fierce hug, her warmth a welcome contrast to the chill of the day. Remus offered a grateful look, his brow furrowed with unspoken gratitude, as if the weight of all they had shared pressed heavily on his shoulders.
'Thank you,' Tonks sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. 'Thank you for everything you’ve done for Teddy.' Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, reflecting the love and concern she felt for her son.
A faint red hue crept into Harry’s cheeks, warming his face. 'I didn’t do anything more than what a godfather should,' he replied, trying to brush off the praise with humility. 'Teddy’s got the best qualities of you both; he’s turning into an amazing wizard.' He felt a swell of pride as he spoke, remembering Teddy’s bright smile and boundless enthusiasm.
Evans piped up with a cheeky grin, 'Yeah, I dunno which one he got it from, but he snores terribly loud.' Laughter broke through the tension, a welcome sound that momentarily lifted their spirits.
Sirius snorted at that, shaking his head with mock seriousness. 'That would definitely be Mooney,' he declared, jabbing a thumb toward Remus, who rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile.
As they stood together beneath the grey sky, a sense of camaraderie enveloped them, the bonds of friendship knitting them closer despite the encroaching shadows of uncertainty. Laughter echoed softly amidst the sombre farewells, and Remus felt a comforting hand clap on his back, followed by another from James as they bid their goodbyes.
Lily, too, stepped forward, her expression softening as she wrapped her arms around Remus and Tonks, her embrace warm and reassuring. 'Take care of each other,' she murmured, her voice gentle but firm, conveying the weight of her concern.
'I’ll walk you there,' Harry offered, his voice carrying a sense of reluctant duty.
'Thank you, but no need,' Tonks replied with a warm smile. 'We fancy a walk ourselves. Besides, you’ve got a meeting with the Irish mob.' She winked playfully, her spirit undeterred by the gravity of their situation.
Harry nodded in understanding, feeling a mix of gratitude and concern. He watched as the Lupins began to make their way down the street, their figures growing smaller against the backdrop of the rain-drenched city. With each step they took, he felt the weight of the world pressing down on him—a reminder of the challenges that lay ahead.
As they walked away, the rest of the group remained silent, a stillness settling over them like a heavy fog. They stood together, watching the Lupins until they rounded the corner and disappeared from view. The distant sounds of London filled the air, but in that moment, it felt as if time had paused, allowing them to reflect on the bittersweet nature of farewells.
'Right then,' Harry said, turning toward the driver’s seat with a sense of determination. 'I’ll drive.'
The others climbed into the back seat, settling in with an air of quiet anticipation, while Evans plopped himself down in the passenger seat, his expression already betraying his restlessness.
'Can we get some food first?' Evans protested, crossing his arms with mock indignation. 'It’s not just Harold who hasn’t had lunch!'
'Fine,' Harry sighed, fastening his seatbelt with a resigned flick. 'Food it is.' He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life, filling the car with a reassuring hum as they pulled away.
As they navigated through the rain-soaked streets, Lily gazed out of the window, her mind a flurry of thoughts. The surreal reality that everyone who had once been lost had returned weighed heavily on her heart. She felt a mixture of joy and trepidation—joy at the thought of being reunited with loved ones, but trepidation at the daunting challenge of raising her son in a world that felt suddenly unfamiliar. How would she cope with Harry growing up amidst this whirlwind of emotions and expectations? The uncertainty loomed large, mingling with the scent of damp earth and wet asphalt. Each passing house, each flickering street lamp, seemed to whisper secrets of what lay ahead. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they were standing on the precipice of something momentous, and she couldn’t help but wonder how they would navigate this new chapter together, with all its complexities and possibilities.
Notes:
This chapter is going to be continued.
Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. And any element you'd like to read in the story.
Each nd every comment is a big boost to continue this story. Xoxo
Chapter 10: Silent Tears of Time
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Let’s stop here," Evans suggested, pointing lazily towards a fast-food joint with a flick of his wrist.
Harry, without a word, steered the car towards the curb, coming to a smooth halt beside the restaurant.
"Right," Evans announced, unclipping his seatbelt with a practised motion. "I'll grab some chips, maybe a burger or two... anyone got a special request? Speak now or forever suffer in silence." He turned, hand outstretched towards Harry, eyes gleaming with mischief. "On the house?" he added, the hopeful lilt unmistakable.
Harry sighed, already knowing how this little ritual would end. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out his wallet with the resigned air of someone who’s done this a hundred times. "Just bring back the change this time, yeah?"
"Convenience charges," Evans grinned, snatching the notes from Harry’s hand with a wink.
“Nothing for me,” Harry called as Evans pushed the door open, his voice barely carrying over the creak of the hinge.
Evans stopped mid-step, turning back with a frown. “Why not?”
“I’m not hungry,” Harry replied, eyes forward, his tone curt.
Evans’ brow furrowed, his face shifting from mild confusion to something bordering on concern. “You haven’t eaten anything. That’s not good for someone your age—”
"Don’t start," Harry cut him off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His tone was dry, but a thread of irritation underlined his words. “Just get me a coffee.”
Evans pulled a face, scrunching up his nose in exaggerated distaste. “Their coffee tastes like goblin piss. We'll get one somewhere decent after this.”
Harry’s patience was thinning. “No, James, I’m not stopping again just for coffee,” he called, but Evans had already disappeared inside, leaving Harry shaking his head at the familiar routine.
The silence that followed was unsettling, the absence of Evans leaving a hollow space in the car. Harry rubbed his eyes, his fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose—just like James used to. Lily had noticed, of course. She always did. But now, with just the four of them left, there were so many things she wanted to say... but never could.
She wanted to pull him into her arms, hold him close like she had when he was small enough to rest his head on her chest, their heartbeats syncing in that unspoken, perfect rhythm. It felt like yesterday to her. Harry, her little boy, all wild hair and wide eyes, the weight of the world still far from his small shoulders.
She wanted to tell him everything would be all right, that she was still there, beside him, every step of the way. But she couldn’t. Not now. He was a man, a grown man with a family of his own. He had a wife to share his burdens, children to light up his life. Her place, the one she’d once held so firmly, had shifted.
So instead, Lily simply watched, her heart aching with a mother’s silent love, the words she couldn’t say lodged in her throat.
“We’re here,” Evans announced as he swung the door open, though the door seemed to have other ideas. It jammed halfway, causing him to stumble into the car with all the grace of a flobberworm. “Bloody thing,” he muttered, kicking it lightly with his foot, managing to free it with a screeching groan.
Harry raised an eyebrow, barely suppressing a smirk. “You planning on taking the door with you?”
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve stolen,” Evans grinned, sliding back into the driver’s seat and dumping the greasy bags on Harry’s lap with a flourish. “Voilà! A banquet fit for a king.”
Harry wrinkled his nose at the unmistakable scent of fried food. “I asked for a coffee, not enough grease to fry a dragon.”
“Coffee’s coming, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Evans produced a cup, its lid already slightly askew. “Though, fair warning, it might actually taste worse than dragon grease.”
Harry took it with a sigh, looking at the murky liquid as if it had personally offended him. "Brilliant.”
Evans nestled the burgers and chips between them. Lily started unwrapping her own burger, feeling her stomach rumble in acknowledgment. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was until that moment, glancing sideways to see Sirius and James also wolfing down their food.
Lily glanced at Harry from the back seat, her eyes soft as they settled on Harry. The memory of wanting to hug him, to tell him everything would be all right, still weighed heavy in her chest. But as she watched him grimace at the coffee and take a begrudging sip, something shifted.
“Coffee that bad?” she asked, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“Worse,” Harry replied, trying to mask his distaste, though the twitch of his mouth betrayed him.
“You should listen to me more often,” Evans said through a mouthful of chips.
Harry shot him a sideways glance. “Right, because you’ve always been the picture of good judgement.”
“Exactly!” Evans beamed. “Glad you’re finally catching on.”
“I’m not drinking whatever this is. It’s an abomination of coffee,” Harry declared, tapping his wand against the mug and making it vanish into thin air. With the car restarted, Harry navigated through the bustling streets of London with practiced ease. After about fifteen minutes, he turned into the drive-thru of a rather posh-looking café.
He stopped at a machine where a cheerful voice greeted them and asked for their orders.
“A large black coffee, please—” Harry began, turning his head to ask his companions, but they shook their heads in unison.
“I would like to order,” Evans piped up brightly, still munching on his burger, “a venti vanilla latte, made with oat milk, topped with a sprinkle of cinnamon and a drizzle of caramel, served extra hot.”
Harry regarded him as if he’d just declared something utterly scandalous.
“Do you serve orange juice, preferably in a juice box?” Harry asked instead.
“Yes, sir, but not in juice boxes—more environmentally friendly, you see. However, we do offer them in toddler-friendly tumblers, which would work brilliantly for your young one.”
“That would be amazing. Thank you.”
“Alright, your total is £5.25. Would you like to donate the change amount for a global cause? I assure you, all your—”
“Yes, please! I’d like to donate,” Harry interrupted, cutting off the girl’s cheerful spiel.
“Very well, sir. Please pay £6 at the window.”
With a nod, Harry accelerated the car forward, pulling up once more at the window where a young girl handed him their order and accepted the cash. He thanked her warmly, and with that, they were off again, the car humming as it navigated through the busy streets.
After a few moments, they found themselves halted at a red light. Taking advantage of the pause, Harry reached into the bag, retrieving his coffee and handing Evans his juice.
He transferred the steaming brew into the tumbler he always kept at hand, giving it a good shake before taking a sip, his eyes fluttering shut in apparent satisfaction as the rich flavour washed over him. Evans, however, regarded him with a pointed stare.
“For a toddler? Really?” he quipped, raising an eyebrow.
“It wasn’t I who suggested it,” Harry replied, still savouring the moment with his eyes closed. “Besides, you like orange juice—sorry it’s not in a juice box,” he added, a playful lilt in his voice.
Evans rolled his eyes but couldn’t help grinning as he took a swig of his juice, alternating between sips and bites of his burger. The car was filled with a comfortable camaraderie, the mundane rhythm of their banter wrapping around them like a warm blanket.
Harry glanced at Evans, who was now trying to navigate a particularly large bite of burger while managing the juice. “You’re quite the sight, you know,” Harry teased.
“Oh, don’t start!” Evans retorted, cheeks bulging comically. “You’re just jealous of my impeccable multitasking skills!”
“I’m more concerned about the state of your shirt,” Harry shot back, eyeing the inevitable drips of sauce that were sure to land on him.
With a chuckle, Evans made a show of wiping his chin dramatically. “All part of the experience!”
As the light turned green, Harry eased off the brake, the car gliding smoothly into the flow of traffic. Their playful banter continued as they navigated the busy streets, laughter punctuating the air like little bursts of magic.Before long, the towering skyscrapers began to thin out, replaced by the open skies of the countryside. The car fell into a comfortable silence, the hum of the engine the only sound, until Evans turned on the radio. Immediately, a particularly grating tune filled the car, one that Lily would no doubt have described as "the most annoying song ever created."
With a cheeky grin, Evans pulled out a device, its screen flickering with bright icons. His fingers danced over the buttons with practiced ease, momentarily distracting Harry, who cast a curious glance at him. “How’s the exam prep going, James?” he asked lightly, though his tone held a genuine curiosity.
Evans, clearly not eager to dive into the topic, rolled his eyes dramatically. “It’s going fine,” he said, his voice dripping with forced nonchalance. “I’m all over it.”
Harry’s gaze remained fixed on the road, but his concern was evident. “You know, you can always ask me for help if you need it,” he offered, his tone careful.
“No need,” Evans replied, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. “Besides, wouldn’t that be considered cheating?”
Harry rolled his eyes in response. “Cheating is practically part of the exam experience. Everyone does it in some form—whether it's a motivational speech or a fake letter of recommendation.”
Evans shot him a grin. “Just like you cheated by not taking any exams at all.”
Harry snorted. “One might say that,” he admitted. “But I have no idea what will come in those exams or what will they ask in your interview—that’s all externally prepared. So if I didn't, I'd be overcompensating.”
“Hmm. I’ll ask if I need to,” Evans conceded, his tone softer.
Harry glanced at him, hesitation flickering in his eyes, as if he was on the verge of saying something more. But after a brief pause, he decided against it, returning his attention to the road ahead. Evans, meanwhile, refocused on his device, scrolling through the endless stream of messages and notifications. The countryside stretched out before them, the sounds of the car blending with the distant hum of nature.
“Where are we heading again?” Evans asked after a while.
“Portkey office,” Harry replied. “I’m running late.”
“And I’m driving to Devon after that?” Evans clarified.
“Obviously. And I expect you to stay indoors and study.”
“Oh, I will,” Evans said with a yawn. “Once I qualify, we’re going to have so much fun together.”
“That depends,” Harry responded, making a turn. “If you don’t curb your annoying habits, I might have to post you in some strategic office in the middle of nowhere.”
“You love me too much to do that,” Evans said cheerfully.
Harry smirked but said nothing. They drove on in silence for a while, the landscape now giving way to rolling hills and rural highlands.
“Maybe I should pick up a new hobby after exams,” Evans mused, breaking the silence. “What do you think?”
“If I were you, I’d spend the whole holiday lying in bed,” Harry replied. “One last chance before you qualify.”
“You’re so boring,” Evans groaned, rolling his eyes. “Maybe I should start pottery. It’d go perfectly with the name.”
“Of course,” Harry said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
“What?”
“Well, you’ll buy all the stuff—the potter’s wheel, clay, fifty different tools—use them for five days, make a mess, and then leave me to clean it up. After that, I’ll have to find a place to store it all for the rest of its life.”
Evans chuckled, staring straight ahead. "Fine. Maybe I’ll start selling pots. You can be my first customer."
Harry raised an eyebrow, glancing over at him. "What on earth made you say that?" he asked, half-laughing as his focus returned to the road.
Evans just winked in response, his grin widening.
After about fifteen minutes, Harry pulled the car to a stop, shifting the gear into park before engaging the handbrake. "Alright," he said, addressing the backseat passengers through the rearview mirror, "I’ll probably see you tomorrow." Then, turning to Evans, he added, "James, take over."
Both aurors climbed out of the car, slamming their doors shut behind them. Lily, seated in the back, watched through the window as Harry began speaking to Evans, his expression serious. Evans, looking slightly uncomfortable, shook his head at first but eventually nodded. Harry gave him a reassuring pat on the back before heading to the trunk to grab his coat and bag.
Evans moved to the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors and preparing to reverse the car. Harry stood on the side of the road, waving them off as Evans eased the vehicle backward, his movements smooth and controlled.
Lily’s gaze shifted from Harry to the building ahead—the so-called Portkey Office. To her surprise, it resembled an old, abandoned farmhouse rather than an official government facility. With a final wave, Harry turned and walked toward the weathered structure, his figure disappearing into the shadows as the car began to pull away, leaving the quiet countryside in their wake.
"Alright, fam, let's get ourselves to Devon before sunrise. Merlin, the speed he was driving was a total waste of this beauty of a car," Evans quipped from the driver’s seat, a grin playing on his lips.
Lily, James, and Sirius exchanged puzzled glances, their confusion evident. Evans, meanwhile, was absorbed in his device, his fingers tapping away as he scrolled through various songs, seemingly oblivious to the mood in the car.
After a full ten minutes of fiddling, Evans finally settled on what he deemed the perfect tune and slammed his foot on the accelerator, sending the car lurching forward. The sudden burst of speed caught them all off guard, the force pressing them into their seats.
As they sped along the winding country roads, Lily turned her head toward the window, her breath hitching as silent tears began to spill down her cheeks. Her long red hair fell like a curtain, hiding her grief from the others.
She felt a storm of emotions brewing inside her—grief, confusion, anger. She wanted to weep, to scream, to demand answers from the universe. Most of all, she wanted to shake Harry, to ask him what had happened to her baby. How had the boy she cradled in her arms become this man—so strong, yet so distant, marked by a life she hadn't been there to witness?
But all she could do was sit there, staring at the passing countryside, her heart heavy with the weight of the years that had been stolen from her.
Notes:
I'm not particularly happy with this chapter because:
A) it seems quite forced, I could simply say they left Harry at the portkey.
B) it doesn't add anything to the story.
But I am posting it because:
A) I might never re write it again and it's supposed to be fun
B) I don't want to keep you people waiting.Anyway do tell me your thoughts. I know I say this at the end of every chapter but your comments literally means the word to me! ❤️
And oh, good news: I have finally thought about something that's not pointless fluff and actually adds to the story!
But it will be hinted after atleast 3/4 chapters (at best)
And also, do you think I should open a Tumblr account to post snippets of the story? We can do polls and stuff there!
Lots of love 💕
Chapter 11: The Calm Before Dawn
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The drive stretched on under the late afternoon sun, the countryside rolling by in waves of green and gold. Evans barely seemed to notice the change in scenery as he pulled into a small, roadside diner, ordering a round of burgers and coffees without so much as a glance at the menu.
'Anything for you lot?' he asked, voice casual, his gaze flickering to the rearview mirror, catching their eyes with mild curiosity. They all shook their heads in unison, the silence heavy with an unspoken tension.
With the bags of food in hand, they were soon back on the road. The hum of the engine filled the car as they picked up speed, Evans now steering with one hand while the other scrolled lazily through his device. Every so often, he would glance up at the road, the flick of his eyes never quite reassuring. Lily, seated just behind him, couldn’t shake the growing unease that coiled in her stomach, each careless bite he took from his sandwich making her shift in her seat. Something wasn’t right—his divided attention, the way his fingers moved so deftly over the screen, even the empty stretch of highway ahead seemed somehow more threatening. Suddenly, the music cut off, replaced by the sharp trill of a ringtone. Evans, clearly caught off guard, glanced down in surprise. He fumbled in the storage compartment between the seats, his brow furrowed in mild annoyance, before pulling out a device identical to the one he had been using.Something shifted in Evans’ expression. The mild annoyance vanished, replaced by an unsettling, mischievous smirk—so reminiscent of the one Lily had seen on James’ face countless times. Her heart skipped a beat.
Evans put his own device aside and, without a moment’s pause, pressed the button on the newly discovered one, bringing it to his ear. His voice, which had been casual and lighthearted all day, suddenly took on a weightier, more serious tone.
'Potter speaking,' he said, his words crisp and mature in a way that startled Lily. 'Yes… Hmm… I understand… Yeah… Thank you.'
The newcomers were confused as he introduced himself. Potter? They thought.
He lowered the device from his ear, his expression amused, and immediately began scrolling through it with practised fingers. After a few moments of silence, his eyes flicked to the road, focused, as if searching for something.
With a sigh, Evans slid the device back into the compartment where he had found it, his demeanor unreadable once more. Finally, and to Lily's relief, he turned his full attention back to the road ahead, hands steady on the wheel.
After a short while, the music was once again interrupted by the same shrill ringtone. This time, however, Evans pushed a button on the radio, silencing the music with a deft flick of his wrist. 'Potter speaking,' he said, not even bothering to pick up the device.
'Excuse me?' a deep voice echoed through the car, filling the space with a familiar presence.
'Oh! It’s you,' Evans replied, his tone suddenly sheepish.
'Yeah, thank Merlin I left the spell-phone in the car. I thought I’d lost it.'
'Yup, it’s perfectly safe with me,' Evans responded quickly, a hint of mischief still lingering in his voice.
Lily’s eyes widened as she recognized the voice—it was Harry. She glanced sideways and noticed that both James and Sirius seemed to have made the same connection, their expressions mirroring her surprise.
'Who called, and what did you say to them, James?' Harry sighed, his tone a mixture of irritation and concern.
'No one called!' Evans replied defensively, though the slight blush creeping into his cheeks betrayed him.
'Really? Because the way you picked up the phone so confidentially makes me think this isn’t your first time!'
'Well, yeah, I answered it confidentially because that’s also my name,' he protested weakly.
'Oh, James…' Harry’s voice was a mixture of exasperation and amusement.
'Fine! I called the French Ministry of Magic and told them we’re coming for them,' Evans finally confessed, barely able to hold back his laughter.
A pause settled over the car, the tension thick. Evans was visibly struggling to contain his mirth.
'It’s not funny, you know,' Harry said finally, his voice tinged with disappointment.
'You’re low-key mad because you believed me,' Evans teased, that grin not fading.
'No, I didn’t.'
'Bet you did,' Evans countered with a wink. 'Also, you’d be so shook if I told you what I saw in all the secret files your spell-phone has!'
Now Harry sounded unsure. 'You’re so nosy.'
'Took after you then,' he replied cheerfully.
'I’m not nosy.'
'Mr. Zorthan Kirandar would disagree.'
'I don’t know who he is,' Harry replied slowly.
'Oh, I know who he is, though,' Evans said with a grin. 'He and his beloved wife, Ms. Lirenthia Vraxiel, seem terribly interested in my life. Where I go, who I meet, and what I eat. Always liking and following my posts on Wizgram.'
'No idea what you’re talking about.' Harry shrugged, the movement evident even through his voice.
'Hmm,' Evans replied, a small smile playing on his lips.
'Anyway, how far away are you?' Harry said, clearly eager to change the topic.
'Like, twenty minutes.'
'Okay, and you’re talking while driving, I presume?'
'I’m not going to answer that on the grounds that I don’t want to.'
'Fair enough,' Harry said, his voice defeated. 'Show them to their rooms as we discussed earlier. I’ll be back late, so keep the spell-phone safe and—'
'I get it, I get it. Whose phone are you using, anyway?'
'Oh, it’s the Portkey Office’s. Right, I’ll talk to you all later, okay? Be safe.'
'Same for you,' Evans replied, a grin spreading across his face as he settled back into the drive, the familiar hum of the engine filling the air once more.
The call disconnected with a sharp beep, and the music sprang back to life, filling the car with a cheerful tune. Evans picked up his own device this time, fiddling with it absentmindedly as they continued their journey.
As they drove further, the scenery began to shift. The bustling urban landscape gave way to the gentle undulations of the countryside, with stretches of farmland unfolding as far as the eye could see. So this was Devon, Lily mused, a faint smile tugging at her lips as memories stirred within her. She recalled her only visit as a child, when she was five, tagging along with her family to visit a dying relative in the hospital.
During her time with James, she often dreamed of living in a place just like this—peaceful and tranquil, a haven where they could raise their children and watch them grow, while growing older themselves in the process. When they received the house in Godric’s Hollow as a wedding gift from James’ parents, she had been overjoyed. It was everything she had ever wished for, a charming refuge that felt like home in a way that Corksworth never had. The thought of that little cottage, with its cozy rooms and lush gardens, warmed her heart as they sped along the winding country roads.
Her reverie was abruptly interrupted by yet another ring. The device—spell-phone, Lily reminded herself—was ringing once more.
Evans pressed the button with a flourish, and a ridiculously posh voice greeted him on the other end.
'James, mate, what are you doing?'
Evans let out a bark of laughter. 'Are you drunk?'
'Drunk? Gosh, no! I’m just tired—freaking tired—with all the preparations.'
'Say no more,' Evans replied sympathetically. 'But you’re not stuck driving a bunch of people back to the house, are you?'
'Mate, it’s mental. It’s like something out of a fanfic, isn’t it?'
'You have no idea,' Evans said, glancing at the rearview mirror with a grin. 'It's been a whole circus—like, legit, everything’s upside down.'
The voice on the other end chuckled, 'How’s your dad handling it? Must be wild for him too.'
'Well,' Evans started, the smirk never leaving his face, 'He’s low-key salty that he’s not the only one who’s come back to life anymore. But, you know, he’s dealing.'
'You’re the only one who could make light of that,' Crispin replied with a chuckle.
'I know. I’m also the only person I know who’s as great as me, Crispin.'
'Delulu is the only solulu, isn’t it?' Crispin shot back. 'Anyway, it’s all utterly bonkers, isn’t it?'
I can imagine,' Crispin replied. 'Speaking of weird, my granddad’s brother popped back up like a bad penny, demanding half the fortune he thinks he’s owed. Total drama, honestly.'
'Hmmm…' Evans replied, making a turn and slowing the car.
Crispin’s voice dropped, as though he were confessing something. 'You know, I had the weirdest dream about your mum last night.'
Evans nearly swerved. 'Excuse me?'
'Relax, it was innocent!' Crispin said quickly, though the grin was evident in his voice. 'I asked her for her autograph. Your dad was furious—sacked me the next day in my dream.'
Evans snorted. 'Well, I don't even know what should I say.'
Crispin chuckled. 'You’re not going to tell him, are you?'
Evans raised an eyebrow. 'Why wouldn’t I?'
'Because I trusted you!' Crispin replied, half-serious but mostly joking, as laughter bubbled through the line.
Evans grinned. 'Don’t tempt me. Imagine if he brought it up during your interview—'Oh, Mr. Crispin, heard you’ve been dreaming about my wife.’'
'Shut up!' Crispin shot back, clearly rattled. 'If you tell him, I’ll… I’ll date your sister!'
'Well, that's a win-win for me!' Evans laughed, 'I can't wait for the day she will bring you to meet the family, how then you will hide from my dad then?
'Easy, I’ll just say I’m ‘not ready’ to meet him,' Crispin retorted.
'Didn’t you hide in a broom cupboard just to avoid him last time?'
'That was one time!' Crispin insisted, his indignation cracking through the laughter. 'I’ll talk to you later, alright? Gotta go deal with my granddad’s drama.'
'Yeah, good luck with that! Bye!' Evans said, and again there was a beep as the call disconnected.
After a few more winding turns, Evans finally brought the car to a halt, pulling the handbrake with a soft click. 'C’mon, we’ve reached our destination,' he said, sliding out of the car with a casual ease.
Lily followed, her legs tingling oddly after sitting still for what felt like hours. She stretched them gingerly as she shut the car door behind her, then turned to look at the house. It was a classic English cottage, quaint and familiar, but there was something undeniably charming about it, especially in the soft glow of twilight. Between them and the cottage lay a sprawling garden, every flowerbed meticulously tended, its paths illuminated by the warm glow of garden lamps, casting long shadows in the fading light.
Evans, carrying a bag in one hand and a coffee mug in the other, gave the car door a brisk kick shut. 'Right,' he muttered, already striding toward the cottage with the air of someone who had done this a hundred times before.
'What are you all waiting for?' he called back over his shoulder, his voice breaking the stillness. 'Come on!'
They followed him, their footsteps crunching softly over the gravel path as they crossed the neatly kept garden. Evans reached the door, giving it a quick turn of the key before pushing it open to reveal a cozy kitchen. The scent of something faintly savory still lingered in the air.
'It’s the back entrance,' Evans said casually, setting his mug down on the kitchen island with a soft clink. 'The front’s swarmed with reporters, even at this hour.' He glanced at them with a weary smile, as if this was a routine he was well accustomed to.
'Anyone hungry? I think there’s some dinner left over,' he added, peering into the oven, its dull warmth still radiating from within.
But no one spoke, and for a moment, the kitchen was filled with silence. They weren’t hungry—not for food, at least. Each of them shook their heads, murmuring their refusals, though their minds were far from the growling of stomachs. There were other things, heavier things, weighing them down.
'Right then, I’ll show you all your rooms. Follow me,' Evans said briskly, gesturing for them to trail behind him.
They moved through what appeared to be the living room, and though the light was low, Lily could feel the warmth and cosiness of the space. There was a sense of comfort woven into the very walls, though the shadows clung heavily around them.
Evans led them to the stairs, a grand mahogany set, its polished wood gleaming faintly in the dim light. As they began to ascend, Lily’s gaze drifted to the wall running alongside them. It was lined with photo frames, but the poor lighting made it impossible to make out any of the faces staring back at her.
They reached the first floor at last. Evans led them down a hallway, passing five doors before coming to a stop at the corner-most one. With a grand sweep of his hand, he turned to Sirius, 'Well, Sirius, this is your pad from now on,' he said, opening the door with a flourish.
They stepped inside. The room was clean and minimalistic, in Lily’s opinion—a simple bed, a desk, and five large cupboards stood neatly in place. The sudden brightness made them all squint, the light almost harsh after the soft darkness of the rest of the house.
Evans moved quickly to the large rectangular window, drawing the heavy curtains with a swift motion. 'Better keep this covered,' he muttered darkly, his voice carrying an edge Lily hadn’t heard before.
Something felt off. Lily blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dimmer light now in the room. Was it just her imagination, or did Evans look… different? His chestnut hair had darkened, almost black now, and his nose—had that always been the shape of it? She frowned, her heart giving an uneasy flutter. Something had shifted, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what.
'Okay,' Evans said, glancing at her and James, seemingly unaware of the subtle shift in his appearance. 'You two, follow me.' They left Sirius’s new room behind and stepped out into the hallway. Evans opened the door directly opposite, revealing a narrow, steep staircase spiralling upwards.
He climbed it with ease, the others trailing behind, and soon they arrived at a smaller landing with just two doors. 'This one,' Evans said, nodding toward the left, 'leads to the storeroom. Best to keep it shut unless you fancy spiders.' His tone was light, but something about the warning seemed to hang in the air a moment too long. 'Your room,' he continued, gesturing to the door on his right.
With a familiar flourish, Evans opened the door to reveal an attic room. Moonlight filtered through a large skylight window, casting soft, silvery beams across the space. A queen-sized bed with a thick duvet sat in the center, flanked by a set of sofas, two more doors, and two Welsh dressers tucked neatly against the walls. 'That door over there,' Evans pointed toward the corner, 'leads to the loo, and the other one takes you out to the balcony.'
The three of them—James, Lily, and Sirius—moved toward the bed and sat down heavily, the weight of the day pressing down on them. 'Well, that's all,' Evans said, lingering awkwardly by the door. He hesitated as if searching for the right words. 'Er—good night,' he added, sounding almost unsure of himself before he turned and quietly closed the door behind him.
Sirius flopped back onto the mattress with a groan, covering his eyes with his arm. 'It’s mental—completely mental,' he muttered.
'You’re telling me?' James replied, his voice low and dark. 'Seeing my one-year-old son turn into a middle-aged man overnight?'
Lily, exhausted and overwhelmed, couldn’t even begin to untangle her emotions. It felt as if the world had turned upside down, and she hadn’t the strength to right herself.
'We should get some sleep,' Sirius said, sitting up. He gave James a firm slap on the back and planted a gentle kiss on the top of Lily’s head before standing. 'Night, you two,' he murmured, then slipped out of the room, leaving them in the soft quiet of the attic.
James turned to her, wrapping his arms around her in that familiar way. 'Do you want to talk about it?' he asked gently, his breath warm against her hair.
Lily shook her head, unable to form words. She crawled under the duvet, pulling it up to her chin. 'Get some sleep, love. Everything will be fine,' James whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before joining her under the covers.
But as he settled beside her, Lily felt the hot sting of tears behind her eyes. She tried to hold them back, to swallow the sobs that were threatening to break free, but it was no use. Silent tears slid down her cheeks, dampening the pillow beneath her.
She wasn’t the type to cry alone, or to hide her feelings, but tonight was different. Everything was different, Lily reminded herself bitterly. The weight of it pressed down on her chest, suffocating in its intensity.
Too tired to make sense of the tangled thoughts swirling in her mind, she allowed herself one small, fragile hope—that this was all a terrible dream. That tomorrow she would wake up to her one-year-old son and husband, safe in Godric’s Hollow.
But as her tears fell and the darkness of sleep finally claimed her, deep down, Lily knew better.
Notes:
Please share your thoughts on the story! They're a major boost for me! With this chapter the story is FINALLY moving, phew. Love y'all 💞
Chapter 12: The Doorway to Revelations
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The soft morning light filtered through the roof windows, spilling over the bed in a golden hue. Lily stirred, the warmth nudging her awake. She turned her head to the side, her eyes landing on James, still fast asleep, seemingly impervious to the sunlight now bathing his face.
Lily sat there for a good ten minutes, her mind blissfully blank, before she could summon the energy to pull herself from the warmth of the bed. Moving carefully so as not to wake James, she eased open one of the chest drawers. Inside, clothes were neatly folded, and in the next drawer, a row of new toothbrushes lay untouched. She took one and slipped into the loo, the cool tiles beneath her feet grounding her. To her surprise, a calmness settled over her, quiet but steady, as if the morning light had worked some kind of magic of its own.
Lily brushed her teeth, leaning closer to the mirror. The faint lines around her eyes, the streaks of grey threading through her hair—they hadn't been there before. Not like this. She let out a long, weary sigh, turning away from the reflection that felt almost unfamiliar. Back in the bedroom, she stood for a moment, indecisive. Should she wait for James to wake, or head downstairs alone? But the soft rumble of her stomach, paired with a quiet tug of curiosity, made the choice for her. Whatever awaited her now, she’d face it head-on.
She quietly turned the doorknob and slipped into the hallway, her footsteps barely making a sound as she descended the narrow flight of stairs. Reaching the first floor, she paused, glancing at the door across from her—Sirius’ room. A fleeting thought crossed her mind—should she wake him? But really, when had Sirius ever been an early riser? She let out a soft sigh and made her way toward the hall, deciding against it.
Her gaze shifted to the walls as she passed, noticing the photographs for the first time. They lined the corridor, bathed in the soft morning light, their subjects waving and smiling in that curious, enchanted way of wizarding photos. Faces unfamiliar to her, yet somehow comforting.
In the living room, the sunlight had transformed the space. What had felt strange and foreign the night before now seemed peaceful, as though the light had worked its quiet magic on every corner of the room. But the thought that rose unbidden in her mind was of Harry—Where was he?
Before she could dwell too long on the thought of Harry, a faint murmur reached her ears from behind one of the doors, barely more than a whisper but unmistakably real. Her heart fluttered in her chest, a flicker of both hope and anxiety stirring within her. She paused, her hand hovering just above the doorknob, steadying herself with a deep, quiet breath. Whatever lay beyond, she had to face it.
With a slow, deliberate push, the door swung open.
Her gaze was immediately caught by a shock of vibrant orange hair, almost startling in the morning light. Two figures sat at the dining table, their conversation halting abruptly as they turned to look at her. For a moment, neither party moved—Lily, framed in the doorway, and the two people at the table, now equally unsure. She stood there, unsure whether to step inside, her mind racing as recognition dawned.
And yet, the sight of them, this unexpected reunion, was overwhelming in ways she hadn’t prepared for.
Lily’s eyes finally came to rest on the woman at the table. Recognition bloomed slowly, memories of photographs she’d seen in Harry’s office piecing themselves together. She was just as striking in person—perhaps even more so. There was a grace about her, a quiet beauty that hadn’t quite been captured in the still images.
The woman threw a quick glance toward the man seated across from her, as if some unspoken understanding passed between them. Then, with surprising speed, she rose from her chair, crossing the room in a few swift steps. Before Lily could fully register what was happening, the short woman had wrapped her in a warm, firm embrace.
Lily stood frozen for a heartbeat, then slowly returned the hug, the familiarity of it almost unsettling in its intensity. It was strange, she thought, how even amidst the unfamiliar, a moment like this could feel... almost like home.
'Lily!' the woman exclaimed, finally releasing her from the embrace but still holding her hands warmly. 'It's such a pleasure to meet you in person, at last!' Her voice was bright, full of energy. 'I’m Ginny,' she continued with a smile, 'Harry’s wife. Has he told you all about us?' Her tone was light, but her curiosity was genuine.
'Er—no—' Lily began, but before she could say more, Ginny cut in with a soft laugh.
'I’ll take that as a no, then. Don’t just stand there, sit down! I’ve made some tea, I’ll fetch it right now.' With a gentle but firm push, Ginny guided her into a chair before hurrying out of the room.
Lily found herself sitting opposite the man Ginny had been talking to. He, too, had the same fiery orange hair, though his was thinning noticeably at the crown. He offered her a kind smile.
'I’m Ron—Ron Weasley,' he said, extending his hand across the table. 'Harry’s best mate since Hogwarts... and Ginny’s favourite brother,' he added with a wink.
Lily opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say a word, Ginny swept back into the room, a tray balanced effortlessly in her hands, laden with more than just tea.
'My what?' Ginny said with a playful grin as she set the tray down on the table. 'Now, Lily—how do you take your tea?'
She told her and within minutes a warm cup of tea with the perfect shade she liked was in her hands.
'It must be so overwhelming and confusing for you all, isn’t it?' Ginny said sympathetically, offering her a small, understanding smile as she handed Ron his tea and settled into her chair with her own cup.
The warmth in Ginny's voice, coupled with the simplicity of the moment, made Lily feel a bit more grounded, though the strangeness of it all still hung in the air like a lingering fog. She nodded slightly, taking a small sip of her tea, the quiet weight of everything pressing in but softened by the kindness before her.
As Lily took a cautious sip of her tea, a sudden, deafening bang echoed from the door she had entered through, followed by a series of heavy thumps that made her nearly spill the hot liquid.
Ron’s eyes widened in alarm, and he threw a bewildered glance at Ginny, who simply sighed, setting her cup down with the air of someone used to such interruptions. 'I’ll get it,' she muttered, standing up and making her way to the door.
The moment she opened it, something large and golden barreled into the room, moving in a blur around Ginny before launching itself onto Ron with all the energy of a Quidditch player mid-dive. The golden dog—Lily realised, a Labrador—was now enthusiastically licking Ron’s face as he made half-hearted attempts to fend it off.
'Quaffle, no! Quaffle! Bad boy!' Ron spluttered between laughter and mild exasperation, trying and failing to push the dog away. The Labrador, however, was having none of it, happily slobbering over Ron’s face as if it were the most important task in the world.
Finally, as if deciding Ron had been sufficiently assaulted, Quaffle grew bored and turned his attention to Lily. He bounded over to her, sniffing her thoroughly as though inspecting her for something suspicious.
'Quaffle, no! Bad boy! Leave the poor lady alone!' Ginny’s voice rang out firmly, and it seemed to do the trick. The dog immediately retreated, trotting obediently back to her side, where he received a quick pat for his compliance.
Ron, still wiping his face, glared at her pointedly. 'What?' Ginny asked, feigning innocence as she sat down.
'You couldn’t tell him to get off me when he was licking me to death?' Ron asked, feigning indignation.
Ginny shrugged with a mischievous grin. 'Thought you could do with a face wash.'
Ron was just about to fire back a retort when the door creaked open once more. Quaffle perked up, his tail wagging furiously as he eyed the door, clearly planning to pounce on whoever entered. But before he could launch himself, Ginny gently pulled him back by the collar.
James and Sirius stood in the doorway, their expressions curious as they took in the room’s occupants. Ginny rose again, crossing the room with a welcoming smile. She pulled both men into warm hugs, introducing herself in the same friendly manner as she had with Lily, then nudging them toward the empty chairs at the table.
'I missed you,' Ginny said to Sirius with a soft smile as she poured him a cup of tea.
Sirius took the cup, eyeing her in disbelief. 'Blimey, Ginny! You’ve grown up so much,' he marveled, shaking his head. 'You were, what—ten?—the last time I saw you?'
Ginny let out a soft laugh. 'Fourteen, actually. Thank you very much,' she corrected him playfully, handing James his tea as well.
James, looking from Ginny to Sirius, then over at Ron, raised an eyebrow. 'You three know each other?' he asked, his voice carrying a note of surprise as he pointed at the siblings and Sirius.
Ron nodded, leaning back in his chair. 'Yeah, our parents were in the Order,' he explained. 'We used to stay at Grimmauld Place during the holidays. I still remember trying to figure out ways to eavesdrop on their meetings,' he added with a grin, as if the memory still amused him.
There was a quiet chuckle from Sirius, and then a moment of silence fell over the group, each of them sipping their tea. The air was thick with unspoken thoughts, none of them quite sure how to fill the strange, weighty quiet.
At last, they all drained the last of their tea, the clink of cups setting down the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. Ginny stood, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face as she made her way toward the kitchen.
Moments later, she returned, carrying a large tray laden with breakfast dishes. Behind her, a few more plates and cutlery floated in the air, hovering in perfect formation. With a casual flick of her wand, they glided gracefully onto the table, arranging themselves neatly before settling into place with a soft clink.
'Breakfast is served,' Ginny said with a warm smile, as the scent of warm toast and fresh eggs filled the room, momentarily pushing aside the lingering tension. For just a moment, it felt almost like a normal morning. Almost.
'Isn’t Harry home?' Ron asked through a mouthful of sandwich, crumbs spilling onto his plate.
Ginny didn’t respond immediately, taking her time as she finished her toast, chewing thoughtfully. Her gaze flickered for just a second before she finally spoke.
'Well... he got in late last night,' she said carefully, her tone measured. There was a weight in her words, subtle but present, as though she was holding something back or choosing her words with caution. She reached for her cup, taking a sip, her eyes avoiding theirs for the briefest moment.
Ron raised his eyebrows at Ginny’s carefully chosen words, but he didn’t press her. A quiet settled over the room, the kind that always seemed to linger when something important hung in the air, unspoken. It was Sirius who finally broke the silence.
'And what’s Hermione up to these days?' he asked, leaning back in his chair with a casual air.
Ron let out a small, bashful laugh, a flush creeping up his neck. Before he could answer, though, Ginny cut in, her voice laced with teasing amusement.
'Ron married her,' she said with a smirk. 'And they’ve got two kids now.'
Sirius barked out a laugh, the sound rich and full, reverberating through the room. 'No way! Harry and Ginny, and now you two?' He shook his head in disbelief, grinning as though the news was too good to be true.
Ron puffed out his chest, looking immensely pleased with himself. 'My finest achievement,' he declared with a grin, his voice full of pride.
'Oh, stop,' Ginny laughed, rolling her eyes. But there was warmth in her voice, the kind that softened even the sharpest of jests.
Ginny watched as the room filled with smiles at Ron’s life update, and a quiet thought lingered in her mind: How did they react when they found out about their grandkids? Surely James must have told them; after all, he was the one who had driven them here. She was certain Harry hadn’t said a word—he had come home at two in the morning, and by then, Ginny was so deep in sleep that she hardly noticed him slip in.
Yesterday had been just as fateful for Ginny. She had been preparing to head to King’s Cross Station to recieve her daughter when she heard the faintest sound of someone stumbling into the house. She had rushed to find Lily, her daughter sobbing uncontrollably. Through her tears, Lily had somehow managed to tell her about the impossible news—the dead were coming back to life. Ginny’s heart had plummeted. She tried to contact Harry, but couldn’t get through. In a panic, she had told Lily to stay with her cousin Hugo until things were clearer, then quickly made her way to the Burrow.
There, she had found her mother in tears, grief-stricken, as though she had been waiting for something she wasn’t yet ready to face. And then, just as her heart began to ache for her family, Ginny had witnessed the arrival of her long-lost brother. The Burrow had filled with the sound of sobbing, as her brothers rushed to meet him—George, in particular, breaking down at the sight of his twin, so long dead and yet, impossibly, alive again.
After dinner, Ginny had gone back to pick up Lily, and they had floo’d home to find a note from their eldest son. Harry’s family had come to stay, and they were safe, tucked into bed. It had been late, and Ginny had thought it best to let them rest, resolving to speak with them properly the following day.
All in all, it had been one of the most confusing and overwhelming days of her life—a day that felt as if it might never truly make sense.
'Morning.'
Ginny was pulled from her thoughts by the familiar sound of Harry's voice. She glanced up toward the door, where Harry had finally emerged, his hair tousled and his eyes still heavy with sleep.
She instinctively reached out, her hand hovering to catch Quaffle before he could leap, but the mischievous dog was already ahead of her. With a soft thud, Quaffle squeezed under the table, his paws skittering between their legs before launching himself onto Harry, his tail wagging furiously as he began to lick Harry’s face with exuberant affection.
'Good morning to you too, Quaffle,' Harry said, chuckling as he gently pushed the Labrador back down. But Quaffle, undeterred, merely circled him with the unrelenting energy only a dog could muster. Eventually escaping to the backyard.
Ginny watched the scene with a quiet smile, the normalcy of it all grounding her for a moment. Despite everything that had happened, this small, everyday moment was something she could hold onto.
Harry settled down beside Ginny, brushing a quick, affectionate kiss across her cheek before reaching for the teapot. He poured himself a cup with practiced ease, his eyes glinting with a teasing light.
'Did Hermione finally kick you out?' he asked, casting a playful glance toward Ron.
Ron’s mouth opened as though he was about to fire back with some witty retort, but thought better.
Ginny gave Harry’s foot a sharp, pointed tap under the table, her eyes narrowing slightly. He glanced sideways at her, a silent question in his gaze. She tilted her head, her eyes subtly flicking towards her in-laws.
With a quiet shrug, Harry reached for a piece of toast, his expression unchanged. It was his way of saying I’m not sure what you want me to do.
Ginny sighed softly, feeling the weight of the unspoken tension. She turned her attention back to her breakfast, her fork picking at her food absentmindedly. But as she glanced up, she caught sight of Lily, James, and Sirius—all of them sitting a little too still, their eyes fixated on Harry, almost as if they were waiting for him to say something, or perhaps, to break the silence. The look in their eyes was a mix of hunger, curiosity, and something else she couldn’t quite place.
'Is James at work?' Ginny asked, her voice casual but tinged with concern.
Harry’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. 'He isn't upstairs?'
Ginny shook her head, her gaze drifting toward the door. 'No, he's not. I went to his room to call him for breakfast, but he wasn't there.'
'Oh, Merlin,' Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. 'I told him to stay home and study for his exams. It’s not good for him, wandering around like that—especially with the press dogging our steps.'
Ginny shrugged slightly, trying to mask her worry with a placating smile. 'I'm sure he’s just at one of his friends' houses.'
Harry gave her a dry, sideways glance, clearly unconvinced. 'Right,' he muttered, his skepticism evident.
'I’m sure he’s fine,' Ron mumbled through a mouthful of his fourth piece of toast, barely pausing to swallow.
'You two shouldn’t always be protecting him,' Harry said, his voice edged with a hint of exasperation as he glanced at Ginny and Ron.
'We’re not,' Ginny replied, her tone firm. She turned her attention to the others, her eyes narrowing slightly. 'Did he tell any of you anything when he dropped you off?' she asked, addressing Lily, James, and Sirius.
'Who?' came the immediate reply.
'James,' she pressed, her gaze unwavering.
'Er... why would he?' Sirius answered, clearly baffled. 'He probably just went home, didn’t he?'
Ginny's eyes flashed as she glanced at Harry, but it was Harry who spoke next, his voice low and serious, filled with concern.
'What home?'
The three of them exchanged looks, their confusion palpable. They were clearly puzzled, not entirely sure what Harry meant.
'His home...?' Lily ventured cautiously, her words slow and deliberate as she sought clarification.
'This is his home!' Harry said sharply, rising from his seat, his eyes blazing with frustration.
Ginny shot him a quick glance, sensing the tension in his voice, but before she could speak, James blurted out, 'Excuse me, but your employee lives with you?!'
Harry’s expression darkened, his patience fraying. 'He’s not my employee!' he snapped, his voice edged with exasperation. 'I mean, yes, he works for me, but he’s my son, James!'
The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, as Harry’s gaze moved from James to the others, waiting for the silence to break.
The weight of his words hung in the air, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
Finally, Sirius managed to speak, his voice hesitant but insistent. 'But isn’t his name James Evans?' He glanced at his friends, as if searching for confirmation. 'When we first met him in your office, didn’t he say that? He said he was from Godric’s Hollow.'
'But—' Harry began, but his words were cut off by the sudden sound of the door opening again.
A tall, handsome young man entered, his presence filling the room effortlessly. He was the same man who had accompanied Lily, James, and Sirius the previous day. One shoulder bore a backpack which he casually swung as he entered, and in the other hand, he carried a cup of coffee.
'Morning, fam!' he called out cheerfully, completely oblivious to the strange atmosphere. Without a second thought, he tossed his bag into the corner, moved toward Ginny, and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head before greeting Ron with a nod. He then proceeded to the table, pouring himself a generous bowl of cereal, followed by milk, as if everything were perfectly normal.
Harry stared at him, his expression so disapproving it could’ve rivalled Professor McGonagall’s sternest looks. He placed his hands firmly on his hips, his gaze fixed on the young man as if trying to make sense of the situation.
Ginny and Ron exchanged weary glances, watching James with a sort of silent apprehension. James, for his part, continued to eat his breakfast with an air of complete obliviousness, unaware of the scrutiny.
Meanwhile, Lily, Sirius, and the other James observed him closely. They took in every detail—his striking resemblance to Harry, the jet-black hair, the familiar set of his jaw. Every feature seemed to be a screaming clue about who he was.
James finally finished his cereal, glanced around, and raised an eyebrow, as if he’d only just realised that everyone in the room was staring at him as if he were some kind of specimen in a zoo.
'What?'
Notes:
Finally the most awaited chapter has been published... Jily+Sirius finally getting to know the real identity of their grandson...
I hope it lives up to your expectations 🤞 I am very nervous about posting this.
Anyway, do comment your thoughts... This chapter is going to be continued.
Love y'all 💗
Chapter 13: Beneath the Surface
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
'What?' James asked, half-amused, half-baffled.
'May I know if I'm talking to James Evans or Potter?' Harry inquired, sarcasm lacing every word as he folded his arms, his gaze fixed on the boy.
James shot his mother a confused look, but Ginny only sighed, taking a slow sip from her juice, her eyes betraying nothing.
'What do you mean?' James asked, his confusion deepening, glancing between Harry and his mother, trying to catch onto the joke he clearly wasn’t in on.
'What I mean,' Harry began, his tone sharp, 'is that you’ve been introducing yourself as James Evans from Godric's Hollow?'
James blinked, his eyes flicking to his father, trying to work out what he was getting at. A moment passed, and then understanding dawned. His expression darkened with an indignant frown.
'Yeah, ‘cos you told me to!' he shot back, his voice rising.
'Did I?' Harry's tone was cool, measured, his gaze steady as he met his son's eyes.
'Yes!' James repeated, his indignation growing with each word. 'You were the one who did the glamour charm on me! And said, “Take care, James,'' he added, rolling his eyes with exasperation. 'I just decided to give my character a bit of a backstory. Seriously, what's the big deal?'
'They think you’re just an employee who lives with us,' Ginny said wearily, gesturing towards the newcomers. 'Didn’t you tell them that in the car?'
'I didn’t see the need!' James shrugged, looking completely unbothered. 'I mean, which plonker acts like a prat in front of the person who practically holds my career, duh.' He gave an exaggerated, knowing look, then took a sip of his juice.
'Glad to hear you're finally accepting that you behave like a prat toward me,' Harry said, exasperated, settling back into his seat.
'Oh, don't you just love it,' James muttered through a mouthful of toast. 'Besides,' he swallowed, 'I just happened to have the key to my boss’s house and knew where the bedrooms were. Sorry, but clearly, I overestimated all of you.' He smirked, then poured himself more juice.
'Well, that’s the case solved,' Ron said with a smirk of his own.
'Have you considered a career in law?' Harry asked, sarcasm thick in his voice.
'I don't think so, no,' James replied, completely missing the sarcasm. 'But it would be dull without you breathing down my neck.' He winked, clearly pleased with himself.
Harry sighed heavily, pouring himself a cup of coffee, the weight of the morning settling on his shoulders. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke, his voice tinged with defeat, 'Where were you?'
James grinned, utterly unrepentant, and with a flick of his wand summoned his bag from the corner of the room. 'Glad you asked,' he said, his eyes glinting with mischief. 'I've been dying to tell you.'
With a flourish of his wand he summoned his bag and rifled through it, pulling out a stack of Manila files and setting them on the table with dramatic precision. 'Affidavits signed,' he said, tossing a file onto Harry's lap. 'Warrant applications submitted,' he added, flicking another file in his direction. 'Witness statement typed,' he continued, adding another one to the pile.
And then, with a flourish worthy of a grand finale, he pulled out the bulkiest file of them all. 'And finally...' James grinned, 'Report on this resurrection business drafted.'
He threw the file onto Harry's lap with a thud, causing the older man to wince slightly at the weight of it.
James clapped his hands together with a triumphant grin. 'All done,' he said, 'and all while you were taking your beauty sleep.' He leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself, as though he'd just completed the most heroic feat of the day.
'Clearly you’re taking after me,' Ron said, his tone one of grudging appreciation.
'You’re an Auror too?' Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
'I used to be, until I—'
'—went off to run a joke shop,' Harry interrupted, muttering as he flipped through one of the files James had handed him.
Ron gave a mock sigh. 'He still hasn’t recovered from it,' he added, his voice dripping with false sympathy.
It took a great deal of energy and an even greater measure of trust in their own conscience for Lily and James to sit and watch their grandson before them.
They knew Harry had children—had seen their photographs in his office, a proud display—but they hadn't expected them to be this old. The boy sitting across from them was clearly in his late teens, perhaps early twenties.
'He named him after me,' James thought, a wave of emotion stirring in his chest. He was touched by the gesture. The resemblance to Harry was uncanny. Even though they'd only had a few minutes to study him, it was clear—his cheekbones, the way his eyebrows arched in that unmistakable Potter fashion.
There was one difference, though. The boy's eyes were brown, but when the light hit them just right, there was a glimmer of green.
Harry had seemed annoyed with him at first, but it was easy to see now that the underlying tone was one of amusement and warmth. Despite his gruffness, he was clearly fond of the banter with his son.'Mum,' James said, turning to Ginny, who was deeply engrossed in a lengthy parchment, 'can you fetch me a nice bottle of wine? Thanks.'
'Isn’t it a bit too early for that?' Harry asked without taking his eyes off the file in front of him.
'Took after you, then,' Ron piped up, earning a simultaneous chuckle from both James and Ginny, and a reproachful side-eye from Harry.
'You can take one from the cellar,' Ginny said, still focused on the paper in her hands.
James wrinkled his nose. 'Nah, they're all mid. Can’t I get one of those fancy ones?'
'We have no ‘fancy’ wines, James. Whatever’s there is there,' Ginny replied without lifting her gaze.
'C’mon!' James huffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. 'Dad bought a nice set on his trip to France in February.'
'I don’t remember anything about that, do you, Harry?' Ginny asked lightly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
Harry didn’t answer right away. He glanced briefly at his wife, who looked up from her paper and gave him a cool, expectant look. He sighed. 'Nope.'
'Well, if you can’t remember,' James said, looking far too innocent, 'I think I should give you some extra details. Dad bought them to gift at Uncle Ron’s birthday, but you said they were ‘too expensive’ for him and gave him something cheaper instead. You said you’d save them for ‘special occasions,’ but then cracked half of them open because, well, the installation of the new bath was an occasion, wasn’t it?' He shot a wide-eyed look at his mother. 'Rings a bell?'
'Too expensive for me!' Ron exclaimed indignantly, crossing his arms.
Ginny finally folded the paper, tucking it into her pocket with a resigned sigh. 'Well, yes! They were expensive! You were more than happy to receive the one we got you!' she said, rolling her eyes at her son’s impish grin.
'Alright, smart arse,' Ginny said, getting up with a huff and leaving the room. A few minutes later, she returned, carefully carrying a fancy wine bottle in her hands. She approached James and, with exaggerated caution, handed it to him. 'Well, why do you want it?'
'Wanted to gift it to someone,' James said with a shrug, taking the bottle and examining it.
'And I assume it’s not too expensive for them,' Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.
'C’mon, Ron, don’t be a prat of it,' Ginny said, rolling her eyes, her voice tinged with annoyance.
Not long after they'd finished breakfast, Lily felt the comforting weight of a full stomach settle in. The dull ache of hunger that had plagued her all morning began to fade, leaving a warm sense of ease in its place. Across from her, Ginny stood, her wand already in hand. With a graceful flick of her wrist, the dishes, cutlery, and even the leftover crumbs leapt into the air, floating toward the kitchen in neat formation, as though they'd done it themselves.
'Right then, I should be off,' Harry said, his voice heavy with the weight of the day, as he pushed himself up from the chair, tossing a stack of manila files onto it with a careless flick.
'Just throw them in my office, will you?' he added, glancing at his son, who gave him a playful, mock salute in return.
'I’d best head home too,' Ron chimed in, wiping his fingers on a napkin and standing with a satisfied sigh. He grinned at Harry's family, his familiar warmth filling the room. 'It was lovely seeing you all,' he said, kindly nodding to each of them. 'I'm sure I'll be seeing you lot soon enough.'
Both men left the room, Ginny trailing behind to see them off. As the door clicked shut, Lily felt a sharp tug at her heart, a quiet ache she hadn't anticipated. Whatever she had imagined for today, this wasn't it. She had pictured herself sitting beside her son, who would patiently share every detail of his life—those precious things a mother longed to know. But instead, he sat distant, his gaze never once turning towards them. A sense of quiet disappointment settled over her, heavier than she’d like to admit.
Not long after breakfast had come to an end, Lily felt a wave of relief wash over her, her stomach now pleasantly full. Across the table, Ginny raised her wand with a graceful flick, sending the dishes, cutlery, and leftover crumbs soaring effortlessly through the air, vanishing into the kitchen with a soft whoosh.
'Right then, I should be off,' Harry said, his voice heavy with the weight of the day, as he pushed himself up from the chair, tossing a stack of manila files onto it with a careless flick. 'Just throw them in my office, will you?' he added, glancing at his son, who gave him a playful, mock salute in return.
'I’d best head home too,' Ron chimed in, wiping his fingers on a napkin and standing with a satisfied sigh. He grinned at Harry's family, his familiar warmth filling the room. 'It was lovely seeing you all,' he said, kindly nodding to each of them. 'I'm sure I'll be seeing you lot soon enough.'
Both men made their way out, Ginny trailing behind to see them off. The door clicked shut, and the room suddenly felt quieter. Lily couldn’t help but feel a sharp tug at her heart, a quiet ache she hadn’t anticipated. She had imagined sitting down with Harry, hearing about every detail of his life, the small things only a mother yearned to know. But instead, he had kept his distance, never turning to them, as if unsure how to bridge the gap that years of separation had created. A weight of disappointment settled over her, heavier than she’d like to admit.
The younger James, noticing the shift in the atmosphere, grinned mischievously. 'You seriously didn’t connect the dots?' he teased, eyes gleaming. 'I know I’m more handsome, but come on…'
James, brow furrowed, leaned forward slightly. 'How old are you?' he asked, steering the conversation in a different direction.
The younger James shrugged, but there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes. 'What do you reckon?' he asked, sounding unexpectedly serious.
'Er, twenty...?' he ventured, his voice uncertain.
'Yeah, close enough,' his grandson said, a grin spreading as he relaxed. 'I turned twenty-one in April.'
'You’re an Auror too?' Sirius asked, looking rather impressed, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took in the younger James with newfound respect.
'Not yet,' James replied with a shrug. 'I'm still a trainee, but I've got exams next week. After that, I will be.'
Lily couldn’t help but feel impressed as she listened, her eyes softening. What impressed her most wasn’t just his ambition, but the confidence in his voice. He spoke as though passing the notoriously gruelling Auror exams—feared even in her time—was merely a formality. There was no hint of doubt, only certainty.
Ginny entered the room, elegantly dressed in Muggle attire, a bag slung stylishly over her shoulder. 'I’m heading to work now,' she announced, her voice carrying a blend of purpose and warmth.
'I’ll try to get back as early as I can. Mum invited us to the Burrow for dinner, so I’ll see you all there.'
She turned to her son, a mother’s concern mingling with affection in her gaze. 'James, please make sure to take them to the Burrow safely.'
Then she faced her in-laws, her tone becoming serious. 'And do try to avoid going out; the whole house is surrounded by reporters.'
Turning back to her son, she added, 'I expect you to stay in the house too, studying and not causing any nonsense.'
'Oh no! I was planning to set the house on fire,' James exclaimed in mock disappointment, feigning a look of devastation.
Ginny shook her head with a smile, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. With one final wave, she left, the door clicking softly behind her.
'Right, I’m off to work too,' James said, rising from his chair and gathering the files that Harry had tossed aside, carefully sliding them into his bag.
'Didn’t Ginny tell you to stay home?' the older Sirius questioned, raising an eyebrow.
'Well, the last time I checked, I was an adult,' James muttered, shuffling through his bag, his tone a mix of defiance and jest as he tried to locate his wand. He shot a glance at his grandparents, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.
With a quick 'bye,' James was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
Lily, James, and Sirius sat in silence, the room suddenly feeling much larger and emptier. No one spoke, each lost in their own thoughts, unsure of what to say. The air hung heavy between them, filled with words unspoken, the kind of quiet that lingers when no one quite knows how to bridge the gap between past and present.
Finally, they rose from their seats and made their way to the living room, settling into the plush softness of the sofa. Sirius shook his leg impatiently, the subtle movement a testament to his unease. Lily could hardly blame him; she felt restless herself, her mind swirling with uncertainty about what to do next. The quiet of the room seemed to stretch on endlessly, and she found herself wishing for some distraction to break the tension that hung in the air.
Something soft brushed against Lily’s leg. Glancing down, she saw an old black cat, its fur slightly disheveled, rubbing itself affectionately against her. She lowered her hand to scratch its head, and with a swift, graceful leap, the cat settled comfortably in her lap.
A fond memory flickered in her mind—her own cat, Tybalt. Harry used to chase him around the house on his broom, laughing as the cat darted away in annoyance. She wondered what had happened to Tybalt, but quickly pushed the thought aside, not wanting to dwell on the possibilities she dreaded to consider. Instead, she stroked the black cat absentmindedly, its steady purring offering a small comfort amidst her uneasy thoughts.
A loud bang echoed through the house as the door swung open, startling the room’s quiet occupants. Lily, James, and Sirius all turned instinctively towards the source of the noise. Footsteps could be heard in the dining room, and without a word, they rose to investigate, their movements cautious.
As they stood up to inspect, the door creaked open, revealing James. He had returned, but this time his usual lightheartedness was gone, replaced by a more serious, unreadable expression. His eyes flickered to each of them before he stepped fully into the room, the weight of whatever he had to say evident in his posture.
'Er—you’re all required to go to the Ministry,' James said, his voice lacking its usual playfulness, the gravity of the situation pulling his tone into unfamiliar territory.
Lily exchanged a quick glance with James, her heart sinking as a sense of foreboding crept in. Something about the suddenness of it all unsettled her, like the ground shifting beneath her feet.
'Why?' the elder James asked, his brow furrowed, caution lacing his words. He already knew, somehow, that this wasn’t going to be straightforward.
The younger James shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking to the floor for a moment before he spoke. 'Everyone who’s been… resurrected has to report to the Ministry for verification. It's nothing serious,' he added hastily, noticing the sudden tension in the room. 'It’s just a formality, really. I’m sure Dad has mentioned it to you.'
'No, he didn’t,' Lily replied, her voice flat, a quiet steel to her tone.
James, junior, winced. 'Fair enough. The protocol was rushed through last night. It’s new… they’re still working out the kinks.' He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable delivering the news, but knowing there was no way around it.
Lily felt a tightening in her chest. It wasn’t just the mention of the Ministry, or the bureaucratic wheels turning in the background—it was the reality setting in, the stark reminder that they were no longer in their time. They were anomalies in this world, being summoned to prove their own existence.
'What exactly do they mean by verification?' Sirius asked, his voice sharp, always quick to detect hidden dangers.
James shrugged, though there was an edge to his voice. 'A series of spells, checks… questions about your identity. I’ll be going with you. It's more about paperwork than anything else.'
Lily's mind raced, her thoughts swirling in a thousand directions. For a fleeting moment, she had allowed herself to believe that they were simply reunited, that this day was just a strange twist of fate. But now, reality was intruding, and with it, the weight of what their resurrection meant.
'You were supposed to get a formal letter, but I don’t think you’ve received it, have you?' James asked, watching as they slipped on their shoes at the threshold.
'No, we haven’t,' Sirius replied, a hint of impatience in his voice.
James sighed, clearly frustrated but trying to keep his tone neutral. 'Hmm, yeah, I figured. All our mail’s getting checked, so letters are arriving late. It’s a mess.' He glanced at his watch, clicking his tongue in mild irritation. 'Come on, we need to make a stop at Grimmauld Place to pick up Ted’s parents too.'
Lily exchanged a quick look with James, feeling the quiet unease settle further into her bones. This was becoming more real by the minute.
They moved towards the large fireplace at the far end of the room, its hearth flickering with the soft glow of enchanted flames. James stopped before it and turned to them. 'This one’s only now connected to a few houses, security tighter than ever, so once we get to Grimmauld Place, we’ll probably have to go the Muggle way to the Ministry.'
James gestured toward the fireplace. 'It’s only connected to a few houses, so we’ll have to take the Muggle route to the Ministry from there,' he said, his tone now matter-of-fact. He stepped closer, readying himself to step into the Floo network.
Sirius gave a nod, clearly not thrilled about the detour. 'Muggle transport again, eh? Lovely.'
Lily shot him a quick look but said nothing, her thoughts still on the upcoming visit.
James tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire, and with a swirling green flash, the flames roared to life. 'Let’s get moving. We're a bit tight on schedule.'
And soon one by one they all went stood into the fireplace, shouted 'Grimmauld Place' and vanished.
Lily instinctively closed her eyes as the familiar whoosh of the Floo network spun around her. It was a habit she'd never quite been able to shake. Severus always used to tease her about it, saying she looked like a nervous owl. But once she opened her eyes, she found herself standing in a new, warmly lit living room. The room was cosy—just as inviting as the last, but somehow different. More lived-in, more personal.
Sirius had always been quick to complain about his own house, calling it too posh, too materialistic, with no real sense of 'home.' But this was the polar opposite. There was no extravagant grandeur, no polished silver or marble. If anything, it felt almost humble—yet still with a touch of elegance. Remus’ son must have had a hand in the renovations, Lily thought, as she glanced around, taking in the comforting, rustic feel of the space.
Sirius and her husband were already settled on the sofas, deep in conversation with the Lupins. Lily made her way over and slipped into a seat next to Tonks, who greeted her with an easy smile.
'Wotcher, Lily!' Tonks said with a grin, her hair a vivid shade of magenta today.
'Morning, Lily,' Remus added softly, his warm smile mirroring his wife's.
Lily returned their greetings with a tired but genuine smile, her heart heavy with the events of the past day.
'Do you know that boy who was with Harry yesterday, Evans?' Tonks asked suddenly, her voice bright with excitement. Before Lily could respond, she continued, 'He's Harry's son! Teddy told us yesterday. He said Harry insists that he should be under glamour charms and go by a different name so the criminals don't recognize him as Harry's kid.'
Lily blinked, her heart sinking slightly at the news. 'Yeah, we found out this morning,' James added, his voice weary. 'He drove us to Harry’s house and didn’t breathe a word of it until we were there.'
Sirius snorted. 'It feels really weird to imagine Prongs and Lily as grandparents,' he muttered with a bemused look on his face.
Lily glanced at him, feeling a mixture of warmth and melancholy. 'There's nothing to 'imagine,' Padfoot. It's the reality,' James said quietly, his tone almost wistful.
Sirius raised an eyebrow and turned to Remus. 'What do you think about it? Should we get him a 'Best Grandpa' T-shirt?'
Remus looked back at Sirius with a hesitant expression, his brows furrowed, as if weighing whether to say what was clearly on his mind. Lily caught his eye, her heart skipping a beat. The silent exchange between the two didn’t go unnoticed, and the realisation hit her like a rush of cold air.
Her eyes widened, and her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, 'Is Teddy a…?' She couldn't finish the question, but the truth had already dawned on her. She knew.
Tonks, sitting beside Remus, tearfully nodded, her eyes glassy with emotion. 'Ted’s a father,' she said, her voice soft but filled with pride and sorrow all at once. 'A little girl, Dora.'
The room erupted in laughter and cheers at the news, all of them clapping and congratulating the Lupins, who looked touched by the outpouring of love. For a moment, the weight of the past seemed to lift, replaced by warmth and joy.
Sirius boomed with exaggerated enthusiasm, 'Brilliant! Couldn't be better! All my friends having a typical family life while I stand alone, proudly bachelor!' He threw his arms wide for emphasis, his grin unabashed.
James, smirking, leaned in and whispered, 'Seeing all the things that happened to us in the last 24 hours, I shouldn’t get my hopes high, Pads. I wouldn’t be surprised if a kid walks in from that door and calls you 'Dad'.'
Before Sirius could fire back with a witty retort, the door creaked open. A beautiful young woman stepped inside, carrying a tray laden with tea and biscuits. Her strawberry-blonde hair was casually tucked into a bun, and her bright blue eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and warmth. She moved gracefully as she placed the tray on the coffee table, and with a flick of her wand, a cup of tea floated to each person in the room. She settled comfortably onto the sofa with her own.
'Here’s some tea and biscuits,' she said softly, but then her tone shifted, turning serious. 'There is something I need to tell you,' she said, her gaze falling on Sirius. 'I perfectly understand if this is a lot for you… but you’re my father.'
The room fell into a stunned silence. Sirius, mid-sip, choked on his tea. James, in a moment of brotherly concern, patted him on the back, though his expression told the tale of 'I was only joking!' but this time, there was no escaping the shock on Sirius' face.
Tonks burst into laughter, her cackle echoing in the room, and soon Remus and the girl joined in, all three of them in stitches. The tension melted away as the young woman’s eyes twinkled with amusement.
'Oh, I’m sorry,' she said, wiping away a tear as she caught her breath, 'I heard the tail end of your conversation and thought I shouldn’t miss the opportunity to have a little fun.' Her smile was apologetic, but there was no hiding her glee.
'I'm Victoire,' she said, finally catching her breath and sitting up straighter, 'Ted’s wife.' She glanced around the room, finally giving Sirius a playful look. 'And no, you’re not my dad,' she added with a smirk.
Sirius blinked, a bit dazed, before letting out a breath of relief, the tension in his shoulders easing. 'Good one,' he muttered with a sheepish grin, realizing he’d been thoroughly pranked.
'Nice one, Pads,' James teased, shaking his head with a chuckle.
The room settled into a comfortable hum of laughter and conversation once more, but the sense of lightness hung in the air—one more piece of the puzzle, another twist in the strange reality they were all living in. The day had brought surprises, but for now, it seemed like the joy of family was all they needed.The floo roared once more, and this time the younger James emerged, his usual confident swagger replaced by a grimace that quickly morphed into a sheepish smile upon seeing the room full of familiar faces. He gave Victoire a swift peck on the cheek, his shoulders sagging as he dropped heavily onto the sofa beside her.
'Where's Ted?' he asked, his voice tinged with exhaustion as he ran a hand through his messy hair.
'He's gone to Shell Cottage to pick up Dora,' Victoire replied, offering him a sympathetic glance. 'Shall I bring you a cuppa too?'
'Nah,' James moaned, rubbing his eyes and stretching his long limbs. 'We’re getting late.'
'For where?' Victoire asked, raising an eyebrow.
James sighed and launched into an explanation, filling the Lupins in on their next destination. It was clear they were heading to the Ministry, but not everyone was thrilled about the idea. The weight of the task ahead seemed to hang on his words, but there was little time for further discussion.
Within minutes, everyone was ready. They made their way to the back entrance of the house, avoiding the press that had set up outside the front.James strode ahead with long, confident steps, his height making it easy for him to move quickly. Lily, struggled to keep pace, her legs not quite as long as his.
Soon, they found themselves descending into the underground, the bustling noise of the city fading as they slipped into the crowded tube. The train was packed, but James managed to find a seat without much trouble. In a display of surprising chivalry, he stood up almost immediately and gestured toward an older woman with a toddler, offering his place. The woman smiled in thanks, taking the seat with a grateful nod.
After a few stops, they emerged from the underground and set off on foot, walking briskly for just over a mile. The city’s noise faded into the background as they reached a large red telephone booth, its paint slightly chipped and weathered from years of use.
James opened the door and gestured for them to enter. Once they were all inside, the cramped space seemed to grow even smaller, but no one seemed to mind. They were too accustomed to tight spaces, too familiar with the sense of adventure and discomfort that often accompanied this kind of journey.
'Whoever’s closest to the receiver may dial 62442,' James said, his voice breaking the tense silence inside the booth.
Tonks, who had been squeezed between Sirius and Remus, leaned over, her hands working to dial the number despite the cramped conditions. Her elbow nudged Sirius in the ribs, but he didn’t flinch. He simply shot her a grin, though it was a tight one—clearly he was as uncomfortable as the rest of them.
The telephone clicked, and a cool, distant female voice came through the receiver.
'Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.'
James cleared his throat and stepped forward slightly. 'James Potter, trainee at the Auror Department, here to escort James Potter, Lily Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Nymphadora Tonks for their Ministry appointment.'
The voice on the other end paused, as if processing the information. 'Thank you,' she finally said. 'Visitors, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes.'
With a soft clink, half a dozen small metallic badges slid out of the chute, where coins typically appeared. Lily reached for them, her fingers brushing against the cold metal as she handed them over to James, who took them silently, over Remus's shoulder.
'Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium,' the voice instructed.
There was a pause, and then the floor of the booth shuddered beneath their feet. Slowly, with a sense of inevitability, the whole structure began to sink into the ground. Lily's heart tightened as she watched the pavement outside rise up past the windows, the familiar streets of London receding from view, until the thick darkness of the underground enclosed them entirely.
She swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the rail of the booth as they sank deeper into the earth. The journey to the Ministry was always unsettling, but today it felt different. There was a heaviness in the air, a weight of things unsaid and unplanned, and Lily couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever awaited them wasn’t going to be simple.
As the darkness closed in around them, she found herself lost in thought, wondering what kind of tests or inquiries they would face next. Would they be treated as a curiosity, with endless questions about their return, or would it be a more formal, sterile process? Either way, she couldn’t shake the unease settling in her chest as the floors of the Ministry came closer and closer.
At the very least, she thought, the answers would soon come.
Notes:
Do comment your thoughts!! I love to read them ❣️
Chapter 14: A Favor, and a Twist of Fate
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They finally stopped descending as the telephone booth came to a sudden halt with a slight jerk. James pushed open the door, and they spilled out into the Ministry’s grand atrium. With a collective sigh, they stretched, shaking off the cramped stiffness from the ride down.
When they turned their attention forward, the sight before them was overwhelming. The entire atrium was teeming with witches and wizards, moving in all directions as though the whole country had decided to turn up today. Long queues snaked toward counters, where officials in beige robes scribbled hurriedly, quills scratching against parchment with frantic urgency.
'What. The. Hell,' the younger James muttered, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. 'We’re never going to make it to your appointments at this rate.'
A sharp bark from a nearby security officer rang out, 'Move along!'
James rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, 'Yeah, like we’re dying to stand around here all day.' He beckoned his companions to follow him. 'Come on.'
They made their way to a less crowded corner, well away from the long lines and security checkpoints. James folded his arms, tapping his fingers impatiently on his elbow, his eyes fixed on the sea of people in front of them, clearly thinking through their next move.
Tonks, watching him closely, raised an eyebrow. 'Aren't you an Auror trainee?' she asked. 'Don’t you have some sort of employee access to bypass all this?'
He paused, the tapping of his fingers ceasing as he looked at her. 'Yeah, technically I do,' he admitted, sounding irritated, 'but the problem is, everyone has to go through these blasted checkpoints—employee or not. No exceptions, unless you're some bigwig. If Dad were in his office, we could’ve just floo’d straight there.'
Lily exchanged a glance with her husband, who was already fidgeting, looking as restless as ever. The prospect of navigating this sea of people didn’t seem to sit well with any of them.
'You know what, stay here,' young James said after a few tense minutes, his eyes scanning the ever-growing crowd. The sea of people seemed to multiply by the second, making Lily feel increasingly uneasy. 'Don’t talk to anyone, even if they seem familiar. They might be reporters.' His voice was firm, a touch of urgency creeping in. Everyone nodded in silent agreement, watching as he hurried off, quickly disappearing into the throng.
For the next ten minutes, they stood huddled together, saying nothing, their nervous thoughts circling the same dread. What would the Ministry say about their situation? How does one go about proving their own existence after being dead for so long? The waiting made it worse, stretching out the knot of tension in Lily’s stomach.
At last, James reappeared from the crowd, his face set in determination. 'Right, follow me—quickly,' he urged, his pace brisk. They followed close behind, dodging clusters of people, weaving through the bustling Atrium. A witch’s voice rang out behind them, 'Are you…?' but before she could finish her question, James deftly changed direction, avoiding any unwanted attention.
They finally reached a narrow, dimly lit corridor, at the end of which was a small, dingy office. Relief washed over them when they realised no one was around. James swiftly opened the door, ushering everyone inside.
The office was cramped, barely large enough to fit all of them. A single desk, chair, and a filing cabinet occupied most of the space, but the real clutter came from the heaps of parchment and files strewn haphazardly across every available surface. It looked as though someone had been wrestling with paperwork for days without stopping.
Behind the desk sat a young woman with tanned skin, her hair tied up in a messy bun, poring over a stack of documents. She glanced up as they entered, her expression shifting into a knowing smile.
'Kate,' James said, closing the door behind him. 'Everyone, this is Kate. She’s kindly agreed to help move us forward in the queue.' His tone turned playful, 'And she’s also a beautiful, wise, empowering woman who—'
'Alright, alright!' Kate interrupted with a laugh, shaking her head. 'Flattery's not going to get you anywhere, James.'
'Well, it’s gotten me to you, hasn’t it?' he shot back with a wink.
She chuckled, handing him the stack of papers she had been reviewing. 'Not a word to anyone,' she warned, though her tone remained light.
James carefully slipped the papers into his bag. 'Trust me, I’ll be in far more trouble than you if anyone finds out,' he assured her, flashing a grateful smile. 'Thanks again.'
Kate waved it off with a grin, 'Just get out of here before someone notices.'
With a grateful smile cast toward Kate, they left the small office, but instead of returning to the bustling hall, James led them toward a row of counters situated at the far end. The queue in front of them was mercifully short, only five people standing ahead, all looking equally impatient.
They stood in silence, their nerves settling slightly as they shuffled forward, inch by inch. Lily couldn’t help but steal glances at the others— her husband and Sirius tapping his foot, Remus with his arms folded, Tonks shifting from one foot to the other. No one spoke, but there was a collective sense of tension in the air. The entire Ministry felt strange, buzzing with an energy that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.
Finally, their turn came. James stepped up to the counter and, without hesitation, pulled the papers Kate had given him from his bag. He slid them through the small hole in the glass partition to the grumpy-looking old wizard seated on the other side. The man gave the papers barely a glance, his expression as sour as a day-old cauldron cake.
'You’ve missed your appointment,' the wizard muttered, barely lifting his eyes from the parchment. With an air of indifference, he stamped each of the five papers in quick succession before sliding them back. 'Your appointment has been moved forward by a month.'
Lily’s heart sank at his words. A whole month? She exchanged a look with James, who was staring at the papers with furrowed brows, clearly trying to figure out what to do next. The others stood behind him, frozen in place, as if hoping for some sort of miracle that would magically resolve this bureaucratic nightmare.
'A MONTH?' James exclaimed, his voice rising in frustration. 'But that's so late! Can’t you—' His protest was abruptly cut short as a tall man with long, sleek blond hair and velvet robes shoved him aside, striding forward with an air of entitlement.
'Excuse me, Mister!' James bellowed at the man, trying to regain his place in the queue. 'I wasn’t done.'
The man turned slowly to face him, and Lily’s breath caught in her throat. There was something eerily familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite place where she’d seen him before.
'Well, well, well,' the man said softly, his voice laced with contempt. 'Young Mr. Potter, always living up to his reputation as the golden boy, now playing the hero for his family.' His gaze slid past James, landing on the rest of the group with a slow, deliberate sneer. 'How... touching. The long-lost family reunion.'
Lily’s heart skipped a beat as his cold eyes lingered on her. The man’s lips curled into a nasty smile. 'My dear niece and her half-breed husband,' he drawled, casting a disdainful look at Tonks and Remus. 'Blood traitor cousin Sirius, and—ah, the almighty parents of Harry Potter.' he added, his tone mockingly polite. His eyes settled on Lily, and his sneer deepened. 'Mrs. Potter, I daresay you look beautiful for a mud—’
Before he could finish the slur, James was already moving, shoving the man aside with a forceful push. The tension in the air was palpable as the older members of the group bristled with fury. But it was the younger James who stepped forward, squaring his shoulders and looking the man dead in the eye.
'Mr. Malfoy,' he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, 'I would have happily let you skip the line, had you just asked nicely. After all, you’re practically a senior citizen now, aren’t you? The polite thing to do, really.' His tone was light, but there was a dangerous edge to his words. 'But I’ll be generous and give you the benefit of the doubt. Forgive and forget, right?'
Malfoy’s pale eyes flickered with a cold, simmering rage as he straightened his robes, preparing to turn away. But James blocked his path, holding firm. 'I wasn’t finished, Mr. Malfoy,' James continued, his voice steady. 'I could arrest you right now for using racial slurs. But my dad’s a believer in second chances—he’s funny like that. So, being the ‘golden child’ and all, I’ll give you one, too. You’ve got one chance to apologise to your ‘long-lost family members’ and the almighty parents of Harry Potter.'
The silence was deafening. Malfoy’s face was a mask of fury, his eyes flashing dangerously, but James didn’t flinch. He stood his ground, unwavering, his gaze locked firmly with Malfoy’s.
After what felt like an eternity, Malfoy finally turned his head away, his voice barely a whisper as he muttered, 'Sorry.'
James’s grin widened. 'There we go! That wasn’t so hard, was it? We’ll get there eventually. Maybe we’ll even see you at the wedding.' He patted Malfoy on the shoulder, a gesture both mocking and dismissive. 'Keep it up!'
With that, he turned to the others and gestured for them to follow. As they moved away, a sharp, tearful cry came from behind. They all spun around to see Malfoy clutching his nose, from which large bat wings had begun to sprout, flapping helplessly.
Lily’s eyes darted to her grandson, just in time to see him pocketing his wand with a swift, innocent gesture. She couldn’t help but smile, just a little.
'Right,' James said, stopping abruptly in a deserted corner of the Ministry. The others followed him, glancing around curiously. He dropped to one knee, setting his bag on the floor and rummaging through its contents.
Lily, Sirius, and the others watched him with raised eyebrows as he fumbled through what seemed to be an endless mess of parchment and odd trinkets. After a few moments of shuffling, he finally pulled out a crumpled stack of parchment, wrinkled and bent from being squashed under everything else in the bag.
'There we are,' he muttered to himself, flipping through the pages, clearly searching for something specific. After what felt like an eternity, he finally found what he was looking for.
'Right,' James repeated, standing up and holding the parchment aloft. 'Here’s the thing—we can’t afford to wait a whole month for this appointment. To move it up—preferably today—we’ll need the right connections.' He wrinkled his nose as if the thought displeased him. 'I tried contacting Dad, but he’s not answering.'
He took a deep breath before continuing, 'So, there’s this woman I know. She’s on the Wizengamot bench, and she’s got enough pull to make this happen. The only issue is…' He hesitated, grimacing slightly. 'Well, she can be a bit… intense. So here’s the deal—don’t say anything unless you absolutely have to. She’ll try to twist your words, make you say things you didn’t mean. Just—let me do the talking, alright?'
Lily exchanged a quick glance with her husband, who raised an eyebrow but gave a short nod. The others, looking equally wary, nodded in agreement.
'Good,' James said, tucking the parchment in his jacket. 'Let’s get this over with.'
James set off at a brisk pace, his long strides forcing the others to keep up. They followed closely as he led them deeper into the Ministry, weaving through the throngs of people without a backward glance. Before long, they arrived at a familiar circular chamber lined with two dozen golden elevators, their doors gleaming under the flickering torches.
One of the elevators stood open, inviting them inside. James stepped in, and the others followed, grateful for a brief respite from the crowd. With a quick jab of his finger, James pressed the button, and to Lily's relief, the lift moved smoothly downwars.
The familiar cool female voice filled the lift as it slowed to a halt, the doors sliding open with a soft ding. 'Level One: Minister for Magic and Support Staff.'
They stepped out into the corridor, and Lily’s eyes immediately caught the difference. This floor was far more elegant than the rest of the Ministry. The walls were adorned with intricate gold filigree, and the air itself seemed stiller, as if it carried a weight of authority. The usual hustle and bustle that filled the other levels was replaced by a tranquil, almost reverent calm. It felt, to Lily, like the eye of a storm—peaceful, but charged with the knowledge that something powerful loomed just beyond.
James didn’t pause to admire the surroundings. He kept walking, leading them deeper into the corridor, his focus unbroken.
James retrieved the crumpled parchment from inside his jacket, smoothing it out as best he could before glancing over it once more. Holding it in his hands, he began walking down the elegant corridor, his eyes scanning the nameplates engraved on each door they passed. They moved in silence, tension hanging in the air like an unspoken spell.
After passing more than two dozen polished doors, James finally halted in front of one. 'This is it,' he murmured, pointing at the door. Clearing his throat, he adjusted his collar button and ran a hand through his already messy hair, attempting a semblance of order. With a single, resolute nod, he pushed the door open.
But instead of entering the office they had expected, they found themselves in a small but elegantly decorated hall. The space was opulent, filled with rich tapestries and soft, ambient light that gave it an air of understated grandeur.
Directly opposite them was another door, but it was the large mahogany desk tucked neatly beside it that drew their attention. Seated behind the desk was a witch, her fingers flying over an enchanted typewriter, utterly indifferent to their arrival. She didn’t even glance up, as though their presence was of no more importance than the parchment she was meticulously working on.
James glanced at the others once more, then shrugged and stepped forward with confidence.
'I’d like to meet Ms Dorling,' he said smoothly to the secretary.
The secretary, her gaze fixed firmly on the typewriter before her, didn’t so much as glance up. 'And I’d like to meet Harry Potter,' she responded, her voice tinged with weariness, as though she had already heard the request a thousand times that day.
James raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on his lips. 'Well, I can arrange that,' he said, his tone casual, though his mind was still racing with the urgency of the situation.
The witch’s fingers finally stilled, her eyes flicking upward to meet his. She studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp and assessing.
'James,' he said, prompting her memory as he extended his hand, which she took with a reluctant shake. 'I’m sorry to drop in unannounced, but it’s quite urgent. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t.' He offered her a polite smile, his voice steady.
The witch blinked, gave him a brief nod, and without a word, disappeared through the door she had been guarding, leaving them standing in the elegant, hushed hall.
When the secretary returned, it was with a quick, efficient nod. 'Ms. Dorling will see you now,' she announced, holding the door open for them.
James gave the others a quick nod. 'Here we go,' he muttered under his breath, and with that, they followed the secretary inside.
As they stepped through the door, it closed softly behind them, sealing them inside what could only be described as a lavish office. A large mahogany desk sat at the centre, its surface gleaming, and to one side, a fire crackled in the hearth. Bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with leather-bound volumes that looked as though they’d never seen a speck of dust. A cosy sitting area was arranged near the fire, plush armchairs inviting them to sit.
'Oh, there you are, James!' came a voice from behind them, cheerful and almost too sweet.
They turned to see a stout, elderly woman waddling toward them, her round face lit up with a broad smile that seemed to reach her twinkling eyes. The younger James offered her a polite smile in return, stepping forward and extending his hand for a formal greeting.
But before he could speak, Ms. Dorling dismissed the gesture with a wave of her hand, and to everyone's surprise, she pulled him into a tight, bone-crushing hug.
James stood frozen, eyes wide, clearly not expecting this display of affection. The others exchanged bewildered glances, and when she finally released him—after what felt like a solid minute—he stumbled back, thoroughly shaken. But Ms. Dorling, either oblivious to his discomfort or simply uncaring, continued to beam at him with the same girlish smile.
'You’ve grown so handsome since the last time I saw you!' she declared, punctuating each word with a gentle pat to his chest. Her fingers, adorned with an array of glittering rings and gemstones, clinked against his shirt.
'Er—thank you. You’ve, uh, become so bea—' James began awkwardly, clearly struggling to regain his composure.
'Oh, always a gentleman, just like your father!' she cut him off, her voice dripping with fondness as she gave him another once-over, her eyes twinkling mischievously.
'So, Ms. Dorling—' James began, trying to steer the conversation toward business.
'Oh, I've always told you to call me Debbie,' she interrupted, her smile never faltering.
'Ah—yeah, Debbie, I wanted to—' he tried again, only to be interrupted once more.
'Oh, come now! Why don't we sit first and then talk?' Debbie exclaimed, gesturing to the luxurious leather sofas with an exuberant sweep of her arm.
'Whatever pleases you,' James replied, forcing a smile. He turned to his companions to signal them to sit, but his attention snagged on something. The expressions on the older James and Lily’s faces had subtly shifted, and Sirius, Remus, too, wore a look of quiet caution. Something about this room, or perhaps this woman, seemed to stir a sense of unease in them.
But before he could ponder it further, Debbie was already leading them to the sofas, and with a quick glance back, James followed. The others trailed behind him, their movements slower, more deliberate, as if wary of what lay ahead.
They settled onto the plush cushions, sinking into the softness. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, but the room felt oddly colder than before.
Debbie, however, seemed oblivious to the tension, plopping herself down with a bright, almost childlike smile, her rings clinking as she clasped her hands in her lap, clearly eager for whatever conversation would follow.
'Right, as I was saying—' James attempted again, but Debbie’s bright, cheery voice cut across his words before he could finish.
'Oh, but why don’t we have a drink first! Tea?' she suggested, clapping her hands before anyone could protest. A house-elf, wearing what appeared to be a pink tutu, Apparated into the room with a loud crack. The elf bowed so deeply its nose nearly touched the floor.
'Bring us some tea and biscuits,' Debbie commanded. The house-elf vanished as quickly as it had appeared, reappearing moments later with a silver tray balanced delicately in its hands. Upon the tray sat an elegant tea set, steam curling from the spout of the teapot, and a plate of intricately arranged biscuits.
James glanced at the others, a flash of irritation crossing his face, but he forced himself to remain patient. They hadn’t come here for tea, but it was clear Debbie liked to draw things out, and protesting now would only make things worse.
Debbie beamed as the house-elf poured the tea into delicate china cups. 'There we are! Nothing like a good cup of tea to settle things, don’t you agree?'
James smiled thinly, gripping his cup. 'Yes, of course,' he said, though his mind was racing ahead, trying to think of the quickest way to steer the conversation back on track. They didn’t have time for idle chatter—not when their appointment had already been pushed back.
The others followed James' lead, picking up their teacups. With a final low bow, the house-elf disappeared with a soft crack. Silence settled over the group as they sipped their tea, each of them quietly hoping that this time James would finally be able to get to the point.
'Debbie, first of all—' James began again, only to be interrupted by her bright exclamation.
'Why aren't you trying these biscuits!' Debbie said, her eyes wide with mock surprise. James, trying to remain polite, took one, but didn’t let the interruption throw him off course.
James took a biscuit, but did not break his flow. 'I’m sorry to barge into your office without an appointment,' he began, nibbling at the biscuit but keeping his voice steady and serious.
'Oh, don’t be silly, dear! You and your family are always welcome,' she said warmly, flashing that same wide smile.
James nodded, acknowledging her generosity. 'Thank you very much, Debbie. That means a lot. And since I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your plate already, I’ll get straight to the point.'
He gestured toward the others seated around him. 'These are my grandparents, my dad’s godfather, and my godbrother’s parents,' he explained, glancing at each of them in turn. 'And—'
‘Yes, yes, I know them,’ Debbie interrupted, her smile subtly shifting into something more knowing as her eyes lingered over them. She tilted her head slightly, as though appraising their very souls. ‘So, Sirius is your father’s godfather,’ she mused, raising her eyebrows with deliberate curiosity. ‘Sirius, as in James Sirius,’ she added, her gaze now fixed firmly on Sirius, a look of familiarity crossing her features, as if she had known him for years.
'Yes, James Sirius, not Severus' James continued, his voice steady, 'and I’m sure you know about the verification system that was passed earlier this morning. Well, we’ve missed the appointment, and the rescheduled one is a month away. So, I was wondering if you could possibly… expedite things, make it happen sooner?'
He paused, his words hanging in the air, as he waited for her response.
Debbie leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered James's request. After a moment, she flashed him a sweet smile and sighed with a light shrug. 'Oh, that’s it?' she asked, her voice dripping with sugar. 'Well, of course, darling.'
With a wave of her wand, a neat stack of parchment appeared in front of her, the papers rustling softly as they settled. She tapped the top of the stack with one finger, her eyes dancing with mischief. 'You know what, you don’t even need an appointment,' she said, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. 'All you have to do is fill out these forms.' She prodded the stack of papers again.
James raised an eyebrow, a touch of surprise flickering across his features.
Debbie’s smile grew wider. 'Quite basic questions, really. Nothing too troublesome. Just your usual bits and bobs. Once you’ve finished, take them to Nora, she’ll be just outside,' she said, gesturing casually to the door with a flick of her wrist.
She winked at them, as though sharing a secret. 'And leave the rest to me,' she added with a playful lilt, as if she'd already done half the work.'Oh, that would be wonderful,' James exclaimed, his relief evident as he quickly stuffed the stack of parchment into his bag and stood up, his voice brimming with gratitude. 'Thank you so much, Debbie. You have no idea how much this means to us.'
Debbie’s smile grew even wider, her eyes twinkling with amusement. 'James, where are you off to in such a hurry, dear? Come now, sit with this old lady of yours!'
James, who had half risen from his chair, sighed softly and briefly shut his eyes, as though steeling himself for what was about to come. He had known, deep down, that this moment would arrive. He had been testing his luck, and now it seemed the inevitable had caught up with him.
With a resigned but fond smile, he sank back into his seat, already bracing for whatever chaotic chat was sure to follow.
Debbie’s smile widened as James reluctantly sat back down, and she gestured to his cup. 'Have some more tea,' she cooed, her voice laced with an unsettling sweetness. James, trying to mask his growing discomfort, accepted the cup with a polite nod, though he was now very aware that something far more troublesome was brewing than just tea.
'So,' she began, her tone shifting ever so slightly to one of casual curiosity, 'are you seeing someone at the moment, James?' She poured herself another cup, her gaze fixed on him with a gleam that suggested she was already well-versed in the answer.
James blinked, his throat suddenly tight. He choked on his tea before clearing his throat. 'Er, no,' he managed, awkwardly shifting in his seat.
Debbie let out an exaggerated gasp, her eyes wide with mock surprise. 'Why! Merlin, you’re just the definition of the perfect man!' she declared, her voice bubbling with feigned astonishment. 'Handsome, intelligent, ambitious, from a great family, and about to be an auror! What’s not to love? I suppose it's one of those things, isn’t it?'
Her words hung in the air, and something in James’s gut told him that this was all too rehearsed. He gave her a wary look, but she carried on, oblivious or perhaps indifferent to his discomfort.
'My granddaughter, Jenny,' she continued, nodding toward a photo frame neatly arranged on her desk. 'Beautiful, smart, gentle, caring—everything one would want in a girl, everything’s there. But alas! So unlucky in love!' she sighed, her tone melodramatic, as though fate itself had been unkind to the poor girl.
James, knowing exactly where this conversation was heading, smiled politely but with a hint of detachment. 'I’m sure she’ll find someone right for her eventually.'
Debbie nodded sagely, as if she was imparting some deep wisdom. 'Hmm, you must have known her from school, surely? She was probably a year or two below you, no? She’s just like that, always shy and quiet like that.' She gave him a knowing smile, as if she had somehow divined his thoughts. 'She’s currently in America, doing some research, but now she’s thinking of applying here, in the law enforcement department.'
Her expression grew conspiratorial, and she leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. 'I was wondering,' she said, 'if you could help guide her through the process? Perhaps give me the number of that new device you kids are always going on about—the Spell-phone? I’ll pass it along to her, and you two can have a chat. You know, get acquainted.'
James's eyes widened, his polite composure slipping. 'No!' he said quickly, almost too quickly.
Debbie raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. 'Oh? Well... I don’t have my own Spell-phone,' he stammered, 'it’s just... very distracting, you know? I’m planning on getting one after my exams.'
Debbie smiled fondly, her expression softening. 'You’re so determined, James,' she said, as if she understood completely.
James nodded awkwardly, mentally counting the seconds until he could escape the conversation. 'I can give you my friend’s number, though,' he added, trying to steer the conversation in a safer direction. 'She works in the department, so she’d be a much better guide for her.'
Debbie’s smile flattered even more. 'Well, that would be wonderful, dear,' she said, her voice turning honeyed. 'Now, be a dear and write her number down on that notepad there, hmm?' She gestured at the small notepad on her desk with a soft flutter of her fingers.
James let out an exasperated sigh and stood from the sofa, making his way toward Debbie’s desk. He scanned the cluttered surface, searching for the notepad.
'So, Sirius,' came Debbie’s voice, loud and unmistakably sharp. 'You never stopped being an arse, did you? Giving the Ministry a fright when you escaped from Azkaban. Always so reckless, never caring for anyone's feelings, just like you were with me.'
James's grip tightened on the quill, understanding dawning. Ah, so that’s what this was about. He hurriedly scribbled down the number on the nearest scrap of parchment, feeling unsure if it was even right.
'Oh really, Debbie! I could say the same about you!' Sirius's voice shot back, a touch of heat rising in his words. 'Always so self-centred. Your day started with yourself and ended with yourself—'
James's mind raced, trying desperately to think of something to mediate the situation, but his thoughts were a tangle of frustration and helplessness. His grandfather’s words, 'Shut up, Debbie! Clearly age doesn’t always bring wisdom!' only added fuel to the fire.
'Oh, yes!' Debbie’s voice rang out with triumph. 'James Potter, always on his mate's side, protecting him! I’m so glad Harry’s nothing like you two. The boy has more chivalry in his little finger than you and Sirius combined.'
Lily, Remus, and Tonks exchanged helpless glances, each attempting to calm the situation, but their efforts were swallowed by the rising tide of interruptions.
Finally, the younger James could take no more. 'I think it’s time for us to go!' he shouted, his voice cutting through the bickering. He snatched up his bag and, without sparing a glance to see if anyone was following, stormed out the door. He shut it firmly behind him, leaving the chaos to die down behind the walls.
Nora, the secretary, was still typing away, utterly indifferent to their departure.
For a minute, silence hung in the air, but then the door swung open again with a loud crash. 'Don’t you ever come in front of me again!' Debbie shrieked from inside.
'And like we’re dying to!' came the older James’s voice, his tone one of unfiltered irritation. The door slammed shut with finality.
The younger James didn’t say a word as he pulled open the door to the hall and motioned for the others to follow him.
When they were all in the corridor, he crossed his arms and shot them a sharp look. 'Well done,' he snapped, frustration etched into his features. 'After that lovely conversation, we’ll be lucky if we even get an appointment a month from now! I told you—she’s influential.'
Sirius, however unfazed, waved his hand airily. 'Oh, come on. I knew Debbie—she’s emotional, she won’t do anything. She’ll forget about it.'
James's eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed. 'That's not the point,' he muttered under his breath, walking toward the right, away from the rest of them.
Sirius, however, had already turned left, seemingly intent on going his own way. 'That’s not the right way,' James sighed, his voice tinged with disappointment. He pulled out his spell-phone with a quick flick, tapping the screen with practised precision.
The others followed in silence, their footsteps echoing in the quiet corridor, as they let the weight of the recent events settle around them.
Lily watched her grandson's retreating back, her heart heavy with the frustration that seemed to hang in the air like an invisible cloud. She could see how much he wanted to make things right, how much he cared about the task at hand.
As they moved through the quiet corridors, Lily's thoughts wandered. Would things ever return to how they once were? The weight of that question hung in her mind, like a distant shadow she couldn’t quite shake. The world had changed so much, and so had they. The lives they had lived, the friendships and family bonds they had fought for—were they still enough to anchor them, or had too much time passed? She glanced at James, his steps quick and purposeful, and then at the others, who seemed lost in their own thoughts. A part of her ached for the simplicity of days gone by, but another part knew, perhaps, that they were never meant to return. She had to believe they could find their way forward—no matter how different the path might look.
Notes:
Sorry for the crappy concluding paragraph, I always struggle writing those!
As always, do comment down your thoughts, I love when people adds their perspective as thoughts about the story, it really helps me to write the other chapters and it also boosts my spirit to continue writing!
Love y'all 💕❣️ xoxo
Chapter 15: Crossroads of Fate
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They followed James in silence, their footsteps echoing faintly as they retraced their way through the winding corridors. After a few quick turns, they arrived once again at the circular chamber lined with golden lifts. Without a word, they stepped into one, and James, with an air of quiet urgency, pressed the button. The lift hummed as it began its ascent, moving swiftly, the familiar sensation of magic at work surrounding them.
They exited the lift and trailed behind the younger James, who was navigating the maze-like corridors with purpose. Lily could hardly keep up, her heart heavy with the weight of her memories. Before long, they reached a familiar entrance, its sign gleaming above in polished gold: Auror Headquarters.
Lily's breath caught in her throat. She can vividly remember about how yesterday they passed through these doors with Professor Mcgongall, about how they're being interviewed and at last how they exited with. But today, at the entrance, two towering trolls stood guard, each ten feet tall, their presence a stark contrast to the golden plaque overhead.
Her grandson, clearly irritated, muttered loudly, 'Seriously?'
Before anyone could respond, a voice called out from behind them. 'Excuse me, sir!' They all turned to see a young, lanky wizard jogging towards them, his face flushed from exertion. He stopped, gasping for breath, before managing to say, 'Please state why you wish to enter.'
James rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. 'I work here,' he said, his tone flat.
'Very well, sir. You’ll need to press your badge over there.' The wizard gestured toward a small machine that had been obscured by the troll’s massive arm—now visible as the creature shifted to pick its nose with lazy indifference.
With a sigh, James dug into his bag, his hand rummaging through its contents. 'They're with me,' he added, his voice slightly muffled as he continued to search. Finally, with a triumphant huff, he pulled out a large golden badge and pressed it against the machine. A clear ding rang out in the otherwise quiet corridor.
The trolls, satisfied by the sound, stepped aside, their foul odour almost overwhelming. As Lily passed between them, she held her breath, silently praying that the stench wouldn’t be enough to make her stomach turn. She couldn’t help but marvel at how some things had changed drastically in this world—and how, in some small ways, they remained the same.
They moved through the rows of cubicles, the familiar path winding ahead, though today the usual clamour was strangely absent. Yesterday, the Auror office had been buzzing with activity—wizards and witches bustling about, papers flying through the air, and the general din of important work being done. But today, it was eerily quiet, as though the place were holding its breath.
James came to a stop at a small cubicle on the left. Lily glanced over his shoulder. The space was practically bare—nothing but a half-empty bucket of paint and a large, battered chest sitting awkwardly in the corner. The entrance was taped off with a shimmering magical barrier, and the sign overhead read, in an endless loop of neat, glowing script: Magical Maintenance.James let out a sigh, louder this time, and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly exhausted. 'Right,' he said in a resigned voice, 'follow me.'
Without waiting for a response, he turned and began walking briskly down the corridor. Lily and the others followed closely behind, their footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent hallway. They reached a dead end, then turned left, taking only a few steps before arriving at a large room with wide glass windows. Through the panes, they could see the back of a woman with dark hair tied in a neat ponytail, sitting near a young man with untidy blond hair slouched on one of the sofas.
James opened the door, and the pair looked up immediately at the sound. The woman with dark hair—Hazel Duarte, Lily recalled—seemed surprised by their sudden arrival. She stood up quickly, as if out of respect for them.
'Relax, Hazel,' the younger James said dismissively, tossing his bag onto one of the sofas before settling himself down with a weary flop. 'Sucking up to them won't improve your chances of getting that appraisal,' he added with a smirk, his tone casual but sharp. Then, looking over at his companions, he gestured toward the sofa. 'Sit down.'
The sofa, as though sensing the number of people, magically expanded to accommodate them all. They sat, though the atmosphere felt slightly awkward, with everyone watching James and Hazel exchange terse looks.
'I wasn’t sucking up, James,' Hazel replied firmly, her dark eyes narrowing as she held his gaze.James merely shrugged, glancing at the blond boy. 'Who is this?' he asked, pointing at him with a casual flick of his head.
'Noodlefrond Cacklebean,' the boy declared promptly, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
James shot a confused look at Hazel, who simply sighed and plopped down beside him, her expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. 'I caught him vandalizing ministry property,' she explained, gesturing towards the boy with a hint of annoyance. 'He was spray-painting everything in sight, and I’ve been trying to get him to tell me his real name ever since, but he won’t budge. I even brought this book of Hogwarts students to look him up.' She handed James a tome that looked as though it was ten dictionaries stacked together, the weight of it nearly pulling him under.
'Right,' he said, settling the heavy book onto his lap and flipping through its pages. 'Are you a minor? How old are you?'
'Sixty-nine,' the boy replied cheekily, an impish twinkle in his eye.
James looked up, raising an eyebrow incredulously. 'Are you sure about that?' he said, leaning closer. 'I want you to think carefully about it before we try you as an adult. Do you know what they do to adults who misbehave? They chop their heads off and toss them in the North Sea.'
Hazel’s eyes widened in shock at the exaggeration, but she refrained from commenting, perhaps recognizing that James was simply trying to rattle the boy. The atmosphere in the room shifted slightly, as the tension hung thick in the air, but it was clear that James was relishing the moment, enjoying the slight discomfort he was creating.
The boy seemed entirely unfazed by the threat. He met James’s gaze coolly, eyebrows raised and a smirk dancing on his lips. 'Fergus. Sixth year. Gryffindor,' he replied, as if introducing himself to a rather dull acquaintance.
'See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?' James said, his tone a mix of appreciation and amusement as he flipped through the pages of the hefty book. 'Okay, Fergus, Fergus, Fergus,' he murmured, sliding his fingers along the rows of names until he found what he was looking for, tapping the page with an air of triumph.
'So, you’re Fergus,' James said, frowning slightly at the name. 'Fergus MacGregor… hmm… MacGregor as in Graham MacGregor?' He sighed, glancing at Hazel, who returned the look with a weary expression of her own. 'Graham MacGregor, assistant head auror of Scotland' Both James and Hazel turned their attention back to the boy, who was now grinning smugly, clearly relishing the moment.
'Now, I don’t know how things work here, but it seems the careers of both of you…' he continued, his voice taking on a gravitas befitting the situation, 'lie in my hands.'
'You know what? Yes,' James replied, closing the book with a decisive snap and tossing it onto the coffee table that sat between them. 'You’ve certainly got us. Now you’re going to run to your daddy and whine about how we interrupted you while you were committing a crime.'
The boy snorted, clearly unbothered. 'My dad? Oh no, no, no. I won’t be going to my dad. I’ll go straight to the head of this entire department—Harry Potter,' he declared smugly, puffing out his chest as if he had just delivered the most impressive of revelations.
A flicker of something changed on James’s face at the mention of his father’s name. He leaned back against the sofa, resting his face in his fist as he regarded the boy with mild interest. Hazel shifted in her seat, an amused expression dancing across her features as she took in the exchange.
'Hmm... Harry Potter, you say. Know that guy?' James asked, now sounding almost conversational as he picked up a piece of parchment and began scribbling something down with deliberate calm.
'Know?' Fergus let out another derisive snort, leaning back smugly in his chair. 'I’m practically part of the family. Always getting invited over for dinner, birthdays, you name it. Played Quidditch with his older son, James—we won the cup, thanks to me. Best mates with his other son, and—oh,' he added, voice dripping with self-satisfaction, 'did I mention I’m seeing his daughter?'
James paused for a beat, eyes still on his parchment, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, but said nothing, letting the boy’s words hang in the air.
''Hmm,' James finally stopped scribbling, folding the parchment with a slight flourish before looking up. 'You know, Fergus, I might have believed you—if you hadn’t mentioned being mates with his younger son. Everyone knows he’s a loner.'
Fergus raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. 'Well, thanks for pointing that out. I’ll be sure to tell him what you think of his son.'
'Yeah, and while you’re at it,' James said dryly, leaning back with a faint grin, 'let him know I think he’s quite a wanker too.'
Fergus’s face twisted in irritation. 'Who do you think you are, huh?' he snapped, rising from his seat and grabbing James’s bag, which lay carelessly by the foot of the sofa. With a swift turn, he upended it, spilling its contents across the floor and rummaging through the mess, heedless of the damage he was causing.
James simply raised an eyebrow, watching the chaos with an air of detached amusement. After a few moments of shuffling, Fergus’s hand seized upon a small, rectangular card. His expression shifted as he examined it, tension visibly tightening his features.
'I –' he stammered, his bravado slipping.
'You know what, Fergus? Don’t bother.' James cut him off with a dismissive wave. 'Consider yourself lucky this time. No paperwork, no report—let’s not tarnish Gryffindor’s mighty reputation, shall we?'
Fergus swallowed, his confidence eroding.
'But,' James continued, his tone sharp, 'you’ll go home and tell your daddy to cover the damage you caused before I go to mine and make sure his career takes a very sudden turn.'
'Yes, sir,' Fergus muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
James inclined his head. 'You can go now.'
Without another word, Fergus shot from the room, the door slamming behind him.
James watched Fergus sprint off until he vanished around the corner, a smirk of satisfaction lingering on his face. He turned to Hazel, who was watching him with an air of faint amusement.
'So, care to explain what happened to our office?' he asked, folding his arms.
'Maintenance work,' she replied, rolling her eyes. 'I tried to reach you to pack your things, but you didn’t answer—again,' she added pointedly. 'So, guess who had to pack up your stuff too?' She gestured to a few neatly stacked boxes shoved against the far wall.
James sighed, surveying the disarray with mild exasperation. 'Well, thanks, I suppose,' he said, plopping down on one of the crates. 'Not quite how I pictured spending the day.'
They sat in silence for a few moments, the ticking of a distant clock the only sound in the room. James, tapping his foot impatiently, finally leaned down, gathering the scattered contents of his bag. He retrieved the stack of documents Debbie had handed him and held them out.
'Right,' he said, with a resigned sigh, 'best get these filled out, I suppose.' With a flick of his wand, he conjured up a few quills and ink pots, which appeared neatly before each of them.
They exchanged weary glances, each taking a quill and breaking the seal on their respective documents. The faint rustle of parchment filled the room as they set to work, heads bent over the forms in an atmosphere of quiet determination.
Lily bent over her form, carefully filling in details—her name, date of birth, educational qualifications, spouse’s name, children…
A sudden snap of fingers made her look up. 'Oh, just remembered something,' younger James said, as if struck by a bright idea. 'Need to sort through my stuff.' With a flick of his wand, he summoned the stacked boxes toward him and began rummaging through them, the contents clinking and rustling as he tossed them aside.
Across from him, Hazel looked up briefly from a thick manila file, humming nonchalantly, her eyes flicking back to her reading without much interest.
Lily diligently filled in the details she could remember, her quill gliding smoothly over the parchment. Yet, a few blanks lingered stubbornly, leaving her uncertain. For the address, should she write Godric's Hollow or Harry's current home? And what about her occupation—should she mention her role as an active member of the Order?
A particular blank made her stomach twist: the one asking if she had ever engaged in any illegal activity. Of course, she hadn’t—at least not in the way the question intended. But the same couldn’t be said for her husband and his best friend, who had been illegal Animagi since they were just fifteen. She recalled the gravity of that act, a serious crime even back then, and the weight of it settled uneasily in her chest.
Looking up, she found James and Sirius similarly hovering their quills over their forms, their expressions reflecting the same indecision. It was as if they were all grappling with the unspoken implications of their pasts.
Lily hesitated, wondering whether she should ask her grandson for guidance. Did he know about their past? Surely Harry must have mentioned it at some point, hadn’t he? But then, there was Hazel sitting right there, a colleague who likely had no clue about their history, and the last thing they needed was for her to spill their secrets.
Just as she was mulling over these possibilities, Sirius, with his characteristic cleverness, leaned across the table that separated him from James and nudged the form towards him. 'James,' he said, his tone pointed, 'what are we supposed to put in this blank?'
James, engrossed in the book he had retrieved to look up Fergus’s identity, glanced up at the form. His brow furrowed as he scrutinised the blank in question. 'Write ‘not applicable,’' he replied curtly, before adding, 'Here, give me all your forms, and I’ll sort out the address and other details.' He set the book aside and began collecting their forms, quill in hand, ready to scribble quickly and decisively.
'Here,' James declared triumphantly after several minutes of diligent scribbling, 'the forms are all done. Now we just need to figure out how to submit them.' He carefully tucked the completed forms into his bag and then picked up the book once more, snorting at its contents.
Hazel glanced up from her file, her expression sharpening. 'What is it now?'
'Look at this photo,' James said, turning the book around to show her. 'It’s from Crispin’s second year. That hairstyle—'
Hazel raised an eyebrow, a soft laugh escaping her lips before her expression turned serious again. She playfully punched him on the bicep.
'What was that for?' James exclaimed, rubbing his arm and feigning offense, as if she’d just grown an extra head.
'Because of you, I had to cancel my plans yesterday.'
James narrowed his eyes, as if trying to decipher her words. 'Oh, I’m sorry you had to cancel dinner with your dad,' he replied, a mischievous glint in his eye, his tone dripping with mock sincerity.
'Date,' Hazel corrected flatly, rolling her eyes in exasperation. 'It was a date.'
'Oh, come on, Hazel,' he replied dismissively, a playful grin spreading across his face. 'Deep down, you’re thanking me for rescuing you from that disastrous ‘date.’ Here, take a look at this book,' he said, nudging it toward her with an air of excitement. 'It’s an absolute treasure! It’s filled with everything you could possibly want to know about Hogwarts—the teachers, the students, detention records, annual photographs, everything! It’s simply amazing.'
Hazel arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. 'Well, it’s the official database. What else did you expect?' she replied flatly, her tone suggesting that she found his enthusiasm a tad excessive.
'Let’s find out how many detentions Hodges has had!' James declared, his excitement bubbling over as he began flipping through the pages. Hazel leaned in, her interest piqued, shifting closer to him in eager anticipation.
After several moments of rifling through the book, James finally paused, a frown creasing his brow. 'I can’t find her,' he admitted with a hint of disappointment.
'Well, she’s married, isn’t she?' Hazel pointed out. 'She must have changed her name. Do you know her maiden name?'
James narrowed his eyes, pondering the question. 'No... I don’t think Mum or Dad ever mentioned it.'
'Well then, we’re at a bit of a standstill,' she sighed, her enthusiasm waning. 'Unless we can figure out the year she went to Hogwarts, we might be out of luck.'
They looked visibly disappointed as they sat in silence.
'Let's see my dad's detention record.' James said after some time and started rummaging through the book again.
Hazel looked excited though she was rather uncomfortable and threw a quick glance at the other occupants before peering over James' to look into the book.
Lily leaned in closer, her own interest piqued. If Harry had been anything like James in school… Well, that thought sent a small thrill through her.
'I can’t find him either,' James muttered, tapping the page with increasing frustration. 'Uncle Ron’s name is in here, but not Dad’s!'
'Maybe he hadn't had any.' Hazel suggested, her brow furrowing in thought.
At this James snorted, 'Who do you think he is Hazel? Some sort of Saint?'
'Maybe they removed it.'
'Hmm, maybe. When I become head auror, I’ll be sure to remove my name too,' James replied confidently.
Hazel shot him a pointed look, arching an eyebrow. 'You’re not even qualified yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself.'
James smirked, leaning back in mock contemplation. 'Apt description of your sex life,' he quipped, watching as a faint blush crept across Hazel's cheeks. Without missing a beat, she snatched the book from him, determined to regain the upper hand in their playful banter.
'Let’s see how many detentions you've racked up,' Hazel said with a triumphant grin.
'Oh, Hazel…' James began, trying for a casual tone.
'Here we go,' she interrupted, her finger tracing a line on the page. 'First detention: climbing the school walls in your first week of first year.'
'Oh, that,' James chuckled, leaning back against the sofa as if recalling a fond memory. 'I’d forgotten about that little adventure. I was halfway up the wall, thinking I’d get a spectacular view of the grounds, but then my foot caught on my cloak. Next thing I knew, I was plummeting and would’ve cracked my skull open if I hadn’t managed to snag on a gargoyle halfway down. Got a week’s detention for it.' He sighed, grinning. 'Worth every second.'
Hazel raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. 'You were a walking hazard, you know that?'
'I am a walking hazard,' James corrected, flashing a grin.
They fell into silence after that, the only sound the soft rustle of turning pages.
After a few moments, Hazel finally spoke, her voice thoughtful. 'You definitely matured over your school years, James.'
James, who had closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the sofa, snapped them open, looking at her with a hint of suspicion. 'What’s that supposed to mean?' he asked, raising an eyebrow.
'In your first few years, you racked up detentions by the dozen,' Hazel teased, skimming through the list. 'I mean, we’re talking dozens—just in a single month. But by your last couple of years…' she gave him a sly look, 'only five detentions over two whole years.
James scoffed, crossing his arms. 'Doesn’t mean I matured. Just got better at not getting caught.'
'What’s wrong with maturing?' she laughed, arching an eyebrow at him.
'I didn’t mature,' he said firmly, crossing his arms. 'I just, you know, put aside the petty things… for the greater good.'
Hazel smirked. 'And what exactly does that mean?'
'Back at school, pestering professors was fun, sure,' he admitted, grinning. 'But once I thought about life after Hogwarts—getting a job, all that—I knew I’d need a cleaner record. So, I dialled it down.' He spread his arms grandly. 'And now, here I am, pestering far more important people.'
'You’re impossible,' she sighed, rolling her eyes.
'Apt description of—'
'Stop!' she interrupted, laughing.
'Well,' James said, picking up his bag and rummaging through it, 'I’m going to show you something that’ll prove I’m anything but mature.'
He pulled out an envelope, handing it to Hazel with a mischievous grin. 'Oh, James,' she muttered warily, sliding the paper from the envelope and squinting at its contents, her expression quickly shifting to one of alarm.
'Well?' he asked, suddenly looking serious. 'How is it?'
'It’s terrible,' she declared flatly.
'I wasn’t asking about your sex life,' he quipped.Hazel’s gaze narrowed.
'You could actually get arrested for this! How did you even get tangled up in this? Doesn’t the department pay our taxes on our behalf before we get our salaries?' She looked appalled.
'I know…' he said, stretching with exaggerated nonchalance. 'But imagine it—me in jail! My cellmate might be a lunatic locked up for something fierce, like taking out thirteen people with a single curse. And there I’d be, the guy who forgot to pay tax on his pitiful stipend.'
Hazel was unimpressed. 'How can you joke about this? Honestly, you should book a meeting with a lawyer.'
'Yeah, right—sue my dad’s department? No, thanks,' he said, brushing it off. 'I’ll sort it out.'
When she still looked unconvinced, he sighed and added, 'I will! Besides, my uncle works at Gringotts.'
At last, Hazel sighed in defeat, setting aside the letter and focusing back on her manila file.
'So, what are you reading?' James nodded at the file she held.
'Oh,' Hazel said, glancing down. 'It’s just about that legal dispute between us and the Department of Mysteries.'
'You’re in on that?' James asked, raising an eyebrow. 'But Dad said it was highly classified. I only found out after a lot of digging.'
'Well,' she drawled with a hint of annoyance, 'you’re just a trainee. The higher-ups probably see you as a glorified errand boy, useful for fetching lunch.'
'Maybe they trust me with that duty because they know I’m reliable,' he said with a sly grin. 'They’re Aurors with enemies, and what better way for someone to get to them than a quick poison in their pudding?'
Hazel’s face betrayed just a flicker of uncertainty, though she tried to hide it.
'So, which Wizengamot members are overseeing this case?' he asked.
She turned a few pages before reading out, 'Montague Sinclair, Reginald Hawthorne, Arabella Vexley, Deborah Greystone—'
'Ugh, no!' James groaned.
Hazel looked up, frowning. 'What now?'
'Deborah Greystone. Debbie.'
'So?' she snapped, 'What, did you sleep with her?'
James looked horrified. 'What’s wrong with you? No, but an hour ago, she seemed like she’d happily toss me out a window. She’ll probably bring her personal vendetta into this case, and we’ll lose for sure—and Dad’ll kill me.'
They sat in silence for what must have been a good ten minutes, James rubbing his chin as if lost in deep thought.
'So,' Hazel ventured at last, 'how’s the exam prep coming along?'
James rolled his eyes, clearly put out. 'Did Hodges send you to check up on me?'
'Yes.'
'Well, I appreciate the honesty,' he sighed. 'It’s going… fine.'
Hazel nodded and conjured a parchment out of thin air. 'She gave me a list of potential interview questions for you to practise with.'
James leaned back, feigning boredom. 'All right, then. Fire away.'
She scanned the sheet and cleared her throat. 'First question: If money were no object, what job would you want?'
He looked at her lazily. 'The job I already have.'
Hazel tutted, unimpressed. 'Honestly, that’s such a cliché answer!'
'Hey, that’s not my fault!' he said, feigning indignation. 'Money’s never really been part of the equation for me, has it? This was the only job I applied for.'
'Really?' She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. 'No other options?'
He smirked. 'Well, I did consider other possibilities.'
'Such as?'
'Oh, I dunno, maybe being a brand ambassador for some trendy product, living off endorsements for life.'
Hazel chuckled, clearly amused. 'So, basically, you’d want either a job that requires every waking moment, or one where you do absolutely nothing. Inspired.'
James simply winked.'Hodges also told me to check if you've sorted out your letters of recommendation,' Hazel said, watching him closely.
'Good reminder.' James conjured a few blank pieces of parchment and picked up a quill. 'Alright, let’s think… who can I contact?' He scribbled names for a few minutes, then passed the list to Hazel.
She scanned it briefly and frowned. 'You’ve included Hogwarts professors. Not sure their letters will do much here.'
'Yes, I know,' he replied, waving it off, 'but they’re well-connected. Slughorn, my Potions professor, knows practically everyone with a title. His parties host half the wizarding elite. And Professor Throne from Defense—he held a high post ages ago, so he might have connections.'
He paused, looking slightly exasperated. 'Only issue is, Throne’s retiring. Wants me to line up a replacement for him. Thought I’d ask Dad, but of course, he’s not keen on changing his entire career path just for a ‘fancy dinner invite,’ as he put it.'
Hazel finally sighed and set down the parchment she’d been holding, leaning back in her seat. 'So… seeing anyone?'
James snorted. 'Seeing anyone? If you haven’t noticed, I barely have time for a breakfast that doesn’t involve stale cereal, or a dinner that’s anything other than a pot of instant noodles. And sleep? Three hours, if I’m lucky, and that’s on the world’s most uncomfortable bunk bed.'
Hazel gave him a wry smile. 'Sounds... delightful.'
'Six-year-old me would have traded anything for this lifestyle,' he replied with a smirk. 'Cereal and noodles for meals? No bedtime? That’s practically the dream.'
'Six-year-old you really craved cereal that much?'
'Apparently,' he shrugged. 'Mum always said cereal was ‘nothing but pure sugar,’ so it was forbidden unless there was absolutely no other option.
'I’m off to France for my cousin’s wedding in a few weeks. Might as well test my luck there,' James declared after a brief pause.
Hazel snorted. 'No French girl is going to go for you, James.'
He raised an eyebrow at her, a mock look of indignation on his face. 'Not even if I rizz her up? I’ve even prepared lines for them!'
Hazel laughed outright. 'Oh, do share! I’d love to hear these.'
James took a moment, feigning deep thought. 'How about this: ‘Excusez-moi, but do you have a map? Because I just got lost in your beaux yeux’ Or maybe, ‘Are you French? Because Eiffel for you the moment I saw you.’ And then there’s, 'I think you must be from Paris because when I’m around you, I feel the romance in the air.'
Hazel laughed so hard that tears sprang to her eyes, but James merely grinned at her. 'What? Didn’t you like them?'
'You should absolutely try them, James. I’d wager five Galleons that you won’t impress a single girl with those lines.'
'Seriously? Fine then! But if I do manage to rizz up a girl, you have to agree to a double date with me, her, and Whitaker. Deal?'
'Why on earth would I want to do that?'
'So I can demonstrate what a good boyfriend I am!' he declared, puffing out his chest in mock pride.
'Well, if I want to know how good of a boyfriend you are, I could simply ask your past forty exes,' she shot back with a smirk.
'Forty? Seriously? I’d—' James started to retort, but his words were abruptly cut off by the creaking of the door. An elderly wizard with a long, greying ponytail half-ambled into the room. In a thick Welsh accent, he boomed, 'James, bring us some of those fancy cupcakes from the cafeteria to Meeting Room Thirty-Four.' He paused, surveying James with a critical eye. 'And when you come back, try to look a bit more presentable, yeah?'
James opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Hazel beat him to it. 'I’ll bring those, Auror Owain.'
'Oh, don’t bother. James will handle it,' he insisted, shooting a quick glance at James before adding, 'Hurry up!' and shuffling out of the room.
James stood, flashing a wink at Hazel. 'See what I meant about ‘trust’ earlier?' He rummaged through his bag, pulling out his wallet and the papers they had filled out earlier. 'Might have a chat with Debbie about the case.'
'Don’t, James!' Hazel cautioned, her tone serious. 'Do you have any idea how heinous it is to try and convince a Wizengamot member to change their verdict? If anyone caught wind of it, you could be jailed for ten years! Now, wouldn’t that be quite the impressive crime for you?'
'Meeting room thirty-four, huh?' James mused, clearly not listening to her. 'That’s one of the fancier, grand ones. I wonder who’s coming.'
With that, he sauntered out of the room, leaving Hazel to sigh in exasperation as she returned to her manila file, shaking her head in silent disbelief.James didn’t return for several long minutes, and Hazel found herself glancing up at the old grandfather clock ticking in the corner. Nearly an hour had crept by before the door finally creaked open, revealing James with a paper bag in hand. She offered him a slight smile, relief in her eyes, but James looked different—strangely solemn, a shadow passing over his usually bright expression.
He didn’t say anything as he walked in and set the bag down on the table, sinking into the chair opposite her.
'What?' Hazel asked, her smile fading as an uneasy feeling settled over her.
James looked at her, hesitating for a moment. Then he said quietly, 'Hazel… your grandmother’s sick.'
The color drained from Hazel’s face in an instant. Hazel’s eyes widened, and for a moment she seemed unable to speak. Her hands, which had been resting on the edge of the table, tightened, fingers gripping the wood until her knuckles turned white.
'What—what do you mean?' she whispered, barely able to get the words out.
He sighed deeply. 'Well, no, she’s not ill. But—'
'How can you even joke about something like that?' Hazel’s voice rose, her eyes flashing. 'You’re the most—'
'Hazel, shut up,' James cut in, his tone uncharacteristically serious. 'Please. Just listen to me.'
Hazel fell silent, though her glare could have burned a hole through him. James nodded slightly, leaning forward. 'Your nana isn’t ill. And even if she were, I wouldn’t know.' He sighed, his fingers drumming on the table. 'But there’s a problem. A big one.'
Hazel’s patience was wearing thin. 'Spit it out, James!'
James drew a deep breath, his gaze steady. 'Remember that case you worked on with Dawlish a couple of weeks ago? The one with that French bloke?'
Hazel nodded warily, her eyes narrowing.
'Well,' James continued, 'turns out, there’s a chance he might be… innocent. Margaux Beaumont came all the way from France to review it.'
Hazel’s expression hardened, as though she’d been slapped. 'That’s impossible! The French Wizengamot reviewed the verdict themselves and found him guilty! Why would Beaumont bother showing up now? Weeks later? It’s a—'
While Hazel ranted, James calmly unwrapped the brown packet he’d brought, revealing an assortment of pastries. He took his time, arranging them on the table, letting her words wash over him.
When she finally paused, breathless, James looked up, meeting her eyes with a calm, knowing expression. 'Finished?' he asked, his tone almost Hazel looked ready to unleash another torrent of words, but James swiftly placed a pastry in her hand, cutting her off before she could start. 'Help yourselves,' he called to the others, already unwrapping one for himself.
If looks could kill, James would have been reduced to ashes by the glare Hazel was giving him. She sat there, pastry untouched, her eyes narrowing dangerously.
'Now, listen, no time for arguments!' James said quickly, raising a hand to forestall her inevitable outburst. 'The French Minister… well, according to Kingsley, she’s a right cow—not my words, his.'
'The Minister is involved in this now?' Hazel’s voice was sharp, incredulous.
'Of course he is,' James replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. 'If Margaux Beaumont’s flown all the way over here, you can bet your last Galleon that the Minister’s got his hands in it too. Now, we don’t have time to waste. I’ll fill you in on everything as quickly as I can.
''These pastries were meant for them, alright? So, when I went to deliver them to meeting room thirty-four, I found Kingsley, Hodges, and what felt like every important person in the Ministry sitting there—except my dad, of course. I quietly handed out the pastries, which, let me tell you, made me question my life choices. But that’s beside the point.
'Kingsley then made me sit down next to him, and he started casually chatting, asking how my training was going and all that. Dawlish was there too, looking even grumpier than usual. Slowly, Kingsley steered the conversation towards you. And that was odd, because, no offence, I didn’t think he even knew you existed. At that moment, I knew you’d either done something brilliant or disastrously wrong.
'Finally, Kingsley spilled about the case and told me to fetch you but not to tell you a thing. But here’s the thing—if I dragged you in there without any warning, you’d probably faint the second you stepped through the door. If I told you everything, you’d walk in there knowing they'd know I’d defied orders. So, I told them you were visiting your dying grandmother in a Muggle hospital. That way, when you go in there, they won’t suspect a thing.' James finished, leaning back, looking rather pleased with himself.
Hazel buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled as she mumbled, 'I’m going to be fired, aren’t I?'
James snorted, looking more annoyed than sympathetic. 'Seriously, Hazel? I didn’t just lie to the Minister so you could roll over and give up that easily. If anyone’s getting fired, it’ll be Dawlish. He was the one leading the case, remember?'
Hazel lifted her head, her eyes dull. 'I was the most junior on that case. Dawlish is practically ancient—he’s been at the Ministry longer than I’ve been alive. They’ll value him over me any day.'
James took a deliberate bite of his pastry, chewing thoughtfully before replying. 'You’re not just some expendable rookie, Hazel. Hodges and Owain were in the room when Kingsley asked for you. They knew I was lying about you visiting your grandmother, but they didn’t call me out on it. If that doesn’t scream ‘valuable,’ I don’t know what does.'
'It’s an international affair now,' Hazel said, her tone edged with anxiety, 'and apparently sensitive if the French Minister has come all the way just to discuss this!'
James sighed, leaning back with a weary expression. 'Oh, I knew you’d stress about that. Listen: this French Minister, Margaux Beaumont, she’s only been in office a few months. Everyone knows she got elected because of her mother, Madame Odette Beaumont—a real powerhouse. But Margaux? She’s about as competent as a Chudley Cannons Seeker.' He snorted. 'She’s been living in her mother’s shadow her whole life. Now she’s trying to make a name for herself, acting like she’s all understanding, caring, and intellectual. This whole spectacle is just her way of grabbing attention.'
Hazel frowned. 'Your dad’s not in the meeting?'
James shook his head. 'No. And by the sound of it, Kingsley is more annoyed with him personally than about this whole situation. He knows she’s just stirring the pot for the sake of it.'
'Where is he, then?' Hazel asked, her brow furrowing deeper.
James shrugged with an air of nonchalance. 'Who knows? He told me to send you in and then find him ‘from whichever world he’s trying to save now.’ Those were his exact words.'
Hazel groaned, pacing the room. 'What should I do? Should I contact a lawyer or someone?'
'Nah,' James replied, waving off the suggestion. 'No need for all that. Your best strategy? Act like you don’t care. Don’t let them see you’re scared or anything. If it comes down to it and they’re about to fire you, just pull out the classic: ‘I’ll resign before you sack me.’ That’ll throw them off.'
Hazel stopped pacing, glaring at James. 'That’s your brilliant advice?'
James shrugged again, the picture of indifference. 'Worked for my dad when they were about to fire him.'
Her eyes widened. 'They were going to fire him?'
'You really shouldn’t be that surprised, Haze. If he weren’t Harry Potter, he’d have been sacked ages ago. But he doesn’t care. One time, he pulled that line, and not only did he keep his job, he got promoted.'
Hazel shook her head. 'Well, I’m not him.'
James smirked. 'You could try to be. Though, judging by the way things are going, Kingsley’s getting pretty close to firing him now.'When James noticed Hazel’s uncertain expression, he leaned forward, his tone softening. 'C’mon, sit down for now. Don’t rush in there just yet. Remember, as far as they know, I’m still trying to find you at some Muggle hospital.'
Hazel sighed, reluctantly sinking back into her chair. James offered her a pastry, but she waved it off, her mind clearly elsewhere. 'How did it go with Debbie?'
James snorted, leaning back with a grin. 'Brilliant! I walked in, luckily her secretary wasn’t around, and I started apologising. Honestly, I don’t even know half of what I said. Somehow, the conversation veered off into my parents’ marriage. Next thing I know, she’s patting me on the chest, all sympathetic-like, and hands me this.' He pulled a card from his pocket and held it up. 'A marriage counsellor’s contact info. Apparently, the bloke helped her through her last three marriages. Really speaks to his expertise, doesn’t it?'
Hazel snorted. 'And how long will it take you to find me?'
James smirked. 'Well, if you’d like, I can always go back and tell them your nana didn’t make it.'
Hazel’s expression softened. 'Thank you.'
James shrugged, grinning. 'Not sure you’d have done the same for me, considering your guts, but you’re welcome.'
Hazel rolled her eyes. 'And what about your tax return situation?'
'Oh,' James looked sheepish, scratching the back of his neck. 'I mentioned it to Debbie. She said there was nothing to worry about, made a few calls, and—voilà—it’s all sorted.'
'Of course,' Hazel replied, her tone weary. But somewhere deep down, Lily felt a tinge of bitterness creep into her voice, though she wasn’t certain James noticed.
'She also told me she’d handle that case with the Unspeakables,' James added, a touch of nonchalance in his voice.
Hazel gave a soft hum, standing up from her seat. 'I should go now.'
'Yeah,' James replied, the awkwardness thick between them. 'Well, good luck.'
'Thanks again, James,' Hazel said, offering a faint smile before slipping out of the room.
James watched her until she disappeared down the corridor, then turned back to his companions. With a sly grin, he added, 'Debbie also sorted out the forms and, get this—' He turned to Sirius with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, 'She asked if you’d like to meet her, if you’re free. I’d also like to point out she was giggling and blushing like a thirteen-year-old, so, yeah. Make of that what you will.'
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he glanced at the clock. 'It’s nearly two. Let’s head home for lunch. Cafeteria food’s just asking for a bout of food poisoning.'
He made his way to the door, pausing to wait for the others.
'You’re not going to find Harry?' Tonks asked, raising an eyebrow.
'I’m a lot of things, Ms. Lupin,' James said cheerfully, 'but a snitch isn’t one of them. If dad doesn’t want to be found, who am I to go looking for him? Anyway, Ted and Dora are at the Burrow, so let’s head there. We’ll have to take the muggle transport again—it’s going to take ages.' He sighed dramatically.
They made their way out of the Ministry, navigating the bustling London streets until they reached the railway station. After a short wait, they hopped onto the train bound for 'the Burrow.' Lily, curious about the place, kept her questions to herself for now.
Once they found an empty compartment, the train jolted into motion, the sudden movement pushing Lily into her seat. The rhythmic clatter of the train filled the silence as it picked up speed.
Lily leaned back, feeling the weight of the day’s events pressing down on her. The relief of having all the Ministry documentation and paperwork behind them was tempered by an undercurrent of unease. Despite everything being in order, her heart refused to be entirely at peace.
James, seated beside her, seemed to sense her unease. He reached over and took her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She turned her head, offering him a small, grateful smile before leaning into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Together, they sat in quiet contemplation, the landscape rushing past the window as they braced themselves for whatever challenges lay ahead.
Notes:
A lazy chapter, sort of, wanted add few more scenes like Tonks meeting her old co workers but it was already so late.... lol
Anyway, do comment your thoughts and reviews.
The Burrow chapter would be the next (hopefully)
Love y'all ❤️
Chapter 16: Unspoken Fears
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sharp tang of sea salt stung his nostrils as he stood atop the jagged outcrop of a dark, weathered rock. The waves below roared and crashed against the cliffs, their cold spray biting at his skin. It had been three decades since that fateful day, yet every detail remained etched in his mind as though it had happened only yesterday. The weight of those memories pressed heavily on his chest as he braced himself, steeling his nerves for the plunge into the frigid, bone-chilling waters. He knew the path that lay ahead, hidden beneath the unforgiving surface, winding deeper into the shadowed recesses of the cliff.
***
He shifted his gaze out of the window, willing himself to stay awake. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels on the tracks, combined with the warmth of the compartment, was lulling him into a dangerous drowsiness. Devon's countryside was sprawling into view, fields stretching endlessly beneath the grey sky. When this is all over, I’ll sleep for three days straight, he thought, his mind drifting to the promise of rest as the scenery blurred past.
The train screeched to a halt with a jarring lurch, jolting its passengers forward. James let out a heavy sigh, pushing himself up from the worn seat with an air of reluctant resolve. Slinging his bag over one shoulder with a careless ease, he cast a glance at his companions, gesturing for them to follow.
Without a word, they filed out of the carriage, the clatter of their footsteps echoing in the near-empty train. The platform was quiet, almost eerily so, with only the faint hum of distant conversation and the rustle of a newspaper breaking the silence. The station was sparsely populated, its usual bustle reduced to a few scattered souls loitering on the benches or pacing along the edges of the platform.
James surveyed the scene briefly before setting off, his companions trailing close behind, the cool breeze tugging in their face as they made their way out of the station.
They walked quietly for a while, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet mingling with the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Eventually, it was Dad’s dad who broke the silence. 'So, what exactly is this Burrow?'
'The Weasleys’ home,' Mrs. Lupin supplied cheerfully.
James glanced back with a nod. 'Yeah, it’s not far from Mum and Dad’s place—about a half-hour’s walk from there. Probably a bit more from here.' He gestured around them. 'It’s a small Muggle village. Just a few houses, a pub, and a couple of shops.'
They fell silent again, but it was a comfortable sort of quiet this time. Lily let herself take in the countryside, with its gentle green hills rolling out before them, dotted here and there with cows grazing peacefully. The air was fresh and cool, carrying the faint, earthy scent of the fields.
As they neared a small wooden bridge spanning a babbling stream, Sirius looked sideways at the younger James. 'Your name is James Sirius?' he asked,
James, who had been watching the water flow beneath the bridge, gave a distracted hum of agreement, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
Lily’s eyes lingered on Sirius for a moment longer. His expression was stoic, as usual, but she knew him well enough to sense the quiet emotion beneath it.
Turning her attention back to the younger James, Lily asked, 'You have a brother, James? I saw some photographs.'
James seemed startled by the question, pulled abruptly from his thoughts. 'Er—yeah,' he replied, a little sheepishly. 'But we don’t talk about him.'
The group exchanged curious glances, unsure whether to take him seriously. James noticed their uncertainty and quickly clarified, 'Just joking,' he said, with a brisk wave of his hand. 'His name's Albus, he’s two years younger than me.'
'He doesn't live here?' Lily asked, wondering why he hasn't visited, which in her opinion, was the right thing to do… if your dead grandparents have been alived again.
'Oh, he’s still in the country. Works at the Ministry too. But he’s not keen on giving us his address. Thinks we’ll leak it to the press or disrupt his privacy or something.'
The skeptical expressions around him didn’t fade entirely, and James hesitated, then gave a resigned shrug. 'Look,' he said a bit awkwardly, 'I’m only telling you this because you’re family. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone else, especially Mum and Dad. It’s… well, not exactly a secret, but we don’t talk about it much.'
He took a breath, then added, 'Albus – Al… doesn’t have the best relationship with the family. Especially not with Dad.' He hesitated, then continued, 'If you saw his photos, you’d have noticed he looks just like Dad—same face structure, same hair, even the same eyes.'
James gave a small, rueful smile. 'It’s a long story. Loads of unnecessary angst, a fair bit of misunderstanding. Bottom line? Al doesn’t like being seen as ‘Harry Potter’s son.’ And, to be fair, people do set these ridiculous expectations on him. When he doesn’t meet them, he feels like Dad’s disappointed. And Dad… well, he doesn’t see it that way at all, but they’ve both made assumptions about each other, and…' He trailed off, shrugging.
'Now that our family’s back in the media spotlight, it’s not helping matters,' James added as they entered the shade of the woods.
They moved quietly, each lost in their own thoughts, silently reflecting on this complex aspect of Harry’s life. Lily, her brow slightly furrowed, considered the name Albus. It had to be a nod to Dumbledore, surely. It wasn’t exactly common, after all. She found herself wondering just how close Harry had been to him to name his son after him.
She was on the verge of asking her grandson more about this newly discovered family when he broke the silence. 'There’s the Burrow,' he said, his tone lightening as he pointed ahead.
Lily snapped out of her thoughts and looked up. The trees were thinning, giving way to a view of the Burrow rising just beyond the edge of the forest. She blinked, marvelling at the impossibly tall, leaning structure, stacked haphazardly with floors jutting out in every direction. It looked like it shouldn’t be standing at all—yet somehow, it held together, defying logic with its warmth and unmistakable charm.
'It’s the back entrance,' James murmured as they drew nearer. 'Again, the front’s overrun with journalists.'
They made their way through the slightly overgrown garden, where a dozen chickens scratched and pecked at the soil, clucking softly. A few garden gnomes scurried out from beneath the hedges, darting here and there in a poor attempt to hide from the approaching group.
At last, they reached the wooden door, which James pushed open with a creak. Stepping inside, they found themselves in the cosy warmth of the kitchen. The others glanced around, taking in clutter of mismatched furniture, the hanging herbs, and the low hum of a kettle on the stove. James noticed their curious expressions, as they looked around their surroundings.
James led the way to the living room, where the back of his uncle Ron's balding head was just visible above the top of a well-worn newspaper. Ron appeared thoroughly engrossed, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest as he read. Without hesitation, James strode over and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
Ron turned, startled at first, but his face quickly broke into a wide grin. 'Hello, trouble,' he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement. Then, spotting the others, he added cheerfully, 'Hello to all of you, too. Sit yourselves down. I’ve made some tea.'
With that, Ron set the newspaper down on the coffee table and disappeared into the adjoining kitchen. James sank into the sofa with a contented sigh, the cushions sagging familiarly beneath him.
He picked up the newspaper his uncle had left behind, and as he anticipated, the front page blared headlines about the returnees. Flipping through the pages, he skimmed the headlines and glanced at the accompanying photos. Unsurprisingly, seven full pages were devoted to the Potter family.
James rolled his eyes and tossed the newspaper back onto the table. Sirius, with a swift motion, snatched it up and cracked it open.
'You shouldn't bother reading that rubbish,' James said lazily. 'It’s full of crap.'
Sirius muttered under his breath as he scanned the pages, 'Guess some things never change.'
Lily leaned over slightly, curious to glimpse the paper, but before her eyes could fully scan the page, she was startled by the sound of the door creaking open.
'Here we are,' Ron announced, stepping into the room, balancing a tray with both hands.
He carefully placed it on the coffee table and gave his wand a casual flick. In an instant, the tray transformed, now laden with an assortment of biscuits, tea cakes, and a steaming pot of tea.
They all thanked him before taking their tea, Sirius tossed the newspaper onto the table, before scooping up a teacup.
The younger James, on the other hand, bypassed the tea entirely and reached for a generous slice of cake. 'Where is everyone?' he asked casually, already halfway through his first bite.
Ron took a slow sip from his teacup before replying with a shrug, 'Mum and Dad are in London.'
'Oh,' James said, his lips twitching into a mischievous smirk.
Ron frowned. 'What?'
'What, what?' James repeated, his expression far too innocent to be genuine.
Ron’s frown deepened. 'Well, spit it out then!''Well,' James began, his tone carefully measured though his lips were twitching, 'just wanted to ask about the wedding prep—'
'Oh, shut it!' Ron snapped, his ears turning a deep shade of red as he rolled his eyes.
'You told me to spit it out!' James retorted, feigning indignation. He raised his hands in mock surrender. 'And, for the record, why are you getting so worked up? It is happening, isn’t it?'
Ron muttered something under his breath that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary, but James only laughed, clearly enjoying every second of his uncle's discomfort.'Who's getting married?' Ted’s mum finally asked, her curiosity breaking through the tension.
James turned to Ron with a smirk, his expression practically daring him to respond.
Ron didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he picked up his teacup and took an overly long sip, as if hoping the hot liquid might somehow dissolve the inevitable question. It didn’t. A faint cough escaped him, and with a resigned sigh, he set the cup down, closing his eyes briefly as though bracing himself for impact.
'My daughter,' he said at last, his voice quiet and weighted, 'Rose.'
The room seemed to hold its breath. James’ smirk grew wider as though Christmas had come early.The room burst into a chorus of congratulations, the sound filling the small space as everyone chimed in. Ron managed a grateful smile, nodding at their kind words, though there was a tightness to his expression that didn’t go unnoticed.
'You don’t seem thrilled about it,' Ted’s mum ventured after a while, her tone gentle but probing.
Ron hesitated, fiddling with the handle of his teacup before shaking his head. 'No, it’s not that—I mean, the groom’s nice. Been around for six years now, so we’ve had plenty of time to know him.'
'Yeah,' James interjected with a smirk. 'Uncle Ron likes him because he’s the only bloke in the family daft enough to support the Chudley Cannons.'
Ron glared at James but didn’t dignify the remark with a reply. Instead, he let out a sigh and added, 'It’s… not him I’m worried about. It’s the family he belongs to.'
'What’s wrong with them?' Ted’s mum asked lightly, trying to ease the tension with a joke. 'Are they Death Eaters or something?'
Ron’s silence spoke volumes. He simply looked at her, his face drawn, and didn’t say a word. The room stilled, and then Ted’s mum let out a sharp gasp, her expression faltering.
'It’s all right, Mrs. Lupin,' James said, standing up with a grin as he picked up his bag. 'It’s just the Malfoys. Don’t worry, I’ll leave it to Uncle Ron to fill you in on the wedding details. Meanwhile, I’m going to have a nap.'
With that, James made his escape, leaving a room full of wide-eyed, stunned expressions behind. He climbed the narrow staircase, the familiar creak of the steps beneath his feet comforting in its predictability. The house felt like it always had—cluttered, cosy, and full of stories.
Reaching the furthest room down the corridor, he slipped inside, though the sight of the bunk bed—something he’d outgrown years ago—didn’t quite hold the same charm anymore.
He tossed his bag haphazardly behind the door, shut the curtains with a flick of his wand, and climbed to the top bunk without much thought. With a wave of his wand, a blanket appeared, settling over him as he buried himself under its weight. He didn’t need to try to sleep; it was as though his body had given in the moment his head hit the pillow. And before he knew it, he was asleep, the world outside slipping away into the haze of his dreams.
***
James stirred as his dream dissolved, slipping away like sand through an hourglass. He had been soaring through a golden field on his broomstick, the sun on his face and wind whipping his hair, when the hum of distant voices began pulling him back to reality. At first, he resisted, clutching at the fragments of his dream. But the voices grew louder, insistent, dragging him toward wakefulness.
'…asking you for the last time, where have you been today?' His mother’s voice, sharp and firm, cut through the quiet.
James blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dark room. The faint outline of his parents was barely visible against the dim glow of the moonlight streaming through the curtains. Their faces were obscured, but their voices carried their emotions clearly.
'I told you, Ginny,' his dad said, his tone calm but weary, 'I just went for some work.'
'Really, Harry?' Ginny’s voice rose, strained and edged with frustration. 'You expect me to believe that? If it was just ‘work,’ then why did I get a Patronus from Kingsley asking about your whereabouts?'
'Kingsley didn’t know about it,' Harry replied patiently. 'I’ll speak to him.'
'But you’re still not going to tell me where you went?' Ginny demanded, her voice breaking slightly on the last word.
Harry’s response was light, 'I can assure you, Ginny, I didn’t go to visit a secret family.'
Ginny let out a sharp, humourless laugh. 'Do you have any idea how I felt when Kingsley contacted me? All the scenarios that ran through my head?'
'I understand your concerns,' Harry said, his voice softening. 'I promise, Ginny, I know what I’m doing.'
'Do you, Harry?' she pressed. 'What about those injuries? I can’t see them in the dark, but I know they’re there. I saw you wincing earlier.'
'They’re superficial,' Harry said dismissively. 'A day or two, and they’ll be gone.'
Ginny let out a shaky breath, her voice quieter now. 'I’m just so worried, Harry.'
'I know,' Harry murmured.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Ginny spoke again, her tone more measured. 'When are you going to tell your parents and Sirius about everything? You can’t keep this up forever.'
There was a pause, and James could hear the soft creak of floorboards as Harry shifted. 'Let’s go downstairs,' his dad said at last, his voice lighter. 'Dinner’s nearly ready.'
'Harry…' Ginny groaned, exasperation creeping back into her tone.
'I’ll tell them,' he said firmly. 'I will. But I need to get a few things sorted first, okay? Come on—I’m starving.'
Their footsteps faded down the stairs, leaving James alone in the darkness.
He let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. The conversation he’d just overheard replayed in his mind, each word sparking more questions than answers. He lay still for another ten minutes, sweat clinging to his skin, thanks to the heavy blanket and the stifling humidity of the room.
Finally, he swung his legs off the bunk, his thoughts swirling as he made his way downstairs, bracing himself for whatever else the evening might reveal.
Notes:
Sorry for a late update but I've been miserably busy!
As always do comment your thoughts. They help me keep motivated to write this story.
Love y'all ❤️
Chapter 17: Paths Untaken
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Lily had always believed her red hair to be rare—not one-of-a-kind, but certainly uncommon enough to stand out in a crowd. Yet here she was, standing in the middle of the Burrow’s bustling kitchen, surrounded by a veritable sea of fiery redheads.It was oddly comforting, like she’d stumbled into a long-lost tribe she never knew she had.
As dinner approached, the Burrow transformed into a hub of activity, its walls practically humming with the warmth of family and laughter. One by one, people began to arrive, each bringing with them a swirl of chatter and cheer. Every new face seemed to carry the same friendly energy as the last, and each person eagerly introduced themselves to her.
'Lily, isn’t it?' said a stocky man with only one ear, grinning 'I’m George—we’ll get on just fine, as long as you steer clear of the trick sweets.'
Before she could respond, a woman with a wild mane of curls swept in, planting a kiss on George’s cheek and turning to Lily with equal enthusiasm. 'Angelina,' she said, her voice warm and welcoming. 'Don’t mind him. He’s harmless—most of the time.'
It was like that for the next hour—introductions, brief snippets of conversation, only to be interrupted by someone else barging in with a laugh, a joke, or a story to tell. The atmosphere was unlike anything Lily had ever experienced: loud but not overwhelming, chaotic but strangely comforting.Lily was so engrossed in the whirlwind of chatter and laughter that she failed to notice her son slipping quietly through the front door. Nor did she see him ascend the crooked staircase, his wife following close behind. The hubbub of introductions and cheerful interruptions was a force all its own, carrying her along as if she were caught in the current of a lively river.
By the time she reached what she assumed was the last of the Weasleys, her throat felt parched and scratchy. She excused herself with a polite smile and made her way toward the kitchen, craving a glass of water to soothe her voice. The moment she pushed the door open, however, she stopped short.
Mrs. Weasley’s plump figure was hunched over the kitchen island, her shoulders trembling faintly. Her back was to the door, but there was no mistaking the sound—soft, muffled sobs filled the room, blending uneasily with the muffled chatter from the next room.
Lily’s heart tightened. 'Mrs. Weasley?' she asked hesitantly, stepping inside. Her voice, though quiet, carried enough concern to reach the older woman. 'Are you alright?'
Mrs. Weasley flinched slightly, then turned her head just enough for Lily to catch the glint of tears on her cheeks. She sniffled, brushing at her face with the back of her hand in a hurried motion, as though trying to erase all evidence of her distress.
'Oh, Lily, dear,' she said, her voice a little too bright, too forced. 'I didn’t hear you come in. I’m fine, just... tired, that’s all.'
But Lily wasn’t fooled. There was a vulnerability in Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, a sadness that had been carefully tucked away but was now seeping through the cracks. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. 'You don’t have to pretend with me. What’s wrong?'
Mrs. Weasley hesitated, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. For a moment, it seemed she might dismiss the question entirely. But then, with a deep, trembling sigh, she let the facade slip.
'It’s… it’s nothing, really,' Mrs. Weasley began, though her voice wavered like the flicker of a candle in a draught. She gestured vaguely with one hand, the other clutching the edge of the counter as though it were the only thing grounding her. 'You know…' her voice broke again, 'Everything.'
Lily nodded, her own throat tightening in shared understanding. 'I can imagine,' she said quietly, though her voice cracked ever so slightly. Her words hung in the air, raw and unpolished, as she searched for more to say but found that none of it seemed enough. 'It’s all so bizarre, isn’t it? The whole situation.'
She stepped closer, resting a comforting hand on Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder. 'Seeing your one-year-old son…' Lily paused, steadying herself before continuing, '...turned into a middle-aged man overnight. It’s enough to unsettle anyone.'
Mrs. Weasley nodded shakily, her eyes glistening as she looked up at Lily. Her smile was small, tinged with sadness but genuine nonetheless. 'It’s… it’s wonderful to have you back, dear. I’ve always thought of Harry as my son, you know, but…' She hesitated, her voice catching. 'It’s nice that he can finally meet his real mother.'
Lily froze, unsure how to respond. The words hung in the air, heavy with layers of meaning she wasn’t certain she could untangle. She knew what the Weasleys had done for Harry—how they had welcomed him into their family and given him the love and warmth he deserved but had been denied for so long. Sirius and the Lupins had told her and James everything after they… returned.
She felt an ache deep in her chest, gratitude and guilt intertwining in a way that made it hard to breathe. She had already cried with Mrs. Weasley earlier, mere hours ago, as they’d embraced for the first time. Tears of relief, of shared understanding, of the years lost and the lives irrevocably changed.
But now, standing in the quiet kitchen, Mrs. Weasley’s words echoed in her mind. Yes, Harry had met his 'real' mother, as she had put it. But what did that even mean now? She and Harry hadn’t exchanged more than a few stiff words since their reunion—if it could even be called that. Yesterday’s tense interrogation, with its sharp questions and clipped responses, still loomed over her like a shadow.
He hadn’t looked her in the eye, hadn’t called her 'Mum.' And how could she blame him? She was a stranger to him, a ghost from a past he had long since learned to live without.
Lily swallowed hard and managed a smile, though it felt fragile, like it might shatter if Mrs. Weasley looked too closely. 'Thank you,' she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. 'For everything. For being there for him when we couldn’t.'
Mrs. Weasley reached out, clasping Lily’s hand tightly in her own. 'You’re here now,' she said with quiet conviction. 'That’s what matters.'Lily nodded again, though her thoughts still swirled with doubt, an undercurrent of unease tugging at her. Before she could sink deeper into her worries, Mrs. Weasley straightened up, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her apron.
'Now, Lily dear,' she began, her voice brighter, as though determined to move on, 'are you or James allergic to anything? I’d hate to accidentally put something on the table that doesn’t agree with you.'
Lily blinked, momentarily taken aback by the shift in tone, but she quickly answered. 'No, I don’t think so, Mrs. Weasley.' Then, as if to steady herself with action, she added kindly, 'Let me help you with the dinner preparation. It’s the least I can do.'
Mrs. Weasley—no, Molly—turned to her, her cheeks slightly flushed from the heat of the stove. 'Oh, no, thank you, dear, but I quite like doing the cooking myself,' she said warmly, her tone firm yet kind. 'It’s always been something of a solace to me, especially with a house as full as this one. And please, call me Molly.'
The corners of Lily’s mouth lifted in a faint smile at the insistence. 'Alright, Molly,' she said softly, though the name still felt unfamiliar on her tongue.
Molly returned her smile, a genuine warmth radiating from her, as if to say she understood more than she let on. 'Dinner won’t be long now,' she said, bustling over the stove again, pots steaming and spoons clattering with purpose.
Taking that as her cue, Lily nodded again and slipped quietly out of the kitchen, leaving Molly to her work.
As Lily turned to rejoin the chaos of the living room, the need for water nagged at her again. With a soft sigh, she decided to make one last trip to the kitchen. But as she took a step, she collided with something—no, someone. She quickly stumbled backward, glancing down to see a small girl with wild, acid-green hair.
'Oh, so sorry,' Lily said quickly, kneeling down to offer her help. 'Did I hurt you?' She gently reached out to steady the girl, who seemed momentarily stunned by the encounter.
The girl shook her head, brushing Lily’s hands off her shoulders. 'No, it’s fine. I fall a lot,' she mumbled, adjusting the strap of her bag as though eager to be on her way.
'You must be Dora,' Lily said kindly, recalling Remus’ granddaughter with a faint smile.
Dora blinked at her, still looking a bit surprised. 'Yup,' she said, distractedly crouching down to gather what looked like large flower rings from the floor.
Lily crouched as well, helping her collect the delicate trinkets. As they picked them up, Dora carefully placed them in a small, worn niffler bag slung across her chest.
'You made these yourself?' Lily asked warmly, trying to keep the smile from slipping away.
Dora nodded, her expression brightening. 'Lily helped me make these.'
It took Lily a moment to realize that Dora wasn’t referring to herself. 'She said,' the girl continued, eyes wide with seriousness, 'she said, we have to crown the best people we know!'
'Oh, really? Who are you giving them to?'
Dora’s grin stretched wider, revealing a row of uneven teeth. 'I made one for mummy and daddy, and James and both my Grandads, and Nanas!'
Lily’s smile wavered just a bit. She knew she wasn't talking about her James, but hearing Dora mention Remus and Tonks brought a sharp pang. She felt quite jealous how Remus and Tonks' grandchild has accepted them so much that they are the best people they know. But, she realised, their grandchild is not in their teens and tweens
Still, she beamed at Dora, her heart warmed by the girl’s innocence. 'They’ll love them, I’m sure,' she said softly, letting Dora slip past her to continue on her way.
As the girl disappeared into the crowd, Lily stood there for a moment, watching after her. The air felt heavier now, but she took a deep breath and moved forward, knowing there was still much to navigate.
As Lily finally quenched her thirst and stepped back into the living room, her eyes scanned the room almost instinctively. She spotted her grandson, James, near the far side of the room, deep in conversation with one of his cousins. His laughter carried faintly above the hum of chatter, and for a fleeting moment, her heart softened at the sight.
Turning her gaze, she searched for her husband, and it wasn’t long before she found him. James was easy to spot even in the lively crowd—his unruly mop of black hair standing out as it always had. He was by the fireplace, laughing with Sirius and the Weasley twins, who appeared to be regaling them with some mischief or another.
Smiling faintly, Lily began weaving her way through the throng toward them, her steps light yet purposeful. But just as she was about to reach them, Molly’s voice rang out, loud and clear above the din.
'Dinner is ready!' Molly declared, standing in the doorway to the dining room, her tone commanding enough to quiet the room in an instant.
The crowd stirred like a tide, people moving as one toward the dining room, eager to take their seats at the table. The air was suddenly filled with the scrape of chairs and the delighted chatter of anticipation.
Lily hesitated in the corner, letting the others flow past her as she waited for her husband to catch up. Her eyes followed James as he lingered by the twins, his grin wide as George clapped him on the back, clearly enjoying their company. It was a moment of pure camaraderie, and Lily felt a flicker of warmth amidst the lingering shadows of doubt and longing.
When the room began to clear, she stepped forward slightly, her gaze fixed on James, waiting for him to notice her in the crowd.
'How did it go for you two?' Lily asked as James and Sirius finally reached her, their faces alight with the glow of animated conversation.
James was the first to speak, grinning 'It was nice,' he said, his voice warm. 'Better than I could have imagined, actually.'
Sirius, standing just beside him, gave a casual shrug, though his grey eyes held a flicker of something deeper. 'Well, I already knew them,' he said, his tone light but with an edge of nostalgia. 'So it was… nice, seeing old faces.'
'Well,' she said softly, her voice steady, 'I’m glad it went well.'
James reached out, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. 'It’s a start,' he said, his grin softening into something more earnest.
'And a good one,' Sirius added.
'Come on,' James said, gesturing toward the dining room. 'We’d better not keep Molly waiting.'
Lily nodded, falling into step beside them as they moved toward the table, where the smell of roasted meats and freshly baked bread promised warmth and comfort.
As they entered the dining room, the rich aroma of roasted meats, herbs, and freshly baked bread enveloped Lily like a warm embrace. Her mouth watered instinctively, and she couldn’t help but marvel at how Molly had managed to create such a feast amidst the chaos of the day.
The sight of the dining table, however, was a different matter entirely. It stretched the length of the room, yet still seemed woefully inadequate for the crowd of thirty-odd people crammed around it. Plates, cutlery, and goblets jostled for space, and the din of chatter and laughter filled the room, rising above the clatter of serving dishes being passed around.
Personal space, it seemed, was a luxury few could afford here. Lily found herself both amused and a little overwhelmed by the sheer closeness of it all.
'Usually, we have these big dinners outside in the garden,' Molly said briskly, bustling toward them with her ever-present air of authority. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from the heat of the kitchen or the sheer effort of organizing this crowd, it was impossible to say. 'But with the press swarming about, it’s not quite possible.'
Molly’s voice carried over the noise as she gently pushed Lily, James, and Sirius toward a small cluster of vacant chairs squeezed in at the far end of the table. 'Here, here,' she said, waving them forward with a flick of her apron.
Lily allowed herself to be guided, exchanging a glance with James, who seemed to be suppressing a grin. As they settled into the tight space, her shoulder brushing against his and Sirius nudging her from the other side, she couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of belonging despite the cramped quarters.
'It’s… cozy,' James remarked under his breath, his tone laced with amusement as he reached for a pitcher of pumpkin juice.
'Cozy is one word for it,' Sirius muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a half-smile.
'Let’s see who’s missing,' Molly said, her eyes scanning the bustling room as she counted the occupied chairs with practiced precision. Her brow furrowed slightly as she muttered, 'The Lupins… Ron… Hermione, and Harry… Ginny and James.'
At the mention of her son’s name, Lily’s head snapped up. 'Harry’s here?' she asked, her voice catching just a little despite her attempt to sound casual.
'Oh, yes, dear,' Molly replied, glancing at her briefly before returning to her tally. 'He arrived about half an hour ago.'
Lily felt her stomach twist. Half an hour ago? And he hadn’t sought her out? She pushed the thought aside, trying not to let it show on her face. Before she could dwell on it, Molly clapped her hands together and spun toward the doorway, her expression transforming into one of exasperation.
'What are you all doing?' Molly called sharply, her voice rising above the clatter of plates and the hum of conversation. 'Dinner’s ready! Everyone’s waiting for you!'
Her shout echoed through the room, effectively silencing the chatter as everyone turned to look at her. Molly stood there, hands on her hips, the kind of stern yet maternal look that could quiet even the most unruly of children—or adults, for that matter.
Lily exchanged a glance with James, who gave her a small, reassuring smile. Sirius, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair with a smirk, clearly amused by Molly’s commanding presence.
The sound of hurried footsteps from the hallway soon followed, accompanied by the muffled murmur of voices. Lily’s heart gave an involuntary lurch, knowing Harry was among them. She straightened in her chair, her eyes flickering toward the doorway, waiting for him to appear.
Teddy was the first to appear, his sheepish smile betraying a hint of discomfort at being late. Without much ado, he quietly slipped into the seat beside his wife, Victoire, who greeted him with a soft smile.
A moment later, Remus and Tonks entered, their presence as understated as ever. Molly bustled forward to guide them to the empty chairs near the middle of the table, conveniently close to their son. They exchanged a few quiet greetings as they settled in.
Finally, a flurry of movement announced the arrival of Ron, Ginny, Harry, and their son, James, who was carrying a very animated Dora. The group shuffled into the room, mumbling hurried apologies that were waved off by Molly with a good-natured huff.
'I want to sit beside James!' Dora declared loudly, her niffler bag still firmly strapped across her chest. She directed the proclamation to her parents, who exchanged a weary look before sighing in agreement.
Ron took the seat beside his father at the head of the table, while Ginny and young James moved to sit opposite her husband and Sirius. They awkwardly added a chair between them for Dora, who climbed into it with all the authority of a queen taking her throne.
To Lily’s secret delight, Harry took the seat directly opposite her. His expression was calm, perhaps a touch tired, but he offered her a polite nod before turning to engage with those around him.
'Is Hermione not coming, Ron?' Molly asked, breaking the brief silence that had fallen as everyone adjusted to the crowded seating arrangement.
Ron shook his head, his fork already poised over a steaming dish of mashed potatoes. 'No, she’s got some work at the Ministry,' he said, sounding resigned.
Harry frowned, glancing over at Ron. 'What work? I just came from the Ministry, and it was practically deserted.'
Ron gave a casual shrug, his expression one of vague amusement. 'Dunno, mate. But that’s Hermione for you—always got her hands in something or other.'
Harry chuckled softly, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes that didn’t quite fade. Lily watched him closely, taking in the familiar furrow of his brow and the way his hand absentmindedly tapped the table. For a moment, he looked so much like James it made her heart ache.
The conversation moved on, plates were passed around, and the room filled with the warm hum of chatter and the clinking of silverware. Yet Lily couldn’t help but steal glances at her son, seated so close and yet still feeling worlds away.
'Percy’s also not here, Mum,' Ginny said, taking a generous sip of her wine.
Molly sighed, her expression filled with exasperation. 'He had some work too, and Audrey and the girls won’t come without him.'
'Speaking of work,' the younger James chimed in, directing his gaze toward his father, 'I think you might consider becoming the DADA professor at Hogwarts. Kingsley’s getting closer to firing you, isn’t he?'
Harry rolled his eyes. 'Oh, yes, I heard about all the fuss with that French Minister and the drama she caused. Not even her own people take her seriously.'
'Kingsley took her seriously, apparently,' James added.
'Yeah, well, he’s not too pleased now, especially since he’s got that new undersecretary, Nathan Higgs.' Harry stabbed his boiled potato with more force than necessary. 'He hasn’t been in the office for a month, but already he’s telling us how to run things. And the worst part? Kingsley actually listens to him! I’ve worked with Kingsley for twenty-odd years, and now this Higgs chap thinks he knows better?' Harry scoffed, shaking his head.
'Hmm,' Ron muttered, smirking.
'What?' Harry frowned, glaring at him.
'Nothing,' Ron replied with a grin.
'No, seriously, say it.'
'I think you’re just jealous, Harry,' Ron said, his smirk widening.
Harry snorted. 'Me? Jealous of Higgs? Not even in my wildest dreams.' His tone was sharper now, and he stabbed his potato again.
'By the way, where were you today, Dad?' James asked, breaking the tension.
'Er – I had this meeting with an old acquaintance,' Harry said, waving his fork vaguely, 'which went on longer than I expected.'
'Hmm… I had to take them,' James gestured to his grandparents and Sirius, 'to their ministry appointments. Merlin, it was a procedure and a half.'
Harry smiled warmly. 'Thank you for that, James. You know what I heard today? Around ten o'clock, Lucius Malfoy was attacked by a Bat-Bogey Hex in the atrium.'
Ginny snorted, unable to hold back her laughter. 'Brilliant!'
Harry turned toward his wife, his tone sharper. 'Was that you?'
'Of course not, Harry!' Ginny said, her voice edged with disbelief. 'I was at work all day.'
'Hmm… Why so quiet, James?' Harry now directed his attention to his son, who shrugged nonchalantly.
'You always taught me not to make jokes about serious things,' James said simply.
'So obedient of you,' Harry muttered, his tone laced with weariness. He finally turned his gaze toward his mother.
For the first time, Harry directly met Lily’s eyes across the table. His gaze was casual but unwavering, almost as though he was to read her, to hold her attention.
Lily’s mind drifted, the memory of Lucius Malfoy’s sneering face flashing in her mind. She could still picture him, mocking them, only for his expression to twist in pain as bat wings burst from his nose. She saw, how her grandson had swiftly pocketed his wand, his expression calm, unaffected.
'Has everyone eaten?' Molly’s voice broke through Lily’s thoughts, snapping her back to the present. 'I’m bringing out the desserts!'
Harry swiftly broke the eye contact, weary now as he glanced down at his plate, his expression distant. His son was animatedly talking to Dora, completely absorbed in their conversation. Harry sighed to himself.
As the dinner drew to a close and the desserts were being cleared away, Lily sat back in her chair, a satisfied sigh escaping her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten so much, and now all she wanted was to drift off to bed.
'I’ve got a surprise for you all!' Dora exclaimed, her voice ringing with excitement as she stood wobbly on her chair, James gently steadying her.
With a delighted giggle, she climbed down from her seat and removed her niffler bag, carefully placing it on the chair beside her.
'I’ve made these crowns for the people I like the best!' she announced, her eyes sparkling with pride. From the bag, she produced two large flower rings and dashed toward her parents, holding them aloft as she commanded, 'Crouch, Mummy and Daddy!'
There was a ripple of laughter and cheers as her parents obediently bent down, and with solemn determination, Dora placed the flower crowns on their heads.
'Perfect!' she beamed, stepping back to admire her handiwork.
Excitedly, she turned and trotted across the room, her niffler bag bouncing at her side. 'Now you! And you!' she declared, running from one family member to the next, demanding they bend so she could crown them too.
Laughter filled the room as the little girl crowned the 'best people,' her infectious joy spreading like wildfire. The family watched on, their faces alight with amusement, clapping and cheering as Dora completed her task.
'James, now it’s your turn!' Dora chirped, pulling on his hand as he crouched down. With a wide grin, she carefully placed a crown on his head, which almost vanished in his hair, before leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek.
'Aww, thank you, Dot,' James said, ruffling her hair. 'You’re my best person too.'
Dora grinned, slipping out of his grasp with a mischievous giggle. From her niffler bag, she pulled out four more crowns and made her way to the other end of the table.
First, she approached Bill and Fleur, who watched her with warm smiles. 'Oh mon cœur, tu es si gentille!' Fleur exclaimed, pulling Dora into a tight hug.
Dora returned the hug, her face glowing with pride as she placed the crown on Bill’s head. 'For you and Grandpa!' she declared, stepping back and looking pleased.
'Thank you, Dot,' Bill said, tousling her hair as Fleur squeezed her once more.With her mission complete at the far end of the table, Dora glanced around, holding two flower crowns. 'Now these two are for Grandad and Nana!' she announced brightly.
Remus and Tonks exchanged surprised glances, shifting slightly as if to crouch, but to both their and Lily’s surprise, Dora didn’t stop there. Instead, she pushed past them, walking determinedly until she reached the other end of the table where the Potters were seated.
Dora stopped beside Harry and beamed up at him. 'Grandad! I made this one for you, and it’s the best of all the other crowns too!' Her toothy grin was wide and innocent, though the air in the room seemed to shift with a subtle tension.
The room seemed to pause for a heartbeat, the air thick with awkwardness. Harry hesitated, unsure of what to do. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Remus and Tonks watching from their seats, their expressions a mix of surprise and sadness. His gaze flicked toward Ginny, who gave him a small, encouraging nod.
With a quiet sigh, Harry crouched down, and Dora carefully placed the crown atop his head, her tiny fingers fumbling slightly with his wild hair.
Dora clapped her hands, her grin widening. 'You look very good in it, Grandad!' she beamed.
Harry managed a small, forced smile, his voice soft as he thanked her. But Dora, ever perceptive, noticed the discomfort lingering in the air.
'Don’t you like it, Grandad?' she asked, her cheerful expression faltering.
Harry’s eyes widened slightly. 'Of course not, love. I love it.' His smile was tighter this time, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Dora’s face light up with satisfaction.
'Now it’s your turn, Nana!' she declared, turning toward Ginny and crowning her with a proud flourish. In return, Ginny leaned down and kissed her firmly on the cheek, holding her close for a moment longer than necessary.
Dora beamed at them both, the weight of the moment lightening as she skipped back to her chair, her niffler bag bouncing against her side.
The room filled with laughter once more, though Lily noticed the silence that followed, the lingering tension between Harry, Remus, and Tonks. But for now, the little girl’s joy seemed to push everything else to the side.
As the dinner finally wound down, Molly insisted they leave the room so she could clean up, firmly declining any offers of help. Most of the guests, already feeling the weight of the evening, began to filter outside into the garden. The air was thick and humid, as if it might rain at any moment. Lily followed, longing for some fresh air.
At the far end of the garden, across a large pond, she noticed a cluster of people standing beneath the twilight, illuminated by the dim light. Cameras flashed ominously, their lenses pointed toward the house as if waiting for something.
Soon, the garden began to empty. The Lupins approached, giving her warm, lingering hugs before whispering their goodbyes. After a few more moments, her granddaughter appeared by her side.
'We’re leaving now,' she said.
Lily nodded, and together they entered the house, the door closing behind them with a soft, echoing click. Inside, the house felt eerily empty. In the kitchen, she caught sight of Molly, still bustling about but now holding Harry tightly. He returned her embrace, his face etched with a mix of emotion.
Lily’s chest ached at the sight of Molly holding him so tightly, so naturally. When Molly finally pulled away and embraced the grandchildren, the younger James and Lily. The older Lily and James and Sirius found themselves unexpectedly drawn into the hug as well.
Molly released them, planting warm kisses on each of their cheeks, including Sirius, who shifted awkwardly under her affection.
'I’d better see you soon,' Molly said, her tone gentle but firm, before letting them go.
They stepped outside into the back garden once more. Ginny and Ron were deep in conversation, but as they arrived, their voices broke, and they turned to greet the newcomers.
Ron gave a familiar, easy smile, shaking the hands of the older James and Sirius, and giving Harry and the younger James a pat on their shoulders and pressing a kiss on the ladies’ cheeks.
'Well, goodnight, Potters,' Ron said with a grin, 'And oh,' he added, glancing at Harry’s parents and Sirius, 'my daughter’s getting married in a few weeks, so you three have to come, alright? I’ve already sent the wedding invites, so consider yourselves invited. The cards were bloody expensive.' He chuckled.
They all laughed and nodded in agreement, assuring him they’d be there. With final farewells, they crossed the garden and stepped into the dark, looming forest.
The forest seemed even more intimidating in the dim light, shadows flickering beneath the canopy of trees.
The forest appeared quite intimidating in the dark.
Her grandson fully embraced its eerie atmosphere, making suspicious movements and noises that greatly annoyed his sister.
Teasingly questioning her if she was brave enough to be sorted into Gryffindor if she was getting scared so easily.
Eventually, their mother intervened and scolded them both, putting an end to the bickering.As she walked, her husband gently took her hand and squeezed it.
'Are you alright?' he asked softly.
'I’m always alright whenever I’m with you,' she replied, smiling, before kissing him softly.
'MUM! Tell your son to BEHAVE!' shrieked their granddaughter, her voice echoing through the quiet forest.
They pulled apart, glancing up to see the rest of the family a few paces ahead. Smiling at each other once more, they continued walking, hand inh and, into the shadows of the trees.
Notes:
Here's a little christmas gift from me 💕
Do comment your thoughts so you could make my Christmas lovely too, lol 😅💓
Have a very Harry! Christmas!! 🎄⛄🎅
God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs!! ❣️❣️
Chapter 18: A Risky Revelation
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry arrived at Sparrow Cottage with his family, the lingering heaviness of Molly’s feast settling in his stomach even after the half-hour journey. The soft glow of the porch light flickered faintly, casting warm shadows across the garden as they approached the back door.
The moment they stepped inside, they were met with the enthusiastic welcome of their Labrador, its tail wagging furiously as it bounded toward them. Harry crouched briefly to ruffle the dog’s fur, muttering something soothing before straightening and heading toward the locks.
He moved methodically, checking each door and window, his wand resting lightly in his hand as he cast protective spells to seal the house for the night. Satisfied that the cottage was secure, he wished everyone a quiet goodnight and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom.
Ginny was already there, perched on the edge of the bed with one leg tucked beneath her, her wand balancing a small jar of cream as she worked it into her skin with practiced ease. Her fiery hair, dimmed to a deeper auburn in the soft lamplight, shimmered faintly as she glanced up at him.
Harry smiled, the sight of her a comfort after the long evening, and began pulling off his jacket as the gentle hum of the quiet house wrapped around them.
Harry moved about the room with the quiet ease of routine, tugging off his clothes and pulling on his well-worn pajamas. The cool fabric was a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth of the summer evening, and he relished the relief it brought.
The bathroom light flickered on as he disappeared inside, the faint scrape of his toothbrush punctuating the stillness of the house. It was the kind of silence he had come to appreciate—a silence filled with peace rather than unease.
When he returned, the bedroom glowed softly in the lamplight. Ginny was already nestled in their bed, propped on one elbow, her hair cascading over her pillow in vivid red waves. Her gaze met his, warm and steady, the corners of her lips lifting slightly in that familiar, knowing way.
Harry slid beneath the covers, the mattress shifting as he found his place beside her. The scent of lavender lingered faintly in the air, a comforting constant. For a moment, neither of them spoke, their breathing the only sound in the room.
Ginny’s hand reached out, brushing against his arm, her touch light but grounding. Without hesitation, Harry leaned closer, the tension of the day slipping away as her presence enveloped him.
'Thank you,' Harry whispered, his voice barely audible, though he wasn’t entirely certain what he was thanking her for. Perhaps it was for the way she always seemed to anchor him, or for simply being there when the weight of the world felt heavy. Whatever the reason, the words felt necessary.
Ginny’s brows arched slightly, a flicker of curiosity crossing her face, but she didn’t press him. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing softly against his in a kiss that was gentle yet filled with understanding. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it didn’t need to be—it spoke volumes in its simplicity.
When she pulled back, her hand lingered against his cheek for a moment, her thumb tracing a faint line along his jaw. Harry felt his heart settle, steady and assured, as though that small act had tethered him firmly to the here and now.
'You need sleep,' Ginny said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she gently removed Harry's glasses and set them on the bedside table with a soft clink.
'I do,' Harry admitted, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. The thought struck him suddenly—just above him, in the guest room, his parents were sleeping. The realization settled over him, strange and bittersweet.
'Please tell me you’ve taken the day off tomorrow,' Ginny groaned, breaking into his thoughts.
'I have,' Harry replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
'Good. And I’d better not see you up before nine.'
'You won’t,' he promised, though a slight laugh betrayed his amusement at her firm tone.
The room grew quiet, the night outside humming softly. After a pause, Harry spoke again, his voice hesitant, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to her. 'I’ll... I’ll try to talk to my parents and Sirius tomorrow.'
Ginny didn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, he wondered if she’d already drifted off. But then she shifted closer, her voice steady and encouraging. 'You should, Harry. It’s not just for them. It’ll make you feel lighter too.'
He nodded, though she couldn’t see it in the dim light. 'Hmm... I understand, Ginny,' he murmured, his words fading into a yawn. 'Good night.'
'Sleep tight,' she replied softly, her hand brushing against his briefly before the room settled into the quiet rhythm of shared breath and impending dreams.
The dream began subtly, as if Harry had simply blinked and found himself elsewhere. He was standing in the middle of a vast, misty expanse. The air was cool and damp, clinging to his skin like an unwelcome shroud. The horizon was hazy, a smudged line between silver-gray clouds and darker shadows that might have been trees.
He felt as though he had been here before, though he couldn’t place where or when. In the distance, faint whispers floated through the air, fragmented and incoherent, like echoes of memories he’d long forgotten.
As he took a tentative step forward, the mist seemed to part reluctantly, revealing a path of cobblestones slick with dew. The whispers grew louder now, clearer, and he could make out voices—his own name spoken over and over, sometimes with warmth, sometimes with urgency.
'Harry…'
He spun around, his heart pounding. There, just a few feet away, stood his parents. They were younger, just as they appeared in old photographs, their expressions solemn but not unkind. His mother reached out, her fingers pale and delicate, as if she was afraid to touch him.
'Harry, you’re late,' James said, his voice steady but laced with a sadness Harry couldn’t understand.
'Late?' Harry echoed, his voice hoarse. 'Late for what?'
Before they could answer, the scene shifted violently, as if someone had yanked the ground from beneath him. He was suddenly back in the Forbidden Forest, surrounded by towering, twisted trees. The air was oppressive here, thick with an unnatural silence. Harry’s wand was in his hand, though he couldn’t remember drawing it.
From the shadows, figures emerged—hooded, faceless, and menacing. They didn’t speak, but their presence carried a weight that pressed against Harry’s chest, making it hard to breathe.
'Do you know what’s coming?' a voice whispered in his ear, though when he turned, no one was there. The voice was familiar yet elusive, as if it belonged to someone he should know but couldn’t name.
The ground beneath his feet began to crumble, and Harry stumbled, falling into an endless void. As he fell, the whispers transformed into laughter—high, cold, and chilling. He recognized it instantly. Voldemort’s laugh.
The sound of laughter echoed around him, familiar voices blending into a cacophony. He turned in circles, searching for the source, but found only empty shadows. Then a piercing sound—like a phoenix’s cry—shattered the dream, and Harry jolted awake
The bedroom was dark and quiet, Ginny’s steady breathing beside him the only sound. Harry ran a hand through his damp hair, the vivid remnants of the dream lingering like smoke.
Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor biting at his feet as he moved with careful precision. Ginny stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her breathing remaining steady and soft. He exhaled quietly in relief and padded across the room to the bathroom, his mind still clouded with remnants of the unsettling dream.
The bathroom was dimly lit, the faint glow from the enchanted wall sconces casting elongated shadows across the tiles. Harry opened the small cabinet above the sink, its creak breaking the heavy silence of the night. Inside, a collection of neatly arranged vials and bottles glimmered faintly. His hand hovered over them before selecting a small, familiar bottle of Dreamless Sleep Potion.
He turned the bottle over in his hand, staring at the swirling liquid inside. He always woke feeling groggy after taking it, but tonight he knew he had no choice. The echoes of the dream—the mist, his parents, the laughter—still clung to him like cobwebs, refusing to let go.
Uncorking the bottle, Harry raised it to his lips, the bitter tang of the potion making him grimace slightly as he swallowed. A warmth spread through his chest almost immediately, chasing away the lingering chill from the dream.
Carefully replacing the bottle in its spot, Harry closed the cabinet and caught his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, he thought he saw something else in the glass—an impression of the misty expanse from his dream—but when he blinked, it was gone, leaving only his own tired face staring back at him.
He returned to the bedroom, slipping back under the covers as quietly as he had left. Ginny shifted slightly, her hand brushing against his arm as if seeking reassurance even in her sleep. Harry lay on his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling the potion's effects pull at him like an irresistible tide.
As his breathing evened out and the world began to fade, the remnants of the dream dissolved into the void. But somewhere deep in his mind, a faint whisper lingered, a fragment of something he couldn’t quite place.
And then, there was only silence.
***
Lily stirred as the soft golden light filtered through the curtains, warming the room with the gentle glow of morning. It danced across her face, coaxing her from sleep. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the brightness, and turned her head slightly on the pillow.
Across the room, James stood by the wardrobe, already dressed in casual robes. His hair, as untamable as ever, caught the light in a way that made the edges appear almost golden. He was fastening his watch, his movements brisk but unhurried, and there was a quiet hum to his demeanor that suggested he had been awake for a while.
Lily watched him for a moment, a small smile tugging at her lips. It was rare for him to beat her to waking; usually, it was she who coaxed him out of bed with gentle prods and teasing remarks.
'You’re up early,' she finally said, her voice still tinged with the softness of sleep.
James turned at the sound, his face lighting up as he met her gaze. 'Couldn’t sleep in,' he replied with a shrug, his grin lopsided. 'Thought I’d let you have a few more minutes, though.'
Lily stretched, her arms reaching above her head as she let out a contented sigh. The sunlight bathed the room in warmth, and for a moment, the world outside seemed far away.
'You’re dressed already,' she noted, sitting up and brushing her hair out of her face.
'Figured I’d make myself useful,' James said, his eyes twinkling. 'Besides, it’s a beautiful day. Thought we might take advantage of it.'
Lily smiled at him, the corners of her lips curling with affection. 'Give me a minute, and I’ll be ready,' she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and feeling the cool floor beneath her feet.
James crossed the room and leaned down to kiss her forehead. 'Take your time,' he murmured, his voice soft and full of warmth. 'No rush.'Lily descended the staircase alongside James, the old wooden steps creaking softly beneath their feet. The morning air in the house carried a faint chill, mingled with the comforting scent of freshly brewed tea wafting from the kitchen.
As they reached the living room, her eyes instinctively flicked to the tall, mahogany grandfather clock that stood like a sentinel against the far wall. The hands pointed to half-past seven, the gentle ticking the only sound filling the space.
'Quarter to nine already,' she murmured to herself, her gaze lingering on the clock’s ornate face. A thought nudged at her mind—had Harry already left for work?
The idea left her feeling slightly unsettled. She hadn’t seen him since dinner the previous night, and she couldn’t shake the memory of his restless demeanor. If he’d gone, it would mean another missed opportunity to talk to him, to bridge the lingering distance that seemed to shadow their interactions.
James nudged her gently, breaking her reverie. 'Coming?' he asked, his voice light but curious as he gestured towards the dining room.
Lily and James stepped into the dining room, the soft murmur of conversation meeting their ears. To Lily’s surprise, Sirius was already seated at the long, polished table, casually leaning back in his chair. A goblet of pumpkin juice rested in his hand, its vibrant orange hue catching the morning light.
Across from him sat Ginny, her red hair glowing in the sunlight streaming through the windows. She was speaking animatedly, her hands gesturing as she explained something that seemed to hold Sirius’s attention.
At the sound of footsteps, both heads turned toward the new arrivals. Ginny’s expression softened into a smile, warm and welcoming. Sirius, ever the mischievous one, raised his goblet in a mock toast.
'Morning,' Ginny greeted brightly, her tone a contrast to Sirius’s casual nod.
'Beat you to it, didn’t I?' Sirius drawled, his grin crooked, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement as he eyed Lily.
Lily shook her head with a small laugh, her surprise quickly fading into fondness. James let out a quiet chuckle beside her.
Ginny stood up from the table, brushing her hands together in a small gesture of apology as she glanced toward the clock on the wall. The time seemed to mock her, ticking away far too quickly.
'I'm terribly sorry, but I can't have breakfast with you today,' she said, her voice tinged with mild frustration as she wiped a bit of pumpkin juice from her fingers. 'I'm terribly late for work.'
Sirius, looking somewhat surprised by her sudden departure, raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. 'Yeah, Ginny,' he said, casting a quick glance at her. 'I forgot to ask—where do you work again?'
Ginny paused for a moment, her hand hovering over the strap of her handbag, which she summoned with a quick flick of her wand. 'I'm a journalist,' she answered, her tone light, though there was a certain confidence in it. 'I write for Quidditch Weekly.’
‘You follow Quidditch?' James suddenly exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with newfound enthusiasm, his usual morning lethargy forgotten in an instant.
Ginny, who had been gathering her things, let out a light laugh at his sudden eagerness. 'Er—yes, a little bit,' she said, her voice playful. She gave James a wink, her expression warm with amusement. 'It's part of the job, after all.'
With that, she grabbed her handbag and quickly made her way to the door, casting one last glance over her shoulder as she left the room.
Lily, James, and Sirius returned to their breakfast, the comfortable silence of the morning broken only by the clink of cutlery and soft murmurs.
After a moment, Lily, her curiosity piqued, turned toward Sirius. 'Er—Sirius, has Harry left for work already?' she asked, her voice tinged with concern.
Sirius, who was busy finishing his toast, took a leisurely sip of his pumpkin juice before responding. 'Harry? No,' he said with a casual shrug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Ginny mentioned he’s taking a day off today. So he must be sleeping, I’d imagine.'
Lily nodded thoughtfully, feeling a small sense of relief. She leaned back in her chair, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she looked out the window, where the soft morning light filtered through the trees.
Lily sat there for a moment, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her cup. She’d been thinking about Harry all morning—about the strange, almost unsettling feeling she had the night before, and the way he seemed to know things without them saying a word. It had been bothering her, but what if they just thought she was being paranoid? Or worse, what if they thought she was losing it?
'You thinking about something, Lily?' James' voice broke through her thoughts, and she blinked, realizing she’d been staring blankly at her tea.
Lily shook her head, a little flustered. 'Er—no, actually, er—yes!' She glanced quickly at Sirius, who was looking at her with a raised eyebrow. 'Now, don't think I’m mad or something, but... do you think Harry does Legilimency on us?'
There, she’d said it.
James looked taken aback, his fork halfway to his mouth, while Sirius sat back slightly, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching between them like a thick fog.
'Legilimency, eh?' James finally said, his tone a little more serious than usual. He placed his fork down and looked at her, as if considering her words. 'You think Harry's been poking around in our heads?'
Lily hesitated, feeling the weight of her own thoughts. 'Well, it’s just... sometimes, it feels like he knows things before I say them. Like last night, when he... well, when he looked at me, I could swear he knew exactly what I was thinking, even though I hadn’t said a word.'
''Well, Harry used to learn Occlumency, but he was rubbish at it,' Sirius said after a moment, his voice casual, but there was a certain bitterness lurking behind his words.
James and Lily’s heads snapped in his direction, both looking at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion. 'Why? When?' James asked, leaning forward slightly, his eyebrows furrowing.
Sirius sighed and leaned back in his chair, as though reliving a particularly unpleasant memory. 'It was when he was fifteen,' he said, his tone darkening. Voldemort and Harry’s minds were sort of connected. Voldemort could see into Harry’s thoughts, and Harry could feel him in return.' He paused, shaking his head. 'So, Dumbledore decided Harry needed to learn Occlumency, you know, to protect his mind. And guess who Dumbledore trusted to teach him?'
Lily's face tightened with disbelief as Sirius rolled his eyes. 'Snivellus,' he spat, the old nickname slipping out as though it were second nature. 'The greasy git, teaching my godson how to block his thoughts. It was a bloody nightmare, I tell you.'
James looked at Sirius with wide eyes. 'Snape taught him? But why—how could he—'
'Because Dumbledore thought it would be the best way to help Harry,' Sirius cut in sharply. 'But you know how it went. Snape taunted him the entire time, and not just about his lack of skill. He called him all sorts of things—emotional fool, weak... you name it. He came to the meetings, practically gloating about how Harry couldn’t keep his thoughts in check, how he was too emotional, too much of a mess.'
The silence between them grew heavy, laden with unspoken thoughts. Lily, still grappling with the revelation that Severus Snape had been the one to teach Harry, felt her discomfort deepen as Sirius began to speak again.
'When he was learning Occlumency,' Sirius said suddenly, his gaze fixed on James, 'Harry also saw Snape’s memories.'
Lily’s head snapped up. 'What memories?'
Sirius hesitated, clearly debating whether to continue. 'Snape drew out some memories from his mind and placed them in a Pensieve during their lessons. When Snape wasn’t around, Harry... well, being Harry, he couldn’t resist. He looked into the Pensieve.'
James leaned forward, his brows furrowing. 'And what did he see?'
Sirius let out a slow breath. 'He saw that day—our fifth year. After our Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. exam.'
Lily’s eyes widened in realization, her stomach twisting. 'The day you—'
'Made ‘fun’ of Snape,' Sirius finished, his tone laced with regret. 'Yes, that day.'
James’s face hardened, a flush creeping up his neck. 'You mean the day we—no, the day I—humiliated him in front of everyone,' he muttered, his voice heavy with guilt.
Lily closed her eyes, the memory of that incident resurfacing vividly in her mind. She had witnessed it, had been there when James had jinxed Severus, dangling him upside down for the entire courtyard to see. It had been cruel, thoughtless, and entirely unnecessary.
'Harry saw that?' she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. 'He saw... you, James, doing that to Severus?'
Sirius nodded, his expression grim. 'It was bad enough when it happened, but for Harry to see it? To see you like that? I think it shook him.'
James ran a hand through his hair, his face pale. 'He must have thought—' He broke off, unable to finish the sentence.
'That you were a bully?' Sirius supplied bluntly. 'Yeah.'
Lily shot Sirius a sharp look, but there was no malice in his tone, only a kind of resigned honesty. 'What did he say about it?' she asked softly.Sirius leaned back in his chair, a faraway look flickering in his eyes as he began to speak. 'Well,' he started, his voice quiet but steady, 'he floo’ed me not long after seeing the memory. I could tell he was shaken. It hit him hard, seeing that side of you.'
James shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his jaw tightening. 'What did he say?' he asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Sirius glanced at him, his expression unreadable. 'It wasn’t so much what he said as how he said it. He was... disillusioned, I think. Harry always held you in such high regard, James. Like you could do no wrong. Some kind of... god, in his eyes.'
James flinched at the word, his shoulders slumping slightly. 'A god,' he muttered. 'Merlin.'
'And,' Sirius continued, a hint of reluctance creeping into his tone, 'you and Lily weren’t exactly on the best terms back then, either. He couldn’t reconcile how things turned out. He couldn’t wrap his head around how you two ended up married after seeing... well, that.'
Lily frowned, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table. 'What did you tell him?'
'I told him the truth,' Sirius said simply, his gaze flicking between the two of them. 'That it wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t something any of us were proud of. But I also told him that people change. That you changed, James.'
James exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. 'Did he believe you?'
Sirius gave a small shrug. 'I think he wanted to. But Harry... He’s got that stubborn streak a mile wide, and he’s not one to take things at face value.'
'Should I talk to him or –'
James’s question hung in the air, unfinished, as the creak of the dining room door drew all their attention. Harry’s daughter stepped in, her presence immediately brightening the room in a way that only youth could.
Her hair was impeccably styled, not a strand out of place, and Lily’s sharp maternal instincts immediately detected the subtle sheen on her granddaughter’s cheeks and lips. Makeup. It was minimal, but enough to make her features look a touch more polished than usual.
'Morning,' she muttered distractedly, sliding into the chair at the far end of the table. Her hand reached for the toast and a small heap of sprouts, her movements precise but unhurried.
Lily, James, and Sirius watched her silently for a moment, their earlier conversation momentarily forgotten. The younger Lily paid no mind to their quiet scrutiny as she picked up her spell-phone and began scrolling through it, her thumb moving rapidly over the enchanted glass surface.
She nibbled at her toast in between bouts of scrolling, occasionally letting out a soft laugh that drew curious glances from the others at the table. Whatever entertained her on that glowing device remained a mystery, though the faint smirk on her face suggested it wasn’t the Prophet’s headlines after all.
But soon, the laughter shifted to an exasperated sigh, and she rolled her eyes dramatically at the screen. Without a word, she set the spell-phone down with a definitive clink on the table, stood abruptly, and strode towards the door.
The hinges creaked as she flung it open, leaning into the hallway with a practiced air of authority. 'JAMES!' she bellowed, her voice cutting through the morning quiet like a spell breaking glass. 'Come down and have some breakfast! MUM’S TEXTING ME TO ASK IF YOU’VE EATEN OR NOT!'
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Sirius choking on his pumpkin juice in a barely contained snort. 'Well,' he muttered, eyes glinting with amusement, 'I see the Potters still have their subtle ways of communication.'
The elder Lily raised an eyebrow, suppressing a chuckle of her own as she sipped her tea. 'I’m sure the entire neighborhood now knows whether or not young James has had his toast,' she remarked dryly.
Their granddaughter, entirely unfazed, remained by the door, hands on her hips, awaiting her brother’s inevitable arrival. From upstairs came the unmistakable thud of hurried footsteps—James, no doubt, realizing resistance was futile.
Lily returned to her seat with an air of nonchalance, her eyes glued to her spell-phone as though her brief outburst at the door hadn’t just rattled the peace of the house. Her fingers scrolled idly, and she seemed entirely unfazed by the world around her.
The dining room door creaked open again a few moments later, and in walked the younger James, his hair an unkempt mess and his face still heavy with sleep. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand and stifled a yawn with the other.
'Morning,' he mumbled, his voice groggy as he shuffled over to the table. His hand reached instinctively for the coffee jug, but before he could so much as lift it, Lily’s hand shot out with practiced precision. She snatched the jug away and set it firmly back down, her eyes never leaving her screen.
'I’m in no mood to talk to you,' James grumbled, his tone half-hearted but clearly annoyed.
'And neither am I,' Lily replied coolly, barely sparing him a glance. 'But Mum said not to let you have any more coffee.'
James let out a dramatic sigh, his irritation bubbling to the surface. 'Aww, did Mummy say I can’t have coffee?' he mocked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. 'What are you gonna do, snitch on me so she can ground me?'
This time, Lily did look up, her expression calm but tinged with an air of superiority. 'No,' she said sweetly, her voice practically glowing with mock cheerfulness. 'I’m not going to do anything like that. Mum told me to stop you, and I did. My duty is done.'
James’s jaw tightened, and he muttered something under his breath about 'Miss Little Perfect Girl' as he grabbed the jug anyway. With a defiant glare at his sister, he poured himself a mug of coffee, his movements deliberately slow, as though daring her to stop him.
Lily simply shrugged and returned her attention to her spell-phone, her composure entirely intact. It was a battle she clearly considered beneath her, and her indifference only seemed to frustrate James further.The last remnants of breakfast had been cleared away, the plates stacked neatly on the counter and the mugs emptied. The comfortable hum of morning chatter slowly faded, replaced by a sudden knock at the kitchen's back door.
Lily, who had been tidying up a few stray crumbs on the table, paused for a moment. Without a word, she straightened, as though already knowing who it was.
'I’ll see to it,' she said, her tone decisive, as though she already knew who it was before the first knock had even sounded.
She moved swiftly toward the door, her footsteps light and quiet on the floor. For a few moments, the house was still, save for the clink of glassware being set down and the soft murmur of distant conversation.
Then, the door creaked open, and Lily slipped back into the room, her expression a mix of surprise and curiosity. She leaned in toward her brother, her voice barely a whisper.
'James! It’s the Minister at the door!' she hissed, her eyes wide.
James’s head snapped up in alarm, his earlier annoyance forgotten. 'The Minister?' he repeated, incredulity creeping into his voice.
Lily nodded, her brow furrowed. 'Yes, I think he wants to talk to Dad.' She glanced back at the door, her mind racing. 'What in Merlin’s name would he want this early in the morning?'
James stood up, suddenly alert. 'I’ll handle it,' he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
James had been gone for what felt like an eternity. From the dining room, Lily could hear the shuffle of footsteps, the low murmur of male voices, but not a word reached her clearly enough to decipher. The quiet was thick, expectant.
When James finally returned, it was with a tray balanced carefully in his hands, the weight of it making his movements deliberate. The tray was impressive—an elegant silver kettle sat atop a fine china set of tea cups, all arranged with a precision that made it clear he had spent more than a few moments ensuring the presentation was perfect. Biscuits, neatly stacked, completed the ensemble.
He approached Lily with an air of quiet satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with the mischief she had come to know too well. With a swift motion, he pushed the tray toward her.
'Here,' he said, his voice light but insistent. 'Take this to Kingsley and Dad.'
Lily frowned, her brow knitting in confusion as she glanced down at the tray in her hands. 'What am I supposed to do with this?' she asked, her tone dropping to a hushed whisper, as though the very task seemed peculiar.
James only nodded toward the door with a knowing look. 'Kingsley and Dad are in the study. Go deliver this to them.'
'But why me?' Lily countered, her gaze flicking from the tray to her brother. The faintest hint of skepticism lingered in her voice.
James grinned, clearly relishing the situation. 'Well, I made the tea, and I arranged all the biscuits and cups—sophisticatedly, didn't I? So it's only fair that you take it to them.'
Lily raised an eyebrow, not at all convinced. 'Tell me the real reason, James.'
James sighed, a dramatic sound that hung in the air before he relented. 'Alright, fine. Kingsley’s probably going to spill some important tea to Dad. And I—' he leaned in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, '—want to know what it is. So, I’ve put a Whisper-Link on the tray, you know, the kind that transmits their conversation through this speaker.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small matchbox-sized device, presenting it to her with a knowing smirk.
Lily stared at the contraption in disbelief for a moment. 'I’m not going to do it,' she said flatly, her resolve firm.
'Please,' James wheedled, his voice thick with desperation.
Lily shook her head, her lips pressed together in disapproval. 'If you’re that desperate, you deliver the tray yourself.'
James groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes. 'C’mon, Dad will never suspect you’d do something like this.'
'It’s unethical,' Lily shrieked, her voice rising in a sudden flare of indignation.
'Exactly,' the older Lily chimed in, 'it's very unethical, James.'
James irritatingly looked up at the ceiling 'If anyone finds it unethical, they can leave the room.' he announced loudly.
Lily narrowed her eyes at him, her expression a mixture of exasperation and reluctant curiosity. She studied her brother for a long moment, weighing the decision in her mind. Finally, with a resigned sigh, she agreed. 'Fine. I’ll deliver the tray. But you owe me one.'
A smile spread across James’s face, his relief palpable. 'Thanks, Lils.' He settled back into his chair, completely ignoring the pointed looks his grandmother was giving him as he sipped his coffee with an exaggerated air of nonchalance.
Despite the disapproval bubbling within her, a part of her couldn’t help but be intrigued by what Kingsley might be discussing with her son. The temptation to eavesdrop, however unethical, was there, lurking just beneath the surface.
And though Lily disapproved of her grandson’s methods, she knew that the allure of the unknown was hard to resist—even for her.
Notes:
Annnd I'm Baackk.
Idk when the next chapter will come because it's exam seasons I'm literally so cooked, this chapter also was writing on the sly, in between the classes so please make it worth it by commenting,😅 they're literally such a BOOST. Whenever I don't have the will to write I come here to read the comments and you all are THE LOVELIEST™ ❤️❤️😭
In the next chapter we will definitely find some important info about what is *actually* going on in the Wizarding world and how the ministry's planning to deal with all this business.
My only question is from which person's pov would you like to read it? Harry? Lily Sr? James Sr? James Jr? Sirius?
I'm going on a holiday for a few days so I'll try to write as much as I can, so PLEASE tell so I can plan it out and start working on it. I'm going to give it TWO DAYS.
Again, thankyou to read this story I've poured my heart into ❤️❤️💖
Chapter 19: The King's Gambit
Chapter Text
Harry stepped out of the shower, the steam clinging to him like an ethereal mist, soft and persistent. The knock on the bathroom door came as an unexpected interruption, followed closely by James's muffled voice, tinged with urgency. “Kingsley’s here.”
"Make him wait in the study," Harry called back, his hands already reaching for the towel. He dried himself quickly, the soft fabric soaking up the moisture as he wrapped it around his waist. His mind, still swirling with the remnants of sleep, couldn’t quite shake the sense of unease that crept in at the mention of the Minister’s name. Kingsley rarely dropped by unannounced—there had to be something important, something urgent.
He glanced around, momentarily distracted by the potions and face creams Ginny had insisted on making part of his routine, but he dismissed them for now. There was no time for that. His robes were still neatly folded on the bed, waiting. With a frustrated sigh, he threw on his clothes, pulling them on with a practiced ease that came from years of hurried mornings.
As he finished buttoning his shirt, his thoughts continued to churn. Kingsley’s visit always signaled a matter of weight—nothing trivial. Harry ran a hand through his damp hair and, feeling the beginnings of unease settle in, made his way down the hall towards the study.
Taking a steadying breath, he opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him with a quiet click.
Kingsley sat near the window, his broad shoulders filling the armchair with his usual air of calm authority. The light streaming in from the window caught the gleam of the golden earring he always wore, making the former Auror look even more imposing. Despite his relaxed posture, there was an unmistakable sharpness to his presence, as if every muscle was coiled, ready for action. On the desk in front of him sat a tray of tea and biscuits, untouched—a hopeful sign that James had, at the very least, managed to remember the basics of hospitality.
“Kingsley,” Harry greeted, his voice steady but curious. “What brings you here so early?”
Kingsley looked up, his expression inscrutable, and gestured for Harry to take a seat. There was a weight in his gaze that immediately put Harry on edge. Something was definitely amiss.
“I'm sure you're busy, Harry,” Kingsley said in his deep voice, “so, I'll cut straight to the chase,” he leaned towards him just a little, “Where were you yesterday.”Harry blinked at the question, his mind racing to mask the unease stirring within him. Whatever he had expected Kingsley to say, it wasn’t this.
“It was my day off,” Harry said evenly, raising his eyebrows as though the answer should have been obvious.
Kingsley leaned forward slightly, his sharp gaze narrowing. “I know that,” he said, his voice calm but with a weight that pressed against the room. “What I’m asking, Harry, is where you disappeared to yesterday. No patronuses, no letters, no messages—nothing. No one could reach you, not even through means that usually work.”
Harry hesitated for a moment, just enough to take the teacup from the tray in front of him. He lifted it with deliberate calm, letting the steam rise and obscure his expression momentarily. Taking a slow sip, he allowed the seconds to stretch, giving himself time to compose his thoughts.
“I don’t think I’m required to report my whereabouts on my day off, Kingsley,” he said finally, placing the cup down with a soft clink. His voice was steady, but there was a faint edge of defensiveness, a trace of something he was working hard to suppress.
Kingsley didn’t flinch. His eyes bore into Harry with the same quiet intensity, unbothered by the interruption. “Well,” he began evenly, “you might know about the French Minister—”
“I know that!” Harry cut in, a little too quickly. “She’s just a drama queen.” He added dryly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in an attempt to steer the conversation into lighter territory.
Kingsley didn’t rise to the bait. He leaned back in his chair, his considerable bulk somehow expanding to fill even more of the room. He closed his eyes for a moment, a long, weary sigh escaping him. “Again, Harry,” he said, his voice calm but laced with an almost palpable weariness, “you’re missing the point.”
Harry’s frown deepened, the fleeting smile vanishing as if it had never been. “Then what is the point?” he asked, a note of frustration creeping into his voice.
Kingsley opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on Harry, a silence hanging heavy between them. It wasn’t anger he saw there, nor irritation. It was something far more unsettling: a deep, considered thoughtfulness. “The point, Harry,” he said finally, “is that this isn’t just about a missed day of work. It’s about what you might have stumbled into. And whether or not you trust me enough to tell me about it.”
Harry’s frown intensified. “You’re making something out of nothing, Kingsley,” he said, his voice steady but with an edge that betrayed the strain he was under. “I needed some time. That’s all.”
“Time for what, Harry?” Kingsley pressed, his tone gentle but insistent.
Harry’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut, reaching for his teacup instead, a transparent attempt to buy himself a few more seconds. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Kingsley sighed again, the sound heavy with disappointment. “You’ve always been a straight shooter, Harry,” he said quietly. “That’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you. But right now… you’re holding something back. And whether you realise it or not, that’s going to cost you.”
Harry’s grip on the teacup tightened, his knuckles whitening. “I appreciate your concern, Kingsley,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “But I assure you, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Kingsley studied him for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Harry met his gaze, his own expression carefully blank, the teacup balanced precariously in his hand. He had no intention of lying outright – not to Kingsley, not to anyone – but he knew, from long and bitter experience, that sometimes the less people knew, the better.
Kingsley’s gaze was piercing, as if he could see through the layers of Harry’s carefully constructed silence, straight to the heart of the secret he was guarding. Harry felt the weight of that gaze, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he set the teacup back on the tray with deliberate slowness, his fingers lingering on the edge for a moment longer than necessary.
“The Ministry held an emergency meeting last night,” Kingsley said.
Harry’s eyebrows rose. He’d been at the Ministry himself last night, and the place had been deserted. But he wasn’t about to mention that now.
Kingsley took a deep breath. “The case between the Aurors and the Unspeakables… it’s been settled.”
Harry blinked. “Settled?” he echoed, though a cold dread was already creeping into his stomach.
“It’s been decided,” Kingsley continued, his voice flat, “that the situation is best handled by the Department of Mysteries. However,” he added, his gaze locking with Harry’s, “the Auror Department will be working closely with them.”
Harry felt a surge of disbelief, hot and furious. He rose to his feet, his chair scraping against the floorboards. He looked Kingsley in the eye, struggling to keep his voice level. “They can’t do that,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “As Head of the Auror Department, I should have been there when that decision was made.”
“But that’s precisely the point, Harry,” Kingsley said softly. “You weren’t there.”
“But Hodges was!” Harry retorted sharply. “As my Deputy. She couldn’t have just allowed this!”
Kingsley paused, a heavy silence settling over the room. “It was Hodges’ idea, Harry,” he said finally.
The words hit Harry like a physical blow. “She couldn’t…” he began, but the words trailed off, lost in a sea of disbelief and betrayal.
“And I, for one, think it’s a wise decision, Harry,” Kingsley said. “The Department of Mysteries is far better equipped to handle this situation.”
Harry stared at him, speechless. “It’s a conspiracy, isn’t it, Kingsley?” he said, the question more of a statement.
Kingsley looked genuinely puzzled. “A conspiracy? Against whom?”
“Against me, of course!” Harry burst out, the carefully constructed composure finally cracking. “It’s all because of Higgs!”
“What’s he got to do with it?” Kingsley asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Let’s see. First, he slashed my department’s budget by thirty percent – we’re getting less than the Department of Magical Transportation, for Merlin’s sake! Then he started auditing my team, evaluating their performance without so much as a by-your-leave. And now this! And all this in just two months since he took office!”
“Harry, please, sit down,” Kingsley said, gesturing towards the chair. But Harry remained rooted to the spot, his expression a mixture of anger and disbelief.
“The budget hasn’t been finalised yet,” Kingsley continued, his voice patient. “You weren’t even supposed to know about it. I mentioned it to you in confidence, so you could prepare for a worst-case scenario. We’d both be in deep trouble if that information got out.”
“Secondly,” Kingsley went on, ignoring the barely suppressed snort from Harry, “about the case. There’s an old saying: ‘Don’t win the battle, win the war.’ Suppose you’d led the investigation into this ‘resurrection business’ – and let’s be honest, Harry,” he added dryly, “it’s the Unspeakables’ bread and butter, not yours. Your job, Harry, your priority, is protecting the public. You’re a wise man. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you.”
“Thirdly, about Nathan” he continued, Harry muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Oh, he’s ‘Nathan’ now,” but Kingsley chose to ignore it. “I know you’ve made your feelings about him perfectly clear, but I haven’t found a shred of evidence against the man. He’s always had my back and when I needed him.”
“And that’s precisely where he needs to be to stick a knife in you,” Harry retorted, his voice laced with bitterness.
“Harry, please don’t forget that people said the exact same thing to me when I hired you,” Kingsley countered, his tone even.
“You didn’t just hire me, Kingsley,” Harry corrected him sharply. “You hired me because I was capable of this job. And I’ve proven myself, haven’t I?”
“That’s not what I meant…” Kingsley began, but Harry cut him off.
“All my promotions, every single one, was earned through hard work!” Harry exclaimed, his voice rising. “I’ve poured my literal blood, sweat, and tears into this job! I’ve sacrificed my body, my mind, and even my family to some extent!” He paced across the room, his anger barely contained. “And I won’t stand by and let anyone, anyone, belittle the effort I’ve put in.”
“I am grateful for what you’ve done,” Kingsley said, his voice quiet.
Harry ignored him, reaching the door and flinging it open. “Thank you for your… wisdom, Minister,” he said, the word dripping with sarcasm. “But I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Kingsley sighed, a sound of genuine weariness. He rose from his chair, picked up his coat and hat, and walked towards the door. He paused on the threshold, turning to face Harry. “There’s a press conference at seven this evening, Harry,” he said, his gaze steady. “I expect you to be there.” And with that, he was gone.
Chapter 20: The Unraveling
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The slam of the study door reverberated through the house, startling the occupants of the dining room. They had been engrossed in a conversation emanating from a small, intricately carved wooden box placed on the table, its surface gleaming with runes.
Young James, reacting with the quick reflexes of youth, swiftly pocketed the device as they heard approaching footsteps. "Quick," he hissed, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "act casual!"
After a few moments of strained silence, the dining room door opened and Harry reappeared. He was rubbing his scar, a familiar gesture that usually betrayed a troubled mind. As he entered, he noticed his family were still there, and with a slightly self-conscious air, he quickly raked his fingers through his damp hair. Despite the effort, the unruly strands refused to lie flat, sticking up at odd angles. He gave a small, almost apologetic smile.
"Morning," he mumbled, heading straight for the kettle and starting to make himself a cup of tea.
"What did Kingsley want, Dad?" James asked, his tone carefully casual, almost innocent.
"Just some office stuff," Harry replied, not looking up.
James hummed noncommittally, exchanging a quick, conspiratorial wink with his sister behind Harry's back.Harry finished making his tea and left the dining room, the others trailing after him. He collected the morning newspaper from the living room on his way and headed out to the backyard, settling down on the wooden deck. Quaffle, their golden Labrador, was already out there, completely absorbed in the important business of chasing a butterfly.
James watched him for some moments before departing off to prepare to study. His sister followed him and went into her room, while the others stayed in the room.
As lunchtime approached, Harry announced that they would be having lunch at the Burrow. James groaned inwardly. He never turned down food, especially his grandma's cooking, but the mountain of homework looming over him had effectively squashed his appetite.
Nevertheless, he got ready with a minimum of fuss – just pulling on a jumper and sweatpants – and came downstairs. He found the rest of his family already assembled and waiting by the fireplace. "Has the Floo been working yet?" he asked his dad.
"Oh, yes," Harry replied. "It's working again, though only for a few houses at the moment."
James stepped into the fireplace first, whirling through the Floo network and emerging in the Weasley's hearth. He found his Aunt Hermione waiting there, her lips pursed and her brow furrowed in a way that spoke of considerable tension.
He offered her a slightly confused smile by way of greeting. "Is Harry coming?" she asked immediately, her voice tight.
"Yeah, he's coming," James replied, just as his sister, Lily, tumbled out of the fireplace after him. "Why wouldn't he?"
Hermione simply shook her head, her fingers twisting nervously. A moment later, Sirius arrived, followed by dad's parents.
Finally, Harry appeared in the Floo, stepping out with a grim expression. Hermione approached him, her face etched with worry. “Harry…” she began, but Harry, pointedly ignoring her, brushed past her and strode into the house.
Hermione watched him go, her eyes suddenly glistening with unshed tears. “He’s been like that since Kingsley’s visit,” young James offered helpfully, turning to Hermione. “Come on, Aunt Hermione, tell us what happened!”
Sirius snorted, a short, sharp sound. The older Lily, Harry's mother, looked torn between concern and a strange sort of impressed amusement.
Hermione shook her head, trying to compose herself. She turned to the children, managing a watery smile. “Hello,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “I’m Hermione.” She held out her hand to the older James and Lily. They shook it politely. “Ooh,” James exclaimed, his eyes widening. “So you’re Ron’s wife!” Hermione just smiled in response.
She then turned to Sirius, her expression shifting slightly. “It’s good to see you again, Sirius,” she said, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Sirius offered her a tight smile in return.
They moved into the dining room, where they were greeted warmly by Molly Weasley. The gathering was smaller than last night, consisting of Hermione, Ron, a few of the Weasley cousins, and the Potters (plus Sirius).
"No Grandad today?" young James asked as Molly began serving the food.
"Oh, no, dear," Molly replied. "He's at work."
The lunch was a subdued affair. The Potters and Sirius gravitated towards the far end of the table, forming their own small group, while Lily, Harry's daughter, happily joined her Weasley cousins.
Something was definitely wrong, James thought, his brow furrowed as he glanced between his dad and Aunt Hermione. Uncle Ron, too, looked weary and preoccupied. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension.
As he ate, James replayed the snippet of conversation he’d overheard earlier in his mind. The Minister and his dad had always been on excellent terms. And Hodges? That was the truly baffling part. His dad trusted her implicitly. It seemed completely out of character for her to stab him in the back like that. And this Higgs bloke… he was clearly troubled. A real menace.
He also couldn't help but wonder what Aunt Hermione had done to earn his dad's apparent displeasure. They were supposed to be best friends, weren't they? What could have happened between them? He made a mental note to try and find out later, when the adults weren't so… tense.
As the meal drew to a close, James, feigning interest in a particularly stubborn bit of gravy on his plate, strained his ears. He could hear his dad’s voice, low and clipped, in conversation with Uncle Ron. He realised they were talking about Aunt Hermione.
“…just won’t listen,” Harry was saying, his voice tight with frustration. “She keeps making excuses for him, Ron! Excuses!”
“Come on, mate,” Ron’s voice was soothing, trying to pour oil on troubled waters. “You know Hermione. She always tries to see the best in people. Give her a bit of time. She’ll come around.”
“Time?” Harry scoffed. “We don’t *have* time, Ron! This isn’t some schoolboy prank, this is serious. Higgs is systematically dismantling everything I’ve built at the Department, and she’s just… defending him!”
James frowned. So it *was* Higgs. He’d suspected as much. But what could Hermione possibly have to do with it?
“She’s just trying to be fair,” Ron persisted. “You know she is. She probably thinks there’s some misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding?” Harry repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. “He’s cut our budget, he’s undermined my authority, he’s practically declared war on the Aurors! What part of that is a ‘misunderstanding,’ Ron?”
James didn’t hear Ron’s reply. His dad’s words had confirmed his suspicions. Higgs was definitely behind it all. But the mystery of Hermione’s involvement remained. He knew he had to get to the bottom of it.
***
By six o’clock, they had returned home. Harry went straight to his study, closing the door firmly behind him, while the children dispersed to their respective rooms.
The others, however, gravitated towards the backyard. Despite the thick, humid air, they found a sense of calm amidst the greenery.
"Kingsley's changed quite a bit, hasn't he?" James said, his voice light, almost conversational. But both Lily and Sirius knew what he was trying to imply.
"He was a valuable asset to the Order," Sirius replied grimly. "He was even the one who orchestrated my… hunt. He spread the false information about me, kept the Ministry off my scent."
A heavy silence hung in the air for a few moments, the only sound the gentle rustling of leaves in the light breeze. Then, James spoke, his voice thick with emotion, the question he’d been holding back for so long finally escaping him. “How did you survive, Sirius?” he asked, his throat tight. “Azkaban… how did you survive?
Sirius didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the flowerbeds, his expression distant, as if he were reliving the horrors of his past. “Well,” he said finally, his voice laced with bitterness, “I knew I was innocent. That… that was my anchor. And,” he added, a flicker of something – was it amusement? – crossing his face, “I occasionally transformed into Padfoot. The Dementors… they affected me less in my dog form.”
Lily, her voice thick with unshed tears, leaned forward. “So why didn’t you break out of prison sooner?” she asked, the question laced with a mixture of confusion and pain.
Sirius let out a heavy breath, the sound filled with the weight of years of regret. “Because I knew I deserved it,” he said grimly, his voice raw with self-blame. “It was my plan, after all. My stupid, reckless plan to convince you two to switch Secret Keepers.”
He looked at James and Lily, his eyes filled with a pain that mirrored their own. “I thought… I thought it was the best way. That Peter was the obvious choice. I was so sure… so arrogantly sure… that I’d outsmarted everyone.” He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him.
He paused, the silence stretching uncomfortably. “But then,” he continued, his voice regaining a measure of its usual strength, “I saw a newspaper clipping. The Weasleys had won some lottery or other. And there, in the background, I saw him. Peter. I recognised him instantly. The rat… with one toe missing.”
Sirius’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “The newspaper mentioned that the youngest Weasley boy was starting his third year at Hogwarts. I knew then. I knew Harry’s life was in danger. That’s why I broke out. That’s why I did what I did.”
Lily reached out, her hand covering Sirius's where it rested on the arm of his chair. Her touch was light but firm, conveying a depth of emotion that words couldn't express. "Sirius," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion, "we're so grateful. So incredibly grateful. For everything."
James nodded, his own hand covering Sirius's other hand. He looked at his old friend, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "We know you didn't mean to… to put us in danger," he said, his voice rough. "We know you were trying to protect us. And we know… we know you'd do anything for Harry."
Sirius looked up, his grey eyes meeting theirs. He saw the sincerity in their faces, the unwavering trust that shone through their tears. A wave of emotion washed over him, a mixture of relief, gratitude, and a profound sense of belonging.
"We're so glad," Lily continued, her voice trembling slightly, "so glad that Harry has you. That he has a godfather like you. You're… you're family, Sirius. You always have been."
James squeezed Sirius's hand, his grip tightening. "We couldn't have asked for a better friend," he said, his voice filled with warmth. "Or a better godfather for Harry."
A small smile touched Sirius's lips, a genuine smile that reached his eyes and banished the shadows that had haunted them for so long. He looked at Lily and James, his heart overflowing with love and gratitude. He didn't need to say anything. They knew. They understood. And that was enough. They were family. And they would face whatever came next, together.
***
They returned to the house after young Lily announced that tea was ready. As they moved into the living room, they found young James already there. He was sprawled across the sofa, his legs propped up on the coffee table, a steaming mug of tea clutched in one hand, and a thick, well-worn book balanced precariously open on his lap.
Just as they settled into their seats, the living room door burst open, startling everyone. Harry rushed in, practically jogging, a tray laden with three cups of tea and some biscuits balanced precariously in his hands. His daughter, Lily, trailed close behind him.
He quickly deposited the tray on the coffee table before hurrying over to the elegant Welsh dresser tucked in the corner of the room. He began shuffling through the drawers, his movements hurried. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a grey tie. The older Lily’s eyes instinctively flickered to the grandfather clock; it was a quarter to seven. Ah, the press conference, she realised.
Young Lily, however, seemed oblivious to her father’s frantic activity. She stood behind him, her voice a whine. “But Dad, please! It would be so much fun to go!”
“Lily, we’ve been to France plenty of times,” Harry said, still rummaging through the drawers, “Besides, we’ll be going again for the wedding.”
“But Dad, James is going too, and everyone else in the family!” she persisted. “Even Uncle Ron! Aren’t you two supposed to be best friends?”
The room filled with snorts of amusement at this, but Lily didn’t seem to notice. Harry, however, looked slightly amused. “Lily,” he said, finally turning to face her, “First of all, I don’t run a joke shop that I can simply hand over to someone. Secondly, there’s a mountain of work to do at the Ministry – elections are in a few weeks, the budget, and on top of that, there’s the whole resurrection epidemic to deal with. And thirdly, and most importantly, Uncle Ron and I are not thirteen-year-old girls,” he added dryly. “You can go with James if you want.” He ran a hand through his hair, making a futile attempt to tame its unruly mess.
“I’m not going with him,” she huffed.
“I’m not babysitting her there,” James grumbled simultaneously.
Lily rolled her eyes. Before she could think, she blurted out, “But the Auror Department isn’t responsible for this whole resurrection business! It’s the Department of Mysteries’ job, after all!”
The whole room froze. James glared at his sister’s back. Young Lily, too, seemed to realise what she’d said; her ears flushed crimson.
“You reckon?” Harry asked lightly, his expression unreadable. Lily tried to gauge whether he suspected anything, but his face was carefully guarded, a default expression she'd seen him wear so often, she wondered if it was his natural state.
“Yes!” Lily said, regaining her composure quickly. “Isn’t it their job to deal with stuff like this?” she added convincingly.
“Hmm…” Harry hummed noncommittally.
“So?”
“We’ll think about it,” Harry said placatingly, then turned to the others. “I probably won’t be home for dinner, and neither will Ginny; she has some meeting with the Americans. So, dinner’s at the Burrow.” With that, he grabbed his jacket and bag from the armchair and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click.“Well done!” James snapped at his sister, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Lily simply rolled her eyes. “He didn’t suspect a thing,” she retorted.
“Sometimes I wonder why you’re not in Slytherin,” James muttered.
“Sometimes I wonder why Mum and Dad are still keeping you.” Lily shot back, her tone equally sharp.
James glanced at the clock; it was five to seven. "The press conference is about to start," he announced, standing up. He walked over to the Welsh dresser and retrieved a small, boxy device covered in buttons. It looked like some sort of wireless contraption.
He placed it on the ottoman in front of the sofa and pressed a few buttons. A screen flickered to life in the center of the room, initially displaying a girl dancing. A moment later, sound began to emanate from the device – music, Lily realised. James, however, wasn't interested in music. He started rapidly pressing buttons, changing channels much like someone flipping through television channels. The image flickered from dancing girls to cooking shows, then to a Quaffle match replay.
Finally, after a few more presses, the screen settled on: the grand hall of the Ministry of Magic, where a podium stood waiting. "Ah, here we go," James muttered, settling back on the sofa. His sister joined him, and frowned at the screen.
Suddenly, the scene changed. The grand ministry hall was replaced by a shot of a smartly dressed woman and man in black robes. They were sitting in comfortable armchairs in what appeared to be a news studio. The woman, looking directly at the screen, said, “The Minister of Magic and his cabinet are holding a press conference at seven this evening. Reporters from all around the world are gathered at the Ministry of Magic, London, to hear…”
The man beside her took over. “Minister Shacklebolt is expected to address several key issues, including the resurrection we’ve been reporting on. Speculation is rife about the Ministry’s plans to manage this unprecedented situation, and we anticipate the Minister will finally clarify what steps are being taken.”
The woman nodded. “Indeed. The resurrection of individuals previously deceased has caused considerable unease in the wizarding community, and the public is demanding answers. We also expect the Minister to address questions regarding the Ministry’s budget, particularly concerning recent rumours of significant cuts to certain departments.”
The man added, “And of course, there’s the ongoing investigation into the circumstances surrounding these resurgences. Many are wondering if the Ministry is any closer to understanding the cause of this phenomenon.”
The woman turned to the camera. “Our correspondent, Amelia Forbes, is on the scene at the Ministry of Magic and will be bringing us live updates as they happen. We’ll be crossing over to her shortly.” The screen then cuts to a brief advertisement for “Gladrags Wizardwear – for the discerning witch or wizard.”
The scene shifted once again, this time to the grand hall of the Ministry. The podium was now center stage, and Kingsley Shacklebolt stood behind it, his expression serious. A step behind him, a line of Ministry officials stood in a semi-circle.
Lily’s eyes immediately found Harry. He stood even further back than the others, almost at the edge of the group. He was listening intently to a man who was whispering into his ear, shielding his mouth with his hand. Harry looked more solemn and grim than usual, his face more guarded than Lily had ever seen it. She noticed something else, too.
Today, he hadn’t covered his lightning bolt scar. In the three days she'd been observing him, she'd noticed a consistent pattern: Harry always kept his fringe carefully styled, falling just so to conveniently hide the scar. But not today. Today, the scar was clearly visible.“Oh my god,” James exclaimed, his eyes widening in amusement. “Dad must be really upset with Hodges if he’s talking to Dawlish! Never imagined I’d see the day.” He snorted.
“Who’s Hodges again?” his sister asked.
“That one-armed witch standing beside Aunt Hermione,” James replied, pointing. “And that’s Higgs,” he added, pointing to the tall man standing just beside Kingsley.
Kingsley stepped up to the podium, the murmuring of the crowd dying down as he raised his hand for silence. "Good evening," he began, his voice amplified by a Sonorus charm. "We've gathered here tonight to address several pressing concerns facing the wizarding community."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled reporters. "First and foremost, I want to address the recent… resurgences. I understand the public's anxiety regarding this unprecedented situation. Let me assure you, the Ministry is taking this matter extremely seriously."
A hand shot up from the crowd. "Minister!" a reporter called out. "How are you planning to tackle this… resurrection situation? Is there any possibility of Death Eaters returning along with these… others?"
Kingsley's expression remained impassive. "That is a question we are actively investigating," he replied. "We cannot rule out any possibilities at this stage. However, I want to emphasize that we are prepared for any eventuality."
Prepared? the older Lily thought wryly, her gaze fixed on her son. I hope so. She remembered the last war, the terror, the losses. The thought of Death Eaters returning sent a chill down her spine. She glanced at Harry, noticing the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw was clenched. He looked like he was barely holding himself back.
"We have increased security measures across the country," Kingsley continued, "and the Auror Department has been given standing orders to apprehend any individual, resurrected or otherwise, who poses a threat to the peace and security of our society. We are also working closely with international magical communities to share information and coordinate our efforts."
*The Aurors…* Lily thought, her eyes narrowing slightly. She already knew, from snippets of overheard conversations between Harry and Kingsley, that the Auror Department was being sidelined in this investigation. She also knew about the budget cuts – a fact that made her blood boil. How can they possibly cut their funding at a time like this? It's sheer madness.
"Furthermore," Kingsley announced, "after careful consideration, the Ministry has decided that the investigation into the resurgences will be handled by the Department of Mysteries. Their expertise in such matters is unparalleled, and we believe they are best equipped to unravel the mysteries surrounding this phenomenon."
The Department of Mysteries? Lily mused, a bitter taste rising in her mouth. She knew this already, of course. She’d heard it from Kingsley himself, during his visit to their house. It was just another slap in the face for Harry, another way to undermine his authority. She wondered how Harry was taking it, but his face remained impassive, betraying nothing.
Another reporter called out, "Minister, what about the rumours we've been hearing about budget cuts? Specifically, the Auror Department. How can you justify cutting their funding at a time like this, especially given the increased workload?"
Higgs, standing slightly behind Kingsley, shifted uncomfortably. Lily saw the telltale signs of a man caught off guard. He avoided eye contact with the reporters, his face flushing slightly.
"As I've stated before," Kingsley said smoothly, "budget allocations are currently under review. No final decisions have been made. We are committed to ensuring that all departments have the resources they need to function effectively."
Liar, Lily thought, a flicker of anger rising within her. She knew better. She knew something was going on, something that Harry wasn't telling her all of. And she had a feeling that Higgs was at the center of it, pulling the strings while Kingsley danced to his tune. She wondered if Harry suspected the extent of Higgs’s involvement. She made a mental note to talk to him later, to find out what he knew, what he suspected. This whole situation was making her uneasy. Too many things didn’t add up. Too many secrets were being kept. And she had a feeling that it was all going to come crashing down sooner or later.
"Right then," James said, standing up. "I won't be having dinner either. I'll be back late." And with that, he exited the living room.
Ten minutes later, he reappeared, now dressed in formal robes. He also shuffled through the drawers of the Welsh dresser and retrieved a rolled-up parchment.
"Where are you going?" his sister asked, her tone laced with suspicion.
"Oh, just popping out to negotiate a peace treaty with the goblins. Should be back by midnight. Don't wait up.”
She simply rolled her eyes.
***
Harry finally let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when the press conference concluded. All the department heads were expected to meet in the Minister's office immediately afterward.
He had absolutely no desire to go. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to go home, to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the Ministry. But Dawlish, surprisingly, had insisted he attend. Harry snorted as he stepped into the elevator. He never thought he'd be taking Dawlish's advice, not in a million years. But Dawlish was the only one who seemed to despise Higgs as much as he did, and he was undeniably cunning enough to match Higgs's manipulative tactics.
He walked briskly towards the Minister's chambers, his secretary ushering him inside. As the door opened, the occupants of the room turned to look at him. Higgs, naturally, positioned himself front and center, a cheshire-cat grin plastered on his face. "Mr. Potter!" he chirped, his voice dripping with false cheer. "So glad you decided to join us." Harry offered him a tight, equally insincere smile in return.
Every other department head and several senior members of the Wizengamot were present. Harry even spotted Percy Weasley in a corner, deep in conversation with an elderly warlock. He was offered a drink and, surprisingly, accepted it without hesitation.
"As Mr. Potter has finally graced us with his presence," Higgs announced, his voice ringing through the room, "we can finally begin our meeting." The assembled group then moved into an adjoining room, dominated by a large, round table.
A few people were already seated, including Kingsley, who occupied the head of the table. Harry instinctively took the seat at the opposite end, placing himself directly across from the Minister.
“I know, ladies and gentlemen,” Higgs began, taking a seat beside Kingsley, “that we all want to return to our homes, but we won’t detain you unnecessarily. Some pressing matters must be discussed.
“First of all, how the reporter learned about the budget is very concerning. I spoke with him after the press conference, and he informed me it was an anonymous tip. Which I think—”
“But is it true?” a witch interrupted, her voice sharp. “I mean, it is very concerning if the Auror Department is facing a 30% cut.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.
“Well, Ms. Greystone,” Higgs replied smoothly, “that information is highly classified. However, I want the Auror Department to look into the leak.”
Every eye in the room turned to Harry, who dryly stated, “I don’t take orders from you, Higgs.”
“Well, the Minister concurs,” Higgs said, glancing at Kingsley.
Kingsley, whose gaze hadn’t left Harry since he arrived, said, “Yes, Harry. That matter does require an investigation.”
“Of course,” Harry snorted, but they ignored him.
Higgs nodded. “Yes, as Mr. Potter has so helpfully pointed out, I would like to take this opportunity to inform him that we’ve decided to send Mr. Potter and his wife to France.”
Harry spluttered his drink, some of it spraying across the table. “Excuse me?” he choked out.
“Well,” Higgs explained, his voice oozing with insincerity, “as the French Minister was quite upset, and we don’t want to tarnish our international relations, especially in these vulnerable times, the Ministry has decided to send you as a delegation.”
Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He stood up abruptly, slamming his fist on the table.
“Are you kidding me?!” he half-shouted, his voice echoing through the room. “You’re sending me to France? Now? When everything is falling apart here? When we’re facing a potential resurgence of Death Eaters, when my department is being systematically dismantled by you?” He pointed a finger at Higgs. “You think sending me on some diplomatic mission is going to solve anything? It’s a blatant attempt to get me out of the way!”
“Now, Harry, let’s be reasonable,” Higgs interjected, his voice dripping with false concern. “It’s a simple diplomatic mission. A gesture of goodwill. Surely you can see the importance of maintaining strong international ties, especially in these uncertain times.”
“Reasonable?!” Harry roared. “You talk about reasonable while you’re stabbing me in the back? You’re cutting my budget, interfering in Auror investigations, and now you’re trying to send me off on a wild goose chase? This isn’t about diplomacy, Higgs. This is about you consolidating power, and I won’t be a pawn in your game!”
“Minister,” Harry continued, turning to Kingsley, his voice laced with a mixture of anger and betrayal. “Surely you can see what’s happening here. This isn’t about the French Minister. This is about Higgs trying to sideline me, to weaken the Auror Department even further! Are you really going to let him get away with this?”
A tense silence filled the room. All eyes were on Kingsley, waiting for his response. But the Minister remained silent, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him.
"You can't be serious," Harry said, his voice low and dangerous. He turned and strode towards the door, his anger a palpable force in the room.
"Harry!" Kingsley called out, rising from his chair. He hurried after Harry, catching up with him just as he reached the door.
"Don't bother, Kingsley," Harry said, his voice laced with bitterness. "I've heard enough."
"Harry, wait," Kingsley insisted, his hand on Harry's arm. "I need to talk to you."
Harry stopped, his back still turned to Kingsley. "About what?" he asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. "About how you're going to let Higgs destroy everything I've worked for?"
"Harry, listen to me," Kingsley said, his voice low and urgent. "I know it was you who leaked the budget to the reporter."
Harry whirled around, his eyes blazing. "That's a lie!" he said, his voice rising. "I told you, I had nothing to do with it."
"Harry, I know you," Kingsley said, his gaze unwavering. "You're a terrible liar."
Harry stared at him, his anger warring with disbelief. "You're accusing me?" he said, his voice barely a whisper. "After everything I've done for you, for the Ministry, you're accusing me of betraying you?"
"I'm not accusing you," Kingsley said, his voice softening. "I'm telling you I know. And I understand why you did it."
Harry didn't say anything. He just stared at Kingsley, his mind reeling.
"Harry," Kingsley continued, "I need you to trust me. I know things are difficult right now. But I'm asking you to go to France. It's important. It might be more important than you realize."
Harry hesitated, his anger slowly giving way to curiosity. "Why?" he asked. "Why France? What's so important about it?"
Kingsley sighed. "I can't tell you everything right now," he said. "But I promise you, it's important. And I need you there."
Harry looked at him for a long moment, his mind racing. He didn't trust Higgs, not one bit. But he did trust Kingsley, at least to some extent. And something in Kingsley's voice, in his eyes, told Harry that this was something he couldn't ignore.
"Fine," Harry said finally. "I'll go to France. But when I get back, we're going to have a long talk. And you're going to tell me everything."
Kingsley nodded. "I promise," he said. "Now go. And be careful."
Harry turned and left the Ministry, his mind still buzzing with questions. He didn't know what was going on, but he had a feeling that this trip to France was going to be anything but a simple diplomatic mission.
Notes:
I'm not particularly happy with this chapter but I will try HARD for next chapter to be Harry talking to his parents.
Chapter 21: A Night of Secrets
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
He lay on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, the only sound in the room the steady ticking of the clock. A quiet, rhythmic reminder of time passing—of minutes slipping through his fingers like sand.
With a sigh, he turned his head to glance at the clock face. Half past two. Brilliant.
Sleep had never come easily to him. Not before. And certainly not after Azkaban. The weight of years spent in cold stone confinement still pressed against his ribs, an invisible shackle he couldn't shake. Some nights, he woke gasping, convinced he was back there, the scent of damp and decay thick in his throat.
He exhaled, long and slow, rubbing a hand over his face. Guess coming back from the dead doesn’t fix your insomnia.
A faint noise broke the silence. A soft creak, barely audible over the ticking clock. He frowned. Probably nothing — it would be the dog or the cat — but then he heard it again. A muffled thud, followed by the sound of footsteps, careful, measured.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, listening harder. Maybe Harry’s back. Or Ginny. Or even James sneaking in late.
Still, something about the sound prickled at the back of his mind. Too deliberate. Too careful. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor. Reaching for his wand, he rose, moving silently toward the door.
Just to be sure.
As he arrived downstairs in the living room, the sound hadn’t stopped. It was coming from the kitchen, whose door was slightly ajar.
Could it be Harry? Ginny? Maybe James? He hesitated. Or… burglars?
Moving with practiced stealth, he crept forward, his heartbeat steady but alert. The dim glow of moonlight slanted through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. As he pushed the door open just a fraction more, his eyes locked onto a small figure standing by the window.
Without a sound, he stepped closer. Then, in one swift motion, he reached out and placed a firm hand on their shoulder.
The figure stiffened under his touch. For a split second, neither of them moved. The kitchen was dark, but moonlight streamed faintly through the window, outlining the small frame in front of him.
“Who are you?” he demanded in a low voice, tightening his grip.
The person spun around so quickly he barely had time to react. A gasp—sharp and startled—escaped them as they stumbled back against the counter. And then, as the dim light caught their face, recognition hit him like a jolt of electricity.
It wasn’t a stranger.
Lily's eyes widened in alarm, and before she could scream, Sirius clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling the sound. She struggled for a moment before realizing who it was, her furious glare practically burning through him.
“What the hell, Sirius?” she hissed the moment he let go, shoving him back. “You scared the life out of me!”
Sirius folded his arms, eyeing her from head to toe. She was fully dressed, a sling bag slung across her shoulder, boots laced tightly—she wasn’t just wandering the house; she was going somewhere.
“What are you doing sneaking out in the middle of the night?” he asked, his voice low but firm.
Lily glanced toward the door, her body tensing as though debating whether she could still make a run for it. Sirius caught the flicker of defiance in her eyes—it was James’s look, stubborn and reckless.
“I was just… going for a walk,” she said, too quickly.
Sirius snorted. “Right. A midnight stroll. With a packed bag. Try again.”
Lily huffed, shifting the strap of her bag higher. “It’s nothing, okay? Just something I need to do.”
“If it’s nothing, why sneak out instead of telling us?” Sirius countered, watching her closely.
Lily's jaw tightened. Sirius held her gaze for a long moment before speaking.
“What happened to your brother?”
Lily’s eyes widened in shock. “How—how did you—?”
Sirius cut her off, his voice calm but firm. “Your dad’s not the only one who knows Legilimency, Lily.” He took a step closer, his expression unreadable. “Now tell me—what happened?”
Lily swallowed hard, her fingers fumbling as she reached into the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a neatly folded parchment, her grip tightening around it for a brief moment before handing it over.
"An owl came about ten minutes ago," she said quietly. "It delivered this."
Sirius unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the words as Lily added in a strained voice, "It says James has been admitted to the hospital."
Sirius’s stomach lurched. His eyes flicked back to Lily, searching her face for any sign of exaggeration or mistake, but she just stood there, tense, her hands clenched into fists.
Without another word, he strode toward the nearest lamp and lit it with a flick of his wand. His gaze dropped to the parchment, the dim glow illuminating the sharp, hurried script.
"James Sirius Potter was admitted to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries at 2:14 AM. Condition: Stable. Visitors permitted for immediate family."
Sirius exhaled through his nose. “Stable,” he muttered. “That’s something.” But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
Lily shifted on her feet, looking ready to bolt. “I need to go.”
“You’re not going alone,” Sirius said immediately, already pulling on his coat. “We’ll Floo there –”
“We can’t,” Lily cut in, shaking her head. “The Floo network’s locked down for security. Apparition, too. Country-wide.”
Sirius swore under his breath. Of course it was. With everything going on the Ministry had likely sealed off all magical travel to prevent panic.
Lily was already moving, shrugging her sling bag higher on her shoulder. “We have to go the Muggle way.”
“The Muggle way?” Sirius repeated, incredulous. “Lily, St. Mungo’s is in London. It's going to take ages to get there.”
“I’ll figure it out,” she said stubbornly. “I just need to get there.”
Sirius looked at her—really looked at her. The tension in her shoulders, the way she kept swallowing like she was holding something back.
“Lily,” he said, his voice quieter now, “what aren’t you telling me?”
Her jaw tightened. “I just… I don’t know what happened to James. And I need to know.”
Sirius let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t like this. Every instinct was screaming that something wasn’t right. But if the only way to get answers was to drag himself through Muggle London in the dead of night, then so be it.
“Fine,” he muttered, grabbing a jacket. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”
Lily blinked. “Which means…?”
“Ever been on a motorbike, kid?”
***
Sirius patted his pockets, then glanced around as if expecting the keys to magically appear. “Alright, where does your dad keep them?”
Lily hesitated. “He… doesn’t.”
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Lily.”
She let out a breath. “Dad gave them to James. For his last birthday.”
Sirius blinked. “James? And where does he keep them?”
Lily pulled her hand from her pocket and held up the keys, letting them dangle between her fingers.
“May I know, then why,” Sirius drawled, “do you have them?”
Lily raised an eyebrow. “Because I was going to use it.”
Sirius barked out a laugh. “You were going to ride my bike? Alone?”
“Technically not yours, but yeah.”
He studied her, then let out a low whistle. “Merlin’s beard, you really are a Potter.”
Lily just folded her arms. “Are we going, or are you going to keep standing there, being impressed?”
Sirius grinned. “Alright, kid. Let’s see if you can actually handle this thing.”
Lily led Sirius across the darkened lawn, the dewy grass dampening their shoes as they approached the small barn at the edge of the property. She pulled out her wand, tapped the lock, and the doors creaked open, revealing the Potter family’s modest collection of vehicles—two sleek, dark cars parked neatly side by side and, tucked into the far corner, a gleaming black motorcycle.
Sirius let out a low whistle as he stepped inside. “Merlin, I’ve missed this beauty.” He ran a hand over the polished metal, eyes gleaming with something close to reverence.
Lily, however, had other priorities. She marched straight to the bike and swung a leg over it like she’d done it a thousand times before. “I’ll drive.”
Sirius, who had been reaching for the handlebars, froze mid-motion. He turned to her slowly. “No, you won’t.”
Lily huffed. “I can drive, you know. James taught me.”
“Not this bike, and not tonight,” Sirius said firmly, plucking the keys from her fingers. “This thing’s got more kick than a pissed-off Hippogriff, and we’re not taking any chances.”
Lily crossed her arms, looking mutinous.
“Don’t give me that look,” Sirius said, pulling a helmet from a nearby shelf and shoving it into her hands. “If your namesake ever finds out about this, I’d rather her hex me for reckless endangerment than for letting her granddaughter splatter herself all over the countryside.”
He grabbed another helmet and tugged it on before swinging a leg over the bike. “Get on,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Lily hesitated for a second longer, then exhaled sharply and climbed on behind him, securing her helmet.
“Hold on tight,” Sirius muttered as he revved the engine, the motorcycle purring to life beneath them.
Lily gripped his jacket. “Just don’t be slow,” she challenged.
Sirius grinned. “Kid, I invented fast.”
And with that, the bike roared forward, shooting out of the barn and into the night.
***
The wind howled around them as Sirius maneuvered the motorcycle through the dark, empty roads, the engine growling beneath them. Lily clung tightly to his jacket, her heartbeat pounding in rhythm with the vibrations of the bike. The night was cold, but she barely noticed—her mind was racing too fast.
James was in the hospital. The words echoed over and over in her head, but they still didn’t make sense. He had been fine when she last saw him. What had happened? Why wasn’t their family contacted sooner? And why, of all times, were their parents not home?
Sirius’s grip on the handlebars was tense. He hadn’t asked Lily any more questions since they took off, but she could tell he was thinking—probably running through all the worst possibilities, just like she was.
After several long minutes, he finally spoke, his voice rough against the rushing wind. “What exactly did the letter say?”
Lily pressed her forehead against his back, trying to recall the exact wording. “Just that James had been admitted to St. Mungo’s. No details. No contact information. Just… a name at the bottom.”
Sirius frowned. “Whose name?”
“Barnaby Finch.”
Sirius let out a sharp breath. “Who the hell is Barnaby Finch?”
Lily shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s a trainee at the hospital, I think. I’ve seen his name before.”
Sirius muttered something under his breath and pushed the bike even faster. The city lights began to appear in the distance, and soon they were weaving through near-empty streets, dodging the occasional enchanted cab or Ministry patrol.
Lily felt her stomach twist. This was real now.
As St. Mungo’s came into view, she squeezed Sirius’s arm. “Drop me off at the front.”
“No chance,” Sirius said. “I’m coming with you.”
Lily didn’t argue. She wasn’t sure she could do this alone.
Sirius skidded the motorcycle to a stop just outside the hospital entrance. Before the bike had even fully settled, Lily had already pulled off her helmet and jumped off. Sirius followed suit, tossing both helmets onto the seat.
Together, they rushed toward the entrance, their shadows stretching long under the dim streetlights.
Lily didn’t know what she was about to walk into. But she did know one thing.
She was going to find out exactly what had happened to her brother.
***
Lily pushed through the glass doors of St. Mungo’s, Sirius right behind her. The moment they stepped inside, the cool, sterile air hit her, along with the familiar scent of potions and disinfectant. The waiting area was quiet at this hour, save for a few witches and wizards sitting hunched over, looking half-asleep.
Lily wasted no time. She marched up to the welcome witch at the reception desk. “James Potter,” she said, breathless. “He was admitted not long ago.”
The witch, an older woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper quill, glanced up from her paperwork. “Relation?”
“Sister.”
“And you?” she asked, flicking her gaze at Sirius.
“Uncle,” Sirius said smoothly.
Lily barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. The welcome witch hummed, flipping through a few pages on her clipboard. “James Potter, brought in an hour ago. Mild dehydration, nothing serious. Currently resting in Room 307, Spell Damage Ward.”
Lily let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Not serious. That meant he was fine. She exchanged a glance with Sirius, who gave her a small nod.
“Can we see him?” she asked.
The welcome witch sighed as if they were asking for something highly unreasonable, then waved her quill. “Go on, then. Third floor.”
Lily was already moving before she finished speaking. Sirius kept pace with her, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. As they reached the stairs, he muttered, “I don’t know whether to strangle the kid or lecture him.”
Lily huffed. “Save it until we know what happened.”
A few minutes later, they reached Room 307. Lily didn’t bother knocking—she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
James was sitting up in bed, looking pale but otherwise unharmed. He had a glass of water in one hand, a half-eaten pumpkin pasty in the other. He blinked at them as they entered.
“Oh,” he said, swallowing. “Hey.”
Lily folded her arms. “Hey? That’s all you have to say?”
James shifted guiltily. “Look, it’s really not a big deal—”
“Not a big deal?” Sirius cut in, stepping closer. “You fainted, James. And we had to find out from a bloody letter.”
James grimaced. “Okay, yeah, that part could’ve been handled better…” He glanced at Lily. “How’d you even get here? I thought Mum and Dad locked down the Floo and apparition.”
Lily raised an eyebrow. “Sirius’s motorcycle.”
James’s face lit up with something close to admiration. “No way. You rode it?”
“She wanted to drive it,” Sirius said, folding his arms. “I, however, have more sense.”
James snorted. “Damn. Wish I’d seen that.”
“James,” Lily snapped, “focus. What happened?”
James sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It was nothing. I had an appointment with Gawain Robards—you know. Part of my assignment for the internship, interviewing a retired Auror. We met at the some fancy muggle restaurant, everything was fine. Then we went to his place—he’s got a home office set up—and we were talking for ages. I guess I forgot to eat or drink anything. And the healers did say something about taking too much caffeine. And, well…” He gestured at the hospital bed. “I kind of… passed out.”
Lily stared at him, then turned to Sirius. “Can I strangle him, or would you like to go first?”
Sirius cracked his knuckles. “Oh, I think I’d enjoy it more.”
James groaned, flopping back against his pillows. “Look, I get it, I was stupid, lesson learned, can we move on?”
Lily sighed, rubbing her temples. “Does Mum know?”
James hesitated. “Uh… not yet.”
Sirius let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s going to be fun.”
Lily exhaled sharply and sat down on the edge of James’s bed. “Next time, just—tell us, okay? You scared the hell out of me.”
James softened. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Sirius sighed and pulled up a chair and sat down. “You’re lucky it was just dehydration, kid. Now, since I’m here, tell me—what’s Robards really like? As grumpy as I remember?”
James grinned. “Oh, worse.”
Lily rolled her eyes but let the conversation flow, relief settling into her bones. James was fine. That was all that mattered.
The door creaked open, and a short but broad-shouldered man stepped inside. His grizzled features were set in a deep frown, and his sharp eyes immediately scanned the room before settling on Sirius.
Gawain Robards.
Lily felt the air in the room shift. James straightened in bed, and Sirius… well, Sirius simply leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee with deliberate nonchalance.
Robards didn’t speak right away. His gaze flickered over Sirius’s face, his expression unreadable, but there was something unmistakably calculating about the way he looked at him—like an old Auror assessing a fugitive. Which, of course, was exactly what he’d once been.
“Sirius Black,” Robards said at last, his voice gravelly and slow, as if he were testing the weight of the words. “Didn’t think I’d ever run into you outside of a wanted poster.”
Lily’s stomach twisted. Oh, great.
Sirius, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know I take much better pictures these days.”
Robards didn’t return the smile. His eyes narrowed. “I was assigned to track you once, you know.”
Sirius shrugged. “And how’d that work out for you?”
Lily groaned inwardly. Merlin’s beard, Sirius, could you not antagonize the man who used to hunt you down?
Robards exhaled sharply through his nose, then turned to James. “You alright, Potter?”
James, who had been watching the exchange like a spectator at a Quidditch match, nodded quickly. “Yeah. Fine. Just a little stupid about hydration.”
Robards grunted. “That’s putting it lightly. You gave me a bloody scare.” His gaze softened, if only slightly. “Try not to collapse next time, yeah?”
James grinned. “I’ll do my best.”
Robards finally turned back to Sirius. There was still tension in his stance, the kind that came from years of ingrained wariness, but something in his expression shifted. “You’re lucky Harry fought to clear your name,” he said gruffly. “Still feels strange seeing you walk free.”
Sirius met his gaze evenly. “Strange for me too.”
A beat of silence.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Robards extended a hand. “For what it’s worth, I never liked chasing shadows. And I don’t reckon you deserved what you got.”
Lily held her breath. For a moment, she thought Sirius would ignore it—but then, slowly, he reached out and clasped Robards’s hand, giving it a firm shake.
“Appreciate that,” Sirius said, and for once, there was no teasing in his voice.
Lily exhaled, tension she hadn’t even realized she was holding slipping away. Maybe this wouldn’t turn into a disaster after all.
Lily watched as Sirius and Robards released their handshake, the unspoken truce settling between them. She hesitated only a second before stepping forward and extending her own hand.
"Nice to meet you properly, Mr. Robards," she said, her voice steady.
Robards looked at her for a moment, then grasped her hand in a firm shake. "You’ve got your mother’s eyes," he said gruffly, before turning to James and adding, "And your father’s knack for getting into trouble, it seems."
Lily let out a short laugh as they all took their seats. "Well, speaking of trouble…" She turned to James, arching an eyebrow. "How exactly are you planning to break this to Mum and Dad?"
James groaned, tipping his head back against the pillow. "I was hoping you would do it for me."
"Absolutely not." Lily smirked. "You're the one who fainted in front of a former Head Auror because you couldn't be bothered to drink water. You get to explain that to Mum."
Robards coughed, but Lily could tell he was suppressing a laugh. Sirius, meanwhile, had no such restraint. He barked out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, good luck with that, kid. Your mum’s going to have thoughts."
James groaned again, pulling the blanket over his face. "Maybe I'll just stay in hospital forever."
"Yeah, because that would go over well," Lily snorted. "Face it, James. You’re doomed."
Lily glanced at Robards, who was still seated, arms crossed as he watched the exchange with mild amusement. “You don’t have to stay, sir,” she said politely. “James is fine now.”
Robards didn’t move. Instead, he leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes flicking from James to Sirius before settling back on her. “I think I’ll sit for a few more moments,” he said evenly.
Lily exchanged a look with Sirius, who merely raised an eyebrow but said nothing. James, still hiding under the blanket, let out a dramatic sigh. “Great. More witnesses to my humiliation.”
Robards smirked. “Think of it as a lesson, Potter. Even Aurors have to remember basic survival skills—like drinking water.”
Sirius let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “He’s got a point, kid. I don’t think I ever passed out in front of an ex-Head Auror.”
James peeked out from under the blanket, looking betrayed. “You’re both enjoying this way too much.”
Lily grinned. “Oh, you have no idea.”
Robards leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest. "You know, Potter always had this habit of running headfirst into things. You’d think he’d have grown out of it after the war, but no—same old Harry."
James smirked. "Some things never change."
Robards chuckled. "Oh, I’ve seen it firsthand. There was this one time, back when he was still fairly new in the department, we had a surveillance op in Diagon Alley. A suspected dark artifact dealer, real shady bloke, was supposed to be making a sale. The plan was simple—stay back, watch the exchange, and move in quietly when we had proof."
Lily nodded. "Sounds reasonable."
"Right?" Robards said, raising his eyebrows. "But here’s the thing—your dad, being Harry Potter, saw something suspicious one street over and decided to check it out. Without telling anyone."
James groaned. "Of course he did."
"Oh, it gets better," Robards continued. "So, while we’re all focused on our target, Potter’s vanished. We’re watching, waiting for the exchange to happen, when suddenly—BOOM! There’s an explosion from the next street over. People are screaming, wands are out, and all I can think is, Potter."
Lily covered her face with her hands. "Please tell me he didn’t—"
"Oh, he did," Robards said, grinning. "Turns out, he’d wandered into a completely different smuggling ring’s hideout. Walked right into the middle of their meeting and tried to bluff his way through it. And when that obviously didn’t work, he ended up taking on seven of them at once. By himself."
Sirius groaned, "Merlin’s beard, that idiot."
"Oh, he won, if that’s what you’re wondering," Robards said dryly. "By the time we got there, three of them were Stunned, two were tied up with their own robes, and another was hanging upside down from the ceiling, shouting that he’d surrender if Potter just let him down. The last one was unconscious in a crate of cursed teacups."
James shook his head in disbelief. "How does he do this?"
"Sheer dumb luck and an infuriating amount of skill," Robards said. "Anyway, we had to call in another team to clean up that mess, and meanwhile, our actual target slipped away because of all the commotion. And when I asked Potter what the hell he was thinking, do you know what he said?"
Lily sighed. "Something ridiculous, I’m sure."
Robards smirked. "He just shrugged and said, ‘Well, I stopped some criminals today.’"
James slumped back against the pillows. "I am never telling Mum about this."
Lily grinned. "Oh, I am."
Robards chuckled. "That’s probably fair. The man’s a hero, but Merlin help me, he was a nightmare to manage."
James groaned and let his head fall back against the pillow. "You know, for a hospital, they don’t do a great job of keeping a man fed."
As if on cue, Lily’s stomach let out a loud grumble. She clutched it and sighed. "Okay, that was embarrassing."
Sirius smirked. "Sounds like a crisis, if you ask me. Fortunately, I’m an expert in crisis management." He stretched his arms behind his head. "How about we take a trip to the cafeteria before you lot waste away?"
James sat up immediately. "I thought you’d never ask."
Lily raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were the one stuck in a hospital bed, James. Should you even be moving yet?"
James waved her off. "Dehydration, not dragon pox. I can walk, Lily.”
Sirius pushed himself up from his chair, stretching lazily. "Alright, I’ll go grab some food. Any requests?"
James immediately perked up. "Something with actual flavor. And lots of it."
Lily rolled her eyes. "Maybe something healthy for him, considering he just fainted from dehydration?"
James shot her a glare. "I fainted, Lily. I didn’t battle a Hungarian Horntail."
Sirius smirked. "Right, one bland hospital-approved meal for James and something edible for the rest of us."
Robards leaned back in his chair. "Black coffee for me. No sugar."
Sirius mock-saluted. "Got it. I’ll be back before you start eating the bed sheets." He turned toward the door, then paused and looked back at James. "Try not to pass out again while I’m gone, alright?"
James huffed. "Ha, ha. Very funny."
With that, Sirius slipped out of the room, leaving the three of them sitting in comfortable silence—well, almost comfortable. Lily glanced at James, arms crossed.
"So," she said, tilting her head, "how exactly are you planning to tell Mum and Dad about this?"
James groaned and let his head fall back against the pillow. "Brilliant, just what I needed. A lecture before I get food.”
***
Sirius strode through the dimly lit corridor, a brown paper bag of food and coffee in one hand and two bottles of water tucked under his arm. St. Mungo’s at night had an eerie stillness, the kind that reminded him of places he’d rather forget. The faint hum of magical energy in the air, the soft murmur of mediwitches moving between rooms—it was all too quiet.
As he passed a partially open door, his steps slowed. Voices filtered through, low and urgent. His grip on the bag tightened as a familiar voice reached his ears.
Harry.
He stopped just outside the doorway, his pulse quickening. He hadn’t seen Harry all day, and as far as he knew, he and Ginny were still out of town. So why was he here, talking in hushed tones in the middle of the night?
Sirius edged closer, careful to stay in the shadows. He couldn’t make out every word, but what he did catch sent a cold prickle down his spine.
“…not safe… can’t keep delaying this…”
Another voice, lower and unfamiliar, responded, “… already watching. If we move too soon, we risk everything.”
Sirius didn’t hesitate. His instincts kicked in before his mind could catch up, and he pushed the door open with a firm shove. The hinges creaked as the door swung wide, revealing a dimly lit hospital room.
Harry stood at the foot of a bed, his back partially turned. Opposite him, a healer in pale green robes snapped his head up in surprise. But what caught Sirius’s attention wasn’t them—it was the swift motion of the healer’s hand as he yanked the privacy curtains closed around the bed.
The rustle of fabric was the only sound in the room for a moment. Sirius’s sharp gaze flickered from the healer’s carefully neutral expression to Harry, whose face had gone rigid.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Sirius took a slow step forward, still holding the bag of food. “What the hell’s going on here?” His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it.
Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair before turning to face him fully. “Sirius,” he said evenly. “What are you doing here?”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Should be asking you that, don’t you think?” He tilted his head toward the hidden bed. “Who’s back there?”
The healer, a man in his late sixtiey with gray hair and sharp eyes, folded his arms. “That’s none of your concern,” he said firmly.
Sirius’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “See, I hate when people say that to me. Makes me want to find out even more.”
Harry sighed, rubbing his scar. “Sirius, just—leave it.”
Sirius’s eyes darkened. Harry’s tone wasn’t angry, wasn’t defensive—it was tired. And that worried him more than anything else.
“Not a chance, Harry.”
The healer shifted slightly, clearly uncomfortable under Sirius’s intense gaze. Harry, however, held his ground, his jaw tightening.
“Sirius,” Harry said again, his voice carrying a note of finality. “Leave it.”
But Sirius Black had never been good at letting things go. His eyes flicked to the curtain again. The way the healer had rushed to close it—like someone was being hidden. Like something wasn’t supposed to be seen.
“Who’s back there, Harry?” he asked, quieter this time, but no less firm.
The healer stepped in before Harry could respond. “I understand your concerns, but this is a private matter. Auror Potter—”
“Auror Potter?” Sirius scoffed, cutting him off. “I was getting this one out of trouble before he even knew what an Auror was.” He turned back to Harry, voice low now, unreadable. “What are you hiding?”
Harry looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. It was subtle, but Sirius knew him well enough to recognize the cracks in his composure.
The silence stretched.
Then, a sound—small, barely audible, but distinct—came from behind the curtain. A cough. A weak cough.
Sirius’s eyes snapped to the healer. The man’s face remained impassive, but his stance shifted ever so slightly, like he was preparing for an argument.
Sirius took a step forward.
The healer moved to block him.
Harry exhaled sharply. “Enough.” His voice was sharp, authoritative—the voice of a man who had commanded Aurors, led battles. But Sirius wasn’t a subordinate, and he wasn’t a soldier.
He stared at Harry, long and hard. “So that’s how it is,” he said at last, voice quiet. “You don’t trust me.”
Harry’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered.
Sirius exhaled slowly, stepping back. He wasn’t going to start a fight here, not with Harry. But that didn’t mean he was done.
Harry let out a slow breath, then turned to the healer, giving him a glance Sirius recognized all too well—sharp, meaningful, and warning.
The healer gave a slight nod before stepping back, reaching for the curtain again. But Sirius had already seen the tension in the room, the way Harry stood stiffly, the way the healer looked at him like he was something fragile.
Harry stepped forward, grabbed Sirius by the arm, and all but dragged him out into the corridor. He shut the door behind them with more force than necessary before turning on him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was low, but Sirius caught the edge of alarm beneath it.
Sirius scoffed, shaking off Harry’s grip. “I could ask you the same thing. Didn’t expect to find you lurking in a hospital in the middle of the night, shutting curtains like you’ve got something to hide.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “It’s nothing.”
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Right. Because you always look this rattled over nothing.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “What are you doing here, Sirius?”
Sirius stared at him for a long moment, then said, “Your son is here.”
Harry’s head snapped up. “What?”
“He was brought in tonight. Fainted. Mild dehydration, nothing serious.” Sirius watched as all the color drained from Harry’s face.
“Where is he?” Harry demanded.
Sirius folded his arms. “So you didn’t know.”
Harry didn’t answer. His expression had turned unreadable, but Sirius had known him too long to miss the way his fingers twitched, how his shoulders stiffened.
He was already moving before Sirius could say anything else, striding down the corridor with urgency.
Sirius fell into step beside him. “Don’t suppose you’ll tell me what’s going on in your room, then?”
“Not now, Sirius.” Harry’s voice was tight, distracted.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Fine. But we will talk about it.”
Harry didn’t respond. His mind was already somewhere else—on James, on whatever he’d missed tonight. And Sirius, watching him, knew one thing for certain.
Whatever was going on here, it wasn’t just about James.
***
Harry moved quickly, his long strides eating up the corridor as he made his way toward James’s room. Sirius followed, hands in his pockets, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Harry could feel his gaze on him.
“I don’t need you hovering, Sirius,” Harry muttered.
Sirius snorted. “Oh, I’m sorry, should I just vanish then? Maybe go back to the cafeteria and pretend I didn’t just find you having some very suspicious closed-curtain conversations?”
Harry ignored him, reaching James’s room and pushing open the door without hesitation.
Inside, James was sitting up in bed, looking tired but otherwise fine. Lily was perched on the chair beside him, arms crossed, her expression torn between exasperation and relief. And Robards… was also there, leaning back in his seat, watching the scene unfold with mild amusement.
James blinked at the sight of his father. “Dad?”
Harry let out a slow breath, his tension barely easing. “What happened?” His voice was even, but Sirius could hear the thread of worry beneath it.
“Nothing,” James said quickly, too quickly. “I just—uh, didn’t drink enough water today, I guess. Fainted. It’s really not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Lily cut in, shooting her brother a look. “You passed out cold in the middle of your interview.”
Harry turned sharply to James. “Interview?”
James shifted, clearly regretting saying anything. He scratched the back of his head. “Yeah… I had a meeting with Robards. It’s part of my assignment—I’m supposed to interview an ex-Auror.”
Harry’s gaze flickered to Robards, who gave a casual shrug. “Brought the boy in myself when he dropped like a stone in front of me. Thought you knew.”
Harry clenched his jaw. “I didn’t.”
James winced. “Well. Now you do?”
Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Excellent delivery, James. Really put your father at ease there.”
James shot him a glare.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly trying to collect himself. “And you didn’t think to tell anyone?”
“I was going to,” James defended. “But, you know, I was unconscious for a bit, so that made it kind of difficult.”
Harry exhaled slowly, some of the tension in his shoulders easing now that he’d gotten a proper look at his son. “And you’re fine?”
James nodded. “Yeah. They just gave me some fluids and told me to rest. I feel a bit stupid, honestly.”
Lily clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Well, that’s nothing new.”
Sirius snorted. James scowled at both of them.
Harry, though still clearly shaken, sat on the edge of the bed, his expression softening slightly. “Don’t scare us like that again, alright?”
James nodded sheepishly. “Alright.”
Robards, who had been observing the family exchange with quiet amusement, finally cleared his throat. “Well, Potter, it’s nice to see you still have a knack for dramatic entrances.”
Harry exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, I’d rather not make a habit of them.”
Robards leaned back in his chair, eyeing Harry critically. “You didn’t know your son was here?”
Harry frowned. “No. I would have if he’d told me.” He shot James a look.
James huffed. “I didn’t exactly plan on fainting.”
Robards chuckled. “Well, I suppose there’s a first time for everything. Though, I must say, Potter, it’s a bit unsettling seeing you this out of the loop. Back in the day, nothing happened in the Auror Office without you knowing about it.”
James smirked. “Oh, trust me, he’s still a control freak. This is just a rare moment of human error.”
Harry shot him a glare but didn’t deny it. Instead, he turned back to Robards. “You brought him here yourself?”
Robards nodded. “Seemed the easiest thing to do. Though I have to admit, for a kid of yours, he goes down awfully easy.”
James scowled. “I was dehydrated.”
Robards snorted. “Excuses, excuses.”
Harry gave Robards a long look. “So, what’s the real reason you’re still here? You don’t strike me as the ‘sit by the bedside’ type.”
Robards smirked. “Oh, I just wanted to see the look on your face when you found out your son didn’t tell you he was in the hospital.”
Sirius chuckled. “Worth it?”
Robards nodded. “Absolutely.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but there was the slightest hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Well, now that you’ve had your fun, do you mind telling me how the interview was going before all this?”
Robards shrugged. “The kid’s sharp. He’s got the right instincts. Bit too cocky, though.”
James looked affronted. “I’m confident.”
Lily scoffed. “You’re unbearable.”
Robards chuckled. “He reminds me of someone I used to know.” He eyed Harry meaningfully.
Harry sighed. “That’s not necessarily a compliment.”
“Depends on how you look at it.” Robards stood, stretching. “Well, I suppose I should leave you lot to it. But Potter—” He met Harry’s gaze, his usual humor dimming just a fraction. “Keep your eyes open. The times are changing again.”
Harry’s expression darkened. “I know.”
With that, Robards gave a short nod and left the room, leaving behind an odd sense of unease.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Cheery bloke, isn’t he?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately, his thoughts elsewhere. But finally, he stood, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of whatever was on his mind.
“Let’s just get James home,” he muttered.
But at that moment a young Healer sipped through the door.
The healer cleared his throat. “We’d like to keep James under observation overnight, just to be sure there’s nothing else going on.”
Harry frowned. “Is that really necessary?”
The healer gave him a patient but firm look. “He collapsed from dehydration. While it’s likely nothing serious, we’d rather err on the side of caution.”
James groaned. “Brilliant.”
Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before nodding. “Fine. But I’m staying.”
The healer looked satisfied and left the room, leaving them in relative silence. Harry turned to Sirius and Lily. “You two should go home.”
Lily opened her mouth to protest, but Harry gave her a look—the one that meant this isn’t up for debate. She huffed but didn’t push.
Sirius, on the other hand, simply smirked. “And leave you to suffer alone? Tempting.” But when Harry didn’t react, he sighed. “Fine, fine, we’ll go.”
As they moved toward the door, Harry paused. “Wait—how did you two get here?”
Lily didn’t miss a beat. “Knight Bus.”
Sirius shot her an impressed glance but said nothing.
Harry, thankfully, accepted the answer at face value. “Alright. Be careful getting back.”
Lily gave James a parting glare. “Try not to faint again.”
James rolled his eyes. “I’ll do my best.”
With that, Sirius and Lily left, and Harry settled into the chair beside James’ bed. The room fell quiet save for the distant hum of the hospital.
James shifted, already half-asleep. “Dad?”
Harry glanced at him. “Yeah?”
James didn’t open his eyes. “You’re really bad at pretending you’re not worried.”
Harry exhaled sharply but didn’t deny it. “Go to sleep, James.”
As James drifted into sleep, Harry leaned back in the stiff hospital chair, his mind too restless to follow. He had barely processed the sight of Sirius standing in his son's hospital room, alive and unchanged except for the weight in his gaze—a weight Harry now recognized in many of the resurrected. It was something beyond grief, beyond time.
His fingers tapped absently against the armrest. Resurrection. It wasn’t just whispers in dark corners of the Ministry anymore; it wasn’t a political debate or an academic curiosity. It was real. His parents, Sirius, and so many others had returned—not as ghosts, not as mere echoes of their former selves, but as living, breathing people.
The Ministry was handling it, or at least, that was the official stance. In truth, no one had the faintest clue what "handling it" even meant. Every Auror briefing was filled with more questions than answers, every department scrambling to establish some semblance of control.
And now they wanted him to go to France to discuss it. He let out a slow breath. He knew what that meant. They want him out of the way. He can't fathom what has happened to Kingsley.
His gaze flickered to James, peaceful in sleep, his breathing even. Harry knew that, for now, his son was safe. But the world outside was changing faster than anyone could prepare for.
The dead had returned.
And no one knew what would come next.
Notes:
I know, I know, I promised that this chapter would be Harry talking to his parents and I did *try* but this scene got longer than I had anticipated.
But I PROMISE, pinky promise, that the next chapter would be that. I've already planned the structure. And made a rough outline of what and how Harry will tell.
If motivation kicks in aka get good response, I will post it tomorrow.
Lots of love ❣️
Chapter 22: A Fragile Trust
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Wake up, sleepyhead."
Harry’s eyes fluttered open, the world around him still a blur. It took a moment for his vision to adjust to the brightness filtering into the room. He became aware of the familiar weight in his chest pocket—someone had slipped his glasses there while he slept.
A blurry figure leaned over him, and then gentle fingers plucked the glasses from his pocket and slid them onto his face. The world sharpened into focus, revealing Ginny’s face hovering above his, her lips curved in a small, knowing smile.
Harry gave her a sheepish grin.
“You okay?” she asked lightly, though her voice held a thread of concern she couldn't quite hide.
“I am now,” he murmured before leaning up to kiss her.
A loud groan interrupted them.
“Can you two not?” came an exasperated voice from behind Ginny.
She rolled her eyes and moved to sit beside Harry, revealing their son sprawled on the hospital bed, looking far too comfortable as he munched on a sandwich.
"Your son nearly died last night, and here you two are, acting like newlyweds," James grumbled through a mouthful of bread.
Harry just smirked. “Still breathing, aren’t you?”
James shot him a look. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”
The door swung open, and the healer stepped inside with a clipboard in hand.
“Well, Mr. Potter,” he said, glancing at James, “everything looks good. You’re cleared to go home. Just make sure you rest and—” his eyes flickered briefly to Ginny, “—listen to your mother.”
James sighed dramatically but nodded. “Got it, got it. Hydrate. Rest. Avoid Mum’s wrath.”
Ginny gave a tight-lipped smile. “You’re already failing at the last one.”
The healer chuckled. “You’re free to leave whenever you’re ready.” With that, he exited the room.
Harry stretched and stood, rolling out the stiffness in his shoulders. He turned to Ginny. “You didn’t have to come so early.”
Ginny gave him a look. “Like I was going to stay home and not check on my son.”
“How did it go with the Americans?”
“I'll tell you later.”
James shoved the last of his sandwich into his mouth and swung his legs over the bed. “Well, can we go now? I’ve had enough of this place.”
Harry picked up his jacket and ruffled James’s hair on the way to the door. “Come on, then. Let’s get you home before your mother grounds you in St. Mungo’s.”
James muttered something under his breath but followed.
As they left the hospital, Harry exhaled slowly. His son was safe, the worst of the scare was over—but in the back of his mind, the weight of the Ministry’s demands still loomed. France. The diplomatic talks. The growing unease in the wizarding world.
One crisis at a time. For now, he would take James home. Everything else could wait.
***
When they arrived home, the scent of breakfast greeted them before they even stepped inside.
In the kitchen, Lily Potter—Harry’s mother—stood by the stove, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She gave them an awkward smile. “Er—I made breakfast today. If that’s alright?”
Ginny returned the smile warmly. “Of course, Lily! It’s your home too, after all.”
Lily let out a breath, visibly relieved, and turned to James. “You alright, sweetheart?”
James hesitated. “Er—yeah, don’t worry—” He trailed off awkwardly, shifting his weight. Even after all this time, he still hadn’t quite figured out how to address them. Calling them his grandparents felt… strange. Not bad, just odd. And for someone like him, that was saying something.
The family gathered around the table, eating breakfast in relative silence. The clinking of cutlery and the occasional murmur of conversation filled the space, but no one seemed eager to break the quiet entirely.
Once the meal was finished and the dishes were cleared away, Harry gently took Ginny’s hand and led her upstairs to their bedroom. Without a word, he gestured for her to sit on the bed. She gave him a puzzled smile. “What is it, Harry?”
He shut the door firmly behind him and sat down beside her, exhaling slowly before speaking. “The Ministry wants me to go to France as part of a delegation—to meet their Minister for Magic, discuss international relations, and, essentially, apologize for not being available when she decided to drop in unannounced.”
Ginny studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable, before she asked gently, “And you don’t want to go?”
“No! I have a terrible feeling that there’s something else going on,” he said, his frustration clear. “And Kingsley—he’s lost the plot entirely!”
Ginny frowned. “Lost the plot, how?”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, agitation clear in every movement. “He’s acting like this is just another routine diplomatic trip, but I know there’s more to it. Ever since the resurrection business started, tensions have been rising. France has been the most vocal about it—claiming they have concerns about magical stability, hinting at international regulations. And now, suddenly, I’m being sent over like some kind of peace offering?”
Ginny crossed her arms. “And Kingsley hasn’t told you anything else?”
“He says it’s just diplomacy, but I don’t buy it,” Harry muttered. “There’s something he’s not saying. And the timing—right after that unannounced visit from the French Minister? It doesn’t sit right with me.”
Ginny sighed, leaning back slightly. “So what are you going to do?”
Harry hesitated. “I don’t have much choice, do I? If I refuse, it’ll only make things worse. But I need to figure out what’s really going on before I walk into whatever trap they’re setting.”
Ginny’s eyes darkened with concern. “You think it’s a trap?”
“I think it could be,” Harry admitted. “And if it is, I need to be ready.”
A quiet moment passed between them. Ginny slid her fingers into Harry’s hair, her nails scratching lightly against his scalp. He let out a slow breath, his eyes drifting shut as the tension in his shoulders eased.
“When do you have to leave?” she asked softly.
“Probably next week,” he murmured.
She hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll come with you.”
Harry’s eyes snapped open. He turned his head to look at her. “Gin, you don’t have to. I know how much you hate these Ministry events.”
She shrugged. “Not as much as you do.” A smirk played at her lips. “Besides, I have such a lovely history with the French.”
Harry snorted. “Oh yeah, you adore them.”
“Exactly,” she joked. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”
Harry smiled at her before pulling her into a deep kiss.
When they finally broke apart, Ginny rested her forehead against his. “Besides,” she murmured, “the whole family’s going to France next week anyway. Sorting out the wedding arrangements… and just traveling.”
Harry hummed in acknowledgment. “Yeah, I think Lily mentioned something about that.”
“So we can go with them,” she suggested. “After your meeting’s done. It’d be a good chance to spend time together, away from all the Ministry nonsense.”
Harry nodded. “That actually sounds nice.”
Ginny hesitated for a moment before adding, “I take it you haven’t talked to your parents or Sirius yet? Told them everything? What happened after they… after they were gone?”
Harry let out a low groan. “Ginny, I don’t—”
“But how long are you going to avoid it, Harry?” she pressed, her voice gentle but firm. “You don’t have to do it alone. I’ll be there if you need me. But you need to talk to them. The way they look at you… The way they watch you, like they’re just waiting—hoping—”
He swallowed hard and looked away. He knew. He could feel it every time they were in the same room. The unspoken questions, the careful way they navigated around him. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that they didn’t ask, or the fact that they were waiting for him to be ready.
And he wasn’t sure he ever would be.
Ginny let out a quiet sigh, her fingers still combing through his hair. “Harry, they love you. And they lost you, too, in a way. I know it’s hard, but they deserve to hear it from you.”
Harry exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. “I just… I don’t know where to start.”
Ginny shifted closer, tucking her legs beneath her. “Then don’t think about the whole story. Just start with something. Something small. Let them ask questions.”
He rubbed his thumb against his wedding ring, staring at it as if it could give him answers. “And if I don’t want to?”
Ginny studied him for a long moment, then leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “Then you don’t have to. But I don’t think avoiding them will make it easier.”
Harry knew she was right. He always knew when Ginny was right. But that didn’t mean he was ready.
“They’ve been patient,” she continued, pulling back to look him in the eye. “But they won’t wait forever, Harry. And you do want to tell them. You’re just scared.”
Harry scoffed lightly, though there was no real humor in it. “I fought Voldemort. Twice. And yet sitting down to have a conversation with my parents and Sirius is what terrifies me.”
Ginny smiled faintly, brushing his hair back. “Because you have something to lose now.”
He sighed again, tilting his head back against the headboard. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” she murmured, squeezing his hand.
Before Harry could respond, hurried footsteps pounded up the stairs. A moment later, there was a sharp knock on the door.
“Mum! Dad!” Lily’s voice came through, exasperated. “Are you two plotting something, or can I come in?”
Ginny raised an eyebrow at Harry before calling out, “That depends! Are you going to interrogate us?”
There was an audible sigh from the other side. “No, I just want to talk you two about something.”
Harry glanced at Ginny, who gave him a knowing look. With a sigh, he stood up and opened the door. “Alright, what is it now?”
Lily stepped inside, arms crossed, looking between them. “Mum, can you please convince Dad to come to France? Everyone’s going—Teddy, Vic, Dominique, Roxy and even James and Fred. It’s basically a full family trip, and it would be weird if we weren’t there.”
Ginny smirked, leaning back against the headboard. “Funny, I was just doing that.”
Lily turned to Harry with an expectant look. “So?”
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. We’ll go.”
Lily grinned. “Good. I’ll let everyone know before you change your mind.”
She turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Harry shaking his head. Ginny chuckled, patting his knee. “Well, that’s settled then.”
***
Over the next week, a lot unfolded. James’ final exams were approaching—the last hurdle before officially becoming an Auror. He spent most of his time holed up in his room, only emerging for meals, where he barely spoke and ate in a hurry.
Each morning, he was up by seven, dressed in simple yet sharp black robes, and out the door shortly after. He returned around lunchtime, looking just as focused as when he’d left.
Sirius recounted what he had seen at St. Mungo's when he accompanied young Lily to visit her brother.
"But who could he be hiding?" Older James asked, frowning.
Sirius simply shrugged.
Ginny also mentioned that they would be leaving for their family trip to France a bit earlier than planned.
She also took them on a trip to a Muggle shopping district, joined by some of her nieces, her mother, and her sister-in-law, Angelina.
The outing was a mix of excitement and mild chaos, with the younger ones marveling at the endless variety of Muggle stores. Ginny, familiar with the Muggle world but still amused by some of its quirks, helped guide them through the bustling streets.
Molly Weasley, ever the mother hen, fussed over everyone, making sure no one got lost and insisting they all stop for tea at a cozy little café. Angelina, meanwhile, took charge of helping the nieces pick out trendy Muggle outfits, laughing as they debated over styles and colors.
At one point, one of the girls excitedly dragged them into a Muggle toy shop, fascinated by the moving figures in the display window—only to be slightly disappointed when they didn’t move quite like enchanted ones.
Despite the occasional confusion over Muggle money and the odd looks they received for discussing magic a little too loudly, the trip was a success. By the time they returned home, their arms were full of shopping bags, and their faces were flushed with laughter.
They read the newspaper every day, and in every edition, at least two full pages were dedicated to them—the Potters.
Through its articles, they learned many things about Harry, though they knew better than to believe everything. It was The Daily Prophet, after all.
When the paper claimed that Harry had entered the Triwizard Tournament at just fourteen, Lily and James dismissed it as nonsense. But to their dismay, Sirius confirmed it was true, recounting everything from that year in vivid detail.
Another article boasted that Harry had become the youngest Head Auror in history at just twenty-five—an age when most wizards hadn't even qualified for the job.
Some articles made Lily and James laugh, some made them shake their heads in disbelief, and others left them feeling uneasy.
They read about Harry’s war efforts, his leadership in Dumbledore’s Army, and his final battle against Voldemort. The Prophet called him The Boy Who Conquered, turning his story into legend. But the details were vague, and the reality of what he had endured—the pain, the losses, the struggles—felt just out of reach.
The articles about his family were more cheerful. Photos of Harry with Ginny and their children were splashed across the pages, accompanied by glowing words about The Perfect Potter Family. Their grandchildren’s names were mentioned, with speculation about whether they would follow in their parents’ footsteps.
Then came the more outlandish claims. Some articles suggested Harry secretly controlled the Wizengamot. Others insisted he was grooming his eldest son for politics. There were even absurd rumors about the Potters’ hidden fortune—figures so exaggerated that made James burst into laughter.
But it was the articles about Harry’s school years that unsettled them the most. They knew he had been a rather eventful school life. But it was too much for them to read in this details.
Lily and James exchanged uncertain glances as they read. Was it true? Had Harry really grown up like that? The paper was known for stretching the truth, but something about these stories felt… real.
Sirius’s silence on the matter only made it worse.
As they continued reading, another name kept appearing—Albus Severus Potter.
At first, the articles spoke of him simply as Harry and Ginny’s second son, quieter and more reserved than his older brother. But as they read on, a different story emerged. Albus wasn’t just distant; he was estranged.
Some articles hinted at a rift within the Potter family, though the details were murky. They mentioned Albus’s time at Hogwarts, how he had been sorted into Slytherin—something the Prophet treated as scandalous, as if it were a betrayal. Some even speculated that the strain between him and Harry began there, though none could confirm why.
Other reports were more dramatic, painting Albus as the black sheep of the Potter family, the son who had never quite fit. They spoke of arguments, of his decision to distance himself, of his refusal to follow in his father’s footsteps. Some articles claimed he had left Britain entirely, while others suggested he kept in contact only with Ginny and Lily, his younger sister.
Lily’s hands trembled as she read. She had been so overwhelmed trying to piece together Harry’s life, but now there was more—another grandson she had never met, one who seemed lost to his family.
James frowned, setting the paper down. “Do you think it's true?”
Lily shook her head. “I don’t know… but I need to know more.”
The more they read, the clearer it became—Albus was the outcast.
The press adored James Sirius Potter, calling him Harry Potter’s true heir, the golden boy who followed in his father’s footsteps. He had been a Gryffindor, a Quidditch star, and from what the articles suggested, he was charismatic, well-liked, and successful. The Prophet praised him endlessly, writing about his achievements at the Auror Office, his charm, his resemblance to Harry.
But Albus? Albus was the disappointment. A national disgrace.
The articles about him were filled with subtle—and sometimes not-so-subtle—criticism. They fixated on his sorting into Slytherin, treating it like a scandal rather than a simple fact. They called him brooding, withdrawn, a shadow in the Potter legacy. Some painted him as bitter, unable to handle the weight of his surname. Others outright accused him of running from his family, as if his distance was a personal failing rather than something more complicated.
One particularly cruel column speculated that Albus had never truly belonged in the Potter family, that Harry had tried to raise a son who simply refused to be saved. The words made Lily’s stomach turn.
“This is disgusting,” she whispered.
James scowled. “They act like he’s—what, some kind of failure? Just because he wasn’t like Harry?”
“I don’t understand,” Lily murmured, flipping through the articles again. “It’s like they decided he wasn’t good enough the moment he was sorted into Slytherin.”
James leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. "I still can’t believe it. A Potter in Slytherin?"
Sirius scoffed. "No Potter has ever been in Slytherin. Not one."
Lily shot him a sharp look. "And no Black had ever been in Gryffindor—until you."
Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked almost sheepish.
James frowned. "Yeah, but you hated your family. You wanted to be different from them."
"So? Maybe Albus wanted the same thing," Lily countered. "Maybe he didn’t want to be seen as just Harry Potter’s son—just like Sirius didn’t want to be another Black."
Sirius shifted uncomfortably. "It’s not the same."
"Isn’t it?" Lily challenged. "You told us once that everyone expected you to be a Slytherin. That they decided who you were before you even stepped foot in Hogwarts. And when you weren’t what they wanted, they turned on you."
Sirius didn’t answer, but his expression darkened.
James ran a hand through his hair. "Still… Slytherin?" He shook his head. "I just don’t get it."
Lily sighed. "We don’t have to get it, James. It’s who he is.”
Sirius finally spoke, his voice quieter than before. "If he was like me… then maybe he felt like he didn’t belong anywhere."
And that, more than anything, made Lily’s chest ache.
Lily frowned as she traced the name again. "Albus Severus?" She looked up at James and Sirius, bewildered. "Severus… as in Severus Snape?"
James made a face. "That’s what it says."
Sirius let out a dry laugh, but there was no humor in it. "I must be reading it wrong because there’s no way Harry willingly named his son after Snape."
Lily shook her head. "That doesn’t make sense. Severus… he despised James." She looked at her husband, confused. "Didn’t he?"
James scoffed. "Oh, he hated me, all right."
"But why would Harry—?" Lily’s words trailed off as she looked at Sirius, searching for an answer.
Sirius, however, looked just as baffled. "I have no idea," he admitted. "Last I knew, Harry loathed Snape, and Snape made his life hell. Why would he turn around and name his son after him?"
James ran a hand through his hair, still looking irritated. "And it’s not like he had no other options!”
Lily shook her head, unable to process it. "Did something happen after… after we died? Something we don’t know?"
Sirius frowned, crossing his arms. "Clearly. But whatever it was, Harry never talked about it—not publicly, at least."
James groaned. "Great. So we’re missing yet another piece of the puzzle."
Lily exhaled slowly, looking back at the newspaper. "I just don’t understand… why would Harry think Snape deserved this?"
And none of them had an answer.
***
Three day before their departure to France, there was a knock at their door. When Lily opened it, she found Harry’s daughter standing there.
“Dad wants to see you,” she said simply.
Lily’s heart skipped a beat. After all this time, Harry was finally acknowledging their presence.
Without hesitation, she and James followed her downstairs. As they reached the landing, Lily noticed Sirius already standing there, waiting.
Wordlessly, Harry’s daughter led them toward his study.
Lily’s pulse quickened with every step. She stole a glance at James, who looked just as tense. Sirius was quiet, his expression unreadable.
They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. Harry’s daughter knocked once before pushing it open.
Inside, Harry stood behind a large desk, his hands resting on its surface. He looked up as they entered, his green eyes—Lily’s eyes—cool and unreadable. The room was lined with bookshelves, old case files stacked neatly beside them. She saw at one shelf there were numerous quaffle balls neatly placed.
“Er—sit down there, please,” Harry said, motioning toward a couch tucked against the far wall.
They all moved and sat down, and watched Harry to bend down under his desk and take out an old dusty box.
He approached them and settled in the opposite armchair and placed the box on the coffee table between them.
Lily’s breath caught in her throat. The box looked worn, its edges frayed with age, as if it had been never opened and the dust has gathered over the years.
James glanced at Sirius, who was watching Harry intently. Lily, however, couldn’t take her eyes off the box.
“What is this?” she finally asked, her voice quieter than she intended. Harry began unpacking the box with careful, practiced movements. From within, he took out three smaller green boxes, each identical in size. Without hesitation, he opened them one by one, revealing the glint of something golden inside.
Lily’s breath hitched as she leaned forward. It was a medal.
The Order of Merlin, First Class.
The rich green ribbon attached to each one confirmed its rank—an honor bestowed only on the most exceptional witches and wizards.
Sirius stared at the medals, stunned into silence.
James let out a low whistle. “Well… didn’t expect that.”
Sirius, who had been silent until now, furrowed his brows. “Why do you have these?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he ran a finger over the edge of one of the medals, his expression unreadable.
“These were given posthumously,” he said at last, his voice steady. “To you. For everything you did in the war.”
Lily blinked, stunned. “To us?”
Harry nodded. “You,....Dad, and Sirius.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “I thought… you should have them now.”
Harry’s hands were clenched tightly around the armrests, his knuckles pale as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. His jaw was set, his expression tight, but there was a flicker of something—something raw—beneath the surface. He spoke through gritted teeth, voice low and controlled, but the words came out thick with suppressed emotion.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted finally, his voice quiet but raw. “I want to. I want to know you. But… it’s hard.”
Lily felt her heart ache at his words. “Harry—”
“I spent my whole life wondering what it would’ve been like if you were here,” he continued, his voice tight. “Imagining it. Wishing for it. And now you are really here—but not in the way I thought. Not in the way I needed.” He exhaled sharply. “You’re strangers to me.”
James flinched. Even Sirius looked away, uncomfortable.
Harry shook his head. “I don’t mean that to hurt you. But it’s the truth. I don’t know how to be your son. I don’t even know if I can be.”
Lily blinked rapidly, her vision blurring. “We don’t expect you to—”
“I know,” Harry cut in. “But that doesn’t make it easier. Because I want to—some part of me still wants that. But I don’t know how to just… pretend the past didn’t happen. I don’t know how to unlearn growing up without you. How to forget that for most of my life, all I had of you was stories and a gravestone.”
Lily covered her mouth, her breath catching. James’ fingers curled into a fist, his knuckles white.
Sirius finally spoke, his voice rough. “You don’t have to pretend, Harry. No one’s asking you to.”
Harry looked up at him. “Then what do I do? Because I don’t know where to start.”
Lily swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Then don’t start with us as your parents. Start with us as people.” She hesitated, her voice trembling. “We can learn each other, however long it takes. There’s no right way to do this.”
James finally found his voice. “We missed everything, Harry. All of it. We’ll never get that back. But if you want us in your life, even just a little… we want to be here.” His voice broke slightly. “If you’ll let us.”
Harry’s gaze lingered on them, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. Then, finally, he nodded.
Harry's voice faltered, and the words he spoke were laced with a quiet desperation. "I want to believe this, I really do. That you’re here to stay, that this isn’t some... dream or trick. But after everything, I can’t help but feel like it won’t last. That maybe, one day, you’ll just—disappear again. Like it was all just a brief moment in time, and then I’ll be alone again." His eyes searched theirs, as if looking for some reassurance that wasn’t coming fast enough. "I don’t know if I can handle that. I can’t handle losing you all over again."
Lily’s heart shattered as she watched him, his words raw and broken. He was afraid to believe it because he had been robbed of so much already. How could he trust that this wouldn’t be taken away, just like everything else had been?
Sirius, sensing the depth of Harry’s fear, stepped forward, his own voice thick with emotion. "Harry, we’re not going anywhere. This... this isn’t some temporary thing. We’re here for good. We’re not leaving you again." He paused, his words heavy with the truth he needed to say. "And I know you’ve lost so much, but we’re not going anywhere. We’re here, and we’re staying, no matter how long it takes for you to believe it."
Harry’s breath hitched, and he looked at Sirius with wide eyes. "But how do you know that? After everything, how can I be sure you won’t be gone just like that again? It’s too much to expect. I... I don’t know how to trust that you won’t leave me. I don’t know how to believe this is real, and it scares me. It really does."
Lily felt her heart break even more for him, knowing the weight of what he had carried alone for so many years. She took a deep breath and said, "We understand, Harry. We really do. You’ve been through so much, and we’re asking for your trust when you’ve had none left to give. But we’re here, and we’re not leaving. You don’t have to worry about us disappearing. We’re not going anywhere. Not this time."
"But how do I know that?" Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. "How do I know this isn’t just some cruel twist of fate, that you’re really here for good?"
"You don’t have to know," Lily said softly, her voice gentle but firm. "You just have to let us be here, even when it’s hard. Even when you’re scared. We’ll be here, Harry. And when you’re ready to believe it, we’ll still be here."
James nodded, his eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and understanding. "Trust takes time, Harry. We’ll wait. No matter how long it takes."
Harry let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as the weight of the conversation pressed down on him. He didn’t have all the answers, but for the first time in what felt like forever, there was a faint glimmer of hope. "I’m scared," he admitted in a quiet, raw voice. "But I’ll try. I’ll try to believe this."
Lily reached out, taking his hand in hers, her fingers trembling. Tears flowing easily through her face. "That’s all we can ask for, Harry. One step at a time."
Harry nodded, his chest tight with emotions he didn’t know how to process. But for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could be different. That his parents and his godfather weren’t going anywhere.
And though it was terrifying, he was willing to try to believe it, even if just for a moment.
Notes:
I know I said to post this chapter sooner, but life and writing don't go well at the best of the times!
Hope you liked this, I was rather nervous about the Talk between Harry and his parents.
Chapter 23: Diplomacy and Division
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The plan to go to France turned out to be more complicated than any of them had anticipated.
They had received word that Harry was required to attend an official two-day trip to Paris. Meanwhile, the Weasleys had their own plans to travel to France, but they wouldn’t be leaving for another four days. And to complicate things further, the wedding was scheduled five days after that. But the real issue lay with the press. If word got out that the Chosen One was in France with his newly reunited family, the media would descend upon them like a swarm.
So, late one night, Harry and Ginny sat down and devised a meticulous plan. They worked through every detail, trying to account for every possible obstacle.
The next morning, they spent hours explaining the plan to the rest of the family. Even after all their careful preparation, the faces around the table remained uncertain. It was clear that, despite their best efforts, everyone still had their doubts about pulling it off.
The plan was set: they would leave for France the next morning, a full day before their official arrival. Upon reaching Paris, they would check into a hotel, spend the night, and the following morning, dress in formal attire to maintain appearances.
From there, they would head to the International Portkey Station, arriving as if they had just traveled from England. The French Minister for Magic would be waiting to receive them, and after a formal welcome, they would proceed to her office for breakfast and diplomatic discussions. A sightseeing tour with the Minister would follow, after which they would officially announce their departure—creating the illusion of a short but structured visit.
And, of course, the entire event would be broadcast live. No pressure at all.
As for older Lily, James, and Sirius, they were to remain at the hotel. Harry and Ginny had insisted that their sudden reappearance would send the press into a frenzy, and they couldn’t risk that kind of attention—at least, not yet.
The older Lily, James, and Sirius weren’t particularly thrilled about being left behind, but they understood the necessity. The press was relentless when it came to Harry—adding the miraculous return of his long-dead parents and godfather into the mix would turn the situation into absolute chaos.
Still, as Harry finished explaining the plan, Sirius leaned back in his chair with a skeptical look. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, crossing his arms. “You’re going to sneak into France a day early, check into a hotel, get dressed up, then waltz into the Portkey Station like you just arrived? Have breakfast with the Minister, do some sightseeing, announce your ‘departure’—all while the press eats it up?”
“That’s the idea,” Harry said.
Sirius snorted. “And you think that’ll work?”
Ginny, who had been flipping through a set of notes, looked up. “It’s worked before. The press believes what we show them. They want a story, we’ll give them a perfectly crafted one.”
James raised an eyebrow. “And what about the kids? You’re taking them with you, right?”
Harry nodded. “Yes. They’ll be with us the entire time. The press is expecting a family visit, so we need them there.”
Lily frowned slightly. “Are you sure that’s safe? Won’t they be overwhelmed?”
“They’ll be fine,” Ginny assured her. “We’ve handled the press before, and they know how to act in public appearances. Plus, we’ll keep a close eye on them.”
James exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Still feels risky.”
Harry’s expression hardened slightly. “It’s the only way.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Sirius smirked. “Well, I suppose we’ll just enjoy some French wine while you’re off playing politics.”
Harry sighed. “Just… don’t do anything reckless.”
Sirius feigned an offended look. “Who, me?”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Yes, you.”
With that, the plan was set. Tomorrow morning, everything would be set into motion. And if all went well, they’d pull off one of the most carefully orchestrated public appearances of Harry’s life.
***
The next morning the house was filled with quiet urgency as everyone rushed to prepare. The early morning light filtered through the windows, casting a soft glow over the scene, but no one had the time to appreciate it. Bags were being checked and rechecked, cloaks fastened, and last-minute instructions given.
Ginny moved efficiently through the room, a list in her hand, mentally ticking off everything they needed. “James, do you have your dress robes?” she asked without looking up.
“Yes, Mum,” James Sirius groaned from across the room. He was adjusting the collar of his traveling cloak, trying to make it look effortlessly casual while still presentable.
“Lily, your shoes?” Ginny continued.
“Packed,” Lily Luna replied, fastening the clasp of her cloak. She looked up at her father. “Are we really going to be on live broadcast the whole time?”
Harry, who had been standing near the fireplace, checking his watch, shook his head. “Not the whole time. Just key moments. The press needs a good story, so we’ll give them one.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge of exhaustion in it.
Lily and James Potter stood slightly apart, watching the preparations unfold. James Potter had his hands in his pockets, his gaze flicking between Harry and the children. Lily felt a lump rise in her throat as she observed her son move through the chaos, directing everything with quiet authority. He was so used to this—controlling every detail, making sure there were no mistakes. It was a skill he must have learned the hard way.
James Potter exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his already-messy hair. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” His tone was casual, but there was something else beneath it—something sad.
Harry gave a short nod, his expression unreadable. “Too many times.”
His son, who had been watching everything with mild amusement, crossed his arms and smirked. “Still think sneaking into France before the press realizes is the best part of this whole plan.”
Ginny shot him a look. “This isn’t about fun, James.”
James held up his hands in mock innocence. “I didn’t say it was. Just saying, a bit of secrecy and mischief makes this a little more interesting.”
Before Ginny could respond, the portkey in Harry’s hand gave a faint glow, signaling it was time. He inhaled sharply, then turned to his children. “Everyone ready?”
James Sirius and Lily Luna nodded, stepping closer to him. Ginny reached for the portkey as well, her fingers brushing against Harry’s.
Harry hesitated for the briefest moment, his gaze flickering toward his parents and Sirius. There was so much left unsaid, so much unresolved between them. But right now, there was no time for that.
“Stay out of trouble,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.
James grinned. “No promises.”
Harry rolled his eyes, and then, before he could second-guess himself, he tightened his grip on the portkey.
A familiar pull yanked at his navel, the world around them blurred, and in an instant, they were gone.
***
The moment their feet hit solid ground, the world stopped spinning, and they found themselves standing in a dimly lit hotel suite. The thick curtains were drawn shut, shielding the room from the morning light, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and polished wood.
Harry exhaled sharply, his grip loosening on the now-dull portkey. Ginny straightened beside him, brushing dust off her cloak, while James Sirius stretched dramatically.
“Merlin, I hate portkeys,” James muttered. “I swear they’re getting worse.”
Lily Luna ignored him, already pulling back the curtain slightly to peek outside. “We’re really here,” she whispered, eyes widening as she caught a glimpse of the Paris skyline in the distance. The Eiffel Tower stood tall against the early morning mist.
Harry took a step forward, scanning the room. It was large but discreet—exactly what they needed. The walls were a soft cream color, the furniture elegant but not excessive. A long dining table sat in the center, and beyond that, a seating area with plush armchairs and a roaring fireplace. Their luggage had already been placed neatly in the corner.
Ginny let out a breath and turned to Harry. “Alright. We made it.”
Harry nodded, running a hand through his hair. “First step’s done. Now, we lay low until tomorrow.”
The plan had been precise, down to the minute. They had arrived in France completely off the record—no Ministry escorts, no formalities, no press waiting at the international portkey station. As far as the world knew, the Potters were still in England, preparing for their official trip. This gave them a full day to settle in, away from prying eyes, before making their "grand arrival" at the international portkey station tomorrow.
Ginny walked toward the table, where a stack of documents was waiting—fake travel itineraries, magical disguises if needed, and backup plans in case anything went wrong. She glanced up at Harry. “You think the press suspects anything?”
“They will, eventually,” Harry admitted, rolling his shoulders. “But by the time they figure it out, we’ll already be making our public appearance.”
James Sirius flopped onto the couch. “So what now? We just sit here?”
Ginny shot him a look. “Yes. And don’t complain, James. You could use the quiet.”
Lily Luna, still standing near the window, turned back to them. “Can we at least go out later? Just for a little while?”
Harry hesitated. “Maybe,” he said after a moment. “But only if we’re careful.”
Ginny sighed, rubbing her temple. “One day. We just need one day without trouble.”
***
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, there was no pressure. No cameras. No urgent meetings. No watchful eyes dissecting their every move. Just family, tucked away in a Parisian hotel suite, a world apart from the chaos that awaited them tomorrow.
The suite was warm and inviting, with floating lanterns casting a golden glow over the elegant furniture. The windows framed a breathtaking view of the Paris skyline, the Eiffel Tower illuminated in the distance. The scent of fresh bread and something sweet lingered in the air from the bakery down the street.
Ginny stretched, rolling her shoulders. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starving.”
James Sirius, who had been lounging on the sofa, immediately perked up. “Finally, something I can get behind.”
“We are in France,” Lily Luna added, a mischievous glint in her eye. “We should take full advantage.”
Harry chuckled as he leaned against the table, arms crossed. “Right, because that’s why we came here—to eat pastries.”
“Yes,” Ginny said matter-of-factly, tossing a cushion at him. “Now be a good husband and let me order.”
Sirius Black, who had been silently watching the exchange, smirked. “Merlin’s beard, Prongs, she’s scarier than Evans was.”
Ginny shot both men a warning look. “I heard that.”
Harry just sighed and gave up arguing as Ginny summoned a menu with a flick of her wand. Within minutes, their dinner was arranged—an extravagant spread of French cuisine: steaming coq au vin, fresh baguettes, rich cheeses, and at James Sirius’ insistence, every dessert on the menu.
When the food arrived, materializing one dish at a time onto the dining table, Sirius let out a low whistle. “Now this is the kind of meal I missed when I was dead.”
James Potter elbowed him. “You missed a lot of things, mate.”
Sirius grabbed a piece of bread and took a dramatic bite. “Yeah, but this? This I regret.”
They all sat down, the table crowded but comfortable. The conversation was light at first—Lily Luna talking about magical enchantments on the Eiffel Tower, James bragging about how he could totally survive in a foreign country alone, which earned an immediate snort from Ginny.
Even Harry, usually quiet, found himself relaxing as laughter filled the room.
Then came the wine.
Ginny poured herself a glass first, smirking as she twirled it in her hand. “Technically, Lily, you’re still a student, so—”
Lily Luna rolled her eyes. “Mum. It’s France. I could probably drink at breakfast and no one would care.”
James Sirius, already reaching for a glass, grinned. “Yeah, Mum, she's a baby.”
“Dad!”
Harry sighed but relented. “Fine. Just don’t overdo it.”
Sirius, who had already started pouring himself a drink, raised an eyebrow at Harry. “Oh, come on. You survived a war by seventeen, but you’re worried about them having a bit of wine?”
Harry gave him a flat look. “You’re not exactly the best role model when it comes to responsible drinking, Sirius.”
Sirius looked mildly offended but shrugged. “Fair enough.”
The evening stretched on, filled with laughter, playful bickering, and the kind of conversation that felt easy, natural. James Sirius and Lily Luna played a game of wizard’s chess, which quickly descended into chaos when Lily enchanted the pieces to bite James whenever he lost. Ginny nearly choked on her wine laughing, while Sirius egged her on.
At one point, James Potter watched his son quietly, then nudged his shoulder. “You’re smiling.”
Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Am I?”
James smirked. “Yeah. You look almost normal when you do.”
Harry shook his head, exhaling through his nose. “Almost normal, huh?”
James patted his shoulder. “I’ll take it.”
And for that night, at least, they were just a family.
***
They woke up at the crack of dawn the next morning. Lily found Harry, Ginny, and their children already preparing for the day, dressed in elegant, formal attire that exuded class and importance.
As she watched them, she couldn’t help but be amused by the entire ordeal. The meticulous planning, the polished appearances, the structured itinerary—it all reminded her of the grand British royal visits she used to watch on television as a child, utterly mesmerized by the pomp and ceremony. Seeing it unfold before her now, with her own son at the center of it, felt almost surreal.
James, too, seemed to notice the spectacle of it all. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Well, this is something,” he remarked, his voice tinged with amusement. “Didn’t think I’d wake up to my son playing diplomat.”
Harry, adjusting the cuffs of his pristine dress robes, shot him a dry look. “It’s just protocol,” he muttered. “The French Minister insisted. And the press—well, they’ll be watching.”
Sirius, sprawled out on the couch, looking thoroughly unimpressed, snorted. “Merlin, Prongs, did you ever think your kid would turn into one of them? A Ministry man?”
James chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Never. Thought he’d be a Quidditch star, at least.”
Ginny, brushing a bit of lint off Harry’s shoulder, interjected with a grin, “Oh, trust me, he could have been. But saving the world got in the way.”
Lily couldn’t stop staring. It wasn’t just the formal clothes or the diplomatic talk—Harry carried himself with a quiet authority that made it clear he wasn’t just her little baby anymore. He was a man the world depended on, and the weight of it sat heavily on his shoulders, even in these small moments.
Lily Luna and James Sirius emerged next, both looking polished but slightly disgruntled at the early hour. James Sirius, running a hand through his hair, grumbled, “We really have to go through all this pageantry?”
“Unless you want the press writing about how ‘disheveled and unbothered’ the Potter’s son looked, yes,” Ginny quipped.
James rolled his eyes but made no further complaints.
The group made their way downstairs, where a discreetly arranged private Portkey awaited them. It was an elegant silver goblet, placed on the grand dining table. Ginny checked her watch. “Five minutes.”
Lily turned to Harry, watching the tension in his jaw. “Are you alright?”
Harry exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Just… this is a lot. Every move we make will be scrutinized.”
Sirius clapped him on the back. “That’s why you don’t give a damn about them. Just be yourself, Harry.”
Harry gave him a faint, grateful smile. As the countdown began, everyone gathered around, placing a hand on the Portkey. The air crackled with magic, and in the blink of an eye, they vanished from the room.
The others gathered in the living room of the suite, settling into the plush chairs as they fiddled with the wireless-like device their grandchildren had shown them. It functioned much like a Muggle television, something Lily found both fascinating and slightly eerie.
She turned the dial experimentally, and a screen flickered to life in midair, displaying a woman speaking rapid French. The words blurred past her ears, and with a small frown, she twisted the dial again. The image shifted until a sharply dressed man appeared, his voice crisp and in English.
“…The Potters are expected to arrive at the Paris International Portkey Station any moment now…”
James leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he watched the screen intently. "Feels strange, doesn’t it?" he murmured. "Watching Harry like this—like he’s some sort of royal."
Sirius scoffed, leaning back against the couch. "Like? He is one. The bloody Chosen One, Order of Merlin, first class—he’s practically Wizarding royalty at this point." He shook his head, clearly still not used to the idea.
Lily, however, was only half-listening, her attention fixed on the broadcast. The camera zoomed in on the Paris International Portkey Station, where a crowd had gathered, reporters jostling for position. A sleek, polished podium stood near the arrival platform, surrounded by enchanted banners fluttering in midair, displaying the words: Bienvenue aux Potters!
The anchor continued, his voice carrying a note of excitement. “The French Minister for Magic, Madame Beaumont, is here personally to welcome them. As you can see, security is tight, with Aurors stationed at every entrance…”
“And here they are—the Potters. Head Auror Harry Potter has arrived with his family ahead of his diplomatic visit with Minister Margaux Beaumont. A momentous occasion, as this marks his first official engagement in France since—”
Lily stopped listening, her eyes fixed on the screen.
Harry, Ginny, James Sirius, and Lily Luna stood under the golden glow of the portkey station’s enchanted lanterns. Security wizards held back the press, though the cameras flashed relentlessly. Harry looked composed, but Lily—his mother—saw past the polished exterior. His jaw was tight, his grip firm as he shook the Minister’s hand.
James Potter, sitting beside her, exhaled quietly. “He looks older.” His voice was neutral, but the emotion behind it was impossible to miss.
Lily nodded, her throat tightening. Older. Worn. Even in the well-fitted suit and crisp white shirt, Harry carried himself like a man braced for a battle.
Sirius, watching from his seat, didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “He’s got a handle on it,” he said after a moment. “Knows exactly how to play it.”
It wasn’t admiration in his voice—just an observation. A recognition of the sharp, tactical control Harry had over the situation.
“Of course, he does,” James murmured. “He’s had a lifetime of practice.”
Lily swallowed, hands curling in her lap. She wished she could say something—anything—to make that reality less bitter. But the truth hung between them, undeniable.
On the screen, the French Minister gestured for Harry to follow her. The Potters moved with quiet efficiency, Ginny offering a polite nod to the assembled press. James Sirius walked just behind his father, easy but alert. Lily Luna glanced around the station with curiosity, her youthful excitement tempered by awareness.
The camera followed them as they disappeared through the ornate iron gates, heading toward whatever came next.
Lily let out a slow breath. “At least he’s not alone,” she murmured, almost to herself.
James nodded. Sirius said nothing.
And in the quiet that followed, the weight of everything left unsaid settled over them like a shadow.
The broadcaster’s voice continued smoothly, adopting the same reverent tone reserved for royalty.
“Harry Potter, dressed in a sharply tailored midnight blue suit, maintains his signature understated elegance. His wife, Ginny Potter, complements him in a sophisticated deep green robe with subtle silver embroidery—perhaps a nod to France’s historic ties with the magical arts. Their son, James Sirius Potter, 21, exudes confidence in a classic black suit, while their daughter, Lily Luna Potter, 17, makes a striking impression in an elegant navy dress robe, her red hair a vivid contrast.”
The camera panned across the scene as the family walked with quiet dignity, their movements precise, almost choreographed.
“While Harry Potter is famously private about his family, this appearance showcases a rare public outing for his children. James Sirius, a young man rumored to have inherited his father’s adventurous spirit, walks with an air of ease, while his younger sister, Lily Luna, carries herself with grace beyond her years. This visit marks an important moment for the Potters on the international stage.”
Lily—Harry’s mother—watched in stunned silence. International stage. Her son, her grandchildren… spoken of as though they were dignitaries, carefully studied and analyzed down to the details of their clothing.
The camera lingered as they entered the French Ministry, flanked by security. The broadcasters shifted to discussing protocol, past diplomatic visits, and speculation about the nature of Harry’s meeting with Minister Beaumont.
James Potter, watching beside his wife, shook his head in disbelief. “They talk about him like he’s the bloody Minister himself.”
Sirius gave a dry chuckle, though there was little amusement in it. “More like a king.”
Lily pressed her lips together. “He was never meant for this.”
James exhaled sharply. “No. But he carries it anyway.”
They sat in silence as the broadcast continued, the voices of the reporters filling the room with polished commentary. The weight of reality settled over them, heavier than ever.
The broadcaster's voice remained steady, practiced, and reverent as the camera followed the Potters through the grand entrance of the French Ministry of Magic.
"And here they are—Harry Potter and his family, stepping onto the grand marble floor of the Atrium, where Minister Margaux Beaumont awaits their arrival. The Minister, dressed in traditional French wizarding robes of soft ivory and gold, offers a warm smile as she extends her hand to greet them. And there it is—Harry Potter shakes her hand first, followed by Ginny Potter, both exuding the effortless poise we’ve come to associate with them in diplomatic settings."
The camera zoomed in on James Sirius and Lily Luna as they exchanged polite greetings with the Minister, the younger Potter looking slightly more at ease than her older brother.
"This marks a significant moment, as the next generation of Potters steps into the public eye. James Sirius Potter, has largely remained out of the spotlight, but sources say he is currently training to become an Auror, following in his father’s footsteps. Meanwhile, Lily Luna Potter, the youngest, is finishing her studies at Hogwarts. She’s said to have inherited her parents’ Quidditch prowess, though she’s been far more private about her future aspirations."
The shot pulled back to capture the full scene—Harry and his family walking alongside Minister Beaumont, exchanging quiet words as the cameras flashed around them.
Unlike previous diplomatic visits, this meeting carries an air of both political and personal significance. The Potters are no strangers to France, but their private arrival and the timing of this visit ahead of a high-profile wedding in the magical community have sparked intrigue. Many are wondering—will this be a purely diplomatic affair, or does it mark something more?"
Back in the hotel suite, the elder Lily, James, and Sirius exchanged looks.
“A purely diplomatic affair?” James muttered, raising an eyebrow. “They make it sound like Harry’s negotiating a bloody treaty.”
Sirius scoffed, arms crossed. “You’d think they’d let him just go to a wedding in peace.”
Lily, however, remained silent, her gaze fixed on the screen. The Harry before her—the man moving through the French Ministry with practiced control, greeting officials, handling the cameras as though he’d been raised to do it—was nothing like the messy-haired boy she had once rocked to sleep.
"And now, the Potters will move into a private meeting with Minister Beaumont before proceeding to a planned sightseeing tour, which will be followed by an official statement on their departure later in the evening. Stay tuned as we bring you the latest updates on what is already shaping up to be one of the most talked-about visits of the year."
The broadcast faded into a discussion panel analyzing the visit, but Lily barely heard them.
Her son had become something far greater than she had ever imagined. And yet, she could not shake the feeling that it had cost him more than anyone watching could possibly understand.
The wireless device continued to hum with commentary from various wizarding analysts, dissecting every movement, every smile, every subtle interaction of the Potters. But in the suite, silence had fallen over the resurrected trio.
James finally exhaled, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d see my son treated like some kind of… royal figure.” His voice was quiet, tinged with something between awe and sadness.
Lily turned away from the floating projection, rubbing her hands together absently. “He carries himself well,” she murmured. “But I don’t—” She hesitated, struggling to find the words. “I don’t recognize him in this.”
Sirius, who had been watching with an unreadable expression, finally moved. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s because this isn’t him,” he said simply. “This is the Harry the world expects. Not the Harry we knew.”
Lily swallowed hard, her fingers gripping the fabric of her robes. “We missed everything,” she whispered. “His childhood, his first broom ride, his school years… I don’t even know when he started looking like James so much.”
James gave a humorless chuckle. “I keep thinking about what he must have gone through.” He glanced at Sirius. “We always used to talk about how we’d raise him. We thought we’d have time. That he’d grow up safe.” His jaw tightened. “Instead, he grew up in front of the entire world, and now they treat him like—”
“Like a hero,” Sirius finished. “Because that’s what he became.”
Lily let out a slow breath, then turned back to the wireless screen, where they were now replaying moments from the Potters’ entrance. The way Harry nodded in greeting, the way he placed a protective hand on Lily Luna’s back when the cameras got too close, the way Ginny subtly glanced at him as if to ensure he was okay.
Lily looked away, her chest aching. She wanted to be proud. She was proud. But beneath that pride was something heavier—regret, grief for all the moments she never got to witness, for the burdens she never got to share.
James cleared his throat and straightened, as if shaking off the weight of his thoughts. “Well,” he said, forcing a lighter tone, “at least he looks good in those robes. Did you see the way they were describing their outfits? Honestly, we should have dressed like that when we were younger.”
They all chuckled at this.
The brief moment of humor settled the tension, if only slightly. But as the broadcast continued, the truth remained unspoken between them:
Their son was a man they barely knew. And they weren’t sure if they ever truly would.
***
As the broadcast continued, the camera shifted to a somber yet dignified setting—a war memorial standing tall in the heart of Paris. It was an elegant yet haunting structure, dedicated to the witches and wizards who had fallen in the fight against Grindelwald and Voldemort. At its base, an eternal flame flickered, casting a golden glow against the smooth marble inscribed with names of the lost.
The broadcaster’s voice turned solemn as the footage unfolded.
"And now, as part of their official visit, the Potter family pays homage to the fallen. The war memorial before you honors those who gave their lives in the fight against darkness, a sentiment that undoubtedly resonates deeply with the Chosen One and his family."
Harry and Ginny stood side by side, their children slightly behind them. Harry’s face was unreadable, but there was a quiet intensity in his gaze as he stepped forward. In his hands, he held a wreath of white lilies, an offering of remembrance. He knelt, placing it gently at the base of the memorial before standing back, his head bowed for a long moment.
"Harry Potter, a man who has known the weight of war like few others, stands before this monument not just as a hero, but as someone who has lost too much to battle. His wife, Ginny Potter, herself a fighter in the war, stands beside him, their children witnessing this moment of solemn remembrance. Their presence here is a reminder that even those who survive wars are never untouched by them."
James Sirius and Lily Luna mirrored their father’s gesture, stepping forward and placing single flowers at the base of the memorial. James’ expression was serious, more mature than usual, while Lily Luna’s eyes shone with quiet reverence.
Then, Minister Margaux Beaumont stepped forward and murmured something softly to Harry before raising her wand. A shimmering silver ribbon of magic flowed from its tip, circling the memorial like a protective ward before vanishing into the flame. The gathered crowd—members of the French Ministry, international dignitaries, and a few war veterans—bowed their heads in respect.
Back in the suite, the room was deathly silent.
James Potter watched the screen, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists. Beside him, Lily had gone pale, her lips pressed together, as if she were holding back a flood of emotions. Sirius, usually composed, was staring at the screen with a dark, unreadable expression.
They had fought a war. They had died in it. And now, they were watching their son and grandchildren honor the dead—honor them.
"This tribute is not just for the French fallen, but for all those who sacrificed everything. For the first time, the past and present meet—those who lived through the war and those who bear its legacy today."
James let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly. “That should have been us,” he muttered under his breath.
Lily turned to him, her eyes brimming with emotion. “It was us,” she whispered. “And it still is.”
Sirius finally broke his silence, his voice rough. “Harry shouldn’t have had to do that alone,” he said. “He shouldn’t have had to be the one left to remember for all of us.”
The broadcaster’s voice cut through the silence again.
"And so, the Potters leave their mark on this place, their presence a reminder that history is never truly behind us. The next generation stands here today, but the past lingers, a shadow that will never fully fade."
Lily swallowed hard, watching as Harry took one last look at the memorial before turning away, his face a carefully composed mask.
As the broadcast faded to another segment, none of them spoke. There was nothing to say that could change what had already happened, no words that could bridge the decades of absence.
But one thing was clear.
The world had moved on without them. And now, they were the ones left trying to catch up.
The broadcast shifted to a sleek newsroom where two analysts sat across from each other, a large image of the Potter family at the memorial displayed behind them.
"While today’s visit has been a carefully orchestrated success, one question remains—where is Albus Severus Potter?" the female analyst began, adjusting her glasses.
Her colleague, an older wizard with graying hair, nodded. "It’s no secret that the middle Potter child has a complicated relationship with his family. He was noticeably absent from today's events, fueling speculation that tensions still run deep."
"Indeed," she agreed. "We know Albus Severus was sorted into Slytherin at Hogwarts, a first for the Potter family, and that alone created a stir in the press. But more notably, he's been seen distancing himself from the family's public image. Unlike his older brother James, who thrives in the spotlight, or his younger sister Lily, who seems comfortable in it, Albus avoids it entirely."
The older analyst leaned forward. "And let’s not forget—he wasn’t present at last year’s Christmas gathering either, despite James and Lily Luna being seen with the rest of the extended Weasley family. His absence today only raises more questions. Has there been a fallout behind closed doors?"
"Or," she countered, "is it simply that Harry Potter, despite his public role, has always been fiercely private about his personal matters? Perhaps Albus himself wishes to remain out of the public eye."
"A valid point," the man conceded, before adding, "But in a family as famous as the Potters, silence only invites more speculation."
The broadcast continued, now shifting to a harsher, more cutting analysis.
"If today's events proved anything," the female analyst began, "it’s that the Potter family represents unity, dignity, and leadership. Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley have raised two exceptional children who embody the very best of their legacy—James Sirius Potter and Lily Luna Potter."
Her colleague nodded. "James Sirius, at just 21, is already making waves in the Auror Department. By all accounts, he is charming, talented, and highly regarded by his peers. Many say he’s the heir to his father’s legacy, a born leader with a natural instinct for justice."
"And let’s not forget Lily Luna Potter," the woman added, smiling. "At only 17, she is poised, intelligent, and graceful. She has inherited her mother’s Quidditch prowess and her father’s quiet strength. Today, she carried herself with remarkable composure for someone so young, proving she is every bit a Potter."
The male analyst sighed dramatically. "Which makes it all the more tragic that the same cannot be said for their estranged brother, Albus Severus Potter."
The woman’s expression darkened. "While James and Lily Luna shine, Albus Severus has chosen a very different path. A path of resentment, defiance, and, some would say, outright disgrace."
"It started at Hogwarts," the older analyst continued. "Unlike his siblings, who embraced their family name with honor, Albus seemed determined to reject it. Sorted into Slytherin—a house with a complicated history—he immediately distanced himself from his family and their values."
"There were rumors," the female analyst added pointedly. "Rebellion, dangerous friendships, even sympathies with anti-Ministry groups. While James excelled in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Albus barely passed his classes. Where Lily Luna trained on the Quidditch pitch, Albus lurked in the shadows."
"And let’s not forget," the man interjected, voice heavy with disapproval, "the way he treated his own father. Harry Potter, a man who has given everything for the wizarding world, reportedly endured years of disrespect and open hostility from his own son."
The woman gave a knowing nod. "Many recall how, even as a child, Albus was difficult—moody, rebellious, prone to lashing out. Unlike James, who idolized his father, or Lily Luna, who adored him, Albus resented being a Potter. Some say he blamed Harry for his own failures."
"And where is he now?" the man asked mockingly. "While James protects the wizarding world and Lily Luna represents the next generation of Potters with grace, Albus Severus is nowhere to be found. Some say he fled to the continent, avoiding not just his family but responsibility itself."
"And let's be honest," the woman finished, voice sharp, "he won’t be missed. The Potter family shines without him. Perhaps it is for the best that he stays in the shadows."
The broadcast moved on, but the damage was done. Back in the hotel suite, Sirius let out a low whistle. "Merlin’s beard, they ripped him to shreds."
Lily looked unsettled. *"That was… awful. I don’t know him, but—" she hesitated, glancing at James. "Do you think any of that is true?"
James shrugged, arms crossed. "I don’t know. But if even half of it is, then Albus made his own choices. And the world has judged him accordingly."
Sirius didn’t comment, but his sharp gaze stayed on the wireless screen long after the broadcast moved on.
The room fell into an uneasy silence after the brutal broadcast. The voices of the analysts still lingered in the air, their words sharp and merciless. Lily and James exchanged uncertain glances, while Sirius leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his expression unreadable.
"That was harsh," Lily finally said, her voice quieter than before. "I don’t know much about him, but… that was beyond cruel."
Sirius sighed, rubbing his jaw. "It was." He hesitated. "But I don’t know if they were completely wrong either."
Lily frowned. "Sirius—"
"I mean it," he interrupted, exhaling slowly. "Harry never talks about Albus. And from what we’ve seen, he’s not here. Not at this big family gathering, not at this major event. There has to be a reason for that."
Jamrs finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. "That doesn’t mean they had to tear him apart on public broadcast. That wasn’t journalism. That was character assassination."
Sirius shrugged. "Maybe. But if he’s spent years rejecting Harry, refusing to be part of this family… can you really blame people for forming an opinion?"
Lily looked unconvinced. "But we don’t even know the full story. Maybe there’s more to it than what they’re saying. Maybe—" She paused, thoughtful. "Maybe Harry didn’t reject him, but Albus just never felt like he belonged."
Sirius hummed in agreement. "I know what that’s like," he muttered. "To feel like you don’t fit in with your own family. But I had a reason." He glanced at James, eyes sharp. "Did Albus?"
James hesitated. "He was sorted into Slytherin. Maybe he thought that meant he was different from the rest of them."
Lily scoffed. "That’s ridiculous. You just said it yourself—Slytherin doesn’t mean bad. And from what I’ve heard, Harry accepted it."
"Yeah, privately," James pointed out. "But maybe Albus wanted more than that. Maybe he wanted Harry to prove it to the world. And when he didn’t…" He trailed off.
Lily sighed. "And now he’s just… gone?"
Sirius tilted his head. "Not gone. Just absent." He tapped his fingers against the armrest. "And there’s a difference."
Lily narrowed her eyes at him. "You think he’ll come back?"
Sirius smirked faintly. "I think people like that never stay gone forever."
***
As the evening settled over Paris, the Potter family gathered in the grand lobby of the portkey station, cameras flashed as the Potter family stepped out into the cool Parisian night. Harry and Ginny led the way, their children following, all dressed impeccably for their so-called “return” to Britain. Margaux Beaumont, the French Minister of Magic, stood beside them, offering warm goodbyes as the gathered press hung onto every word.
"It has been an honor hosting the Potter family in Paris," she declared smoothly, her French accent rolling elegantly over her words. "We hope to see you again soon."
Harry responded with a diplomatic smile. "The pleasure was ours, Minister. France has always been a welcoming friend."
The reporters swarmed closer, eager for statements, but the Aurors stationed at the portkey station held them back. With a final wave, the Potters placed their hands on the ornate international portkey—a gilded silver rod—activating it with a synchronized pull. In a flash of blue light, they disappeared.
As soon as the blue light of the portkey faded, Harry, Ginny, James Sirius, and Lily Luna found themselves back in the suite where they had started that morning. The grand living room was dimly lit, the golden glow from the chandeliers casting long shadows across the floor. Waiting for them, exactly as planned, were Lily, James, and Sirius—seated in the same place they'd been when watching the broadcast earlier.
For a brief moment, there was silence. The contrast between the roaring crowd at the Portkey Station and the quiet, intimate setting of the suite was almost jarring. Then Ginny let out a tired sigh and tugged the pins from her hair, shaking it free.
"Well, that was exhausting," she muttered, kicking off her heels and flexing her toes.
"Exhausting?" James Sirius repeated with a smirk. "I thought we handled it brilliantly. Did you see how I shook the minister’s hand? Very diplomatic."
Lily Luna rolled her eyes and dropped onto the sofa beside him. "Yes, James. You were very statesmanlike."
The older Lily and James had been watching quietly, still processing what they had just witnessed. They had seen their son—Harry—navigate an international visit with the ease of a seasoned politician, a far cry from the messy-haired boy they had left behind all those years ago.
"So," James Potter finally spoke, his voice careful. "That whole thing… the cameras, the press, the minister—it was all a performance?"
Harry exhaled slowly as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt. "More or less. The visit was real. The reception, the meetings—those had to happen. But us leaving for Britain?" He shook his head. "That was for the press. As far as the world knows, we’re back home right now."
Lily Potter frowned. "That’s a lot of deception, Harry."
Sirius, arms crossed, let out a low chuckle. "Deception? This is full-blown espionage. Honestly, I’m impressed."
"It’s necessary," Harry said simply, looking at his mother. "The moment the press finds out about you three, it’ll be chaos. I needed to buy us time before that happens."
James Potter sighed and ran a hand through his hair—one of the few habits he and Harry still shared. "I can’t believe this is what your life is like. Is it always this… calculated?"
Harry hesitated. "For as long as I can remember."
The weight of those words settled over the room, heavy and unspoken.
Ginny, sensing the shift in mood, clapped her hands together. "Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starving. If we’re not under public scrutiny for the night, can we at least get some proper food?"
Sirius smirked. "If I have to eat one more delicate French canapé, I’m hexing someone."
Lily Luna laughed. "Dad, you should tell them about the time you tried French food for the first time."
Harry shot her a look. "We don’t need to share that story."
"Oh, we absolutely do," Ginny said with a wicked grin. "It was Fleur’s first Christmas with us after the war and to boast about her cuisine she made this elaborate French feast—coq au vin, escargot, everything. And Harry, being the polite hero that he is, decided he was going to try everything."
James Sirius burst into laughter. "Even the snails?"
"Even the snails," Ginny confirmed. "Only he didn’t realize you’re supposed to take them out of the shells first. So he just… popped the whole thing in his mouth."
Sirius barked out a laugh. "Tell me he at least pretended to enjoy it."
"Oh no, he immediately panicked and spat it into his napkin," Ginny said, grinning. "And then spent the next five minutes trying to subtly wipe his tongue on the tablecloth."
Lily chuckled softly. "Sounds about right."
Harry shook his head, but there was a trace of a smile on his lips. The tension of the day had begun to ease, if only slightly.
James stood and stretched. "Alright, let’s get some food before Mum starts roasting Dad any further."
As the family settled into a more relaxed atmosphere, the weight of the outside world momentarily faded. For tonight, at least, they were just a family—no press, no politics, no secrets. Just Potters, together.
***
As dinner came to an end, the children excused themselves, retreating to their rooms, while the adults remained at the table, another bottle of wine making its way around.
Sirius took a slow sip before setting his glass down. “So, what’s next on this grand itinerary? Now that the whole diplomatic show is over?”
Harry let out a short laugh. “The Ministry wanted us to stay for a full week, but Margaux’s schedule was packed. They had no choice but to cut it down.”
Ginny poured herself another glass. “Which means we actually have some free time. If you’re up for it, we could do some sightseeing.”
James raised a brow. “Sightseeing?”
Lily smiled, a touch amused. “I suppose that means blending in like regular tourists?”
Ginny snorted. “As if that’s possible.”
Lily swirled the wine in her glass, staring at the deep red liquid as if it held the answer to the question weighing on her mind. The conversation had drifted into lighter topics—places they could visit, food they should try—but she barely registered it.
She had been holding back all evening, torn between caution and the need to understand. Her grandson had warned them earlier, not to discuss this topic with Harry.
But how could she stay silent? The press had painted such a vicious image of her grandson—distant, resentful, an outcast in his own family. And Harry… he hadn’t defended him. Not once.
She glanced at James, who was refilling his glass, seemingly at ease. Sirius sat across from her, watching the conversation unfold with quiet curiosity.
Lily exhaled, then, before she could second-guess herself, she spoke.
"Harry… what about Albus?"
The air in the room shifted instantly. The quiet murmur of conversation died, and the faint clink of Ginny setting her glass down was the only sound that followed.
Harry didn’t answer right away. His expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes—something unreadable, carefully concealed beneath years of practice. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm.
"What about him?"
“We were watching the news, and on every channel, they tore into Albus,” Lily said, her voice tight. “Like he’s some sort of disgrace to the family—” She gestured vaguely, frustration evident in her movements.
She glanced at Ginny, searching for some sign of how to proceed. But her daughter-in-law merely reached for her wine glass, her expression unreadable. Sirius, on the other hand, had his eyes locked onto Harry, his sharp gaze taking in every reaction.
Harry’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his voice remained even. “The press says whatever sells.”
Sirius let out a dry snort. “That’s true enough. But they’re not making this up from nothing, are they?”
Ginny sighed. “Albus is different, that’s all. Not in a bad way—he just has his own interests, his own way of doing things, like any child in any family. The only difference is—”
“He’s a Potter,” Harry interrupted, setting his untouched glass down with a quiet thud. His voice was flat, final. “No one would care if he wasn’t my son.”
Silence settled over the room. Then, without another word, Harry pushed back his chair and stood.
“Good night,” he said, and walked away, leaving the conversation hanging in the air like smoke.
And with that, he left, his footsteps fading down the hall.
The room remained heavy with silence long after Harry had gone. Ginny exhaled softly, rubbing her temple before taking another sip of her wine. Sirius leaned back in his chair, his gaze still fixed on the doorway Harry had disappeared through.
Lily shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean to upset him,” she said quietly.
Ginny offered a small, tired smile. “You didn’t. It’s just... complicated.”
Lily shifted uncomfortably, her fingers twisting in her lap. “It’s… it’s really that bad, then?” she asked hesitantly. “His relationship with Albus?”
Ginny set her glass down carefully, as if choosing her next words just as cautiously. “It’s complicated,” she admitted. “Harry loves him. He always has. But Albus… he’s always felt like he didn’t quite belong.”
James frowned. “Why?”
Ginny hesitated for a moment. “Albus was sorted into Slytherin.”
Sirius arched a brow. “And?”
“And the world had expectations,” Ginny said tiredly. “The second it happened, the press exploded with theories—some saying it was a disgrace, others twisting it into a story of Harry uniting the houses. Either way, it made Albus feel like a spectacle. Like he wasn’t just allowed to be himself.”
Lily’s heart ached at that. “And Harry?”
Ginny hesitated, then sighed. “He accepted it. He told Albus it didn’t matter. But Harry… he doesn’t do grand declarations. He doesn’t push back against the press the way people expect him to.”
James crossed his arms. “So, because he didn’t shout from the rooftops that he was proud of him, Albus thought he wasn’t?”
Ginny gave him a small, sad smile. “Something like that.”
Sirius exhaled sharply. “And now?”
Ginny glanced toward the hallway. “Now… they barely speak.”
Lily swallowed hard. She thought back to the newscasters, the way they had painted Albus as the outcast while his siblings were the shining stars. She had wanted to dismiss it as cruel gossip, but now she wasn’t so sure.
She looked at James, saw the same worry reflected in his face.
“Does Harry regret it?” she asked quietly.
Ginny was silent for a long moment. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Every day.”
Notes:
I wrote this chapter at 3 in the morning so excuse me for lazy editing. And this chapter is also doesn't "add" much to the story. But I wanted to write this scene.
I'm planning to write a some shopping scenes with Potters+Weasleys+Lupins in the next chapter and some holiday scenes, also maybe a quidditch match, too.
Do y'all want that or I should just write the wedding scene?
Chapter 24: No cameras, Just Chaos
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The next morning, the suite was quiet. A stark contrast to the chaos of the previous day. Sunlight filtered in through the heavy curtains, casting long golden streaks across the sitting area.
Lily was the first to wake, slipping out of her room and into the shared space. She expected to find Harry already up—after all, he had always been an early riser as a baby—but the place was empty.
She hesitated, then wandered toward the kitchen, where she found Ginny standing by the counter, pouring herself a cup of tea. She looked exhausted.
“Good morning,” Lily said softly.
Ginny glanced up and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Morning.”
There was an awkward pause before Lily spoke again. “I wanted to apologize... about last night.”
Ginny shook her head, stirring her tea absently. “You don’t have to. You asked a fair question.” She sighed. “It’s just… Albus is a subject we try not to bring up.”
Before Lily could respond, the sound of footsteps broke the moment. James Potter strode in, looking well-rested, followed closely by Sirius, who was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Morning,” Sirius mumbled, heading straight for the coffee pot. “Is Harry up?”
Ginny nodded toward the balcony. “He’s been out there for an hour.”
Lily turned her head and saw him—Harry, standing by the railing, hands in his pockets, staring out over the city. From the tense set of his shoulders, she could tell his thoughts were elsewhere.
James sighed. “He didn’t sleep, did he?”
Ginny didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to.
Lily hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “I think I’ll talk to him.”
Sirius gave her a skeptical look over his coffee mug. “Not sure he wants to be talked to right now.”
“That may be,” she admitted. “But he’s still my son.”
With that, she moved toward the balcony doors and gently pushed them open, stepping into the crisp morning air.
Harry didn’t turn when the door clicked shut behind her. He remained as he was, staring out at the Paris skyline, his fingers loosely curled around the railing. For a long moment, Lily simply stood there, watching him, taking in the lines of exhaustion on his face, the weight he carried so visibly on his shoulders.
She had spent the past day marveling at the man he had become—the leader, the auror, the father. But standing here now, she could see the boy she had left behind. The boy who had grown up without them.
“I thought you might like some company,” she said finally, keeping her voice light.
Harry exhaled, a slow, steady breath. “I don’t think company is what I need right now.”
Lily walked up beside him anyway, resting her arms on the railing. “Tough night?”
Harry let out a humorless chuckle. “Something like that.”
She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. Instead, he kept his gaze on the horizon, as if trying to lose himself in the view.
After a moment, Lily said, “You know, when I was pregnant with you, I used to imagine what you’d be like when you grew up. I thought about what kind of man you’d be, what kind of life you’d have.” She swallowed. “I never imagined this.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Neither did I.”
Lily hesitated before pushing forward. “I know you don’t want to talk about Albus, but—”
“I really don’t,” Harry cut in sharply.
Lily sighed. “Harry, I saw how you reacted last night. Whatever’s happened between you two, it’s hurting you.”
Harry turned to face her then, his expression guarded. “You think I don’t know that?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm. “You think I don’t replay every conversation, every fight, wondering what I could’ve done differently?” He shook his head. “I tried. I tried everything. But Albus… he made his choice.”
Lily studied him carefully. “And you made yours.”
Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Lily reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “I don’t know the full story, and I won’t pretend to understand what happened between you. But I do know this—you’re a good father.”
Harry’s expression flickered, just for a second.
Lily squeezed his arm. “You didn’t give up on him, did you?”
Harry hesitated, then exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly. “No,” he admitted. “But I can’t force him to be part of this family if he doesn’t want to be.”
Lily nodded slowly, absorbing his words. “Then maybe, one day, he’ll come back on his own.”
Harry didn’t reply, but he didn’t pull away either.
For now, that was enough.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of Paris waking up. Harry and Lily remained on the balcony, lost in their own thoughts, neither speaking for a long while.
Then, a faint click echoed from somewhere below.
Harry’s head snapped up immediately, his Auror instincts kicking in. His eyes darted toward the street below, scanning the rooftops and the small crowd gathering near the entrance of their hotel.
Another click. This time, he caught the glint of a camera lens flashing from a nearby terrace.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, stepping back from the railing. “We’ve been spotted.”
Lily turned to him in confusion. “Spotted?”
“The press,” he said grimly. “They must’ve been lurking nearby, waiting for something to catch.”
Even as he spoke, they could hear the commotion below growing louder. Someone must have recognized them, and now whispers were spreading.
Lily’s heart sank as she realized what this meant. The entire world would see this moment—her standing beside her son, looking concerned, while Harry looked weary and burdened.
And the headlines? They would write themselves.
‘The Chosen One’s Midnight Confession?’
Harry Potter’s Secret Meeting—What Is He Hiding?’
‘Potter Matriarch Consoles a Troubled Son—Family Rift Confirmed?’
Harry exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “Great. Just what I needed.”
Lily hesitated. “Should we… go inside?”
“Too late now,” Harry muttered. “They’ve already got their shots. Might as well let them speculate.”
A shadow crossed over the balcony doorway as Ginny stepped out, dressed in her silk robe, her hair slightly mussed from sleep. “What’s going on?”
“Paparazzi,” Harry said tersely, nodding toward the street.
Ginny sighed, barely looking surprised. “Of course. Can’t even have a private moment, can we?”
Another loud click.
“I’m going in,” Harry muttered, already turning toward the door. “Let them have their damn pictures. I’ve got better things to do.”
Lily watched as he disappeared inside, Ginny following after him.
She lingered for just a moment longer, staring down at the flashing cameras below. She knew what was coming. By noon, this image would be everywhere.
And with it, the speculation, the narratives, the questions.
She just hoped Harry was ready for it.
***
By midday, the headlines had already spread like wildfire.
"LILY POTTER SPOTTED WITH HARRY POTTER IN PARIS—MOTHER AND SON REUNITED!"
"AFTER THREE DECADES, THE CHOSEN ONE FINALLY EMBRACES HIS RESURRECTED PARENTS!"
"EXCLUSIVE: POTTER FAMILY SECRETS—WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR THE WIZARDING WORLD?"
Inside the hotel suite, the atmosphere was tense. Harry stood by the wireless, listening to a live discussion on one of the wizarding news stations. His expression was unreadable, but the tight grip on his wand spoke volumes.
Ginny sat nearby, her arms crossed. James Sirius had stormed out the moment he heard, muttering about reporters always sniffing around. Lily and James Potter sat together, both visibly unsettled by the way their return was being exploited.
Sirius, standing by the window, let out a low whistle as he read one of the articles. "They've got you all figured out, Harry," he said dryly. "According to this, you're absolutely thrilled about having your parents back and have spent every waking moment making up for lost time."
Harry snorted. "Did they mention the part where I avoided them for weeks?"
"They conveniently left that out," Sirius replied, tossing the paper aside.
Lily let out a soft sigh. "I knew this would happen eventually, but… it’s overwhelming seeing it written like this."
James Potter, silent until now, glanced at Harry. “Are you alright?”
Harry didn’t answer right away. He had expected this level of attention, but it didn’t make it any easier to handle. The press had latched onto their story with a fervor he hadn’t seen in years.
“They’re going to analyze everything,” Ginny muttered. “Every little thing we say or do.”
***
By the dinner time the tension hung in the air. Now the press was more than ever.
Harry had paced the length of the sitting room twice before finally dropping onto the couch, rubbing his temple. Ginny stood near the window, arms crossed, her lips pressed into a thin line. Sirius sat in an armchair, watching the both of them with an unreadable expression, while James and Lily—his James and Lily—stood near the fireplace, exchanging glances.
“Well,” Sirius finally drawled, breaking the silence. “So much for a discreet visit.”
Harry let out a sharp exhale, leaning back. “It was never going to last forever. I just hoped we’d make it through the trip before they caught on.”
Ginny turned away from the window. “This changes everything. We’re supposed to publicly return to England tonight, but now the press is going to be digging. They’ll wonder why we’re still here, and if they realize you three never left the hotel—” She gestured toward Lily, James, and Sirius.
“Then they’ll wonder why you three didn't come with us,” Harry finished. His voice was clipped, his exhaustion beginning to show.
Lily, who had been silent so far, finally stepped forward. “So what do we do?”
Ginny glanced at Harry. “Damage control.”
Harry groaned. “Merlin’s sake, Gin—”
“No, listen,” Ginny cut in. “They’re going to run with this story no matter what. We can’t stop them from speculating, but we can steer the narrative.”
Sirius arched a brow. “How exactly?”
“By letting them see what we want them to see,” she said simply.
Harry looked at her, unimpressed. “You mean lie?”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “I mean spin it. Look, they already have photos of you and your mother standing together on the balcony—”
“Which they’ll use to claim there’s some secret drama,” Sirius added dryly.
Ginny ignored him. “But if we later give them photos of all of us together—out in public, looking perfectly fine—then we take away the mystery. We turn it from ‘hidden family secrets’ into ‘Potter family reunion’.”
James, who had been quiet until now, frowned. “And that’ll actually work?”
Ginny shrugged. “It’s better than letting them run wild with their own theories.”
Harry rubbed his face. “So what, you want us to go sightseeing with Mum and Dad like nothing’s happened?”
“Yes,” Ginny said firmly. “Not today, obviously, but tomorrow. We act like this was always the plan. A ‘private family holiday.’”
Harry exhaled through his nose, clearly resisting the urge to argue. Finally, he muttered, “Fine.”
Ginny smirked. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
Harry shot her a glare but didn’t argue further.
Sirius leaned back in his chair, looking amused. “Merlin, I missed this. Watching you two bicker is almost as good as a Quidditch match.”
Harry scowled. “Glad you’re entertained.”
Sirius grinned. “Oh, I am.”
Lily shook her head with a small chuckle, but there was still worry in her eyes. “And if it doesn’t work? If the press keeps digging?”
Harry sighed, standing up. “Then we deal with it.”
There was nothing more to say. The damage was already done. Now, they just had to survive the fallout.
***
When Lily woke up the next morning and stepped into the suite’s living room, she immediately noticed the floating screen, projected mid-air once again. A reporter stood in front of a rather unremarkable building, speaking animatedly.
She frowned. “What’s that?”
James Sirius, sprawled across the sofa with his arms behind his head, barely glanced up. “The place we’re staying.”
Lily’s brows lifted in surprise. “They’ve already figured it out?”
“Looks like it,” he muttered.
She glanced around. “Where is everyone?”
“In the kitchen,” he replied, eyes still on the broadcast.
In the kitchen, Lily found Harry, Ginny, Sirius, and James seated around the table, cups of tea in hand. She poured herself a cup before settling into a chair.
“So, now every reporter in the world is outside our building?” she asked, glancing between them.
Harry exhaled, rubbing his scar. “Looks like it.”
“I don’t understand the problem, Harry,” she said, frowning. “They already know we came back, just like everyone else.”
Harry leaned forward, his expression tight. “The problem is, it’s going to be too much. They’re going to overwhelm you with questions you don’t have answers to. They’ll make bad—very bad—speculations about you. They’ll stalk you.”
Lily still looked unconvinced, and Harry sighed. “I just thought we’d have a few more days without all that.”
“Ginny mentioned something yesterday about sightseeing and ‘making a narrative,’” James said. “What about that?”
Harry sighed. “We didn’t anticipate the press would be this relentless already.”
Silence hung over the room, thick and uncertain. No one seemed to know what to say.
Then the door opened, and the younger Lily stepped in, holding a spell-phone in her hand. "Mum, it's Uncle Ron," she said, offering it to Ginny.
Ginny frowned but took the device. "Yes, Ron?"
A deafening shout exploded from the spell-phone, making everyone wince.
"GINNY, WE ARE IN—"
"Dad, you don’t have to shout!" a younger male voice interrupted, exasperated. "Just speak normally."
"But how would she—?"
"Hello, this is Hermione," a new voice cut in, calm and measured. "Ginny, as Ron was saying, we’re in France. I know we originally planned to come next week, but there was some miscommunication, and now everyone’s arriving today. We’ll be there by three in the afternoon.
"We also saw that the press is swarming outside your hotel. Given the situation, I think it would be best if you joined us today rather than waiting until next week. I assume Harry’s meeting has been cut short as well?"
Ginny glanced around at the others, silently asking for their input. They all nodded.
"Thank you, Hermione," Ginny said, shifting the phone back to her ear. "That sounds wonderful. We’ll leave right away—the villa for the wedding is quite far into the countryside."
"That would be great," Hermione replied. A brief pause, then, hesitantly, "Er… Ginny, is Harry there?"
Ginny turned to her husband. Harry met her gaze and, without hesitation, shook his head firmly.
Ginny frowned slightly but covered smoothly. "Er—Hermione, he’s in the bath."
"Oh, okay," Hermione said, her voice faltering slightly. "I’ll… I’ll see you later."
A soft beep signaled the end of the call. Ginny lowered the spell-phone, her gaze lingering on Harry. He was staring at the table, jaw tight. Whatever had made him refuse to speak to Hermione, he clearly wasn’t about to explain.
Lily practically bounced on her feet, her excitement barely contained. “We’re leaving today?” she asked eagerly, looking between her parents. “Like—right now?”
Ginny gave a wry smile. “Yes, right now. Go pack your things.”
Lily let out a small squeal and darted toward her room.
Sirius, who had been quiet so far, leaned back in his chair, swirling his tea absently. “So, we’re really doing this then? Moving from one fancy place to another?”
“We don’t have much of a choice,” Harry muttered, rubbing his temples. “The press is relentless. If we stay here, we’ll be under scrutiny all day, every day. At least at the villa, we might have some privacy.”
“And if they follow us there?” James Potter—the older one—asked, arching a brow.
Harry sighed. “Then we adjust. But I’d rather deal with them from a place where we aren’t practically caged in.”
Sirius shrugged. “Can’t argue with that.”
Just then, Lily Luna came barreling back into the room, her small suitcase floating behind her. “I’m ready!”
Ginny chuckled. “That was fast.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “Unlike James, I was already packed.”
Harry glanced at his wife. “We should get going before the press catches wind of this. The longer we wait, the bigger a spectacle it’ll be.”
Ginny nodded. “Agreed. I’ll let James know.”
She disappeared down the hall to fetch their son, while Harry turned to the others. “Everyone, grab your things. Let’s move.”
As they all hurried to gather their belongings, a faint tension lingered beneath the surface. They were leaving one stage, but there was no doubt—the show wasn’t over yet.
***
The plan was simple: slip out unnoticed and take a Muggle cab to a discreet portkey location, far from the prying eyes of the press. It was an old trick—blend in so completely that no one would think to look for them.
Harry, Ginny, Lily Luna, and the older generation—James, Lily, and Sirius—stepped out of the suite, their appearances charmed to be less recognizable. James Sirius had already gone ahead to arrange the transport.
Lily Luna practically vibrated with excitement as she walked alongside her father. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. It feels like a proper undercover mission.”
Sirius chuckled. “Kid, your dad used to be a professional at sneaking around.”
Harry shot him a dry look. “That’s not the lesson here.”
The elevator ride down was uneventful, but as they stepped into the quiet hotel lobby, the tension thickened. Beyond the revolving doors, reporters still lurked, cameras at the ready.
Ginny grabbed Harry’s arm. “Alright, let’s move quickly.”
A large black cab was already waiting at the curb, James Sirius in the front seat. The moment the driver saw them, he nodded. “Let’s go.”
They climbed in quickly, shutting the doors behind them. The cab pulled away from the hotel, slipping smoothly into the winding streets of Paris.
As the city lights blurred past, Lily Luna glanced at her father. “So, what’s the cover story?”
Harry exhaled, glancing out the window. “That we’re still in the suite, having a quiet evening.”
Sirius smirked. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
***
The cab moved steadily through the streets of Paris, the city lights casting golden reflections on the windows as they left behind the towering landmarks and entered quieter roads. The car was spacious, but with all of them packed inside, it felt both intimate and secretive—like they were fugitives sneaking away under the cover of night.
Lily Luna, practically bouncing in her seat, had her face pressed against the window. “I still can’t believe we’re doing this properly like Muggles,” she whispered excitedly. “No Portkeys, no Apparition—just a cab ride through France.”
Sirius, seated comfortably beside her, smirked. “You act like it’s some grand adventure. We used to do this all the time back in the day—though usually, we were running from someone.”
Lily turned to him, eyes wide. “And were you in a fancy black car like this?”
Sirius scoffed. “Please. Try enchanted motorbikes and stolen brooms. This is practically luxury.”
Ginny, sitting beside Harry in the front, let out a small laugh. “Well, I’d rather avoid making international headlines for flying over Paris on a broomstick.”
James Sirius, stretched out in the corner, snorted. “Speak for yourself. I’d have taken a broom any day over this. Sitting in a car for hours is torture.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Ginny chided.
Harry, arms crossed, had been quiet for most of the ride. He had barely acknowledged the conversation, his mind clearly elsewhere. Ginny shot him a glance, but he didn’t return it.
"What’s the fare, James?" Harry asked.
James glanced back at his father, frowning slightly. "Er—eight hundred euros."
Harry raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The car ride through Paris was both surreal and strangely mundane. The city moved past them in a blur of golden streetlights and the soft glow of early evening, a stark contrast to the quiet tension inside the vehicle.
Now Harry sat in the front passenger seat, one elbow resting against the window as he stared out at the bustling streets. Ginny sat in the back with her kids and in-laws, her fingers lightly drumming against her knee. The younger Lily, however, was practically vibrating with excitement, her face pressed to the glass as she pointed out landmarks she recognized from books and old Muggle films.
"Look, Mum, the Seine!" she exclaimed, nudging Ginny and pointing at the river as they crossed a bridge. "And isn’t that the Eiffel Tower?”
Ginny smiled faintly, following her daughter’s gaze. "It is."
James, sitting beside her, only glanced up briefly before returning to his spell-phone. Unlike his sister, he wasn’t as enthralled by the sights, though he did smirk when Lily practically squealed at the sight of a café with outdoor seating.
Their driver, an older Frenchman with a thick accent, kept casting curious glances at them through the rearview mirror. He clearly knew they weren’t ordinary tourists—they’re not quite subtle about magic. But he said nothing, merely driving in silence, occasionally humming under his breath.
"You alright, Harry?" Sirius asked suddenly from beside Ginny, breaking the quiet.
Harry, who hadn’t spoken much since they got in, exhaled through his nose. "Yeah."
But his fingers tapped restlessly against his knee, and everyone in the car knew better than to believe him.
The hum of the engine and the occasional honk from passing cars filled the silence as they continued their journey through Paris. The younger Lily remained glued to the window, taking in every detail, while James occasionally glanced up from his spell-phone, uninterested but aware.
After a while, Sirius stretched his legs and let out a low whistle. "Eight hundred euros for a cab ride," he muttered, shaking his head. "I knew Muggles were expensive, but this is daylight robbery."
"It’s Paris," Ginny murmured, leaning against her seat. "Everything is expensive here."
Sirius snorted. "For that price, I’d expect the car to fly."
The driver glanced at them in the mirror, brow furrowing at the comment, but said nothing.
Lily, however, seemed unaffected by the cost, still too excited about the journey itself. She turned to her grandfather and grandmother, her expression alight with curiosity. "Did you two ever visit Paris before? You know… before?"
James Potter Sr. exchanged a look with his wife before shaking his head. "No, we never got the chance," he admitted. "Never thought we'd be seeing it like this."
Lily Potter Sr. smiled softly, watching the lights pass by. "It’s beautiful."
Harry, still gazing out the window, finally spoke. "We’re almost there."
The mood in the car shifted slightly. The excitement dulled, replaced with the weight of reality. The wedding was supposed to be a break, a moment of normalcy, but after this morning’s press debacle, they all knew their arrival wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.
As they neared the countryside, the city lights began to fade behind them, replaced by the open, sprawling landscape. The road stretched ahead, quiet and winding, leading them further from the chaos of Paris and toward whatever awaited them next.
The car rolled to a stop, and the driver spoke in rapid French. James Jr. listened attentively before nodding and turning to his family.
"He says this is as far as the car can go," James translated. "The villa isn’t accessible by road from here."
Harry frowned, glancing out the window. All he could see was a winding dirt path leading into dense greenery—no sign of a villa in sight.They stepped out of the car, stretching their legs as they unloaded their luggage. Lily watched as her grandson handed the fare to the driver, discreetly slipping a bit of the change into his own pocket. She bit back a smile but said nothing.
Nearby, the younger Lily groaned, eyeing the long dirt path ahead. “Dad, this is going to take ages to get there.”
Her brother smirked and immediately mimicked her in an exaggerated, whining tone, “It’s going to take ages to get there!”
Lily Luna shot him a glare, clearly unimpressed.
Ginny sighed, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "Both of you, stop it. Complaining won't make the walk any shorter."
Harry glanced down the winding dirt path ahead of them, the road disappearing into a dense stretch of trees. “How far is it exactly?” he asked, turning to James Jr.
James checked his spell-phone and squinted at the screen. “About a twenty-minute walk. It’s not that bad.”
The younger Lily huffed, dragging her suitcase behind her. “Easy for you to say—you didn’t wear heels.”
Sirius, who had been watching the exchange with amusement, finally spoke. “You do realize you could just not wear them, right?”
Lily Luna shot him a glare but didn’t respond. Instead, she turned to her mother. “Mum, tell me again why we didn’t just take a Portkey?”
Ginny gave her a pointed look. “Well someone was so excited for a muggle ride.”
Lily Luna groaned. “I take it back.”
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Too late now. Come on, let’s get moving before it gets dark.”
With that, the group began making their way down the path, their footsteps crunching against the gravel as they disappeared into the trees.
The forest path was narrow, with towering trees on either side that stretched high enough to block most of the evening light. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, and the occasional rustle in the underbrush hinted at small creatures scurrying away from the unexpected travelers.
Lily Luna trudged beside her mother, occasionally swatting at imaginary insects. "I swear something just crawled on my arm," she muttered, glancing warily at the shadows between the trees.
James Jr., walking ahead with their grandfather, scoffed. "It’s just your imagination. You grew up in the countryside; you should be used to this."
"I'm used to Quidditch fields and open air, not creepy forests that look like something out of a horror story," Lily shot back.
Sirius, who had been walking beside Harry, smirked. "She’s got a point. If I were a bloodthirsty murderer, this would be the perfect spot for an ambush."
Harry shot him a look. "Not helping."
Ginny, ever practical, ignored them all. "James, are you sure we’re on the right path?" she asked, stepping over a gnarled root.
"Yeah, yeah," James Jr. replied, glancing at his spell-phone. "There’s a clearing up ahead. The villa should be just past it."
Lily (the elder) took a deep breath, taking in the cool, fresh air. "I suppose there’s something peaceful about it, at least. If we weren’t dragging luggage, this could be quite nice."
"Yeah," Ginny agreed. "If we weren’t also being followed by a pack of reporters, it might actually be relaxing."
Harry stiffened slightly at that, his Auror instincts kicking in. He glanced back down the path they’d traveled, but there was nothing but thick trees and fading daylight. "They wouldn’t have followed us this far," he said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.
Sirius arched an eyebrow. "Wouldn’t put it past them. The Prophet’s got a nasty habit of sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong."
"We’ll be at the villa soon," James Jr. assured them. "And once we’re inside, no one’s getting in without an invitation."
Lily Luna sighed dramatically. "They better have dinner ready when we arrive. I am starving."
Harry chuckled. "Almost there, Lils. Just a little longer."
And with that, they pressed on, disappearing deeper into the woods as the path led them closer to their destination.
***
As they stepped into the clearing, the grand villa finally came into view—or at least, what should have been the grand villa. Instead of a warmly lit welcome, the place was dark, its windows shuttered, and not a single sign of life could be seen.
Standing near the entrance, however, were the rest of the Ron, Hermione, and George were waiting for them with varying degrees of impatience. Ron, looking as grumpy as ever, crossed his arms over his chest. Hermione, ever the problem solver, had her hands on her hips, while George leaned against a low stone wall, watching the group approach with an amused expression.
“You’re finally here,” Ron said as they got closer. “Took you long enough.”
"Blame James, he made us take a scenic route through the woods," Lily Luna muttered.
James Jr. rolled his eyes. "It was the only road that existed, thank you very much."
“Alright, alright,” Ginny interrupted before another sibling argument could start. “What’s going on? Why does the villa look deserted?”
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. “Because it is deserted. The villa was booked for next week. But we did tell them to get it ready.”
Silence.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “So you’re saying… we have nowhere to stay?”
“Well,” George chimed in, straightening up, “not nowhere. The staff’s cottage is still available.”
“The staff’s cottage?” Sirius repeated, looking at him like he’d lost his mind. “You expect all of us to cram into the servants’ quarters?”
“It’s a four-bedroom house,” Hermione said quickly. “Not ideal, but it’s the best we’ve got unless we want to find somewhere else last minute.”
Ron huffed. “I already tried that. Everything’s booked because of the wedding season. Unless you want to sleep in a tent, this is our only option.”
James Jr. groaned. "Brilliant. This trip just keeps getting better and better."
Ginny sighed, adjusting her bag. “Alright, let’s not make a big deal of this. It’s just for a few nights, and it’s better than dealing with reporters in the city.”
Harry shot James a look, as if daring him to complain again. James grumbled something under his breath but didn’t argue.
“Well then,” George grinned, “let’s get you all settled in. Welcome to the cozy side of luxury.”
With that, they grabbed their luggage and followed the others toward the much smaller cottage, their dreams of a grand villa retreat officially crushed.
As they approached the dimly lit cottage, the rest of the family was already gathered outside, waiting. Bill and Fleur stood near the doorway, Fleur looking unimpressed, arms wrapped around herself as if the very idea of this inconvenience offended her. Beside them, Teddy had his arm around Victoire, their four-year-old daughter, Dora, clinging sleepily to his shoulder.
Molly and Arthur were there as well, standing near the steps, looking apologetic but resigned. Nearby, Tonks and Angelina leaned against the porch railing, watching with barely concealed amusement. Their children, Fred and Roxanne, were perched on the steps, whispering to each other.
“Well,” Tonks said, grinning as the group approached. “Took you long enough. What happened? Got lost?”
“We got dropped off in the middle of nowhere,” James Jr. complained, tossing his bag down with unnecessary force. “Had to hike through the forest.”
“Oh no, walking,” Fred said, mock gasping. “How awful for you.”
James shot him a glare, but before he could snap back, Victoire spoke, her expression unimpressed. “So, I assume you’ve been told?”
“That we don’t actually have the villa?” Harry said, rubbing his temple.
Arthur sighed. “It was booked for next week, not this one.”
Fleur huffed. “Which makes no sense, because I was very clear when I made the reservation.”
“The point is,” Bill cut in before his wife could go on a rant, “we don’t have anywhere to stay except the cottage. Four bedrooms, all of us.”
“Could be worse,” Remus said, speaking up for the first time. He was standing beside Tonks, who was rocking slightly on her heels, hands in her pockets. “We could be sleeping outside.”
“Not much of an improvement,” Lily muttered, glancing at the small cottage.
“I still don’t get how this happened,” Ginny said, shaking her head.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Ron said. “We just have to figure out who’s sleeping where.”
Molly clapped her hands together. “Yes, let’s sort this out quickly so we can all get some rest.”
“I vote James sleeps outside,” Rose said, grinning.
“Seconded,” Lily added.
James rolled his eyes. “Hilarious.”
“I say we just pick a room and deal with it,” Harry said, already heading toward the door. “The sooner we sleep, the sooner this whole mess feels less annoying.”
“Wishful thinking,” George muttered as they all began filing inside.
It was going to be a very long couple of days.
***
Inside the cottage, it was immediately clear just how cramped things would be. The sitting room was barely large enough to hold everyone’s luggage, and the bedrooms weren’t much better. The old wooden floors creaked underfoot, and the air carried the scent of aged wood and lavender—probably some leftover charm to keep the place smelling fresh.
“Well,” George said, looking around. “I call dibs on the least uncomfortable bed.”
“That’s not how it works,” Teddy shot back. “We should at least try to be civil.”
Sirius smirked. “Says the one who already snuck his bag into a room with an actual bed.”
“Not sneaking, just being efficient,” Teddy said, unbothered, as Victoire rolled her eyes beside him.
Molly, ever the mother hen, had already begun directing things. “We’ll need to set up some camp beds in the sitting room. The bedrooms won’t fit everyone.”
Harry and Bill dragged in a stack of old tramp beds from a storage closet, shaking off dust before setting them up in the corners of the room.
“These things are older than McGonagall,” James Jr. muttered, inspecting the creaky frame of one.
“Oi, respect your elders,” Fred Sr chided. “Some of us are that old.”
James grinned. “And I mean that in the nicest way possible.”
Lily Jr., meanwhile, was attempting to wrestle a folded mattress into submission. “Are these charmed to fight back, or am I just that unlucky?”
“Unlucky,” her grandmother Lily answered, watching in amusement as the mattress finally popped open, nearly knocking her over.
Across the room, Dora, the four-year-old, had already made herself comfortable in the one real bed in the shared room, clutching her stuffed dragon. “This one’s mine,” she declared.
Teddy sighed. “I don’t think anyone’s going to argue with you, love.”
As everyone gradually settled into their makeshift sleeping spaces, Ginny passed out extra blankets, while Arthur attempted to fix a flickering lantern in the hallway.
“Well,” Harry said, rubbing his face. “It’s not the worst place we’ve had to sleep.”
His son snorted. “That’s a low bar.”
Bill clapped his hands together. “Alright, everyone. Few nights, we can handle this. Try to get some sleep.”
Once the beds were set up and the luggage stowed in corners, the next problem presented itself—food.
“So,” George said, hands on his hips. “What’s for lunch?”
“That’s a good question,” Ginny muttered, glancing around the cottage. “Did anyone think to bring food?”
Molly looked scandalized. “Of course not! We were expecting a fully stocked villa, not a last-minute cottage stay.”
“We could check the kitchen,” Victoire suggested. “Maybe the owners left something behind?”
Teddy, Bill, and Harry took on the mission, disappearing into the small kitchen at the back of the cottage. A moment later, Bill’s voice rang out. “Well, we have… some stale bread, half a jar of pickled onions, and a tin of dubious-looking tea.
“Alright,” Ginny said, “So, no food here. That means we have to get some.”
Harry glanced at his watch. “The village we passed is too far to walk, and I don’t fancy explaining why a group of supposedly normal tourists are Apparating into the middle of a Muggle grocery store.”
“We could send a few people,” Remus suggested. “Just pop in, grab whatever we need, and be back before anyone notices.”
“You sound like we’re planning a heist,” George grinned.
“We kind of are,” Teddy said. “A food heist.”
Eventually, it was decided that Fleur, Victoire, and Sirius would go, since they spoke the best French, while the others stayed behind to set up the dining area.
Meanwhile, Molly took charge of making tea, muttering about how “a proper cup of tea can make any situation better.”
Dora, still perched on her claimed bed, kicked her feet. “Can I have hot chocolate instead?”
“Of course, darling,” Molly cooed, already reaching for her wand.
As they waited for the shopping trio to return, the rest of them tried to make the small dining area presentable, pushing together a few mismatched chairs and dusting off an old wooden table.
By the time Fleur, Victoire, and Sirius returned—arms laden with bread, cheese, cold cuts, fresh fruit, and a few pastries—everyone was ravenous.
“Bless you,” George said dramatically, taking a baguette from Sirius like it was a prized treasure.
“Turns out, buying food in a small village with a large, scruffy man who barely speaks French makes people suspicious,” Victoire commented, nudging Sirius.
Sirius shrugged. “I charmed them with my smile.”
“You scowled at them.”
“Same thing.”
Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, the meal turned into a lively gathering, everyone squashed together, talking and laughing.
As they ate, Ginny leaned toward Harry and murmured, “You know, this isn’t so bad.”
Harry looked around the table, taking in the easy chatter, the warmth of the moment. He exhaled. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It really isn’t.”
***
After lunch, with no immediate tasks left and the afternoon stretching lazily ahead, The younger Fred suggested, “Why don’t we play something?”
James Jr. groaned. “If you say Exploding Snap, I’m walking into the forest and never coming back.”
“Oh, please.” Lily Jr. rolled her eyes. “You’d last five minutes before coming back hungry.”
“I was thinking something different,” he said. “How about Two Truths and a Lie?”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Rose smirked. “Half of us are professional liars, and the other half lived through a war.”
“Oh, come on,” George grinned. “That just makes it more fun.”
Harry, who had been relaxing in his chair, immediately shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Scared, Dad?” James laughed.
“I just don’t see the point,” Harry said, arms crossed.
“Come on, Harry, it’s your turn to traumatize everyone in the room with how miserable your life was,” George announced with a wicked grin.
Harry rolled his eyes. “I think we’ve all heard enough of—”
“Oh, just do it!” Victoire cut in, and even little Dora, bouncing eagerly in her seat, chimed in with, “Please, Grandad!”
Faced with so many expectant stares, Harry sighed, dragging Dora into his lap. “Alright, fine.” He smirked. “First, I have blue eyes. Second, I wear glasses. Third, I was in Gryffindor.”
Silence.
Then—
A collective groan filled the room.
“Dad,” James winced, rubbing his forehead. “What on earth was that?”
“I made no promises,” Harry said, smug.
“We have to get him drunk,” George said solemnly, scanning the room as if searching for a hidden bottle.
Harry gave him a flat look. “I’m not drinking at five in the afternoon.”
“Yeah, sober Harry is boring,” Angelina added with a smirk. “Seven-drinks Harry, now that’s fun.”
“Nah,” Ginny interjected, grinning. “Seven-drinks Harry is a soppy sod. Five-drinks Harry? That’s the sweet spot.”
Harry groaned. “I hate all of you.”
“Five-drinks Harry loves doing fun,” George shot back, winking.
“Oh, absolutely,” Ginny said, smirking over the rim of her glass. “Seven-drinks Harry starts telling everyone how much he loves them. Six-drinks Harry starts philosophizing about life. And five-drinks Harry—”
“Would jump from a cliff if you'd say.” Bill chipped in.
George wiped away a fake tear. “Merlin, I miss seven-drinks Harry.”
“Well, too bad,” Harry said flatly. “Because I’m staying sober.”
Dora tugged at his sleeve, looking up at him with wide eyes. “What’s a seven-drinks Harry?”
Harry sighed dramatically. “Someone you’ll never meet, sweetheart.”
Everyone snorted in the room.
“We are expecting at least one one-on-one duel at the wedding,” James Jr. remarked casually, smirking as he leaned back in his chair.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
James grinned. “Well, with Mr. Malfoy, of course.”
Laughter erupted around the room—everyone except Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who remained conspicuously silent.
“I’m not doing any of that,” Harry said flatly.
James’s face fell. “But why?” he asked, looking genuinely disappointed. “I only traveled all the way to France just to see you, Uncle Ron, and Scorpius’ dad in the same place! Together!”
The room burst into laughter again, but Harry just sighed, rubbing his temples. "Merlin help me."
Fred, older, leaned forward, smirking. “You know, Harry, he does have a point. The three of you in the same room? That’s got to be some kind of historic event.”
Harry shot him a look. “I’d rather not be history again, thanks.”
“Oh, come on,” George chimed in, grinning. “It’s tradition at this point! You and Malfoy have been circling each other like a pair of old hippogriffs for decades. Give the people what they want.”
Harry groaned. “I have no reason to fight Malfoy.”
James scoffed. “Dad, you always have a reason.”
Little Dora, who had been listening with wide eyes, suddenly perked up. “Who’s Malfoy?” she asked, looking between them.
James sighed dramatically. “He’s a very grumpy man, Dot.”
Dora considered this, then turned to Harry with an encouraging nod. “You should fight him.”
The room exploded into laughter once again as Harry buried his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”
Bill leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Alright, but let’s be honest here—if there was a fight, who would win?”
“Oh, Dad, obviously,” James said, rolling his eyes. “Have you seen Malfoy? He looks like he’d bruise if the wind blew too hard.”
“I dunno,” George said, rubbing his chin in mock thought. “I think he’s got the whole ‘wealthy, mysterious duelist’ thing going for him. He probably spent years learning some ancient, underhanded pure-blood techniques—”
“—like running away and crying to his mother?” Ginny cut in, smirking.
The room burst into laughter again.
“Oi!” Hermione finally interjected, giving them all a stern look. “That’s enough. Malfoy is not that bad.”
Ron turned to her with an incredulous expression. “Hermione. The man spent seven years sneering at us and then another decade acting like he was allergic to being polite.”
She rolled her eyes. “People change, Ron.”
“Do they?” George asked, waggling his eyebrows. “Because last time I saw Malfoy, he still looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.”
Harry finally sighed, rubbing his temple. “Look, I’m not fighting Malfoy, and I’m not debating his moral character. He’s Scorpius’s father, and this is a wedding, not a dueling ring.”
James Jr. let out a dramatic groan. “Fine. But at least insult him a little. Maybe throw in a passive-aggressive remark?”
Teddy snorted. “Yeah, make it subtle, though. Something like, ‘Nice suit, Malfoy. Did you model it after your soul?’”
Harry pointed a warning finger at him. “Not. Happening.”
“Oh, come on,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Just one little jab? For old time’s sake?”
“We were just schoolboys back then,” Harry said wistfully. “We’ve matured. Moved past all that.”
James Jr. snorted. “Matured, my arse.” He turned to the rest of the family, smirking. “Just a few weeks ago, they ended up in the same elevator, and Merlin—Dad didn’t even get off at his stop. Just stood there, all stiff and broody, until Mr. Malfoy got out first.”
Laughter erupted around the room as Harry groaned, rubbing his face. “That’s not— I wasn’t—” He huffed. “It wasn’t on purpose.”
“Sure it was,” Teddy drawled. “You just happened to miss your stop?”
“I was thinking about something else,” Harry said firmly.
“Uh-huh.” James smirked. “Thinking about Malfoy.”
Ron let out a bark of laughter. “Oh yeah, mate, you were definitely thinking about something else—like how to outlast Malfoy in an elevator showdown.”
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. “Honestly, you two are still at this?”
“I’m not ‘at’ anything,” Harry insisted, crossing his arms.
Ginny smirked into her drink. “No, of course not. You just happened to develop a deep fascination with the back wall of the lift at the exact same time Malfoy was standing there.”
The laughter grew louder. Even little Dora, now sitting in Victoire’s lap, clapped her hands together, delighted by the noise.
“Fine,” Harry muttered. “Next time, I’ll just hex him and be done with it.”
“Oh, please do,” James Jr. said eagerly. “I need the entertainment.”
George grinned. “Better yet—wait till the wedding. There’s nothing like a Potter-Malfoy duel to spice up the reception.”
“Absolutely not,” Hermione interjected, shooting them all a warning glare.
“But, Aunt Hermione,” James Jr. whined dramatically, “it’s practically tradition at this point!”
Harry groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There will be no fighting at the wedding.”
George huffed. “Speak for yourself. If Malfoy so much as looks at me funny, I’m taking my tie off.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” James Jr. cheered.
Hermione groaned, and Ginny just shook her head, laughing.
“You lot are unbelievable,” Hermione muttered, but there was a small smile playing on her lips.
James Jr. leaned forward, looking eager. “You know, we could just stage a little something. Not a full duel, obviously, just a bit of tension. Enough for some dramatic photos, maybe a few gasps from the crowd—make it look like you’re about to hex each other.”
Harry shook his head.
Ginny rolled her eyes. “If anything happens, it won’t be Harry who starts it. Draco Malfoy still has a chip on his shoulder the size of the bloody Hogwarts Express.”
“Oh, so you are expecting something?” George waggled his eyebrows.
Ginny shrugged. “I’m just saying, if anyone’s going to throw the first punch—or hex—it won’t be my husband.”
Ron crossed his arms, looking thoughtful. “Actually, that’s true. Malfoy does like to act all cool and composed, but get under his skin and—” He whistled.
James Jr. practically lit up. “Brilliant. I’ll make sure to have a camera ready.”
“James,” Ginny said warningly.
“Oh, come on, Mum, I’m invested now!”
Harry groaned, running a hand over his face. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”
George grinned. “Fine, fine. Let’s talk about how we’re all crammed into this cottage for the night instead of that nice fancy villa.”
At that, the room erupted into complaints, and the Malfoy discussion was—thankfully—forgotten. At least for now.
Now they discuss every wedding in the family. Harry and Ginny smirked at each other as they remembered Dudley’s wedding.
“No,” George bellowed dramatically, “Why are you inviting Muriel, Mum?”
Molly gave him a stern look. “Why not? She’s family.”
“She’s an ancient—” George started but cut himself off as Molly raised a hand. He muttered something under his breath before continuing in a more reasonable tone. “You do realize she’s going to sit in the front row and loudly judge everything? She’ll probably take notes just to insult the bride later.”
“I’d pay good money to hear her wedding commentary,” Fred muttered.
“You would.” Hermione elbowed him.
Molly sighed. “She’s old, she’s lonely, and she’s family. That’s why we invite her.”
“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t,” George muttered. “She’s like a cursed object we have to pass around just to keep the bad luck at bay.”
“She did call my dress ‘a bit plain’ at my own wedding,” Fleur said, folding her arms.
“She called me plain,” Ginny pointed out.
“She called me a disgrace,” Ron added helpfully, grinning.
“She calls everyone something,” Bill said with a shrug.
“Well,” George sighed dramatically, “I just hope she doesn’t live to see my funeral because she’ll probably call my coffin plain.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
Sirius arched a brow, smirking as he leaned forward. “Alright, Harry, spill. How was your wedding?”
Harry, who had been lazily sipping his tea, suddenly stiffened. His ears went a little red as he cleared his throat. “Er—well…”
Ginny, smirking, leaned her chin on her hand. “Go on, love. Tell them all about it.”
“Oh, this should be good,” George said, stretching out comfortably.
Molly, however, let out a scandalized huff, crossing her arms. “There wasn’t a wedding,” she declared.
The entire room fell silent.
“What?” Sirius blinked.
Molly gestured toward Harry and Ginny with exasperation. “They eloped! In some tiny little Muggle church in the middle of nowhere!”
The room stilled for a second before Sirius barked out a laugh. “What do you mean there wasn’t a wedding?”
Molly gave Harry and Ginny a pointed glare before turning back to Sirius. “Because these two eloped—ran off to some tiny church in the middle of nowhere like a couple of teenagers sneaking out of the house!”
Ron snorted. “Mum, it wasn’t exactly sneaking off. You and Dad were there.”
Hermione nodded. “So were we.”
“But no one else!” Molly said dramatically. “Not Bill, not Charlie, no friend—”
“Hold on,” James, older, interrupted, looking highly entertained. “You two just… ran off and got married in a church?”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, still looking a little pink. “It wasn’t exactly running off. We just… wanted something quiet.”
Ginny smiled softly. “We’d had enough of grand, dramatic events. We wanted it to be ours.”
Molly, still looking slightly put out, turned to Lily, as if hoping for some support. “Can you believe this?”
Lily, who had been watching the entire exchange with amusement, only smiled. “Well, I think it’s rather sweet, actually.”
Molly threw her hands up. “Of course you’d say that.”
Arthur, who had been silent until now, chuckled. “Well, at least we did have a small gathering after.”
“Oh, you mean the back garden party?” Molly said, still affronted. “That’s not a proper wedding reception!”
“It was perfect,
”Ginny said firmly, reaching for Harry’s hand. “It was exactly what we wanted.”
Harry squeezed Ginny’s hand, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. It really was.”
He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips—only to be immediately interrupted.
“Oh, come on!” James groaned loudly. “Can you not do that in front of your children?”
Laughter erupted around the room as Ginny smirked against Harry’s lips before pulling away. “Oh, please, James. You act like you weren’t literally born because of this.”
James made a dramatic gagging sound. “Doesn’t mean I want a reminder!”
***
The night passed, though sleeping in a cramped cottage with two dozen people was far from ideal. By morning, the real challenge began—two dozen people and only two bathrooms. Chaos was inevitable.
As the morning chaos unfolded—people knocking on bathroom doors, toothbrushes going missing, and heated debates over who had the right to go next—Ron and Hermione finally returned from speaking with the villa’s owner.
“Well, good news,” Ron announced, stretching as he entered the crowded living area. “The villa will be ready by the afternoon.”
A collective sigh of relief swept through the room.
“Oh, thank Merlin,” Ginny muttered, running a hand through her hair. “One more night in this cottage, and I swear we’d all be at each other’s throats.”
“Speak for yourself,” George said, nudging Angelina. “I think we’ve done quite well. No one’s hexed anyone… yet.”
“That’s because half of us didn’t have access to our wands when we woke up,” Teddy quipped from his spot on the sofa, where little Dora was attempting to braid his hair.
Molly huffed, hands on her hips. “Honestly, it’s not that bad. A little inconvenience never hurt anyone.”
“Try telling that to my bladder this morning,” Louis muttered, earning a laugh from Victoire.
Hermione cleared her throat, ignoring the side conversations. “The owner said everything should be set by lunchtime, so we can head over then. Until then, let’s try not to kill each other, shall we?”
Harry, who had been sipping his tea quietly, smirked. “No promises.”
"Until then," Ron said, flopping onto the sofa, "I say we all just sit here and do absolutely nothing."
"You mean like you did when we were setting up all those beds last night?" Bill shot back, raising an eyebrow.
Ron opened his mouth to argue, then just shrugged. "Fair point."
Molly clapped her hands. "Well, if we're stuck here until the villa is ready, we might as well make breakfast properly this time."
"I thought we agreed never to speak of last night's dinner," Bill muttered, rubbing his face.
"It wasn’t that bad," Ginny said.
"I had to eat toast," George said dramatically. "Me. Just toast. No eggs, no bacon, no sausages—just toast."
"Oh, the horror," Angelina deadpanned.
"Exactly! Thank you!" George pointed at her.
Molly rolled her eyes. "Enough complaining. Who’s helping?"
Most people suddenly found themselves very interested in anything else.
"Right," Molly sighed. "Arthur, you and I will handle it. Ginny, Lily—both of you help set the table. And you lot—" she waved a hand at the younger ones lounging around, "—at least make yourselves useful and tidy up this mess."
Grumbling but obedient, everyone got moving. Teddy lifted Dora into his arms and grinned at Victoire. "Looks like we get out of work since we have a child."
"You wish," Victoire said, plucking Dora from his arms and placing her in Bill’s. "Now, come on."
Breakfast was a surprisingly smooth affair, though the crowded space made it impossible to move without bumping into someone. By the time they finished, the cottage looked somewhat presentable again, and the excitement started to build—finally, they’d be moving into the villa.
Ron checked his watch and stood up. "Alright, we should start packing up. The villa should be ready by the time we get there."
"About time," Harry muttered, stretching. "Let’s get moving before someone actually does murder someone over a bathroom."
With that, the group sprang into motion, eager to leave the cramped cottage behind.
As they finally reached the villa, the group stood in stunned silence, staring up at the towering, ancient structure before them.
It loomed against the sky, its stone walls weathered and darkened with age, ivy creeping up the sides as if nature itself was trying to reclaim it. The windows were tall and narrow, some covered with wooden shutters, while others seemed almost unnaturally dark. A chilly breeze whispered through the trees surrounding the property, rustling the overgrown hedges that lined the pathway.
George broke the silence. "Brilliant. We’ve walked straight into a horror novel."
Ron cleared his throat, looking slightly defensive. "It looked better in the brochure."
"Did the brochure happen to mention whether or not it’s haunted?" James Jr asked, glancing up at the looming structure with suspicion.
"Yeah, because this place definitely has ghosts," Teddy agreed. "Like the kind that push vases off tables and whisper in the walls at night."
Dora clung to his leg. "No ghosts, Daddy!"
"No ghosts," Victoire said quickly, shooting Teddy a glare before glaring at Ron. "Tell me again why you picked this?"
Ron groaned. "Look, it's only for a week, alright? The actual wedding venue is a completely different place. Much nicer, I promise."
"Define nicer," Bill muttered, eyeing a particularly creepy gargoyle perched above the entrance.
"Less likely to be cursed," Hermione supplied, rubbing her temple. "Honestly, Ron, this place—"
"It’s fine," Ron insisted, striding up to the large wooden doors and giving them a push. They groaned loudly, creaking open to reveal a grand but dust-covered entrance hall. A chandelier hung precariously overhead, and the wooden floorboards creaked beneath their feet as they stepped inside.
"This place better not eat us in our sleep," George muttered.
Harry, still surveying the grand but eerie surroundings, turned to Ron with a smirk. "How rich are you, exactly?"
Ron made a face. "I’m not rich. We got a good deal, alright? Because it’s old—historical charm and all that."
"And because it’s terrifying," James Jr added.
"And possibly cursed," Teddy threw in.
Ron threw his hands up. "It’s only for a week!"
The group exchanged looks, and then Fred Jr, lips twitching, turned to his cousin. "Well, if we don’t make it out of here alive, it’s been a good life."
James Jr nodded solemnly. "Tell the world our story."
With that, they braced themselves and carried their luggage inside.
Lily dropped her bag onto the ancient wooden floor of the room they had been given, looking around with a skeptical expression. The space was large but had clearly not been used in decades—dust clung to the heavy velvet curtains, and an old fireplace stood cold and unused. A grand four-poster bed dominated the room, its carved headboard intricate but faded with age.
James Sr. flopped onto the mattress with a groan, bouncing slightly before settling in. "Well, at least the bed hasn’t collapsed yet. That’s a good sign."
Lily shot him a look. "Yet?"
"Optimism, Evans," he said with a grin, stretching his arms behind his head. "Gotta keep the morale up."
She sighed, moving to one of the windows and tugging the curtain aside. The view overlooked the thick forest surrounding the villa, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. It was beautiful in an eerie, gothic sort of way.
James smirked as he watched her. "Admit it, you think it’s romantic."
She turned and scoffed. "James, this place looks like something out of a horror story."
"Romantic horror story, then. You and me, trapped in a haunted villa… alone." He waggled his eyebrows.
Lily rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at her lips. "Not alone. There are two dozen people here, including your son and grandson."
James groaned, flopping onto his stomach dramatically. "Merlin, I still can’t believe I have a grandson. How did this happen?"
Lily snorted. "The usual way, I assume."
James muffled his reply into the pillow before turning to look at her, eyes crinkling with amusement. "It’s still weird. I barely had time to wrap my head around having a son, and now there’s another Potter running around.”
Lily moved to sit beside him, brushing her fingers through his messy hair. "You’re doing fine. And Harry—he’s wonderful."
James exhaled, staring up at the ceiling. "Yeah, he is. Though I feel like I’m missing decades of context every time we talk."
Lily nodded. She felt it too—that strange displacement, like they had been dropped into a world that had moved on without them.
There was a knock on the door before it creaked open, and Ginny poked her head in, arms crossed. "Are you two done brooding in here?"
James sat up quickly. "We weren’t brooding. We were… adjusting."
Ginny smirked. "Right. Well, Mum’s demanding we all gather downstairs for tea. Something about ‘making the best of it.’"
Lily stood, smoothing her robes. "Alright, let’s go."
As they stepped into the dimly lit hallway, James leaned toward his wife and whispered, "I still say this place is romantic."
Lily elbowed him playfully. "You just want an excuse to sneak off."
James grinned. "Always."
Shaking her head, she followed Ginny down the hall, the distant chatter of the rest of the family growing louder as they reached the main room.
The villa had a haunting beauty to it—grand yet eerie, with its gothic architecture and towering spires. As Lily and James made their way inside, they suddenly heard their granddaughter let out a piercing scream.
They exchanged a worried glance, but before they could react, a loud roar of laughter echoed through the halls, followed by an indignant shout—
"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, JAMES!"
They shook their heads in amusement and continued toward the living room. The space was grand, with towering windows and an assortment of plush, oversized couches.
Across the room, Sirius was deep in conversation with Remus, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. Lily and James exchanged a grin before making their way over, settling onto one of the couches beside them.
As the family sipped their tea, the conversation naturally drifted toward the reason they were all here—Rose and Scorpius’ wedding.
Hermione unrolled a parchment, looking every bit the meticulous planner. "Right, since we’re only here for a week, we need to make sure everything is set. Tomorrow, we’ll go shopping in town—robes, accessories, any last-minute details for the wedding."
Ron, who had been reclining in his chair, groaned. "Shopping. Fantastic."
"Yes, Ron, shopping," Hermione said pointedly. "Then, the day after, there’s a tour of the vineyard followed by lunch in the countryside. We thought it would be nice to have a bit of relaxation before the wedding chaos begins."
"Wedding chaos?" George grinned, setting down his teacup. "You mean when Malfoy Senior inevitably has a nervous breakdown watching his son become a Weasley?"
Harry smirked. "That’s assuming he doesn’t disinherit Scorpius at the altar."
"Draco’s been surprisingly decent about all this," Ginny pointed out. "Not thrilled, obviously, but he hasn’t tried to stop the wedding."
"Yet," Ron muttered darkly.
Hermione gave him a sharp look before continuing. "Anyway. Friday night is the bachelor and bachelorette parties—"
"Which will be legendary," Fred Jr cut in, winking at James Jr., who grinned.
"You lot better behave," Molly warned, narrowing her eyes at the younger generation.
"Of course, Gran," James Jr. said, all innocence.
"That’s a lie," Lily muttered into his tea.
Hermione ignored them and carried on. "Saturday morning is the wedding rehearsal, and then, of course, the wedding itself on Sunday."
Lily Sr. smiled warmly. "It all sounds wonderful, dear. Rose is lucky to have such a well-planned celebration."
"Well, at least someone thinks so," Ron grumbled.
James Sr. chuckled. "A proper Weasley wedding. Should be a spectacle."
Ron huffed. "As long as nobody gets hexed, cursed, or thrown into a lake, I’d call it a success."
Harry smirked over the rim of his cup. "Don’t make promises you can’t keep."
***
As planned, everyone was up and ready by 7:00 sharp to head out for shopping. The morning air was already warm, hinting at the summer heat that would settle in later.
James wasn’t exactly thrilled about spending the day browsing through shops, but the promise of trying different French foods kept his mood intact.
The group gathered in the grand yet eerie-looking foyer of the villa, bundled up and ready to head into town. The morning air was crisp, and the sun had barely begun to warm the stone walls outside.
“I still don’t see why we all need to go,” James Jr. grumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Can’t we just send a few people to pick up whatever’s needed?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Ginny said dryly, adjusting her bag. “And then you can explain to Rose why you weren’t there to help pick out decorations for her wedding.”
James groaned. “Fine, but I’m making a stop at the best bakery we pass.”
"James!" a child's voice squealed behind him.
He turned with a grin, expecting to see his goddaughter running toward him—but his smile faltered the moment he took in what she was wearing.
A leash.
"What the fuck, Ted?" James blurted, eyes wide as he stared at Teddy, who stood beside his daughter looking completely unfazed. "Why on earth is she wearing a leash?"
Teddy sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "It was Vic’s idea. She read about it in some magazine—apparently, it’s the best way to keep kids from getting lost."
James turned his incredulous gaze to Victoire, who had just arrived, effortlessly stylish in a light summer dress.
"It’s practical, James," she said, shrugging.
"People are going to judge you so hard," he muttered, shaking his head.
"They’re French, James," Teddy deadpanned. "They’re going to judge us no matter what."
James rolled his eyes and crouched down to Dora’s level, unbuckling the harness in one swift motion.
"Alright, kiddo, you’re with me now," he declared, tossing the leash aside. "No need for this nonsense."
Teddy sighed dramatically. "If she gets lost, it's on you."
"I won't get lost!" Dora piped up, beaming as she clung to James' hand.
"See?" James smirked. "She’s got faith in me."
Victoire huffed, crossing her arms. "James, if she vanishes into a crowd, I swear—"
"Relax, Vic," he said, scooping Dora up onto his shoulders. "She’s safer with me than on a leash like a Crup. Besides, I’m the fun godfather. Right, Dora?"
"Right!" Dora giggled, kicking her tiny feet.
Teddy shook his head. "Merlin help us all."
With the leash situation settled—much to Victoire’s dismay—the group finally piled into several taxis, splitting up to make their way into the city.
James, still carrying Dora on his shoulders, slid into the backseat of one, with Teddy and Victoire following close behind. The little girl was already squirming with excitement, her tiny hands gripping James' messy hair like reins.
"Easy there, kiddo," James winced. "I need that hair."
"You need a haircut," Victoire muttered, adjusting her sunglasses as the car pulled away from the villa’s long driveway.
"Don’t encourage her," James shot back, adjusting Dora’s grip. "I like it just the way it is."
In the taxi ahead of them, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione were deep in conversation. Ron had his arms crossed, looking half-asleep against the window.
"So, what’s first on the itinerary?" Ginny asked, glancing at Hermione.
"Shopping," Hermione replied, flipping through a neatly folded list. "There’s a magical shopping district in the city, and we should get everything for the wedding before sightseeing."
Ron groaned. "Why is shopping always first?"
"Because," Hermione said, giving him a look, "we don't want to be running around at the last minute trying to find wedding robes."
"Fine," Ron muttered. "But I’m getting food first thing when we get there."
As the taxis wove through the winding roads toward the city, the excitement in the air was palpable. Paris awaited, and whether they liked it or not, shopping was only the beginning.
Notes:
That was all... Fluff.
And i warn you that the atleast two upcoming chapters are going to be ALL fluff. And then the wedding. And THEN things start getting dark.
If all goes well, we might see Albus in the end of the next chapter.
Chapter 25: Lost in Paris
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They finally arrived at the Wizarding shopping district—a place reminiscent of Diagon Alley but with a quieter, more refined charm. It had an unmistakable elegance, distinctly and effortlessly French.
Their plan was simple: explore the magical shops first, and if time allowed, venture into the Muggle side for more shopping.
As they stepped onto the cobbled streets, the group instinctively split into smaller clusters. The women gravitated toward a high-end boutique displaying enchanted gowns that shimmered in the window, while the men loitered near a Quidditch supply store, where James Jr. was already eyeing the latest broom models.
Harry, however, remained near the entrance, scanning the crowd with years of instinct still ingrained in him. The press had been relentless back at the hotel, but so far, they had managed to avoid drawing attention here.
Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, mate. No reporters lurking behind a stack of cauldrons here.”
Harry huffed but allowed himself a small grin. “You say that now.”
Meanwhile, Teddy had his hands full with Dora, who was already tugging at James Jr.’s sleeve. “Uncle James, can I have a chocolate frog?”
James smirked. “Didn’t your mum say no more sweets?”
“She also said no running off, and yet here we are.”
Teddy groaned. “Merlin, she’s four and already a menace.”
Victoire, who had been admiring a set of enchanted scarves, turned just in time to hear her daughter’s sass. “Dora Lupin, if you make Uncle James buy you sweets—”
“Too late,” James said, tossing a wrapped chocolate frog into Dora’s eager hands. “I fear no mother.”
Victoire rolled her eyes while Teddy muttered, “You will.”
Lily and Ginny, meanwhile, were examining delicate hairpins infused with preservation charms to keep styles flawless. Hermione had dragged Rose into a bookshop, and from the resigned look on Ron’s face, it seemed he had accepted that he’d be standing outside waiting for a while.
“So, where to first?” George asked, rubbing his hands together. “Are we actually shopping for the wedding, or is this just an excuse for everyone to wander off and buy things they don’t need?”
“Why not both?” Ginny quipped, linking her arm with Harry’s.
Ron groaned. “Fine. Let’s get the wedding stuff sorted before we end up with another three dozen joke products in our luggage.”
George looked offended. “I’ll have you know my merchandise is always useful.”
“Right, because exploding teacups are a necessity.”
“Absolutely.”
As they bickered, the group made their way toward the boutique Rose had selected for wedding fittings. James Jr. leaned toward his father and whispered, “Still no press?”
Harry glanced around once more, then shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Good,” James smirked. “Then we can actually enjoy this.”
***
They spent the morning drifting from one dress shop to another, much to James’s confusion—hadn’t they already done all the wedding shopping back in London? Still, he kept himself entertained. He made Dora laugh with silly faces, enjoyed the passive-aggressive exchanges between his mum and Aunt Fleur, and, most importantly, found every opportunity to snack on whatever food he could get his hands on.
A few people recognized him and his family, casting curious glances or whispering as they passed, but thankfully, there were no reporters lurking around. For now, at least, they were free to shop in peace.
***
"Dad! Hey, Dad!” Lily called, grabbing Harry’s hand before he could react. “There’s someone who wants to meet you.” Without waiting for a response, she tugged him along, the rest of the family trailing behind in curiosity.
She led them to a vintage yet elegant-looking shop, its exterior charmingly old-fashioned. A sign above the door indicated it was a perfume boutique—one of the oldest, apparently. Hanging on the door was a glossy poster featuring a strikingly beautiful Asian woman beaming at the camera.
James squinted at the name printed beneath the image. Cho Chang. He vaguely recognized it—he was sure he’d heard it before, maybe from a friend. Wasn’t she a model?
As soon as the rest of the family caught sight of the poster, their excitement grew. George let out a dramatic gasp, smacking Ron’s arm.
“Oh, we have to go in,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Ron nodded eagerly. “Absolutely. What kind of friends would we be if we missed this reunion?”
James did not quite understand the joke but still grinned
Without hesitation, they all piled into the shop, barely containing their grins—only to stop short at the sight before them.
Harry and Lily were already inside, standing next to Cho, who looked just as surprised as Harry. But the real kicker? A photographer stood in front of them, camera flashing as he snapped shot after shot.
“Oh, this just got better,” George muttered gleefully.
Harry looked like he wanted to disappear. His face was burning red as more flashes went off, capturing the moment. Meanwhile, Lily stood beside him, completely unfazed, politely waiting for Cho to finish with the photographer.
The rest of the family had no such patience. James Jr., Fred, and Rose exchanged confused glances, clearly trying to figure out why their unflappable father was suddenly looking so flustered. Teddy raised an eyebrow, intrigued, while George and Ron looked far too entertained.
Cho finally turned toward them, her polite smile widening as she took in the large group now crowding the shop.
“Oh! You must be Harry’s family,” she said warmly. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
The younger ones still looked bewildered, but Lily and James Sr. stepped forward with polite nods.
“And you are…?” Lily Sr. asked kindly.
“Oh! I’m Cho Chang,” she introduced herself. “An old friend of Harry’s from Hogwarts.”
That caught their attention. James Jr. perked up. “Wait, you went to school with Dad?” He turned to Harry, clearly expecting an explanation.
Before Harry could even attempt one, Cho turned to Lily and James Sr. “And you must be Mr. and Mrs. Potter,” she continued, offering them a warm smile before her gaze landed on Sirius. “And Sirius Black. Wow. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“It's nice to see you too, Cho,” George said, “well if you wanted to meet Harry you could do it in England too.” He teased.
Cho chuckled. “Well, these days, I’m just the brand ambassador for this perfume house.” She gestured around the elegant shop. “I’m here for a small photoshoot, but I wasn’t expecting to run into Harry in the middle of it.”
George let out a low whistle. “So, old friend, huh?” He nudged Ron, who was struggling to keep a straight face.
Ron hummed in agreement. “Yeah, yeah. An old friend. Nothing suspicious about that at all.”
James Jr. looked between them, frowning. “Okay, what am I missing?”
Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Absolutely nothing, and we are not talking about it.”
Cho turned toward Ginny next, smiling politely. “It’s been a long time, Ginny,” she said warmly.
Ginny, who had been watching with mild interest, returned the smile. “It has,” she agreed, though her tone was unreadable.
Meanwhile, the younger generation looked utterly lost. James Jr. glanced between his parents, then at Cho, and finally at his uncle Ron, who was clearly holding back laughter. “Okay, who is she?” he asked bluntly.
Before anyone could answer, Dora tugged at Ginny's sleeve. “She’s really pretty,” she whispered.
She nodded. “She is,” she agreed, before glancing at James Jr. with a smirk. “She’s an old school friend of your dad’s.”
Lily, who had been distracted looking at the perfume bottles, finally turned her attention back to the group. “Oh, were you in Dad’s year at Hogwarts?” she asked curiously.
Cho shook her head. “No, a year above. We played plenty of quidditch matches against each other, though.”
Still oblivious to the underlying tension, Lily grinned. “That’s cool! I don’t think Dad has many friends from school outside of Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione.”
That did it. George let out a loud snort, and Ron actually had to cover his mouth to hide his grin.
Harry, who was still standing awkwardly between Cho and his wife, looked like he wanted to bolt. “Right,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “Well, it’s been great catching up, Cho, but we should probably—”
“Oh, stay for a bit,” Cho interrupted, still smiling. “You just got here, and I can have the shopkeeper show you around. We have some lovely scents—I’d be happy to help you pick something out.”
The idea of lingering in this shop, with his entire family watching like an audience at a Quidditch match, was not appealing. But before Harry could refuse, Ginny suddenly linked her arm through his and smirked up at him.
“Actually,” she said, eyes glinting mischievously, “that sounds like a wonderful idea.”
As the rest of the family dispersed through the shop, admiring the shelves lined with elegant glass bottles and enchanted scents, Harry lingered near Cho. He spoke in a low voice, his eyes serious.
“Cedric—” he began.
Cho’s smile faltered, her expression shifting. “Yeah,” she said quietly, glancing at him. “I saw him. It’s… surreal.”
Harry nodded. There was so much to say, but none of it could be put into words here, in the middle of a perfume shop surrounded by family.
Cho sighed. “He reached out. We talked.” She hesitated before adding, “He’s trying to make sense of everything, just like the rest of us.”
Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I keep thinking about it, about what it all means.”
Cho gave him a small, understanding smile. “Me too.”
Nearby, James Jr. wandered through the displays, pretending not to listen in on his dad’s conversation. He wasn’t entirely sure what they were talking about—something about Cedric Diggory?—but he quickly lost interest when a particular bottle caught his eye.
It was an elegant, amber-colored perfume, the name written in delicate gold script. He wasn’t much for flowery nonsense, but something about this one stood out. He picked up the tester and sniffed—warm, rich, with a hint of spice.
Hazel would probably like it. He didn’t know why the thought came to him so suddenly, but before he could overthink it, he waved down the shopkeeper.
“Can you send this to England?” he asked, then quickly added, “To a friend.”
The shopkeeper nodded, taking down the details. James Jr. shrugged to himself. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a gift. Nothing more.
Across the shop, Ron and George were still grinning at Harry, clearly not letting the moment go. Harry ignored them, still deep in conversation with Cho, while the rest of the family picked out perfumes to take home.
Dora, full of energy, darted through the shop, giggling as she weaved between displays. Her tiny feet pattered against the polished floor as she reached out to touch anything that sparkled.
“Dora, careful—” Victoire warned, but it was too late.
With a sudden stumble, Dora tripped, her arms flailing as she crashed into a delicate glass display. A loud shatter echoed through the shop as several bottles tumbled to the ground, breaking into glittering shards. The rich scent of perfume filled the air, overwhelming and strong.
Everyone froze.
“Dora!” multiple voices called at once.
The little girl sat on the floor, wide-eyed in shock. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then, her lower lip trembled, and suddenly, she burst into tears.
Bill was the first to react, quickly scooping her up in his arms. “Shhh, it’s okay, little one,” he murmured, brushing her curls away from her damp cheeks. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
Dora just sobbed harder, burying her face in his shoulder.
The shopkeeper, a well-dressed woman with an air of refined elegance, pursed her lips as she stepped forward, inspecting the mess. “That display contained some of our finest perfumes,” she said stiffly. “They were quite expensive.”
“I’ll pay for it,” Harry said immediately, already reaching for his wallet.
“Harry, you don’t have to—” Remus started, but Harry shook his head.
“She’s just a kid,” he said firmly, glancing at Dora, who was still hiccuping against Bill’s shoulder. “It was an accident.”
Teddy looked torn, running a hand through his hair. “I should be the one to—”
“No,” Harry cut him off, handing over the payment without hesitation.
The shopkeeper accepted it with a small nod, her demeanor softening slightly. “Accidents happen,” she said, before turning to Bill. “Is she alright?”
Bill nodded. “Just scared.”
Victoire stepped closer, gently brushing a tear off Dora’s cheek. “See? Everything’s fine now,” she said soothingly. “And Grandad Harry fixed it.”
Dora peeked up at Harry from Bill’s shoulder, her little face still blotchy from crying. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
Harry smiled at her. “It’s alright, love. Just means you smell very fancy now.”
That earned a few chuckles from the family, and Dora hiccupped out a tiny giggle. Bill squeezed her a little tighter, kissing her hair.
As they were about to leave the shop, James Jr. lingered behind for a moment, his eyes scanning the shelves. He spotted a small, beautifully decorated bottle labeled Parfum Enchanté pour Enfants—a special fragrance designed for children, gentle and infused with a subtle hint of vanilla and wildflowers.
“Wrap that up for me,” he told the shopkeeper, pointing at the bottle.
A few minutes later, as the family gathered outside, James knelt down in front of Dora, holding out the little package. “Here,” he said with a grin. “Figured you’d want a perfume bottle that doesn’t break so easily.”
Dora’s eyes widened as she took the package. “For me?”
James nodded. “Yep. Now you’ve got your own fancy perfume, just like everyone.”
She giggled, clutching the box to her chest, her earlier tears completely forgotten. “Thank you, James!” she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck.
Teddy, however, frowned. “James, you didn’t have to do that. That must’ve been expensive—”
James waved him off. “Oh, shut it, Ted. I wanted to, alright?” He ruffled Dora’s curls. “Besides, this one deserves to smell like a princess.”
Dora beamed, and Victoire chuckled, shaking her head. “Merlin help us. We’re raising a little diva.”
Dora only giggled more, still hugging her gift, and the family finally set off down the street, the scent of perfumes trailing behind them.
As they left the shop, the scent of expensive perfumes still clung to their clothes. Dora, now happily clutching her new perfume bottle, had stopped sniffling and was skipping ahead.
“Alright, where to next?” Ron asked, adjusting the bags in his hands. “Please tell me we’re done with perfume shopping.”
“We still need to get a few things for the wedding,” Hermione reminded him, scanning the street. “And maybe a bit of sightseeing if we have time.”
James Jr. perked up. “Or food. We haven’t properly tried French food yet.”
“You just ate an entire baguette, James,” Lily pointed out.
"And?” James shrugged. “I can still eat.”
“You’re worse than Ron,” Ginny muttered.
“Oi!” Ron protested, but George nodded sagely. “He’s definitely got Weasley in him.”
“Best compliment I’ve ever received,” James grinned.
As the group started walking again, Teddy slowed his pace until he was beside James Jr. “You really didn’t have to get that for her,” he said quietly, nodding toward Dora, who was gleefully shaking her perfume bottle as if it were a toy.
James rolled his eyes. “Don’t start, Ted. It wasn’t that expensive, and she was upset.”
“It was expensive,” Teddy pointed out, but his tone was amused rather than scolding.
James smirked. “Good thing I’m rich, then.”
Teddy let out a huff of laughter but didn’t argue further.
Ahead of them, Bill was pointing toward a cozy-looking café on the corner. “Fleur says this place has the best croissants in France.”
“Well, now we have to go,” George said.
“Agreed,” Harry added. “And maybe I can finally drink my tea in peace without someone shoving a camera in my face.”
“That was your fault, mate,” Ron teased. “You could’ve walked out of that shop like a normal person instead of standing there like a deer in headlights.”
“Oh, shut up,” Harry muttered as they crossed the street, the family’s laughter echoing around them.
As they settled into the café, Dora climbed onto Harry’s lap without hesitation, making herself comfortable as she hugged her new perfume bottle.
“You like that, sweetheart?” Ginny asked, brushing Dora’s curls out of her face.
Dora nodded enthusiastically. “It smells pretty! Like flowers and candy!”
James Jr. ruffled her hair. “Got good taste, dot. Just don’t drop this one, yeah?”
She gasped dramatically. “I won’t! I pwomise!”
Harry chuckled, securing his arms around her as he reached for his tea. “I’ll hold onto it for now, just in case.”
Ginny shot him a knowing smirk. “Oh, so you’re allowed to baby her, but when I do it—”
“It’s different,” Harry said simply, pressing a quick kiss to Dora’s temple.
From across the table, Remus and Tonks watched the scene unfold, a mixture of emotions flickering across their faces.
“She’s got them all wrapped around her little finger,” Tonks murmured, a soft smile on her lips.
Remus nodded, but his gaze was distant, lingering on the way Dora clung to Harry, how Ginny wiped a crumb off her cheek, how James Jr. kept teasing her only to grin proudly when she giggled.
“She calls them Nana and Granddad,” Remus said quietly. His tone wasn’t resentful—just… wistful.
Tonks swallowed, squeezing his hand under the table. “She’s still shy around us.”
She didn’t have to say the rest—how they had missed the chance to hold her as a baby, to be there for her first steps, to have her reach for them first instead of hesitating, uncertain.
“She’ll warm up,” Remus murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he was reassuring her or himself.
Dora, oblivious to their thoughts, suddenly gasped. “Granddad Harry! Look!” She pointed at the display case, where colorful macarons were neatly arranged.
Harry smiled. “You want some?”
She nodded eagerly.
“Alright,” he chuckled, shifting her off his lap. “You can pick them out yourself.”
Dora beamed and grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the counter without a second thought.
Tonks exhaled slowly, watching as her daughter bounced happily beside Harry, so at ease, so utterly at home in his care.
“She really adores him,” she whispered.
Remus squeezed her hand. “And he adores her.”
Tonks forced a small smile, but she couldn’t ignore the dull ache in her chest. Because she and Remus were still on the outside looking in, waiting for the day Dora would reach for them first.
As Harry helped Dora pick out her macarons, Ginny turned to Remus and Tonks, her expression softening.
“You know,” she said gently, “she talks about you both all the time.”
Tonks blinked, caught off guard. “She does?”
Ginny nodded. “She asks Teddy about you constantly. She’s just… shy. She’s still figuring everything out.”
Remus exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose it makes sense. She’s known you and Harry since the beginning.”
“Maybe,” Ginny admitted, “but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”
Before they could say anything else, Dora came rushing back, clutching a small bag in her hands. “Look, Nana Ginny! I got pink ones!”
Ginny grinned. “Good choice, sweetheart.”
Dora beamed, then turned to Remus and Tonks, her confidence faltering slightly. She hesitated, then carefully pulled a macaron from the bag and held it out. “Wanna try?”
Tonks’ breath hitched, and for a moment, she couldn’t move.
Remus recovered first, smiling warmly. “I’d love one, Dora.”
Dora hesitated for only a second longer before stepping forward and placing the macaron in his hand.
Tonks felt her throat tighten as she watched. It was such a small gesture—offering a treat, a simple invitation—but for Dora, it was a step toward them.
And for Tonks, it was everything.
She reached out hesitantly, brushing Dora’s curls. “Thanks, love.”
Dora smiled shyly. “You’re welcome.”
From his spot beside Ginny, Teddy caught his mother’s gaze, giving her a small nod. Tonks exhaled and nodded back, a lump in her throat.
It would take time.
But they were getting there.
***
As the others lingered in the cafe, still browsing or chatting, Harry and Ginny slipped outside, letting the warm summer air wrap around them. The streets were quieter here, a little removed from the bustle of the main shopping district. Ginny looped her arm through Harry’s, leaning into him as they strolled.
"You know," she began with a teasing lilt, "you were blushing like a schoolboy back there."
Harry sighed. "Yeah, thanks for pointing that out," he muttered.
Ginny laughed, tilting her head to look at him. "I mean, it's not every day you run into your teenage ex while your entire family watches. Ron and George were enjoying it way too much."
"I noticed," Harry said dryly. "It was bad enough with them wolf-whistling. And then the photos—bloody hell, that's definitely making the papers."
Ginny hummed in agreement, then smirked. "You and Cho, back in the gossip columns after two decades. How scandalous."
Harry groaned. "Merlin, don't even joke about that."
Ginny laughed again, but then her expression softened as she squeezed his arm. "It’s strange, though, isn’t it? Seeing Cedric alive. Being reminded of everything that happened back then."
Harry exhaled slowly, his free hand running through his hair. "Yeah. It’s surreal. I still don’t know how to process it. I spent years feeling guilty about Cedric’s death, and now—now he’s just… here. Alive. Like it never happened." He hesitated before adding, "I haven’t even talked to him properly yet."
Ginny studied him for a moment before saying gently, "You should."
"I know," Harry admitted. "It’s just—what do you even say to someone you saw die? ‘Hey, good to see you, sorry about the whole Voldemort thing?’"
Ginny snorted. "Well, I’d workshop that a little before you actually say it."
Harry huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension melting away. They walked in silence for a moment, before Ginny nudged him playfully.
"For what it’s worth," she said, "I think it’s nice. That you and Cho can actually talk without it being awkward. You both moved on, had families. It's a weird, full-circle moment, but I think it’s good."
Harry nodded, glancing sideways at her. "Yeah. And you’re not jealous?" he teased.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. If anyone should be jealous, it’s you. I had half the Holyhead Harpies trying to chat me up in my prime."
"Right, of course," Harry said, grinning. "I should count myself lucky."
"You really should," Ginny said loftily, before grinning and tugging him down for a quick kiss.
The moment was broken by a loud shriek from inside the shop, followed by George’s unmistakable laughter.
"Sounds like Dora’s back at it," Ginny mused.
"Or Ted," Harry added.
They shared a knowing look before heading back inside.
As Harry and Ginny reentered the shop, they were met with a scene of mild chaos. Dora had somehow managed to grab hold of at a pastry tray—thankfully, not an expensive one this time—and was enthusiastically shaking it, much to Teddy’s exasperation.
"Dora," Teddy sighed, gently prying the bottle from her little hands. "What did we say about touching things?"
"That I shouldn't," she mumbled, though the cheeky smile on her face betrayed any real remorse.
"Exactly," Remus said, crouching beside her. His tone was gentle, but there was something wistful in his eyes as he reached out and smoothed down her curls. She still flinched slightly at the touch, not used to it yet.
Harry noticed the way both Remus and Tonks watched her—how they longed for her to look at them the same way she did at him and Ginny. Dora still adored her real grandparents, but she was still getting used to them, still hesitant, still a little shy.
Ginny, ever perceptive, seemed to notice it too. She leaned down, brushing a kiss to Dora’s temple before giving Remus and Tonks a reassuring smile.
"She’ll get there," she murmured softly, so only they could hear.
Tonks nodded, though there was a glimmer of sadness in her expression. "Yeah. I know."
Before the moment could grow too heavy, George clapped his hands together. "Alright, enough standing around. Are we done here? Or is anyone else planning on breaking something?"
James Jr. snorted. "Give Dora a minute."
"Oi!" Dora huffed, crossing her arms. "I didn't break that one!"
"Progress," Teddy muttered.
With purchases made and the shopkeeper no longer giving them wary looks, the family finally made their way outside. The sun was still shining brightly, and the streets were lively with the energy of the city.
"So, what’s next?" Ron asked, stuffing a croissant into his mouth. He’d somehow managed to sneak away and buy pastries while they were inside.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "We should probably get some proper shopping done. Wedding gifts, remember?"
Ron groaned. "We already bought stuff in London!"
"Yes, but we could find something unique here," Hermione argued. "It’s not every day Rose!
Ron scowled while the others laughed, and Hermione merely sighed, used to the antics by now.
"Alright, alright," Harry cut in before Ron could start throwing hexes. "We’ll do some more shopping, grab lunch, and then head back before Dora breaks something else."
As they stepped out of the magical district and into the bustling heart of Muggle Paris, the contrast was immediate. The streets were packed with tourists and locals alike, weaving through the narrow sidewalks, chattering in rapid French. Street performers played music on every other corner, and the scent of fresh bread, roasted chestnuts, and warm pavement filled the air.
The summer heat had settled over the city like a thick blanket, and the humidity was almost unbearable. James Jr. tugged at the collar of his shirt before scoffing, "Brilliant. I’m sweating my arse off."
"You’re always complaining," Lily teased, walking ahead with Rose and Hugo.
James rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he crouched down and looked at Dora. "Alright, kid. Looks like you’re getting the best seat in the house."
Dora squealed in delight as James effortlessly lifted her onto his shoulders. She clutched his hair for balance, much to his protest.
"Oi, not the hair, Dora! I need that!"
She giggled, poking at his forehead. "Uncle George says you got Grandad’s hair, so it’s already doomed."
Harry snorted at that, while Ginny outright laughed.
"I like this kid," George said, grinning.
The thick summer air made everyone sluggish, and Ron groaned as he wiped sweat from his forehead. "Hermione, are you sure we can’t just send an owl for whatever you’re looking for?"
"Ron," Hermione sighed. "You’re in Paris. Enjoy it."
"I was enjoying it. Back in the magical district. With air conditioning."
"Oh, stop whining," Ginny said, nudging him. "You sound like James."
"Hey!" James huffed, but before he could protest further, Dora interrupted.
"Uncle Ron, look!" she gasped, pointing ahead
Everyone turned to see what had caught her attention. It was a small, charming boutique with an elegant display of handcrafted jewelry in the window. Hermione’s eyes immediately lit up.
"This looks promising," she said, already stepping forward.
As the group moved toward the shop, Harry sighed, glancing at Ginny with a smirk. "This is going to take a while, isn’t it?"
Ginny patted his shoulder. "At least there's a bakery next door."
Harry considered that, then nodded. "Alright, not a total loss."
And with that, they braced themselves for another round of shopping in the sweltering Parisian heat.
As they stepped into the first shop, a charming little boutique filled with delicate trinkets and colorful scarves, Dora’s eyes widened in delight. She squirmed on James' shoulders, nearly toppling him over in her excitement.
“Down, down! I wanna see!” she demanded, and James quickly set her on the floor before she wriggled out of his grasp.
The moment her feet touched the ground, she darted toward a display of sparkly hair clips, grabbing one shaped like a butterfly. "Ooooh! Look, look!" she gasped, holding it up for everyone to see.
Vic sighed, already sensing where this was going. "Sweetheart, you don’t need that. You have plenty of clips at home."
"But not this one!" Dora argued, her lower lip jutting out in a dramatic pout.
Before her parents could protest further, George plucked the clip from her hands and handed it to the cashier with a wink. "Put it on my tab."
"George!" Ted groaned.
"What? Consider it my gift to the little menace," he said cheerfully, ruffling Dora’s hair.
Dora, oblivious to her parents’ disapproval, gleefully clipped it into her curls and twirled for effect.
The shopping continued, with Dora pulling them into nearly every store they passed. In one, she found a stuffed pink horse and clutched it to her chest like it was a long-lost friend.
"Dora, love, we don’t need another stuffed toy," Teddy tried gently, but before he could finish, Bill was already paying for it.
"Dad!" Vic groaned again.
"What? She wanted it," Bill said with a shrug, handing the plush toy to a delighted Dora.
In another store, Dora discovered a set of tiny, decorative perfume bottles. "So pretty!" she gasped, grabbing one shaped like a tiny glass star.
"This is getting ridiculous," Vic muttered, eyeing her daughter warily.
James leaned down conspiratorially. "How much?" he asked the shopkeeper.
"James, no!"
James Jr. grinned mischievously. "James, yes." He handed over the money before Vic could snatch it back.
By the time they left the shopping district, Dora was happily swinging James’s hand, her arms filled with her new treasures.
"You lot are spoiling her rotten," Ted muttered.
"Absolutely," Harry agreed, ruffling Dora’s curls. "And I have no regrets."
Dora beamed, clutching her new horse plush tightly. "Best shopping day ever!"
***
Navigating through the bustling streets of Muggle Paris was no easy feat, especially with the heavy summer air pressing down on them. The crowd was dense, tourists and locals alike pushing through narrow pathways, and with Dora being so small, there was no way they could risk letting her walk on her own.
James Jr. had carried her for a good while, but even he was starting to feel the strain. "Alright, kiddo," he said, shifting her weight, "someone else’s turn."
Immediately, Bill stepped in. "Got her," he said, effortlessly swinging Dora into his arms.
She giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck. "You’re strong, Grandpa!"
"I’d better be," he chuckled. "Carrying you is like carrying a little niffler—always collecting things."
Vic rolled her eyes but smiled as Dora giggled at the comparison.
After a few more blocks, Bill passed her to Harry, who took her without hesitation. Dora squealed in delight as he lifted her up onto his shoulders.
"You comfy up there, love?" he asked, holding onto her ankles to keep her steady.
"Very comfy!" she chirped, patting the top of his head.
As they continued, Dora was passed to Sirius, who hoisted her up effortlessly. "Alright, kid, I’ve got you now. Don’t let James Jr. trick you into thinking he’s the strongest."
Dora grinned, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I think you’re all strong!"
Remus, watching from the side, shook his head with a smile. "At this rate, we should’ve brought a stroller."
Vic snorted. "And let them fight over who gets to push her? Absolutely not."
Eventually, it was Arthur’s turn, and then Fred’s, each carrying Dora through the winding streets, making sure she was safe and comfortable. By the time they reached their next stop, she was curled up against Ginny’s chest, looking drowsy.
"Looks like someone’s had enough excitement for one day," Ginny murmured, gently stroking her back.
Dora yawned but grinned sleepily. "I like being carried," she mumbled.
"Of course you do, little princess," James Jr. teased, ruffling her hair.
Sirius smirked. "What do you say,? Shall we just carry her around forever?"
"Yes!" Dora cheered before letting out another tiny yawn.
The family laughed, continuing through the streets of Paris, taking turns carrying the smallest (and most spoiled) member of the group.
***
As they moved through the crowded Parisian streets, it was finally Remus’s turn to carry Dora. He hesitated, shifting uncomfortably.
“I—I don’t mind if someone else—”
Tonks nudged him firmly. “Remus, she’s your granddaughter. Just take her.”
Remus swallowed, then reached out carefully, lifting Dora into his arms. She grinned at him, curling against his chest.
“You smell nice, Granddad,” she murmured, resting her tiny hands against his shoulders.
His breath hitched slightly, his grip tightening as a wave of emotion hit him. He wasn’t used to this—to being called Granddad so easily, to holding her like this. She was still shy around him and Tonks, still gravitating towards Harry and Ginny first, but now, in this moment, she felt safe with him.
He exhaled and let himself relax, pressing a gentle kiss to her head. “You’re getting spoiled today, little one.”
Dora giggled, letting her fingers play with the cuff of his sleeve. “I like it.”
The family continued strolling through the busy streets, pausing at different shops. It was easy to get distracted—window displays filled with dazzling trinkets, mouth-watering scents drifting from bakeries, the constant hum of the city around them.
Remus had been holding onto Dora so carefully, so tightly. He had been terrified of doing something wrong, of making her uncomfortable, of losing this fragile trust she had given him. But his arms were getting sweaty, and just for a second—only a second—he set her down.
“Hold onto my arm, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing a stray curl from her face.
Dora nodded, her little fingers curling around his.
And then—
A rush of people moved between them, a sea of strangers surging past in a blur of motion. Someone jostled him, and for a heartbeat, his grip slipped—just for a second.
And she was gone.
Remus’s heart stopped. His stomach lurched as if he had been hit with a stunning spell.
“Dora?” His voice was sharp, urgent. He turned wildly, scanning the crowd, his breath coming too fast.
She wasn’t there.
She wasn’t there.
His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the noise of the city. Panic clawed at his chest.
“DORA!” he bellowed, his voice raw.
The others turned at his shout. Ginny’s face went white.
“What?” Harry was already moving. “Where is she?”
“I—she was—” Remus’s hands were shaking violently. His breath hitched in his throat, panic strangling him. “I only put her down for a second.”
Victoire gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh, my God.” Tears welled in her eyes.
“She’s four years old!” Teddy’s voice was high with fear. “She doesn’t know where she is!”
Remus couldn’t breathe. His mind raced through every worst-case scenario, each one worse than the last. She was too small. The city was too big. She could be anywhere.
“This is my fault,” he choked out. His throat burned.
Sirius grabbed his shoulders roughly. “Pull yourself together, Moony!” His voice was sharp, commanding. “We’re going to find her. Do you hear me?”
But Remus felt like he was falling, drowning in guilt and terror.
“I lost her,” he whispered brokenly. “I lost my granddaughter.”
Tonks clutched his arm, her own face pale. “Stop it,” she said fiercely. “She needs you to think, Remus. She needs you to help find her.”
Arthur stepped forward, voice firm despite the tension on his face. “We’ll split up. She can’t have gone far.”
Everyone nodded, fanning out into the streets.
Remus was still frozen. His hands trembled at his sides. His breath came in uneven gasps.
Then, suddenly, Teddy grabbed his hand and squeezed. His son—his grown, capable son—looked him in the eye, his own terror barely masked.
“We’re going to find her, Dad,” he whispered.
The word Dad snapped Remus back.
He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to push the fear down, to move. He had to find her. He had to bring her back.
With his heart pounding, he ran into the crowd, calling Dora’s name.
Notes:
Wth this chapter, this fic has crossed 100,000 words!!
Wow, I never believed I'd write that much.
All thanks to all the those lovely people who have shown this story so much love.
Thankyou to all the commenters, and also the silent readers. This would not have been possible without you all!! Lots of love 💕💕
Chapter 26: Midnight Ambush
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The family scattered in every direction, their voices calling out desperately over the noise of the bustling city.
“Dora!” Ginny shouted, pushing through a cluster of tourists.
“Teddy, check that way!” Harry barked, his Auror instincts taking over as he sprinted across the cobblestone street.
Bill had his wand subtly drawn, murmuring spells under his breath to detect magical traces, while Fleur clutched Victoire’s trembling hand, trying to keep her from falling apart.
Remus ran through the throngs of people, his breath ragged. His heart pounded in his chest, guilt weighing him down like lead. He had lost her. He had let her go.
But he couldn’t break down. Not now.
He forced himself to think—Dora was a Metamorphmagus. That meant she could have changed.
“She could look different!” he shouted to the others. “She might have shifted without realizing!”
Teddy’s stomach twisted at the thought. He knew from experience that when emotions ran high, their magic sometimes acted on its own.
“Blimey,” George panted, glancing around wildly. “She could be anywhere—or look like anyone.”
Panic tightened in Remus’s chest. His precious granddaughter, so small, so fragile, lost in a sea of strangers. He imagined her eyes wide with fear, her curls shifting erratically as her little body tried to make itself blend in.
The family regrouped near a large stone fountain, but instead of relief, there was only growing panic. Half an hour. Dora was still missing.
The bustling streets of Paris had never felt so overwhelming. The noise of traffic, the chatter of tourists, the flashing lights of shop signs—it all felt unbearably loud, but at the same time, eerily distant.
Victoire was inconsolable. She clung to Fleur, her face blotchy from crying, her breath coming in short gasps. "She's so small," she sobbed. "She doesn't know her way—what if someone took her? What if—”
Fleur ran a soothing hand down her daughter’s back, but even she looked pale.
Teddy stood frozen beside them, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. His jaw was locked, his entire body tense, but he hadn't spoken a word since they'd gathered. He just kept scanning the crowd, searching for any glimpse of golden-brown curls, of his little girl’s familiar face.
Next to him, Remus looked wrecked. His face was ashen, his breath shallow, his hands shaking violently at his sides. His entire body screamed guilt.
"I put her down for one second," he whispered, almost to himself. His voice sounded strangled, like he was barely holding himself together. "One second, and now she's gone."
Tonks reached for him, but he stepped back like her touch might burn him.
“I lost my granddaughter,” he croaked, looking at Teddy, at Victoire, at the entire family. He looked broken.
Teddy turned to him, his face unreadable, but when he finally spoke, his voice was cold and sharp. “And you think blaming yourself is going to bring her back?”
Remus flinched.
Teddy's voice didn't rise, but the barely contained fury simmered beneath it. "She is out there. Alone. And standing here punishing yourself isn’t going to help her."
A heavy silence fell over the family.
Ron was the first to break it, exhaling sharply. “Alright. We split up again, but properly this time.” His voice was urgent, no-nonsense. “Every street, every alley. Someone must have seen her.”
“I’ll check by the river,” Lily Sr. said quickly, already gripping James Sr.’s hand. “If she got tired, she might have stopped there.”
“I’ll search the markets,” Ginny said, voice tight. “She loves bright colors. If something caught her eye—”
“I’ll take the cafés and side streets,” Bill said. “Sirius, Remus, come with me.”
“And I’ll find Dad,” Teddy said, his voice strained. “He’s been gone too long.”
Molly wrung her hands anxiously, her eyes full of unshed tears. Arthur put a steady hand on her shoulder, speaking in the calm, reassuring voice he had perfected over years of chaos. “Molly and I will stay here in case she finds her way back.”
“She won’t find her way back!” Victoire cried hysterically. “She’s four! She barely speaks French—”
“We will find her,” Arthur said, but even his voice wavered slightly.
The younger generation looked equally shaken. Rose and Lily Jr. were pale, standing close together, while Hugo shifted on his feet anxiously. James Jr. looked the most tense of all, gripping the back of his neck.
“I’ll check the department stores,” Fred Jr. said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Maybe she got distracted by something shiny.”
Louis and Dominique nodded. “We’ll go with you,” Dominique said. “Three pairs of eyes are better than one.”
“We all know how to do a point me spell, right?” Hugo asked, his blue eyes darting around.
“Yes,” Ron said, raking a hand through his hair. “But it’s useless in this crowd. There’s too much magic in the air. We have to ask people.”
They all nodded, the reality of the situation hitting them again.
Remus was still staring at the ground, looking utterly lost.
Sirius clapped a hand on his shoulder, his grip tight. “You are going to find her,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a fact.
Remus closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. “She was right there,” he whispered hoarsely.
"And she will be again,” Sirius said firmly.
Bill glanced around at the desperate faces of his family. "We don’t have time to waste,” he said. “Go.”
Just as they were about to split up again, a sudden shift in the crowd made everyone turn.
Harry Potter emerged from the sea of people, looking utterly exhausted—his hair was even messier than usual, his glasses slipping down his nose, and his shirt was sticking to his back, drenched in sweat. But none of that mattered.
Because in his arms, looking perfectly content and completely unfazed, was Dora.
She was perched on his hip, sucking on a ridiculously large, brightly colored lollipop, as if she hadn’t just sent her entire family into a blind panic.
For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then—
"MERLIN'S BLOODY BEARD, HARRY!" Ginny exploded, rushing forward.
"Where was she?" Teddy demanded, his voice sharp with worry.
Remus nearly collapsed on the spot, his breath hitching in his throat.
Victoire, who had been sobbing uncontrollably moments before, made an odd, strangled noise somewhere between relief and exasperation. “You had a bloody lollipop?” she croaked at her daughter.
Dora blinked at her mother, then slowly pulled the lollipop from her mouth with a loud pop. "Oui, Maman," she said simply, as if that explained everything.
Sirius snorted. “You’re joking.”
Harry let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Found her in some side street, sitting on a bench, happily chatting with a very confused old woman. She was showing off her magic, changing her hair and eyes. The woman thought she was some kind of street performer.”
James Jr. groaned and ran a hand down his face. “Of course she was.”
As soon as Remus reached out, Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second—then, instead of handing Dora to him, he gently passed her to Victoire.
Vic choked on a sob as she took her daughter into her arms, holding her so tightly it was a wonder Dora didn’t squirm. Teddy was at her side instantly, his hands trembling as he ran them over Dora’s little arms and face, as if making sure she was really there, really safe.
“Oh, mon cœur,” Victoire whispered shakily, kissing Dora’s forehead again and again. “Do you have any idea how scared we were?”
Dora blinked up at her mother, puzzled. “But I wasn’t scared.”
Teddy let out a shaky breath, resting his forehead against Dora’s. “That’s not the point, sweetheart.” His voice wavered, raw with emotion.
The rest of the family stood around them, still catching their breath, still reeling.
Remus had stepped back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, as though he didn’t quite trust himself to speak. His expression was an open wound—guilt and heartbreak all at once.
Harry, watching him carefully, placed a hand on his shoulder. “She’s okay,” he said quietly.
Remus swallowed hard and gave a short nod, but his eyes stayed locked on Dora.
Meanwhile, Vic pulled back slightly, brushing sweaty curls from Dora’s forehead. “Where did you get this?” she asked, finally noticing the massive lollipop still clutched in her daughter’s tiny hands.
Dora licked it contently before answering. “A nice lady gave it to me.”
James Jr. let out an incredulous laugh. “Are you telling me she got kidnapped and rewarded for it?”
“I wasn’t kidnapped!” Dora huffed. “I was just—”
“—lost,” Teddy finished for her, his voice gentler now.
Dora scrunched up her nose. “Not really lost…”
“You vanished in the middle of the busiest street in Paris,” Ginny said, her voice still thick with adrenaline. “That’s the definition of lost.”
Molly, who had been clutching Arthur’s arm the entire time, finally stepped forward, cupping Dora’s face. “You gave us all a fright, poppet,” she said, her voice wobbly but warm.
Dora finally seemed to register just how much she had worried everyone. Her little face scrunched up, and she burrowed into Victoire’s shoulder. “Sorry, Maman. Sorry, Daddy,” she mumbled, sounding small.
Vic sighed, her frustration melting into pure love. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said, kissing Dora’s curls again. “For now, we’re just glad you’re safe.”
Sirius clapped a hand on Remus’ back. “Well, at least she had an adventure.”
“I had an adventure” Harry corrected, giving him a look. “I just ran around all of Paris in the heat chasing down a four-year-old escape artist.”
“She’s Vic’s daughter,” Louis grinned, ruffling Dora’s hair. “Of course she’s dramatic.”
Everyone let out tired, breathy chuckles. The tension finally eased, the relief settling in properly.
Harry wiped sweat from his forehead. “Alright,” he said. “Now, can we please do some normal shopping without anyone disappearing?”
Dora grinned around her lollipop. “Okay, Granddad.”
Harry groaned. “You’re lucky I love you, troublemaker.”
***
For the rest of the trip, Dora was never left unsupervised for even a second. She was either in Victoire’s protective embrace, perched on Teddy’s shoulders, or clinging to Harry or James Jr. like a little barnacle. If she wasn’t with them, Bill carried her effortlessly, his grip firm but gentle. Everyone had silently agreed—no risks, no chances.
Remus noticed it all.
He noticed how Harry, exhausted but ever-reliable, kept an extra eye on Dora whenever they were in a crowd. How James Jr. would instinctively reach for her hand. How Bill, despite being the calmest among them, always double-checked her whereabouts. How Teddy and Victoire, though trying not to smother her, never let her wander more than a few steps away.
And he noticed—painfully so—how none of that responsibility was left to him.
It wasn’t intentional. No one had told him he wasn’t allowed to hold her. No one had said he had failed. But it was there, unspoken, lingering in the cautious way Victoire hesitated before passing Dora to him, in the way Teddy’s eyes flickered with something like uncertainty.
And worst of all? He agreed with them.
He kept hearing Harry’s voice from earlier—"She’s okay."
Because of Harry.
Harry, who had found her. Harry, who had saved her. Harry, who always swooped in at the last second to fix everything.
And what had Remus done?
Lost her.
It shouldn’t have stung this much. He knew it wasn’t about trust. He knew they didn’t blame him. But that didn’t change the fact that every time he reached for Dora, a tiny voice in his head whispered: You don’t deserve to hold her.
Nymphadora had noticed. Of course she had.
That evening, as the family settled in for dinner at the villa, she sat beside him, resting a gentle hand on his knee.
“Stop it,” she murmured.
Remus didn’t look up from his plate. “Stop what?”
“You know what.”
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “I lost her, Dora. I put her down for one second, and she disappeared.”
Tonks softened, her fingers curling around his hand. “And if it had been her parents instead of you? Or Harry? Or Ginny?”
Remus didn’t answer.
“Would you be looking at any of us the way you’re looking at yourself right now?” she pressed.
Silence.
“You’re her grandfather, Remus,” she said gently. “One moment doesn’t change that.”
He let out a quiet, shaky breath. “Doesn’t it?”
Tonks squeezed his hand. “No. It doesn’t.”
Across the table, Dora sat happily between James Jr. and Teddy, swinging her legs as she munched on her dinner, chattering away without a care in the world. She wasn’t traumatized. She wasn’t scared. She was fine.
Remus exhaled.
Maybe, just maybe, he would be too.
***
The family decided to take a break from shopping and have lunch at a fancy restaurant near the Seine. It was an elegant place, the kind with crystal chandeliers and neatly folded napkins, clearly meant for a more refined crowd. The Weasleys and Potters, however, were never ones to tone themselves down.
They were given a large private table on the terrace, overlooking the river. The view was stunning, the scent of freshly baked bread and fine French cuisine filling the air. The waiters, clearly trying to remain professional, seemed slightly intimidated by the sheer size of their group.
Dora, now securely seated between Victoire and James Jr., happily swung her feet under the table, completely unaware of the earlier chaos. She was busy munching on the oversized lollipop she had somehow acquired during her misadventure.
Remus, still feeling the weight of his guilt, sat next to Tonks, quiet and reserved. The incident played over and over in his mind. One second—just one second—he had let go of her hand, and she had vanished into the crowd. He had failed. Again.
He barely touched his food, unlike the rest of the family, who were digging into their meals with enthusiasm. James Jr. and Fred had challenged each other to see who could eat the most escargots, much to Ginny’s horror and George’s amusement.
At some point, Harry, sitting across from him, caught his eye.
"Remus," Harry said casually, dipping a piece of bread into his soup. "You should try this. It’s really good.”
Remus glanced at him, confused for a moment before realizing what Harry was doing. He wasn’t going to bring up the incident. He wasn’t going to lecture him or try to comfort him. He was just going to pull him back in—into the present, into the family, into the moment.
And it worked, if only a little.
He picked up his fork and took a bite, giving Harry a small nod of thanks.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, Molly was scolding Louis for teaching little Dora how to say "Voulez-vous un prank?" to the waiters, while Arthur was delightedly inspecting the Muggle menu, trying to figure out the difference between steak tartare and bœuf bourguignon.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Tonks murmured beside him, her hand gently squeezing his under the table.
“She could have been taken,” Remus muttered, keeping his voice low. “She could have been—”
“But she wasn’t,” Tonks interrupted, her voice firm. “She’s right there, safe and happy.”
Remus swallowed, looking at their granddaughter again. She was laughing as James made exaggerated faces at her, her tiny fingers sticky from the remnants of her lollipop. He wanted to believe Tonks. He should believe her.
But the truth was, Dora still clung to Harry and Ginny. She still reached for James Jr. or Teddy when she wanted to be carried. She still looked at him and Tonks with hesitant shyness, as if unsure of her place with them.
And now, after today, would she trust him even less?
A hand clapped his shoulder suddenly, and he looked up to find Arthur smiling kindly at him. “Remus, my boy, you look like you’re carrying the weight of the world,” he said. “Don’t. She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
Remus forced a nod, but the tightness in his chest didn’t ease.
As the last of their lunch plates were cleared away, James Jr. leaned back in his chair with a lazy grin. “You know,” he mused, tapping his fork against his plate, “this place gives free cake if it’s your birthday.”
Teddy snorted. “Yeah? And whose birthday is it?”
James Jr. smirked. “Dad’s.”
Harry, who had just taken a sip of water, choked so hard that Ginny had to pat his back. “Excuse me?” he croaked.
“You heard me,” James said, grinning. “It’s your birthday, Dad. Congratulations.”
Harry glared. “It is not my birthday.”
“Are you sure?” George chimed in innocently. “Because honestly, who even knows when your real birthday is anymore? The whole coming-back-from-the-dead thing has probably messed with the timeline.”
“I did not come back from the—” Harry started, but Lily cut him off.
“I dunno, Dad, sounds suspicious,” she said, feigning deep thought. “You were dead for a few minutes back in the war. That’s gotta count for something.”
“Oh my god,” Harry groaned, rubbing his face. “That’s not how birthdays work.”
“They might in France,” Rose added unhelpfully.
Ginny, enjoying this far too much, leaned into Harry’s shoulder. “Just go with it, love,” she said, barely holding back a laugh. “It’s free cake.”
Before Harry could dig himself out of this disaster, Sirius casually turned and flagged down a waitress.
“Hi there,” Sirius said, beaming. “It’s my godson’s birthday.”
Harry shot up in his chair. “SIRIUS, NO—”
Too late. The waitress, delighted, gave a cheerful nod and hurried off.
Harry turned back to the table, eyes wide with betrayal. “You traitor.”
Sirius shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “You were taking too long to agree.”
Harry groaned loudly while the rest of the family broke into laughter.
A few minutes later, the waitress returned, leading a small parade of restaurant staff carrying a beautifully decorated chocolate cake with candles. The entire restaurant joined in singing Joyeux Anniversaire, and Harry—horribly, painfully aware that the entire room was staring at him—had never wanted to Apparate away so badly in his life.
James Jr. clapped him on the back. “Happy birthday, Dad!”
“I hate all of you,” Harry muttered, cheeks burning as the song ended in applause.
“Blow out the candles, love,” Ginny said, grinning.
“Make a wish!” Lily added.
“Wish for a real birthday next time,” Ron quipped, earning a swat from Hermione.
Harry exhaled sharply and blew out the candles—grumbling about how this was not his birthday as the family cheered.
As the cake was sliced and passed around, James Jr. leaned over to his sister. “You think if we tell them it’s Uncle Ron's birthday tomorrow, we’ll get another cake?”
Lily snickered. “Only one way to find out.”
James Jr. and Lily exchanged mischievous glances, but before they could rope Ron into another round of fake birthdays, Molly Weasley fixed them both with a look that could have sent even the bravest Gryffindor running.
“Not another word,” she warned, her voice deceptively sweet as she sipped her juice.
James Jr. and Lily both immediately straightened in their seats, feigning perfect innocence.
Harry, still grumbling about his “birthday,” shoved a large bite of cake into his mouth. “At least it’s good cake,” he muttered.
Victoire, still shaken from earlier, kept her hands around Dora, who was contently munching on a piece of chocolate given to her by Bill. She had no idea why so many people were still fussing over her.
Remus, however, was not joining in on the lightheartedness. He sat stiffly at the edge of the table, barely touching his food. Even as Sirius tried to get him to joke along, his eyes remained fixed on Dora.
Harry, ever perceptive, caught the look and sighed. After a moment, he leaned over, nudging Remus with his elbow. “You do realize she’s completely fine, right?”
Remus forced a small smile but didn’t answer.
“She wasn’t scared. Didn’t cry. Hell, she even managed to find herself a lollipop,” Harry continued, nodding toward the giant sweet still clutched in Dora’s tiny hands.
“I lost her, Harry,” Remus said quietly, his voice tight.
Harry’s expression softened. “You put her down for one second. It could’ve happened to any of us.”
Remus let out a humorless laugh. “Except it didn’t happen to anyone else. It happened to me.” His fingers tightened around his napkin. “And, like always, you had to be the one to fix it.”
Harry sighed. “Remus—”
But Remus was already shaking his head. “You don’t get it. It’s not just today. Ever since we came back—since I came back—it’s been you. Always you, always stepping in, always doing what I should be able to do.” He swallowed hard. “And Dora… she looks at you and Ginny like you’re her grandparents. I don’t blame her, but—”
“She loves you,” Harry interrupted firmly. “She’s just shy, Remus. She’ll warm up. Give her time.”
Remus looked back toward the little girl in Victoire’s lap, laughing as Louis made silly faces at her. Give her time. He wasn’t sure if he deserved to.
Before he could say anything else, Dora suddenly turned, spotting him across the table. Her face lit up. “Granddad Moony!”
Remus froze as she wriggled out of Victoire’s hold, reaching for him. “Up!” she demanded.
For a second, he couldn’t move. But then, slowly, he reached over, lifting her into his lap.
She immediately snuggled into his chest, still holding her lollipop, completely unbothered by the chaos she had caused earlier.
“I wasn’t lost,” she told him confidently.
Remus let out a shaky laugh. “No?”
“Nope,” she said proudly. “I was exploring.”
Sirius snorted. “Sounds like someone’s inherited the Marauder spirit.”
Dora yawned, resting her head against Remus’s shoulder. “Exploring is tiring.”
Remus wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. “Yeah,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “It really is.”
***
As they wandered through the bustling streets, arms full of shopping bags, Dora excitedly pointed out every colorful shop window, demanding to stop at almost every one. James Jr., much to Teddy and Victoire’s exasperation, indulged her more often than not, slipping away to buy her little trinkets despite their protests.
“I swear,” Vic muttered to Lily, watching as Dora hugged her newest stuffed dragon, “I don’t know who spoils her more—her uncles or her great-uncles.”
They were just about to enter another shop when a loud rumble of thunder cracked across the sky. Within seconds, fat raindrops started pelting the pavement.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Ron groaned, hastily shoving his bags under his jacket.
“It wasn’t supposed to rain today!” Hermione exclaimed, quickly casting a water-repelling charm over herself and Rose.
The streets became chaotic as Parisians and tourists alike scrambled for shelter, and Molly immediately clapped her hands together. “Alright, that’s enough shopping! Let’s get back before this turns into a storm.”
Everyone hurried toward the main street to find cabs. Harry, Sirius, and Bill took the lead, waving down taxis as the rain came down harder. Dora, now perched on James Jr.'s shoulders again, squealed in delight.
“It’s fun!” she giggled, stretching her arms out as if trying to catch the raindrops.
Teddy groaned. “Of course you would like this.”
As the rain lashed against the cab’s windows, Lily, James, and Sirius settled inside, the older couple in the backseat while Sirius claimed the front beside the driver. The storm outside had only grown fiercer, making the streets slick and the city hazy behind a curtain of rain.
Just as the cab started to pull away, there was a sharp knock on the window. James rolled it down, revealing their grandchildren, drenched and shivering.
“Er—there aren’t any more cabs,” James Jr. announced, looking entirely unapologetic. “So, move over.”
The taxi was already stuffed with shopping bags, every inch of space occupied by parcels and packages. Without magic to help them, given the presence of Muggles, they had no choice but to adjust the old-fashioned way.
What followed was five minutes of grumbling, elbowing, and sharp jabs to the ribs as everyone squished together. James let out an exaggerated oof as Lily Jr. practically landed on his lap, while Lily Sr. tried her best to shield herself from James Jr.’s rain-soaked shirt.
Finally, after much shifting and muttering, they settled. The kids squeezed between their grandparents—Lily Jr. beside James, and James Jr. beside Lily, the four of them squashed but warm in the small space.
Up front, Sirius smirked in amusement, stretching out comfortably as though he had all the room in the world. “I love being me.”
James shot him a glare, but before he could retaliate, the cab finally pulled away, trundling through the rain-drenched streets of Paris.
As the cab rumbled through the rain-slicked streets of Paris, the inside was a mess of damp clothes, shifting shopping bags, and limbs pressed too close together. James Jr. grumbled as he tried to rearrange himself without elbowing his grandmother in the ribs again.
Lily Jr. wrinkled her nose, shivering slightly. “It smells like wet dog in here.”
Sirius snorted from the front seat, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Careful, kid. You might hurt my feelings.”
Lily Sr. sighed, adjusting her shawl as best she could in the cramped space. “Honestly, I don’t know why we thought shopping all day in this weather was a good idea.”
James Jr. leaned back, eyes twinkling. “It was a good idea. We just didn’t account for the part where we’d have to fight for our lives in a taxi afterward.”
“I’m fighting for my lungs,” Lily Jr. grumbled, shoving at her brother’s shoulder as he encroached on her space. “You’re sitting on me.”
“Oh, please.” James Jr. smirked. “I’m barely touching you.”
Lily Sr. rolled her eyes, nudging her grandson. “Enough, you two. Unless you’d rather walk back?”
That shut them up.
Outside, the rain continued to lash the streets, making the city glow under the reflection of golden streetlights. The cab weaved through the traffic, tires
As their cab rolled forward, James Jr. smirked and pulled out his spell-phone. “I have to get this.”
Through the rain-streaked window, the scene in the other cab was absolute gold. Harry, trapped between Ginny and Fleur, looked like a man questioning all his life choices. Fleur was gesturing wildly, her expression as regal as ever, while Ginny had her arms crossed, clearly not backing down.
Bill, in the front seat, didn’t look amused—just done. His head was tilted slightly toward the window, eyes half-lidded, as if he were mentally anywhere but there.
James Sr. stifled a laugh as he peered at the screen. “Make sure you get the whole thing—Bill’s misery really sells it.”
Lily Sr. sighed but didn’t stop him. “You know your father is going to murder you for this.”
James Jr. grinned. “Worth it.” He tapped the screen just as Harry turned and locked eyes with him through the window.
Harry’s face immediately darkened. Even though they couldn’t hear him, they could all see the words Don’t you dare forming on his lips.
James Jr. just wiggled his fingers in a cheeky little wave before clicking the picture.
Sirius, watching the whole thing, snorted. “You’re definitely your father’s son.”
As their cab moved forward, they passed another taxi carrying Victoire, Teddy, Tonks, and Remus. In the backseat, Dora was mid-tantrum—her little hands flailing, face scrunched in frustration, her hair cycling wildly between colors. Teddy looked completely worn out, while Victoire rubbed her temples, clearly at the end of her patience. In the front, Tonks and Remus were turned around, both trying—and failing—to calm her down.
James Jr. took one look at the chaos and let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Thank Merlin. I was this close to insisting she come with me. Kids are only adorable when they’re happy.”
Lily Jr. shot him a skeptical look. “You just bought her a ridiculously expensive perfume bottle because she was sad.”
James Jr. shrugged. “That was a controlled situation. This—” he gestured at the scene of destruction unfolding in the next cab “—is a full-scale disaster.”
Sirius smirked. “And yet, you were the one volunteering to carry her around all day.”
James Jr. huffed. “That was before she started summoning the powers of chaos itself.”
Lily Sr. shook her head fondly. “Poor thing. She must be exhausted.”
As their cab pulled ahead, Teddy could be seen pressing his forehead against the window, looking utterly defeated, while Victoire tried to bribe Dora with a biscuit. Dora, still wailing, threw it to the floor dramatically.
James leaned back with a smug grin. “Yep. Best decision I made all day.”As they drove on, the rain only intensified, blurring the city lights and making it nearly impossible to spot any of the other taxis carrying their family.
“Hey, give me your spell-phone,” Lily said, nudging her brother.
James frowned. “Why? Use your own.”
“I would if I had it,” she shot back. “I left it in Mum’s bag.”
James sighed, already sensing where this was going. “And what do I get out of this?”
Lily rolled her eyes. “The satisfaction of being a decent brother?”
James snorted but handed it over anyway. “Fine. What do you need it for?”
“I want to ask Al when he’s getting here,” she replied, already typing.
As Lily Jr. scrolled through James Jr.’s spell-phone, she momentarily forgot her original purpose. Her eyes widened as she skimmed through a few messages from various women—some subtle, some very obvious—all inviting him out for drinks, dinner, or “just a little coffee” that sounded suspiciously like dates.
She raised an eyebrow. Well, well, well.
“Merlin’s beard,” she muttered with a smirk, turning the screen toward him. “And here I thought Aurors had no social life, but apparently, my dear brother is quite the ladies’ man.”
James Jr., who had been staring idly out the window, snapped his head toward her. “Oi! What the hell are you doing?” He lunged for the phone, but Lily held it just out of his reach.
“‘Hey, James, would love to grab a drink sometime. Just us,’” she read in a sickeningly sweet voice. “And—oh, this one’s good—‘You looked so good at training today. Maybe we should celebrate?’”
James groaned. “Lily, give it back.”
Sirius, lounging comfortably in the front seat, perked up. “What’s all this?” he asked, smirking. “Jamie boy has fans?”
Lily grinned. “More like an entire fan club.”
James ran a hand down his face. “Give. It. Back.”
“Not until you tell me which one you’re actually interested in.”
“I don’t—” He hesitated for half a second too long.
“Ooooh,” Lily sang, nudging him. “There is someone!”
Sirius leaned back, grinning. “Come on, James, you can tell us.”
James snatched the phone back with a glare. “There’s no one.”
Lily exchanged a knowing look with Sirius, then smirked. “Sure, James. Whatever you say.”
James muttered something under his breath as he shoved his phone into his pocket, but the redness in his ears betrayed him.
Lily Jr. leaned back, arms crossed, still grinning from her earlier discovery. But then she remembered something.
“Hold on—why did you send a perfume bottle to England?” She frowned, reading the details. James Jr. stiffened slightly. “She’s a colleague,” he replied.
Lily raised an eyebrow. “A colleague you’re sending fancy French perfume to?”
“She mentioned liking a particular scent,” James said with a shrug, avoiding her gaze. “Saw it in the shop and figured I’d send it her way. That’s all.”
Lily wasn’t convinced. “Mhm. And do you make a habit of buying expensive gifts for all your colleagues, or just this one?”
James shot her a flat look. “Drop it, Lils.”
Lily grinned, nudging him with her elbow. “You’re deflecting.”
“And you’re nosy,” James shot back, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.
Lily leaned back against the seat, watching the rain streak down the taxi window. After a moment of silence, she glanced at her brother. "So, did Al tell you when he'd come?"James, still annoyed by her teasing, barely glanced at her. "Dunno. Haven’t seen him in weeks."
Lily frowned. "Don’t you two run into each other at the Ministry?"
James let out a short laugh. "Right. He’s holed up in the Department of Mysteries doing who-knows-what, and I’m actually out in the field doing real work."
Lily rolled her eyes. "You could’ve just said ‘no,’ but sure, make it dramatic."
Lily turned to James with a determined look. “I already sent him a message. Now you call him.”
James groaned. “Why? You just texted him!”
“Because he won’t ignore a call,” Lily said, shoving his arm. “Come on, just check in. It’s not that hard.”
James huffed, pulling out his own spell-phone. “Fine. But if he answers in one word, I’m hanging up.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “Just call him, James.”
James let the phone ring, rolling his eyes as it went unanswered.
"Shocking," he muttered. "He's not picking up."
Lily huffed. "Try again."
"Why? He clearly doesn’t want to talk."
"Or he’s busy!" she shot back. "Just call him again."
James sighed dramatically but redialed. This time, the call rang out completely before going to voicemail. He glanced at Lily. "There. Happy?"
She frowned, staring at the phone like she could will Albus to answer. "He always picks up for Dad."
"Well, I'm not Dad." James locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket. "If he wanted to talk, he would’ve answered."
Lily crossed her arms. "Or he's caught up in something and didn’t notice."
"Or," James countered, "he's ignoring us."
Lily sighed, looking out the window as the rain poured harder. "I just have a bad feeling."
James didn't reply right away. He wasn't worried—not yet, anyway—but something about Albus’s silence sat strangely. Instead of admitting it, he just nudged Lily’s arm. "He’s probably fine. We’ll see him soon enough."
Lily nodded, but her frown didn’t disappear.
***
As their cab pulled up to the villa, the storm had worsened. Rain pounded against the roof, cascading down in heavy sheets, while the wind howled through the trees, making the branches creak ominously. Thunder cracked overhead, illuminating the grand villa in sharp flashes of white light. What had once been a charming holiday home now looked like something straight out of a ghost story.
James Jr. let out a low whistle. “Yeah… that’s not creepy at all.”
Lily huffed as she pulled her coat tighter around herself. “Come on, let’s just get inside before we drown out here.”
Sirius was already at the door, shoving it open. “Welcome home,” he announced, stepping inside. The moment they crossed the threshold, the eerie quiet settled over them.
No sound of chatter, no warmth of a lit fireplace, no sign of their family. Just the dim glow of the sconces and the distant sound of rain hammering against the glass.
James Jr.’s spell-phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out, glancing at the screen. His eyebrows shot up. “Well, that explains the silence.”
Lily peered over his shoulder. “What?”
James Jr. held up the screen, reading the message aloud:
Dad: Storm’s too bad, roads flooded. We’re stuck at a hotel in Paris. Be back tomorrow. Stay put.
Lily groaned. “You mean we’re here alone?”
James Sr., who had just finished pulling off his soaked coat, raised a brow. “Not alone. We’re here.”
Lily Jr. gave him an unimpressed look. “You’re our grandparents, that doesn’t count.”
James Sr. smirked. “I feel deeply insulted.”
Lily Sr., who had been quietly observing, simply sighed and shut the door behind them. “Well, it looks like we’re having a quiet evening, then.”
Another loud crash of thunder made the lights flicker.
Lily Sr. sighed. “Let’s just dry off and get settled before something actually happens, alright?”
With that, they moved further into the villa, shutting out the raging storm behind them. But even as they settled in, the eerie silence of the empty house hung heavy around them.
After changing into dry clothes, the family gathered in the villa’s spacious living room. The storm continued to rage outside, rain pelting against the windows with relentless force. A fire crackled in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows on the walls, giving the room a warm but slightly eerie glow.
James Jr. sprawled on the couch, stretching his legs out with a sigh. “Well, at least we don’t have to go back out in that mess.”
Lily Sr. settled into an armchair, running a hand through her damp hair. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m still exhausted from all the walking today.”
Sirius scoffed. “You lot have gone soft. Back in my day, a little rain never stopped anything.”
Lily Jr., who had been staring into the fire, suddenly turned her head toward the window. Something—a shadow, a figure—moved just outside, barely visible through the rain-splattered glass. Her breath caught in her throat.
There was someone there.
A scream tore from her lips before she could stop it. “There’s someone outside!”
Everyone jumped, startled by her outburst. James Sr. immediately stood, his wand drawn, while Sirius’s playful expression turned serious in an instant.
James Jr. rushed to the window and pressed his face against the glass. The storm distorted everything outside, but there was nothing. Just darkness and rain.
He turned back to Lily Jr., raising an eyebrow. “There’s no one there.”
“I saw someone!” she insisted, heart still hammering. “They were right there—watching us.”
Sirius and James Sr. exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable.
“Lils,” James Jr. said, softer this time, “it’s been a long day. The storm’s playing tricks on you.”
Lily Jr. frowned, still staring at the window. Her stomach twisted uneasily.
Maybe they were right. Maybe it had just been her imagination.
And yet… she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had been there. Watching. Waiting.
***
After everyone had settled in for the night, the villa fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional rumble of thunder. The storm outside had not let up; if anything, the rain was heavier, lashing against the windows like waves crashing against rock.
Lily Jr. climbed into bed, wrapping the blanket around herself. The room felt too empty without the rest of the family. She and Victoire were supposed to be sharing, but with Vic stuck in Paris, she had the space to herself. The loneliness made the room feel larger than it was, shadows stretching across the walls as lightning flashed outside.
She turned onto her side, staring at the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. Just as she was about to close her eyes, something in the backyard caught her attention.
A figure.
Her breath hitched.
A tall, bulky-looking man stood just beyond the tree line, barely illuminated by the glow of the villa’s outdoor lanterns. He wasn’t moving—just standing there, half-hidden by the rain, watching.
Lily Jr. sat up quickly, gripping the blanket tightly. Her heart pounded against her ribs.
Was he one of the locals? A lost traveler? Or… was it the same person she had seen earlier?
She swallowed hard, her fingers twitching toward her wand on the bedside table. The logical part of her brain told her to wake someone up. To tell the rest of the family.
But she didn’t move.
She just kept staring, waiting to see what the man would do.
And then, in the next flash of lightning—
He was gone.
Her logical side told her to wake the others, but being her father’s daughter, she ignored it. Instead, she grabbed a jacket, pulling it over her dressing gown, and tucked her wand inside. On her way downstairs, she snatched a moldy old umbrella from the stand, barely noticing the musty smell as she stepped out into the storm.
Rain lashed against her as she scanned the backyard. Nothing. Just the wind and the trees bending under its force.
But then—movement.
As she turned, she spotted him. A shadow near the kitchen window.
Her pulse quickened. Moving stealthily, she crept toward him, keeping her footsteps light despite the wet stone beneath her feet.
Up close, she saw that he wasn’t as bulky as she had thought. He was lean but carried a heavy rucksack over his shoulder, his oversized coat making him appear larger than he was.
Before he could notice her, she pressed her wand firmly against his back.
“Don’t move,” she murmured, voice low but firm. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
The man stiffened as Lily pressed her wand against his back, but before she could demand answers, a strong gust of wind sent cold rain lashing into her face.
That split second was all he needed.
He spun around, fast.
Lily reacted just as quickly, instinctively tightening her grip on her wand—but the rain had slicked her fingers, and it slipped right out, falling with a soft thud into the mud.
Shit.
The man took a cautious step forward, hands raised as if to calm her. “Lily, it’s me—”
She didn’t wait to hear the rest.
With lightning reflexes, she swung the umbrella, the curved handle catching him squarely across the ribs with a thwack. He grunted, stumbling back.
Before he could recover, she lunged, jabbing the sharp end of the umbrella into his stomach. He doubled over with a pained gasp, hands clutching his abdomen.
“Lily—wait—”
She yanked the umbrella back and swung again, this time smacking him across the face. His head snapped to the side as he staggered, rainwater dripping from his soaked hair.
“Bloody—hell—would you—”
She cut him off with a vicious kick to the shin. He swore loudly, nearly losing his balance.
He threw up his arms defensively. “Just listen—”
Lily didn’t listen. She was already moving again, ducking low before driving her elbow into his side. The force knocked him off balance, sending him stumbling backward into the mud.
Not giving him a chance to recover, she dropped down onto him, pressing a knee into his chest to pin him. With her free hand, she grabbed the front of his coat and pulled him up slightly, rain dripping off the ends of her hair as she glared.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded, raising her fist for another punch.
Through the dim light, the man groaned, blinking up at her, dazed.
“Lily,” he gasped, voice strained. “It’s me.”
She froze, fist hovering mid-air, finally getting a good look at him.
The man groaned, rubbing his jaw with a wince. “Well, that’s one hell of a greeting.”
Lily’s breath hitched as she finally saw his face clearly.
“Albus?” she whispered, her grip on his coat loosening.
Her brother groaned, wiping rain and mud from his face. “Yeah, it’s me—thanks for the bloody beating, by the way.”
Horror flooded her. “Oh, shit—”
Before she could fully process it, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the house. The back door slammed open, and voices filled the rain-soaked garden.
“Lily?” her grandmother’s sharp voice cut through the downpour. “What the hell is going on?”
“Lils?” their brother's voice followed, worried.
Within seconds, figures emerged through the storm—James, Sirius, and their grandparents, wands raised and eyes scanning for danger. The glow of their spells illuminated the rain, casting eerie shadows across the garden.
Lily scrambled off Albus, hands shaking.
“I— I thought he was an intruder,” she stammered, stepping back as James hurried to her side. “I— I didn’t know it was him.”
James’s gaze darted between her and Albus, taking in the scene—the discarded umbrella, their brother sprawled in the mud, clutching his ribs.
“Al?” he barked a laugh. “Merlin, mate, what did you do to deserve that?”
“I existed, apparently,” Albus muttered, wiping a streak of dirt from his face. “And I had the audacity to show up unannounced.”
“Unannounced and sneaking around in the bloody dark,” James pointed out, crossing his arms. “Not your best idea.”
Lily scowled, crossing her arms. “I was being cautious! He was lurking outside like some dodgy criminal!”
“I wasn’t lurking—”
“You were lurking,” James cut in. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be drenched, covered in mud, and looking like you just lost a pub fight.”
Albus shot him a glare but winced when he shifted. “She punched me.”
“You deserved it,” Lily snapped, still red-faced.
“Alright, alright,” Lily’s grandmother cut in, stepping forward. “Enough bickering. Let’s get inside before you both catch your deaths out here.”
Lily groaned as their grandfather chuckled beside her. “Remind me never to piss you off,” he murmured, grinning.
Notes:
Hope you like this new chapter!
Please do tell how should I continue the story and what would you like to read. I like reading new ideas, so please don't hesitate! :-)
Chapter 27: Sunlit Bonds
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sirius watched silently as Lily carefully applied dittany to Albus’ bruises, his sharp gaze lingering on the boy’s face.
He had always thought James, younger, was the spitting image of Harry, but looking at Albus now—disheveled, dripping wet, and scowling through the sting of the potion—Sirius felt like he had been thrown back in time. It wasn’t just the messy black hair or the sharp angles of his face; there was something about his expression, the set of his jaw, the way his green eyes burned with quiet defiance. It was like seeing fifteen-year-old Harry all over again.
Except… no glasses. No lightning-shaped scar.
Sirius exhaled, his chest tightening with something unspoken. He had missed so much.
He remembered all the headlines, the whispers in the crowd, the way people talked about him since he arrived. All those nasty, vile accusations—calling him a traitor, a brat, a disgrace to his family name.
He hadn’t asked Harry about it, hadn’t pried, because he knew better than anyone what it was like to have the weight of a name suffocating you. But now, seeing Albus up close—bruised, drenched, and glaring at the floor—Sirius wondered just how much of those headlines had been exaggerated… and how much had been painfully true.
James Jr, who had been watching the scene with amusement, finally spoke up. "Alright, little brother, mind telling us how exactly you ended up sneaking around our backyard like some third-rate burglar?"
Albus, still wincing as Lily dabbed more dittany onto his bruises, shot him an annoyed look. "I wasn’t sneaking."
James smirked. "Oh, sorry—lurking. That’s much better."
James huffed a quiet laugh, while his sister rolled her eyes. "James, not now."
James Jr held up his hands. "What? I’m just saying, if you wanted to surprise us, Al, you could’ve at least not gotten your arse handed to you by our dear little sister and her trusty umbrella."
Albus glared. "I didn't want to wake everyone up!"
"And yet," James gestured around dramatically, "you accomplished the exact opposite."
Albus, still rubbing his bruised cheek, looked around the dimly lit living room, noticing for the first time how empty the villa felt. He frowned. "Wait—where is everyone else?"
Lily Jr, now calmer but still watching him with suspicion, crossed her arms. "Stuck in Paris. The storm got worse, and they couldn’t get back, so they’re staying in a hotel for the night."
Albus blinked. "So it’s just you lot here?"
James grinned. "Yep. Just us, dad's parents Sirius, and the world’s best security system—Lily and her umbrella of doom."
"I thought you weren’t coming until the day before the wedding," James said, raising an eyebrow.
Albus shot him a glare. "Got a problem with that?"
James just shrugged, smirking. "Nope, just wondering if I should be flattered or concerned."
Albus dusted himself off, still grimacing as he touched his bruised cheek. He glanced around at the expectant faces staring at him. After an awkward beat of silence, he cleared his throat.
“So… uh… good to see you all,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Even if my welcome involved nearly getting murdered in the garden.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You should’ve knocked like a normal person instead of creeping around like a burglar.”
Albus scoffed. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting to be attacked with an umbrella.”
Lily Jr huffed, arms crossed. “You were sneaking! What was I supposed to do? Offer you tea?”
James Jr smirked. “Well, at least she didn’t hex you first. That’s restraint.”
Albus sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Anyway, where am I sleeping?”
“Oh, dear, you’ll be sharing with James.” his grandmother said.
“Albus let out an even louder groan. “Why me? Isn’t there a broom cupboard or a nice, cozy shed I could sleep in?”
James Jr rolled his eyes. “Oh, stop whining. It’s not like we have to share a bed.”
Albus huffed. “Still. I value my personal space.”
James turned toward the stairs. “Come on, drama queen. I need my beauty sleep.”
Albus sighed heavily, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. “This is going to be a nightmare.”
James shot him a grin. “For you, yeah.”
***
As Sirius lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the rain outside drumming against the windows, his thoughts drifted to Albus. The boy was nothing like the villain the papers had made him out to be.
Ever since Sirius had returned, he’d seen headline after headline painting Albus as some kind of cold, bitter disappointment to the Potter name. A traitor. A disgrace. A troublemaker. It was absurd. The kid was just... a kid. He had sharp edges, sure, but Sirius had seen enough lost, angry boys in his lifetime to know when someone was truly broken—and Albus didn’t seem broken. Not yet.
But still... Sirius felt something uneasy twist in his gut.
It was hard not to feel conflicted about him. Albus had been distant from Harry for years—that much was clear. The tension between father and son was unmistakable, even without knowing the full details. And Sirius, who had spent so long aching for the family he’d lost, couldn’t quite understand it. He couldn’t imagine looking at James—his James—and keeping him at arm’s length the way Albus seemed to do with Harry.
Sirius exhaled, rolling onto his side, forcing his eyes shut.
Harry isn’t like my father, Sirius thought.
From what he had seen, Harry was a great father—patient, protective, effortlessly slipping between playful banter and quiet authority. He wasn’t just good with his own kids, either. Even with Teddy, Remus' son, Harry had stepped in without hesitation, making sure the boy always had a place, always felt wanted.
Sirius let out a slow sigh, his chest tight with something he couldn't quite name.
At last, sleep finally pulled him under.
***
The next morning, Sirius woke with a dull ache in his chest. He dressed without much thought and made his way downstairs, where the low murmur of conversation drifted from the kitchen.
Everyone was already gathered around the table, the clink of cutlery and quiet laughter filling the air. Sirius slid into a chair with a muttered, “Morning.”
“The others still haven't arrived?” he asked, reaching for a piece of toast.
“Nope,” James Jr said, stretching lazily. “They’re probably on their way.”
Sirius took a bite of toast, chewing slowly as his gaze drifted to Albus. The bruise on his cheek had faded to a pale shadow, but it was still there—a dull reminder of the night before.
Albus must have felt the weight of his stare because he glanced up, eyes sharp beneath his untidy fringe. Sirius hesitated for a beat too long.
“You just look like your dad,” Sirius said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Albus stilled. His mouth twitched, but the smile he forced was tight and strained. He swallowed hard and gave a small, jerky nod.
Sirius felt the shift in the air—thin and brittle. He dropped his gaze to his plate, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
“You didn’t come home,” James said, his tone deceptively calm. But there was weight behind it—a quiet accusation. “Everyone in the family tried to contact you. You ignored all of it.”
Albus’s jaw clenched. “I was busy,” he said, sharp and brittle.
James scoffed. “I work more hours than you—and my work is literally dealing with dark wizards, not sitting behind a desk wasting Ministry money on whatever research you lot are doing. But I still find time to go home. Especially after the resurrection.”
Albus’s eyes flashed dangerously. His lips curled into something close to a sneer. He took a deep breath, then said, voice low and cutting, “Well, I don’t work as an errand boy in Dad’s department. The rest of us have to do actual work and can’t shift our schedules around for personal reasons.”
James’s eyes narrowed, the heat rising beneath his skin. “What do you mean by that?” His voice was sharp, cutting the tension like a blade.
Albus opened his mouth, something dark flickering across his face—but before he could speak, Lily’s voice cut through the thick air like a sudden gust of wind.
“Okay, enough,” she said, forcing a bright, brittle cheer into her tone. “Let’s not ruin breakfast, yeah?”
James and Albus both looked at her. She gave them both a tight smile, though her eyes were wary.
James’s jaw tightened. Albus’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Neither of them spoke.
Lily’s smile strained further. “Great talk, boys,” she said, then took a large bite of toast as if the tension wasn’t heavy enough to crush them all.
Sirius watched the exchange from the corner of his eye, his hand tightening around his cup of coffee. The tension between James and Albus was sharp enough to cut through the steady hum of conversation around them. He’d seen fights like this before—resentment dressed up as casual words, the kind of bitterness that simmered beneath the surface until it boiled over.
James’s voice had that dangerous edge, the same tone Harry used when he was pushed too far. But it was Albus’s reaction that made Sirius’s chest tighten—the coldness in his voice, the way his mouth curled into a sharp line, the dark flicker in his eyes. Defensive. Wounded.
Albus wasn’t like James. James wore his emotions openly—when he was angry, you knew it; when he was happy, you knew it. But Albus was guarded, his walls so carefully built that Sirius almost wondered how long he’d been forced to learn that particular skill.
And then Lily stepped in, smooth as ever, diffusing the tension with that forced brightness. James and Albus had backed down, but the crack beneath the surface was still there. Sirius could feel it.
He took a slow sip of coffee, his eyes lingering on Albus. He looked so much like Harry at that age—dark hair falling into his eyes, the sharp angles of his face. But the resemblance only made the differences stand out more. Harry, even when he was angry, had always held on to some kind of warmth. Albus’s eyes were colder.
Sirius had read the headlines—seen the way the press picked apart Albus’s choices, the Ministry’s failures, the cracks in the perfect Potter image. He’d heard the whispers, the sharp-edged rumors about Albus’s work in the Department of Mysteries, the questions about his loyalty and his motives. And maybe—just maybe—he’d half-believed them.
But watching him now, Sirius wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure what was worse—the way Albus seemed unaffected by the accusations or the quiet anger beneath his skin that made Sirius wonder how long he’d been carrying it.
He’s just a boy, Sirius thought. Except he wasn’t. He was Harry’s son, but not Harry. His eyes were sharper, his smile less certain. And Sirius wondered if anyone had really noticed.
He glanced at James, who was still glaring at his toast like it had personally offended him, and then back at Albus, who had gone quiet again, staring down at his coffee like he was somewhere else entirely.
Sirius’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what had happened between them—what had built this wall between brothers—but he knew how dangerous it was to leave cracks like that unattended. He’d lived through the aftermath of fractures that were never repaired.
And the worst part was, he wasn’t sure if Harry could fix this. Or if Albus even wanted him to.
The sharp creak of the front door cut through the tense silence like a spell breaking. Sirius’s head turned toward the noise, and he watched as James sat up straighter, eyes flicking toward the entrance. Albus’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as footsteps echoed through the hallway—wet shoes squeaking against the stone floor.
A moment later, voices followed—loud and familiar.
“Finally,” James muttered under his breath.
Ginny’s voice floated in first, sharp and exasperated. “—the worst weather I’ve seen in years! Honestly, we should’ve just Apparated.”
“You can't apparate in a foreign country Ginny” Harry’s voice followed, dry but tired.
“Laws my arse,” Bill grumbled as he came into view, dripping rain onto the floor. Fleur followed, shaking water from her hair with an elegant flick of her wrist. Harry and Ginny appeared just behind them, both looking cold and tired but otherwise unharmed.
Teddy entered next, brushing damp curls from his forehead, and behind him came Victoire, already tugging off her jacket and giving her father an unimpressed glare.
“Did you walk here?” James quipped.
“We would’ve made better time,” Victoire shot back.
James snorted, but Sirius noticed his gaze was fixed on Harry, that familiar mix of wariness and expectation lurking beneath his casual expression.
“Well,” Ginny sighed, wringing out the hem of her sweater, “looks like you all survived without us.” Her eyes swept over the room—and then froze when she spotted Albus.
“Al!” Her face lit up in surprise, a genuine warmth in her tone as she crossed the room in a few strides and pulled him into a hug before he could dodge it. “When did you get here?”
Albus stiffened for half a second before relaxing, but his arms didn’t quite return the hug. “Last night.”
“Merlin, you should’ve let us know,” Ginny scolded lightly, brushing his fringe back from his forehead. Her gaze sharpened when she spotted the fading bruise on his cheek. “What happened?”
Albus’s eyes darkened. “It’s nothing.”
Harry was standing just behind Ginny, hands in his pockets. His gaze flicked from Albus’s face to the bruise. He hesitated, then said, “Are you… all right?”
Albus’s mouth curled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fine.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. He nodded stiffly. “Good.”
Ginny’s expression faltered as the silence stretched. Then Molly stepped forward, cutting through the tension with a sweep of her hand. “You are too thin,” she said, brushing his cheek lightly with her fingers. “Are you eating enough?”
Albus winced and stepped back slightly. “I’m fine,” he repeated, voice flat.
“And why are you even here?” Louis asked, arching a brow. “I thought you weren’t coming until the day before the wedding.”
Albus’s mouth twisted. “Change of plans.”
Harry and Ginny exchanged a look, but Harry’s face remained carefully neutral. Ginny smiled faintly. “Well, it’s good to see you,” she said softly.
Harry hesitated a moment longer, then gave a short nod. “Yeah. It’s… good you’re here.” His tone was clipped, guarded.
Albus’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t say anything.
Sirius watched the whole exchange from the corner of the room, arms crossed over his chest. Albus was standing stiffly, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, and Harry—Harry looked off-balance in a way Sirius wasn’t used to seeing. His shoulders were tense, his gaze never quite settling on Albus for long.
He doesn’t know what to say to him, Sirius realized. And Albus isn’t giving him much to work with.
He studied the boy more closely. Albus looked so much like Harry—but the sharpness in his gaze, the coiled tension beneath his skin—that wasn’t Harry. That was something darker. More complicated.
Whatever happened between them, Sirius thought grimly, it’s still bleeding.
Albus was the first to break the silence. He stepped back from his mother’s touch, brushing off her lingering hand with a subtle movement of his shoulder. “Well,” he said flatly, “I’m going to go unpack.”
“Don’t you want to finish breakfast?” Ginny called after him.
Albus’s steps didn’t even slow as he headed toward the staircase. “Not hungry.”
Harry’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His eyes tracked Albus until he disappeared from view, then dropped to the floor. Ginny sighed, rubbing at her temples. James watched the whole thing with a scowl, sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed.
“Well,” Teddy said, breaking the tension with a forced brightness. “That went well.”
James scoffed. “Could’ve gone worse.”
“Oh?” Lily Jr's voice was sharp. “How exactly?”
“Could’ve hexed him.”
“James,” Ginny warned.
James threw up his hands. “I’m just saying.”
Sirius’s eyes were still on Harry. His godson had turned toward the window, his profile tense beneath the soft gray light of the morning. Ginny reached out and touched his arm lightly. “Just give him time,” she said.
Harry’s mouth twitched. He didn’t answer.
Sirius pushed off the wall and crossed the room. He settled into the chair across from Harry, studying the thin lines around his mouth, the tightness of his jaw.
“What happened between you two?” Sirius asked quietly.
Harry’s gaze flicked toward him, dark and guarded. “It’s… complicated.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Right. Because father and son relationships are famously simple.”
Harry’s mouth tugged into a dry, humorless smile. His eyes darkened. “He… thinks I don’t understand him.”
“Do you?” Sirius asked.
Harry’s lips parted—but nothing came out. He stared out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass in thin, crooked lines. His hand curled into a fist against his knee.
“I try,” he said finally. “But he won’t let me in. He never really has.”
Sirius leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. His gaze followed the rain for a moment. Albus and Harry. Just like him and his father. Or maybe… more like him and Regulus.
“You know,” Sirius said, “the harder you push, the harder he’ll push back.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What am I supposed to do? Just… let him pull away?”
“No,” Sirius said quietly. “But you could stop waiting for him to come to you. Maybe it’s your turn to meet him halfway.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “You think I haven’t tried?”
“I think,” Sirius said carefully, “you’re too used to being the hero. Fixing things. But some things…” His gaze slid toward the stairs where Albus had vanished. “Some things don’t need fixing. They just need… understanding.”
Harry didn’t reply. His eyes remained fixed on the window, where the storm still raged outside.
From the corner of the room, James huffed. “You’re all overthinking it.”
Sirius’s gaze sharpened on him. “Oh?”
James shrugged. “Albus is a pain in the arse, yeah, but it’s not that deep. He’ll cool off. He always does.”
Lily gave him a withering look. “Because that’s worked so well in the past.”
James’s mouth curled. “At least I talk to him.”
“Right,” Lily je said dryly. “Taunting him about his job is very productive communication.”
James sat up straighter, the defensive edge sharpening his expression. “I’m not the one ignoring everyone.”
Ginny sighed. “Enough,” she said, her tone weary. “Just… leave it, James.”
James shook his head, jaw tight. “Yeah. Sure.”
Sirius watched all of it with a heavy feeling settling in his chest. The fracture was obvious—too many cracks beneath the surface, too many things left unsaid.
But Harry’s eyes hadn’t left the window. Watching the rain. Or maybe… waiting for something.
Sirius just wasn’t sure what.
***
By late morning, the storm had blown out over the horizon, leaving the sky a dull, overcast gray. The rain had softened to a misty drizzle, and the air was thick with the sharp, salty scent of the ocean.
“It’s clearing up,” James Jr said, stretching as he stood by the sliding glass door that led to the back terrace. Beyond it, the beach stretched out in a wide curve of pale sand, the dark waves breaking against the shore. “Might as well take advantage of it.”
“James, it’s still raining,” Victoire said from the couch.
James shrugged. “Barely. It’s just a drizzle.”
“And freezing,” Lily pointed out, curled up in one of the armchairs with a blanket wrapped around her legs.
“Come on,” James said, already tugging open the door and letting in a rush of cool, damp air. “It’s a beach. We’re supposed to be enjoying it.”
“I’ll come,” Teddy said, standing and rolling his shoulders. “It’s better than sitting in here and brooding.” He shot a pointed look at Albus, who sat stiffly on the edge of the armchair opposite Lily.
Albus’s gaze remained fixed on the floor. He didn’t respond.
“You coming?” James asked him.
Albus’s mouth twitched. “Pass.”
James rolled his eyes. “Shocker.”
“James,” Ginny warned from the kitchen.
James held up his hands. “What? I’m just saying—”
“Leave it,” Harry said sharply, stepping out of the hallway. His eyes flicked toward Albus—tense, wary—but Albus didn’t look up.
Sirius, standing near the window with his arms crossed, watched it all with narrowed eyes. He said nothing as James gave a frustrated huff and pushed the door open wider.
“Well, whoever’s not an arsehole, come on,” James said.
Victoire rolled her eyes but stood, tugging her sweater more securely around her shoulders. Teddy followed, and then Lily sighed and untangled herself from the blanket.
“I’ll come,” she said, casting a glance toward Albus. He didn’t respond.
She hesitated for a moment longer before following the others out.
Sirius pushed off the wall and trailed after them, stepping onto the terrace. The beach was quiet—stretches of pale sand marked by scattered driftwood and slick patches of seaweed. The tide was low, and the dark water foamed and hissed against the shore.
James immediately kicked off his shoes and jogged toward the water. Teddy followed, and Victoire and Lily walked further down the shore. Sirius stood on the edge of the terrace, watching them.
Albus was still inside, barely visible through the glass door, his head tipped back against the armchair, eyes closed.
“He’s not going to come out,” Harry said quietly from behind him.
Sirius didn’t turn. “You think?”
“I know,” Harry said. His mouth was tight.
Sirius’s gaze flicked toward James, now knee-deep in the surf, splashing water toward Teddy. Teddy shouted something back, laughing. Lily was walking barefoot along the sand, her arms wrapped around herself.
“You know,” Sirius said slowly, “if you really want to understand him, you might have to meet him where he is.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “And where is that?”
Sirius’s eyes slid toward the glass door. “Sitting inside while the rest of you are out here.”
Harry’s gaze darkened. “He’s not a child.”
“No,” Sirius agreed. “But you’re his father. That still counts for something.”
Harry’s mouth thinned. He didn’t answer.
James shouted something from the water, and Teddy splashed him hard enough that James stumbled and fell backward with a sharp yelp. Victoire laughed from the shore. Lily smiled faintly.
Sirius’s eyes lingered on the glass door for another beat before turning back toward the sand. He walked toward the others, hands in his pockets, boots leaving shallow imprints in the wet sand.
Behind him, Harry remained where he was, his gaze still fixed on the closed glass door.
The sun finally broke through the clouds, casting warm light over the beach. The air felt less heavy now, the once-steady drizzle gone and replaced with a calm, radiant glow. The soft, golden sand shimmered in the sunlight, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore became a soothing backdrop.
James Jr. and Teddy were still splashing around in the water, both of them laughing as they dodged the occasional wave that rolled in with a bit more force. Victoire stood on the edge of the surf, arms crossed over her chest, while Lily meandered a little further down the shore, her steps slow and relaxed. The tension that had been so thick back at the villa seemed to melt away, if only for a moment.
Sirius stood at the water’s edge, his eyes scanning the horizon. For a brief second, he looked peaceful, the weight of the past and present momentarily lifting. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that things weren’t quite right, but for now, he allowed himself the small indulgence of simply enjoying the sun on his face.
Then he heard the sound of footsteps behind him, followed by voices. The rest of the family had finally arrived, and it was clear they were trying to make up for the lost time.
"Alright, the troops have arrived!" Ginny called out cheerfully, walking up from the back of the villa with Harry by her side. Their presence brought a little extra warmth to the gathering, a touch of familiarity.
“Look at you lot, all acting like nothing’s wrong,” Ginny teased, glancing at the group already gathered by the water. Her tone was light, but there was a subtle edge of exhaustion beneath her words. It was clear she was still feeling the weight of everything they’d been through.
“Better late than never,” James Jr. called back, grinning wide, as he splashed water toward his father, who only shook his head in mock disapproval.
“Right, well, don’t just stand there,” Harry said, as he moved past Sirius and toward the others. He gave his son, James Jr., a quick ruffle on the head before turning to the rest. “Let’s make the most of the sun, eh?”
Lily’s gaze flickered toward Albus, still lingering inside the villa, his expression unreadable. She caught her breath as the door creaked open just a little, and Albus stepped out slowly, squinting against the bright light. For a moment, he hesitated at the threshold, and then with a deep breath, he walked towards the sand, his feet making quiet impressions as he approached his family.
“Finally decided to join us, Albus?” James Jr. called, his voice a mix of teasing and relief.
Albus didn’t reply immediately, his gaze flickering toward the group. “Didn’t think you all wanted me here.”
“Oh, stop being a git,” James Jr. replied with a shrug. “You’re family, Albus. No one’s going anywhere without you.”
There was a long pause before Albus gave a stiff nod, stepping into the sun, his face still guarded, though he didn’t seem as distant as before.
Sirius watched the exchange from the edge of the water, his thoughts lingering on the unspoken words, the tension that had barely loosened since they'd arrived. The family was here now, yes, but he could feel the weight of the years pressing against them. Albus was trying, but it was clear—things weren’t fixed. Not yet.
He turned back to the shore and let the sound of the waves wash over him again, as if that could somehow erase the unease in the air.
Lily, still walking further along the beach, felt the weight of the same thoughts. Her family was here, together at last, but the cracks were hard to ignore. She caught her son's eye for a brief moment, a silent communication passing between them—each understanding the others’ thoughts without words.
For now, though, they were together. The sun was warm, and the beach was beautiful, so they’d make the most of it. Maybe, just maybe, they could start to heal.
Lily sat back on the large striped beach towel, digging her bare feet into the warm sand. The sun was high now, bright and golden, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore mixed pleasantly with the easy chatter of her family. The tension from earlier had thinned out, replaced with the relaxed ease that came when everyone was exactly where they were supposed to be.
Ginny stood at the edge of the water, wearing a sleek emerald-green bikini that was decidedly less modest than anything Lily would have dared to wear at her age. Her figure was toned and effortless, a subtle reminder that Quidditch had long been part of her life. Harry sat on a lounge chair a few feet away, his glasses perched lazily on his nose. Lily caught the way he smirked as Ginny leaned down and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was, it made Harry’s smile widen into something rare and private.
“Merlin,” Ron muttered from beside her, his lips twitching. “They’re worse than teenagers.”
Hermione snorted. “Let them be happy.”
Sirius gave a noncommittal grunt, though the corner of his mouth twitched as Harry reached out and brushed his hand along Ginny’s hip.
Further down the beach, James Jr. and Teddy were tossing a Quaffle back and forth over the waves, challenging each other to increasingly difficult catches. James had the clear advantage, but Teddy’s competitive streak made him refuse to give up. Teddy’s hair had turned a bright aqua blue, and his face twisted in exaggerated concentration as he launched the Quaffle toward James. It soared through the air and landed with a splash in the water. James dove after it without hesitation, emerging with a triumphant yell as Teddy swore loudly.
“You two better watch your language!” Ginny called, though her voice lacked any real sharpness.
Victoire was sunning herself nearby, lying on a towel with oversized sunglasses perched on her nose. Dominique sat cross-legged beside her, plaiting tiny shells into her long, red hair. Louis was building a sandcastle a few feet away, scowling in frustration every time a wave threatened to knock it over.
Near the edge of the beach, Albus stood ankle-deep in the water, his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t quite blending into the fun yet, but at least he wasn’t retreating. Lily Jr. was next to him, talking animatedly and gesturing toward the waves, her hands moving quickly as if trying to explain something complicated. Albus gave her a faint smirk before shaking his head and wading a little further into the water. Lily Jr. followed, splashing him playfully.
"He's trying," Sirius said, his voice low.
Lily smiled softly. "Yeah, he is."
Dominique and Roxanne had joined Teddy and James in the water now, the four of them locked in a chaotic game of Keep-Away with the Quaffle. Roxanne shouted something rude when James managed to snatch it mid-air, and Dominique tackled him into the water, laughing as they both went under.
"Someone's going to drown," Lily murmured.
"Ah, let them figure it out." Her husband leaned back on his elbows, eyes hidden behind dark shades. He looked more at ease than he had in days.
Lily let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It wasn’t perfect. Not by a long shot. But they were here, together, laughing and smiling under the sun. That was something. For now, it was enough.
A little after noon, Molly emerged from the villa, levitating a large picnic basket ahead of her. "Lunch is ready!" she called, her voice carrying easily over the sound of the waves.
The response was immediate. Fred and James Jr. abandoned their game and waded out of the water, dripping as they trotted toward the gathering circle forming on the beach. Lily Jr. and Albus followed more slowly, Albus looking reluctant but not enough to actively resist. Victoire and Dominique sat up, brushing sand off their legs, while Louis abandoned his half-finished sandcastle with a resigned sigh.
Molly laid out a large blanket, and soon everyone was settling down in a rough circle. Platters of sandwiches, cold roast chicken, and fresh fruit floated out of the basket, arranging themselves neatly across the blanket. Ginny reached for a bottle of chilled pumpkin juice and poured some into glasses, handing them around as Harry helped Molly pass out sandwiches.The kids, rather than sitting still for lunch, grabbed bits of food and darted off toward the water, laughter trailing behind them as they splashed at the edge of the surf.
The adults, meanwhile, settled into a loose circle on the sand. Fred leaned back on his elbows, a mischievous grin curling his mouth. “Honestly, I never thought Ronnie would let his daughter marry one of the Malfoy’s spawn.”
Laughter rippled through the group. Ron, sitting cross-legged with a butterbeer in hand, narrowed his eyes and held up two fingers in a rude gesture without missing a beat.
“Ronald!” Molly’s voice snapped through the air, sharp as a hex.
Ron rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Mum. I’m not a kid.”
Molly gave him a withering look, arms crossed.
Ron sighed and muttered, “Right, sorry,” though the faintest smirk still played at the corner of his mouth.
"Why are you smiling so much, Potter?" Fred said, eyeing Harry with a sly grin. "Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you beat the crap out of him after that one Quidditch match.”
Sirius and James burst into laughter, their identical barks echoing across the sand. Lily's eyes widened in surprise, and within seconds, the whole circle was howling with laughter.
Harry just shook his head, pressing his lips together as a sheepish smile tugged at his mouth. He closed his eyes and ducked his head, clearly trying—and failing—to hide his amusement.
“Watch it!” Angelina’s sharp voice cut through the chatter.
A quaffle hurtled toward where Harry, Ginny, and Ron were sitting. Without thinking, Harry’s Auror instincts kicked in—his wand was out in a flash, a shield charm shimmering in the air just before the quaffle collided. It bounced off harmlessly and rolled to a stop in the sand.
“Sorry!” a voice called from above. They all looked up to see Dominique hovering on her broom, wind whipping through her hair. “Aunt Ginny, can you pass that, please?”
Ginny sighed, brushing sand off her hands. She picked up the quaffle and, with an easy flick of her arm, sent it soaring at least twenty feet into the air. Dominique caught it cleanly and grinned before flying off.
James Sr raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “That was some throw. You played Quidditch?”
Ginny shrugged modestly. “A little.”
Harry scoffed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A little perfectly,” he corrected. “She was a professional chaser for the Holyhead Harpies.”
James Sr’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Why didn’t you ever mention that?”
Ginny’s cheeks flushed a deep red. “Didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Ron snorted. “She was one of the best chasers the league had seen in years.”
“Right,” Harry said with a fond smile. “She made the front page of the Quidditch Weekly more than once.”
Ginny shot him a look. “Stop it.”
Harry just grinned, his eyes warm. James Sr still looked awed as Ginny’s flush deepened.
Ron snorted. “Yeah, you should’ve seen Mum after Ginny’s first match with the Harpies—thought she’d have a heart attack.”
“I did not!” Molly protested, though her expression betrayed her amusement.
“Oh, you did,” George chimed in, leaning back on his elbows. “I remember you clutching Dad’s arm like you were about to faint every time Ginny went for a goal.”
“That’s because those Beaters were practically aiming for her head!” Molly said, her tone defensive.
“Well, yeah, that’s the game,” Ginny replied, grinning.
“It’s barbaric,” Molly huffed. “But I suppose you held your own.”
“Held her own?” Ron scoffed. “She was terrifying. I still remember when she broke that Appleby Chaser’s nose.”
“Accidentally,” Ginny said with a sweet smile.
George laughed. “Right, and when you ‘accidentally’ elbowed that other Chaser in the ribs?”
“Competitive spirit,” Ginny said innocently.
“You’re all making me sound violent,” she added, tossing a bit of sand toward Ron’s leg.
Ron flicked sand back at her. “You were violent.”
“Still are,” Harry murmured, smiling.
From the corner of his eye, Sirius watched them all with quiet amusement. It was strange, watching this next generation of Potters and Weasleys so at ease with each other, so lighthearted. He had grown up in a house where family gatherings were stilted affairs laced with tension and thinly veiled insults. Watching Harry laugh, surrounded by his family, was something Sirius never imagined seeing back when he had been locked away in Grimmauld Place.
“Alright,” Molly announced, standing up and brushing off her apron. “Lunch is getting cold. Everyone, sit down and eat properly.”
“I am sitting,” Ron pointed out.
“Stop flicking sand at your sister,” Molly shot back.
“Technically, she started it.”
“I did not—”
“Sit down,” Molly ordered, already piling sandwiches onto plates.
Reluctantly, Ron dropped his handful of sand and sat back, though the mischievous glint in his eye hadn’t faded.
James Jr stretched out on his towel, arms behind his head. “So… anyone up for a game after lunch?”
“What game?” Fleur asked.
“Quidditch,” James said as though it was obvious.
“I’m in,” Fred said immediately.
“Same,” Dominique added, landing lightly on the sand and tucking her broom under her arm.
“I’m not playing,” Ron said flatly.
“Scared you’ll lose?” George teased.
“No, I’m scared some people will get sad when I stop there goals.” Ron shot back.
“Excuses,” Ginny said, smirking.
Harry grinned. “I’ll play.”
“Of course you will,” Sirius murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He shook his head, smiling faintly as Harry picked up a sandwich and leaned toward Ginny, whispering something that made her laugh.
For a moment, Sirius allowed himself to settle into the warmth of it all—the sun, the sound of waves in the distance, the easy laughter. He still wasn’t sure where he fit in this new reality, but watching Harry with his family, seeing how solid and sure he was with them, made Sirius feel something close to peace.
Notes:
I know, I know another fluff chapter.
One more chapter to write some Albus and then the wedding.
This chapter was also quite rushed because of *sigh* life.
I am also posting a new next generation fic 'Ashes of Truth' as that fic is definitely not fluff. It's mystery, family secrets and inspired a the show Suits so yeah there's some legal drama involved.
Thankyou!
Chapter 28: Bridges and Burns
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sirius lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned sluggishly above him. His insomnia had been getting worse lately—an unwelcome companion in the quiet hours of the night. His body was tired, but his mind wouldn’t settle, thoughts drifting in endless, tangled loops.
Minutes passed, the dark pressing down on him, and he could feel himself beginning to drift off when a sudden, deafening sound ripped through the silence. His instincts fired instantly, his hand twitching toward his wand on the bedside table. The noise was harsh and jarring, and for a split second, his sleep-fogged mind translated it as spells hitting stone—flashes of red and green behind his eyelids.
But as he sat up, heart pounding, the truth settled in. It wasn’t spells. It was music. Blasting through the thin walls like an explosion of sound.
Sirius ran a hand down his face, already scowling as the pounding rhythm thumped through the floorboards. It was coming from the room next door—the one belonging to Harry’s boys.
Of course.
He threw off the blankets and padded toward the door. His hand hovered on the knob for a moment, then he pushed it open and stepped into the hallway. The music was louder here, vibrating through the old walls of the villa. Sirius stalked toward the offending door, pressing his palm against the wood.
He knocked sharply. Once. Twice.
No answer.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed the door open.
Albus was sitting cross-legged on his bed, headphones around his neck and a magical music player hovering mid-air, blasting music into the room. His eyes were closed, head bobbing faintly to the rhythm.
Sirius stepped fully into the room, his mouth already opening to tell them off—
Albus cracked an eye open. “Can I help you?”
Sirius’s brow twitched. “Turn it down.”
Albus sighed dramatically and flicked his wand toward the music player. The volume dropped—barely.
Sirius crossed his arms. “More.”
Albus rolled his eyes but complied, lowering the sound to something less ear-splitting.
Albus was watching him now, something guarded behind his expression. Sirius’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. There was a hardness to his face that reminded Sirius uncomfortably of someone he couldn’t quite place.
“You always listen to music this loud?” Sirius asked.
Albus shrugged. “Helps me think.”
Sirius’s gaze drifted toward the empty bed across from Albus. His brow creased.
“Where’s your brother?”
Albus shrugged, not bothering to lift his head. “Probably on some date.” His tone was sharp, a faint edge cutting through the laziness.
Sirius frowned. He walked over and sat down on the edge of the empty bed. “Didn’t Harry seal all the doors?”
Albus’s mouth curled into a humorless smile. “He jumped out of the window.”
Sirius blinked. “Out of the—”
“Used a Levitation Charm,” Albus added, tone flat. “Not that complicated.”
Sirius huffed a quiet laugh, though his eyes stayed sharp. “Clever.”
Albus’s expression didn’t change. He stared at the ceiling, the music still humming low in the background. The tension between them sat heavy in the dimly lit room, stretching between the empty bed and the guarded boy lying across from it.
Sirius leaned back on his elbows, studying him carefully. “And you?”
Albus’s gaze slid toward him. “What about me?”
“You’re not sneaking out?”
Albus’s eyes darkened. “Not much point.”
Sirius watched him for a moment, something cold curling in his chest at the emptiness in Albus’s voice. He thought of how many times he’d answered the same way at fifteen.“And you’re drinking Scotch like an eighty-year-old grandpa?” Sirius’s eyes flicked toward the bottle and the half-empty glass resting at the leg of the bed.
Albus followed his gaze and snorted. “Well…” He stretched out the word, his lips twisting into a faint smirk. “It’s been a long day.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You're nineteen.”
Albus shrugged. “And?”
Sirius sighed, leaning back on his hands. “It’s just… Scotch? You couldn’t pick something less depressing?”
Albus let out a hollow laugh. “Well, I’m boring.”
“Yes,” Sirius said, smirking. His eyes flicked toward the parchments strewn across the bed. “And you’re doing your office work on a holiday.”
“It’s not office work,” Albus said, picking up a scroll and rolling it between his fingers. “Just some… research.”
“As you said—boring.”
Albus huffed a quiet laugh. Sirius leaned back on his elbows, studying him. Then he flicked his wand, and a glass appeared in his hand. “Mind if I…?” He nodded toward the bottle.
Albus arched a brow. “Oh, of course.” He reached for the bottle and poured Sirius a generous measure.
Sirius took a sip, the burn spreading warmly down his throat. “You’re nineteen,” he said again, more thoughtfully this time.
Albus’s lips twitched. “And?”
“And you drink like someone twice your age and work like someone three times your age.”
Albus shrugged, lifting his glass to his lips. “Well, someone has to.”
Sirius chuckled softly as he walked toward the open window, resting his hands on the sill. His eyes traced the dark sky, scattered with stars. “It’s a clear night. You see Canopus? And Orion?” His gaze shifted slightly. “And there’s Sirius.” He let out a dry laugh.
Albus raised an eyebrow. “You into astronomy?”
Sirius snorted. “Into it? No. But I know it.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Hard not to when your entire family’s named after stars.”
Albus hesitated, then said bluntly, “You didn’t get along with them, did you?”
Sirius’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Dad said that,” Albus added quickly, a faint flush creeping up his cheekbones. “He talks about it sometimes when he’s had a few drinks, so… yeah.”
Sirius let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Didn’t get along?” He scoffed, his smile hard. “I hated them.”
Albus grinned, and for a fleeting second, Sirius saw Harry in that smile.
“I was named after my great-grandfather,” Sirius said, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I was supposed to follow in his footsteps — become a warlock, push for laws against Muggleborns.” He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “But here I am, drinking Scotch with a teenager,” he added dryly, lifting his glass in a mock toast.
“No offence taken,” Albus said, smirking.
Albus tilted his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. “By that logic,” he said wryly, “I’m supposed to make some great discovery and save the world, like Dumbledore.”
Sirius snorted. “Oh, you don’t want to be like Dumbledore.”
Albus raised an eyebrow.
“I mean, yes, he was the greatest wizard of all time, and I respect him,” Sirius said, swirling his glass. “But he was also a bit of a crackpot.”
Albus let out a sharp laugh, and Sirius’s grin widened.
“And what about my middle—” Albus began slyly, but Sirius cut him off with a groan.
“Oh, stop,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes. “I’d rather you spend your days drinking Scotch and working 25 hours a day than end up like him.”
Albus laughed.
“Remind me to ask your dad why he named you after that douchebag, yeah?” Sirius added with a smirk.
Albus shook his head, still grinning as he took another sip of his drink. “Yeah, good luck with that conversation.”
Sirius leaned back against the window frame, his arms crossed. “I mean it. Dumbledore was brilliant, sure—but complicated. That kind of genius warps people.”
Albus hummed thoughtfully, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “And you think I’m complicated?”
Sirius studied him for a moment, his sharp gaze cutting through the dim light of the room. “No,” he said. “You’re just young.”
Albus scoffed. “Right. Because youth is such an excuse.”
“It is,” Sirius replied, his mouth twitching into a smile. “You’ve got time to figure out how much of yourself you want to give away.”
Albus looked down at his glass. “And what if I already gave too much?”
Sirius’s smile faded. He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the opposite bed, his elbows resting on his knees. “Then you learn to take it back.”
Albus’s eyes darkened. “And if I can’t?”
“You will.” Sirius’s voice was quiet, but firm. “Or you’ll learn to live without it.”
Albus didn’t answer. He just sat there, his gaze fixed on the swirling liquid in his glass.
Sirius watched him for a long moment before speaking again. “You remind me of someone, you know,” he said softly.
Albus’s head snapped up. “Of Dad?
“No.” Sirius’s mouth quivered in a faint smile. “Of me.”
Albus blinked, his mouth opening slightly like he was about to say something—but then he just closed it again.
Sirius leaned back, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling. “Careful with that,” he murmured. “It’s not always a good thing.”
Albus watched Sirius carefully, his expression unreadable. Then he said, almost too casually, “And how exactly am I like you?”
Sirius's mouth twisted. He took a sip of his drink, the glass catching the faint light from the window. “You’ve got that edge,” he said. “Like you’re waiting for someone to push you just far enough.”
Albus’s gaze sharpened. “And what happens if someone does?”
Sirius met his eyes, steady and knowing. “You either fight or you fold.”
Albus scoffed. “And which one did you do?”
Sirius’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Depends on the day.”
Albus snorted. “Comforting.”
Sirius’s expression softened. “You’ve got more of Harry in you than you think.”
Albus stiffened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sirius said. “The way you think everything’s on you. Like you have to fix it all or you’ve failed.”
Albus looked down at his glass. His jaw tightened. “And what if it is on me?”
“It’s not.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Sirius’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air. “It’s never just one person’s job to save the world.”
Albus’s throat worked as he swallowed. He forced a laugh. “You think that’s what I’m trying to do?”
Sirius’s gaze didn’t waver. “Aren’t you?”
Albus shook his head, but he didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.”
After a moment, Sirius sighed and leaned back against the headboard. “Your father…” he started, then hesitated. “Harry carries that same weight. But you—you don’t have to.”
Albus’s eyes narrowed. “What if I don’t have a choice?”
Sirius’s expression darkened. “There’s always a choice.”
Albus’s mouth twisted. “Yeah? How’d that work out for you?”
Sirius barked a laugh, sharp and bitter. “Point taken.”
Albus sighed, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “So what, you think I should just… what? Let everyone else figure it out?”
“I think you should figure out who you are first,” Sirius said. His tone was softer now. “Before you try to carry everyone else.”
Albus didn’t answer right away. His gaze slid toward the open window. Outside, the moonlight cast a silver sheen across the waves in the distance. His jaw tightened. “Easier said than done.”
Sirius smiled faintly. “Most things are.”
They sat in silence for a while after that, the quiet hum of the night filling the space between them. Albus took another sip from his glass.
“Why are you even bothering with this?” he asked suddenly.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Albus’s gaze was sharp. “Me.”
Sirius smiled, but there was something guarded about it. “Call it curiosity.”
Albus let out a breathless laugh. “Great.”
Sirius’s smile widened. “Well, you did offer me Scotch.”
Albus’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Lucky me.”
Sirius’s gaze softened. “Or maybe lucky me.”
Albus’s eyes flicked toward him, uncertain. But then he smiled—just barely.
Sirius studied Albus for a moment, the dim light from the window casting shadows across his face. His expression darkened slightly. “So… you and Harry,” he said, his tone casual—but not really. “What’s that like?”
Albus’s jaw tightened. He looked away, his fingers curling around his glass. “It’s… fine.”
Sirius snorted. “Sure it is.”
Albus’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp and guarded. “What do you want me to say?”
Sirius shrugged. “The truth would be nice.”
Albus’s mouth curled bitterly. He took a long sip of his drink, then set the glass down with a hollow clink. “The truth is, I don’t know how to talk to him.”
Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “He’s your father.”
Albus’s laugh was sharp. “Yeah. I’ve heard.”
Sirius tilted his head. “He loves you, you know.”
Albus’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, sure. In the way he’s supposed to.”
Sirius frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Albus’s gaze darkened. “It means he loves me because I’m his son. Not because he likes me.”
Sirius’s brow furrowed. “Albus—”
“No,” Albus cut in, voice hard. “He tries. I know he tries. But it’s like he doesn’t get me. Like he wants me to be… something else.”
Sirius’s eyes sharpened. “Something else?”
Albus’s mouth curled bitterly. “Someone else.” He laughed hollowly. “Maybe James. Or Lily. Or—hell—maybe even like himself.”
Sirius’s expression darkened. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” Albus’s eyes flashed. “He and James—they’re close. And Lily’s the golden child, obviously. And me?” He scoffed. “I’m the one who gets the lectures. The scrutiny.” His jaw tightened. “He watches me like he’s waiting for me to screw up.”
Sirius’s gaze sharpened. “Or maybe he’s waiting for you to let him in.”
Albus’s mouth flattened. “Yeah, well. Maybe he should stop waiting.”
Sirius watched him carefully. “So what—you’ve given up?”
Albus’s jaw worked. He looked away. “Maybe it’s easier that way.”
Sirius’s eyes darkened. “You don’t believe that.”
Albus’s hands curled into fists on his knees. His chest tightened painfully. “I’m tired,” he admitted. His voice was rough. “Of feeling like I’m disappointing him. Like I’m not enough.”
Sirius’s gaze softened. “You’re more than enough.”
Albus’s eyes flicked toward him, uncertain. “You don’t know that.”
Sirius’s smile was faint, but steady. “I know exactly what it’s like to feel like the wrong son.”
Albus’s mouth parted slightly.
“I know what it’s like,” Sirius continued quietly, “to think you’ll never be good enough for the people who are supposed to love you.” His voice darkened. “But you’re not your father. And you’re not me.”
Albus’s throat worked. “So what am I?”
Sirius’s eyes gleamed faintly in the moonlight. “You’re Albus.”
Albus’s chest tightened painfully. He swallowed hard and looked away. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
Sirius’s expression didn’t waver. He leaned back against the headboard and took a sip of his drink. “You think Harry doesn’t see you?”
Albus didn’t answer.
Sirius’s gaze sharpened. “Then you’re not paying attention.”
Albus’s head snapped toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sirius’s smile was faint. “You think he watches you because he doesn’t trust you?” He shook his head. “Maybe he watches you because he’s trying to figure you out. Because he’s trying to reach you.”
Albus’s mouth flattened. “And maybe he’s just waiting for me to turn into another disappointment.”
Sirius’s eyes darkened. “Then make him see that you’re not.”
Albus’s breath hitched. His chest felt too tight.
Sirius’s smile sharpened. “Or don’t,” he added. “Prove to yourself that you don’t need to.”
Albus’s gaze flicked toward him, uncertain. But then—slowly—he smiled.
“Careful,” Albus said quietly. “You might start sounding like you care.”
Sirius’s grin widened. “Wouldn't that be a tragedy.”
Sirius’s gaze lingered on Albus’s face for a moment, thoughtful and sharp. Then he tilted his head. “So…” he said casually, “how’s the press treating you these days?”
Albus’s expression darkened immediately. He leaned back against the headboard, letting his head thunk against the wall. “Oh, you know. The usual.”
Sirius’s brow arched. “The usual being…?”
Albus let out a hollow laugh. “I’m either the savior’s disappointment or the next dark wizard in the making. Depends on the headline.”
Sirius’s mouth tightened. “Charming.”
Albus’s gaze darkened. “Last week, The Daily Prophet ran a story about how I didn’t join the Aurors. Apparently, I’m a disgrace to the Potter name.”
Sirius’s jaw clenched. “Because you didn’t follow Harry’s path?”
Albus snorted. “Pretty much. They seem to think it’s my moral obligation to take up the family legacy.” His mouth curled bitterly. “Because, you know, being a Potter isn’t enough. I have to be the right kind of Potter.”
Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “Sounds familiar.”
Albus’s gaze sharpened. “Yeah?”
Sirius smiled thinly. “I was the Black who ended up in Gryffindor. The Black who didn’t hate Muggleborns. The Black who didn’t care about blood status.” His smile sharpened. “They called me a disgrace too.”
Albus’s mouth twisted. “Guess we’ve got that in common.”
Sirius’s gaze darkened. “Difference is, I didn’t care what they thought.”
Albus let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. It’s hard not to care when your face is plastered on the front page.”
Sirius’s eyes sharpened. “They’re going after you directly?”
Albus shrugged. “Not directly. But it’s there, under the surface. ‘The Other Potter.’ ‘The Forgotten Son.’ ‘Why Albus Potter’s Future Might Lead to Darkness.’” He let out a humorless laugh. “Real subtle.”
Sirius’s mouth tightened. “Let me guess—they compare you to Harry?”
Albus’s jaw worked. “Constantly.”
“And to James?”
Albus’s mouth curled bitterly. “All the time.”
Sirius’s eyes darkened. “And what do they say about Lily?”
Albus’s mouth twisted. “That she’s perfect. Of course.”
Sirius’s gaze sharpened. “And you?”
Albus’s smile was thin. “That I’m… complicated.”
Sirius barked a laugh. “Oh, that’s a polite way of putting it.”
Albus snorted. “Yeah. They usually find more colorful language.” His gaze darkened. “But it doesn’t matter what they say. People have already made up their minds.”
“And what’s that?”
Albus’s eyes flashed. “That I’m not him.” His mouth twisted. “Not the Chosen One. Not the Golden Boy. Not James.”
Sirius’s gaze sharpened. “And they think that’s a bad thing?”
Albus’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
Sirius’s mouth curled into a dangerous smile. “Well, screw them.”
Albus’s gaze flicked toward him, startled.
Sirius leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “You’re not Harry. You’re not James. You’re not Lily. And thank Merlin for that.”
Albus’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s a good thing?”
Sirius’s smile sharpened. “I think it makes you interesting.”
Albus’s mouth twitched. “You think that’s enough?”
Sirius’s gaze darkened. “I think it’s more than enough.”
Albus’s chest tightened. He looked away, his throat working. “Yeah. Well. Try telling that to the press.”
Sirius’s grin widened. “Oh, I’d be happy to.”
Sirius watched Albus closely, his expression sharpening. He set down his glass on the nightstand with a soft clink and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze was steady, cutting through the shadows of the room.
“You know,” he said quietly, “there’s one big difference between you and me.”
Albus’s mouth curled bitterly. “Let me guess—you're cooler?”
Sirius chuckled. “Well, obviously.” His smile faded. “But no. That’s not what I meant.”
Albus frowned. “Then what?”
Sirius’s gaze didn’t waver. “Your dad loves you.”
Albus’s expression tightened. He scoffed. “Yeah, sure.”
“I’m serious.” Sirius’s eyes darkened. “Albus, I know what it feels like to not be loved. My parents hated me. Loathed me. They made it very clear that I was a stain on the Black name.” His mouth twisted. “I could’ve come home bleeding, hexed to hell, and they wouldn’t have cared.”
Albus’s gaze dropped to the floor. He didn’t say anything.
“But Harry?” Sirius’s voice softened. “Harry isn’t like that.”
Albus’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, well… he’s not exactly warm.”
Sirius’s brow furrowed. “No, he’s not. But he’s not cold either.”
Albus’s eyes flashed. “He barely looks at me.”
Sirius’s eyes sharpened. “Maybe because he’s scared.”
Albus’s gaze snapped toward him. “Of what?”
Sirius’s mouth twisted. “Of losing you.”
Albus’s mouth opened—then closed. His throat worked.
Sirius’s gaze softened. “Look… James is easy for Harry. He’s loud. He’s confident. He’s exactly the kind of person Harry knows how to handle. Lily’s sweet and clever—she’s easy too. But you?” Sirius’s mouth curled. “You’re complicated. You’ve got sharp edges. Harry’s not sure how to handle that.”
Albus’s eyes narrowed. “So it’s my fault?”
“No,” Sirius said calmly. “It’s his fault. He’s a little clueless.” His mouth curled “Like his father.”
Albus’s gaze darkened. “Yeah, well… he’s had nineteen years to figure it out.”
Sirius’s gaze softened. “Yeah. And so have you.”
Albus’s brow furrowed.
“Have you ever… actually told him?” Sirius’s voice was low. “How you feel?”
Albus’s jaw tightened. “It’s not that simple.”
Sirius’s mouth curled bitterly. “Sure it is. You walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, Dad. I feel like you love James and Lily more than me.’”
Albus’s face twisted. “Yeah, that’ll go well.”
“Maybe.” Sirius’s gaze sharpened. “But you’d know the truth, wouldn’t you?”
Albus’s gaze flicked toward him. “What if I don’t want to know the answer?”
Sirius smiled faintly. “That’s your problem. You think you already know it.”
Albus’s mouth opened—then closed. His throat tightened.
Sirius’s eyes darkened. “Harry loves you, Albus. He might not say it the way you need to hear it, but he does.”
Albus’s eyes flicked toward the window. His throat worked. “Yeah, well… loving someone and liking them aren’t the same thing.”
Sirius’s mouth twisted. “No, they’re not. But trust me—being loved is the harder part.”
Albus’s gaze sharpened.
Sirius leaned forward. “My parents hated me. Hated everything about me. There was no fixing that. But your dad?” His voice softened. “He doesn’t hate you, Albus. He loves you. Maybe he doesn’t know how to show it—but it’s there.”
Albus’s mouth tightened.
“You think Harry looks at you and sees a disappointment?” Sirius’s voice sharpened. “He doesn’t. He sees himself.”
Albus’s gaze flashed.
“You scare him,” Sirius said quietly. “Because you’re so much like him.”
Albus’s jaw worked. He looked away, swallowing hard.
Sirius smiled faintly. “That’s not a bad thing.”
Albus’s gaze stayed fixed on the window, his eyes dark and shining. His mouth opened—but he didn’t say anything.
Sirius watched him for a long moment. Then he reached for his glass, lifted it, and said, “Trust me, Albus. He loves you.”
Albus’s throat worked. He nodded once, tightly.
Sirius smiled. “Now you just have to let him.”
Albus’s throat tightened. His gaze dropped to his glass. His knuckles were white where they gripped the glass.
Sirius watched him for a long moment. Then he pushed himself to his feet. He stretched, his joints cracking faintly.
“Well,” Sirius said, “I think that’s enough soul-searching for one night.”
Albus snorted softly.
Sirius smiled faintly. “Get some sleep.”
Albus hesitated. “Sirius?”
Sirius glanced over his shoulder.
Albus’s gaze was steady. “Do you… think it’s too late?”
Sirius’s mouth curled. “For what?”
Albus’s gaze dropped. “To fix it.”
Sirius’s smile softened. “It’s never too late.”
Albus’s jaw tightened.
“Goodnight, Albus.” Sirius’s voice was quiet.
Albus hesitated. Then nodded. “Goodnight.”
Sirius watched him for a moment longer. Then he slipped out of the room, leaving Albus alone with his thoughts and the quiet hum of the night beyond the open window.
***
The morning light streamed in through the windows, casting a soft glow on the group as they gathered in the living room, preparing for the wedding venue. It was bustling with energy, despite the early hour, as everyone packed up their things and began to say their goodbyes to the house they’d spent the past few days in. The excitement for the wedding hung in the air like a palpable current, everyone eager to get to the venue and begin the celebrations.
Albus, still processing everything from the night before, moved through the house quietly. His thoughts were distracted, and he hadn’t yet spoken to Harry, not fully ready to confront the feelings Sirius had stirred up in him. For now, he focused on packing his things and getting ready for the trip.
Sirius, always the free spirit, was casually tossing things into his bag, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he caught sight of Harry attempting to herd his family together. Lily, Ginny, and the rest of the group were all hustling, trying to make sure everyone was ready in time.
“We’re going by muggle bus, yeah?” Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow as he zipped up his bag.
Harry nodded, a look of mild confusion crossing his face. “Yep, it's the best option, actually. Some of the more remote locations don’t have the best access by magical means.” He hesitated, glancing around. “You guys are okay with that, right?”
Sirius grinned. “I’m all for it. A bit of muggle transport never hurt anyone.”
Albus, who had been half-listening, raised his head. “It’s not like we have a lot of choice,” he muttered, still not fully awake. His sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed, but everyone let it slide, assuming he just needed some time.
Ginny, who was already mostly ready, smiled at Harry and walked over to Albus. “You alright, Al?” she asked softly, noticing his pensive expression.
Albus just nodded. “Yeah, just tired.” He didn’t elaborate further, and Ginny didn’t push, though she noticed the distance in his voice.
“Well, get yourself together, we’re going to be late,” she said with a wink before turning back to gather up a few last-minute things.
“Right, right,” Albus muttered, pushing his feelings aside as he grabbed his jacket and joined the group. The mood was light, everyone busy with the final touches of preparation. Lily and Ginny were already talking animatedly, while Harry and Ron gathered the last few bits of luggage.
Sirius exchanged a look with Harry, a wordless understanding between them. He gave Harry a small, reassuring nod. Harry responded with a tight smile, but there was a hint of weariness in his eyes. The events of the previous night still hung in the air between them, but there wasn’t time for that now.
Soon, they were all outside, waiting for the muggle bus to pull up. The sun was already higher in the sky, the day promising to be warm and clear. The bus, an old-fashioned double-decker, pulled into view. A few gasps were heard from the younger ones, who weren’t used to seeing muggle transportation up close.
“Well, this is… different,” Ron muttered, eyeing the bus warily.
Ginny laughed, walking toward the bus. “It’s just a bus, Ron.”
Sirius joined her, chuckling. “You’d think we were about to board the Hogwarts Express with the way you’re acting.”
“You’re one to talk,” Harry said dryly. “You’d probably jump on the back if you could.”
“Not if I can help it.” Sirius grinned. “I’ll behave myself. For today.”
The group piled onto the bus, finding seats wherever they could. It was a bit of a squeeze, but everyone managed to get comfortable, with the exception of Ron, who muttered about the lack of legroom. As they settled in, the chatter continued, and the mood shifted toward excitement. The journey to the wedding venue was long enough to allow for jokes, teasing, and a few embarrassing stories, but short enough that no one had to get too serious.
As the bus rumbled along, the landscape outside changing from bustling streets to open countryside, the group settled into a comfortable silence, each lost in their thoughts, but united in the anticipation of what the day would bring.
The muggle bus was surprisingly spacious, with sets of three rotatable seats arranged to face each other, making it easier for conversations—and also harder to avoid them.
Lily Sr. and James Sr. had claimed one of the sets early on, sitting side by side with relaxed ease. James Sr. had his arm draped casually over Lily’s shoulder, and they were chatting quietly about the weather and the wedding details. Opposite them, Sirius had taken the window seat and was now focused on a crossword puzzle spread across his lap, a quill held loosely between his fingers. His brows were furrowed in concentration, though the slight curve at the corner of his mouth suggested he was enjoying himself.
James Jr. slid into the seat beside Sirius, his long legs stretched out beneath the table-like gap between the seats. He shot a sideways glance at the crossword. “Five across is potion,” he offered lazily.
Sirius’s eyes flicked to him with a mild smirk. “Oh, so you’re a crossword expert now?”
James grinned. “Not really. Just better than you.”
“Cheeky,” Sirius muttered, but he filled in the word anyway.
With no other seats left, Harry had no choice but to slide into the middle seat between James and Sirius, looking slightly uncomfortable. He sat stiffly, hands clasped in his lap, clearly regretting not getting on the bus earlier to secure a different spot. James Jr. stretched out even further, invading the limited personal space left for Harry.
“Move your legs,” Harry grunted.
Across the aisle, Albus sat beside his grandparents, directly facing Harry. He had ended up on the aisle seat, sandwiched between Lily Sr. and the armrest. His posture was tense, shoulders slightly hunched. He hadn’t said much since they’d boarded, and his gaze was fixed out the window, even though the view wasn’t particularly interesting—just rolling countryside and the occasional flock of birds.
Lily Sr. glanced at Albus, brushing her hand over his knee affectionately. “Alright, dear?”
Albus forced a tight smile. “Yeah.”
Harry’s eyes flicked toward him, but he didn’t say anything. Albus could feel his gaze, though, which only made him sit stiffer.
James Sr. leaned back in his seat, looking around with the relaxed air of someone who was already on holiday. “This is surprisingly comfortable,” he said. “Not bad for muggle transport.”
“Oh, it’ll get better,” Sirius said dryly without looking up. “Wait until the air conditioning gives out.”
James Sr. chuckled. “I’m sure we’ll survive.”
“Easy for you to say,” Harry muttered. James Jr. had now slumped so far down his knees were practically touching Harry’s. Harry shoved at his son’s leg with his own.
“Oi,” James Jr. complained, sitting up slightly. “No need to get violent, Dad.”
Albus watched the exchange from across the aisle, his expression unreadable. He could feel Lily Sr. and James Sr. watching too, though they said nothing.
Sirius glanced up from his crossword, noticing the tension. “So,” he said, tone deliberately light, “who’s brave enough to place bets on how long this bus ride is going to take before someone cracks?”
James Jr. raised a hand. “Ten minutes.”
“Five,” Sirius countered, grinning.
Harry sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s not going to be me.”
Albus’s lips twitched. “Sure.”
Sirius winked at him. “That’s the spirit, Al.”
Albus didn’t answer, but his smile lingered a little longer this time.
Harry leaned back in his seat, adjusting his glasses as he closed his eyes. His head tilted back against the headrest, and he sighed.
James Jr., lazily beside, raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously going to sleep? On a holiday?”
Harry’s eyes cracked open, and he gave his son a flat look. “I was up until three doing office work.”
James snorted. “What kind of office work happens at three in the morning?”
“The kind that keeps the Wizarding World from falling apart,” Harry replied dryly, his eyes already sliding closed again.
James turned toward Sirius. “Did you hear that? Hero of the Wizarding World, still saving us all in his sleep.”
Sirius smirked. “Old habits die hard.”
Harry’s mouth twitched, but his eyes remained closed. “It’s called responsibility,” he said.
James leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially to Sirius. “That sounds exhausting.”
“Oh, it is,” Sirius agreed with mock seriousness. “It’s why he’s napping now.”
James grinned. “Yeah, well, I think it’s tragic. Falling asleep while you’re supposed to be on holiday.”
Harry, without opening his eyes, replied, “Tragic would be me hexing you in my sleep.”
James snorted but didn’t push further. Sirius chuckled, glancing between them with quiet amusement. Across the aisle, Albus’s mouth quirked faintly as he watched the exchange.
Harry shifted slightly, already drifting off. “Wake me when we get there,” he mumbled.
“Sure, Dad,” James said. He shot a sideways glance at Sirius. “Or not.”
Sirius grinned. “I vote not.”
The bus rattled down the uneven road as the attendant began weaving through the aisle, handing out food and drinks. Plastic containers of sandwiches and packets of crisps were passed along the rows, followed by steaming cups of tea and coffee.
Albus took a hot, brimming cup of coffee when it was offered to him, wrapping his hands around the warmth. He took a cautious sip as the bus hit a small bump, causing the liquid to slosh dangerously close to the edge. Across from him, James Sr. was already halfway through his sandwich, while Lily Sr. picked at a bag of crisps, chatting quietly with Molly.
Harry, seated between Sirius and James Jr., had his eyes closed, head tilted back against the seat.
“What ministry work you were doing by the way?” James Jr. asked, side-eyeing his father.
Harry didn’t open his eyes. “Not your business, James.”
James rolled his eyes, “You like being the big bad boss, don't you?”
Harry hummed noncommittally, clearly drifting toward sleep. Sirius smirked, his eyes still on the crossword puzzle resting on his lap.
Albus took another sip of his coffee just as the bus lurched violently over a deep pothole. His grip faltered.
The bus jolted violently as it hit a bump in the road, sending everyone swaying in their seats. Albus had just raised the steaming cup of coffee to his lips when his hand slipped.
“Oh, sh—”
The brimming cup flew from his grip, careening toward Harry, who was still dozing peacefully between James Jr. and Sirius.
In an instant, James Jr. and Sirius both reacted. Their arms shot out simultaneously, instinctively trying to shield Harry from the scalding liquid. But they were half a second too late.
The hot coffee splashed across Harry’s chest, soaking his shirt and burning his skin. A hiss escaped his lips as his eyes shot open.
“Bloody hell!” Harry gasped, sitting up sharply as the heat seared his skin.
Sirius and James Jr. weren’t spared either. The coffee splashed onto their outstretched arms. Sirius flinched, muttering a sharp curse under his breath as the liquid burned through the thin fabric of his sleeve. James Jr. yelped, pulling his arm back with a grimace.
“Merlin’s beard—sorry!” Albus said, wide-eyed, frozen in place as the empty cup tumbled to the floor.
Harry gritted his teeth, his hand pressing against his.
Harry's sharp inhale was followed by a loud hiss of pain as the scalding coffee soaked through his shirt.
“Bloody hell!” he swore, sitting up abruptly as the burning sensation tore through his chest.
James Jr. yelped, shaking out his hand where the hot liquid had splashed onto his wrist. “Ow! That’s bloody hot!”
“Merlin’s beard—sorry!” Albus’s face was ghostly pale, his hands hovering uselessly as the cup clattered to the floor, coffee spreading in a dark stain across the carpet.
Sirius cursed under his breath, shaking out his own wrist where the coffee had splashed. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
The yells had drawn everyone’s attention. Ginny was already on her feet, “What happened?” she demanded.
“Coffee,” Sirius grunted, flexing his reddened wrist.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—” Ginny pulled her bag open, fishing out a small bottle of dittany. She uncorked it briskly and knelt in front of Harry, her brow furrowing. “Lift your shirt.”
Harry grimaced as Ginny knelt in front of him, already uncorking the bottle of dittany. “Come on,” she said softly. “Shirt off.”
He hesitated, his hand hovering at the hem of his soaked shirt. “I’m fine,” he muttered.
Ginny shot him a sharp look. “You’re not.”
“You heard her, mate,” George piped up from across the aisle, a wicked grin on his face. “Besides, we’ve seen your body more intimately than you’d probably like to remember.”
Harry shot him a withering glare. “Not helping.”
George just laughed.
Ginny arched an eyebrow, waiting. “Harry.”
He sighed, knowing there was no getting out of it. With a resigned breath, he peeled off his wet shirt, wincing as the fabric dragged against the burn.
Lily Sr.’s breath hitched as her eyes landed on him.
His chest and torso were a patchwork of scars — thin white lines, jagged slashes, and deeper marks that crisscrossed his skin like an old, worn map. A long, thin scar ran from his left shoulder to the center of his chest, and another, thicker one curled beneath his ribs.
Ginny didn’t flinch. She leaned in, her fingers steady as she dabbed dittany onto the fresh burn. Harry hissed but didn’t pull away.
Lily’s gaze remained fixed on the scars. She had known, of course — the stories of the war were legend — but seeing it laid bare on her son’s skin was different. The sheer volume of the scars made her chest tighten painfully.
James Sr., sitting beside her, had gone very still. His expression was hard to read, but his eyes tracked every mark with quiet intensity.
Ginny’s touch was gentle as she worked, her fingers brushing his skin with the kind of easy familiarity that came from years of intimacy. Harry’s shoulders gradually relaxed under her care.
“You’re alright,” Ginny murmured, her hand lingering briefly on his arm before she leaned back.
“Yeah,” Harry said quietly, pulling his shirt back over his head.
George, watching all of this with a keen eye, leaned back with a grin. “Well, that was the most dramatic coffee spill I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re welcome,” Albus muttered, still looking stricken.
Harry sighed and reached over, squeezing Albus’s knee. “Seriously. It’s fine.”
“Here,” she said, passing the bottle toward Sirius and James Jr., who were both inspecting their reddened arms. “For you two as well.”
Sirius grabbed it first and poured a few drops over his wrist. He gave a low hum of relief as the burning sensation eased.
James Jr. hesitated until Sirius handed it over with a raised brow. “Go on, don’t be a hero.”
James Jr. scoffed but took the bottle, dabbing dittany onto his wrist with a hiss.
Albus, still frozen in his seat, looked between them all with wide eyes. “I’m— I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” Harry said, though his voice was tight. He tugged his shirt back down, the wet fabric sticking to his chest.
“It’s not fine,” Albus said, his voice strained. “I shouldn’t have—”
“It was an accident,” Sirius cut in, his tone even. He rolled down his sleeve and flexed his wrist. “No permanent damage.”
James Jr. shook out his hand with a grimace. “Could’ve been worse.”
“It was my fault,” Albus insisted.
Harry’s gaze softened slightly. He reached across the aisle and squeezed Albus’s knee. “Let it go,” he said quietly. “I’m fine.”
Albus nodded slowly, but his shoulders stayed rigid as he stared down at the spilled coffee on the floor.
“Well, that’s one way to wake everyone up,” Sirius drawled, leaning back in his seat with a smirk.
James Jr. snorted. “Yeah, cheers for that, Al.”
Albus shot him a weak glare.
Harry shook his head and sighed. Molly stood up, her eyes lingering on Harry for a moment longer as though to check he was really alright, before retreating to her seat.
“Alright, show’s over,” Sirius said, his eyes twinkling. “Let’s try to survive the rest of the trip without second-degree burns, yeah?”
Harry pulled his damp shirt away from his chest, wincing. “Does anyone have an extra shirt?”
James Jr. perked up. “Oh, yeah! I think I’ve got one.” He reached into his backpack, rummaging around for a moment before pulling out a bright red t-shirt. He held it up with a triumphant grin.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. His own face — young, wide-eyed, and holding a broomstick — was plastered across the front of it, with the words The Boy Who Lived in bold, flashing letters beneath.
Harry’s face twisted. “Seriously?”
James Jr. snorted. “What? It’s a classic.”
Harry gave him a flat look. “Why do you even have that?”
“I bought it from a shop in Paris,” James said, clearly delighted.
Harry rubbed his temple. “You… bought a shirt with my face on it?”
James shrugged. “Figured it might come in handy.” He tossed the shirt at Harry. “And look — it has!”
Sirius barked a laugh from the window seat. “This is fantastic. You have to wear it.”
Harry scowled at both of them. “I am not wearing this.”
“You don’t have much of a choice, mate,” George called from across the aisle. “Unless you want to sit there half-naked for the rest of the trip.”
Ginny smirked. “I mean, I wouldn’t complain.”
Harry shot her a look before sighing in resignation. He pulled the shirt over his head, grimacing as his own face stretched awkwardly across his chest.
“Wow,” James Jr. said, appraising it with a grin. “You look good, Dad.”
“Shut up,” Harry muttered.
James leaned back, arms behind his head. “You know, if you sign it later, I could probably sell it for double what I paid.”
“You’re impossible,” Harry said, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
Sirius was grinning. “I’m going to need to find one of those.”
“I can get you one,” James Jr. offered. “Might cost you, though.”
“You’re a menace,” Harry said, but his tone was fond.
James shrugged. “Takes one to raise one.”
***
Albus watched the whole exchange from across the aisle, his fingers curled tightly around the empty coffee cup in his lap. His father was sitting there, wearing a ridiculous shirt with his own teenage face on it, and somehow — somehow — it didn’t look as absurd as it should have. Maybe because Harry was smiling. Not a forced smile, not the polite, careful expression Albus had seen on him so many times in public — but a real one. That small, crooked smile that softened the edges of his face and made him look… younger.
Albus’s chest tightened. He didn’t see that smile often. Not directed at him, anyway. He could count the times on one hand — and most of those were probably before he was old enough to even remember them.
It was easy for James to pull that out of him, though. James could joke and tease and say the most ridiculous things, and Harry would just… light up. Albus couldn’t remember the last time he’d made his dad laugh like that. Or even smile.
Maybe that was why Harry had looked so guarded yesterday, when they’d first arrived. The way his shoulders had stiffened, the way his eyes had sharpened as soon as Albus walked into the room. He wasn’t like that with James. Or Lily.
He felt a sharp pang in his chest and forced himself to swallow it down. He had already made peace with this — or so he thought. He had decided, a long time ago, that he and Harry just weren’t going to have that kind of relationship. Not like James did. And that was fine. It wasn’t like Harry had ever mistreated him — not exactly. His dad showed up when he was supposed to, asked about his work, nodded along when Albus answered. He wasn’t bad at being a father. He just wasn’t… close.
And maybe that was Albus’s fault too.
After all, Harry didn’t joke with him because Albus didn’t give him anything to joke about. He didn’t share stories the way James did. He didn’t sit next to his dad on the sofa or lean into his side when they were sitting around the fire. He kept his distance, and Harry respected it.
But sometimes, Albus wondered if maybe Harry was just following his lead.
A sharp laugh from James snapped him out of his thoughts. He glanced up and saw his father still shaking his head as James proudly pointed at the shirt. Harry’s cheeks were a little red — embarrassed, but smiling all the same.
And Albus thought, Maybe it’s not too late.
Albus sat back, feeling the weight of the coffee cup in his hands (this time with a tight lid). His father was still smiling faintly, his fingers resting on the ridiculous t-shirt James had handed him. Albus hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, clearing his throat.
“So, um,” he began, his voice careful, “something happened at the office last week.”
Harry’s gaze flicked toward him, eyebrows raising slightly in interest. “Yeah?”
Albus took that as encouragement and pressed on. “Well, we were working on this new case — one of those classified ones. It’s complicated, but basically—”
“Oh, is this the one with the cursed vault?” James Jr. cut in, twisting toward them with an eager grin. “The one where you lot couldn’t get the vault open because it was rigged with that ancient binding spell?”
Albus’s mouth thinned. “Yeah—”
“And then some poor idiot tried to counter it with a severing charm and nearly blew himself up?” James continued, laughing. “Dad, you should’ve seen it — Al’s boss was standing there like he was about to have a heart attack!”
Harry’s mouth twitched at that, his gaze shifting toward James. “Really?”
“Yeah!” James snorted. “Apparently, it triggered this massive explosion of ancient magic. Nearly brought down half the building — and Al just stood there, cool as anything, like he wasn’t about to get flattened.”
Albus’s shoulders tightened. “That’s not exactly how it happened—”
“Come on, Al,” James grinned. “It was pretty impressive. Even your boss said you handled it better than anyone else would have.”
Harry’s smile widened slightly. “That’s impressive.”
Albus’s stomach twisted. He could feel the warmth in Harry’s voice — that quiet pride — but it wasn’t for him. Not really. James had hijacked the story, spun it into something flashier, and of course Harry had responded to that. He always did when it came to James.
James beamed under the attention, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, Al’s good under pressure. Even if he’s boring.” He nudged Albus with his foot, playful and easy. “Maybe one day you’ll be as cool as me.”
Albus forced a thin smile, but the knot in his chest tightened. He knew James hadn’t meant anything by it. He wasn’t trying to cut him out — not intentionally. But that didn’t make it sting any less.
Harry’s gaze slid toward Albus. He opened his mouth, as if about to say something — but the moment passed too quickly. The bus hit a bump, James laughed at something Sirius muttered, and Harry’s attention was drawn away again.
Albus leaned back against his seat, his hands curling around the coffee cup once more. He stared out the window, feeling that familiar ache settle low in his chest.
Of course. That’s just how it always was.
Albus’s gaze remained fixed on the passing blur of the countryside beyond the window. His reflection in the glass stared back at him—his own face superimposed over the streaks of green fields and pale sky. The low hum of chatter from the other passengers filled the air, a comfortable undercurrent of sound that he still somehow felt on the outside of.
James was still talking animatedly with Sirius, spinning another story—something about a Quidditch match he’d been to last summer. Harry was listening, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, but Albus noticed the subtle tension around his father’s eyes—the lingering discomfort from the burns, maybe, or the shirt still clinging to his half-healed skin.
“Hey,” Lily Sr. leaned toward Albus, her voice low. “You okay?”
Albus dragged his gaze from the window and gave a quick nod. “Yeah. Fine.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press it. Instead, her eyes flicked toward James and Harry. “You know he listens to you,” she said softly.
Albus’s jaw tightened. He let out a quiet scoff. “Sure.”
Lily’s brow furrowed. “No, really. You just… you don’t make it easy.”
Albus’s head turned toward her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lily shrugged. “You don’t exactly give him much to work with.”
Albus frowned, but Lily was already straightening as Ginny approached down the aisle, passing out more drinks.
“Anyone want another Butterbeer?” Ginny offered brightly, holding out a few chilled bottles.
James immediately grabbed one. “Absolutely.”
Ginny rolled her eyes fondly. “And what about you?”
Albus shook his head, but Harry’s gaze lingered on him for a second too long.
“Al,” Harry said suddenly, cutting across the noise.
Albus’s head snapped toward him.
“I’d actually… like to hear about that case,” Harry said, his tone quieter.
Albus blinked. “What?”
Harry’s smile was faint, almost uncertain. “The one with the vault. You didn’t finish.”
Albus’s mouth opened, but James was already laughing. “Dad, it’s boring. Al just stood there looking broody while his boss handled it.”
Harry’s gaze didn’t shift from Albus. “That true?”
Albus hesitated. His heart gave a quick, uneven thud.
“No,” he said quietly.
Harry’s expression softened. “Then tell me.”
Albus’s mouth felt dry. He glanced toward James, who rolled his eyes but didn’t interrupt this time. Sirius was watching too, his expression unreadable.
Albus took a breath. “Well,” he said, his voice steady, “it wasn’t just any vault. It was an old one—possibly pre-Goblin Rebellion era. It had protections no one had seen in over a hundred years.”
Harry leaned in slightly. “And you figured it out?”
Albus hesitated. “Sort of. I mean, it took a few tries. The initial spells backfired, and I… well, I nearly got hexed for it.”
“You handled it,” Harry said.
Albus’s gaze lowered. “Yeah.”
Harry’s smile widened. “That’s impressive.”
Albus’s breath hitched. His chest felt strangely warm. He didn’t quite know what to do with the feeling, so he shrugged.
“It’s not a big deal,” Albus said.
Harry’s gaze softened. “It is to me.”
James snorted, leaning back. “Alright, calm down. Don’t go making him head of the department yet.”
“Jealous?” Sirius drawled.
James threw him a mock glare. “Of Al? Please.”
Harry’s gaze stayed on Albus for a few seconds longer before he finally relaxed back in his seat, fingers curling around the edge of the armrest. The faint smile remained on his face, like he was seeing something new—something that maybe Albus had overlooked himself.
Albus glanced back toward the window. His reflection was still there—but somehow, it didn’t seem quite so distant anymore.
James leaned back, still looking smug. "Seriously, Al. Why not transfer to the Auror Office? We could use you."
Albus shook his head. "I’m fine where I am."
James scoffed. "Come on. You’re already breaking curses, deciphering ancient magic. You’d fit right in."
"I work for the Department of Mysteries," Albus said pointedly.
"Exactly!" James spread his arms. "You already deal with the weird stuff. Might as well get some action while you’re at it."
Albus raised an eyebrow. "You think decoding ancient magical artifacts isn’t action?"
James snorted. "Not the kind that involves dueling dark wizards in alleyways."
"That’s not exactly a selling point."
James rolled his eyes. "Come on, you’d be brilliant at it."
"Would he?" Sirius cut in, smirking. "Because last I heard, the Department of Mysteries handles things a bit more… delicately."
Albus shot him a dry look. "Yes, we don’t usually solve problems by hexing first and asking questions later."
"Sounds boring," James said.
"It’s not," Albus replied coolly. "You wouldn’t last a day down there."
James scoffed. "Try me."
Harry, who had been silent for most of the exchange, finally spoke up. "James, you wouldn’t even make it past the first security charm."
James turned to him, incredulous. "What, you don’t think I could handle it?"
Harry’s mouth twitched. "I think you’d try to hex the first locked door."
James grinned. "Well, if it works, it works."
Albus sighed, rubbing his temple. "There’s a reason they don’t let just anyone into the Department of Mysteries."
James smirked. "Yeah, yeah. Because you lot think you’re smarter than everyone else."
Albus didn’t rise to the bait. "We’re more selective."
"Or paranoid."
Albus just gave him a thin smile. "Call it what you want."
Sirius chuckled. "Unspeakables and Aurors, sitting side by side. The Ministry’s worst nightmare."
James grinned. "Bet they wish they could keep us apart."
"Probably wise," Harry said mildly.
James nudged Albus’s shoulder. "Still think you’d be good at it."
"And I still think you’d get yourself killed in the Department of Mysteries," Albus shot back.
James laughed. "Good thing I’m sticking to the Auror Office, then."
Albus shook his head, but he couldn’t quite hide the small smile tugging at his mouth.
James leaned back, stretching his legs into the aisle. "Alright, speaking of the Auror Office," he said, his eyes glinting with mischief, "you lot are going to love this."
Harry sighed. "Should I be worried?"
James ignored him. "So, last week, we were tracking down this bloke in Knockturn Alley—nasty piece of work, smuggling cursed objects. Anyway, we had him cornered in this old apothecary. Real cramped space, shelves stacked to the ceiling with potions and ingredients."
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess—you set something on fire."
James grinned. "Not intentionally."
Albus snorted. "Merlin help us."
"Anyway," James continued, "he pulls out this cursed amulet—dark magic practically humming off it—and he tries to hex me. I duck, but the hex hits a shelf behind me—"
"Of course it does," Harry said dryly.
"—and it explodes. Fire, smoke, the works." James gestured animatedly. "Suddenly the whole shop is coming down, and this bloke makes a run for it."
"And what did you do?" Sirius asked, amused.
James smirked. "Stunned him right in the middle of the smoke. Total blind shot. Might’ve been my best spellwork to date."
"And the fire?" Albus asked.
"Ah." James winced. "Well, the shop’s… mostly intact."
"Mostly?"
James shrugged. "The owner was a bit miffed, but technically we saved him from a dark object smuggler, so…"
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me you filed the damage report."
James’s grin widened. "Technically, my partner filed it."
"Unbelievable," Harry muttered.
"Hey, the suspect's in custody. That’s what matters." James leaned back with a satisfied expression.
"And how many Galleons is the Ministry paying in damages this time?" Albus asked.
James waved a hand. "Details."
Albus shook his head. "Sounds like the shop owner might hex you himself next time."
"Let him try," James said smugly. "No one’s gotten through my shield charms yet."
"Yet," Sirius murmured.
James shot him a playful glare. "Have some faith, Sirius."
Sirius chuckled. "I have plenty of faith in your ability to cause chaos."
"Hey, it’s a talent," James said, shrugging.
"That’s one word for it," Harry muttered. But there was a trace of pride in his eyes as he looked at James.
James’s grin softened slightly at that, and for a brief moment, he looked less like an Auror and more like the boy who had once followed Harry around on his toy broomstick in his dress-up auor costume.
Albus rolled his eyes. "You know, not everything has to end with something on fire."
James smirked. "Says the bloke working in the Department of Mysteries."
"At least my work doesn’t require constant repair orders."
"Yeah, because no one even knows what you do," James shot back.
Albus’s expression darkened slightly. "That’s the point."
James raised his hands. "Alright, alright. Secret agent stuff, I get it." He turned toward Sirius. "You should’ve seen Dad’s face when Albus told him he got into the Department of Mysteries. He looked like he was going to pass out."
Sirius chuckled. "Not exactly a low-stress career choice."
Albus gave a thin smile. "It’s not so bad."
James scoffed. "Please. You practically live at the office."
"Work's important," Albus said simply.
"Yeah, yeah," James sighed. "But come on, it’s not like you’re guarding the fate of the world."
Albus didn’t answer, which only made James narrow his eyes.
"Are you?"
Albus’s lips twitched. "Classified."
James groaned. "Unbelievable."
"I’m just saying," Sirius cut in, amused, "between Albus working in the Department of Mysteries and you blowing up shops in Knockturn Alley, Harry might want to reconsider his retirement plans."
"Retirement?" Harry scoffed, finally opening his eyes. "I’ve been trying to retire for the last ten years. No one lets me."
"Because you keep getting pulled back in," James said, smirking.
Harry sighed. "Occupational hazard."
"Just saying—someone’s got to keep the next generation in line," Sirius added, grinning.
James’s grin sharpened. "Or set a bad example for them."
"Yeah, that sounds about right," Sirius said, chuckling.
Just then, the bus hit another bump, making the drinks in their hands slosh dangerously. Sirius and James both reached out automatically to steady their glasses.
Albus sighed. "Brilliant. By the time we get there, everyone’s going to smell like burnt coffee and singed robes."
"You lot are a walking hazard," Lily Sr.’s voice floated over from across the aisle.
James sr grinned and raised his glass toward her. "And yet, you love us anyway."
Lily shook her head but smiled. "Speak for yourself."
Sirius watched the easy banter between Harry and his sons with a faint smile, though his eyes darkened slightly as his gaze drifted toward the window. The countryside blurred past, all soft greens and muted golds beneath the overcast sky. His fingers absently tapped against the armrest, a restless energy beneath the surface.
It was strange, this feeling—the warmth of it. He'd spent most of his life with the sharp edge of loneliness digging into his ribs, twisting every time he let himself believe he might belong somewhere. Even in the Order, even at Grimmauld Place with James and Remus and Peter, there had always been the sense that it could slip away at any moment. And it had.
But here—on this crowded Muggle bus, surrounded by noise and laughter and chaos—it was different. This wasn’t the life he’d imagined for himself. He hadn’t imagined any life at all, really, not after Azkaban. And yet, here he was. Sitting next to Harry, his godson, who was teasing his sons and trying not to smile. Lily and James—his Lily and James—were sitting across from him, alive and well and somehow still the same. It was enough to make him believe, just for a moment, that the universe had finally stopped holding a grudge.
And Harry—Merlin, Harry—he’d done so well. Better than Sirius ever could have imagined. The boy had survived so much and still turned out kind and steady and capable of raising two sons who somehow both annoyed him and made him proud in the same breath. Harry had built a life. A messy, imperfect, beautiful life. And Sirius hadn’t had a hand in any of it. He hadn’t been there for the hard parts—hadn’t seen Harry off on his first day of school, hadn’t been there when he scraped his knee learning to ride a broom, hadn’t held him after nightmares. He’d missed it all.
And yet Harry let him sit here now, like he belonged. Like he hadn’t failed him. Like there was still time to make up for it.
His gaze slid toward Albus, who was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed, watching James with narrowed eyes. Sirius could see the tension in his shoulders, the thin line of his mouth. He recognized it. He’d seen it in his own reflection growing up—this careful guard Albus always kept in place, the constant need to prove himself, to be in control. A Black trait, maybe, but one Sirius suspected had more to do with growing up under the shadow of Harry Potter.
Albus was so much like Harry—more than either of them realized. They both had the same habit of deflecting with sarcasm, the same guardedness when things got too close. Sirius had seen it in Harry back at Grimmauld Place all those years ago. Harry had never said it outright, but Sirius had known he’d spent his whole childhood feeling like he had to take care of himself. Feeling like he was too much of a burden to ask for help.
Albus was the same. He thought he had to figure it out on his own.
Sirius sighed, his gaze flicking back to Harry. Harry was pretending to ignore James and Albus, but Sirius saw the way his eyes softened when Albus spoke, the way he leaned toward him without realizing it. He cared—deeply—but Harry was still Harry. Still unsure how to say it out loud.
"You're a good father, you know," Sirius said quietly.
Harry’s eyes flicked toward him, wary. "What brought that on?"
Sirius shrugged. "Just saying." He smiled faintly. "Albus knows it too."
Harry's expression faltered. He glanced toward Albus, who was now glaring at James for cutting off his story. Albus’s face was drawn, guarded.
"You think so?" Harry asked.
Sirius’s smile sharpened. "I know so."
Harry looked like he wanted to say something more, but James nudged him, and Harry’s attention shifted. Sirius leaned back, arms crossed, letting his eyes slip toward the window.
He couldn’t fix the years he’d lost—not with Harry, not with James or Lily. But maybe he could still make something of the time they had now. Maybe that was enough.
***
The bus rattled to a stop on a gravel path, and the sudden stillness that followed was almost jarring. The door hissed open with a creak, and one by one, the Potters began to stand and stretch, shaking off the stiffness from the long ride. Sunlight filtered through the bus windows, casting long golden beams across the floor. Outside, the wedding venue stretched out before them like something out of a storybook.
It wasn’t a single building but rather a cluster of quaint stone houses with slate roofs, forming a cozy, self-contained village. Neatly trimmed hedges lined the cobbled paths, and flowering vines climbed the walls, their blooms spilling over the edges of the windowsills. Beyond the houses, a sprawling green lawn stretched toward a large white marquee, where staff in crisp uniforms were setting up tables and adjusting strings of floating fairy lights that shimmered faintly in the afternoon sun. A small stone fountain bubbled nearby, the soft trickling sound blending with the distant chatter of other guests already arriving.
“Blimey,” James Jr. whistled as he stepped off the bus, shading his eyes with his hand. “Did they book the whole village?”
“It’s not a village,” Ginny corrected as she stepped down behind him. “It’s a private estate. They designed it to feel like a village.”
“Well, they nailed it,” James Jr. said, glancing around.
“It’s nice,” Lily Sr. said approvingly, stepping off the bus with James Sr., who was already inspecting the nearest cottage with a thoughtful expression. “Much more tasteful than that villa.”
Harry sighed as he followed them off the bus, the ridiculous novelty t-shirt with his face still stretched across his chest from the coffee incident.
They barely had a moment to get their bearings before a line of house-elves in matching white uniforms popped into existence at the edge of the path. They bowed deeply, their large ears flapping slightly.
“Welcome,” one of them said in a high, crisp voice. “Please follow us. Your house has been prepared.”
Harry exchanged a look with Ginny, who gave him a small smile. He was already starting to feel tired again, but at least they’d finally arrived.
“This way,” the house-elf at the front said, leading them down the cobbled path toward the cluster of houses.
They passed rows of identical stone cottages with white shutters and neatly trimmed gardens. Each house was well-maintained, with flower boxes overflowing with colorful blooms and freshly painted doors in shades of blue, green, and red. The whole setup had a carefully curated charm—like the estate had been designed specifically for events like this.
Finally, the house-elf stopped in front of a long, narrow house with a white door and hanging baskets of red and yellow flowers on either side of the entrance. It had a cozy feel to it, with tall windows and a narrow balcony on the second floor.
“This will be the Potter family house,” the house-elf announced with a bow.
“Not very creative with the names,” Sirius muttered.
Harry ignored him, peering at the house as the door swung open on its own, revealing a welcoming sitting room inside. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling and lined bookshelves. A brick fireplace sat at the far end, with plush armchairs and a worn leather sofa arranged in a circle around it. The polished wooden floors gleamed faintly in the sunlight streaming through the large bay windows.
A stack of neatly folded towels and toiletries sat on a low bench beneath one of the windows. Through the window, Harry could see a small back garden with a wrought iron table and chairs beneath a vine-covered trellis.
“James and Albus,” Harry started, glancing toward his sons. “You’re sharing the room on the left.”
“What?” James Jr. looked horrified.
“Why am I always stuck with him?” Albus muttered.
“Because you’re family,” Harry said simply.
James groaned, but Albus only shrugged and wandered toward the room, hands in his pockets. Sirius watched him go, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
“Where’s our room?” Ginny asked.
“Down the hall,” Harry said, pointing.
“And where’s mine?” Sirius asked.
Harry smirked. “Next door.”
Sirius gave a mock bow. “Splendid.”
James Sr. and Lily Sr. were already inspecting the house, Lily Sr. running her hand along the back of one of the armchairs.
“Well, this is lovely,” Lily Sr. said, setting her handbag on the side table. “Almost makes up for the bus.”
“Almost,” James Sr. agreed with a grin.
The house-elves began moving their luggage inside, setting it neatly at the foot of each bed.
As they settled in, Harry wandered toward the window, watching the marquee in the distance where staff were still adjusting the strings of lights. Sirius joined him, standing at his shoulder with his hands in his pockets.
“Well,” Sirius said, his mouth curling into a crooked grin. “If nothing else, at least the wine should be decent.”
“Or you could pace yourself,” Harry suggested.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Sirius said with a wink.
Harry shook his head, already resigned to whatever chaos the weekend might bring. He turned back toward the room, his gaze briefly catching on Albus sitting on the edge of one of the beds, already thumbing through a thick leather-bound book. James Jr. was leaning back against the headboard, arms crossed, already looking bored.
Ginny came up behind Harry, touching his arm. “We should let everyone settle in before dinner.” she said softly.
As the last of the luggage was tucked away and the house-elves quietly disappeared with soft pops, the Potter family settled into a comfortable quiet. The evening light filtered through the windows, casting long golden shadows across the polished floorboards. Albus leaned back against the sofa, still flipping through his book, while James Jr. had already stretched out with his arms crossed behind his head. Lily Sr. and James Sr. were murmuring to each other by the fireplace, while Ginny stood near the window, her hand resting lightly on Harry’s arm. Sirius was perched on the arm of the sofa, watching them all with a faint smile, the light from the setting sun catching in his dark hair. For a brief moment, the tension of the bus ride and the sting of the spilled coffee seemed forgotten, replaced by the quiet hum of family settling in together. Tomorrow would bring the wedding, with all the chaos and sentiment that would follow—but for now, there was peace.
Notes:
Hope you liked this chapter!
Do comment your thoughts! I love reading them ❤️
PSA: I've lost access to my Google Drive, that means I've lost the docs in which I've written the the upcoming chapters. I've also deleted my other story I was posting.
So yeah, it is really shocking and heartbreaking for me as I've written the chapters with so much effort and I know y'all were so excited for the update.
I don't know when I'll update the story as I've not writing a word since I've lost my work, I can't just find the spark.
I hope I'll write it again, but until then you all got to be patient 🙂❤️❤️❤️
Chapter 29: The Wedding
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sirius jolted awake, drenched in sweat. Sunlight streamed into the room, painting bright patterns on the walls. Heart pounding, he glanced around in a moment of panic before his eyes landed on the wall clock—half past ten. A wave of relief washed over him; he hadn’t missed the wedding, thank Merlin.
Sirius rubbed a hand over his face, blinking away the remnants of his nightmare. The house was eerily quiet, the usual clamor of the Potters’ morning routine conspicuously absent. Frowning, he grabbed a towel and made his way to the bathroom.
He turned on the tap, letting the water run hot as steam curled around him. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he scowled. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and his hair stuck out in all directions—a mess even by his standards. He stripped off his wrinkled clothes and stepped into the shower, hissing as the water scalded his skin before settling into a comforting heat.
The steady stream washed away sweat and tension, but his thoughts remained tangled. He wondered where everyone was. Had he really slept through the ruckus of a house full of Weasleys and Potters preparing for a wedding? A part of him itched with unease, but he brushed it off, letting the water work out the knots in his shoulders.
As he scrubbed away the grime, his mind wandered to Albus—quiet, brooding Albus. Sirius’ lips twisted into a faint smile at the thought of their late-night conversation. The boy had more in common with him than he’d realized. It was both a comfort and a worry.
Finishing his shower, Sirius wrapped a towel around his waist and ruffled his hair dry. The house was still silent as he dressed quickly in black slacks and a half-buttoned shirt, the top few buttons left undone out of habit.
He padded out of the bathroom, listening for any signs of life. The silence felt heavier now, pressing against his ears.
Sirius dressed himself with a touch more care than usual, pulling on finely tailored black dress robes with a silver lining that caught the light. He fastened the buttons neatly, adjusted the collar, and gave himself a once-over in the mirror. The man staring back at him looked a touch older, but the roguish glint in his eyes hadn’t dulled. Satisfied, he ran a hand through his damp hair and made his way downstairs.
The kitchen cum dining room was awash in soft morning light, illuminating polished countertops and a long wooden table. The faint scent of coffee and toast lingered in the air. Sirius paused in the doorway, taking in the scene.
James Jr. was slouched at the table, a half-eaten bowl of cereal in front of him, spoon lazily stirring soggy flakes. His eyes were glued to a sleek spellphone, fingers scrolling idly. His dress robes hung open over a plain undershirt, looking more like an afterthought than actual attire.
“Morning,” Sirius drawled, eyeing the bowl with distaste. "Breakfast of champions?"
James Jr. looked up, smirking. "Don’t knock it till you try it, old man."
Sirius snorted, sliding into a chair across from him. “Merlin, don’t tell me you’re wearing that to the wedding.”
James Jr. rolled his eyes. “Relax, I’ll get dressed in a minute. Just catching up on the headlines.”
“Anything interesting?” Sirius asked, reaching for a cup of coffee.
“Oh, you know,” James Jr. said, waving the spellphone dismissively. “Dark wizards, ministry scandals, and apparently some bloke in Paris broke the record for the world’s largest exploding cauldron. Typical Tuesday.”
Sirius barked a laugh, taking a sip of coffee. “Well, as long as it wasn’t one of your cousins.”
James Jr. smirked. “You never know with Fred.”
Sirius chuckled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He glanced around. “Where is everyone?”
“Already out,” James Jr. said, leaning back in his chair. “Mum and Dad are helping with the setup, Lily dragged Al along for moral support.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “And you got left behind?”
James Jr. grinned. “Somebody had to keep you company, old man.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, but there was warmth in the gesture. “Lucky me.”
James glanced at Sirius’s empty plate and smirked. “You might want to eat properly now,” he said, lazily stirring his cereal. “It’s a Malfoy tradition to do the whole French cuisine thing for weddings. Fancy dishes with names you can’t pronounce and portions the size of a Knut.”
Sirius frowned as he poured himself a bowl of cereal, eyeing the box suspiciously. “So, no roast beef or Yorkshire pudding, then?”
James Jr. snorted. “Not unless you can charm a escargot into one.”
Sirius sighed, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “I knew the Malfoys were dodgy, but starving their guests at a wedding? That’s a new low.”
James grinned. “Hey, Victoire said the food’s amazing. Just...delicate. Might wanna fill up now unless you’re planning to chase down a house-elf for a snack.”
Sirius groaned. “Merlin’s beard, I’d kill for a full English right now.”
James Jr. spooned another mouthful of cereal, chewing thoughtfully before glancing at Sirius. A hesitant expression flickered across his face as he pushed the bowl away and leaned back in his chair.
“You know,” he began slowly, eyes fixed on the table. “Your family—the Blacks—they were all about the pure-blood traditions, right? Fancy parties, lavish dinners, all that… So, isn’t this sort of thing… normal for you?”
Sirius barked a laugh, but it was humorless. “Normal, sure. Enjoyable? That’s a different story.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I grew up in a house where silver cutlery was charmed to stab you if you didn’t use it properly, and ‘family dinners’ were more like trials. Eat in silence, listen to my mother preach blood purity, and Merlin help you if you dared talk back.”
James Jr. winced. “Sounds rough.”
Sirius shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a bitter smile. “It’s why I used to sneak out to the Potters’ every chance I got. Ate more toast and bacon in their kitchen than I ever did at Grimmauld Place.”
James chuckled, but it was strained. “Never pegged you for a rebel.”
“Oh, I was a nightmare,” Sirius replied with a mischievous glint. “And bloody proud of it. But all this?” He gestured vaguely. “The opulence, the airs, the pretentious rubbish—never could stomach it. Pomp and grandeur can’t hide rot.”
James Jr. nodded slowly, the weight of the words settling between them. “Guess you won’t be too impressed by today’s Malfoy extravaganza, then?”
Sirius snorted. “Not unless they’re handing out bacon sandwiches as party favors.”Well,”
James said, glancing at his watch, “I’d better get my arse up and get ready before Mum comes in and does it for me.”
Sirius let out a bark of laughter as James pushed himself up from the table and vanished upstairs.
About twenty minutes later, he reappeared, looking effortlessly handsome and undeniably dashing. He wore tailored black dress robes with deep crimson accents that highlighted the strong lines of his frame. The fabric was rich and smooth, catching the light as he moved. A silver clasp shaped like a griffin held the robes together at his shoulder. His hair was artfully tousled, a deliberate mess that somehow made him look even more roguish, and a confident smirk curved his lips.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Not bad. Almost respectable.”
James Jr. glanced at his watch and arched a brow. "The wedding starts in an hour. We should head out soon if we don’t want to stroll in late and make a scene."
Sirius snorted. “Oh, but stealing the spotlight from a Malfoy wedding sounds so tempting.”
James Jr. smirked. “Yeah, but something tells me Aunt Hermione would Crucio us on the spot if we did.”
Sirius chuckled. “Fair point. Let’s go then.”
He drained the last of his coffee, set the cup down, and followed James Jr. out the door. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of lavender and sun-warmed grass. The countryside stretched out before them, picturesque and bathed in soft light. A stone path wound its way from the house toward the venue, bordered by blooming wildflowers.
As they walked, Sirius shot James a sidelong glance. “So, nervous about seeing your cousin tie the knot?”
James shrugged, though a flicker of something crossed his face. “Not nervous, exactly. Just...feels weird, you know? We were all kids not too long ago, and now Rose is getting married. It’s mental.”
Sirius hummed thoughtfully as they walked. The path was busier than expected, dotted with guests dressed in elegant robes and gowns. A hulking boy with a face like a gorilla caught sight of them, his gaze lingering on James Jr. before twisting into a sneer. He scoffed and turned away.
James met the glare with a cool, unbothered look, and Sirius arched a brow.
“Er—what was that about?” Sirius asked.
James let out a laugh. “That’s Pat Williams. He was a year below me in Slytherin. Lily beat the shit out of him—Muggle style—during her first week at Hogwarts. Bloke made fun of Al, and she didn’t take kindly to it.” A proud grin spread across his face.
Sirius snorted, but then realization dawned on him. “Lily?” he asked, eyebrows shooting up. “Your sister?”
James raised an eyebrow. “Well, she’s the only Lily I went to school with, so yeah.”
A slow, proud grin spread across Sirius’s face as he laughed. “Remind me to never get on her bad side, then.”
James grinned back. “Smart man.”
They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes before a shrill voice broke through the quiet.
“JAMES!”
Both men turned to see Dora running toward them as carefully as a five-year-old could manage in an elegant flower girl dress. The soft pink fabric swished around her legs, and tiny blossoms adorned her hair.
James grinned and crouched, scooping her up and tossing her into the air before catching her securely.
“James, don’t!” Dora scolded, clutching his shoulders. “Mummy said not to move too much, or I’ll ruin my dress!”
But James only chuckled, looking at his goddaughter with pure affection. “Merlin’s beard, Dora, you look stunning! Excited to be a flower girl?”
Dora crossed her arms with an indignant huff, but a giggle escaped. “James, put me down! I’m a big girl now—I can walk on my own!”
“The path is rough. You might trip,” James countered playfully.
“James!” she protested, eyes flashing.
He sighed dramatically and set her down. “Alright, Miss Diva. Happy now?”
Dora beamed and stuck her tongue out at him before scampering a few steps ahead, twirling as the hem of her dress flared out. Sirius chuckled, watching her skip along with uncontainable excitement.
“She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, mate,” Sirius teased.
James rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m a sucker for cute faces.”
Dora shot a grin back at them, skipping further along the path, her laughter ringing out like a bell.As they continued along the path, Dora stumbled a few times but stubbornly refused to take their offered hands, determined to walk on her own.
“If it isn’t the infamous James Potter,” drawled a husky voice from behind.
James halted, eyebrows knitting together as he turned around. Standing there with effortless grace was a tall, willowy girl with blonde hair styled in an elegant, loose bun. The pastel blue silk dress she wore draped beautifully over her figure, and a playful smile curved her rosy lips, making her look both intimidating and stunning.
James returned her playful smile, raising an eyebrow. “Ah—Amélie, didn’t expect to see you here.”
Amélie arched a delicate brow, the corners of her lips curling upward. “And miss the chance to see James Potter knocked down a peg or two by a Malfoy wedding? Never.”
But James didn’t look the least bit offended. “Amélie, this is my dad’s godfather, Sirius Black,” he introduced smoothly, patting the little girl’s head. “And that’s my goddaughter, Dora—Vic’s daughter,” he added. Dora scowled, but no one seemed to notice.
“Sirius, Dora, this is Amélie Faure. She came to Hogwarts for a year on exchange from Beauxbatons.”
Amélie offered them a graceful smile, her eyes sparkling. “Enchantée,” she said, with a hint of a playful lilt.
As the group continued down the sun-dappled path, the gentle hum of distant chatter and the faint strains of music drifted from the wedding venue. Sirius walked ahead, giving James and Amélie room to talk, though his occasional glances back made it clear he was still listening in.
“So,” Amélie drawled, a teasing lilt in her voice, “James Potter, an Auror. I always thought you’d end up running a Quidditch team or causing trouble somewhere.”
James smirked. “Who says I can’t do both? Being an Auror just means I get paid to cause trouble.”
Amélie laughed, eyes glimmering. “Ah, so the hero’s life suits you? Charging in, saving lives, making hearts swoon?”
James chuckled. “More like stumbling in, cursing under my breath, and filling out hours of paperwork. Less swooning, more bruises.”
“Oh, such a glamorous life,” Amélie mocked lightly.
“You’re just jealous,” James shot back, his grin widening.
“Of parchment cuts and sleepless nights? Terribly.”
As they bantered, their steps unconsciously drew closer, shoulders brushing. Without thinking, James rested a hand at the small of Amélie’s back, steering her around a stray tree root. She didn’t pull away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
A few paces ahead, Dora trotted along, her frilly dress swishing around her legs as she occasionally stumbled on uneven stones. Each time, she quickly righted herself, refusing to reach out for help. Her eyes darted back to James and Amélie, gaze narrowing as James leaned closer to whisper something that made Amélie laugh.
Dora’s scowl deepened. She stopped abruptly, hands on her hips. “James! Carry me!”
James blinked, startled by the sudden demand. “Carry you? Dora, we’re almost there.”
Dora huffed dramatically. “My feet hurt!”
James sighed but crouched down, and Dora eagerly scrambled onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck. He adjusted his grip, and they continued walking, Amélie watching with a smile.
“Quite the charmer, aren’t you?” Amélie mused.
James shot her a grin. “What can I say? She’s got me wrapped around her little finger.”
Dora buried her face against his shoulder, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, “Good.”
James chuckled and shifted her higher, resuming his conversation with Amélie. Dora clung tighter, casting a wary glance at Amélie, who seemed far too comfortable beside James for her liking.
Neither James nor Amélie noticed the small, possessive pout on Dora’s face as they continued their lighthearted exchange, oblivious to her glare.
Amélie’s eyes softened as she took in the sight of Dora perched on James’s hip. “Oh là là, you are simply adorable, ma petite!” she cooed, reaching out to lightly pinch Dora’s cheek.
Dora squirmed away, wrinkling her nose. “I’m not little!” she declared with all the indignation of a five-year-old.
Amélie laughed, unbothered. “Ah, but you are très petite, and so very pretty!”
Dora scowled, crossing her arms and leaning closer into James, who chuckled obliviously. “She’s a firecracker, this one,” he said fondly, ruffling Dora’s hair.
“I can see that,” Amélie replied, eyes sparkling. “A fierce little witch already—just like her mother, I imagine?”
Dora huffed, giving Amélie a defiant glare. “I’m fierce like my dad!”
James laughed. “Oh, are you now? Teddy will be pleased to hear that.”
Amélie leaned closer, brushing a stray curl away from Dora’s face. “You know, ma chérie, fierce and pretty can go together.”
Dora shot her a suspicious look before turning to James. “Can we go now?” she demanded.
James chuckled and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Alright, bossy boots.”
Amélie fell into step beside them, her attention flicking between James and Dora with a knowing smile. James, still oblivious to Dora’s scowl, continued chatting. “You know, Amélie, I’m surprised you remember so much about Hogwarts. A lot happened in just a year.”
Amélie smirked. “Some things are hard to forget, James.”
Dora’s scowl deepened, and she clung tighter to James’s neck, determinedly glaring at Amélie over his shoulder.
As they strolled along the path, Amélie’s eyes flicked over to James, her curiosity evident. “And how is Albus?” she asked lightly. “Still as brooding and mysterious as ever?”
James snorted. “Brooding, yes. Mysterious, not so much—unless you count hiding in the library as mysterious.”
Amélie laughed, a warm, tinkling sound. “Ah, some things never change.” She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “Is he still obsessed with Potions?”
James grinned. “He’s actually eyeing a position at the Department of Mysteries now. Reckons it’ll be full of dark secrets and dangerous experiments.” He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his fondness. “Always did love a good puzzle.”
Amélie smiled knowingly. “It suits him. Though I half-expected him to run off and live in the dungeons forever.”
James let out a bark of laughter. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Though I’m sure Mum would drag him out by the ear if he tried.”
Dora, sensing the conversation wasn’t about her, frowned. “Uncle Al’s not mysterious,” she announced with authority. “He’s just grumpy!”
Amélie chuckled. “Ah, I see. The wisdom of youth.”
James smirked. “That’s our Al—grumpy, broody, and oddly lovable.”
Dora huffed. “He lets me play with his wand. Mummy says I can’t have one yet.”
Amélie gasped dramatically. “A wand already? You must be a very powerful witch!”
Dora’s scowl wavered as she puffed up proudly. “I am! I can make sparkles!”
James grinned, jostling her playfully. “See, Amélie? She’s fierce and magical. We’re all doomed.”
Amélie laughed, reaching out to ruffle Dora’s hair, only for the little girl to duck away with a glare. “I am not little!” Dora insisted, clinging tighter to James.
James, oblivious to Dora’s growing frustration, chuckled. “Of course not, Miss Fierce.”
Amélie’s eyes danced as she met James’s gaze. “She has your stubbornness.”
James grinned. “Runs in the family.”
Dora, not at all pleased with this attention, twisted in James’s arms. “James, can we go now?” she demanded, eyes narrowing at Amélie.
James sighed, but his tone was amused. “Alright, alright. Keep your hair on.”
He started forward again, Amélie falling easily into step beside him. She shot Dora a teasing wink, but the little girl only scowled harder, clutching James possessively.
As they approached the wedding venue, the air buzzed with excitement. The elegant chateau stood proudly against the French countryside, adorned with delicate blooms and enchanted lights that flickered like fireflies in the sunlight. Guests milled around in their finest robes, the hum of cheerful conversation and the clinking of glasses setting a lively backdrop.
Amélie slowed her pace, a glimmer of recognition crossing her face. She lifted a manicured hand and waved enthusiastically. "Ah, there’s Camille! I should say hello before she accuses me of abandoning her,” she said with a playful roll of her eyes.
James smirked. “You better go save yourself, then.”
Amélie shot him a grin, her eyes flicking between Sirius and Dora. “It was lovely meeting you, Sirius. And you too, little fierce one,” she said warmly, her voice dipping into a teasing lilt.
Dora crossed her arms over her chest, glaring up at Amélie with all the indignation a little girl could muster. "I’m not little,” she muttered.
Amélie chuckled, unfazed. “Of course not.” Her gaze lingered on James, a mischievous smile curving her lips. “I’ll see you around, Potter.”
“Looking forward to it,” James quipped, flashing her a roguish grin.
Amélie gave a final wave and drifted gracefully through the crowd, the pastel blue of her dress fluttering behind her.
Sirius watched her go with a bemused expression. “Well, she’s charming,” he remarked.
James shrugged with a smirk. “Always was. Kept things interesting back at school.”
Dora huffed impatiently. “Can we go now?” she demanded, tugging at James’s sleeve.
James laughed. “Alright, little diva, let’s get you to your flower-petal duties.”
“Not little!” Dora snapped.
Sirius chuckled as they made their way into the venue. “You’re in trouble, mate,” he teased, nudging James.
James just grinned back. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The wedding venue was nothing short of breathtaking—a picturesque chateau nestled in the rolling hills of the French countryside. The estate exuded old-world charm with its elegant stone architecture, ivy creeping gracefully along the walls, and tall, arched windows reflecting the soft, golden light of late morning. The chateau’s turrets reached toward the sky, crowned with slate-gray roofs that contrasted beautifully against the clear, sunlit expanse.
The grounds were meticulously manicured, with lush green lawns and vibrant flower beds bursting with blooms in shades of blush pink, ivory, and deep burgundy. Enchanted petals floated lazily in the air, carried by a gentle breeze, while delicate fairy lights twinkled overhead, weaving through trees and draping gracefully from pergolas. The scent of roses and lavender lingered, mingling with the subtle aroma of fresh pastries wafting from the catering tents.
Rows of white chairs lined the garden path, facing a floral archway adorned with roses, hydrangeas, and ivy tendrils. The arch shimmered with a faint magical glow, an enchantment that made the flowers look freshly dewed and ever-blooming. A carpet of soft petals, enchanted to never crush or wilt, led to the altar where a beautiful silver chalice rested—a nod to old wizarding wedding traditions.
Guests in elegant robes and sleek gowns wandered the grounds, chatting and laughing as champagne flutes refilled themselves with a polite clink. A gentle melody floated from a string quartet, notes carried on the wind and weaving a romantic atmosphere.
To the side, a grand pavilion had been set up for the reception, draped in silk and enchanted gauze that shimmered in the light. Inside, tables were set with pristine white linens, gleaming silverware, and centerpieces of floating candles and flowers suspended in glass globes. Each place setting held a small silver charm shaped like a rose—magically charmed to bloom when held.
The entire setting felt like a fairy tale—opulent yet tasteful, with the kind of elegance that spoke of old wizarding bloodlines and deep magical traditions. It was unmistakably Malfoy but softened by Rose’s touch—romantic, whimsical, and undeniably beautiful.
As they stepped onto the lush grounds of the wedding venue, a blur of red hair and frazzled energy barreled toward them. Lily Luna Potter looked flushed and slightly harried, a sheen of perspiration glimmering on her forehead despite the cool breeze. Her deep green dress robes were elegant but slightly askew, and a quill was tucked behind her ear like a forgotten afterthought.
“There you are!” she exclaimed, relief flooding her expression as she spotted Sirius, James, and Dora. “Merlin’s beard, I was starting to think you’d gotten lost!”
James shot her a teasing grin. “Lils, you look like you’ve been wrestling a hippogriff.”
Lily huffed, brushing off the comment. “You try coordinating a wedding party with two Veela cousins and a horde of Weasleys—I'd rather wrestle a hippogriff,” she muttered, before her eyes landed on Dora. Her stern expression softened into a doting smile.
“Oh, look at you!” she cooed, bending down to Dora’s level. “You look absolutely perfect, little flower girl.” She fussed over Dora’s dress, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles and adjusting a tiny floral crown that perched jauntily on the little girl’s head.
Dora squirmed, glancing at James with a betrayed look. “Mummy already did that!” she protested, but her tone was more petulant than serious.
Lily chuckled. “Well, it never hurts to make sure. And speaking of which—Dora, we need you for the final practice run. Rose will skin me alive if we aren’t ready.”
Dora’s eyes widened. “Do I have to?” she asked, looking between James and Sirius with a pleading pout.
“Yes, you do,” Lily said firmly, but her expression was gentle. “It’s your big moment! You’re going to steal the show.”
James grinned and ruffled Dora’s hair. “Go on, Dora the Diva. Break a leg.”
Dora scowled but didn’t resist as Lily reached for her hand.
“Behave yourself,” Sirius called after her, smirking.
Dora shot one last glare at James before Lily steered her away, bustling her toward a gathering of bridesmaids clustered near the archway. The little girl’s grumbling was lost to the chatter of guests and the rustle of silk and satin.
Lily glanced back over her shoulder, still holding Dora’s hand. “Try not to cause trouble, you lot. And don’t let James charm any of the bridesmaids before the ceremony, yeah?”
James flashed her a wicked grin. “No promises.”
Lily rolled her eyes but smiled, disappearing into the throng with Dora in tow.
As Lily and Dora vanished into the bustling crowd, a young, polished-looking wizard in crisp navy-blue dress robes approached Sirius and James Jr. He held a clipboard enchanted to hover beside him, quill poised to take notes. His demeanor was efficient, bordering on overly proper.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” the usher greeted with a courteous nod. “May I have your names, please?”
“Sirius Black,” Sirius drawled lazily, crossing his arms over his chest. “And this troublemaker is James Potter.”
The usher’s eyes widened slightly at the names before he composed himself and scanned his list. The quill flicked back and forth, scribbling a tiny note. “Ah, yes. Black and Potter,” he announced, marking off their names. “You’re seated in the second row, just behind the bride and groom’s families. An excellent view.”
James smirked. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to miss anything.”
The usher nodded briskly and gestured toward the seating area. Rows of elegantly draped chairs faced a floral archway entwined with white roses and soft blue blossoms. The front row was reserved with delicate name cards marked “Malfoy” and “Weasley,” while the second row held a few recognizable names, including “Potter” and “Black.”
“This way, sirs,” the usher said, leading them down the aisle. The soft crunch of gravel underfoot accompanied them, and the air was fragrant with flowers. Guests were already filling the seats, their voices a pleasant murmur of anticipation.
Sirius and James settled into their designated spots, the vantage point perfect for the ceremony. James stretched lazily, glancing around. “Not bad,” he remarked.
Sirius smirked. “Almost worth getting up early for.”
James snorted, but his eyes scanned the crowd, ever watchful. The hum of conversations and soft rustle of robes filled the air as the wedding began to take shape around them.
As James Jr. and Sirius settled into their seats, the gentle murmur of guests filled the air. The scent of blooming flowers and fresh grass lingered, a perfect backdrop for the elegant setting.
Moments later, the crowd parted slightly to reveal James Potter Sr. and Lily Potter, making their way toward them. Even in a room full of elegantly dressed witches and wizards, they stood out effortlessly.
James Potter Sr. wore finely tailored dark green dress robes that complemented his hazel eyes and messy hair, which was stubbornly untamed despite obvious attempts to smooth it down. The robes were embroidered with subtle gold accents along the collar and cuffs, catching the light with a refined shimmer. A dragonhide belt and polished black boots completed the ensemble, giving him a look of effortless confidence—mischievous smile included.
Lily Potter was a vision of grace in deep emerald robes that flowed like water, cinched at the waist with a thin, ornate silver belt. The rich fabric accentuated her vivid green eyes, which seemed to glow even more vibrantly against the dark hue. Delicate silver embroidery traced ivy patterns along the hems and sleeves, subtle yet striking. Her auburn hair was swept back in elegant curls, pinned with a jeweled clip shaped like a lily blossom. A pair of simple yet elegant drop earrings completed the look.
James Sr. immediately clapped Sirius on the back with a grin. “Thought we’d never find you two. Didn’t get lost, did you?”
Sirius smirked. “Please. I could find trouble in my sleep.”
Lily rolled her eyes affectionately, leaning in to kiss James Jr. on the cheek. “You look handsome, love,” she said before casting a scrutinizing glance over Sirius. “And you—remarkably presentable, considering.”
Sirius feigned a wounded look. “I’ll have you know I was up bright and early.”
James Sr. barked a laugh, settling into his seat beside his wife. “Bright and early? I’ll believe that when the Cannons win the league.”
Lily nudged her husband with a grin as they all made themselves comfortable, the anticipation in the air growing with each passing moment.
The murmur of the gathering crowd grew as more guests filtered in, and anticipation hung thick in the air. James Jr. was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, while Sirius was already eyeing the venue for potential mischief when a familiar presence drew their attention.
Harry Potter strode confidently toward them, his movements carrying an easy grace that belied the weight of years spent as the Boy Who Lived and, later, the Head of the Auror Office. He wore finely cut black dress robes that draped perfectly over his lean frame, tailored to highlight broad shoulders and a trim waist. The material had a subtle sheen, catching the sunlight filtering through the canopy above, and silver fastenings shaped like lightning bolts glimmered against the dark fabric—a subtle nod to the scar that had defined so much of his life.
His hair was, as always, a hopeless mess, windswept in that perpetually tousled way that looked more roguish than unkempt. His round glasses framed bright green eyes that held warmth and humor. A faint shadow of stubble dusted his jaw, lending a rugged edge to his otherwise polished appearance.
“There he is,” James Jr. called out, grinning broadly. “Looking like he’s about to arrest someone!”
Harry smirked, adjusting his cuffs. “Would you believe me if I said I left my badge at home?”
Sirius snorted. “Never.”
Harry shook his head in amusement before reaching out to clasp James Sr.’s hand firmly, then pulling him into a brief, one-armed hug. “You look good, old man,” Harry quipped.
“Watch who you’re calling old,” James Sr. shot back. “You’ve got more gray hairs than I do!”
Lily Sr. tutted. “Honestly, the two of you.”
Harry turned to Sirius, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Looking sharp, Padfoot. Trying to impress someone?”
Sirius grinned wolfishly. “You know me, always a heartbreaker.”
Harry rolled his eyes fondly before turning to James Jr. “And you—behaving yourself?”
James Jr. raised his hands innocently. “Always.”
“Right,” Harry said dryly, but his smile lingered. He leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially, “Try not to cause too much trouble until after the vows, yeah?”
James Jr. shot back a grin. “I make no promises.”
With a good-natured sigh, Harry took his seat beside Lily Sr., who gave him a knowing smile. The Potter family settled comfortably, and the ceremony space grew quieter as guests found their places. The excitement in the air was palpable. The wedding was about to begin.
As Harry settled into his seat, Sirius couldn’t help but study him more closely. The cheerful glint in Harry’s eyes, the ease of his smile—there was something different. He seemed lighter, more at ease than Sirius had seen him in years There was no trace of the usual guardedness that often crept into his tone, no lingering shadow of the responsibilities he carried as Head of the Auror Office.
Sirius’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. It wasn’t as if Harry never laughed or enjoyed himself, but today, he seemed genuinely unburdened. Carefree, even. It was a side of him that had been rare since the war—if not entirely absent.
Harry caught Sirius’s gaze and arched an eyebrow. “What? Something on my face?”
Sirius smirked. “No, just trying to figure out who slipped you a Cheering Charm. Never seen you this chipper.”
Harry chuckled. “Is it that obvious?”
“Well, you haven’t glared at anyone yet,” Sirius pointed out dryly.
James Sr. let out a bark of laughter. “What Padfoot means is, it’s good to see you relaxed, Harry.”
Harry shrugged, but the smile remained. “Well, a wedding’s as good an excuse as any, right? Besides, I’m not on duty today. No Auror business, no paperwork, and no rogue dark wizards—just family.”
Lily Sr. patted his arm affectionately. “You deserve a break,” she said warmly.
Harry shot her a grateful smile before looking out over the venue. “It feels good,” he admitted. “To just be...here. Not worrying about anything.”
Sirius gave him a grin. “Enjoy it while it lasts, mate. Knowing this lot, there’ll be trouble before the vows are even exchanged.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “With James around? Always.”
James Jr. looked mock-offended. “Oi! Why am I being singled out?”
The group chuckled, the familiar banter easing the last of the tension. Sirius watched Harry relax further, the weight of duty momentarily set aside. Whatever had brought on this rare, carefree mood, Sirius was glad for it. Harry deserved to be happy, to feel young, to truly live—at least for today.
Ginny swept into the seating area with the confidence of a seasoned Quidditch player, drawing eyes as she moved. Her fiery red hair cascaded in loose waves, framing a face aglow with effortless beauty. She wore deep emerald green dress robes that hugged her athletic figure, the color perfectly contrasting her hair and bringing out the warm brown of her eyes. The fabric draped elegantly, revealing toned shoulders and a tasteful hint of décolletage, while a daring slit traced the length of her leg, balanced by the refined cut of the neckline. A delicate gold necklace rested at her collarbone, and subtle makeup highlighted her striking features.
James Jr. let out a low whistle. “Mum, trying to outshine the bride?”
Ginny rolled her eyes but smirked. “I’ll let you know when I start trying.” She shot a playful look at Harry, who was staring openly, admiration and amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Merlin, Gin,” Harry murmured, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You’ll have half the groomsmen distracted.”
Ginny arched a brow. “Good thing you’re not a groomsman, then,” she shot back. “Wouldn’t want you getting hexed by a jealous bride.”
Harry laughed, eyes alight as he leaned closer to press a kiss to her cheek. “Still the most beautiful witch in the room,” he whispered.
Ginny smirked. “Flattery will get you anywhere, Potter.”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” James Jr. groaned loudly, throwing his head back in mock agony. “Can you two not.”
Ginny shot her son a wicked grin. “You better get used to it, James. We’re not getting any less embarrassing.”
Harry smirked. “And we’ve got years of payback saved up.”
James Jr. sighed dramatically, but a grin tugged at his lips. “I’ll just go deaf now, thanks.”
As everyone settled into their seats, the soft hum of conversations and the rustle of robes filled the air. Sirius leaned back comfortably, casting a lazy glance around the picturesque venue, while James Jr. slouched beside him, looking relaxed but alert. Harry slid into his chair beside Ginny, his grin lingering from their playful exchange.
Ginny’s eyes flicked over her husband, brows knitting as she observed his unusually bright eyes and the easy, unguarded smile playing on his lips. Harry’s posture was loose, a far cry from his usual vigilant demeanor. Her gaze sharpened.
“Harry,” she said, a hint of suspicion lacing her tone.
He glanced over, still grinning. “Yes, love?”
Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Are you...drunk?”
James Jr. snorted into his hand, poorly stifling a laugh. Sirius arched a curious eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Harry looked scandalized, though the exaggerated expression did little to mask the amusement dancing in his eyes. “What? No!” he protested. “Can’t a man be cheerful without being accused of drinking?”
Ginny’s lips quirked. “Cheerful, yes. Giddy, not so much.
Harry scoffed, crossing his arms. “I’m fine. Just in a good mood. I’m allowed to be happy at my niece’s wedding, aren’t I?”
Ginny’s eyes narrowed further as she leaned closer to Harry, arms crossed over her chest. “Harry James Potter,” she scolded, voice low but firm, “it’s not even noon, and you’re already on the bubbly?”
Harry huffed, feigning indignation. “It’s a wedding, Ginny. Celebrations call for a drink or two.”
“Or three?” she shot back, unimpressed.
Harry held up his hands defensively. “I need something to get through this circus.” He inclined his head toward a row of elegantly arranged chairs draped in silver and green accents—clearly reserved for the Malfoys. The empty seats loomed like a threat, a reminder of old rivalries and tense peace.
Ginny arched a brow. “You’re not seriously worried about a bit of small talk with Draco, are you?”
Harry scoffed. “Small talk would be a blessing. I’m more worried about whatever Lucius decides to grace us with—subtle insults, smug glances, or some long-winded speech about Malfoy superiority.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “If Lucius wants to throw a fit at his own grandson’s wedding, let him. Rose and Scorpius deserve a happy day, and we’re here to make sure they get it.”
Harry sighed dramatically. “I miss the days when Death Eaters were easier to handle—just Stun, Bind, and be done with it.”
Sirius barked a laugh. “If you stun Lucius Malfoy at a wedding, I’ll buy you a drink.”
James Jr. snorted. “And I’ll make sure it’s front-page news.”
Harry shot them both a warning glare, but the grin tugging at his lips gave him away. Ginny smirked. “Just remember, Potter—no hexing Malfoys today. You can glare all you like.”
Harry squeezed her hand with a sigh. “No promises.”
James jr leaned back, a sly grin on his face. “This is shaping up to be a very interesting wedding.”
Harry shot him a mock glare. “Glad my misery entertains you.”
James grinned wider. “Always.”
The venue buzzed with a growing hum of excited chatter as more guests began to filter in. Robes in every shade of elegance flowed past—witches and wizards exchanging greetings, admiring enchanted floral arrangements, and glancing curiously at the lavish decor. The gentle rustle of fabrics and soft clinks of glassware filled the air.
Sirius watched the scene unfold, his eyes flicking over the arriving guests. He spotted a few familiar faces—former Hogwarts classmates, old Order members, and Ministry officials nodding politely as they passed. The chairs around them filled quickly, and Sirius leaned back, arms draped lazily over his seat.
Harry and Ginny continued their playful bickering, though Harry's eyes scanned the venue every few seconds, the flicker of an Auror’s vigilance never quite leaving him. James Jr. slouched beside Sirius, looking both eager and restless. Dora, still clutching her basket of flowers, twisted around every so often, scanning for Lily and her fellow flower girls.
As the guests steadily filled the seats, the soft murmur of conversations and the rustle of elegant robes created a pleasant hum. The summer sun cast a warm, golden light over the garden, reflecting off enchanted lanterns hanging from tree branches.
A familiar voice broke through the crowd as Hermione Granger-Weasley appeared, looking effortlessly graceful in deep navy dress robes that complemented her curls. Beside her was Hugo, tall and lean, with a reserved demeanor. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he gave a polite nod but stayed quiet, hands tucked into his pockets.
Hermione’s eyes lit up when she spotted the Potters. “Oh, thank Merlin! I thought we were running late!” she exclaimed, pulling Ginny into a tight hug before moving to embrace Harry and the rest.
Harry chuckled. “Always cutting it close, Hermione?”
“Oh, hush,” Hermione replied with a grin. She smoothed Hugo’s hair, but he ducked away, mumbling something unintelligible.
Ginny smiled warmly at Hugo. “It’s good to see you, Hugo.”
Hugo gave a small, polite smile and muttered, “You too.”
Hermione turned to James Jr. “You look sharp, James! Sirius, you’re a vision,” she added with a wink.
Sirius puffed up, clearly pleased. “I aim to please.”
Hugo exchanged a quick look with James Jr., who smirked knowingly. The two boys had never been as close as Albus and Rose but had a mutual understanding.
Hermione sighed dramatically. “Well, let’s get to our seats before Ron realizes we’re missing.” She guided Hugo toward the front row, squeezing Harry’s shoulder as she passed. “See you all in a bit.”
The Potters settled back, now a row behind the Weasleys. Ginny leaned closer to Harry and whispered teasingly, “Better be on your best behavior. Hermione’s got her eye on you.”
Harry gave a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
The garden continued to fill, a sense of anticipation building as people took their seats. The wedding was about to begin.
A hush fell over the gathering as the Malfoys arrived. The contrast between them and the lively, colorful guests was stark—an image of elegance wrapped in coldness. Draco Malfoy led the way, dressed in immaculate black dress robes trimmed with silver, the faintest trace of a scowl etched into his sharp features. His blond hair was neatly combed back, though a few strands rebelled, falling artfully into his eyes. The years had carved lines into his face, but his gaze was as piercing as ever.
Beside him, Narcissa Malfoy glided gracefully, regal as ever in deep emerald robes that accentuated her aristocratic beauty. Pearls adorned her neck, and her icy composure held strong. Her expression was cool, but there was a weary shadow in her eyes—grief that time had not entirely softened. Lucius Malfoy brought up the rear, a ghostly presence with hair the color of frost. Age had taken a toll, leaving him gaunt and severe, but his posture remained rigid with pride. His robes were the deepest black, embroidered with the Malfoy crest, and his cane clicked against the stone path with every step.
The Malfoys settled on the opposite side of the aisle, a respectable distance from the Weasleys and Potters. Draco’s eyes swept the crowd, his face a mask of indifference, but he spared a lingering glance at the altar, where Rose and Scorpius would soon exchange vows. Narcissa clasped her hands tightly in her lap, knuckles pale against the dark silk of her robes, and Lucius sat stiffly, lips pressed into a thin line.
Harry’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as he watched them. Ginny glanced at her husband, eyebrows raised. “Easy,” she murmured, resting a hand on his arm.
James Jr. crossed his arms over his chest, glaring openly. Sirius leaned back in his chair, lips curled in a faint sneer.
“Great,” James Jr. muttered under his breath. “Just what we needed—the Malfoy charm to liven up the day.”
Harry shot his son a warning look, but the tension between the two families was palpable. Hermione leaned closer to Hugo, whispering something that made his ears turn red. Hugo simply looked away, uninterested, while Narcissa met the Potters’ collective gaze without flinching, a flicker of steel in her eyes.
The quiet animosity hung heavy, a reminder of old grudges and tangled histories. The only thing keeping the hostility at bay was the wedding itself—the promise of peace, if only for a day.
A soft murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd as the music shifted, a gentle, melodic tune filling the air. All eyes turned toward the aisle as Scorpius Malfoy made his entrance.
He moved with a quiet confidence, his expression a blend of nervous excitement and determination. Tall and lean, Scorpius wore impeccably tailored black dress robes with subtle silver detailing—elegant but understated, nodding to both his family’s heritage and his own individuality. His platinum-blond hair, usually slightly unruly, was tamed and slicked back, though a rebellious strand fell artfully over his forehead. A pale rose boutonniere was pinned to his chest, a delicate touch against the dark fabric.
Beside him, Albus Potter walked with the same purposeful stride, looking more composed than usual but still a touch awkward in his formal attire. His black dress robes were neatly pressed, a crisp white shirt peeking from the collar, and he wore a matching rose boutonniere. The best man’s position suited him—steady and loyal—but the nervous way he adjusted his sleeves hinted at the weight of responsibility.
The two young men shared a quick, reassuring glance as they reached the altar. Scorpius’s face softened when he looked at Albus, a flicker of gratitude passing between them. Albus gave a crooked, encouraging smile that faded as his gaze flitted over the rows of guests—lingering on his own family. Harry caught his son’s eye and offered a nod of approval, Ginny giving Albus a supportive smile.
James leaned back, crossing his arms and smirking slightly. “Look at that. Scrawny little Scorpius, all grown up,” he drawled quietly.
Fred Jr. snorted from behind. “Reckon it’s the first time he’s ever looked intimidating.”
Ginny shot the boys a warning look, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.
On the other side of the aisle, Draco watched his son, pride etched into the hard lines of his face. Narcissa’s lips curved into a subtle smile, and even Lucius’s usual stern expression softened, though the tension in his posture remained.
Scorpius took a deep breath, hands clasped in front of him as he stood straight and proud. Albus shifted beside him, flicking a quick, nervous glance toward the back of the aisle. The wedding was moments away, and anticipation hung thick in the air.
The music softened once more, signaling the start of the ceremony. All eyes turned to the entrance, waiting for the bride’s arrival.
A hush fell over the crowd as the music swelled, the gentle strains of a classical tune floating through the air. Heads turned, all eyes drawn to the entrance as Rose Weasley made her grand entrance.
Walking steadily beside her father, Ron Weasley, Rose was a vision in white. Her gown was elegant and timeless—soft ivory lace cascading into a flowing skirt, delicate floral embroidery tracing intricate patterns across the bodice and sleeves. The fabric shimmered faintly in the light, a subtle touch of magic that made her appear ethereal. Her vibrant red hair was gathered into a loose chignon, soft curls framing her face and a delicate silver hairpiece glimmering like stardust. A sheer veil trailed behind her, floating gracefully as she walked.
Ron was the picture of a proud father—broad-shouldered and tall, wearing formal dress robes in deep navy that complemented his auburn hair. His expression was a mixture of fierce protectiveness and tender pride as he walked his daughter down the aisle, his grip on her arm firm yet gentle. The faintest sheen of emotion glimmered in his eyes, and his mouth twitched as though he was fighting a grin.
Ahead of them, the flower girls, including Dora, scattered petals with gleeful enthusiasm. Dora, in her beautiful flower girl dress, threw petals with determined concentration, glancing back occasionally to make sure she was doing it right. The other little girls trailed beside her, giggling as their baskets emptied.
Following Rose were her bridesmaids—Lily Jr., Dominique, Roxanne, and a few of Rose’s closest friends from Hogwarts. The bridesmaids wore soft sage-green dresses that flowed elegantly, each dress subtly unique yet coordinated. Lily Jr.’s fiery hair was pinned back with a few delicate flowers, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she cast a wink toward her family. Dominique’s dark red hair was braided intricately, and Roxanne’s natural curls framed her face beautifully.
Rose’s friends beamed, exchanging glances of excitement and pride as they walked in perfect sync.
Scorpius’s eyes widened as he caught sight of Rose, a stunned, reverent expression overtaking his face. Albus shot his friend a supportive grin, but Scorpius seemed oblivious—his gaze was locked on Rose, who was smiling back at him with a mix of confidence and affection.
Harry chuckled, nudging Ginny. “Looks like our Rosie’s all grown up.”
Ginny wiped the corner of her eye discreetly, a proud, wistful smile on her face. James Jr. groaned dramatically beside them.
“Blimey,” he muttered, “she looks like something out of a fairy tale.”
Ron and Rose finally reached the altar. Ron hesitated, a protective glint in his eyes as he looked Scorpius up and down, before finally placing Rose’s hand in his. He murmured something low and warning, though a crooked grin betrayed his fondness.
Scorpius nodded earnestly, holding Ron’s gaze for a heartbeat before focusing entirely on Rose. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of them as he whispered, “You look beautiful.”
Rose’s cheeks flushed. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”
The officiant cleared his throat, and the music faded into silence.
The ceremony began with a reverent hush, the soft murmur of the officiant’s voice weaving through the gathered guests like a spell. The sun bathed the clearing in warm, golden light, filtering through the fluttering leaves and casting gentle shadows on the white-draped altar. Soft floral scents mingled with the faint sea breeze, wrapping the moment in nature’s embrace.
Rose and Scorpius stood before the officiant, hands intertwined, gazes locked. The intensity in Scorpius’s eyes was unguarded—adoring, hopeful, and utterly devoted. Rose’s expression mirrored his, love and certainty etched into every line of her face. Her hand trembled slightly, but her grip was steady.
From their seats, Hermione, Ginny and Lily Sr dabbed at their eyes, clutching handkerchiefs with fingers that trembled. Hermione’s composure, so often unshakeable, was nowhere to be seen. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks as she watched her only daughter vow her love, the weight of years gone by pressing heavy on her heart. Her lips quivered in a smile—pride and grief intertwined. Ginny wept openly, a wistful smile spreading as she leaned closer to Harry, her hand seeking his.
Harry’s expression was strained, his jaw clenched as he fought against the flood of emotions. His emerald eyes shone, glimmering with pride and bittersweet joy. The weight of fatherhood—of watching the next generation step forward—etched lines of melancholy on his face. But beneath it all, the unmistakable love of a godfather who had watched Rose grow, who knew the depth of her strength, her wit, and her kindness.
Ron’s eyes were red-rimmed as he watched his daughter, barely holding back tears. The fierce protectiveness he always carried for Rose and Hugo softened into helpless acceptance—his little girl was a woman now, and she’d chosen her path. Pride warred with sorrow, but when Rose glanced his way, a watery smile broke through his grim expression.
Sirius watched the scene with a bittersweet smile. The mischief that usually danced in his eyes was tempered with nostalgia. He glanced at Harry, seeing a man who had grown beyond his wildest hopes—a husband, a father, and a hero who had finally found happiness.
Even James Jr. wore a look of rare solemnity, lips pressed tight as he watched his cousin, perhaps remembering the days when she was more freckled, wild-haired, and always up for mischief. Lily Jr., sitting with her fellow bridesmaids, blinked away tears and sniffled, exchanging glances with Dominique and Roxanne, who looked equally emotional.
The officiant’s words echoed over the gathering: promises of love, trust, and fidelity. Vows spoken with unshakeable resolve, each syllable weighted with meaning. As Scorpius vowed his heart, his voice trembled, but his eyes never wavered. Rose’s voice was strong and steady, the conviction in her words carrying across the audience.
The world seemed to hold its breath as the vows concluded, anticipation thick in the air. The officiant smiled warmly.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Scorpius leaned forward, reverence and adoration in every movement. Their lips met, and the crowd erupted in applause and joyful shouts. Rose pulled back, laughing as her cheeks flushed with happiness.
Magic shimmered in the air—an ethereal glow sparked by the power of love, lingering around the couple like a protective charm. The sun dipped lower, painting the scene in hues of gold and amber. The ceremony was over, but a new chapter had just begun.
The applause swelled, echoing across the picturesque garden as Scorpius and Rose stood at the altar, wrapped in each other’s arms. The glow of their kiss lingered—an unspoken promise of a shared future—while the cheers of family and friends surrounded them like a jubilant storm.
Hermione was the first to rush forward, practically launching herself at Rose. She enveloped her daughter in a fierce embrace, whispering something tearful yet joyous that only Rose could hear. Ron followed, clapping Scorpius on the back with a grudging but sincere grin. “Take care of her, Malfoy,” he muttered, eyes narrowed but not unkind. Scorpius nodded solemnly, understanding the weight of that statement.
Ginny pulled Rose into a hug next, her eyes shimmering. “You look beautiful,” she murmured, brushing a loose curl from Rose’s face. She turned to Scorpius, eyeing him with a sternness that was softened by a smile. “If you hurt her—”
“I won’t,” Scorpius promised, looking both terrified and earnest. Ginny smirked and ruffled his hair in a sisterly gesture.
Harry stepped forward, resting a reassuring hand on Scorpius’s shoulder. “Welcome to the family,” he said, his voice warm and genuine. Scorpius blinked, as if caught off-guard, then smiled back, relief washing over his face.
James Jr. sauntered over, his grin lopsided. “Well, well, Scorpius—never thought I'd see the day.” He pulled Rose into a brotherly hug, whispering something cheeky in her ear that made her laugh and smack his shoulder. James Jr. gave Scorpius a smirk. “Good luck keeping up with her, mate.”
Albus grinned, pulling Scorpius into a quick, one-armed hug. “Knew you’d pull it off,” he said, smirking. Rose swatted at him. “You sound so surprised!”
Lily Jr. darted forward, beaming as she wrapped her arms around Rose. “You look perfect!” She eyed Scorpius up and down. “You clean up well, Scorpius.”
Scorpius chuckled, tugging at his collar. “Thanks, Lily.”
Hugo hovered nearby, hands in his pockets, a small but genuine smile on his lips. He gave Rose a quick hug, mumbling, “Congrats,” before shuffling back. Rose’s eyes softened as she watched him retreat, understanding the affection behind his shyness.
Sirius strode up, wearing a devilish grin. “Malfoy,” he greeted, arms crossed. “Married into the Weasleys. Brave man.”
Scorpius smirked back. “So I’ve been told.”
Sirius barked a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder.
One by one, friends and family crowded around, offering their congratulations. Dominique, Roxanne, and Lily Jr. engulfed Rose in a flurry of giggles and hugs, whispering excitedly as Scorpius fended off playful jabs from Albus and James. The laughter was infectious, echoing warmly through the garden.
Nearby, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy lingered, dignified and reserved. Narcissa’s eyes were watchful, but a flicker of warmth passed over her expression as she took in the joyous scene. Lucius’s expression was impassive, but the tension in his posture softened as he saw the light in Scorpius’s eyes.
The air was thick with magic and happiness—an occasion steeped in nostalgia and new beginnings. As the sun dipped lower, casting a warm glow over the gathering, the joy in the garden was palpable. Rose and Scorpius looked out over the sea of familiar faces, their smiles bright, hands tightly entwined.
And for that moment, the world seemed perfect.
As the crowd thinned around Rose and Scorpius, Ron’s gaze inevitably met Draco’s from across the altar. A flicker of something unreadable passed between them—old animosities tangled with the undeniable reality that they were now, incredibly, family.
Draco was the first to approach, shoulders squared and chin lifted with the same haughty air he’d worn in their school days. But the arrogance was tempered, softened by the faintest trace of nervousness. Ron mirrored the tension, jaw set and eyes wary as if steeling himself for a confrontation.
“Ron,” Draco greeted, voice clipped but polite.
“Draco,” Ron returned, nodding stiffly.
An uncomfortable silence settled, filled only by the murmur of guests and the distant chime of laughter. Both men glanced toward the newlyweds—Rose radiant in white, Scorpius gazing at her with unguarded adoration.
“She makes him very happy,” Draco ventured, eyes flicking back to Ron.
Ron sighed, some of the hardness slipping away. “Yeah, well... he’d better keep her that way.”
Draco’s lips twitched into a faint, almost reluctant smile. “He will. Or he’ll answer to me.”
Ron snorted, some tension melting as he crossed his arms. “Get in line.”
A brief silence followed, not quite comfortable but far from hostile. Ron’s eyes shifted back to Rose, pride softening his features. “She’s always been brilliant. Tougher than she looks.”
“I’ve noticed,” Draco replied dryly, a hint of amusement creeping in.
Another pause. Ron shifted his weight. “Guess this makes us family now.”
Draco arched a brow. “Unsettling thought, isn’t it?”
Ron barked a laugh despite himself. “Yeah, bloody weird.” He hesitated, then added, “But... not the worst thing.”
Draco’s expression flickered with something almost appreciative. “No, I suppose not.”
They exchanged a grudging nod—an unspoken agreement to make peace, if not entirely bury the past. As the hum of celebration carried on around them, the two in-laws turned back to the festivities, the distance between them a fraction smaller than before.
The wedding photographer, a sprightly wizard with an enchanted camera hovering dutifully beside him, called out for the newlyweds and their families to gather. The garden was bathed in the soft, golden light of the afternoon, perfect for capturing memories.
Rose and Scorpius stood at the center, hands entwined and smiles radiant. The camera emitted a series of cheerful clicks, capturing the way Scorpius looked at Rose as though she hung the stars, and the way Rose’s eyes shone with happiness.
“Alright, immediate family first!” the photographer announced, waving everyone closer.
Ron and Hermione flanked Rose, Hermione’s arm wrapped tightly around her daughter while Ron grinned wide, his chest puffed with pride. Hugo hovered beside them, looking slightly awkward but managing a small smile. On the other side, Draco joined Scorpius, a subtle smirk in place. Narcissa stood with poised elegance, resting a hand on her son’s shoulder while Lucius, still regal but wearier with age, kept a firm but gentle hand on his grandson. The tension from earlier hung in the air but was softened by the occasion’s joy.
“Big smiles, everyone!” the photographer called, and the camera flashed, a bright burst of light illuminating the group.
“Alright, Potters and Weasleys next!”
Harry stepped forward, guiding Ginny beside him as she fussed with Albus’s dress robes. James Jr. slid in with a lazy grin, ruffling Lily’s hair as she smacked his hand away. Lily Jr. managed a dazzling smile despite the scolding, and Harry, his arm around Ginny’s waist, looked every inch the proud father. Sirius stood beside Harry, a hand casually draped over James Jr.'s shoulder, while Dora clung to James's leg, pouting at being ignored.
“James, stop making faces!” Ginny scolded as the camera flashed, but the mischievous grin remained plastered on his face.
The camera clicked several more times as the photographer arranged different groupings—Rose with her bridesmaids, Scorpius with Albus, and a large, chaotic shot of all the Potters, Weasleys, and Malfoys together. The photographer sighed in mock despair as the children squirmed, adults squabbled over positions, and Hugo tried to sneak out of the frame.
After many patient calls for stillness, a perfect shot was captured—an image of a sprawling, mismatched family whose bonds, though tangled and complicated, were strong. Rose leaned into Scorpius, beaming, and Albus, the best man, rested a hand on Scorpius’s shoulder, a proud grin spreading across his face.
The photographer finally lowered his camera with a satisfied sigh. “That’s the one! Beautiful!”
The crowd dispersed, laughter and chatter filling the air as the guests drifted toward the reception area. The camera continued to hover, capturing candid shots—Lily Jr. and Roxanne sharing a laugh, Harry and Ron clinking glasses, and Sirius lifting a giggling Dora onto his shoulders.
The photographs, once developed, would be filled with genuine smiles, playful teasing, and the rare glimmers of understanding that marked the day—moments frozen forever in frames of light and magic.
***
The dining area was a beautiful extension of the garden, draped in enchanted lights that glowed softly as the sun dipped below the horizon. Round tables adorned with elegant floral arrangements and floating candles were set around the dance floor, where an enchanted string quartet played a lilting tune. The air was scented with roses and the faintest hint of sea salt from the distant coast.
The Potters settled at a large round table, plates gleaming and cutlery polished to a mirror shine. Harry and Ginny sat close, Ginny whispering something that made Harry chuckle as he draped an arm over her chair. James Jr. and Lily Jr. were engaged in a playful argument about who had looked better in the wedding photos. Sirius leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of firewhisky, while Lily Sr. fondly rolled her eyes at the siblings.
Albus had been swept away to the high table, sitting beside Scorpius and Rose, and across from Draco and Hermione. His position as best man had earned him a spot among the newlyweds.
Just as conversation began to flow comfortably, a sharp, nasal voice cut through the air.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the Potter clan, holding court as usual!”
The table fell silent as Aunt Muriel tottered over, a gnarled cane in one hand and a beady glare in her eyes. She wore a dress of deep purple satin that clashed terribly with her crimson hat, adorned with an obnoxious peacock feather. Her glasses rested low on her nose, and her lips were pursed in judgment.
“Oh, brilliant,” James Jr. muttered under his breath.
Muriel unceremoniously wedged herself into the remaining chair, ignoring the strained smiles and wary glances. “Harry Potter! And Ginerva! And…who are you supposed to be?” she demanded, squinting at Sirius.
Sirius smirked. “Just a long-lost relative,” he replied coolly.
“Humph! A Black, no doubt,” she sniffed, eyeing him with distaste “Well,” she sniffed, eyeing Sirius. “I thought you were dead.”
Sirius grinned wolfishly. “So did I.”
“And you!” Muriel’s beady eyes focused on James Jr. “Still causing trouble, I expect?”
James Jr. blinked. “Uh, Aunt Muriel, I think you’ve got the wrong table.”
“I most certainly do not!” Muriel snapped, lifting her chin. “I specifically requested to be seated here. Can’t very well be expected to sit with all the riffraff, can I? This is the family table. Thought you lot would be pleased.”
The Potters exchanged alarmed looks. Harry, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief, turned his gaze toward the high table where Ron was obliviously laughing at something Rose had said. Harry’s glare was fierce enough to burn a hole through the back of his best friend’s head, but Ron remained blissfully unaware.
“Did you?” Ginny asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Request to sit here, I mean.”
Muriel smiled wickedly. “Of course! It’s my right as the eldest family member. I knew you’d all be far too shy to ask for me. Don’t worry, Ginevra. I’m here now. We can all catch up properly.”
Harry leaned toward Ginny, voice low and exasperated. “Remind me to strangle your brother later.”
Ginny patted his arm with a sigh. “Get in line.”
Harry sighed deeply, a familiar sense of dread creeping in. It was going to be a long dinner.
“Oh no,” James Jr. muttered under his breath, sharing a horrified look with Lily Jr., who stifled a laugh.
Muriel’s gaze flicked over Ginny, and her lips curled into a disapproving sneer. “Ginevra,” she drawled, letting the name hang heavy in the air. “Really, at your age? That neckline—honestly, have you forgotten you’re a mother of three, parading around like a schoolgirl.”
Ginny’s eyes flashed dangerously, but Harry spoke first. “That’s enough, Muriel.” His voice was calm but hard, the hint of a warning clear.
Muriel sniffed, unperturbed. “I suppose standards mean nothing these days. But mark my words, Ginevra, appearances matter.”
Ginny’s expression was brittle, and she looked away, blinking rapidly. Harry slid a comforting hand over hers, squeezing it gently. James Jr. glared daggers at Muriel, while Lily Jr. crossed her arms, lips pressed in a thin line. Sirius seemed to consider intervening but remained silent.
Muriel merely huffed, picking up her fork with a sharpness that suggested the food itself had offended her. Tension hung heavy over the table, and the cheerful clinking of silverware and chatter around them felt distant—unreachable.
Muriel's gaze slid to Harry, eyes narrowed with a gleam of disapproval. “And you, Harry Potter,” she said sharply, “ought to exercise some control over your wife. A man’s duty is to ensure his wife behaves with propriety.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, a slow, mischievous smile spreading across his face. “Oh, I tried once,” he said, eyes glinting. “She nearly hexed me through a wall. Figured it was safer to let her make her own decisions after that.”
Lily Jr. smirked, James Jr. snorted loudly, and even Sirius let out a bark of laughter. Ginny’s smile turned wicked as she leaned closer to Harry, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Smartest decision you ever made, Potter,” she purred.
Muriel’s lips thinned, unimpressed. “The lot of you—utterly hopeless,” she muttered, stabbing her fork into her food with the ferocity of a duelist.
Ginny arched a brow, unbothered. “Hopelessly happy, you mean,” she quipped.
Harry chuckled and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze under the table. The tension eased, the Potters exchanging grins while Muriel huffed and looked away, clearly displeased. The conversation resumed, lighter now—though Ginny’s grip on Harry’s hand remained firm, an unspoken thanks.
Muriel’s eyes narrowed, glinting with suspicion as she leaned closer. “And what’s the Ministry’s explanation for the dead rising, then?” she pressed, her voice sharp enough to cut through the hum of dinner chatter. “People say old faces are showing up—those lost in the war, even those who’ve been dead for decades. The Prophet’s calling it a miracle, but I say it’s dark magic.”
Harry’s jaw tightened, but he kept his tone measured. “The Ministry doesn’t know yet,” he admitted, though the tension around his eyes betrayed the weight of the situation. “The Department of Mysteries is investigating, but this isn’t something we’ve seen before. We’re trying to understand it—determine if it’s a curse, a magical anomaly, or something worse.”
Muriel scoffed. “You’re telling me the Ministry has no idea why dead wizards are strolling around like they’ve just popped out for a pint?”
Ginny shot Muriel a glare. “It’s not as simple as you make it sound,” she snapped. “This isn’t some bog-standard Dark curse.”
Harry gave her a grateful look before turning back to Muriel. “What we do know is that the phenomenon is inconsistent—some people have returned, but not everyone. And those who’ve come back don’t seem to understand how or why. They just...woke up.”
Muriel leaned back, unimpressed. “Well, if the Ministry’s best and brightest can’t figure it out, it’s no wonder Skeeter’s having a field day,” she sniffed.
Sirius let out a low chuckle. “Ah, Muriel, always the optimist.”
Muriel shot him a glare. “Mark my words—something wicked’s at play here. I’d keep your eyes open, Harry Potter.”
Harry’s expression hardened. “I always do.”
Muriel arched an eyebrow, eyes sharp as ever. “Twenty years this August, and yet you’re still the Head Auror. Seems strange, doesn’t it? Why haven’t you taken the promotion, Harry? You’ve been running the department for ages.”
Harry took a long, deliberate sip of his wine, eyes flicking briefly to Ginny before returning to Muriel. “Not interested,” he said shortly.
Muriel scoffed. “Not interested? The position’s been vacant for years! You’d be the youngest Head of Magical Law Enforcement in history.”
Harry’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Titles don’t mean much when there’s work to be done. I’d rather be on the ground handling threats than pushing parchment all day.”
Muriel let out a derisive hum. “So you say. But it seems like a waste. All that power, all that respect—you could shape the future of the department. Instead, you’re chasing criminals in alleys like some common Hit Wizard.”
Ginny bristled, but Harry laid a calming hand over hers, squeezing lightly. “The work matters more than the title,” he repeated, gaze steady. “Besides, I like the hunt.”
Muriel didn’t look convinced, but Sirius let out a low chuckle. “I’d say you’d be bored stiff behind a desk anyway, Harry. Paperwork’s no substitute for a good duel.”
Harry grinned. “Exactly.”
But the smile faded quickly, and he took another sip of wine, the shadows creeping back into his expression. The table fell silent, the tension thickening like a fog. Ginny rubbed a comforting circle over his hand.
Muriel sniffed disdainfully. “Well, can’t say I understand it. Seems foolish, but then again—you did marry into the Weasleys,” she remarked, casting a scornful glance toward the high table where Arthur and Ron were roaring with laughter. “Hardly a family known for ambition.”
Harry took a slow, measured sip of his wine, eyes fluttering shut as Ginny shot Muriel a withering glare, her hand slipping beneath the table to rub soothing circles on Harry’s knee.
Muriel’s lips curled into a smug smile, her eyes glimmering with false innocence. “Oh, but Harry, I heard you’ve been practically forced into taking that promotion. Isn’t that right?”
Ginny stiffened beside Harry, her hand stilling on his knee. “That's all just hearsay,” she cut in sharply, tone laced with forced calm. “People love to talk when they don’t know a thing.”
But Harry remained silent, his grip tightening around his wine glass. The subtle clench of his jaw betrayed him, and Ginny’s hand slipped away from his knee, the absence of her touch colder than any winter’s chill. She leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest, her expression hardening with a mix of anger and hurt.
Harry glanced at her, eyes wide and apologetic, but she didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she focused intently on the flickering candlelight at the center of the table, jaw set.
“Oh dear,” Muriel crooned, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. “Did I just cause a rift between our beloved war hero and his fiery wife?” She pressed a hand to her chest, mocking a gasp. “Terribly sorry. Though one would think, after so many years, you’d have learned to communicate better, hmm?”
Ginny’s eyes flashed dangerously, but she said nothing. Harry looked as if he might speak, but the words tangled in his throat. The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air—she was upset not just by the news, but by the fact she’d heard it from Muriel instead of Harry himself.
The tension wrapped around the table, suffocating. Sirius shifted uncomfortably, glaring at Muriel. Lily Sr. shot her a warning look, while James Sr. stared at Harry with a mixture of disapproval and sympathy. James Jr. glanced between his parents, concern etched across his face. Even Lily Jr., who’d been distractedly chatting with Roxanne, went quiet, eyes flicking over in alarm.
Muriel looked utterly delighted by the discomfort, her smirk deepening. “Well,” she drawled, savoring the moment, “marriage is all about surprises, isn’t it?”
Ginny scoffed, folding her arms tighter. Harry sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. For a moment, the only sound was the gentle clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations from nearby tables. The tension was suffocating, and Harry cursed himself for not telling her sooner.
Ginny’s gaze finally snapped to Harry’s, eyes blazing. “We’ll talk later,” she said in a low, dangerous tone.
Harry nodded slowly, looking utterly defeated. Muriel’s eyes danced with amusement as she sipped her drink, the picture of smug satisfaction.
Muriel leaned back in her chair, swirling her drink with a self-satisfied air. The glint in her eyes sharpened as she turned her focus to Lily Sr., a sly smile curling her lips. “Lily dear,” she began, drawing out the words with exaggerated sweetness, “I meant to ask—did you ever have an affair with that Severus Snape fellow?”
The table went deathly silent. The clinking of silverware and hum of distant conversations seemed to fade into a heavy, pulsing void. Harry’s jaw tightened as he shot a fierce glare at Muriel. Ginny’s eyes narrowed dangerously, her earlier anger momentarily forgotten. Even James Jr. went rigid, eyes darting nervously between his parents.
Lily Sr. arched a delicate brow, face calm but eyes blazing. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t play coy,” Muriel crooned, leaning closer. “Rita Skeeter’s got quite the theory—swears up and down that you and old Snape had more than just a friendship. The way she writes it, you’d think the greasy bat was the true love of your life.”
Sirius bristled, fingers curling into fists as his eyes flashed. “That woman’s a menace,” he growled. “Nothing but a vulture in lipstick.”
Muriel tutted dismissively. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Sirius. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
Ginny met Muriel’s gaze, unflinching. “Funny, I seem to recall Rita Skeeter also wrote a piece about you and a young curse-breaker half your age. Are we to believe everything she writes, or just the bits that suit your gossiping habits?”
Muriel’s cheeks flushed an ugly red, but she pursed her lips, unfazed. “Touchy, are we?”
“I would be too if someone spread vile lies about me,” Ginny snapped.
Lily Sr. shot her a grateful glance before turning back to Muriel. “Severus was a childhood friend,” she said firmly, voice cool. “And that’s all he ever was.”
Muriel sniffed, unimpressed. “Oh, of course. Always ‘just a friend,’ isn’t it? A shame he went and died a tragic hero. The story would’ve been much juicier if he’d lived, don’t you think?”
Harry’s knuckles were white around his wine glass. “I think,” he said coldly, “you should find a new topic of conversation.”
Muriel raised her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Touchy family, aren’t you? I was only curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” Sirius muttered.
Muriel smirked. “But satisfaction brought it back.”
She shot Lily Sr. a lingering, knowing look before turning back to her drink, looking altogether too pleased with herself. The tension lingered, thick and choking, as Harry reached for his wine again, draining it in one long, unsteady gulp.
The gentle clinking of a spoon against crystal echoed through the hall, the cheerful murmur of conversations fading away. All eyes turned to the front where Ron Weasley stood beside the newlyweds, a slight flush creeping up his neck as he cleared his throat. A crumpled piece of parchment shook in his hand—evidence of nervous fingers and a hastily scribbled speech.
He glanced around the room before his eyes settled on Rose. A crooked, affectionate smile tugged at his lips, and his voice softened. “Right then. I reckon most of you lot already know I’m not much for speeches. Never been one to talk when a good hex can do the job better.” A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd, and Ron relaxed a fraction.
His gaze returned to his daughter, who watched him with eyes just like Hermione’s—clever, sharp, and endlessly patient. “When Rose was born,” he began, his tone turning earnest, “I thought I knew what love was. I’d known it all my life—my parents, my brothers, my sister, Harry, and Hermione. I’d seen love, I’d felt it. But then she wrapped her tiny little fist around my finger and looked up at me, and I realized...I didn’t know a damn thing.”
The room was silent, hanging on his every word. Ron’s eyes misted, and he glanced down, a self-deprecating grin spreading across his face. “She was my little girl from that moment on—brilliant, stubborn, terrifyingly clever—Hermione’s daughter through and through.” He shot Hermione a teasing look, and she smirked back at him, though her eyes were brimming.
Ron’s smile faded as he continued. “I remember when she got her Hogwarts letter. Merlin, I thought the day would never come. And then she was gone, off to Hogwarts—our little girl, the brightest witch of her age, and I couldn’t have been prouder. But then came her fifth year, and she wrote to tell me about a boy she was seeing. A Malfoy.” He practically spat the last word, earning a murmur of amusement from the crowd.
Scorpius shifted uncomfortably, and Draco’s expression hardened ever so slightly. Ron ignored them both, focusing solely on his daughter. “I thought—no, I was certain she’d gone mad. Couldn’t understand it. The Malfoys and Weasleys don’t exactly have the best history, in case you hadn’t heard.” The crowd chuckled, and Ron pressed on.
“I remember sending back a Howler that Hermione intercepted—thank Merlin. But Rose, being Rose, dug her heels in. Said he was different. Said he was kind, clever, and honest.” Ron’s gaze flicked to Scorpius, who stood beside Rose, eyes steady but uncertain. “And I didn’t believe it. Not at first.”
Ron looked down at his speech, but whatever he’d written was forgotten. “Then I met the boy—Scorpius,” he said firmly, giving Draco a side-eye that made a few people snicker. “And I saw what Rose meant. I saw how he looked at her. Like she was the only person in the world who mattered. And Merlin help me, I realized she was right. He is a good man—a bit too polite for my taste—but a good man.”
Scorpius met Ron’s eyes and nodded, the two men holding a silent understanding. Ron’s voice wavered as he spoke, looking directly at Scorpius. “Scorpius, you’re marrying my little girl, and that terrifies me. But I’ve seen the way you look after her, the way you make her laugh, and I know you’ll take care of her. And if you don’t—” He cracked a grin. “Well, let’s just say, we've got Harry Potter himself for the backup.”
Harry chuckled from his seat, raising his glass in acknowledgment. Ron’s expression softened as he glanced at Rose. “You’ve grown up so fast, Rosie. You’re smart, fierce, and far too stubborn for your own good. But you’ve got a good heart—better than mine. And I know you’ll be happy, no matter where life takes you.”
Ron’s voice caught as he looked between the couple. “All I want is for you to be safe and loved, and for Scorpius here to remember that if he puts one toe out of line, I’ve got a house full of Aurors and a wife scarier than You-Know-Who himself.”
The crowd erupted in laughter. Hermione rolled her eyes, but a loving smile curved her lips. Rose was openly crying now, clutching Scorpius’s hand. Even Draco’s expression had softened, just a fraction.
Ron cleared his throat and raised his glass. “To Rose and Scorpius—may your lives be full of happiness, love, and far fewer adventures than we had.”
A chorus of “To Rose and Scorpius!” rang out as glasses clinked. Rose crossed the distance and threw her arms around her father, who hugged her fiercely. Scorpius hesitated before stepping forward, extending a hand. Ron looked at it, rolled his eyes, and pulled the young man into a quick, awkward hug.
Scorpius grinned as they broke apart, Ron grumbling, “Don’t get used to it.”
Ron wiped his eyes hastily, stepping back as applause thundered around them. Hermione kissed his cheek, whispering, “Well done.”
Ron grinned sheepishly. “Not too bad, was it?”
“Not bad at all,” she replied, squeezing his hand.
Ron turned back to his seat, chuckling. “Alright, who’s next?”
Scorpius stepped up to the podium, his hands clasped together as he adjusted his tie. He glanced at Rose, who gave him an encouraging smile, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. His gaze flickered to Ron, whose last words still hung in the air, and then to Draco, who was seated nearby with Narcissa.
The room grew quiet in anticipation, all eyes fixed on the young groom. Scorpius swallowed, but when he spoke, his voice was steady, though tinged with emotion.
"Well... this is a bit overwhelming," he began, offering a small smile to the crowd. "You see, I’ve never been much for public speaking—never had to be. Growing up, the Malfoys didn’t really give speeches at family gatherings. It was more about who you knew and how you were perceived." He paused, glancing at his father, who remained still, his face unreadable. "But then I met Rose."
The room seemed to lean in, the air charged with a quiet expectation. Scorpius’s eyes softened as he looked at his bride. “When I first saw her, I didn’t know what to think. She was everything I never expected—smart, fierce, and absolutely beautiful. But she wasn’t what I thought she would be.”
Rose’s smile grew, and she squeezed his hand, her eyes glistening. Scorpius smiled back, a warmth spreading across his chest.
“I thought I knew what love was—what being in a family meant,” he continued, his voice becoming more sure, “but Rose changed all of that. She showed me that love isn’t about appearances or expectations; it’s about understanding, trust, and acceptance. She taught me that being a Malfoy doesn't define who I am—being her partner does.”
A few guests exchanged knowing looks, and a small ripple of approval passed through the room. Scorpius chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’ve made mistakes. We both have. But I stand here today, not as a Malfoy, but as the man who has the privilege of marrying the woman of his dreams. And trust me, that’s a privilege I don’t take lightly.”
He turned to face Ron, the weight of his words heavy. "Ron, I know we’ve had our... differences," Scorpius said with a wry smile, "and I can only imagine how hard it’s been for you to accept me. But I want you to know that I will always protect your daughter. I’ll stand by her through whatever comes our way."
Ron, who had been staring at his plate with an unreadable expression, glanced up. His gaze softened ever so slightly. Scorpius took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts.
“Rose isn’t just my wife—she’s my best friend. My equal. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to her that I deserve her love.” He paused, glancing over at his father, who gave a barely perceptible nod, then back at Rose. “I promise, no matter what happens, we’ll face it together. And that’s more than I ever could have hoped for.”
His voice faltered a bit as he added, “Thank you to everyone who’s been here for us today. For your love, your support, and for just... well, being here. This means the world to us.”
There was a brief silence before he finally raised his glass, his voice growing stronger with conviction. "To Rose, the woman who stole my heart—and to a future that I couldn’t imagine without her. To us."
“To Rose and Scorpius!” The room echoed, glasses clinking, the applause that followed full of warmth and well-wishes.
Scorpius smiled, his heart racing as he caught Rose’s eye. She was beaming, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade into the background.
He didn’t need anything else. He had her, and that was more than enough.
Albus cleared his throat dramatically, unfolding the parchment he’d pulled from his pocket. He gave a cheeky smile, scanning the crowd briefly, making sure to lock eyes with a few of the familiar faces before he began.
"Right, well, I suppose it’s my turn now," he said, his voice smooth but with just a hint of humor, making everyone chuckle. "Before I say anything, I’d like to point out that Scorpius here has done an excellent job of keeping me on my toes all these years, so if you’re expecting something too heartfelt, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed."
He paused for effect, letting the slight tease hang in the air before he continued. "But seriously—I've known Scorpius for a long time. We met on the Hogwarts Express, the first train ride to our very first year at Hogwarts. To be honest, I was a little nervous. You know, being the son of Harry Potter and all, I didn’t really know where I’d fit in. But there was Scorpius, looking all confident with his immaculate robes and that perfect Malfoy hair, and I thought, ‘Great, here’s another person who’s going to look at me like I’m some sort of oddity.’"
The room laughed, and Scorpius rolled his eyes, though he was clearly enjoying the spotlight.
"But no," Albus continued with a smirk, "he didn’t. He actually sat down next to me and we just... talked. About Quidditch, mostly, because we’re both obsessed, but also about the things that matter to a couple of eleven-year-old kids trying to navigate a new world. And I’ll admit—at first, I thought he was just being polite. But by the end of that journey, we were both on the same page, realizing that maybe we weren’t as different as people might have expected."
He paused again, eyes drifting over to Scorpius, his expression softening. "I think it’s safe to say that, while we’ve had our disagreements and moments where we drove each other insane, Scorpius is one of the most loyal friends I’ve had. He’s someone I’ve always known I could count on, even when things were tough—whether it was facing off against something as ridiculous as a rogue Bludger or dealing with the chaos that was our fifth year."
Albus’ voice took on a quieter, more sincere tone. "But what really makes Scorpius stand out is that he’s not just loyal—he’s kind. He has this way of looking after the people he cares about, even if he doesn’t say it out loud. And yeah, he’s got a bit of a Malfoy stubbornness in him, but I’ve never once questioned where his heart is."
He turned his head toward Rose, who was sitting beside Scorpius, her eyes glistening with pride. "And Rose—well, we all know how much you mean to him. The way you two balance each other out... it’s something special. I think Scorpius would probably say that he never expected to find someone who challenges him, makes him laugh, and keeps him grounded all at once. And here we are, watching the two of you embark on this amazing adventure together."
Albus took a brief moment to adjust his glasses, his voice becoming more reflective. "It’s not easy, you know? Being the ‘best man’ is supposed to be about standing up here and saying all the nice things. But to be honest, it’s hard to put into words how much it means to me to be here today, to stand beside my friend as he starts this new chapter of his life with the woman he loves. It’s been a long ride, but it’s been one hell of a ride, and I wouldn’t have wanted to go through it with anyone else."
He raised his glass high, smiling warmly at Scorpius and Rose. "So here’s to Scorpius and Rose. May your marriage be full of laughter, love, and as many Quidditch matches as you can handle. And may you both always find comfort in each other, no matter what comes your way. To Rose and Scorpius!”
“To Rose and Scorpius!” The crowd echoed.
Notes:
I hope you like this chapter. To my dislike it's been written in a rush because I've been SWAMPED with life, unfortunately. And not sure about the frequency of updates.
If that wasn't enough, I also lost my access to my Google drive and I can't retrieve those docs in which I've written the upcoming chapters. Remember to have a recovery email, folks, I learnt this the hard way *sigh*
I hope you like this chapter, I've no idea how Western weddings takes place besides what's shown in movies and what I could gather on internet. The next chapter would be wedding after party.
Thankyou for reading!! ❤️
Chapter 30: Just Hurt Me and Go
Notes:
Disclaimer: This chapter is PURE... Fluff.
I've been craving a little family drama lately so gave myself a treat.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The soft, lilting strains of a waltz floated across the open-air pavilion, where lanterns glowed warmly against the encroaching twilight. The dance floor was a mosaic of polished stone, reflecting flickers of gold and amber light. Rose and Scorpius swayed at its center, her gown a cascade of white lace that fanned out gracefully as he spun her. Scorpius’s hands rested on her waist, movements assured but gentle, eyes locked on Rose as if she were the only person in the world.
Guests watched, rapt, murmuring their admiration. Hermione’s face was radiant, her hands clasped together, pride and love etched into every line. Ron’s expression was conflicted—pride warring with a protective scowl every time Scorpius's hand lingered too long. Harry and Ginny stood side by side, arms crossed in a mirror image, but Ginny’s jaw was set in a way Sirius had seen too many times over the years. Harry tried to catch her eye, but she resolutely avoided his gaze, focusing on the newlyweds.
Sirius leaned back in his chair, a tumbler of firewhisky cradled loosely in his hand. He took a thoughtful sip, letting the warmth settle in his chest. He’d seen the way Ginny’s eyes had flashed when Muriel dropped her little bombshell, watched the way Harry’s face had pinched, guilt radiating from him. Harry hadn’t denied it, and that had been damning enough.
Damn Muriel, Sirius thought bitterly. Even in her old age, she was a master of sowing discord. He could almost hear her cackling as she prattled on about Rita Skeeter’s rubbish, her gnarled fingers clasped around a cup of tea, eyes sharp and gleeful.
He glanced back at Harry and Ginny. She finally looked at Harry, lips moving as she asked a quiet question. Harry said something back—an apology, likely—but Ginny’s mouth tightened further. Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair, and Ginny turned away, crossing her arms. Sirius grit his teeth.
He looked back to the dance floor. Scorpius twirled Rose, the two of them laughing, her hair catching the light like a fiery halo. They looked young and alive and incandescently happy—like Lily and James had, once. Sirius swallowed hard, the firewhisky burning a little more than usual. Happiness was a fragile, fleeting thing, and he’d seen too many people chase it only to have it slip through their fingers.
His gaze flicked back to Harry and Ginny. Harry’s shoulders were hunched, brows drawn tight, as if carrying the weight of the world—a burden Sirius knew too well. Ginny’s arms were still crossed, though her expression softened as she watched Rose and Scorpius.
Sirius’s eyes narrowed. There were ways to repair a rift. He’d never been one for subtlety, but maybe a nudge here and there would help. A little manipulation in the name of love wasn’t a crime—more of a moral obligation, really. He smirked into his drink. Harry wouldn’t know what hit him.
On the dance floor, the song slowed to a close, Rose and Scorpius gazing at each other like there was no one else in the world. The crowd burst into applause, and Scorpius leaned in, brushing a kiss to Rose’s forehead as she beamed.
Sirius drained his glass and stood. This wedding wasn’t over yet.
The soft, romantic melody lingered in the air as applause for Rose and Scorpius’s first dance faded. Slowly, the dance floor began to fill—an unspoken invitation passed from one guest to another. Couples drifted forward, eyes bright with anticipation and the giddy excitement of celebration.
Hermione and Ron were among the first. Hermione’s hand rested on Ron’s shoulder, her fingers brushing the fabric of his dress robes as he wrapped a cautious arm around her waist. He mumbled something under his breath—perhaps a teasing quip or a murmured apology for stepping on her toes—and Hermione laughed, her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. The tension that had clung to Ron throughout the ceremony eased as they swayed in easy familiarity.
Arthur Weasley guided Molly onto the floor with a fondness that spoke of years of devotion. Molly huffed, cheeks rosy, protesting with a flustered wave of her hand, but she let herself be drawn close. The two moved in a gentle rhythm, Molly’s sternness melting away as Arthur spun her with surprising grace.
Nearby, Bill danced with Fleur, their movements fluid and elegant. Fleur’s silvery hair shimmered, catching the flicker of lantern light, while Bill's scarred face was lit with a warmth that softened his rugged features. The couple was a striking contrast—beauty and danger intertwined—but they swayed together like two halves of a whole.
Even Percy had managed to coax Audrey onto the floor, his stiffness fading as she teased him with an affectionate eye-roll. The twins Fred and Roxanne, too young for formal dancing but eager to be part of the fun, shuffled along clumsily nearby, earning fond chuckles from onlookers.
Sirius’s gaze flicked around, taking in the happy couples. The space filled with the hum of murmured words, laughter, and the occasional misstep quickly corrected. He spotted Teddy Lupin twirling Victoire, her blonde hair streaming behind her as she threw her head back, laughing. The way Teddy looked at her—like he was utterly mesmerized—made Sirius grin.
At the edge of the floor, Harry was watching the dancers, his expression thoughtful. Ginny stood beside him, arms still crossed but eyes flicking over the crowd with an aching wistfulness. Sirius let out a huff. They were too bloody stubborn for their own good.
A flash of movement caught his eye—James Jr., bold and charming, offering his hand to Amélie Faure with a mischievous smirk. She arched a delicate brow before accepting with a graceful nod, her fingers slipping into his as he led her onto the floor. Dora tugged on James’s robes, scowling as she demanded attention, but Amélie laughed and knelt to speak with her, winning the little girl’s reluctant approval. James scooped Dora up, twirling her until she squealed, Amélie looking on with an amused smile.
Sirius’s smirk widened. If James was anything like his father, he’d be in trouble soon enough.
Couples continued to join—loved ones drawn together by the warmth of the night and the promise of joy. The dance floor swelled with laughter and the sound of feet moving in tandem. The world beyond the pavilion faded away, and for the moment, the worries of life—the dangers, the rifts, the troubles—felt distant.
Sirius watched it all unfold, a strange warmth blooming in his chest. This, he realized, was what peace looked like. Fleeting, perhaps, but real. And worth protecting.
Sirius had danced the night away, spinning around the floor with Lily, Fleur, Molly, Tonks, and even little Dora, who had grinned up at him with wide eyes as he twirled her around like she was weightless. But now, he had finally claimed a fancy round seat, the large centerpiece towering before him, giving him a perfect view of the room. His eyes drifted across the dance floor, landing on James as he danced smoothly with Amélie, the two of them moving in sync, their chemistry undeniable. Sirius couldn’t help but smirk at the sight.
"Ah, young love," he muttered to himself, his lips curling into a knowing grin.
"Ha! Sirius, you're here!" a voice called out, pulling him from his thoughts.
He turned to see Lily Sr. approaching, her heels clicking on the floor as she made her way toward him. He grinned as she settled beside him, slipping off her heels with a sigh of relief.
"Ugh, I don't know how anyone wears these things and still manages to dance," Lily groaned, rubbing her foot with a wince. "James is getting us drinks," she added, glancing toward the bar.
Sirius hummed noncommittally, his eyes still locked on the dance floor. He caught sight of Teddy stumbling and laughing as he fell onto the floor, an amused grin spreading across his face.
"That Muriel is such a bat," Lily muttered, her tone filled with annoyance.
Sirius let out a snort. "I’m sorry about what she said about you and Snape."
Lily sniffed, clearly more upset than she let on. "I’m not as bothered about that as I am about the rift she’s created between Harry and Ginny."
"Hmm," Sirius hummed in response, his eyes scanning the room absentmindedly.
"I was just talking to James about it. It’s not her business, and it’s obvious it wasn’t an accident—she looked so smug about it," Lily continued, her voice tight with frustration.
"She's a bitch," Sirius said flatly, his words unapologetically blunt.
Lily snorted, the tension easing slightly as she shook her head. "Tell me about it."
James Sr. arrived with a tray of drinks in hand, his eyes scanning the crowd before settling on Lily and Sirius. He grinned as he approached, setting the tray down on the table.
"Here you go," he said, handing them each a glass. "Ginny insisted I get something nice, but I have a feeling she just wanted me out of her hair for a minute."
He chuckled as he took a sip from his own glass, clearly enjoying the break from the tension of the evening.
"Thanks, James," Sirius said, taking the drink gratefully. "You don’t look too worse for wear yourself tonight."
James raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I’m just getting started," he said with a wink, then turned to Lily. "How are you holding up? I saw you and Ginny earlier looking like you were ready to put Muriel in her place."
Lily gave a small smile, but there was a certain edge to her eyes. "Don’t even get me started."
James Sr. sat down beside them with a sigh, shaking his head. "Well, let’s enjoy the party before the next round of chaos begins."
James leaned back in his seat, eyes following Harry and Ginny as they made their way to the dance floor. Ginny’s smile was brighter now, and Harry was looking at her with a soft expression, one that said things had settled between them. They took their positions in the center, swaying gently to the music as the room seemed to hold its breath in quiet admiration.
"Well, look at them," Sirius remarked, watching the couple closely. "Seems like they’ve worked it out."
Lily nodded, a small but relieved smile tugging at her lips. "It’s good to see them like this. Muriel really threw a wrench in things earlier."
James Sr. sighed, swirling his drink. "She does have a knack for stirring up trouble, doesn’t she?" He glanced back at the dancing couple. "But they’ve always had a strong bond. Ginny's not one to let something like that slide for long."
Sirius chuckled, taking a sip from his drink. "Guess the Malfoys aren't the only ones who've got a knack for causing tension. But, in the end, they’ll always come together."
James smiled knowingly. "They always do." He looked back at the dance floor, where Harry pulled Ginny closer, both of them clearly enjoying the quiet moment of resolution. The atmosphere felt lighter now. "It’s nice to see them happy again."
After a moment Sirius said, “I'm going to get a drink, you lot want anything?” He stood up and walked away when they shook their heads.
James Sr. and Lily continued to watch Harry and Ginny, the lively chatter of the room grew louder. From the other side of the centerpiece, the familiar voices of Lily Jr. and Albus drifted toward them, making their way through the crowd.
"Honestly, Albus," Lily Jr. was saying, her voice tinged with amusement, "you looked like you were about to faint when you had to give that speech."
Albus, sounding slightly defensive, replied, "I didn't know you were so good at reading people, Lily. It's called nerves."
James couldn't help but grin at the exchange, the comfort of familial bickering never failing to bring him a sense of warmth. He turned to his wife who raised an eyebrow in amusement.
"Guess we’re not the only ones with a good view of the dance floor," James Sr. murmured, nodding toward where Lily Jr. and Albus had settled.
Lily’s eyes brightened. "I don’t think they’ve noticed us yet."
"Better not interrupt their little tête-à-tête," James remarked dryly. "They’ll have us for that."
Lily Jr. laughed, teasing her brother once more, "So, when are you going to start looking at someone like that, Albus?"
Albus groaned, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. "Not anytime soon, Lily. Not everyone has a perfect fairy-tale romance like Rose and Scorpius."
Meanwhile, Harry and Ginny continued to glide across the floor, their connection more evident with every step.
On the other side of the elaborate floral centerpiece, the conversation continued drifting toward James Sr. and Lily Sr., who were pretending not to eavesdrop — but were very much doing so.
"So seriously," Lily Jr.'s voice came, half-playful, half-curious, "why don’t you get a girlfriend?"
There was a pause, filled with the muffled sounds of clinking glasses and upbeat music from the dance floor.
Albus sighed, clearly exasperated. "Why does everyone always ask me that?"
"Because you're you," Lily said matter-of-factly. "You're not horrible-looking, you’re not entirely emotionally repressed, and you’re Harry Potter's son. Some people would consider that appealing."
Lily Sr. gave a quiet chuckle at that, and James leaned in slightly, grinning.
"I’m also a workaholic who rarely goes out and overthinks every conversation," Albus said dryly.
"That never stopped anyone in our family before," Lily Jr. quipped. "Look at James."
There was a beat. Then, Albus murmured, "There was someone. A while back."
Sirius sat forward slightly, as did James Sr. and Lily Sr., their ears sharpening.
Lily Jr. perked up. "What do you mean, was?"
Albus let out a small laugh under his breath. "It didn’t work out. Timing, mostly. And... maybe some unresolved trauma. You know, classic me being in newspaper baggage."
Lily Jr. sighed dramatically. "You’re so brooding it’s exhausting."
"Thanks."
“Still,” Lily Jr. went on, softer now, “you should find someone.”
Albus looked over at her, eyebrows raised. “Should I?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, then added with a hint of a pout, “Scorpius is going to be busy now. You know, being married and all. He’ll be… different. They’ll be doing married-people things. Brunches. Pillow shopping. Naming their children ridiculous things like Persephone.”
Albus snorted. “He’s not going anywhere.”
“I know,” Lily said, picking at the edge of the tablecloth, “but it’s going to be different. You’ll need your person, Al. Someone who gets you. Someone you can sit next to at weddings and make fun of the centerpiece with.”
Albus gave a half-smile, glancing at the extravagant arrangement that towered over the table, blocking half the room. “It is a ridiculous centerpiece.”
“Right?” Lily grinned, then nudged him. “So find someone who’ll say that kind of thing and also make sure you eat when you’ve forgotten to for twelve hours.”
“I’m not actively avoiding it,” Albus said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just... not exactly at the top of the list.”
“It should be,” Lily said. “You’re allowed to want more than work and trauma, Al. You deserve someone. Even if they don’t come in a box labeled soulmate.”
He looked at her, surprised at the warmth behind her words.
“And besides,” she added with a smirk, “if you don’t find someone, Mum’s going to set you up with the daughter of her friend from the Harpies.”
Albus looked properly horrified. “You’re evil.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
Albus was silent for a long beat, eyes fixed on the half-empty glass in front of him. Then, in a low voice, he said, “I’ve been thinking about resigning.”
Lily Jr. sat up straighter. “Resigning? From the Department?”
He nodded.
“But you’ve only been with the Unspeakables for a year,” she said, confused. “You worked so hard to get in.”
“I know,” Albus replied quietly. “I thought I could handle it. That I’d… find something in there. Purpose. Answers. But the longer I stay, the more I feel like I’m vanishing.”
Lily leaned in, concerned. “Al, is something going on? Did something happen?”
He hesitated. “It’s not one thing. It’s everything. The pressure. The secrecy. The way we’re expected to disconnect from… everyone. Even each other.” He ran a hand through his hair. “There’s so much I can’t talk about. Not even with my colleagues. And I used to think that made it important. Now I’m not so sure it’s worth the cost.”
Lily’s voice was gentle. “So what will you do? If you leave?”
He gave a faint, wry smile. “Something that lets me feel like myself again. Maybe I’ll freelance. Or maybe I’ll just go sit in the forest for a while and see what happens.”
Lily squeezed his arm. “Whatever you do, we’ll figure it out. Just… don’t shut us out, okay?”
“I won’t,” he said, and for the first time in a long time, he meant it.
They sat quietly, letting the music and murmurs of the wedding party swirl around them. Albus’s gaze drifted across the dance floor, landing on a familiar figure. His posture stiffened slightly.
“Amélie’s here,” he murmured.
Lily perked up, leaning around the centerpiece. “Where?”
He nodded toward the far side, where Amélie was laughing with Rose, her pastel blue dress catching the light as she tossed her blonde hair back. There was something effortlessly elegant about her, and Albus looked like he was trying not to stare.
Lily glanced at him, then back at Amélie, a slow smirk forming. “You should go talk to her.”
Albus blinked. “What? No.”
“Why not?” she asked innocently, though her eyes were gleaming with mischief. “You used to like her, didn’t you?”
“I still—” he stopped, scowled slightly, then looked away. “It’s not that simple.”
Lily tilted her head. “Why? She’s single. You’re single. You both read poetry and scowl at sunshine.”
Albus gave her a dry look, but said nothing.
“She’s not here with anyone, is she?” Lily pressed. “So what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “It’s been a long time.”
“So?” Lily said softly. “Long doesn’t mean gone.”
Albus hesitated, then said, “Maybe I’ll say something later.”
Lily smiled. “Good. You’ve got that whole brooding mystery thing going for you. She’ll love it.”
Albus rolled his eyes but there was a flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back in his chair, watching Amélie for another moment before looking away, pretending to be indifferent.
“She still laughs the same,” he said absently, more to himself than to Lily.
Lily arched an eyebrow. “So you have been paying attention.”
He ignored her teasing, drumming his fingers lightly against his glass. “I just think it would be weird, you know? To just walk up and be like, Hey, remember me? Haven’t spoken in three years, want to get a drink?”
Lily gave him a knowing look. “Al, you’re overthinking again. It’s just a conversation. She’s literally standing over there talking to your cousin. Not exactly Fort Knox.”
Albus didn’t reply, but his gaze drifted to Amélie again. Her laugh, light and melodic, carried faintly across the room. Rose touched her arm affectionately, clearly comfortable with her.
Lily nudged him with her foot under the table. “Look, worst-case scenario? She’s not interested and you feel awkward for five minutes. Best-case? You get to have a drink with a beautiful girl who once tried to teach you to pronounce crème brûlée properly.”
Albus snorted softly. “You’re very annoying.”
“I’m very right.”
He gave her a sideways glance, then finally smiled. “Maybe I’ll wait till she’s not surrounded by people.”
Lily smirked, triumphant. “That’s the spirit. And don’t worry—James is busy charming the entire dance floor. You’ve got your moment.”
That made Albus pause for a second longer than he should’ve. His eyes flicked briefly toward the dance floor where James was, indeed, twirling someone effortlessly, and for a moment, something unreadable passed across Albus’s face.
But Lily didn’t notice. She just leaned back in her chair, pleased with herself. “I’m going to be the reason two people fall in love tonight,” she said smugly. “Put that on my résumé.”
“Or the reason someone drowns in awkward silence.”
“Still counts as impact.”
At the far side of the reception hall, near the buffet table lined with enchanted platters of floating hors d'oeuvres, Harry cornered Ron with a glass of wine in hand and a look that could only be described as murderous.
“Ron,” he said flatly, “why the hell were we seated with Muriel?”
Ron, mid-bite of a particularly greasy puff pastry, blinked at him in confusion. “What? You were? I thought she was sitting with Great Aunt Tessie.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “She specifically said she requested to sit with us.”
“Oh,” Ron winced, brushing crumbs from his shirt. “Yeah, that... might’ve been a mix-up. Or—or maybe she asked last minute and no one double-checked the chart.”
Harry folded his arms, not buying it for a second. “Ron, she insulted Ginny, implied I have no control over my own household, and dropped the news about the promotion before I could tell her myself.”
Ron grimaced. “Look, mate, I didn’t intend for that. I didn’t even know she knew about the promotion.”
Harry gave him a deadpan look. “She knows everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already got my resignation letter written just in case.”
Ron had the decency to look sheepish. “I swear, it wasn’t on purpose. If it helps, Hermione already told her off for something earlier—about the flowers, I think.”
“Oh good,” Harry muttered. “Maybe she’ll only ruin half the evening now.”
Ron clapped him on the back. “Come on, it’s just Muriel. She’ll tire herself out soon. Or fall asleep in her chair. Or choke on a canapé.”
Harry snorted. “Tempting fate there, Weasley.”
They both looked across the room at the Potter table, where Muriel was now lecturing Audrey about dress necklines and the dangers of satin on aging skin.
“Brilliant,” Harry muttered, rubbing his temples. “Just brilliant.”
Harry let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair as he stared into his wine glass. “She didn’t just insult Ginny, Ron. She put a bloody toll on my marriage. You should’ve seen Ginny’s face when she found out about the promotion from Muriel. Not me.”
Ron’s expression sobered immediately. “Harry, mate… I’m sorry. That’s—yeah, that’s bad.”
Harry nodded slowly, his jaw tense. “We’ve always been good at bouncing back, but this? She made it seem like I was hiding it. Like I didn’t trust Ginny with it. And then she had the audacity to act like it was all a joke. ‘Oops, did I cause a little rift?’” He mimicked Muriel’s voice with venom.
Ron grimaced. “She’s… a menace.”
“She thrives off of chaos, Ron. And somehow, every single bloody time, you let her into it.”
“I didn’t let her in!” Ron protested. “She probably bribed the planner or guilt-tripped someone with her arthritis or whatever. You think I wanted her with you lot?”
Harry smiled at the sound of her amusement and reached gently for her hand. She let him take it after a beat.
“I should’ve told you,” he said quietly. “About the promotion. I didn’t mean to hide it. I just... I didn’t know what to do with it. It felt like if I said it out loud, it would be real. And I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be real.”
Ginny looked up at him now, eyes softer but still guarded. “You could’ve told me, Harry. You always do this—carry everything alone.”
“I know,” he said, brushing her knuckles with his thumb. “It’s a stupid habit. One I haven’t shaken off even after all these years.”
Ginny leaned into him then, resting her head on his shoulder. “You’re lucky I love you.”
Harry smiled, wrapping his arm around her waist. “I’m very lucky.”
They stood there for a moment, the world quiet except for the breeze and the faint hum of celebration behind them.
“Dance with me,” Harry said suddenly.
Ginny looked up at him with a smirk. “You’ve had three glasses of wine.”
“Exactly,” he said, pulling her gently toward the garden path lit by fairy lights. “Come on. Let me make it up to you with some awkward swaying and whispered apologies.”
She laughed, relenting. “Fine. But if you step on my foot, you’re back on the couch.”
“As long as it’s next to yours,” he said with a grin, spinning her gently as they disappeared back toward the music.
Ginny pulled back slightly, her fingers resting on Harry’s chest as her eyes searched his face. “When did you find out? About the promotion.”
Harry hesitated. “Last week,” he admitted. “I meant to tell you, I did. But everything’s been—chaotic. With the case, the wedding, and—Merlin, Muriel.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes slightly, not angry anymore, but still hurt. “And you didn’t think to pull me aside at any point in the last seven days?”
“I did,” he said softly. “More times than I can count. But I kept thinking I’d wait for the right moment. And then they just… didn’t come.”
She studied him for a beat, then asked, “Do you want to talk about it now?”
Harry shook his head, brushing a thumb gently along her jaw. “Not now,” he said quietly. “Right now I just want to be here. With you. Just us.”
Ginny nodded slowly, accepting the answer even though she still had more to say. But before she could speak again, Harry leaned down and kissed her. It was soft at first, then deeper, more certain, like an apology, a promise, and a reminder of everything they were.
Ginny melted into it, her hand curling behind his neck. She let it go—for now. They could talk later. Right now, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
***
Sirius took a slow sip of his drink, eyes fixed thoughtfully on the dance floor, where James Jr. was now leaning close to Amélie, their heads tilted together in quiet conversation.
“There’s something going on between those two,” he said, almost to himself.
Lily turned toward him, brows lifting. “James and Amélie?”
Sirius nodded. “They’ve been stuck to each other all evening. Dancing, whispering, little touches—it’s not just friendly.”
Lily’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh no…”
Sirius who’d been half-listening as he nursed his firewhisky, turned sharply. “What do you mean, ‘oh no’?”
Lily looked between the two men. “Because… just a little while ago, Albus told us he fancies her.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
James Sr. let out a low whistle. “Well, bloody brilliant.”
Lily groaned softly. “We didn’t think much of it at first—he was so casual about it. Said he might talk to her later, but…”
“But he doesn’t know James is already halfway there,” Sirius finished grimly.
They all glanced toward the dance floor again. James was laughing at something Amélie had said, his hand brushing her arm in a way that felt far too natural.
“Oh, this is going to be trouble,” James Sr. muttered.
Lily sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s Hogwarts all over again.”
Sirius gave a dry chuckle. “Love triangles, jealousy, secrets... we just need a duel and a hidden passageway to complete the set.”
***
James didn’t look back as he led Amélie away from the glowing garden lights, his hand tightly wrapped around hers. The laughter, clinking glasses, and music faded behind them, replaced by the quiet hush of wind brushing through tall hedges and the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their shoes. The air was cooler here, heavy with the scent of earth and roses, and something electric charged between them with every step.
They reached the edge of the estate garden where the stone path curved into a tucked-away alcove framed by climbing ivy and flowering branches. Here, the moonlight spilled in patches over the stone bench and ground, casting silver shadows that danced across Amélie’s pale blue dress. James stopped beneath a gnarled tree with white blossoms, his chest rising and falling quickly, his grip still firm on her hand.
She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the moonlight, wide and unreadable. There was a moment—just a beat—where the silence between them hovered, stretching tight like a wire.
Then James stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin, see the sharp line of his jaw clenched as he held something back.
“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly, but his voice was rough around the edges, already frayed.
Amélie didn’t say a word. Instead, her hand slid up his chest, fingers curling into the lapel of his dress robes. She tugged—firmly—pulling him toward her, and James crashed into the kiss like he’d been holding his breath for years.
It was not soft.
His lips met hers with raw urgency, teeth grazing, breath tangling. His hands found her waist, pulling her against him so abruptly she stumbled forward with a breathless laugh into his chest. She rose onto her toes, her arms sliding around his neck, one hand threading into his messy dark hair. Her nails scraped gently against his scalp as he angled his mouth, deepening the kiss, devouring her like he’d been starved.
She gasped when his mouth moved from hers to her jaw, then down her neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “James,” she whispered, and the sound of his name on her lips undid something in him. His grip on her tightened, hand splayed across her lower back as he pulled her even closer, as though it wasn’t enough to be touching—he needed more, needed all of her.
Her dress rustled as his fingers slid over silk and into the folds at her hip. She tilted her head back, baring her throat to him, eyes fluttering closed as he kissed the hollow of her collarbone. She was trembling slightly, but not from fear. From the sheer weight of it—the heat, the tension, the overwhelming rush of finally letting go.
“I shouldn’t want this,” he murmured into her skin.
“But you do,” she replied, breathless, her voice barely above a whisper.
He kissed her again, and this time slower, but no less intense—like he was committing her to memory, piece by piece. She made a soft noise against his lips, and he responded by pulling her hips flush to his. The world outside the little alcove ceased to exist—no wedding, no family, no consequences.
Only her. Only him. Only now.
James and Amélie lost all sense of time as they stayed tangled together in the shadows of the ivy-covered alcove. The world beyond—the music, the voices, the lights—melted away as if it belonged to someone else, a separate reality that had nothing to do with this moment.
His lips moved slower now, softer, brushing reverently across hers as though the urgency had given way to something deeper, something more tender. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her cheek. She looked up at him, eyes shining with emotion, and he caught his breath.
There was something fragile in her expression—vulnerability, maybe. Or trust.
“I’ve been trying not to do that since the minute I saw you again,” James murmured, forehead resting against hers.
Amélie let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You didn’t try very hard.”
He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I never stood a chance.”
Her fingers slid down the front of his shirt, toying with a button. “We’re terrible people,” she said, voice low, but she didn’t sound remorseful.
James exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”
She kissed him again—quick, firm. “We’ll figure it out later.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, holding her tight again. “Later.”
They didn’t rush back to the party. For a while, they just stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms under the moonlight, the sound of distant laughter drifting through the garden like a faint echo from another life.
James and Amélie eventually slipped back into the party through the side of the tent, careful not to draw attention to themselves. The warm glow of lanterns had deepened to amber, casting a golden hue over everything. Laughter rang from the dance floor, and the music had shifted into something upbeat and carefree.
James straightened his collar and gave a practiced stretch of his neck, the picture of someone who’d just stepped out for a breath of fresh air. Amélie walked beside him, elegant and collected as ever, her lips touched with the faintest smudge of gloss, her cheeks still slightly flushed.
“Ready to fake normal?” he murmured under his breath, eyes scanning the crowd.
“I’m French,” she whispered back with a smirk. “We invented it.”
They stepped in effortlessly, as though they'd never been gone. James was soon intercepted by Fred and Louis at the drinks table, who were locked in a mock debate over the quality of the wine, and Amélie wandered over to Dominique and Roxanne, who were laughing over something Hermione had said.
No one seemed to notice. Or if they did, no one said a word.
Across the tent, Albus looked up from his conversation with Neville and caught sight of Amélie. She smiled politely when their eyes met, just as she always did. Albus smiled back, warm and unsuspecting.
James made his way over to the other side of the tent where Lily Jr. was nursing a fizzy drink and tapping her foot to the beat of the music, eyes still scanning the room like a hawk with a clipboard. She lit up when she spotted him.
“There he is,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “Took you long enough.”
“Had to survive a Fred and Louis wine-tasting debate,” James said, ruffling her hair affectionately. “It was a war zone.”
Lily narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re in an oddly good mood.”
James smirked, grabbing a drink off a passing tray. “Am I?”
She nodded, studying him. “Suspiciously cheerful. Like you just got promoted or kissed someone you weren’t supposed to.”
James nearly choked on his drink but covered it with a cough. “What a wild imagination you have, Lily.”
She arched a brow, unconvinced. “Well, guess what?” Her voice dropped in excitement. “Albus fancies Amélie.”
James froze for half a second, then forced a casual sip of his drink. “He what?”
Lily grinned, oblivious to the way James’s jaw subtly clenched. “He admitted it! Said he’s been thinking about her and might talk to her later.”
James gave a tight smile. “Huh. That’s… something.”
Lily, mistaking his reaction for mere surprise, giggled. “Wouldn’t that be something? If he finally got a proper crush? Merlin knows he needs to loosen up. Imagine Albus dating Amélie. Weird but kind of cute, right?”
James nodded slowly, glancing across the tent where Amélie now stood by the dessert table, laughing softly at something Dominique had said.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Weird.”
Lily nudged James again, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Come on, you should help him out! Give him some tips or something.”
James blinked, then looked at her like she’d suggested he jump into a dragon's den. “Tips? What kind of tips?”
“You know—how to talk to girls! You’ve always been good at that,” she said breezily. “He’s so awkward sometimes. If he actually talks to Amélie, he might end up quoting magical theory or... asking her opinion on Ministry ethics or something equally boring.”
James barked a laugh despite the pressure in his chest. “That does sound like Albus.”
“Exactly! So go on—older brother duties and all. Teach him a few moves.”
James hesitated, his gaze drifting across the room toward Albus, who was now deep in conversation with Hugo and Neville. Then his eyes flicked back to Amélie, who was helping a tiny flower girl fix her floral headband, completely unaware of the storm brewing across the tent.
“I’ll think about it,” James said, masking his conflict with a wink. “But no promises. If Al goes in quoting Hogwarts: A History, we can’t blame me.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “You’re the worst. Come on, it would be so sweet if it worked out.”
James forced a grin. “Yeah. Sweet.” He drained the rest of his drink in one go.
Lily arched a brow at him as he set his glass down a little too forcefully. “Are you okay?” she asked, her teasing tone fading just slightly. “You’re acting kind of weird.”
James cleared his throat and flashed her his usual, charming smile. “Weird? Nah. Just tipsy from all the champagne and overwhelmed by the love in the air.” He made a dramatic gesture to the dancing couples, earning an eye roll from Lily.
“Fine,” she said, laughing. “But seriously, I’m going to make sure Al talks to her before the night ends. He’s clearly smitten.”
“Yeah?” James’s voice came out more clipped than he intended, but Lily didn’t seem to notice.
“He kept sneaking glances at her during dinner! And then when she laughed at something Scorpius said, Al looked like he’d just swallowed a lemon. Poor guy. I told him she’s single but I don’t know if he believes me.”
James shoved his hands in his pockets, watching Amélie from across the tent as she leaned over to speak to Rose. Her laugh drifted through the air like a soft note in a slow song, and he felt a pang in his chest.
“I’m sure he’ll get his chance,” James muttered.
Lily gave him a side glance. “You sure you’re alright? You’re acting like you don’t want him to.”
He plastered a smile on again. “Of course I do,” he said lightly. “He’s my brother.”
Lily narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but before she could respond, Teddy swooped in to pull her toward the dance floor. “Come on, Lil! They’re playing the Badgering Bludgers!”
She laughed and allowed herself to be pulled away. James stood alone for a moment, the music pulsing behind him, the lanterns casting a soft golden glow across the crowd.
His eyes landed on Amélie once again, who looked up just then and caught his gaze.
She smiled—small and secretive.
James looked away first.
***
Albus approached Amélie near the dessert table, nervously brushing his fringe back as she reached for a dainty lemon tart. She looked radiant even under the dim golden fairy lights strung across the tent, her pastel blue dress still impeccable despite the hours of celebration.
“Hey,” he said, voice slightly hoarse.
Amélie looked up and smiled brightly. “Albus! You were wonderful during the ceremony. Your speech made me laugh.”
He chuckled, a little too fast. “Thanks. I, uh—was hoping it’d land well. You…look really nice tonight, by the way.”
She blinked, still smiling but clearly not registering the weight behind his compliment. “Merci, that’s sweet of you. Though I feel underdressed compared to your mother—mon dieu, she is stunning!”
Albus laughed, trying to steer the conversation back. “Well, you’re… more my type, honestly.”
Amélie blinked again, then tilted her head. “What type is that? Half-crushed and sugar-dusted?” She held up her slightly squished tart and giggled, completely oblivious.
“No, I mean—” Albus hesitated, watching her laugh. “I just meant… you’re charming. Funny. Sharp.”
Amélie gave him a warm, casual smile. “Thank you, Albus. You’re sweet.”
She popped the tart in her mouth and waved lightly as she turned to join Rose again, completely unaware of the slightly stunned look on Albus’s face.
He stood there for a second, watching her go, before sighing and muttering under his breath, “So much for subtle flirting.”
Albus caught up with her again a few minutes later, near the drinks table this time. He was determined not to let the conversation fizzle out again.
“So,” he began, a little more composed now, “what have you been up to these days? After school, I mean.”
Amélie turned to him with an easy smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ah, you know… floating between things. I took a break for a bit, travelled a lot. Then last autumn I started working part-time for Le Monde Magique, the French equivalent of The Daily Prophet. I write cultural pieces—interviews, features, that kind of thing.”
Albus’s brows lifted. “That’s really cool. You always had that… eloquent vibe to you.”
Amélie let out a small laugh. “Eloquent vibe? That’s a new one.”
“I mean it in a good way,” he said, chuckling. “You were always articulate. Confident. I used to think you were intimidating, actually.”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “You? Intimidated? But you were always the quiet, mysterious one. Didn’t think anything could rattle you.”
“Well, you did,” he said without thinking.
She raised an eyebrow. “Me?”
Albus gave a small smile and shrugged. “I was sixteen and awkward. You were stunning and French. It was a lot.”
Amélie laughed, not unkindly, and glanced away for a moment. “Well, I’m flattered. But you seem a lot less awkward now.”
Albus looked at her sideways. “You think so?”
She nodded, sipping from her drink. “Mmhmm. More self-assured. Less… brooding.”
He couldn’t tell if she was teasing or sincere, but he smiled anyway. “Glad to hear that.”
Just before Rose’s voice reached them, Amélie added, almost offhandedly, “Oh—and I’ve actually been thinking of moving to England for a while. I’m looking at a job in the Auror Department.”
Albus blinked, caught off guard. “Really? As an Auror?”
She laughed and shook her head. “No, Merlin, no. I don’t have the nerves or the appetite for danger. It’s an admin position, actually. Strategic planning, department communications, things like that.”
Albus tilted his head, intrigued. “That’s… kind of perfect, actually. They could use someone with your brain.”
Amélie smiled. “That’s what I thought. And well, I miss England a little too.”
“Miss someone in England, maybe?” Albus joked, hoping—stupidly—that she’d catch the flirt.
But Amélie only gave a casual laugh, not catching the edge in his voice. “Let’s not get dramatic, Albus.”
Before he could say more, Rose’s voice called her away again.
“Talk later,” Amélie said again with a parting smile before she walked off.
Albus stood still for a moment, watching her disappear into the crowd again, her hair catching the warm golden lights strung overhead. His fingers fidgeted with the rim of his glass as a subtle kind of hope bloomed in his chest.
She was moving back.
To England.
And working in the Auror Department—his father’s department.
He knew it didn’t mean anything definitive, not yet. But it wasn’t nothing either. It meant proximity. It meant time. And maybe, just maybe, it meant opportunity.
For the first time in a long while, Albus felt like something in his life might be shifting, even if just slightly. Maybe she didn’t notice the way he looked at her yet, or understand the subtext behind his words—but if she was staying, then he’d have time to try again. Differently. Better.
He turned and headed back toward the party, heart just a little lighter than it had been all evening.
Albus found Lily Jr. sitting near the dance floor, her shoes kicked off, feet propped up on a spare chair as she lazily sipped from a glass of sparkling cider. She spotted him approaching and immediately perked up.
“Well?” she asked, eyes sparkling with interest. “Did you talk to her?”
Albus sank into the chair beside her, still clutching his drink. “Yeah. Sort of. It was... awkward.”
Lily grinned knowingly. “Because you were awkward or she was?”
“Me,” he admitted with a sigh. “She has no idea I was even flirting. I asked her what she was up to these days, and she said she’s planning to move to England. She’s looking into a job at the Auror Department—admin side.”
Lily nearly choked on her drink. “Wait—what? She’s moving?”
Albus nodded. “Seems like it.”
She nudged him excitedly. “Okay, that’s something. You’ve got time. You can work with time.”
He gave her a sideways look, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips. “That’s what I thought too. It’s not much, but... it’s enough to hope.”
Lily leaned her head against his shoulder. “I think she’d be lucky, you know. Once you stop being so weird about it.”
He snorted. “Thanks, Lil.”
“Anytime. Now go mingle or something. But not with her again tonight—you’ve maxed out your awkward quota.”
James Jr. stood near the edge of the outdoor bar, one hand buried in the pocket of his robes, the other clutching a glass of firewhisky. The wedding music pulsed faintly behind him, laughter and clinking glasses echoing from the crowd, but he didn’t join in. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the trees, unfocused, his jaw tight.
He downed the rest of his drink in one go and signaled for another. The bartender hesitated a beat before wordlessly sliding him a refill.
Lily’s words replayed in his mind, loud and insistent: “Albus fancies Amélie.”
James hadn’t reacted then—he’d laughed it off, said something cheeky to deflect. But now, in the quiet corner of the wedding party, it hit differently. A cold knot settled in his stomach, just under the warmth of the alcohol.
Albus. His quiet, brilliant brother. The one who rarely fancied anyone. The one James had never once had to compete with—not like this.
James took another long sip, eyes flicking toward the dance floor where Amélie was laughing lightly at something Scorpius had said. She was radiant even in the crowd. Untouchable. And she'd kissed him. Wanted him. But still, a voice whispered in his mind—if she had a choice between the golden son and the troubled one, who would she choose?
He didn’t notice Sirius watching him from a distance, eyebrows knit in concern.
James drained his glass again. The heat in his chest now had very little to do with the whisky.
James tilted the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid catch the light like it had answers. The voices and laughter around him dulled, fading into a background hum as his thoughts spiraled, loud and sharp in his own head.
She was just supposed to be someone I danced with at a wedding.
That’s how it started, didn’t it? A smirk, a teasing line, her laugh—that soft, lilting French laugh that hooked itself into him without warning. And now… now she was under his skin. Everywhere. In his thoughts when he woke up. On his tongue when he meant to say something else. On his damn hands even when she wasn’t near.
He ran a hand through his hair and let out a shaky breath.
And now Lily has to go and say that Albus likes her.
His little brother. Sweet, quiet, angst Albus, who never asked for much, never took up space the way James did. Who stood beside Scorpius today like a damn starched-up best man in a perfect tie, like he had everything figured out.
James hated how fast the jealousy burned through his gut.
Not at Albus. No. Just the situation. The mess of it. The timing of it.
Why now? Why her?
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was how real it felt. The way she touched his hand when no one was looking. The way she leaned into him, lips parting like a secret only he was meant to hear. The way their kiss felt like gravity shifting. Not clumsy or unsure, but right. Like they had somehow slipped into the same rhythm.
And still, he had no claim. No right.
If Albus made a move now—if Amélie said yes—what was he supposed to do? Drag her into a scandal? Split the family down the middle? Break his brother’s heart?
He swallowed hard, throat burning with more than just the whiskey.
If I step back, maybe no one gets hurt.
But as he glanced toward her—her silhouette in the soft light, head tilted with laughter at something Dominique said—he knew that was a lie.
Someone will get hurt no matter what I choose.
And for the first time in a long time, James Sirius Potter didn’t know what to do.
***
The fairy lights strung above the courtyard twinkled dimly now, their glow muted by the thinning crowd. Music had slowed into a soft hum, laughter had grown distant, and clusters of guests were saying their final goodbyes, slipping away into the cool night.
James wasn’t aware of any of it.
He staggered slightly as he made his way past the fountain, jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt half-untucked, tie lost somewhere hours ago. His hair was a mess and his eyes glazed, but the smile on his face was lopsided and dazed—the kind only found at the bottom of too many champagne flutes.
“James.”
He turned, slowly, the name landing softly but clearly behind him.
Amélie stood there, heels in one hand, the train of her dress lifted slightly to avoid the cobblestones. Her hair had come undone from the elegant twist she’d worn earlier, now falling around her shoulders like waves kissed by candlelight.
He blinked at her, hazy and unfocused. “Oh—hey.”
She stepped closer, her voice low and warm with amusement. “You are very drunk.”
James gave a half-snort. “Little bit. Maybe.” He grinned. “Or a lot.”
Amélie tilted her head, eyes glittering in the soft light. “Well then… someone should probably make sure you don’t stumble into a hedge or accidentally end up on a bus to nowhere.”
He laughed, but it turned into more of a breath. “Don’t tempt me.”
She paused, then stepped in, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his jaw.
“Come back with me,” she said softly, her accent curling around the words. “I have a bottle of wine and a house five minutes from here. And… maybe you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
He blinked, and for a moment the fog in his mind seemed to clear just slightly. Her meaning was unmistakable—there was something charged between them, humming beneath the surface. Not the chaos of the party or the weight of complicated feelings—just this. Her. Him. Right now.
His lips parted, but he didn’t answer right away. He simply looked at her, like he was trying to hold the moment still.
James stared at her—at the soft gleam of her eyes, the way her lips curved in that knowing, gentle smile, the moonlight catching in the waves of her hair. She looked like something out of a dream—effortless and untouchable—and yet here she was, real and close and asking him.
He swallowed hard, the warmth of the wine burning behind his ribs, and suddenly he wasn’t sure if it was that or the way she looked at him that made his chest ache.
I should say no.
The thought cut through the haze like cold air. His mind flashed—briefly, stubbornly—to Albus. To the way his brother had said her name, quiet and unsure but full of something that James couldn’t quite ignore. That rare softness in Al’s voice, the kind that meant he was trying not to hope too much.
James clenched his jaw.
You’re being an arse, James. You know it.
But then Amélie shifted just a little closer, her dress brushing against his leg, her eyes searching his. She didn’t pressure him, didn’t flirt overtly now—she just looked at him like she saw him. All of him. Not the charming James Potter that people laughed with at parties. Not the son of legends or the boy who always had a drink and a quip.
Just him. And Merlin, that look—how was he supposed to walk away from that?
Al doesn’t even know what he wants, a part of him argued. He doesn’t even know her. Not like I do.
Still, guilt clawed at the edges of his chest.
But Amélie was still looking at him with that calm, beautiful certainty. She hadn’t said anything else. She didn’t need to. And maybe that was what made it worse. Or better. He couldn’t tell anymore.
Just for tonight, he told himself. Just once. Before any of it matters.
He offered her a crooked, breathless smile.
“Lead the way.”
***
The room was quiet, bathed in the soft silver wash of moonlight filtering through the window. The sounds of the party had long faded—now only the occasional gust of wind rattled the glass panes, and the distant laughter from the last stragglers reached Albus like echoes from another world.
He lay on his side, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. James hadn’t come back yet—not that it was unusual. His brother had a talent for late-night wandering, socializing, and occasionally disappearing altogether. But for once, Albus wasn’t irritated by the absence. He was distracted.
Amélie.
Her name ran like a quiet current in his thoughts, soft but persistent. He thought about her laugh—the way it spilled out of her like warm sunlight when she spoke with Rose. He thought about the little crinkle by her eyes when she smiled, and the grace with which she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she was thinking. And of course, he thought about their brief conversation, her talking about applying for a post in the Auror department—not as an Auror, but in admin.
In England.
The idea had nestled into his chest like a fragile, flickering light. He didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know what to do about it. All he knew was that her being closer suddenly made everything feel different. More possible. More dangerous.
She hadn’t realized he was flirting. That much was obvious. And honestly, he wasn’t great at it. Especially with her. But she’d smiled at him. Talked to him kindly. She remembered him.
He rolled onto his back, sighing softly.
I should tell her, he thought. At least try.
But another voice—smaller, more cynical—whispered: What if she’s already with someone?
What if you missed your chance?
He didn’t want to listen to that voice. But it was there.
Albus closed his eyes, Amélie’s face still clear behind his lids. He turned over again, pressing his face into the pillow.
He didn’t notice the time, or the emptiness on the other bed. Only the soft ache of something just out of reach.
Tomorrow, he thought. Maybe tomorrow.
A quiet knock sounded on the door—gentle but firm. Albus stirred, his thoughts still tangled with sleep and the lingering image of Amélie. He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes.
“Al?” came Ginny’s voice, hushed and strained. “Are you awake?”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah… yeah, come in.”
The door creaked open, and Ginny stepped inside, wrapped in a soft navy dressing gown. Her hair was slightly tousled, and her face was etched with concern.
“Sorry to wake you,” she said, pulling the door mostly shut behind her. “But it’s half past three, and… neither James, Lily, nor your father are back yet.”
Albus blinked. “What?” He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 3:37.
Ginny crossed her arms, her voice unusually tight. “I thought maybe they were staying back for cleanup, or an after-party drink, but no one's answering their spell-phones. I checked with others—they haven't seen them since before midnight.”
Albus stood now, fully alert, his own worry beginning to rise. “Did they say anything? Before leaving?”
Ginny shook her head. “Your dad said he wanted a word with Ron, and Lily was talking to Dominique last I saw. And James…” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I honestly don’t know where James went. He disappeared after the dancing started.”
Albus frowned deeply, already reaching for his wand and slipping his shoes on. “Want me to check the grounds?”
“I was hoping you would,” Ginny said. “I’m trying not to panic. Maybe they’re just being idiots—but I know James, and he usually checks in. And your father—well, he never leaves me guessing.”
Albus nodded, heart beginning to race. “I’ll look around. They can’t have gone far.”
But something in Ginny’s eyes made him pause. Her worry wasn’t just maternal—it was sharp, cutting. Instinctual.
Ginny caught Albus’s arm lightly before he could open the door. “I’m coming with you,” she said, a bit too casually, slipping on a pair of sandals.
“Mum, really?” Albus raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” she shrugged, brushing her hair back into a loose ponytail. “But it’s half past three, and your father hasn’t come back either. If I sit around, I’ll start imagining he’s eloped with a Veela or something ridiculous.”
Albus gave her a look, unimpressed. “That’s a disturbing mental image.”
Ginny simply just winked.
***
Ginny and Albus reached the quiet fork in the stone-paved path where the cottages split off in different directions, each lined with rosebushes and ivy climbing the old stone walls. A soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and the only sound was the faint clink of someone stacking glasses far off at the venue.
“We’ll cover more ground if we split up,” Ginny said, pulling her wand from her coat pocket and casting a soft Lumos. “I’ll check the main house and the last few cottages near the stream. You take the ones on the hill?”
Albus hesitated. “You sure?”
Ginny gave him a look. “Albus, I’ve survived a war, childbirth, and your father’s job. I think I can handle a wedding night stroll.”
That earned a small laugh from him. “Alright. If you find Lily first, tell her she owes me ten Galleons for that bet.”
Ginny raised a brow. “What bet?”
“That she wouldn’t last the night without checking on the flower girls’ shoes.”
Ginny smirked. “That’s a safe bet. Now go. And if James is passed out on someone’s porch again—”
“I’ll leave him there,” Albus said dryly, already turning toward the uphill path.
They split off, their wands casting gentle light ahead as they disappeared in opposite directions—Ginny heading past the fountain garden and toward the deeper end of the lane, and Albus curving up the slope, scanning windows and porches for any sign of life.
The night grew quieter with every step. Somewhere, an owl hooted, and Albus felt the press of too many thoughts in his head—Amélie, the promotion, James… and now, the mystery of where his family had wandered off to.
***
Ginny’s steps were soft against the gravel path, her wand casting a pale light over the sleepy cottages as she knocked gently at each door. Most were quiet, a few answered by drowsy guests with tousled hair and muffled “Sorry, haven’t seen them.”
She didn’t rush. The air was fresh, perfumed faintly by the last of the roses. It was the kind of night she normally loved—cool, clear, full of stars. But tonight, she felt restless. Not quite worried, not yet. Just unsettled.
Finally, she turned the corner past a low hedge and found herself at the Lupins’ cottage, a cozy stone house with soft lamplight glowing behind the curtains. She raised her hand to knock, but the door opened before she could.
Teddy stood there, barefoot and bleary-eyed, his blue hair flattened on one side. “Oh. Hi, Ginny.”
“Hi, love.” She peered past him into the warm hallway. “You haven’t by chance seen—?”
“Lily? Yeah,” Teddy said, stepping aside and rubbing his eyes. “She showed up about an hour ago. Bit wobbly on her feet. Said she didn’t feel like going back to the house yet. I gave her some water and she knocked out on the couch. She’s fine, though.”
Ginny relaxed, smiling. “Thank you for looking after her.”
“Of course. She’s my little sister.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Want me to wake her?”
“No, no. Let her sleep. If she wakes up confused, just tell her I stopped by.”
Teddy nodded, and Ginny turned back down the path.
One accounted for. Two to go.
She muttered to herself as she walked, “If I find James in a ditch, I swear…”
She headed toward the cottages that edged the wood, where the paths grew narrower and the laughter from the venue had long since faded. The night was still, but Ginny’s instincts buzzed with the familiar tension of tracking down her children—only this time, they weren’t eleven and hiding chocolate frog cards under the bed. They were grown… but still hers to chase after.
Ginny approached the wedding venue, now quiet and dim under the soft glow of floating lanterns. The music had long since stopped, and only a few workers remained, clearing plates and folding chairs. Petals littered the grass like forgotten confetti, and the scent of champagne and roses still hung in the air.
She paused near the edge of the lawn, scanning the space.
One of the staff, a young man with slightly charmed glowing gloves, spotted her and jogged over. “Mrs. Potter?”
“Yes?” she said, brows lifting.
“I think you’re looking for someone.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “Several someones, actually.”
The young man grinned awkwardly and gestured for her to follow. “This way.”
He led her behind a line of tall hedges, past a collection of stacked chairs and spell-frozen fairy lights, and toward a quieter corner by the small ornamental pond. There, sprawled under an old pergola wrapped in wilting wisteria, were three very familiar men.
Harry, Ron, and George were slumped in a row like exhausted teenagers after a party, ties askew and jackets discarded. Ron’s mouth was open in a soft snore, George’s leg was hooked lazily over Harry’s, and Harry himself was tipped back against a pillar, arms crossed and wand clutched protectively like a reflex.
Ginny stood there for a long moment, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
The worker looked nervously between her and the trio. “They, um… they were singing the Hogwarts school song an hour ago. In rounds. The older gentleman—we think he’s your brother—was improvising new verses about ‘wedding taxes’ and ‘Ministry traitors.’”
“I’m not surprised,” Ginny muttered.
Then her eyes settled on Harry, whose glasses were still somehow on his face. She let out a sigh—not quite exasperated, not quite fond. Somewhere in between.
“Thank you,” she told the worker. “I’ll take it from here.”
He nodded and slipped away gratefully.
Ginny stepped closer and crouched beside Harry, poking him lightly on the shoulder. “Potter. Wake up. I’m collecting strays tonight.”
Harry blinked blearily, eyes barely opening. “Gin? Thought you went to find the kids.”
“I did. Found one. You, apparently, are another.”
He gave a crooked smile, eyes struggling to focus. “We… we were celebrating. Ron said… we deserved to drink like we were twenty.”
Ron, half-waking, muttered something about “Dragon Pox being a conspiracy” and rolled over.
Ginny shook her head with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
Ginny stood over the trio of passed-out wizards for another minute, then sighed and drew her wand, casting a quick Lumos Maxima into the sky. A few of the clearing staff looked over from the other end of the lawn.
She waved one over—an older witch with a crisp white apron and an expression that suggested she’d seen one too many weddings. “I’ll need a bit of help,” Ginny said, digging into the inner pocket of her clutch. She pulled out a handful of Galleons and passed them over. “Can you make sure these two”—she gestured at Ron and George—“get safely to the Weasley and Johnson houses? Quietly, if possible. I’ll owl more in the morning if needed.”
The witch glanced down at the two unconscious redheads and nodded briskly. “No trouble, Mrs. Potter. We’re used to this kind of cleanup.”
“Thanks,” Ginny said, already pulling out her wand again.
She turned and pointed it toward the sky, sending up two shimmering silver weasel-like Patronus messages—one bounding off toward the Granger-Weasleys’ house and the other racing down the path to the Johnsons-Weasleys’. They’d get the message: All good, Ron and George were with Harry. Sending them back.
Then, crouching next to her husband again, Ginny gently nudged his shoulder. “Alright, come on, Mr. Head Auror,” she said with a teasing glint. “Up you go.”
Harry groaned and reached for her hand, lurching upright with her help. He wobbled slightly, and she tucked herself under his arm, steadying him with ease. “You're heavier than you look, Potter.”
He grinned sleepily. “That’s all the righteous burden of justice I carry.”
Ginny rolled her eyes, but her grip on him tightened affectionately. “Let’s just get you to bed, noble burden and all.”
They began walking slowly along the gravel path leading back toward the little row of houses, Harry leaning into her warmth, murmuring something that sounded like “You smell nice” against her hair.
She didn’t say anything to that—just smiled to herself in the quiet night, her bare feet silent on the path, guiding her husband home through the sleepy French township.
Ginny had just finished tugging the light blanket up over Harry, who was already snoring softly, arm flopped dramatically over his eyes like he’d fainted from overwork instead of Firewhisky. She brushed his fringe off his forehead with a fond, quiet sigh, then turned as she heard the door creak behind her.
Albus stood there, fully dressed, looking both tired and grim.
“James?” she asked softly, not wanting to wake Harry.
Albus nodded. “He’s with a… friend. Said he’s staying the night.”
Ginny arched an eyebrow. “A friend?”
Albus didn’t elaborate, but the look on his face said it all. Ginny sighed, ran a hand through her hair.
“Well. As long as he’s not in a ditch.”
“He’s not,” Albus said. Then after a pause, “You can get some sleep. I’ll lock up.”
Ginny stepped closer, kissed his cheek gently. “Thanks, love.”
She gave him one more thoughtful look—there was something still brewing behind his eyes—but decided to let it be for now. She padded out of the room barefoot, and Albus watched the bedroom door close before turning and heading down the hall.
He didn't tell her he’d seen the shoes beside the door at Amélie’s cottage. Didn’t tell her what he saw when she opened the door
He just sat down on the sofa in the quiet living room, the house dim and calm, and stared out into the night.
***
Albus paused at the edge of a small garden, the soft golden light from a nearby window casting shadows through the lattice. He could hear music still playing faintly in one of the cottages—someone’s wireless still tuned to the wedding playlist.
He let out a quiet breath and ran a hand through his already-mussed hair.
Amélie.
She was polite, friendly. Hadn’t recoiled when he stumbled through asking about her work. She even smiled when he offered some awkward encouragement. And then she mentioned she might be working at the Ministry. Where he worked
That had to mean something, didn’t it?
He shook his head, his breath curling out like smoke in the night air.
No, don’t be ridiculous. She barely knows you. She probably said that to a dozen people tonight.
But something had sparked in him—a sliver of hope he hadn’t felt in a long time. That maybe, just maybe, he could get to know her. And not just in passing. Not just as James’s friend or someone Lily dragged into their family chaos. Maybe… on his own terms.
He reached the little iron gate that led toward his family’s house, only to find it empty.
Still no sign of Ginny, Harry, Lily or James.
Albus glanced at his watch. 3:41.
“Brilliant,” he muttered. “I’m the responsible one now.”
He turned back around, hands in his pockets once more, eyes flicking along the lantern-lit paths that wove through the township.
He’d check the venue again. Maybe Ginny found them. Maybe everything was fine.
But as he started walking again, he caught himself thinking—not about his family this time—but about Amélie’s laugh, and how her eyes crinkled when she smiled.
And for the first time in ages, Albus felt that unfamiliar twinge of something like this.
Albus slowed to a stop beneath a flickering lantern post, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes. He looked around again—still no sign of anyone. No Lily. No Ginny. No James, definitely no Harry. And no owl with a note, no trace of them at all.
He sighed, tugging his scarf tighter as a cool breeze wound through the township lanes. Somewhere nearby, a door slammed and laughter rang out. Probably someone just now returning from the after-party at the vineyards.
They're probably all passed out somewhere, he thought, irritation prickling behind his eyes.
And then… an idea struck him.
It came like a quiet little whisper, sly and shameless.
Amélie.
She had her own cottage—he remembered Lily pointing it out earlier in the day. It wasn't far. What if he just happened to knock? Under the pretense of looking for James or Lily. Perfectly innocent. Reasonable, even.
And maybe, if she wasn’t asleep yet, they could talk again. Somewhere quieter this time. Less awkward. Less… fluorescent lighting.
His steps turned deliberate now, gravel crunching a little faster. He rehearsed lines in his head.
Hey, sorry to bother you so late, but I was looking for my family—have you seen them?
Did Lily come by your place?
Just needed to check in case James dropped dead somewhere around here.
It all sounded halfway plausible.
And deep down, Albus knew he wasn’t fooling anyone—not even himself.
But still, he turned onto the winding path toward the modest little cottage tucked at the edge of the township—warm light spilling from its curtains, a soft hum of wireless music drifting into the still night.
He stopped at the gate.
And for a full minute, he just stared at the door.
Then, with a sharp breath and a whisper of don’t overthink it, Albus walked up and knocked.
The door creaked open almost instantly.
Amélie stood there, her hair loosely tied back, skin still flushed from the evening. She wore an oversized shirt that hung off one shoulder—soft cotton, pale blue, the hem grazing the tops of her thighs. It was far too big to be hers.
She blinked in surprise when she saw him. “Albus?”
“Hey,” he said quickly, trying to keep his voice casual. “Sorry it’s late. I was just—looking for my sister. Thought she might have ended up here. She's all missing.”
Amélie smiled, warm and a little sleepy. “Oh. No, no one came by here. But do you want to come in for a bit? Have a drink?”
He took a step forward instinctively—but then his eyes caught something.
By the door.
Men’s shoes.
Two pairs. One definitely hers. The other... scuffed, expensive-looking dragonhide. James's, if he had to guess.
His stomach turned.
“No—it’s fine,” he said, stepping back quickly. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”
Amélie tilted her head. “You sure? It’s no trouble.”
“Yeah. I should keep looking,” Albus said, forcing a smile. “Thanks, though.”
She nodded, still smiling, still oblivious.
Albus turned away quickly, walking down the path with his heart pounding strangely in his chest.
The moment he was back on the road, his pace quickened.
He didn’t know for sure.
But he knew enough.
And that stupid flicker of hope he’d carried with him all evening—just quietly snuffed itself out.
Albus lay flat on his back, staring at the dark ceiling above him. The old fan spun lazily, casting lurching shadows across the plaster.
He didn’t even bother to change his clothes. His jacket was still worn on, his scarf still hanging loosely around his neck. He could still smell the faint perfume of the evening—the grass, the firewhisky, the perfume of people he didn’t belong with.
His fingers were clenched around the edge of the blanket, but he didn’t pull it over himself.
What the hell was I thinking? he thought bitterly. Turning up at her door like some pathetic idiot.
He closed his eyes tightly, like maybe that would stop his mind from spinning. But it didn’t. Instead, all he could see was her face—soft, sleepy, surprised. That damned shirt.
He knew that shirt.
He’d seen James wear it earlier that day. Had laughed when their mum had told James he looked like a bloody model in it.
Albus’s jaw tensed.
He didn’t even know when James had slipped away. Didn’t know how long it had been going on. Didn’t even know if it was going on.
But those shoes—
They’d told him everything.
He rolled onto his side, curling slightly in on himself. The bed creaked, too loud in the silence of the little house.
I’m such a fool.
He had let himself hope.
Let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was space for him somewhere. That he could have someone who chose him first. Not his name. Not his father. Not his family. Him.
But of course, it had been James. Always James. Effortless, charming, golden-boy James.
Albus pressed a hand over his chest and felt the ache there pulse against his palm.
It was stupid. It wasn’t like he and Amélie were ever something. But still, it felt like something had cracked open inside him—and the cold air was rushing in fast.
He didn’t cry. Not really. Just laid there in silence, the kind that wrapped around his throat like a scarf pulled too tight.
The kind of silence that stayed long after the music had faded.
Albus squeezed his eyes shut, but it was no use.
James.
James, with his easy charm, with his broad smile and stupid laugh that made people gravitate toward him like moths to a flame. James, who could stroll into any room and somehow own it without even trying. James, who always got there first, even when he didn’t know anyone else was trying.
Albus let out a slow, bitter breath.
It wasn’t like he blamed James—not entirely. He didn’t even think James knew. That was the worst part. It wasn’t malicious. It never was. James just… lived, brightly and boldly, and somehow his light snuffed out everyone else's without even realizing.
And Albus—Albus had learned to live in the corners of that light.
He stared at the ceiling again, feeling the weight in his chest grow heavier with every thought. He wondered if James had ever felt second-best. If he had ever looked at someone and thought, They could never pick me if they’ve seen him.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t James’s fault. And yet…
And yet, Albus couldn’t stop thinking about Amélie’s smile. How she had laughed with James earlier, how she had looked so comfortable, so effortless. How Albus had studied that shirt with dread. How it had felt like watching the universe silently choose sides again—and it wasn’t his.
He covered his face with his arm.
He wasn’t angry. Not really. He was just tired. Tired of falling short. Tired of being the afterthought. The second one. The shadow.
And most of all—he was tired of hoping.
Because every time he let himself hope, he ended up standing outside a door, heart pounding, watching his brother’s shoes and realizing he was already too late.
Albus turned on his side, arm still slung over his face, but it was no use. Sleep wasn’t coming tonight. His mind was too loud, too cruel.
He let it wander—because what else could he do?
He imagined knocking on Amélie’s door hours earlier. Imagined she answered, same oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair loose and slightly messy, but her eyes lit up when she saw him.
Not James.
Him.
She’d invite him in, of course. Maybe they’d talk in the soft light of the little kitchen. She’d make tea—not because he asked, but because she wanted to. He’d sit across from her and they’d laugh about something stupid, something simple. And for once, it wouldn’t be awkward. She’d see him—really see him. She’d lean in. Maybe her hand would brush his on the table. Maybe she’d say something like, “I’ve missed talking to you.”
And maybe—just maybe—he’d kiss her.
Slow. Careful. A moment that belonged only to them. No crowd. No James. No Potter legacy weighing down between them.
He pictured her smiling afterward, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, the way she did when she was nervous. Maybe she’d lean her forehead to his and whisper something in French, and he wouldn’t know what it meant but it wouldn’t matter. He’d just know.
And for once, he wouldn’t feel like a spare.
He stared at the wall. The fantasy flickered and died.
Because it was a fantasy. She hadn’t looked at him that way. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
And James… James was probably still there. With her. Albus didn’t need to imagine how that looked. The shirt, the shoes—he had all the clues he needed.
He rolled onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling, jaw tight, throat raw from nothing in particular.
He wanted to be angry. Wanted to scream or break something or even cry, but none of it came. Just the quiet, dull ache of disappointment settling in like a second skin.
The worst part wasn’t that he’d lost.
It was that he never even had a chance.
Albus’s eyes closed again, the images swirling in his mind as if they were on a reel, playing in slow motion. He could feel the weight of his own thoughts pressing against his chest. He imagined a future where Amélie wasn’t just a fleeting moment, a dream he couldn’t touch.
He saw them, years down the line, sitting together on a quiet balcony somewhere—maybe Paris, maybe London, who knew?
They’d have mugs of coffee between them, the steam rising in the morning air. It was the sort of scene he’d never let himself imagine before, too afraid to believe in it, too used to his own loneliness.
But now, with her face lingering in his mind, it seemed like the only thing he could think about.
Her smile would be different, less guarded, maybe even a little mischievous. She’d look at him the way someone looked at a person they could trust with everything—no walls, no pretenses.
They’d talk about everything and nothing, their lives woven together, effortlessly, as if it had always been that way. No rush, no obligations.
Just a quiet understanding that they fit together, perfectly imperfect.
He could imagine her hand in his, fingers gently intertwined, no words needed to express the comfort, the warmth between them. In that imagined future, she wouldn’t be just a fleeting thought.
She would be the person who made him feel like he was enough, who made him feel seen.
There would be lazy weekends spent in bookstores and cafes, her laughing at his bad jokes, him teasing her about her overuse of French phrases.
He’d watch her as she worked, deeply focused, and he’d never get tired of seeing her in her element, so passionate about what she loved.
He’d visit her at the job in the Ministry—when she got that admin position, as she probably would. She’d walk him through the corridors, showing him off-handedly where her desk was and making him laugh at how she’d mastered the art of navigating the maze of official Ministry business.
She’d be good at it, better than anyone, and he’d be proud of her, though he wouldn’t say it aloud. It would be in the way he looked at her, like he couldn’t believe someone as amazing as her was in his life.
In his mind, there would be no interruptions. No James. No confusion. No messy situations. Just the two of them, carving out a life from the things they loved, from the quiet moments that didn’t need to be extraordinary to mean the world.
The future stretched before him, and for a moment, just one fleeting moment, it felt real. He could almost touch it, could almost feel the warmth of her beside him, the certainty of a life they could build.
But then his thoughts shifted, as they always did.
He saw James in the picture. James and Amélie, together, laughing the same way Albus had imagined her laughing with him. The same smiles. The same little glances.
And suddenly, the future he’d imagined felt like a dream that had been ripped away before it could even start.
Albus opened his eyes, the silence of the room swallowing him whole again. He didn’t want to let go of the image of them—of her—but he knew he had to. He had to accept that some things, like this unspoken love he felt for her, were never meant to be.
Not now. Not with James standing in the way.
***
Amélie closed the door behind her with a quiet click, the silence of the hallway pressing in around her. She walked into her bedroom, still feeling the weight of the awkward moment with Albus, but it was already slipping away as she spotted James sprawled out on her bed.
He was shirtless, the sheets tangled around him, one arm propped up lazily as he looked at her. His eyes lit up when she walked in, and he flashed her a mischievous grin.
“Who was at the door?” His voice was a bit rough, the remnants of alcohol still hanging in his tone.
She hesitated, just for a second, the image of Albus standing there flashing in her mind. But then she shook it off, pushing it to the back of her thoughts. She was done with it. "No one," she said with a shrug, as if it didn’t matter.
James didn’t press, his attention already shifting as he stretched out a hand to her. She moved toward him, her bare feet making no sound against the floor. Her shirt was too big on her, the sleeves hanging past her hands, but it felt comfortable. She sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing her cheek as he leaned forward, pulling her into a kiss.
It was soft at first, a gentle brush of lips, but then it deepened, and everything else—everything that had happened that night—fell away. There was only the warmth of his skin, the familiar scent of him, the taste of his kiss. She leaned into it, feeling his hands slide around her waist as the kiss grew more urgent.
He pulled back for a breath, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes searched hers, soft, a quiet understanding in them. “Everything okay?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
Amélie didn’t answer right away, but instead let her fingers trail over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her touch. She let herself relax into him, the tension of the night easing away. "Yeah," she finally said, her voice quiet, but firm. “Everything’s fine.”
And just like that, everything else didn’t matter anymore.
***
The soft rays of morning light filtered through the curtains, casting gentle shadows across the room. James blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the early light, the quiet of the morning wrapping around him like a blanket. He lay still for a moment, not yet fully awake, taking in the unfamiliar comfort of the bed beneath him.
Amélie was still asleep, her head resting on his chest, her breath steady and peaceful. Her soft hair tangled around his arm, and he could feel the warmth of her body pressing against him. For a moment, everything was calm, and he let himself sink into the sensation of being close to her.
But then, his thoughts drifted, pulling him away from the stillness of the moment. He thought about Albus. He hadn’t seen him last night—hadn’t noticed him at the party after everything had gone down with Amélie.
James swallowed hard, a knot forming in his stomach. It was a fleeting thought, but it clung to him nonetheless. He didn’t know exactly what Albus felt, but he could guess. He had seen the way his younger brother had been watching Amélie—those quiet moments where Albus’ gaze lingered just a bit too long, his expressions too guarded.
James sighed, shifting slightly under the weight of the realization. This... whatever had happened with Amélie, it was a one-time thing. He couldn’t deny it. It felt too much like a moment lost in time, something that would only be remembered as a brief, burning flicker.
He wasn’t going to do this again. Not with her. Not while his brother had feelings for her, no matter how quietly they lingered in the background.
He stared at the ceiling, running a hand through his hair as he tried to steady his breathing. This was the first and last time.
Amélie shifted in his arms, a soft murmur escaping her lips, but James didn’t look down at her. Instead, his thoughts were already a little more distant, weighed down by the quiet ache of knowing what he’d just stepped into.
When she woke up, he’d be gone. And Albus—Albus would never know.
As James slowly got out of bed, trying not to disturb Amélie, he felt a pang in his chest, the last traces of the warmth from their night together lingering on his skin. He stood for a moment by the side of the bed, running a hand through his tousled hair, gathering his thoughts. His heart was conflicted, a strange heaviness settling over him as he glanced at Amélie’s sleeping figure.
Her breathing was steady, peaceful, her body curled up comfortably against the pillow, looking serene. The sunlight illuminated her features, her skin glowing softly in the morning light. She looked... perfect. He felt that familiar tug in his chest—a desire to stay, to let the moment stretch out, to pretend there was no reason to leave.
But he couldn’t. Not with Albus in the back of his mind.
The guilt was thick in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down as he dressed quickly, trying to ignore the voice in his head. It told him that this wasn’t right, that Albus deserved more than to find out this way.
Just as he finished buttoning his shirt, he heard a soft rustle behind him. He turned to find Amélie waking up, blinking sleepily as she adjusted to the light. Her hair was wild, tangled around her face, and the way she stretched, the way she looked at him—there was an undeniable beauty in it.
"Morning," she mumbled, her voice husky from sleep. She smiled up at him, and James couldn’t help but return it, his heart tightening at the sight of her.
“Morning,” he said, his voice rougher than he expected.
She sat up in bed, running a hand through her hair, and he watched her for a moment, fighting against the tug in his chest. There was something about her presence, something that made him hesitate in that moment, his mind swirling with confusion.
She smiled, her eyes flicking to him knowingly. “Well, that was… unexpected,” she said, her tone light, but there was an underlying softness to it. “But I’m glad you came.”
James hesitated, trying to force a smile. “Yeah, me too,” he said, his words feeling hollow in the space between them.
Amélie stood up, moving towards him with a quiet grace. “I’ll be in touch, yeah?” she asked, her voice warm as she looked up at him, her eyes full of promise.
James stood frozen, the words hanging in the air like a weight he couldn’t quite lift. “Yeah…” he muttered, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a firm answer. The truth was, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he wanted. He was fighting too many emotions, too many conflicting thoughts to say anything definitive.
Amélie didn’t seem to notice his hesitation, though. She smiled softly, the same smile that had drawn him in last night. “I’m glad we had this, James,” she said quietly, and before he could say anything else, she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the cheek.
For a moment, everything felt suspended, and James felt himself pull away—just a little. “Yeah, me too,” he replied, though his voice was barely a whisper.
As Amélie turned to collect her things, James stood there, his heart beating fast in his chest, a storm of emotions swirling inside of him. He wasn’t sure what he was running from, or why he felt so torn, but as he stepped out of her cottage and into the cool morning air, he knew this wasn’t over. It couldn’t be.
As Amélie stood in front of him, her eyes bright and unguarded, she reached up and placed a hand gently on his cheek. The touch was soft, almost hesitant, but there was something about the way she looked at him that made his heart skip. He didn’t want to be pulled in, didn’t want to feel this conflicted, but everything about her made him feel alive, in a way that was both intoxicating and dangerous.
"James," she whispered, her voice tender, "I meant what I said. I’m glad you came."
And before he could stop himself, before his brain could tell his body to pull away, her lips were on his.
It wasn’t harsh or forceful, but it was certain—there was no hesitation in her kiss, just the same quiet intensity that had drawn him to her in the first place. She kissed him with the soft confidence of someone who knew exactly what she wanted. And as much as he tried to resist, to pull back, something in him shifted. His resolve faltered.
His hand found its way to her waist before he could even think about it. He kissed her back, slow and unsure at first, but then the tension melted away, and it became something deeper, something instinctual. The warmth of her lips, the way her breath mingled with his—it was a feeling he didn’t want to admit he’d been craving.
For a moment, nothing else existed. There was only the kiss, the quiet understanding between them, the way her body fit against his.
But as the kiss lingered, reality began to claw its way back to the surface. Albus. His thoughts. The guilt, sharp and sudden, stabbed at him.
He pulled away gently, breaking the kiss, his breath coming heavier than before. Amélie looked at him, a small smile playing at her lips, but there was something uncertain in her eyes now too.
James didn’t trust himself to speak. He didn’t trust his own feelings, and every time he looked at her, every time he felt the pull toward her, the image of his brother—Albus—flashed through his mind.
"I... I need to go," he muttered, his voice strained.
Amélie didn’t say anything at first. She simply nodded, as though she understood. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, something that made James feel like a fool for even considering leaving, but he turned away anyway, not trusting himself to stay.
As he stepped toward the door, he heard her voice, quiet and steady. "I’ll be in touch, James."
And for a fleeting second, he wanted to say something, to stop, to make everything right. But instead, he just nodded and stepped out of her cottage, leaving behind the mess he had made of his emotions, the tangled feelings that now defined him.
***
The morning had an odd, weighty stillness to it—one that Albus couldn’t quite put his finger on. James had returned just in time for breakfast, slipping into a seat at the long kitchen table as though he’d been there all along. But Albus noticed everything. The creases in his brother’s shirt, the faint smell of something floral clinging to him, and worst of all—the fact that it was unmistakably the same shirt Albus had seen Amélie wearing the night before.
Albus had expected James to be smug. Or at least casual, with that lazy grin he wore when he thought he’d got away with something. But there was none of that this morning. James looked... off. His eyes were shadowed, his jaw set, and there was a strange, faraway stillness about him, like he was only half-present.
They ate in silence, save for the occasional clink of cutlery. Then, as the dishes cleared themselves with a flick of Ginny’s wand, Harry stood and announced that they’d be heading back to England by evening. “Start packing,” he’d said. “We’ve got a Portkey arranged.”
Back in the little bedroom he shared with James, Albus tossed a few things into his trunk before giving up entirely. The suitcase sat half-packed on the floor while he lay back on the bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes tracing the wooden ceiling beams. His mind wandered, replaying the night before like a loop he couldn’t turn off—Amélie at the door, the too-big shirt, the unmistakable shoes, and the way she’d said no one had been there.
A soft knock brought him back to the present.
“Come in,” he called, sitting up slowly. His voice sounded distant, even to himself.
The door opened and he saw his sister entering his room.
She stood opposite him with her arm fold and her eyes narrowed.
“You should go atleast talk to her, Albus,” she said firmly, “before we leave.”
“No it's alright,” he said standing up and packing, “she was way out of my league any way.”
“Why you're saying that?” She asked softly, “stop underestimating yourself! You're very handsome, and sweet and smart and –”
“James slept with her.” He said trying to keep his voice matter of factly but he couldn't hide his bitterness.
Lily stopped and blinked at him, “What do you mean by that?”
“You know what I mean by that.” He said dryly.
“But how do you know?”
He sighed and explained about the night.
“But he can't do that!” She said
“Well I think he did, Lils “ he said with a hollow laugh, “for what it's worth, thanks Lily for rooting for me.”
But Lily was not listening, “Wait here,” she said and left the room.
Lily found her eldest brother sitting on the low stone wall at the edge of the garden, shoulders slumped, head bowed, as if the weight of the morning—or the night before—had finally caught up with him. The early sunlight spilled through the hedges, casting long, dappled shadows over his back. He looked tired, worn in a way James Potter rarely ever did.
She marched straight up to him and landed a firm punch on his arm.
"How could you do this, James!?" she snapped, her voice rising sharply against the quiet hum of the morning.
James turned his head slowly, looking at her like he'd expected her to come but had hoped she wouldn’t. “Lily, I can explain—”
“It’s so low!” she cut in, loud enough to send a bird flapping out of the tree above them. “Albus was—Merlin, he was so looking forward to her! And you knew. You knew, James. So why on earth would you go with her when you knew your brother fancies that girl?!”
He winced, rubbing the spot on his arm where she’d hit him. “It wasn’t planned, alright?” he muttered. “It just… happened.”
“Well, that’s convenient,” Lily said, eyes blazing. “Do things always ‘just happen’ for you? Or is it only when it comes to taking things that matter to someone else?”
James went quiet, jaw tightening. But Lily wasn’t finished. Not yet.Lily crossed her arms, still fuming, her chest rising and falling with the effort it took not to yell again. She’d said her piece—loudly, furiously—and now silence stretched between them like a crack splitting the garden in two.
James exhaled, his expression guarded, tired, as he looked up at her.
“Are you finished already?” he asked, his voice low but edged with something darker.
Lily’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare turn this around on me—”
But he cut in, quiet and steady. “The thing is… I was already with her, long before you ever told me about Al.”
That stopped her. She stared, brow furrowed.
“I tried not to go with her, alright?” James said, his tone raw now, eyes on the grass at his feet. “But I was drunk, and… and I wanted her. I’ve always wanted her. And I’m not going to let anyone—you, Al, whoever—make me feel like scum for being with a woman who never even looked at him that way.”
“You knew how he felt,” Lily said tightly, her voice quieter now but no less hurt. “You knew.”
James looked at her then, something pained behind his eyes. “Yeah. I did. And I hate that it had to be this way. But don’t act like I stole someone he had. He never had her, Lils. He never even stood a chance.”
Lily stared at her brother, her jaw tight, arms still folded across her chest. The wind ruffled the tall hedges around the garden, and somewhere nearby, a bird chirped as if oblivious to the tension crackling between them.
“You don’t know that,” she said, her voice low now, but sharp. “Maybe she would’ve. Maybe if he’d had more time. Maybe if you hadn’t—”
“If I hadn’t what?” James cut in, though his tone wasn’t angry. Just tired. “If I hadn’t kissed her? Slept with her? Lied about it? What exactly should I have done, Lils? Rewritten the past? Pretended I didn’t want her just because Albus had a crush he never acted on?”
Lily’s eyes burned. “He was going to. He was acting on it. He was trying—he’s always so careful and slow and awkward, but he really liked her.”
James looked away, jaw clenched. “I didn’t plan it, alright? It wasn’t some evil scheme. She kissed me, I kissed her back. That’s all.”
“It’s not all,” Lily snapped. “You knew what that would do to him. He looks up to you, James. And now he thinks he’s nothing compared to you. Again.”
The words hit James like a blow. He blinked at her, caught off guard.
“I didn’t mean for that,” he muttered. “Merlin, I didn’t mean for any of this. I didn’t even know he fancied her until that night.”
“But once you knew,” Lily said bitterly, “you still stayed. You still let it happen.”
Silence again. James looked older than he had in years, the lightness in him—usually so effortless—dimmed and flickering.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know I messed up.”
Lily sighed and turned away, rubbing her temples.
“Talk to him,” she said. “Tell him the truth. Don’t let this fester. It’ll ruin things—between you two. And he won’t say it, but he’s already hurting.”
James didn’t respond right away. Then finally, he nodded.
“I’ll talk to him,” he said. “I swear. Before we leave.”
***
James found Albus by the stone path near the woods, hands jammed into his coat pockets, staring out at the trees like they held answers.
“You avoiding me forever, or just for the day?” James said quietly.
Albus didn’t turn. “Is there a difference?”
James exhaled, trying to stay calm. “Look, I didn’t mean for things to go the way they did. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
Albus gave a hollow laugh. “You didn’t mean to? That makes it better?”
“She’s not yours, Al. You never even—”
“I know she’s not mine,” Albus snapped, turning to face him. “I never said she was. But maybe I thought, for once, you wouldn’t take what I wanted just because you could.”
James’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?” Albus’s voice was rising now. “You saw me talking to her, you knew I liked her, and you still—what? Thought it didn’t matter? Because it’s me?”
“I didn’t do it to spite you,” James said, voice tight. “You never said anything. You barely talked to her!”
Albus laughed again, bitter this time. “You don’t get it. You’ve never had to try, have you? You walk into a room and people choose you. Girls. Professors. Even Dad.”
James’s expression darkened, but he didn’t speak.
“You’re the Potter,” Albus went on, stepping closer. “You’re charming and brave and good at Quidditch. And me? I’m the weird, moody one who works in the Department nobody understands. The one Mum has to lie about to her friends.”
James’s eyes flickered. “Al—”
“I see the way he looks at you. Dad. Like you’re everything he was. And then he looks at me like he’s wondering what went wrong.”
James’s restraint snapped, just a crack. “That’s not true.”
“No? Then why is it that no matter what I do, I’m always the second-best son in this family?”
James stepped forward now, his voice low and sharp. “Don’t you dare put this on me. You want to be seen? Stop hiding in the corners and blaming everyone else for it.”
Albus didn’t flinch. “At least I’m not a bloody narcissist who thinks the world owes him affection.”
James’s face twisted. “At least I don’t pity myself into paralysis.”
“And yet here you are,” Albus said coldly, “jealous because for once you know you did something wrong.”
James’s fists curled, but his voice was steel. “I’m not jealous. I’m disappointed. You think being miserable makes you deeper than the rest of us.”
“You think being popular makes you better.”
“I think,” James growled, “you wanted her because I had her.”
That landed like a slap. Albus stepped back, stunned.
James instantly looked like he regretted saying it, but he didn’t take it back.
Albus’s voice was quiet now. “You know what hurts the most? Not that you slept with her. That you didn’t even think it mattered.”
James stood there, staring after him, but something twisted in his chest—hot, sharp. “You think I don’t care?” he called after Albus. “You think I don’t feel anything?”
Albus froze. Slowly, he turned around. “No. I think you only feel things when it’s about you.”
James’s eyes narrowed. “Right. Because you’re the only one who’s ever struggled. Poor Albus, always in someone’s shadow. You have no idea what it’s like—carrying everyone’s expectations, being watched all the time. Trying so bloody hard to stay perfect so no one sees how badly you’re falling apart.”
Albus stared, unmoved. “Oh, cry me a river. At least you get to be the one they expect things from. They don’t even see me.”
“You know what?” James snapped, stepping closer. “You’re right. They don’t. Because you make it impossible. You hide behind your job, behind your bloody brooding, and then act like a victim when no one breaks through.”
“And you think shagging the girl I liked makes you some sort of tragic hero?” Albus shot back.
“I didn’t know, Al! And even if I had, what do you expect? For the world to stop for your unspoken feelings?”
“I expect my brother not to sleep with the one person I actually felt something for.”
James laughed bitterly. “You felt something? You spoke to her once. You stood around pining like a child. That’s not love, Albus—it’s fantasy.”
Albus flinched, then sneered. “You’re a bastard.”
“And you’re a coward.”
They stared at each other, breath heavy in the silence.
James’s voice broke first, quieter but sharp as glass. “You think I haven’t looked out for you? All these years, I’ve taken the hits. I’ve defended you. I’ve told people they don’t get you. But you—you act like the world’s against you when really, you’ve pushed everyone away.”
Albus’s voice shook with fury. “You didn’t look out for me. You pitied me. That’s worse.”
For a moment, James didn’t reply. Then he said softly, “You know what’s worse? Knowing that no matter what I do, you’ll always resent me for being the firstborn. And that you sorted into Slytherin and that you're not good at flying and that the media treats you unfairly. But for the hundredth time, Al, it's not. my. fault."
Albus’s jaw tightened.
“And maybe,” James added bitterly, “maybe you don’t want to be loved. Maybe you just want someone to prove they love you by being miserable with you.”
That was it.
Albus moved before either of them fully registered it — his fist connecting with James’s cheek in a clean, sharp crack.
James stumbled back a step, blinking, one hand flying to his face. Blood bloomed at the corner of his lip, but he didn’t hit back. He didn’t raise his voice.
He just stood there.
And in his silence, Albus saw it.
He let it happen.
James looked up at him, eyes raw. “That’s fair,” he said quietly, breathing hard. “I probably deserve that.”
Albus, chest heaving, stared at him in disbelief. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
James wiped the blood with the back of his hand. “A lot more than you think.”
And with that, he turned and walked off, leaving Albus standing in the middle of the path, fists clenched and heart pounding — unsure of whether he’d just won something or lost everything.
Notes:
I hope you like it. It's something completely new and sort of an unnecessary chapter tbh, because it doesn't focus on the resurrected ones. But you know me! And you've been warned so I ain't taking any complains 😊
In the next upcoming chapters I'm planning to write James ceremony where he's officially an auror. And then if all goes well we'll be in the right track aka gets some villans, hehehe
Love you ❤️
Chapter 31: Half-Past Hope
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
James stepped into the house, the morning light catching the split at the corner of his mouth. He was halfway through the hallway when he heard it.”
"Merlin’s beard!" Ginny's voice rang out as she stepped out of the kitchen, eyes narrowing as she took in the blood and swelling on his face. "What happened to you?"
Harry appeared behind her, coffee mug in hand, and stopped cold when he saw his eldest son. His expression sharpened. “James?”
James exhaled through his nose, tired already. “Nothing. It's fine.”
Ginny stepped closer, reaching out, but he winced and pulled slightly back.
“Don’t do that,” she said quietly, brushing his hand aside to inspect the bruise. “Did someone hex you? Or—was this a fight?”
Harry’s jaw tensed. “Was it Al?”
James hesitated. “Yeah.”
Ginny's face fell. “What happened?”
James shook his head, trying for levity, but it didn’t quite land. “Just a little brotherly disagreement. Don’t worry. I deserved it.”
Harry exchanged a look with Ginny, his voice low. “What did you say?”
James shrugged. “More than I should have.”
Ginny folded her arms. “James Sirius, you’d better fix this.”
James’s smile was tired, lopsided. “I don’t know if I can.” He turned away, muttering, “Not this time.”
And with that, he brushed past them, heading for the stairs, his footsteps heavy on the wood.
James trudged up the stairs, each step a dull echo in the quiet house. His head throbbed—not just from the blow Albus had landed, but from the weight of everything that had unraveled in the past twelve hours. He didn’t even bother with the lights as he entered his room, flinging himself face-first onto the bed.
His spellphone, charmed to vibrate rather than ring, buzzed softly in his pocket.
He ignored it.
It buzzed again.
With a groan, he rolled over, pulled it out, and blinked at the softly glowing screen. A message from Amélie shimmered into focus, the lettering slightly cursive, as her charm always styled it.
Amélie: Are you alright? I felt something was off when you left.
He stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the response charm. He had the sudden urge to tell her everything—about Albus, about Lily, about how he could still feel the imprint of the punch on his cheekbone.
But instead, he tapped a reply.
James: Yeah. Just some family stuff.
Almost immediately, the next message appeared.
Amélie: Do you want to talk? I can floo-call if you’re back home.
James stared at her words, chest tightening.
He almost typed no.
But instead, he backspaced. Then backspaced again. Then let the spellphone fall on his chest, eyes staring up at the ceiling.
He didn’t answer. Not yet.
Because for the first time, he didn’t know what he wanted to say.
James was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the message from Amélie on his spellphone, the words swimming before his eyes. His jaw ached from the punch, but he still hadn’t healed it.
There was a quiet knock. This time it was heavier. Firmer.
“James?” It was Harry.
James didn’t respond. The door creaked open anyway, and Harry stepped inside, gaze immediately landing on the bruised side of his son's face.
He didn’t ask right away. He stood there, arms folded loosely, the lines on his face deeper than usual. “Was it Albus?”
James didn’t move. His fingers curled tighter around the phone. The silence dragged.
“I’m not here to take sides,” Harry said, voice low but steady. “But I need to know what happened.”
James swallowed, jaw tightening. He didn’t answer.
Harry took a step closer. “James—”
And that was it.
The words cracked something open in him. James dropped the phone to the floor and stood abruptly. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, alright?” he blurted. “I didn’t mean to hurt him!”
Harry blinked, taken aback.
James shook his head, backing away like the walls were closing in. “I didn’t even know he liked her! I didn’t know until Lily told me and by then I’d already—” He broke off, chest rising and falling in sharp jerks.
Harry stepped closer.
“I didn’t mean to ruin everything,” James said, voice catching. “I—I’ve always been the one who’s supposed to be fine. The golden one. I didn’t mean for him to hate me. I didn’t mean—” He looked up at his father, his voice a whisper now. “I didn’t mean to be this.”
Harry didn’t speak. He just opened his arms.
James didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and collapsed into them, clutching the front of Harry’s shirt like he was drowning. His body shook as he buried his face in his father’s shoulder, and after a long pause, the tears came—quiet at first, then gut-deep and unrelenting.
Harry held him tightly, one hand at the back of James’s head, the other wrapped around his shoulders, anchoring him like he used to when James was small and afraid of thunderstorms.
“It’s alright,” Harry said softly. “It’s alright, son. We’ll figure it out.”
But James just cried harder. Because he wasn’t sure if they could.
Down the corridor, Ginny was sitting at the kitchen table, still in her dressing gown, sipping a now-cold cup of tea. She hadn’t asked questions yet—she could read her sons better than anyone, and she knew Albus was holding something heavy behind his silence.
She looked up when he stepped in. His face was pale, lips tight, a storm in his eyes that he was clearly trying to swallow.
“Did you find James?” she asked gently.
Albus gave a short nod and sank into the chair opposite her.
She reached forward and laid her hand over his. “Sweetheart… talk to me.”
His lips trembled. He shook his head once—quickly, like he could force the emotion back down—but it bubbled up anyway. “He knew,” he rasped. “He knew how I felt about her. Lily told him. And he still—” Albus broke off, the bitterness laced through his voice like poison. “And no one’s going to care, are they? Because it’s James. He’s always the charming one. The perfect one.”
Ginny’s brows knit, but she stayed silent, letting him speak.
“I’m always the problem,” Albus went on, voice cracking now. “To the press. To people at work. To Dad. I’m always the moody, difficult one who doesn’t shine. And I didn’t even want much. Just… something of my own. Someone of my own.”
Ginny’s breath caught, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I went to her cottage,” he admitted, eyes glazing over. “Last night. I thought maybe I’d just… talk to her. And I saw his shoes at her door.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“She was wearing his shirt.”
Ginny’s mouth parted, but she still didn’t speak. She could see it would shatter him if she did just yet.
“I didn’t go in,” he said, then looked away, jaw clenched. “I couldn’t. I came home and I—I tried to let it go, but it keeps playing in my head.”
Then, like James had done only minutes before, Albus crumpled. His shoulders curled inward and the tears he’d been biting back spilled over. “I can’t breathe, Mum,” he choked out. “I can’t stop seeing them. I—what did I do wrong?”
Ginny was already beside him, crouching, pulling him into her arms. She stroked his hair like she used to when he was small and feverish. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she murmured into his ear. “Nothing. Albus, sweetheart… I’m so sorry.”
He buried his face in her shoulder, clinging to her like she was the last solid thing in his world. “Why does he get everything?” he sobbed. “Why do I always feel like I’m… not enough?”
Ginny closed her eyes, holding him tighter. “You are enough,” she whispered fiercely. “You always have been.”
And in the quiet kitchen, as the morning light crept in through the windows, mother and son stayed locked in the kind of embrace that doesn’t fix everything—but tells you you’re not alone.
Ginny found Harry leaning against the back doorframe, arms folded, staring out into the garden where the morning mist was beginning to lift. She joined him quietly, wrapping her arms around herself as though the weight of the past few days had settled on her shoulders.
“He told you?” Harry asked, without looking at her.
She nodded. “Albus broke down.”
“James did too,” Harry said softly. “I haven’t seen him like that since he was a boy.”
There was a long silence between them, the kind that came with old marriages—comfortable, but layered.
“He’s hurting,” Ginny said, meaning Albus.
“They both are,” Harry replied.
Ginny gave him a glance. “You always do this,” she said, a trace of a smile tugging at her lips. “You always defend James first.”
“I don’t—” Harry stopped, brow furrowing. “I’m not defending him, I’m just saying he’s not heartless. He’s a good kid. He’s just—”
“Charming,” Ginny supplied. “Like you.”
Harry gave her a look. “That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “It’s not fair how easily Albus is misunderstood. How hard he has to work just to not be compared to everyone else.”
Harry was quiet, but his jaw tightened.
Ginny pressed on, her voice low. “You don’t mean to show it, but you’re softer with James. And you don’t mean to be hard on Al, but you are.”
Harry turned to her then. “That’s not true.”
“You didn’t ask what Albus said,” she said gently. “You asked if James told me. You always look to him first.”
Harry exhaled, the breath heavy with years of unspoken worries. “You always side with Albus.”
“Because he needs someone in his corner,” Ginny snapped, then caught herself. “He doesn’t make it easy. He doesn’t want to need us. But he does. And he’s never going to say it.”
They stood in silence again, until Harry finally said, “Do you think James really knew? About how Al felt?”
Ginny looked down. “I think he knew enough to hesitate. And he didn’t.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “He said he didn’t plan for it to happen again.”
“But it did.”
“Yeah.”
Ginny looked at her husband. “We’ve raised them to be brave and kind and brilliant. But not perfect.”
Harry nodded, his eyes now scanning the horizon. “No. Not perfect.”
She leaned into him slightly. “They’ll have to figure this one out on their own.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in. “Yeah,” he murmured. “But we’ll be there. Even if they don’t want us.”
Ginny smiled faintly, resting her head against his shoulder. “We always are.”
The sun had climbed a little higher now, spilling golden light over the dew-soaked grass. From inside the house, there was the faint sound of movement—footsteps, a door closing, maybe someone in the kitchen. But out in the quiet stillness of the garden, Harry and Ginny lingered, suspended in that rare space where they were just two parents trying to make sense of things.
“I keep thinking…” Harry said after a while, his voice low. “Maybe I missed something. Maybe I should’ve talked to them more.”
Ginny tilted her head to look up at him. “You did your best. We both did.”
He gave a rueful smile. “My best nearly tore them apart.”
She stepped in front of him now, placing both hands on his chest. “Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself for choices they made.”
“I’m their father,” he said. “I should’ve seen it coming.”
Ginny’s eyes softened. “You were too busy being a father to everyone.”
Harry looked at her—really looked at her—and the weight of the years, the wars, the expectations etched faint lines in the corners of her eyes. She was still the fire-hearted girl he’d fallen for, but there was wisdom now, and weariness too.
“We’ll get through this,” she said, brushing his arm lightly. “It’s messy and painful and completely out of our control. But it’ll pass.”
Harry nodded. “I just hope they don’t hate each other by the end of it.”
“They won’t,” Ginny said firmly. “They’re brothers. They’ll break apart, maybe. But they’ll come back.”
A pause.
“Besides,” she added, almost slyly, “if they don’t, I’ll lock them both in a room until they sort it out.”
Harry laughed under his breath. “You would.”
“You’re damn right I would,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips.
They stood together a moment longer before the back door creaked open and Lily’s voice called, “Mum? Dad? We’re supposed to leave in an hour.”
Ginny turned, exhaling. “Duty calls.”
Harry looked toward the house. “Let’s go make sure no one kills each other before we reach the Portkey.”
“Good plan,” Ginny said, and together they stepped inside.
They were nearly packed. Harry was levitating the last trunk toward the car, Ginny was calling for Lily who had vanished into the garden, and Albus stood stiffly by the open gate, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the ground.
James hadn’t spoken much that morning. The bruise under his eye had darkened overnight, a blooming reminder of the punch he hadn’t tried to dodge.
He was adjusting the strap on his rucksack when he heard footsteps on gravel. Slow, deliberate. He turned.
Amélie stood at the edge of the lane, wrapped in a long coat, her hair still damp from a shower. She looked tired, but relieved to have found him. Her eyes moved over his face—and stopped.
“Oh mon Dieu, James,” she said, her hand going to her mouth. “What happened to your face?”
James blinked at her. “Amélie.”
“You didn’t answer my message,” she added, stepping closer, voice low. “I thought something was wrong.”
He tried for a smile, but it cracked too easily. “I’ve been… busy.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That bruise—was it from last night?”
“Sort of,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters,” she said. “Who did this to you?”
James glanced toward the car, where Harry and Ginny were half-distracted with shrinking suitcases. Albus hadn’t turned around.
“Someone who was angry,” James said flatly. “And probably right to be.”
She tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”
James gave a humourless chuckle. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Amélie stepped closer, searching his face. “James… Did I do something wrong?”
His throat worked. He shook his head, barely.
“No,” he said. “No, Amélie, you didn’t. You’ve been—brilliant, honestly.”
She softened, stepping in until they were almost touching. “Then why are you looking at me like we’re saying goodbye?”
“Because I think we are.”
Her brows drew together, lips parting, confusion written all over her. “Why?”
Before he could answer, Harry called out, “James, come on!”
James looked over Amélie’s shoulder, toward his family. Then back at her.
“I’ll explain,” he said. “Just… not now.”
Amélie’s eyes searched his face again, lingering at the bruise. Then, gently, she reached up and touched the side of his cheek.
“Okay,” she said softly. “But please don’t shut me out.”
He gave a slight nod, then pulled away.
Just as James turned away from Amélie, another set of voices floated down the lane.
James Sr., Lily Sr., and Sirius were returning from Remus’s cottage, having spent the morning catching up over coffee and ancient photo albums. They slowed as they approached the gathering, the lightness of their chatter fading at the sight of James’s face.
“Merlin’s beard,” Lily Sr. muttered, stepping forward. “What happened to you?”
Sirius gave a low whistle. “Blimey, kid, you get into a bar brawl or wrestle a hippogriff?”
James Jr. instinctively touched the bruise under his eye, already weary of explaining. “It’s nothing.”
His father looked sharply at him, not buying it for a second. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”
“I said it’s fine,” James Jr. muttered, trying not to wince under his mum’s assessing stare.
Lily Sr. tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Did you do something daft?”
James Jr. didn’t respond, but the guilty shift of his gaze was answer enough.
Sirius, hands in his pockets, leaned in closer. “This have anything to do with Albus storming off last night and refusing to speak this morning?”
James Jr. glanced at him, the flicker of something unspoken passing between them.
James Sr. placed a steadying hand on his son’s shoulder. “You know you don’t have to pretend you’re alright with us, yeah?”
“I’m not pretending,” James Jr. said, but his voice lacked conviction. “Just tired.”
Lily Sr. exchanged a glance with Sirius and her husband, but said nothing more. Instead, she turned toward the car where Ginny was ushering Lily Jr. into the backseat, and Harry was tapping his watch impatiently.
They all had their bags, their things, their secrets—and the quiet knowing that nothing was quite as alright as it seemed.
The car ride to the Portkey station was quiet, heavy with unspoken thoughts and sidelong glances. No one felt much like talking. When they arrived, the Portkey was already glowing faintly, humming with magic. A touch later, they were gone.
They landed in the entryway of their home in England just a moment later—windblown, disoriented, but intact. Thankfully, there were no reporters waiting outside. For once, the press hadn’t caught wind of their return.
James closed the door behind him with a soft click and leaned back against it for a moment, exhaling slowly. His room was dim—curtains drawn, the late afternoon light slanting in lazily through a gap. The silence felt almost too loud.
Just as he stepped forward, the spellphone on his desk lit up and began to hum, Amélie’s name glowing on the screen. He stared at it for a moment, jaw clenched, then reached over and tapped it face-down, letting the call go unanswered.
He crossed to the wardrobe, pulling off his jacket and tossing it on a chair, then caught his reflection in the mirror on the far wall. His eye was still bruised—ugly and swollen, the purplish shade blooming beneath his skin. He stared at it, the silence around him thickening.
And suddenly, like a phantom blow, he felt it again—the crack of Albus’s fist against his cheekbone. The sound had echoed, not just in the air but inside him. He’d barely flinched at the time. Maybe because some part of him had expected it. Maybe because he’d known he deserved it.
He brought a hand to his face now, fingers brushing the darkened skin. The mirror gave him back a stranger: tired eyes, drawn mouth, a heaviness that hadn't been there just days ago. Not like this.
And beneath it all, Amélie’s name still blinked on the phone.
A gentle knock rapped on James’s door, followed by the creak of it opening just slightly.
“James, love?” came his grandmother’s voice—soft, warm, but with a note of concern. “Dinner’s ready. We’ve ordered in—something from that little Italian place you all like.”
He cleared his throat, forcing his voice steady. “Coming.”
When he descended the stairs a few minutes later, freshly washed and wearing a hoodie to partly hide the bruise, the sitting room was already dim with early evening, warm light from the sconces dancing against the walls. The aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh bread filled the space, but it didn’t stir his appetite much.
He noticed the extra plates on the table, but only one chair was empty.
“Where’s Al?” he asked, eyes scanning the room almost without thinking.
Lily Jr., curled up on the arm of the sofa with a plate in her lap, didn’t look up as she replied, “He left a while ago. Said he’s going back to his flat.”
James’s heart dipped. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but somehow the absence made everything feel more final. Like the bruise wasn’t the only mark left behind.
After dinner, the house settled into a quiet lull—the kind that followed tension like fog after rain. James had stayed behind in the kitchen, helping to clear the plates, though he hardly spoke. His mother watched him for a moment, then silently gestured for him to sit.
He sank into a chair, and Ginny returned with a small tin of bruise balm, unscrewing the lid as she pulled a stool close.
“Let me see,” she said gently.
James turned his face toward her, the bruise dark and blooming beneath his eye, a deep purple cloud smudged against his cheekbone. He didn’t flinch as she dabbed the balm with careful fingers, the scent of peppermint and dittany rising faintly between them.
She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t have to.
“I should’ve stopped it before it got this far,” James murmured, eyes fixed on the wooden table.
Ginny paused, her hand resting against his temple. “It’s not always about stopping things,” she said quietly. “Sometimes it’s about knowing when to fix them.”
James nodded, but didn’t reply. The balm cooled against his skin. Her touch lingered just a second longer before she moved away, leaving behind silence and the ghost of comfort.
As James climbed the stairs to his bedroom, the house dim and hushed, he felt the faint buzz of his spellphone in his pocket. A flicker of hope—or dread—flicked in his chest. Amélie, he thought immediately, jaw tensing.
But when he glanced at the screen, the name glowing faintly in the dark was Hazel Duarte.
Hazel: Hey, you back yet? How was the wedding? Still stuck in romantic France or did you manage to escape with your dignity?
He let out a short breath through his nose—a laugh, almost. He’d forgotten she’d messaged before he left, some half-teasing remark about how he was probably going to come back engaged or mildly cursed.
James: Back. Managed to escape. Just barely.
Almost immediately, the dots began to dance.
Hazel: “Just barely”? That sounds like a story.
James stared at the blinking cursor. There was a story. One that had unravelled with too many threads, and not enough answers. He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face, then typed back:
James: Let’s just say it was... eventful.
James blinked at the message, the corners of his mouth twitching for the first time that day.
Hazel Duarte: So? Did you charm any French girls or do I win the bet?
He leaned back against the headboard, thumb hovering over the screen for a second before he just laughed under his breath, tossed the phone onto the nightstand, and didn’t reply.
Some bets were better left unsettled.
***
Sirius woke at precisely half past seven. For a man who once prided himself on reckless freedom and late mornings, the discipline had not come easily. Since his improbable return from the veil, sleep had become a fragile and unreliable thing—full of fractured dreams and long, watchful hours. But something about the wedding—perhaps the noise, or the wine, or the vague sense of belonging again—had settled him, if only slightly.
He dressed with unhurried care, shrugging into one of the shirts Lily insisted on ironing for him, and padded downstairs to the dining room, expecting the usual morning uproar of the Potter household: clattering spoons, flying toast, and someone—usually James—shouting for a missing shoe.
Instead, the morning felt... still.
Harry and Ginny were already seated at the table, neither of them in work robes, which was the first sign something was off. They looked up as he entered, offered brief nods of greeting, then returned to their quiet.
Their daughter, who typically juggled her breakfast with a spell phone in one hand, was uncharacteristically well-behaved, eating silently without so much as a glance at the device beside her plate.
Sirius’s eyes flicked to Harry, whose brow was furrowed in that way that meant something had happened. Harry gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head, and gestured to the empty chair.
Sirius sat beside Lily, who offered him a thin smile before returning to her tea. He leaned in, dropped his voice low, and muttered, “Alright. Who died?”
“No one,” Ginny replied without looking up.
Which, Sirius thought grimly, only made it worse.
Sirius’s brow creased. He reached automatically for the marmalade, but his appetite had vanished. His mind, always quick to leap to the worst conclusion, began rifling through possibilities at lightning speed.
Was it Albus? Had something happened to him?
He glanced at Harry again, searching for some unspoken answer in his godson’s face. Harry looked tired—drawn, even—and was absently stirring his tea without drinking it. Ginny’s expression was no more reassuring; her lips were pressed into a thin line, the kind she wore when she was either furious or frightened.
Sirius swallowed hard.
Albus was the one who always seemed to be navigating some storm—press attention, public speculation, the impossible task of stepping out from beneath his father's shadow. Sirius knew that look on Harry’s face; he’d worn it himself, too many times to count, when James had done something reckless.
“Are the kids alright?” he asked carefully, watching their reactions.
Harry looked up and finally met his eyes. “They’re fine,” he said, though there was a pause too long between the words to be entirely comforting.
“Define ‘fine,’” Sirius muttered under his breath.
Just then, the front door creaked open.
All three heads turned.
Harry and Ginny’s shoulders rose with identical sharpness — the breath of dread rising before relief — but as the figure stepped through the threshold, that breath caught halfway and stayed there.
“Morning,” said James Potter Sr., brushing a fine mist of April drizzle from his robe and shaking his wild hair like a wet dog. “Why does it feel like I just walked into a funeral?”
Neither Harry nor Ginny replied. Their eyes slid from his face to each other’s and then down to their barely touched breakfast plates.
Sirius, caught in the middle of it all, glanced between them and raised an eyebrow at James Sr., who was now frowning, clearly sensing the same peculiar tension that had been hanging in the room like fog.
“You’re not the only James everyone’s waiting on,” Sirius said under his breath, voice dry. “And unfortunately, it’s not your dramatic entrance they were hoping for.”
James Sr. blinked. “What’s going on?”
Ginny gave a tight smile, her hands wrapped around a lukewarm mug of tea. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
Sirius looked between her and Harry, who sat stiffly beside her, fingers drumming lightly on the table. Lily Sr. was buttering toast with meticulous care, clearly aware of the tension but choosing to stay out of it.
“Right,” Sirius muttered, drawing out the word. “Then why does it feel like we’re waiting for a Howler to explode?”
Harry let out a sigh. “It’s James,” he said at last. “His Auror qualification results come out this morning.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “And he knows this?”
“No,” Ginny admitted. “He doesn’t.”
Sirius stared at them. “You didn’t tell him?”
“He’s been distracted,” Harry said quietly. “And with everything going on in France… we just thought we’d let the morning come without the added stress.”
“We only found out late last night when the admin team owl-posted the schedule to all department heads,” Ginny added. “I don’t even think James remembers the exact release date. His head’s been elsewhere.”
“And you didn’t check the results?” Sirius asked, surprised.
Harry shook his head. “Didn’t feel right. He should hear it first—if he wants to.”
Sirius gave a short laugh. “You lot are terrible at pretending nothing’s wrong, you know.”
Just then, the front door creaked open. All heads turned sharply.
Harry and Ginny both sat up a little straighter, holding their breath. But when James jr. strolled in, whistling softly.
“Morning,” he said brightly. “Bit windy out. Everyone alright?”
No one answered. He glanced at the tense expressions and muttered, “Blimey, who died?”
“No one,” Ginny said through clenched teeth.
Sirius, still staring at the door, murmured, “Not yet.”
Harry glanced at the clock. 8:01. Any moment now.
James Jr. reached for the pumpkin juice, blinking sleep from his eyes. “Why is everyone acting like someone cast a Silencing Charm on the house?” he mumbled, glancing around the table.
Ginny offered a smile too polished to be real. “Nothing, darling. Just... a quiet morning.”
Sirius snorted into his toast.
James Jr. looked suspicious, but shrugged. “Alright then,” he said, and helped himself to an extra rasher of bacon.
Harry glanced at the grandfather clock. 8:15.
Still no owl.
His stomach twisted. The results always arrived precisely at 8 a.m.—standard protocol, signed off by the Department. If something had gone wrong—if there’d been a delay, a mistake in delivery—it would reflect poorly on his office. But the more pressing knot in his chest was the thought that perhaps something else had happened. Some administrative oversight. Or worse… something about James’s results had flagged extra review.
Ginny saw the way he kept glancing at the window and placed a hand on his arm. “It’ll come,” she whispered.
He nodded, but didn't look convinced. Across the table, Lily Jr. watched her parents quietly, putting the pieces together with her usual sharpness. She opened her mouth, then closed it again and took a bite of toast.
James Jr., blissfully unaware, leaned back in his chair and scratched the back of his neck. “Might go for a fly later,” he said. “Shake off the last bit of holiday hangover.”
Harry forced a smile. “That sounds like a good idea.”
8:16.
Still no owl.
The air in Sparrow Cottage seemed to grow heavier with each passing second.
By 8:30, Harry had stopped pretending to sip his coffee and was just holding the cup for something to grip. Ginny had abandoned her toast entirely. She kept glancing between the clock and the window, the same thought circling her mind like a restless owl that never came.
James Jr., meanwhile, was on his second helping of eggs and humming something that sounded suspiciously like a Weird Sisters tune under his breath.
Lily Jr. was watching her father now, a frown creasing her brow. She leaned closer to her mother and whispered, “Maybe they’ve changed the time?”
Ginny shook her head, almost imperceptibly.
Harry had read the schedule. He’d approved the schedule. Auror qualification results were to be owled to all applicants by 8:00 sharp, no exceptions. The fact that it was now half past meant either someone at the Department had completely bungled the dispatch—or…
His chest tightened. He couldn’t shake the thought.
He failed.
Not because James hadn’t worked hard—he had, in his own chaotic, determined way. But the Auror programme was merciless. A single misstep in the final evaluations could tip the scale. And maybe it had. Maybe the silence was the answer.
Across the table, James Jr. reached for another slice of toast, completely at ease, still chewing with the lazy confidence of someone who hadn’t the faintest idea he was living inside a pressure cooker.
Harry set his coffee down a bit too hard.
“Everything alright, Dad?” James asked, blinking at him.
Harry opened his mouth, then paused.
Ginny cut in smoothly. “Just work things. You know how it is.”
James grinned. “Glad I’ve still got a few days before I’m buried in paperwork too.”
Harry couldn’t meet his son’s eyes.
Just as James reached for his third slice of toast, his spell phone vibrated on the table with a sharp bzzz. He glanced at the screen, still chewing.
“Huh. Why’s Crispin calling me this early?” he said, furrowing his brows but not particularly alarmed.
Across the table, Harry shot upright in his chair so fast he nearly knocked his coffee over. “Let it ring,” he said too quickly, then added, “You’re eating.”
James raised an eyebrow. “It’ll just take a second.”
But Harry was already moving. In what might have been the clumsiest manoeuvre of his life—though later Ginny would insist it was suspiciously well-timed—he reached for the jug of pumpkin juice, missed the edge of his glass entirely, and tipped the whole thing forward.
The juice arced like a Quidditch Quaffle in slow motion.
“Dad—!” James yelled, lurching backward as the thick orange liquid landed directly on his spell phone with a splat, drenching the device and splashing his sleeve.
Silence.
James stared at his ruined phone. “What the bloody hell!”
Lily Jr. clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, but her wide eyes betrayed her disbelief. Ginny had gone still.
Harry froze with the empty jug in hand. “That… was an accident,” he said stiffly.
James looked at him like he’d gone mad. “That phone was waterproof, not juice-proof!”
“I’m so sorry, James,” Harry muttered, grabbing a napkin with the pretense of cleaning it.
James narrowed his eyes, wiping his sleeve. “You did that on purpose.”
“I absolutely did not,” Harry said at once, and then, slightly less convincingly, “Why would I?”
Ginny had to turn away, biting her lip.
The phone gave one final, pathetic buzz before blinking out.
James groaned and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
And Harry, heart pounding beneath his shirt, avoided everyone’s gaze and said nothing.
Harry sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap now that the juice fiasco was behind him. He could feel the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders refused to drop no matter how many calming breaths he took. He kept stealing glances at the window, waiting—for a flutter of wings, the shadow of an owl, any sound of arrival.
But it was 8:39.
No owl.
He knew how it worked. He'd helped design the bloody system. The Auror qualification results always went out the same way: successful candidates received a personalised acceptance scroll by owl no later than 8:00a.m. Unsuccessful ones got... nothing. No explanation. No rejection letter. Just silence.
Silence meant failure.
His son, his eldest, sitting across the table now happily stabbing at scrambled eggs and bemoaning his juice-soaked phone, had no idea. James didn’t realise the absence of parchment had already sealed his fate.
Harry looked at him. Really looked.
He saw the hopeful grin, the disheveled hair, the confident slouch in his shoulders. He saw the boy who used to fly too fast on his toy broomstick, the one who used to say he wanted to be “just like Dad.”
And now… now he might not be.
Harry swallowed the tightness in his throat. He wasn’t worried about what people would say. Not really. He could fend off reporters and relatives easily enough. But he dreaded what this might do to James. How that bright self-assurance might crack.
Because despite his jokes, James had wanted this. Desperately.
And still—still—no owl.
Harry looked back at his empty glass, hands clenching under the table.
Please, let there be some mistake.
As breakfast wound down, the scrape of chairs and clatter of plates filled the strained quiet. James Jr., still humming under his breath and entirely unaffected by the morning’s tension, leaned back with his juice-slick phone drying awkwardly in his lap.
Ginny rose, smoothing the front of her dressing gown, and cast a meaningful glance at Harry. He caught it immediately, the silent exchange of two parents deciding, without words, that something had to be done—some breathing room created before the truth, whatever it was, landed like a curse.
"Lily, James," Ginny said, in that bright, too-light tone that always meant she was forcing it. "Why don't you two clean out the broom shed? The weather’s still holding, and Merlin knows it’s been ages since anyone sorted through all that old gear.”
James groaned. “Mum, it’s holiday.”
Lily Jr. narrowed her eyes at her mother but didn’t argue—perhaps sensing something unspoken between them.
Ginny didn’t flinch. “The broomshed,” she said again, her tone final.
With a theatrical sigh, James stood, ruffling his sister’s hair as he passed. “Come on then, Lil. Let’s see how many doxies we can find nesting in Dad’s old Firebolt case.”
The door shut behind them with a thud, and quiet fell again. Too quiet.
Still no owl.
Harry’s eyes drifted to the window, heart heavy in his chest. Ginny moved to sit beside him, her hand covering his.
“It’s not like him to be late,” he muttered, more to the wind outside than to her.
Ginny said nothing. Because really, what was there to say?
Harry remained at the head of the table, his fingers drumming absently against the wood, his gaze fixed on the window as if willing an owl to appear from the sky. Ginny sat beside him, calm on the surface but eyes flickering toward the clock every few seconds. Across the table, Sirius leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, while James Sr. and Lily Sr. exchanged glances over their teacups.
“So,” Sirius said eventually, breaking the silence, “are we going to address the hippogriff in the room or just let it stomp around a bit more?”
Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The results should’ve come by now. I don’t understand it. The letters always arrive before breakfast. Always.”
“We might’ve just missed the owl,” Lily Sr. offered gently. “Maybe it’ll come later in the day?”
“No,” Harry said. “I’ve been in this department for twenty years. If an owl hasn’t come by now, it’s because there’s no letter to send.”
Ginny reached for his hand. “You don’t know that for sure.”
James Sr. gave a small nod. “Harry, come on. It doesn’t mean he failed. Could be a clerical delay. The Ministry’s hardly perfect.”
But Harry’s jaw was set. “They don’t delay the acceptance letters, Dad. If you make the cut, you know. That’s how it’s always worked.”
“Maybe he didn’t make it this time,” Sirius said, not unkindly. “It happens. Doesn’t mean he won’t try again.”
“But he’s good,” Harry said sharply. “He’s more than good. He’s got the instinct, the discipline—Merlin, I have seen that class myself. He’s ready. He deserves this.”
“Harry,” Ginny said softly. “He’s our son, not just your recruit.”
Harry looked at her then, the lines around his mouth deepening. “I know. That’s why I’m scared. Because if he didn’t make it, I know how that’s going to feel—for him.”
There was a beat of silence, broken only by the distant creak of the broomshed door and James Jr.’s voice laughing faintly outside, completely unaware.
“He doesn’t know, does he?” Lily Sr. asked quietly
Harry shook his head. “He doesn’t know the letters come today. I didn’t tell him. Thought I’d surprise him.”
“Maybe that was for the best,” Sirius said. “If it is bad news, it’ll land softer that way.”
Ginny gave Harry’s hand a squeeze. “Whatever comes—or doesn’t—we’ll handle it. Together.”
But the window remained empty. No owl in sight.
The spell phone rang with a low buzz on the table. Everyone at the table froze. Harry didn’t even need to look at the screen—he already knew who it was. The name Theia Hodges glowed softly in runes across the enchanted surface.
Harry stared at the name flashing on his spell phone like it might explode if he touched it.
“Theia,” he muttered grimly, thumb hovering.
Ginny glanced at the screen. “You should pick it up.”
“I really don’t want to.”
“She’s your deputy, Harry. And your friend. Just answer. You’re spiraling.”
With a sigh that carried the weight of almost three decades of Auror service, Harry tapped the screen and set the phone on the table. “Speaker,” he said, and the spell clicked on.
“—finally!” came Theia Hodges’s voice, crisp and exasperated. “Potter, where in Merlin’s name are you? You do realise we’ve been holding off the press for fifteen minutes?”
Harry blinked. “The press?”
“Yes, the press,” she said. “The Head of Department—your actual job title, might I remind you—is expected to make a formal statement about this year’s successful Auror candidates. That’s usually, traditionally, and logically you. But no sign of you. No owl. No floo. Just radio silence while I’m here trying to keep Shacklebolt from losing his calm.”
Ginny snorted. “She’s right, you know.”
Harry rubbed a hand down his face. “I didn’t think the announcement would be this early.”
The room was completely still as Theia’s voice crackled through the speaker.
“—and honestly, Harry, this is the last time I cover for you with the press. You can’t just vanish on result day! You’ve got candidates pacing holes into our carpet, owls flapping in from every direction, and Shacklebolt practically breathing down my—”
“He didn’t get his letter,” Harry said quietly, cutting through her tirade like a spell.
Silence. Not even static from the spell phone. Just the quiet hum of Sparrow Cottage and the stunned expressions around the table.
Theia didn’t reply at first. For a second, Harry thought the spell had cut off or the call had dropped.
But then her voice came again—low, careful now. “What do you mean… he didn’t get his letter?”
Harry cleared his throat, glancing towards the hallway where James Jr and Lily Jr had disappeared to clean the broom shed. “No owl. No parchment. No anything. It’s almost nine.”
Again, nothing. Ginny squeezed his hand under the table.
“Theia?” Harry asked.
Still nothing. The call remained connected. Theia was there. Just... quiet.
As if she, too, was doing the same math Harry had done since breakfast. No letter on result day. No owl. No parchment.
Rejection.
Sirius exhaled slowly. Ginny looked down at the table. And Harry—he just stared at the phone, waiting for her to say something. Anything.
But the line held its breath, just like the rest of them.
Harry dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers catching briefly in the mess of it. He let out a weary sigh, the kind that came from years of dealing with things no one should’ve had to deal with.
“I’m coming in half an hour,” he said, voice tight. “Tell my secretary to prepare my press statement.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Theia said, almost awkwardly, “She already owled you that.”
Harry blinked. “Owled? But I didn’t get—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
The room seemed to tilt slightly. Ginny looked up, sensing the shift. His mother and Sirius were watching him, still and silent.
Harry straightened slowly, eyes narrowing, the wheels in his head turning fast. “Wait.”
There was a beat.
“Wait,” he said again, sharper this time. “Since the resurrections our owls have been monitored. Ministry security protocol. All mail goes through a verification unit first, right? The ones flagged get delayed.”
Theia was silent, but he could hear the tension in her breath through the spell phone.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” Harry muttered, standing now, the pieces clicking into place. “They’ve been screening my owls.”
“So—” Ginny started.
Harry turned to her, eyes wide with dawning clarity. “It’s possible James did get his letter. It just hasn’t reached us yet. It’s stuck in some bloody mailroom queue at the Department of Magical Security.”
On the other end of the line, Theia finally spoke—softly. “I think you might be right.”
The silence that followed was thick with a strange blend of hope and disbelief.
Ginny stood too, her hand resting lightly on the back of Harry’s chair. “So… he might’ve made it,” she said slowly. “And we’ve been sitting here thinking—”
“Thinking the worst,” Harry finished for her, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And getting a heart attack over it.”
On the spell phone, Theia exhaled. “Harry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about the monitoring delay—there’s been a backlog. Loads of flagged owls, even some just carrying bloody holiday postcards.”
Sirius snorted. “Your ministry's as efficient as ever.”
Harry ignored him. “How soon can you confirm? I mean—off the record. Just tell me if his name’s on the list.”
There was a pause, some rustling on her end, and then Theia's voice again—lower now. “Yes,” she said. “He’s on the list.”
Harry shut his eyes.
“He passed top three in his cohort. The letter was cleared for dispatch yesterday morning, but…” She trailed off, then added, “It’s probably still stuck in Magical Security’s sorting vault. It should’ve been in your hands by now.”
Ginny pressed her hands to her mouth, tears brimming.
Harry didn’t speak for a long moment. When he finally did, his voice was hoarse. “Thank you.”
As Harry stood there, absorbing the weight of it all, Theia's voice came again—this time gentler, but firmer.
“Don’t tell him yet,” she said. “Let the letter come. It’s his moment. He should open it like everyone else… even if it’s a little late.”
Harry hesitated, then gave a slow nod, even though she couldn’t see him. “Alright. I won’t.”
There was the faint shuffle of parchment again, and Theia was about to end the call when Harry said, quickly, “And Theia—congratulations.”
She paused.
“For what?” she asked, sounding genuinely taken aback.
“You were his mentor,” Harry said. “This is your win too.”
There was a short, surprised laugh on the other end, the sort that slipped out when someone was caught off guard by kindness.
“…Thanks, Potter,” she said quietly. “That means a lot.”
And with that, the line went dead.
Harry let out a long breath and turned slowly toward the others, a quiet pride flickering in his tired eyes—but for now, the secret stayed safe.
Notes:
Hope you like this chapter!!
Please comment as they encourage me towards continue ❤️
And also what are your expectations for the rest of teb story? Do you all want snape back?
Chapter 32: Gold on His Shoulders, Ash in His Heart
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning sun slanted through the windows of Sparrow Cottage, painting golden stripes across the kitchen floor, but the house itself was a flurry of noise, clattering, and hurried footsteps. Chaos wasn’t unusual here—especially in the mornings—but today it was louder, messier, more charged. The kind of chaos that came with significance.
James and Harry had left early, long before the kettle had even begun to whistle. Both had been dressed in their best—Harry in dark, tailored robes with the Auror Department crest stitched in silver; James in his official Auror uniform, the badge on his chest still gleaming like it was too new to belong to him yet. He hadn’t said much over breakfast, just flashed a grin at Ginny, muttered something about not tripping in front of the press, and disappeared out the door with his father.
Now, it was just Ginny, Lily, Sirius, and the elder Potters scrambling to get ready for the ceremony.
“Lily, no. No glitter charms, I mean it,” Ginny said sharply, dodging a sparkling puff of pink that narrowly missed her curls.
“But it’s a party!” Lily argued, wand still raised.
“It's a Ministry ceremony, not a birthday at Honeydukes.”
In the corner, Sirius was fiddling with his jacket collar in the mirror. “Do I look dashing enough to make the Head of Magical Law Enforcement mildly nervous?”
“You look like you're about to crash a wedding,” Ginny muttered, flicking her wand to adjust his lapels anyway.
James Sr. was nursing a cup of tea with exaggerated calm while Lily Sr. went about the kitchen with practiced ease, levitating plates and straightening ties like it was second nature. They’d seen dozens of big days like this—but somehow this one felt different.
Still, there was a space at the table no one acknowledged.
Ginny glanced toward the hallway as if expecting someone to walk through, but it remained empty. Albus hadn’t stayed the night. He hadn’t owled. Not that anyone had asked, not out loud.
Lily seemed to feel the silence too. She had stopped talking—rare for her—and was stirring her tea without drinking it.
Ginny reached over and gently took the spoon from her daughter’s fingers.
“Right,” she said briskly. “Let’s not be late. It’s your brother’s big day. Whatever else is going on—today is for James.”
There was a storm of noise on the second floor as doors banged open and shut, spells fizzed mid-air, and someone shouted from the bathroom about missing socks. Sparrow Cottage felt like it was holding its breath—and tripping over its own shoelaces at the same time.
Downstairs, Ginny stood in front of the full-length mirror in the sitting room, fastening the clasp of her necklace with slightly trembling fingers. Unlike Rose’s wedding, where she’d worn soft green dress and smiled for photographs with a practiced ease, today she had chosen something different. Something deliberate.
Her dress was a deep scarlet—not just any red, but the precise hue of Gryffindor banners. It was elegant and sharply cut, simple in shape but impossible to ignore. Her hat, perched at a proud angle atop her red hair, held a single phoenix feather, flickering with golden undertones. A quiet homage.
Her bracelet Harry had gifted her when James was born. Her earrings were the shape of tiny snitches—he’d once spelled them to flutter when she laughed.
She looked at herself and allowed a breath to settle in her chest.
James was an Auror now.
Her son.
Not just Harry’s son. Not just a Potter. Her James.
Ginny adjusted her hat and stepped out of the room just in time to narrowly dodge Lily rushing past with a shoe in one hand and a piece of toast in the other.
“Mum, have you seen my wand?!”
“You mean the one sticking out of your pocket?” Ginny replied, then turned to Sirius, who was trying to polish his boots with the corner of a curtain. “Not the curtain, Sirius.”
James Sr. was already by the door, calling out times and reminders like a conductor keeping a mad orchestra in tune. Lily Sr. floated down the stairs behind him, calm and composed as ever, though her eyes were just a little misty.
They had thirty minutes until they had to be at the Ministry.
No one mentioned Albus.
No one said his name out loud.
But Ginny caught Lily’s fleeting glance toward the empty staircase, and felt the ache press against her ribs. Just for a moment.
She straightened her shoulders, touched the phoenix feather in her hat, and said, “Right. Let’s go make James proud.”
Ginny turned at the doorstep of Sparrow Cottage, her gloved hand resting lightly on the gate as the Ministry car pulled up in quiet grandeur. The morning sun caught the deep scarlet of her robes, her hat tilted just so, pinned with a small golden phoenix brooch—James's birth emblem. She waited until Lily Sr., James Sr., and Sirius reached her, then spoke in a low, steady voice.
“There’ll be press,” she said. “A lot of them.”
The three older war veterans fell quiet. Even Sirius, usually light on his feet with a grin or a wink, stood still.
“They’ll be shouting questions. Flashbulbs. Pushing for reactions.” Ginny’s gaze flicked between them. “You don’t have to say anything. You don’t owe them a thing.”
Lily Sr. nodded, her expression composed but unreadable. James Sr. shifted his weight slightly, but didn’t speak.
“They might bring up things from the past,” Ginny continued, quieter now. “Old stories. Your returns. Speculations. Don’t answer unless you truly want to. No pressure. No explanations.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened just a fraction. “They won’t get anything from me,” he said finally.
“I know,” Ginny said, her voice softening. “But if it gets too much… just say you’re there for James. That’s enough.”
She paused, studying them all. “And if someone says something cruel, or twisted, or invasive… walk away. Don’t let them use your silence against you, but don’t let them bait you either.”
James Sr. finally looked up, his eyes meeting hers. “You’ve done this before.”
“Too many times,” Ginny replied, managing a small smile. “It never gets easier. But you learn to walk through it.”
She opened the door to the Ministry car and held it for her daughter, Lily Sr., then James Sr., and finally Sirius. Before stepping in herself, she glanced back toward the house—as if half-expecting Albus to appear. But the path behind them stayed empty.
Then she ducked inside. The door closed. And the car glided away.
The car hummed softly as it rolled through the winding lanes, trees blurring into streaks of green and gold. Ginny sat straight-backed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Her eyes were on the window, but she wasn't seeing the road.
She wondered if he was still asleep. If he'd even remembered what day it was.
Albus had been distant since they’d come back from France. Not angry—not exactly. Just… pulled inward. Like something inside him had gone quiet. She tried not to hover, to give him the space he always seemed to need, but it gnawed at her, the way he disappeared behind calm words and gentle refusals.
The silence in the car settled heavily.
“Do you think Albus will come today?” Lily Jr.'s voice broke through it, small but clear.
Ginny blinked. She looked down at her daughter, then exchanged a glance with Lily Sr., who gave the tiniest shake of her head. Across from them, Sirius was pretending to examine the warded car door, giving them privacy.
Ginny forced a breath. “I don’t know, love.”
Lily Jr. frowned. “But it’s James’s ceremony.”
“I know.”
“Then—why wouldn’t he come?”
Ginny looked at her daughter’s young face, so full of hurt confusion, and she swallowed hard. “Sometimes,” she said carefully, “people need time. Even from things that matter to them.”
Lily Jr. didn’t answer right away. She turned her gaze to the window, her reflection wavering slightly in the enchanted glass.
Ginny reached over and squeezed her hand gently. “He loves your brother. That hasn’t changed.”
But even as she said it, her own heart fluttered with doubt. Not about Albus’s love—but about whether love was always enough.
The sleek Ministry car glided to a halt just outside the grand entrance of the Ministry of Magic. Even before the doors opened, the flash of cameras flickered like wildfire, and a loud murmur rippled through the gathered crowd.
Ginny took a steadying breath and straightened her hat. “Right,” she said, mostly to herself. “Showtime.”
Outside, members of the Law Enforcement Patrol—clad in deep blue robes with gleaming silver badges—were already forming a protective corridor through the mass of journalists and onlookers. The Potter name still carried weight. And today, with James becoming an Auror, it was heavier than ever.
The car door opened, and Sirius stepped out first, his lined face squinting at the press chaos as if he couldn’t decide whether to hex them or laugh. James Sr. followed, then Lily Sr., who pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Ginny stepped out with elegance, the scarlet of her dress catching the light as flashes exploded all around her.
A clamour of voices surged forward—
“Mrs. Potter, any comment on your son’s graduation?”
“Is Albus Potter attending today?”
“Has there been a reconciliation in the family?”
“Do you think James Jr. will follow his father’s legacy?”
Ginny didn’t flinch. She kept walking, her gaze forward, the faintest of polite smiles on her lips. Behind her, Lily stepped out, her jaw tight but shoulders squared like her mother’s. Ginny had given them clear instructions—You don’t owe them anything. Keep walking. Smile if you want. Say nothing if you don’t.
Sirius, however, couldn’t resist muttering under his breath, “Blimey, you’d think we were arriving for a coronation.”
One of the patrol officers gave him a warning glance, but Sirius just winked.
Ginny caught sight of the Ministry steps ahead. James was already inside. Harry too, no doubt pacing behind the stage, trying to appear composed. She could only hope the rest of the day would be smoother than this entrance.
And in the back of her mind, a single thought stirred like a whisper: Please, Albus. Come.
They hadn’t taken more than a few steps into the gilded hall before the first familiar voice rang out.
“Oi! There you lot are!”
Ron Weasley was striding toward them with that same crooked grin he’d had since Hogwarts. His Ministry dress robes were rumpled, of course, and his tie was slightly off-centre, but he looked unbothered as ever. Hermione was a step behind him, perfectly composed in deep plum robes and already scanning the room with a diplomat’s eye.
“Look at you,” Ron said, clapping Sirius on the shoulder and leaning over to kiss Ginny’s cheek. “All fancy and important. That hat’s got more confidence than I do.”
Ginny chuckled and adjusted it slightly. “It’s James’s day. I thought I’d put in the effort.”
“You look brilliant,” Hermione added, pulling her into a quick hug. “Honestly, this place is already insufferable. I’ve had to dodge three old men trying to talk about trade tariffs before I’d even had a drink.”
James Sr. gave her a wry look. “Sounds like an exciting morning.”
“It's barely noon,” Hermione muttered. “And they're already talking tariffs.”
Hugo and Rose were with them too—Hugo looking faintly mortified to be at such a public affair, his tie clutched in one hand as if he hadn’t decided whether to wear it or set it on fire. Rose, by contrast, looked elegant and self-assured, her arm loosely looped through Scorpius Malfoy’s.
Ginny smiled warmly at them both. “Rose, Scorpius—how’s married life treating you?”
“Still new enough to be charming,” Scorpius said with a grin. “Though we’ve learned we can’t both cook.”
“Or that I can’t cook,” Rose added dryly.
Laughter rippled through the group, and for a few minutes, it was easier to pretend everything was perfectly normal. They moved deeper into the mingling crowd, exchanging hellos and brief nods with Ministry officials, old friends, and distant acquaintances. The clink of glasses and murmurs of enchantments filled the air.
But even as Ginny made conversation and smiled politely, her eyes flicked toward the entrance again and again.
Still no Albus.
A subtle hush fell over the room as a series of gold-lit orbs floated to the center of the hall, signaling the beginning of the ceremony. People began gravitating toward their assigned sections, the rustle of robes and the faint tapping of heels on marble filling the air.
“Come on,” Ginny murmured to Lily Jr., adjusting the girl's collar as they moved. “We’re front row.”
A Ministry staff member in deep navy robes met them halfway. “Potter family? This way, please.” She smiled politely, already leading them past the other guests and toward the gilded chairs reserved near the stage.
As they neared their seats, Harry emerged from a curtained side hallway, and Ginny stopped short for the briefest second.
There he was, in full ceremonial Auror dress — a deep scarlet robe tailored perfectly, with a high collar and sharp lines, adorned with silver embroidery of protective enchantments woven directly into the fabric. His formal Auror hat sat at the proper angle on his head, and he wore pristine white gloves. A sash of gold and red ran diagonally across his chest, nearly hidden by the sheer number of medals pinned to his front. They gleamed under the enchanted lights, each one a symbol of something dangerous, something historic, something that cost more than he ever admitted out loud.
James Sr. let out a low whistle. “If I’d known you’d dress like this, I’d have worn my Order of Merlin robes just to keep up.”
Harry chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ceremonial requirement. Even the gloves.” He flexed his fingers like they didn’t quite belong to him.
“You look like a general,” Sirius said, stepping closer and giving his old friend a long look. “Or a very tired war hero playing dress-up.”
Harry smiled at that — a real one, this time — and briefly clapped Sirius on the back.
They took their seats. Harry sat between Ginny and James Sr., his expression composed, but his eyes flicked to the entrance once again.
Ginny leaned closer, her voice soft. “Still nothing?”
He gave a small shake of the head. “Not yet.”
The hall was almost full now, a blend of rich velvets, Ministry robes, and the occasional eccentric hat. High above them, golden Ministry banners unfurled magically from the ceiling, announcing the theme of the day: Honour. Dedication. Legacy.
Ginny’s hand brushed against Harry’s white-gloved one for a brief second, grounding him.
The stage was being prepared. The ceremony was about to begin.
But as the lights dimmed and the hall quieted, Harry couldn’t stop the whispering thought echoing in his mind.
Where are you, Albus?
Ginny's gaze swept across the vast, high-ceilinged hall, where golden sconces lit the polished stone with a warm glow. From her front-row seat beside Lily Sr. and Sirius, her eyes naturally sought out the red-robed figures arranged neatly in rows near the eastern arch — the new Aurors.
She spotted James almost immediately.
He sat upright, still as a statue, but his hands were folded too tightly in his lap. His scarlet Auror robes — cut sharp at the collar and fastened with brass buttons — suited him in a way that made her chest ache. He looked like Harry had, once. Younger, yes, and with his mother’s eyes, but something in the shape of his jaw, the way he held himself. The way he didn’t know yet how to carry the weight of honour.
Ginny saw the slightest twitch in his fingers as someone whispered beside him. A friend, perhaps. James nodded, but didn’t smile.
She leaned slightly toward Sirius and said softly, “He’s nervous.”
Sirius followed her gaze, then gave a crooked smile. “He’s trying not to look at us. That’s how you know he’s nervous.”
Ginny smiled faintly, but there was a heaviness in her chest that didn’t lift. She couldn’t help wondering if James had looked for his brother in the crowd. Wondering if the empty space beside her felt like an absence to him too.
The hall dimmed just enough for the enchanted sconces to cast a soft golden glow over the polished wood of the stage. A hush fell over the guests as Nathan Higgs, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, stepped up to the podium, his deep navy robes trimmed in sharp silver, his expression grave but rehearsed. Cameras clicked softly from the corners.
“Witches and wizards, distinguished guests, and valued members of our magical society,” Higgs began, his voice echoing through the Ministry’s grand ceremonial hall. “It is my honour to welcome you to this year’s Ministry Commendation Ceremony — a celebration not only of achievement, but of resilience.”
Ginny Potter shifted slightly in her seat in the front row, flanked by Harry on one side and Lily on the other. She didn’t bother to hide her skepticism as Higgs continued. His speeches always had a flair for the dramatic. Harry, beside her, stared ahead in stoic silence, fingers gloved and still. James, dressed in Auror scarlet across the room with the other new recruits, sat upright and unreadable.
“This year,” Higgs said, his voice swelling, “we mark not only the graduation of our finest new Aurors, but a year of reckoning. A year of return. A year where the very foundations of life and death were tested—” he paused for effect, “—and undone.”
There were murmurs in the crowd, quiet rustlings of agreement, of discomfort. Ginny’s gaze flicked to Sirius, two seats down, who met her glance with a raised eyebrow and the faintest twitch of a grin. The return of the dead — or whatever they were now — had been the story of the century. No one had explanations. Only questions. And headlines.
“Those who fell in the war — those we mourned, those we thought lost — have come back to us,” Higgs went on, more solemn now. “Fathers. Mothers. Friends. Heroes. Not illusions, not phantoms, but in body, in mind, in magic. A miracle that defies even the wisest of our scholars.”
He swept a hand toward the rows of returned — older witches and wizards, some grey-haired and quiet, others familiar names and faces whose portraits had once hung in war memorials. The crowd’s attention turned, respectful and uncertain.
“And so we gather here today not only to honour the future protectors of our world—” he nodded toward the newly-minted Aurors, “—but to acknowledge those who built the world they now inherit. And those who have returned to walk it once more.”
The applause was steady, but restrained. Not many knew how to feel. Gratitude, certainly. Relief. But also confusion. Fear. Guilt.
Higgs finished with his usual polished cadence. “May we rise together to meet this extraordinary time with courage, clarity, and care.”
As he stepped away from the podium, the applause grew, though Ginny clapped slowly. Harry exhaled through his nose, adjusting the medals that gleamed on his chest.
“Well,” Sirius muttered under his breath, “at least he didn’t call us a ‘magical anomaly.’”
“Yet,” Ginny said, eyes still on the stage. “The day’s not over.”
A soft, elegant melody rose from the front of the hall — a quartet of magical instruments playing themselves in perfect harmony. The harpsichord floated midair, strings shimmering silver as they plucked out a graceful waltz, accompanied by a ghostly flute and a cello charmed to sway like it breathed.
Ginny leaned back in her chair just a little, letting the music wash over her. For a brief moment, the heavy thoughts — the missing owl, the press, the strange new reality of returned loved ones — quieted. She caught Lily's dreamy smile, then turned to see Sirius tapping a finger in rhythm against his knee. Even Harry, for all his tension, seemed stiller somehow.
And then—
A quiet voice behind her shoulder.
“Bit much, isn’t it?”
The words were dry, familiar. Ginny turned, startled, half-expecting to see someone else. But it was him.
Albus.
He sat just behind their row, dressed not in formal dress robes, but something simpler — dark, neatly pressed, but understated. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd only just showered. He looked like he hadn't slept much, but his mouth curled into a wry smile.
“Al,” Ginny breathed, blinking in surprise. “You came.
”He shrugged lightly, almost sheepish. “Didn’t think I would, to be honest. But…” he glanced toward the stage, where James still sat straight-backed in the line of new Aurors, unaware of his brother’s arrival. “It felt worse not coming.”
Ginny moved quickly, standing halfway and reaching to pull him gently forward. Her hand gripped his arm tighter than she meant to, as if to make sure he didn’t disappear.
Harry had turned around now too, eyes wide — not in anger, but something unreadable and tight in his chest.
“Come sit,” Ginny said softly, squeezing his hand. “There’s space here.”
Albus hesitated only for a moment, then nodded, stepping down the row quietly, past Sirius, who gave him a small clap on the shoulder in welcome.
And finally, he settled beside his mother. She didn't say another word. She only reached across, took his hand under the velvet fold of her scarlet sleeve, and held it.
After the orchestra concluded with a flourish, the audience erupted into warm applause. The lights returned to their full glow, and there was a subtle shift in the air — the gentle hush of anticipation returning, this time more focused, more formal.
Nathan Higgs made his way back to the podium with the usual politician's smile stretched taut across his face. His voice, thin and polished, echoed crisply through the enchanted amplifiers placed around the hall.
“And now,” Higgs announced, straightening the parchment in his hands, “we arrive at the segment of this evening which, I daresay, holds a particular resonance with many in this room — the official induction of this year’s Auror candidates into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
A respectful murmur stirred through the crowd.
Higgs cleared his throat dramatically. “It is my honour to call to the stage the Head of the Auror Office, Order of Merlin, First Class… Harry James Potter.”
Applause burst out, mixed with excited gasps and the sudden clamor of enchanted camera shutters — the press had been waiting for this moment. A sea of flashes lit up the path as Harry rose from his front-row seat, scarlet Auror dress robes gleaming under the floating lights. His many medals clinked softly as he walked to the stage — modestly, firmly, the very picture of composure.
Ginny watched him go with a quiet swell of pride in her chest. Beside her, Albus shifted just slightly in his seat, unreadable.
At the podium, Harry nodded politely to Higgs, then turned to face the crowd. The applause faded slowly, replaced by a silence that seemed to lean forward.
Harry took a breath and began.
“Thank you, Undersecretary Higgs. And thank you all — colleagues, friends, family — for being here this evening.”
His voice carried clearly, calm but powerful.
“When I first stepped into the Auror Office, I was eighteen. I didn’t know what I was walking into. I had seen war, yes — but enforcing peace? That’s a different kind of courage. One that isn’t always recognized in the ways it should be.”
He paused, letting the words sink in.
“This generation — the young witches and wizards who stand ready today — have chosen a path that asks not just for bravery in the moment, but for integrity in the quiet hours, for resilience, even when unseen. Becoming an Auror is not about chasing glory. It’s about protecting the world we’ve all worked so hard to rebuild. And for some of us… to return to.”
There was a slight shift in the room — a soft intake of breath. He had touched it, the thing no one named directly: the return of the dead, the second chances hanging in the air like mist.
“I’m proud of every witch and wizard who trained tirelessly to wear these robes,” Harry said, his voice tightening just slightly. “Including… one who knows I’ve been harder on him than most. Who has faced doubt — mine and his own — and still chosen to stand.”
He didn’t say James’s name.
He didn’t have to.
The cameras clicked faster.
“To the new Aurors,” Harry said finally, lifting his hand, “may you serve with honour, lead with humility, and protect with love.”
Applause thundered through the hall — some clapping just politely, others standing, not out of duty but in deep admiration.
Back in the audience, Ginny blinked back a few proud tears.
And Albus… didn’t clap. But he looked down, jaw set, heart quiet and storming.
The moment Harry stepped back from the podium, the room shifted once again — into solemn expectancy. Behind him, two junior Aurors brought forth a long, velvet-lined case, which Harry opened himself with careful reverence.
Inside, gleaming with a brilliance untouched by time, lay the Sword of Gryffindor.
An audible gasp rolled through the crowd, followed by absolute silence.
Nathan Higgs returned to the podium, his voice now taking on a more ceremonial cadence.
“Each new Auror shall now come forward to be formally sworn into the office. By tradition revived from our oldest customs, the Head Auror will place the Sword of Gryffindor—symbol of bravery, sacrifice, and noble intent—lightly upon the shoulder of each inductee. This act will awaken the Auror’s oath, and the golden line of duty shall appear upon their robes.”
Harry took his place beside the sword, gloved hands steady.
“One by one,” Higgs intoned, “as I call your name, step forward.”
The names began — each witch and wizard rising from the cluster of nervous but proud faces on the far end of the hall. They walked solemnly across the floor, flanked by low music humming like a heartbeat. As Harry gently touched the blade to each shoulder, a thin golden line shimmered into existence across their left shoulder and down the arm — embroidery that hadn’t been there a second before. A symbol not sewn, but summoned by worth.
Each new Auror then shook hands first with Harry, and then with their personal mentor.
The room was hushed, reverent, until—
“James Sirius Potter.”
The name cracked through the air like a spell.
And suddenly, the quiet shattered.
Cameras clicked madly, flashbulbs popping like magical fireworks. The press pushed against the cordoned edge of the hall, some already whispering quotes to their dictating quills.
James rose from his seat slowly, his expression unreadable. He walked with composure, his chin lifted just enough, his stride steady. But those sitting close enough could see his throat working, his hands just barely flexing at his sides.
Ginny pressed her hands together in her lap. Lily Jr sat still for once, her gaze fixed.
As James reached the dais, Harry's eyes met his. No smile — just an understanding that needed no words.
The Sword of Gryffindor was lifted.
It descended.
Touched his shoulder once, then the other.
A golden glow burst across his robes — brighter than most — tracing a firm, elegant line that shimmered like sunlight. A murmur rose from the audience.
Then Harry extended his hand.
James took it.
They shook.
Something in that moment — in the clench of those fingers, the lock of their eyes — said more than any speech could.
James turned and was met by Theia Hodges, his mentor, who shook his hand briskly, then gave him a nod of unmistakable pride.
The applause rolled again, but it was fractured — caught between admiration and curiosity, reverence and the sharp edge of attention that always followed a Potter.
And all the while, the flashbulbs kept flaring, capturing that golden line, that historic handshake — the story of a father, a son, and a name heavy with legacy.
The noise from the press continued to reverberate through the hall, the cameras snapping in rapid succession, as if they couldn’t get enough of the image of James Sirius Potter standing there, now officially an Auror. Ginny couldn’t help but feel a tightening in her chest as she watched her son move through the moment, aware of the weight of his name, the burden of expectation that came with it, and yet the pride that James carried so naturally.
As the next candidate was called forward, the press began to settle down, but not before a few lingering flashes snapped as they caught the last of James’s figure moving back toward the candidates' row. Harry, meanwhile, returned to his seat, eyes still focused on his son, a mixture of pride and something else that Ginny couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was the weight of the past, the years that had come and gone so quickly, the lingering shadows of old battles fought, or perhaps it was the weight of their children’s futures hanging over them.
“James did well,” Sirius murmured, his voice low, though it carried easily through the space.
Ginny nodded, her hand unconsciously reaching for his as she gave him a small, grateful smile. “He did,” she agreed, voice full of emotion she hadn’t expected.
It was a long moment before the ceremony moved on, but her thoughts stayed with James, the quiet pride swelling inside her chest.
Albus hadn’t reacted the same way. He hadn’t even looked up from his seat after James’s induction — not once. Ginny’s heart twisted, wondering where her second son was in all of this, what was going through his mind.
The ceremony went on, with the new Aurors coming forward one by one, all greeted with the same solemnity, the same routine.
As the last of the new Aurors received their golden lining, Nathan Higgs returned once more to the podium. His voice rang out with clipped pomp, “With the conclusion of this induction, we invite all guests and honourees to enjoy refreshments and drinks in the adjoining reception hall. Congratulations once again to our newest protectors of magical peace.”
Polite applause rippled across the grand hall, followed by the low hum of conversation returning as chairs were pushed back and people rose. The stage began to empty, the newly minted Aurors descending the steps, greeted by mentors, colleagues, and family members in waves of restrained celebration.
James was halfway through undoing the fastenings of his ceremonial robe when he caught sight of them — Ginny, Lily Sr., James Sr., Sirius, and Lily Jr., all weaving through the dispersing crowd, their eyes locked on him.
He didn’t wait.
He stepped off the platform and into their open circle.
Ginny got to him first. She reached up and pulled him into a tight hug, murmuring something that sounded like, “So proud of you,” though James wasn’t sure if it had been said aloud or just felt.
James Sr. clapped him on the back as Lily Sr. hugged him warmly. Sirius ruffled his hair before pulling him into a quick embrace, muttering, “You did good, kid.”
Even Lily Jr, who often treated her older brother with the casual disdain only younger sisters could master, threw her arms around him. “Don’t get too smug,” she said into his shoulder, but her voice cracked slightly.
A bright flash went off to their left.
They turned instinctively toward it — a photographer, half-hunched, quill tucked behind her ear, camera poised again.
James squinted.
But no one said a word.
Ginny simply rested her hand on her son’s shoulder and turned back to the group, unfazed.
Let them take their pictures. Let them print whatever headline they wanted.
For that moment, they were just a family — unguarded, tightly bound by something older than duty, older than name. Pride and survival.
And James — still catching his breath — let himself feel it.
Just as James was stepping back from his grandmother’s arms, a shadow fell over the group — broad-shouldered, unmistakable. Harry had made his way down from the dais, still in his ceremonial robes, his hat now tucked beneath his arm. His scarlet cloak shimmered faintly under the reception hall’s enchanted chandeliers, the Order of Merlin gleaming at his chest.
For a moment, father and son just looked at each other.
And then Harry reached out and pulled James into a hug — not the brief, reserved sort he usually gave in public, but something firm, bone-deep. His gloved hand came to the back of James’s neck, holding him close for just a second longer than expected.
“Well done,” Harry said quietly against his ear. “You did it.”
James didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
The moment was golden. And of course, the press noticed.
The shutters exploded again — photographers practically climbing over one another to capture the moment. The Head Auror embracing his newly inducted son. It was too perfect.
“Mr. Potter! A word for the Prophet!”
“Harry! How do you feel about your son following in your footsteps?”
“How proud are you, Head Auror Potter?”
Usually, Harry would have brushed past them, given them nothing but the back of his cloak.
But not this time.
He turned slightly, still keeping one hand on James’s shoulder, and faced the crowd of eager reporters with a look of unguarded joy.
“I’m proud of him,” Harry said clearly, his voice steady and calm — the kind of tone he used when giving statements on policy or legislation. Only now, it carried warmth. “Not because he’s following my path, but because he’s carved his own. He’s earned this. Every inch of it.”
The reporters lit up like firecrackers.
“He’s a better Auror than I was at his age,” Harry added with a wry smile, squeezing James’s shoulder once before stepping aside to let him speak — or not, if he didn’t want to.
James glanced at him, a little dazed, a little flushed, but unmistakably happy.
The moment would be on the front page by morning. But for once, none of them cared.
The reception was in full swing now — glasses clinking, laughter rising above the swell of music, and robes sweeping gracefully across the polished floor. Ginny had disappeared with Angelina and Audrey somewhere near the refreshment table, and Harry was deep in conversation with Neville and Headmistress McGonagall.
James stood with a flute of something vaguely golden in one hand, talking to Dominique and a tall Hit Wizard named Quentin, when he felt a presence just behind his shoulder.
He turned — and there was Albus.
He looked… more rested than before. His robes weren’t the formal type but still neat and proper, and his hair — usually a mess — looked like he’d made an effort. His expression was unreadable at first, but his eyes weren’t cold. Just… searching.
James blinked. “Hey.”
Albus glanced at the drink in his hand, then at James. “Got a minute?”
James nodded and stepped aside, out of the crowd and toward a quieter corner of the hall, near a stained-glass depiction of Griselda Marchbanks examining a young Dumbledore for his NEWTs.
For a second, neither of them said anything.
Then Albus exhaled and looked at him squarely. “Congratulations.”
James froze for a moment, then gave a soft breath of disbelief. “Thanks, Al.”
Albus shrugged, hands in his pockets. “You earned it.”
James looked at him carefully. “Didn’t think you’d come.”
Albus’s lips tugged into a wry half-smile. “Neither did I.”
The air between them held too much — too much weight, too much unsaid — but the words still landed. Sincere. Honest.
James hesitated. “Look, Al, about—”
“I know,” Albus interrupted, voice quiet but firm. “We’ll talk. Just… not here.”
James nodded. That was enough for now. Maybe the rest would come later. Maybe not. But this, right now — this olive branch in the middle of too many broken branches — it mattered.
And for the first time in weeks, James felt something close to peace settle behind his ribs.
The crowd had shifted again, and Ginny found herself laughing with Luna Lovegood and Dean Thomas near the refreshment table. Harry was still cornered by a group of junior Aurors who looked at him like he was Merlin himself, when a familiar, rotund figure made his way through the mingling guests with surprising sprightliness.
“Ah, there she is! Lily!” boomed a jovial voice.
Lily Evans — or rather, Lily Potter Sr — turned just as Professor Slughorn swept toward her with open arms and a beaming smile, his velvet waistcoat glinting under the chandeliers.
“My dear girl, my dear girl,” he said, clasping both of her hands. “I cannot tell you what it meant to me — truly meant to me — when I heard you’d returned. I was inconsolable when you… well, you know. And when the news broke — I was beside myself!”
Lily chuckled warmly. “You haven’t changed, Horace.”
“I’ve aged like dragon-wine, my dear. Potent and a bit unpredictable,” he said with a wink, then turned toward Harry, who’d come over at the sound of Slughorn’s voice. “And you, Harry — always reminded me of your mother in Potions. Brilliant, really. Just needed a bit of focus in your early years, but once you found your feet —!”
Harry flushed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s very kind of you, Professor.”
Slughorn grinned, eyes twinkling, and turned to Ginny. “And you, Mrs. Potter — I must say, I’ve been an admirer for ages. The Harpies never quite recovered from your retirement.”
Ginny smiled graciously. “Thank you, Professor.”
“And your children — what a remarkable brood!” he continued, now spotting Lily Jr. with her plate of snacks. “Lily! As radiant as your grandmother, if I may say so — and a sharper tongue, perhaps?”
Lily Jr. snorted. “Maybe.”
“And of course, James,” Slughorn said, his eyes shining as they landed on the newly minted Auror. “A born leader — just like his grandfather. And Albus —” his gaze softened slightly. “Well. That one has depths. Layers. You should be proud.”
Harry exchanged a brief, meaningful look with Ginny, and he nodded. “We are.”
Slughorn raised his glass. “To old friends, returned to us — and the new generation carving their names into our history.”
And with a cheer, he toasted them — and for a fleeting moment, even the tension of the past weeks seemed to blur into something golden and whole.
“Now, now — you must let me have a photograph,” Slughorn insisted, already flagging down a Ministry photographer with a dramatic wave of his hand. “This moment is far too precious not to immortalize.”
Ginny laughed softly. “Horace, you never change.”
“Why should I?” he said grandly, puffing up his chest. “Now, let’s arrange you all properly — yes, yes, this is how it should be. Symmetry matters, you know. For posterity!”
He fussed about like an overly eager wedding planner, gently herding the Potters into position. “Right then, listen to me: Ginny, you stand here—yes, right by James, perfect. Lily dear, tuck in just next to your mum—wonderful, wonderful! That’s our brown-eyed side.”
He turned, guiding the rest. “Harry, over here on my left—thank you. And Lily, my Lily—what a treat—just here. And Albus—yes, yes, don’t skulk, lad, front and center, please. There we are—our green-eyed half.”
Albus arched an eyebrow but obeyed, his mouth twitching in the faintest ghost of a smirk. “This is logical now?”
“Of course it is!” Slughorn declared. “An aesthetic tribute to generations of talent and eye colour!”
He planted himself right in the middle, beaming so widely it was a wonder his cheeks didn’t cramp. “Now, on three—smile! Pretend we’re at a Slug Club reunion!”
The flash went off with a soft pop, capturing a scene that felt—however fleeting—oddly complete.
As the flash faded and the photographer lowered his camera, Sirius and James Sr. exchanged a glance from where they’d been lingering nearby, sipping their drinks and pretending not to watch.
“Oh, so that’s how it is now,” Sirius drawled loudly, crossing his arms and raising a brow at the group. “Only some Potters get to be immortalized in Ministry history, is it?”
James Sr. stepped beside him, adopting the same mock-wounded tone. “Yeah, I see how it is. The glamorous, shiny-eyed side of the family gets all the spotlight. What about us? The rugged, devastatingly handsome founders of the chaos?”
Lily Sr. turned her head, lips twitching into a smile as she looked over her shoulder. “You two were too busy eavesdropping and judging. And honestly, I didn’t think you'd want to pose next to Slughorn.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t,” Sirius sniffed, flicking invisible lint off his sleeve. “But it’s the principle, Lily. The principle.”
Slughorn gave a hearty chuckle. “Well, there’s no reason we can’t have another one! Everyone in — the more the merrier!”
Lily Sr. shook her head, laughing. “Oh, now look what you’ve done.”
James Jr., still in his scarlet Auror robes, called over, “Come on, then! You’ve whined your way into history — may as well look good doing it.”
With exaggerated sighs, Sirius and James Sr. ambled over, still mock-grumbling as they joined the group, Sirius muttering, “I’d better not be stuck standing next to Slughorn’s armpit.”
“Only if you behave,” Lily Sr. said, gently pushing him into place.
The photographer raised the camera once more, adjusting his lens as he tried to fit them all in. “Alright — one, two—”
Click. Another flash. Another memory captured.
The hall had grown warmer, more vibrant, with the gentle hum of laughter and the clinking of glasses. The celebratory air hung thick, as dignitaries, old friends, Ministry officials, and newly inducted Aurors continued to mingle beneath the soft golden glow of the chandeliers. More drinks flowed, and the Potters dispersed a little — Sirius chatting with a senior Curse-Breaker, Ginny with a Quidditch captain she once hexed during a match, and James Jr surrounded by eager well-wishers.
Albus stood a little apart, a glass of something sparkling and nonalcoholic in hand, one arm folded across his chest. His tie was still neat, his posture slightly slouched — a habit Ginny had never managed to break him of — and his eyes were fixed on the far side of the room.
There, under a cluster of floating lanterns, Scorpius and Rose stood with their heads tipped together, laughing at something Rose had just said. She nudged him playfully, and he caught her hand without a second thought, a casual, instinctive gesture that felt both new and ancient — like they had always fit that way.
Albus's gaze lingered. He couldn’t hear the joke, but he could see the way Scorpius smiled — different than before, brighter somehow, and yet farther from Albus than it used to be.
Lily had warned him. Said things change. That love reshapes people in ways they don’t see coming.
He hadn’t believed her. Not really.
But now, watching Rose beam up at her husband, watching Scorpius hold her with easy affection, Albus understood.
People do change. And once they do — you can’t go back.
He looked down at his glass, took a slow sip, and forced his mouth into a half-smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach the eyes. Then he turned away, searching the room for a quieter corner.
He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when the flashbulbs found him.
A loud snap, followed by another, and then a swarm of reporters — not many, but enough — closed in on Albus like moths sensing blood instead of flame.
"Albus! Albus Potter! Just a moment—"
"How does it feel watching your brother become an Auror, after—well, after your own career path stalled?"
"Is there any truth to the rumours that you turned down the Auror training out of jealousy?"
"Do you feel overshadowed by him?"
He stopped, frozen in the middle of the polished marble floor, as half a dozen faces leaned in, quills poised, eyes glittering like vultures.
One of them shoved a camera far too close.
“Do you worry this will affect your relationship with your father, considering—”
“Leave it,” Albus said quietly.
But they didn’t.
Another voice, brisker now, female. “Were you even invited, Mr. Potter, or did you come unannounced? There were reports that—”
“I said leave it,” he repeated, more firmly this time.
But one of them chuckled. “Touchy subject, eh? Well, can’t be easy being Harry Potter’s son and not making the cut.”
That one stung. Not because of what they said — he’d heard worse, imagined worse — but because for a second, he wasn't sure if they were quoting the Prophet or echoing the thoughts in his own head.
He didn’t respond. Not a word. Just turned sharply on his heel and walked toward the corridor near the side of the ballroom, the one that led to the balcony.
His jaw was tight, his hands curled loosely at his sides, and his heart thudded with a slow, dull ache.
He didn’t need a drink. He needed air.
The balcony door clicked shut behind him with a soft sound, muffled by the music and distant voices from inside. Albus stepped out into the cool air, the crispness of early evening brushing against his skin. For a moment, it was a relief—like exhaling after holding his breath too long.
He leaned on the stone railing, eyes tracing the glittering Ministry skyline, the lamplight flickering across the cobbled square below.
And then—he heard it.
Laughter. Not the carefree kind. This one had sharp edges. Sneering. Half-stifled.
The sound was followed by a voice, unmistakably smug, floating through the half-open window of a private lounge just to the left of the balcony.
“I mean, can you blame him? Poor Harry’s done everything for that boy and all he gets is grief. Did you see his face during the speech? Like he was praying Albus wouldn't cause a scene.”
More laughter. Another voice chimed in, clearly emboldened.
“I heard he even refused to come to the rehearsal dinner last week. Said he didn’t want to ‘ruin the spotlight’ for James. Honestly, wouldn’t be surprised if Harry’s already cut ties. You know how much pressure he’s under. Can’t have his moody son spiraling in public.”
“Merlin, if I were Harry, I’d have shipped him off to the States years ago. Give him something real to sulk about.”
The blood drained from Albus’s face.
He didn’t recognize the voices, but that didn’t make them easier to ignore. His knuckles whitened against the stone railing, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
He took a step back, quiet as a shadow, slipping farther into the corner of the balcony. A part of him wanted to burst through that lounge door, to shout, to throw every lie back in their faces.
But he didn’t. He just stood there. Listening.
Because as cruel and stupid as their words were—some tiny, festering part of him feared they were right.
The voices continued, growing louder with the kind of confidence only people certain they wouldn’t be overheard carried.
"Honestly, it’s embarrassing. You’d think with a father like that, he’d try harder. But no—always the odd one out, always sulking. Bit of a disgrace, really."
"Didn't he drop out of the Auror training before it even started? And then what—what does he do now, anyway? Sits around, mooches off the Potters? If my kid was pulling that, I’d hex some sense into him."
Albus’s stomach twisted.
"And Harry—have you seen him lately? Looks ten years older. I mean, he’s dealing with the press, the Ministry, returning from the bloody dead, and then there’s Albus, always looming like a thundercloud. No wonder he’s exhausted. Bet Ginny’s had it too. Honestly, if it were my family, I’d keep him out of sight."
"Can’t wait to see what he pulls at Christmas. Probably disappear and send some moody letter."
Laughter again. This time sharper. Crueler.
Albus felt the cold seep deeper into his bones, though the night wasn’t any colder than before. Their words slithered into every fragile place in his mind, confirming all the worst things he told himself in the quiet moments.
He wasn’t just the odd one out.
He was the burden. The disappointment. The Potter who didn’t quite measure up.
He swallowed hard, but the tightness in his throat didn’t ease. Their voices faded as someone inside called them away, but the damage had already been done. They hadn’t said anything he hadn’t feared—hadn’t thought—himself. But hearing it aloud, spoken like common knowledge… it gave those fears weight. Made them real.
He turned away from the railing and leaned against the wall, sinking slowly until he sat on the stone floor, elbows on his knees, head bowed low.
They didn’t even know him. But that didn’t matter.
Because what if… they were right?
The rest of the evening unfolded like a slow-motion hex — everything seemed to confirm what Albus had overheard.
When Harry passed by with a goblet of wine in one hand, deep in conversation with a visiting official from the French Ministry, he gave James a proud pat on the back as they crossed paths. James grinned, still glowing from the ceremony, and Harry murmured something that made both men laugh. Albus stood just a few steps away, but Harry didn’t even glance in his direction.
Later, when the Minister herself toasted the new Aurors, she called James up for a short remark. The crowd applauded, and Harry’s face split into a smile so wide it almost looked like the boyish grin in his old photographs. Ginny raised her glass, eyes shining, and Lily Jr shouted, “That’s my brother!” loud enough for everyone nearby to chuckle.
Albus lingered at the edge of the group. No one noticed.
At one point, Lily Sr pulled Lily Jr aside to adjust a stray lock of hair and whisper something in her ear that made her giggle and lean into her grandmother’s side. Sirius and James Sr stood proudly with them, the family unit picturesque under the chandelier’s golden light.
And when someone asked Ginny if they could take a family photo for the Prophet — “Just the Potters, please, the current generation!” — she smiled obligingly, pulled James and Lily close, and didn’t even glance around for Albus. He watched from behind a pillar as the camera flashed.
Not forgotten. Just excluded, he thought bitterly.
By the time dinner was served, he had little appetite. He watched from his seat at a long table as Harry passed rolls to James and wine to Ginny, joked with Lily Jr, nodded to old friends. He didn’t come over once.
No one noticed when Albus slipped away from the table and disappeared into the corridor again.
Maybe Harry did care once, he thought, as he leaned against a cool wall near the atrium. But somewhere along the line, he gave up. Maybe Harry was just better at loving people like James — shiny, successful, heroic. People like Lily Jr, full of light and energy. People who reminded him of himself.
And Albus? Albus was the dark sheep. The quiet one. The mistake.
He closed his eyes as the distant hum of the celebration floated through the corridor, sealing himself off from the rest of them. Maybe they were right to pretend he wasn’t there.
He was starting to pretend it, too.
Albus had barely moved from his spot in the corridor when he caught sight of a group walking past, laughing loudly — a few junior Aurors, one of them clearly drunk. One of them nudged the other and whispered, not subtly, “Wonder what it’s like to be the other Potter. The one they don’t talk about.”
The other snorted. “Can’t be easy. His dad’s Harry Potter and his brother just became an Auror. Poor bloke’s probably got a permanent seat at St. Mungo’s mental ward by now.”
They laughed, loud and careless, as they disappeared down the corridor.
Albus froze, his face burning. They didn’t know he was there — or maybe they did and just didn’t care. Either way, their words echoed like howlers in his chest.
He didn’t even realise he was walking until he was pushing through a door marked Gentlemen.
The washroom was mostly empty. Just the hush of magical water running through carved stone basins. The golden sconces flickered on the walls, casting long shadows.
And there was Harry.
He stood in front of the mirror, his scarlet robes slightly rumpled from the evening’s festivities. He was washing his hands, slowly, methodically — the kind of pause that meant his mind was elsewhere.
Albus stood in the doorway for a long moment, his throat tight.
Then he stepped inside.
Harry looked up, surprised. “Al—” he began, but didn’t get a chance to finish.
“I need to talk to you,” Albus said, and his voice cracked like a broken wand. “Now.”
Harry blinked, turning off the tap. The silence stretched between them as water dripped slowly from his fingers.
“All right,” he said gently, drying his hands on a conjured towel. “What’s going on?”
Albus shut the door behind him, the click loud in the stone room. He stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling too fast. Then, words spilled out — jagged and breathless.
“You know, I used to think it was in my head,” he said, voice thick. “All of it. The way you look at James like he’s everything you ever wanted to be — brave, noble, perfect. And Lily, she’s your little girl, and she’s smart and funny and like Mum. And me—”
Harry’s brows drew together, but Albus went on.
“And me,” Albus said louder, his fists trembling at his sides, “I’m the broken one, the moody one, the one who screws up everything. The one who doesn’t fit. Everyone knows it, even the press—Merlin, they don’t even try to hide it anymore.”
“Albus—”
“I’m not finished,” Albus snapped, and his voice bounced sharply off the tiles. “All day I’ve listened to people whisper about how hard it must be to be your son. How they pity me. Do you know what that’s like? To be pitied for being your son?”
Harry opened his mouth, but whatever words he meant to say died in his throat. He looked — older. Tired. Not from age, but from the weight of it all.
“I’ve tried,” Albus said, softer now, a deep well of hurt cracking beneath the surface. “I’ve tried so hard to be good. To be someone you’d be proud of. But I’m not James. And maybe I never will be.”
There was a long pause.
Then Harry stepped forward, slowly, as if approaching a wounded creature. “Albus... I am proud of you.”
Albus scoffed bitterly. “Are you? Or are you just saying that because you feel sorry for me?”
Harry didn’t reply right away. He just looked at his son — properly looked at him — eyes searching the lines of Albus’s face, the storm behind his eyes.
Then he said, very quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Albus flinched.
“I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like you were less,” Harry said, voice tight. “That’s not what I wanted — never. I don’t always get things right. I get caught up in work, in expectations. But you — Albus, you’re mine. You always have been. And I’ve never stopped loving you. Even when you’ve hated me.”
Albus’s lip trembled. He turned away, wiping his face roughly, but Harry reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Harry said, voice barely a whisper.
Albus shrugged off Harry’s hand, his voice rising again. “You don’t want to lose me? That’s rich. You lost me years ago, Dad. You just didn’t notice.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “That’s not fair, Albus—”
“No, what’s not fair is being the other son,” Albus snapped. “The one people whisper about. The one who had to hear complete strangers talk about how you were a hero and I’m just a—what? A mistake? An embarrassment?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Harry said, his voice low but sharp now, struggling to keep it steady. “I’ve never once thought that.”
“But you’ve thought something. I see it in your eyes, Dad. Every time James does something right, you glow. And me? You flinch. Like you’re waiting for me to break something.”
“That’s not true.”
Albus stepped closer, fury burning behind his eyes. “Isn’t it? You’re always so careful around me. Like you’re scared. Or worse—ashamed.”
Harry’s nostrils flared. “I’m not ashamed of you, Albus.”
“Then why is it so hard for you to look at me the way you look at James?”
“I look at you differently because you are different!” Harry snapped, and instantly regretted it.
Albus recoiled, his mouth falling open. “Right. There it is.”
“Albus, I didn’t mean—”
“No,” Albus cut in, laughing bitterly. “You meant it. You’ve meant it since the day I got sorted into Slytherin. Since I became your worst fear.”
“Stop putting your insecurities on me,” Harry said, harsher now. “You want the truth? Fine. Yes, you challenge me. You push every damn button I have. But you’re my son, and I have never—never—stopped loving you for a single second. Even when you were cruel. Even when you shut me out. Even now.”
Albus’s chest was rising and falling fast. “You just don’t get it.”
“I don’t, Albus, because you won’t let me,” Harry said, his voice cracking under the strain. “You’ve built this idea in your head that I’m some perfect father to James and Lily and a failure to you. But you’ve never once tried to see the world from where I stand.”
Albus opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out.
Harry took a breath, pain flickering in his expression. “Do you think this is easy for me? Being a father to the son of Harry Potter? The world watches everything I do with you. Every move. Every word. And you think I don’t want to do it right? I ache trying to do it right.”
The silence that followed was cold and sharp.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Albus shook his head, voice barely above a whisper.
“I didn’t ask to be your son.”
Harry blinked, as if struck.
“No,” he said quietly. “But I’m still glad you are.”
Albus turned back toward his father, eyes glittering, jaw clenched. “Glad, are you? Funny, because most days I wish I wasn’t.”
“Don’t say that,” Harry said quietly, almost pleading.
“Why not?” Albus snapped. “You want honesty, don’t you? You think I don’t notice the way you look at James like he’s everything you ever wanted in a son? And I’m just… the leftover. The problem child. The burden.”
“That’s not true—”
“It is, Dad!” Albus shouted now, voice echoing against the tiled walls. “Everyone sees it! Hell, even you see it. Don’t pretend you haven’t wished you could swap me out. Replace me with someone easier, someone you could actually be proud of.”
Harry took a step back, as if the words had struck him physically.
The door creaked open behind them, and Ginny stepped in—elegant and composed, but her eyes instantly registered the tension, the jagged edges of words already said.
“Hey,” she said softly, looking between them. “What’s going on in here?”
Harry didn’t answer. Albus scoffed.
“Oh, brilliant. Now Mum’s here to patch it up, like always.”
Ginny took a tentative step forward. “Al, maybe now’s not the time for this. We’re all proud of your brother tonight—”
“Oh, I know you are,” Albus said, twisting toward her. “You’re glowing, Mum. You’ve been floating around the hall like you gave birth to the Chosen One all over again. Merlin, you people should just crown James Minister and be done with it.”
Ginny’s brows furrowed, but her voice remained calm. “Albus, don’t talk like that.”
“Why not?” he said bitterly. “Everyone’s thinking it. And I’m just the other one. The moody one. The wrong one. The one you all have to make excuses for. You don’t even invite me to things properly. I only showed up tonight because Lily asked. If it were up to you—”
“That’s enough!” Ginny’s voice rose—not angry, but wounded. “Don’t do this. Not tonight.”
Albus’s face twisted. “Why? Because it’ll ruin the family portrait? Because the perfect Potter image might crack?”
Harry stepped forward again, voice quieter but strained. “Albus, please. I know you’re hurting. I know. But you’re not the only one.”
Albus stared at him, chest heaving. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Albus’s breath came in sharp, angry bursts as he locked eyes with Harry. “You think I don’t see it, Dad? You think I don’t notice? It’s always James. Always perfect James. You can’t even look at me without that look in your eyes—like you’re ashamed to even have me around.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Albus cut him off, his voice rising.
“You don’t want me, do you? You’d rather I be anything but me. I’m not who you thought I’d be, and you resent me for it. You just wanted another hero to parade around. But you got me instead—a screw-up.”
Ginny, who had been standing quietly by the door, her arms crossed in a protective stance, flinched at her son’s words. She took a step forward, her voice trembling as she spoke. “Albus, that’s enough. That’s—”
“NO, Mum! It’s not enough!” Albus yelled, turning sharply to face her. His face was twisted with frustration, his hands clenched at his sides. “Don’t you see? You don’t get it either! I’m just a bloody burden to you all! James gets the praise, Lily gets the love—everything I do, it’s never enough for you. I don’t even know why I’m trying anymore.”
Ginny’s face turned pale, her mouth slightly agape as Albus's words cut deeper, his venomous accusations spilling out faster than she could stop him.
“Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe if I wasn’t around, you could all be happy with the perfect family you’ve created.” His voice wavered for a split second, before he finished with a final, searing line. “You only tolerate me because you have to.”
Ginny couldn’t take it anymore. Her hand shot out before she even thought. The sound of the slap echoed off the bathroom tiles, the sharp crack of it hanging in the air between them.
Albus froze, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes widened, and for a moment, everything was still. Ginny’s hand lingered in the air, the sting of her slap still settling on her palm as she stood there in shock, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She had never raised her hand to any of her children, and yet here she was, breathless, watching her son—the one she loved so fiercely—stare at her in disbelief.
Albus blinked, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned away from both of them. He looked like he didn’t know what to do, his body stiff, his posture hunched, as if the weight of everything—the words, the slap, the pain—had settled heavily on his shoulders.
Ginny’s heart broke at the sight. She reached out instinctively, her voice soft, pleading. “Albus, I— I didn’t mean—”
But Albus didn’t even look back at her. He simply shrugged, his face hardening again. He swallowed the lump in his throat and turned toward the door, as if to escape everything that had just happened.
Before Ginny could say anything else, the door creaked open, and James Jr. stepped in, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. “Hey, Dad, Kingsley’s looking for you. He said it’s urgent.”
Harry and Albus exchanged a glance, both of them locked in a tense silence. Without saying another word to Ginny or each other, they both turned and left, Harry following his son out of the bathroom as Albus’s footsteps echoed down the hall, a cold distance between them.
Ginny stood there, staring after them, her hand still trembling at her side. She wanted to go after Albus. She wanted to undo the damage. But something in her held her back. Instead, she just stood, helpless, feeling like she had failed as a mother.
James Jr. paused at the door, his brow furrowed as he took in the atmosphere in the room. The tension hung thick in the air, and it didn’t take him long to piece together what had just happened. His eyes shifted from his mum, who was standing still with her hands clasped tightly, to the open door, where Albus had just stormed out.
"They've fought again?" James Jr. asked softly, his voice tentative, unsure if he should even probe further.
Ginny's composure cracked then, like a dam breaking under the pressure. Her shoulders trembled, and the flood of emotion she had been holding back finally broke free. She turned away from James Jr. in an attempt to hide the tears that were already pouring down her cheeks, but it was no use. The guilt, the frustration, the helplessness—it all poured out at once.
“I... I slapped him,” Ginny whispered, her voice raw with anguish. “I didn’t mean to, James. I didn’t... I didn’t know what to do. He—he was so angry, and I... I just couldn’t stop him. And then he said those things, and I—” Her voice cracked as the words became too much to bear. She took in a shaky breath, her hands trembling at her sides.
James Jr.'s expression faltered for a moment, the shock of his mother’s admission settling heavily in the pit of his stomach. He crossed the room quickly and pulled her into a tight hug. Ginny clung to him, letting out a choked sob against his chest.
“Hey, hey, Mum, it’s okay,” James Jr. murmured, though his voice was thick with emotion, as if trying to soothe both her and himself. “I’m sure he didn’t... he didn’t mean everything he said. And you didn’t mean what happened, either. You’re just trying to help him. You both are.”
Ginny shook her head, still holding on to him like he was her anchor. “But I hurt him. I’ve never... I’ve never done that before. I don’t know what to do, James. I don’t know how to fix this.”
James Jr. gently pulled away, but he kept his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eye. "Mum, you don’t have to fix everything right away. Albus, he’s... he's just hurt. He doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s hurt by everything that’s happened—what’s happened with Dad, with the press, with everything. But you didn’t cause it, okay? You didn’t cause this."
Ginny wiped at her eyes, trying to compose herself but feeling like she was failing. “He feels like I chose James over him. That I love James more than him. He thinks I don’t care about him.” Her voice wavered as she spoke the words that had been weighing on her for far too long. “And maybe, just maybe, he's right.”
“No,” James Jr. said firmly, stepping forward again. “You love both of us. You always have. Albus is just... he’s angry, Mum. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. You just have to give him time to work through it. We all do.” He gave her a small, encouraging smile. “Don’t let one fight make you feel like this is all falling apart. It’s not. We’re going to get through it, okay?”
Ginny nodded, though her heart was still heavy, the knot of worry in her stomach refusing to loosen. “I hope you’re right, James,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
James Jr. gently cupped his mother’s face, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. “Mum, stop crying,” he said with a soft chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re ruining your makeup, and those wrinkles are showing.”
Ginny sniffled and then, despite herself, let out a small, shaky laugh. She quickly wiped at her eyes, realizing he was right. “I look like a mess,” she said, still trying to keep the tears at bay, though her voice carried the weight of her emotions.
“You’re not a mess,” James Jr. reassured her, his expression full of warmth. “You’re my mum. And you’re beautiful, no matter what.”
Ginny smiled faintly, a genuine smile this time, though the sadness was still there beneath the surface. “You’re the best, you know that?” she whispered, her heart swelling with pride. “Your dad and I—we’re so proud of you. Always have been.”
James Jr.’s expression softened, his eyes meeting hers with a sincerity that made her heart ache. “I know, Mum. I’m proud of you, too. Of both of you,” he added quickly, glancing toward the door where Harry had just left. “Everything you’ve done... for us, for the family. You don’t have to be perfect, Mum. Just... being you is enough.”
Ginny squeezed him tighter, her chest full of love for her son. She might have felt like a mess right now, but in this moment, with him beside her, she felt like everything might just turn out okay.
“Thanks, James,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “You really are growing up to be a fine young man. I just hope Albus can see that too.”
James Jr. gave her an encouraging smile, knowing all too well how much this had weighed on her. “He will, Mum. He just needs time. You’ll see.”
With that, Ginny took one last shaky breath, nodded, and gave herself a final swipe at her makeup before she walked out of the room, ready to face the ceremony and the evening ahead.
***
The low hum of enchanted lanterns buzzed softly above them as the Potters and Sirius walked through the nearly empty Ministry parking lot. The echo of their footsteps followed them across the polished stones, the grand Ministry building glowing faintly behind them. They were all dressed in formal attire still—robes straightened, hair tamed—heading to a celebratory dinner at one of the finer restaurants in Diagon Alley.
Lily Jr. walked beside her father, heels clicking lightly, fidgeting with the sleeve of her dress. She glanced around and suddenly frowned. “Wait… why isn’t Albus coming with us?”
There was a beat of silence—just long enough to feel the weight of it—and then James Jr., who had been a step behind, slid smoothly into the gap.
“He said he wasn’t feeling too great. Bit of a headache,” James said, voice casual, almost bored. “You know how crowded these events are. Probably too much noise for him.”
Lily Jr. gave him a narrowed look, not quite convinced but not sure enough to press. “Hmm. Hope it’s just that.”
“It is,” James said quickly, brushing a bit of lint off his robes. “He just needed some air.”
Ginny didn’t say a word, eyes straight ahead, but her hand subtly sought Harry’s, fingers curling around his tightly. He gave her a small squeeze in return.
Sirius, walking on the other side of Lily Sr., glanced at them all, a knowing look in his eyes, but he said nothing either. The silence resumed, now tinted with something unspoken.
The golden lamps above cast long shadows as they made their way to the car waiting just beyond the iron gates—celebration ahead of them, and something heavier left trailing behind.
As they neared the end of the parking lot, a sleek, deep emerald convertible parked under one of the golden lanterns caught James Jr.’s eye. He gave a low whistle, half to himself, half to the world.
“Nice wheels,” he murmured, barely slowing his stride as he passed it. “Wonder which bigshot’s showing off today.”
They reached their own car, one of the Ministry’s standard chauffeur-driven vehicles, elegant but expected. The driver stepped forward to open the door, but Harry held up a hand, stopping him.
“Oh, one more thing tonight,” Harry said, glancing at James Jr. with the smallest glint of mischief. He reached into the inner pocket of his scarlet robes and pulled out a set of keys. They sparkled under the lantern light—sleek, silver, and unmistakably new.
He tossed them lightly, and James caught them, frowning at first—then eyes widening as he recognised the emblem.
“No,” James breathed. He turned, looked back at the convertible, then down at the keys. “You’re kidding.”
Harry shrugged, trying—and failing—to suppress a grin. “Auror of the Year’s got to make an entrance, doesn’t he?”
James stared at the car, then at his father, then back at the car. “You bought me that?”
Ginny laughed softly, the first time since earlier that her voice was light. “You should’ve seen the look on his face when he ordered it.”
“Picked the colour myself,” Harry added with a smirk. “It’s almost Slytherin green. Just to keep you humble.”
Sirius clapped James on the back. “Merlin’s beard. If this is what you get for becoming an Auror, maybe I should sign up too.”
James was still staring at the keys in disbelief, holding them like they might vanish. “I don’t even have words.”
“Just don’t crash it,” Ginny said lightly, slipping into the Ministry car.
James Jr. didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, still holding the keys, eyes glinting with something softer than shock. Then, in one sudden movement, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his father.
It wasn’t one of those quick, clapping-the-back man-hugs either—it was solid, still, and real.
Harry, caught off guard, froze for half a heartbeat before returning it fully, his hand instinctively coming up to clasp the back of James’s head, the same way he had when he was a boy and scraped his knees outside the Burrow.
“Thanks, Dad,” James murmured, voice barely above the evening breeze.
Harry didn’t respond right away. He just held his son a moment longer, then gave him a firm squeeze before pulling back, brushing at his own sleeve like it needed adjusting.
Ginny had turned away with a quiet smile, blinking rather quickly. Lily Jr. said nothing, but her grin had turned fond and knowing. Even Sirius looked at the pair with a rare expression—something close to pride softened by nostalgia.
“Alright,” Harry said after a pause, voice gruff in a way that betrayed nothing. “Let’s go before someone tries to arrest us for loitering with sentimental intent.”
That got a laugh out of all of them. The moment had passed—but it settled somewhere warm between them.
James Jr. stood there, the keys still in his hand, his emotions swirling. The weight of the gift, the gesture, and everything that had come with it felt overwhelming. Harry watched him, his expression softening as he saw the hesitation in his son’s eyes.
“You know,” Harry began, breaking the silence, “you could always go out with your friends to celebrate tonight. Molly’s throwing a big party for you tomorrow. Family celebration, all that. But tonight? You’ve earned this. Go have fun with your mates.”
James Jr. blinked, caught off guard. “But... I thought we were celebrating as a family tonight.”
“We will tomorrow,” Harry said, smiling reassuringly. “But tonight is for you and your friends. You've worked hard for this, James. Don't let me hold you back.”
James hesitated, looking between his father and the keys in his hand. He’d never been one to leave family gatherings, especially not after everything that had happened recently. But there was something about Harry’s calm insistence that made him reconsider. A part of him had wanted to stay—wanted to keep things comfortable, familiar.
But Harry was right. He had earned this.
With a deep breath, James looked back at his dad, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright, Dad. I’ll go. But tomorrow, we’re doing the family thing, yeah?”
Harry’s smile widened, his eyes filled with pride. “Of course. Tomorrow’s for us. Tonight’s for you.”
James nodded, his grip tightening on the car keys. “Thanks, Dad.”
He didn’t say anything else, but the emotion in his voice was enough. Without waiting any longer, James turned and got into the car, the engine purring to life as he backed out of the parking space. He drove off into the night, the city lights flashing by, the weight of the day settling into something lighter—something to be celebrated.
Harry stood there, watching him go, a sense of pride swelling in his chest. He knew his son was ready. He didn’t need to say anything more.
Tomorrow, they would celebrate as a family.
But tonight, James was free to enjoy the moment.
Notes:
Hope you like this chapter! I am quite nervous about this! ❤️
Chapter 33: The Battle Within
Chapter Text
The sunlight cut through the dusty blinds of Albus’s flat like thin blades, sharp and uninvited. The living room reeked faintly of firewhisky and something burnt—possibly toast from three days ago, abandoned mid-attempt. Albus lay half-draped over the sofa, one arm hanging off the edge, a nearly empty bottle on the floor and his wand somewhere he couldn't be bothered to find.
Then came the knock.
Firm. Precise. Not the hesitant knock of a neighbour.
He groaned and pulled a cushion over his head.
The knock came again. Louder. More deliberate.Albus groaned as the knock came again—sharp and decisive, like the person on the other side had no intention of leaving. His head throbbed against the weight of too much firewhisky and too little sleep, and the harsh light leaking in through the blinds made his skull feel like it was cracking open.
He rolled over on the couch, one foot dangling off the edge, a bottle clinking softly beneath him. Whoever it was, they were ruining his perfectly good plan of lying in a hungover haze until evening.
The knock came again. Louder this time. More familiar.
He dragged himself up, rubbing his face, shirt half open and sticking to his chest with sweat. His wand was nowhere in sight. Probably under the sofa. Or maybe in the fridge. Who cared.
“Coming,” he muttered, voice hoarse.
He shuffled toward the door, unlocking it with a flick of the latch and opening it—
And stopped dead.
It was Harry.
Albus blinked once, twice. He wasn’t hallucinating. His father stood there in his Auror boots and dark coat, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Harry looked at him—really looked at him. At the dark circles, the scruffy stubble, the swollen eyes. At the empty bottle on the floor behind him. And something flickered in his face—pain, maybe, or guilt—but it was gone too quickly.
Albus cleared his throat. “Didn’t know you still remembered the way here.”
Harry didn’t flinch. “Can I come in?”
Albus leaned against the doorframe, every inch of him dripping with exhaustion and bitterness. He didn’t move to open the door wider. He just looked at his father with a hollow smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’re here to lecture me? Or to finish what Mum started?” he asked, voice low and cracked. “She already made her point pretty clear.”
Harry’s face remained still, but his hands curled tighter in his coat pockets. “I’m not here to lecture,” he said quietly. “I just… I haven’t heard from you in days.”
Albus laughed dryly. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“Albus—”
“You don’t get to Albus me like that,” he snapped, all the sharp, pent-up pain of the past few days boiling over. “You’ve had years to ask how I was. You wait until I blow up at a ministry gala and disappear for a few days to finally show up at my door? Is this pity? Guilt?”
Harry stepped forward slightly. “This isn’t about pity. I’m your father.”
Albus let out another laugh, but this one was hollow. “Yeah? Well, you’re a father to James. To Lily. You’re a name to me. A bloody myth.”
Harry looked away for a moment, and the silence that fell was thick. Choking.
“I know I haven’t always got it right with you,” he said finally. “But I’m trying, Al. I’m standing here.”
“For now,” Albus bit out. “Until you go back to your precious department and your perfect family.”
“You are my family.”
“Am I?” Albus stepped back, arms crossed, trembling with a fury that felt like it had lived in his bones for years. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. It never did.”
Harry’s voice was soft. “I know.”
That stung more than it should have. Because somehow, it wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t a counterattack. It was… true.
Harry looked at him then, really looked at him, and the storm in his green eyes mirrored the one behind Albus’s.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For all of it.”
Albus stood frozen in the doorway, throat tightening, not sure what to do with that kind of apology. Not sure if it was too late. Or exactly what he even wanted to hear anymore.
He stepped aside slowly, wordlessly.
Harry stepped in.
Harry stepped in cautiously, as though the walls of Albus’s flat might snap shut behind him if he moved too fast. It smelled like old takeaway and firewhisky, and a few unopened letters were scattered on the floor. Albus didn’t offer him tea, didn’t say a word. He just walked back to the sofa and sank down, elbows on knees, staring at the half-empty bottle on the table like it held some kind of answer.
Harry stood in the middle of the room, uncertain. It felt like entering a house that had once been his, long abandoned and booby-trapped with resentment.
“You’ve been drinking,” he said quietly.
“No shit,” Albus muttered, not looking at him. “It’s easier than thinking.”
“I used to think that too.”
Albus looked up, surprised. Harry didn’t elaborate, didn’t try to draw a parallel. He just lowered himself slowly into the armchair opposite his son.
“I thought maybe you’d come to yell at me,” Albus said after a long silence. “Tell me how I ruined your perfect evening. How I embarrassed you. How I—”
“I didn’t come to yell,” Harry interrupted. “I’ve done enough of that in my life. I came because I can’t stand the idea of you thinking… you’re unloved.”
Albus scoffed and leaned back, arms crossed tightly. “You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it.”
“I know.”
Harry’s voice cracked. Just slightly. But Albus heard it.
“I should’ve been better. I should’ve seen how much you needed me when you were younger. I was so caught up in trying not to fail everyone that I didn’t realise I was failing you.”
The rawness of it hung between them, thick and uncomfortable.
“You didn’t just fail me,” Albus said, quieter now. “You made me believe that something was wrong with me. That I was the problem.”
Harry closed his eyes. “You weren’t. You’re not.”
There was a silence then, the kind that sits at the edge of forgiveness but doesn’t quite step over.
“I didn’t mean what I said. Not all of it,” Albus said at last. “But some of it… I did. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
Harry stood again, not pacing, not lecturing. Just walking to the edge of the sofa and gently sitting beside his son. Not close enough to crowd him. Just… close enough.
“You don’t have to know yet,” Harry said. “I’m not asking for everything to be fine. I’m just asking for a start.”
Albus looked down at his hands, the same shape as Harry’s, and said nothing for a long time. But his shoulders dropped. Just slightly.
“I’m tired,” he admitted.
“I know.”
And they sat like that for a long time—no more fighting, no magical resolution. Just a silence that wasn’t quite empty. Not anymore.
Harry turned his head, studying his son’s profile in the pale morning light that slanted through the blinds. Albus looked worn down—not just tired from the hangover or lack of sleep, but hollowed out in a way Harry recognised too well. It was the same look he’d seen in his own reflection once, after the war, before he knew who he was without it.
“You’re not coming in to the Ministry today?” Harry asked gently.
Albus didn’t respond right away. He picked at a frayed thread on the sleeve of his jumper, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, finally, he muttered, “I’m not going in anymore.”
Harry’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I resigned,” Albus said flatly. “From the Department of Mysteries. A few days ago.”
The words hit Harry like a cold splash of water. He sat up straighter. “You what?”
“I owled them. It’s done.”
“But… why?” Harry tried to keep his voice level, but it still cracked at the edges. “Albus, you worked so hard to get into that department. You were doing well—your reports were good, Hestia said you were promising—”
Albus cut him off, eyes flashing with something between pain and defiance. “Yeah, well, I was also falling apart, Dad.”
Harry was silent.
“I couldn’t breathe in there,” Albus went on, voice quieter now, like he was admitting something shameful. “Every day I felt like I was disappearing, like I had to prove I deserved to exist next to your name on the registry. I was working myself to the bone, and all it ever felt like was… not enough.”
Harry looked down, guilt twisting in his chest. “I never wanted that for you.”
“I know you didn’t,” Albus said. “But it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
There was a long pause before Harry asked, voice almost tentative, “What are you going to do now?”
Albus gave a hollow laugh. “No idea.”
“Do you want to figure it out?” Harry asked carefully. “Together, maybe?”
Albus didn’t look at him, but he didn’t pull away either. He sat there in silence for a beat, and then murmured, “Maybe.”
Harry nodded, a small but genuine relief passing through him.
“Alright,” he said. “We’ll start there.”
And for the first time in what felt like ages, Albus didn’t flinch at the word we.
Harry leaned back slightly, resting his hands on his knees, his voice softer now.
“You know,” he said, “when you were born, the Healer told me you had my eyes. And I thought… Merlin, what if you turn out like me too?”
Albus gave him a sideways glance, wary. “You say that like it’s a curse.”
Harry smiled faintly, but there was sadness in it. “It was. For a while. I spent half my life running from things that hurt me and the other half trying to prove I wasn’t broken by them. I thought I could spare you from that. If I stayed back, gave you space, let you find your own path.”
He looked at Albus then, eyes raw and unguarded. “But I got it wrong. Because you needed a father who listened. And I—God, Al—I didn’t hear you when it mattered. I should have.”
Albus swallowed thickly, his anger faltering under the weight of his father's remorse.
“I watched you grow up, and I saw how different you were from James,” Harry continued. “Quieter, more thoughtful, always asking questions that no one else even thought of. You didn’t want to be the loudest in the room, you wanted to understand the quiet parts. That… that takes strength I never had at your age.”
He reached out, almost hesitating, but then rested a hand on Albus’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say this before. But I am so proud of you. Not for the job or the titles, but for who you are. For surviving the weight of a name you never asked for. For being kind in a world that often isn’t. For still standing even after feeling unseen.”
Albus stared ahead, his eyes stinging. His voice came out rough. “It didn’t feel like you were proud.”
“I know,” Harry said quietly. “That’s on me. I let you believe I only saw James. But I was watching you, Albus. And I was amazed.”
There was a long silence. Then, finally, Albus turned toward him fully, his voice barely a whisper.
“You really mean that?”
Harry’s answer was immediate. “With all my heart.”
And that was when Albus, for the first time in what felt like years, let some of the weight go. He didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t have to. He just let his father sit there beside him, both of them quiet in the room, letting the first threads of healing begin to weave between them.
Harry’s eyes flickered with a flash of anger, something deep beneath the surface that Albus hadn’t seen before.
“You know,” Harry started slowly, voice tense, “the press… the things they say about you, about our family, it—it drives me mad.” His jaw clenched as he continued, a quiet fury simmering. “They’ve been at it for years, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s never just about me anymore. It’s always about you and James too. They can’t stand that you’re different.”
Albus’s chest tightened. “What do you mean?”
“They always have something to say about how you don’t fit into this idea of the perfect Potter family. They love to paint you as a failure, as someone who’s ‘ruined’ by being the ‘wrong’ kind of son,” Harry’s voice hardened with each word. “And I’m bloody tired of it.”
Albus shifted uncomfortably, his face pale. “But, Dad, I—I am different. I’m not like you or James. I don’t have that thing that makes people look at me and say ‘oh, there’s a Potter.’”
Harry looked at him, brow furrowed in frustration, but his voice softened again. “You don’t have to be like us, Albus. But the press—they want you to be. They want to see the perfect Potter, and when they don’t, they make up stories. They twist everything.”
A silence stretched between them before Harry spoke again, more quietly this time, with a resigned sadness. “I know they’ve been writing about you, about how you ‘don’t live up to expectations’ or whatever they want to call it. And I hate that they’ve made you feel less than. You’re my son. And you’re bloody amazing just as you are.”
Albus clenched his fists in his lap, the words stinging in his chest. “I didn’t ask for their expectations.”
“No,” Harry agreed bitterly. “You didn’t. None of us did. But that’s what they do, isn’t it? They feed on people’s pain, their insecurities… They pick at everything that makes you human. And they did it to me, to Ginny, to you.” He paused, a long sigh escaping his lips. “But I promise you this, Albus—I see you. I always have. And I’ll be damned if I let them tell me who my son should be.”
Albus’s throat tightened, his eyes burning with something close to relief and rage. “Why didn’t you say anything before, though?” he muttered. “Why didn’t you tell me you cared, that you weren’t ashamed of me?”
Harry hesitated, then said with deep sincerity, “I thought I was protecting you by letting you figure things out on your own. I thought I was giving you space. I never wanted to suffocate you, to make you feel like you couldn’t be who you were. But I see now that by staying quiet, I made you feel like you weren’t important to me. And that was my mistake, Al. I’m sorry. You matter. You always mattered.”
Albus looked away, his heart hammering in his chest. For the first time in a long while, he felt something other than the suffocating weight of expectation. It wasn’t a fix—it wasn’t everything—but it was a start. The noise from the press, the endless badgering, suddenly felt smaller, less crushing. Maybe it was enough to hear it from his father, to know that he was proud.
Harry’s hand landed gently on his shoulder, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. It was a kind of peace, tentative but real. And for the first time in years, Albus let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, the Potters weren’t as broken as he’d always thought.
Harry hesitated before speaking again, his voice quieter now, rougher around the edges.
"Your mum…" He swallowed, and Albus could tell this part was harder for him. "She’s been torn up about that night. She hasn’t slept properly since. Keeps going over it again and again, saying she should've handled it better. She… she’s so sorry she slapped you, Al."
Albus’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t say anything. He stared down at the half-empty bottle on the floor by the sofa, the label peeling at the edge. The room felt heavier somehow.
Harry went on, gently now. "You know your mum. She’s got fire in her veins and a heart too full for her own good. What you said hurt her, yeah—but not more than the look on your face after it happened. She keeps thinking she broke something that night."
A long silence passed between them.
Then Albus finally spoke, his voice hoarse and low. "She didn’t break it. It was already cracked." He paused, brows tightening. "But… she did surprise me."
"I know," Harry said softly. "And she knows too. But you should hear her talk about you, Al. Even now. Always so damn proud. You’ve got more of her in you than you realise, you know."
Albus gave a dry laugh, but it didn’t hold much humour. Still, the anger in him had dulled, replaced by something quieter. Something that hurt in a different way.
Harry’s voice dropped to something gentler than before—less the Head of the Auror Office and more the father who used to read stories beside a nightlight.
"Come home, Al."
Albus looked up slowly. His eyes were red-rimmed, not just from drink or sleep but from something older. He didn’t answer right away.
Harry took a small step closer, like he was afraid he might spook him. "Not for a big talk. Not for some family dinner where we all pretend things haven’t been hard. Just… come home. Let your mum see you. Let Lily make a snarky comment and run off before you can reply. Let James be an idiot and try to fix it the only way he knows how."
Albus swallowed, jaw clenched, but his posture shifted—ever so slightly. Less defiant. More uncertain.
"We miss you," Harry added. "I miss you."
The silence that followed was heavy, but not empty. Albus didn’t say yes, not yet—but he didn’t say no either. And for Harry, that was enough for now.
Albus stood there, arms crossed, gaze flickering to the empty takeaway containers scattered across the table. The silence between them settled like dust in sunlight—soft, but everywhere. He opened his mouth once, closed it again, and let out a tired breath.
“I just…” Albus started, then shook his head. “Every time I come home, I feel like I don’t fit. Like I’m some cracked picture frame on a wall full of perfect ones.”
Harry’s face crumpled a little, not with defensiveness, but with something rawer. “None of us are perfect, Al.”
“You know what I mean,” Albus said bitterly. “Lily shines in a crowd. James makes everyone laugh. Mum’s got this fire in her that lights up every room. And you… You’re Harry Potter. And me?” He scoffed, arms dropping to his sides. “I’m the mistake the press won’t stop writing about. I’m the one who walks into a room and the air shifts—because no one knows if I’m about to snap or disappear.”
Harry stepped forward then, closing the distance between them, and this time, Albus didn’t back away.
“You are not a mistake,” Harry said, voice trembling. “You're my son. You're brave, stubborn, too smart for your own good—just like me. And that’s what terrifies me sometimes, Al. Because I know how easy it is to feel like you’re drowning in the shadow of something bigger. I know how lonely it gets when no one seems to hear what you’re not saying.”
Albus looked away, blinking hard.
Harry’s voice softened. “I should’ve listened better. I should’ve seen it sooner. But it’s not too late. Come home. Let us try again. Let me try again.”
There was a pause.
Then Albus said, hoarse, “She really said sorry?”
Harry smiled faintly. “She cried about it for days. You know your mum—tougher than dragonhide. But she’d give her wand arm to take it back.”
Albus let out a shaky breath, and this time, it wasn’t bitter. Just tired.
“I don’t know if I can forgive everything.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Harry replied. “Just… let us be there. Even if it’s messy.”
Another silence passed.
Then, finally, Albus murmured, “I’ll come by tomorrow.”
Harry nodded, not trusting his voice. He reached out and squeezed his son’s shoulder, and for once, Albus didn’t flinch.
Harry let his hand linger on Albus’s shoulder for a second longer, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. Neither of them moved much, but the stillness between them had changed—less like tension, more like a breath held, then slowly exhaled.
Albus looked at the floor, then at the wall, anywhere but his father. “Don’t make it a big thing,” he said quietly. “If Mum cries or James makes a toast or Lily tries to hug me for an hour straight, I’ll walk right out.”
Harry gave a soft laugh under his breath. “No speeches. No toasts. Just dinner. And if anyone starts crying, I’ll hex the salt shaker to spray them in the face.”
Albus almost smiled. Not quite, but close.
Harry took a small step back, glancing around the flat—the unwashed dishes, the socks on the arm of the couch, the potion-stained parchment stacked carelessly on a chair. “You know,” he said lightly, “I remember this phase too. My place at Grimmauld looked exactly like this. Maybe worse. Except I didn’t have half the excuse—you work in literal madness.”
Albus rubbed the back of his neck, a little embarrassed. “I’ll clean.”
“You don’t have to,” Harry said. “Just… be okay. Or start trying to be.”
Albus looked at him then. Really looked. There were lines around his father’s eyes that hadn’t been there before the war—either war. There was grey in his hair that no charm could hide. But the thing that hit him most was the weight in his eyes. Like every word he’d said tonight came from somewhere deep and personal. Not the great Harry Potter. Just… his dad.
“I’ll come tomorrow,” Albus said again, more solid this time.
Harry nodded once, and then, without saying more, turned to leave.
He paused at the door.
“And Al,” he added, “the things they say about you… I hear them too. I read them. But I don’t believe them. Not for one second. And neither does your mum. Or Lily. Or James—even if he’s an idiot about showing it.”
Albus didn’t answer. But this time, Harry didn’t need him to. Because when the door closed behind him, Albus stood a little straighter. Still alone. Still hungover. Still aching in places he couldn’t name.
But less alone than he’d been.
And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t dread tomorrow.
***
The next few weeks blurred into meetings, birthdays into briefings, and the air buzzed with the sense that life was marching on whether you were ready or not.
Harry’s birthday came quietly, tucked into the corner of a late-summer Thursday. The Burrow was sunlit and chaotic as always—charmed banners fluttering in mid-air, candles levitating at odd angles, and Molly Weasley barking orders at anyone who even looked like they might not have eaten enough.
Ginny had organized most of it. Nothing too grand—just enough family and old friends to fill the back garden with laughter. Teddy brought a magical cake that blinked when you cut into it, and George gifted Harry a self-singing birthday card that wouldn’t stop harmonizing with itself no matter how many times it got hexed. Lily Jr made a scrapbook of old Daily Prophet headlines with hilarious, scribbled commentary in the margins.
And Albus came. He stood awkwardly at first, hands in his pockets, but Ginny threw her arms around him before he could protest and muttered, “Don’t ever do that again.” He didn’t. Not even when Lily nearly tackled him with a hug or when James offered him a slice of cake and nudged him lightly—no words, just the small, clumsy gesture of a truce.
The next morning, James Jr stood in front of the mirror at Sparrow Cottage adjusting his Auror robes for the fifth time. The red trim looked sharper on him than it ever had on Harry, and he kept muttering about his tie being “too bloody formal.” Ginny teared up while pretending she wasn’t, and Harry waited at the fireplace, pretending he wasn’t choking up either.
When James stepped into the Ministry for his first day, there was no fanfare—just the cool stone corridors and the rustle of cloaks and parchment. But when he passed a group of senior Aurors, they nodded. One of them clapped him on the back. “Good luck, Potter,” someone said.
He didn’t grin. But his shoulders squared a little.
And in Hogwarts, where summer shadows curled around the towers like old ghosts, a new chapter quietly began. McGonagall stood in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom doorway, arms folded, watching as Remus Lupin unpacked his books. He looked healthier than he had in years, the faint silver streaks in his hair only adding to the gravity he carried. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old magic.
“You’ll do wonderfully,” she said, simply.
Remus didn’t answer at first. He picked up a textbook—Defensive Enchantments of the Modern Age—and set it beside a worn photo of Tonks and Teddy. His hand lingered on the frame.
“I hope so,” he said softly. “They deserve better than what I had.”
And as the bells of Hogwarts tolled through the warm corridors, he sat behind the desk once again, ready to teach the next generation how to fight darkness—and how to find light in themselves, even when it felt furthest away.
The world hadn’t gone back to normal. It never could. But there were moments—brief, fragile, real—when it felt like something new was blooming from the wreckage.
And for the first time in a long while, that was enough.
***
The soft glow of enchanted sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Minister’s office, casting long patterns on the thick carpet as Harry stepped in, freshly changed, hair still damp from a quick shower.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was already standing behind his massive mahogany desk, arms folded behind his back, looking over some parchments. He glanced up as Harry entered.
“You look like you’ve been up all night,” Kingsley said mildly.
Harry gave a half-shrug as he dropped into the chair opposite him. “Close enough.”
Kingsley nodded but didn’t pry. He tapped the corner of the scroll in front of him. “I’m calling in that favour.”
Harry blinked. “Now?”
“Yes. Today. Wizengamot.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “You know I barely ever attend. The last time was—what, when they were debating broomstick regulations and I nearly hexed three warlocks?”
“I remember.” Kingsley smiled faintly. “And I also remember that the only reason that didn’t end in a duel was because Hermione sent you a Howler mid-session.”
Harry leaned back. “So what’s different this time?”
Kingsley’s expression shifted. He picked up the scroll and passed it across the desk. “This is what’s different.”
Harry skimmed the top. His jaw tensed. His eyes narrowed as he scanned further. “This—this is impossible.”
“Exactly,” Kingsley said quietly. “But they’ve put it forward, and the full court is meeting this afternoon. A formal ruling. I need your voice there, Harry. Your name. And your vote.”
Harry dropped the scroll onto the desk with a soft thud. “How did this even make it past committee?”
“You know how the tides shift,” Kingsley said. “There are old alliances trying to rise again, under new names. Fear disguised as formality. And ever since the Resurrection…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Harry looked away, out the window, jaw working.
“I need you,” Kingsley said again, firmer now. “Not as Head Auror. As a Potter. As someone the world still listens to.”
Harry didn’t reply immediately. He stood, walked slowly to the window, hands clasped behind his back. The city stretched below, unaware of what was building behind polished walls and high courts.
He let out a slow breath. “Alright. I’ll be there.”
Kingsley’s shoulders relaxed, just slightly. “Thank you.”
Harry turned, his voice colder now. “But tell them—if this goes the way I think it might—I won’t just speak. I’ll fight.”
Kingsley nodded. “I’d expect nothing less.”
***
The heavy wooden doors of the Wizengamot chamber creaked as they opened, and Harry stepped into the vast, echoing hall. It was always somber, but today it felt heavier, as if the very air in the room was thick with unspoken tension. All around him, the usual assembly of witches and wizards in dark robes sat with their backs ramrod straight, awaiting the proceedings.
At the front of the room, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, stood tall as ever, though the tightness of his shoulders betrayed the weight he carried that day. Harry had always respected the man—hell, Kingsley was the reason the Wizarding World had stayed on its feet after the war—but today, he could feel the change in the atmosphere. Something was different. And it wasn’t good.
The seats were filled with key figures from across the magical world, each one representing their own interests, each one a part of the delicate web of politics and power that Kingsley had worked tirelessly to maintain. The Wizengamot had not convened like this for years—at least, not for something so divisive. Today’s session was about more than just governance; it was about legitimacy, about trust.
Nathan Higgs, Kingsley’s undersecretary and a man Harry had never been fond of, stood by the front podium, holding a stack of papers with an air of practiced disdain. Harry’s eyes narrowed. He had always suspected that Higgs had his own ambitions—perhaps even dreams of one day wearing the Minister’s robes—but today, it was more than suspicion. There was something about the way Higgs carried himself that made Harry’s instincts go on high alert.
Kingsley’s voice cut through the room, his calm yet authoritative tone silencing any murmurs.
“Wizengamot,” he began, his hands resting on the podium, “we have convened today in light of recent events regarding the return of those who had fallen during the Second Wizarding War. It is a time for reflection, yes—but also for questions and answers.”
Harry took his seat, glancing briefly at the others in the chamber—some familiar faces, others new, but all bearing the weight of a world that had been irrevocably changed. The resurrection of the fallen had brought a certain instability to the magical community, one that no one had truly anticipated. The public was still reeling from the return of their loved ones, and while many were grateful, others were wary.
And there were others, still, who saw it as an opportunity.
Harry shifted in his seat as the first voice rose from the opposition—a wizened witch named Morgana Wildheart, who was known for her conservative views and fierce disapproval of Kingsley’s leadership.
“Minister Shacklebolt,” she said, her voice sharp as a whip, “while your efforts in securing our safety and the stability of our world after the war have been appreciated, I cannot help but question your ability to lead us through this... unforeseen resurrection of the dead. Your handling of the matter has been, at best, questionable. We need someone with experience, someone who understands the true gravity of the situation. And frankly, Minister, I fear that you have neither the competence nor the foresight to navigate this new reality we face.”
The room fell into murmurs. Harry clenched his jaw, his fingers gripping the armrest of his chair. He could feel the weight of the eyes on Kingsley, could feel the deliberate attempt to undermine him.
Higgs took the moment to step forward, eyes glinting with a hint of triumph. “With all due respect, Minister, the return of those who died during the war is an unprecedented event,” he began, his voice measured but dripping with thinly veiled contempt. “It requires a steady hand. And, I fear, it may not be enough to simply have a man who was once a hero—what we need is someone who can govern with the necessary foresight and accountability.”
Higgs’s words hung in the air, heavy with implication. It was a calculated blow, an attack on Kingsley’s competence, an attempt to cast doubt on his ability to lead in this new era. And Harry knew exactly what was happening—Higgs was laying the groundwork for something far more sinister, something that had been brewing behind closed doors for months. This wasn’t just about Kingsley’s leadership; it was about power.
The room buzzed with the murmurs of dissent, and Harry’s gaze flicked to Kingsley, who was standing tall, his face carefully composed. But Harry could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight clench of his jaw. Kingsley’s usual calm demeanor was being tested.
“Minister Shacklebolt,” Morgana continued, pressing further, “how do you intend to handle the emotional and political ramifications of this... resurrection? The people are asking questions, and they deserve answers.”
The press, stationed at the back of the room, was clicking away in rapid succession, their cameras flashing like a storm of lightning. Every word, every gesture, every glance was being documented for public consumption. Harry could feel the pressure mounting—not just in the room, but in the public eye as well. The Wizarding World was watching, and they were waiting for Kingsley to stumble.
Harry took a breath, feeling the weight of the situation. He knew this was bigger than just a political squabble—it was about the future of the Wizarding World. And if Kingsley fell today, it would set off a chain reaction that no one could predict.
“I’ll respond to your allegations, Ms. Wildheart,” Kingsley said, his voice steady, unwavering. “But let me first say that the return of the dead is not an event that any of us could have prepared for. It is a mystery, a miracle, and a burden. We will learn from it, and we will adapt. But I will not let anyone question my dedication to this world, or to the people who have entrusted me with this responsibility.”
A moment of silence followed. Harry could see the calculated movements in the room—opposition members looking at each other, exchanging glances, nodding slightly as if this was part of a well-rehearsed plan.
Kingsley continued, his eyes now scanning the room. “I have led this country through its darkest days, and I will lead it through this. But I will not do it alone. I will need the support of each of you in this room. Your trust, your confidence.”
But before he could continue, a voice from the far end of the room spoke up—a man named Cyril Dunlop, a rising star in the opposition party who had long made his intentions clear.
“Minister Shacklebolt,” Dunlop’s voice rang out, “there is no doubt that you have served us well, but the fact remains that you have been unable to reassure the public regarding these... unspeakable events. We cannot afford to have someone in charge who is so out of touch with the concerns of the people.”
The room fell silent, but Harry knew what was coming. The subtle accusation, the suggestion that Kingsley’s leadership was no longer effective.
He felt a stirring within him—something beyond his Auror instincts, something personal. He wasn’t about to let these accusations stand without a fight.
“Let’s be clear here,” Harry said, rising from his seat, his voice cutting through the tension. “The Minister has always acted with the best interests of our world at heart. He’s been in the trenches. He’s seen the worst of it, and he’s still standing. You may not like his methods, but we’re all here to ensure that the Wizarding World remains strong. If you want to tear down a leader who has proven his worth, then you’re not fighting for the greater good—you’re fighting for a seat.”
The room went deathly still, but Harry’s eyes never left Higgs, who was standing near the back, looking more uncomfortable than he had a right to.
“You’re not going to tear Kingsley down while I’m sitting here,” Harry added firmly, his gaze sweeping over the room. “Not today.”
The press cameras clicked furiously, capturing every word. Harry could feel the weight of the room on him, but he held his ground. This wasn’t just about Kingsley—it was about the kind of world they were leaving behind.
Higgs opened his mouth to speak, but Harry raised his hand, silencing him with a look.
“I’ll stand by Kingsley,” Harry said quietly, but with fierce determination. “And if you want to fight for power, do it somewhere else. Because the people of this world deserve better.”
The chamber was silent, save for the faint clicking of cameras, and for the first time in what felt like hours, Harry saw a flicker of gratitude in Kingsley’s eyes.
The battle for the future of the Ministry was far from over, but Harry had just made one thing clear: he wasn’t backing down.
And neither, it seemed, was Kingsley.
The atmosphere in the Wizengamot chamber was taut with electricity, the air charged with tension after Harry’s impassioned defense of Kingsley Shacklebolt. The opposition party had seemed momentarily silenced, but the battle was far from over. As the minutes dragged on, Harry could feel the impending sense of something more sinister moving through the air.
Nathan Higgs, who had been seating at the back of the room, quietly observing, seemed to stir with a new energy. His gaze shifted from Harry to Kingsley and back again. He had always been a calculated man, playing his hand carefully. But now, Harry could see it—Higgs was waiting for the right moment, the right play.
And then, without warning, it came.
Cyril Dunlop, who had been relatively quiet up until now, stood up suddenly, his chair scraping across the floor as he made his way to the front. His eyes met Kingsley’s, a quiet sneer playing at the corner of his lips.
“Minister Shacklebolt,” Dunlop said, his voice measured, almost too calm, “I’m afraid there is one crucial element that hasn’t been addressed in your defense of your leadership. While your personal loyalty to this world and its people is unquestioned, there is the matter of your handling of Ministry protocols in the wake of the resurrection events. We’ve discovered that certain rules and regulations regarding the return of the dead were not properly followed.”
The air in the Wizengamot chamber turned electric. A low rumble of voices circled the room like an oncoming storm. Even the portraits high on the chamber walls leaned slightly forward in their frames, watching with growing interest.
Kingsley had barely finished his sentence when Cyril Dunlop stood abruptly, holding up a rolled parchment like a banner. His face wore the polished calm of someone who had been waiting for this moment.
“I move to invoke Article Seventeen of the Emergency Governance Protocol,” he said loudly, his voice echoing through the stone walls. “On the grounds of public mistrust, I submit a motion of no confidence in the Minister for Magic—effective immediately.”
The chamber gasped. Several members of the ruling party surged to their feet at once, protesting over each other.
“You can’t do that without the Minister’s prior review!”
“This isn’t procedure!”
“That clause hasn’t been used since—!”
But Cyril was unfazed. “Ah, but it can be done,” he replied smoothly. “As stated in subsection B of Article Seventeen, if the Wizengamot has been given seventy-two hours’ prior notice—”
“You gave us no notice,” interjected a woman from the ruling bench sharply.
Cyril turned to her, eyes gleaming. “No. I gave notice to the Clerk of the Wizengamot. Which, as per the bylaws, fulfills the requirement. I’m sure you'll find the paperwork filed—precisely seventy-two hours ago.”
There was a moment of stillness, then a clerk appeared beside Kingsley and whispered gravely in his ear. Kingsley’s jaw clenched.
“They found a loophole,” Kingsley murmured under his breath. “They timed it just right.”
Harry rose from his seat so fast it scraped back noisily. “So this is what it’s about? You twist protocol, stab the Ministry in the back, and call it democracy?”
Cyril barely glanced at him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Potter. I forget—you’re here today, aren’t you? Quite the rare occasion. It’s not often we’re graced by the presence of the Boy Who Lived.”
A few people snickered. Harry’s face remained impassive, but his eyes flashed.
“I may not attend every meeting,” he said, voice steady and low, “but I’ve buried more friends in the name of this government than you’ve shaken hands with. Don’t pretend you understand leadership because you can manipulate a rulebook.”
Cyril raised an eyebrow. “And yet, you’re not the Minister. Funny, isn’t it?”
Kingsley slowly stood. “This is not how democracy is meant to work. But I won’t cling to power. If the vote is cast fairly and with true conscience, I will respect it.”
Cyril spread his arms, mock-innocent. “Of course, Minister. Shall we proceed, then?”
The chamber pulsed with unease as the Clerk stepped forward, holding the ceremonial scroll.
“All in favor of the motion of no confidence—raise your wands.”
The silence was deafening. Then—slowly, one by one—wands began to rise. Too many.
Harry stared at each one in disbelief. Some were strangers, but others—others had fought alongside Kingsley during the war. Had wept at the funerals. Had stood with them when the ashes of the old world had barely cooled.
And now, they raised their wands.
Kingsley watched without flinching.
“All opposed?”
Fewer wands. Fewer still than Harry had hoped.
The vote was sealed with a single nod from the Clerk.
“Motion carried. Kingsley Shacklebolt is hereby removed from the position of Minister for Magic.”
The chamber erupted into noise—shock, applause, indignation. Cyril stood slowly, buttoning his robes with smug precision.
“The Wizengamot hereby names Cyril Dunlop as Interim Minister for Magic, effective immediately, until the next general election.”
Harry felt as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs. Around him, the press had begun furiously writing, quills scratching like thunder. Cameras flashed as Cyril gave a polished nod, stepping forward to take Kingsley’s place.
Kingsley turned to Harry, his face unreadable
“Thank you for standing by me,” he said softly.
Harry didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t. He just nodded once. A hard, bitter nod. Then he turned, catching Cyril’s triumphant gaze and holding it.
This wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
***
The moment Harry stepped out of the high-arched Wizengamot chamber, the corridor exploded with flashing cameras and shouting voices.
“Mr. Potter—your thoughts on the vote?”
“Did you know about the no-confidence motion in advance?”
“Are you planning to resign as Head Auror?”
“Does this mean the Ministry is losing control—?”
Harry walked straight through the chaos, jaw tight, saying nothing. Reporters jogged alongside him, parchment and microphones shoved in his path. Flashes bounced off the polished stone walls, off his medals, his eyes.
He didn’t blink.
His mind was a storm.
They’d outmaneuvered Kingsley. They’d known every move, every loophole. Cyril had played the long game—quietly building influence, turning allies, waiting until Kingsley was most vulnerable.
And the resurrection… the very miracle that had brought so many people back—Sirius, James, Lily, Remus—was being twisted into political leverage. Questions about “control,” “stability,” “competency.” They were using fear to chip away at everything the Ministry had rebuilt since the war.
Harry reached the lifts, slammed the button harder than necessary. The press closed in behind him like a pack. He heard one of them shout—
“Do you believe Minister Dunlop will keep his promises about Department reform?”
He turned.
Just briefly.
“No, I don’t.”
Click. Flash. Gasps.
The doors dinged open and he stepped in, turning his back to the crowd as the gates clanged shut behind him.
Alone in the lift, he pressed his palm to his face. His thoughts ran to Kingsley’s eyes—calm and resigned. To Ginny, watching it all unfold on the broadcast. To James, still riding the high of the Auror ceremony.
To Albus.
He exhaled slowly, lowering his hand.
They thought taking Kingsley down would make him fold. That the Boy Who Lived had finally become predictable. Distant. Done.
They were wrong.
He straightened his shoulders as the lift descended.
If they wanted to tear apart the Ministry from the inside out—he’d be ready. But he’d need to move carefully now. Watch his words. Build allies. Find the fractures.
And most importantly—
Keep his family safe.
The door to the Auror Department banged open with a gust of tense energy as Harry stormed in, his scarlet robes still immaculate, his medals glinting under the harsh overhead lights. Every Auror, Hit Wizard, and Magical Law Patrol officer present in the headquarters turned at once—quiet conversation snapping into silence.
Harry didn’t pause. He climbed the stairs at the far end of the open floor, reaching the small elevated platform that overlooked the briefing chamber. His expression was unreadable, but his magic seemed to hum through the air with the weight of everything that had just happened.
“Everyone, gather,” he said, his voice steady—but firm enough to carry across the room like a spell.
There was no hesitation. Chairs scraped. Files were abandoned. Conversations dropped as witches and wizards poured into the chamber, standing shoulder to shoulder. No one dared speak.
Harry took a breath, looked out at the people he'd trained, fought beside, led through impossible years.
“As you all surely know,” he began, “a major shift took place this morning at the Wizengamot.”
The silence grew heavier.
“The opposition party, through legal loopholes and well-timed deceit, moved a vote of no confidence against Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt. Despite our efforts—he was removed. Cyril Dunlop has been instated as Interim Minister for Magic.”
There was a ripple of shocked murmuring, outrage barely restrained.
“I stood in that room,” Harry continued, voice low, words slow and sharp, “and watched people who once stood beside us in war, who saw what we lost—what Kingsley rebuilt—cast their wands in favor of power. Not justice. Not peace. Just power.”
He paused, eyes scanning the room. “Cyril Dunlop did not break the law. But make no mistake—he overthrew the government.”
Whispers broke into louder protests now—words like coup and coward swirled in the air.
Harry raised a hand. “We are not politicians. We are not here to play games in the press. But we are the backbone of this Ministry’s security. And it is now more important than ever that we remain united—not for the sake of a name, or a leader—but for what we swore to protect.”
He met their eyes. Every one of them. “This department stands for peace. For law. For the truth.”
The room held its breath.
As Harry stood at the front of the room, a hushed silence fell over the gathered Aurors, Hit Wizards, and Magical Law Enforcement officers. The weight of the situation pressed down on him, but his voice was steady, resolute.
“Today, we saw something unforgivable. An entire system of justice we’ve worked for, bled for, even died for, reduced to a political game. Kingsley Shacklebolt—he was a man of integrity, a man who never wavered in his duty to this world, to all of us. And now, a man who has only risen through deceit and manipulation stands where he does today.”
He paused, the room heavy with the weight of his words, his eyes sweeping across the room.
“I cannot, in good conscience, continue to serve under a man like him. Not when the foundation of everything we’ve worked to protect, everything we’ve stood for, has been torn down in front of our eyes.”
He clenched his fists, the fire in his voice burning with each word.
“I’ve spent my life fighting for what’s right. I fought for this world, and for those I love. But today, I choose my integrity over loyalty to a system that’s rotting from within. I am resigning as Head of the Auror Office. I refuse to work for a government that places ambition above the very justice we are sworn to uphold.”
There was a murmur, but Harry’s voice only grew louder, more impassioned.
“And I know I’m not alone in this. I know there are those of you here who, like me, believe in something more than power, who believe in doing what’s right, not just what’s convenient or politically correct.”
His eyes shifted, finding Theia Hodges and several others. “If you can stand with me, if you can stand with the truth, then stand now.”
One by one, several of the older and younger Aurors, including Theia, rose to their feet. Some nodded, grim determination in their expressions. And then, to Harry's surprise, even John Dawlish, the one man he’d never thought would back him, stood, defiance in his gaze. A low gasp echoed around the room, but Harry didn’t flinch. His heart swelled with pride, the realization that the fight for what was right wasn’t just his to carry.
Hodges stepped forward, her voice firm but laced with emotion. "I won’t be complicit in this. I’ll stand by you, Harry. Always."
One by one, other Aurors and Hit Wizards, those who had fought by his side through countless battles, followed suit. The room was alive with the sound of loyalty, not to the Ministry, not to the politics, but to the ideals they had all once believed in.
As the room cleared, Harry took a moment to compose himself, his heart heavy, but his resolve solid. The room had changed today, and so had he. This was more than just resigning from a job—it was about standing up for the very principles that had defined him, that had defined them all.
And even though it was the hardest decision of his life, Harry knew, as he turned to leave the room, that he had made the right one.
***
“Oi, I was watching that!" Lily Jr protested, glaring at James Jr as he flicked the Wizavision remote, changing her show to the news channel.
"Shut it, Lily. The most important Ministry proceeding in years is happening right now," James Jr said sharply, his eyes already glued to the broadcast.
"What’s going on?" Sirius asked, leaning forward, concern furrowing his brow.
Lily Sr and James Sr exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions tightening with the same silent question.
“An emergency session of the Wizengamot was convened this morning,” the broadcaster said in a crisp, grave tone, “in light of rising public uncertainty about the government’s handling of the recent mass resurrection event.”
His voice barely wavered, but the tension beneath it was palpable. Behind him, the screen cycled through slow, dignified images of the court—Kingsley Shacklebolt standing solemnly in his plum-colored robes, Cyril Dunlop smirking faintly from the far bench.
“In an unprecedented move,” the broadcast continued, “Opposition Leader Cyril Dunlop introduced a clause that had not passed through the customary ruling party consult, exploiting a rarely used procedural loophole to force a vote of no confidence.”
A heavy pause.
“Despite an impassioned defense from Chief Auror Harry Potter and others, the ruling coalition was outvoted.”
The screen now showed Dunlop rising from his bench, robes immaculate, as Kingsley remained seated. A single flash from the press caught Harry’s stunned expression as he watched.
“Effective immediately, Cyril Dunlop has been instated as interim Minister for Magic until the general elections, citing national stability as a priority.”
The screen cut to black. The words BREAKING: CHANGE IN MAGICAL LEADERSHIP burned across the banner.
The living room was suffocating in silence, a heavy tension hanging in the air as everyone processed the news.
“I can't believe it,” James Sr. muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Sirius let out a hollow laugh, his eyes distant. “Well, I can,” he said darkly, catching the attention of everyone in the room. “History is repeating itself. Political instability was at its peak when Voldemort returned.”
He glanced at James Jr., his expression hardening. “Do you know this Dunlop bloke?”
James Jr. hesitated before replying, his thoughts still catching up to the shock. “I mean, yeah, I know of him. He’s a Muggleborn, and people really like him. Despite not having any big family connections, he’s made a name for himself. He worked in the Department of Mysteries. He's got this reputation for hating people who come from old, rich families. Doesn’t think much of people like that.”
"Don't like rich, old families?" Lily Jr. asked, her brow furrowed. "How come?"
James Jr. shrugged, a slightly amused yet serious look on his face. "It's not about hating them. It's just—there's a lot of privilege wrapped up in their name, a sense of entitlement, you know? They never really have to fight for anything, and it feels like they think they deserve it all." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It’s just... frustrating, sometimes."
The news broadcast crackled to life once more, and the anchor returned, wearing an even graver expression than before.
“We’ve just received breaking news—Head Auror Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the saviour of the wizarding world, has officially resigned from his position following the upheaval in the Wizengamot earlier today. Sources confirm that thirty-four Aurors have followed his lead, including seven of the most senior officers, among them his deputy.”
The anchor paused, then added, “Known for avoiding the press, Potter has unexpectedly called for a statement, set to begin in less than two minutes.”
The scene shifted to the press room. Harry stood behind a podium, several Aurors—young and old—lined up behind him in silent support. His expression was grave, his eyes hard, his stance resolute. He looked more closed off than ever, a man burdened but unshaken.
Harry stood at the front of the Auror Department briefing hall, the weight of the day hanging on his shoulders like armor that had grown too heavy to carry. The room had gone silent the moment he entered, every face turned to him—some curious, some tense, all expectant. Behind him, the echo of the press still haunted his ears, the questions, the flashes, the noise.
He took a breath.
"You’ve all surely heard what happened in the Wizengamot today," Harry said, his voice even but carrying through the room like a spell. "We witnessed the fall of leadership… not just Kingsley's, but of truth, of unity. Of the values we fought to protect."
Murmurs stirred in the crowd, some heads nodding.
"I’ve spent my life fighting dark forces," he continued, taking a step forward, locking eyes with the witches and wizards before him. "Some wore masks. Some sat in shadows. And some now sit in polished chairs and speak with honeyed words while they dismantle what we’ve built. Cyril Dunlop exploited a loophole to seize power. No notice. No debate. No integrity. It was a coup cloaked in legality."
A ripple of anger moved through the room. Harry didn’t pause.
"I won't work under a man who manipulates democracy to suit his ambition. I won’t serve a Ministry where power matters more than justice. And I won’t let my badge—something I earned, bled for—be worn under his name."
He reached into his robes, pulled out his Auror badge, and looked at it for a long beat. Then he set it down gently on the front table.
"I resign."
The words landed with a silence so deep it rang.
For a moment, no one moved. Then:
"I resign too," came Theia Hodges’ voice, steady as steel, stepping forward.
One by one, others followed. A young Auror with barely two years on the force. A scarred veteran leaning on a cane. Even John Dawlish, whose disagreements with Harry were legendary, walked forward in silence and dropped his badge on the table beside Harry’s.
"Don’t mistake this for cowardice," Harry said, turning back to them. "This is not walking away. This is standing up. I don’t know what we’re building next. But I know it’ll be ours. Not his."
And with that, he turned and walked out—shoulders squared, heart racing, a storm beginning behind his calm eyes.
As the heavy doors of the Auror Command Hall swung shut behind him, the reporters outside—who had clearly caught wind of the emergency meeting—surged forward like a tide breaking against rock. Flashbulbs erupted, voices rose, and Harry barely had a second before microphones and spell-enhanced quills were thrust at his face.
“Mr. Potter, is this a full-blown rebellion within the Auror Office?”
“Do you believe Cyril Dunlop orchestrated a coup?”
“Is it true you encouraged Theia Hodges and John Dawlish to resign?”
Harry raised his hands, calm despite the storm. His voice was firm and deliberate. “I didn’t encourage anyone to do anything,” he said. “I made my decision based on principle. Others made theirs.”
“But what does this mean for magical law enforcement moving forward?”
“I can’t answer that,” he said. “What I can say is this—my loyalty has always been to justice, not to titles. And I will not serve under someone who bends the law to seize power.”
“Do you intend to run for Minister yourself?” another asked, breathless.
He didn’t flinch. “I don’t know what comes next,” he said. “But I know I won’t stay silent while integrity is compromised.”
More questions shouted after him now—
“Is this personal, Mr. Potter?”
“What would Kingsley say?”
“Are you abandoning the country in its time of need?”
But Harry had already started walking. He ignored the bait, the twisting words, the desperate grabs for a headline. He walked with purpose, Theia Hodges falling into step beside him, her jaw tight but eyes resolute. Behind them, the sound of disarray echoed through the corridors of a Ministry in crisis.
And Harry Potter didn’t look back.
Chapter 34: The Doors We Shouldn't have Opened
Chapter Text
Albus finally dragged himself into the shower, scrubbing away the last few days of neglect with hot water and stubborn determination. Afterward, he made a half-hearted attempt at tidying the flat—mainly involving shoving stray clothes into corners and waving his wand at the worst of the dust.
Satisfied enough to call it progress, he scribbled a short, crumpled list of things he needed and set off for the shops at the end of his street, stuffing the list into his pocket and hoping he wouldn’t forget half of it by the time he got
Albus was steering his half-filled trolley along the narrow aisle, scanning the shelves for peanut butter, when he collided—quite solidly—with someone coming the other way. Or rather, they collided with him.
An armful of groceries went flying; a packet of biscuits skidded across the floor and a tin of soup rolled under a nearby shelf.
"Sorry—!" Albus said hurriedly, dropping to his knees to help gather the scattered items.
"It's alright!" said the girl brightly, crouching down beside him. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she reached for a runaway apple, and when Albus glanced at her properly, a faint flicker of recognition stirred in the back of his mind.
He hesitated, frowning slightly, but she caught the look and saved him the trouble.
"Oh—I'm Amanda Gates," she said, smiling. "I live next door to you."
Albus straightened up, handing Amanda the last of her groceries.
"Thanks," she said cheerfully, tucking a carton of eggs under one arm. "I’m hopeless at juggling shopping, honestly. I’m lucky I didn’t break the lot."
Albus gave a polite laugh, steering his trolley around her. "No problem," he said. "See you around, then."
But Amanda didn’t move aside. She shifted her weight, glancing toward the front of the shop and then back at him with a hesitant smile.
"Actually... would you mind terribly helping me carry these back?" she asked, lifting her arms a little to demonstrate her precarious load. "I'm just next door to you, remember. It's not far."
Albus hesitated. It was hardly a huge ask—and he didn’t particularly fancy being rude to a neighbour he'd barely met. Besides, she seemed nice enough, and it wasn’t as if she was asking to move in.
"Sure," he said, forcing a smile. "Just let me pay for this lot first."
"Oh, of course!" Amanda said quickly. "I'll wait."
True to her word, she lingered by the door as Albus queued up and paid for his shopping, her gaze flickering now and then over the other customers. Once he’d loaded his bags into the trolley again, she fell into step beside him as they exited the shop into the crisp afternoon air.
They walked in companionable silence, their footsteps tapping softly on the pavement. Amanda hummed a little tune under her breath—something oddly tuneless—and every so often she darted a look at Albus, quickly looking away when he noticed.
When they reached the steps of the building, Amanda shifted her groceries again and gave a breathless little laugh.
"You know," she said, "I’m glad we bumped into each other. I was starting to feel a bit invisible round here."
Albus smiled awkwardly, fishing in his pocket for his keys. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something strange about her—nothing he could put his finger on, just a faint, prickling unease at the back of his neck. Maybe he was just being ridiculous. Paranoid, even.
"Right," he said, pushing open the front door and holding it for her. "Up the stairs, yeah?"
Amanda beamed. "Yes, just up.”
And together they disappeared into the dim, echoing stairwell, the heavy door swinging shut behind them.
Albus juggled his bags and unlocked the door to his flat, nudging it open with his foot.
"Come in, if you like," he said over his shoulder. "Put your things down for a minute."
Amanda gave a grateful little laugh. "Thanks, I think my arms were about to fall off."
She followed him inside, glancing around with open curiosity. Albus’s flat was modest: a threadbare rug, a battered sofa, a scattering of Quidditch posters peeling from the walls. It wasn’t much, but it was his.
"Nice place," Amanda said brightly, setting her groceries down by the kitchen counter. "Homey.”
"Yeah, well, it’s usually messier," Albus admitted, running a hand through his damp hair. "You caught it on a good day."
He busied himself making tea, filling the kettle and setting two mismatched mugs on the counter. Amanda leaned casually against the doorway, her arms folded, watching him.
"So—" she began, but just then the Wizavision set crackled to life behind them, automatically picking up the evening broadcast.
"...in a shocking turn of events," said a sharp-voiced reporter, "longstanding Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt was today ousted from office following a surprise vote of no confidence. The new Minister, Cyril Dunlop, has already been sworn in—"
Albus stiffened, nearly dropping the kettle. He twisted around, staring at the screen.
"—and in related news, Auror Office Head Harry Potter has formally tendered his resignation, effective immediately. Sources inside the Ministry describe scenes of chaos, with widespread walkouts across Magical Law Enforcement—"
Albus set the kettle down with a clatter, his heart pounding. His father—gone. Just like that. Cyril Dunlop in charge. It didn’t seem real.
Amanda drifted closer, peering at the screen with a concerned frown.
"That’s awful," she said softly. "You must be worried."
Albus sank onto the edge of the sofa, his mind racing. His father had hardly mentioned anything about resigning. There’d been talk of tension, sure, but he’d never thought—he shook his head, dazed.
"I need to—" He stood up again, pacing a short line in front of the sofa. "I need to send a letter or something. Find out what’s going on."
Amanda set her tea down carefully on the table, her eyes never quite leaving him.
"Maybe wait a bit," she said gently. "Give it time to settle. If everyone's in chaos, you’ll just get lost in the shuffle."
Her voice was soothing, too soothing—and something about it pressed again at the back of Albus’s mind. But he barely registered it through the storm of thoughts.
He nodded absently, sinking back onto the sofa. Amanda smiled, her eyes cool and calculating behind the mask of sympathy, and quietly sipped her tea.
Albus's spell phone buzzed sharply on the counter, vibrating so hard it nearly slid off the edge. He snatched it up, thumb skimming across the screen.
A message flashed up from Lily:
Come to the Burrow. ASAP. Family emergency.
A second one came in seconds later, from his mum:
NOW, Albus. Don’t waste time.
His stomach twisted unpleasantly. The Burrow. That meant it was serious—proper serious. His mother never used that tone unless things were falling apart.
He turned, already stuffing the phone into his jacket.
"I—I need to go," he said, grabbing his wand and bags all at once. "Something’s happened, I have to meet my family."
Amanda’s face fell in a perfect picture of disappointment.
"Oh," she said, setting her cup down neatly. "I hope everything’s alright..."
She hesitated, biting her lip in a way that looked almost practiced. "Would you mind terribly if I came along? I don’t mean to intrude, but—" she laughed a little breathlessly, "I barely know anyone here yet. And if it’s dangerous—"
She let the word hang in the air between them, delicate and frightened.
Albus hesitated. Every reasonable part of his brain told him it was a terrible idea. Bringing a neighbour he'd just met into the middle of a family crisis? Madness.
But then she smiled at him—hopeful, wide-eyed—and for some reason, he couldn’t find it in himself to say no.
"Alright," he said, shouldering his bag. "But you’ll have to side-along Apparate with me."
Amanda’s face lit up.
"Of course!" she said warmly, moving to stand close beside him without hesitation.
Albus tightened his grip on her arm, muttered the incantation under his breath—and with a wrenching tug at his navel, they Disapparated from the flat, leaving the cooling tea and half-unpacked groceries forgotten on the kitchen table.
***
After hearing the news, Lily found herself at the Burrow almost without remembering how she'd got there.
The house, usually filled with the comforting racket of clattering pots and overlapping conversations, was heavy with tension today.
Molly Weasley bustled about in the kitchen, pouring tea into mismatched cups and trying—unsuccessfully—to keep her voice cheerful. Every now and then, it wavered at the edges, betraying the tight knot of worry beneath her words.
"Here you are, dear," she said, pressing a steaming cup into Lily's hands. "You just sit down, all right? It's all going to be sorted."
Lily murmured her thanks, but she could hardly taste the tea. Her stomach was a coiled knot.
People kept arriving through the fireplace in bursts of green flame—Arthur, then George and Angelina, then Percy, talking in hushed, urgent tones.
The front door swung open and Ginny hurried in, her hair whipped about her face by the wind. She made straight for her daughter, gathering her into a tight, fierce hug.
"My girl," Ginny whispered against her hair.
Lily clung to her, noticing with a sinking heart how pale her mother looked, how strained around the eyes.
"Where’s Dad?" Lily asked in a low voice, pulling back slightly.
Ginny shook her head, her mouth set in a thin line. "Coming. Soon. He’s... he’s sorting things."
The words didn’t comfort. Around them, the Burrow seemed to hold its breath.
The Floo roared again, brighter, louder this time—and a second later, Harry stumbled out, brushing soot from his shoulders, with Ron and Hermione close behind him.
For a heartbeat, the room was frozen. Then the questions erupted all at once.
"What happened, Harry?"
"How could they do it without warning?"
"Is it true you walked out of the Auror Office?"
"What's Dunlop planning next?"
Harry barely had time to straighten up before Ginny reached him. She pushed past George and Percy, threw her arms around him, and clung tightly.
He stiffened for a fraction of a second—then melted into her, burying his face in her hair.
"I'm so proud of you," Ginny whispered fiercely, so only he could hear.
"You did the right thing."
Harry closed his eyes, breathing her in. For the first time since that morning's disaster, the tight, crushing weight in his chest loosened, just a little.
Behind them, the others were still peppering Ron and Hermione with questions. Ron looked exhausted, but he was trying to answer, scratching the back of his neck in frustration.
"They blindsided us," he was saying. "Cyril Dunlop knew exactly what he was doing. He had the votes lined up before Kingsley even walked into the room."
"And Harry?" Molly asked anxiously, her hands twisting in her apron.
Hermione, who looked as though she hadn’t slept properly in days, stepped in.
"Harry did what Kingsley couldn't," she said firmly. "He showed them they can't just get away with this without consequences."
Harry finally pulled back from Ginny, giving her a small, grateful smile.
But the look they exchanged said more than words:
This was only the beginning.
They moved into the kitchen, dragging chairs noisily across the floor to crowd around the long, battered table.
Molly thrust more tea at them, as if cups alone could shield them from what was coming.
Harry sat at the head, his hands wrapped around a mug he hadn’t touched. Ginny took the seat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
"Right," Arthur said, clearing his throat. "We need to think carefully about this. No rash decisions."
"Not too carefully," George muttered. "They’re already six moves ahead of us."
Hermione leaned forward, pulling a folded sheaf of parchment from her robes. "Dunlop’s entire campaign — unofficial as it was — has been about 'stability.' But if you read between the lines, he means control. More Ministry oversight on magic use. Restrictions on non-Ministry sanctioned gatherings. New limitations on international travel."
"Sounds like Umbridge all over again," Ron said darkly.
"Only smarter," Harry said. His voice was low and even, but Lily, watching him closely, saw the tightness in his jaw.
"Dunlop won't make the same mistakes. He’ll pretend everything’s normal. Friendly. Safe. Right until it’s too late."
A heavy silence fell.
"He’s already got control over Magical Law Enforcement," Percy said stiffly. "With the Aurors in chaos, he can rebuild it however he likes."
"And with public fear about the Resurrections," Hermione added, "he can justify almost anything. Curfews, surveillance spells, even restrictions on certain magical creatures.”
Arthur rubbed his temples. "But surely the Wizengamot would block anything too extreme—?"
"Not if he's already stacked it," said Ron grimly.
Molly made a distressed sound in her throat, but said nothing.
Across the table, Bill tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his cup.
"If he’s smart," Bill said slowly, "he’ll move quickly. Consolidate power before people have time to organize against him."
"And what do we do?" Ginny asked, looking around at the faces she’d known her whole life. "Do we wait for him to come after us? Or start planning?"
Harry didn’t answer right away.
He looked down into his untouched tea, as if the swirling dregs might offer some kind of answer.
"We plan," he said at last, lifting his eyes.
"And we be ready."
Around him, the old war heroes and the new generation alike nodded, grim-faced.
It was happening again.
The fight wasn’t over after all.
"I still say it was a mistake," Percy said suddenly, his voice cutting sharply through the low rumble of conversation.
Everyone turned to look at him.
He sat rigidly upright, his teacup untouched, his face a little red.
"You should have stayed, Harry," Percy went on, looking determinedly at the far wall instead of at Harry himself. "Resigning handed Dunlop exactly what he needed. Complete control over the Auror Office. No opposition from within. You might as well have given him the keys to the Ministry."
The words hung in the air, heavy and accusing.
Harry stiffened but didn’t speak.
Ginny shot to her feet so fast her chair toppled backwards with a bang.
"You think he could’ve just carried on under Dunlop?" she said, her voice trembling with fury. "Pretend everything was fine? Work for a regime that hijacked the government?"
"Better than leaving the entire department in chaos!" Percy snapped back. "Someone has to think about stability!"
"Stability?" Ron barked a humorless laugh. "You sound just like the Ministry during the first war—'don't rock the boat, don't ask questions, it'll sort itself out.' We all know how that ended."
"And what would you have had him do, Perce?" George chimed in, leaning forward, his arms folded across the table. His voice was deceptively light, but his eyes were glinting dangerously. "Smile and nod while Dunlop turned the Aurors into his personal little army? Maybe ask for a nice shiny badge while he was at it?"
Percy flushed even deeper, but before he could open his mouth again, Ginny rounded on him.
"Harry did the only thing he could, Percy," she said fiercely. "He took a stand. He showed people that not everyone is willing to be bullied into line. And if you can’t see that—" she faltered for a second, visibly reining herself in, "—then maybe you’ve forgotten what Dad and Mum taught us."
The kitchen went quiet again, the clock ticking loudly in the silence.
Percy looked down at the table, his mouth working slightly, but he said nothing more.
Molly cleared her throat and busied herself with the teapot, blinking furiously.
Harry finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm.
"I don't regret it," he said. "Not for a second."
Around the table, heads nodded in silent agreement.
The battle lines, it seemed, were already being drawn—and not just outside.
Ron was still muttering under his breath about Percy when Hermione spoke up, her voice slicing neatly through the noise.
"There's something else we have to consider," she said, setting her hands flat on the table. "Something no one's talking about publicly yet."
The room shifted. Even Fred straightened up.
Hermione glanced around, meeting each of their eyes.
"If people like Fred, Sirius, James, and Lily came back... who’s to say others haven’t as well?"
A shiver passed through the room, as real and tangible as a draught.
"You mean—" Arthur began, but faltered.
"Death Eaters," Harry finished grimly. "Voldemort’s old followers."
For a moment no one spoke.
Even the kitchen clock seemed to hold its ticking breath.
"It’s possible," Hermione said, nodding. "Maybe even likely. And if they’re back, they'll have every reason to side with Dunlop. Especially if he starts tightening control in the name of 'order.'"
"And if Voldemort—" Molly began, her voice trembling.
"No," Harry said immediately, almost before she could finish. "He's not coming back. Not properly. His soul was... shattered. Destroyed."
"But the others," Bill said heavily, steepling his fingers under his chin. "The ones who didn't get caught properly the first time. Some of them disappeared, remember? What if they're out there now, blending in, waiting?"
Ron glanced uneasily out the window, as if expecting dark figures to appear on the lawn.
"We'll need to keep a watch," Ron said quietly. "On everything. Not just Dunlop. On who's coming back... and who's getting close to power."
"Do we even know how it happened?" Lily blurted, unable to keep silent anymore. Her voice sounded small and scared, and she hated it.
"How they... came back?"
Hermione shook her head, her mouth tight.
"We don't know yet," she admitted. "But someone does. And whoever it is—they've already changed everything."
The words sank in like stones dropped into deep water.
Harry looked at the faces around the table — family, friends, people he would die for — and felt a chill settle deep in his bones.
If Death Eaters had returned, hidden among the living...
They weren't just fighting a corrupt government.
They were fighting a war that hadn't ended after all.
***
The sun was starting to dip by the time Albus and Amanda reached the outskirts of the Burrow on foot, the worn country path crunching under their shoes.
With Apparition temporarily banned under Dunlop's new "security measures," getting anywhere meant long walks, broom travel, or the unreliable Floo.
Albus kicked a pebble out of his path, feeling the weight of the day settle harder on his shoulders. He was exhausted, and the last thing he needed was to show up at the Burrow dragging a near-stranger behind him. But every time he’d tried to politely suggest she stay back, Amanda had smiled at him — that bright, pretty smile — and he hadn’t quite found it in him to say no.
"So," Amanda said lightly, matching his pace, "your dad... he’s the one everyone’s talking about, isn’t he? Harry Potter?"
Albus shifted uncomfortably.
"Yeah," he said shortly.
Amanda tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing at him sideways.
"It must be a lot of pressure," she said, her voice warm and sympathetic. "Being his son, I mean. Especially now, with everything happening."
Albus gave a noncommittal shrug.
"He's used to pressure," he muttered. "Been under it his whole life."
They walked a few more steps in silence, the fields stretching wide and empty around them.
Albus tried to shake off the unease prickling at the back of his neck.
Amanda spoke again, her tone casual.
"So... will he be forming some kind of resistance group? You know, like a... new Order?"
Albus stopped walking.
Just for a second.
It was instinct — the kind drilled into him by years of hearing stories he was never supposed to be part of, but couldn’t quite escape.
Amanda laughed, a little too quickly, brushing past him.
"Sorry," she said airily. "I just think it’s so heroic, all that stuff your family’s done. I'd love to hear more about it."
Albus caught up to her, his heart thudding now for a reason that had nothing to do with exertion.
Her smile was still there — easy, bright — but there was something behind it.
Something sharp, like the glint of a blade under silk.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and said lightly, "Nah. Nothing like that happening. Dad's taking a long holiday. Reckons he deserves one."
Amanda laughed again, but Albus noticed she didn’t push the topic further.
Not yet.
They crested the last hill, and the crooked outline of the Burrow came into view, leaning cheerfully against the deepening sky.
Still, as they approached, Albus couldn’t shake the feeling creeping along his spine.
The path narrowed as they entered the trees, the late afternoon light fading into a murky green. Branches scraped overhead, and the air smelled damp and heavy.
Albus glanced around uneasily.
It was too quiet.
The Burrow wasn’t far now — he could almost smell Molly’s cooking on the wind — but the forest around them felt wrong, as if it were holding its breath.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye — the faintest flicker between the trees.
And another, to his left.
Someone was there. Maybe more than one.
He slowed his steps, fingers inching toward the wand tucked deep in his jacket pocket.
"Amanda," he said cautiously, turning his head—
But she wasn’t beside him anymore.
The path ahead was empty.
No flash of her blonde hair, no cheerful footsteps.
Panic jolted through him.
He spun around, reaching properly for his wand now—
—but too late.
He felt the unmistakable jab of wood against his spine.
"Don’t," said a low voice in his ear. Calm. Almost friendly.
"Or I’ll make a right mess of you, Potter."
Albus froze, heart hammering so loudly he was sure they could hear it.
He didn’t need to be told twice. He’d grown up hearing what happened to people who thought they were quicker than ambush spells.
A second figure emerged from the trees, hooded and masked.
Another one moved into view behind him.
Where Amanda had gone, he didn’t know.
But somehow, he doubted she was running for help.
The first man pressed the wand harder into his back.
"Walk," he ordered quietly. "Nice and slow."
Albus obeyed, his mind racing.
He had to get to the Burrow. He had to warn them.
But first — first he had to survive whatever was about to happen.
The forest swallowed them up as they moved, the trees crowding tighter, the sky vanishing in a tangle of branches.
The wand pressed against Albus's back didn’t waver once.
He walked carefully, hands loose at his sides, every step feeling heavier than the last.
Think, he ordered himself. Think, think, think.
He tried to remember all the things his father had taught him — all the drills, the dueling tricks, the Auror stories Harry used to mutter about when he thought no one was listening.
He tried to picture James, quick-talking his way out of trouble, flashing a grin and bluffing just long enough to dive for his wand.
He tried to picture his dad — how Harry would have turned this whole thing around with a flick of his wrist and a look in his eye that dared anyone to try him.
But Albus...
Albus had never been good at this sort of thing.
He wasn’t quick like James, or sharp like their father.
He wasn’t the boy who won duels or tricked Death Eaters.
He was the one who got cornered in a bloody forest, wand still in his pocket.
His throat tightened.
The hooded figure behind him gave him a sharp nudge with the wand.
"Move faster," the voice hissed.
Albus stumbled forward, heart thudding painfully against his ribs.
He needed a plan — and he needed it fast — but all he could think about was how badly outmatched he was.
The Burrow couldn’t be far now.
If he could just delay them — make noise — buy himself even a few seconds—
But Merlin, he was alone.
And they knew it.
As he stumbled over a root, Albus clenched his hand just slightly inside his pocket, brushing against the handle of his wand.
He couldn’t beat them straight on.
He couldn’t fight two, maybe three of them at once.
But maybe — just maybe — he could cause enough chaos to run.
If he was fast enough.
If they didn't kill him first.
The rough path twisted ahead of them, roots clawing at the ground like grasping fingers.
The wand still dug into Albus’s back, a silent threat with every step.
He forced his voice to stay steady as he spoke, without turning around.
"What do you want?" he asked.
For a moment, there was only the crunch of leaves underfoot and the ragged, low breathing of the men around him.
Then the one with the wand gave him a hard shove between the shoulders.
"Shut it," the man growled. "Walk."
Albus stumbled forward, catching himself just in time.
Behind him, he could feel their eyes — cold, assessing.
They weren’t interested in chatting.
But something tightened in his gut, an awful realisation taking root:
They weren’t dragging him off into the woods.
They were marching him toward the Burrow.
Toward his family.
The Burrow wasn’t just safety anymore.
It was a target.
He swallowed, trying to think, trying to breathe through the rising panic.
The Burrow was full of people — full of fighters, yes, but also his mum, his little sister, Grandmum...
And they didn’t know he was walking straight toward them with a wand at his back and enemies shadowing the trees.
Every instinct screamed at him to run.
But he wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d get two steps before a curse hit him between the shoulder blades.
No.
He needed another way.
He needed a distraction.
And fast.
They were close now — he could see the faint golden lights of the Burrow flickering through the trees ahead, like stars fallen to earth.
Now or never, Albus thought, heart pounding against his ribs like a drum.
He let his foot catch deliberately on a root and fell forward hard, flinging himself onto the ground.
At the same time, he yanked out his wand and shouted, "Expelliarmus!”
It wasn't graceful — it wasn’t even smart — but it was fast and desperate.
A flash of red light shot upward from his wand, missing wildly.
The man closest to him snarled and kicked the wand from Albus’s hand before he could recover.
It spun off into the undergrowth with a pathetic clatter.
"Stupid little—"
The man’s foot crashed into Albus’s ribs, sending him gasping onto his side.
Pain burst through him like fireworks.
He tried to scramble after his wand, but hands grabbed him — rough, crushing — and hauled him up by the back of his jacket.
"Thought you were clever, did you?" another voice sneered. "Thought you’d play the hero?"
Albus struggled, but it was useless. They were bigger, stronger, and far too many.
One of them twisted his arm sharply behind his back, forcing him to drop still or risk breaking it.
"Move," the first man said again, breathing hard.
"No more games."
Albus didn’t dare speak.
His mind was whirling. His side throbbed where the kick had landed, and he could feel blood dripping from a cut on his cheek.
He'd failed.
He hadn’t even slowed them down.
And now — now they were dragging him straight to the people he loved most in the world.
The lights of the Burrow grew closer and closer, blurred through the stinging in his eyes.
Somewhere inside, someone was laughing — a high, familiar sound that made his blood run cold.
He stumbled forward, helpless.
And he realized with sinking dread:
This was just the beginning.
***
They had all been so deep in discussion — voices rising, interrupting, arguing about Dunlop, about security measures, about what came next — that no one had noticed how much time had passed.
At Lily’s words, the room stilled.
Ginny stood sharply, her chair scraping against the floor.
"He hasn’t?" she repeated, voice a little too loud in the sudden quiet.
"No," Lily said, looking uneasy now. "I texted him half an hour ago, when you said to. He said he was already on his way."
She fidgeted with the hem of her jumper. "He should’ve been here by now, Mum."
Ginny turned to Harry, her face draining of colour.
Harry was already reaching into his robes, pulling out his spellphone. He tapped it once, twice, trying to pull up Albus’s last message.
Nothing new.
Ron stood too, swearing under his breath.
"You don't think—?" he began.
"Where was he coming from?" Hermione asked quickly, her voice brisk and sharp as snapping twigs.
"His flat," Lily said.
"The woods out back," Harry muttered, already moving for the door. "If Apparition's banned... he’d have to walk through the forest."
Molly gasped softly, hand to her mouth.
Arthur, who had been quietly listening all this time, rose with a grim look.
"We need to find him," he said firmly.
"I'm going too," said Ginny at once, already throwing a cloak over her shoulders.
George had his wand out, his usual joking manner nowhere in sight.
The urgency in the room was a living thing now — buzzing in the air, tightening every breath.
"Stay here with the others," Harry said to Molly and the younger children. "If something's happening, we don't want the Burrow undefended."
"But—" Molly began.
"We'll bring him back," Harry promised.
He glanced at Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and George — and they all nodded grimly, as one.
Without another word, they moved swiftly for the door, wands gripped tightly, hearts hammering in their ears.
Out there, in the growing dark, Albus was alone.
And something — someone — was hunting him.
They were halfway to the door, cloaks flying, boots thudding on the floorboards, when a knock sounded — sharp, urgent — from the front door.
Everyone froze.
For a half-second, the tension broke.
Ron let out a shaky laugh. "That'll be him," he said, shoulders sagging with relief. "Took the long way, probably."
Ginny pressed a hand to her heart, exhaling.
Molly gave a little sob of relief.
But Harry didn’t move.
He stood rooted to the spot, wand still raised, his whole body taut as a bowstring. His green eyes were fixed on the door — but not with hope.
With suspicion.
"Wait," Harry said lowly, his voice cutting through the sudden chatter.
They turned to him, confusion flickering across their faces.
"Something’s wrong," Harry said, taking a step forward, wand up, every nerve in his body thrumming.
There was another knock — louder this time, almost a bang.
Harry flicked his wand in a swift, practiced motion — and the curtains over the front windows snapped open, giving him a clear view outside.
At first he saw nothing.
Then — a shadow.
A figure standing stiffly on the porch, just beyond the glow of the lantern.
Small, slight — like Albus.
But too still.
Much too still.
Ginny moved toward the door instinctively, but Harry caught her arm.
"Don’t," he said sharply. "Not yet."
The house had fallen silent again. Even the children in the kitchen were holding their breath.
The figure outside raised a hand and knocked once more — a heavy, deliberate knock.
Harry stepped forward, heart pounding.
"Who is it?" he called, voice steady, wand at the ready.
For a moment, there was no answer.
Then a voice — one that sounded almost, but not quite, like Albus’s — floated through the door.
"It’s me," the voice said.
"Let me in.”
"Let me in," the voice repeated, sounding plaintive now. "Please."
Harry’s hand tightened around his wand. Every instinct screamed trap.
"Ginny, don't—" he started sharply.
But it was too late.
Ginny, pale and trembling, wrenched open the door.
And chaos exploded into the room.
Albus stumbled across the threshold — but he wasn’t alone.
Two figures in dark cloaks were right behind him, shoving him roughly forward.
Another two darted in after, slamming the door hard and locking it with a brutal click.
In an instant, four wands were drawn — and not by the Weasleys.
"Don’t move!" barked the man nearest Harry, jabbing his wand straight at Albus’s head. "Try anything, Potter, and the boy dies."
Albus’s face was pale and bloodied, his arms twisted behind his back with thick magical bindings, glowing faintly blue.
He didn’t even struggle.
He just looked at his parents — at Harry and Ginny — with wild, desperate eyes.
"Everyone in the living room!" the leader snapped, waving his wand toward the others. "Now!"
George moved as if to resist — but the man tightened his grip on Albus, digging the wand into his neck.
"Try it," he hissed. "See what happens."
Ron swore under his breath but put his wand down slowly, exchanging a furious, helpless look with Hermione.
Molly was crying softly, pressing little Hugo and Rose closer to her.
They were herded into the living room like prisoners, the intruders keeping tight control, flanking the door and windows.
Harry let himself be pushed backward, his mind racing.
There were too many civilians — too many little ones.
He couldn’t fight yet.
Not yet.
Albus caught his eye across the room.
There was shame in his gaze.
And apology.
Harry gave the smallest, tightest nod he could manage.
Hold on, he willed silently.
Hold on, son.
Because this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Chapter 35: In the Eye of the Storm
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry could only watch — heart pounding, stomach twisting — as the intruders moved swiftly through the Burrow, room by room, dragging everyone out.
James and Lily were hauled in next, disarmed before they even reached for their wands.
Charlie too, blood already trickling from a split lip.
Even Arthur was shoved forward, face thunderous but powerless.
One by one, they were made to sit on the floor of the living room, like criminals.
The Weasley clock on the mantel ticked loudly in the heavy, awful silence.
Wands were ripped away and thrown in a heap by the fireplace.
Hands were bound tight with glowing, cursed ropes — the kind that tightened if you struggled.
Harry’s fists clenched uselessly at his sides.
He could kill them — he could do it in one second, less —
But every time he even thought about moving, he caught a glimpse of Albus.
There — kneeling stiffly beside the leader, the wand still pressed into the soft, vulnerable spot just beneath his jaw.
One wrong move — and they'd kill him before Harry could even blink.
The rage inside him was nearly blinding.
He wanted to tear these cowards apart.
But he couldn’t.
Not yet.
The leader — a tall, hooded figure with cold, glittering eyes — stepped forward now, surveying the room like a king surveying conquered land.
He smirked.
"Good," he said, voice smooth and mocking.
"Now that we have everyone's attention..."
Harry didn’t look at him.
He was too busy watching Albus, memorizing every breath his son took.
Because whatever happened next — whatever these monsters wanted —
Harry knew one thing with absolute, blistering certainty:
He would not let them take his son.
Even if it killed him.
He stayed crouched low beside Ginny, shielding James and Lily with his body as best he could.
The fury radiating from him was so strong that the nearest intruder actually took an unconscious step back, wand tightening in his grip.
But the leader only chuckled — a low, oily sound.
"Mr Potter," he said again, mock-pleasant, “Please don't sit there. Here."
With a lazy flick of his wand, a battered wooden chair appeared in the center of the room, like a throne in a mockery of a courtroom.
Harry stared at it.
Cold loathing twisted his gut.
He made no move.
A beat passed — and then the thug holding Albus jerked his arm, forcing him onto his knees.
With a sharp, cruel smack, he struck the back of Albus’s head hard enough to make him sway.
Ginny gasped.
James Jr surged half to his feet, fury flashing — but Harry shot him a warning look.
Not now.
The leader tutted lightly, almost as if scolding a misbehaving child.
"I mean no harm, Mr Potter," he said silkily, "But I will not shy away from it either, if you refuse to cooperate."
For a long, terrible moment, Harry stood frozen.
The weight of every eye in the room pressed down on him.
His family — his friends — bruised and bound at his feet.
His son kneeling under a wand.
Slowly, very slowly, Harry stood.
Every muscle in his body screamed in protest.
He walked to the chair, never once taking his eyes off Albus.
He sat down.
The wood creaked under his weight.
"Very good," the masked leader said, almost purring with satisfaction.
With another lazy flick of his wand, ropes slithered out of the air like snakes and wound themselves tightly around Harry’s wrists, binding them behind the chair.
The ropes tightened viciously, cutting into his skin.
Harry didn’t flinch.
"Now that we're all set," the man said cheerfully, turning to face the room,
"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to tell you our... motive for coming here uninvited."
His wand twirled idly between his fingers as he spoke, the casualness of it somehow worse than open aggression.
"We have some very straightforward questions," he continued, strolling slowly back and forth in front of the captives, his boots tapping lightly against the old wooden floor.
"And we require you to answer them — truthfully, and to the very best of your knowledge."
He stopped in front of Harry, tilting his head slightly, like a bird inspecting something small and helpless.
"If you cooperate," he said smoothly, "this will be over quickly.
If you lie..." — his eyes gleamed cruelly above the edge of the mask —
"Well. Let’s not spoil the evening with threats."
He turned, wand flicking, and conjured a scrap of parchment in the air.
It hovered there, glowing faintly.
"First question," he said, his voice suddenly hardening,
"Where is the Resurrection Stone?"
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Harry's blood ran cold.
They know.
Somehow — against all logic, against every secret he’d buried —
they knew.
The leader smiled wider, seeing the flicker of shock on Harry’s face.
"Come now, Mr Potter," he murmured, "We both know you’re familiar with it. Don’t play dumb."
The wand pressed tighter against Albus’s throat.
"Answer carefully," he whispered.
Harry’s mind was racing a thousand miles a minute, but he forced his face into perfect stillness. He locked eyes with the masked leader, summoning every scrap of Occlumency he knew, building walls inside his mind.
"I don't know," he said calmly. His voice barely wavered. "Isn’t that stone a myth? Some children’s storybook legend?"
For a moment, there was silence.
The leader’s smirk didn't falter. He simply inclined his head slightly, as if indulging a particularly poor lie, and stepped back.
Slowly, he turned and walked toward the others sitting huddled on the floor.
Harry’s stomach twisted.
The man stopped right in front of Hermione.
Before he could move any closer, Ron lunged up, planting himself firmly between them, his chest heaving with fury.
"Mrs Granger-Weasley," the leader said smoothly, ignoring Ron as if he were an annoying insect, "I heard your daughter was married this summer — to her school sweetheart, wasn't it?"
He tutted softly, mockingly.
"Come now, Mrs Weasley, you’re a clever woman. Young Rose would like to have her mother around for future... important occasions, wouldn’t she?"
"Shut the fuck up, you bastard!" Ron roared, fists clenched, struggling against the magical binds. “Get away from my wife!"
But the leader only smiled faintly, eyes glinting above his mask, and continued to stare at Hermione.
Hermione didn’t look away. She held his gaze, stubborn and defiant — but Harry could see the slight tremble in her hands where they were tied.
Enough.
"Whatever you want to know," Harry said sharply, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, "ask me. They don’t know anything."
The leader paused, considering Harry’s offer with mild amusement.
He turned slightly, the tip of his wand tracing a lazy, invisible pattern in the air.
"Very noble, Mr Potter," he said lightly, "But I’m afraid you misunderstand."
He tapped Hermione’s shoulder with his wand — not roughly, but the threat was clear.
Ron tensed, like a coiled spring ready to explode.
"This isn’t about information anymore," the leader said. "It’s about pressure."
He smiled again — that same reptilian smile — and addressed the room at large.
"You see, we’re not fools. We know you’re not going to tell us where the Stone is. Not yet."
He paced slowly in front of them, each step deliberate.
"But given time... and the right motivation..." — his eyes glittered over his mask —
"even the strongest tend to break."
He stopped, turning back to Harry.
"You’ve fought a war before, Mr Potter," he said. "You know how this works. You break the heart first. And the mind follows."
Ron strained against his bindings, face dark red with rage.
Hermione’s breathing was shallow, controlled, but her trembling hands gave her away.
Harry’s insides twisted, but he kept his face impassive.
"You can do whatever you want to me," he said, voice low and deadly, "But you touch them—"
The leader cut him off with a laugh, “Oh, but that’s the point, Harry."
He strolled back to stand behind Albus, laying a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Albus stiffened but didn't move.
"Starting with this one," the man said casually.
Ginny made a noise — half sob, half snarl — but Harry didn’t dare look at her.
If he did, he wasn’t sure he could hold himself back.
"Now," the leader said, clapping his hands together mock-cheerfully, "Let’s continue, shall we?"
The leader turned his attention to Ginny.
He walked toward her slowly, like a predator circling its prey, every step measured.
Ginny met his gaze with a fierce defiance, her chin lifted, jaw set.
She refused to be cowed, refusing to look at anyone except the masked man in front of her.
"Mrs Potter," he said smoothly, his voice soft, almost affectionate. "I understand you’re a strong woman — I’ve heard all about you, of course. But, like everyone else, you have your limits."
Ginny didn’t flinch. She glared at him, unyielding.
But Harry could see it in her eyes — a flicker, just a tiny crack.
She was watching Albus.
The leader caught the look and smiled, as though reading her thoughts.
"Tell me, Mrs Potter," he said with mock sweetness,
"Do you think your son will be as brave as you? Or perhaps you'd like to see how brave he can be when I ask the next question?"
Ginny’s eyes darted to Albus, and that was enough.
Her composure started to crumble, just slightly. Her fingers clenched, and she visibly swallowed hard.
"You won’t get anything from me," she said, her voice trembling only at the edges, "As Harry said, the Resurrection Stone doesn’t exist. It’s a legend. A myth. A fairytale."
The leader smirked and leaned in, his voice almost a whisper.
"Then why do I have the distinct feeling you're not telling me the whole truth, Mrs Potter?"
Ginny’s breath hitched.
She tried to keep her composure, but Harry could see the cracks deepening, the pressure taking its toll.
Albus was his weakness — their shared weakness. And the leader knew it.
Ginny glanced at him again, and Harry could see her shoulders shake, her breath becoming more ragged.
"Please," she whispered, barely audible, "leave him out of this."
The leader tilted his head, watching her breakdown with a twisted kind of amusement.
Before he could press further, a sharp voice cut through the silence.
"Oi, bastard!"
James Jr. shot to his feet, anger flashing in his eyes.
"You want to pick on someone, you pick on me!" He took a step forward, chest heaving. "Leave my mum alone!"
The intruders immediately snapped their wands to attention, but James didn’t flinch.
"James, no!" Ginny called, horrified, but James ignored her, fists clenched.
The leader didn’t flinch either.
In fact, he only chuckled, the sound cold and mocking.
"How brave," he said, stepping back from Ginny.
"Young Potter, all grown up and already thinking of himself as a hero."
James Jr. gritted his teeth. "I’m not afraid of you."
The leader smirked, eyes flashing beneath the mask.
"You will be."
He flicked his wand and conjured a swirling, glowing chain around James Jr.'s wrists, locking him in place.
"Now, please," the leader said, stepping back, “settle down.
The sooner you cooperate, the sooner this will all be over.”
Ginny turned her eyes back to her son. The tears she had fought to hold back finally spilled over, trickling down her face.
Harry’s jaw clenched so tight it ached.
"Enough," he said in a low voice, turning to face the leader.
"I told you, we don’t know anything. We’re not part of this."
The leader didn’t respond right away.
He just stood there, his wand in hand, staring at Harry.
And then, with a smile that made Harry’s blood run cold, he said,
"So you’re telling me," the leader sneered, sweeping his hand towards Lily Sr., James Sr., Sirius, Remus, Tonks, and Fred, "that you brought them all back — and every single person in this country — without the Stone?" He chuckled darkly, his voice dripping with mockery. "Don’t insult my intelligence, Potter. Try fooling someone else."
Harry’s eyes hardened, his grip on his composure tightening.
"I haven’t brought anyone back from the dead," he said firmly, his voice steady but cold. "It’s against the laws of nature. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t."
The leader's laugh was low, almost like a growl, and it sent a chill down Harry’s spine.
"Oh, Mr. Potter," the man said, stepping closer, his mask hovering inches from Harry’s face.
"Do you think I’m some fool? You, of all people, should know how the laws of magic can be bent — stretched, even broken."
He raised his wand slightly, a subtle threat that made Harry's pulse quicken.
Harry didn't move, but he felt his grip on his composure slipping, just a little. His jaw clenched tighter.
"I haven’t brought anyone back from the dead," Harry repeated, his voice firm, but the words felt like they were against the weight of truth.
"It’s impossible."
The leader tilted his head, studying Harry with a predator’s focus.
"But it happened, didn’t it?" he said smoothly, his voice almost a whisper now.
"People came back. Your beloved friends. Your family. Fred Weasley. Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. Sirius Black. Your dear, departed parents."
He smiled as Harry’s stomach turned.
"All of them walking around like nothing ever happened."
Harry's breath hitched. He tried to keep his face neutral, but he couldn’t deny the weight of the question. How had it happened? How had so many returned when magic like that should’ve been impossible?
"I don’t know how it happened," Harry said, his voice as cold as he could make it.
"I’ve spent every waking moment since that day trying to understand it. But you’ve got it wrong, you’re blaming the wrong people."
The leader’s eyes narrowed, his amusement fading.
"Really?" He leaned in closer, his voice turning sharp, venomous.
"Then explain to me how all these people just happened to come back. No one asked for it, Mr. Potter? You don’t think there are... consequences for tampering with things better left untouched?"
Harry's mind raced, trying to find the right words, something to defuse the situation. But the truth was, he had no answers to give.
James Sr., Sirius, Lily Sr., Fred, Remus, Tonks...
They had come back. Alive.
But no one — not Harry, not anyone — could explain it.
He took a deep breath, forcing his voice to remain steady.
"People came back because of... something beyond our control. Something bigger than anyone could have imagined," Harry said, forcing himself to speak with conviction.
"It wasn’t us. We didn’t cause this. But the Ministry—"
The leader raised a hand, cutting Harry off, his smirk returning.
"Don’t bother, Potter," he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
"I don’t care about your excuses. I’m not interested in what happened, I’m interested in who is behind it."
He turned back to the group, his eyes sweeping over everyone in the room, lingering on each person, his eyes cold and calculating.
"You see," he said, almost conversationally, "the resurrection of the dead? That’s no accident. That’s not magic we’ve seen before.
And we’re going to find out who’s responsible — one way or another."
Harry’s pulse quickened. The leader’s eyes locked with his once again.
"You say you don’t know how it happened, Mr. Potter. Fine. But someone does. And I’ll be damned if I don’t find them.”
The leader's voice softened, becoming almost a whisper again.
"And I’ll start with you, Potter. You’re too important to be left in the dark. You know more than you’re letting on. I know it."
He leaned in closer, his breath cold against Harry’s ear.
"You’re the key. And I intend to make you talk.”
Harry’s mind was racing, his thoughts desperate for any kind of opening, any weakness to exploit.
He had to stall, buy himself time — time to think, time to act, before it was too late.
He looked at the leader, his face still calm, but his eyes locked with the masked figure's, trying to hold his ground.
"Why do you want the Stone so badly?" Harry asked, his voice steady, though his heart pounded in his chest.
"Is it really worth all of this?" He gestured toward the chaos around them — the terrified faces of his family, the ropes binding them, the looming threat hanging over their heads.
The leader smirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he slowly paced in front of Harry. He didn’t answer immediately, letting the silence stretch.
Then, finally, he spoke, his voice smooth and cold.
"I want the Stone, Potter, because I’m going to bring him back." He paused for dramatic effect, watching Harry closely. "The Dark Lord. The one who should have never been defeated."
He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a whisper. "I’m going to resurrect him, Potter. With the Resurrection Stone, I’ll make him whole again. And then... we will finish what we started."
At the mention of Voldemort, Harry felt his stomach twist. The room seemed to go deathly still.
He could feel every eye on him, the weight of the moment suffocating. He stopped thinking for a moment, the words striking him harder than anything else in that room.
Voldemort — back from the dead.
It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. Not after everything they had gone through, after the sacrifices, the pain. Harry had seen the Dark Lord fall. He had seen the world rise from the ashes of his defeat.
But the leader’s confidence, the conviction in his voice — it made Harry’s blood run cold.
He finally broke the silence, his voice hoarse but unwavering.
"He can't come back," Harry said, his words firm, no hesitation.
"You’re wasting your time. It’s not possible. Voldemort is gone, and nothing will change that. Not now, not ever."
The room went utterly still. The weight of his statement hung in the air like a thunderclap.
Ginny’s breath caught in her throat. James Jr. stiffened, his jaw clenched, trying to keep himself from reacting. Even the intruders seemed to pause for a moment, as if considering Harry’s words.
But then, the leader’s face twisted with fury.
"Don’t ever tell me what’s possible and what’s not!" He roared, his voice filled with rage, a burst of dark magic sparking in the air around him.
In one fluid motion, he moved forward, his fist slamming into Harry’s jaw with a sickening crack.
Harry’s head snapped to the side, his vision briefly blurring. The pain was sharp, immediate, but it wasn’t enough to knock him out — not yet.
He gritted his teeth, his body aching from the impact, but he refused to let the leader see him falter.
The leader stepped back, a twisted smirk playing on his lips as he wiped his knuckles on his cloak, as though he’d merely brushed dirt off.
"Don’t get cocky, Potter. You might have defeated him once, but you won’t stop us."
Harry’s vision cleared, and despite the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, he forced himself to meet the leader’s gaze once more.
"I’m not letting you do this," Harry said, his voice low but determined. "If you think for one second that I’m just going to let you bring him back, you’re wrong."
The leader’s smile widened, his anger still simmering beneath the surface.
"We’ll see about that, Potter.”
The leader's eyes gleamed with malicious intent as he moved toward Lily Jr., his footsteps deliberate and slow, savoring the moment. Harry’s breath caught, and he instinctively strained against his bindings, his heart racing. This was the moment they had all feared — the moment he would turn his cruelty on someone who couldn’t fight back.
Lily Jr. froze, her wide eyes flicking to her father for reassurance, but Harry could only offer her a desperate, silent plea. The leader reached her with unsettling ease, his hand gripping her arm tightly. She gasped at the sudden force, her face paling. Harry’s chest tightened with fury, but his mind was racing for a way out.
"You want to protect your family, Potter?" The leader sneered. "I think we can make things a lot more interesting."
Lily Jr. flinched as he tightened his grip, and Harry saw red. He could hear his family struggling against their restraints, their voices rising in a mixture of fear and anger. Ron was shouting, his voice raw with protectiveness. Ginny’s breath was fast, panicked. Even James Jr. was struggling against the ropes, trying to get to his sister.
“Let her go!” Ron’s voice rang out, desperate. “She knows nothing!”
But the leader didn’t even glance at him. He only looked down at Lily Jr. with a predatory gaze.
“She doesn’t have to know anything, does she?” He yanked her closer, his fingers digging into her arm. “But I think I’ll make her talk anyway. She’s a much softer target than her father.” His voice was cold, amusement evident in the way he spoke. “I’m sure she’d be very cooperative with the right motivation.”
Harry’s mind screamed for a way to act — but all he could do was watch, helpless, as the leader’s grip on his daughter tightened.
"Stop!" Harry finally shouted, his voice shaking with raw emotion. His eyes locked onto the leader, his breath ragged. “I’ll tell you everything. Let her go. She doesn’t know anything.”
The leader paused, his smirk never leaving his face as he looked at Harry with twisted satisfaction.
“Is that so, Mr. Potter? You’ll talk?” The leader’s voice dropped to a taunting whisper. “How touching. What exactly will you tell me, I wonder?”
The leader’s eyes gleamed with a twisted satisfaction as he held Lily Jr. in place, his grip still unyielding. He glanced at his companion, who immediately stepped forward, holding a vial filled with the silvery, glistening contents of Veritaserum.
Harry’s heart raced. He could already feel the cold trickle of dread in his stomach. Veritaserum — a truth potion, one of the most potent forms of magic used to force confessions. The very thought of it made him sick to his core. He knew the leader was trying to force him into spilling secrets, but he couldn’t let them get what they wanted.
Yet the leader’s voice interrupted his thoughts, soft but menacing, his words dripping with menace.
“I think you misunderstand, Potter,” the leader said, his voice calm, but there was a cold, calculating tone to it. “I’m not interested in the words you want to tell me.” He glanced down at Lily Jr., still held tightly by the other intruder. “But I am interested in the words you’ll say once I make you watch as your daughter suffers the consequences of your refusal.”
Harry's blood ran cold as the leader’s meaning sank in. His worst fear was being realized — the one thing he’d been trying to protect them from all along. His eyes darted to Lily Jr., her face pale, her lips trembling as she looked back at him, the terror in her eyes impossible to miss.
The leader, sensing Harry's hesitation, leaned closer, his voice low and threatening.
“Do I need to make myself clearer, Potter?” he asked, his hand tightening around Lily Jr.’s arm. “Answer me, or she’ll be the one to suffer. I will make sure of it.”
Harry’s mind reeled. Every instinct told him to fight, to protect Lily, but he knew deep down that if he didn’t act, they would only escalate their threats. Harry had seen enough violence in his life to understand how it worked — this wasn’t just about the Stone anymore. It was about breaking him. About breaking his family.
His thoughts raced, trying to come up with a solution, but in that moment, he knew there was only one way to stop them from harming Lily.
“I’ll do it,” Harry said, his voice tight with forced calm. He couldn’t look at his daughter anymore; he couldn’t bear to see the fear in her eyes. His heart was breaking, but he had no choice. He had to protect them, no matter what it cost him.
The leader’s smile returned, sinister and victorious. He gave a slight nod to his companion, who quickly moved to pour the Veritaserum into Harry’s mouth. Harry resisted the urge to gag as the bitter liquid burned its way down his throat.
The world seemed to tilt as the potion worked its magic, and Harry’s mind instantly began to cloud over, clarity slipping away from him.
He knew he had mere moments of lucidity left before the truth potion fully took hold. He had to hold on, fight against it as long as he could.
But the leader wasn’t finished.
“You see, Potter,” the leader said, his voice sickeningly sweet, “truth is a beautiful thing, isn’t it? It brings clarity. It makes everything so much simpler. But I think you’ll find that the truth about your little family... well, it’s not something you want to be honest about.”
Harry tried to focus, to keep his grip on reality, but the potion’s effects were beginning to overwhelm him.
“Tell me,” the leader continued, his voice a low murmur, “where is the Resurrection Stone? I know you have it. I know you’ve kept it hidden.”
Harry’s mind clouded even more. The words felt like they were rising in his throat, but he fought against them with every ounce of his being. If he told them anything, it would be the end — they would have everything they needed to finish what they started.
But then, the leader’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharper than before. “Or perhaps,” he said, a sick grin spreading across his face, “perhaps you’d prefer I show you how serious I am about getting what I want.”
His grip on Lily tightened once more, and Harry saw the terror in her eyes escalate. The leader's meaning was unmistakable. He wasn’t just threatening to use her as leverage — he intended to harm her.
Harry’s thoughts became a blur as the truth potion dug deeper into his mind. The fear for his daughter, the hopelessness of the situation, and the terror of what was about to happen all fused into a single, unbearable weight.
With great effort, Harry forced himself to speak, even as the words felt like they were being dragged from him.
“I… I don’t know where the Resurrection Stone is,” Harry’s voice trembled. “I swear to you, I don’t have it.”
The leader’s eyes narrowed, and his hand went to the wand at his belt.
“You will tell me,” he growled. "Or I'll take my chances with your family."
Harry’s head spun as the Veritaserum took deeper hold, twisting his thoughts and blurring his ability to discern truth from lie. Every word he wanted to speak felt like a battle, but he was still clinging to his resolve.
He could feel the pressure of the truth serum, like it was squeezing the very life out of him, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep his mind clear. The leader’s wicked smile widened as he waited for Harry’s response, the room thick with the tension of the moments before the truth would spill out.
But Harry wouldn’t let that happen.
The weight of his children's lives, the lives of his family, and the entire Wizarding world rested on his ability to deceive — to protect them. He had to lie. And in that moment, the lies flooded his mind, fueled by a deep, protective instinct that he would do anything, anything to save them.
His lips parted, though every fiber of his being screamed to resist.
“The Resurrection Stone,” Harry spoke slowly, the words feeling unnatural, like a foreign force had taken hold of him, “It’s hidden in Albania.”
The leader’s eyes narrowed, his gaze calculating. Harry could see a flicker of doubt in the man's eyes, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he nodded slowly, as though savoring the confession.
“Albania,” he repeated, almost to himself. “Interesting. We’ll have to check that. Thank you, Potter.”The tension in the room was thick, and Harry could feel the strain of the Veritaserum gnawing at his mind. It was an exhausting, insidious thing — every part of him wanting to shout, to scream the truth, but every instinct telling him to hold fast, to lie. To protect.
The leader, satisfied for the moment, stepped forward again, his eyes cold and calculating. His words were slow and deliberate, as if savoring the power he held over Harry.
“You’ve been so helpful, Potter,” the leader said, voice dripping with mockery. “But there’s still much more to discuss. We need more details. How long has the Resurrection Stone been in hiding? How did you acquire it?”
Harry’s stomach turned, the Veritaserum’s effects making him feel like his every word was being dragged from him. But he forced himself to breathe, to steady himself. He could lie. He had to lie.
“I didn’t acquire it,” Harry lied, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “It’s been hidden for centuries. I’m not the one who found it. It’s been passed down through history. And as for how long it’s been in hiding — longer than you’d ever imagine. No one’s ever had a chance to find it.”
The leader’s eyes flashed, his face momentarily flicking with uncertainty, but Harry held his ground. He couldn’t let them know he was lying. They couldn’t know the truth.
“Albania,” Harry added, almost as if confirming his earlier statement, pushing the lie even further. “It’s been hidden there for centuries. No one’s bothered to look.”
For a moment, the leader seemed to mull over the information, weighing the truth — or the lie, as it were. Harry didn’t know how long he could keep up the deception, but he was counting on the leader believing it. He was counting on his desperation.
The leader took a deep breath, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Albania, hm?” he mused. “Interesting. I’ll look into it. But you’re right, Potter. You have been… quite helpful.”
Harry felt the weight of the potion lifting slightly, though he knew it was only temporary. The longer he could stall, the better his chances of keeping his family safe. The leader seemed satisfied for now, turning to his companion to give him a silent command. The atmosphere in the room was tense, but Harry noticed a subtle shift — a small, subtle sign that the leader might be ready to leave.
The leader hadn’t even taken a full step before he paused, his hand tightening on his wand. “No,” he said flatly, turning back to Harry. “It’s too convenient. Too well-prepared.” His lips curled. “You’re buying time.”
Harry didn’t move.
The leader gave a short, sharp nod to the intruder standing closest to Hermione. The man stepped forward instantly, raising his wand.
“Let’s see how long your story holds when others are questioned.”
“No!” Harry’s voice cracked like a whip. “I’m not lying.”
“Then you won’t mind answering more.”
He stalked toward Harry again. “If you hid the stone in Albania—when did you go there? What year? What spells did you use to guard it? Who saw you leave the country?”
The Veritaserum was pulsing harder now, like a second heartbeat in his skull. It pushed him to speak—but Occlumency, years of training, and raw willpower made every word feel like walking through fire.
“Two years after the war,” Harry rasped. “I—went alone. Portkeyed to Montenegro and crossed by broom.”
“And the spells?”
“Concealment charms. Protective enchantments keyed to my blood. No one can retrieve it unless I’m there.”
He caught Ginny’s eye, just briefly. Her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
“Why didn’t you destroy it?” the leader asked.
“I tried,” Harry said. “But the stone doesn’t respond to destruction. It’s part of the Hallows—it resists any kind of magical dismantling. You’d know that if you’d ever held it.”
The leader’s mouth twitched. His eyes burned with the ache of obsession. “Have you used it since?”
“No.” That was the truth. That was safe.
Silence hung for a long, taut moment.
Then the leader turned again, this time toward Sirius and Remus, who were sitting close to the fireplace, bound like the others. “Let’s test Potter’s story, shall we?”
Harry’s stomach dropped. “Don’t.”
“Oh, but I must,” the man said silkily. “We’ll begin with the ones who’ve already returned. Let’s see if they remember any kind of magic dragging them back.”
He stopped in front of Sirius, whose grey eyes stared back defiantly. “How did you return?” the leader asked.
“I don’t bloody know,” Sirius snapped. “I woke up in a Ministry holding room wearing robes two decades too late.”
“Convenient.”
“You want an explanation, try reading a book instead of torturing families.”
The masked man took a slow step back from Sirius, then pivoted with a predator’s grace toward Ginny, again.
“I think we’ve heard enough half-truths for now,” he said, his voice falsely pleasant. “Let’s try something simpler. Something... familial.”
Ginny’s eyes, hard and defiant, locked with his as he stopped in front of her. She sat rigidly beside Lily Jr., her hand still resting protectively across her daughter's arm.
“You’re his wife,” the man said. “The mother of his children. You expect me to believe Harry Potter doesn’t tell you everything?”
Ginny didn’t blink. “He tells me what I need to know.”
“Oh, come now,” the man sneered, lowering his face slightly. “A couple like you—so passionate, so legendary. Surely he shared the secret of the stone in the quiet of night? Over tea? In passing?”
“No.” Ginny’s voice was even. “I don’t know anything about the stone. I never have.”
His hand flicked, and her chair jolted upright magically, standing her almost nose-to-nose with him. He studied her expression, searching for any falter.
Ginny didn't give him one.
Behind him, Harry struggled against his bindings, chest heaving.
“She’s telling the truth!” he shouted, voice hoarse. “She doesn't know anything. I’ve never—never told her!”
But the man didn’t turn around.
“Tell me again, Mrs Potter,” he said, voice low now, oily. “Where is the stone?”
“I. Don’t. Know.”
A beat of silence. Then he raised his wand slowly and pointed it at Lily Jr.
“You’re lying.”
“No!” Ginny shouted, instinctively stepping forward—only for magical chains to snap taut around her ankles. “Please, she’s just a child—she doesn't know anything—”
“And neither do you,” the man said, clearly not believing a word.
He turned back to Harry. “You see what your stubbornness costs, Potter? Lies have weight. And yours are growing heavier.”
The masked man turned away from Ginny with a dismissive wave of his wand, sending her crashing back into her seat. She winced but didn't cry out. Harry's shout of protest was cut off by another jab of a wand to his ribs.
The leader walked slowly now, deliberately, as if savoring the next move. His eyes found James Sirius Potter, broader across the shoulders, his jaw clenched tight.
“You,” he said, voice slick with disdain and mock amusement. “The firstborn. The heir.”
James didn’t flinch.
The man crouched in front of him. “You work in the Ministry, don’t you? Magical Law Enforcement, if I remember correctly.”
James stared at him.
“Oh, come now,” the intruder murmured. “Don’t be shy. I know all about your tidy cubicle, your spotless service record, your little bursts of rebellion. Surely Daddy has confided something to you.”
James’s lips curled into a sneer. “I know you’re all cowards, hiding behind masks. That’s something he taught me.”
The leader laughed, but it was cold. “Bravado. Just like your mother.”
He stood up and raised his wand slowly, letting the tip hover in front of James’s chest. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not yet. But I am going to ask you some very simple questions, and if you give me the wrong answers…”
He looked over his shoulder at Lily, who had gone pale, her fists clenched in her lap.
James’s jaw tightened.
“Where is the Resurrection Stone?” the man asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe your father never mentioned it?”
“I expect you to believe that if he did, I’d still tell you to go to hell.”
There was a pause. Something flickered behind the mask.
Then—CRACK!
The sound of the slap echoed through the room as the leader struck James hard across the face. Ginny cried out. Ron stood halfway up before being forced down again.
James, head turned, spat blood to the side. “Was that supposed to scare me?”
The man lowered his wand and smiled. “No. That was just to remind you who’s asking the questions.”
He turned now, slowly surveying the room again.
The masked man turned back to Harry, who sat rigid in the conjured chair, his hands bound and face still bloodied from the earlier blow. The air inside the Burrow felt thick now — heavy with tension and the growing roar of rain outside. It pounded the roof like a war drum. Wind howled down the chimney.
“We’ve been very patient, Potter,” the leader said, slowly pacing in front of him again. “But you’re testing our mercy.”
He flicked his wand, and Albus — still held at wandpoint — was forced to his knees. The rain lashed at the windows behind them, casting watery shadows on the floor.
“Maybe your lies wouldn’t matter,” the man went on, “if your son’s life weren’t hanging on the thread of your honesty.”
Harry’s breath caught. The cold knot in his stomach twisted tighter. He had faced death before. He had faced Voldemort. But this—this was worse. This was watching his son on the edge of being snuffed out, and knowing there was nothing he could do without risking everyone else in the room.
“You said the Stone was in Albania,” the leader said, eyes narrowing. “But the Dark Lord searched there. Extensively. You expect us to believe he missed it?”
Harry met his eyes, forcing every ounce of steadiness into his voice. “He was looking for something else then — not the Hallows. The Stone was hidden there long before even he was born.”
The intruder didn't look convinced. “Where exactly in Albania?”
Harry hesitated, as if calculating. “The Accursed Valley, near the Black Cliffs. South of the ruined fortress where he once hid.”
A beat. Then two.
The leader didn’t speak. He simply turned his head toward his companion — the one standing behind Albus — and gave a single, curt nod.
“No!” Ginny cried out, surging to her feet. “Please—!”
The second intruder raised their wand.
“No spells!” Harry shouted. “Wait—wait—wait!”
Thunder cracked outside. A burst of wind rattled the shutters.
The leader raised a gloved hand, stopping the execution just before it began. “We’ve heard enough vague mythology,” he said. “We want specifics, Potter. Coordinates. Maps. Names.”
Harry’s mind raced, but it was clear now — the lie was unraveling.
“You kill him,” he said hoarsely, “and you’ll never find it. Because I’m the only one who knows.”
The intruder studied him a long moment.The masked leader’s eyes bored into Harry as the silence stretched on, the rain outside now battering the windows, a relentless storm that matched the cold tension in the room.
“What exactly was the Dark Lord searching for, if not the Resurrection Stone?” the leader asked, his voice dripping with impatience. He was standing just a few feet away now, eyes glinting behind the mask. “Answer me, Potter. We don’t have all day.”
Harry’s chest tightened, his mind scrambling to hold onto the fragments of his defenses. The Veritaserum still had a grip on him, but his thoughts were clouded — fragments of his past, his training, everything fighting against the truth that threatened to spill out.
He gritted his teeth, trying to push back against the compulsion to tell the truth. But his lips parted before he could stop himself.
“The Dark Lord,” Harry said through gritted teeth, “he was searching for the Diadem of Ravenclaw. He thought it would give him the power he needed to be immortal. It was one of the Horcruxes.”
A gasp passed through the room, and Harry didn’t dare look at anyone else — he couldn’t. His head was swimming. His mind raced, searching for an escape, but the potion was relentless, clawing at the edges of his thoughts.
“The Horcrux?” the leader repeated, voice low and dangerous. “And where is it, Potter? What have you done with it?”
Harry swallowed hard. This time, he didn’t even hesitate. “I... I don’t know. It was destroyed.”
The words tasted like ash in his mouth. He felt a pang of guilt, but the lie came out before he could stop it.
The leader stared at him for a long moment. His eyes narrowed, trying to read the truth through the haze of Veritaserum.
“You’re lying,” he said slowly. “You know what happened to it.”
Harry clenched his jaw, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat in his temples. “I swear I don’t know,” he said, forcing the words through his teeth. “It was destroyed. It was the only way.”
The leader’s gaze flickered momentarily, and he turned away from Harry, pacing slowly. The others in the room remained still, waiting for their next orders.
“We’ll see about that,” the leader muttered to himself, before his gaze returned to Harry. “Now, tell me about the Diadem. Where did you last see it?”
Harry’s mind screamed. He knew they wouldn’t believe him. He had to think faster, find a way to mislead them again.
“I... I was going to hand it over to the Ministry,” Harry said, his voice strained. “But I couldn’t... I couldn’t risk it being used again. It was dangerous.”
“Is that so?” The leader’s voice grew colder, like a blade being drawn across steel. “And who exactly did you think you were protecting? Yourself? Or the rest of the world?”
Harry didn’t answer. His thoughts were muddled — he was too far gone, the Veritaserum working its way through his defenses.
The leader leaned closer, his face still half-hidden by the mask, but his eyes gleamed with a wicked hunger for more answers.
“I can tell when you're lying, Potter,” he said, voice low. “So, if you're not telling the truth there are 10 other people here who can.”
And Harry—fighting the magic, fighting the memories that surged up—felt the weight of his next words fall heavily into the air.
Harry shifted slightly in the chair, careful not to draw attention. His wrists, bound tightly behind him with magical rope, were beginning to go numb, but he welcomed the pain—it kept him alert, reminded him of what was at stake.
Across the room, the masked leader had turned his attention to Ron, who was glaring up at him with defiance etched into every line of his face. “Mr Weasley,” the leader said, circling him like a hawk, “surely you know more than you let on. You were with Potter through it all, weren't you? You must know where the artefacts ended up.”
Ron didn’t respond.
“I asked you a question,” the leader said, louder this time, raising his wand.
Harry took a deep breath through his nose, forcing himself to remain still as he focused his energy inward. It had been years since he’d seriously practiced wandless magic—it was volatile, unpredictable, and required immense concentration. But he didn’t need much. Just enough.
His fingers flexed. He began to twist them slightly, murmuring silently in his mind. Alohomora… not on the lock, but the weave… It wasn’t a spell in the usual sense. It was more like unpicking a magical knot—thread by thread, until the pressure loosened.
Nothing happened.
He kept going.
The magical rope resisted. It was enchanted with layers of obedience spells, probably something old and nasty out of Knockturn Alley. He felt sweat bead on the back of his neck as he pushed harder, ignoring the sting of resistance, the sharp jolt running through his arms as if the spell was biting back.
Then—a flicker. Just one thread loosened. The binding was still there, but now he could feel a sliver of air between his left wrist and the cord. Not much, but something.
Harry kept his face composed, eyes locked on Ron as if he too were just another terrified witness. But inside, his heart pounded. If I can undo one more strand, I might be able to slip a hand free…
The leader was growing impatient. “Well, Mr Weasley?” he asked again. “Do you want your wife to live long enough to see grandchildren?”
Hermione flinched. Ginny let out a low sound—half warning, half threat.
Ron spat on the floor. “You really think I’d tell you anything? You don’t know a bloody thing about us.”
The intruder raised his wand.
Harry’s fingers curled tighter. Just one more thread…
But then a sharp knock at the Burrow’s front door shattered the silence like a curse.
Everyone froze.
The rain had thickened into a roar, battering the windows, and the wind howled like a creature denied entry. The intruders stiffened, their eyes flicking to one another beneath their masks. Wands twitched.
The leader turned, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He was enjoying this.
“Miss Potter,” he said silkily, as though asking her to fetch a cup of tea. “Would you be so kind?”
Lily Jr. blinked. “What?”
“To answer the door.” His voice hardened, just slightly. “Now.”
“No,” Ginny said immediately, rising slightly from where she sat, her arms instinctively shielding both her children. “She’s a child.”
“She’s perfect,” the leader replied. “Young. Harmless. A familiar face to any well-meaning visitor. Unless...” he tilted his head. “You’d like me to greet them instead?”
No one moved. James Jr.’s fists clenched beside her. Albus whimpered softly—he was still on his knees, the wand pressed to his throat unrelenting. Harry's heart was pounding so loud it threatened to deafen him.
“Marcus,” the leader said to the nearest masked man. “Go with her. Make sure she doesn’t try anything clever.”
James Jr. shouted, “Don’t touch her—!”
The man moved fast, jamming his wand at James’s ribs.
Harry’s jaw tightened. His bindings were almost undone now, just a few strands of magical rope clinging to his wrists. He met Lily’s eyes across the room—wide, glassy, terrified.
Don’t be reckless. Don’t run. Not yet. Please.
Lily stood. Her limbs trembled, but she didn’t cry. She walked slowly to the hallway, the intruder close on her heels.
Then the house went deathly quiet—nothing but the thrum of rain, the whisper of boots on floorboards, the faint creak of the front door opening—
CRACK.
A flash of blue light. A scream.
Then chaos.
The front door exploded inward. Wind and water roared into the Burrow. Shouts rang out—some guttural, some incantations. Beams of red and gold light ricocheted through the hall.
“DOWN!” someone screamed.
Harry surged to his feet, the last of the magical bonds ripping from his arms. In a blink, he was moving—shielding Ginny, dragging Albus away from the stunned captor, yelling to James, “Get your sister!”
Aurors flooded in—three, four, five of them, cloaked and soaked and armed. One tackled an intruder straight through the kitchen doorway. Another threw up a protective barrier as hexes flew wild.
Through the maelstrom, Harry saw her—Lily, dashing into the storm, barefoot and bleeding. One intruder chased after her, but was intercepted mid-run by a blasting curse that sent him flying into a tree.
“Secure the room!” someone barked. “They’ve got hostages!”
The leader snarled and turned his wand on Hermione—only to be slammed from the side by Ron, who had broken free in the confusion. They crashed into the fireplace, toppling a vase and knocking over the logs.
Harry was already moving—disarming the nearest attacker with wandless magic and catching his wand midair.
No one noticed the leader disappear in the smoke.
But Harry didn't care, he sprinted into the storm.
The wand—not his, but familiar enough—was warm in his hand, and the chill in the air had nothing to do with the rain. The Burrow’s garden was a blur of shadows and flickering wandlight from dueling Aurors, but Harry had eyes for only one thing.
“LILY!” he shouted, his voice lost in the thunder.
No answer. Just the rain, the wind, and—
His breath caught.
A wave of cold swept over him, unnatural and sudden. It clawed at his lungs, pressed on his bones. The air turned heavy. His vision blurred.
Then he saw them.
Gliding through the mist, over the field that once held family Quidditch matches, came three black figures. Tall, cloaked, formless, sucking the warmth from the world around them. Dementors.
“No—”
Harry's voice trembled with rage as he raised the wand.
“Expecto Patronum!”
A blinding streak of silver erupted from the tip—more powerful than he’d managed in years. It took shape midair: the great stag, proud and fierce, leaping forward with a silent bellow of defiance. It charged the Dementors, antlers gleaming.
They recoiled instantly, drifting back, then retreating into the sky as if yanked by invisible threads.
Harry gasped in the sudden warmth the Patronus left behind. He staggered forward.
“Lily!” he called again, louder now, his voice cracking. “Where are you?”
He scanned the fields. The orchard. The fence. The darkness.
But she was gone.
The rain kept falling. The stag shimmered at his side like a guardian spirit, but its presence did little to calm the ice rising in Harry’s chest.
Not again, he thought. Not this time.
Harry didn’t care about the shouting behind him, the spells, the scrambling Aurors or the fleeing intruders. They were noise, irrelevant. All he could hear was the thunder of his heart and the echo of his daughter’s name in his head.
He searched the edge of the fields, slipped in the mud more than once, calling, calling—
And then he saw it.
The old pond near the far end of the property—shallow in summer, but now swollen and wild from the storm. Its banks had overflowed, the water black and churning. Debris floated on the surface—twigs, leaves, something pale—
No.
Harry rushed toward it, ignoring the branches slapping at his face. His boots sank into the sodden earth. Rain lashed his back.
He dropped to his knees at the edge of the pond, eyes scanning, breath caught in his throat.
Then—something—a flash of red.
“Lily,” he breathed.
And without hesitation, he plunged in.
The water was freezing. It clawed at his skin, dragged at his limbs. He dove under, his wand gripped between his teeth, eyes wide open against the sting. He swam deeper, searching, reaching—
“Harry!” a voice screamed behind him. “HARRY!”
Ginny.
He heard her even underwater, or maybe just felt her voice in his bones. But he didn’t stop.
The water was freezing—ice-cold, each breath a shudder, each stroke harder than the last. Harry’s muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored them. His focus was only on one thing: Lily.
The pond was deeper than he’d realized. The swirling black water seemed endless, a dangerous expanse beneath the storm. His fingers brushed against debris—rocks, sticks, plants—until, finally, he felt the cold, soft weight of her.
His heart leapt into his throat. He grabbed her—her long red hair tangled in the weeds beneath the water, her limbs limp.
"Lily!" he shouted, but his voice barely rose above the roar of the storm.
With his breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps, Harry pulled her to him, his fingers slipping against her clothes as he tried to disentangle her from the grip of the weeds. Every second felt like an eternity. His head spun with panic, and the cold wrapped around him like chains, each movement slower, more exhausting.
He kicked his legs, dragging her toward the bank. The water clawed at them both, fighting him, but Harry wasn’t about to let it win.
Finally, with a grunt of effort, he managed to pull them both to the edge of the pond. Her body was lifeless in his arms, her chest still, no rise and fall of breath. The weight of it crushed his chest, and for a moment, his mind went blank with fear. He could hear Ginny calling his name from the shore, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from his daughter’s pale, waterlogged face.
Breathe, Lily. Please…
He laid her down quickly, his hands trembling. The storm still raged above them, but it felt like the world was holding its breath. He pressed his hand to her chest, searching for any sign of life. Nothing.
The panic that had been brewing in his gut exploded. His hands were shaking uncontrollably as he took out his wand, the words of the spell coming out hoarse and frantic.
"Enervate!"
Nothing.
"Come on, come on—" Harry muttered, his voice breaking as he tried again, each movement desperate, the world around him a blur of rain and fury.
He had to do something. Anything.
His voice cracked as he shouted again, "Enervate!" But the spell just seemed to hang in the air, unanswered. His heart was hammering in his chest as he bent down over her, pressing his hands to her chest in a desperate attempt to get her to breathe.
"Lily!" Harry’s voice shook as he leaned down, his forehead touching hers.
In the quiet that followed, he heard Ginny calling from the edge, her voice thick with emotion.
"Lily, please," Harry whispered. He didn’t know how long he had left. He couldn’t fail her now.
And then, as though the world itself had finally taken pity on him, Lily gasped.
A jagged, wet breath.
Harry’s eyes snapped open as she coughed, choking up water. Her body jerked as she coughed again, her chest rising and falling, her limbs twitching as if her body was struggling to adjust to life again.
Lily’s eyes flickered open, glazed and confused. She looked up at Harry, barely registering his frantic face.
“Dad…” Her voice was barely a whisper, raw and strained.
Harry collapsed beside her, his body heavy with relief, but his hands still shaking as he gently cradled her head. “Lily... you’re okay, you’re okay.”
For a moment, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold her, feeling her breath come back, slow and steady.
But as the storm raged on, Harry knew the fight wasn’t over. Not yet.
As Harry held Lily in his arms, relief flooding through him in waves, he barely registered the footsteps until he saw Ginny approaching, her wet hair clinging to her face, her eyes filled with worry. But there was something else too—a figure trailing behind her, tall and authoritative.
The man was wearing deep red robes, the kind Harry had worn in the past when he’d been a part of the Ministry's Auror division. The robes were pristine despite the rain, and a charm seemed to shield him from the worst of the storm, leaving him almost untouched by the downpour. Harry didn’t care what the man said or who he was. His focus remained on Lily, his mind a blur of panic, fury, and desperation.
Ginny reached them first, her hands immediately going to Lily's soaked form, relief washing over her face as she knelt down next to Harry. "Lily," she breathed, her voice breaking, but she looked up at Harry with a sharpness he recognized—an edge to her that told him she was ready for whatever came next.
But the man behind her stepped forward, his presence somehow taking up more space than it should.
“We need to get her to St. Mungo's,” Ginny said quickly, her voice filled with authority. “She’s been through enough, she needs medical attention.”
But the man, his face pinched and stern, held up a hand and shook his head.
“No, Mrs. Potter,” he said, his tone cold and formal. "Before anything else, we need to take her statement. We need to know what happened. It’s procedure."
Harry’s blood ran cold at the words. Procedure. This was exactly what he feared—bureaucracy and red tape, getting in the way of everything, even now, when his daughter was still trembling in his arms. The rain beat down harder, but he hardly noticed it.
“What?” Ginny spat, her voice rising. “Are you serious? My daughter is barely conscious, and you want a statement?”
The man didn’t back down. “The Ministry requires it. We need details on the attack and the perpetrators for the investigation. No exceptions.”
Ginny’s eyes flashed dangerously. The storm seemed to mirror her rising fury as she stood and turned to face him, her face flushed with anger. “Your investigation can wait,” she snapped. “She needs help now.”
The man stood his ground, but Harry could see his shoulders stiffening.
“That’s enough!” Ginny hissed, her fist tightening by her side. Without warning, she stepped forward and—before anyone could stop her—she punched him squarely in the jaw.
The impact was sharp, and for a brief, stunning moment, the man stumbled back, his hand going instinctively to his face. Ginny’s chest heaved as she stared him down, fury and worry etched into her expression.
Harry couldn’t help but let out a breath of disbelief—Ginny had always been fierce, but this... this was something else. His heart ached for his daughter, but in this moment, he was so damn proud of Ginny.
The man recovered quickly, his face hardening, but he didn’t attempt to retaliate. Instead, he straightened up, eyes narrowing at Ginny.
“You’ll regret that,” he said, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “You should be cooperating. We have all the power here, you know.”
But Ginny didn’t flinch. “If you think for one second that we’ll cooperate with you while our daughter is fighting for her life—you’re gravely mistaken,” she said, her voice cutting through the air with a finality that sent a chill down Harry’s spine.
The man opened his mouth to argue, but something about Ginny’s cold, furious gaze shut him down. Without another word, he stepped back, his hand twitching as if he wanted to draw his wand—but he didn’t.
Harry didn’t care for his threats, nor the formalities the Ministry was trying to enforce. What mattered now was Lily, and getting her to safety.
“We’re going to St. Mungo’s,” Harry said, his voice low and dangerous, standing to his feet, still holding Lily. "Now."
Ginny nodded in agreement, her hands shaking but resolute. She looked back at the man, but this time there was no hesitation in her eyes. “If you try to stop us again,” she warned, “I won’t hesitate to make sure you regret it.”
The man, realizing he was in no position to argue any longer, stepped aside. Harry didn’t wait for another moment. He turned, walking toward the Apparition point with Ginny by his side, still holding Lily close, her life still so fragile in his arms.
As they moved away, the storm raged on, but for the first time in what felt like hours, Harry could finally feel a sense of movement—of control. It wasn’t over. But they were going to fight. They always would.
Notes:
My country is being attacked and their are many blackouts with no electricity so I'm not getting much time to write and edit...
Thankyou for being patient ❤️❤️
Chapter 36: Beneath the Quiet Rage
Chapter Text
The storm had quieted, but not in his chest.
Rain still fell in lazy sheets outside the broken windows of the Burrow. Inside, the air reeked of scorched wood, old magic, and fear. Half the living room furniture had been shattered in the scuffle. One of the curtains was still on fire until someone had finally remembered to douse it.
Albus sat on the floor, knees to his chest, his clothes damp and stained with mud. His wrists were raw from magical bindings, but he barely noticed. He kept watching the door, waiting for someone to come back with news about his sister. About his dad. About anything that would make sense of this.
A Healer had already looked him over, made him sip something bitter and numbing. An Auror had jotted down a few basic questions. He answered them in a daze. Amanda. The forest. The wand at his back. The walk. The Burrow. Everything blurred into itself.
He barely registered the soft tap of boots on the floorboards behind him.
"Mr. Potter," a voice said. Smooth. Cold. Familiar.
Albus turned slowly to see the new Head Auror—Dunlop’s man. The red robes looked freshly cleaned, as if he hadn’t been part of a near-hostage crisis. He looked at Albus with a curious neutrality that chilled him more than outright malice.
“We’ve taken initial statements,” the man said, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “There’s a rather... clear trail forming. The intruders knew the Burrow’s layout. Its protections. And, crucially, they knew exactly when your family would all be gathered here.”
Albus blinked. His heart thudded.
“What?” he said, his voice low and dry. “Are you—?”
“You brought someone here,” the Head Auror interrupted calmly. “A Muggle-raised witch with no Ministry clearance. Amanda Rourke.”
“She wasn’t—” Albus started, anger bubbling to the surface, “—I didn’t know she—she tricked me—!”
The Auror raised a hand. “Intentional or not, the consequences remain. You left the wards. You re-entered with her. Within the hour, multiple armed attackers breached the Burrow’s protections. You’re not a child, Mr. Potter. And more importantly, you're not above the law.”
Albus stood up, heat rising in his cheeks.
“You think this is my fault?”
“I don’t think,” the Auror said evenly. “I follow facts. And as of this moment, by order of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, under the authorization of Acting Minister Dunlop, you are under arrest for the unlawful transmission of confidential magical knowledge leading to the compromise of a protected site.”
Albus stared at him.
“You’re serious.”
“Quite.”
“You want to blame me for the attack on my family?”
The Auror didn’t blink. “You’ll be granted a hearing. Until then, we’ll require your wand and your cooperation.”
The moment the words left the Head Auror’s mouth the room seemed to erupt.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ron roared, stepping forward despite the bruises still lining his face.
“You can’t be serious!” Hermione snapped, her voice shrill with disbelief. “He’s a victim! We all are!”
George swore loudly, drawing himself up to his full height, fists clenched. “You Ministry lot always did have your heads so far up your—”
“Enough!” the Head Auror barked, his voice cold and sharp as steel. “This is not a debate. The decision stands. This is a Ministry matter.”
“You’re standing in my house,” Molly shouted, her voice rising with a fury that hadn’t been heard in years. “And you dare accuse my grandson of this after what just happened here?”
Angelina, holding a soaked cloak around her shoulders, looked ready to lunge. “My family nearly died. And now you’re going to blame Albus—?”
“Don’t,” Bill growled, his eyes trained on the Head Auror like a hawk, “don’t you dare put this on him.”
But the Auror didn’t flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge them. His gaze was locked on Albus alone.
“I understand emotions are running high,” he said, voice syrupy and diplomatic, “but this is not a family matter. This is an issue of national security. And Mr. Potter will have his say—at the proper time, in front of the Wizengamot.”
Albus stood frozen. He’d thought he was already exhausted. Empty. But now something else coiled in his chest — something tighter. This wasn’t just a betrayal. This was strategy.
Dunlop wasn’t just sending a message to Harry.
He was sending one to all of them.
The cold snap of the magical cuffs around Albus’s wrists felt worse than any spell — not because of pain, but because of what they meant. Two Aurors flanked him, their expressions unreadable under the hoods of their rain-drenched cloaks. The Head Auror gave a curt nod, and the group began to move toward the door.
“No. No, this is wrong,” Hermione said, rushing after them. Her hair was wild, her eyes blazing. “I’m going with him.”
Bill stepped forward too, face grim. “So am I.”
“I still work in the Department of Magical Law,” Percy added, voice tight, controlled — but his ears were red, the only sign of his fury. “And if you think I’ll let this sham process happen without oversight, think again.”
The Head Auror barely acknowledged them, only muttered, “You’ll need clearance.”
“You’ll get it,” Hermione snapped, already reaching for her enchanted handbag.
The rain had not let up. As they stepped outside, the sky above the Burrow poured like it was mourning something. The fields were a swamp. In the distance, the lights of emergency transport flickered as Healers rushed back and forth.
Inside the house, James stood frozen beside George and Ron, jaw clenched, powerless. The warmth of the kitchen fire did nothing against the chill that had crept into all of them.
Miles away, Ginny sat beside Lily’s bed at St Mungo’s, brushing damp hair from her daughter’s pale face with trembling hands. Harry hadn’t spoken in minutes. He just stood at the window, soaked clothes clinging to him, wand still in hand, staring out into the night as if he could still see the Burrow from there — as if he could do something to stop what was happening.
But he couldn’t. Not yet.
Because they hadn’t just attacked the Burrow.
They were dismantling the Potters, piece by piece.
***
The Ministry of Magic had never felt colder.
Even as he was marched through the main Atrium — once golden, once filled with bustling witches and wizards, laughter, and the comforting clatter of daily life — Albus felt the change. The banners were now deep crimson instead of royal blue, stamped with the Dunlop seal: an angular hawk clutching a lightning bolt in its talons. Everything had an edge to it now. The fireplaces that once gleamed with green Floo flames burned a sterile white. The scent of parchment was replaced by something metallic, clinical.
The Aurors didn’t speak. They walked him straight past the security desk, past the new wand checkpoint, and into a lift that whirred far too quietly.
Down.
He didn’t ask where they were taking him. He already knew.
***
Back at the Burrow, the aftermath still lingered like smoke after a fire.
The front door had been sealed, the floor cleaned of scorched marks and rainwater, and everyone huddled together in the kitchen, where Molly had laid out untouched cups of tea.
“I can't—” Molly’s voice cracked as she finally sat, her eyes red-rimmed. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”
“Mum, don’t—” George tried gently, but she cut him off.
“They came into my home,” she whispered, voice trembling. “With wands, with masks — they could’ve killed him. Any of them. My grandchildren—!”
George was pacing, fists clenching and unclenching. Ron stood by the window, shoulders rigid, arms folded. “We should tell Harry,” he said at last. “He needs to know.”
“No,” Fleur said immediately, biting her lip. “He’s still at St Mungo’s. Lily’s just stable — if we tell him now, he’ll walk out of the hospital, kill half the Auror Office and get himself locked up.”
“But he’s his father,” James said quietly. “And Albus didn’t do anything.”
“They’re trying to make him look like a leak,” James jr muttered darkly. “Blame him for what happened. Classic Dunlop tactics. Create chaos, then use it to isolate and control.”
“And what if we wait too long?” Molly whispered. “What if they hurt him before we say a word?”
A long silence followed.
“I’ll go,” Teddy said suddenly. “To the hospital. I’ll be the one to tell Harry.”
No one stopped him. Because everyone in that room — no matter how scared they were, no matter how broken — knew one thing:
Harry Potter was about to go to war.
***
The echo of Harry’s boots against the polished marble floors of the Ministry was the only sound as he marched down the corridor — his robes soaked from the rain, clinging to his shoulders, the hem dripping water that left a trail behind him.
He didn’t care.
The two guards flanking the Minister's office recognized him immediately, but the look in his eyes made them step aside without a word.
Harry didn’t knock. He slammed the door open with his wand, the heavy oak banging against the wall so hard the portraits inside trembled in their frames.
Cyril Dunlop was sitting behind the Minister’s desk, his signature crimson cravat immaculate, sipping something dark from a glass tumbler. A lit fireplace cast dancing shadows across his sharp features.
“Potter,” he said mildly, as though greeting an unexpected guest at a dinner party. “I was wondering when you'd arrive.”
Harry didn’t sit. His wand was in his hand, shaking slightly — not from fear, but from fury. The last time he’d looked like this, Voldemort had still walked the earth.
“Where is my son?” he asked, voice low, dangerously calm.
Dunlop leaned back in his chair and placed his glass down with deliberate care. “Your son,” he said, “is currently under investigation for leaking confidential intelligence to hostile elements. He’s being held in a secured holding facility. Standard procedure.”
Harry stepped forward, the air around him crackling. “You sent Death Eaters into my home. You threatened my children. And now you're framing my son to cover your mess.”
Dunlop raised a brow, unfazed. “Do mind your words, Mr Potter. We don’t want to make this worse than it needs to be.”
Harry took another step, wand still raised. “Let me see him. Now. Or so help me—”
“Or what?” Dunlop stood now, slowly, as if savoring the moment. “You’ll hex the Minister of Magic in his own office? That’s a bold move, even for you.”
Harry’s hand clenched tighter around his wand. Rain was still dripping from his hair. His jaw was set, voice like ice.
“I’ve stared down monsters that were smarter and braver than you, Dunlop,” he said. “You think this office makes you untouchable? You think fear makes you powerful? You have no idea what you’ve just started.”
There was a long pause. Then:
Dunlop smirked. “Then I suppose we’re both about to find out.”
Harry didn’t blink.
His wand remained aimed, unwavering, as the firelight behind Dunlop flickered — casting warped shadows across the back of the Minister’s throne-like chair. The room was heavy with silence, the kind that settled just before something exploded.
“I want to see Albus,” Harry said again, voice low, more a promise than a demand. “Not through glass. Not under Ministry orders. I want him released.”
Dunlop circled his desk slowly, hands clasped behind his back. “It’s touching, really — how you still believe the rules are the same for you as they were twenty years ago.” He stopped in front of Harry, an inch too close. “You resigned, remember? This is my Ministry now.”
Harry’s green eyes burned.
“If anything happens to him…”
Dunlop’s lip curled. “He’s fine. For now. You should be more concerned about your daughter — or haven’t you noticed how close she came to dying tonight? A pity she ran, really. Might’ve spared us all this drama.”
Harry struck.
It wasn’t even a conscious decision. One second, Dunlop was sneering — and the next, his back slammed into the cabinet behind his desk, a thin spray of shattered crystal raining to the floor. Harry’s wand was pressed hard beneath Dunlop’s chin.
The two guards at the door shouted, bursting in — but Dunlop held up a hand, blood trickling down his temple where glass had cut him.
“Stand down!” he barked at them, eyes locked with Harry’s. “Let him finish.”
Harry didn’t flinch.
“Keep pushing,” he said, his voice almost shaking with restraint, “and I swear — you’ll find out exactly what happens when you back me into a corner. You think you're building a new world, but you’re just waking up the old one.”
For a beat, the only sound was their breathing. Dunlop's jaw tightened. His hands were still behind his back, but there was no wand in sight.
Finally, Dunlop spoke through his teeth.
“I’ll authorise supervised access,” he said. “Fifteen minutes. One Auror present. Then he goes back to holding. Until we finish the investigation.”
Harry lowered his wand very slightly. “That’s not enough.”
“It’s what you’ll get — unless you want headlines tomorrow that say ‘Harry Potter Assaults Sitting Minister.’”
Harry stared at him. “Let’s hope you’re still the sitting Minister by then.”
He turned on his heel and stormed out — the doors slamming shut behind him with a noise that echoed through the entire corridor like thunder.
The guards didn’t meet his eye.
***
The walls were cold stone.
Damp, not from water, but from something worse — the stale, heavy breath of a place built for silence. For waiting. For punishment. Albus sat on the bench bolted to the floor, hands still raw from the magical cuffs they'd only recently removed. His wand was gone. His spellphone confiscated. No one had spoken to him in hours.
He wasn’t sure what time it was. Whether it was morning or night. Whether Lily had made it. Whether his dad even knew.
He pulled his knees up to his chest, something childish and embarrassing, but he didn’t care. His throat hurt. There was still dried blood on his collar from when one of the intruders had yanked him back by the neck hard enough to cut skin.
It was my fault.
That phrase kept circling like a hungry bird. He hadn’t seen it coming. Amanda. The walk. The wand. How could he have been so bloody stupid?
And now, he was in here. They thought he’d told them something. That he’d led them to the Burrow. The place where his mother cooked Sunday roast, where Uncle Ron played chess like a man possessed, where Lily teased James into laughter.
He felt like vomiting.
Instead, he curled tighter, forehead against his knees. His mind kept flashing to the second they’d pushed through the door — to his father’s face, the way it had frozen with something primal. To the wand at his neck. And the silence.
The silence of the Burrow being violated.
A metallic creak jolted him — the sound of the door unlocking.
He didn’t move.
Footsteps approached, soft but steady. He didn’t look up until they stopped in front of him.
“Albus.”
He raised his head.
And saw his father standing there.
Wet hair. Cut knuckles. Fire in his eyes.
Albus opened his mouth — but no words came out. Only a thin, rasped breath.
Harry took a single step forward and reached out.
Albus fell into his arms.
The moment Albus leaned into him, all the distance — years of unspoken words, half-understood expectations, the quiet pressure of being Harry Potter’s son — vanished like mist in sunlight.
Harry held him, fiercely. One arm around his back, the other cradling the back of his head, fingers curled protectively in Albus’s damp hair. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t restrained. It was the way a father holds his child when he’s been reminded, brutally, that he could’ve lost him.
Albus didn’t even try to hide the way his shoulders trembled. The shame, the guilt, the fear that had been twisting inside him loosened at the seams. He buried his face in his dad’s robes — smelling rain, smoke, the faint trace of St Mungo’s antiseptic — and felt, for the first time in a long time, like it was safe to break.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Dad, I didn’t know — I didn’t know she wasn’t—”
“Shh.” Harry didn’t let go. “You’re safe now.”
“But they said—” Albus’s voice cracked. “They said it was my fault.”
Harry pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, his own face taut with fury and something deeper — something ancient and parental and unyielding.
“It wasn’t. I know it wasn’t.”
“But—”
“I know, Albus.” His voice was low and sharp like steel. “They’ll answer for it. Every single one of them.”
Something about the way he said it made Albus’s breath catch. His dad — for all his patience, all his fame, all his quiet — had a kind of rage in him that rarely showed. But it was there now, burning cold beneath his skin.
And for the first time, Albus wasn’t afraid of it.
He felt protected.
He felt… like a child in his father’s arms. And for once, he let himself be.
They stayed like that for a while — in the cold, sterile corridor of the Ministry’s holding level, under the flickering sconces enchanted to mimic torchlight. The world outside could be collapsing again, but here, it was just the two of them. Father and son.
Eventually, Harry eased back, brushing Albus’s hair from his forehead like he used to when he was little.
“You’re freezing,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Albus looked down at the floor, the handcuffs now removed but the sensation of them still biting into his skin. “Are they really going to let me go?”
Harry gave a bitter smile. “They don’t have a choice.”
As if on cue, the door clanked open. Hermione stepped inside, face tight with frustration, followed by Percy and Bill, both wearing grim expressions. Behind them, an Auror hovered uncertainly, avoiding Harry’s eyes.
“They’ve cleared him for now,” Hermione said, casting a subtle look toward the Auror. “But we’ll need to challenge the charges formally. Dunlop’s people aren’t done.”
“They’ve started something they won’t be able to finish,” Harry said coldly.
“No.” Hermione’s voice sharpened. “They want you to get angry, Harry. That’s what they’re hoping for. An excuse to paint you as unstable, dangerous. We have to be smart.”
Albus looked between them. “What about Lily? Is she okay?”
Harry exhaled through his nose, nodding. “She’s awake. St Mungo’s is keeping her overnight. She—” His voice caught. “She was asking for you.”
Albus’s face crumpled. “I should’ve protected her.”
“You were a hostage,” Bill said gently, for once not hiding behind rules or protocol. “There was nothing you could have done.”
Hermione came forward and squeezed Albus’s arm. “Let’s get you out of this place. Come on.”
As they moved through the corridors, Harry stayed close to Albus, walking just slightly behind him — not as the great Harry Potter, but as a father who had almost lost his child. His eyes never stopped scanning, even as they passed portraits that turned away, even as the red-robed Aurors averted their gazes. He was memorizing faces. Watching. Waiting.
Because Harry knew something now, something dangerous: they weren’t just being watched.
They were being hunted.
And he would burn down the whole system if he had to — for his family.
***
The Burrow had never felt so fragile.
The rain had stopped, but the aftermath of the attack lingered in every corner of the house. Scorch marks on the floorboards. A shattered teacup under the table no one had picked up. The scent of dueling spells faint in the air like ozone.
When Harry, Hermione, Ron, Percy, and Albus stepped in through the back door, everyone in the house turned. Molly immediately threw her arms around Albus again, sobbing into his shoulder. George leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, trying to look composed but his eyes red-rimmed. Fleur sat with Victoire, both pale. Even Arthur had taken off his glasses and wiped them twice before speaking.
“Are you alright?” Molly kept repeating, brushing Albus’s hair back like she couldn’t stop making sure he was there, breathing, real.
“I’m fine, Gran,” Albus murmured.
But before the relief had fully settled, the questions began.
“What do they want with that stone?”
“Is it true about the horcruxes?”
“Were there more than one?”
“Why would they ask about a diadem—what does that even mean?”
Harry held up a hand, but he was already turning away. “No.”
The room stilled.
“I’m not talking about it,” he said sharply. “Not now. Not again.”
“But, Harry—” Sirius started.
“I said no.”
His voice wasn’t angry. It was hollow.
Hermione laid a hand on Ron’s arm as he opened his mouth, silencing him. “We’ll explain what we can when it’s safe to,” she said gently. “But there are things that don’t need to be dredged up. Not yet. Especially not after the… attack”
Albus looked down at his hands. The dirt under his fingernails, the scrape across his palm, the faint bruises forming. He felt like a shadow of himself.
Without another word, Harry turned and stepped outside. He moved to the edge of the garden, drawing his wand.
One by one, he began to cast.
“Protego Maxima.”
“Repello Inimicum.”
“Salvio Hexia.”
Charms shimmered in the air like threads of glass, weaving between fence posts and old gnome tunnels and crooked trees. The Burrow lit faintly under the pressure of magic, the ground humming with the wards he layered thick and deep.
He worked in silence.
Because he didn’t need to say it out loud — not yet.
They all knew.
War was no longer a memory.
It was preparing to return.
***
The next day dawned grey, with clouds hanging low like heavy thoughts.
No one spoke much at breakfast.
Lily had returned from St Mungo’s late the previous night. She moved slower now, her usual energy dulled. There were scratches along her arms and a bandage at her temple, but it was the silence in her eyes that frightened Ginny more. The way she barely spoke except to nod or thank someone. The way she didn’t meet anyone’s gaze — especially not Harry’s, though he hadn't been around to notice.
He hadn't come out of his study since they'd returned.
Ginny knocked once, left a tray of tea, and walked away when no answer came.
Meanwhile, in the sitting room, Sirius stood by the fire, arms crossed, his brow furrowed.
“He’s not talking to anyone?” he asked, glancing toward the hallway.
“No,” said Lily Sr quietly, fingers curled around a chipped teacup.
Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “And these horcruxes. You’re sure he said that word?”
“Not just once,” Lily replied, “Hermione and Ron both heard it too. It’s what the intruders kept circling around. That — and the Resurrection Stone.”
James sat back with a sigh. “The Stone… That’s part of the Tale of the Three Brothers, isn’t it? From the Tales of Beedle the Bard. Grandad used to read it to me as a boy. I thought it was just a story.”
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “But is it? I mean, if we’re here—” he gestured vaguely at himself, James, and Lily, “—if we came back… then either it’s real or something like it exists.”
There was a pause.
Then Lily Sr said, “They think Harry used it. That he has it.”
“Do you think he does?” James asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But if he does… would he tell us?”
Sirius gave a grim laugh. “Would you? If you’d come back from the dead and didn’t understand why? If you were afraid someone would use it to bring back the wrong person?”
The question hovered, unanswered.
Outside, the wind picked up. The wards around the Sparrow Cottage crackled faintly — a shimmer of safety or a prison of silence, no one could say for sure.
And upstairs, behind a locked door, Harry Potter sat alone in his study, the Resurrection Stone — or the memory of it — burning like a curse in the center of his thoughts.
***
The rain hadn't let up. It fell in sheets now, blurring the windows of the Potter home and swallowing up the sound of the afternoon beyond its walls.
Ginny stood in the hallway, hand braced against the closed study door, lips pressed into a thin line. She'd come down as soon as she heard Ron and Hermione arrive, determined not to be excluded again. But when Harry opened the door just enough to step into the frame, his voice was low and careful.
“Gin. Please. Just rest. Be with Lily.”
She saw it in his eyes — not cruelty, not indifference — but something even worse: fear. Not fear for her, but of her. Of her knowing. Of her being part of what came next.
And though her jaw clenched with fury, she didn’t fight it. Not here. Not now. She turned without a word and climbed the stairs, slipping into Lily’s room with trembling hands. Her daughter was dozing under layers of blankets, pale and silent, and Ginny sat down beside her without a sound, fingers brushing her hair.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t have tears left. But the silence between them was almost heavier than grief.
Downstairs, Harry locked the study door behind him. The room was dark except for the fire and a single lamp above the cluttered desk. Parchments, maps, magical relics, and ink pots crowded every surface.
The study was dimly lit, the only light coming from a low-burning lamp on the corner desk. Rain smeared the windowpanes, and thunder rumbled somewhere distant, as if the world itself was uneasy.
Harry sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clenched. Hermione stood by the window, arms wrapped tightly around herself, while Ron paced in slow circles, eyes clouded.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Harry muttered. “The only people who ever knew about the Resurrection Stone are either in this room... or dead.”
Hermione turned toward him slowly. “Unless someone found something. A journal. A memory. But even then, how would they piece it together?” Her voice was taut, thin. “It’s not something people even believe is real.”
Ron stopped pacing, his mouth slightly open as if the thought had just landed heavy in his chest. He looked at both of them, pale beneath his freckles.
“They’re going to bring Voldemort back,” he said, hollowly.
The words hovered in the air like a curse, sucking all warmth from the room.
Harry didn’t respond. He just stared at the carpet, his jaw tightening. The scar on his forehead — dormant for decades — didn’t ache, but something else did. Something deeper. A wrongness in the air. A feeling he hadn’t had since he was seventeen and standing in the Forbidden Forest with death a breath away.
Hermione sat down, hard.
“I thought we were done with this,” she whispered. “We were done. We had won.”
Ron sat beside her, rubbing his face. “Maybe we should’ve burned everything. The Hallows, the books, all of it.”
“No,” Harry said quietly. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. Evil always finds a way. And if they think the Stone can bring him back… they’re desperate.”
Ron leaned forward, his voice low but urgent. “What if… what if they’re back because of the Resurrection Stone?”
Harry looked up sharply. Hermione blinked, stunned.
“You’re not saying—” she started, but Ron held up a hand.
“Think about it. People who died in the war—Fred, Tonks, Remus… your parents, Harry. Sirius. They’re back. Not as ghosts, not as echoes… but really back. Living, breathing. What if the Stone worked differently this time? What if someone—you—used it without realizing it?”
Harry stood, agitated. “No,” he said firmly. “No, that’s not how it works. I’ve held the Stone. I've used it. It doesn’t bring people back like that. It shows you shades, echoes. Shadows from the veil. They don't breathe, they don't bleed. They fade.”
“But maybe,” Ron said, voice quieter now, “maybe someone changed it. Or maybe it reacted differently after the war. Magic’s weird, Harry. The Elder Wand broke the moment you tried to end it. What if the Stone… did the opposite?”
Harry’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t have a reply. He looked toward the window where the storm was thickening, the world outside a haze of grey.
“They’re not ghosts,” he said finally, softer. “I’ve held Sirius. Hugged him. Watched my dad pace the corridor. They eat. They sleep. They laugh. They’re real. No Hallow can do that. Not even the Stone.”
“Then what brought them back?” Hermione whispered. “Because if it wasn’t the Stone, then there’s something else out there... something stronger. And if Dunlop’s people get to it first—”
“We’re all in trouble,” Ron finished.
Harry exhaled slowly. “Whatever it is, I need to find it before they do.”
The door creaked softly, and a familiar shape slipped into the room—Gavin, the old black cat with one ear torn and eyes still sharp despite his age. He leapt onto Harry’s lap without hesitation and curled up, purring low. Harry didn't move. His hand moved slowly to stroke Gavin’s back, the rhythm mechanical, his mind clearly elsewhere.
Hermione glanced at the cat, then back at Harry. “We should start gathering the Order,” she said gently. “And Dumbledore’s Army. Most of them would come without question. They’ll want to fight this.”
Ron nodded. “We’ve done it before. We’ll do it again.”
But Harry didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor, and the shadows under them looked deeper than ever. His fingers stopped moving. The memory was looping again—Ginny cradling Lily, limp and cold in her arms, her own face pale and soaked, both from rain and tears. The way Lily hadn’t opened her eyes until the third spell. The moment he thought, I’ve failed her. I’ve failed all of them.
“I can’t—” Harry’s voice cracked slightly. He swallowed. “Not now. Not yet.”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Ron caught her eye and shook his head.
“We’ll think about it later,” Harry said, quieter now, still not looking at them. “After we make sure our family is safe. After I figure out what the hell they were really after.”
Gavin let out a small meow, as if in quiet agreement, and nestled deeper into Harry’s lap.
Hermione didn’t push further. The silence stretched between them, tense but not hostile. Rain pattered against the windows, and the storm still hadn’t passed.
She turned her face slightly toward Ron and whispered, “I think we should send Hugo to my parents… back in Australia. Just for a while. Until we know more. He’ll be safe there.”
Ron looked down, rubbing his hand across his jaw. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice thick. “Yeah, alright. Mum won’t like it, but she’ll understand.”
Hermione turned to Harry, who hadn’t looked up. “Rose and Scorpius are still in Amsterdam. We should tell them to stay put. It’s safer there. The international Floo travel’s still restricted under Dunlop, and with Apparition blocked—”
“They won’t be able to come back even if they wanted to,” Ron finished for her grimly.
Hermione looked back at Harry, her voice firmer now. “Harry, you need to make plans for your family too. Lily shouldn’t be walking around with a target on her back. Neither should James or Albus.”
Harry didn’t answer at first. He stared blankly at the fire, his eyes unfocused, and hummed in acknowledgment. A noncommittal sound, quiet and detached.
Hermione frowned. “Harry—”
“I heard you,” he said quietly, still petting the cat. “Just… give me a moment.”
Hermione watched him for a long moment, her brow furrowed. Then, quietly, she said, “Harry… you know none of this is your fault.
Harry didn’t look at her. His hand paused on Gavin’s fur for just a moment before continuing its slow stroke.
Hermione shifted forward on her chair, her voice softer, more deliberate. “You did everything you could. You always have. You’ve kept your family safe for years. What happened wasn’t because of you.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “They came into my home, Hermione. They put a wand to my son’s throat. They nearly killed Lily.”
Ron opened his mouth, but Hermione gently placed a hand on his knee to stop him.
“And you stopped them,” she said. “You got Lily back. You kept us together. You’re still doing that.”
Finally, Harry turned to look at her, his green eyes shadowed and tired.
“I wasn’t fast enough,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t ready.”
“No one could’ve been,” Hermione replied. “They didn’t just come after you—they came after all of us. And we will deal with them. Together.”
Harry didn’t reply, but the silence that followed wasn’t as sharp. Gavin purred softly in his lap. Ron leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh.
The room stayed quiet a little longer, the weight of what was coming hanging heavy in the firelit air.
Harry’s fingers stilled over Gavin’s fur.
“Voldemort didn’t tell anyone about the Horcruxes,” he said slowly, voice low and deliberate. “Not even Bellatrix. Not Snape. Only Dumbledore knew… us three and—”
“—Sirius’s brother,” Hermione cut in gently. “Regulus knew.”
Harry gave a tight nod. “Yeah.”
Ron frowned. “Reckon he came back too then? And maybe… maybe he’s undone all the redemption he earned? What if this attack was because of him?”
The idea hung there for a long second. Cold and ugly.
But Harry shook his head. Quietly, he said, “It can’t be possible.”
Ron blinked. “Why not?”
Harry didn’t answer right away. His gaze had turned distant, like he was listening to something deep inside himself. His eyes flicked to the window, the dark garden beyond.
Hermione leaned forward slightly. “Harry… how can you be sure?”
Harry's mouth opened, but no words came out. He just looked at her. And something in his eyes — not fear, but a deep, stubborn certainty — made Hermione sit back in her chair.
He wasn’t going to explain.
Not yet.
Ron exhaled hard. “Well. That’s comforting.”
Hermione leaned forward, her voice gentle but insistent. “Harry… after Sirius came back, did you ever tell him Regulus changed sides?”
Harry’s hand stilled on Gavin’s fur. He gave a tired shake of his head. “How do you even start that conversation? ‘Oh, by the way, your little brother plotted to murder you in order to destroy Voldemort’s soul’? I’m not sure there’s a polite way to say it.”
Hermione studied Harry for a long moment, then said gently, “Did you ever tell Sirius… after he came back… about Regulus? That he changed sides? That he tried to stop Voldemort in the end?”
Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked down at Gavin still nestled in his lap, then back at her. “How would that conversation even go?” he said bitterly. “Hey Sirius, remember your brother who you thought died a coward? Turns out he wasn’t. He tried to destroy a Horcrux. Died doing it. Thought you should know. Cheers.”
He shook his head and looked away.
“I wanted to,” he added quietly. “But it never felt like the right moment. The first few days he was just… trying to figure out if he was real. And then everything else started happening.”
Ron rubbed the back of his neck. “Mate, if he doesn’t know… if he still thinks Regulus was a loyal Death Eater—”
“Then he’s wrong,” Harry snapped. “But it’s too late now, isn’t it? He’s been back for months. If I tell him now, it’ll feel like I kept it from him.”
Hermione’s voice was soft. “You didn’t keep it from him. You just… didn’t know how.”Harry stared out the window, the shadows of the trees swaying in the storm-lit dark. Hermione and Ron were still speaking, but their voices faded into a low hum, drowned by the thoughts swimming in his head.
A flash—not memory, not dream. A dim, glistening cavern. Cold, black water. A hand, skeletal and shaking, reaching for the light. The echo of breathless coughing. The wet grip of his own hand around a frail wrist.
Regulus.
It flickered through him like a dream he couldn’t fully recall. The weight of the boy—no, the man—barely clinging to life. A hidden wing at St Mungo’s. One healer, bound to silence. That had been months ago. Harry hadn’t gone back since.
The thought slid away again like mist in rain. He hadn’t told anyone. Not even Ginny. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did.
A sudden knock on the front door cut through the silence like a blade.
Harry rose instantly. Hermione and Ron looked toward the hallway, tense again, wands at the ready.
Another knock—firmer this time.
Hermione and Ron exchanged a quick, wary glance as Harry moved toward the door. They raised their wands just a fraction, the tension palpable in the cramped room.
With a steady hand, Harry pulled open the heavy oak door.
Standing there, framed by the rain-slicked porch light, was Cyril Dunlop—the new Minister of Magic.
His deep red robes were immaculate despite the weather, and his expression was unreadable, the faintest trace of a calculating smile tugging at his lips.
“Good evening, Mr Potter,” Dunlop said smoothly, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. “May I come in?”
Dunlop’s eyes flicked briefly to Ron as he stepped forward.
“You can’t just barge in here,” Ron said, his voice low but firm, wand still raised.
Harry’s jaw tightened, a conflict flickering behind his eyes.
But then, almost against his own instinct, he nodded slowly.
“Fine. Come in.”
Hermione’s eyes widened, and she shot Ron a stunned look. Ron’s grip on his wand loosened, disbelief written across his face as Dunlop stepped inside, the weight of the moment pressing down on them all.
Dunlop followed Harry into the study, the heavy door closing with a muted thud behind them. Gavin, the sleek black cat, leapt off Harry’s lap and vanished beneath the bookcases.
Dunlop didn’t waste time; he settled into a chair opposite Harry and, with a flick of his wand, conjured two glasses and a bottle of amber liquid from thin air. Pouring carefully, he slid one glass toward Harry.
Harry’s jaw clenched, his eyes sharp and restless.
“Please, sit down,” Dunlop said smoothly, voice low and measured. “I have an offer for you.”
Dunlop set his glass down on the desk with a soft thunk that somehow carried the weight of a gavel. The firelight glinted off the amber liquid inside.
“Mr. Potter,” he began, voice low and smooth, “I am Minister for Magic now—call it what you will, King in all but name. But a king is nothing without competent lords and ministers to keep his realm safe. My Wizengamot appointees are ineffectual at best, traitors at worst. They squabble and preen while the real threats circle like hyenas.”
Harry’s fingers tightened around his own glass. He said nothing, his green eyes unmoving—and paranoid—under the study’s low lamp light.
Dunlop leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And then there’s my Head Auror.” He snorted. “An imbecile I inherited when you resigned—clumsy, reckless, unable to spot a chink in the Ministry’s armor. I’ve watched him bungle half a dozen operations just this week.”
Harry’s jaw flexed. Dunlop let the insult linger before continuing.
“I’ve seen you work with Kingsley Shacklebolt—how you complement each other. Unbeatable. Your tactics, his steadiness: a perfect shield. I want that. I need that.”
There was a pause as Dunlop’s gaze swept the room, landing finally on Harry’s face. “There’s one thing you and I share,” he said quietly. “Loyalty. But loyalty is a rare commodity these days. My so-called cabinet would sell me for a scrap of office. They’re vultures, feeding on incompetence.”
He reached into his robe and produced a sheaf of parchment—an appointment letter, Harry could see, bearing the Ministry’s seal. He placed it before Harry.
“My offer is simple,” Dunlop said, voice deceptively gentle. “Return to your old seat as Head of the Auror Office. You’ll have carte blanche to rebuild your team—no oversight from these fools. You’ll root out the real enemies, shore up our defenses, and in return, I’ll guarantee your family’s safety and autonomy.”
Harry’s glass trembled in his hand. He thought of Albus, Lily, Ginny, the nightmares of the pond, the cold menace of the intruders—and Regulus’s ghostly return that he didn’t dare speak of. He met Dunlop’s eyes across the desk.
“You want me to swear loyalty to you,” Harry said quietly, “after what you’ve done to my family?”
Dunlop’s smile was almost sad. “Loyalty,” he repeated, “is tested in fire. Choices define a man. I’m giving you a choice, Harry: stand with me now, or watch your family fend for themselves against powers you barely understand.”
Harry stood, chair scraping back. The lamplight cast a long shadow that stretched across the desk and touched the appointment letter—and the cold look in his eyes left no doubt how he felt about Dunlop’s terms.
But the question hung between them:
Which choice would loyalty demand?
Ron’s face went red, and before Harry could stop him, he blurted out, “Fuck you, Minister.”
Dunlop’s eyes narrowed for the barest instant, but he didn’t flinch. He merely looked at Harry.
Harry’s jaw tightened. He raised a hand to calm Ron, then turned back to Dunlop, voice cold and steady.
“You said loyalty is your guiding principle,” Harry said. “But you’d ask me to betray the man who trusted me most. No, Minister—our only similarity is knowing what loyalty means. I would never go against someone who supported me through darker times than these.”
He paused, letting his words land.
“But you know what I am interested in?” Harry continued, lifting his chin. “I’m interested in seeing Kingsley Shacklebolt restored as Minister for Magic. Step down—now—and return my position to him.”
Dunlop’s thin smile broadened into something almost feral. He stood, robes sweeping around him, and reached inside. From the folds of his deep-red cloak, he produced another envelope, even larger than the first. He let it rest on the desk with deliberate care.
“Ah,” he said softly, turning the envelope so that the Ministry seal glinted in the lamplight. “I anticipated you might say something like that.”
Harry’s heart hammered in his chest.
Dunlop’s lips curved. “That letter,” he said, “was merely the appetizer.” He tapped the second envelope. “This one, Mr. Potter, contains terms far more… enticing. And far less voluntary.”
He folded his arms, watching Harry with those cold, unblinking eyes.
“Read it,” he said, “if you dare.”
Harry’s heart lurched as he broke the seal on the second envelope. He drew out the parchment inside—and froze, eyes widening as he read the heading:
“Draft Warrant for the Arrest and Detainment of Harry James Potter, Hermione Jean Granger, and Ronald Bilius Weasley.”
His pulse thundered so loudly he was sure Dunlop could hear it.
Hermione and Ron leaned in, cholesterol-thick dread knotting their chests. Ron’s hand shook as Harry passed him the page. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes glinting with shock and fury.
Dunlop watched them coolly as the three of them read:
"Under the Statute of Ancient Mysteries (Clause 17, Subsection 4), any individual in possession of or withholding knowledge of magical artefacts or events of national significance—specifically those concerning the Post-Mortem Reanimation Phenomenon (‘Resurrection Event’)—who fails to disclose such information upon request to the Ministry of Magic, shall be arrested for obstruction of Magical Law Enforcement and violation of the Ancient Mysteries.”
The room was thick with silence, the names inscribed like a verdict.
“This,” Dunlop said softly, almost kindly, “is not a law of my creation, but one that stretches back centuries—long before even Dumbledore walked these halls. A relic, unused and forgotten… until now.”
He leaned forward, fingertips pressed together. “The Aurors under my command typically concern themselves with overt threats. They see the surface—the wand duels, the missing children, the escaped prisoners. But I am… unspeakably good at research. I dig into the dusty corners of legislation that others neglect.”
Hermione’s voice was a whisper edged with fury. “You can’t do this. You can’t arrest us for not telling you fairy tales. There’s nothing in here that’s real crime.”
“Ah, but the crime,” Dunlop countered, tapping the parchment, “is in what could be done with that information. The Ministry—my Ministry—has the right to know every scrap of magical data that affects national security. And you, the most famous wizard of your generation, stand accused of hoarding it.”
He rose from his chair, casting shadow across the desk. His red robes swirled like blood in candlelight. “I haven’t filed this yet,” he said, voice dropping to the barest whisper. “You have until seven o’clock tomorrow morning to decide where your loyalties lie.”
He let that hang between them, a knife suspended in air.
Ron’s knuckles whitened around the parchment. “So… what? We go to bed, wake up, and if we haven’t bent the knee—”
“You will be arrested,” Dunlop finished for him. “Taken to Azkaban awaiting trial. Your families will feel every blow as if it were their own.”
Harry rose, fury blazing in his eyes. “You can’t do this—”
“I already have,” Dunlop interrupted, his smile thin and merciless. “This law is real. My authority here is real. Your choice is real.”
Hermione’s wand slipped from her grip; Ron’s quailed in his hand. Harry clenched his fists.
“Family,” Dunlop said quietly, as though imparting a secret. “Your precious family—they will be torn apart if you do not comply. Your children will be left with strangers. Your parents with no heir. Your friends… vanished into cold cells.”
Rain lashed the windows behind him as the storm outside seemed to synchronize with the storm inside Harry’s chest.
“Until seven,” Dunlop repeated, stepping back into the doorway. “Three voices. One decision. Loyalty to me—or the cold embrace of Azkaban.”
And with that, he turned, sweeping out of the study, leaving Harry, Hermione, and Ron alone with the weight of centuries-old law, the ticking clock of dawn, and the choice that would define them all.
Hermione’s breathing was already ragged the moment the door clicked shut behind Dunlop. The silence that followed felt like a wall collapsing inward.
“We have to do something,” she whispered, her voice pitching higher with every word. “He’s serious. Harry, he’s serious—he’ll send us to Azkaban. I—I have to tell Rose, I have to—Hugo—”
Ron put a hand on her back, but his own face was pale. He looked to Harry, hoping for a direction, an anchor.
But Harry wasn’t moving. He stood motionless in the center of the room, staring down at the parchment, lips pressed into a hard line. Rain rattled the windows like a ticking clock. Then, finally, he folded the warrant and set it down on the desk with eerie calm.
“He’s bluffing,” Harry said. “He doesn’t want to arrest us. He wants to own us.”
Ron raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t feel like a bluff.”
Harry looked up, his gaze sharp now, his voice low but controlled. “It’s pressure. Political blackmail, wrapped in ancient law. Dunlop doesn’t want a fight—he wants the Order on his leash. He knows what we meant to the people. He’s scared someone else will rise.”
Hermione gave a trembling nod but was still visibly shaken. “So what do we do?”
“We hold the line,” Harry said. “We don’t give him what he wants.”
Ron let out a breath, but Harry continued before they could spiral again.
“First, get Hugo to your parents in Australia,” he told Hermione, voice steady. “Don’t delay. Take the muggle routes, change your names if you must. And secure your house—nothing gets in or out without your say-so.”
Hermione blinked rapidly but nodded.
“Ron—make sure all the Weasleys knows. Don’t tell too much, but they should keep the house secure. No chances. I’ll send word to Neville and Luna. Don’t tell them the whole story yet. Just enough to be ready.”
“What about you?” Ron asked, already on his feet.
Harry looked out the rain-streaked window, jaw set.
“I’ll be here. Locking this house down. I’ll send a Patronus if anything shifts.” Then he turned back, gaze softening for just a second. “We meet again in two hours. Back here. No delays.”
Hermione moved forward, squeezing Harry’s arm tightly. “Be careful.”
Ron looked at Harry long and hard. “You really think we can win this?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately. He just looked past them, past the walls, as though he could see the battle coming.
Then he finally said, “We’ve done it before.”
***
For half an hour, Harry didn’t tell anyone.
The house remained cloaked in stillness, broken only by the distant groan of old wood settling or the occasional creak of stairs as someone shifted in their sleep. The air was heavy—not with magic, but with dread, like the calm before lightning splits the sky.
He moved quickly, silently.
From a shelf in the study, he pulled the small wooden box with the faded rune on its side—the one containing old memories, sealed vials of thoughts and recollections Dumbledore had given him during the Horcrux hunt. Some he had never shown to anyone. Some were too dangerous, too cruel, too painful to risk falling into the wrong hands.
He placed the box inside the charmed satchel.
Next, he crossed to the corner cabinet. He tapped his wand twice against the hinges, murmuring an old Auror phrase only he and Kingsley had known. The cabinet groaned open, revealing bundles of documents bound in dragonhide string—pages stamped CONFIDENTIAL – MINISTRY EYES ONLY. Names. Events. Secrets that hadn’t even made it into the Prophet’s deepest archives. Some weren’t just about Voldemort—they were about the Ministry, about what the war had really cost.
He didn’t hesitate. Into the bag.
He pulled a slim journal from the drawer behind a Disillusionment Charm—a small leather-bound book he’d started after the war. It contained sketches, ward schematics, ciphered notes about magical anomalies. But also… instructions. Escape routes. Burial sites. People to trust if everything else fell apart.
That too went into the bag.
And lastly—hidden behind a portrait of a sailing ship—he pulled free a velvet-wrapped, fist-sized object. Not the Stone. But something just as cursed, if misused. Something recovered years ago and never turned over to the Ministry.
His hand lingered on it.
And then he pushed it deep into the satchel and sealed it with an enchantment only Ginny or Ron and Hermione would be able to open, should something happen to him.
By the end of it, half an hour had passed. His back ached. His jaw was tight. The satchel sat on the desk like a quiet sentinel, stuffed with history and danger.
Only then did he glance up toward the stairs, toward the quiet hum of his family sleeping above.
And the weight of what was coming hit him full in the chest.
As Harry climbed the stairs, the satchel pressed heavily against his side, but it was the dread in his chest that truly weighed him down. Each step creaked beneath him, but he barely heard it over the dull roar in his ears. He couldn't stop picturing Ginny’s face—how she’d looked when she punched the Head Auror, when she sat beside Lily’s bed pale and silent, when she refused to leave the hospital until their daughter opened her eyes.
How would she react now? Would she scream? Would she cry? Would she go quiet like she sometimes did, the silence worse than any outburst?
Gavin padded silently behind him, tail flicking with unease, yellow eyes narrowed like he could already sense the storm Harry was walking into.
He stopped in front of Lily's door.
The light inside was dim. Through the narrow crack, he saw her—fast asleep under the covers, curled on her side, pale but breathing peacefully now. Her hair was damp with sweat, and her lips moved with the beginnings of some dream. Harry exhaled, just once. Then—
The door beside him opened softly, and Ginny stepped out, pulling her robe tight around her. Her eyes met his instantly.
She didn’t say a word, just looked at him—and that was somehow worse. She could always tell when something was wrong. It was in his posture, in the set of his jaw. Harry gave a small nod, a silent come with me, and she followed without protest.
Gavin moved to come in behind them as they entered their bedroom, but Harry turned and shut the door before the cat could slip through. A soft thump came from the other side as Gavin let out a grumble and flopped against the wood.
Inside the room, it was dark. The only light came from a charm above the fireplace, flickering faintly.
Ginny stood in front of him now, barefoot on the rug. “Harry?” she asked, quietly, warily.
He didn’t speak right away. He just reached up, ran a hand through his damp hair, and tried to steady his breathing.
He was about to shatter her peace all over again.
Harry looked at her—really looked at her. Ginny stood still in the quiet room, her brow furrowed just slightly, her lips parted like she’d already guessed the words before they came. She always knew. Even back then, when he’d pulled away at Dumbledore’s funeral, when he’d told her he couldn’t be with her—for her safety, for the mission, for reasons that felt noble at the time but tore him apart inside—she’d known then too. And she'd let him go with dry eyes and a clenched jaw, because she understood before he could explain.
Now, as silence pressed in around them, she didn’t ask again. She didn’t move. She just looked up at him with that same, fierce stillness that had always undone him.
The lump rose in his throat so fast it almost choked him.
Before he could say the words—before he could tell her about Dunlop’s threat, about the arrest warrant, about how everything was unraveling—he reached for her.
His hands cupped her face as he leaned in, and he kissed her.
It wasn’t desperate, not at first. It was deep and slow and filled with everything he hadn’t said. The kiss lingered like an apology, a plea, a promise. Her hands moved to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt, and for a second she hesitated—and then she kissed him back just as fiercely, with a quiet noise caught in her throat.
When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.
“You’re going to tell me something awful,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Harry closed his eyes. “Yeah.”
Her hands didn’t loosen. She didn’t let go.
Harry’s voice came out hoarse, barely audible. “We have to go into hiding. You… the kids. My parents. Sirius.”
Ginny exhaled, shaky but composed, brushing her hair back from her face as she stepped away from him slightly, already switching into the mode he knew so well—the one where she made things happen, held people together. She was quiet for a moment, her eyes flicking down as she thought.
“Alright,” she said, steady now. “We’ll need to leave before morning. The kids will be scared if we tell them everything, but they’ll listen. We’ll go somewhere untraceable—Grimmauld Place, maybe, or somewhere stronger. I’ll talk to Hermione, we’ll—”
She paused as she looked up again, catching the look on his face.
Harry wasn’t moving.
She stared for a second longer, then shook her head almost imperceptibly, her voice dropping. “Harry.”
His throat worked. He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“No,” she whispered. “No—don’t.”
“I can’t come,” Harry said quietly, guilt wrapped around every syllable. “Not yet.”
Ginny’s breath caught. “You’re not coming,” she repeated, her voice flat now. Not a question—just quiet fury.
Harry didn’t answer.
Her eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. “You’re sending me off with our children and your parents like—like we’re just luggage to be tucked away somewhere while you—what, play hero again?”
“It’s not like that,” Harry said quietly.
“The hell it isn’t.” Her voice cracked, then sharpened into something colder. “You think this is noble? Leaving us? After everything?”
He didn’t speak.
Ginny let out a bitter laugh. “God, it’s always the same with you. You say you’re protecting us, Harry, but what you really mean is you don’t trust anyone else to fight but you. Not me. Just you.”
Harry flinched but didn’t deny it.
“I’ve had enough of this,” she snapped, her fists clenched. “I’ve fought beside you. I’ve bled for this family. And now you tell me I should take everyone and run? And leave you here to what—get arrested? Killed?”
“I need you to keep them safe, Ginny,” Harry said, his voice strained. “If they get to me, you need to be free.”
Ginny’s eyes burned. “And what about me? What happens to me when you don’t come back? When the kids ask where their father is and I can’t answer because I don’t know if you’re in Azkaban or dead or worse?”
“I don’t have a choice,” he said.
“Yes, you bloody well do,” she hissed. “You always have a choice. You just don’t want to need me in this.”
Harry stepped toward her, but she backed away.
Ginny’s voice rose, sharp and raw, filling the room with a fierce heat. “You’re always like this, Harry! Cold, distant, deciding what’s best for everyone without letting anyone in. You broke up with me once before, all in the name of being ‘noble.’ And now you’re abandoning your own kids for the same damn reason.”
Her eyes flashed with anger and hurt. “Is that who you think you are? Some tragic hero who has to suffer alone? Because that’s not noble, Harry. That’s selfish.”
She took a step closer, her words pounding like thunder. “They’re your family, your life. And you think you can just walk away again? I won’t let you.”
“Please,” Harry said softly, his voice strained, “don’t say it like that.”
But Ginny didn’t stop. Her pain had been simmering for years, and now it erupted.
“Hermione isn’t leaving Ron, is she?” she spat. “She’s going to stand with her husband. So why can’t I? Why am I always the one you push away when things get bad?”
Harry shook his head. “Because she’s been with me since—since all the first-year shenanigans, before anyone knew what the world was turning into.”
Ginny blinked, stunned for a second, then her voice tore through the silence. “So it’s my fault now? My fault you never included me? My fault I didn’t get to run around breaking school rules with you while the war was still just an idea?”
“No,” Harry said quickly, stepping forward, his face etched with regret. “That’s not what I meant.”
But Ginny was shaking her head, her voice rising. “You always say that. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ You never mean to hurt me, Harry, but you always do—by keeping me out, by deciding for me, by treating me like I’m not strong enough to make my own damn choices!”
Her chest was heaving, tears burning in her eyes. “I’m your wife, Harry. I’ve carried your children. I’ve fought beside you. And I deserve better than being pushed behind while you play martyr again.”
Ginny’s fists were clenched at her sides, her voice cracking with rage and heartbreak. “I let you go last time,” she shouted, “because it was only me! Because I thought if that’s what it took for you to survive, I’d survive it too. But this—” she pointed toward the door, toward the quiet rooms where their children were asleep, unaware of the storm gathering around them—“this is not just about you anymore!”
Harry looked stricken, but she didn’t stop.
“You’re not just Harry Potter, the bloody Saviour of the Wizarding World, not anymore. You’re a father, Harry. You’re their dad. And you don’t get to walk out on them and call it noble.”
Her voice trembled now, full of the weight of years spent watching him carry too much, shoulder everything alone.
“They need you. I need you. And you keep choosing the fight over us. I won't forgive you for doing that to them.” She blinked back furious tears. “Don’t you dare turn your back on your children and call it bravery.”
Harry stepped closer, his voice low but firm. “Please, Ginny. Just—listen to me first.”
She crossed her arms, jaw clenched tight, but didn’t speak. The storm in her eyes told him he had seconds before she exploded again.
He inhaled deeply. “Dunlop came here tonight. Said he wanted to make a deal. Said he’s being cornered by his own people. That he wants me on his side—us. He dangled power, loyalty, respect. And when I told him no, he gave me something else instead.”
He reached into his robes and took out the folded parchment, the draft of the arrest warrant. He didn’t hand it to her—he just looked at it like it burned his fingers.
“If we don’t cooperate by seven in the morning, he’s filing this. Me, Ron, Hermione—we’ll be arrested. Charged with withholding information. He dug up an ancient law no one’s enforced in centuries. And now he’s using it to trap us.”
Ginny stared at him, eyes wide, mouth parting slightly. “Arrest?” she echoed.
He nodded grimly. “He’s turning this into a war, Gin. Quietly. Piece by piece. And I don’t know how deep it goes or who else is in on it.”
Her hand came up to her mouth, her breath shallow. But the anger returned just as fast.
“So your answer is to send us away while you stay behind and fight alone?”
Harry’s voice cracked. “It’s not about abandoning you. I need to know that you, the kids, my parents—Sirius—you’re safe. I can’t protect all of you while I’m in the middle of this. If Dunlop follows through on that warrant, if Voldemort’s followers are really trying to come back—”
“You think I can sleep peacefully while you’re out there, again, with a target on your back?” she cut in. “I can’t do this again, Harry. I won’t. If we’re at war, then we stand together. Or not at all.”
Harry’s jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He looked away, unable to meet her eyes.
“You’re not understanding,” he said quietly, pleadingly.
Ginny’s voice rose, sharp and cold. “Because you never make me understand, Harry! You make decisions and expect everyone to follow along like foot soldiers. You keep me in the dark, and then act surprised when I don’t just nod and say thank you.”
He flinched.
Her eyes glistened now—not with softness, but fury. “What were those people after, Harry? What did they want so badly they stormed my parents house and nearly killed our daughter?”
He didn’t answer.
She took a step forward. “What were they talking about? The Resurrection Stone? That’s just a myth, isn’t it?”
Silence. A long, loud silence.
Harry’s lips parted, but nothing came out.
Ginny’s face paled.
“Oh my God.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, a sick sort of realization dawning. “It’s real. Isn’t it?”
Still, he said nothing.
She backed away a step like she’d been slapped. “Is it in this house?”
“Ginny—”
“Is it in this house, Harry?!” she snapped, her voice cracking.
He hesitated too long.
Ginny gasped, putting a hand to her mouth, then dropped it as if she couldn’t bear the weight of the realization. “You—you kept that in this house? Where the kids sleep? Where they live? Lily was tortured for it!”
“It’s not cursed,” Harry said, finally, hoarsely. “It’s not—”
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, it’s not cursed? Brilliant. So it’s just a regular, innocent object that attracts Dark wizards and nearly killed our daughter. Good to know.”
Harry looked stricken.
Ginny’s voice lowered, rougher now. “You don’t get to talk about protecting us while hiding something like that under our roof. You say you’re doing this for us? Then start telling me the truth.”
Harry’s throat tightened like he’d swallowed glass. “Ginny, it’s not in the house,” he said firmly. “I swear on my life.”
“Then where is it?” she asked, arms folded, voice cold. “Explain it to me. Properly. No vague, noble half-truths.”
But he didn’t answer. His jaw worked uselessly, eyes searching hers for understanding, forgiveness—something he hadn’t earned.
Ginny let out a low, bitter laugh and turned away from him like she couldn’t stand the sight. “Here it goes again,” she muttered. “You explain everything to my brother and his wife. To them. But never to your wife.”
“Ginny, it’s not like that—”
“Yes, it is like that,” she snapped, whirling on him. Her voice shook—not from weakness, but fury barely contained. “You think I don’t notice? That every time something really dangerous or complicated happens, I get handed the children and told to sit tight like some bloody house-elf while you and your little Gryffindor trio play war again?”
“That’s not—”
“You think I’m fragile, don’t you?” she said, eyes blazing. “You always have. You still look at me like I’m the girl in the Chamber, like I’m someone who needs protecting. And maybe I used to be. But I’m not her anymore.”
Harry shook his head, stepping toward her. “You’re not fragile, Ginny. You’re stronger than—”
“Don’t,” she cut him off, voice trembling now. “Don’t try to flatter me. I’ve fought beside you. I’ve watched people die beside you. I’ve raised your children, stood by you when you screamed in your sleep, when you shut down, when you looked through me like I wasn’t even there.”
She swallowed hard, then continued in a broken whisper, “And I always thought—always—that even if the whole bloody world called me ‘Harry Potter’s wife,’ you didn’t think of me as some trophy. That you saw me as your equal.”
He looked at her then—really looked—and what he saw in her face made his stomach drop. Pain. Pride. Rage. And a heartbreak that ran deep, old and newly raw all at once.
“But right now,” she whispered, “for the first time… I don’t feel like your partner. I feel like your mistake.”
Harry swallowed hard, voice low as he stepped forward, but didn’t dare touch her. “Knowledge,” he said slowly, “is a cursed thing, Ginny.”
She said nothing, arms still folded tightly, but she didn’t look away.
He went on, the words brittle in his mouth. “That’s what those intruders came for. Not money. Not revenge. Knowledge. About the Hallows. About the Resurrection Stone. About things that should have died with the war.”
His voice cracked slightly as he continued, “And now Dunlop—he wants to arrest us. Me, Ron, Hermione. Because we’re not handing that knowledge over. Because we’re not letting him twist it into some kind of political weapon.”
Ginny blinked, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.
“I’m not hiding things from you because I don’t trust you. Or because I think you’re weak. I’m doing it because the moment you know—really know—what we’re dealing with…” He hesitated. “You can’t un-know it, Gin. You can’t sleep soundly ever again. You can’t look at the people you love without wondering who might take them next.”
“Don’t you think I already live like that?” she whispered. “Since I was sixteen? Don’t you think I’ve already paid the price for being part of this story?”
Harry’s voice dropped, hoarse. “Then I don’t want you paying it again.”
Ginny stared at him for a long moment, fury still burning under her skin—but her expression was softer now. Sadder. “You think you’re protecting me,” she said. “But really, Harry, you’re just isolating yourself. Again. Like always.”
His silence was answer enough.
“Knowledge might be a curse,” she said, voice quieter, “but ignorance isn’t salvation. It’s just another kind of prison.”
Harry closed the distance between them, hesitantly brushing his fingers against her hand. “I don’t know how to keep you safe,” he admitted. “But I know I can’t lose you.”
Ginny flinched, her breath catching as Harry’s words sank in. He didn’t say it loudly—he didn’t need to. The calmness in his tone only made it worse.
“They’re going to arrest me,” he said, steady as stone. “If we don’t vanish tonight, they’ll come tomorrow. With warrants. With chains. With protocols they barely understand.”
He looked her in the eyes, voice tightening. “They’ll interrogate me first. Then Ron. Hermione. Everyone I’ve ever fought beside. They’ll go after anyone they think might know something—even if they don’t. They’ll drag kids even Lily, into it because they're of age. They’ll question them like a suspect, twist their words, maybe hold them. For ‘national security.’”
Ginny’s eyes burned.
Harry’s jaw clenched, his voice dropping lower. “They’ll put surveillance spells on the house. Listening runes in the walls, tracking charms on the fireplace, mics in every room. Bedrooms. Bathrooms. They’ll hear everything. Every whisper. Every breath.”
He stared at her. “Is that what you want?”
Ginny turned away for a moment, her hand covering her mouth. Her shoulders trembled—not with fear, but with the silent rage of someone who’d been pushed too far, too fast. She had survived a war. She had built a life from the ashes. And now it was being invaded again.
“No,” she whispered finally, turning back to him. Her voice was ragged, but unshakable. “No. I won’t let them do that. To our kids. To our home.”
Harry exhaled, relief and guilt tangled together. “Then we leave tonight. I’ll set up protections. Portkeys. A safehouse. You take the kids. My parents, Sirius. I’ll buy us time.”
She shook her head, stepping closer. “You’re coming too.”
“I can't, Ginny.”
Ginny stared at him, jaw tightening, the candlelight flickering in her furious eyes. “What do you mean, you can’t come?”
Harry’s voice was low. Measured. Heavy. “If I go with you, Dunlop wins. He’ll brand us all fugitives, say we’ve admitted guilt by running. He’ll use that to lock up whoever’s left. And I can’t leave the others—Hermione, Ron, Neville. The kids who stayed behind. The ones who still think this world is worth saving.”
He looked at her like it broke him to say it. “Someone has to stay. Someone they’ll still talk to. Someone who knows what they’re really after.”
Ginny’s hands curled into fists. “So it has to be you again?”
He nodded, silent.
“No,” she said sharply. “No, you don’t get to make that call for all of us. You don’t get to be noble and silent while the rest of us are left wondering if you’ll ever come back. We just pulled Lily out of a pond she nearly drowned in. You want to put her through another night not knowing if her dad is alive?”
Harry’s throat worked as he swallowed. “I’m not leaving you. I’m shielding you. I can’t be your husband and your shield at the same time.”
Ginny stepped forward until they were inches apart. “Then try being my partner. Just once. Let me make the call with you.”
He closed his eyes, pain etched in every line of his face. “If I come with you, they’ll chase us all. I need them to chase only me.”
Her voice cracked. “And what if you don’t come back?”
Harry didn’t answer. He just reached out and cupped her face gently, as if memorising the feel of her skin. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, trembling.
“I have to stop this before it becomes another war,” he whispered. “Even if it means you’ll hate me for it.”
Harry’s heart clenched as Ginny’s defenses crumbled. She stepped closer, tears spilling over, and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. Her quiet sobs shook the stillness between them.
“I could never hate you,” she whispered brokenly, “not even if I wanted to.”
Harry held her tight, feeling the weight of everything—the fear, the anger, the love—pressing down on them both. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. Only the two of them remained, fragile and raw, tangled in each other’s arms.
Chapter 37: The Brother Unknown, The Hero Accused
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Lily Potter sat cross-legged on the small armchair in the corner of the attic bedroom, a threadbare shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. The wind outside howled against the slanted roof, rain tapping incessantly on the windowpane like restless fingers. Across from her, James paced slowly, arms folded, eyes shadowed. Sirius was sprawled on the edge of the bed, a worn jumper thrown over his shoulders, leg bouncing with contained energy.
“Do you think they’ll come back?” Lily asked, her voice barely louder than the rain.
James stopped pacing. “They wanted something they didn’t get. That kind of desperation doesn’t vanish overnight.”
“They would’ve killed Albus,” she said quietly. “If Harry hadn’t… resisted, lied... Merlin, James, they were going to kill him.”
Sirius muttered, “If I’d had my wand—”
“You’d be in St Mungo’s with a curse lodged in your spine,” Lily cut in sharply. “They came prepared.”
James finally sat beside her, pressing a hand to her knee. “Harry’s in the study now with Ron and Hermione. They’ll figure out what to do next.”
Sirius gave a dark chuckle. “It’s not about what to do. It’s about what’s already begun.”
Lily looked at him.
“They’re digging,” Sirius said grimly. “Deeper than anyone’s dared. The resurrection stone… horcruxes… they weren’t just looking for myths. They had names. Intentions.”
James frowned. “But how could they have known?”
Sirius didn’t answer immediately. He just looked out the rain-streaked window. “Someone’s been feeding them breadcrumbs. Or they’ve uncovered something buried long ago. Either way, they’re not done.”
Lily shivered. “It felt like the old days again. Terror clawing up your throat, not knowing who’ll be left at dawn.”
“Worse, even,” James murmured. “At least then we knew our enemy. This time… it’s smoke and mirrors.”
There was a pause, filled only by the storm.
Lily said, “We can’t let it happen again. Another war. Another generation of children looking over their shoulders.”
“We won’t,” James said. But the way his jaw tightened made it feel like a promise made to himself more than anyone else.
Sirius stood and walked to the door, hand on the frame. “If it comes to it… if it really comes to it, we fight. No waiting. No hiding behind old titles. We protect the kids. And we finish what we didn’t the first time.”
Lily looked down at her hands. “I’m just scared this time we won’t come back.”
James’s fingers curled around hers. “Then we make damn sure they don’t have to.”
The attic door creaked open and James Jr stepped in first, rain-damp curls sticking to his forehead. Albus followed behind, cradling Gavin, the Potter’s ancient black cat, in his arms. The cat purred grumpily but didn’t resist as Albus rubbed behind his ears with careful familiarity.
Lily, still seated in the corner armchair, looked up in surprise. “What are you two doing up here?”
James Sr raised an eyebrow. “And with the cat?”
“Just… needed some air,” James Jr muttered. He walked past his parents and Sirius, making for the narrow balcony that overlooked the garden below. Albus followed silently, opening the old wooden door.
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “That cat can barely walk straight, let alone survive a leap off a balcony.
James Jr smirked. “Don’t worry. He’s not jumping.”
Albus crouched and gently placed Gavin on the balcony railing. The cat swished his tail in irritation, but didn't move, as if awaiting some unknown command.
“What in Merlin’s name are you two doing?” Lily asked sharply.
“Nothing,” James Jr said too quickly.
Albus shifted. “We just wanted him to go see Dad. Keep him company.”
“You’re sending the cat to Harry in the middle of a storm?” James Sr asked suspiciously.
Sirius, arms crossed, stepped forward. “Alright. Enough. What are you really doing?”
The brothers exchanged a glance. It was James who cracked first. “Fine. We modified his collar.”
Lily stood abruptly. “Modified? Modified how?”
Albus answered carefully. “It’s… sort of a listening device. Transmits everything Dad says in the study.”
The room fell utterly silent.
“You bugged your father?” James Sr said, voice low with disbelief.
“He's shutting everyone out,” James Jr said, defensively. “We don’t know what’s going on, and we’re done waiting for someone to explain.”
“You’re spying on your father,” Lily said, breathless, eyes wide.
“Just listening,” Albus said. “We’re not going to do anything with it. We just want to know what he’s planning—what’s going to happen to us.”
James Jr leaned out over the balcony and pointed downward. “He’s in the study. Gavin’ll curl up by the fire like he always does. He won’t even notice.”
Gavin gave a long, offended meow, but leapt down onto the narrow beam below the balcony. Then, with surprising dexterity for his age, he padded along the edge and disappeared onto the rooftop, headed toward Harry’s study below.
Sirius exhaled slowly. “Well. This is either very stupid or very smart.”
“They’re the same thing in this family,” Lily muttered.
Down below, Harry’s voice drifted faintly through the rain, muffled and distant—but growing clearer by the second.
The crackle of the tiny speaker echoed in the attic like a whisper too loud. James Jr held it between his fingers, shoulders tense, brows furrowed. Every breath from below—the scrape of chairs, the pauses between words, the quiet thrum of firelight and rain—poured through it as if the floorboards had turned to glass.
Lily Sr sat forward on the edge of her armchair, eyes wide, knuckles white on the arms of her seat. Sirius was motionless beside her, face drawn, mouth set in a hard line. James Sr stood with his arms crossed over his chest, but his fingers tapped restlessly against his biceps.
“They’ll want to fight this,” Hermione’s voice said. “We’ve done it before.”
The trio exchanged glances. Familiar words. Familiar courage. But there was something unfamiliar in Harry’s silence. And when his voice finally came—cracked, quiet, broken—it felt like a knife turned inward.
“I can’t— Not now. Not yet.”
A thick silence settled over the attic. Albus shifted uncomfortably beside his brother, eyes flicking to their grandparents and Sirius.
“I’ve failed her. I’ve failed all of them.”
“Bloody hell,” James Jr murmured. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Albus’s jaw tightened. “He still thinks it’s his fault.”
Lily Sr’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Harry…”
“He always does this,” Sirius muttered, barely audible. “Blames himself for what the whole damn world can’t fix.”
James sr. hadn’t moved. His eyes were fixed on the speaker, gaze dark and unreadable. Only the muscle twitching in his jaw betrayed him.
“He’s not sleeping. Not really,” Lily Sr whispered. “I’ve seen him. He just… walks around the house. Waiting.”
When Hermione spoke again—about sending Hugo away, about Rose and Scorpius stranded abroad—Lily Sr closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath.
“They’re already planning to scatter,” she said. “Merlin help us, it’s happening all over again.”
“And Harry’s going to try to keep them together by pulling away,” Sirius said hoarsely, finally speaking. “Same bloody pattern.”
Then came Hermione’s voice again, gentle and firm. “Harry, you need to make plans for your family too. Lily shouldn’t be walking around with a target on her back.”
Albus flinched. James Jr lowered the speaker for a second as if that would make it less real.
“She’s right,” Lily Sr said. “They’re in danger.”
“She shouldn’t have to say it,” James Sr snapped. “He should know that. He does know that.”
“Then why isn’t he saying anything?” Albus asked sharply.
“Because he’s drowning,” Sirius muttered. “He just doesn’t know how to ask for help when the water’s at his throat.”
When Harry finally spoke again—“I wasn’t fast enough.”—the silence in the attic grew thick as smoke. No one could look away.
“I’ve never heard him sound like that,” James Jr whispered.
They listened to Hermione’s calm strength, Ron’s quiet support, and Harry’s silence. The three of them—older now, but still tethered together by pain and war and something deeper—sharing a fire, a storm, and a burden none of them asked for.
When the last words faded from the speaker—“We will deal with them. Together.”—no one spoke for a long moment. Just the patter of rain on the roof and the wind crawling past the windows.
Then Sirius stood, abrupt and sharp, pacing toward the wall.
“He’s not going to tell us,” he said, bitter. “Not unless we make him. He thinks he’s shielding us by locking us out.”
Lily Sr stood too. “We can’t let him carry it alone again. Not this time. If he’s going to fight, we all do.”
James Sr looked at his grandsons. “You two shouldn’t have bugged him. But… thank you for doing it.”
Albus looked stunned. “You’re not going to tell him?”
“Eventually,” James Sr said, his voice hoarse. “Right after we tell him we’re not going anywhere.”
“And that he’s not either,” Sirius added, his voice low and deadly calm. “Because if he tries to disappear again… we’ll drag him back ourselves.”
Outside, lightning split the sky—and inside the attic, three generations of Potters and a Black stood in the shadows of a storm they all now knew was coming.
The speaker crackled softly in the attic, Gavin’s purring faint beneath the voices coming from the study below.
“—your little brother who you thought died a coward? Turns out he wasn’t. He tried to destroy a Horcrux. Died doing it. Thought you should know. Cheers.”
Sirius froze.
He had been pacing. Leaning against the windowframe one moment, gripping the edge of the old dresser the next. But at Harry’s words, his body locked. Still as stone. His eyes, normally so quick to flick with humour or anger or restless defiance, just stared at the speaker like it had struck him.
James Jr looked between his Sirius and the speaker, confused. “Wait. Regulus? Regulus Black?”
“Did he… really—” Albus started, but his voice faltered at the expression on Sirius’s face.
Lily Sr was already rising from her spot on the bed, her eyes never leaving Sirius. Her voice came gentle. “Sirius…”
But Sirius didn’t answer. He didn’t blink. His jaw clenched and unclenched slowly, like he was grinding down a thousand words before any could escape. A faint tremor had taken over his hands, and he gripped the window ledge as if to steady himself.
James Sr stood up too, slower. He looked at his grandsons, then said in a low voice, “You two—out. Now.”
“What? Why?” James Jr protested. “We just heard—”
“Out.” The sharpness in his voice brooked no argument.
Lily placed a hand on Albus’s shoulder and guided both boys toward the door. “Go check on your sister,” she said softly. “Now.”
They left, confusion written on their faces, still clutching the speaker.
Silence settled in their wake.
Sirius finally moved. Just a step back from the window. His gaze dropped to the floorboards, then lifted—slowly, almost disbelievingly—to James.
“He knew,” Sirius said. His voice was hoarse, as if it had aged decades in minutes. “Harry knew… and he didn’t tell me.”
James took a careful step closer. “Padfoot…”
Sirius shook his head sharply. Not in anger—almost as if trying to shake off water, memory, something crushing. “He wasn’t a coward.” The words came out as a whisper. “He wasn’t… He wasn’t what I thought.”
Lily Sr swallowed hard, watching the disbelief on Sirius’s face crumple into something raw and fragile. She crossed the room and laid a hand gently on his arm.
“He died trying to stop Voldemort,” she said softly. “He was only what—seventeen?”
“Barely.” Sirius looked at her. “And I thought—my whole life—I thought he was just another bloody Black. Loyal to that monster. I spat on his grave.”
His breath caught in his throat.
James Sr reached out and gripped Sirius’s shoulder. “You didn’t know.”
“I didn’t ask,” Sirius said hollowly. “I didn’t want to know. I was so angry. At the family. At him. Thought he was weak for staying. Thought he’d chosen them over… over right.” He sank slowly onto the edge of the bed, staring at the speaker as if it would speak again. “He didn’t just run. He acted. He tried to end it. He… he was braver than me.”
“Don’t you say that,” Lily said firmly, kneeling before him. “Don’t you ever say that. You were a child too. You were trying to survive in a house that tried to kill your soul. And Regulus—he didn’t get out like you did. But that doesn’t mean you weren’t brave.”
Sirius’s fingers curled into fists. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known.”
James sat beside him. “He didn’t tell anyone. Not even Kreacher. He didn’t want you to know. Maybe because he thought he’d failed. Maybe because he didn’t expect to die.”
Sirius turned his face away, but his voice was rough and breaking. “I would’ve fought for him, Prongs. I would’ve… I would’ve given anything to know he’d changed sides. To tell him—” His voice cracked. “To tell him he wasn’t alone.”
Lily rested her head lightly against his knee, tears glistening in her eyes. “Then tell him now,” she said gently. “However you need to. He’s listening somewhere. He has to be.”
The storm groaned beyond the attic window, the wind rattling through the eaves.
And Sirius sat there—silent, shaking, devastated by a truth he should’ve known and the years he couldn’t get back.
He stood abruptly, the motion sharp enough to send the chair he’d been sitting on scraping back hard across the attic floor.
“He knew,” Sirius said again, but this time his voice was louder, more biting. “He knew what Regulus did. For how long now? Since the war ended? And he never told me?”
James and Lily both stood too, tension crackling in the air like the storm outside.
“Padfoot,” James said gently, “he didn’t know how to bring it up. You were still—”
“Oh, spare me,” Sirius snapped, turning on him. “Don’t make excuses for him. He’s the one always going on about family. Loyalty. Truth. But he sat on this—sat on this—for months? Let me keep thinking my brother died a coward?”
His voice was breaking now—fury dragging hard against something more vulnerable, more wounded.
“I defended him,” Sirius hissed, eyes wild. “I defended Harry when everyone else whispered behind his back, when the Prophet smeared him, when the Ministry turned on him—I stood by him, and he couldn’t tell me this?”
Lily stepped forward. “He wasn’t trying to hurt you—”
“But he did.” Sirius’s voice dropped, shaking with fury and grief. “You don’t get it, Lily. You both don’t. He’s the closest thing I have to a son. And he let me believe my own brother was just another filthy Death Eater who got what he deserved.” His hands shook at his sides. “He let me hate Regulus in peace, when he could’ve told me the truth.”
James reached for his shoulder, but Sirius stepped back, like even that was too much.
“You don’t keep something like that from someone you love,” Sirius said, lower now, voice breaking apart. “Not unless you think they’re too unstable. Too stupid. Too weak to hear it.”
The implication hung in the air. The way Harry had always carefully avoided certain topics with Sirius. The way he'd dodged the past like it was glass Harry was afraid to break.
“He thought you were still healing,” Lily said gently. “He thought it might… break something in you.”
“No,” Sirius said, shaking his head. “He thought it would break his version of me. The version that needed protecting. The one he could manage.”
His voice cracked.
“I thought I meant more to him than that.”
The room went silent again. The thunder rumbled low in the distance.
And Sirius, no longer shouting, no longer pacing, just stood there—shoulders hunched, eyes rimmed red but dry. Too proud to cry, too hurt to hide it.
He wasn’t angry because of Regulus alone. He was angry because Harry had decided—somewhere along the way—that Sirius didn’t need to know. That Sirius didn’t deserve to know.
And Sirius wasn’t sure if that meant Harry didn’t trust him… or didn’t truly see him anymore.
James stepped in front of him, a firm hand braced against Sirius’s chest. “Mate, don’t. Just give it a moment. You heard what he said—he wanted to tell you.”
“He bloody should have,” Sirius growled, eyes flashing. “Years, Prongs. Years. And I find out like this? Through a bloody cat? Through a spy trick?”
Lily stepped closer, her voice gentler. “Sirius, listen—Harry’s not trying to shut you out. He said himself, ‘How do you even start that conversation?’ He didn’t mean to hurt you.”
But Sirius shook his head violently, knocking James’s hand away. “No. No, you don’t get it.” He looked between the two of them, anger flashing like lightning behind his eyes. “How many things do you think he’s not saying? You think this is the only secret he’s sat on? Since we came back, how much has he kept from us?”
James hesitated, just a flicker, and that was all Sirius needed.
“Exactly,” Sirius muttered, bitter. “We’re not his guardians anymore, are we? Just… relics. He talks to Ron. To Hermione. But us? We get ‘everything’s fine, don’t worry about it’ and polite deflection.”
Lily frowned. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s not,” Sirius agreed tightly. “But it feels true.”
He turned toward the door, yanking it open. The cold air from the stairwell hit his face, but he didn’t stop.
James caught his arm. “Padfoot—”
Sirius pulled free with a jerk. “I’m going to talk to him. Now.”
“Sirius,” Lily said, firmer now, her voice catching just slightly, “don’t confront him like this. You’re hurt, and he’s hurting too. Just—please—wait until you’ve both calmed down.”
But Sirius turned back, his face hard. “I’ve waited long enough.”
And with that, he disappeared down the stairs, leaving behind the soft creak of the attic floor and the quiet, worried breaths of the people who loved him most—who had seen the rage, but also the pain beneath it.
Sirius paused in the middle of the hallway, caught in the swirl of Ginny’s urgency. She barely stopped as she brushed past him, her arms full of clothes, wand tucked behind her ear.
“Oh—Sirius, good. Go pack what you need, will you? We’re leaving soon.”
“Leaving?” he echoed, frowning.
Ginny spun on the step, halfway up the stairs. “Yeah. Dunlop’s people might show up tomorrow. Harry says they’ll wire the house, interrogate everyone. We have to go.” Her voice cracked on that last bit, but she pushed through it and nodded briskly before turning to take the stairs two at a time. “I’m going to tell the others to be ready.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Sirius stood there a moment longer, the air still buzzing with the residue of her panic. For a breath, his anger evaporated—displaced by worry, confusion, the sheer weight of what was happening.
But then, through the rain-streaked window at the end of the corridor, he caught sight of Harry.
He was in the garden, alone, wand raised as he layered defensive enchantments over the perimeter—one after another, silent, efficient, tireless. His shoulders hunched forward against the rain, hair plastered to his forehead.
Something about the sight made Sirius’s blood boil again.
He’s out there alone, Sirius thought. Shielding us, protecting the house, making decisions—without telling us a damn thing.
Without telling him about Regulus.
Sirius’s fists clenched at his sides. The old grief surged up fast, mingled with fresh betrayal. And he moved toward the back door.
He wasn’t going to wait. Not for explanations, not for things to settle.
Not this time.
The rain hit hard, cold and needle-sharp, as Sirius stepped out into the garden. Harry stood near the boundary hedge, wand lifted, a flick of his wrist sending blue ripples through the wards as he reinforced them. His mouth was tight, jaw locked in focus, his other hand clutching the edge of his coat like he could will himself invisible.
“Harry,” Sirius called.
Harry didn’t turn.
“I said—Harry.”
He flinched slightly at the voice, then turned halfway over his shoulder. His face, pale and drawn, barely registered surprise at seeing Sirius soaked in the rain.
“We’re leaving in under an hour,” Harry said, distracted. “You should start packing. I’ve warded everything east of—”
“Don’t change the subject.”
That stopped him. Harry blinked, wand lowering slightly. “What?”
“You didn’t tell me.” Sirius took a step closer. “You knew. You knew Regulus tried to stop Voldemort. That he turned. That he died trying to destroy one of those bloody soul-things—and you never told me.”
Harry’s face froze. The raindrops on his skin seemed to sizzle in the air between them. He looked away.
“How…?” Harry asked, already knowing the answer.
Sirius’s voice was low and trembling. “The bloody cat, apparently.”
Harry closed his eyes. “James,” he muttered. “Of course it was James…”
“I’m not interested in clever tricks,” Sirius snapped. “I’m interested in why the hell my godson—who I trusted more than anyone—heard that I spent my whole second life thinking Regulus died a coward, and said nothing.”
Harry turned fully now, but didn’t step closer. His expression was stricken, guilt thick in every line of his face. “I didn’t know how to say it.”
“You didn’t know how—” Sirius let out a humorless bark of laughter. “You’re Harry Potter. You told an entire school how to fight Death Eaters. You told the Minister of Magic to go to hell when he wanted to bury the truth. But you couldn’t tell me my brother died a hero?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Harry said, voice hoarse. “You’d just come back. You didn’t even believe you were real yet, Sirius—how was I supposed to unload that on you?”
“You unload it, Harry!” Sirius stepped closer, eyes blazing. “You look me in the eye and tell me that I spent fifteen years mourning him wrong. That I thought he was a coward when he was braver than either of us ever gave him credit for!”
Harry’s breath caught. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I thought I’d find the right moment.”
“And how long were you going to wait?” Sirius demanded. “Until he came walking through that door too? Until you buried it so deep you forgot it mattered?”
“I didn’t forget,” Harry said quietly. “Not for a single day.”
The storm surged around them. The wind howled through the hedges and the rain came harder, stinging their faces, but neither moved.
Sirius’s voice cracked. “You had months, Harry.”
Harry stared at him, lips trembling slightly. “I was ashamed,” he said, barely louder than the rain. “That I let it fester. That I didn’t say it when it would’ve meant something. Every time I looked at you, I thought—next time. Just… not today. And then today never came.”
Sirius’s fury broke on that. Not entirely. But it cracked—just enough for the grief to seep through.
He turned from Harry, hands shaking, and swiped at his face. “He was my little brother, Harry. The one I thought I lost to Voldemort. Turns out he tried to undo the very thing I hated him for.” His voice dropped. “And I never even said his name aloud after the first war.”
Harry stepped closer. “Sirius…”
But Sirius shook his head. “Don’t. Just—don’t right now.”
They stood there, water running in rivulets down their faces, the house behind them buzzing with last-minute panic and movement.
Harry looked down at his feet. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “Regulus would’ve made a bloody brilliant Order member.”
Sirius closed his eyes, jaw clenched. After a long pause, he whispered, “He was just a kid. Younger than Lily. And he died alone.”
Harry didn’t have an answer to that.
They stood there a moment longer, two soldiers in the storm, the weight of history pressing down around them like fog.
Harry shifted on his feet, soaked through, his wand limp in his hand now. He looked at Sirius—truly looked at him this time—his godfather’s face shadowed with old pain and fresh betrayal.
“I—I was going to tell you,” Harry said finally, voice quiet and halting. “I wanted to. I didn’t know how, but I thought maybe—after things settled—maybe we could talk about Regulus, and I’d explain what he did, and why I waited, and—”
“Don’t,” Sirius cut in sharply.
Harry’s mouth closed. The tension in the air coiled tighter.
Sirius’s voice came low and hard. “The last time you tried to protect me, Harry… I ended up dead.”
Harry flinched like he’d been slapped.
Sirius didn’t blink. “I know you thought you were doing the right thing. You always do. But I can’t go through another round of your silence, your burdened glances and half-truths, because you think you’re shielding me. You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle anymore.”
The rain beat down harder, the wind pulling at their clothes, but neither of them moved. Harry stood there, eyes filled with regret, throat working around words he couldn’t say.
Then Ginny’s voice called from the house—frantic, urgent. “Harry! Sirius! We are ready, come on in!”
They both turned toward the sound. Sirius’s jaw clenched once more before he said, flatly, “We’re not finished.”
Harry nodded faintly, soaked and silent, as they moved together toward the house, two silhouettes against the storm.
Inside, the house buzzed with tension. Wet cloaks were flung over chairs, drawers yanked open, trunks half-packed and enchanted to shrink down for travel. The fire crackled uselessly in the sitting room—no one had the calm to stand still long enough to warm their hands.
Sirius and Harry stepped into the hallway, dripping on the floorboards, and Ginny turned the corner almost instantly, a bag levitating behind her. She didn’t spare them more than a glance.
“Good,” she said breathlessly. “You're here. Get everything ready—ten minutes. James already packed your things, Sirius.”
Harry tried to say something, but she was already halfway up the stairs.
In the kitchen, James Jr. followed on her heels. “Mum—can you just tell me what’s going on? Are we getting arrested? Is this about those intruders? Are death eaters really coming—?”
“Not now, James,” Ginny snapped, not turning around.
“Mum—”
“Not. Now,” she repeated, more forcefully this time, as she spun to face him. Her face was pale with exhaustion, red with fury, and her hair was damp and tangled from the storm.
James recoiled a little but didn’t back down completely. “We’re not kids anymore. If we’re packing everything and running off to god-knows-where, we deserve to know what’s happening.”
Ginny exhaled sharply through her nose, hands clenched. “You’ll know when we’re safe. Until then, pack. Your father and I are trying to keep you from what’s happening, not drag you further into it.”
Behind James Jr., Albus lingered quietly by the staircase, arms crossed, watching. His jaw was set tight, but he said nothing.
Ginny turned away, her voice raw now. “We’re doing this for you. For all of you. Just do what I say.”
James opened his mouth again but caught the sharp flash in her eyes and shut it with a clench of his jaw.
Harry stepped into the hall behind them, eyes tracking Ginny as she vanished into the master bedroom again. He felt Sirius’s gaze still on him—felt the tension thrumming behind it—but neither of them spoke. Not yet.
There were too many things still unspoken. And no time to say them.
***
The family gathered in the front room, the only space left untouched by half-open trunks and cupboards. The storm outside still muttered against the windows, the dark pressing close like a second skin. Everyone stood in a loose circle—wands tucked away, cloaks fastened, boots laced. It felt wrong to be dressed like they were leaving for a holiday when it felt more like an evacuation.
Harry stepped forward, holding a small black inkpot in his hand. Its surface shimmered faintly with a silvery sheen, and there was a humming tension in the air around it—like the magic inside it could snap loose at any moment.
“This is the Portkey,” he said. His voice was steady, but there was something brittle beneath it. “It’s timed for to set off in five minutes. It’ll take you to a safehouse under the Fidelius Charm. I'm the Secret-Keeper. It’s unplottable, hidden even from the Ministry.”
Lily gave a brief nod from behind Sirius. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.
Harry continued, his eyes scanning the circle—landing briefly on each face. “When you land, don’t try to go anywhere. Just stay inside. Wards are already up. There’s food, clothes, a fireplace if you need to communicate. Only I can get in or out.”
Ginny watched him like she was waiting for him to change his mind. But he didn’t.
James Jr. frowned, stepping forward a half-step. “Wait… you’re not coming?”
The silence that followed was heavy.
“I can’t,” Harry said quietly.
James’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean, can’t? What’s the point of sending us off if you’re staying here?”
“Because if I go,” Harry said, “they’ll come after all of us. Together. If I stay, I can slow them down. Give you time.”
“That’s bloody stupid,” James snapped. “We’re not leaving you behind—”
“You are,” Harry said, his voice sharper now. “You’re going. All of you.”
Lily Jr. took a step forward. “Dad—”
Ginny’s arms were crossed, jaw tight, but she didn’t speak.
James Jr. looked between them, incredulous. “You’re just going to let him stay here and get caught?”
Ginny finally spoke, voice low but hard-edged. “Do you think I want to?”
Harry placed the inkpot gently on the table, like it might crack if he let go too fast.
“I need to make sure they don’t find out more than they already have,” he said. “There are things—about what they were looking for—that they can’t know.”
Albus, quiet until now, spoke softly. “The Resurrection Stone.”
Everyone stilled. Sirius looked sharply between them.
Harry didn’t confirm it, but his silence was louder than any answer.
James Jr. looked at the inkpot, then back at Harry. “You’re not going to fight them, are you? Just turn yourself in?”
Harry hesitated. “I’m going to buy time.”
“And what if they don’t let you go?” Lily Sr asked. “What if they lock you up, or—?”
Harry cut her off gently. “They won’t. Not right away.”
The clock struck four-fifty. three minutes left.
Ginny stared at her husband with eyes full of fire and fear, and she said nothing. Because she'd already said everything.
Lily’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she stepped closer to Harry. Her voice, usually so steady and calm, wavered just a little as she spoke.
“Harry,” she said softly, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You have to… take care of yourself. We’re all counting on you. Not just to keep us safe, but to come back to us.”
Her gaze held his for a long moment, full of worry and fierce love. The weight of everything hung between them—the dangers ahead, the unspoken fears, the fragile hope.
Harry swallowed hard, nodding quietly, the emotion catching in his throat. For once, words failed him.
Lily squeezed his arm gently, then stepped back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “We’ll do our part, Harry. But you… please be careful.”
Lily Jr. didn’t say anything at first—she just walked up and threw her arms around her father, burying her face into his chest. Harry held her tightly, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek against the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair like he could memorize it. Her grip was tight, fierce, like she knew this hug had to last.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, but Lily only shook her head against him.
James Jr. stood off to the side, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Then suddenly, as if something broke inside him, he stepped forward and pulled Harry into a hard, almost desperate hug.
“Don’t die,” James said thickly, his voice raw. “You’re not allowed to die. You hear me?”
Harry laughed softly through the lump in his throat, one hand gripping James’s back. “I hear you,” he managed.
But James didn’t let go. His arms stayed tight around Harry, and Harry could feel how much his son was holding back—anger, fear, everything he didn’t know how to say. It was all there, in that hug.
Harry finally pulled back enough to look at both of them. His voice broke as he said, “I’m coming back. I promise.”
Neither of them said anything. They didn’t need to.
James Sr. watched from the corner, eyes misting as he looked at the family he never thought he'd live to see. He blinked hard, looked away, but his fingers curled tightly around Lily Sr.'s. Neither said a word.
Albus stood a few feet away, half-shadowed in the flickering hallway light. His siblings were wrapped around their father like small children again, the way they used to be when nightmares or thunder sent them running to the master bedroom. He should’ve joined them. Every step in his body screamed to move forward, but his feet stayed rooted.
He watched Harry’s face, the soft way he kissed Lily Jr.’s hair, the fierce way he held James like he wasn’t ready to let go. And all Albus could think about—brutally, painfully—was how many times he’d yelled at this man. How many nights he’d stormed out, how many cruel things he’d said just to wound because it felt powerful. Because he didn’t understand the weight Harry carried. Because he thought he had to prove something.
He swallowed hard, throat thick. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
Just go, a part of him whispered. Go hug him. Say you’re sorry. Say you don’t mean it anymore. That you’re scared. That you love him.
But he didn’t move.
He stood there, shame crawling up his spine like ice. Because now that the air tasted like goodbye, he didn’t know if he even had the right.
His father could die. And Albus might never get the chance to tell him he never hated him at all.
Just as Albus opened his mouth, heart hammering in his chest, Harry’s voice cut through the room with quiet finality.
“The Portkey’s going to activate any second now,” he said, holding up the inkpot. “Everyone, get ready.”
The words stole the moment straight from Albus’s lips. His mouth hung open for a fraction longer before he shut it, the apology dying in his throat.
Around him, chairs scraped. Bags were hoisted. Ginny pulled Lily Jr. close, murmuring something to her. James Jr. exhaled a shaky breath and wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying not to show how red his eyes were.
Harry stepped back and held the Portkey out.
Albus didn’t move.
He looked at his father—really looked. The tension in Harry’s jaw, the grim determination layered beneath the quiet sorrow. There were a thousand things Albus wanted to say. But he just nodded instead, barely a dip of his chin.
Harry met his eyes, and for a second, Albus thought maybe—maybe he knew.
Then the world twisted in a flash of blue light, and they were gone.
The landing was rough.
They stumbled out of the Portkey in a cramped, dust-scented foyer, their bags dropping around them with dull thuds. The air was colder here—sharp and damp. A low fog clung to the stone floor, and the walls were stained with age and moss. Somewhere nearby, they could hear the slow, steady flow of a river, like breath echoing through a tunnel.
Lily Jr. wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s freezing,” she murmured.
A door creaked somewhere in the distance—wind, or the shifting of old wood.
James Jr. peered around the gloomy hall. “Is this… a house or a crypt?”
The ceilings were high but sloped, pressing inward like the place itself was trying to curl in on them. No firelight. No lanterns. Just a few sputtering magical sconces that cast long shadows.
Ginny set her bag down with a thump and didn’t answer right away. Her face was pale, her hair clinging to her damp shoulders from the rain.
Albus looked around, squinting into the grey. “Where are we?”
At last, Ginny gave a short, hollow laugh. It held no humour—just tiredness. “I don’t know,” she said flatly. “Harry didn’t tell me.”
The silence that followed was immediate and heavy.
Even James Jr. didn’t make a joke.
Ginny looked up at the ceiling as if trying to hold herself together. “He gave me a Portkey and a letter with a list of instructions. Said someone would come tomorrow. That’s it.”
She walked past them into the central hall, her footsteps echoing sharply in the emptiness. “Pick a room. Unpack. There’s food in the cold pantry, he said. Water charms by the sink.”
Then, as she turned to head down the corridor, she added—quieter now, more to herself than anyone else—“I’m sure he meant well.”
And she disappeared into the gloom.
The fire crackled in the old hearth, but it did little to warm the high-ceilinged room. It hissed and spat against the damp wood, casting long shadows that trembled against the cold stone walls. They had gathered there in silence, each person curled into their own pocket of thought.
Lily Sr. moved quietly around the cramped kitchen alcove. Her hands worked mechanically—finding the kettle, running water from the charm-enchanted spout, levitating chipped mugs from the cupboards. She didn’t speak, and no one filled the silence. The scrape of chairs, the rustle of coats drying, the soft whistle of the kettle—these were the only sounds.
James Jr. was perched on the windowsill, elbows on his knees, staring out into the mist. He squinted for a long moment before finally muttering, “This doesn’t look like we’re in the UK.”
No one responded right away. Albus turned his face slightly toward the window but didn’t follow James’s gaze. He sat stiffly, shoulders hunched, arms crossed tightly like he was trying to contain something.
The fog outside was too thick to see much, but faintly—through the gaps in the murky trees—they could make out the slow bend of a river. The water glimmered dully under the overcast sky, like a silver scar across the landscape. No city lights. No Muggle roads. No signs of life at all.
“Too many pine trees,” James Sr.. added absently. “Could be Eastern Europe. Or Norway. Dunno.”
Still, no one answered. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Funereal.
Lily Sr. brought over a tray of steaming mugs. She handed them out wordlessly, setting one down in front of each person like a ritual. Her hands lingered for just a moment on Ginny’s shoulder when she passed her, but Ginny didn’t look up. She simply held the mug between her palms and stared into it.
Sirius had positioned himself by the fire, arms crossed, jaw clenched, staring into the flames like he wanted to interrogate them.
James Sr. sat beside him, his hands clasped together, forearms resting on his knees, looking not at the fire but at the floor. He looked older than he had since he’d returned—like someone who knew what kind of war had just knocked on their door.
Lily Jr. sat closest to her mother, one knee pulled up to her chest. She hadn’t spoken since they arrived. Her fingers curled tightly around the mug, knuckles white.
No one touched the tea.
Outside, the wind picked up slightly, rattling the shutters.
Inside, not even a whisper stirred.
It was as though saying anything out loud might make it all real.
The first sound that broke the silence wasn’t a voice—it was a quiet, shaky inhale. Lily Jr. was staring into the untouched tea in her hands, her brow drawn tight, her lips pressed together. For a second, it looked like she was going to hold it in.
But then her shoulders shook.
A single tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.
She didn’t sob—she didn’t make a scene. She just crumpled slowly, her breath catching in shallow gasps as she folded inward on herself, trying to be quiet even in her grief. She wiped at her face hastily with her sleeve, as if embarrassed, as if she didn’t want anyone to see.
Ginny looked over then—really looked—and her own face cracked like a fault line. She moved quickly, kneeling beside her daughter, pulling her into her arms. Lily didn’t resist. She pressed her face into her mother’s shoulder and the tears came harder, though she still didn’t make much sound. It was the kind of crying that left you hollow.
“I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye,” Lily whispered, voice raw and broken.
Ginny didn’t speak. She just held her, her hand moving in slow circles across her daughter’s back. Her eyes were glassy too, but she blinked the tears away and kept her mouth shut.
Across the room, James Jr. looked down at his mug and gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t. But his leg bounced restlessly, and his hands trembled slightly as he tightened his grip around the ceramic.
Albus kept his eyes on the fire. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the way his jaw clenched—it said enough.
Sirius finally turned his head, watching the scene from near the fire. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something—something to lighten it, maybe, or maybe just to break the silence again—but he closed it. He looked at Ginny, holding Lily. Then at James Jr. Then at the shadows dancing across the stone.
The room felt impossibly big and unbearably small all at once. The only sound was the hiss of the logs breaking down into embers and the soft, aching sobs of a girl who had grown up with stories of war, but never thought one would find her.
The fire had burned low, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls, and still no one spoke.
The teacups had long gone cold, resting forgotten on the floor or in limp hands. No one had the heart to refill them.
The silence wasn’t heavy anymore—it had hollowed out into something more fragile. Everyone seemed to know that whatever they said would echo in all the wrong ways.
Eventually, Ginny stirred.
She smoothed Lily Jr.’s hair back from her damp face and murmured, “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go lie down.” Her voice was hoarse, but steady. She stood, gently guiding her daughter to her feet. Lily Jr. leaned into her without a word, and the two of them disappeared down the narrow hall into one of the bedrooms.
James Jr. rose next. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask where he was supposed to sleep. He just looked at Albus and gave a small jerk of his head. Albus hesitated, then followed without a word. They left their mugs behind. The soft creak of floorboards followed them down the corridor, then faded as their door shut.
Lily Sr. looked over at her husband. James Sr. rubbed a hand over his tired face, then nodded faintly and stood. He gave Sirius a glance—not quite worried, but hesitant. Sirius didn’t look up from the fire.
“We’re just down the hall,” Lily Sr. said gently.
Sirius didn’t answer.
James looked like he wanted to say something more, but Lily tugged his hand. “Let him be,” she whispered, and they turned away, vanishing behind another door with only the quiet sound of retreating footsteps.
And then the house fell into true silence again.
Sirius sat alone in the dim light, knees drawn up slightly, eyes fixed on the dying fire. He hadn’t asked for a bed. Hadn’t wanted one. The couch was stiff and cold, but it didn’t matter.
He was staring into the embers like they might offer answers. Like maybe Regulus’s ghost might speak to him from the flames. Like maybe this was a dream and he was still asleep in Grimmauld Place and none of this had happened.
But the ache in his chest was too sharp to be sleep. And the cold of the room too real.
The river whispered somewhere outside the window, endlessly flowing past, uncaring of what had been lost in the night.
***
Sirius blinked awake the moment the latch clicked shut. His instincts, dulled by years of unnatural peace, sparked back to life now like a striking match. He sat up fast, fingers already curled around the wand beneath the sofa cushion, and crossed the cold wooden floor in three strides.
The backdoor.
Through the fogged window beside it, he saw a lone figure hunched near the riverbank—Ginny, her red hair mostly tucked beneath the hood of a thick winter coat, sat on a rounded boulder. Morning mist clung to the river’s edge, and the trees lining the bank stood like silent witnesses in the dim light.
She didn’t seem to hear him open the door, or if she did, she didn’t react. Sirius stepped out quietly and approached, hands tucked into his sleeves against the sharp chill. He didn’t speak until he was close enough to see what she was holding.
Her fingers were turning over a pair of rings—her gold wedding band and a simple solitaire engagement ring—fiddling with them like they might spin time backwards if she just twisted the metal enough. On her other hand, she still wore the thin silver ring with a delicate red stone that Harry had given her when James Jr. was born.
He sat down beside her, the rock cold through his clothes. She glanced at him briefly but didn’t offer a greeting.
“I woke up,” she said after a long minute, “and I thought for a moment it was all a nightmare. Then I saw the river.”
Sirius followed her gaze. The current flowed steady and grey.
“I argued with him,” she said softly. “Right before we left. I told him he was being reckless. That he was pushing everyone away. He said he was doing it to keep us safe.”
Her voice wavered, but she didn’t stop. “I told him that’s not what a family is. That maybe it wasn’t just about safety. That maybe he wanted to be alone.”
She closed her eyes tightly. “He didn’t argue. He just kissed me on the forehead, said, ‘I’ll see you soon,’ and handed me the bloody Portkey.”
Sirius didn’t speak.
Ginny turned the engagement ring once more. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.”
The mist swallowed the far side of the river. Somewhere in the woods, a bird called out—sharp and distant.
“I keep thinking,” Ginny said, her voice quieter now, “what if that was it? What if the last thing I ever said to him was angry?”
Sirius looked at her, and though his own chest still ached with all the weight he hadn’t spoken aloud—about Regulus, about Harry, about the life that had been stolen and handed back strangely—he said, “He knows you didn’t mean it like that.”
Ginny gave a small, humourless laugh. “You sure? Because I’m not.”
Sirius didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the river, but not really seeing it.
“When I lost James,” he said eventually, “I’d argued with him the night before. Some stupid thing. I can’t even remember what it was now. Just that I thought I had more time to fix it.”
Ginny looked over at him, her expression unreadable.
“I got him back,” Sirius added, barely above a whisper. “Somehow. Against all odds. You could still get that too.”
Ginny inhaled shakily and looked down at the rings again.
“I just want to go home,” she said. “But I don’t even know what that means anymore.”
Sirius let the silence settle, thick and damp like the fog curling around their feet. He didn’t know how to answer that—because he didn’t know either. Home used to mean laughter echoing down the corridors of Grimmauld Place, pranks and shouting in the Potters’ old kitchen, evenings at the Burrow surrounded by chaos and warmth. Now… it was all scattered.
Ginny turned her eyes back to the river. “He made me promise I’d be the one to lead, to keep the kids together. That if anything happened to him, they’d still have someone. He said it like he’d already made up his mind not to come back.”
Sirius flinched at that. “He hasn’t given up,” he said tightly.
“He’s given everything else up,” Ginny muttered. “He’s been doing it for months. Piece by piece. I didn’t even notice until it was too late.”
The wind shifted, sending a spray of mist into the air. Ginny wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, quickly, like she could pretend the tears were just water.
Sirius said nothing. The river moved on beside them.
“I’m scared,” she finally admitted. “Not of dying. I’ve made peace with that, strangely enough. I’m scared of him dying thinking we didn’t trust him. That we didn’t believe in him anymore.”
“He knows you do,” Sirius said. “Even when you yell at him. Especially then.”
Ginny gave a breath of dry, brittle laughter. Then, more quietly, “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, too.”
Sirius met her eyes, and for a second neither of them were strong. Just raw and tired and lost.
“I should’ve told him about Regulus sooner,” Harry’s voice echoed again in Sirius’s head. “It never felt like the right moment.”
And Sirius knew now what Ginny meant—how easy it was to let things go unsaid until they were etched into grief.
She reached up, brushing strands of hair behind her ear, fingers trembling. “I don’t even know where we are.”
“No,” Sirius said, following her gaze back toward the shadowed forest behind the house. “But I think we’ll find out soon.”
Ginny rose, slowly, and wiped her hands down her coat. She tucked the rings into her pocket without looking.
“We should go inside,” she said. “Before the kids wake up and think we’ve disappeared too.”
Sirius stood with her. He didn’t say what they were both thinking: before they start asking questions we still don’t have answers to.
They turned and walked back toward the crooked little house, the thin column of smoke from the hearth guiding them like a beacon through the fog.
The door creaked softly behind Sirius and Ginny as they stepped inside, their boots damp from the riverbank. The cold followed them in like a shadow, but the faint smell of something warm and toasting drifted from the kitchen. Lily Sr. was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, quietly tending to eggs and bread over a modest fire. Her wand stirred a pan on its own while she poured tea into mismatched mugs.
James Sr. sat at the edge of the table, holding a cup in both hands, staring into it like it might offer answers. Albus was hunched forward, absently chewing, his eyes heavy with sleep and thought. Lily Jr. was curled in a blanket at the end of the bench, knees to her chest, still red-eyed from the night before.
But James Jr. sat stiffly at the far end of the table, his plate untouched. His fork rested beside it, forgotten.
“Eat something,” Ginny said softly as she passed him, setting down her coat.
“I’m not hungry,” James Jr. replied flatly, not meeting her eyes.
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
He gave the faintest shrug. The room was too quiet, the air too heavy for even the sound of cutlery. Lily Sr. didn’t look away from the pan, but she had heard everything.
“You need strength,” Ginny insisted, her voice sharpening slightly. “We don’t know how long we’ll be here, and you—”
“Mum, I said I’m not hungry!” James snapped, pushing the plate away. The scrape of porcelain against wood echoed sharply.
Ginny opened her mouth, but he was already standing. He pushed his chair back with a jarring screech and stormed out of the room.
They heard the heavy footfalls on the stairs.
Then the door upstairs slammed, and a second later: click.
Locked.
Ginny stood frozen, one hand still half-raised toward the empty chair. Her lips parted, then pressed into a thin line.
James Sr. rubbed her arm gently, his eyes tired. “He’s just scared,” he said quietly.
“We’re all scared,” Ginny replied, her voice shaking just enough that Sirius noticed. But she turned away before anyone could see her face. “And he’s not the only one who wants to scream.”
The silence returned like a weight. Only the pan sizzled on.
The day passed slowly, dragging itself forward like mist over the riverbank. The safe house—an old, creaking cottage tucked into the bend of a forested hill—stayed dim no matter how wide the curtains were pulled. The windows were small and half-frosted, and the gray light that did manage to slip through only made the cold stone floors seem colder.
No one spoke much.
Lily Sr. cleaned quietly, wiping down the few surfaces, charming the curtains open and shut just to feel like she was doing something. James Sr. tried reading an old book they found on a shelf, but his eyes kept drifting back to the fire instead, unfocused. Albus sat by the window for most of the morning, knees drawn up to the seat, chin resting on his arms as he stared out at the river winding darkly through the trees. He hadn’t said a word since breakfast.
Lily Jr. fell asleep mid-morning, curled under a knitted blanket on the couch. She hadn’t slept much the night before, and now her breathing was soft, her fingers curled into the wool. Her face was blotchy from crying.
Sirius spent most of the day by the back door, letting the cold in and out as he stepped outside for short walks and came back in shaking snow from his boots. He didn’t speak unless someone spoke to him—and even then, only in brief nods or grunts. He kept looking toward the treeline, like expecting something—or someone—to appear.
Upstairs, James Jr. stayed locked in his room. Ginny tried twice to speak through the door, her voice gentle at first, then sharper, but got no answer. The second time, she stood there for a long moment with her hand against the wood, forehead pressed to it. Then she turned and walked back downstairs without a word.
Lunch was bread, butter, and leftover eggs. No one had much of an appetite. They ate silently or not at all.
By late afternoon, it began to snow again. Big, heavy flakes floated down like ash. The fireplace in the living room was kept alive by Lily Sr.’s wand, but it offered little warmth to the mood in the house.
Ginny sat by the fire, rubbing her hands together, her eyes faraway. She hadn’t mentioned Harry once since breakfast, but every now and then she would glance at the fireplace like she was waiting for it to speak.
No one asked what would happen tomorrow.
No one talked about what Harry might be doing.
The silence between them wasn’t hostile—but it was full. Heavy with the weight of words no one could bring themselves to say.
It was a house filled with waiting. And grief. And the slow, growing fear of what came next.
As night crept in, the house seemed to shrink inward with the cold. Shadows gathered early in the corners of the rooms, pressing in against the flickering firelight. The snow had covered everything outside in a thick white hush, muting the river’s flow until it was barely more than a whisper.
James Sr. tried to suggest a game of Exploding Snap in the evening, his voice carrying that forced cheerfulness that fooled no one. Lily Sr. smiled faintly and agreed, but when no one else responded—not even Sirius—he let the cards fall back into the drawer and didn’t press again.
Ginny hadn’t moved from the armchair by the hearth. Her eyes followed the flames but didn’t seem to see them. Her wedding ring had disappeared from her hand at some point during the day.
Albus stood and walked aimlessly between rooms, like he couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes at a time. He paused occasionally outside James Jr.’s door, then kept walking. At one point, he wandered out onto the back porch, wrapped in a borrowed jumper. Sirius followed him silently and leaned on the railing beside him, neither of them speaking. Just watching the white woods.
Lily Jr. hovered near her mother most of the evening, clinging more to presence than words. She helped make sandwiches for dinner, though she didn’t eat much. Her eyes were still puffy, and she flinched slightly every time someone raised their voice—even when it was just calling from another room.
After they’d all picked at dinner, Lily Sr. quietly charmed a few blankets warm and passed them around. She kissed Lily Jr.’s hair and said they’d try to sleep early. No one protested.
Upstairs, Ginny knocked once more on James Jr.’s door, gentler this time.
“James. We’re all going to bed.”
No answer.
She hesitated. “I love you.”
Still silence. But a few seconds later, a soft click of the lock sliding open was heard. She didn’t go in. Just waited until she heard him crawl into bed, then stepped away.
She didn’t cry in front of anyone that night—but her eyes stayed red and tired.
Downstairs, Sirius dragged the sofa cushions together into something resembling a bed again. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, the fire casting faint orange light across his face. Every now and then, he glanced toward the window, eyes sharp, like he was still waiting for something in the woods.
Lily Sr. stood at the top of the stairs for a while before going to bed, watching the still house, listening to the hush that had settled over them all.
No owls came.
No word from Harry.
Just the fire, the snow, and a silence that grew heavier by the hour.
The next morning dawned grey and bitter again, snow now a dull crust beneath the soft tread of boots and slippers. No one had slept well, and it showed in the slow shuffling to the kitchen, the dull clinking of cups, and the way no one looked each other in the eye.
Lily Sr. was already up, the kettle gently whistling on the stove. Sirius had dozed uneasily on the couch, one hand loosely around his wand, but he was up before most, helping her silently with breakfast preparations.
James Jr. came down late, his jaw tight, hair messier than usual and eyes darker beneath. He ignored the bowl of porridge placed in front of him, muttering something inaudible, and picked at a piece of bread instead. Ginny watched him but said nothing this time. She looked worn out.
Albus was the last to appear, eyes darting cautiously toward his brother before settling in the far corner of the table with a quiet “Morning.”
It was during the evening, after a long, tense day of near-silence, when things finally snapped.
They were all in the sitting room again. Sirius had charmed the fire to roar a little brighter, though it did little to lift the mood. Ginny was reading, or at least staring at a book she hadn’t turned a page of in half an hour. Lily Jr. had dozed off beside her. Lily Sr. was knitting in the corner. James Sr. was tracing something vaguely like a map on a piece of parchment. Albus was pacing near the window, chewing a thumbnail.
James Jr., sitting stiffly with his arms crossed, had been simmering all day, and now his voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
“This is your fault,” he snapped, staring at Albus.
Albus stopped pacing. “What?”
“You let them in. You led them right to us.”
Everyone turned.
James Jr. stood up, his fists clenched. “You knew someone was following you. You said it. And you still went to the Burrow. Still showed up like nothing was wrong.”
Albus looked stunned for a moment, and then defensive. “I didn’t know they’d be able to trace me—”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” James spat. “You’ve always thought you knew better. Even when Dad tried to teach us spells to protect ourselves, you rolled your eyes like you were too clever for it. Maybe if you’d actually paid attention instead of sulking all the time, you could’ve fought them off.”
The words hit hard. Albus paled, mouth opening, but no sound came out.
“James,” Ginny said sharply, but he didn’t stop.
“Dad taught us how to fight. How to survive. But no—you thought being his son was a burden, didn’t you? Too much to live up to. Poor Albus. So misunderstood. You didn’t even try to help. You just stood there and—”
“I did try!” Albus finally shouted. “I tried! But there were too many of them—I didn’t know what to do—”
“You should’ve fought harder,” James said coldly. “You’re the reason we had to run.”
Silence fell again. Albus looked like he’d been slapped. Ginny rose to her feet, eyes flashing, but Lily Sr. reached out and caught her hand, a gentle but firm restraint.
Sirius stood, stepping between the two boys.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice rough. “Both of you.”
Albus’s knuckles were still white where they gripped the armrest, his jaw trembling with words he couldn’t force out.
But James wasn’t done.
He took a step closer, anger flaring like a second heartbeat in his chest. “You know what this is really about, don’t you?” he said, voice low but venomous. “You’ve always hated that people look at me and see Dad. That they see Potter and expect something—someone like me. And they look at you and they wonder what went wrong.”
Albus’s face twisted. “Stop.”
“You can’t stand it,” James pressed on, eyes burning now. “Can’t stand being in my shadow. That’s why you do that whole moody-loner thing. Pretend like you’re too deep for the rest of us. Like being the angry one makes you different, better. But the truth is, you hate that people think I’m better than you—because, deep down, you think they’re right.”
“James,” Ginny barked, voice cracking, but he didn’t stop.
“You remember Amélie?” James’s voice was sharp now, cruel. “Course you do. She liked you first, or at least you thought she did. You got all smug about it. And then she picked me. And you couldn’t handle it. You punched me.”
Albus stood. “Don’t—”
“Nearly broke my nose,” James said, breathing hard. “You were furious. But it wasn’t really about her, was it? It’s always about the same thing. That I’m everything you’re not.”
The room went still.
Albus’s mouth opened, then closed. His face had gone pale, lips trembling slightly. “You think I don’t already feel worthless enough?” he whispered. “You think I don’t lie awake every night remembering how Dad looked at me when I messed up?”
James flinched.
“I know I’ve let him down. I know I’ve let all of you down. So if you wanted to twist the knife, congratulations.” He gave a bitter, broken laugh. “Mission accomplished.”
And with that, Albus turned and walked out of the room.
No one moved.
Sirius stood rooted where he was. Ginny had gone stiff beside the fire, hands clenched into fists. Lily Sr. looked heartbroken. James Sr. lowered his head into his hands.
James Jr. stared after Albus, chest heaving, lips pulled back in a sneer that didn’t quite hide the guilt already creeping into his face. But he wasn’t done yet—he couldn’t stop himself, not with everything boiling over, the fear, the silence, the waiting.
“He ran away again, didn’t he?” James snapped, voice louder now, brittle. “That’s what he does. Always running. Always hiding. Never taking responsibility for anything. He’s a bloody coward—”
“That’s enough,” Ginny snapped, the firelight catching the sharp edge of her voice as she stepped forward, eyes blazing.
James turned, startled. “Mum—”
“I said enough.” Her voice cut like a whip. “You don’t get to stand here and pretend you’re the only one hurting.”
“I am hurting,” James said, his voice cracking now. “He’s the reason we’re even here! They got into the Burrow because of him, and no one’s saying it but it’s true! If he’d just—”
“If he’d just what, James?” Ginny interrupted, stepping between him and the rest of the room like a wall. “Fought them off alone? Died trying? Would that have been good enough for you?”
James opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His shoulders shook. Ginny’s voice lowered, colder now.
“You think you’re the only one your father taught how to fight? The only one who trained, who listened, who cared? You think Albus didn’t want to protect us too? You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”
She pointed toward the stairs.
“Go.”
James looked like he might argue—his jaw clenched, tears burning in his eyes—but Ginny didn’t move. Her eyes didn’t waver.
“Go, James.”
He turned abruptly and stormed out, footsteps thundering up the stairs. A moment later, a door slammed, hard enough to shake the walls.
Ginny exhaled, slow and ragged, pressing her palms together. No one said anything for a long moment.
Lily Sr. quietly resumed stirring something on the stove, her face tight with worry. Sirius leaned on the back of a chair, frowning at the floor.
And from upstairs, silence. But heavy. Tense. Like the house itself was holding its breath.
***
The moment they vanished—gone in a whirl of light and wind and silence—Harry stood there, fingers still outstretched toward the spot they’d occupied.
The inkpot rolled slightly on the wooden floor, spinning once before settling on its side. Quiet returned like a weight dropped from the ceiling, heavy and instant. The room, just moments ago full of voices, movement, clumsy packing, and goodbyes, was now so still it felt hollow.
Harry exhaled through his nose. He bent down slowly, picked up the now-empty portkey, and held it for a second longer than necessary, just to keep his hands from shaking.
He set it on the table and straightened.
The silence clawed at his ears. There was no laughter, no bickering, no Lily Jr. sniffling, no James trying to act brave, no Albus avoiding his eyes. No Ginny urging someone to hurry. No Lily Sr. making tea. No Sirius pacing by the door, still fuming. Just dust motes in the slanted evening light, the faint ticking of the old wall clock, and a quiet groan of wind against the glass.
Harry moved to the window. The wards shimmered faintly in the yard—traces of the spells he’d cast an hour earlier, protection layers upon protection layers. Enough to hold off most known forms of magical interference. But if it was who he feared it was… that might not be enough.
Still, he hadn’t had a choice.
They needed to be gone. Safe. Somewhere far away from this.
His family—his entire family—was now out of his reach. Again. And the space they left behind felt bigger than the house itself.
Harry’s fingers dug into the edge of the windowsill. He didn’t allow himself to sit down. If he sat, he might not get up again.
Instead, he turned, grabbed his cloak, and moved through the house, checking the wards one more time. Layer by layer. Door by door. Wand tapping, muttering spells under his breath. Not because he didn’t trust the charms. But because movement kept the thoughts at bay.
He didn’t let himself think about the look on Ginny’s face. About how James had hugged him tighter than he had in years. About how Lily had started crying before she even let go. About Albus—who didn’t hug him. Who hadn’t said a word. But whose silence was loud with everything he hadn’t said.
He didn’t let himself feel the guilt Sirius’s eyes had burned into him just before they left. The pain of things unspoken. The anger in his godfather’s voice.
He had work to do.
And he couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not yet.
Not until this was over.
***
Harry stood beneath the scalding stream of the shower, hands braced against the cold tiles, head bowed as water coursed down his back and neck. It didn’t wash away the ache in his chest. Or the weight pressing against his ribs like a slow, dull curse. The heat burned, but it still wasn’t enough to drive out the cold.
He dried off in silence, dressed slowly—worn jumper, dark trousers, boots—clothes that could move with him, fight with him if needed. The kind you wear when you don’t know what the day will bring.
He clipped his wand holster to his forearm.
Downstairs, he double-checked the perimeter one last time. Dunlop would be here soon, maybe with half the Auror Department behind him. It didn’t matter. Harry wasn’t afraid of Dunlop. Not his papers, not his posturing, not the way he always seemed to enjoy pointing out Harry’s missteps like it meant something.
Let him come.
What chilled Harry more was what Dunlop didn’t know. What no one in the Ministry fully grasped.
The attack at the Burrow hadn’t been random. Those men hadn’t broken through their defenses just for revenge or sport. They’d been looking for something—or someone. They’d known too much. Moved too quickly. And they’d spoken of things… things long buried.
Horcruxes. Resurrection. A shadow still stretching its hand from beyond the grave.
Harry knew that kind of darkness. He’d lived it. Survived it.
Barely.
And now it was back.
He stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the spot where the portkey had whisked his family away. He clenched his jaw. That’s why he’d stayed behind. Not to face Dunlop. Not to prove anything.
But because he couldn’t allow that darkness to take root again. Not while he still had breath.
He could fight Dunlop.
But Voldemort’s remnants?
That was war.
And it had already begun.
***
Harry sat back on the couch, the cushions sinking under him as he let out a slow breath. The room was quiet now—eerily so without the usual thrum of voices, footsteps, the sounds of family just existing.
Waiting for Dunlop felt absurd. Him, Harry Potter, just sitting there like a schoolboy outside McGonagall’s office. He almost laughed. A short, humourless sound that barely made it out of his throat.
But beneath the sarcasm and steel, something twisted in his chest. Not fear. Not yet. Guilt.
His eyes drifted to the photograph on the mantle—Ginny holding James as a baby, that golden summer sun lighting up her face, the three of them smiling like the world had no sharp edges.
He'd hurt her.
He hadn’t meant to. He never meant to. But the truth was… Ginny had always been his anchor, his truth, and in his desperation to protect her, he’d turned her into a ghost of herself—left her pacing in the shadows while he fought monsters she didn’t even know existed.
She deserved more than that. She asked for more. And he kept choosing silence, choosing weight, choosing burden.
Harry’s hand curled into a fist on his knee. That’s the last thing she’d said to him before the portkey whisked her away. He didn’t get a real goodbye. No moment to hold her, to tell her she’s still the only thing in this world that truly steadied him.
He’d sent her away with their children and a house full of resurrected ghosts, and no real explanation—just the shape of a war forming in the fog, and him, once again, choosing the battlefield over the hearth.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself.
He rubbed his face, exhaustion and shame clawing at the corners of his mind.
He missed her. Even after all this time, even after everything… he still missed her like a phantom limb when she was gone.
And now she was gone again—because he told her to be.
Because the next fight was coming.
And this time… he might not walk away from it.
***
It was nearly seven.
The shadows in the sitting room had lengthened, climbing the walls like quiet warnings. Harry sat motionless, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. The clock ticked on the mantel. Each second felt like it was pulling a thread tighter around his chest.
Then he heard them.
Footsteps. Voices—muted and clipped. Gravel crunching under boots just beyond the hedges.
Then the knock.
Three short raps. Firm. Measured.
Harry stood. His body moved on instinct, but his mind felt suspended, detached, like he was walking through fog. He crossed the floor and opened the door.
Dunlop stood there, tall and broad, flanked by half a dozen Aurors. Some of them Harry recognised—Aurors who’d trained under him. Shared coffee with him. Fought beside him. Now they looked everywhere but his eyes.
His heart sank at the sight of their shame.
"Harry James Potter," Dunlop said, voice clear, formal. His eyes were flat, unreadable. “You are under investigation for obstruction of justice, withholding of critical intelligence, and failure to disclose known threats to public safety under Article Fourteen of the Magical Security Act.”
Harry didn't flinch. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Behind Dunlop, a crowd had gathered. Word had spread fast—faster than Harry would have believed. Neighbours, reporters, even passersby. Some craned for a look, wands in hand, cameras clicking. A young woman from The Daily Prophet was murmuring into a floating Quick-Quotes Quill. Flashbulbs sparked, momentarily blinding.
“Harry…” one of the younger Aurors said quietly—Marc Gibbons, barely three years out of training. His hand trembled slightly as he held the enchanted shackles.
Harry didn’t resist.
He held out his wrists.
The click of the magical cuffs closing around them was loud in the silence.
And suddenly, everything felt real.
Dunlop gave a slight nod, and two Aurors stepped forward, one placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry turned slightly, facing the crowd—not defiantly, not in shame. Just facing them. Letting them see.
Gasps rippled as the Boy Who Lived—The Chosen One, Head of the Auror Department—stood on his own doorstep, hands bound in iron, head held high as if he were walking into war.
Because he was.
Just not the one they thought.
***
The interrogation room was colder than Harry remembered from his early days in the department—dull grey stone walls, no windows, no clock. Just a single wooden table bolted to the floor and two chairs. One occupied. One waiting.
Harry sat in silence, wrists still cuffed, elbows on the table, eyes half-lidded in thought.
Had they arrested Ron and Hermione too?
The idea curled in his gut like spoiled milk. He had counted on the contingency plan—the web of quiet protections, legal loopholes, and safety nets he, Hermione, and Kingsley had set up for emergencies like this. But so far, he hadn’t heard anything.
He prayed—for once, he actually prayed—that it was working. That they were safe. That someone out there was still moving.
The heavy steel door hissed as it unlocked and swung open.
Harry didn’t look up at first. Just listened to the approaching footsteps, the calm gait, the subtle hush in the air that always followed authority. Only when the chair scraped back across the floor did he lift his head.
Dunlop sat down across from him. No folder. No papers. Just his sharp blue gaze, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Harry blinked once. Then, slowly, he gave a crooked, tired smile.
“Well,” he drawled, “when your Head Auror’s so thoroughly incompetent, I suppose the Minister has to get his hands dirty.”
Dunlop didn’t flinch. “You always this mouthy under formal interrogation, Potter?”
Harry leaned back slightly in the chair, cuffs clinking against the tabletop. “Only when I’ve been arrested for doing your job better than you.”
Dunlop’s jaw twitched, but his face remained impassive. He laced his fingers together on the table, cool and deliberate.
“You broke half a dozen international security protocols, rerouted magical surveillance grids, and concealed a Level Five domestic breach,” he said, his voice low, precise. “You’re not in this room because I’m incompetent, Potter. You’re here because you made yourself a liability.”
Harry tilted his head slightly, watching him. “A liability,” he repeated. “Not a traitor. Not a conspirator. Just inconvenient.”
“You were reckless.”
“I was right.”
They stared at each other in silence, the words hovering like smoke.
Dunlop leaned forward. “Right about what?” he asked quietly. “That you could hide this from me? That no one would notice a botched resurrection attempt, dark magic spreading through the country like rot? You were sitting on a ticking time bomb, and you didn’t even have the decency to inform the people tasked with protecting the public.”
Harry’s face darkened. “You mean the same people who missed the initial breach? The same ones who dismissed the early sightings, who laughed at the possibility because it sounded like a ghost story?” He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping. “You weren’t ready to hear it.”
“So you decided for us?” Dunlop shot back. “Decided what the public could know, what your family could know, what I could know?”
Harry’s voice dropped. “I’ve lost people because of the truth. And I’ve lost people because of too much of it. I’m done gambling with lives I care about.”
Dunlop's expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered—either anger or understanding. It was hard to tell.
“Where is your family now?” he asked.
Harry didn’t answer.
Dunlop nodded slowly. “Thought so.” He sat back. “We’ll find them, Potter. You’re not as clever as you think.”
Harry looked at him, and for the first time since he entered the room, something flared behind his eyes. Not fear. Not pride. But something dangerous and resolute.
“No,” he said quietly. “But I’m faster.”
Dunlop studied Harry like a chessboard—each square, each move, already measured. He folded his arms slowly and said, “I’ve been watching you since the day you walked into the Ministry at seventeen.”
Harry didn’t flinch, but his shoulders stiffened slightly.
Dunlop continued, voice low and level. “The golden boy. The Chosen One. Kingsley gave you a badge and let you rewrite protocol as if it were parchment under your quill. You were a symbol—righteous, untouchable. And everyone else fell in line.”
He stepped around the table, slowly, deliberately. “But I’m not Kingsley. I don’t give a damn about your scars or your stories. I won’t bend to you because you faced Voldemort once. You’re not a god, Potter. You’re a man. And men answer for their mistakes.”
Harry turned his head to look up at him, jaw set tight. “Then maybe you should start answering for yours.”
Dunlop blinked.
Harry’s voice was low, steady. “You let rot fester under your nose. You didn’t ask the right questions, didn’t want to. And now you’re trying to save face by dragging me down with it.”
Dunlop leaned in. “This isn’t about saving face. It’s about reminding everyone that no one is above the law—not even you.”
Harry didn’t blink. “Then start acting like the law’s worth something.”
They stood like that for a moment—two men, two decades apart, caught in the same war wearing different uniforms. One fighting shadows. The other trying to cage them.
Dunlop pulled out a folder—thick, worn at the edges—and dropped it onto the table with a dull thud. The Auror behind him shut the door, leaving Harry alone with the Minister of Magic.
“I don’t need Veritaserum to see the truth,” Dunlop said calmly as he opened the file. “You’ve obstructed investigations, withheld evidence, moved your family into hiding without notifying the proper departments. Not to mention the mess at the Burrow. Care to explain any of that?”
Harry leaned back in his chair, shackled hands resting on the table. He looked up at Dunlop with an expression just shy of amused boredom.
“You forgot to mention the weather. It was raining when I broke the law too, in case that helps your case.”
Dunlop ignored the comment. He slid a photograph across the table: scorched earth, the remnants of a fireplace and shattered bricks—the Burrow, ruined.
“Four intruders. Trained. Skilled. You didn’t give a statement until hours later.”
“I was busy making sure my children didn’t die,” Harry replied evenly. “Sorry for the delay.”
“You deliberately removed your family from our custody.”
Harry didn’t answer.
Dunlop leaned closer. “Do you know what that makes you?”
Harry finally turned his head, slow and deliberate. “A father.”
Silence crackled between them like static. Dunlop’s face gave nothing away, but he straightened slowly, smoothing the front of his coat.
“Where are they?”
Harry tilted his head. “Safe.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Dunlop slammed a palm against the table, but Harry didn’t flinch. He was watching the clock behind Dunlop’s shoulder. Waiting. Every second mattered.
He needed to buy fifteen more minutes.
“You think this is clever,” Dunlop said coldly. “But I know what you’re doing.”
“I doubt it,” Harry said with a faint smirk. “But go ahead and surprise me.”
Dunlop paced now, his irritation barely hidden. “You’re delaying. You’re betting on someone else cleaning up your mess before I break you down.”
Harry stayed quiet. The flicker in his eyes was faint—but it was there. Hope. Just a thread of it. Because the plan was still in motion. Because he had to trust that Hermione and Ron had reached the fallback contacts. That someone was moving the pieces while he sat there stalling.
“Your silence won’t protect you,” Dunlop said, voice tightening. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to choose: loyalty to your name, or loyalty to the law.”
Harry leaned forward now, slowly, and met his eyes.
“I already made my choice. I just hope when the real war starts again, you’re not still busy polishing your desk.”
The clock ticked past 7:23. Just seven more minutes.
Dunlop stared at Harry like he was something distasteful under his boot. “You always had a mouth on you,” he said coldly. “Back when you strutted into the Ministry with that scar and your Savior Complex. Some of us watched. Waited. Wondered how long it would take before the hero cracked.”
Harry smiled thinly. “Looks like you got your answer.”
“I’m not here to play games, Potter.”
“Good,” Harry said. “Because I’m not playing.”
Dunlop stepped back from the table, opened the file again, and flipped through parchment—surveillance logs, magical residue reports, statements from shaken Aurors, something scrawled in Hermione’s handwriting. He tapped a document.
“You created a team outside of official channels. You let them operate without oversight. A dozen Aurors, wizards, and witches, working underground. That’s a rogue cell.”
“I didn’t create a cell,” Harry replied, steady and low. “I created a shield. Because someone had to.”
Dunlop closed the file. “You think the rules don’t apply to you.”
“No,” Harry said quietly. “I just know what happens when people follow the rules while monsters rewrite them.”
There was a beat of silence. Dunlop exhaled slowly, watching Harry with unreadable eyes. Then, like flicking a switch, his voice softened—not kind, but coolly calculating.
“Do you know what happens to legends, Harry?” he said. “They become relics. They get forgotten. They get… replaced.”
Harry didn’t answer. He looked past Dunlop, to the mirrored observation glass. He wondered who stood behind it—Shacklebolt, perhaps. Or one of his old trainees who didn’t know where to look anymore.
And all the while, the seconds marched on. 7:25.
Just five more minutes.
Dunlop circled the table slowly now, like a predator testing weakness. “You’re going to break. And when you do, you’ll beg for a chance to tell me everything.”
Harry didn’t move. His voice, when it came, was very calm.
“You don’t scare me, Dunlop. And I’m not the one who’ll break.”
Dunlop narrowed his eyes.
“Because I’m not alone,” Harry added quietly.
And in his mind, he repeated it like a lifeline.
I’m not alone. I’m not alone. I’m not alone.
Three more minutes.
Please, he thought. Let it be working.
Dunlop’s interrogation had just hit another crescendo—he was mid-rant about operational overreach and "unauthorized magical collaboration"—when the door to the interrogation room creaked open.
A junior Auror leaned in, pale and breathless.
“Sir—there’s… a Floo call. From the French Ministry.”
Dunlop's head whipped around. “Tell them I’m not available.”
The Auror hesitated. “It’s Margaux Beaumont. She says she’ll speak only to you. And if you don’t respond in the next thirty seconds, she’s going directly to the International Confederation.”
A pause. Dunlop’s lips tightened into a thin, furious line.
Harry raised his eyebrows, leaning back in his chair with an almost amused look. “You might want to take that,” he said mildly. “She gets... theatrical.”
Dunlop shot him a withering glare, then strode from the room, robes flaring behind him.
The door slammed shut.
Harry exhaled slowly and allowed himself the smallest smile. 7:29. Right on time.
He sat in silence again, but this time it was different. Tension still pulled at the edges of his shoulders, but there was something new blooming beneath it: movement. Like the first crack of light under a locked door.
Because whatever else Margaux Beaumont was—overdressed, overwrought, a notorious diva with a flair for magical dramatics—she was also wildly influential. And she adored Harry Potter.
He remembered her words at their last meeting, spoken in heavily perfumed chambers in the upper floors of the Palais de la Magie:
“Monsieur Potter, if that stubborn little man Dunlop dares lay a finger on you, I will rain political fire down from Versailles to the Confederation gates themselves. You are a symbol. A legacy. A treasure of our post-war alliance. I will not have you manhandled like some petty smuggler!”
He hadn't liked her, exactly. But he’d trusted her ambition.
And right now, that ambition was his best shot.
In the hall beyond, raised voices began to echo—Dunlop’s clipped fury meeting Margaux’s velvet thunder over the Floo. A slam. A curse. Another door opening, hurried footsteps.
Harry kept still, his eyes on the mirror.
Then he murmured under his breath, to no one:
“Let the games begin.”
The voices in the corridor surged again, a crescendo of accented fury and clipped British indignation. Even through the thick walls, Harry could hear Margaux Beaumont’s unmistakable cadence—her syllables sharp and dramatic, as if she were casting every sentence with a wand.
He pictured Dunlop pinching the bridge of his nose as she invoked the Versailles Pact, the Paris Agreement on Inter-Ministerial Detention Rights, and—for good measure—the Treaty of Magical Cultural Preservation. She was thorough, he’d give her that.
Harry stayed seated in the hard chair, hands still cuffed in front of him, head leaned back against the cold wall. Waiting. Not relaxed, exactly, but something near it. This part had always been a gamble. He'd trusted that Margaux's pride in the French Ministry’s “prodigal magical son of Europe,” as she once called him, would override her usual distaste for British stubbornness.
It wasn’t personal. It was leverage.
A knock on the door again—this time more hesitant.
The same young Auror poked his head in. “Mr. Potter… you’re to be released immediately.”
Harry’s brows rose, but he said nothing. He simply stood as the cuffs were removed, rubbing his wrists briefly.
The Auror looked embarrassed. “Madame Beaumont has threatened to cut off all diplomatic and interdepartmental cooperation if you're not cleared within the hour. There’s already an emergency call being scheduled with the Confederation.”
“Mm,” Harry said, flexing his fingers. “She does like her drama.”
“Sir,” the Auror added, voice lower, “I’m sorry. About all of this.”
Harry gave him a small nod, and walked out into the corridor.
Dunlop was waiting outside, his expression carved from ice. His jaw was tight, eyes blazing with restrained fury. But Harry saw something else beneath it too—something tighter. Not fear. But pressure.
“Don’t get smug, Potter,” Dunlop snapped before Harry could speak. “This doesn’t clear you. It just stalls things. Your reckless behavior still warrants a full inquiry.”
Harry didn’t flinch. “Then by all means. Open an inquiry. But while you’re busy doing that, maybe you could try arresting the people who actually attacked the Burrow. The ones trying to resurrect Voldemort.”
Dunlop’s nostrils flared. “You think we’re not? You think you’re the only one trying to protect this country?”
Harry leaned in slightly, voice low but controlled. “I think you’ve been so busy chasing your vendettas and consolidating your power that you forgot who the real enemy is.”
A breath passed between them. Neither looked away.
Then Harry stepped past him, walking down the corridor without turning back.
He had other things to do. He had to check if Ron and Hermione were safe. He had to secure the next step of the plan.
But above all—he had to stop whatever was coming.
And now, it had begun.
***
The corridor widened near the lifts, and just as Harry turned the corner, he saw them—Ron and Hermione, stepping out from another interrogation room. Hermione’s hair was frizzed at the edges, cheeks flushed with restrained outrage. Ron looked pale, drawn, his fists clenched.
Harry exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
Hermione saw him first. “Harry—” she rushed forward, arms tight around him before he could speak. He returned the hug, eyes over her shoulder catching Ron’s.
“You alright?” Harry asked as they broke apart.
Ron’s jaw flexed. “Peachy. Interrogated for six bloody hours about whether I’ve been conspiring with my best mate to overthrow the Ministry.” He stepped forward and gripped Harry’s shoulder. “You?”
“Same,” Harry muttered. “But I had the added bonus of a personal visit from Dunlop.”
Hermione scowled. “And then Margaux Beaumont stormed in like a war general. I could hear her down the corridor—she threatened to drag Britain into an international scandal.”
Harry gave a humorless smile. “That was the plan.”
Ron blinked. “Wait, that was the plan?”
“She was the contingency,” Harry said. “If anything happened to me, she’d be notified immediately and come storming in to flex diplomatic muscle. It worked.”
Hermione folded her arms. “Why didn’t you tell us she was involved?”
“Because the fewer people knew, the safer the plan was. It had to look like I was operating alone. I didn’t want either of you arrested.”
Ron gave a hollow laugh. “Well, that worked brilliantly.”
Harry sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Hermione’s eyes softened. “It’s not your fault. This whole thing… it’s bigger than all of us now, isn’t it?”
Harry nodded once. “They’re still out there. The ones who attacked the Burrow. The Horcruxes… Voldemort’s magic—whatever they’re trying to do, it’s in motion.”
Ron’s voice dropped. “You think they’ll come after you again?”
“I think they already are,” Harry said. “We just haven’t seen the next move yet.”
Hermione reached for his hand. “Then we’d better be ready.”
Harry looked between them as they walked slowly through the corridor, their footsteps echoing against the marble floors. The Ministry halls were quieter now, but tension still hung in the air like smoke after a fire.
Hermione's gaze was sharp, calculating. “Harry… you should speak to the press.”
He frowned. “The Prophet? They’re already printing whatever Dunlop tells them.”
“I’m not talking about feeding them a quote,” she said. “I mean a full press statement. A proper address. You’re Harry Potter. You still have influence, whether Dunlop likes it or not.”
Ron gave a skeptical grunt. “Yeah, and last time he used that influence, they called him a delusional vigilante.”
Hermione’s voice was firm. “That’s exactly why he has to speak now. To control the narrative. You can expose Dunlop’s recklessness. Warn the public that there are Death Eaters at large again—and that the Ministry is trying to silence it.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “You think they’ll even believe me?”
“Yes,” Hermione said without hesitation. “Because they remember. Because you’re still the person who brought Voldemort down. And most of all… because they’re scared. They want someone to tell them the truth.”
Ron nodded slowly. “Better it come from you than from another Skeeter hit piece.”
Harry glanced toward the atrium, where reporters had swarmed him just hours ago, cameras flashing like wildfire. He hated the spotlight. Always had. But Hermione was right—there was more at stake than his comfort.
“They’ll come after me harder,” he said. “Dunlop, the Prophet… even some of the public.”
Hermione stepped closer, her voice gentler now. “They already are. So make it count, Harry. Let them know who’s really failing them—and what’s really coming.”
Harry’s jaw set. He nodded, once. “Alright. Let’s call a press conference.”
***
The garden was quieter than usual—no birdsong, no wind rustling the leaves. Just the distant hum of the crowd gathering beyond the hedgerow, their voices murmuring like a rising tide.
A waist-high hedge, thick with dark green leaves, separated Harry from the dozens of reporters crammed into the narrow lane outside his home. Cameras were propped up on tripods. Quills hovered mid-air, ready to scrawl every word. A few bold journalists were perched on levitating stools to get a clearer view.
Harry stood in the damp grass, wearing a simple jumper and coat, no robes or medals. He wasn’t here to play hero. He was here to tell the truth.
As the last camera light flickered on, the garden fell silent. For a long moment, he simply looked at them—at the sea of faces craning to hear him, some skeptical, others hopeful. Then he took a breath.
“My name is Harry Potter,” he began, his voice steady, echoing beyond the hedge. “Some of you know me as the Boy Who Lived. Others remember me as the man who helped bring Voldemort down. But today, I’m just a citizen—of this country, of this world—and I’m speaking because we are in danger again.”
There was a rustle of movement among the reporters. Quills scratched faster.
“Three nights ago, a highly coordinated attack was launched on a secure location where my family and others were staying. Those responsible were not thieves or protestors. They were organized. Trained. And they had one goal: to retrieve something Voldemort once used to make himself immortal.”
Gasps. Shouted questions. Harry raised his hand.
“I will not be answering questions at this time. What matters is this: the threat we faced during the war is not gone. It’s resurfacing—quietly, strategically—and the Ministry of Magic, under Minister Dunlop, has chosen to silence the people who are trying to stop it.”
He paused, meeting the eyes of the camera lens directly.
“I am not above the law. But I will not stand by while those in power manipulate the truth to protect their seats. We owe it to our children—to the ones who’ve never known war—to stop this now, before it grows.”
A ripple moved through the crowd. Some reporters looked stunned. Others scribbled furiously.
Harry’s voice dropped slightly. “I’m not asking for trust. I’m asking for vigilance. Ask questions. Demand answers. Watch your leaders. And don’t let fear blind you.”
He gave a small nod, then stepped back. No bow. No salute.
The moment Harry stepped back, the hedge practically trembled under the pressure of voices surging forward.
“Mr. Potter, are you saying Death Eaters are regrouping?”
“Do you have proof, Harry?”
“What was taken from the Burrow?”
“Is it true the Minister had you arrested without trial?”
“Do you believe Dunlop is intentionally hiding the truth?”
“Where is your family now? Are they safe?”
“Is it true you worked with the French Minister behind the Ministry’s back?”
“Has Kingsley Shacklebolt commented on this?”
“Are you declaring war on the Ministry?”
Harry raised a hand again—not to speak, but to quiet.
“I will speak more when I can,” he said, clearly and firmly, eyes scanning the sea of questions. “Right now, my priority is making sure no one else is hurt.”
“Just one more, Mr. Potter—”
“Is it true you were protecting a dark object?”
“Were Ron and Hermione arrested too?”
“Do you think the Minister will retaliate?”
“Is this the beginning of another war?”
Harry turned to the door, not answering any more.
Behind him, the quills kept scratching, the flashbulbs popped, and the hedge trembled—not from the wind, but from the noise of a world just beginning to realize the storm was returning.
Harry stepped back into the quiet of the house, shutting the door behind him. The noise of the crowd outside dulled to a distant murmur—still present, still pressing, but muted by wood and stone.
He exhaled slowly, loosening the collar of his shirt, and walked to the kitchen. The house was too empty. Too still.
With a flick of his wand, a bottle of Ogden’s Firewhisky hovered down from the shelf. He caught it by the neck, poured a modest finger into a glass, and stared at it for a second before taking a sip.
The heat hit his throat, spread through his chest.
His thoughts, however, were colder.
Are they safe?
He pictured Ginny’s face just before she’d left—furious, but frightened. Lily Jr. crying into her coat sleeve. James Jr. trying not to show how scared he was. And Albus, withdrawn as ever, hiding something in his eyes Harry hadn’t had time to unpack.
He gripped the glass tighter.
He hated leaving them like that. But it was the only way. If the Death Eaters were coming back… if they had access to dark magic strong enough to rattle the foundations of the Burrow, then keeping his family near him was a death sentence.
Still, he wondered. Were they cold? Were they sleeping? Had James picked another fight with Albus yet? Had Ginny found the second letter he'd hidden in the lining of her bag?
He took another drink. Slower this time.
I should be with them.
But he couldn’t—not yet.
So he stared out the window instead, into the night curling around his house like smoke, and whispered to no one,
“Please… just let them be safe.”
Harry turned the now half-empty glass in his hand, watching the amber swirl as if it might offer him answers. But the silence in the room only deepened, and with it came the weight of memory.
Sirius.
The firewhisky turned bitter in his mouth.
The last time they’d spoken—really spoken—had ended in anger. Sirius’s voice ringing out in the hallway, wounded and furious, “The last time you tried to protect me, I died!”
Harry hadn’t gone after him.
He told himself he didn’t have time. That the house needed protecting. That the family needed moving. That the intruders were the real threat.
But the truth was simpler: he couldn’t face the hurt in Sirius’s eyes. Couldn’t admit that yes, he had withheld the truth about Regulus. That yes, maybe some part of him had selfishly wanted to keep the past buried. Because once you started digging, there was too much of it—graves and regrets alike.
And then there were the letters.
He had stacked them in the corner of his desk, unopened, tied with a simple black cord. Three, maybe four now. The healer from St Mungo’s had sent them on behalf of Sirius. Updates. Requests. The last one was marked URGENT in block letters, and he hadn’t even touched it.
Guilt coiled around his ribs like barbed wire.
He hadn’t checked on him. Not once. Not since that night over a month ago.
He'd sent Sirius away with the rest of the family like a box to be locked in storage: too fragile to leave out in the open, too painful to handle directly.
Harry downed the rest of the drink in a single gulp, set the glass on the counter, and walked slowly to the desk in the next room.
The letters were still there.
He stared at them.
Then, with a breath, he reached for the one marked URGENT… and broke the seal.
The parchment crackled softly as Harry unfolded it, the healer’s elegant, looping script standing in quiet contrast to the urgency of its words:
Dear Mr. Potter,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I understand from my colleagues that circumstances have been turbulent.
I write to inform you that Mr. Regulus Black is making a far more rapid recovery than anticipated. Physically, he is stable, even strong—but there is considerable disorientation. His memory returns in fragments, and his perception of time remains inconsistent.
He speaks little, but when he does, it is clear that he is confused—about the war, about Voldemort, and most of all, about his brother.
He asks about Sirius often. About you.
I understand you are occupied with grave matters. However, I urge you as his attending Healer: please come. His progress will not be linear without clarity—and you, more than anyone, might be able to offer it.
This is no longer a question of medical need, but one of humanity.
With sincerity,
Healer Calix Thorne
Spellwork Rehabilitation Ward, St Mungo’s
Harry stared at the letter.
Regulus was asking about him. And about Sirius.
He slowly lowered the parchment, the heaviness in his chest dull and deep. In the middle of a world bracing for another war, he had somehow forgotten that the ghosts of the last one were still bleeding into the present.
He had a chance to help Regulus. To give Sirius peace.
And he hadn’t gone.
Not yet.
Harry stood in the dim light of the room, the letter still trembling slightly in his fingers—its quiet plea louder than any shouting match could ever be.
Harry downed the last of his drink—firewhisky, aged and biting—and set the glass down with a dull clink. The warmth it brought did little to loosen the knot coiled tight in his chest. He stood still for a long moment, staring at the empty hearth, before he drew his wand.
He raised it slowly. “Expecto Patronum.”
The silver stag burst forth, elegant and luminous in the quiet of the house. It turned its antlered head toward him, waiting.
“Tell Ron and Hermione… I’ll be gone for a few hours,” Harry said quietly. “Something I should have done weeks ago.”
The stag bowed its head, then took off through the wall with a shimmer of light, vanishing into the wind.
Harry didn’t waste a second more.
A few moments later, he Apparated into the quiet, dusky courtyard just outside St Mungo’s secure rehabilitation ward—unannounced but expected, as always. The wards shifted for him, humming low with recognition as he passed.
Inside, the corridor smelled faintly of sage and antiseptic. A nurse looked up and gave a startled nod, quickly motioning him toward the far wing. “Third door on the left, Mr. Potter. He’s awake.”
Harry’s boots echoed on the tiled floor as he made his way down the hallway. His hand brushed the folded letter in his pocket, as if to reassure himself it hadn’t vanished.
The third door loomed.
He reached for the handle. Paused.
Then he exhaled, steeled himself—and opened it.
The door swung open with a soft creak.
The room was dim, but not unpleasant—moonlight filtered in through a tall, narrow window, throwing pale streaks across the modest bed. Regulus Black sat hunched at its edge, shoulders drawn tight, long fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. He looked up when Harry entered.
The resemblance was uncanny. He had Sirius’s sharp cheekbones, his long black lashes, and the same unmistakable darkness to his eyes—but the features were more austere, more tightly controlled. Where Sirius burned, Regulus simmered.
Harry’s breath caught slightly in his throat.
Regulus blinked, frowning at him. “You,” he said cautiously. His voice was rough, like it hadn’t been used properly in years. “You’re the one from the cave.”
Harry stepped forward slowly. “Yeah. That was me.”
There was a long silence.
Regulus tilted his head, studying him. “Are you… are you one of the Potters? You look like James.”
Harry gave a soft, humorless smile. “I’m his son. Harry.”
Regulus’s brow furrowed. “Son?” He glanced around, as though looking for something to anchor himself. “James has a son? That can’t be. He was—he wasn’t even married.”
“He was,” Harry said gently. “He married Lily Evans. I’m their son. And it's… been a long time, Regulus.”
Regulus shook his head slowly. “That’s not right. You—” His hands gripped the blanket tighter. “You’re grown. You look like you’re thirty. That doesn’t make sense.”
“You were gone a long time,” Harry said quietly. “You died. Or… we thought you did.”
Regulus’s jaw tightened. “I don’t remember. Only the cave. Only… the water. The Inferi.”
His eyes flitted to Harry again, and this time, his voice held a flicker of desperation. “What year is it?”
Harry hesitated. “2026.”
Regulus recoiled slightly, breath catching. He looked down at his hands, like they belonged to someone else. “No. No, it’s 1979. It was 1979.”
Harry moved closer, keeping his voice even, calm. “I know it’s confusing. It’ll take time. But you’ve been recovering. The healers say your mind is coming back more and more each day.”
Regulus let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Coming back to what?” He looked up sharply, eyes glinting. “Everyone I knew is either dead or aged. My brother hates me, doesn't he? He will probably kill me the moment —”
Harry hesitated again. “Sirius died and came back too. Recently.”
Regulus’s breath hitched. His lips parted, but no words came.
“I didn’t tell him about you yet,” Harry said quietly. “That you tried to destroy the Horcrux. That you turned against Voldemort.”
Regulus looked up sharply. “What did you just say?”
Harry took a breath. “The Horcrux. I know you tried to destroy it. The locket.”
Regulus stiffened. His face blanched, and for a moment, he looked like a boy again—seventeen, terrified, standing in front of something far too big for him.
His voice was barely a whisper. “How do you know about that?”
Harry pulled a chair closer and sat down across from him, elbows on his knees, voice low and steady. “Because I had to find the rest of them. And destroy them. That’s how Voldemort was defeated. He split his soul—seven times. Made Horcruxes.”
Regulus’s hands clenched tightly around the edge of the blanket, knuckles white.
“I found your note,” Harry said gently. “The one you left in the fake locket. R.A.B.”
Regulus stared at him, stunned. “You… you found that?”
Harry nodded. “You were the first to figure it out. You were the first to try to stop him.”
Regulus swallowed hard, his voice shaking. “But I failed. I drank the potion… and they came for me… I never made it back out.”
“You didn’t fail,” Harry said, his voice firm. “You showed us what needed to be done. Without you, I wouldn’t have known what to look for. You started it. We just finished it.”
Regulus looked away, eyes glassy with disbelief. “I thought no one would ever know. That I’d die a traitor… a coward…”
“No,” Harry said, his voice unwavering. “You died a hero.”
Regulus looked at him then, really looked. And in his eyes, Harry saw something flicker—like the first crack of light under a door long shut.
But behind it, too, was fear. “Does he… does The Dark Lord know I betrayed him?”
“He’s gone,” Harry said. “For good this time. And you were one of the reasons we could end him.”
Regulus didn’t speak. His shoulders hunched forward as if the weight of it all—the truth, the years lost, the legacy—was too much. But he didn’t look away.
He whispered, “Sirius… he doesn’t know, does he?”
Harry shook his head. “Not yet. But he will.”
Regulus shut his eyes for a long moment. “Then maybe I can finally explain.”
Regulus’s eyes flickered. “Kreacher,” he whispered, almost to himself. His fingers tightened against the blanket draped over his lap. “Is he… where is he?”
Harry took a moment. His voice, when it came, was low and steady. “He died. Years ago.”
Regulus’s head snapped up. He looked at Harry with wide, searching eyes. “How?”
“Of old age,” Harry swallowed. “He also fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. He fought alongside us. Against Voldemort.”
Regulus’s face crumpled with a soundless gasp. “He… fought?”
“He did,” Harry said. “He led the charge into the Great Hall. Fought with everything he had. For Hogwarts. For you.”
Regulus turned his face away, eyes shining. His voice broke when he said, “I left him. In that cave. Alone. I made him drink that potion. And he… he still—”
“He never forgot you,” Harry said softly. “He kept your secret all those years. Hated Voldemort to his dying breath. He wore your locket into battle.”
Regulus bowed his head, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I don’t deserve that.”
Harry didn’t say anything to that. He just sat there with him. Silent.
Regulus pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Everything I did—it wasn’t enough. I thought I could fix it. I thought I could… undo it all.”
“You did what no one else had the courage to,” Harry said quietly. “You were the first person to try and destroy a Horcrux. You gave us a fighting chance.”
Regulus looked at him again—really looked at him—and for the first time, Harry saw something like recognition flicker across his face. Not as in memory. But as in trust.
“You said… Sirius is alive,” Regulus murmured.
Harry nodded. “He is.”
Regulus gave a faint, bitter smile. “Then I suppose he gets to be the older brother again.”
Harry didn't say anything.
Regulus was silent for a long time. Then: “He won’t want to see me.”
Harry leaned back in his chair. “You don’t know that.”
Regulus gave a slight, mirthless laugh. “I do.”
Harry’s gaze was steady. “Then be wrong.”
Regulus looked away again, his jaw tight, hands clenched in the thin blanket covering his lap. His voice was hoarse when he said, “He hated me. Thought I was a coward. A traitor.”
Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “He thought you died for Voldemort. That’s the version of you he hated. The one who followed blindly. But that’s not who you were.”
Regulus didn’t respond.
Harry continued, more gently now. “He found out the truth after he came back. That you turned against Voldemort. That you tried to destroy the locket. That you died trying to stop him.”
Still, no answer. Just the soft sound of the clock ticking on the far wall.
Harry studied him for a long moment. “You know,” he said quietly, “Sirius is angry. Hurting. But not at you. At me.”
That got Regulus’s attention. He turned slightly, blinking at Harry. “You?”
Harry gave a tired nod. “I didn’t tell him. About what you did. I should’ve, but I didn’t know how. And by the time I could… it felt too late. He found out by accident. Just a few days ago.”
Regulus let that settle in. His voice, when it came, was cautious. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
Harry gave a faint, bitter smile. “Because I know what it’s like to lose family. And I know what it’s like to get them back, but different. Softer. Haunted. Sirius had just come back from death, and I didn’t want to break that fragile peace with… another ghost.”
Regulus was quiet for a long time. His gaze drifted to the window, where a pale wash of morning light was starting to gather. “So he knows now.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s angry with you.”
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
Harry hesitated. Then: “Because he loved you, even when he thought he didn’t. And now he’s furious that he never got the chance to tell you.”
Regulus blinked hard. His throat moved like he was swallowing something painful.
Finally, in a voice smaller than Harry had ever heard from anyone who bore the name Black, Regulus whispered, “I don’t think I know how to be his brother anymore.”
Harry’s voice was steady. “Then let him show you.”
Regulus looked down at his hands again, twisting the fabric of the blanket.
Harry stood, slowly. “I’ll give you some time,” he said. “But when you’re ready, I’ll bring him.”
Regulus didn’t answer. But his silence was no longer cold.
It was waiting.
Notes:
I MISS writing fluff 😭
Thankyou for reading, now I'm at that point where I really don't have the crystal clear direction for this story as I never thought I'll write this much, lol
Please do share some ideas and/or what you would like to read in the upcoming chapters. I do have few ideas but I don't know if everyone will like it, like the latest one involves time travel... So idk...
Lots of love 💕
Chapter 38: Grave Decisions
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It had been twelve days.
Twelve days since the door of the safe house had shut behind them with a finality that tasted like exile.
They had no word. No Patronus. No letter. No owl. Not even a whisper through the Floo network, which Ginny had locked down herself the moment they arrived. Safety first, Harry had said. She wanted to laugh—or scream—at that now.
The little house—quaint, carved into the side of a wind-hollowed hill—was enchanted to the brim, untraceable even by the Unspeakables. It should have felt safe.
It only felt suffocating.
Outside, rain tapped against the shuttered windows in a dull, endless rhythm. Inside, silence had wrapped itself around the rooms like a funeral shroud.
Ginny sat on the edge of the faded sofa, arms curled around her knees, her wand limp in one hand, her eyes fixed on the fireplace that had long gone cold. She hadn't lit it in three days. She couldn’t bear to see the flames. They reminded her of their home, of Harry’s green eyes flickering in the firelight, of the last fight they’d had—God, the words they’d thrown like hexes at each other. And now...
Now she wasn't sure if he was alive to forgive her.
In the corner, James Jr. sat at the worn table, turning pages of a book he clearly wasn’t reading. His knee bounced with anxious energy, eyes flicking to the window every time the wind howled through the trees.
Across from him, Lily sat curled under a blanket with a cup of untouched tea cooling in her palms. She hadn’t said much since the night they arrived.
Albus was the only one not in the room. He spent most of his time shut in the guest bedroom. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to eat. Ginny had stopped knocking on his door.
James Sr. and Lily Sr. had tried—at first. Bless them, they had tried. But even the strength of the past couldn’t hold up against the unknown. Lily had cried once, silent and shaking, when she thought no one was looking. James had just stared out at the river, jaw clenched.
Sirius paced. Every day. Up the stairs, down the stairs. Around the house. He didn’t speak much either, not anymore. The walls were closing in on them all.
But it was Ginny who felt it the most. The unspoken weight.
He was gone.
She didn’t say it aloud, but it echoed inside her like a cursed bell.
He’s gone. He’s not coming back. You let him go, and now he’s gone.
She closed her eyes. It didn’t help. His voice was everywhere—in the creak of the old floorboards, in the wind rattling the shutters, in the silence between breaths.
She reached for her rings without thinking, fingers fumbling for the cool gold.
Twelve days.
If Harry had been captured, tortured, or worse… they’d never know. Not until the Ministry paraded his body through the Atrium to prove a point.
And if he was alive… why hadn’t he sent word?
A noise startled her. Footsteps. Light. Bare.
She turned and found Lily Jr. standing behind her, barefoot in her pajamas, face pale and pinched.
“Mum,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”
Ginny didn’t answer. She just held out her arms, and Lily collapsed into them, burying her face into her mother's neck.
Ginny wrapped her arms around her daughter tightly, closing her eyes.
“I miss him,” Lily said quietly.
“So do I,” Ginny answered, and for the first time in days, her voice cracked.
The knock came like a thunderclap.
Not loud. Just three firm raps. But in the silence that had ruled the house for days, it sounded like an explosion.
Ginny was on her feet before she realized she’d moved, wand gripped in her fist. Across the room, James Sr. stood up sharply, eyes narrowing. Lily Evans Potter set her teacup down with shaking fingers. Sirius was already halfway to the door, shoulders tense, jaw locked.
“Upstairs,” Ginny said, her voice sharp. James Jr. hesitated. “Now,” she added, and all three children bolted.
“Lock yourselves in. Don't come out until I say.” Her voice followed them up the stairs.
The knock came again. Slower this time.
Sirius reached the door. He didn’t open it immediately. He turned back to the others, wand drawn.
Ginny stood behind him, to the left, her own wand trained on the door. James Sr. flanked the other side, eyes hard, Lily beside him, pale but composed. No one spoke.
Sirius flicked the latch with his wand. The door creaked open an inch.
A familiar voice floated in. “Er… Hi. Don’t shoot?”
Ginny’s heart stuttered. “Ron?” she breathed.
He stood in the doorway, soaked from the rain, robes hanging heavy, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Blimey, you lot look like you’re about to duel Voldemort.”
Before anyone could reply, Sirius grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the wall inside.
The door shut behind them with a click.
“What—Sirius! It’s me!” Ron choked, pinned by the throat, wand knocked from his hand.
“Ask him,” Sirius growled, not even looking back. “Now.”
Ginny stepped forward, face blank. “What was the first thing you said when you saw me after the Battle of Hogwarts?”
Ron’s eyes widened in panic, mouth moving before his brain could catch up. “Er—er—you were covered in blood, and I said, ‘Merlin, Gin, you look like you headbutted a troll,’ and you hugged me!”
The silence that followed was a breath held too long.
Sirius released him slowly, stepping back with a glare that said he still wasn’t convinced.
Ginny’s shoulders lowered by a fraction, but her wand stayed out. “You’re late.”
Ron rubbed his throat. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Ron exhaled. “Can I sit now, or is someone going to Crucio me next?”
Sirius scoffed but moved aside.
Ginny stepped closer. “Where’s Harry?”
Ron lifted his hands in surrender, “Can we sit down first? Or is this going to be another round of wand-to-the-throat?”
But Ginny didn’t answer right away.
She turned toward the stairs. “Wait here,” she said curtly, and then, more softly, she added, “They need to hear it from me.”
She moved swiftly up the steps, the weight of her wand still heavy in her hand. Her voice rang through the landing above—calm, firm. “It’s safe. It’s Uncle Ron. You can come down.”
There was a beat of silence. Then the sound of a lock clicking, hesitant footsteps, and finally three sets of feet creaking down the wooden stairs.
James Jr. appeared first, hair sticking out wildly in every direction, eyes flicking toward the front room with suspicion. Then Lily Jr. her jaw set. Albus came last, slower, quieter, his face unreadable.
When they turned the corner and saw Ron standing there—drenched, tired, but smiling—they froze.
Then James Jr. let out a loud, startled laugh and crossed the room in two strides, throwing his arms around Ron with a force that knocked them both back into the armchair.
Lily followed seconds later, barreling into them and wrapping herself around Ron’s waist like she was afraid he might vanish.
“Merlin’s beard,” Ron chuckled, hugging them both tightly, blinking rapidly. “Did you lot think I was dead too?”
“We didn’t know what to think,” James mumbled into his shoulder.
“You’re the first person we’ve seen since we got here,” Lily said, voice muffled. “Is Dad okay? Where is he?”
That question hung heavy in the room again. Ginny watched Ron carefully as he pulled back slightly, one arm still around each child.
“Sit down,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “I’ll tell you everything I can.”
No one moved at first.
Then Ginny nodded. “Tea?”
Ron managed a weak grin. “God, yes. And a towel.”
Ginny turned toward the kitchen, but her face remained unreadable. Her hand lingered on the wall as she passed, steadying herself for whatever came next.
***
The tea was hot, strong, and did little to settle the chill clinging to their bones.
They sat in the sitting room, clustered close. The rain still whispered outside, a steady murmur against the windows. Ron had changed into dry clothes—borrowed from Sirius, judging by the slightly-too-tight sleeves—and sat hunched on the armchair, both hands wrapped around the chipped teacup like it was a lifeline.
Everyone was watching him.
Ginny sat across from him, unreadable but taut—coiled like a spring. James Sr. and Lily Sr. sat on the couch, quietly absorbing. Sirius stood at the corner of the room, arms crossed, back resting against the bookshelf, watching like a predator that still wasn’t convinced the threat was gone.
The kids were quieter now. Lily Jr. leaned against Ginny’s side, James Jr. sat on the floor cross-legged near the fireplace, and Albus remained half-shadowed, leaning against the wall with arms folded, eyes sharp.
Ron cleared his throat. “Alright. I’m going to tell you everything I know, but it’s messy. And… you’re not going to like it.”
Ginny gave a dry laugh. “Ron, we’ve been hiding in a warded house for twelve days with no news and three teenagers. I think we’ve already covered not liking things.”
He nodded, took a sip, and set the cup down on the table with a dull clink. “After you left, things at the Ministry went to hell. Dunlop… started pushing things hard. Laws. Surveillance. Control. He arrested me, Harry, and Hermione.”
There was a collective intake of breath.
“For what?” Sirius asked flatly.
“Withholding critical information,” Ron said with a bitter twist of his mouth. “Apparently, not telling the Ministry every detail about the Veil, the resurrections, and Harry’s investigation made us suspects. We were questioned separately. For hours.”
Ginny’s hands clenched around her teacup.
“They kept us in custody for hours. Released us when Beaumont came to pressurise them—no charges, of course. It was all just to rattle us. Isolate us from each other. Make Harry look unstable, dangerous.”
“And did it work?” James Sr. asked quietly.
Ron hesitated. “For some. But not for long.”
He rubbed his hands together and looked at Ginny. “Harry wanted to send a message, but he knew if he used the usual channels, it could be traced. He made me promise not to try until the safehouse was secure, no matter what.”
Ginny blinked hard. She looked away.
“And then…” Ron continued, voice lower now, “…five days ago… Dunlop was found dead.”
The room stilled.
“What?” Sirius said sharply.
Ron grimaced. “Dead. In his office. No sign of a struggle. No spell damage. No potion. Just… gone. Collapsed over his desk.”
“Do they know what caused it?” asked Lily Sr., her voice brittle.
“No.” Ron looked grim. “And that’s the scariest part. No Dark Mark. No traceable spell. Not even foul play they can pin down. Just a dead man and a sealed room.”
James Jr. shifted on the floor. “And Dad?”
Ron turned to him. “He’s fine. Or, well… as fine as Harry gets when the entire government is shifting beneath his feet.”
Ginny exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to her forehead.
“He’s alive,” Ron said firmly. “He’s working on it. Everything. But he didn’t want you to come out until we knew who we could trust. And with Dunlop gone, everything’s chaos again. Power vacuum. Infighting. Factions.”
He looked around the room. “He sent me to bring you back in. Quietly. If you're ready.”
Silence met him.
Then, Ginny stood. Her voice steady. “Pack light. We leave in an soon.”
As the kids stood and quietly filed out to pack—James Jr. first, then Lily with a glance at her mother, and finally Albus with a nod—an uneasy stillness settled over the room. The only sound left was the clink of Ron’s cup against its saucer and the ticking of the old wall clock.
Sirius didn’t move from his post against the bookshelf. His voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
Ron’s shoulders sagged, and for a moment, he looked every bit the man who had spent too many nights without sleep, too many days walking through fire.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared into his half-empty cup like it might offer him a way to avoid the truth.
Then he grimaced. “Yeah. There’s more.”
Ginny’s stomach twisted. “Ron…”
He looked up at her, then to Sirius, James, and Lily. “Kingsley’s gone.”
The air in the room shifted. Tighter. Denser.
“What do you mean, gone?” James Sr. asked, his voice sharp.
“He left for Berlin a week ago,” Ron said quietly. “He went to speak with the German government—try to get support, share intelligence on Dunlop’s corruption. They had a few reports too. Promised him a meeting.”
“And?” Sirius asked.
“He never came back.”
Lily Sr.’s hand flew to her mouth.
Ron rubbed a hand over his face. “We’ve sent feelers. Spoke to the Consulate. They claim he checked into the Ministry building, went through the secure portal… and then nothing. Disappeared between the entrance and the meeting chamber.”
Sirius cursed under his breath.
“No one saw him leave,” Ron added. “No one saw him inside. His wand hasn’t been found. His guard said he stepped through the final checkpoint alone.”
“Ambushed?” James asked.
Ron nodded slowly. “That’s what we think. But by who, or for what, we don’t know. And that’s what’s terrifying.”
Ginny sat down slowly, like her knees had stopped working. “So the acting Minister is…?”
Ron hesitated. “That’s the thing. There isn’t one. Not really. There’s an emergency panel running the day-to-day, but it’s chaos. Everyone’s grabbing for power. No one trusts anyone.”
“Harry’s trying to keep it from turning into a full-on collapse,” he added. “But he’s on borrowed time.”
Sirius’s voice was low and cold. “They’re cutting off the heads. One by one.”
Ron didn’t argue.
Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, teacup forgotten on the table between them. His voice dropped, not conspiratorial, but wearied, like he’d had this conversation too many times already.
“The general public wants Harry to step in as Minister.”
Ginny’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Yeah,” Ron sighed. “After Dunlop croaked and Kingsley vanished, the whole thing started spiraling. The Prophet ran a piece—'The Man Who Lived Should Lead.' Terrible title, but it caught on. Rallies. Letters. People chanting his name in the bloody Atrium.”
Sirius let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised.
But Ginny didn’t look impressed. Her jaw tightened. “And let me guess… the arse for a husband I’ve got wants nothing to do with it.”
Ron gave her a flat look. “You know him.”
“Of course I know him,” Ginny snapped. “Harry would rather stab himself with a poisoned quill than sit behind a Minister’s desk. He hates politics.”
Ron didn’t argue that. “I know. But maybe this isn’t about what Harry wants anymore.”
Ginny stood up, hands on her hips, pacing to the hearth and back. “You think I haven’t tried? You think I didn’t yell at him the last time he turned down a vote of confidence? That it might be safer for him to do a desk job? He said he wasn’t built for it. Said people like Kingsley could talk and debate and make things happen with parchment and policy. Harry just… runs at danger until it stops moving.”
Ron stood too, his voice rising, matching hers. “Exactly. And maybe that’s what we need right now. Not someone who talks in circles while the world collapses. Someone who acts. Someone people trust.”
“You want a symbol,” Ginny said coldly. “They already made him one. When he was one.”
“He’s more than a symbol,” Ron said, frustration bleeding into his voice. “He’s the only one who hasn’t caved. He’s still fighting, even now, when it’s cost him everything.”
Ginny let out a bitter laugh. “Of course he is. Harry doesn’t need a title to play the hero. He’s always bleeding for people who forget to ask if he’s tired.”
The words landed hard. Even Ron took a step back.
Sirius didn’t speak. Neither did James or Lily. They’d all heard it. Even if they haven't lived it.
Ginny looked away, blinking too fast. “If they want him as the minister, they’ll have to drag him there with a wand to his back.”
Ron said, softer now, “Maybe you’re the only one who can do that.”
She didn’t answer. Just stared into the empty fireplace, where no flames burned.
The silence after Ginny’s last words stretched—thick and heavy, smothering.
Ron stayed standing, eyes fixed on the hearth as if weighing whether to speak at all. Then he ran a hand through his damp hair and muttered, “There’s… one more thing.”
Ginny turned slowly. Her voice was already tired. “Of course there is.”
Ron didn’t smile. “This one’s bad.”
Even Sirius straightened.
Ron looked up, met Ginny’s eyes, and said it plainly. “There are Inferi. Not just one or two. Packs. Moving. In Muggle areas.”
Lily Sr. gasped softly. James Sr.’s face went blank. Sirius swore under his breath.
Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “Inferi? But… they haven’t been seen since—”
“Exactly.” Ron nodded grimly. “Not like this. Not since the war. But these aren’t the shambling, brainless corpses we remember. These are different.”
“How different?” Sirius asked sharply.
“They’re smart.” Ron's voice dropped. “Organized. There was a group spotted near Cardiff. Eight of them. They waited for a lorry to pass before crossing a road. They didn’t attack immediately. They watched. Stalked a Muggle police patrol for three days before luring them into a trap.”
Lily Sr. looked horrified. “They’re supposed to be mindless…”
“Yeah,” Ron said, his voice strained. “These aren’t. They use tools. Blunt weapons. A wand, once—but it shattered in its grip. And they're fast.”
James Sr. asked the question no one wanted to. “Who’s controlling them?”
Ron glanced at Ginny, then back at the others. “Harry thinks someone’s modifying them.”
A heavy beat passed.
“Controlling?” Sirius asked slowly. “Or creating?”
Ron didn’t answer right away. “He’s not sure. But he’s convinced someone’s found a way to alter the curse—to give Inferi enough of a mind to respond to commands. Possibly even independent thought. They’re not just weapons. They’re spies. Scouts.”
Ginny sat down slowly. “How long has this been happening?”
“Only confirmed it a few days ago,” Ron said. “We’re trying to keep it out of the press. The panic would tear the rest of the Ministry apart.”
“And the Muggles?” James asked quietly.
“There’ve been deaths,” Ron admitted. “But the Obliviators are working round the clock to contain it. They’re stretched thin. It’s just a matter of time before something slips.”
No one spoke.
Then Ginny said, hollowly, “So we’re hiding while our world turns into a graveyard.”
Ron didn’t argue and reached for his coat’s inside pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle—plain, clear, the kind you’d mistake for cheap perfume or potion concentrate. It clinked lightly as he placed it on the table.
“Portkey,” he said. “Set to activate in thirty minutes.”
They all stared at it.
“It’ll take us back to the house in Devon,” he added. “Harry’s had it re-warded, reinforced top to bottom. Safe as anything. Ministry couldn’t breach it now even if they dropped the whole Department of Magical Law Enforcement on it.”
Ginny looked at the bottle like it might bite. “You’re sure? That house might be unsafe”
Ron gave a wry smile. “He fixed it immediately. Spared no effort. Said it had to be ready, just in case.”
“Just in case we survived long enough to go back home,” Ginny muttered. Her voice was sharp, but her eyes were on the stairs, already calculating how long it would take the kids to gather what little they’d unpacked.
“Get ready,” Ron said gently. “Pack only what matters. Don’t need to bring everything.”
Lily sr stood. “I’ll get the kids.”
“No,” Ginny said quickly, already rising. “Let me. They’ll want to hear it from me.”
As she moved toward the stairs, Lily stepped aside, watching her go. Her jaw worked, like she wanted to say something, but held it in.
James Sr. leaned forward, eyeing the small bottle. “Thirty minutes, you said?”
“On the mark,” Ron nodded. “Set to the second. Harry charmed it himself.”
Lily Sr. looked at him. “Has he… is he waiting for us there?”
Ron hesitated. “He might be. If not, you’ll be met by someone he trusts. Either way, it’s home. And it’s better than hiding in the dark.”
A silence fell over the room again, but this time it felt different. Not the heavy dread of the unknown—but the tension before movement. The kind of quiet right before taking a breath and leaping.
Upstairs, muffled voices stirred, drawers creaked open, footsteps moved fast. It wasn’t panic. It was purpose.
Ginny reappeared a few minutes later, flushed, but composed. “They’re packing.”
Ron nodded once. “Good.”
Ginny sat down slowly, brushing a lock of hair from her face, her eyes fixed on the small glass bottle ticking away the seconds between now and everything unknown.
Ron stretched out his legs with a sigh, rubbing at the tension in the back of his neck. “He fixed up the protections. Warded every window, reinforced the wards against detection, reinforced the anti-Apparition fields and even added a Muggle-repelling barrier around the perimeter. Bit excessive, really, but… it’s Harry.”
“Excessive,” Sirius muttered, pacing near the window. “Right. That’s one word for it.”
“It was always safe,” Lily Sr. said quietly. “That house.”
Ginny nodded absently, gaze still locked on the portkey. “It’s not the protections I’m worried about.”
Ron didn’t need to ask. None of them did.
Sirius came to stand near the table, arms folded. “What if it’s not just the Inferi? If someone’s modifying them—experimenting—what else could they be doing?”
“No idea,” Ron replied, blunt. “And that’s what’s keeping Harry up at night. Whoever’s behind this isn’t acting like the old guard. This isn’t Death Eater work. It’s surgical. Strategic. They’re not trying to frighten people with a Mark in the sky. They’re moving in shadows, one body at a time.”
James Sr. let out a breath through his nose. “So we’re back in the fog. Again.”
“Feels worse, this time,” Ron said. “At least in the war we knew who the enemy was.”
Footsteps descended the stairs—first James Jr., carrying a half-zipped duffel bag over one shoulder, then Lily, who clutched her stuffed Thestral under one arm like it was armor. Albus came last, a satchel slung across his body, eyes watchful.
“All packed,” James Jr. muttered.
Ron gave them a tight nod. “We leave in ten.”
No one argued. They settled into a strained kind of stillness. Ginny reached for Lily and tugged her gently into her lap, smoothing her hair. James Jr. sat cross-legged again on the floor, duffel at his side, eyes flicking toward the bottle like it might start glowing any second. Albus leaned against the wall and didn’t speak, but his fingers tapped restlessly against the strap of his bag.
The bottle sat there in the middle of the table. Unassuming. Silent.
They waited. All of them.
For the jump.
For home.
For whatever came next.
The moment came without fanfare.
The glass bottle pulsed once—faint, like a heartbeat—and then glowed blue at the base. A soft chime rang through the room, delicate as a bell under water.
Ron stood first. “Time.”
Ginny gathered Lily Jr. into her arms without a word. James Jr. slung the duffel over his shoulder again. Albus moved to stand beside his mother, eyes fixed on the bottle. Sirius, James, and Lily Sr. stepped in behind them, forming a loose ring around the group.
Ron touched the bottle first. “One hand on.”
The others followed—hesitant fingertips brushing the glass, shoulders bumping, a collective breath being held.
Then—
With a sharp tug behind the navel, the room vanished.
They landed hard.
The Portkey dumped them in the middle of a warm, dimly lit room with a familiar rug underfoot and the sharp scent of old wood and lavender in the air.
The Sparrow Cottage in Devon.
It was unmistakably home. The worn couch, the scuffed coffee table with quill scratches in the corner where Lily Jr. had once practiced her signature. The framed photo of all five of them on the mantle, waving endlessly. Even the crooked lamp Harry had refused to throw away, claiming its lean gave it “character.”
But Harry wasn’t there.
Ginny’s breath caught before she even called his name.
No voices.
No footsteps.
Just the quiet hum of enchantments and a fire burning low in the hearth—freshly lit.
Ginny didn’t move past the doorway. Her eyes found the kitchen table almost immediately.
There was a note.
She crossed the room, tugging Lily Jr. with her, and picked up the parchment folded in half, Harry’s handwriting unmistakable—quick, neat, a little tired.
She read it silently first, then aloud:
“G—
Something came up. Not directly dangerous—just urgent. It couldn't wait. I’ll be back in a few hours.
Don’t worry. The wards are locked down tight. You’re safe.
Tell the kids I love them.
—H.”
Ginny stared at it a moment longer before folding it again with slow, deliberate hands.
James Jr. made a noise between a laugh and a groan. “Seriously? We come all the way back from exile, and he’s not even here?”
“He left a note,” Albus said, less surprised than resigned.
Ron looked at Ginny. “Urgent?”
“He wouldn’t say anything more if he thought it would worry me.” She slid the note into her back pocket. “He’s probably off fixing someone else’s disaster. Again.”
Lily Jr. tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Is Dad okay?”
“He’s fine,” Ginny said, voice steady, brushing a hand over Lily’s hair. “He’ll be back before you know it.”
James jr finally let out a breath and slumped onto the couch. “Well. Might as well enjoy the house before the next catastrophe knocks.”
Ginny sank slowly into the armchair, the weight of the past twelve days finally beginning to lift—even if only slightly.
He wasn’t here.
But he was alive.
And that, for now, was enough.
***
The warmth of the hearth had long since faded into embers, but the comfort of being home still lingered in the air.
Ron had left shortly after ensuring the wards responded to his wand, offering a reassuring pat on Ginny’s shoulder and a muttered, “You’ll see him before sunrise, I bet.” He didn’t linger. He never did when it came to leaving Harry’s family in Harry’s house.
The kids had refused to go upstairs. Not out of fear—at least not that they said aloud—but some invisible thread kept them close together, curled up like fox kits around the hearth. James Jr. lay sprawled across one couch, one foot dangling off, half-snoring. Albus had tucked himself under a blanket on the rug, back against the armchair where Lily Jr. had dozed off with her head in Ginny’s lap before being gently lowered to a pillow.
They had slept like people who hadn’t in days.
But the grown-ups hadn’t.
Sirius sat at the far window, legs stretched out, wand resting loosely in his hand. His gaze flicked to the glass every so often, watching the wind dance through the trees. He hadn’t spoken in half an hour.
James Sr. stood by the mantel, arms folded, eyes fixed on the dying embers. He looked like a soldier on rotation, not truly expecting an attack—but not willing to let down his guard either.
Lily Sr. paced quietly, a mug of tea long gone cold clutched in her hands, as if the movement alone kept her from unraveling.
Ginny sat in silence, hands folded in her lap, back straight in the same armchair. She hadn’t changed out of her traveling robes. Her eyes never left the front door.
It was Sirius who heard it first—the shift in the wards.
Then: three slow knocks.
Every muscle in the room tensed.
Sirius was on his feet in a blink, wand raised. James turned from the fireplace, eyes dark. Lily set the mug down with a clink and pulled her own wand with practiced ease. Ginny stood slowly, already moving to block the hallway leading to where the kids slept, her wand out and steady.
Another knock. Firmer. Measured.
Not rushed. Not panicked. Almost polite.
Sirius moved to the door, eyes flicking over the protective runes glowing faintly along the frame. “Wards haven’t been breached,” he said, voice low. “Whoever’s out there knows the knock pattern.”
James stepped beside him. “Doesn’t mean we open it without confirming.”
Ginny called out, firm and clear: “Who is it?”
A pause.
Then a voice—rough, quiet, but unmistakable.
“It’s me.”
Ginny’s heart leapt.
She was at the door before the others could react, but Sirius still held a hand out. “Let me open it.”
She didn’t argue.
The latch clicked. The door opened.
And there stood Harry—drenched to the bone, dark hair plastered to his forehead, coat heavy with rain, eyes tired, but sharp. Very much alive.
He looked at Ginny first.
And without a word, she stepped forward and pulled him into her arms.
Harry barely had time to drop his bag before Ginny was on him—arms locked tight around his neck, fingers buried in his rain-soaked hair, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
She held him like she thought he might disappear again. Like if she let go now, he’d dissolve into the cold air.
Harry didn’t say anything.
He just wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into the crook of her neck, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His coat was soaked, his boots muddy, but Ginny didn’t care. Neither did he.
She didn’t cry.
She trembled.
He felt it in her fingers, in the uneven rise and fall of her chest, in the desperate grip she had on him like he was anchoring her to solid ground.
“You came back,” she whispered, her voice raw.
Harry nodded against her skin. “Always.”
James and Lily stood behind, watching silently. Lily’s hand trembled around her wand, but she didn’t lower it yet. Her eyes were filled with worry and wonder all at once.
Sirius, however, hadn’t moved. His wand remained pointed, his jaw set.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Harry,” Sirius said, voice cool, “but I’ve had enough surprises in the last month to last me several lifetimes.”
Harry pulled back slightly from Ginny, though her hands lingered on his coat.
Sirius stepped forward. “I need to ask something. Only you would know.”
Harry nodded once. “Go ahead.”
Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “What advice did I was going to give to Harry Potter to fight off the dragons in the Triwizard Tournament”
Harry’s brow furrowed for the briefest second, then his mouth quirked—not into a smile exactly, but something like it.
“You gave—” He licked his lips. “You said, ‘To go for their eyes but we were interrupted.’”
Sirius exhaled, wand lowering slowly.
“Bloody hell, it’s really you.”
Harry gave him a tired grin. “Were you hoping it wasn’t?”
Sirius stepped forward, grabbed the front of his coat, and pulled him into a crushing hug.
Ginny hadn’t let go of his hand.
James Sr. finally stepped in, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You gave us a scare, son.”
Harry looked at him—at both of them—and his voice cracked. “I didn’t know if you were safe.”
“We are now,” Lily said gently.
Behind them, from the hallway, a soft voice broke through.
“Dad?”
Harry turned.
Three tired, blinking figures stood at the edge of the corridor. James Jr. in a rumpled T-shirt, Albus with sleep creases on his face, and Lily Jr..
Harry didn’t move. He didn’t speak.
He just opened his arms.
And all three of them ran.
***
The next morning broke slowly, with a pale sun pushing through rain-washed clouds and casting a hazy glow over the fields surrounding the house in Devon. It was the kind of quiet morning that tried to pretend nothing had happened the day before—that war wasn’t pressing at the edges of the world again.
But the people in the house knew better.
After a subdued breakfast—toast, tea, barely a word exchanged that wasn’t about butter or the sugar bowl—Harry stood up from the table and said, “Come to the study. I’ll explain everything.”
The kids —James, Albus, and Lily, – were sent upstairs with a vague instruction to “rest” that none of them believed for a second. James had muttered something sarcastic under his breath about being grown adults, but Ginny had given him the look, and that had been the end of it.
Now, the adults gathered in Harry’s study—a warm, book-filled room just off the main hall. The fire was already lit, casting flickering shadows over the polished oak shelves and half-sorted papers cluttered near Harry’s desk. It smelled faintly of ink, dust, and the comforting trace of old magic.
As the last of them stepped in—Ginny, Sirius, James Sr., and Lily Sr.—an aging, soot-coloured cat slinked into the room with the distinct attitude of a long-time observer of Potter chaos.
Gavin, the old family cat, gave a gravelly mrrp and settled with casual defiance on one of the armchairs.
Sirius spotted him, sighed, and with a quiet, “Not this time, mate,” scooped the cat under one arm and shuffled him gently out the door. Gavin let out an indignant growl, flicking his tail like he was filing a formal complaint. Harry raised an eyebrow at Sirius, who just shook his head, muttering something about “lesson learned.”
Then Sirius closed the door behind them, sealing the room with a light flick of his wand.
Harry stood with one hand braced against the desk, the other tucked into the pocket of his jumper. He looked… not tired, exactly, but tight around the edges. Like someone carrying too many pieces of too many things.
“I should’ve told you all this earlier,” he began. “Before the safehouse. Before Dunlop. But I didn’t want to risk it. If any of this got out, we’d lose control over it completely.”
He looked at each of them in turn. “What I’m about to tell you isn’t theory. It’s what I know. What I’ve seen. And it’s worse than we thought.”
No one interrupted.
Harry took a breath, his fingers curling slightly against the desk before he straightened. His voice was calm, but the weight behind it hung like thunder just behind the clouds.
“I was wrong to think the Veil was dormant,” he began. “For years, we believed it was just a boundary. A final passage. But it’s not. Or at least, it’s no longer just that.”
He looked to Lily and James Sr., then to Sirius. “The way you all came back… it shouldn’t have been possible. But it wasn’t just chance. Something was… done.”
Lily Sr. sat forward slightly, her brow furrowed. “You mean someone brought us back?”
Harry nodded. “Not just brought back. Pulled out. Pulled through. The Veil wasn’t breached—it was reached into.”
There was silence.
James Sr. frowned. “Is that even possible?”
“Not through any magic I’ve ever learned,” Harry admitted. “But someone’s found a way. Not to undo death, but to manipulate what lingers beyond it. And the more I dig, the more I think it wasn’t just some wild accident that brought you back. You were pulled through because someone wanted you here. Or wanted something that came with you.”
Ginny’s voice was low. “And the Inferi?”
“They’re connected,” Harry said. “But not in the way we knew them. These ones aren’t just cursed corpses. They’re… altered. Engineered.”
Sirius leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You said they were thinking.”
“They’re not exactly thinking,” Harry clarified, “but they’re imitating. Learning. We’ve seen them track targets, break patterns, even mimic behavior. They’re communicating somehow—silently. Not with speech, but something like awareness.”
Lily Sr. whispered, “That's impossible.”
“It was,” Harry said grimly. “Now it’s fact.”
He turned, pulled a thin file from the drawer, and laid it on the desk. “This is a report from a team I had in the north. They recovered remains of one of the modified Inferi. The body was preserved with a runic weave I’ve never seen before. Part necromancy, part something older—forgotten magic. And in its chest, where the heart should’ve been—there was a coin.”
Sirius leaned forward. “A coin?”
Harry nodded. “Pressed with a symbol. A circle within a triangle within a flame. None of our records have it.”
Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s a signature?”
“Or a seal,” Harry said. “Or a mark of loyalty. Whatever it is, it’s not British. We traced similar magical traces in Germany, France, even parts of Eastern Europe. This isn’t just local.”
James Sr.’s expression hardened. “This is organized.”
Harry met his gaze. “Yes. And growing.”
Lily Sr. gripped the arm of her chair. “What about Kingsley?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “I believe he’s alive. But not safe. He stumbled into something—something connected to this. And he knew. That’s why he went silent. He was trying to trace the origin of the runes.”
Sirius stood and paced once across the room. “So what do we do? What’s the plan?”
Harry paused, then looked at all of them.
“We prepare. We don’t assume the war is coming—it’s already started. Quietly. From the shadows. And this time… it’s not about blood purity or domination.”
He glanced down at the file.
“It’s about death.”
No one spoke.
Only the low crackle of the fire answered him.
James Sr. was the first to speak after the heavy pause.
“And the Ministry?” he asked, voice low but firm. “You said it’s chaos. How bad is it, really?”
Harry let out a slow breath, as if he’d been holding it in since he'd entered the room.
“Worse than I imagined,” he said. “After Dunlop’s death and Kingsley’s disappearance, the Ministry fractured overnight. There’s no acting Minister. The emergency panel was supposed to function as a temporary solution, but they’re nothing more than a collection of terrified bureaucrats and opportunists.”
He moved behind the desk and leaned against the edge, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is stretched thin. Half of them are guarding locations we’ve deemed potential Veil contact points—places with energy signatures matching the resurrection event. The other half are managing Inferi containment. We’ve lost two Obliviator teams in the last ten days.”
Ginny flinched.
Harry didn’t stop. “What’s worse is… people are scared. Not angry, not defiant—scared. And fear’s turning into desperation. Into belief.”
Lily Sr. tilted her head, brows drawn. “Belief in what?”
Harry looked up, face grim.
“In whoever’s doing this. There’s a whisper going around. Quiet, underneath the panic. That someone’s found a way to bring people back from the dead. Permanently. No cost.”
Sirius swore under his breath.
Harry nodded. “Exactly. They’re calling it a gift. A second chance. Even some in the Ministry are beginning to question whether we should interfere.”
“Interfere with Inferi?” James Sr. said, disbelieving. “That’s madness.”
“It is,” Harry said. “But to the families of the dead? It’s hope. People have started turning up near ancient sites, laying offerings, speaking incantations they don’t understand. Whoever’s behind this is letting them believe that resurrection is possible—without curse, without consequence.”
“And they think you stand in the way of it,” Ginny said quietly.
Harry nodded once. “I’ve already had four threats scrawled on my office door. Two more in the Prophet’s letters column. They’re blaming me for ‘withholding the path to eternity.’”
Lily Sr. looked shaken. “It’s a cult.”
“Not yet,” Harry said. “But it’s close. And the Ministry’s so splintered it doesn’t have the strength to stop it.”
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “And you still don’t want to be Minister?”
Harry gave a tired laugh. “No. I want to be able to fight this without a quill and ink and a dozen compromise meetings with cowards. I can’t stop this from behind a desk.”
Ginny folded her arms. “And you still don’t get that people will follow you with or without the desk. But if you don’t take it, someone else will. Someone who won’t care about the cost.”
Harry didn’t respond immediately.
Then he said, quietly, “I know. I’m just not sure it’s me they need.”
A silence followed. Not because they agreed—but because no one had the answer either.
Ginny crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair, eyes locked on Harry with that familiar, sharp edge that meant she was shifting from worried wife to strategic partner.
“So,” she said, “are you back at work or not? Last I checked, you walked out the front doors when Dunlop ousted Kingsley with that joke of a vote.”
Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Officially? No. I never reinstated myself. Never signed the papers.”
“But?” Ginny pressed.
Harry gave a tired half-shrug. “But I show up every day. Use the office. Access the reports. Command teams. No one’s exactly stopping me.”
Sirius snorted. “So you're an unauthorised, unofficial, and probably slightly illegal Auror Commander.”
“Pretty much,” Harry muttered, and then added with a faint smile, “Kingsley would’ve approved.”
James Sr. raised an eyebrow. “And the panel? They’re letting you operate unchecked?”
“They’re too fractured to agree on breakfast, let alone trying to remove me,” Harry said. “Some of them still think I’m their best shot at maintaining order. The rest don’t have the backbone to tell me to leave.”
“So you're operating in the cracks,” Ginny said, voice cool.
Harry nodded. “It’s the only way I get anything done. I’m not bound by votes, reports, or red tape. I can go where I need to, push where I need to. For now.”
Lily Sr. looked thoughtful. “But that can’t last forever.”
“No,” Harry agreed. “It won’t.”
Ginny studied him for a long moment, her voice quieter now. “And when it doesn't… what then, Harry?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the window, the rain-smudged light beyond the glass. Then, finally:
“Then I stop playing in the cracks,” he said. “And break the walls instead.”
Ginny didn’t reply right away.
Her gaze lingered on Harry—on the worn lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he stood like he was waiting for the next fight to come crashing through the walls.
It was familiar. Too familiar.
“You say that like it’s just that simple,” she said at last, quiet but unyielding. “Break the walls. Tear the Ministry down if they get in the way. And then what, Harry? Stand alone in the rubble?”
Harry looked at her then—really looked. And his voice, when he spoke, had that old steadiness to it. The one that came not from certainty, but from experience.
“I don’t want to destroy the Ministry,” he said. “But I won’t let it become a shield for cowards. Or a mouthpiece for whatever’s rising out there.”
Sirius, arms folded, leaned against the bookcase with a frown. “You’re saying you’ll take them on if they stand in the way of stopping this… whatever it is?”
Harry nodded. “If they become part of the problem, then yes.”
“And if they declare you rogue?” James Sr. asked, levelly.
“They already whisper it,” Harry said with a half-smile. “The Prophet’s used the phrase ‘rogue Auror’ three times this week. Sooner or later, they’ll try to make it official.”
“And you’ll keep working in the dark?” Lily Sr. asked. “Alone?”
“I’m not alone,” Harry said simply. “I’ve got Hermione running information through the international channels, Neville’s keeping watch over Hogwarts, and Ron—well, Ron’s being Ron.”
“Meaning?” Sirius raised a brow.
“Meaning he’s ignoring every rule in the book and sneaking classified files here,” Harry muttered, almost fondly. “I told him to stop. He doesn’t listen.”
James Sr. gave a soft snort. “He really is a Weasley.”
Ginny looked away for a beat, then back at him. “And us? What’s our part in this?”
Harry stepped forward, hands on the desk now, eyes steady. “I didn’t bring you home to throw you into the war. Not again. I brought you home because you deserve to be home.”
“Nice sentiment,” Sirius said dryly, “but don’t flatter yourself—we’re not exactly the ‘sit and knit’ crowd.”
“I know,” Harry said, mouth twitching. “I’m going to need you. All of you.”
Ginny tilted her head. “Doing what, exactly?”
Harry reached into the drawer, pulled out another folder—this one heavier, sealed with a charm—and placed it on the desk. “You asked what we do next. We start here.”
He tapped the file. “This is everything I’ve got on the people whispering from the shadows. Whoever’s using the Veil, modifying Inferi, pulling strings inside and outside the Ministry… they’ve left traces.”
He looked around the room—at Sirius, at Ginny, at his parents.
“I want you to help me find them before they find us.”
The fire cracked behind him. Outside, the wind was picking up again.
Ginny stood slowly. “Alright,” she said. “Then let’s start now.”
They worked through the morning, heads bent over files, parchments, and maps sprawled across Harry’s desk and pinned to conjured corkboards. Threads of information began to form a pattern—locations where the Inferi had appeared, strange magical surges, missing persons, Ministry cover-ups, and the scattered, repeated sightings of that ominous symbol: the circle within the triangle within the flame.
Lily Sr. sorted field reports with the quiet, precise discipline of a former Order strategist. James Sr. cross-referenced old Death Eater movements against the new locations—“Patterns repeat,” he muttered more than once.
Ginny and Sirius worked side by side, arguing occasionally, but sorting through the more sensitive intelligence Harry had hidden away in a false-bottom drawer: names of Ministry insiders, suspected sympathisers, surveillance maps.
Harry, at the centre of it all, shifted between stations like a quiet storm. Every so often, someone would ask a question, and he’d answer without pausing. His mind was clearly always two steps ahead.
By the time the grandfather clock in the hall chimed for one o’clock, a dent had been made in the chaos—but only just. Ginny pushed back her chair, stretching her back with a small groan.
“Alright,” she said, sweeping a mess of parchment into a stack, “if I don’t eat something, I’m going to hex someone. Probably Sirius.”
“Charming,” Sirius muttered, cracking his knuckles. “You’re lucky I’ve matured.”
“No, you haven’t,” Lily Sr. replied without looking up.
James Sr. stood and rolled his shoulders. “Lunch sounds good.”
Ginny moved toward the door, then glanced back at Harry. “You coming?”
Harry nodded vaguely but didn’t move from his spot.
Then his eyes flicked up—sharp, purposeful. “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be there in a bit.”
Sirius had just turned to follow the others when Harry added, “Not you. Stay a moment?”
Sirius paused mid-step. His eyes narrowed just slightly, but he shrugged. “Sure.”
Ginny raised a brow but said nothing, just nodded and ushered the others out. Lily Sr. caught Harry’s glance, then gently closed the door behind her with a soft click.
Now it was just the two of them, and the quiet stretched long in the firelit room.
Harry didn’t speak at once. He turned away from the desk and stood near the window, his back to Sirius.
The older man waited, arms folded, one brow raised. “Alright, kid. What’s on your mind?”
Harry turned back slowly. And there was something in his face—something taut, unresolved.
“I guess we need to finish our conversation,” Harry said quietly, his hand resting on the windowsill, eyes distant. “The one we never got to finish. Before we left for the safe house.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened. He didn’t move from where he stood, but the shift in his stance was small and immediate—like a wand had been drawn in a duel neither of them wanted.
“Right,” Sirius said, voice flat. “That conversation.”
The silence was heavier now, threaded with things unsaid, too sharp to be ignored.
Harry turned to face him fully, arms at his sides, open but steady.
“I didn’t tell you about Regulus,” he began. “And I should have.”
Sirius raised a brow, but his eyes were hard. “You think?”
“I didn’t keep it from you to hurt you. Or because I thought you didn’t deserve to know. I just—” Harry paused, choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t know how to tell you that he died a hero. After everything. After you spent your whole life thinking he was—”
“—a coward?” Sirius snapped, voice cold. “A follower? Another Black family cautionary tale?”
Harry didn’t flinch. “You said it, not me.”
Sirius’s mouth twisted. He paced a slow line near the fireplace, then stopped. “I heard you. That night. You, Ron, and Hermione. Talking like Regulus was—what? A secret soldier in the war? That he chose to defy Voldemort and die for it? Like you’ve known for years?”
“I have,” Harry admitted. “Since I was seventeen.”
Sirius laughed once, sharp and bitter. “And you never thought to mention it?”
Harry stepped closer. “I was going to. After you came back, I wanted to. But there was always something—chaos, questions, trauma. And then we had to run. You were angry. Rightfully.”
Sirius stared at him. “You don’t get it, Harry.”
“Then help me understand.”
Sirius’s voice dropped, hoarse now. “I needed to hate him. I needed to believe he was gone and he chose the wrong side, and that was that. Otherwise—” He broke off. “Otherwise I would’ve spent the last twenty years hating my brother for nothing.”
Harry didn’t speak. He just let it sit, let Sirius breathe through it.
Sirius continued, quieter now. “You should’ve told me the truth. Even if it hurt. Especially if it hurt.”
“I know,” Harry said. “He died in a cave, alone in order to finish voldemort. He figured out what Voldemort was doing before we did. Kreacher saw it. He never told anyone until I asked.”
Sirius blinked, jaw clenched hard. “Kreacher?”
Harry nodded. “He watched Regulus die. Said he drank the potion and ordered Kreacher to leave him. He died alone. But not in vain.”
Sirius’s face twisted with something between grief and disbelief.
“He wasn’t perfect,” Harry said. “But he tried to make it right. He did make it right.”
A long pause.
Then Sirius lowered his gaze, voice raw. “Did Kreacher ever… talk about him? After?”
“He spoke about him with pride,” Harry said softly. “Like he was the only one who ever treated him like a person.”
Sirius’s throat worked silently, and he turned his head to hide whatever flickered in his eyes.
Harry took a breath. “I’m sorry. For not telling you sooner. I thought I was protecting you from the weight of it. But maybe I was just afraid of how much it would matter to you.”
Sirius didn’t answer for a long moment.
Then, finally, he looked up.
“I still think you’re an idiot,” he muttered, voice thick. “But thanks.”
Harry almost smiled. “You can hex me later.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Sirius said, shaking his head.
Then, more quietly: “Thanks for not letting him be forgotten.”
They stood there in the quiet, the fire low behind them, and for the first time in years—or lifetimes—Regulus Black had finally come home too.
Sirius was quiet for a long moment, gaze fixed somewhere just past Harry’s shoulder, like he was staring through the years. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.
“He’s also back from the dead… isn’t he?”
Harry didn’t answer right away.
He looked down at the floor, jaw tight, then slowly lifted his eyes to meet Sirius’s.
“…Yes.”
The word hung in the room like a dropped stone in still water.
Sirius sat down heavily in the armchair behind him, as if his legs had suddenly stopped listening. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared forward, absorbing it in pieces.
Harry stepped closer, his tone careful now—not soft, but steady.
“He didn’t come back like the others. Not entirely.”
Sirius blinked once.
Harry continued, “He’s… not well. Vulnerable. Physically and emotionally. When I found him, he was barely conscious. Couldn’t speak for days. He flinches at loud sounds, sudden movements. He doesn’t really understand where he is half the time.”
Sirius swallowed, still silent.
“He’s in a secure ward at St. Mungo’s,” Harry said. “Under heavy protection. We’ve disguised his identity in the records—he’s listed as a war trauma recovery case. No visitors allowed except me, and one Healer.”
Sirius’s hand closed into a fist on the armrest, knuckles whitening.
Harry watched him carefully. “We don’t know how long he was… wherever he was. And we don’t know what he saw. He barely remembers his name some days. But on the better ones, he says it. Quietly. ‘Regulus.’ Just that.”
Sirius’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
Harry added, “I wanted to tell you. I didn’t because I knew what it would do to you. And… because I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.”
Finally, Sirius looked up at him, and his voice was hoarse when he spoke.
“I believe you.”
Harry nodded once. “You’ll see him. When he’s ready.”
Sirius looked away again, blinking hard. “Merlin,” he whispered. “He’s really back.”
Harry didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
Sirius sat in silence, shoulders hunched, elbows braced against his knees, hands laced together as if trying to hold himself steady. His eyes were unfocused—glassy, distant, locked on some invisible point between the fire and the door.
It was a long time before he spoke again.
“I used to talk to him,” he murmured. “After he died. When I was in Azkaban. Out loud, like a madman.”
A dry chuckle escaped him, hollow. “I’d imagine him pacing in front of me, sneering, lecturing. Calling me a reckless fool. I hated him. Loved him. Both. You know how screwed up that is?”
Harry didn’t interrupt. He just stood quietly, hands at his sides, letting Sirius talk.
“He was always so quiet. Thoughtful. Knew how to make Mother proud without groveling. Knew how to make me angry without raising his voice.” Sirius gave a strained smile. “He was thirteen the last time we had a real conversation. The next time I saw his face was in the Prophet’s obituary. And now…”
He trailed off.
“He’s not the same,” Harry said carefully. “None of us are, but Regulus… it’s like he came back unfinished. Fractured.”
“Can you blame him?” Sirius muttered, voice low. “He died in that cave. Alone. Knowing no one would ever know what he did.”
“Someone did,” Harry said. “I did. Kreacher did.”
Sirius let out a shaky breath and leaned back in the chair, covering his face with both hands. “Bloody hell.”
They sat in silence again, the fire crackling quietly. Outside, a faint wind stirred the trees beyond the window.
“He’s not ready for visitors,” Harry said gently, after a pause. “But he knows your name. He said it, once. Softly. Just—‘Sirius.’”
Sirius lowered his hands slowly, his expression unreadable. “Did he sound like he hated me?”
Harry shook his head. “No. He sounded like he missed you.”
That nearly broke him.
Sirius blinked hard and looked away, jaw clenched. When he finally spoke, it was more to himself than anyone else.
“I don’t know what I’d even say.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Harry said, quiet but firm. “Just… be there. When he’s ready, and you’re ready. That’ll matter more than anything.”
Sirius nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the fire again.
“You’ll tell me when,” he said.
“I will,” Harry promised.
Sirius didn’t speak again.
But the way he sat forward, the slight lift of his shoulders, the breath he finally released—it was enough. A beginning. Not healing. Not yet.
But hope.
And for now, that would do.
***
Dinner had been the closest thing to normal they’d had in weeks.
The table was crowded—plates of roasted chicken, vegetables, bread rolls charmed warm and buttered. Conversation was light, scattered. Lily jr. and James Jr. bickered over who had “accidentally” eaten the last of the potatoes, and Ginny kept pretending she didn’t find it endearing. Even Sirius cracked a smile at one point, teasing James Sr. about his poor utensil etiquette, much to Lily Sr.’s mock horror.
Harry, for once, allowed himself to sit back and simply watch—the hum of conversation, the warmth of clinking plates, the flicker of candles. It felt like home.
Until the silver-blue shimmer of a Patronus streaked through the wall.
Conversation died instantly. Forks paused mid-air.
The spectral form of a sleek heron—a rather pompous one—hovered in the air above the table, its beady eyes glancing sharply across the room before opening its beak to speak in a clipped, officious tone:
“Harry Potter. Nathan Higgs. I require your presence at the Ministry immediately. My office. It’s urgent.”
The heron vanished with a flash, and the quiet it left behind was thunderous.
Ginny set her fork down slowly. “Nathan Higgs?”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Yeah.”
James Jr. blinked. “That weird stiff with the eyebrows who looked like he wanted to file complaints about Christmas?”
“That’s the one,” Harry muttered.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t Kingsley like him?”
“Kingsley trusted him,” Harry said flatly. “I didn’t.”
Ginny frowned. “You think it’s a trap?”
“If it is,” Harry said, pushing his chair back, “it’s a poorly timed one.”
He stood, already shrugging on his coat. “But he wouldn’t use a Patronus unless it was real. He’s too by-the-book for that.”
James Sr. stood too. “Want backup?”
“No,” Harry said. “If they’re calling me alone, showing up with half my family might make things worse.”
Ginny met his eyes across the table. “If you don’t come back in an hour, I’m storming the place.”
Harry smiled faintly. “If I’m not back in an hour, you won’t be alone.”
She didn’t smile back.
Harry turned to the fireplace, flicked his wand, and murmured, “Ministry of Magic” The flames turned green, roaring high.
Then, without another word, he stepped through—and was gone.
***
The green flames of the Floo roared as Harry stepped out into the Ministry Atrium.
It was past office hours, but the place still hummed with low, anxious energy. Too many people staying late, too many eyes glancing over shoulders, too many quiet footsteps that didn’t echo like they used to. The banners bearing the Ministry crest still hung, but the gold thread looked duller these days.
Harry didn’t stop to take it in.
He moved with purpose, cloak whipping around his boots as he walked the now-familiar route to the administrative wing. He ignored the security desk—no one dared stop him anymore—and climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the corner office that used to be used for policy storage before Nathan Higgs had claimed it for himself.
The door was ajar.
He knocked once and pushed it open.
Nathan Higgs stood at the far end, silhouetted against the tall window. Still wiry, still impeccably dressed in dull grey robes that matched his narrow, pinched face. His spectacles gleamed in the low light, and his expression was as unreadable as ever.
“Potter,” he said crisply. “Thanks for coming.”
“I’m not here for pleasantries, Higgs,” Harry said coolly, stepping inside. “What’s so urgent?”
Higgs gestured toward a pair of stiff-backed chairs, but Harry remained standing.
“I didn’t call you here lightly,” Higgs said. “We need to talk about the state of the Ministry. About what comes next. Because whether we like it or not, the tide’s shifting.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”
Higgs turned fully, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m saying we need to do something. The Ministry is fractured, its leadership vacuum growing larger by the day. We cannot fight what's behind the Inferi—this coordinated, evolving threat—without a functional institution. Without leadership. The public is afraid. People are grasping for someone to follow. This… disarray can’t continue.”
Harry’s tone turned colder. “So Kingsley’s barely gone—hasn’t even been confirmed dead—and you’re already showing your true colours?”
Higgs’s lips twitched into something that might’ve been a frown—or a smirk. “Don’t twist my words. I respected Kingsley. Still do. He was a good man. But he’s not here. And we can’t afford to waste time mourning while the world unravels around us.”
Harry stepped forward, eyes sharp. “No, what you can’t afford is that someone else might take the spotlight before you do. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? You want my support. You want me to make you Minister.”
The silence between them turned heavy.
Higgs didn’t deny it.
“I want your trust,” he said. “I want your influence. And yes—I want your support. Because like it or not, you are the public's symbol of stability. If I have your endorsement, the factions fall in line. We can restore order and face this threat properly.”
Harry let out a sharp laugh. “You don’t want stability. You want legitimacy. And you think standing next to me gives you that.”
Higgs didn’t flinch. “You’re right. I do. Because without you, this place will descend into chaos. You can’t fight a war with half a dozen splinter groups and a broken command structure. We need to rebuild the Ministry before it collapses.”
Harry’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened.
“You think I’d hand you power because you say the right words? Because you wrap your ambition in fear and pretend it’s strategy?”
Higgs stepped closer. “You don’t have to like me, Potter. You just have to be smart enough to see what’s coming. And brave enough to admit you can’t fight it alone.”
The fire crackled in the hearth. Papers rustled faintly as air shifted through the room.
Harry stared at him for a long moment.
Then, his voice low: “You’re playing with matches in a dry field, Higgs. Be very sure the fire you’re trying to light won’t burn everything down.”
And he turned for the door.
Harry had his hand on the door when Higgs’s voice stopped him again—this time quieter, but with more weight.
“Then who could it be, Potter?”
Harry didn’t turn. His back remained to the room, jaw tense.
Higgs continued, stepping closer, his voice tight and measured. “You’ve already made it clear—repeatedly—that you don’t want the position. You’ve turned it down every time the panel so much as whispered your name. And Granger—brilliant as she is—she’s not a leader. She hesitates. She debates. We don’t have time for that.”
Harry’s fingers curled slightly against the doorknob, knuckles whitening.
“I don’t like you,” Higgs went on, matter-of-fact. “You don’t like me. That’s been true for years. You think I’m a bureaucrat with ambition, and I think you’re an idealist with a saviour complex.”
Harry’s lips twitched bitterly. “Glad we agree on something.”
“But Kingsley trusted both of us,” Higgs said, his voice lowering. “That meant something to him. And it should mean something now. Because unless we work together—unless we unify what’s left of this place—we will lose it.”
He paused, letting the silence land between them.
“People are circling, Harry. Power-hungry ones. The kinds who smile in portraits but sign dark deals under the table. If we don’t act fast—someone undeserving will seize what Kingsley built. And by the time we realize it, it’ll be too late to pull it back.”
Harry slowly turned, his face unreadable.
“You want unity,” he said. “You want a face the public trusts, and hands behind the scenes pulling the strings. You think I’m that face.”
“No,” Higgs replied. “I think you’re the anchor. The only one who hasn’t been tainted by politics or fear. People will rally around you. And if you won’t lead, you can at least hold the line long enough for someone competent to.”
Harry studied him for a long moment. “And you think that someone’s you?”
“I think I’m the best bad option we have,” Higgs said bluntly. “And I think you’re smart enough to realize that too.”
Harry’s arms folded across his chest. “You want me to trust you, work with you, and convince the public not to panic. You’re asking me to help you sit in Kingsley’s chair—because the alternative is worse.”
Higgs didn’t blink. “Yes.”
Harry stood there for a long moment, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—silent.
The fire in the hearth crackled behind Higgs, casting shadows across the walls and across his carefully neutral face. There was no arrogance in him, not now—only calculation and, buried just beneath it, a thin thread of urgency.
Harry finally spoke.
“If I back you,” he said slowly, “if I even appear to support you… that makes me responsible for every decision you make.”
“Yes,” Higgs said without hesitation.
Harry took a slow step forward. “If you politicize this threat—turn it into headlines and polling numbers instead of treating it like a war—I’ll tear your entire cabinet down by myself.”
“You’d be doing me a favor,” Higgs said dryly. “Half the current panel has the strategic sense like Chudley Cannon players.”
Harry’s mouth twitched, not quite into a smile. “And if I find out you’ve made any deal—any contact—with whoever’s behind the Inferi, or anyone associated with them—”
“I won’t,” Higgs cut in. “And you’ll be watching closely enough to know that.”
Another beat passed.
Harry stepped closer, now just a few feet away. “Unity doesn’t mean silence, Higgs. I won’t smile for the press or pretend you and I see eye to eye. If I find a better leader, I will push for them.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Higgs said calmly. “But until that person exists, I’m offering function. Stability. A Ministry that doesn’t paralyze itself to death.”
Harry stared at him.
He thought of the files back in his study. The Inferi. The foreign wards. Regulus, fragile in St. Mungo’s. Kingsley, somewhere—possibly dead. The weight on his shoulders hadn’t lightened in years. He just didn’t always let people see it.
And he thought of the public.
Of how many were waiting—scared, desperate—for someone to act.
Finally, he said, voice low but clear, “I’m not giving you a throne, Higgs.”
“No,” Higgs said. “Just a fighting chance.”
Harry exhaled through his nose.
Then, simply, “I’ll think about it.”
And he turned again—this time, Higgs didn’t stop him—as Harry walked to the door, opened it, and stepped into the dim corridor of the Ministry, the weight of impossible choices following at his heels.
The corridors felt colder now, emptier. The familiar walls of the place that once bustled with purpose now echoed with mistrust and hesitation. He moved swiftly, boots thudding dully on the floor, past watchful portraits and hollow-eyed officials who nodded but didn’t speak.
By the time he Flooed back into his home in, the warmth of the kitchen light was like stepping into another world.
The scent of something warm—probably leftover stew—and Ginny’s calm voice floated faintly down the hallway. Laughter followed—brief, tired, buut real. The kind of laughter that meant Ron was in the room.
Harry stepped through the doorway into the sitting room.
Sure enough, Ron was slouched on the couch, one boot off, one still dangling from his foot, holding a cup of tea that looked too small in his hand. Hermione was seated on the armchair opposite, a stack of files on her lap and her glasses perched halfway down her nose.
Ginny stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, expression tight—until she saw him.
“You’re late,” she said simply.
Harry glanced between Ron and Hermione. “You didn’t say we had guests.”
“We’re not guests, mate,” Ron said, smirking. “We’ve broken into your house too many times for that.”
Hermione stood, setting her papers aside. “We came the moment we heard the Patronus arrived. Figured he was calling you in for something slippery.”
Harry unbuttoned his coat slowly, his brow furrowing. “So you know Higgs reached out.”
“We had dinner with Theia yesterday,” Hermione said. “She said the panel’s deadlocked and Higgs has been circling like a hawk. I had a feeling you'd be the next step.”
Ron frowned. “He’s positioning himself, isn’t he? Making a move for Minister?”
Harry nodded, dropping his coat over the back of a chair. “He asked for my support. Said we need unity before someone undeserving seizes control.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “He’s not wrong.”
Harry turned sharply toward her.
She raised her hands quickly. “I don’t mean I trust him. But the Ministry is fracturing, Harry. The public doesn’t care about ideology right now. They want someone to hold the line, make the decisions no one else wants to make.”
Ron leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “So… are you going to back him?”
“I said I’d think about it,” Harry muttered.
Ginny stepped in then, folding her arms tighter. “And are you actually thinking about it? Or just trying to figure out how not to choke him with his own tea set?”
Harry didn’t answer.
Hermione sat again, tone gentler now. “We can’t outrun this much longer, Harry. Whatever’s coming—it’s not just Inferi or magic. It’s fear. Panic. And if we don’t act now, the wrong people will.”
Ron added, more softly, “You don’t have to do it all alone, you know.”
Harry’s eyes flicked from one to the other—his oldest friends, still here, still watching him carry everything, even when he didn’t say a word.
“I know,” he said quietly.
The room was quiet for a long moment.
Hermione watched him with searching eyes, Ron leaned forward as if waiting for the blow of a Bludger, and Ginny—Ginny didn’t push. She just stood there, arms still folded, like she had done so many times before, watching him make impossible decisions.
Harry ran a hand through his hair and paced once toward the fireplace, then back. His fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the mantle, the tension so tightly wound it was visible in the line of his shoulders.
“I hate this,” he muttered. “The politics. The posturing. The idea that one person can fix a broken system just because their name is in a few history books.”
Hermione opened her mouth, but Harry lifted a hand to stop her. He wasn’t done.
“But I hate more what’ll happen if we don’t act now. If we keep pretending someone else will step up. That someone better is waiting in the wings.”
He turned toward them, his voice low and clear now.
“I’ll do it.”
Ginny inhaled slowly. Hermione didn’t speak. Ron blinked.
“I’ll endorse Higgs,” Harry continued. “I’ll put my name behind him publicly, give the people something solid to rally around. I’ll use the attention to stabilize the Ministry long enough for us to fight back against this threat. I’ll be visible. Present.”
“But,” he added, with force, “I will not be his pawn. And I will not keep silent if he oversteps.”
Hermione nodded slowly. “You’re making the right choice.”
“I’m making the only choice,” Harry said.
Ginny moved toward him, stopping just in front of him, her voice quieter. “And when this is over?”
He looked at her.
“When it’s over,” he said, “I step back. I find someone truly deserving to lead. And I go back to being a father. A husband. A man.”
Ron smirked. “Not likely. But we’ll hold you to it.”
Hermione reached out and squeezed Harry’s hand. “I’ll handle the logistics. Statements, coordination with the panel, damage control if it turns ugly.”
Ron lifted his teacup. “I’ll handle snacks and emotionally scarring sarcasm.”
Harry managed a tired smile. “Wouldn’t be a war effort without it.”
Ginny leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Do what you have to. Just come home after.”
He nodded.
He would.
Because the world needed Harry Potter the symbol.
But somewhere in that house—they still needed Harry the man.
And he wasn’t planning to lose either.
***
The next morning came grey and cold.
A fine mist clung to the Ministry Atrium’s high glass ceiling as Hermione and Harry stepped out of the Floo and made their way through the hushed corridors. The building hadn’t yet returned to full capacity, and that gave their footsteps an unnatural echo as they climbed the stairs to Higgs’s office.
Harry’s expression was unreadable—mask firmly in place. Hermione walked beside him with a satchel full of prepared documents, her eyes sharp and calculating, ready for battle in quill and clause form.
They didn’t knock.
Harry pushed open the door without ceremony.
Nathan Higgs looked up from behind his desk, the same desk that had once belonged to Kingsley’s executive assistant and now felt suspiciously like the seat of unofficial power. He didn’t look surprised.
“You’ve come to a decision, then,” Higgs said, standing and straightening his robes.
Harry didn’t sit. He stood just beyond the desk, Hermione at his side.
“I’ll support you,” Harry said without preamble.
Higgs raised an eyebrow, though he kept his satisfaction tightly contained. “Wise.”
“But,” Harry added, stepping forward slightly, “this isn’t a blank cheque. You don’t get to run this Ministry with my name tacked on like a medal. If I do this, it’s on my terms.”
Higgs tilted his head. “Go on.”
Hermione pulled a parchment from her satchel, placing it neatly on the desk.
“First,” Harry said, “you don’t touch the Auror Office without running changes through me. Leadership, deployment, oversight—my team stays independent.”
“Fine,” Higgs said quickly. “You’re the only one they still respect.”
“Second,” Harry continued, “Kingsley’s investigations—every document, every sealed archive, every note he made—you give full access to me and Hermione. No red tape. No delays.”
Higgs’s mouth tightened, but he nodded.
“Third,” Harry said, voice firm now, “if I find out you’ve made any contact with outside factions—especially foreign interests tied to this resurrection magic—you answer to me. Directly.”
“And if I refuse?” Higgs asked coolly.
“I walk,” Harry said simply. “I pull my name, my support, and every ounce of public trust that comes with it.”
Hermione chimed in then, voice calm but unmistakably pointed. “And we will ensure the public knows exactly why.”
Higgs studied the two of them for a moment. Then he stepped around the desk and picked up the parchment.
It wasn’t long, just a single page. But the words were loaded—power, leverage, the conditions of reluctant alliance.
He read it, once, twice. Then finally looked up.
“Agreed,” Higgs said. “On all counts.”
Harry didn’t offer his hand. “This isn’t a partnership. It’s containment.”
“Understood.”
Hermione gave Harry a slight nod, and together they turned toward the door.
Just before they reached it, Higgs spoke again.
“You’re going to hate every second of this, Potter.”
Harry looked over his shoulder.
“I already do.”
Just as Harry’s hand touched the door handle, Higgs’s voice cut through—measured, but purposeful.
“One more thing,” he said. “We need to fill two key positions immediately.”
Harry paused. He didn’t turn, but Hermione did, frowning slightly.
Higgs stepped out from behind his desk again, folding his hands behind his back like he was already seeing five moves ahead. “The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Head Auror positions are both vacant.”
Hermione blinked. “What happened to Langford?”
“Ran,” Higgs said flatly. “The moment Dunlop died, he slipped out of the country. No notice, no farewell, no forwarding address. And our previous Head Auror, Savage, has made it abundantly clear that he’s more suited to paperwork and panic than leadership. We need real people in those posts. Now.”
Harry turned halfway, suspicious. “And you’ve already thought of names, I assume?”
Higgs nodded. “Yes. You lead the DMLE.”
Harry frowned immediately. “No.”
“You already operate with more authority than the last four heads combined,” Higgs said quickly. “You’ve held the department together in practice, even while technically removed. If you take the role formally, it gives structure, visibility, and—most importantly—credibility.”
Hermione looked toward Harry, but didn’t speak.
“And the Auror Office?” Harry asked warily.
“Theia Hodges,” Higgs said. “She’s sharp, loyal, experienced. The team trusts her—and more importantly, you trust her.”
Harry’s brow furrowed. “She’s not ready.”
“She’s ready enough,” Higgs replied. “She doesn’t have to be you. She just has to lead.”
Harry was already shaking his head. “You don’t understand—my place is in the field. With my team. If you want this to work, Higgs, if you want me—I need to stay where I can actually make a difference.”
“You’ll still be making a difference,” Higgs said evenly. “Just on a larger scale.”
Harry’s voice turned cold. “You think pushing paper and attending panel meetings is going to stop what’s coming? I’m not interested in ceremony.”
“I’m not offering ceremony,” Higgs said. “I’m offering control. Control of how we respond. What gets prioritized. What gets protected. And who.”
Hermione finally spoke, voice careful. “Harry, he’s not wrong. If you stay in the Auror Office, you’ll still have influence—but not command. DMLE would give you both.”
Harry exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. “And Theia?”
“She’d answer to you,” Higgs said. “Like she already does. But she’d have the badge to back her decisions.”
There was a long pause.
Harry looked down, then up again. “I’ll think about it.”
“You don’t have long,” Higgs said. “I want names announced by the end of the week.”
Harry nodded once, then opened the door.
As he and Hermione stepped back into the corridor, the weight of what was being offered—and what it would cost—settled on his shoulders like a second cloak. One made not of cloth, but iron.
***
As soon as they returned to the house in Devon, Harry didn’t even bother to sit down. He sent a message to Theia Hodges through his secure communicator—one of the few magical devices Hermione had designed herself—and asked her to meet them at the house. She arrived within ten minutes, as efficient and unshakable as always.
Theia stepped through the front door with her usual quiet intensity—tall, sharp-eyed, with a fast mind and a wand hand to match. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a simple knot, robes crisp, face unreadable until her eyes landed on Harry.
“You’re alright,” she said, relaxing just a fraction. “We got your Patronus, but I wasn’t sure what the emergency was.”
Harry gestured her in and led her straight into the sitting room, Hermione right behind them. Ginny gave Theia a quick nod before excusing herself from the room with a quiet, “Call me when you’re done.”
Once the door closed, Theia looked between them. “Something’s wrong.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “And something might be about to get worse.”
She arched a brow, but waited.
Hermione started. “The Ministry is restructuring. Higgs is taking over as acting Minister, backed by Harry and myself.”
Theia’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.
“And the positions of DMLE Head and Head Auror are both being vacated,” Hermione continued. “Langford ran. Savage is incompetent. We were approached today about replacements.”
Harry stepped in, arms crossed. “He wants me to take the DMLE.”
That actually made Theia blink. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “And he wants you to take over as Head Auror.”
Theia straightened slowly. “Me?”
Harry nodded. “You're already doing the job. You’ve been leading half the team without a title for the last six months.”
“I didn’t ask for—”
“I know you didn’t,” Harry interrupted. “But that’s why I trust you with it. You didn’t ask for power. You earned the position by being the most competent, level-headed, and honest witch in that bloody office.”
Theia went quiet. She didn’t fidget, didn’t look away. She just… thought.
Hermione added gently, “You wouldn’t be alone. You’d have full operational independence, and Harry would still be your superior as DMLE head. You’d run the Aurors—on your terms.”
Theia looked at Harry. “And you? Are you actually leaving the field?”
Harry hesitated. “That’s what I’m trying to decide.”
“You’ll hate it,” she said bluntly.
“I already do,” Harry admitted.
“But,” she added, tone gentler now, “maybe it’s what we need.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair and gave a tired sigh. “This isn't the path I wanted.”
“I don’t think any of us wanted this,” Theia said. “But it’s the one we’re on.”
There was silence for a moment, then Theia nodded slowly. “If you’re in, I’m in.”
Harry studied her for a second, then gave a tight smile. “Then we’ve got a chance.”
***
That evening, the rain had returned to Devon—a quiet, persistent drizzle that tapped against the windows as the fire crackled low in the sitting room.
Harry, Theia, Hermione, and Higgs sat around the large oak table Harry usually used for family gatherings. Tonight, it was covered with parchment, quills, and documents bearing Ministry seals. The atmosphere was businesslike, but taut—like four people working together not out of comfort, but necessity.
Higgs was the last to arrive, punctual as always, removing his overcloak and hanging it with practiced precision before taking the seat across from Harry. His presence, even in Harry’s home, didn’t relax. He belonged to polished hallways and cold strategy rooms. But tonight, he kept his voice steady, formal.
“Glad to see we’re all here,” he said. “We have a limited window before the press and the panel force someone else into the spotlight.”
“Then let’s get to it,” Hermione replied, already uncapping an inkpot.
Harry leaned forward, fingers laced. “You want to be Minister? Fine. But we’re building this the right way. No cloakroom deals. No backroom candidates. We lay the foundation now—structure, message, and limits.”
Higgs nodded. “Agreed. I’ll make the announcement at the next panel assembly. It’ll be presented as an emergency transfer of leadership, backed by a formal petition supported by senior department heads and signed by you, Potter.”
Hermione added, “We’ve drafted the document already. I’ve pulled signatories from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and Education. We’ll have more by morning.”
Higgs turned to Theia. “Once the transition is public, the Auror Office will be watched. Closely. The first sign of instability and the press will eat you alive.”
Theia didn’t flinch. “Let them watch. I’ll show them what a functioning department looks like.”
Harry glanced at her, then nodded approvingly. “I’ll oversee her transition directly. You’ll announce her promotion within the same speech.”
Higgs frowned slightly. “Strategically, I would suggest staggering—”
“No,” Harry cut in. “They trust her. She’s not just my deputy—she’s their shield. You want them calm, give them strength. Now.”
Higgs nodded once. “Very well.”
Hermione tapped her quill against her parchment. “And what about the DMLE post?”
Higgs looked at Harry. “Is it official?”
Harry didn’t answer for a moment.
Then he gave a slow, resigned nod. “Yeah. It’s official. I’ll take it.”
Theia glanced at him, not saying a word, but there was something between them then—relief and regret, unspoken but understood.
Higgs pulled out a folded parchment and passed it across the table. “Then you’ll need this. Your oath and public announcement text. You can modify it, of course.”
Harry looked at it, then passed it to Hermione without a glance. “She’ll clean it up.”
Hermione was already crossing things out.
Higgs sat back slightly. “Once we’re public, we’ll need messaging coordination. Hermione, you’ll handle communications?”
“I’ll coordinate with the Prophet and the Wireless Network,” she replied. “No leaks. Controlled rollout.”
“Timeline?” Theia asked.
“Three days,” Harry said. “We need to give the panel just enough time to think they’re approving this, while giving the public enough hope to latch onto.”
Higgs nodded again. “Then we’re aligned.”
He rose from his seat, adjusting his cuffs. “I’ll prepare the final documents. Tomorrow morning, we begin.”
He offered a curt nod and headed for the door.
Once he was gone, silence settled over the table.
Theia sat back in her chair, exhaling for the first time that evening. “I still can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
Hermione gave a tired smile. “Believe it.”
Harry didn’t speak. He sat quietly, staring at the parchment Higgs had left behind.
He wasn’t a soldier anymore. Not just.
He was about to become the face of a government that barely stood.
And tomorrow, the war would begin in earnest—not just in shadows and ruins, but in halls of power, under banners that still bore scars.
He had chosen this path.
Now he had to walk it.
***
The house had settled into its nightly quiet.
The soft patter of rain against the windows had become a lullaby of sorts—one Devon had mastered long ago. Downstairs, the fire had burned low, casting the sitting room in a warm, flickering amber. Most of the house was asleep.
But Harry couldn’t sleep.
He stood by the window in the bedroom, arms folded, shoulder leaned against the frame, eyes fixed on the dark silhouette of the trees beyond the garden.
Ginny was in bed, reading. She hadn’t said much after the meeting ended, letting him sit with the weight of it in silence. She knew when to give him space—and when to fill it.
She closed her book softly and set it on the nightstand. “You’ve been staring out that window for twenty minutes.”
“I wasn’t counting,” Harry muttered.
“You were.”
He sighed and turned to look at her. The firelight caught the edge of his glasses, but his face was drawn, uncertain.
“Did I make the right choice?” he asked, quietly.
Ginny studied him for a long moment, then patted the edge of the bed. “Come here.”
He hesitated, then crossed the room and sat beside her, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight.
Ginny reached out and gently took his hand. “Are you asking me as your wife, or as someone who knows how much you hate politics?”
“Both,” he said with a tired smile.
She squeezed his fingers. “Then I’ll tell you what I told you before. You’ve spent your whole life stepping up when no one else could. You never wanted glory, or power, or attention. That’s exactly why people trust you. And it’s why you scare men like Higgs even when you’re on their side.”
Harry looked down at their hands. “It doesn’t feel like stepping up. It feels like being boxed in.”
“Maybe,” she said gently. “But you’re the only one who can stand in the middle of this and not lose who you are. That’s not being boxed in. That’s being needed.”
He was quiet for a while.
Then, “I wanted to be done.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to come home. Not… rebuild the bloody government.”
Ginny gave a soft, rueful smile. “You did come home. We’re just lending you out for a while.”
Harry looked at her. “Promise me I’ll find my way back to this. To us. When it’s done.”
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, resting hers against his.
“You will,” she whispered. “And I’ll be here. Like always.”
And for the first time that day, Harry breathed a little easier.
***
The next morning, Harry gathered them in the sitting room after breakfast.
The table had been cleared, the dishes charmed clean and drying in the kitchen sink. The fireplace glowed with soft embers, casting a warm hush over the room that felt more fragile than usual. There was something in the air—expectation, maybe. Or the sense that something important was about to be said.
James Sr., Lily Sr., Sirius, James Jr., and Albus sat scattered between armchairs and the couch. Ginny stood by the window, arms folded, quietly present but letting Harry lead.
He stood near the hearth, his palms resting on the back of a chair. His posture was steady, but his voice—when it came—was low and serious.
“They’re naming Nathan Higgs acting Minister within the next three days,” he said. “Hermione and I are backing the transition. We’ve negotiated control of the structure, access to the investigations, and appointment rights for two key roles.”
Sirius’s brow shot up. “You’re backing Higgs?”
James Jr., who had been nursing a second cup of coffee, looked up in alarm. “The walking bylaws pamphlet? I thought you hated that guy.”
“I do,” Harry said. “But the Ministry’s splitting down the middle, and he’s the only person the panel won’t tear each other apart over. It’s not about liking him. It’s about control. I make the deal, I pull the strings.”
Lily Sr. nodded slowly. “What roles?”
“Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Harry said. “They want me to lead it.”
There was silence. Then Sirius, flatly: “You said you’d never take a desk job.”
“I did,” Harry admitted. “But if I don’t take it, someone else will—someone who doesn’t know the system, or worse, wants to break it from the inside.”
He turned slightly. “And Theia Hodges is taking over as Head Auror. She’s ready. Not perfect, but smart, trusted, and she knows how to command without ego.”
James Jr., looked stunned. “So… she’s going to lead the department from now?”
Harry gave a faint smile. “Technically, yes.”
“Bloody hell.”
“She’ll be fair,” Harry said. “Tough, but fair. And you’ll learn from her.”
Then he looked to the far side of the room, where Albus sat, silent, arms folded, watching with unreadable eyes.
“And what about us?” Albus asked. His voice was quiet but sharp. “You’re stepping into the Ministry now. You’re putting your name behind it. So what does that mean for the people who aren’t visible? Who work in places where things are happening the public never hears about?”
Harry met his gaze. “It means I’ll need you more than ever.”
Albus tilted his head slightly.
“Unspeakables don’t answer to departments,” Harry continued. “But I know what’s coming—it’s not going to stay aboveground. This resurrection magic, these enhanced Inferi… it’s not just war. It’s unmaking. There are people tampering with boundaries we were never meant to cross. And if I’m holding the Ministry together above, I need someone like you digging beneath.”
Albus’s jaw flexed, but he nodded once.
“I’ll get you access to Kingsley’s Veil files,” Harry added. “Everything we’ve got. You and Hermione will work together. Quietly.”
“I’m in,” Albus said.
James Jr. raised his hand, half-joking. “And me?”
Harry looked at him, smile fading into something proud but serious. “You’ll be where I was, when it all began. On the ground. Wand out. Protecting people. That’s more important than ever.”
James Sr. finally spoke, voice low and firm. “Are you sure about this, Harry?”
Harry looked at him, then Lily, then Sirius.
“No,” he said honestly. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
Sirius snorted. “Well, it wouldn’t be a Potter move if it wasn’t half-mad.”
Lily smiled softly. “We’re with you.”
“Always,” James Sr. added.
Harry nodded, exhaling. Then he looked at all of them.
“Then let’s get to work.”
***
The atmosphere in Higgs’s office was tense—but not the tense that came with danger. No, this was the uniquely infuriating tension that came from three powerful minds stuck in the same room with a quill, a speech draft, and opinions.
Harry stood behind a chair, arms crossed, jaw tight, glaring down at the third revision of the endorsement speech that lay open on Higgs’s desk. His messy notes were still scrawled in the margins, most of them crossed out. Again.
Higgs sat calmly, legs crossed, spectacles perched precisely on the bridge of his nose, quill in one hand, a fresh copy of the speech in the other. He looked like a man evaluating a perfectly functional wand and suggesting it might be improved by sanding the handle.
“I’m just saying,” Higgs remarked, tapping the parchment, “the phrase ‘I’ve seen darkness’ is a bit… dramatic.”
Harry blinked slowly. “I have seen darkness.”
“Yes,” Higgs replied evenly, “and everyone knows that. You don’t need to announce it like you’re narrating a funeral. You’re trying to reassure the public, not send them into existential crisis.”
Harry looked over at Hermione, who was seated on the couch with her own annotated copy. She avoided his eyes at first, which was a bad sign.
“Hermione?” he asked, voice tight. “You agree with him?”
Hermione looked up. “I mean… yes. He’s right.”
Harry stared at her. “Traitor.”
She gave him a pointed look. “You want this to land well. You’re not just Harry Potter here—you’re speaking for the future leadership of the Ministry. For people terrified about what’s next. If you go in sounding like you’re preparing for another war, they’ll panic. We’re trying to give them hope, not a battle cry.”
Harry looked back at Higgs, who was already highlighting something else with a self-inking quill. “And what’s wrong with this part?” he asked tightly, stabbing a finger at another paragraph.
Higgs adjusted his glasses. “You said you’re endorsing me because we ‘can’t afford idealism.’ Which sounds like you think I’m a cynic with no moral compass.”
Harry muttered under his breath, “Not entirely inaccurate.”
“I heard that,” Higgs said.
“I meant for you to.”
Hermione closed her folder with a decisive snap. “We need unity, not bickering. Harry, you’re not endorsing him—you’re endorsing stability. Make that the point. He’s just the figurehead for now. You’re the reason people will listen.”
Harry dragged a hand through his hair and sat down heavily in the nearest chair, groaning. “I should’ve just stayed an Auror.”
“You still are one,” Hermione said.
“With paperwork,” Harry muttered. “And public statements. And Higgs editing my sentences like I’m in a fifth-year essay review.”
Higgs, without looking up: “I’d give this a D on first reading, to be honest.”
Harry snapped his quill in half.
Hermione barely stopped herself from laughing. “Alright, alright. Let’s finish this. You’ve got three hours before the press conference, and you’re still using war metaphors in paragraph five.”
Harry slumped forward. “I hate politics.”
“You’re doing it anyway,” Hermione said, her voice both fond and unrelenting.
And Harry—reluctantly, furiously, inevitably—picked up another quill.
***
They had finally agreed on the final draft. It wasn’t perfect—at least, not in Harry’s opinion—but Hermione signed off on it, which meant further protest was pointless.
Harry rolled up the parchment with the expression of a man preparing to swallow a bezoar and stood to leave.
Hermione stood beside him, carefully organizing her notes into a slim folder. “We’ll have twenty minutes before the press briefing. They’ll be waiting in the Ministry Atrium.”
“Wonderful,” Harry muttered. “Maybe I’ll trip on the stairs and end this whole plan with one public concussion.”
Higgs stood as well, brushing imaginary dust from his immaculate robes, and walked around the desk. Just as Harry reached for the door, Higgs spoke—casual, but pointed.
“Oh, and Potter—”
Harry paused, hand on the doorknob, sighing. “What now?”
“Dress smartly,” Higgs said without missing a beat. “We’re presenting a united front, not a camping trip.”
Harry blinked at him.
Higgs continued, ticking points off on his fingers. “No wrinkled robes. Lose the dragon-hide boots. Comb your hair.”
Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly, trying not to laugh. Harry turned to her.
She shrugged. “He’s… not wrong.”
“And—” Higgs raised his eyebrows—“don’t hide the scar. Let the public see who’s endorsing this government. It’s more powerful than any sentence in that speech.”
Harry gave a dry smile. “You want me to be a symbol again.”
“No,” Higgs replied. “I want you to be a reminder. That we’re still here. That the world didn’t end. That we’re choosing order over collapse.”
Harry turned halfway back toward the door, clearly biting back another sarcastic remark, but Higgs wasn’t finished.
“And one more thing,” he said, voice a little too pleasant.
Harry turned again, suspicious.
“Lose your usual resting bitter face,” Higgs said cheerfully. “The one you always wear in front of the press. Try… hopeful. Or at least neutral. You’re not attending a funeral.”
Harry stared at him.
Hermione burst into laughter.
Harry shook his head and pulled the door open. “Anything else? Should I smile and hand out biscuits?”
“If you can manage it, yes,” Higgs said smoothly. “The public loves a soft edge on a hard reputation.”
Harry muttered something highly inappropriate under his breath and stormed out.
Hermione followed, still laughing, her voice trailing behind her in a sing-song tease:
“Try to radiate inspiration, Harry!”
Behind them, Higgs smirked and returned to his desk.
Showtime.
***
Back at the house in Devon, Harry stood in front of the long mirror in his bedroom, frowning like it had personally offended him.
He was dressed in formal deep navy robes, clean-lined and sharply tailored—ones Ginny had once insisted he keep for official ceremonies and that he’d sworn he’d never wear unless someone was dead or getting married.
“I look like I’m about to hand out detentions at the Wizengamot,” he muttered.
From the bed, Ginny barely looked up from the newspaper she was reading. “You look like a grown-up. Terrifying, I know.”
Harry tugged slightly at the collar. “Since when do I listen to Nathan bloody Higgs?”
Ginny smirked. “About five minutes after you agreed to endorse him, Head of the DMLE.”
“That was a lapse in judgment. It doesn’t extend to hair suggestions.”
“Good,” Ginny said, standing. “Because there’s nothing he can say to fix that mess.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, then sighed. “He told me to leave the scar visible.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow, walking over. “And?”
He met her eyes in the mirror. “I’m still trying to figure out how I became a symbol again when I barely agreed to be a bureaucrat.”
She stepped up behind him and smoothed the collar of his robes with a gentle touch. “You became a symbol the day you lived. Then again when you fought. And again when you stayed.”
Harry looked down. “I don’t want to be worshipped.”
“You’re not,” she said simply. “You’re remembered. There’s a difference. People aren’t asking for you to save them—they just want to believe someone still can.”
He glanced back up at her. “Do I look ridiculous?”
Ginny studied him in the mirror, then shook her head. “You look like someone who’s about to walk into a room full of snakes and say, ‘Bite me.’”
Harry smirked faintly. “That tracks.”
She reached up and brushed his fringe slightly to the side, revealing the lightning-shaped scar.
“You sure?” he asked.
Ginny met his gaze in the mirror. “Show them who you are. Let them remember why they followed you before. And then—remind them they’re not alone this time.”
Harry turned to face her, drawing in a deep breath.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go let Higgs run the country with my face.”
Ginny grinned. “Just don’t forget to smile. You know—the kind where you don’t look like you’re planning to jinx the front row.”
“Why’s everyone saying this?,” he muttered, and with one last glance in the mirror, he followed her downstairs.
The press conference—and history—waited.
***
The Ministry Atrium hadn’t looked this polished since the day after the war.
Every inch gleamed under enchanted light, the black-and-gold floor freshly buffed, the towering columns on either side bearing newly charmed Ministry banners, fluttering despite the still air. A platform had been conjured near the central fountain, flanked by subtle security wards and barely visible enchantments meant to keep the press just far enough back to avoid chaos—but close enough to see everything.
Harry stepped out of the lift, robes pristine, wand sheathed at his side, his scar visible and unhidden beneath windswept hair. The buzz of reporters, Ministry aides, and enchanted cameras dulled for just a second when they caught sight of him.
Because Harry Potter had arrived.
By the platform, Hermione spotted him first. She strode over quickly, already speaking before he fully stopped walking.
“You’re late by six minutes,” she muttered under her breath, giving his appearance a quick once-over. “Good. You look appropriately reluctant and brooding, but clean. Don’t cross your arms when you speak—it makes you look closed off. And please, for Merlin’s sake, try not to scowl like the entire Ministry owes you money.”
Harry gave her a side-glance. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Only slightly,” Hermione said, straightening his collar. “Remember: unity, clarity, conviction. And don’t ad-lib too much—especially not if it involves anything about ‘burning the place down from the inside.’ That’s not a metaphor we want repeated in headlines.”
Harry sighed. “I liked the first draft better.”
“And that’s exactly why I rewrote it,” she shot back.
Higgs joined them then, looking as crisp and composed as ever in tailored plum robes. His expression was unreadable, though a glint of calculation always flickered behind his eyes. He nodded curtly to Harry.
“You’re on in three minutes,” Higgs said. “Everything’s in place. Crowd's primed, script’s been sent to the press office, and the Wireless Network is patched in. Don’t fidget. Speak clearly. Be deliberate.”
Harry stared at him. “You rehearsed that in the mirror, didn’t you?”
Higgs didn’t rise to the bait. “You’re not just speaking for me. You’re speaking for the Ministry, the DMLE, and everyone hoping this doesn’t spiral into civil collapse.”
“Comforting,” Harry muttered.
Hermione placed a steadying hand on his arm. “You’ve done harder things. This? It’s just talking.”
Harry exhaled slowly and looked toward the small crowd forming behind the security line. Journalists setting up Quick-Quotes quills. Ministry workers whispering and nudging each other. The eyes of a whole nation—hungry, uncertain, desperate—fixated on a stage, waiting for one symbol to step up.
He looked back at Hermione and Higgs.
“Let’s get this over with.”
And with that, Harry walked to the podium.
The murmuring died instantly.
The entire Atrium seemed to hold its breath as he looked out over the gathered crowd—Ministry officials, journalists, Aurors, administrative staff, and even a few curious onlookers who had no business being there. Flashbulbs from magical cameras flickered softly in the corners. Hovering Quick-Quotes Quills bobbed in the air, poised and trembling like vultures waiting to strike.
Harry took a breath and began.
“I never wanted to stand here. Not like this.
I’ve stood in this building as a student. As a witness. As an Auror. I’ve fought in these corridors, I’ve bled in them. I’ve seen what happens when institutions built to protect us become too fragile to stand. And I’ve seen what happens when people stop believing they matter.
And right now… we’re dangerously close to that again.”
He let the silence sit for a moment. Then continued, voice steady:
“The Ministry is vulnerable. We’ve lost good people. Kingsley Shacklebolt is still missing. We don’t know where he is or what happened to him, but we owe it to his legacy not to let everything he built fall apart while we wait for answers.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“I won’t pretend I agree with everything about this government. I never have. But I know this: when everything feels like it’s slipping through our fingers, the only way forward is together. And that means choosing stability over chaos. Structure over panic. Even when it's uncomfortable. Especially then.”
His eyes scanned the crowd, found a few familiar faces. Theia, watching from the second row. Ron, unusually tense. Even Percy, arms folded, near the press line.
“Which is why today, I’m giving my endorsement to Nathan Higgs as Acting Minister for Magic.
“He is not my friend. He is not my ideal candidate. But he is smart, capable, and he understands the stakes. He knows this is not about ambition—it’s about survival. And he has agreed to work with the people who will make the difference.”
Higgs gave the faintest nod from the edge of the platform.
“But endorsement is not the only reason I’m here. Effective today, I am accepting the post of Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
That sent a wave through the crowd—a blend of surprise, approval, and camera flashes.
“And I am proud to announce that the Auror Office will now be led by someone I trust more than anyone in this building to do the job right— Theia Hodges, Deputy Head Auror and the finest field leader I’ve worked with in years.”
Another stir—surprised gasps, but also nods of approval. Theia’s eyes flickered, but she stood firm, expression composed.
“This isn’t about titles. It’s about action. We are facing threats beyond anything we’ve known. Magic that defies our understanding. Forces that are manipulating life and death. The Ministry cannot afford to be fragmented. We need coordination. We need conviction. And most of all, we need your support.”
He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering, steady and raw:
“I’m not here to play politics. I’m here to protect our world—our families, our children, our future. I need your trust to do that. And in return, I will give you everything I have.”
Then he straightened, let the words hang.
“Let’s stand together now… before we lose the chance to stand at all.”
The Atrium was still for a breathless second.
Then came the applause.
Not thunderous—not yet—but real. Building. Layered with cautious hope.
And Harry Potter, symbol and soldier, stood quietly beneath the Ministry banners.
For once, not with a wand drawn—but with all eyes behind him.
Notes:
Hope you enjoy this new chapter! 🥹❤️
Honestly, I had no idea how to continue this story for a while. But after reading so many beautiful, encouraging comments from you lovely Pookies, I found the inspiration to write again! Thank you all so, so much. ❤️😭
Huge thanks as well to everyone who took the time to share their ideas for this story - it really means the world. ❤️
Apologies for the delayed update... life’s been a bit overwhelming lately. I haven’t even had the chance to reply to your comments -- which is saying something, because I usually respond the moment I see them! Please know that I’ve read every single one, and they've truly touched me. I’ll catch up on replies as soon as I can.
Thank you again for all your love, comments, and reviews. I can’t stress enough how much they mean to me. ❤️❤️
Chapter 39: Spoken in Flames
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Department of Mysteries was quiet—as always.
Too quiet.
The air down there didn’t hum with ordinary magic. It vibrated with something older, heavier, unsettling. Even after a year working as an Unspeakable, Albus hadn’t quite gotten used to it. Maybe you weren’t supposed to.
The corridor was dimly lit, the torches enchanted to cast cold, shifting blue light on the curved stone walls. Doors lined the hall—some sealed with ancient runes, others with enchantments even he wasn’t cleared to breach. Only six people in the whole department knew what went on in all of them.
Albus wasn’t one of them.
But he knew enough.
And right now, that knowledge sat like ice in his stomach.
He moved silently, his boots making no sound on the floor, until he came to a chamber tucked near the old Time Room. The runes on the door pulsed faintly—a sign that someone was inside. He didn’t knock. Just placed his hand against the seal and let it scan his clearance.
The door creaked open.
Inside, three Unspeakables stood around a levitating stone slab covered in shimmering blue fabric. A glass sphere pulsed slowly above it, humming with unstable magic. The air tasted like iron and ozone.
Albus stepped in.
The eldest of them, Elias Crow, glanced up from his notes, his ever-apathetic face twitching into something between a sneer and amusement.
“Potter,” he said, dragging the name out like it tasted bitter. “Back from playing Ministry mascot?”
Albus didn’t rise to the bait. “Still working on that resurrection sequence?”
Another Unspeakable—a woman named Peyra—snorted without looking up from her wand. “We call it post-temporal reconstitution. Sounds less religious.”
“It sounds reckless,” Albus shot back. “I told you to suspend this line of research. Before I went on holiday.”
Crow shrugged. “And we told you you’re not our supervisor.”
“You’re trying to manipulate magical death patterns. It’s not only illegal under the Department’s own ethical bylaws, it’s—”
“—unproven?” Peyra finished, amused.
“Dangerous,” Albus snapped. “You think it’s a coincidence Inferi are adapting? Or that the Veil’s energy is bleeding into the surrounding space? You think these resurrection cases are just acts of divine luck?”
A third Unspeakable, Raff, looked up with a grin. “And you think it’s us? That we brought back the dead people because we flicked a wand too hard?”
“You’re meddling with boundaries that were meant to be sealed,” Albus said coldly. “Maybe you didn’t cause it—but you’re feeding it. The Veil isn’t reacting randomly. It’s responding. And you’re still provoking it.”
Crow’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like your father.”
Albus stiffened, jaw clenched. “No. My father would’ve burned this place down before letting any of you play gods.”
Peyra smirked. “And yet here you are. Still here. Still one of us.”
That hit harder than he expected.
Albus stepped forward, voice low now. “I’m warning you. Shut it down. Dismantle this room. If I find even a hint of unauthorized Veil manipulation again, I’ll take it directly to the DMLE. And Harry Potter will come down here himself.”
There was a pause.
For once, Crow didn’t answer with a smirk. Just a cool, watchful silence.
Albus turned and left, heart pounding.
And for the first time, a horrifying thought began to truly take root:
What if they weren’t just studying resurrection?
What if they’d started it?
Albus didn’t hesitate.
The moment he left the unauthorized chamber, he made his way down the winding corridor toward the Director’s Office—the only room in the Department of Mysteries with a door carved from dark wood rather than stone, unmarked except for a single silver circle engraved near the handle.
He paused once to breathe. Just once.
Then he knocked.
A low voice answered, calm and even, as always: “Enter.”
The office was spacious in a minimalist way—black stone floor, floating candles instead of torches, and walls lined with shelves that seemed to disappear into shadow. No nameplate. No clutter. Just silence and focus.
Director Caelum Vance sat behind a sleek black desk, hands folded, pale grey eyes fixed on Albus as he entered. His silver-streaked hair was combed back, robes plain and elegant, his expression—always—measured.
Albus respected him deeply. Vance wasn’t warm, but he was known for his calm authority, his unmatched knowledge of magical theory, and his insistence on ethical restraint—rare in the Department of Mysteries.
“Mr. Potter,” Vance said, gesturing to the seat in front of him. “What brings you here with such urgency?”
Albus sat but didn’t lean back. “Sir, it’s about Crow, Peyra, and Raff. The resurrection research. I told them to shut it down like a month ago. They haven’t. They’re still operating that chamber near the old Time Room.”
Vance's face remained unreadable. “Still? Despite your directive?”
“Yes,” Albus said, jaw tight. “And the energy signatures from their instruments are matching Veil anomalies. They’re pushing it further. I’m not sure they’re the only ones doing it. And I’m starting to think the Inferi aren’t evolving by accident.”
There was a flicker of something—just the faintest tightening around Vance’s mouth. Then, as quickly as it came, it smoothed into a look of concern.
“This is deeply troubling,” Vance said, voice low. “I appreciate you bringing this to me.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “You’ve done the right thing, Albus. If even a fragment of what you’ve said is accurate, it could have… catastrophic implications.”
“I can collect the spell traces myself,” Albus offered. “Their enchantments are unstable. If we cross-reference them with the Veil’s fluctuations—”
Vance held up a hand gently. “No. You’ve done enough. I’ll deal with this personally. Discreetly.”
Albus blinked. “You believe me?”
“I do,” Vance said, offering a rare, faint smile. “You’re one of the few who actually understands the weight of what we guard down here. And I trust your instincts.”
Albus felt a flicker of relief. “Thank you, sir. I wasn’t sure who else would take it seriously.”
Vance nodded slowly. “Rest assured, I do.”
Albus stood, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “If you need anything—”
“I’ll call on you,” Vance said smoothly. “But for now, focus on your assignments. Let me handle the rest.”
Albus nodded once, then turned to leave.
The door clicked softly shut behind him.
Vance sat in silence for a long moment. Then his fingers moved—elegant, practiced—as he pulled off one black leather glove.
On his right hand was a ring. Silver, ancient-looking. Inset on its face was a faintly glowing symbol:
A triangle, within which burned a flame.
The same symbol found pressed into the chests of the altered Inferi.
Vance turned the ring slowly, watching it catch the candlelight.
His expression remained calm.
Almost... reverent.
***
The next day, the first official meeting of department heads under Acting Minister Nathan Higgs was called in the newly refurbished Executive Chamber—an expansive, high-ceilinged room nestled deep within the upper tiers of the Ministry.
Gilded columns lined the circular space, and the Ministry crest shimmered faintly on a magical banner overhead. A long, polished obsidian table dominated the center, surrounded by fifteen high-backed chairs—each marked with the sigil of its respective department.
Caelum Vance, Head of the Department of Mysteries, arrived early.
He always did.
His presence was quiet but commanding. He moved without fuss, nodding politely to others as he passed—not overly warm, but respected. Feared, even, by some. He took his seat at the table without a word and folded his gloved hands on the dark surface.
As the others filed in—Senior Undersecretaries, Department Heads from Magical Law, Creatures, Transportation, and International Cooperation—the room filled with low murmurs and the faint rustle of parchment.
Then came Harry Potter.
Conversations paused as he entered.
He wasn’t in Auror robes this time, but in the formal, dark-trimmed attire of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The lightning scar was uncovered, his shoulders squared, his expression all business.
Vance’s eyes tracked him calmly as he moved to the seat directly across from him—sigil of the DMLE etched into the chair’s high back. Their gazes met.
Harry gave him a polite nod. “Vance.”
“Potter,” Vance said smoothly.
There was no tension. No warmth either. Just a quiet understanding between two men used to carrying knowledge most of the world couldn’t—or shouldn’t—understand.
Harry sat down, laying a folder in front of him. Hermione slid in beside him moments later, quill already floating mid-air.
Higgs arrived last, flanked by two aides. His plum robes looked recently tailored, his expression composed. He took the central seat with the Ministry seal behind him and cleared his throat.
“Thank you all for being here on short notice,” Higgs began, his voice echoing faintly around the chamber. “Let me begin by stating clearly that my administration’s first priority is internal unity. We are facing threats that do not respect politics or protocol. Our job is to keep this government from falling apart before it can act.”
A few heads nodded.
Harry didn’t move.
Higgs glanced at him, then continued. “Effective today, departmental coordination will be streamlined. No delays, no jurisdictional disputes. I want interdepartmental flow on all high-risk reports. That means Veil anomalies, Inferi sightings, and resurrection cases go through both the DMLE and the Department of Mysteries.”
Vance inclined his head slightly. “Of course. My department is already preparing an updated series of energy fluctuation reports related to the Veil. I’ll see that Mr. Potter has a copy by end of day.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Good. Because if we find another site affected by that same necromantic seal, we’re locking it down immediately.”
There was a faint pause.
Vance offered a calm smile. “Naturally.”
Higgs interjected quickly, sensing the spark. “Gentlemen. This isn’t the time for lines in the sand. We need answers, not turf wars.”
Harry didn’t respond, but his gaze remained locked with Vance’s for a beat too long.
And Vance—still gloved, still perfectly composed—tapped one finger once against the table. The ring was hidden. Silent.
But the fire behind his eyes never wavered.
The meeting went on. Plans made. Orders given.
And all the while, the two men at the table who knew the most about death played a game of restraint.
One seeking truth.
The other, control.
The meeting wore on for nearly two hours, covering everything from increased Muggle interference response protocols to Auror redeployments near Veil-active zones. Reports were passed around, magical projection maps hovered midair, and the usual Ministry undercurrents of pride, rivalry, and forced civility hummed beneath it all.
But Harry found himself less focused on the words being spoken… and more on Caelum Vance.
It wasn’t anything obvious. Vance never raised his voice, never contradicted anyone directly. He contributed when expected, with precision and just the right amount of concern. His updates about the Department of Mysteries were clear, cooperative, and, by all accounts, helpful.
But Harry’s gut kept twisting every time Vance spoke.
It was something in his stillness—too calculated. Something in the way he observed, never reacting too much or too little. Something in how his gloved fingers tapped the table just once whenever Harry mentioned anything related to resurrection magic or the Inferi.
And when Vance made a brief reference to “unstable magical echoes” in the Department’s Time-Adjoining wing, Harry could’ve sworn his tone dipped into something colder… something rehearsed.
It felt off.
After the meeting adjourned, and the department heads filtered out, Harry caught Hermione by the cloak as they walked through the corridor back toward the lift.
“Something’s wrong with Vance,” he said under his breath.
Hermione looked at him, confused. “Wrong? He’s been cooperative since the beginning of the Dunlop fallout.”
“Too cooperative,” Harry muttered. “He’s… careful. Precise. Every answer he gave was just enough. Nothing more.”
“That’s just how he is, Harry,” she said, adjusting the folder in her arms. “He’s an Unspeakable. They’re trained to be unreadable.”
“No,” Harry said. “It’s more than that. My instincts—”
Hermione gently cut in. “You’re tired. You’re overloaded. You’ve just taken on one of the most demanding positions in the Ministry in the middle of a magical crisis. Your gut is firing on high alert. That doesn’t mean it’s wrong… but it does mean you should check your footing.”
Harry didn’t answer right away. They reached the lift, and the golden grilles slid open. They stepped in, the soft chime marking the start of descent.
Finally, he said, quietly, “He doesn’t blink when I say ‘resurrection.’ Doesn’t even react. As if he’s already processed it. Already expected it.”
Hermione glanced sideways at him, her brow faintly furrowed. “You think he’s hiding something?”
“I know he is,” Harry said. “I just don’t know what.”
Hermione sighed. “Then investigate. Quietly. But don’t let suspicion become obsession.”
The lift chimed again. The doors slid open.
Harry stepped out without another word.
He wasn’t wrong. Not this time.
Something about Vance was… wrong.
And he was going to find out what—no matter how deep it went.
***
It was late evening by the time Harry Apparated to a quiet street just outside a modest brick building in South London—one of the few wizard-friendly areas that blended seamlessly with the Muggle world.
Albus’s flat was on the third floor. Harry had only been there twice—once when Albus moved in, and once when Ginny dragged him along with a tin of treacle tart. He didn’t visit often. Not because he didn’t want to—but because Albus never asked him to.
He took a breath before knocking.
Footsteps approached. The door opened.
Albus stood in the doorway in a loose, dark jumper, wand tucked behind his ear, his ever-present guarded expression flickering with brief surprise. “You?”
Harry lifted the corners of his mouth in something that tried to be a smile. “Yeah. Sorry to show up unannounced. Can I come in?”
Albus hesitated for half a second—then stepped aside. “Sure.”
The flat was sparse but neat—books stacked everywhere, enchanted parchment pinned to the walls with arcane notes in Albus’s tight, methodical handwriting. A single half-drunk cup of tea steamed on the windowsill, long forgotten.
“You want something?” Albus asked, not quite looking at him.
“No. Just needed to talk.”
That got Albus’s attention. He looked up, wary. “What about?”
“Vance,” Harry said, taking the armchair near the desk.
Albus blinked. “What about him?”
Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I had a long meeting with him today. He’s composed. Too composed. He gave up just enough information, said all the right things, but something felt... off.”
Albus’s brow furrowed. “You’re suspicious of Caelum Vance?”
“Yes.”
Albus let out a breath that was half a laugh. “You really do hate everyone I like.”
Harry looked up sharply. “That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” Albus folded his arms, his tone turning defensive. “You’ve never liked him. Or Scorpius. Or half my colleagues. And every time I actually admire someone, you find a way to—what? Warn me off them?”
Harry’s voice stayed low, but steady. “I’m not here to pick a fight.”
“Then what are you here for?” Albus said, eyes sharp.
Harry met his gaze. “To tell you that something doesn’t sit right. Vance isn’t just another Unspeakable with a dry sense of humor and a clean record. He’s too polished. Too neutral. He’s a step ahead of everyone in every conversation, and I can tell when someone’s already mapped out their answers before they’re even asked.”
Albus shook his head. “Or maybe he’s just better at his job than you’re comfortable with. You ever consider that?”
Harry exhaled slowly. “I’m not accusing him of anything. Not yet. But the Inferi, the energy signatures, the resurrection cases—they’re all linked. And if something is going on inside the Department of Mysteries, Vance is either ignoring it… or he’s part of it.”
Albus looked away, jaw tight. “He’s one of the only people down there who’s ever treated me with respect.”
“I’m not trying to take that away from you,” Harry said. “I want to be wrong. But if I’m not—”
Albus cut in, voice colder. “Then maybe you should learn how to trust people before writing them off.”
Harry stood slowly. “I’ll be careful. I’m not making this about you. But keep your eyes open, Al. If I’m right… it’s not just the Ministry that’s at risk. It’s you.”
Albus didn’t answer.
Harry had just reached for the doorknob when something tugged at him—not a sound, not a word. Just instinct.
He turned back, voice quieter now. “Albus…”
Albus didn’t look up. He was standing near the window, arms folded tight across his chest, his expression unreadable in the half-light.
Harry took a slow step forward. “You’re down there. Every day. In that department. I know you’re careful. Smarter than most of the people you work with. So I have to ask you this directly—”
A pause.
“Do you know anything about this resurrection magic? About the Inferi?”
Albus’s head turned sharply, and he answered far too fast.
“No.”
The word snapped out of him like a wand flick. Too clean. Too quick. Too prepared.
And Harry froze.
For a single, breathless moment, it wasn’t Albus he saw.
It was Tom Riddle, years ago, standing in the candlelit office of Dippet, denying knowledge of the attacks by the basilisk.
It was the same no, Harry said himself to Dumbledore when he asked whether he would like to tell him anything.
Harry’s stomach turned. But only slightly.
He said nothing about it.
He wanted to. Merlin, he wanted to press. But the image of Albus stiffening further—of the widening gap between them deepening into something unrecoverable—stopped him.
He nodded once instead.
“Alright.”
Albus blinked. “That’s it?”
Harry managed a tired smile. “That’s it.”
He turned again to the door. “Good night, Albus.”
This time, he didn’t wait for a reply.
He left the flat, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality.
And Albus stayed by the window, jaw tight, eyes distant—watching shadows move where no shadows should have been.
***
The night air outside Albus’s flat had a sharp bite, but Harry barely noticed as he strode through the empty street, cloak pulled tight, thoughts churning too loud to be soothed by cool wind or city quiet.
He tried to shake the feeling—that too-quick no, the flicker of something behind Albus’s eyes. But it stayed with him like smoke clinging to his robes.
By the time he Apparated outside the Auror Office’s private wing—the one warded so only high-level personnel could access it—it was well past midnight. The Ministry was nearly silent, most of the office dark except for the distant glow of enchanted sconces and the low hum of magical surveillance wards.
But one room still had light.
Theia Hodges was where she always was when things were too uncertain to sleep: at her desk, sle
eves rolled, coffee half-drunk, a half dozen magical maps floating mid-air in front of her. She didn’t look up when Harry walked in. She just said—
"You’re late for insomnia club.”
Harry gave a faint snort and leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t realize there was a roster.”
“There is,” Theia said, finally glancing up. “You’re now tied for most restless with me.”
He stepped inside, wards sealing quietly behind him. “I need a favour.”
Theia straightened, immediately alert. “Personal, or professional?”
Harry looked at her seriously. “Both.”
She nodded. “I’m listening.”
He stepped closer and dropped his voice. “I want you to keep an eye on Caelum Vance.”
Theia blinked. “The Department of Mysteries?”
“Yeah. Quietly. No paperwork. No mentions in logs. Just… if he’s meeting with people off record, if he’s moving through sections of the Veil chambers he doesn’t normally supervise, if you notice even a whiff of dark experimental work—I want to know.”
Theia’s brow furrowed. “You think he’s involved?”
Harry hesitated. “I don’t know. But my gut’s screaming. And I’ve learned not to ignore it.”
She nodded slowly, expression hardening. “Alright. I’ll be discreet.”
Harry exhaled, grateful. “Thank you.”
There was a pause, then Theia gestured to one of the maps floating nearby. “You know… speaking of people we can’t find, I’ve been looking into Kingsley again.”
Harry stepped beside her as she flicked her wand, zooming in on a portion of Europe—thin red lines tracing magical activity clusters.
“We lost contact after he crossed into Berlin. The last confirmed sighting is from a wizard-owned bookstore in the Kreuzberg district. After that, nothing. No trace of magical travel. No international Floo. No wand usage. It’s like he disappeared.”
Harry frowned. “If it was a standard disappearance, we’d have some trace of interference. Portkey residue. Defensive spell flashes. The wards would’ve pinged.”
Theia tapped another point. “Unless he went willingly. Or unless whatever took him didn’t use standard magic.”
Harry nodded slowly. “You think someone from the German Magical Authority might know?”
“I already sent feelers through Interpolum,” she said. “Officially they’re ‘cooperative.’ But unofficially? I think they’re scared. They’ve had three unreported Veil flares in their territory in the last four months. One of them was within kilometers of Kingsley’s last location.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Someone silencing anomalies.”
“Or covering them,” Theia added.
There was silence between them for a moment. Then Harry said, “We need to find him. Not just because he’s the only one who might understand what’s coming—but because if he went missing, willingly or not, it means this runs deeper than anyone thought.”
Theia nodded grimly. “Then we start with Berlin.”
Harry glanced at her, grateful. “You and me?”
“You’re not going without backup,” she said. “I’ll make the arrangements. Give me two days.”
Harry turned to go, then paused at the door.
“Theia?”
She looked up.
“Thank you. For trusting me.”
Her expression softened just a little. “You always say that like it’s hard.”
Harry gave a tired smile. “Lately, it is.”
Then he left, the echo of boots on marble the only sound behind him.
The hunt for Kingsley had begun.
***
The quiet continued as they moved upstairs, brushing teeth and changing in the familiar rhythm of years lived side by side. Their bedroom was warm with a cooling charm humming softly near the window, the moonlight casting pale slats across the floorboards.
Harry pulled his jumper off and tossed it over the back of the chair, while Ginny, in her old Holyhead Harpies shirt, sat on the edge of the bed, tugging off her socks in silence.
Then she said, voice soft but heavy:
“First of September’s nearly here.”
Harry glanced at her, then sat beside her on the bed. “Yeah.”
“She’s going back for her final year,” Ginny said. “Our little girl.”
He didn’t respond immediately. She wasn’t really asking.
Ginny looked down at her hands. “Feels different this time. I don’t know why. Maybe because things are shifting again. The Ministry, the Inferi, this resurrection madness… And Hogwarts has always been a target when the world goes dark.”
Harry placed his hand gently over hers. “I know.”
“I don’t want to send her off and pretend like everything’s fine when it isn’t.” Her voice cracked just slightly. “She’s seventeen. And brave. And stubborn. She’ll act like she’s not scared even if she is.”
“She gets that from you,” Harry said softly.
Ginny gave a ghost of a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m serious, Harry. What if something happens while we’re busy chasing shadows across Europe?”
Harry turned to face her fully. “Then she’ll be surrounded by some of the best people we know.”
He lifted her hand, lacing their fingers together. “McGonagall’s still Headmistress—nothing gets past her. Neville’s there, and he’s twice the wizard he gives himself credit for. And with the old Defence professor retiring…”
He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “There’s a good chance Remus will take the post.”
Ginny’s brows lifted. “Remus? He’d go back?”
“He’s been thinking about it,” Harry said. “Said it felt like unfinished business. James has been badgering him nonstop—keeps saying he made a promise to his old Defence professor to help find a replacement.”
Ginny laughed softly. “He would.”
“Remus said he didn’t want to teach again,” Harry went on, “but I think he’s realising the kids need him more than he needs to stay hidden. It would… mean something. Him back in that classroom.”
“It would,” Ginny agreed. “The students will love him.”
Ginny leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. “Do you ever think about how strange all of this is? Who’s come back. Who hasn’t.”
“Every day,” he murmured.
Silence stretched for a moment, peaceful but heavy.
Then Ginny whispered, “You’ll come back before the first, won’t you? So we can all go to the station.”
Harry nodded, firm. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Even if it means James pestering you the whole way and Lily giving you a ten-minute warning not to embarrass her?”
He smiled. “Even then.”
She turned her head slightly, brushing a kiss to his jaw. “Good.”
And for that one night, wrapped in familiar arms and uncertain peace, they slept like parents who had seen too much of the world—and were still willing to hope for the best.
***
The very next day, just past noon, the Minister's Executive Office was crackling with tension thick enough to charge the air.
Harry stood in front of Higgs’s immaculate desk, arms crossed, jaw set like stone. Theia stood a few paces behind him, silent but resolute, her expression giving nothing away.
Nathan Higgs, seated like a polished statue in his Minister’s chair, wore an expression that had slipped past annoyance and into tightly controlled fury.
“I’m not going to repeat myself, Potter,” Higgs said icily. “This is not the time for the Heads of two of our most vital departments to go gallivanting across international borders on a whim.”
“It’s not a whim,” Harry shot back. “It’s a field operation. One tied to the disappearance of our former Minister. You might remember him—Kingsley Shacklebolt? The man who actually held this chair with integrity?”
Higgs’s eyes narrowed. “This has nothing to do with personal loyalty. It’s about stability. If anything happens to you in Berlin, we lose our DMLE head and our Auror Commander. That isn’t a risk we can afford.”
Harry stepped forward. “You’re not worried about the chain of command. You’re worried that if we find Kingsley alive, he’ll come back and you’ll be out of a job.”
That landed like a thunderclap.
Higgs’s face twisted, not with embarrassment—but with something more dangerous. “Careful, Potter.”
Harry didn’t back down. “Why? Hitting a little close to the truth? You’ve been all too happy to let his disappearance turn into a coronation.”
“You’re accusing me of treason?” Higgs stood now, voice rising. “Of kidnapping the man I served under for nearly a decade? Don’t you dare stand there and suggest—”
“I’m not suggesting,” Harry said coldly. “I’m asking. Because I want to know what you’re not telling me. You’ve had no urgency in finding him, no public effort to investigate his disappearance. Just smooth press statements and the right robes for every occasion.”
Higgs stepped around the desk, voice dangerously low now. “You may be Head of Law Enforcement, but don’t forget who sits in the Minister’s chair.”
Harry’s eyes burned. “You’re sitting in it because I put you there.”
The room went still.
Theia barely blinked.
Higgs’s nostrils flared. “Don’t mistake endorsement for power.”
“No,” Harry said evenly, “but don’t mistake your title for protection. You’re not untouchable, Higgs. You’re a placeholder. And if I find out you’ve done anything to delay or obstruct Kingsley’s return, I’ll tear your entire Ministry apart brick by brick to bring him back.”
The two men stood, locked in silence, the air between them thick with the weight of mutual loathing and barely restrained consequences.
Finally, Higgs straightened his robes, voice clipped. “Fine. Go. But if this trip ends in scandal, blood, or failure—don’t bother coming back.”
Harry gave a tight nod. “Wasn’t planning on asking your permission anyway.”
He turned, Theia right behind him as they strode from the office.
And behind them, Minister Higgs stared at the door—jaw clenched, his grip on power beginning, perhaps, to tremble.
***
The corridors of the Department of Mysteries were as silent as ever—cold, sterile, secretive.
Albus stood in a narrow chamber lined with enchanted shelving, holding a sealed scrollcase stamped with the crest of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His fingers curled around it with a mix of hesitation and duty. It had come from his father’s office. Through a restricted archive request. Pulled quietly. Without Harry knowing.
But Vance had asked for it.
And Vance never asked for anything without reason.
The Director stood beside him now, poised as ever—robes immaculate, voice calm and composed as he examined a translucent map of magical fluctuations above a stone pedestal.
“You’ve done well, Albus,” Vance said without looking at him. “The DMLE vaults are over-secured and under-coordinated. Getting anything from them takes three times longer when it goes through official channels. This saves us time.”
Albus nodded slowly, still staring at the scroll. “My dad would probably lose his mind if he knew I was bypassing his security clearances.”
Vance’s lips curved slightly. “Then it’s fortunate this isn’t about family politics. It’s about interdepartmental cooperation. You’re not stealing, Albus—you’re streamlining. You're trusting your department to do what must be done.”
Albus’s gaze dropped. “Still feels like I’m walking a grey line.”
“Progress often lives there,” Vance said, now turning to him with that cool, steady gaze. “You are aiding in cross-departmental research into the resurrection phenomena. The DMLE lacks the tools to properly evaluate these anomalies. We, however, do not.”
He gestured to a warded drawer beside the Veil archive. “Place it there. Carefully.”
Albus did as he was told, the scroll locking itself into the mechanism with a faint hum.
“You trust me, don’t you?” Vance asked, almost lightly.
Albus looked up quickly. “Of course.”
“Good.” Vance’s tone was smooth as ever. “Because you’ve proven yourself invaluable. You think independently. You don’t let the name you carry dictate the man you are. You’re not your father, Albus—and that’s precisely why I wanted you for this work.”
Albus straightened at that, a small but genuine note of pride sparking in his chest. “Thank you.”
Vance nodded. “Now, I’ll need a few more things. Quietly, if possible. There’s a set of DMLE incident reports—classified cases from the last war that involve Inferi movement near sealed magical tombs. They’re likely under your father's restricted sub-index. Use the Veil-linked code on the slip I left for you. It’ll bypass the usual trace.”
Albus hesitated. “Shouldn’t that go through legal interdepartmental request?”
“It should,” Vance said with a calm shrug. “But we both know how slow bureaucracy moves. And how little time we might have.”
He stepped past Albus, resting a hand on his shoulder briefly. “You’re doing the right thing. For the Department. For the wizarding world.”
Albus nodded slowly, swallowing the doubt.
Because it didn’t feel illegal.
Not the way Vance explained it.
It felt… necessary. Urgent. Technical.
And Albus wanted to believe that was enough.
The DMLE Records Wing was quiet—too quiet for mid-morning.
Albus moved through the secured archive hallway with purpose, hood pulled slightly forward, a slip of parchment tucked into his sleeve bearing the access code Vance had given him. The reinforced doors of the Restricted Incident Archive loomed ahead—rows of magically protected drawers containing decades of classified reports, sealed behind layered wards.
He reached the heavy bronze door, pulled out the code, and touched it to the lock.
The runes shimmered faintly… then clicked open.
But before he could step inside, a familiar voice rang out from the corridor behind him.
“Al?”
Albus tensed immediately.
He didn’t need to turn around to know that voice—James.
His older brother’s boots echoed softly on the polished stone as he approached, brow furrowed, hands tucked in his Auror robes. He looked surprised, but not hostile.
Yet.
“What are you doing down here?” James asked, slowing to a stop a few feet behind him.
Albus turned, posture already bristling. “Just picking up a few files. Department crossover.”
James raised an eyebrow. “From Dad’s vault?”
Albus rolled his eyes. “Not everything in this place has to go through the Chosen One’s personal inbox.”
James frowned. “Okay, easy. I’m just saying… those vaults require DMLE-level clearance. And last I checked, you don’t work for us.”
Albus’s jaw tightened. “It’s authorized. Vance signed off.”
“Did Dad sign off?” James pressed. “Because he gets twitchy when people pull sealed war files—especially without telling him.”
Albus gave a short, dry laugh. “Of course he does. Wouldn’t want his favourite department tarnished.”
James’s expression cooled slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Albus didn’t answer at first. He turned back toward the archive door, stepped inside, and began scanning the enchanted drawers as they flickered with glowing labels: INFERI - WAR ERA. GRAVE SURGE REPORTS. UNSEALED VEIL ENERGY - NORTHEAST EUROPE.
James followed him in, slower now, more wary. “Al, seriously. What’s this about?”
Albus pulled open a drawer and removed a sealed black folder, careful not to let his hands shake. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” James said, voice quiet now.
Albus froze, then turned with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Because you’re the expert on everything, aren’t you? The golden Auror. Dad’s shadow with a smile. You’ve always had the answers—why break the streak now?”
James’s face hardened. “You think I like being compared to him? Living in the same Ministry halls, with people expecting me to be him?”
Albus’s voice dropped, sharp as a knife. “At least they expect something from you.”
That landed.
James stepped closer, jaw clenched. “Is that what this is about? Some childhood complex? Al, if you’re doing something stupid—if Vance is manipulating you—”
“He’s not,” Albus snapped. “He actually trusts me. He values me.”
James held his gaze. “Then why do you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?”
Albus didn’t answer. He clutched the folder tighter, moved past his brother, and stormed out of the archive.
James stared after Albus for a beat before stepping quickly into the corridor, calling out—
“Al. Wait.”
Albus didn’t stop walking.
James picked up his pace and caught up beside him, eyes flicking to the sealed black folder under Albus’s arm. “Just let me see what you’re taking.”
Albus halted mid-stride, turning just enough to glance at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re walking out of the most secure vault in the DMLE with classified war records and acting like it’s no big deal.”
“It isn’t a big deal,” Albus said evenly. “I have clearance.”
“Not from Dad.”
Albus snorted. “Right, because everything in this building has to orbit him, doesn’t it?”
James didn’t bite. “Al… just let me see what you’re pulling. You don’t even know what’s in that file yet.”
“I don’t need to,” Albus said tightly. “Vance does. He knows exactly what to do with it. We’re working on things you Aurors can’t even begin to understand.”
James raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure half your lot don’t understand what they’re doing. Which is the problem.”
That got under Albus’s skin. His mouth curled faintly. “This is exactly what I mean. You Aurors, always so sure of yourselves. Big wands, bigger egos. The Unspeakables are doing real work—deep work. You lot just chase people around and throw stunning spells until someone surrenders.”
James’s expression turned colder. “So now we’re just brawn?”
Albus leaned in slightly, his voice low. “Let’s just say… some of us were picked for our minds.”
James stiffened.
And Albus gave him a thin, satisfied smile.
Then turned and walked away, robes brushing behind him, the sealed folder tucked beneath his arm like a prize.
James stood there, staring after him.
That wasn’t just tension anymore. That was something wrong.
And whether or not Albus saw it yet… James did.
And he wasn't going to let it go.
***
The corridors of the Department of Mysteries seemed darker than usual that evening—silent, reverent, as if the very walls knew something sacred or dangerous was passing through them.
Albus walked with quiet purpose, black folder tucked neatly under his arm. The enchantments along the hallway recognized him now—wards pulsing faintly, unlocking as he approached. A whisper of respect—or permission—echoed through the air.
When he reached the Director’s private study, the door opened before he could knock.
Caelum Vance stood by a floating constellation of runes and swirling energy threads, hands clasped behind his back. The flickering sigils pulsed in time with something beneath the Veil.
He didn’t turn. Just said, calm as ever, “You have them?”
Albus stepped in and held out the folder. “Yes. Just as you asked.”
Vance took it carefully, setting it on his desk without breaking the smooth rhythm of his movements. With a flick of his wand, the seal cracked open, and the folder unfolded—sheets of magical forensics, diagrams of cursed tomb sites, evidence of necromantic flare events that had been buried deep in DMLE’s archives for decades.
Vance smiled. “Excellent. Precisely what we need.”
Albus tried not to feel the warmth that rose in his chest at those words.
“You’ve done something important here, Albus,” Vance said, his voice almost gentle now. “Something others wouldn’t have dared. Your discretion. Your intelligence. Your loyalty. That’s rare.”
Albus looked down briefly, but his shoulders lifted slightly. “It was nothing.”
“No,” Vance said, moving to stand in front of him now, hands behind his back, “it was everything. This work—we are on the edge of something the world hasn’t understood in centuries. And you… you see that. You’re not like the others. The ones who follow orders, recite the rules, and hide behind their fathers’ names.”
Albus stiffened slightly, even as his chest tightened with something sharp.
Vance’s tone softened even more. “You’re not like Harry.”
Albus’s breath caught, but he said nothing.
Vance watched him carefully. “He’s… admirable, yes. But he’s fixed. Unmovable. Still stuck fighting battles the old way, seeing the world in lines—dark and light, right and wrong, legacy and disappointment.”
Albus’s jaw tightened.
“Your brother James,” Vance added, voice cool, “is exactly like him. All instinct. All spotlight. Running headfirst into fire without asking what started it.”
Albus looked away.
Vance stepped past him, his voice now a quiet thread. “But you, Albus… you think. You question. You work in shadows—not for praise, but for truth.”
He turned to face him again.
“Your father may never see that. But I do.”
For a moment, Albus said nothing.
He stood near one of the long, black stone counters, eyes fixed on a swirling orb of Veil energy hovering in the center of the room. It shimmered faintly—blue, silver, wrong. His mind wasn’t really on it.
Vance noticed. He didn’t press. Just waited, as he always did—letting silence become an invitation.
Finally, Albus spoke. “James saw me.”
Vance looked up from the documents he was cataloguing. “In the archive?”
Albus nodded. “He was suspicious. Asked questions. About the clearance. About the files.”
Vance didn’t flinch. He simply closed the folder in front of him with measured calm. “Then we’ll take care of it.”
Albus turned sharply. “What does that mean?”
Vance met his gaze, expression placid. “It means I’ll speak to him. I’ll explain that the file retrieval was part of an interdepartmental authorization. That it was entirely above-board. That you were simply fulfilling a task assigned to you in good faith.”
He paused, tone firm. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Albus.”
Albus exhaled slowly, some of the tension slipping from his shoulders. “I just… he made me feel like I was doing something illegal. Like I couldn’t trust what I was carrying.”
“Because your brother,” Vance said gently, “lives in a world where things are only right if he understands them. But we,” he gestured broadly to the shelves, the swirling Veil fragments, the magical runes etched into the stone—“we work in the unknown. We operate in spaces where knowledge isn’t just power—it’s protection. It’s survival.”
He stepped closer, voice lowering just slightly.
“The research we’re doing here, Albus… it’s necessary. If we can understand what’s causing these resurrection events—if we can decipher what’s fueling the Inferi, changing them—we may be able to stop it. Prevent it. Even harness it.”
Albus swallowed. “But we still don’t know what’s behind it.”
“No,” Vance admitted. “Not yet. But we’re closer than anyone else. And when the answers come, you will have helped bring them to light. Not your father. Not your brother. You.”
Albus looked at him—at the calm conviction in his face, the certainty that never wavered.
And Albus wanted to believe him.
So he nodded.
“I’ll let you know if James keeps pushing,” he said quietly.
Vance smiled faintly. “You won’t need to. I’ll handle it.”
Albus stood there for a moment longer, then turned back toward the swirling Veil orb, staring into the twisting, pulsing magic.
***
The sky over Berlin was overcast, grey clouds casting the Ministry of Magic building in a pall of dim light. The structure, carved into black marble and set beneath a glamour that kept it hidden from Muggle eyes, was sleek, efficient, and far colder than its British counterpart.
Harry and Theia stood in the vast reception atrium, flanked by half-transparent spell wards and enchanted murals that moved without sound. An assistant had just rushed them through security, mumbling that the Minister would see them briefly.
It was a strange word to use when they had crossed an entire country for answers.
They didn’t wait long.
Ulrich Weber, the current German Minister for Magic, entered from the northern wing. He was a small, wiry man with thinning blond hair and a face that might’ve once been confident—now strained, pallid, almost twitchy. His robes were slightly dishevelled, his left sleeve wrinkled, as if he had pulled it on too quickly.
He approached them with a rushed nod, not bothering with the usual diplomatic greetings.
“Mr. Potter, Auror Hodges,” he said, voice clipped. “Apologies for the delay. I can spare only a moment.”
Harry narrowed his eyes immediately. “We appreciate any time you can give us, Minister. We’re here regarding Kingsley Shacklebolt. We believe he disappeared somewhere in Berlin during a diplomatic visit.”
Weber’s jaw tensed. His fingers twitched at his side.
“I… I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’ve no knowledge of any such visit. He did not file an official arrival through our Department of International Magical Cooperation.”
Theia frowned. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t here. We have reports placing him in Kreuzberg two days before he vanished.”
Weber glanced over his shoulder—twice—then leaned in slightly. “I’m afraid I can’t help. I have a meeting I’m already late for. If you’ll excuse me—”
Harry stepped in his path. “Minister, with all due respect, this isn’t just some missing person case. Kingsley may have uncovered something… dangerous.”
Weber’s mouth twitched. “Then I suggest you follow it from your side of the border.”
Theia stiffened. “Minister, are you refusing to cooperate?”
“I’m saying I know nothing,” Weber said flatly. “And if you’re wise, you’ll let this go.”
Then he stepped around them and hurried off—almost too quickly for a man holding one of the most powerful positions in European wizarding government.
Harry and Theia watched him go, exchanging a glance.
“That was… weird,” she muttered.
“He’s terrified,” Harry said softly. “Of what, though?”
Theia’s brow furrowed. “Or who.”
Harry turned back toward the grand hall, eyes narrowing at the towering murals—depictions of Germany’s magical history. One of them showed a younger man, charming, sharp-eyed, addressing a crowd.
Harry didn’t recognize him at first.
But beneath the image, in glowing letters, was the name:
“Elias Grimm – Visionary, Diplomat, Reformer.”
Theia followed his gaze. “You know him?”
Harry stared at the portrait, unease creeping into his bones.
“No,” he said. “But I think we’re about to.”
***
The Ministry courtyard in Berlin was buzzing—reporters, magical cameramen, and foreign correspondents clustered beneath enchanted umbrellas as the soft drizzle of rain shimmered over the cobblestones. At the far end of the square, a gleaming black podium had been set up beneath an ornate golden canopy, and a crowd had formed in a semi-circle around it.
As Harry and Theia stepped out of the grand Ministry doors, they heard his voice before they saw him.
“...We must not fear what we do not yet understand. Our history is filled with those who drew lines in the sand, and our future belongs to those who stepped past them.”
Standing behind the podium was Elias Grimm.
He was striking—tall, composed, with shoulder-length dark hair tucked neatly behind his ears and sharp, clear eyes that seemed to find every camera without looking for them. His voice had that perfectly pitched cadence: calm, but powerful. Every syllable was deliberate, every pause perfectly timed for effect.
He was in simple but elegant grey robes. A silver pin shaped like an open eye glinted on his collar.
The crowd listened to him like disciples.
“Magic must not be bound by fear, nor crippled by memory. We are not lesser for seeking what lies beyond death—we are only afraid. But fear has no place in progress.”
Applause broke out, the press scribbling notes furiously, magical quills scratching like rain on glass.
Harry stood frozen near the edge of the crowd, jaw slightly clenched.
“That’s him,” Theia murmured beside him. “Elias Grimm.”
“I know,” Harry said. “I’ve never met him before… but I know.”
They waited, watching the last few minutes of Grimm’s speech. He didn’t mention Inferi or resurrection outright—he didn’t need to. The undertones were clear to those listening closely.
Grimm wrapped up with a slight bow. “We move forward, not by denying our limits… but by daring to rewrite them.”
More applause.
As the crowd began to disperse and Grimm turned to descend the steps of the podium, Harry stepped forward, ignoring the muttered “Sir!” from a German aide trying to contain press access.
“Mr. Grimm,” Harry called out.
Elias Grimm turned toward him with a smooth, controlled grace. For a split second, something flickered in his expression—recognition, maybe—but it vanished behind a diplomatic smile.
“Mr. Potter,” he said, voice warm. “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”
Theia blinked at that.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Then I assume you already know why I’m here.”
Grimm’s smile deepened, as though they were sharing a joke only he understood. “Why don’t we step somewhere more private?”
And just like that, Elias Grimm turned, leading them into the heart of a city where he was adored… and Harry Potter had just stepped onto a chessboard he didn’t even know was in play.
The meeting room they were led into was sleek, minimalist, and quiet—tucked behind the main Berlin Ministry, with a single long window looking out over the skyline enchanted to reflect the city as if the storm had never happened.
Elias Grimm stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed, but not casual.
“I’ll admit,” he said as Harry and Theia stepped in, “I didn’t expect our first meeting to be quite so… abrupt. But it’s an honour, Mr. Potter. Truly.”
Harry offered a polite nod. “We’re following a lead. Former Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt went missing in Berlin weeks ago. We believe he may have uncovered something tied to recent magical anomalies—particularly involving Inferi.”
Grimm turned slowly, thoughtful. “Yes… tragic business. I’d heard whispers of his disappearance, but no formal notice from your Ministry. Still, I’ll speak with our Intelligence and Enforcement Offices personally. If there’s anything to be found, I assure you—we’ll find it.”
Harry studied him. “That would be appreciated.”
Grimm stepped forward, tone lighter now. “And if there’s ever anything you need, Mr. Potter—anything at all—you need only send word. We may be on opposite ends of the continent, but your reputation travels faster than owls.”
Theia smiled faintly at that.
Grimm looked at her then, his gaze steady. “And you, Auror Hodges—your name’s come across my desk before. You’ve done excellent work. I imagine Potter wouldn’t have made it far in Berlin without you.”
She flushed slightly. “We work well together.”
“I imagine you do.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Harry stepped back. “We won’t keep you. I know your schedule is tight—best of luck with the upcoming elections.”
Grimm gave a half-smile, humble but sure. “Your confidence means more than you know.”
They exchanged parting nods, and as Harry and Theia walked out of the building, the clouds over Berlin finally began to break—letting the first shards of evening light cut across the square.
Theia exhaled. “He’s… impressive.”
“Yeah,” Harry said shortly, eyes still on the building’s polished doors behind them. “He’s got everyone convinced.”
Theia glanced at him. “You don’t like him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” she said, “but you didn’t need to.”
Harry said nothing else.
And behind them, high above in that same meeting room, Elias Grimm watched them go, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, as if the next move in the game had already been made.
***
The Department of Mysteries was colder than usual—Albus noticed it as soon as he stepped through the main hall.
He didn’t know why James had been summoned or why Vance had specifically asked him to be present for it. But something in the way Vance had smiled when he gave the order made Albus feel like this was less a meeting… and more a display.
When they entered the Director’s private chamber, James was already there—arms crossed, brow furrowed, standing near the edge of the obsidian desk like he didn’t plan to sit down unless physically forced.
Vance stood behind the desk with his usual calm—robes pristine, not a strand of his white-streaked hair out of place. His ring glinted as he adjusted a folder, one hand resting almost too casually atop it.
“Thank you both for coming,” he said smoothly. “This won’t take long.”
James didn’t speak, but his jaw tightened.
Vance’s eyes moved to him, polite but cold. “I’ve been informed that you’ve taken a rather… vigorous interest in your brother’s work here, Auror Potter.”
James stiffened. “I’m doing my job.”
“Your job,” Vance repeated, like it amused him. “Of course. And that includes storming into my restricted archives without clearance? Interrogating personnel outside your department? Following your brother into secure zones under the pretense of ‘concern’?”
James glanced at Albus, whose expression was unreadable. “I didn’t follow him. I asked a question.”
“A question,” Vance said smoothly, “with the tone of an accusation.”
He stepped out from behind the desk now, walking slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
“You seem to be under the impression that your father’s position grants you some level of immunity. It doesn’t.”
James’s eyes flashed. “This has nothing to do with my father.”
Vance’s voice dropped a note colder. “Everything you do is in his shadow.”
Albus’s head turned sharply at that—but said nothing.
“You charge through corridors and demand answers,” Vance continued. “Meanwhile, your brother follows protocol. He works. He contributes. He trusts the system.”
James scoffed. “He’s being used.”
“Is that what this is?” Vance said softly. “Jealousy? That you, the Auror who fights on instinct, might be outmatched by the brother who doesn’t need to shout to be heard?”
James’s hands clenched into fists.
“I’m giving you one official reprimand,” Vance said, voice now measured and final. “Effective immediately, your current fieldwork privileges are suspended. You’ll be reassigned to sub-level archive duty for the next two weeks.”
“What?” James barked.
“You’ll assist in cataloguing magical incident logs. Perhaps some time among paperwork will remind you that this Ministry still runs on discipline.”
Vance stepped back toward his desk, settling his hand once again over the folder.
“You are dismissed, Auror Potter.”
James stood there for one breath too long, glaring. Then he turned on his heel and left the room, boots echoing against the stone like gunfire.
Only after the door closed did Vance look at Albus.
“He needed a reminder,” he said quietly.
Albus stared ahead, unsure whether he felt vindicated… or something else.
But he nodded anyway.
And Vance smiled.
***
The clatter of James’s boots echoed down the corridor of the Auror Office, each step clipped with irritation. He shoved open the door to his floor and strode past the hovering memo stream with the posture of someone about five seconds from blasting the nearest filing cabinet.
He reached his cubicle and slumped into the chair, tossing his folder onto the desk with a loud thump.
Across his desk, a familiar voice piped up:
“Merlin’s beard, Potter. Did you lose a duel or a promotion?”
Hazel Duarte peered over her desk, her neat dark hair pinned back, quill behind her ear, and a freshly color-coded chart of wand-discharge statistics in her hand. She was already in uniform, her robes perfectly creased, and her badge polished to an actual gleam.
James groaned. “Worse. Got benched.”
Hazel raised a brow. “What, again?”
“Sub-level archive duty,” James muttered, slumping lower. “Two weeks.”
Hazel’s eyes widened. “Oof. Who’d you hex?”
“No one,” he said, rubbing his temples. “I just questioned something I wasn’t supposed to question. Vance didn’t like it.”
Hazel slid into the spare chair beside his desk, crossing her arms. “Wait, Vance? Department of Mysteries Vance?”
James nodded. “He pulled me and Albus into his office like he was some bloody headmaster. Laid into me about my attitude. Said I needed to learn from my brother.”
Hazel blinked. “Okay, ouch.”
James scowled. “He gave me an official reprimand. Said I was ‘undermining internal structure’ and put me in bloody time-out like we’re still at Hogwarts. Can he even do that? Like, actually?”
Hazel leaned back in her chair, thinking. “Well… technically? While Hodges is in Berlin, with your dad… yeah. Vance can issue departmental punishments. He has clearance equal to your dad’s, even though he runs a different division. It’s weird, but legal.”
James threw up his hands. “Brilliant. So now I’m an officially reprimanded junior Auror assigned to scroll-watching in the spell incident archives.”
Hazel gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Look on the bright side—you’ll finally get to meet the filing ghosts. They love to mislabel things and scream if you correct them.”
James groaned louder. “I hate ghosts.”
Hazel smiled. “Well then, don’t piss off mysterious, well-dressed senior officials who may or may not live underground.”
He gave her a look. “This is supposed to be comforting?”
She smirked. “No, I’m just letting you know I support you emotionally, not professionally.”
That got a small huff of laughter from him.
Still, as he leaned back in his chair and stared at the stack of archive transfer memos waiting for him, the irritation in his chest didn’t fade.
Vance might’ve slapped him with a demotion. But James knew what he saw—what he felt.
And he wasn’t about to let it go.
***
The sun was beginning to set behind the Berlin skyline, casting long shadows across the Ministry’s spired towers as Harry and Theia Hodges stood outside their rented flat, preparing notes, building a map of connections that still felt too loose, too hazy.
“We’re close,” Theia said, scanning the scattered parchments. “That bookstore Kingsley visited? The wards around it are old—Veil-sensitive. If we can trace the runes—”
She didn’t get to finish.
Harry’s enchanted mirror buzzed sharply in his coat pocket.
He pulled it out, already bracing himself.
Nathan Higgs’s reflection stared back, tight-lipped and frowning.
“Potter,” he said. “Pack it up. You’re coming home.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“You’ve been there four days and have nothing to show for it,” Higgs said sharply. “No sign of Shacklebolt. No actionable leads. I’m not pouring Ministry resources into a goose chase while your office is piling up with unattended cases.”
“Higgs—”
“Theia too,” Higgs interrupted. “The DMLE and the Auror Office can’t function without their heads. We’ve been patient, but patience is running out.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Kingsley isn’t just some missing contact. He’s a former Minister. He may have uncovered a conspiracy that goes far deeper than—”
“And yet you’ve produced no evidence,” Higgs snapped. “Not for the press, not for the Wizengamot, not even for me. You want to keep chasing shadows in Berlin? Do it on personal time. But as far as the Ministry is concerned, I need you back.”
Harry was silent for a beat.
Then, “Understood."
The mirror went dark.
Across the table, Theia was already pulling a hand through her hair. “He’s calling us back?”
Harry nodded stiffly.
“So that’s it? We just leave?”
“We’ll come back,” Harry said quietly. “On our own terms.”
They began packing up, but the unfinished runes and pinned notes on the wall stared back at them like unspoken accusations.
The threads were still there. Still pulling. But for now, they had to retreat.
And Elias Grimm, wherever he was, would have
a little more time to move his next piece.
***
The Portkey Office inside the Berlin Ministry was tucked behind a veil of shifting magical glass, the kind that reflected a dozen versions of your face as you passed. It was quiet at this hour, save for the soft hum of the departure stones and the rustle of Ministry agents preparing transit scrolls.
Harry and Theia stepped into the queue, travel slips in hand, both of them still simmering from Higgs’ message but saying little. Their gear was packed, leads left behind, frustration barely restrained.
Then a familiar voice cut gently through the quiet.
“Mr. Potter. Auror Hodges.”
They turned to see Elias Grimm, as impeccable as ever, striding toward them through the gold-lit corridor. His robes were dark green today, subtle silver embroidery lining the cuffs. A few aides trailed behind him but stopped several paces back at his quiet gesture.
“I heard you were being recalled,” Grimm said, stopping just in front of them. “I imagine that must be… frustrating.”
Harry’s posture remained neutral, but his tone was polite. “You could say that.”
Grimm offered a sympathetic nod, then reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small folded parchment.
“I had my staff look into something after our meeting,” he said casually. “A private contact of mine—old Auror-Archivist from the East Wing—came across a set of incident reports filed the same day Kingsley was last seen. A few pages were scrubbed, but not entirely. They mention an unnamed British visitor flagged near the eastern Veil fragment chamber.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That area’s supposed to be closed to foreign diplomats.”
Grimm smiled faintly. “Indeed. Which makes it all the more curious.”
He handed Harry the folded paper. “I’m afraid I can’t formally sanction an investigation, of course. But I trust you’ll find a way to interpret the details.”
Harry took the parchment with a quiet, “Thank you.”
Grimm dipped his head. “Consider it a professional courtesy. I admire your persistence, Mr. Potter. Most would have walked away by now.”
Harry offered a half-smile. “Most didn’t know Kingsley.”
Grimm’s eyes glinted. “Then let’s hope you find what he was looking for.”
A Ministry official called their departure time. The Portkey pulsed softly nearby, hovering like a frozen droplet of light.
Harry nodded once more to Grimm. “Best of luck with the elections.”
Grimm gave a modest, effortless smile. “And to you, in all your… undertakings.”
Then he turned, walking back into the grand hall, aides falling in behind him like clockwork.
Theia glanced sideways at Harry. “He didn’t have to help us.”
“No,” Harry murmured, staring down at the parchment in his hand. “He didn’t.”
But the words on the page whispered something else.
And Harry wasn’t sure if Grimm had given him a lead...
…or a warning.
***
The moment Harry and Theia stepped off the Portkey and into the British Ministry’s arrival chamber, a junior aide approached them breathlessly.
“Minister Higgs wants to see you. Immediately.”
They didn’t need to be told twice.
Minutes later, they stood outside Higgs’s office, the towering double doors sealed with warded brass and an aura of tension that could be felt three floors down. The aide pushed the doors open.
Higgs was already standing behind his desk, robes pristine, eyes sharp.
“Sit,” he said curtly.
They did not.
He began without preamble.
“I’d like to remind you both that you serve in official capacities,” he said coldly. “Not as private investigators or unsupervised field agents. You were sent to Berlin to pursue a lead. You came back with nothing. Nothing I can use.”
Harry folded his arms, silent.
Theia kept her chin up. “We came back because you ordered us back.”
“And if you’d had something tangible, I would’ve rescinded that order,” Higgs snapped. “But instead, I find out you’re meeting with foreign candidates and wandering off-script. Do you even understand the situation we’re in?”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Perfectly.”
“Then act like it,” Higgs said, voice rising. “You are the Head of the DMLE, Potter. Not some rogue Auror on a personal quest. Kingsley Shacklebolt is important—yes—but his disappearance can be investigated by capable field agents. We don’t need the heads of our core departments gallivanting around Europe while the Ministry here is—”
“Fracturing?” Harry cut in, voice calm.
Higgs stiffened.
“I’ve read the reports,” Harry continued. “Veil flare-ups in the north, infernal signatures near Muggle towns, rising discontent within the Magical Law Council. You’re not in control, Higgs. You’re keeping it from slipping entirely.”
That rattled him.
Higgs stepped from behind his desk, color rising to his cheeks. “You’re not above accountability. You don’t get to decide which rules you follow. You’ve made enough noise since you came back—”
“I haven’t even started,” Harry said coolly.
Theia glanced between them, but said nothing.
“I’m warning you, Potter,” Higgs said, voice dropping. “If you continue to prioritize your personal agendas over departmental stability, I will bring it to the Council.”
“And I’ll bring the truth to the press,” Harry said evenly, not flinching. “We both know they’d rather hear it from me.”
That silenced the room.
Higgs stared at him for several seconds, mouth tight, breath controlled. Then, quietly:
“You’re a liability.”
Harry gave the faintest of smiles. “So was Kingsley. Until everyone realized he was right.”
Without another word, Harry turned and left, Theia following behind.
Higgs stood alone in his office, breathing slow and measured.
And beneath the polished veneer of his desk, his hands were clenched into fists.
***
The lift doors opened with a soft chime, and Harry stepped out onto the DMLE floor, robes still damp from the Portkey mist, his face carved in stone.
He was in no mood for interruptions—not after Grimm, not after Higgs, and especially not after being ordered around in his own Ministry.
He was halfway to his office when he heard—
“Dad—wait.”
Harry stopped.
He turned slowly to see James, standing near the edge of the corridor. His posture was stiff, but not combative—not like usual. And he looked… unsettled.
Harry sighed inwardly. “James, not now.”
“It’s important,” James said, stepping closer. “It’s about Albus.”
That made Harry pause.
He glanced down the hall toward his office… then gave a short nod. “Walk.”
They moved side by side down the corridor, quiet for a moment, boots echoing softly off the stone. Harry could feel James glancing at him, waiting to be told to speak.
Finally, Harry said, “Well?”
James exhaled. “He’s getting in deep with Vance. Real deep. He’s retrieving files from our vaults, bypassing clearances, taking orders like it’s all routine. He told me it was legit, said it was ‘interdepartmental,’ but Dad…” He lowered his voice. “Something’s wrong. He’s not asking questions anymore.”
Harry didn’t stop walking. But his shoulders tensed.
“I know you’ve had your issues with him,” James went on. “And I know he’d rather get hexed than hear this from me. But you need to talk to him. Before he gets dragged into something he can’t come back from.”
They reached Harry’s office.
He turned to face James fully now, jaw tight.
“I appreciate you telling me,” Harry said, measured. “But you’re not to get involved. Not in Vance. Not in Albus.”
James frowned. “But—”
“No,” Harry said firmly. “He won’t listen to you. You’ll just push him further. I’ll handle it.”
James looked like he wanted to argue, but then—he didn’t.
He stepped back, jaw clenched. “You’d better. Because if you wait too long—”
“I won’t,” Harry said, already opening his office door. “Go back to work.”
And with that, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him, leaving James alone in the corridor—eyes narrowed, tension still simme
ring beneath the surface.
Because James trusted his father.
But he didn’t trust the clock ticking in Albus’s hands.
***
The morning sun filtered softly through the tall kitchen windows of the Potter home in Devon, casting warm light across the long oak table where half-eaten toast, tea mugs, and the Daily Prophet lay scattered.
Harry sat with a spoon in his cereal, posture slightly slouched, eyes dark with exhaustion he hadn’t admitted. Across from him, James Potter Sr. sipped his tea quietly, while Lily Sr. moved between the kettle and her seat, and Sirius was chewing noisily on a piece of toast slathered in jam.
It was the kind of quiet, familiar morning Harry hadn't had in years. But even in that silence, the weight of what was brewing outside their home hung thick in the air.
“Any movement on the Inferi investigation?” Sirius finally asked, licking jam from his thumb. “Or Kingsley?”
Harry didn’t look up from his bowl. “We’re trying,” he said flatly. “Berlin hit a wall. And Higgs isn’t exactly handing me a blank check to chase shadows.”
Sirius frowned. “You know, if you need help… the old crowd’s still around.”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Sirius leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms casually. “Remus, Moody—hell, I can rattle the old gang off right now. You give the word, and we’ll be there. This smells like the kind of thing that needs the Order, Harry. Not just politics.”
James Sr. gave a small nod. “You wouldn’t be alone.”
Harry set his spoon down with a quiet clink, exhaling through his nose.
“I appreciate that. I do.” His tone was calm, but measured. “But this time… it’s different. We’re not fighting in the shadows anymore. The Ministry is with us. We’ve got legal authority, departments backing us, surveillance spells, magical transport—it’s not like it was last time.”
Lily Sr. placed a steaming cup in front of him and sat down quietly. Sirius just stared.
Harry looked between them. “I know you want to help. But right now, it’s messy. Half the Ministry’s still recovering from Dunlop’s mess. We’re tracking Inferi outbreaks and trying to stop a panic. If we bring the Order into this too early, it’ll look like we’re going outside the system. And I need the system to stay with me.”
Sirius tilted his head. “Until it turns on you?”
Harry gave a tired smile. “Then I’ll light it from the inside.”
There was a short silence. The clock ticked softly.
Then Lily Sr. reached out and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Just… don’t shut us out completely.”
“I won’t,” Harry said.
The kitchen door swung open with a soft click, and Ginny stepped in, hair tied up in a messy bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She was holding a folded German newspaper, the headline gleaming with magical ink that shimmered faintly in the light.
“Why in Merlin’s name,” she began, holding it up, “are we suddenly getting the Berliner Magische Zeitung delivered to our doorstep?”
Sirius looked up from his toast with a grin. “Are you planning a holiday?”
Harry glanced over from his bowl of cereal. “I ordered it.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow. “You ordered a German political daily. On purpose?”
He shrugged. “I like to keep tabs. Their Ministry’s been… active lately.”
James Sr. narrowed his eyes in that quiet, assessing way of his. “You think something’s coming from that end?”
Harry shook his head. “Not exactly. But they’re holding elections soon, and one of the front-runners—Elias Grimm—might be someone we want on our side.”
Ginny sat beside him, placing the newspaper down. “Grimm? That’s the one you met last week, right? During that press conference?”
Harry nodded. “He was… polished. Sharp. Knows exactly how to control a room. But he didn’t try to push me out when we asked about Kingsley. Actually gave us a trail to follow. Quietly.”
Sirius raised a brow. “And that didn’t make you suspicious?”
Harry smirked. “Of course it did. But not everyone playing the political game is a villain. Some of them are just… smart.”
Lily Sr. sipped her tea. “And charming politicians are never dangerous.”
Harry shot her a dry look. “I didn’t say I trust him. I said he might be an ally. There’s a difference.”
Ginny leaned back, flipping the paper open and scanning the column under Grimm’s photo. “They love him there. Talk of reform, progress, modernisation... sounds like the kind of candidate people want to believe in.”
“Exactly,” Harry said. “And if things escalate… we’ll need voices in Europe who don’t automatically slam the door on us.”
Sirius folded his arms. “And what if he slams it when you’re not looking?”
Harry gave a small smile. “Then we’ll deal with it. But for now, I’m just reading the paper.”
They all fell quiet again as Ginny passed the newspaper around, the quiet clink of silverware filling the kitchen once more.
But behind Harry’s calm reasoning, something still twisted faintly in his chest.
Because charming allies always looked like allies—until they didn’t.
The scent of fresh toast and tea lingered in the warm kitchen as the morning settled into its usual rhythm. Conversation drifted to quieter tones, and Harry finally allowed himself a sip of lukewarm tea that had been sitting untouched for ten minutes.
The sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs broke the calm.
Lily Luna Potter came bounding into the kitchen, her fiery hair slightly tangled and a quill smudge on her cheek. She was still in her sleep shirt, socks mismatched, and eyes bright with the kind of anticipation only someone on the edge of seventeen could carry.
“Mornin’,” she said around a yawn, plopping into the seat between Ginny and Sirius.
“You missed the war council,” Sirius said, grinning as he pushed a piece of toast toward her.
“I missed toast,” she said, stealing it with a dramatic flourish.
Harry smiled softly, reaching over to smooth her hair before she could swat his hand away. “Sleep well?”
“Barely. I kept waking up thinking the owl would come early.”
Right on cue, there was a rap at the kitchen window.
A sleek school owl tapped impatiently against the glass, a tightly bound scroll tied to its leg, bearing the familiar crimson seal of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Ginny moved to open the window. “Speak of the devil.”
Lily nearly tripped over her chair lunging for it. “It’s here!”
She untied the scroll with shaking fingers, eyes already scanning the parchment as it unfurled. A beat of silence.
Then—
“YES!”
She beamed, holding the letter high like it was a trophy. “I got Head Girl!”
Sirius let out a sharp whistle. “That’s my niece!”
Ginny leaned over to read the scroll, her face lighting up. “Oh, Lily…”
James Sr. gave her a proud nod. “They couldn’t have picked better.”
Harry reached across the table, gently squeezing her hand. “Well done, sweetheart.”
Lily tried to look composed, but the gleam in her eyes betrayed her. “I thought maybe I’d get Prefect again, but I didn’t think they’d actually choose me for this.”
“You earned it,” Ginny said warmly. “You’ve worked hard. Even with all the chaos this year.”
Lily glanced shyly toward Harry. “You’re… not worried, right? About me going back? With everything?”
Harry smiled, and for a moment, the tired Minister and weary investigator faded, and he was just a father, proud and protective.
“I’m always going to worry,” he said. “But you’re going to be brilliant.”
She beamed, cheeks flushed.
And for that moment, despite all the shadows gathering outside—there was only pride, warmth, and a kitchen full of love.
***
The kitchen was quieter without Lily Luna, though her absence was felt more than heard—no humming while slicing fruit, no mismatched socks on the stairs, no exaggerated groans over homework. The house felt a little too still.
It had been a few days since she left for Hogwarts.
Harry stood by the counter, flipping through the latest edition of the Berliner Magische Zeitung, the front page dominated by a moving photo of Elias Grimm, hand raised in a victorious wave, confetti falling around him like enchanted snow. The headline pulsed in celebratory gold:
“Elias Grimm Secures Landslide Victory – Youngest Minister in History!”
Sirius was sprawled at the table with a biscuit in one hand and a steaming mug of coffee in the other, while James Sr. skimmed a quieter article with furrowed brows.
Ginny was pacing with her usual energy, reading off something on a parchment.
Sirius let out a low whistle as he glanced at the photo. “That didn’t take long.”
Harry folded the paper. “He won by a landslide. Practically reshaped the electorate overnight.”
Ginny frowned. “How? Didn’t he only announce his candidacy a year ago?”
“Less,” Harry muttered. “He ran on reform, magical innovation, transparency. He played the crowd perfectly. Had the press eating out of his hand.”
Sirius leaned forward, pointing at the photo.
“Forget him. Look at that man behind him. Right side. Grey coat. Scar over his eyebrow.”
Harry narrowed his eyes and tilted the paper toward Sirius. “You recognize him?”
Sirius’s voice dropped. “Yeah. I do.”
James Sr. looked up sharply.
“He’s not a politician. Not a staffer. That’s Gregor Haas. I met him in the first war. Worked under Grindelwald. Not on the frontlines—too slippery. Did… experimentation. Veil stuff. Human transfiguration. The kind of things people weren’t supposed to survive.”
Ginny’s brows furrowed. “I thought those people went underground after Nurmengard fell.”
“They did,” Sirius said darkly. “Or so we thought.”
Harry said nothing at first, gaze fixed on the face in the photograph—the man half-shadowed behind Grimm, eyes sharp, posture just too straight for someone playing the background.
“And now,” Sirius added, “he’s standing behind the most popular man in Europe like a bodyguard who never left.”
Harry folded the paper slowly.
“That’s not nothing,” he murmured.
And though no one said it aloud, they all felt the same quiet chill settle in the room.
Because the last time a charming visionary stood on a podium with a shadow like that behind him...
The world burned.
***
The corridors of the British Ministry of Magic buzzed with tension. Memos zipped overhead in frantic arcs, and conversations among staff were clipped, eyes fixed on the front page of the Daily Prophet—which, like the German paper, was dominated by Elias Grimm’s landslide victory.
Harry marched with purpose toward the Minister's office, a slim folder tucked under his arm, his mind already forming the argument he would make.
He didn't bother knocking. The door swung open on his presence alone, as if the wards had learned to make way for him out of exasperated habit.
Higgs stood by his desk, tugging at his cuffs, an official parchment floating beside him with ceremonial filigree curling at the corners.
“I was going to summon you,” Higgs said, sounding unusually preoccupied.
Harry didn’t sit. “Good. I’m here to talk about Germany.”
Higgs raised an eyebrow. “Ah. Excellent timing.”
Harry blinked. That wasn’t the answer he expected.
Higgs gestured to the floating parchment. “Grimm’s office has extended a formal invitation for a diplomatic envoy from our Ministry to attend the inauguration ceremony. Celebration events. Public appearances. All the usual preening.”
He made a vague flicking gesture, as if brushing glitter off his shoulder.
Harry’s posture stiffened slightly, but he said nothing.
“I’m not going,” Higgs continued. “Too many eyes on the Department right now. Budget, post-Dunlop audits, internal politics. A flashy trip to Berlin wouldn’t play well.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “So you’re sending me?”
Higgs nodded. “You’re already known to their public. Grimm made a point of name-dropping you in half his speeches, and the press still sees you as a war hero. It’ll look like cross-national unity. Support.”
Harry didn’t hesitate. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Higgs paused.
For just a second—he looked caught off guard. Like he’d expected pushback. Or a challenge. Or at least some bitter remark.
“You’ll go?” he repeated.
Harry shrugged. “I was going to ask you to send me anyway. I have… things to follow up on.”
Higgs frowned. “This is a diplomatic appearance, not an investigation.”
Harry gave him a bland look. “Of course.”
The silence that followed was sharp. Higgs narrowed his eyes a fraction, but didn’t speak further.
Finally, he waved a hand. “Your travel documents and security details will be sent by evening. You leave tomorrow.”
Harry gave a short nod and turned to leave.
But Higgs watched him go—brow furrowed, eyes slightly narrowed—wondering whether, once again, Harry Potter had gotten exactly what he wanted... before anyone else realized why.
Notes:
Hope you enjoy this new chapter!
I’m already halfway through the next one and will most likely finish it today — so if all goes well, expect an update on Friday. 😊
The plot is finally starting to move, so feel free to drop your theories in the comments — I’d love to hear them!
Thank you so much for reading! ❤️
Chapter 40: Grim Signs
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Deep beneath the Ministry, the Department of Mysteries was still and humming with ancient magic. Dim light filtered through the runes that floated above the Veil chamber, where Albus stood quietly, watching the soft ripple of magical energy that never stopped moving, never fully rested.
He didn’t turn when Caelum Vance stepped in behind him.
“Still drawn to it,” Vance said softly, voice echoing faintly in the chamber. “You always end up back here.”
Albus shrugged, eyes fixed on the shimmering curtain. “It feels… honest. No lies in the Veil. Just truth. Death doesn't pretend to be something it's not.”
Vance stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back, his tone conversational. “Have you ever spoken to your father about it?”
Albus’s jaw tightened. “No.”
A pause.
“You’ve never asked him what he sees in it?” Vance asked, turning his head slightly. “What he believes it holds?”
“He doesn’t talk about it,” Albus muttered. “Not to me.”
Vance was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “It’s strange, isn’t it? That someone so celebrated for facing death so many times… avoids speaking about it. Even to his own son.”
Albus’s fingers curled at his side.
Vance continued, smooth and subtle. “There’s always been something… rigid in his view of the world. Life and death. Right and wrong. Saviors and villains.”
He glanced at Albus now, eyes faintly glinting under the low magical light. “Whereas you, Albus, see the grey. You question. You explore.”
Albus gave a faint, self-deprecating laugh. “That’s one way to put it. He just sees me as difficult.”
“No,” Vance said, voice lower now. “He sees you as different. And for someone who built his entire life on a legend, different is threatening.”
Albus’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak.
“You know,” Vance added casually, “I’ve always admired how you carry yourself here. No posturing. No need to live up to a name you didn’t choose. You earn your place. Day by day. Quietly.”
Albus didn’t reply.
But his gaze turned back to the Veil.
And in the silence that followed, the divide between father and son widened—not with bitterness, but with the quiet certainty that maybe, just maybe… they were meant to walk different paths entirely.
Exactly as Vance intended.
The Veil shimmered faintly before them—silver, weightless, endless—and Albus stood silent in its glow, eyes distant, breath shallow.
Vance didn’t press. He stood beside him, hands still folded behind his back, his tone soft, almost reflective.
“You know,” he said gently, “when I first joined the Department, I thought I’d always be the shadow of someone else. A louder voice. A brighter legacy.”
Albus glanced at him, curious but guarded.
Vance smiled faintly. “That was long before your time, of course. But I’ve seen it again and again. People born into legacies they never asked for—expected to match them. Or exceed them. And when they don’t, the silence around them grows louder.”
Albus’s expression didn’t shift, but the vein at his temple twitched.
Vance turned his gaze back to the Veil. “I’ve worked with James.”
That landed. Subtle. Deliberate.
Albus didn’t respond, but the flicker in his eyes was unmistakable.
“He’s… spirited,” Vance continued. “Confident. Bold. Quick to act. And your father,” he said slowly, “always seems to have time for him.”
Albus swallowed.
“I’ve seen the way they move through the corridors,” Vance said, his voice quiet and almost wistful. “The way people look at them. Like they’re watching the same man, twenty years apart. It’s… poetic, in a way.”
Albus clenched his jaw. “That’s because they are the same.”
Vance turned to look at him fully now, voice more pointed—but still calm.
“But you’re not.”
Albus looked up sharply.
“And that,” Vance said, “is why you matter more.”
Albus blinked.
“James is a reflection,” Vance said. “You? You’re original. Independent. You question what you’re told. You don’t follow a legend—you challenge it. And that makes you dangerous, yes. But it also makes you… necessary.”
There was silence then, thick and alive between them.
Vance stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Albus’s shoulder.
“Your father may never understand that. Not fully. But I do.”
Albus didn’t speak.
But his posture shifted.
And the smallest piece of him—the one that had always questioned his place, his value, his father’s silence—tilted a little more… toward Vance.
***
Later that evening, the Department of Mysteries was nearly deserted. The halls had quieted, the Veil chamber sealed, and most of the Unspeakables had gone home—leaving only faint echoes and magical residue behind.
Albus sat alone in one of the observation alcoves, flicking through the latest edition of the Evening Prophet, half-distracted, half-exhausted. A stack of notes from Vance sat unread beside him, but it was the front page inset that caught his attention.
A full-colour photograph shimmered in the corner of the page: Elias Grimm, regal and smiling, waving to a massive crowd in Berlin’s enchanted courtyard. His victory robes gleamed under magical fireworks, and flanking him—just behind the official dignitaries—stood Harry Potter.
And next to him, beaming and formal in Auror dress robes, was James.
The caption below read:
“United Front: British Envoy Harry Potter Attends Berlin Inauguration – Auror James Potter Joins Father on Historic Visit”
‘Following in his father's footsteps, Auror James Potter represents the next generation of justice…’
Albus stared at the image.
James, laughing at something Grimm had said. His father, hand resting lightly on James’s back as they shook hands with foreign officials. Reporters capturing every angle.
James—the heir apparent.
James—the symbol of strength.
James—the one they always expected to rise.
Albus read the article’s opening lines. It was diplomatic fluff, mostly. Descriptions of the “Potter legacy,” the “continuity of leadership,” the “natural bond between two generations of defenders.”
Not a single mention of Albus.
Not as a Ministry official. Not as an Unspeakable. Not as anything.
He folded the paper slowly, hands a little too stiff, jaw set.
In the silence, a single thought surfaced—unwelcome, but sharp:
Of course James went with him.
And beneath that:
Of course the world noticed.
He sat back in the chair, the room spinning quietly with magical residue and the weight of a name he had never wanted… and could never seem to escape.
The quiet hum of magical energy in the Department of Mysteries was broken by the gentle click of approaching footsteps on polished stone.
Albus didn’t look up right away. He was still staring at the folded Evening Prophet, Grimm’s photo and the headline pressed into his thoughts like an old bruise reopened.
“Working late again?” came a soft voice.
He looked up to see Emma Swift standing at the threshold of the alcove, arms crossed lightly over a pale blue jumper, her brown hair pulled into a loose braid, a warm smile on her face.
Emma was one of the few Unspeakables who didn’t seem like she’d been born in the shadows. She was bright, both in manner and mind. Her research was focused on temporal anomalies—strictly theoretical, entirely safe, and blissfully unrelated to the resurrection work Vance was quietly conducting.
Albus cleared his throat. “Just… catching up.”
She stepped closer, glancing at the paper still half-unfolded on the bench beside him. “Let me guess. Another glamorous feature about your brother?”
Albus gave a wry smile, but didn’t answer.
Emma sat down beside him, tucking her legs beneath her neatly. “You know, you don’t have to keep reading that stuff. It’s poison.”
“I wasn’t looking for it,” Albus muttered. “It just finds me.”
Emma gave him a gentle nudge with her shoulder. “Well, maybe it’s time you let something else find you.”
Albus raised an eyebrow. “Like what? A lecture on self-worth?”
“No,” she said, grinning. “Like dinner.”
He blinked. “Dinner?”
She nodded. “There’s this little Muggle place in Soho—amazing food, no floating menus, no enchanted forks, no Prophet drones peering over your shoulder. Just actual quiet and the best tiramisu I’ve had in my life. Come with me?”
Albus hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden softness in her tone. Emma was always kind, always professional—but this was… different. More personal.
“Are you… asking me out?” he asked, more curious than surprised.
She laughed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe. Maybe I just don’t want to eat alone. Either way, I’d like your company.”
For the first time in hours, something in Albus’s chest loosened. He glanced down at the paper, then back at her—this girl who didn’t treat him like Harry Potter’s son or Vance’s protégé or a Ministry legacy.
Just Albus.
And for tonight, that sounded like enough.
He gave a small smile. “Alright. Dinner sounds nice.”
Emma grinned. “Good. I’ll meet you at the lifts in twenty minutes. And wear something not stained with ink this time.”
She stood and walked off, leaving behind a faint trail of lilac perfume and something gentler than the weight of legacy.
And Albus sat there a moment longer, staring at Grimm’s photo…
…before he folded it again, and set it aside.
***
The harsh white light of the Department of Mysteries restroom buzzed faintly overhead as Albus stood before the mirror, tugging his tie loose with more force than necessary.
His dark work robes were already folded on the bench beside him, replaced by a plain black jumper and charcoal-grey trousers—casual enough for a Muggle restaurant, but not exactly… flattering. He hadn't planned for this. Hadn’t thought anyone would ask him to dinner, let alone Emma Swift.
He glanced at his reflection again. His hair, always somewhere between artfully messy and just plain unruly, refused to sit right no matter how much he ran his fingers through it. He tried slicking it back—too stiff. Letting it fall—too much like his dad. He settled on a half-tamed look and gave up.
His jumper clung in all the wrong places, and now he was suddenly very aware that the boots he’d chosen this morning had faint scuffs near the heel. His reflection stared back, mildly unimpressed.
Why didn’t I wear something else? he thought. Why didn’t I own something else?
He considered transfiguring his outfit—just a little—but the idea felt pathetic.
He checked his breath. Clean. Wrinkled the jumper again by adjusting it too many times. Rolled the sleeves halfway, then all the way. Then half again.
A voice echoed in his head—James would’ve looked perfect by now. James would’ve had a plan. James would’ve already made her laugh.
He clenched his jaw and shook the thought off.
You’re not James.
He gave himself one last look, straightened his shoulders, and muttered, “It’s just dinner.”
As Albus walked down the long, enchanted corridor toward the lifts, hands in his pockets and sleeves rolled to his forearms, the quiet hum of the Department faded behind him.
He spotted Emma ahead, already waiting—standing with one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling through her phone, the faint glow lighting up her cheekbones. She looked effortlessly composed in a navy coat and boots, her braid now a loose twist over her shoulder.
She glanced up and smiled when she saw him, warm and uncomplicated.
And still—it crept in.
A flicker. A ghost of a thought he didn’t invite:
James wouldn’t be nervous right now.
He tried to shove it away, but the name stirred a deeper ache.
Amélie.
Her name came to him like a splinter pressing into soft skin.
They’d never been particularly close—Albus and Amélie. They sometimes studied together. Laughed quietly behind the professors’ back.Even it was just for a year.
She once said he understood the silence in a way no one else did. For a while, he’d thought… maybe.
And then she met James.
And that had been the end of it.
She never hurt him intentionally. But it didn’t take malice to break someone. Just inevitability.
Why James?
Because James smiled bigger? Talked louder? Made people feel seen when Albus only made them feel… noticed?
He didn’t want to think about it now. Not here. Not with Emma waiting.
But still, the voice whispered:
What would James say? What would James wear? What would James do?
Would he have shown up in something cooler? Said something flirty without tripping over the words? Would he have made Emma laugh before they even got out of the lifts?
Probably.
Albus took a breath and forced the thought down.
Emma looked up again as he neared. “You ready?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Sorry if I kept you.”
“You didn’t,” she said with a grin. “You clean up well.”
He flushed despite himself, managing a sheepish smile. “This is… the best I’ve got.”
Emma looped her arm through his casually. “Well, then I guess I’ve got the best.”
And just like that, the voice quieted.
Not gone.
But quiet enough for now.
***
The streets of Muggle London shimmered under a thin drizzle, the kind that clung to the air without truly falling. Neon reflections stretched across wet pavement, and the city hummed with late-night life—cars rushing by, distant laughter echoing from a nearby pub, the scent of warm bread and exhaust in the air.
Albus walked beside Emma, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, listening as she talked animatedly about something—an old Unspeakable lecture gone wrong, he thought, or maybe the time she accidentally reversed gravity on her supervisor's desk. He caught every few words—“floating ink bottles”, “three bruised egos”, “I still think it was funny”—but mostly, he just listened to her voice.
It was soft but bright, and full of a kind of life he didn’t often get to be near. She gestured when she spoke, her hands moving in quick, excited circles, her laugh coming freely. She wasn’t holding back to impress him. She didn’t need to.
And all the while, Albus couldn’t quite believe he was here.
Not in the restaurant. Not in London.
But with her.
He kept glancing sideways when she wasn’t looking—at the curve of her smile, at the way her hair curled slightly near her collar, at the way her eyes lit up when she remembered something absurd.
A quiet, ridiculous part of him kept thinking:
She’s choosing to be here.
With me.
Not because I’m a Potter. Not because she pities me. Not because someone else didn’t show up. But because she wanted to.
And still, behind that warmth, a sliver of disbelief clung to him like the rain.
James would’ve said something clever by now.
James would’ve touched her arm when she laughed.
But Emma was laughing already. She wasn’t waiting for charm. She wasn’t comparing.
And slowly, step by step, Albus started to relax—not completely, but enough to let himself smile when she looked at him. Enough to ask her a question back. Enough to laugh, not bitterly, but because something was actually funny.
They reached the restaurant, a tiny place tucked between a bookstore and a tailor shop, with candles flickering behind steamed windows and warm music leaking through the door.
Emma looked up at him and grinned. “Ready?”
He nodded, slower this time. “Yeah. I am.”
And for once, he wasn’t thinking about James.
The restaurant was warm and charming, its small dining room lit by flickering candles and copper sconces. The windows steamed from the temperature contrast, muffling the sounds of passing cars. A quiet jazz melody played from an old gramophone in the corner. Tables were close together, the atmosphere intimate, the kind of place where conversations felt like secrets.
Emma looked delighted.
“This is perfect,” she whispered as they were led to a small table by the window. “You ever come here before?”
Albus shook his head, forcing a smile. “First time.”
They sat, menus hovering faintly in front of them. A nervous flutter made its way into his chest—part excitement, part disbelief he was still here, with her, and somehow doing okay.
Until the first mistake.
The waiter, a young man in a crisp shirt and an impatient air, arrived to take their orders. Emma ordered first—a mushroom risotto and a glass of white wine.
Albus tried to speak confidently. “Uh, I’ll have the… duck?”
“Which one, sir?” the waiter asked.
There were two duck options. Albus hadn’t looked.
He fumbled. “The… second one?”
The waiter raised an eyebrow. “The one with truffle glaze or the red wine reduction?”
Emma looked at him politely. Albus flushed.
“Red wine. Please.”
The waiter took the menus, and as he turned, Albus knocked his own water glass with the back of his hand, sending it straight into Emma’s lap.
The cold splash, the clink of ice, the sharp intake of breath—it all happened in a second.
Emma gasped. “Oh!”
Albus froze. “Oh no. Emma—I—I'm so sorry—”
She blinked, drenched from the waist down, her chair now soaked. A small pool of water dripped onto the hardwood floor.
“No, it’s fine,” she said quickly, already grabbing a napkin. “It’s just water. Don’t panic.”
But Albus was panicking. He stood too fast, trying to help, knocking the edge of the floating candle tray and nearly sending it into the soup on the next table.
The woman beside them yelped. The candle clattered and floated lopsided.
Emma was half-laughing, half-shivering now, drenched and trying not to cause a scene.
The waiter came back, unimpressed. “Is everything alright here?”
Albus was red down to his collar. “Yes. No. I mean—it was an accident.”
Emma, ever composed, smiled through it. “Could we get a towel or something? Maybe a dry seat?”
The waiter muttered something and walked off.
Albus sank slowly back into his chair, mortified. Every inch of him was burning.
“I can fix it,” he whispered. “A drying charm. It’ll be perfect—”
“Albus.” Emma touched his arm gently. “It’s okay. Really.”
But he couldn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t shake the feeling pressing down on his ribs.
Of course this would happen.
Of course he’d ruin it.
James wouldn’t have spilled a drink. James would’ve had her laughing by now.
He forced a tight smile, biting the inside of his cheek.
And in that moment, he wanted to evaporate on the spot.
Because no matter how far he ran from his shadow, tonight… it was still sitting across from him.
The air in the restaurant had shifted.
What had started as soft, flickering warmth now felt tight and sticky. Albus sat rigid in his seat, hands folded tightly in his lap, watching Emma dab at her skirt with a napkin that was now more damp than helpful.
She wasn’t upset—not outwardly. She even smiled as the waiter returned with a folded towel and a very reluctant apology. She cracked a joke, something about water being good luck before wine, and Albus managed a faint chuckle.
But all he could hear was the pounding in his ears.
His cheeks still burned. His palms were damp. Every word he tried to say choked halfway up his throat, tripping over that awful moment when he’d seen the glass fall—when his clumsy hand had ruined everything.
Emma was trying to salvage it. He could tell.
She kept talking—about a weird case she’d read in a Temporal Shift study, about some café in Bruges that only appeared on Thursdays. Her voice was light, warm, friendly. She was giving him every out, every chance to shake it off.
But Albus couldn’t.
Because he wasn’t hearing her words anymore.
He was hearing James, laughing in his head.
Merlin, Al, did you pour the drink or try to drown her?
He was hearing his father, calm and unbothered, like always, defusing tension with grace Albus had never inherited.
He was seeing Amélie, looking past him.
And Emma, right in front of him, still smiling. Still here.
He hated that his first instinct was to pull away. To close up. To escape the table and vanish into the street like steam into the night.
“I ruined the night,” he blurted quietly.
Emma blinked. “What?”
He looked down. “The water. The candles. The soup lady. I messed it all up.”
She tilted her head. “Albus. You spilled one glass.”
“Onto you. In a full restaurant. On our first—on a night that you actually invited me out.”
Emma watched him for a second, and then she smiled—really smiled this time, lopsided and warm.
“You’re more worried about this than I am.”
He looked up, still unsure.
“I came out with you,” she said softly, “not with James or whoever else you think you need to measure up to.”
He froze at that.
“I came out with you, Albus. And I’d like to still be here with you, if you let the rest of that nonsense go.”
He stared at her.
And slowly, something in his chest cracked open—not gone, not healed, but softening just enough.
“…I don’t know how,” he admitted.
Emma shrugged. “Then I guess we’ll both have to learn.”
A moment passed. Then another.
And then he smiled. Small. Real.
They sat in silence for a beat longer.
“Still think the soup lady’s going to punch me,” he muttered.
Emma grinned. “You did nearly incinerate her entrée.”
And for the first time that evening, Albus laughed—quietly, but fully.
The night wasn’t perfect.
But maybe… that was okay.
The laughter lingered between them—soft, a little surprised, but genuine. Albus hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d laughed like that in front of someone who wasn’t family or forced into politeness because of his last name. It left a strange emptiness in his chest, but in a way that didn’t hurt. In a way that felt… new.
Emma leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. Her cheeks were flushed, but not from make-up. The candlelight flickered in her eyes.
“I’m just saying,” she said, “if this was a test, you failed spectacularly. But it was definitely entertaining.”
“Glad I could provide dinner and a live performance,” Albus replied dryly, but his grin was still there, cautious but steady.
Their food arrived, and for once, nothing spilled, floated, or exploded. They talked more easily now—about Hogwarts, their ridiculous supervisors, the worst Ministry cafeteria meals. Emma told a story about a trainee who tried to brew Veritaserum and ended up confessing his love to his brother's wife.
Albus listened more than he spoke, but his shoulders had loosened, his words weren’t as stiff. He still caught himself thinking James would’ve said it smoother or Dad would’ve known the right moment to joke—but then Emma would laugh at his dry remark, or lean in when he was talking, and those comparisons would fade.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t trying to be someone else. He was just… trying to be present.
After dessert (she was right about the tiramisu), they stepped back out into the cool London night. The streets were quieter now, the city humming softly around them.
They walked without a destination for a while.
At one point, their hands brushed, and Emma didn’t pull away.
Neither did he.
Outside the entrance to her building, she turned to face him, eyes lit up beneath the lamplight. “Thanks for tonight.”
Albus exhaled. “I should be the one saying that.”
“You were,” she teased. “Silently. Between near-death experiences.”
He smiled again, a little embarrassed. “I meant it.”
She hesitated just a second, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. It was brief, gentle—but deliberate.
Albus blinked.
Emma smiled and stepped back toward her door. “Let me know when you’re ready for round two. Maybe next time, leave the waterworks at home.”
She disappeared inside before he could respond.
Albus stood there, alone now, looking up at the empty windows and the glowing sky above them.
He shoved his hands into his pockets.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember… he didn’t feel like a shadow.
As Albus walked slowly back toward the apparition point, the night wrapped around him—cool, quiet, and for once, not heavy.
The dinner still flickered in his mind. Emma’s laugh. Her ease. That kiss on the cheek—still tingling faintly like it had left something more than a warmth behind. He didn’t know what it meant, or where it would go, but it was the first evening in what felt like years where he hadn’t felt like he was trying to fit into someone else’s shape.
His coat pocket buzzed.
He stopped.
Frowning, he fished out his spell phone—
Emma Swift
You know I still smell like mineral water, right?
If I end up with hydrangeas growing out of my knees, I’m blaming you.
Also… I had fun.
Sleep well, Albus. :)
He stared at it for a second, lips twitching into a smile before he realized it.
His fingers hovered awkwardly over the response rune. He wasn’t the best at this—Emma would probably expect something clever, something relaxed. Something James-like.
But he didn’t want to pretend.
So he just tapped out a simple reply:
I’m glad you came.
And if your knees start blooming, I promise to water them.
He paused, then added—
Tonight was… the best in a while. Sleep well, Emma.
The text shimmered for a moment before blinking out, enchanted to vanish on delivery.
Albus slipped the phone back into his pocket.
And as he apparated to his falt—faint, quiet, but real.
***
The next morning in the Department of Mysteries, everything was back to its usual rhythm—quiet corridors, floating runes, and researchers hunched over glowing scrolls. The air thrummed with the steady pulse of ancient magic, but for once, Albus didn’t feel suffocated by it.
He had arrived earlier than usual, his mind still lingering on the text exchange from last night and the faint echo of Emma’s kiss. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her smile, the way she had looked at him—not through him, not past him, but at him.
He was double-checking a temporal drift report when her voice floated over his shoulder.
“Morning, Potter.”
Emma stood in the doorway to his workspace, wearing a slate-grey jumper and a look that was unmistakably amused. Her braid was messier today, like she hadn’t even tried to tame it, and Albus found himself smiling before he could help it.
“Hey,” he said, suddenly a little too aware of how boring the stack of reports in front of him was.
Emma leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So, any strange plant growth overnight?”
Albus chuckled. “No blossoms yet, but I’m keeping a watering charm on standby.”
“Good,” she said with mock seriousness. “I’d hate to have to register as a hybrid.”
They shared a quiet smile.
Then Emma tilted her head slightly. “You know, there’s this exhibit at the Muggle Science Museum. Something about quantum time perception. Might be interesting… for two people who spend most of their days arguing with clocks.”
Albus blinked. “Oh. Yeah, sounds—scientific.”
“Mmhmm.” She took a slow step back from the doorway. “Well, anyway. Just a thought. If, you know, someone were to invite someone to it.”
Albus nodded, still not quite registering. “Right. Yeah. Sounds cool.”
Emma gave him a long look—half fond, half exasperated.
Then she started backing away. “Okay, I’ll leave you to your time runes. Just let me know when whoever decides to invite me to something again.”
Albus stared blankly.
She turned on her heel, smiling as she walked away, shaking her head.
Three seconds later, it clicked.
“Oh—wait!” Albus stood up, nearly knocking over a scroll.
Emma stopped just around the corner, peeking back with a raised eyebrow.
“I meant to—sorry, I’m—would you like to go to the time exhibit? With me? As a date?”
Her smile widened like sunlight.
“Albus Potter,” she said lightly, “I thought you’d never ask.”
And with that, she walked off again—but this time with a definite skip in her step.
Albus sat back down, red in the ears, but grinning like a complete idiot.
Round two, secured.
The high hum of magical wards buzzed faintly above Albus’s desk as he tried to settle back into his work—his focus still half-lost in the echo of Emma’s smile and her parting words. He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to someone like her wanting him.
He barely noticed the shift in air until a shadow fell over his desk.
“Potter.”
Albus glanced up.
Caelum Vance stood there, poised as ever, dressed in dark robes that fell clean and straight, as if the fabric itself feared wrinkling in his presence. His tone was level, unreadable. His gaze, though—sharp as ever, glinting with something behind it.
Albus straightened. “Sir.”
Vance didn’t sit. Instead, he pulled a sealed scroll from inside his robes and placed it on Albus’s desk.
“I need you to retrieve a file.”
Albus glanced at it. “What kind of file?”
“Veil-related,” Vance said smoothly. “Historical logs from the late Grindelwald era. Something our friends in Berlin never shared openly but ended up in the Department of International Magical Cooperation’s restricted vaults. Section Epsilon-9.”
Albus frowned. “That’s interdepartmental. I don’t have clearance for that.”
Vance offered the smallest smile. “You have my clearance. Which supersedes theirs. The scroll includes the access key and a temporary override sigil—time-limited, of course. Use it discreetly. No reason to alert half the Ministry.”
Albus hesitated, fingertips brushing the parchment.
“Am I… authorized to read it?”
Vance’s voice dropped just slightly, measured. “Just extract it and deliver it to me unopened. That’s all. The fewer eyes on it, the better.”
Albus nodded slowly. “Is this for the resurrection project?”
Vance didn’t blink. “It’s for understanding. We can’t move forward if we don’t know what others tried to do in the past.”
Albus looked down at the scroll again, uncertainty flickering somewhere beneath the surface. But it was smoothed by Vance’s presence, his unwavering certainty.
“Alright,” Albus said quietly. “I’ll get it.”
Vance placed a hand briefly on his shoulder—gentle, almost proud.
“You’re doing important work, Albus. And you’re doing it well.”
And with that, he turned and vanished down the corridor, robes sweeping silently behind him.
Albus sat there for a moment, staring at the scroll. The access sigil glowed faintly, pulsing with silent authority.
What he didn’t know—what Vance didn’t say—was that Section Epsilon-9 was sealed under international magical treaty.
Accessing it wasn’t just unauthorized.
It was illegal.
And Albus Potter had just agreed to open the door.
***
The late afternoon sun filtered dimly through the charmed glass of the DMLE windows, casting long streaks of amber across Harry’s office. The usual clutter of reports, open scrolls, and floating memos buzzed softly around him, but he paid them no mind.
He sat at his desk, elbow on the armrest, fingers pressed lightly against his mouth, eyes unfocused.
The celebration in Berlin had been all glitter and diplomacy—flashing camera bulbs, firm handshakes, and empty smiles. Grimm had been every bit the charismatic leader they’d claimed: eloquent, poised, saying all the right things. His charm was surgical, his confidence unshakable.
And Harry had watched it all, every word and gesture, with careful, quiet suspicion.
But he’d found nothing.
No sign of Kingsley. No whispers of subversive magic. And most notably, no trace of the man Sirius had recognised—the one with the scar and the past tied to Grindelwald. If he had been there during Grimm’s campaign, he had vanished by the time Harry arrived.
Harry had scoured guest lists, photos, even quiet inquiries through old Order contacts stationed abroad. Nothing.
It didn’t sit right. Grimm had invited him. Given him a trail in Berlin before, subtly helpful, disarmingly open. It had felt like a gesture of trust… or distraction.
He leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath.
Was I played?
Was Grimm just being diplomatic, or was he controlling the narrative, managing what Harry saw—and more importantly, what he didn’t?
The worst part was the sense of déjà vu. He’d seen movements like this before. Smiles with rot behind them. Crowds led by hope turned into weapons of power.
But unlike Voldemort, unlike even Grindelwald, Grimm didn’t use fear.
He used promise.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
Harry didn’t look up. “Enter.”
But his mind remained where it was—in Berlin, in the crowd, watching a man he couldn’t read, speaking words the world wanted to hear.
The door creaked open slowly, and James stepped into the office, his Auror robes slightly disheveled and a familiar frown already in place.
Harry didn’t look up right away—still sifting through the fragments of Berlin in his head—but he registered the presence immediately. He’d expected this.
“You could’ve told me why,” James said, shutting the door behind him. “Before dragging me to Germany to shake hands and smile for the cameras.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Did you not enjoy the free wine?”
James folded his arms, unimpressed. “Dad.”
Harry finally looked up, resting his elbows on the desk, voice even. “You want to know why I brought you?”
“Yes. Because if it was for diplomacy, you could’ve taken Theia. Or aunt Hermione. Hell, even Higgs would’ve gone if it meant another speech.”
Harry leaned back slightly. “Because I didn’t trust you not to pick a fight with Vance while I was away.”
James blinked.
Harry continued. “Because I’ve seen how you look at him. I’ve heard the way you talk about him. And I knew if I left you here with enough time and no leash, you’d go storming into his office, demanding answers or throwing around threats.”
James’s jaw clenched. “He is hiding something.”
“I know,” Harry said calmly. “But if we show our cards too early, if you lose your temper with him, he’ll bury the truth deeper. Or worse—he’ll make you look unstable. That’s what he’s good at.”
James lowered his arms, still bristling. “So I was your babysitting assignment.”
“You were my fail-safe,” Harry corrected. “And a message. To show Grimm we’re not just sending envoys and pleasantries. We’re watching.”
James exhaled, the frustration bleeding out slowly. “Next time, maybe tell me that.”
Harry gave him a half-smile. “And miss the look on your face when you had to sit through Grimm’s speech on transcontinental unity?”
James narrowed his eyes. “One more smirk and I’m storming Vance’s office anyway.”
Harry raised both hands in mock surrender. “Then I better find another distraction for you.”
James turned toward the door, shaking his head faintly, but the weight of the conversation still hung between them like smoke.
Just as his hand reached for the handle, Harry's voice came again—quieter this time, but heavier.
“James.”
He paused, glancing back.
Harry was still seated behind his desk, but his posture had shifted.
“I need you to keep your eyes open,” Harry said. “Especially around Vance.”
James turned fully now, reading the unspoken edge behind his father’s words.
“I know you want to confront him. I know your gut’s screaming the same thing mine is. But you’re not just an Auror in this. You’re my son. And that puts you in a spotlight none of us control.”
James's expression softened slightly.
Harry leaned forward, voice low. “Whatever’s happening—whatever Vance is part of—it’s deeper than we thought. And more dangerous than it looks.”
A beat passed.
Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “You are my first priority in this, James. Not the Department. Not the press. Not even the investigation. You. Staying safe.”
James opened his mouth—maybe to object, maybe to say he could handle himself—but Harry cut him off.
“You’re brave. You’re smart. But you’re still young. And Vance is the kind of threat that doesn’t strike when you’re ready. He waits. He lets you think you’re ahead… and then he takes the board.”
James was quiet now, eyes sharp, but listening.
Harry stood slowly, stepping around the desk. He didn’t place a hand on James’s shoulder like he usually would. This wasn’t comfort. It was warning.
“Just promise me something,” he said. “Don’t go looking for a fight with him. Watch. Listen. And if something feels wrong—walk away. Tell me.”
James nodded, slower this time. “Alright.”
Harry gave the faintest smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Keep yourself safe,” he said again. “For me.”
And this time, James didn’t argue.
***
The halls of the Department of Mysteries were dim and hushed, as they always were after-hours—echoes dulled by thick enchantments, magic humming softly beneath polished stone.
Albus and Emma walked side by side, coats slung over their arms, steps light with the quiet anticipation of another dinner out—something ordinary, something theirs.
Emma was mid-sentence, teasing him about something, when a sharp voice called from just ahead:
“Potter.”
Both of them turned to see Vance standing at the end of the corridor, hands clasped behind his back, face unreadable.
Emma’s smile faltered.
Albus hesitated. “Can it wait, sir? I was just—”
“It’ll only take a minute,” Vance said smoothly.
Emma gave Albus a quiet nod. “I’ll wait by the lifts.”
Vance gestured for Albus to follow.
The conversation was brief—just a passing note about a cross-departmental report, a new scroll arriving from Zurich, and a vague comment about “progress on Subject 12.”
It lasted two minutes. Maybe less.
When Albus returned to Emma, she raised an eyebrow. “Everything alright?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Just more notes about the resurrection research. He wants me to review another set of test logs.”
Emma didn’t say anything right away.
Albus watched her for a beat. “Actually,” he added, “I was thinking—you should join the team. You're brilliant with cross-dimensional theory, and you’d bring a completely different angle to the project. It could be… fun. Working together, I mean.”
Emma gave a small smile. But it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Albus…” she started, walking slowly toward the lifts. “I’ve actually been thinking of requesting a transfer.”
He blinked. “What? Why?”
She hesitated, then said quietly, “Because of Vance.”
Albus frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
Emma looked up at him, serious now. “I don’t trust him. The way he speaks to people, the way no one ever questions him… it’s not right. There’s something about him that feels wrong. Like the air gets thinner when he’s in the room.”
Albus shifted uncomfortably, laughing a little. “That’s just how he is. He's intense, sure, but he’s brilliant. He knows things about death magic no one else in the Department does.”
Emma shook her head. “It’s not his knowledge. It’s his intentions.”
She lowered her voice, glancing around.
“I know you trust him. But I’ve seen how he’s using you. The way he praises you in front of others, keeps you close, gives you assignments no one else gets access to…”
Albus’s expression closed off slightly. “That’s because he respects me.”
Emma’s face softened. “Maybe. But it feels like you’re… being shaped, not mentored.”
A beat of silence.
Then she added gently, “And I don’t want to be part of something if I don’t believe in the person leading it.”
The lift arrived with a quiet chime.
They stepped in, side by side, but quieter now.
And though the city lights still waited beyond the Ministry doors, glowing and full of promise— Albus couldn’t stop the knot that had started to form in his chest.
A quiet, twisting thread of doubt… wrapped in Emma’s voice.
***
The next few days passed with a subtle shift in Albus—one he couldn’t quite explain, and one that Vance absolutely did not miss.
Albus still showed up on time. Still wore the same composed mask. Still took the scrolls Vance gave him, nodded at the cryptic instructions, and vanished into his office to study the restricted files or prepare curated summaries.
But something had changed.
Albus lingered longer on the margins of each document. He reread things—twice, sometimes three times. He traced origin seals and double-checked magical clearance runes. He started looking not just at what Vance was giving him… but what Vance was not.
And more importantly, he began asking questions.
Small ones, at first.
“These subject logs don’t match the original Veil studies from last year. Did the control group change?”
“The resonance data—where’s the root calculation coming from? I can’t find a source.”
“Shouldn’t this sigil be registered with the Department of Experimental Magic? I couldn’t find it in the archive.”
They weren’t confrontational. Not even suspicious on the surface. But they were careful. Specific. Informed.
And Vance noticed.
He always noticed.
Late one afternoon, as Albus returned a set of enchanted notebooks to Vance’s desk, the older man looked up, smiling faintly but with something tighter in his eyes.
“You’ve been very… thorough lately,” he said, voice calm but with a thread of steel underneath.
Albus met his gaze. “Just making sure I understand everything. Some of these tests are… unusually complex.”
Vance folded his hands. “I trust you’re not second-guessing the project.”
Albus hesitated for the briefest moment before shaking his head. “No. Just being precise.”
Vance stood slowly, walking around his desk with a measured calm. “Good. Precision is vital. Especially with research that could change the world.”
He paused beside Albus.
“You’re one of the few I can rely on to carry this forward,” he said softly. “Don’t let yourself get… distracted.”
Albus didn’t flinch, but he felt the weight behind those words. A warning cloaked as praise.
Vance smiled again—pleasant, poised, cold.
Then turned back to his desk.
Albus left a moment later, scrolls under his arm, heart beating just a little too fast.
He still didn’t know exactly what Vance was hiding.
But for the first time since this all began, he wanted to find out.
Not because he was curious.
But because
Emma might be right.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed this chapter! If you have a moment, I’d love to hear your thoughts—your reviews mean the world and keep this story going. ❤️
And… let’s just say, in the next chapter, something ancient and dangerous is about to break loose. The Veil is stirring.
Thank you for reading! ❤️❤️
Chapter 41: Inside Man
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Over the next week, Albus buried himself deeper into the files Vance had given him—on paper, just another brilliant young Unspeakable carrying out complex assignments. But behind the glass walls of his secluded office, things had shifted.
He had begun reading with a different eye.
And that’s when he started seeing them.
The inconsistencies.
At first, they were small. Easy to overlook if you weren’t looking.
One log referenced a resurrection subject 6B, described as “non-verbal, aggressive, Veil-reactive.” But in another document dated the same day, 6B was listed as "non-responsive, deteriorating, magically inert."
A mislabel?
Possibly.
Then came the sigils.
One in particular—a triangular rune with a curved base—appeared repeatedly throughout the testing notations. At first, Albus assumed it was one of the newer field glyphs used by Veil physicists. But when he checked the sigil registry, it was absent from every official database.
Instead, it appeared again—faintly carved—in the margins of one of the oldest, most fragile files from Grindelwald’s era.
He cross-referenced it twice. No mistake.
It wasn’t a Department rune.
It was a cult symbol—one that had shown up scorched into the corpses of several Inferi victims over the past year.
Triangle with flame.
And yet, here it was, embedded in a resurrection sequence like it belonged there.
His heart began to race as he flipped through the next set of reports. Three subjects—12C, 13A, and 14—were all said to have failed after exposure to “soul-binding stimulus.” But the date-stamps were off. One of the failures had happened before the exposure date even listed.
Tampered records.
Maybe even fabricated.
And something else caught his eye: A reference to an artifact—"A.R.C. Node 1"—used in the “soul continuity tests.” It wasn’t listed in any Ministry archive. No clearance forms. No known magical origin. Just a codename and a result:
Subject 14 exhibited retained memory patterns post-reanimation.
Albus leaned back in his chair, blood cold.
Retained memory?
That wasn’t resurrection. That was…
Possession?
He suddenly felt sick.
He stared down at the scrolls, pages trembling slightly in his hands.
This wasn’t academic research.
This was something else.
Something darker. Intentional. Controlled.
He sat there for a long time, surrounded by papers that no longer read like magic—they read like evidence.
And in the flickering light of his office, Albus Potter realized:
He wasn’t part of a study anymore.
He was standing in the middle of a cover-up.
***
Albus had always been thorough, but now, he was relentless.
He worked late, long after most Unspeakables had left for the night, surrounded by dim-blue glowstones and walls covered in levitating notes. What had once been a passive task—filing, translating, assisting—had become a quiet investigation.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for.
He just knew that something was wrong.
It began with the symbol.
A triangle enclosing a flame, faintly marked in corners of resurrection reports, embedded in watermark-like layers of Veil-testing scrolls, and subtly engraved on ancient scroll tubes. Never directly referenced. Always present.
At first, he thought it was just a sigil—an old research rune or archival notation. But then it started appearing in more obscure places. Medical reports. Transfer documents. Even on the inner flaps of subject records.
And then the initials.
“A.D.”
They showed up often—stamped into authorization slips, at the bottom of hand-scrawled annotations in elegant, old-fashioned script, and sometimes woven magically into metadata charms layered into the documents themselves.
Albus furrowed his brow the first time he saw it.
Albus Dumbledore.
Of course. His namesake. It made sense… at first. Some of these documents were from the mid-1900s, the era when Albus Dumbledore had worked with the ministry during Grindelwald’s rise. But…
Some of the entries were dated decades after his death.
Still signed A.D.
He scoured the handwriting. The loops were different. Tighter. Sharper. Not elegant, but precise. It wasn’t the Dumbledore he knew from preserved Hogwarts letters and the signature on his famous journals.
And there was something else.
More flame references.
Project Phoenix Mirror.
The Ember Protocol.
Subject: Ashborn.
Mentions of "the Reclaimer" and "the Flamekeeper Directive."
They weren’t just magical terms—they sounded like titles. Ranks. Cultic.
Every time he came across one, that same sigil appeared—triangle with the flame—as if it were a seal of approval.
Albus made a separate folder and began copying everything. Quietly. Carefully. Shielded under obfuscation charms he’d modified himself.
Vance hadn’t said he couldn’t read this material.
But Albus was beginning to realize that Vance hadn’t expected anyone would think to.
And that meant Vance wasn’t the one at the top.
Somewhere behind the curtain of this project—beyond even the web of shadowed signatures and modified resurrection experiments—was someone else.
Someone with the initials A.D.
Someone still alive.
Still watching.
Still pulling the strings behind flames that didn’t die.
Albus sat hunched over his desk, quill tapping against the side of his ink bottle, eyes fixed on the flickering rune he'd just extracted from a scroll fragment. The triangle with the flame shimmered faintly under the magnifying enchantment, and for a long moment, he just stared at it—heart thudding louder than the soft hum of the Veil three floors below.
Then a memory surfaced. Faint at first.
He’d been passing through the Auror floor weeks ago, on his way to deliver a sealed package for Vance. He hadn’t paid much attention at the time—but now, he heard it clearly in his mind.
Two Aurors, in hushed tones near the far end of the briefing room:
“Did you see the body from Kent?”
“Yeah. Pale, hollowed, dead for months, but still moving.”
“It wasn’t just any Inferius.”
“No. This one had a mark burned into its chest. Triangle. Flame in the centre. Same as the one in Oxford.”
Albus blinked.
His blood ran cold.
That wasn’t coincidence.
He shoved aside the notes in front of him and pulled out the folder where he'd been collecting his discreet copies—symbol sketches, page tracings, cross-references. He dug through until he found the field report from the Oxford Inferi attack—acquired quietly through a friend in Records.
And there it was again. Scrawled in the Auror’s shaky handwriting:
“Same sigil found on torso. Triangle with stylized flame. Burned into skin post-mortem. Possibly magical branding.”
Albus sat back in his chair, every puzzle piece locking into place with a sickening click.
The sigil on the Inferi.
The sigil on the Veil research.
The resurrection experiments.
And the initials A.D., scattered through decades of hidden documents.
He looked back down at the latest scroll from Vance, his fingers tightening around the parchment.
This wasn’t theoretical.
This wasn’t academic.
They weren’t just resurrecting bodies.
They were creating Inferi—controlled, marked, and sent back into the world as weapons.
And whoever A.D. was, they were behind all of it.
He sat alone in the dim blue light of his office, for hours. The edges of the rune-marked scrolls casting soft glows that flickered like embers. His desk was a mess of notes, copies, and runes layered over each other—chaotic, incriminating, terrifying.
He stared at the triangle-with-flame sigil again.
He didn’t even need to read the notes anymore
He knew what it was now.
He knew what he had helped.
And the weight of it hit him all at once.
He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, fingers pressed into his eyes as if trying to erase the last few months from memory.
What have I gotten myself into?
Vance hadn’t manipulated him loudly. There were no threats. No traps. Just flattery. Opportunity. Trust.
And Albus had eaten it up like a starving man, desperate to prove he wasn’t just his father’s son.
His father.
“Do you find Vance suspicious?” His dad had asked him that, weeks ago.
And he—Albus, so sure of himself, so eager to feel respected—had said no. Dismissed him.
“You hate everyone I like.”
He’d snapped that at Harry. Cruel. Defensive.
And James, too—blunt, annoying James, always in the right place with the right instincts. He’d caught on early, watched him like a hawk, and Albus had mocked him for it.
He remembered brushing James off like he was a noisy child, too stubborn to see that maybe—just maybe—he was right.
And now…
Albus looked around at the reports—the evidence of forged files, body branding, death rituals twisted into resurrection experiments.
He’d carried half of it into the Department with his own hands.
Not just a pawn.
A willing one.
He swallowed hard, throat dry. His mouth tasted like ash.
No wonder people called him the lesser Potter.
He wasn’t brave like James.
He wasn’t wise like Harry.
He’d been so desperate to be seen that he hadn’t stopped to see who was actually looking.
A cold chill passed through him.
And for the first time in months, Albus Potter felt afraid of himself.
Not just for what he’d done.
But for how easily he’d done it.
The panic came like a flood—fast, suffocating, blinding.
Albus staggered up from his chair, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. Papers fluttered to the ground, magical ink glowing faintly across the runes and reports he'd spread out over weeks. His breath caught, short and ragged, as the full weight of it crashed down on him.
He had broken laws. Accessed sealed materials.
Retrieved classified files under false pretenses.
Aided experiments that clearly violated international magical ethics—without questioning a damn thing.
His stomach twisted.
They could arrest him.
He’d seen it before—young Unspeakables removed quietly, their memories tampered with or their futures erased. He’d seen how easily the Ministry made people disappear when they’d seen too much.
And now he’d done more than see.
He looked down at his hands like they were foreign to him. The same hands that had passed Vance those scrolls. That had carried cursed resurrection logs through the Department like they were just research.
What have I done?
His legs gave out, and he sat down hard on the floor, breathing shallow and fast.
The thought came quick and selfish:
I’m going to Azkaban.
He imagined the headlines.
POTTER SON IMPLICATED IN UNLAWFUL RESURRECTION EXPERIMENTS. TRAITOR? OR TOOL?
He saw his father at a press conference, shoulders heavy, jaw clenched, eyes tired as he was forced to answer for his son. Again.
He saw Mum, arms crossed, disappointed. Not even angry—just disappointed.
And Emma.
God.
Emma, looking at him like he was a stranger.
His breathing grew faster, fingers gripping his sleeves, heart racing.
Then the panic twisted, sharp and ugly, turning on itself.
You're worried about yourself?
He froze.
The realization stabbed through him.
While he was sitting here panicking about headlines, about prison, about his name—people were dying.
The Inferi they were creating weren’t legends or theories.
They were real.
Out there.
Branded.
Rising.
Kingsley was missing.
The dead were walking.
And behind it all was some phantom with the initials A.D., burning the world under the symbol of flame.
And he had helped them do it.
He buried his face in his hands again, this time not with fear—but shame.
Not because he might go to jail.
But because maybe… he deserved to.
***
The walls of Harry’s office were no longer just stone and parchment.
They were maps. Threads. Symbols. Obsession.
Pages pulled from old magical history tomes were plastered across the far wall, anchored by nonverbal sticking charms. Diagrams of the Inferi, anatomical studies of necromancy, copies of photos from the Kent and Oxford attacks, every body bearing the same thing: the triangle with the flame.
Harry stood in the center of it all, sleeves rolled, shirt wrinkled, a cup of tea gone cold on the corner of his desk. His wand hovered mid-air, directing a quill to sketch and annotate a frayed tome he had borrowed—without permission—from the Department of Magical Anthropology.
The leads had all come to nothing.
He had traced the symbol through obscure references—Cultes du Feu, an offshoot of post-Grindelwald death magic. A mention in the Isle of Bones Archives. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it appearance in a book on magical martyrdom.
But none of it led to a name.
No public face. No known leader. No Ministry files.
The group, if it was one, had erased its entire lineage.
He had pored over financial records, siphoned from multiple departments with the help of Hermione and Theia.
Private donations to shell charities.
Dark item acquisitions routed through Eastern European distributors.
Stolen Department of Mysteries resources, all disguised as Veil research.
And still—no name. No proof.
He had interviewed dozens of people: surviving Aurors from the Inferi encounters, Veil theorists, retired cursebreakers, even ex-Death Eaters from Azkaban under quiet, sealed orders.
Every trail curved back on itself. Every lead ended in silence or death.
And the sigil?
Not officially registered. Not magically traceable.
But burned into the flesh of every Inferius recovered in the past year.
Harry let out a slow, grinding breath and dropped into his chair. His fingers ran through his hair, more grey now than black, jaw tight.
He stared at the wall—his war board—and felt the crushing silence of failure settle into his bones.
He’d done this before.
Tracked dark groups. Followed trails of magic no one else wanted to touch. He’d defeated Voldemort. Fought through Grindelwald's last echoes. Survived two wars.
But this?
This was something else.
It wasn’t a battle.
It was a game.
And someone else was playing it better.
He whispered into the silence:
"Who are you?"
But the wall said nothing.
And the flame symbol burned back at him, still smirking without a mouth.
A sharp knock at the door broke the heavy silence of the office.
Harry didn’t look up. “Come in.”
Theia Hodges stepped in, her expression grim, her coat still damp with rain and mud from the field. She held a thick folder in one hand, her other clutching a half-crumpled memo from the regional office in Leeds.
“Another one,” she said quietly.
Harry’s head finally lifted. “Where?”
“Yorkshire. Muggle side. Two dead, five hospitalized. The victims... Harry, they said the bodies walked through fire. Didn’t burn. Same mark—on the sternum.”
She handed him a photograph—blurry, taken in the panic of the scene, but unmistakable.
The triangle with the flame, burned deep into the corpse’s flesh, glowing faintly even in death.
Harry clenched his jaw. “Same behavior?”
Theia nodded. “They moved like soldiers. Purposeful. Controlled. Not just wandering. It’s not random anymore.”
Harry cursed under his breath and stood sharply, pacing the office. His fists clenched at his sides.
“How many attacks does that make now?” he snapped.
“Eighteen confirmed. Probably more. They’re starting to hide the trail better. Covering magic traces. Using… something new.”
Harry’s eyes burned as he muttered, “Bloody Vance.”
Theia stiffened. “Still nothing?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Every time I ask him if his team has found anything useful from the Veil research, it’s the same answer—‘We’re close.’ ‘We need more time.’ ‘Progress is delicate.’ And when I demand the actual scrolls or subject logs, he tells me I don’t have the clearance.”
Theia raised an eyebrow. “You’re Head of the DMLE.”
“I told him that.”
“And?”
Harry spat, “He reminded me he’s Head of the Department of Mysteries. Their files are ‘internally classified.’”
Theia narrowed her eyes. “We could get Hermione involved.”
“I tried. Even she said Vance knows how to protect his trails. She’s as frustrated as I am.”
He threw himself back into the chair, glaring at the board of notes as if sheer will could peel away the truth.
“I’ve had people in Records triple-check for leaks. Nothing. I’ve watched every financial ledger we’ve scraped from those fake charities. Nothing. I’ve traced artifact smuggling operations from Bulgaria to Dublin—nothing that ties him directly to any of it.”
He slammed a palm on the desk.
“Not. One. Thing.”
Theia was silent for a long moment.
Finally, she said, “So either he’s too careful…”
“…or he’s not the one in charge,” Harry finished darkly.
He leaned forward, staring again at the photograph. The symbol burned like it was alive.
“I don’t care if I have to burn through every inch of red tape in this Ministry,” he muttered. “I’m going to find out who’s behind this. Even if Vance is just a puppet…”
He looked up at Theia, eyes sharp, voice hard:
“Then I’m going to find out who’s holding the strings.”
***
The lights in the Department of Mysteries never changed—always soft, blue-hued, suspended in an eternal twilight that made time blur and nerves fray.
Albus hadn’t slept properly in days. He sat slumped at his desk, surrounded by scrolls and copies and warded folders he couldn’t bring himself to touch again. His tea had gone cold, untouched. His lunch tray sat off to the side, the food still sealed. The mere smell of it made his stomach lurch.
He pressed his fingers into his temples, fighting back another wave of nausea. His skin felt clammy, his thoughts unanchored. He’d thrown up in the Department toilets that morning—twice now in two days—and every time he looked at the flame-marked sigil, his stomach turned again like it was poisoned.
Not from sleep.
From guilt.
He kept waiting for the knock on his door.
Not Vance—not anymore.
But someone else. An Auror. Maybe multiple. Led by his father.
“You are under arrest for unauthorized access, conspiracy to conceal dark magic activity, and participation in treasonous experimentation.”
He imagined the words like they’d already been spoken. Over and over.
He’d helped them. He couldn’t un-know it now. He couldn’t walk past his own reflection without seeing someone corrupted, even if it had happened slowly, and without him realizing.
The door creaked open and he jolted upright, heart hammering in his throat.
But it was Emma.
She stepped in quietly, her brows drawn together the second she saw him.
“Merlin, Albus… are you okay?”
He nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You look like you’ve been—” she hesitated, searching his face. “You’re pale. I mean actually pale. Did you eat anything today?”
“I’m fine,” he said again, forcing a faint smile. “Probably just the flu. Something’s going around.”
She stared at him for a second longer than he could stand.
Then she came closer, set her stack of scrolls down, and placed a hand gently on his forehead.
He flinched, but didn’t pull away.
“You’re freezing. And you’re burning up,” she murmured. “That’s not just flu. You’re shaking.”
“I didn’t sleep much,” he muttered. “Had a lot of files.”
“You’ve had a lot of files every week. But now you’re not even pretending to function.”
Albus said nothing. The knot in his stomach tightened.
Emma stepped back, eyes softening with concern. “Is this about work? About Vance?”
Albus looked away. “No.”
She didn’t press—not yet.
But her voice dropped. “Is it your dad?”
He gave a humorless laugh. “It’s always about my dad somehow, isn’t it?”
She hesitated again. “You know… whatever this is, you don’t have to deal with it alone.”
Albus wanted to believe that. Wanted to reach for her hand.
But all he could see was the sigil burned into those bodies. The papers he delivered. The files he opened.
He shook his head. “I’ll be alright.”
Emma didn’t believe him. Not fully. But she nodded anyway.
“I’ll be around. If the flu… or whatever it is gets worse, you tell me.”
He nodded again, barely managing to meet her eyes.
She left quietly.
And Albus sat back, swallowing bile, staring at the wall—haunted by evidence he wished he’d never seen, and the terrifying thought that someday very soon… he might have to show it to his father.
With great strength Albus stood, hands trembling slightly as he packed the evidence into a reinforced file case—the copied scrolls, the modified sigils, the test logs with missing timestamps, and the documents bearing the initials A.D.. He double-checked every anti-tamper charm, cast a locking spell, and then just stood there… staring at the case like it was a live bomb.
Because it was.
Not just to the people behind the resurrection experiments.
But to himself.
Because when he walked into his father’s office with this, he wasn’t just exposing a hidden conspiracy. He was confessing.
He slid the case under his arm and left his office quietly, warding the door behind him as if it might be the last time he’d see it.
The halls of the Ministry felt different today—every footstep louder, every glance sharper, every whisper in the air somehow laced with judgment. Even though no one knew what he was carrying, Albus felt exposed. Like the truth was burning a hole through the fabric of his coat.
With every step toward the DMLE floor, he tried to compose the words he would say:
“Dad, I need to tell you something.”
“I didn’t know at first, but I should have seen it.”
“I didn’t mean to help them.”
“I thought I was doing something meaningful.”
“I… I broke the law.”
“I think I’ve been helping a group that’s responsible for the Inferi.
“I might have been working for someone who isn’t just dangerous… but tied to something much bigger.”
He reached the lift.
Pushed the button.
Watched the golden cage ascend.
His thoughts turned darker.
Would Harry even look at him the same?
Would he go cold? Say nothing? Hand the files off and nod for security to take his son away?
Would he have to arrest him?
Albus swallowed, throat dry.
Would he want to?
The worst part wasn’t that Harry might shout.
The worst part was that he might not.
That he might just look at Albus with that quiet, steady disappointment—the kind that made you feel like you’d failed yourself, not just him.
The lift doors slid open with a soft chime, and Albus stepped out onto the DMLE floor, clutching the files to his chest like they were forged in fire.
He walked down the corridor, rehearsing his words again, breath shallow, heart pounding. He could already see his father’s office door at the end of the hallway, half-open, the golden glow of desk-lamps spilling onto the floor.
But then—
A sound cut through the air.
A woman’s scream.
Ragged. Raw. Devastated.
He froze.
It wasn’t a scream of pain—it was grief. Deep, soul-tearing grief.
He turned sharply and followed the sound to the Auror bullpen, where a small crowd had gathered in stunned silence around a young woman—mid-twenties, an administrative assistant from one of the field dispatch units. She was on her knees beside a chair, face buried in her hands, her body trembling violently with sobs.
Her screams echoed through the bullpen.
Harry was crouched beside her, his hand gently on her back, his face tight with something between fury and helplessness.
Albus lingered at the edge of the room, unnoticed.
He heard fragments of hushed words from the Aurors nearby.
“Her whole family… gone
“Muggle town, no warning. They didn’t even stand a chance.”
“Her sister… her nephew. Four years old.”
Albus felt his breath stop.
A four-year-old.
His legs threatened to buckle. The files slipped slightly from his arms, and he gripped them tighter just to stop his hands from shaking.
The woman screamed again, her voice cracking mid-breath.
And then he heard his father's voice—calm, low, steady, but burning with promise.
“I swear to you. We will find who’s doing this. And they will pay for it.”
The words hit Albus like a dagger.
Because he knew who helped build the machine that killed them.
Who enabled the hands that twisted resurrection into something monstrous.
Who delivered documents. Who looked away.
Who believed Vance when he said it was just research.
His feet moved before his mind caught up.
Albus turned and walked out, back through the corridor, back to the lifts—unseen.
He rode down in silence, the files still pressed to his chest like a confession he couldn’t make.
He couldn’t face him.
Not now.
Not after this.
Because how could he stand in front of his father—who was comforting a woman whose entire family had been slaughtered by something he had helped—and say,
"Dad, I didn’t know."
Because he did know now.
And that knowledge was destroying him.
***
The moment the lift doors closed behind him, Albus felt the weight of the entire Ministry pressing down on his chest.
He didn’t breathe.
He couldn’t.
The memory of the woman’s scream echoed in his ears—shattered and animal. The sight of his father’s hand on her back, his voice low and full of fury, played over and over in his mind. That promise—
“They will pay for it.”
And Albus knew.
If Harry ever discovered the truth—if he knew how deep his son had been involved, even unknowingly—Albus wouldn’t just face the law.
He’d face him.
The lift doors opened again. He stumbled out, heart racing, nausea curling at the edges of his stomach.
He couldn’t stay.
He sent a message—clumsily, magically scrawled into a parchment scrap with shaking hands:
To: Department of Mysteries, Vance’s office
Feeling unwell. Taking personal leave for the day. Will report tomorrow.
– A. Potter
He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He barely made it out the Floo station, tossed a handful of powder, and muttered the address of his flat in a raw whisper.
The green flame engulfed him.
And then—
Silence.
The moment he stumbled into his flat, the wards hummed faintly, recognizing his magical signature. The space was small, sparsely furnished, still smelling faintly of ink and rain-dampened parchment. His father had offered to buy him a larger place. He’d refused.
He stood in the middle of the room, still holding the files—now damp with the sweat from his hands.
He dropped them on the floor like they were cursed.
Then Albus collapsed onto the sofa, burying his face into his hands, gasping like someone who’d been held underwater.
He was drowning.
The walls of the flat closed in around him—quiet and sterile and so far from the screams he’d heard in the Auror bullpen. But he couldn’t unhear them. Couldn’t unsee the devastation carved into that woman’s face.
He had helped cause this.
Unwittingly. But still.
And now, all he could think about was his father's voice:
“They will pay.”
What if he was part of the “they”?
What if Harry found out?
Would he still be his father then?
Or just the Head of the Department, doing what was “right”?
Albus curled on the couch, knees drawn up, face buried in the sleeve of his coat.
He didn’t cry.
But he was very, very close.
And suddenly there was a soft knock.
Too soft to be impatient. But loud enough to send a cold jolt down Albus’s spine.
He froze on the couch, breath caught halfway through his lungs. The air felt suddenly thinner, heavier.
Another knock.
Three sharp taps.
He stared at the door, heart thudding against his ribs like it was trying to break free. His eyes flicked to the files still lying on the floor, their magical wards pulsing dimly.
They’d found him.
They were here.
He imagined the scene as if watching it from outside his own body:
The door opening. Two Aurors in uniform. Maybe more. Calm but firm voices.
“Albus Severus Potter. You are under arrest for the unlawful possession and transport of restricted magical material, misuse of Department of Mysteries clearance, and obstruction of an active investigation.”
He imagined his father's face. That hard, silent expression he wore when someone he trusted let him down. Not anger—something worse.
Disappointment.
His mother would hear it in a headline first. Maybe a call from Aunt Hermione. Maybe not even that. Ginny would break. She’d say “No, not Albus, not my son.” She’d say “There must be a mistake.”
And Emma—
Would she believe him?
Would she think it had all been a mask?
Another knock.
Albus stood up, legs numb, his wand already in hand—not to defend, just to hold onto something.
He walked to the door.
And then, he opened it.
The door swung open—and for a half-second, Albus still expected to see scarlet robes and Ministry badges, wands drawn and eyes cold.
Instead, standing in the doorway, grinning like a boy who’d just robbed a joke shop, was Scorpius Malfoy.
He held a bottle of elf-crafted liquor in one hand and wore a long grey coat that was half-soaked from rain. His blond hair was a mess, and his expression could only be described as radiantly pleased with himself.
“There he is!” Scorpius beamed. “I figured you’d look like absolute garbage. You do! But don’t worry, I brought something to fix it.”
Albus just blinked, chest still rising and falling too fast.
“…What—”
“No, no,” Scorpius said, brushing past him and stepping inside like he owned the place. “Save the questions. I have news. Massive. Life-changing. Sit down.”
Albus stood frozen in the doorway.
Scorpius turned around, narrowed his eyes. “Al. Sit. You’re worrying me.”
Still half-convinced this was some surreal fever dream, Albus walked stiffly back toward the couch and dropped into it like he was eighty years old.
Scorpius popped the cork on the bottle with unnecessary flair, summoned two tumblers with a lazy flick of his wand, and poured a generous amount of something amber and probably expensive.
He handed one to Albus.
Albus stared at the drink like it was poison.
“I swear if you don’t take a sip, I’ll hex it into your mouth,” Scorpius warned, collapsing into the armchair across from him. “Merlin, when was the last time you showered?”
Albus gave him a flat look but didn’t raise the glass.
In truth, the very smell of the drink—spiced, sweet, sharp—made his throat clench and his stomach roll. He was barely holding down his own breath. He couldn’t put anything in without vomiting.
Scorpius was still smiling, oblivious. “You’re going to want to be drunk for this. I haven’t even told my father yet. I wanted you to be the first to know.”
Albus’s fingers tightened around the glass. “Scorpius… what news?”
Scorpius leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “You gotta drink first!”
Albus just blinked at Scorpius, who was practically vibrating with excitement. The world had tilted so sharply in the last twenty minutes that he was struggling to process anything—let alone the wildly smug grin on his best friend's face.
“Alright,” Albus croaked, lifting the drink. “I’ll drink. What’s the news?”
Scorpius leaned forward, beaming like a man who had just discovered gravity.
“My wife is pregnant.”
Albus stared.
Scorpius raised his eyebrows, waiting for it to land.
“…Rose is pregnant?”
Scorpius gave an enthusiastic nod. “Twenty weeks.”
Albus’s mouth parted, but no words came out. He blinked several times, doing the mental math.
“That’s why you two rushed into marriage?” he finally asked, voice hoarse.
Scorpius let out a proud little snort. “We told everyone it was romantic spontaneity and a long engagement. But yeah—we found out she was three months along the week we were looking at wedding venues.”
Albus leaned back on the couch, jaw slightly slack, still clutching the untouched drink.
A part of him wanted to congratulate Scorpius. Really, he did. But the rest of him was spiraling.
He couldn’t breathe properly. His head was pounding. There was a screaming woman burned into his memory. His father’s voice swearing revenge. Files that felt radioactive in the corner of his flat. And now—
Scorpius Malfoy was going to be a father.
“You alright?” Scorpius asked, finally noticing the color—or lack of it—in Albus’s face.
Albus opened his mouth to respond.
And promptly had to bolt to the bathroom.
He barely made it before he vomited.
Hard.
Scorpius, alarmed now, stood just outside the door. “Mate? Bloody hell—I didn’t think the news was that shocking.”
Albus leaned over the sink, eyes closed, hands shaking. The aftertaste of guilt and bile burned on his tongue.
A child.
Rose and Scorpius were bringing a child into a world that he had helped make less safe. One where Inferi walked among the living. Where someone was using the dead like pawns. Where he had fed that machine with scrolls and silence.
He rinsed his mouth with shaking hands.
And when he looked up into the mirror, he barely recognized the face staring back.
But he forced himself upright.
Wiped his face.
And stepped out of the bathroom.
Scorpius was waiting, frowning, arms crossed.
“Okay. Now you talk. What the hell is going on?”
“It’s just the flu,” Albus mumbled. “Been feeling off all week.”
Scorpius raised an eyebrow. “That’s a violent flu. You sure you’re not secretly dying?”
“Emotionally, possibly,” Albus said dryly, trying to muster a ghost of humor. “Physically—just unstable.”
Scorpius offered a wry grin, then raised his glass. “Well, at least drink to me being in shambles for the next seventeen years.”
Albus didn’t lift his glass. But he stepped forward and pulled Scorpius into a sudden, tight hug.
“Congratulations, mate,” he said, voice quiet but heartfelt. “Really.”
Scorpius clapped him on the back, clearly pleased. “Thanks, Albus.”
They pulled apart, and Scorpius looked at him with a bit more intensity than usual. Like he’d been saving this part.
“Actually,” he said, shifting slightly, “there’s more.”
Albus’s brows knit together. “More?”
Scorpius smiled—softer now. Warmer.
“Rose and I talked about it. And we decided…” He took a breath. “We want you to be the godfather.”
Albus blinked.
The words seemed to echo in the flat like they needed a second to land.
“You what?”
“We want you to be the baby’s godfather,” Scorpius repeated, more certain now. “You’re my best mate, Al. You always have been. I trust you more than anyone. And honestly…” His voice grew quieter. “There’s no one else I’d rather our kid look up to.”
Albus felt something catch in his throat. His hands tightened around the back of the armchair for balance.
He was being asked to protect life.
To guide it.
To be responsible for something pure in a world where he had accidentally enabled death.
And still… his best friend wanted him.
It didn’t make sense. But it meant everything.
He swallowed hard and nodded once, voice barely steady.
“Yeah. Of course. I’d be honored.”
But deep down, something twisted in his chest.
Because now—more than ever— he knew he had to make it right.
Not just for himself.
Not for his father.
But for the child he was now bound to protect.
Scorpius poured himself a glass, still talking animatedly, the drink sloshing slightly as he gestured too much—his voice full of a joy Albus hadn’t heard in weeks.
“—and the first scan, mate, you should’ve seen it. Rose cried, which made me cry—don’t laugh, it was emotional—and they let us keep this tiny enchanted print, and I swear it looks like a sea gnome, but apparently that’s normal—”
Albus offered a smile, nodding faintly at the right beats, murmuring occasional “Yeah?” and “That’s great”, but his mind was far away.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He did.
Scorpius was his best friend. Rose was family. The baby—his godchild now. It meant something.
But behind the smile, his mind was churning.
The image of the burning mark.
The scrolls.
The screaming woman.
The child lost to Inferi.
The knowledge that he had helped build this world.
The dread that his father might be the one to destroy him for it.
He couldn’t carry this alone anymore.
But he couldn’t go to Harry. Not yet. Not when he still couldn’t look him in the eye without seeing the weight of that broken promise.
No—he would go to him.
Someone who would understand the shades of gray.
Someone who had always operated in the space between justice and survival.
Someone who could protect him—not just from Vance or the Ministry… but from Harry.
He would go tomorrow.
He would bring the files.
He would explain everything.
He would finally speak the truth.
And let him decide what came next.
“Anyway,” Scorpius was saying, holding up his glass, “we’ve narrowed it down to three names. If it’s a boy, we’re leaning toward Cassian—because Rose thinks it sounds noble, and I think it sounds like a fictitious name —”
Albus smiled faintly again.
But all he could think was:
Tomorrow, everything changes.
And whether I walk out free… or not at all… depends on him.
***
The early morning mist still clung to the Potter garden, curling around the hedges and weaving through the grass like reluctant ghosts. The sky was pale grey, the sun hidden just beyond the horizon, casting soft light over the dewy lawn. The garden was quiet—still—except for the faint rustle of leaves and the gentle clink of porcelain against ceramic.
Harry sat on the edge of the bench beneath the old rowan tree, a steaming mug of tea cradled in both hands. He was still in his robe, his hair a little more unkempt than usual, the lines around his eyes deeper from a sleepless night.
He wasn’t thinking about work for once. Not directly.
He was thinking about the woman in the Auror bullpen—about the way her scream had sounded, the way her hands had trembled as she clutched the edge of his coat. About how not one person in the Ministry could tell him why this was happening or who was behind it.
And he was thinking, as he often did these days, about Albus.
He didn’t hear her at first.
Then—
A gentle rustle behind him, the faint pad of slippers on stone.
“You always did sneak out early when something’s on your mind.”
Harry turned his head slightly.
His mother was standing just behind him, wrapped in a thick shawl, her red hair braided loosely down her back. Her eyes, sharp and warm, met his with a knowing look.
Harry offered a faint smile, scooting over wordlessly.
She sat beside and didn’t say anything for a few moments, just looked out over the garden. The silence between them was comfortable.
After a moment, she said gently, “You haven’t slept.”
Harry took a sip of tea. “Didn’t feel right.”
Lily glanced sideways at him. “Something happened.”
Harry nodded once. “Another Inferi attack. Family wiped out. Child included.”
Her breath caught faintly. “Merlin.”
“I gave her my word,” Harry said quietly. “Told her whoever’s behind it… they’ll pay.”
Lily looked at him, her hand brushing lightly against his forearm. “And what if you can’t find them?”
Harry stared into the steam rising from his mug. “Then I wasn’t good enough.”
Lily was silent for a moment.
Then: “Don’t do that to yourself, Harry.”
He didn’t reply.
After a beat, she asked softly, “Is that what’s really bothering you?”
Harry didn’t move.
But his voice, when it came, was quieter. Tighter.
“…I think Albus is hiding something.”
Lily’s eyes didn’t widen. She simply waited.
“He’s been distant,” Harry continued. “More than usual. He’s pale. Lost weight. Keeps avoiding me at work. And I’ve heard from James that he’s been spending too much time in the lower levels of Mysteries. Files no one’s supposed to touch.”
Lily's fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her shawl. “Do you think he’s involved?”
Harry looked down. “I don’t know.”
The words tasted bitter.
“But if he is…”
He swallowed.
“…I don’t know how to protect him from what comes next.”
Lily didn’t speak right away.
But after a while, she reached for his hand and held it, gently, as the sun began to break through the mist—one soft ray slipping through the garden like a promise.
“You’ll figure it out,” she said quietly. “You always do.”
Harry sat quietly, staring down into his half-empty mug, the silence stretching between him and his mother like a thread that might fray at any moment.
The garden was beginning to warm in the early sun, but he still felt the chill—the kind that came not from weather, but from everything left unsaid.
He glanced over at her.
Lily was watching the treetops sway gently in the breeze, her profile soft and calm. There was still a weight in her eyes, though—something that hadn’t left since she came back. A grief too old to weep, and too new to ignore.
Harry cleared his throat softly.
“Have you… thought about seeing her?”
Lily turned her head slightly, her brow furrowing. “Who?”
“Petunia.”
Her face didn’t change much—but he saw it in the tightness around her mouth, the slight shift in her hands.
“She’s still alive,” Harry said gently. “And I… I thought maybe you’d want to. Even if it’s just once.”
Lily didn’t respond right away. She turned her gaze back to the garden. A robin hopped along the hedge, picking at dew-wet grass.
Finally, she spoke.
“I don’t know, Harry.”
Her voice was low. Not cold—but distant.
“She mourned me. In her own way. And then she moved on. She became… hard. Bitter. I don’t blame her for it, not completely. But I don’t know if there’s anything left between us.”
Harry nodded slowly, not pushing.
“I just thought,” he said quietly, “if you wanted it… I could arrange something. Private. No press. No Ministry.”
Lily gave a faint smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’ll think about it.”
And that was all she said.
She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, still gazing toward the soft light filtering through the trees. The silence had returned, gentle and heavy. Harry watched her from the corner of his eye, unsure of how to begin.
But he knew he had to.
“There’s something else,” he said. “Something I should’ve told you sooner.”
She turned to look at him, her expression unreadable but open.
“It’s about… Snape.”
At that name, a flicker passed through her eyes. Not quite surprise. Not quite pain. Something more complicated.
“I’ve heard things,” she said softly. “Bits and pieces. From Sirius, Remus… even Ginny, a little. Enough to guess. But no one’s told me the full truth.”
Harry nodded slowly. “You deserve to hear it from me.”
He placed his cup down and folded his hands, staring at the lines etched into his palms.
“He protected me,” Harry began, voice steady but low. “All those years. At Hogwarts. From the moment I was born to the moment he died… he worked for Dumbledore. And for you.”
Lily’s breath caught softly, but she said nothing.
“He was cruel. Cold. I won’t pretend he wasn’t. I hated him for most of my life,” Harry continued. “But everything he did, he did because he loved you. He never stopped.”
Lily closed her eyes, just for a moment.
“I saw his memories,” Harry said. “After he died. That’s how I learned the truth. He saved my life. More than once. I named one of my sons after him.”
Her gaze flicked to him at that, surprised.
“Albus Severus,” he said with a faint, tired smile. “Not the easiest name to grow up with, but… it mattered.”
Lily looked away, swallowing hard.
“I don’t know what you feel about that,” Harry said. “Or if you’ll ever want to talk about it. I just… I wanted you to know. From me.”
She didn’t speak right away. When she did, her voice was gentle, but tinged with grief.
“I loved Severus once. But he hurt me, Harry. Deeply. Even before everything that came after.”
“I know,” Harry said quickly. “And I’m not asking you to forgive him. Or remember him the way I do. I just… I wanted you to understand who he became.”
She reached out slowly and placed her hand over his. “Thank you. For telling me.”
He hesitated, then added quietly, “I should’ve told you sooner. And… I should’ve been with you sooner. After you came back. I was distant. With you. With Dad. With Sirius. I didn’t know how to feel. How to be around you.”
Lily’s expression broke just slightly—an ache in her smile. “You’d spent your whole life grieving us. I don’t blame you for not knowing how to have us back.”
Harry shook his head. “It wasn’t just grief. It was guilt. That I’d moved on. That I built a life without you… and then suddenly you were standing in my kitchen again.”
His voice cracked faintly.
“I didn’t know how to be your son anymore.”
Lily didn’t flinch.
She leaned forward, cupped his cheek gently, like she had when he was small and afraid and didn’t want to admit it.
“You never stopped being my son, Harry. You just had to remember what that meant.”
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, the ache in his chest didn’t feel quite so alone.
They sat there, in silence again—but this time, it was healing.
***
The sound of early-morning London filtered through the quiet hallway as Albus adjusted the collar of his dark Ministry robes and stepped out of his flat. The sun hadn’t fully risen yet—soft orange light spilling into the streets like a slow, creeping tide—and everything felt both strangely calm and unbearably fragile.
His satchel was heavy on his shoulder, packed with his usual work scrolls, but lighter now without the concealed files he’d been hiding for weeks.
Because he had already given them away.
He had already told him everything.
Every name. Every symbol. Every falsified experiment. Every sigil of flame burned into flesh. The entire horrifying scope of what he’d uncovered—and of what he had helped to make possible.
And now?
Now he was walking back into the very place where it all began.
The Ministry's golden atrium loomed ahead like the mouth of something enormous and blind. Albus hesitated on the steps, the wind tugging lightly at the edge of his coat.
His mind echoed with the one thought he couldn’t shake:
Dad would be furious.
Not just because Albus had waited this long.
Not just because he had kept it all hidden, from his family, from the Department, from Harry bloody Potter himself.
But because of who he had told instead.
The one man Harry would never have wanted him to go to.
The one person whose name alone would cause his father’s eyes to harden like stone.
Harry had spent his life walking the line between law and loyalty, justice and mercy. And that man—he—was always just beyond the line, dancing in the grey.
Harry might never forgive him for it.
For choosing him over his own father.
But Albus had weighed the choices in the dead of night—alone, choking on guilt, shame, and fear—and he had known:
He didn’t need judgment.
He didn’t need policy.
He needed someone who knew what it was like to carry something dark, and choose to live anyway.
And he had no one else.
So he'd made the choice.
Even if it meant Harry would look at him like a stranger when the truth finally came out.
Albus stepped into the lift, the golden gates clinking shut behind him.
And as the floor began to descend, he gripped the railing tight and whispered under his breath—
“I hope I did the right thing.”
The lift let out a soft chime as it reached the Department of Mysteries floor, the gates sliding open with their usual hiss of old enchantments. Albus stepped out, the cool air of the corridor wrapping around him like a silent warning.
He walked slowly toward his desk, the familiar metallic scent of magical ink and old stone in the air. The halls were quiet—too quiet—but his thoughts were louder than ever.
Every step brought back his voice.
Measured. Calm. Precise. The kind of voice that never asked if you were ready, only what you were going to do next.
“You’ve given me the truth, Albus. But truth only matters if you use it.”
He had sat across from him, the weight of the files between them like a second presence in the room, his throat dry, his eyes burning.
“You’re not going to fix this with guilt. You fix it by making the right people nervous.”
Albus reached his desk, dropped his satchel, and slowly sat, replaying the words over and over.
“Don’t try to expose Vance directly. He’s protected. Watched. Powerful. You come at him with half a case, and you’ll be discredited—or worse.”
He had nodded, heart pounding.
“Instead, start with the pattern. The money. The dead ends your father hit. Vance’s connections to Berlin. You already know how the resurrection files were moved through the archives. So prove it. Don’t just say it—show it.”
Albus opened one of his drawers and pulled out a blank research scroll. He set it flat and began to carefully, slowly enchant it to begin building a magical network map—a web of scrolls, authors, artifact acquisitions, timelines, shipment records. Quiet work. Careful work.
“And don’t let your father find out. Not yet.”
“Why?” Albus had asked. “He’d help me.”
“No,” the man had replied. “He’d try to protect you. And right now, protection looks a lot like interference.”
He hated how right it sounded.
So now he was here, quietly building a case against a man everyone else feared, while knowing he was just a step ahead of ruin himself.
“Keep your head down. Watch. Document. Connect. When you’re ready, we’ll go loud. Not before.”
Albus spent the entire morning in a trance-like rhythm—reading, analyzing, recording.
But not the way Vance thought.
Every scroll Vance had handed him was parsed twice: once on the surface, as expected, with marginal notes and compliance checkmarks… and again, privately, discreetly, dangerously—using a layer of invisible ink that only revealed itself when exposed to a heat charm and a whisper of the phrase "truth beneath ash."
It was a phrase he had taught him.
A phrase their hidden network used when compiling underground dossiers—files too volatile for Ministry archives, too damning to trust even to parchment unless encoded.
Albus did exactly what he was told.
He played the part.
He asked the right questions—just curious enough, not too sharp.
He responded to Vance’s passing comments with polite interest. He nodded, he wrote, he agreed.
But every time Vance left the room, Albus would breathe out—and start really working.
He logged: exact timestamps of scroll deliveries, terminology inconsistencies, magical residue scans of Vance's modified sigil, and the mention of Ashborn 16, a name that had never shown up before but carried the same "A.D." signature embedded in the margins.
He even pretended to take a break—just long enough to slip into the artifact vault registry, where he photographed the entries that had been altered using Level 7 access overrides.
That access was supposed to be sealed by department heads only.
But someone else—someone with the triangle-and-flame seal embedded magically into their authorization—had been there just two nights ago.
The name wasn’t logged.
But the code that was?
A.D.74211
Another A.D. mark. Another ghost.
By late afternoon, Albus had compiled enough flagged scrolls and invisible notes to fill a secondary packet hidden beneath his desk’s false drawer. He sealed it using a binding charm keyed to his own magical signature and the unique ward token given to him by him.
He left no trace.
He played the obedient researcher, the quiet son, the background figure no one truly noticed.
Just as he’d been told to do.
And by the time Vance returned and nodded in silent approval at his apparent “progress,” Albus merely nodded back.
Polite. Composed. Cooperative.
But beneath the desk, hidden from view, rested a file filled with truths wrapped in fire.
And Albus Potter, for the first time since this all began, was ready.
***
The corridors outside the Veil chamber were quiet—too quiet for midday.
Albus had just finished submitting a falsified report on the Ashborn sigils when he heard the smooth, familiar voice from behind him.
“Potter.”
He turned, heart skipping a beat.
Vance stood there, arms folded neatly behind his back, looking every bit the composed Department Head—robes pristine, expression unreadable, as if carved from polished stone. But there was something else today. Something… sharper. Like a blade sheathed in calm.
“I want a word,” Vance said.
Albus nodded, swallowing hard. “Of course.”
Vance led him into a nearby chamber—unused, silent, charmed with muffling spells. The walls glimmered faintly with old enchantments.
Albus stepped in slowly. The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Vance didn’t sit. He circled instead, like a hawk inspecting its prey.
“You’ve been working late,” he said. “I admire your… diligence.”
Albus forced a small, neutral smile. “There’s a lot to sort through.”
“There is,” Vance agreed. “And I’ve noticed you’ve been… more meticulous lately.”
Albus didn’t answer.
Vance stopped walking and stood directly in front of him. Close.
Too close.
“Tell me, Albus. Do you trust me?”
Albus hesitated for a beat, then nodded.
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
Vance tilted his head.
“Good,” he said softly. “Because I trust you too.”
Then, suddenly— his eyes locked onto Albus’s.
Cold. Deep. Searching.
Legilimency.
Albus felt it almost instantly—like a pressure behind his temples, a tugging at the edge of thought, as if something unseen was brushing the surface of his mind.
His stomach turned to ice.
He didn’t know Occlumency. Not properly. Not the way his father has. But he’d read enough to know what to do.
Don’t fight it directly. Don’t force a block. Distract. Evade.
He blinked. Looked away.
Focused on something else.
The stonework near Vance’s shoulder. The dust on the wall. A flickering torch. His own heartbeat.
Think neutral thoughts, he told himself. Veil data. Runes. Repeat definitions.
“Temporal echoes occur when exposure exceeds 0.8—”
Vance’s voice interrupted. “You’re uncomfortable.”
Albus blinked again and met his gaze briefly—just briefly.
“No,” he lied. “Just tired.”
Vance’s eyes remained fixed on him a second longer than necessary.
Then—he smiled.
Almost… disappointed.
“Of course.”
He stepped back.
“I just wanted to be sure you’re still… aligned with our goals. The resurrection protocols aren’t for the faint-hearted.”
“I’m with the team,” Albus said quietly.
“Good.”
Vance turned and opened the door, calm once again.
As Albus stepped out, Vance added over his shoulder, “Oh, and Potter—one more thing.”
Albus turned slightly.
“If you ever feel uncertain… or disloyal…” His smile sharpened.
“I’ll know.”
And then he walked away.
Albus stood frozen for a moment.
His back was slick with sweat. His fingers trembled at his sides.
He’d passed.
Barely.
And now he knew, with absolute certainty:
Vance suspected him.
And the game was getting dangerous.
***
The moment Harry stepped into the Department of Mysteries, the air shifted.
He hadn’t been down here in weeks. Not because he didn’t want to—but because Albus had made it painfully clear that his presence was… unwelcome. Still, something had changed. Something in the way his son moved. Held himself. Or more accurately—didn’t.
Harry had spent years watching people lie. Suspects. Witnesses. Death Eaters. Politicians.
And lately, every time he saw Albus—even from across the Atrium or through enchanted glass—he recognized the signs.
The tension in the shoulders.
The evasive glance.
The hollowness behind the polite nod.
He was hiding something.
And Harry, despite the part of him screaming not to push—because pushing Albus had always driven him further away—knew he couldn’t ignore it any longer.
He walked through the lower levels with a calm, official air. No one questioned him. The seal of the Head of the DMLE carried its own authority—even here.
When he reached Albus’s office, the door was half-shut.
Harry paused outside for a second, then knocked.
A beat of silence.
Then a voice: “Come in.”
He opened the door and stepped inside.
Albus was at his desk, quill frozen mid-air, face taut with surprise that quickly collapsed into blank formality.
“Dad?”
“Hey,” Harry said softly. “You’ve got a minute?”
Albus startled for a moment said, “Uh… yeah. I guess.”
Harry shut the door behind him and took a few steps inside, surveying the room. Everything looked neat—but too neat. Like it had been arranged in a hurry. His Auror’s instinct kicked in immediately.
He took a seat opposite his son.
“I’ve been noticing… something’s off with you lately.”
Albus stiffened.
“You’ve lost weight. You’re quieter than usual. You barely look anyone in the eye. And I know what that means—I’ve seen it in people under pressure, and I’ve seen it in the mirror.”
Albus said nothing. His fingers curled around a quill, white-knuckled.
Harry leaned in slightly. “Albus… if something’s wrong, you can tell me. You should tell me.”
Albus’s jaw clenched. “It’s nothing.”
Harry frowned. “That’s not true.”
Albus’s voice grew sharper, strained. “Why do you care now?”
That stopped Harry cold.
“What?”
“You’ve never cared what’s going on in my head before,” Albus snapped, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and guilt. “You only show up when you think I’ve broken something. Or when I don’t live up to your name.”
Harry blinked, stunned. “That’s not—”
“It’s fine,” Albus muttered, cutting him off, standing suddenly. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
There was a beat of cold silence between them.
And then—
A knock.
The door opened without waiting for permission, and in stepped Vance, pristine as always, his expression unreadable.
“Potter,” he said with a cool nod to Harry, then turned to Albus. “I’ve got the Veil resonance reports for Ashborn 16. I need you to sort them into the historical anomaly framework and prepare a closed summary for me by this evening.”
Albus nodded quickly, brushing past his father, grateful for the excuse. “Right. Of course.”
He took the folder from Vance, avoided Harry’s eyes entirely, and left the room without another word.
The door shut behind him.
Vance stood there a moment, then turned slowly to Harry.
“Is everything alright with your son?” he asked, tone deceptively polite.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I was about to ask you the same.”
Vance gave a thin smile. “He’s under a great deal of pressure. The Veil work is… demanding. Emotionally taxing.”
“More than it should be,” Harry muttered.
Vance arched an eyebrow. “With all due respect, Mr Potter, your son is brilliant. But he’s not you.”
Harry’s stare was flat, cold. “No. He’s not. He’s better.”
Vance didn’t flinch. “Let’s hope he stays that way.” he said and left.
Harry sat down slowly in the chair across from Albus’s desk, the silence pressing down like a weight. The room still smelled faintly of parchment and ink, and of Albus’s cologne—sharp, earthy, faint. He ran a hand down his face and let out a long, tired breath.
The fight with Albus still rang in his ears.
"Why do you care now?"
It hadn’t been just anger in his son’s voice. It had been pain—raw, wounded, buried beneath months, maybe years of resentment.
Harry leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the organized clutter on the desk. Half-translated rune sheets. Scribbled notes in Albus’s tight handwriting. A cold cup of tea, forgotten.
He’d fought wars. He’d faced death. He’d stood before Voldemort with nothing but a wand and the will to protect—
—but nothing made him feel more useless than sitting in this office and realizing:
He didn’t know his own son.
“You’re only as happy as your saddest child,” someone had once told him. He didn’t remember who. Molly, maybe. It had sounded so sentimental then.
But now it echoed like a curse.
Because if that was true… Then Harry Potter was miserable.
He rubbed his eyes and sat back, staring blankly at the spot where Albus had been sitting only minutes ago.
The door creaked softly behind him.
He turned, expecting maybe another Unspeakable or some clerk.
But it was Emma Swift.
She froze for a moment when she saw him, surprised. “Mr. Potter?”
Harry stood instinctively, polite even in his guilt. “Emma, isn’t it?”
She nodded, stepping in. “Sorry—I didn’t know anyone was here. I was just coming to drop off some collaboration notes.”
She held up a small folder and set it gently on Albus’s desk.
Harry watched her, then asked quietly, “You work closely with him?”
Emma nodded again. “Sometimes. We’re on overlapping projects.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Harry said, softly, “Have you… noticed anything different about him lately?”
Emma hesitated.
He saw it—the flicker in her eyes. The weight she didn’t quite know how to answer with.
“I—” she began, then stopped, biting her lip.
Harry didn’t press. But he didn’t look away.
Finally, she said carefully, “I’ve noticed he doesn’t sleep much. That he hasn’t been eating. And that he’s afraid all the time… but won’t say why.”
Harry’s heart twisted.
“I’ve asked him what’s wrong,” Emma continued, quieter now. “But he just keeps saying it’s fine. Or it’s work. Or… it’s nothing.”
Harry sat back down, the guilt digging in deeper.
Emma added, after a moment, “I don’t think he trusts anyone to help him. I think he believes if he tells the truth, it’ll destroy everything.”
Harry looked up at her.
“That makes two of us.”
Emma blinked.
Harry saw it—that she wasn’t just Albus’s colleague.
She cared.
He nodded, slowly. “Thank you.”
Emma gave him a sad smile. “Whatever it is… he’s carrying it alone.”
She turned to leave, then paused. “But I don’t think he wants to.”
***
Harry entered the house quietly, the late hour wrapping around him like a second cloak. The house was still—silent save for the occasional creak of old floorboards. Everyone was asleep.
He made his way upstairs, each step soft, careful, as though noise itself might shatter something fragile.
The bedroom was dark when he entered. A faint light glowed beneath the bathroom door. Steam curled out from the edges like breath.
“Harry, that you?” Ginny’s voice called from inside, muffled by water and tiles.
Harry gave a tired smile. “No, it’s your boyfriend, love.”
There was a pause, then her teasing voice came back, “Oh, Johnny. I don’t think we can do it tonight—Harry could be home any minute.”
Harry chuckled softly and collapsed onto the bed, still fully dressed, arms spread like a man defeated.
“Nah,” he murmured with his eyes closed. “Your husband’s off with his mistress. It’s just us tonight.”
The bathroom door creaked open, and Ginny stepped out, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and curling, cheeks flushed from the heat.
She paused when she saw him—clothes rumpled, boots still on, face buried halfway into the pillow. Something in her teasing expression shifted.
Still, she smirked as she walked over. “So… she wore you out, did she?”
Harry cracked one eye open. “Emotionally? Absolutely.”
Her smile faded.
She crossed the room slowly, the humor replaced by concern. Sitting beside him, she reached out and ran her fingers through his hair, gentle and grounding.
“Rough day?” she asked softly.
Harry let out a long breath. “I saw Albus. Really saw him. And for a moment… I didn’t recognize him.”
Ginny didn’t speak, but her hand stilled.
“He’s pale. Hollow. Like he’s holding something inside that’s just… eating him,” Harry said, voice quieter now. “And when I tried to ask, he snapped. Not in anger. Like—he’s disappointed in me.”
Ginny took his hand.
“I keep thinking… I missed something. Years ago. And now it’s too late.”
“You didn’t miss it,” she said gently. “He just never let you see it.”
Harry turned his face into the pillow. “I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if I can.”
“You’re not supposed to fix everything,” Ginny whispered. “You’re his dad. Not a miracle worker.”
Harry exhaled shakily. “Feels like I’ve already failed.”
Ginny leaned down and kissed his forehead, her voice warm against his skin.
“You haven’t. You’re still trying. That counts more than you think.”
He opened his eyes finally, and looked at her.
“I’ll talk to him,” she said. “But tomorrow, you try again too.”
Harry gave a faint smile as Ginny brushed a bit of damp hair from his forehead. The heaviness hadn’t lifted—but her warmth had cracked a small hole in it.
Then, she arched an eyebrow. “So… this mistress of yours.”
Harry gave a tired groan, turning onto his back and covering his face with one arm. “Merlin, don’t start.”
“No, no,” Ginny grinned, pulling the towel tighter around her as she curled up beside him. “You brought her up, Mr. Potter. You said she’s keeping you busy. Emotionally, you said.”
“Emotionally draining,” Harry corrected. “Big difference.”
“Oh, so she’s needy,” Ginny said, faux thoughtful. “I see. Poor Johnny’s just left hanging, then.”
Harry peeked at her from beneath his arm. “Let me guess—Johnny always remembers to pick up flowers, doesn’t he?”
“He does, actually,” Ginny said smugly. “And he listens. And doesn’t storm out in a dramatic swirl of Auror robes when someone tries to talk about feelings.”
“That happened once.”
“Twice.”
“Fine. Twice.” Harry sighed. “And what about Johnny? What’s he doing showering with my wife?”
Ginny gave a mock gasp. “Showering near your wife. Totally innocent. Very respectful.”
“Riiight.” Harry turned his head toward her. “He better not be using my shampoo. That’s expensive.”
“Oh, no,” Ginny smirked. “He brings his own.”
Harry burst out laughing—low, tired, but real.
Ginny smiled, her hand finding his under the blanket.
“I needed that,” he said, squeezing her fingers.
“I know,” she said gently.
A beat passed.
Then Harry muttered, “Still don’t trust Johnny.”
Ginny leaned over, brushing her lips against his jaw.
“Well,” she whispered, “you’re the one who married me, Potter.”
He turned to face her fully now, eyes a little less clouded.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “And I’d do it again. Even with the imaginary boyfriend.”
Ginny laughed and laid her head on his chest, her hair cool and damp against his shirt.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Harry wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.
“I love you too,” he said.
And for that night, just for a little while, the weight pressing on both of them eased.
***
The Ministry Atrium was alive with its usual post-lunch bustle—witches and wizards appearing in flashes of green flame, memos zooming overhead like restless birds, and conversations flowing with the low hum of urgency.
James had just returned from a quick lunch at a café two streets over, his satchel slung over his shoulder and a half-finished takeaway coffee in hand. He was heading toward the lifts, already thinking about the reports waiting on his desk.
And then he saw her.
Amélie.
Standing across the atrium, just beyond the Floo station. She was dressed smartly—sleek navy robes, her hair twisted up with elegant precision. She looked just like she had the last time they’d seen each other. Sharp. Composed. Completely unaware of the wreckage she’d left behind.
James froze for a half second.
And memories came like a wave.
The whispers.
The looks across the dinner table.
The way Albus had gone quiet for weeks.
He had no idea it was her. Not when it started.
He’d liked her—really liked her.
But the fallout had been messy. Not because James had done something wrong, but because Albus had taken it personally.
The family drama that followed had felt like navigating a war zone. Ginny had given him the talk. Harry had stayed out of it (mostly). And Albus—well, Albus had never really forgiven him. Even though James had broken it off the moment he knew.
So now, seeing her again…
James turned his head, face hardening slightly.
He kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge her. Didn’t even flinch.
“James!”
Her voice rang out across the marble atrium. Not loud, but unmistakable.
He winced—but didn’t stop.
Picked up his pace. Eyes fixed on the nearest lift.
Another call, softer this time. “James, wait—”
The lift ahead opened with a soft chime. A pair of Ministry witches stepped out, chatting casually, and James darted in before the doors began to close.
Thank Merlin—it was empty.
The golden gates slid shut behind him, cutting off the sound of her voice.
The lift was ascending smoothly, the hum of ancient Ministry enchantments steady and familiar.
James leaned back against the brass-paneled wall, heart still pounding—not from motion, but from Amélie. From what almost happened.
He closed his eyes, just for a second.
And that’s when it happened.
BOOM.
A deafening explosion tore through the air like a thunderclap ripped from the core of the earth. The entire lift shuddered violently, lights flickering madly as stone dust fell from above in fine, choking clouds.
Then—a second lurch.
The lift suddenly ascended at breakneck speed, rising too fast, the magic struggling to stabilize. James slammed into the side wall with a grunt, struggling to stay upright.
“What the—!”
The lift clanged, jerked to a halt.
And the doors slid open.
But it wasn’t his floor. Infact there was not any floor.
James stepped forward cautiously, blinking through smoke and heat.
What he saw stole the breath from his lungs.
Below him—a gaping void.
A massive, smoldering crater had torn through at least three levels of the Ministry. Offices and corridors once filled with voices and paper now hung in pieces, twisted beams and stone columns ripped open like fragile parchment.
Fire roared from somewhere below.
Screams echoed, rising with the smoke.
People were running—some bleeding, some trying to pull others from rubble. Chaos reigned.
It wasn’t an attack.
It was a cataclysm.
James’s eyes widened. His stomach dropped.
And then—
The lift lurched again.
Hard.
Like something snapped in the enchantments holding it in place.
James lost his footing.
His hands scrambled for the frame—fingers brushing metal—
But the floor gave way beneath him.
And with a final, awful crack, the lift pitched forward, and James—
Fell.
Down.
Into the crater.
Into fire.
Into darkness.
And the last thing he heard before the wind swallowed him— Was someone screaming his name.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed the new chapter!
I’ll be honest -- I have no idea how to write work jargon, let alone magical work jargon, so forgive me if anything doesn’t quite make sense. Just roll with the vibes 😅
Should our golden boy survive? Because if he doesn’t… Albus will carry the guilt for the rest of his life. All that time resenting being in James’s shadow -- and now, no James at all. 💔
The angst. The emotional damage.
And yes, I fully admit -- I love making Albus suffer 😔
Chapter 42: Hell Below
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The wind whipped through the narrow alley, tugging at Harry’s cloak as he stood in the shadows outside the crumbling façade of a bookshop that hadn’t opened its doors since the First War. The man he was supposed to meet was already ten minutes late—an ex-International Liaison who’d agreed to talk off the record about Kingsley’s last diplomatic trip to Berlin.
Harry checked his watch.
Another minute, and he’d leave.
Then it happened.
His Auror badge flared red-hot against his chest — it only did this in one situation:
A Level One Emergency at the Ministry.
Harry’s heart slammed against his ribs. He didn’t wait for logic to catch up—his fingers closed around the badge, and in a flash of tight magic and swirling wind, he Disapparated straight into the Atrium.
The moment he landed, he knew something was wrong.
Smoke hung in the air.
There was shouting—chaotic, panicked, real.
He drew his wand instantly.
“WHAT HAPPENED?!” he barked at the first stunned Auror he saw near the lifts, a young man with blood on his collar and wide, shell-shocked eyes.
“Explosion—Department of Mysteries—Veil breached—they think someone opened—” The Auror was rambling, shaking.
Harry grabbed his arm. “Breathe. What floor?”
“Level Nine, sir—Veil corridor. Inferi—some kind of dark force—people trapped—”
A roar of flame erupted from below, and Harry’s boots vibrated from the shockwave.
He turned, voice hard and commanding. “I want the whole floor sealed immediately. No entry without my clearance. Get Theia—NOW. I want damage containment squads on every level and a full medical team in the Atrium.”
The young Auror nodded and ran.
Harry looked at the lift—but it was down, jammed. Emergency override wards were flickering, sparking.
Without hesitation, he turned and sprinted toward the emergency stairwell, heart hammering.
He burst through the stairwell door into Level Nine, and the moment he crossed the threshold, the heat hit him like a curse.
Flames danced up the walls, licking at cracked stone and twisted metal beams. Smoke billowed from shattered rooms where the Veil's containment had collapsed. Chunks of marble floated midair, held by wild magical turbulence. And across the corridor—
Screams.
“MOVE!” Harry shouted, wand raised, voice slicing through the chaos.
Two junior researchers were pinned beneath a fallen archway. One was unconscious. The other was screaming, blood staining her robes. A group of stunned Unspeakables stood nearby, frozen.
Harry didn’t stop.
He aimed his wand as he sprinted, yelling, “Wingardium Leviosa! Protego Maxima!”
The archway lifted cleanly in one swift movement, encased in a shimmering shield that deflected the falling debris above it. He used his free hand to grab the woman by her arm and pull her back.
“Get her out of here—GO!” he barked, turning to the others. “And if you see Inferi, don’t freeze—use fire! Incendio, Flame Whip, anything! DO NOT use stunning spells—they won’t work!”
One of the Unspeakables nodded shakily, trying to support the injured woman as they limped away.
A loud, unnatural screech echoed from deeper in the Veil corridor.
Harry turned, wand gripped tighter. Something was coming.
Then he saw it—a malformed Inferius, its body stretched unnaturally long, joints crackling as it crawled out of the scorched breach where the Veil had been. Its eyes glowed faintly orange, and burned into its chest was the triangle with the flame sigil.
It wasn’t shambling. It was running.
“Incendio!”
A jet of fire exploded from Harry’s wand and struck the creature full-on—but it didn’t fall immediately. It shrieked, staggered back, skin bubbling and tearing—but it kept moving.
“BURN, YOU BASTARD—Expulso!”
The second spell hit the floor beneath it, detonating into a burst of flame and debris that launched the Inferius into the air. It crashed into a stone pillar and didn’t move again.
Harry stood panting, smoke rising around him, flames crackling behind.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE THESE?” shouted one of the auors behind him.
“They’re modified!” Harry yelled back. “Someone’s controlling them—but they still burn! Use fire—nothing else will stop them!”
Another shriek came from a side hallway—and then two more Inferi, stumbling through the smoke.
Harry ran straight toward them.
The corridor was war.
Smoke choked the air. The stone floor was scorched and cracked, slick with blood and ash. The Veil chamber had collapsed inward, leaving a smoldering crater where magic still howled like a living thing. The air shimmered with unstable enchantments, and through it came wave after wave of Inferi—not mindless, but marching, hungry, marked with fire and purpose.
Aurors were in full formation now, wands blazing.
“Incendio!”
“Ligneus Flamma!”
“Flame Lasso!”
Dozens of fire spells streaked through the air, lighting the hall in bursts of orange and gold. Inferi screeched, staggered, ignited, and still more came. Some were too fast, slipping through narrow gaps, claws flashing.
“We need stronger fire!” someone yelled behind Harry.
“We should use Fiendfyre!”
“NO!” Harry snapped, spinning around.
His voice thundered through the chaos, silencing several panicked voices at once.
“Fiendfyre is nearly impossible to control! You unleash that here, and we all burn! EVERYONE!”
The Auror who’d spoken looked stunned but nodded, falling back into line.
There was another explosion as two more Inferi burst through a shattered archive door. One was dragging a corpse behind it. The other—
The other was gnawing.
Harry turned and blasted both of them with a whip of fire so hot the air cracked like thunder. They went up in flames, howling like beasts, their grotesque silhouettes writhing before collapsing into ash.
Then the Healers arrived.
Green-robed mediwizards Apparated in groups, protected by Aurors in heavy shield formations. They carried levitation stretchers, glowing sigils, emergency salves—but nothing could prepare them for what they walked into.
Bodies.
So many. Some charred. Some torn apart.
And some—still being defiled.
“STOP THEM!” Harry shouted, flinging a stunning spell at a disfigured Inferius crouched over a corpse.
“Use fire—but aim clean! We need bodies identified!”
The corridor behind the Veil chamber had become a graveyard.
A Healer dropped to her knees, sobbing as she checked a pulse and found none. Another Healer gagged, turning away from the sight of an Inferius dragging two limbs behind it like trophies.
The Aurors held the line, barely. More Inferi kept coming.
And in the middle of it all, Harry turned, eyes wild, and shouted—
“JAMES? ALBUS?!”
No answer.
Just more fire.
More screams.
More bodies.
And the sick, growing realization twisting in Harry’s gut—
Neither of his sons had been found.
The flames roared louder than the screams now.
Charred remains of Inferi littered the ground—some still twitching, their unnatural limbs spasming as their animated cores slowly gave out. The Veil chamber had fully collapsed into itself, its edges glowing red-hot from the residual surge of ancient magic. Even standing twenty feet back, the air rippled with pressure, like the whole floor might give again.
And they kept coming.
The Inferi didn’t stop.
Theia Hodges appeared beside Harry, cloak torn, a slash of blood across her temple, but her wand was steady. She flung a stream of bluebell flames that curled through the air like serpents and latched onto a cluster of charging Inferi, incinerating them before they reached the Auror line.
"That’s the last of my defensive cores!" she shouted over the din.
Harry parried a lunging Inferius with a blast of fire and turned, chest heaving, eyes searching every stretch of the battlefield.
Still—no James. No Albus.
“We need to clear the debris near the lift shaft!” he barked. “They might be some trapped underneath!”
“What should we do Harry?,” Theia shouted grimly, lobbing a ring of flame around another group. “What’s the plan?”
An Inferius broke through the side corridor behind them.
“Get back!” Harry roared, stepping between Theia and the creature. “Confringo!”
The spell hit the ground at its feet, exploding upward in a burst of flame and stone, flinging the creature backward and splattering blackened bone across the wall.
“We need to contain the Veil perimeter!” Harry shouted, motioning to the Auror squads still holding the outer ring. “Seal off everything beyond the breach. Push the living out. Burn the rest. No one goes near that crater without my say-so!”
Theia nodded, deflecting a fire-scorched rib bone flying through the air like shrapnel.
“We’re stretched thin, Harry!” she yelled. “I’ve got twenty Aurors either wounded or MIA—and half the Unspeakables are dead!”
Harry grit his teeth, blasting another Inferius back down a side hallway with a whip of pure fire.
“Then we hold. We hold this damn line until every single one of them is ash.”
A Healer screamed, a gurney tipping over beside her—two Inferi had dragged themselves out from the rubble of the corridor wall, mouths wide, claws outstretched.
Harry lunged forward, casting a wide arc of Fiery Tornado, scorching the entire path in front of them and driving the creatures back in seconds.
Smoke clung to his lungs, his skin, his thoughts.
From above, through the smoke and magic-ripped air, a voice rang out—loud, commanding, cracking like thunder across the chaos:
“HARRY!”
Harry spun toward the sound, eyes blazing, sweat and ash streaking his face.
Up on the ledge of the destroyed atrium floor, lit by firelight and surrounded by scrambling officials, Nathan Higgs stood, his robes singed, his face pale—but his voice sharp.
“WHAT DO YOU NEED?!” Higgs bellowed in a magnified voice.
Harry didn’t hesitate.
“GET ME EVERY AUROR STILL BREATHING—AND EVERY DAMN FIRE-CONTROL TEAM IN THE BUILDING!”
He deflected a lunging Inferius with a sideways blast of flame and kept shouting upward.
“WE NEED REINFORCEMENTS—LEVEL NINE IS COMPROMISED!”
Theia hurled a stream of flames past his shoulder and added, “ST. MUNGO’S NEEDS TO TRIPLE STAFF—WE HAVE OVER FORTY INJURED AND COUNTING!”
Higgs turned, shouting rapid-fire orders to the people flanking him.
Then he looked back down and cupped his hands again. “WHAT ABOUT THE VEIL?”
Harry’s face darkened, his voice low and hard.
“IT’S BREACHED.”
The words fell like lead in the air.
Gasps rippled through those near Higgs. One of the senior aides turned pale and nearly dropped the scroll in her arms.
Harry looked up, chest heaving, voice colder now—calculated, furious.
“IF WE DON’T SEAL THIS FLOOR IN TEN MINUTES, WE’LL HAVE INFERI IN THE BLOODY STREETS!”
Another crash—part of the far wall gave in, and a cluster of Inferi spilled from the rubble like a flood of corpses on fire.
Harry and Theia moved instantly, pushing the Auror line forward.
Behind them, Higgs shouted, “EVERY UNIT TO POTTER’S COORDINATES—NOW! SHIELD SQUADS, FLAME BARRIERS—BLOW THE FLOORS IF YOU HAVE TO!”
Harry didn’t wait to see if the orders were followed.
His boots crunched over scorched marble and ash as he moved toward the Veil corridor, now little more than a crater of flame and fractured stone. The heat pouring from it wasn’t just physical—it pulsed with something darker, something old, like the magic itself was trying to claw its way back out.
He turned to Theia, who was binding the leg of a wounded Auror while barking instructions to a pair of mediwizards nearby.
“Theia,” Harry called, wiping blood and soot from his brow. “Once we’ve cleared the injured—and the bodies—I’m setting a perimeter fire around the Veil.”
She looked up sharply. “Fiendfyre?”
“No. Controlled elemental barrier,” he said. “Enough to burn anything that comes near. I want it so hot even the bloody ash thinks twice before moving.”
She nodded. “Understood.”
Harry’s eyes flicked to another stretcher being levitated past them—someone unconscious, arm bent the wrong way. He stared at the faces. Still no James.
Still no Albus.
His chest tightened.
“Did you…” he started, voice strained, “Did you see James earlier?”
Theia blinked, then frowned, wiping her hands quickly.
“Yeah—just after briefing. He said he was heading out for lunch. Something about tackling paperwork after having lunch.”
Harry froze.
His heart, which had been clamped in an iron vice for the last hour, released just slightly.
“He wasn’t down here?” he asked, voice dropping an octave.
Theia shook her head. “No. Definitely not. I’d have noticed.”
Harry let out a slow, tight breath and closed his eyes for a second.
Thank Merlin.
That meant James was probably still topside—maybe caught in the blast debris. Maybe helping. Maybe just out of reach.
But alive.
One down. One to go.
He turned his gaze back toward the crater—where the Veil shimmered faintly beneath a curtain of smoke.
And said nothing.
Because Albus… Albus was still missing.
The fire had begun to blacken the stone walls. The flames licked upward in swirling, magical arcs, and the stench of scorched flesh—not all of it dead—hung thick in the air.
Still, the Inferi came.
From cracks in the stone. From shattered doors. From within the crater itself—crawling out like maggots from a wound, bearing the triangle-and-flame symbol on their rotted flesh.
They were endless. And worse—they were organized.
Harry sliced through one with a fire whip, then sent another up in a towering column of enchanted flame that roared high and bright before collapsing into ash.
But for every one he took down, two more came.
He shouted over his shoulder, “We can’t keep this up forever! They just keep coming!”
Beside him, Theia dodged a lunging Inferius and blasted it into the wall, then drove her heel down on its skull with a satisfying crunch.
“They’re coming from the Veil!” she shouted. “Whatever broke it—it's still open!”
Harry turned to her, panting, smoke trailing from his wand. “Do you know where Vance is?”
She looked at him, frowning. “I haven’t seen him since before the explosion.”
Harry’s jaw clenched.
“I think he’s behind this.”
Theia’s eyes widened. “You think?”
“I know,” Harry growled. “He’s been stonewalling me for months—locked files, vague research. Albus trusted him. And now…” His voice faltered for a second. “Now Albus is gone. This happens on his floor, with his people. He was working with something connected to the Veil, and this—”
He blasted another Inferius back, flames consuming it as it screamed.
“—this is what he was hiding.”
Theia glanced toward the smoking breach, sweat on her brow. “If he’s responsible—”
“Then I’ll drag him back from hell myself,” Harry said, voice cold and low. “But first—”
He turned toward the closest squad leader.
“Seal the perimeter. Everyone who’s not burning, healing, or evacuating—pull back and fall into defense formation. We’re drawing the line here. No one—nothing—comes through that Veil again.”
And he looked back to Theia.
“Find Vance.”
“Alive. If possible.”
“Dead, if necessary.”
Theia gave a curt nod, her face set and pale with soot, then turned and disappeared into the smoke-cloaked corridors—moving fast, wand drawn, hunting for the one man whose silence had suddenly become the loudest voice in the room.
Harry watched her go for a second before turning back toward the crater.
The wounded were nearly gone now. Healers had pulled out with the last of the stretchers, the dead covered in conjured shrouds and levitated upstairs for identification. The main corridor was cleared. The only ones left now were fighters.
And even they looked worn thin.
Harry pushed forward, weaving through piles of ash and blackened debris until he reached the ragged lip of the shattered Veil chamber. The ancient stone platform where the Veil once stood had caved in, exposing layers of forgotten magical wards that were now flickering, unstable. The air shimmered violently, as if reality itself were bleeding around it.
And out of that shimmer—still—they came.
Crawling. Groaning. Marching.
More Inferi.
Some limped, jaws unhinged. Some had flames etched into their skin—not burning them, but pulsing like branded runes.
Harry’s voice was hoarse as he turned to the squad leaders near him.
“Positions.”
They obeyed instantly.
Aurors fanned out, forming a tight semicircle around the crater. Harry stood at the center. Behind him, others took up posts at the shattered archways and hallways, wands raised.
“Elemental charms only. Fire-based. Don’t use standard hexes—they feed on that,” Harry barked.
A surge of hot wind tore from the Veil, almost knocking a few Aurors backward.
Harry stepped forward.
He raised his wand skyward and shouted, “Flamma Circumferre!”
A guttural roar of flame spiraled outward from the tip of his wand, coiling into the air like a living serpent. As it descended, other Aurors joined in, their voices blending into a chorus of heat and power.
A perfect ring of fire blazed into life around the crater.
The flames crackled high, forming a magical barrier—a living wall of enchanted fire, fed by the combined strength of a dozen Aurors, held in place by Harry’s command.
The Inferi that reached the fire stopped.
They screamed.
Twitched.
Some turned back.
Others stepped forward anyway—and burst into flame, turning to ash before their first foot crossed the barrier.
It held.
For now.
The circle of fire hissed and roared, casting flickering shadows on the scorched stone, heat rippling the air so fiercely that even sound seemed to bend around it. Aurors stood in perfect formation behind it, their faces grim, wands raised, but no longer firing.
The Inferi had stopped attacking.
They weren’t charging anymore.
They weren’t wandering.
They were gathering.
Harry narrowed his eyes, chest rising and falling in steady, tense rhythm.
Inside the flaming barrier, the dozen or so surviving Inferi had begun to move in unison, slowly, shuffling and scraping, drawn by some unseen command. They converged on a pile of rubble and blackened debris just off-center in the crater—shards of broken stone, twisted beams, and jagged metal crisscrossing it like a skeletal cage.
And they began to claw at it.
No shrieks. No rage.
Just focused, mechanical digging.
Harry’s stomach clenched.
He stepped forward instinctively—close enough that the heat from the flame circle singed the air around his skin, sweat trickling down his neck. The fire cracked and roared, keeping the undead inside—but through the wall of flame, he could now see it.
Just beneath one of the Inferi’s twitching hands. Half-buried. Dusted in ash.
A watch.
Not just any watch.
Black leather strap. Gold trim. Slight crack on the right edge of the face.
Harry’s throat closed.
The watch I gave him.
His feet were rooted to the spot.
His thoughts screamed to move.
To breathe.
To shout.
But his body wouldn’t listen.
The same watch he had gifted James on his seventeenth birthday.
The one engraved on the back with his initials
It lay motionless, among broken stone and dust, while Inferi pawed at the rocks above it, desperate to reach something—someone—beneath.
Harry's vision tunneled. The roar of fire dulled in his ears.
“...James,” he whispered. It barely left his lips.
Behind him, Theia returned, panting, blood on her sleeve. “Harry, I—”
He held out a hand without turning. “Stop.”
She did. One look at his face, and she obeyed.
He stepped one foot closer to the fire, until it nearly licked the edge of his robes.
And stared at the watch.
Beneath that rubble... James was there.
Alive.
Or—
No.
Alive.
He had to be.
Harry’s wand burned in his grip.
“Get me through the fire,” he growled, voice low and shaking. “Now.”
“Harry, what are you—?”
He whirled on her, face flushed not from the heat but from something deeper—raw fear, pure instinct, fatherhood sharpened into rage.
“Because he’s in there!” Harry bellowed, voice splitting the air. “They’re digging for him! And I’m not going to stand here and let those things tear apart my son!”
Theia’s mouth parted slightly, stunned.
“James?” she whispered.
Harry didn’t answer. He turned back to the fire, every muscle coiled and burning, wand gripped like a lifeline.
“I need a tunnel through the flames,” he snapped. “Not a hole. A tunnel—contained, narrow, flameproof.”
“Alright,” Theia said, already stepping forward, her own wand up, “but if you go in there alone—”
“I won’t make it out,” Harry finished. “I know. That’s why I need someone out here holding a control ward on the Inferi. The moment I cross the flame barrier, they’ll leap for me like starving wolves.”
Theia looked uncertain. “They’re smart. Coordinated. They aren't normal inferis —this is something else, Harry.”
“I know.” His jaw tightened. “That’s why I need you here. You’re the only one I trust not to lose control.”
She hesitated only a moment more.
Then: “Okay. You’ll have maybe a minute.Two, if I’m lucky.”
“That’ll be enough,” Harry said, even though he knew it wouldn’t.
She raised her wand, muttering rapid incantations under her breath, drawing complex flame-resistant runes into the air. Magic rippled outward—a tight, fiery corridor began to part through the wall of flames, forming a narrow tunnel straight into the center of the crater.
Inside, the Inferi started to stir.
They felt the change.
And they turned—heads snapping toward the breach, eyes glowing faintly.
Harry stared down the fiery corridor.
At the rubble.
At the gold watch.
At his son.
And he stepped forward.
Straight into hell.
The moment Harry crossed the threshold of fire, the heat punched him like a wall—dry and suffocating, instantly drawing sweat from his skin. The narrow tunnel of flame behind him crackled, barely wide enough to move through without scorching. The ground beneath his boots hissed with heat.
And ahead—they turned.
The Inferi moved in eerie, sudden synchrony.
One by one, their decaying heads snapped toward him, jaws slack, limbs twitching in readiness. They’d felt his presence. The fire had parted, but now there was meat.
They rushed him.
“NOW, THEIA!” Harry bellowed, raising his wand.
From behind the fire tunnel, a ripple of magic burst outward, and a shimmering blue ward flared between him and the horde. It didn’t stop them—but it slowed them. Inferi slammed into the invisible field and recoiled, snarling, screeching, clawing as if trying to shatter the air itself.
Harry ran.
His boots slammed into the cracked stone as he dove over a collapsed column, fire snapping at his heels. The watch glinted again through the rubble—closer now. His breath rasped in his lungs, adrenaline drowning out everything else.
A massive Inferius—taller than the rest, chest burned in ritualistic symbols—threw itself at the ward and made it through halfway. Its upper body pushed through the resistance field, hands dragging itself forward.
Harry didn’t hesitate.
“Confringo!”
The blast hit its face, exploded through the skull, and sent its twitching corpse flying back into the others.
The air rippled—Theia’s hold was slipping.
“One minute!” she screamed from the other side, her voice strained with effort.
Harry didn’t look back.
He dove to the pile of rubble. His knees hit scorched stone, his hands instantly bloodied as he began to pull debris away with raw magic and sheer desperation.
Harry’s hands were raw, his sleeves torn, the knuckles of his wand hand split and bleeding as he clawed through the rubble. Every stone he moved seemed heavier than the last. The smoke stung his eyes, and the fire around them shrieked with the pressure of wild magic.
Then he saw it.
Blood.
Dark, thick, soaking through the fabric beneath the rubble, pooling beneath James’s body. Far too much.
“No,” Harry whispered, voice breaking. “No—no, no—James—”
He dropped to his knees, cupping the side of his son’s head, trying to support it gently. His fingers came away wet and red.
James’s face was ashen, slack. His lips slightly parted. His eyes closed.
Harry pressed his fingers to his neck, desperate. Searching. Hoping.
Nothing.
Not a flutter. Not a flicker.
Just cold skin and blood.
Harry’s heart clenched like a vice.
“Please... please not like this...” he rasped, barely able to speak. “James. Dear. Wake up. Please—”
Behind him, the tunnel roared, and Theia’s voice cut through the fire like a whip.
“Harry! You have to come back! NOW!”
He didn’t move.
He stared down at James, fingers still pressed uselessly against his pulse point, trying to will life into him.
“Harry!” Theia’s voice cracked. “The wards are gone—they’re breaking through!”
The air was full of shrieks, closer now, just behind the curtain of flame. The Inferi were coming. Fast. Claws scraping stone. Teeth bared.
Harry looked down at his boy.
His precious boy.
Motionless in his arms.
And still no pulse.
He clenched his jaw, throat thick with anguish.
He had seconds. Maybe less.
And his son was bleeding out beneath his hands.
Harry’s heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to break free of his chest. The roar of the flames around the tunnel blurred into a high-pitched ring in his ears as the world narrowed down to this single moment—James, pale and blood-soaked, lying limp in his arms, and the Inferi, now tearing through the collapsing fire wall behind him.
He pressed harder against James’s neck.
Still no pulse.
His throat closed around a sound—half a sob, half a roar.
“Don’t do this to me, James—” he hissed, shaking, brushing the matted hair from his son’s forehead. “You don’t get to give up now. You don’t get to leave me. Not you.”
He reached for his wand with a trembling hand. “Rennervate!” he shouted.
The spell crackled over James’s chest—nothing.
“Rennervate! Come on! RENNERVATE!”
No response.
Behind him, the Inferi shrieked in unison, and their bodies hit the magical barrier hard, like a tidal wave of bone and rot. The fire flickered and began to collapse inward, licking closer toward the edges of Harry’s robes.
“HARRY!” Theia screamed, her voice desperate now, breaking apart. “If you don’t get out now, you’re going to die with him!”
He didn’t even blink.
His arms were already under James’s back, lifting him—dead weight, cold and heavy. Something in his son’s shoulder crunched, and Harry swallowed the sound of it like poison.
Another crash behind him—the barrier buckled.
They were coming through.
He stood, cradling James against his chest, wand raised in one shaking hand.
His voice was low. Broken.
“You’re coming home with me.”
He took one step.
Then another.
A howl echoed behind him—an Inferius leapt through the broken wall of flame, fire clinging to its ribs like a second skeleton.
Harry turned slightly, wand slashing the air— “Confringo!”
The spell detonated the stone at its feet, sending the corpse flying backwards into the others. It bought him seconds. Only seconds.
He didn’t look back again.
He ran—through fire, through smoke, through the wreckage of the Veil’s corridor—James limp in his arms, every step driven by pure force of will.
As he burst through the edge of the collapsing flame tunnel, Theia reached out and grabbed his shoulder, dragging him out just as the rest of the barrier imploded, sending a wave of heat and ash roaring into the chamber.
They collapsed behind the line—Harry fell to his knees, still clutching James, shaking violently.
“He’s not breathing—” he rasped, voice cracking in his throat.
“Get a Healer!” Theia screamed over her shoulder.
But Harry didn’t wait.
He dropped his wand, pressed both hands to James’s chest, and began—desperately, frantically—to try to force him back.
Pushing.
Pleading.
“Come on, Jim. Come on. Don’t do this.”
Come back.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Action scenes aren’t exactly my strength, but I gave it my best -- thanks for sticking with me! ❤️❤️
Chapter 43: Stillness and Smoke
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ginny sat at the living room table, parchment scattered around her like autumn leaves, a quill tucked behind her ear and half a cup of cold tea at her elbow. She wasn’t reading anymore—just staring, eyes glazed, words blurring on the page. Something in the air had shifted that morning. She felt it, though she couldn’t say why.
She shook the feeling off and tried to focus.
A briefing for the Harpies' youth program.
Across the room, Sirius and James Sr. were arguing—good-naturedly—about something Quidditch-related, their voices drifting in from the living room where the wireless played softly. Lily Sr. sat curled up in the armchair, knitting what looked like an endless Gryffindor scarf, humming faintly.
The house felt… almost peaceful.
For once.
Ginny didn’t trust it.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the parchment.
Then—
Knock.
One, sharp.
Then two more.
Not loud.
But enough to still the entire room.
Ginny looked up slowly.
The voices in the living room went quiet.
Sirius’s voice followed a beat later, tentative:
“…Expecting someone?”
“No,” Ginny replied, already rising to her feet.
She moved toward the door, every nerve tightening. There was nothing particularly ominous about the knock, but… her instincts had sharpened over the years. This was the kind of silence before bad news. She knew it. She’d lived it.
Behind her, James Sr. and Sirius stepped into the hallway, both now alert.
Wands weren’t drawn.
But they were ready.
Ginny reached the door.
Her hand hovered just a second over the handle.
A breath caught in her throat.
Then she opened it.
It was Theia.
Her face was pale beneath streaks of soot and dried blood, hair matted to her forehead, the edges of her robes singed and tattered. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as if she'd run all the way there.
Ginny didn’t even blink.
Her stomach dropped straight into her feet.
The words fell from her lips automatically, cold and sharp and terrified:
“Which one?”
Theia’s lips parted, but no words came at first.
Sirius moved in behind Ginny, face hardening in an instant. James Sr. stepped to her other side, one hand instinctively reaching for his wand, though there was no battle here.
“Come in,” Ginny said quickly, her voice steel now, urgency overtaking fear. “Tell me now.”
Theia nodded stiffly and stepped inside. Her boots tracked ash onto the floor.
She looked at the family gathered, swallowing hard as she stood in the center of the room, hands clenched tight. “We were at the Ministry,” she began. “The Department of Mysteries… the Veil… it’s been breached. It’s—there was an explosion. Inferi—dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.”
Lily Sr. gasped softly, knitting falling to the floor. Sirius cursed under his breath.
Theia’s eyes flicked to Ginny’s, and her voice faltered.
“I haven’t found Albus yet.”
Ginny’s breath caught.
“And James…” Theia hesitated.
Ginny stepped forward, trembling now. Her voice rose—sharp, unwavering.
“Tell me what’s happened.”
Theia nodded, eyes glassing. “He was caught in the blast. We didn’t know where he was until later. The Inferi were… they were digging. Toward something buried in the crater. Harry saw his watch. He went in.”
Lily Sr. put a hand to her mouth.
“He was under the rubble,” Theia continued, barely holding it together. “Harry pulled him out. He wasn’t—he wasn’t breathing. There was a lot of blood. We rushed him straight to St Mungo’s.”
Ginny’s legs nearly gave out.
James Sr. caught her elbow instinctively, his knuckles white.
“Is he—” she started.
“We don’t know,” Theia said, voice breaking. “He’s… he’s still alive. But barely. And Albus—he’s missing.”
Ginny didn’t wait.
She didn’t stop to grab her bag.
Didn’t stop to put on a coat.
Didn’t even stop to breathe.
The moment Theia’s last words hit the air—“He’s still alive. But barely.”—Ginny turned on her heel and ran.
Down the front steps, into the street. She didn’t bother with the Floo. She Apparated so fast the force of it left a scorch mark on the porch.
The world spun.
And then—
St Mungo’s.
She landed hard outside the hospital’s entrance, her hair wild, breath jagged, and pushed her way through the front doors. The lobby was a blur of green robes and panic; someone tried to speak to her, but she brushed them off with a look that could freeze blood.
“I’m Ginny Potter,” she said to the first Healer behind the welcome desk. “My son—James Potter—he was brought in after the Ministry attack. Where is he?”
The Healer paled and glanced down at her clipboard. “He’s still in emergency spellwork theatre—second floor, Ward Twelve. They’re—”
But Ginny was already gone.
She tore through the hallways like a storm, elbowing past startled patients and staff, her boots thudding hard against the polished floor. Her heart thundered with every step—her mind stuck on that image: James, under rubble. Not breathing. Harry dragging him through fire.
She rounded the final corner and nearly slammed into the ward door.
She stopped.
Inside, behind the enchanted glass, the waiting area was dim.
And there he was.
Harry.
Slumped in the visiting chair. Elbows on his knees. Hands hanging limp between them, shaking, covered in dried blood. His robes torn, black with soot, his face pale, streaked, and hollow.
His eyes were on the floor. Unmoving. Like if he blinked, the world might fall apart.
Ginny’s chest cracked open at the sight.
She stepped into the ward.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Harry didn’t look up.
Didn’t even flinch.
She walked straight to him, heart in her throat.
“Harry…”
He raised his head slowly.
His eyes met hers.
And they were shattered.
“Ginny,” he said hoarsely. “I—he—”
But the words died in his throat.
And beyond the window of the ward door, the Operation Room light glowed red, a single message pulsing beneath it:
IN CRITICAL SPELLWORK — NO ENTRY.
Each word hit like a stone thrown at her chest.
She turned slowly back to Harry, who was still slumped in the chair, his shoulders sagging under the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. His hands trembled where they dangled between his knees—bloody, blackened, fingers twitching like they were still trying to dig through rubble that was no longer there.
She dropped to her knees in front of him, ignoring the sting in her joints, and took his hands gently into hers.
His eyes flicked up to her face, glassy. Hollow.
“I didn’t find a pulse,” Harry whispered. “When I reached him… I thought he was gone.”
Ginny’s breath caught, and she pressed his fingers tighter.
“But you got him out,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “You got him out, Harry. That’s what matters.”
Harry let out a sound—half breath, half sob. “He wasn’t moving. He was crushed. There was so much blood.”
“I know,” she whispered, wiping at one of the streaks on his cheek with her thumb. “But he’s here. He’s here.”
They sat like that, the hospital humming faintly around them. Behind the door, magic buzzed—a low, throbbing pressure of complex, critical spellwork as Healers worked to keep their son alive.
“Where’s Albus?” Ginny asked after a moment, voice fragile.
Harry shook his head slowly, guilt heavy on every syllable. “Gone. No one's seen him since before the explosion. No trace. Theia’s looking, and the department’s scouring what’s left of the level. But…” His voice broke. “I don’t know if he was inside. I don’t know if he’s even alive.”
Ginny’s other hand found his cheek and gently lifted his gaze.
“We’re not going to lose both,” she said firmly, as if saying it aloud would make it true. “We’re not.”
He nodded, barely. Not in agreement—but in desperation.
Then the Operation Room light flickered—once.
Harry and Ginny both snapped toward it.
The red light above the Operation Room door faded completely, plunging the corridor into a tense, unnatural stillness.
No one came out.
No word.
No sign.
Just that heavy, punishing silence.
Harry stared at the door like it might open if he wished hard enough. His hands were still cradled in Ginny’s, but he didn’t seem to notice. His chest was rising and falling too fast, like every breath he took was trying to keep his insides from collapsing.
And then—he broke.
It didn’t happen all at once.
It started with his lips parting, as if he meant to speak. Then nothing came. His throat clenched, his face twisted, and his entire body began to shake.
Ginny moved instantly, rising from her knees and wrapping her arms around his shoulders—tight, protective, like she could physically hold him together.
But it was already spilling out of him.
“I can’t,” he gasped. “Ginny—I can’t—not him—not James—”
She held him tighter, pulling him into her chest. “It’s okay—he’s strong, he’s—”
“No,” Harry choked, a sob cutting the word in half. “You don’t get it—I can’t survive this again. If we lose him—if I lose him—I’ll die. I swear to you, Ginny, I will—I can’t—”
His voice broke apart, and the next breath didn’t come easy. It shuddered out of him like grief given form.
“I held him in my arms,” he cried, burying his face into her shoulder. “He was so still. So cold. I thought he was gone—I thought I was too late—and I—I—”
Ginny rocked him gently, her own tears finally falling. But she didn’t sob. Didn’t fall apart.
She just held him.
Because he needed to fall—and someone had to stay standing.
“Listen to me,” she whispered fiercely, through her tears. “You are not going to lose him. Do you hear me, Harry? James is going to live. He has to. Because he’s you. And you survived everything.”
Harry’s grip on her robes tightened like he was holding onto her for oxygen.
“I should’ve kept him home. I should’ve told him to take the day off. I should’ve—”
“And if you had, it would’ve been someone else in that crater,” Ginny said, gently but firmly. “And you would’ve blamed yourself for that too.”
He didn’t respond.
Just sat there, trembling in her arms.
Broken.
But then, the doors slid open with a quiet hiss that somehow felt louder than the explosion had.
Harry and Ginny both stood instantly, still clutching each other as if they needed the support to remain upright.
A tall man in deep emerald robes stepped out—robes stained with flecks of blood, sleeves singed at the edges. His face was drawn, lined with exhaustion, and he moved like someone who had spent hours between life and death.
He approached with slow, steady steps, and held out a hand to Harry.
“Mr Potter,” he said gently. “Senior Healer Aldryn Cormac. Spell Trauma Division.”
Harry took his hand—grip firm, though his fingers were still shaking.
“Tell me,” he said, voice hoarse.
Cormac nodded once and began, clinical but never cold. “Your son has survived the initial trauma. The emergency spellwork is complete. For now, he’s stable.”
Ginny’s hand clenched tightly around Harry’s.
“But the extent of his injuries is… significant,” Cormac continued. “He suffered multiple fractures—both legs, several ribs, both arms, his left shoulder. His spine is fractured, though not fully severed, and there is nerve damage we’ll need to monitor closely.”
Harry swallowed, the list already too long.
“His lungs were punctured, which caused internal bleeding. We’ve stabilized it, but his breathing will be magically assisted for now. His right eye was damaged—whether it can be saved, we’re not yet certain. His jaw was dislocated. There was also severe blunt force trauma to the abdomen and lower back.”
Ginny’s face had gone pale, but she didn’t let go
Cormac hesitated, just briefly, before saying the last part.
“And… the fall—what you described to us, falling from approximately one hundred feet—that kind of impact caused a skull fracture. There was cerebral swelling, and he was unresponsive when you brought him in.”
Ginny’s grip on Harry's arm tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Cormac didn’t sugarcoat it.
“It means… until he wakes up, we can’t determine the full extent of any brain damage. We’ve done what we can to heal the physical trauma, but we can’t predict the neurological impact until he regains consciousness.”
The world seemed to sway beneath Ginny’s feet.
Cormac steadied them both with a nod of reassurance. “He’s being watched around the clock. Monitored for pressure, swelling, magical instability. And to be clear—he made it through surgery. That alone was a miracle.”
Harry was silent.
His eyes were locked on the hallway behind the Healer. As if somehow he could see through the walls. Into that bed. That room. That fragile thread of breath.
Ginny finally found her voice, though it cracked at the edges. “When can we see him?”
Cormac looked at them—his expression heavy, but kind.
“Now.” He motioned them towards walk.
Harry and Ginny followed Healer Cormac down a stark, dimly lit corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was oppressive, as if the building itself knew what waited at the end.
Finally, Cormac stopped outside a large glass-paned door. He didn't say anything. He just gently pushed it open and stepped aside.
Harry went in first.
And stopped.
Ginny nearly collided into him—until her eyes fell on the bed.
Then she, too, stopped.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh… James.”
The room buzzed with the low, rhythmic hum of magic-infused machines, and the sharp scent of antiseptic and burnt fabric lingered in the air. A charm monitor pulsed steadily against the wall, casting a soft green glow, while dozens of thin glowing tubes ran across the room—pulsing, feeding, humming.
And in the center of it all lay James.
What was left of him.
His body was barely recognizable beneath the layers of bandages that wrapped tightly around his chest, arms, legs—his face partially obscured, jaw wired shut and head swathed in enchanted gauze. A thick tube protruded from his mouth, enchanted to help him breathe, rising and falling with slow, mechanical rhythm.
Both arms were outstretched on enchanted supports, bruised and stitched, connected to drip lines filled with slow-dripping potions of every color—bone regrowth, blood-replenishment, neural regeneration, swelling-reduction, pain dulling. The sheer number of vials feeding into him made it look like they were trying to rebuild him, piece by fragile piece.
A healing rune hovered just above his forehead, glowing a pale blue, flickering slightly every few seconds as it scanned for brain activity.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t twitch.
He didn’t even look like he was breathing—if not for the rhythm of the charm monitor, Ginny might have thought...
Her knees buckled, and she caught the arm of the nearest chair, sliding into it like the strength had been stolen from her bones.
“Oh, James,” she whispered again, broken.
Harry approached the bed like it might disappear if he moved too fast. He reached out and touched James’s hand, gingerly, brushing past bruises and IV lines until his fingers curled around his son’s.
It was warm. But limp.
He stared down at him, eyes burning.
“I’m here,” he said, voice barely audible. “We’re here.”
The only response was the steady beep... beep... beep of the monitor.
He bent his head low over James’s hand and pressed his lips to it.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it.”
“I’m sorry for everything.”
Ginny moved beside him and gently wrapped her arm around his back. Her other hand reached to brush James’s hair away from his face, careful of the bandages and tubes.
Healer Cormac stood a respectful distance behind them, giving them space as they clung to their son’s broken form. But after a few long minutes of silence, he stepped forward gently, his voice low and steady—measured.
“I want to go over James’s treatment plan with you,” he said softly.
Harry didn’t look up. Ginny did, blinking tears away just long enough to nod.
Cormac glanced once at the monitors, then pulled a chair closer and sat.
“We’ve stabilized all the life-threatening injuries for now,” he began. “But there’s a long road ahead.”
Ginny’s grip tightened on Harry’s back. Harry’s hand hadn’t moved from James’s.
“The next 48 hours are the most critical. Right now, he’s under an advanced stasis charm—not the kind that stops everything, but one that slows his body’s systems and lets our spells continue working around the clock. Healing bones, regenerating tissue, cleansing the blood.”
He nodded toward the rows of glowing vials. “Every potion you see here is calibrated minute by minute to keep him from going into shock. We’re especially watching for infection and nerve collapse. The bones we’ve begun regrowing first are the ones around the spine—we’ve set in place temporary magical supports to prevent any permanent damage.”
Ginny swallowed hard. “His spine…”
“We won’t know about long-term motor function until he wakes,” Cormac admitted gently. “But we caught it quickly. He was lucky. Very lucky.”
Harry’s jaw clenched.
“There was significant cranial trauma from the fall. Both temporal and frontal lobes were affected. We’ve relieved the swelling with cranio-magical decompression, but the skull itself is being re-knit. That’s why he’s not breathing on his own yet.”
Harry finally looked up. “The brain?”
Cormac nodded solemnly.
“That’s the unknown. The damage is real, but how much will remain once he wakes… we can’t predict. He may wake with full awareness. Or he may have cognitive delays. He could be confused. Forgetful. There’s a small risk of… permanent regression in memory or personality.”
Ginny closed her eyes.
“But,” Cormac said, not unkindly, “he’s fighting. Stronger than most. The way he held on even after that fall? That tells me there’s something in him that refuses to go.”
Harry looked down at James again. He didn’t speak, but his hand moved—just slightly—over James’s fingers.
Cormac stood.
“We’ll continue with magical tissue repair for his lungs overnight. After that, we’ll do a full neurological scan. If he stabilizes by tomorrow evening, we’ll begin gradually lifting the stasis field and monitoring brain activity hour by hour.”
He paused.
“You’ll be the first to know when he stirs.”
Harry and Ginny both nodded—silent, exhausted, broken, but listening.
And then Cormac said the words they needed, but feared:
“Prepare for anything.”
And quietly, he left the room.
As the door clicked shut behind Healer Cormac, the room sank back into stillness—except for the low hum of potions coursing through tubing, the occasional flicker of monitoring charms, and the ever-steady beep… beep… beep of the spellwork-linked heart monitor.
James lay motionless, the rise and fall of his chest mechanical, forced by magic. The sound of it—slow, too even—made Ginny feel like she was drowning in silence.
She wiped at her cheeks and looked sideways at Harry, who hadn’t moved.
His bloodied hand still rested gently over James’s, his other hand braced on the edge of the bed as though if he let go, everything would unravel.
Ginny studied him quietly for a moment—the dried blood on his sleeves, the bruises blossoming on his knuckles, the fine trembling in his fingers from exhaustion and shock.
Then, softly:
“You need to be checked too.”
Harry didn’t answer.
She turned more fully to him. “Harry. You’re hurt. You’ve been burned, and gods know how much smoke you inhaled. You haven’t sat down in hours—you pulled him out of a war zone with your bare hands. You need—”
“I’m fine.”
The words were sharp, automatic. Not angry—just empty.
Ginny flinched, but didn’t back down.
“You’re not,” she whispered. “And you won’t help him by collapsing.”
Still, Harry didn’t meet her eyes. His gaze was locked on James’s face—what was visible of it beneath layers of gauze and rune-treated bandages.
“I can’t leave him,” he said. “Not for a second.”
Ginny reached out and rested her hand gently over his.
“I’m not asking you to leave. Just… get a Healer to take a look. A scan. Anything. You’re covered in blood, Harry. I don’t know how much of it is yours.”
He finally blinked—slow, deliberate—and turned to her.
His voice, when it came, was quieter. Flat.
“Albus is still missing.”
Ginny’s heart clenched.
“I know.”
Harry shook his head, gaze dropping back to James. “I have no idea where he is. No trace. I’ve sent every available Auror who wasn’t injured—Theia’s working nonstop. But he just… vanished. Right before everything exploded.”
Ginny sat beside him now, still holding his hand. “You think he was caught in it?”
“I don’t know,” Harry whispered. “But if he was, there’d be… something. A trace. A wand. Anything.”
He didn’t say the rest.
But Ginny heard it anyway.
Or he ran. Or he’s involved. Or he’s gone.
Harry swallowed hard.
“I can’t stop thinking—what if he’s alone? Hurt? Or worse—what if he thinks he can’t come back?”
Ginny’s voice was barely a breath. “You think he’s running from us.”
Harry didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
He just sat there, between the son he could still see… and the one he couldn’t find.
The room had dimmed as evening crept over the hospital. A soft charm cast a warm golden glow around the bed, illuminating James’s pale face and the slow rise and fall of his chest. Machines pulsed gently, potions drained vial by vial, and the spell-runes etched into his skin glimmered faintly like starlight.
Ginny sat slumped in the chair, one hand still on James’s blanket, her other brushing her knuckles slowly over her lips as if trying to think her way through everything without saying it aloud.
Harry stood by the window, stiff and still, watching the fading light beyond the glass as if expecting to find Albus in the shadows outside.
“Please,” Ginny said for the fifth time, voice hoarse, barely holding back another wave of emotion. “Harry. Just let them look at you. I’m not asking again.”
Harry didn’t move.
But Ginny rose now, stepped to him, and gently touched his back—her voice breaking.
“I can’t lose both of you.”
That finally did it.
Harry closed his eyes and nodded once.
Fifteen minutes later, he sat on the exam bed down the hall, stripped of his blood-streaked outer robes, sleeves rolled up while a healer muttered diagnostic spells and directed a vial of bright green potion into the wounds on his hands. The gash on his shoulder was deeper than he’d thought, and his ribs were badly bruised. Smoke exposure had weakened his lungs slightly—nothing permanent, but it explained the burn in his chest.
“You’re lucky you didn’t pass out mid-rescue,” the Healer muttered, shaking his head. “Stubborn fool.”
Harry didn’t respond. He was staring at the door.
Back in James’s room, Ginny sat waiting, arms folded tight across her chest.
As soon as Harry stepped back in, she stood.
“Better?” she asked, quietly.
Harry gave a slight nod. “Physically.”
They both returned to the bedside in silence.
Then, Harry’s badge buzzed against his chest—a high, insistent pulse of enchantment that sent ice through his stomach.
He pulled it free from his pocket.
A glowing message floated in the air, letters crisp and immediate:
URGENT – REPORT TO MINISTER’S OFFICE IMMEDIATELY.
– Higgs
Harry’s jaw tightened.
Ginny read it over his shoulder and exhaled. “What now?”
“I don’t know,” Harry muttered. “But it’s not good.”
He looked once more at James—still unmoving, still fighting—and gently brushed a hand across his hair.
Then he kissed Ginny’s forehead, grabbed his wand and cloak, and said in a low voice:
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. If he wakes up—call me.”
And with a final glance, he went outside the parameters and disapparated in a crack of tense air.
Harry appeared just outside the Ministry’s main gates, the stone beneath his feet still blackened with soot. The familiar grandeur of the atrium had been shattered.
The massive glass ceiling—once showcasing a charmed sky and floating ministry banners—was now cracked wide open, scorched with smoke and spells. Chunks of marble and twisted beams were still being levitated out by crews of repair witches.
And at the center of it all… the pit.
The gaping wound in the floor where Level Nine had ruptured like the earth itself had turned against them.
Harry walked forward slowly, boots crunching on rubble, the scent of charred stone and blood still clinging to the air like a warning.
He approached the guard railing hastily conjured around the edge of the crater.
A faint hum of magical containment wards buzzed in the air, but the heat below still rose in waves, pulsing like breath from a dragon’s mouth.
He leaned forward and peered into the pit.
Even hours later, the circle of flame still burned—wild and angry, sealed tightly around the breach. Its edges crackled and hissed, dancing with unstable enchantments. The air shimmered above it with residual heat and dark magic.
And within the flames…
They were still there.
The Inferi.
Some wandered the edge of the fire like caged animals, hissing and twitching, backs hunched, heads jerking erratically. Others were simply standing—motionless, watching the surface, as if waiting for someone to come back down.
Harry gritted his teeth.
Even death didn’t sleep anymore.
He heard footsteps approaching behind him.
“Mr Potter,” came a voice—tight, controlled. Minister Higgs.
Harry didn’t turn. His eyes were still locked on the fire below.
“They haven’t stopped,” he muttered.
“No,” Higgs replied. “They haven’t. And that’s precisely why you’re here.”
Now Harry turned to face him.
Higgs looked exhausted—his robes rumpled, eyes red-rimmed, face lined from far more than lack of sleep. But there was something else too. Something harder. Urgency.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Higgs didn’t flinch. “We just received something. Something that changes everything.”
He gestured for Harry to follow.
“Come with me,” he said. “You need to see this with your own eyes.”
Harry followed Higgs in tense silence through the Ministry corridors—once pristine, now darkened and cracked, charmed torchlight flickering unevenly. The air still reeked faintly of fire and destruction, and every step down the hallway echoed like a ghost of the explosion that had rocked the entire floor.
When they reached Higgs’s office, the thick oak doors opened with a slow, grinding groan.
Hermione and Theia were already inside.
Hermione stood by the enchanted map board, arms folded tightly across her chest, face pale but composed—too composed. Theia was perched stiffly on the edge of a chair, her leg bouncing restlessly, soot still smudged in the crease of her sleeve. Both women looked up the second Harry entered.
Hermione’s face cracked first—not with a smile, but with guilt.
“Harry,” she said softly.
Harry’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t respond right away. His mind was still at St. Mungo’s, sitting beside a boy with tubes in his mouth and runes glowing across his skull.
Higgs shut the door behind him with a quiet thud.
“I’m sorry to drag you out of the hospital,” the Minister began, walking around his desk. “And… I’m truly sorry to hear about James.”
Harry nodded stiffly, saying nothing.
Higgs glanced at Hermione, then back at Harry. “And… Albus?”
The pause was like a blade being drawn.
Harry exhaled through his nose. “Still missing.”
Hermione winced. Theia looked down.
Then Higgs spoke, voice lower, more deliberate.
“Then… what we’re about to tell you is going to be harder.”
Harry’s eyes snapped up.
“What is it?”
Hermione stepped forward now, slowly, hands clasped tightly together.
“We’ve… received information. Confirmed. From two separate sources. Unsolicited, but identical.”
Harry’s shoulders straightened.
Hermione hesitated, then looked him directly in the eye.
“It’s about Albus.”
And Harry’s stomach dropped like a stone.
Hermione took a deep breath, steadying herself. “About an hour ago,” she said quietly, “a team of investigators sweeping the lower Department of Mysteries sub-levels found something.”
Harry’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Found what?”
Higgs interjected grimly, “Bodies.”
Harry’s heart stopped.
“Five of them,” Theia said, her voice clipped, like she’d rehearsed it. “Vance. And four of the Unspeakables assigned to the resurrection research project.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed, disbelief flashing behind the exhaustion. “Vance is dead?”
Hermione nodded slowly. “They were all found in one of the sealed experimental chambers, behind a ward only Vance and two others had access to.”
Harry stepped back, his jaw clenching. “How?”
“The cause of death is unclear,” Higgs said. “Magical trauma. Burn patterns. Some had internal bleeding from spellburst ruptures. All of them had been dead for hours by the time they were found.”
Harry’s mind raced—calculations, fragments of evidence, Vance’s evasions, Albus’s distance—
And then Hermione’s voice cut in again, softer now.
“There’s more, Harry.”
He looked up, heart pounding now.
“No sign of Albus,” she said. “But… they found traces of him. All over the chamber.”
Harry frowned. “What kind of traces?”
Theia exchanged a look with Hermione before speaking. “Blood. Magical residue. Skin cells. DNA markers. All matching Albus.”
Harry stared at her like she’d just punched the breath out of his lungs.
“What are you saying?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “That he was there?”
Hermione nodded. “Yes.”
“But his body isn’t.” Theia added. “Everyone else is accounted for. Except him.”
Harry blinked hard, the room spinning slightly around him.
“No. No—he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—”
“We’re not saying he killed them,” Hermione cut in quickly. “But he was there. During or just before whatever happened.”
Higgs sighed, rubbing his temple. “There’s no sign of forced entry. And Albus’s magical signature was detected in several points across the chamber—including a spellcast anomaly matching wand usage under high emotional duress.”
Harry turned, one hand gripping the back of the nearest chair as if to keep from sinking to the floor.
“Where is he then?” he asked. “If he’s not one of the dead, and if he didn’t do this—where is my son?”
Higgs walked to the side of his desk and tapped his wand against a heavy black folder.
With a whirr of magic, it opened itself—and page after page began floating into the air, spreading out like damning petals of parchment.
Harry took a step forward, eyes scanning the documents. Some were charmed memos, others formal authorizations, and a few bore the unmistakable Ministry classified seals.
But every single one had one thing in common.
Albus Severus Potter’s signature.
In crisp, unmistakable ink.
Stamped, verified.
Over and over again.
“I wanted you to see it for yourself,” Higgs said solemnly. “We pulled every log from the Department of Mysteries covering the last month. These are not fakes. These were not forged. They were verified against magical signature.”
Harry didn’t say a word. His fingers twitched at his sides.
Hermione leaned forward and snatched one of the memos out of the air. “He wouldn’t have signed this. This is authorization for research beyond the third veil containment. That’s restricted even to senior Unspeakables.”
Theia pulled another parchment from the floating array. “And this… this is access to the sub-floor under the Veil chamber. That level hasn’t been cleared in decades.”
Higgs nodded grimly. “Yet Albus signed it. He had complete clearance to all the chambers connected to the resurrection experiments. Even the ones not officially sanctioned.”
Harry’s mouth felt like ash.
“This doesn’t prove intent,” Hermione snapped. “It proves access. Not what he did with it.”
“Intent or not,” Higgs said, voice growing harder now, “he was there. He was involved. And now—after an explosion that killed dozens, including Vance and key Unspeakables, and released modified Inferi into the Ministry—he’s vanished.”
The words dropped like stones into water.
Then—the worst of it.
Higgs reached down and picked up a small red slip of parchment—the color of criminal sanction.
He looked directly at Harry.
“I didn’t want to do this. You have to believe that. But with the death toll, the magical security breach, and the Veil itself now unstable—we have no choice.”
Hermione stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “No choice for what, Nathan?”
Higgs met her gaze and spoke clearly.
“We’re issuing a warrant for Albus Severus Potter’s arrest. The charges include unauthorized magical experimentation, destruction of Ministry property, conspiracy to withhold classified research… and treason, accounting for the loss of innocent lives.”
Theia gasped.
Hermione went white.
Harry—didn’t move.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Just stood there, eyes locked on the warrant in Higgs’s hand.
Treason.
Against the Ministry.
Against everything Harry fought for.
Against everything he’d raised his son to believe in.
And the name on the warrant was his.
Albus Severus Potter.
Higgs didn’t stop. His voice, usually formal and precise, now carried a heavy weight—as if each word was dragging something behind it.
He set the arrest warrant down on his desk and picked up another scroll, this one thinner, with a seal that had already been broken.
“I also had Albus’s residence searched, earlier this evening,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. “Standard procedure in cases of disappearance linked to criminal activity.”
Harry’s head snapped up, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“What did you find?” he asked tightly.
Higgs hesitated only a second before answering.
“Nothing. The flat is completely empty. No clothes. No journals. No personal effects. Not even a toothbrush. It’s like he never lived there at all.”
Hermione drew a sharp breath. “He cleared it out?”
“Everything except his Ministry books and two robes in the wardrobe. All the rest—gone. Vanished without trace.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “He wouldn’t leave without telling someone—”
“The neighbours said otherwise,” Higgs interrupted, his voice low but firm. “Two separate witnesses in the building reported seeing him return to the flat sometime between 2:00 and 2:15 p.m.—just after the explosion.”
Harry’s heart stilled. “That’s impossible.”
“He never went back, Harry,” Theia said softly. “We were combing through the Ministry rubble at that time. You were. He wasn’t seen anywhere near the blast zone after midday.”
Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. “Could it have been Polyjuice?”
“Perhaps,” Higgs admitted. “But there was no sign of Polyjuice residue in the flat. No potion vials. No hair traces. Whoever came in used his wand, had his face, and was never seen again.”
He looked directly at Harry again.
“We don’t know where he is. But it’s clear he had time, motive, and preparation.”
Harry’s voice was a whisper now, edged in disbelief and dread.
“You’re saying he planned this.”
“I’m saying,” Higgs said, laying the scroll down carefully, “that the evidence is building fast, and the longer he stays gone, the guiltier he looks.”
Harry stared down at the warrant on Higgs’s desk like it was a curse carved in stone.
His fists curled at his sides, voice low but trembling with fury.
“No.”
The word cut the room like a blade.
“I know my son,” Harry said, his eyes locked on Higgs. “You don’t get to look at a pile of signatures and vanished furniture and declare him a traitor. You don’t get to use my missing child to save face for a Ministry that let this happen under its own nose.”
Hermione stepped up beside him immediately, her voice steady. “He’s right. Albus may be reckless. Isolated. But he is not a murderer, and he is not a traitor. You’re grasping at evidence without context, Nathan. And context matters.”
Higgs’s expression tightened, though his voice remained level.
“Context also includes dead Unspeakables, the breach of a magically sealed artifact, and dozens of lives lost in a Ministry facility, Hermione.” He stepped around the desk slowly, his gaze hardening on Harry. “You may be his father, but I am the Minister. I don’t have the luxury of sentiment.”
Harry stepped forward, jaw clenched. “No, what you don’t have is a real lead, so you’re making my son the fall guy to calm the press and cover the cracks in your leadership.”
Theia winced. Hermione’s eyes flicked between the two men, her mouth pressed into a tight line.
Higgs’s composure broke just enough to flash. “Don’t forget, Harry—you’re part of this Ministry too. Or have you already separated yourself when it’s inconvenient?”
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Higgs raised a hand sharply.
“You want to be Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Then act like it. Right now, you’re behaving like a grieving father, not a leader. And I can’t have that. If you can’t separate the two—”
He paused.
Then dropped the last blow.
“—then I’ll have no choice but to suspend you until this is resolved.”
Silence slammed through the room.
Even Theia’s leg stopped bouncing.
Harry stared at Higgs, stunned. A thousand arguments crowded in his throat, but all he could manage was:
“You would do that?”
Higgs’s face was pale, stern, unreadable.
“I don’t want to,” he said. “But if you keep standing in the way of this investigation, I will.”
Harry’s jaw worked silently. His knuckles whitened. His throat tightened—but his eyes never left the name on that warrant.
The tension in the room was so thick it felt like the air itself might split in half.
Higgs stepped closer, lowering his voice—not out of gentleness, but precision.
“I don’t want to do this, Harry. I didn’t want any of this. But I’ve got the public, the international community, and the Board of Magical Departments breathing down my neck.”
He tapped the warrant again with two fingers, sharp and final.
“They want answers. They want a name. And right now—Albus is the only name they’ve got.”
Harry’s jaw clenched hard, his fingers twitching at his side like they itched to break something.
Higgs continued, firm and relentless.
“I’ve stalled them. Told them we were still gathering evidence, still reviewing the attack site. But I can’t hold the tide back much longer.”
He looked Harry dead in the eye.
“You have until noon tomorrow to bring him in. Alive. With answers. With something that proves this isn’t what it looks like.”
Hermione’s mouth opened—“Nathan, that’s—”
But Higgs raised a hand. “If he’s not found—if he’s not in custody by midday—I will have no choice but to declare him a national traitor.”
The words slammed into the room like a curse.
Harry went still.
Theia’s mouth parted in disbelief. “A traitor—?”
“Yes,” Higgs said. “It will be official. His name. His image. His record. Every wizarding agency from here to Romania will be alerted. Every Floo Network, every border, every portkey station. He won’t be just missing anymore—he’ll be hunted.”
Silence fell again. Hermione looked stricken.
Harry took a slow, shaking breath.
And then he spoke—his voice hoarse, but steady:
“Then I’ll find him. Before anyone else does.”
And without another word, he picked up the warrant, turned and left the room to apparate to his other son.
As Harry walked the dim corridor of St Mungo’s like a man moving through fog—his boots silent against the polished floor, the glow of magical lanterns flickering over his face, casting tired shadows beneath his eyes.
Every footstep closer to James’s room felt like dragging guilt on chains.
One son.
Barely holding on, hooked up to every life-saving enchantment the magical world had to offer.
The other…
Vanished.
Hunted.
Branded with a crime so unforgivable that even saying the word out loud made Harry sick.
His throat tightened as he reached the door, fingers hovering over the handle.
How do I tell her?
How do you sit down with the woman who raised them, loved them, bled for them—and tell her that while one of her sons may not wake up… the other might never come home?
That the Ministry they fought for now wanted to name their child a traitor.
That if Harry failed—Albus wouldn’t get a trial.
He’d get a label.
And a target on his back.
Harry closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the door for a second, letting the cool wood steady him. He could still hear the monitors inside, the slow, ghostlike rhythm of James's artificial breathing.
How did we get here?
He saw it all in flashes:
Albus at eleven, clutching his robes on the platform.
James teasing his brother over nothing.
Ginny laughing, saying, “They’ll be fine.”
Harry clenched his fists, fighting the sting behind his eyes.
He whispered under his breath like a prayer to no one:
“Please let both of them be okay.”
Then he opened the door.
The door creaked softly as Harry stepped inside.
The room was dim, the only light coming from the soft blue glow of healing runes drifting above James’s bed. The steady beep… beep… beep of the monitoring charm echoed like a heartbeat trying to hold the world together.
Ginny sat at his bedside, curled forward in the chair with her hand wrapped around James’s, whispering something to him. Her thumb moved in slow circles across his knuckles—gentle, steady, as if her touch alone could anchor him here.
She looked up when Harry entered.
Her eyes were swollen and red, her cheeks blotched with tears. She didn’t speak—just looked at him.
And something in his face must have said everything.
She stood.
Fast.
“Harry?” Her voice was small. Fragile. “What happened?”
Harry opened his mouth—
But nothing came.
She stepped toward him. “Did… did they find Albus?”
He nodded slowly.
Her shoulders sagged. A sharp breath left her chest like relief—until she saw he wasn’t moving. That he didn’t look relieved at all.
“…Where is he?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
Harry closed the door behind him. His hand trembled on the handle, so he clenched it into a fist and turned to face her fully.
“Ginny…” His voice cracked instantly.
She went still.
He stepped forward, slower this time, eyes shimmering with something deeper than exhaustion—devastation.
“They found Vance,” he said. “And the Unspeakables who were working on the resurrection project.”
Ginny blinked. “…Were?”
Harry nodded. “Dead.”
She stared at him. “And Albus…?”
“No body,” he said. “But his magical trace was everywhere. His DNA. His wand signature. He was there, Ginny. When it happened. Or just before.”
Ginny’s lips parted, but no sound came.
Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the red slip—the warrant, the one that burned like betrayal.
“They think he’s responsible.”
Her hand flew to her mouth, and she staggered back a step. “No—no, Harry, he—he wouldn’t—”
“I know,” Harry said quickly, stepping toward her. “I know. But they have everything pointing to him. And he’s disappeared. Cleared out his flat. No one’s seen him since the explosion.”
He held the warrant up like it burned his fingers.
“They’re calling it treason.”
Ginny’s knees buckled, and she caught herself on James’s bed, eyes wide with disbelief. “He’s just a boy. Our boy. He—he doesn’t even understand—he’s not—”
“I told them,” Harry said, voice cracking. “I told them they’re wrong. That they’re just scared and need someone to blame. But Higgs said if I don’t find him by tomorrow at noon, he’s going to be declared a national traitor.”
Ginny looked at James, silent and bandaged and still.
Then back at Harry.
“And you?” she asked quietly. “What are you going to do?”
Harry didn’t answer at first.
Then: “I’m going to find him before they do.”
His voice trembled. “And I’m going to bring him back.”
Ginny pressed both hands to her face, a sob breaking through her chest. She slid down into the chair beside James again, curling forward, as if shielding both her sons at once.
Harry stood there, unable to comfort her.
He had no arms left to hold anyone.
Just two sons—
One barely breathing.
And one about to be hunted.
Notes:
Thank you for reading this chapter -- I hope you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please leave a comment! ❤️❤️
Chapter 44: The Ash that Remains
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Albus Potter sat curled into the farthest corner of a cold, nearly empty Muggle train carriage, his coat pulled up to his ears, hood shadowing his face. The world outside the window blurred in long streaks of green and gray, fields giving way to industrial ruins and back again. His wand was tucked deep inside his boot. His spellphone—charred to slag—had been left in a storm drain somewhere near Manchester.
His hands trembled in his lap, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the panic still lodged beneath his ribs.
He hadn’t slept in nearly forty hours.
Not since he’d overheard Vance.
Not since he’d stood, hidden behind a warded archive shelf in the Department of Mysteries, listening to Vance and two other men—foreign, clipped accents—calmly discuss the plan to pin everything on him.
“…He’s already knee-deep in the resurrection files. It’ll be believable. And easy. People already look at him like he’s wrong for just existing.”
“…You leak just enough. Disgrace the Potter name. Distract the Ministry. We clean up after.”
And then Vance, smug, cold, final: “Albus will never know what hit him.”
He had stood frozen.
Sickened. Betrayed. Terrified.
He hadn’t even known what happened next—his body had moved on its own, stumbling back, nearly tripping over a box of archived spell parchments. He’d run.
Straight to him.
The man who had warned him. The man who had told him weeks ago—go to your father. Tell him the truth. Let him help.
But Albus hadn’t listened.
Because Harry Potter wasn’t the type you ran to.
Not when you were his greatest disappointment.
And now…
Now he was here.
Alone. On the run. Wand in boot. Clothes damp. No Galleons left.
He didn’t even know what direction the train was taking. He just knew he had to stay off the grid—no magic, no magical transportation, no traceable signatures. He had shielded himself with old, unreliable Muggle-repelling wards when he slept beneath overpasses. He stole bread from a corner shop and hated himself for it. He was wearing the same clothes since the night he ran.
And worst of all—
He had no idea what had happened at the Ministry.
No idea about the explosion, the Veil breach, the Inferi… No idea that his brother was fighting for his life, and his father was breaking apart at his hospital bedside.
All Albus knew was one thing:
If he stopped running, they’d catch him.
And if they caught him—
No one would believe he wasn’t part of it.
His breath fogged the cracked windowpane.
The train jolted, slowing as it pulled into another nameless station—a skeletal platform of broken lamps and rusted benches. No one boarded. No one got off. Albus stayed frozen, hunched into himself like a creature waiting for a trap to spring.
He needed a plan. Something. Anything.
But planning had never been his strength. That had always been Rose. Or Scorpius. He was the idea generator, not the navigator. He read theory, debated morality, cast spells with surgical precision. But surviving on the run? Hiding in plain sight? Sleeping under bridges and rationing crusts of bread? That had never been him.
His stomach twisted, half from hunger, half from the sour tang of dread.
Okay. First: where. He couldn’t stay on trains forever. Someone would notice eventually. A camera. A routine sweep. A bored Muggle officer asking too many questions.
Not London. Not anywhere magical. Not even near.
Wales? Too many forests. He hated forests. France? Too risky. Portkeys were monitored. Apparition was traceable. Flying was suicidal. Scotland?
He blinked slowly.
Maybe.
The Highlands were vast. Cold, yes, but ungoverned in the way that mattered. Muggle villages with fading names. Long-forgotten wards. Places that magic had touched once and then abandoned. He could vanish there for a while. Regroup. Think. Figure out how to get word to someone who might believe him. Maybe a letter—no owl, too obvious—Muggle post, maybe. Misdirected. Severely coded. He’d read about that kind of thing in—
He stopped himself. Reading. He always read. None of those books had prepared him for this.
His fingers curled into fists on his knees. He needed food. Shelter. A map. A way to get to Scotland without stepping foot into a magical network. Muggle money, maybe. Clothes that didn’t scream “lost wizard.” Another name, even.
The door at the far end of the carriage rattled open, a gust of cold air sweeping in. Albus tensed, but it was just a conductor, whistling to himself, scribbling something on a clipboard. He passed by without even glancing at Albus.
He exhaled, slow.
He would get off at the next station. He’d find a convenience store, swipe something cheap and warm—a meat pie, maybe. A soda. A paper map if he was lucky. He’d walk north from there. Stay to the small roads. Keep out of sight.
He would head for the Highlands. Sleep in barns if he had to. Find an old hunting lodge or an abandoned bothy. Somewhere the Circle wouldn’t think to look.
His father used to talk about the Highlands like they were alive—wild and watching. Untameable. That sounded right. He could disappear in a place like that.
The station smelled of damp stone and old oil. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Albus stepped off the train, the soles of his shoes slapping against the cracked concrete platform. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched, hood pulled tight. A CCTV camera buzzed faintly above him—he didn’t look up.
No one stopped him.
He slipped through the exit gate and into the narrow hall of the station’s interior. A vending machine buzzed idly in the corner. A woman in a neon jacket mopped near the door, humming tunelessly.
His hands were trembling again.
The air smelled like rain. Cold. Sharp.
He crossed to the ATM, a dented, grimy thing wedged beside a shuttered ticket window. His Muggle ATM card was stuffed deep into the lining of his coat, sealed in a magically protected fold he’d sewn himself back in fifth year, more out of boredom than foresight.
He pulled it out now, stiff and barely used. The name printed on the account wasn’t Albus Severus Potter. It was one he’d registered after a heated argument with Dad, when he'd sworn he'd rather disappear than be a Potter anymore. A throwaway identity. “Elliot Blackwell.” Muggle-born, orphan, unremarkable.
He swiped the linked card—old, scratched—and prayed the account still held enough to keep him warm and moving.
The screen blinked. Processing.
He wiped his palm on his trousers.
Then the machine spat out £80 in stiff notes. Just enough. Just enough to breathe.
He took the cash, tucked it deep into his boot. His breath fogged the inside of his hood as he turned and walked out the station doors, the woman with the mop never even glancing his way.
Outside, the wind hit him hard. A burst of cold against the back of his neck.
He didn't stop.
He kept walking.
The corner shop sat slumped between a boarded-up pub and a betting office, its yellow signage flickering, one bulb dead in the “OPEN” sign. A bell chimed weakly as Albus stepped inside.
Warm air hit him—stale but welcome. The shop smelled of floor cleaner, instant coffee, and crisps. A Muggle man behind the till glanced up, bored and barely awake, then looked back down at his newspaper.
Albus pulled his hood lower.
The shelves were narrow, crammed too close together. He moved fast but careful, fingers stiff from the cold. He grabbed a meat pasty from the heated tray—even if it was half-frozen, it was hot. A packet of crisps. A chocolate bar. A bottle of water. At the end of the aisle, next to the chewing gum, hung a rack of folded road maps—UK regions, Scotland among them.
He took the one marked “Northern Britain & Scottish Highlands”, its corners already curled.
The total came to £7.83. Albus slid a ten-pound note across the counter without a word. The man gave him change and a plastic bag without looking up.
Outside again, Albus ducked into the narrow mouth of an alley behind the shop. Empty bins. Broken bricks. The stink of cigarette smoke and something rotting. It was perfect.
He sat on a crate and ate the pasty in two minutes, barely chewing. The chocolate vanished next. He forced himself to sip the water slowly.
Only then did he unfold the map, spreading it across his lap. His fingers traced the roads north, the pale blue rivers and grey spines of mountain ranges. Fort William. Inverness. Lochaber. Remote towns, distant trails, places a wizard might forget existed.
He’d need to walk to the bus station. Maybe find a second-hand shop and trade in his coat for something less suspicious. No one wore this type of Wizarding jackets here, no matter how frayed and nondescript they looked.
His finger landed on a patch of land near Glenfinnan. Isolated. Forested. Nothing nearby but a few hiking routes and a lake. If he was careful—if he stayed off the roads—he could be there in three days.
He folded the map again, slower this time.
He could do this.
He had to.
He stood, shouldered the plastic bag, and stepped back into the wind.
The public restroom was attached to a petrol station just off the main road—dingy, flickering lights, one cracked mirror, the floor slick with something unidentifiable. The kind of place most people hurried through without making eye contact.
Albus locked the stall behind him, heart thudding.
His bag—an old canvas thing he’d Transfigured from a Ministry-issued satchel weeks ago—was stashed beneath his coat, strapped cross-body for safety. Inside, he'd packed only what he thought he’d need for a short escape. Not a week. Not this.
He sat down on the closed toilet lid and rummaged through the bag. One extra shirt, wrinkled beyond hope. A pair of black jeans. Socks. A threadbare jumper with a torn cuff. All Muggle. All forgettable.
He changed quickly, peeling off the damp clothes he'd worn for too many days—clothes that smelled like train grease and city smoke and fear. His fingers fumbled with the buttons. Everything felt slower in here. He splashed cold water on his face from the sink outside the stall, the faucet shrieking as it turned.
He looked up, briefly catching his reflection.
Pale. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair a mess, sticking up at odd angles. He didn’t look like himself. He didn’t look like Harry Potter’s son. Not anymore.
Good.
He stuffed his old clothes into the bottom of the bag, buried beneath the map and food, then zipped it up again. Just one more layer shed. One more version of himself folded away.
As he stepped out of the restroom, the sky overhead had darkened—clouds bruising with storm. But he had no choice but to walk.
The wind cut through his jumper as he walked, tugging at the sleeves and catching in his hair. The town was quiet—rows of shuttered shops and peeling posters, the odd car rumbling past on the wet road. He kept his head down, footsteps steady but slow.
The further he got from the station, the heavier his chest felt.
Every footstep echoed with what if.
He should have listened.
He should have listened to him.
The only one who hadn’t looked at him like he was cursed. The one who had seen what Vance was doing long before Albus had. The one who had said, "Your dad’s not perfect. But he’d burn the world before he let it take you."
But Albus hadn’t believed him. Not then.
He’d been so sure Harry wouldn’t understand—wouldn’t want to. So sure that whatever love existed between them had long since cracked under the weight of disappointment and silence. He'd believed the lie Vance whispered without saying a word: No one will stand for you. Not even your own father.
And now…
He was a fugitive.
His name—his name—was probably being whispered in Ministry halls like a warning. Aurors would be dispatched. Alerts sent to every magical checkpoint. The Daily Prophet would have a front page full of fire and betrayal and bloodlines turned rotten.
And Harry—
Maybe he would’ve believed him. Maybe not.
But he deserved the chance to try.
Albus’s breath hitched. He stopped walking and leaned against a cracked brick wall beside a closed bakery, the scent of stale flour still lingering in the air.
He shut his eyes.
If he had gone to him—right after hearing Vance. If he had run to Harry, even once, just once, maybe—
“Dad, I messed up. But not like they’re saying. Not like that.”
Maybe he would’ve listened.
Maybe he would’ve looked at him not like the world’s mistake, but like his son.
Maybe he wouldn’t be alone in the rain now, boots soaked through, hunted by a world that already hated the idea of him.
He swallowed hard.
But it was too late now.
Wasn’t it?
***
The house in Devon sat in still darkness, save for the faint porch light. It cast a weak glow across the hedgerow, catching the shimmer of rain clinging to the garden path. The sky was ink-black above, heavy with clouds that hadn’t yet broken.
Harry stood at the front door for longer than necessary.
His hand was on the handle, but he couldn’t move. He could see it—what would happen the moment he opened it. The warmth of the hallway. Lily’s gasp. James’s sharp intake of breath. Sirius pacing, running a hand through his hair. Questions. Too many questions.
And he would have to answer them.
He took a breath, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
The clock in the hallway ticked loudly. The kitchen light was still on, casting a soft yellow glow through the doorway. A half-drunk cup of tea sat on the table. Someone had been waiting.
Footsteps echoed above. Then voices. The creak of the stairs.
James Potter Sr. came down first—his wand already in hand, face pale and drawn. “Harry?”
Then Lily appeared behind him, wrapped in a shawl, her red hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Sirius followed a beat later, barefoot, shirt wrinkled, eyes sharp with worry.
Harry closed the door behind him with a click.
They all stared.
Lily stepped forward, voice soft. “What happened? Is he…?”
Harry’s throat closed. His Auror training didn’t matter here. The words refused to come.
He shook his head once. “He’s alive.”
Lily let out a breath she’d been holding, but the relief didn’t reach her eyes. “But?”
Harry leaned against the wall, rain dripping from his coat, his wand still clutched too tightly in his hand.
“He fell. From over a hundred feet. There was… debris. Part of the ceiling collapsed after the Veil rupture. He was thrown—”
“Thrown?” James Sr.’s voice cracked. “Thrown?”
Harry didn’t look up. “Skull fractures. Brain swelling. They had to put him in magical stasis to reduce the pressure. We won’t know the extent of the damage until—until he wakes up.”
A sharp, pained silence followed.
Lily’s hand trembled against the bannister. Sirius looked like someone had physically struck him.
Harry went on, quietly, hollow. “Both legs are broken. Shoulder. Arm. Spine’s been damaged—compression fractures. He’s breathing with magical assistance. Right eye’s badly hit, might be long-term. We had to… we had to fight to stabilize him.”
“He's a kid,” Sirius said, voice low, angry at the world. “He’s just a bloody kid.”
James Sr. stepped forward, shaking. “But he’s still alive?”
“For now,” Harry said. “But it’s going to be a long recovery. If he wakes.”
Lily let out a broken noise and sank onto the stairs, covering her mouth.
Harry dropped his bag onto the floor and knelt beside her. “Ginny’s with him. She hasn’t left since he was brought in. I just… I needed to tell you in person.”
James Sr. stared at the wall, jaw clenched, eyes wet. Sirius ran a hand down his face and paced away, swearing softly under his breath.
No one said anything for a long time.
Then Lily whispered, “Where’s Albus?”
Harry froze.
He looked down.
And said nothing.
The silence had teeth.
It bit into the walls of the Devon home, into the floorboards and the air and Harry’s ribs, crushing every breath.
Lily’s question hung there—Where’s Albus?
And Harry wanted to lie. Merlin, he wanted to. He wanted to tell them Albus was safe, that he’d sent word, that he was somewhere far from all this. He wanted to give them something—but the truth weighed heavier than his own exhaustion.
He stood up slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of the banister. His voice, when it came, was hoarse. Flat.
“There’s a warrant out for his arrest.”
James Sr.’s head snapped toward him. “What?”
“They think he was involved in the explosion. The Veil malfunction. The Inferi breach. The entire… the entire thing.”
“No—no, that’s not—” Lily’s voice cracked.
“He’s missing,” Harry said, forcing the words through the numbness. “He disappeared right after the blast. Vance and the other Unspeakables were found dead. The magical signatures, the documents, the security logs—all of it points to Albus.”
Sirius had stopped pacing. He turned slowly. “You think he did this?”
“I don’t,” Harry said immediately. Fiercely. “I don’t. But the Ministry does. Higgs does. They’re giving me until noon tomorrow. If I can’t produce him, he’ll be named a traitor. Officially. He’ll lose his rights to due process.”
Lily stood slowly. “You’re telling me… our grandson is being hunted? By the Ministry?”
“Yes,” Harry whispered.
Sirius stared at him like he was seeing someone else entirely. “You said he’s missing. You don’t know where he is?”
Harry shook his head. “He ran. Before any of us knew what was coming. Maybe he overheard something. Maybe he was threatened. Or even kidnapped.I don’t know. But he’s gone. Off the grid. Not even a magical trace.”
“And you’re still working for them?” James Sr. said, his voice rising now. “You’re going along with this? Letting them label your son—our grandson—a criminal?”
“I’m trying to protect him,” Harry snapped. “Do you think I wanted this? I’ve been breaking every rule in that bloody Ministry to keep him out of headlines, out of custody, out of Azkaban—”
“Azkaban?” Lily whispered, her face going pale.
“If the wrong people get hold of this, they’ll skip the trial altogether,” Harry said. “They’ll make an example out of him. A Potter. That’s what they want. And James—” He faltered. “James nearly died. I’m trying to hold everything together and it’s—it’s not enough.”
No one spoke.
Then Sirius said, his voice low and bitter, “They’re trying to destroy our family. All over again.”
Harry swallowed the burn in his throat and looked at them—his parents, his godfather—standing in the house they’d never meant to live in again, reliving a nightmare they thought had ended with Voldemort.
And he said, quietly:
“I don’t know how to save both of them.”
Sirius sank onto the armrest of the worn sofa, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles went white. He stared at the floor like it might offer some kind of answer. The fire in the hearth remained unlit, the room colder than it should’ve been.
After a long beat, his voice broke the silence.
"How are we supposed to find him, then?"
Harry didn’t answer right away. He stood in the middle of the room, still soaked from the rain, the map of James’s injuries branded behind his eyes. His boots left small puddles on the rug Ginny had bought just last winter.
He looked up slowly.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Lily stared at him, the disbelief quiet but palpable. James Sr. exhaled sharply through his nose, turning away as if he couldn’t bear to hear that answer spoken aloud.
“You’re the Head of Magical Law Enforcement,” Sirius said, voice rising. “You’re Harry bloody Potter. You’ve found the worst of them before—Voldemort’s followers, smugglers, killers—how do you not know where your own son is?”
“Because he doesn’t want to be found,” Harry snapped. “He’s smart. He’s scared. And he knows the system better than anyone. He’s worked inside it, studied how it tracks people, how it marks magical signatures. He’s disappeared like someone trained for it. Like he knew this would happen.”
That admission tasted like ash in his mouth.
Sirius stood again, anger flashing through his expression, but it wasn’t directed at Harry. Not really. “So what do we do? Sit on our hands while the Ministry paints a target on his back?”
“I’m trying,” Harry said, quieter now. “I’ve sent feelers out through people I trust. I’ve got Higgs delayed for the night, but that won’t last. I don’t know where Albus went. I don’t know if he has food. Shelter. If he even knows James is—” His voice faltered, broke. “He doesn’t even know what happened to his brother.”
The words seemed to punch the air out of the room.
Harry ran a hand through his hair and let out a shaking breath. “He’s out there alone. And I—I don’t know if he thinks I’d help him or throw him in a cell. I don’t even know if he trusts me.”
Lily stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his arm.
“Then we have to make sure he knows,” she said, voice trembling. “We have to find him before they do.”
Harry turned to his mother, his eyes tired, jaw clenched like he was holding the world back with sheer will.
“Can you go be with Ginny?” he asked softly. “Just for the night. Stay with her at St. Mungo’s.”
Lily blinked, surprised. “Of course. But what about—?”
“She needs someone,” Harry said. “Someone who can sit with her without… without asking for answers or solutions. Just stay. Be there when she wakes up. She hasn’t slept in over a day.”
Lily nodded instantly, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I’ll Floo over now.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, eyes already drifting toward the door.
Then he turned to James and Sirius, his voice tightening with urgency.
“I need you two with me.”
Sirius straightened. “Where?”
Harry’s expression hardened, just slightly. The Auror bleeding through the father. “Hermione and Ron’s. They’ve been keeping an eye on the trace monitoring systems—off-record. If there’s anything, anything strange or unregistered, they’ll know.”
James Sr. frowned. “You think she can track him?”
“If anyone can, it’s Hermione. And Ron still has a few tricks left from his days at the Department. We don’t have much time—Higgs is waiting for me to fail.”
He grabbed his wand off the side table and slung his damp coat back on.
“I’m not going to sit here and do nothing. I have to try. I have to find him.”
Sirius moved without hesitation, grabbing his jacket. “Then what are we waiting for?”
James Sr. gave Lily one last glance—a silent exchange between two parents who had already lost their child once—and then nodded, stepping up beside Harry.
“I’ll get us there.”
Harry looked to his mother one last time. She gave him a small, fierce nod.
“Bring him home, Harry. Before the Ministry gets to him.”
He didn’t say anything. Just gripped his wand tighter and Disapparated into the night, James and Sirius right behind him.
They Apparated just outside the wards of the Granger-Weasley residence—a charming brick house nestled behind rows of flowering hedges, its windows dim, the lamplight inside flickering like a heartbeat. It was nearly midnight, but the front door swung open before they even reached it.
Hermione stood in the doorway, dressed in a worn jumper and leggings, eyes sharp and tired.
She didn’t speak. Just stepped aside to let them in.
Ron stood in the hallway, jaw set, arms folded tight across his chest. His face was pale, and the circles under his eyes were deep and red-rimmed. He didn’t even greet them—just looked straight at Harry.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
Harry’s voice was quiet. “Bad.”
Ron nodded once, slowly. “I’m his godfather. I should’ve been there.”
“No one could’ve seen it coming,” James Sr. offered gently.
Ron didn’t respond. His hands were shaking.
They moved into the kitchen, where parchment and magical instruments were already spread across the table. An enchanted map of Britain pulsed faintly under a detection charm. Hermione flicked her wand and added another layer to the tracking web—a faint shimmer across the eastern region of England.
“I’ve been monitoring for magical signatures that match Albus’s unique frequency,” she said. “No Apparition, no Portkey activity, no wand registration—not since the day of the explosion.”
“So he’s gone completely dark,” Sirius muttered, leaning against the wall.
“Yes,” Hermione said, then looked at Harry. “Which means the only way we find him now… is by thinking like him.”
Harry didn’t respond right away. He stood by the kitchen counter, staring at nothing, jaw tight, fingers curled into his palms.
“Harry,” Hermione said gently. “You’re his father. You know how he thinks. Where would he go?”
Harry’s throat burned.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Hermione stepped closer. “Don’t think like the Head of Law Enforcement. Don’t think like an Auror. Think like Albus. If he was hurt, scared, blamed—where would he run?”
Harry closed his eyes.
He tried. He tried to picture it—not the boy the Prophet painted, but his son. The child who once hid under the stairs with his sketchbooks. The teenager who read the same chapter of Magical Anomalies of the Mind over and over until the spine cracked. The young man who never quite looked him in the eye anymore.
He tried to follow the fear. The logic. The instinct.
But all he could feel was failure.
“I don’t know,” he said again, his voice raw. “I can’t see it. I can’t think like him. All I can think is—”
He broke off, swallowing hard. The words slipped through anyway.
“I failed them. Both of them.”
Ron looked away. Sirius closed his eyes. James Sr. set a steady hand on Harry’s shoulder, silent.
Hermione’s voice was softer now, but unrelenting. “Then fix it, Harry. Start now.”
Harry opened his eyes, and for a moment they were full of something not quite despair—more like grief’s sharper cousin. He stared at the map on the table, at the blank spaces between towns, the edges of roads. The places people went when they didn’t want to be seen.
“He wouldn’t stay near magic,” Harry said, slowly. “He’d go Muggle. Off-grid. No traceable spells. No wands.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Can he survive that long in the Muggle world?”
“He’s smart,” Harry said. “But he’s not street-smart. Not the way he thinks. If he’s running, he’s desperate. That means he’ll make mistakes.”
Ron finally looked at him, eyes shadowed. “Then we find the first mistake.”
Harry nodded.
And for the first time all night, it felt like the hunt had truly begun.
The hours bled into one another.
By the time dawn crept in, a pale smear of grey light pressing against the kitchen windows, the table was buried in scrolls, half-finished tea, and magical detection instruments that sparked weakly and fell silent again. A clock on the wall ticked too loud in the silence, as if counting down something they couldn’t see.
Hermione sat hunched over the map, dark curls pulled into a loose bun, her fingers tracing radius scans that had yielded nothing. Her wand hovered above it, pulsing every few minutes with new filters—wandless traces, residual aura, magical interference in Muggle-heavy zones.
Nothing.
Ron leaned back in his chair, eyes red, staring at the unmoving line of ink across the parchment that should have shown something. Even a flicker. Even a smudge.
James Sr. stood at the sink, pouring coffee no one touched. Sirius had given up pretending to sit, pacing like a restless shadow just outside the window warding line, wand tucked behind his ear.
Harry sat slumped in the corner chair, hands buried in his hair, elbows on his knees. The same three words kept looping in his mind: No trace. No trace. No trace.
He’d scoured every place Albus might’ve gone—childhood spots, school haunts, safehouses no one even knew about anymore.
Hermione shook her head, voice hoarse. “He’s nowhere magical. I’ve narrowed it down to that much. No magic used. No traceable objects. If he’s alive…”
“He’s alive,” Harry said sharply. Too fast. Too harsh.
Hermione paused, nodded once. “If he’s alive,” she said more carefully, “then he’s surviving by avoiding everything that would show up here. Which means either he’s improvising—”
“Or someone’s helping him,” Ron added darkly.
Everyone stilled.
“No one would help him,” Sirius muttered. “Not after what they’re saying. They think he betrayed the Ministry. The Prophet is already running headlines. Harry Potter’s Son Wanted for Treason.”
Harry’s jaw locked.
James Sr. leaned on the back of Harry’s chair, quiet but steady. “Then we need to stop looking where he’d want to be. And start looking where he’d think he shouldn’t be. Where he’d go but hate going. That’s where mistakes happen.”
Hermione murmured something, flicking her wand. The map zoomed in on the Midlands, then the Northwest.
Still nothing.
The kettle let out a tired hiss. The sky outside was pale and heavy, full of unfallen rain.
“We’re running out of time,” Ron said. Not unkindly—just truthfully.
Harry stood abruptly, chair scraping back. His eyes were bloodshot, face hollow with grief and frustration.
“I need air.”
He walked to the back garden without another word, stepping through the ward line into the overgrown grass. The cold morning hit him like a slap. Damp and real.
He stared up at the grey sky.
And whispered, as if Albus could somehow hear him, “Where did you go, son?”
The wind in the garden carried the faint smell of dew and woodsmoke, the first breath of morning threading through the trees. Harry stood still, fingers clenched at his sides, staring at the sky like it might offer him a sign. A direction. A chance.
The door creaked behind him.
“Harry,” Hermione’s voice called gently.
He didn’t turn around. Not yet.
She walked up beside him, pulling her cardigan tighter against the cold. Her face was pale, exhausted, but steady—always steady. That unshakable calm that had carried them through war, through rebuilding, through everything since.
“We need to talk,” she said. “About… what happens if we don’t find him.”
Harry’s breath caught. He looked at her now, jaw tense. “I’m not giving up.”
“I know,” she said. “But it’s nearly six. That gives us barely six hours until Higgs makes it public. Until he declares Albus a fugitive, and the full force of the Ministry comes down on him—internationally. That includes the ICW, Harry. And the media won’t wait for facts. They never do.”
Harry looked away again, jaw tight.
Hermione continued carefully, “We need to prepare a statement. For Higgs. For the Department Heads. For the press.”
“What do you want me to say?” Harry snapped, his voice sharp with pain. “That I lost my son? That I don’t know if he’s alive or dead? That I let him slip through my fingers and now he’s going to be hunted by the people I swore to lead?”
“No,” Hermione said firmly. “We say what you need to say to protect him. To give us time. We craft a narrative. Controlled. Contained.”
She paused. “You’re the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. But you’re also his father. You’re allowed to say both. That’s your power here.”
Harry rubbed his hands over his face, breathing hard. “They want a scapegoat. They want to use my son to distract from the real threat—Vance, the cult, the inferi breach—”
“And if we lose control of the story now, that’s exactly what they’ll get,” Hermione said.
He dropped his hands, staring at the trees beyond the garden fence. “So what do we do?”
She looked up at him, eyes fierce.
“We say Albus is missing. That he fled out of fear. That we believe there are external actors involved, manipulating events from inside the Ministry. We don’t name names yet, but we allude to sabotage. We demand time to investigate, to uncover the truth. And we publicly remove you from the investigation—say it’s a conflict of interest.”
“I’ll look like I’m running,” Harry murmured.
“No,” Hermione said. “You’ll look like a father. One who won’t risk bias or corruption but is still fighting to uncover the truth.”
Harry was quiet for a long time. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves.
“And what if Higgs doesn’t buy it?”
Hermione’s voice was flat. “Then we leak our version to the press first. I have contacts in The Clarion. They’ll print what I give them.”
Harry finally met her gaze. “And if none of this works?”
“Then,” she said softly, “we start a war. Again.”
He closed his eyes.
And nodded. Once. Slow. Heavy.
“I’ll write the statement,” she added. “But we’ll need you to approve it in the next hour. Sirius’ already working on how to present it at the Department meeting.”
Harry stared into the morning light.
And whispered, “If I lose both of them…”
“You won’t,” Hermione said, resting a hand on his arm. “Not if we move now.”
They stepped back into the house, the warmth inside doing little to thaw the cold that had settled in Harry’s bones. Sirius glanced up immediately, brows furrowed. Ron hadn’t moved from the table, his gaze fixed on a crease in the map like it might split open if he stared hard enough.
James Sr. looked at Harry, searching his son’s face for anything—hope, clarity, a plan. He found only exhaustion.
Hermione followed Harry to the table, her voice measured but laced with urgency. “We need outside influence. Someone with enough power to delay a political move this severe.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You mean pressure the Ministry from outside? From another government?”
Hermione nodded. “Yes. We don’t need much. Just enough diplomatic weight to force Higgs to reconsider the optics of declaring a Potter a traitor without trial or proof. If we can make him hesitate, even for a day, we might buy what we need.”
“And who do you think would actually risk getting involved in this mess?” Ron muttered. “No one wants to meddle with Inferi and nation-level treason. They’ll see this as too dirty.”
Hermione looked directly at Harry. “Elias Grimm might.”
Harry blinked. “Grimm?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “He likes you, Harry. He’s been openly supportive of the British Ministry maintaining transparency. You’re still seen as a war hero, especially abroad. He’s clever, diplomatic, and he’s rising fast in the ICW ranks. If anyone can subtly put pressure on Higgs to slow down this manhunt, it’s him.”
James Sr. narrowed his eyes. “You think Grimm would help just because he likes Harry?”
Hermione nodded. “He’s always respected him. He said it himself at the Summit last autumn—called Harry a symbol of integrity and ‘the moral compass of the post-war wizarding world.’ He wouldn’t have said that publicly unless he meant it, or saw value in aligning with him.”
Ron let out a short, dry laugh. “You mean we’re going to ask a foreign Minister to meddle in our internal affairs? Sounds like treason to me.”
“It’s diplomacy,” Hermione corrected, deadpan. “Well-placed words in the right ears. An official statement, maybe. Something about respecting due process. The ICW can’t force our hand, but public pressure can.”
Harry rubbed his eyes. “Grimm…”
To him, Elias Grimm had always been a curious figure—smooth, articulate, charismatic to a fault. The kind of man who never said anything too strong, never took sides too early. But he'd seemed genuine enough, offering quiet support and always checking in with Harry during summits and councils. He’d even invited Harry to speak at a Berlin forum last year.
To them, Grimm was a rising star.
To Harry, he was one of the few people in the international sphere who didn’t treat him like a washed-up relic of the war.
“You really think he’d go out on a limb for me?” Harry asked, doubt creeping in.
Hermione nodded. “If you ask him personally. If you make it human. He’ll respond to that. And even if he doesn't act directly, a single comment from him to the right ICW liaison could change the tone of the entire Ministry.”
Ron sighed. “We’re talking about using the media and global politics to keep our own government from tearing your family apart.”
“Welcome to the new Ministry,” Sirius muttered.
Harry stared at the map again.
No trace.
No son.
And yet, now—maybe—a lifeline.
He finally said, “Alright. I’ll contact Grimm.”
Hermione exhaled, relieved. “I’ll draft the message. You tell him in your own words.”
“And if this goes sideways?” Ron asked.
Harry looked at the clock.
“Noon’s coming either way.”
Then he looked at the window, where the sunlight was beginning to seep through the mist.
“And if Grimm is who we think he is—we might just have a chance.”
The house exploded into quiet, purposeful motion.
Hermione conjured fresh parchment and pulled out her Muggle-style notebook, flipping straight to her annotated page on Grimm—dates, phrases, political preferences, known allies. She muttered to herself as she scribbled the beginnings of a diplomatic script.
Ron lit the Floo and began working his Ministry contacts discreetly, pulling strings to arrange a short-notice international portkey—something under the radar, something that wouldn’t raise flags in Higgs’s office.
James Sr. and Sirius worked in tandem, gathering whatever Harry might need for the trip—cloak, documents, travel clearance papers, diplomatic ID.
Harry stood still for just a moment longer in the middle of the chaos. Then he quietly turned to Hermione.
“I need twenty minutes,” he said. “Before I go.”
She looked up, startled. “Where are you—?”
“I need to see James.”
Hermione nodded, softening. “Of course.”
***
St. Mungo’s smelled like antiseptic and too much hope.
The Healer at the secure ward entrance gave Harry a look of worn recognition and stepped aside without a word. The hall was dim, the charm-lights low to simulate dawn for the patients. It was nearly empty, silent except for the occasional flick of magic and the rhythmic beeping of enchanted monitoring runes.
Harry stepped into James’s room and closed the door quietly behind him.
The sight hit him like a punch.
James lay motionless, pale against the white sheets, his chest rising and falling with soft, magically-assisted breaths. A gentle glow hovered near his temples—monitoring neurological activity. His entire body was wrapped in layers of spell-treated bandages, limbs elevated and stabilized in soft light. His face was bruised, still, one side marred with healing spellwork around the right eye.
Ginny sat beside him, curled in a chair with her head resting on the bed, one hand still clasped around James’s.
She looked up when she heard the door. Her eyes were swollen, but dry. Past the point of breaking. Past the point of fear.
“Hey,” she whispered.
Harry crossed the room in three steps and knelt beside her, gently placing his hand over hers.
“I have to go,” he murmured.
Ginny’s brows furrowed faintly. “Where?”
“Germany. To Grimm. Hermione’s setting it up. If anyone can buy us time—”
Ginny nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving James. “Go.”
“I just… I needed to see him.”
“He’s been the same since yesterday,” she said. “Breathing steady. No improvement. No decline. Just… holding on.”
Harry swallowed. He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from James’s forehead. His son didn’t move.
“You’d hate this,” he said softly. “Lying still. Everyone fussing over you. Not being able to throw a punch.”
He smiled faintly, bitterly. “You get that from your mum.”
Ginny managed a soft huff.
Harry’s voice lowered. “I’m going to find your brother, alright? I don’t care what they say. I don’t care what they want me to believe. He didn’t do this.”
Ginny nodded. She squeezed his hand.
“I believe you.”
Harry stood after a moment, leaning forward to kiss James’s forehead, just above the bruises. Then one on Ginny’s temple.
He didn’t say goodbye. He just whispered, “I’ll be back before noon.”
Then he turned and walked out, coat trailing behind him, heart in pieces—and fire in his chest.
***
The portkey landed Harry just outside the perimeter of the Bundeszauberamt—the German Ministry of Magic. It was still early morning in Berlin, the city painted in cold silver light, the air sharp with a hint of rain and smoke from street chimneys. Muggle Berlin stirred faintly in the distance, unaware of the magic layered beneath its streets.
A sleek, black-robed official was already waiting for him. He wore the gold-trimmed insignia of the German Diplomatic Office.
“Mr. Potter,” the man said with an accent as crisp as his posture. “Herr Grimm is expecting you. This way, please.”
Harry nodded silently, adjusting the collar of his coat, and followed.
They passed through wards that shimmered like invisible water—subtle but strong, far more complex than the ones used in London. The inside of the German Ministry was colder than Harry remembered—stone walls, high arches, stained glass windows depicting magical history from all over Europe. Every official they passed paused, some offering quiet nods, others merely watching.
Harry could feel it: the weight of who he was pressed into every stare.
He didn’t flinch. He just kept walking.
The lift ride was silent, descending into one of the lower diplomatic wings—quiet, secure, reserved for classified talks and foreign dignitaries.
At last, they stopped in front of a pair of steel-banded double doors. The aide tapped his wand once. The doors creaked open smoothly, revealing a warmly lit chamber with enchanted windows showing a forest at sunrise.
And there, standing by the far end of the room, dressed in elegant dark robes, was Elias Grimm.
He turned at Harry’s entrance, a pleasant smile spreading across his face.
“Harry,” Grimm said, voice rich, smooth, and perfectly calibrated. “You came. I’m glad.”
Harry stepped forward, nodding. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“Of course,” Grimm replied, gesturing toward a small table set for tea—already steaming. “You’re always welcome here.”
He studied Harry carefully as they sat—his gaze just sharp enough to be intelligent, not sharp enough to be threatening.
“You look tired,” Grimm said gently.
“It’s been a long week,” Harry said.
Grimm smiled faintly, pouring the tea himself. “Then let’s see if we can make it shorter.”
Harry took a breath. It was time. For diplomacy. For strategy.
Grimm poured the tea with careful elegance, his movements smooth, deliberate—every gesture a performance honed by years of diplomacy. He handed Harry a cup and sat across from him, legs crossed, hands clasped loosely in his lap.
“You didn’t come here just for tea, of course,” Grimm said with an almost-smile. “Though it’s better than anything the British Ministry serves. What can I do for you, Harry?”
Harry didn’t bother dressing it up.
“There’s a warrant out for my son’s arrest. Albus. They’re calling him a traitor. Saying he orchestrated the Veil explosion, the Inferi breach, everything.”
Grimm’s expression shifted, but only slightly. The change was masterful—concerned, sympathetic, restrained. “Merlin. I’d heard there was an incident… but I didn’t realize it was your family.”
Harry nodded, eyes steady. “It’s political. Vance is dead, but his mess lives on. And Higgs wants someone to blame. He wants it fast—before noon today. I need time. Just enough to stop the press and the international community from treating Albus like a fugitive before we even know the truth.”
Grimm leaned forward slightly, thoughtful. “You think your son is innocent?”
“I know he’s not guilty the way they’re painting it.”
A quiet hum escaped Grimm’s throat. He took a sip of his tea and set the cup down gently.
“And what would you like from me?”
“Pressure,” Harry said plainly. “You have the respect of the ICW. The ear of the press. If you make a statement—something soft. A call for caution. For proper process. Something that would make Higgs think twice about rushing a narrative that hasn’t been proven yet…”
Grimm was silent for a moment. Then he stood, walked to the tall enchanted windows, and looked out at the illusion of forest and light.
“You want me to risk political capital,” he said, “to defend a young man who—by your own admission—is on the run. And who, at the very least, tampered with sensitive Ministry materials.”
Harry’s voice was calm but firm. “I’m not asking you to lie. Just to remind the world what happens when governments rush to punish before they understand.”
Grimm turned slowly, his eyes now shadowed in the dawn light.
“You think they’ll listen to me more than they’ll listen to you?”
“I think they already expect me to lie for him,” Harry said. “But you? You’re neutral. Respected. Your voice would carry more weight than mine right now.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, finally, Grimm smiled.
It was the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes.
“Well,” he said lightly, “if I were to say something, it would have to be measured. Strategic. Framed as concern for international cooperation—not interference in British affairs.”
“That’s fine,” Harry said. “Say whatever you need. I just need them to wait.”
Grimm nodded, slowly walking back toward the table. “Alright, Harry. I’ll make a few calls. Issue a statement. Something carefully worded, of course.”
Harry’s shoulders eased a little. “Thank you.”
Grimm held his gaze. “Of course. Anything for a friend.”
Harry stood, grateful, but still carrying the storm of fatigue in his posture. He extended a hand.
“Truly—thank you, Elias,” he said. “You didn’t have to do this.”
Grimm smiled warmly and took his hand without hesitation, the perfect grip: confident, firm, trustworthy.
“Nonsense. You’ve spent your life cleaning up the messes the rest of us were too afraid to touch. If I can help give your son a chance to breathe… I will.”
Harry nodded, jaw tight with emotion. “That’s all I’m asking. A little air. A little time.”
“You’ll have it,” Grimm promised. “I’ll have something on the international wire within the hour. Subtle, but strong enough to slow the narrative.”
Harry exhaled, the smallest flicker of hope finding space in his chest. “That means more than I can say.”
“Give my regards to Ginny,” Grimm said smoothly, escorting him to the door. “And tell her the entire German Ministry is hoping for young James’s recovery.”
“I will,” Harry said softly. “Thank you again.”
As Grimm opened the door, a pair of aides waiting outside stepped aside respectfully.
“I hope the next time we speak,” Grimm said, offering a final polite nod, “it’s under better circumstances.”
“So do I,” Harry replied.
Grimm stood for a moment in the doorway, face lit by the soft golden glow of morning spilling through the windows.
Then he turned, the ever-graceful statesman, and walked calmly back into his office.
***
Harry stood on the polished marble steps just outside the German Ministry’s secure portkey wing, pulling his coat tighter against the chill. The wind had picked up, rustling his hair and cloak as he moved toward the designated departure circle marked with shimmering runes.
But just as he stepped forward, something caught his eye—a familiar silhouette moving across the far courtyard, framed by the glass-paneled archway.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Robes of deep violet edged with silver. A limp in the right leg.
Harry froze.
His heart lurched violently in his chest.
Kingsley?
It couldn’t be.
Kingsley Shacklebolt had been missing for over a month. No trace. No message. No magical footprint. Dead, for all anyone knew—but no body, no sign. And yet—
The figure turned slightly, revealing a bald head and the unmistakable poise of a seasoned Auror.
Harry took a step off the portkey platform, eyes narrowing. “Kingsley!” he called out.
But the figure didn’t look back.
He started forward, breaking into a half-run down the side hall, shoving past startled aides and confused guards, wand already in hand. “Kingsley, wait!”
Then—buzz buzz buzz buzz—his spellphone vibrated violently in his pocket.
He ignored it for a moment, sprinting around the corner—
The corridor was empty.
Gone. Just like that.
Breathless, Harry yanked the phone from his coat. The screen was lit with a contact name:
Ginny.
His heart clenched. He answered immediately. “Ginny?”
But it wasn’t her voice.
“Harry.” His mother’s voice—strained, panicked. “It’s James—he’s coding. You need to come. Now.”
Everything inside him dropped. Cold, hollow, breathless.
He barely managed a word. “I’m on my way.”
No more time.
He quickly went inside the portkey station. Focused only on home—on his son—and vanished with a battered lamp.
The echo of his departure rippled through the Berlin air, leaving behind the ghosts of questions unanswered.
***
Harry Apparated into the waiting area of St. Mungo’s Spell-Damage Ward with a sharp crack, breath heaving, cloak twisting around his legs. The world spun for a moment—but he didn’t stop to steady himself.
He sprinted down the corridor, past startled Healers and mediwizards, wand still clenched in his hand, his mother’s voice ringing in his ears—He’s coding, come now, Harry, come fast—
He threw open the door to Room 14A, heart slamming against his ribs.
And stopped.
The room was… calm.
Too calm.
Monitors glowed softly in the corners. The stasis charm around James still shimmered, intact. No alarms. No frantic shouting. No medics swarming the bed.
Ginny was seated by the window, bleary-eyed and holding James’s hand gently. A half-finished mug of tea rested on the table beside her.
Lily Potter turned from where she stood near the foot of the bed, visibly startled as Harry rushed in.
“Harry?” she asked, confused. “What—what are you doing?”
He blinked, chest still heaving. “Mum—you called me. You said James was coding.”
Her expression flickered. “No, I—Harry, I don't even know how to use it!”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. He pulled out his spellphone, flipping the screen. The call log showed Ginny, 9:45 a.m.
His thumb trembled as he hit play on the voicemail.
But there was nothing. No message. No record of a voice call at all.
“I heard your voice,” he said, his breath tight. “You said he was coding. You told me to come.”
Ginny stood now too, watching him carefully, voice low. “Harry… no one called you from my phone. I left it at home.”
Harry stared at the device in his hand like it might melt.
Then he slowly turned to look at James. Still unconscious. Still unmoving. Still under stasis.
His stomach twisted.
Someone had used Lily’s voice.
Someone knew how to make him run.
He stepped back slowly, mind racing, throat dry.
“It was a trap,” he murmured. “A distraction.”
Lily’s eyes widened. “From what?”
Harry’s jaw clenched.
“From Berlin.”
Ginny reached for his arm, concern washing over her face. “Harry—what happened in Berlin? Did Grimm help?”
Lily moved closer too, her mother’s eyes reading far more than he wanted to show. “Did he give you the time you needed?”
Harry nodded, slowly, still staring at his spellphone like it might start hissing again. “Yeah. He agreed. He’s going to issue a statement—non-interference, call for caution, patience, respect for due process. Enough to buy us at least a day. Maybe two.”
Ginny exhaled, her shoulders sagging. “Thank Merlin. That’s more than I thought we’d get.”
“And he seemed… genuine?” Lily asked gently.
Harry’s brow furrowed. “Yes. He was warm, careful. Said he respected everything we’ve done. Said he'd do what he could.” He paused. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he meant it.”
Ginny tilted her head. “But?”
Harry glanced again at his phone. “But right as I was leaving, I saw someone. Someone I swear was Kingsley. Same limp. Same height. Just… gone in seconds.”
Lily’s eyes sharpened. “Are you sure?”
“I called after him. Tried to follow, but that’s when the call came through. From your number,” he looked at Ginny, then at Lily, “and it was your voice, Mum. Telling me James was coding.”
Ginny’s eyes widened, face draining. “But that never happened. I haven’t left the room all morning.”
Harry nodded, the pieces sliding darkly into place. “I think someone intercepted me. Knew exactly how to shake me off Kingsley’s trail. They used your number. Your voice. Polyjuice, or—”
“No,” Lily said quietly. “Not Polyjuice. That doesn’t let you mimic a voice perfectly, not like that.”
Ginny whispered, “Voice-casting spell. Or memory-threaded mimicry. It’s advanced. Deeply illegal.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. “Someone used my son’s emergency to manipulate me. To pull me away just in time.”
Lily stepped forward, voice steady. “That means whoever’s behind this is watching you, Harry. Close. And they knew where you'd be.”
Harry nodded slowly, his mind racing now.
And all at once, Grimm’s polished smile, the perfectly timed statement, the warm, unshakable helpfulness—it all slid into a new shape.
One that left Harry colder than the wind in Berlin.
“Someone very powerful doesn’t want me finding Kingsley,” he said.
“And right now…” he looked at the clock—10:03 a.m.
“…we’re running out of time to figure out why.”
The door creaked open softly behind them, and a calm, clear voice cut through the thick tension in the air.
“Mr. and Mrs. Potter?”
They turned as one.
Healer Cormac stood just inside the threshold, his long white coat gently billowing behind him from the hallway breeze. His expression was professional but not unreadable—there was kindness behind the lines on his face, but also the unmistakable fatigue of a man juggling magic and mortality in equal measure.
Harry straightened immediately. “Healer Cormac. Is there news?”
Ginny stepped forward too, her grip tightening around Harry’s hand.
Cormac nodded. “There is. I thought you should hear it together.”
He conjured a small conjured scroll and flicked his wand, revealing diagnostic symbols midair—James’s vitals, displayed in slow, pulsing runes.
“The stasis charm is holding beautifully. Brain pressure has begun to ease, though the swelling is still substantial. We adjusted the magical dampeners an hour ago and introduced neuro-regenerative potions through a diluted bloodstream cycle.”
Harry’s heart beat faster. “So he’s… improving?”
Cormac held up a hand. “Slowly. This is still very delicate work. But he is stable. No further deterioration since last night.”
Ginny let out a shaky breath and pressed a hand over her mouth. Lily came up beside her and rubbed her back silently.
Cormac continued, “The spinal diagnostics remain inconclusive. We won’t attempt motor response testing until we end the stasis protocol. But the nerve responses aren’t completely flat. That’s promising.”
Harry stepped toward the rune display, gaze locked on the heartbeat rhythm. “And the eye?”
Cormac hesitated. “We’re doing everything we can. But the trauma was significant. Once he’s awake, we’ll assess the optic nerve damage. If there’s loss… we’ll look at magical alternatives. But it’s too early to say.”
Ginny nodded, trying to keep herself composed. “And when will he wake up?”
Cormac folded the scroll away gently. “Best guess? Between twenty-four to forty-eight hours, if all goes smoothly. But I’ll say this—his body is fighting. Whatever else is happening, he wants to stay.”
Harry’s eyes flicked back to James’s still form. His son. His fighter.
Cormac’s voice softened. “I know these numbers and spells can sound cold. But I see the magic working. Your son’s still in there. And right now, he’s holding on.”
Harry swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you, Healer. For everything.”
Cormac gave a short, respectful bow. “I’ll check in again before midday. If there’s any change, I’ll have the staff alert you immediately.”
And with that, he turned and left, the door whispering shut behind him.
Silence returned, but the energy in the room had shifted—hope, fragile but present, hung between them like a flickering flame.
Ginny sat again beside the bed, brushing a hand along James’s fingers. “He’s still fighting,” she whispered.
Harry stood there, watching his son breathe through enchantment and strength.
And somewhere, across borders and shadows, he knew his other son was fighting too.
He just had to get to him in time.
***
Albus sat beneath the rusted underpass, knees pulled to his chest, a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in a torn napkin lying forgotten beside him. Rain tapped against the concrete above in a slow, metronomic rhythm—soft, but constant. A train screeched distantly, echoing through the steel bones of the city.
He’d walked for hours after leaving the last Muggle station. No one had followed. No one had looked twice.
That should’ve been a comfort.
It wasn’t.
His clothes were damp. His shoes pinched. His left shoulder ached from where he’d slept against a brick wall the night before. The map he’d bought was folded on his lap, smeared with water and ink, parts of it now useless. He wasn’t even sure what city he was in.
Does it matter? a voice in his head whispered. You’re not going anywhere that matters.
Albus rested his forehead on his arm, trying to focus, to plan, to think.
He had a few Galleons tucked into a false seam in his boot—worthless here. A few Muggle pounds in crumpled bills. A change of clothes, stolen from a public laundry line. His wand, still tucked deep against his ankle, untouched. He hadn’t dared use it. The Trace may have burned out when he turned seventeen, but he knew the Ministry could still detect magical signatures in certain areas.
He’d spent his life learning how to protect the system. Now he was running from it.
His hand went to the bag at his side and pulled out a folded piece of parchment—creased and smudged, a list he’d made in desperation over two sleepless nights. Names. Places. Questions. Threads.
In the center:
Who else knew about the Veil experiments?
What was Vance really doing?
What did the words “Circle of Flame” mean?
And below that, circled twice:
Go to Dad?
—No. Not yet. Too dangerous. Too broken. He wouldn’t believe me.
He stared at those words now. They felt so hollow. Too dangerous. Too broken.
But maybe… maybe he should have listened to him.
The one person who told him to come clean. To stop hiding. The one who told him weeks ago—go to your father before it’s too late.
And now it was.
Now the whole damn thing had burned, and he was choking in the ash.
His throat was tight. His eyes burned. He hadn’t cried—not since he ran—but the pressure behind his ribs made it hard to breathe.
And worst of all, he didn’t know.
Didn’t know what had happened at the Ministry after he fled. Didn’t know who was dead. Who was hurt.
He didn’t know that his brother was lying in a stasis ward, fighting for his life.
Didn’t know that his father had come within inches of finding Kingsley before someone pulled him away with a voice that wasn’t real.
Didn’t know how close the noose was tightening.
All he knew was this:
If he stopped moving, they’d find him.
And if they found him… it was over.
So he dragged the bag over his shoulder again, forced himself up with shaking legs, and picked a direction.
North, maybe.
Toward someone.
Anyone.
Someone who might still believe he wasn’t the villain in this story.
Albus walked aimlessly for a few more blocks, the city stretching around him like a cold, unfamiliar maze. He stopped at a small overpass, leaning against the guardrail, breathing in the sharp air as buses groaned and hissed below.
His mind was blank.
He didn’t know any Muggles. Not really. He’d grown up in a wizarding household, gone to Hogwarts, worked in the Department of Mysteries. His entire life had been tucked neatly within the magical world—and now that world was hunting him.
No wizards. No magic. No one.
His fingers curled against the chill of the railing, lips parted as he exhaled.
He couldn’t stay in cities for long—too many cameras, too many eyes, magical or not. He needed somewhere quieter, somewhere off-grid.
And that’s when it hit him.
A name. A moment. A tiny, passing conversation from years ago. He must’ve been fourteen or fifteen. His father had mentioned her while telling a story about his childhood.
“...Mrs. Figg, she used to live near the Dursleys. Watched me when I was little. She’s a Squib, lovely woman. Bit obsessed with cats, but a loyal Order member. Lived at Number 6, Privet Drive, Surrey.”
Albus straightened.
Privet Drive.
Surrey.
Mrs. Figg.
He clutched the strap of his bag, heart racing. She was a Squib—someone who wouldn’t register on magical detectors. Someone who had lived on the edges of the magical world her whole life, quietly, carefully. A woman who had kept Harry Potter’s secrets when he was a boy.
Would she help a fugitive? A boy being hunted by the Ministry? A Potter who might be branded a traitor?
He didn’t know.
But he had nothing else. No one else. And she was the only ghost from his father’s past that might not slam a door in his face.
His hands were already shaking as he pulled out the crumpled Muggle map from his coat pocket, trying to find a route south toward Surrey.
He’d have to take buses. Maybe hitchhike. Walk some of it, even. But he could do it.
He had to do it.
Because if he didn’t… there’d be no one left to tell his side of the story.
***
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed once—11 o’clock.
The drawing room at the Granger-Weasley home was awash in parchment, open files, spellproof folders, and enough magical paperclips to build a sentient golem. Harry sat stiffly on the couch, a cup of untouched tea going cold on the side table. His tie was crooked, and his eyes were rimmed red from lack of sleep.
Across from him, Hermione paced, parchment in one hand, wand in the other, muttering final edits to the carefully-crafted speech she’d written.
“You can say this line about impartiality and due process,” she said, glancing up at him. “But don’t mention Albus’s work in the Department of Mysteries. It’ll invite too many questions you’re not ready to answer.”
Harry rubbed his temples. “Right.”
“And don’t get angry if someone from the press pushes you. Stay measured. Calm. You’re asking for restraint, not storming the Wizengamot.”
Harry gave a humourless smile. “So basically, don’t be myself.”
Hermione didn’t laugh. She just looked at him—really looked—and stepped forward, pressing the parchment into his hands.
“I know this isn’t fair. But we don’t have the luxury of emotion right now. One wrong word, Harry, and they’ll call it a cover-up.”
He nodded grimly and glanced down at the speech—her neat handwriting, every syllable perfectly placed to say enough without saying too much.
He cleared his throat. “Has Grimm’s statement gone public yet?”
Hermione flicked her wand and summoned a magical feed from the International Magical News Service. A headline hovered in the air, faintly glowing:
“German Minister Urges Patience Amid UK Crisis”
Elias Grimm calls for ‘measured response’ and warns against ‘panic-fueled accusations’ following Ministry catastrophe.
Hermione tapped the text, and the quote expanded:
“In times of magical instability, it is vital we uphold justice—not in haste, but in clarity. We stand in solidarity with the British Ministry’s efforts to seek truth. I urge all parties to resist political scapegoating and instead let facts guide the way forward.”
Harry exhaled slowly. “That’ll do. It’ll make Higgs hesitate.”
Hermione nodded. “It already is. I heard from an Unspeakable this morning—some of the department heads are pushing back. Grimm’s words carry weight.”
“But it’s only a buffer,” Harry murmured. “A shield. It won’t hold long.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it might hold just long enough.”
Harry folded the parchment and tucked it into his jacket pocket, then checked the time again.
One hour.
One hour to convince the public, the press, and the Ministry not to damn his son before the truth could crawl its way into the light.
Harry glanced up from the parchment, his thumb pressing hard along its folded edge. “Should we contact someone?” he asked suddenly. “A solicitor. A magical defense barrister. Someone who can represent Albus—prepare in case this turns into a formal hearing.”
Hermione, who’d been scribbling edits on a spare copy, paused mid-word.
“It’s not a bad idea,” she admitted after a beat. “In fact, it’s smart. Merlin knows if anyone’s going to untangle this mess legally, we’ll need someone airtight.”
Harry looked at her. “But?”
She sighed, setting her quill down and pinching the bridge of her nose. “But if we make that move now, while Albus is still missing, it could be interpreted as—”
“—a guilty family trying to shield him before he can be questioned,” Harry finished quietly.
Hermione nodded. “Yes. Especially with the Ministry breathing down our necks, and Higgs already implying you’re interfering. If we bring in a defense lawyer before Albus is even found…”
“...it’ll look like we’re admitting he has something to hide.”
“Exactly.”
Harry leaned back, running both hands down his face. “This is insane. If it were anyone else, they’d be entitled to legal help.”
Hermione gave him a look that was equal parts apologetic and brutally honest. “You’re not anyone else, Harry. And neither is your son. That’s the curse and the cost of your name.”
Silence sat heavy between them for a moment, broken only by the faint ticking of the enchanted clock above the fireplace.
Then Harry said quietly, “Do we at least know someone? In case it comes to it?”
Hermione nodded. “A few. Former Wizengamot advocates. One works out of Edinburgh. Quiet, sharp, discreet. But let’s wait until after your meeting. See how Higgs moves once the dust settles. And pray that Albus resurfaces before then.”
Harry gave a quiet hum of agreement, then reached into his coat, adjusting the parchment again like it might steady his nerves.
“Alright,” he muttered. “No lawyers. Not yet.”
But in the back of his mind, the thought remained:
It’s not a matter of if. It’s a matter of when.
***
The lift doors opened with a hiss.
Harry stepped out onto Level One of the Ministry of Magic—his own department—and it felt entirely foreign now.
The corridor was quiet, too quiet, as though the building itself was holding its breath. The usual bustle of Ministry officials, memos zipping past heads, and muffled debates behind closed doors was absent. Only the low crackle of flames echoed faintly from down the central atrium.
The pit was still there.
The scorched marble. The fractured runes. The jagged tear in the floor that hadn’t been fully repaired since the Veil’s breach. It burned, low and constant—blue flame licking the air in slow, unnatural pulses.
The Inferi hadn’t returned. But the magic still clung to the space like ash in the lungs.
Harry didn’t look down into the pit.
He didn’t want to see what wasn’t there.
He turned sharply and moved toward the boardroom, the sound of his footsteps crisp and lonely.
Outside the doors, two Aurors stood at attention, their expressions unreadable. They didn’t salute. Just gave a single nod and opened the heavy doors.
Harry walked in.
The Board of Magical Affairs had already gathered—twelve figures seated in a half-circle, robes sharp, faces pale with tension. At the far end, Minister Higgs sat like a coiled wandstring, fingers steepled, chin slightly lifted in restrained disdain.
The Head of the Department of International Cooperation was present. So was the new interim Director of the Department of Mysteries—an older woman named Selwyn who looked as though she’d aged five years since the explosion.
A dozen eyes turned to him the moment he entered.
Some wary. Some sympathetic.
Some clearly waiting for him to fall.
Harry took his seat at the end of the long table, unbuttoned his coat, and carefully unfolded the parchment Hermione had prepared. He placed it on the table, smoothed the corners with steady hands.
He didn’t speak yet.
He waited.
Let them see that he wasn’t rushing. That he wasn’t afraid to meet their eyes.
Even though inside, something clawed at his chest.
James is still unconscious.
Albus is still missing.
And now, the weight of the magical world was pressing down on his shoulders.
Higgs cleared his throat. “Mr. Potter.”
Harry looked up.
“It’s time. Speak.”
Harry stood.
The parchment lay untouched in front of him—Hermione’s perfect words, carefully measured, tactfully constructed. But as he looked across the room—at Higgs’s expectant glare, at Selwyn’s deep-set worry lines, at the silent watchers from the Department of Law, Intelligence, and Media Control—he knew something else was needed first.
He didn’t read the speech.
He spoke from the gut.
“I won’t waste your time,” he said, voice calm, steady. “You already know what happened. Or at least… you think you do.”
A murmur ran down the table, but he didn’t pause.
“There was an explosion in a secured sector of the Department of Mysteries. The Veil was compromised. Inferi came through—real ones, intelligent ones. People were injured. People died. My eldest son, James Potter, was nearly killed. He’s in stasis, barely hanging on.”
He saw something flicker across Selwyn’s face. Maybe guilt. Maybe grief. He didn’t stop.
“And now, in the wake of that devastation, the Ministry is preparing to declare my other son—Albus Severus Potter—a traitor. Based on fragmented evidence. Magical residue. A vanished body. The word of a dead man—Vance—whose own loyalties were suspect long before this incident.”
Higgs’s voice cut in, dry as parchment. “Albus’s magical signature was found on multiple restricted files. His access logs confirm he tampered with resurrection documents. The evidence is not fragmented, Mr. Potter—it’s damning.”
Harry nodded slowly. “It’s also incomplete.”
He turned slightly, letting his voice carry across the polished wood.
“You’re right. Albus was researching resurrection. He was in the Department of Mysteries. But what you don’t know is that he was manipulated. Guided. Possibly framed by someone working from the inside. Someone high up—maybe foreign. Vance wasn’t working alone. He never was.”
The room shifted. Chairs straightened. Eyes narrowed.
Harry pressed on.
“There is no record of Albus’s body. No sighting since the explosion. No message. No defense. And yet we are prepared to condemn him by noon. I ask you—all of you—is that the precedent you want to set for magical justice?”
Higgs was about to interrupt, but Harry raised a hand.
“I’m not asking you to believe in my son. I’m asking you to believe in the process you swore to uphold. Call for an independent investigation. Delay the traitor declaration until we have proof—real, verifiable proof—not residue and fear.”
He reached slowly into his pocket and unfolded Hermione’s parchment. Finally.
“Meanwhile,” he said, softer now, “Minister Grimm has already issued a public statement urging caution. So has the German Magical Press. If Germany—another government—is asking for restraint, and we’re not, what message does that send to our people?”
Higgs’s mouth twisted slightly, but he didn’t speak.
Silence fell.
Harry let it.
He looked around the room, making eye contact with as many faces as he could—some of whom had known him since he was a boy with ink on his hands and battle scars on his skin.
“I’ve buried too many friends to watch another be condemned before the truth is known,” he said. “Don’t let fear dictate justice.”
He folded the parchment again, slowly, deliberately, and sat back down.
No applause.
No immediate verdict.
Just silence.
And the ticking of the clock overhead.
The silence broke not with thunder—but with voices. Sharp, inquisitive, heavy with suspicion and uncertainty.
“Mr. Potter,” said interim Director Selwyn from the Department of Mysteries, leaning forward with her steepled fingers. “You said your son was manipulated by Vance. Do you have proof of this manipulation? Anything that can be verified?”
Harry met her gaze. “Not yet. But I know Albus. He’s not capable of orchestrating this alone. Vance had foreign contacts, dark affiliations. Albus was following orders he believed were sanctioned. He was used.”
“Belief isn’t the same as innocence,” said a stern woman from Magical Law Codification, her quill already twitching against a scroll. “You admit Albus accessed restricted archives. Tampered with the resurrection vault. That’s treasonous, whether he understood it or not.”
“I’m not denying that he crossed lines,” Harry said. “But if he did, it was because he was being lied to—by someone in a position of authority. That makes him a victim, not a traitor.”
A tall, hawk-nosed wizard from Magical Communications leaned in next. “Do you know where he is?”
“No,” Harry answered honestly. “I haven’t spoken to him since the incident.”
“And if you did find him,” Higgs interjected coldly, “would you bring him in? Or hide him?”
The room turned sharply. Everyone waited.
Harry’s jaw tightened. “If I found him, I’d protect him—and bring the truth back with him. But I won’t drag my son into a courtroom just to make a political spectacle.”
A murmur ran through the board again—some in disapproval, others uncertain.
“Mr. Potter,” said a gray-haired man from International Magical Affairs, voice low but clear, “have you considered stepping down from your post? Temporarily. Until this is resolved.”
Harry’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. “I’m not abandoning this office when my son is being hunted through it. I’m not giving you that easy answer.”
Hermione, sitting off to the side among the legal advisors, subtly nodded. He was playing it just right—firm, not desperate. Human, but not irrational.
Then a younger witch from the Department of Magical Public Safety raised her hand, brow furrowed. “You mentioned foreign interference. Have you identified which countries Vance may have been working with?”
Harry hesitated.
“We’re investigating all possible links. It’s still developing.”
Finally, Higgs stood, his robes sweeping behind him like a shadow.
“Very well,” he said, voice sharp and decisive. “We’ve heard your statement. We’ve considered your request.”
He looked around the room.
“We’ll call a vote. One: delay Albus Potter’s formal designation as a traitor until more conclusive evidence is recovered—or two: move forward with the designation and issue the warrant.”
Harry’s heart thundered as the voting crystals lit up—blue for delay, red for proceed.
One by one, they began to glow.
Notes:
Sorry I meant to post this chapter yesterday, but while uploading, I noticed some timeline continuity issues between Albus and Harry’s POVs. I’ve been trying to fix it for the past two hours, but it’s a bit tricky -- especially since I’ve already drafted the next two chapters. With less time on my hands these days, it’s been a challenge. I really didn’t want to keep you waiting, so thank you for bearing with me!
Also, I’ve updated the rating from General to Mature and added a warning tag. I’m honestly not great at tagging this kind of stuff, so if you feel there’s something I should add or adjust in the tags, please let me know! Thank you so much!
Next chapter’s going to be an emotional rollercoaster—so buckle up!
Chapter 45: Bound not Broken
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The corridor outside James’s room was dimly lit, the sconces charmed low to mimic dawn. But outside, it was nearly noon.
Harry walked with heavy steps, past the quiet mediwitches and healers murmuring spells behind enchanted curtains, past patients sleeping beneath floating potions and quiet runes. His cloak smelled faintly of smoke and old parchment. His tie was still slightly crooked. He hadn’t noticed. Or cared.
He pushed open the door to James’s room.
Ginny sat at his bedside, as she had for hours now, her fingers gently threaded through James’s unmoving hand. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, her eyes red from lack of sleep, her wand lying forgotten in her lap.
She looked up the moment she heard him.
Harry shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, exhaling.
“Well?” she asked, voice hoarse but steady.
Harry crossed to her slowly. Sat beside her, on the other side of the bed. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the quiet rhythm of James’s magical respirator and the faint shimmer of stasis charms dancing over his body.
“They voted,” he said finally.
Ginny’s hand stilled on James’s.
“They’re not declaring him a traitor. Not yet.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“We got forty-eight hours,” Harry murmured. “Just barely. Seven to five.”
Ginny closed her eyes and dropped her head, her fingers clenching tighter around James’s. “Two days,” she whispered. “That’s all?”
Harry nodded. “Unless I can bring them something more. Someone. Proof.”
She looked at him then—truly looked. “Do you believe him, Harry? Albus?”
His voice cracked a little when he answered. “Yes, Ginny! I may not know him well but I know he can't do anything like this.”
Ginny blinked hard and glanced at James, then back at Harry. “Then find him. Before they stop listening.”
Harry reached across the bed and took her hand.
“I will,” he promised.
But even as he said it, his eyes drifted to his oldest son—the stillness in James’s face, the soft wheeze of magic keeping him breathing—and his heart split in two again.
He had forty-eight hours.
To save one son’s name.
While the other’s life still hung in the balance.
The room was silent, save for the soft hum of magical monitors and the rhythmic shimmer of the stasis charm surrounding James’s body.
Harry had moved to stand by the window, staring out at the pale June light bleeding through the enchanted glass. Ginny hadn’t moved from her chair beside the bed, still holding James’s hand gently in both of hers.
“I don’t even know if he can hear us,” she whispered, brushing her thumb across the back of his hand.
Harry turned. “He always could. Even when he was a baby—he’d respond to your voice before anything else.”
She gave a small, pained smile. Then looked down at their son again. “Hey,” she murmured, leaning closer. “James… love… if you can hear me, we’re here. We’re right here. You’re not alone, okay?”
The magic monitor by his bedside gave a faint pulse—nothing alarming, just a subtle shift in the enchanted waveform.
Harry stepped closer.
“James,” he said softly, trying not to let his voice shake. “I know you’re fighting. I know it hurts. But we need you. I need you. Your mum’s holding it together, but—Merlin, we’re barely breathing without you.”
And then—
Ginny gasped.
“Harry—”
They both froze.
James’s fingers twitched.
Just once. The faintest movement. Like the ghost of a reflex. But real.
Harry rushed forward. “Do it again, James. Come on. Just—just a little more.”
Another twitch. Two fingers this time. Subtle, but deliberate.
Ginny let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. Tears spilled freely now. “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re doing so well—come back to us.”
The stasis charm flickered—just slightly. Enough that the runes above his head shimmered a different color for a split second.
Harry hit the call rune embedded in the side of the bed. “Healer! He moved!”
Within seconds, the door burst open. Healer Cormac strode in, trailed by an assistant. “What kind of movement?”
“Fingers,” Harry said quickly. “Twice. His hand.”
Cormac nodded, wand already scanning James’s body, layers of diagnostic charms rolling through the air in blue and gold waves. His expression turned serious—but not panicked.
“He’s stabilizing,” Cormac muttered. “Swelling’s receding. Neural response is faint, but measurable. He’s trying to come back.”
Ginny gripped Harry’s hand tightly.
Cormac looked up at them. “It may still take time. Days. Maybe longer. But he’s there.”
Harry nodded slowly, emotion choking his throat.
Their son—was still in there.
And he was fighting.
***
The street looked exactly like how his dad once described it.
Prim. Quiet. Utterly normal.
Albus stood at the edge of the pavement, hood up, hands deep in his coat pockets. He felt like an invader. Like a dark smudge on a spotless page.
Number Four.
It stood stiff and smug under the afternoon sun, just like the rest. He didn’t look at it long. His father never liked this place.
He turned toward Number Six.
The lawn was a little overgrown. A cat watched him from the windowsill—wide-eyed and judging. The curtains twitched before he even knocked.
He hesitated.
Then knocked.
The door opened slightly.
An old woman peered out, her spectacles askew, and the strong scent of cabbage and cat fur drifted into the air.
“…Yes?”
“Mrs. Figg?” His voice came out rough. Unfamiliar. “You—You knew my dad. Years ago. Harry Potter.”
Her eyes narrowed. “…And you are?”
He lowered his hood.
It took her a second.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Merlin’s beard… you’ve got his eyes. But your hair’s worse.” Her tone was baffled, not unkind.
“Sorry to drop in. I… I didn’t know where else to go.”
Her eyes flicked down the street, then back at him. “Come inside, quickly. Before someone starts peeking.”
He stepped through.
The air was thick with cat hair and the creak of old floorboards. Several cats eyed him with deep mistrust.
“Sit. Not that chair, Mr. Tibbles likes to claw it. Here.” She pushed a cushion toward him and bustled toward the kettle. “You’re Albus, aren’t you? I remember the naming article. Not that I ever read the Prophet—too dramatic. Good name though. Better than Dudley at least.”
He didn’t laugh.
She paused as she poured the water. “You look… thinner than I expected. Are you alright, dear?”
Albus stared at the cracked saucer in front of him. His hands curled tightly in his lap.
“I don’t think so.”
Mrs. Figg sat down with effort, her joints popping as she eased into the armchair.
“Well,” she said briskly, “you’re here. So something’s wrong. But not wrong enough to keep you from walking, which is better than most of what I see on that doorstep. Speak.”
He swallowed.
“I’m in trouble. Big trouble. The kind that makes people run.”
Mrs. Figg blinked. “Did you hex someone you shouldn’t have? Break a law? What kind of trouble?”
He stared at the floor.
“They think I’m responsible for something terrible. Something I didn’t do. And if I go back… I don’t think they’ll even ask questions before they put me on trial. Or worse.”
Her mouth tightened.
“I didn’t know where else to go. I don’t know Muggles. I don’t know anyone who isn’t connected to the Ministry. But I remembered—Dad mentioned you once. Years ago. Said you used to keep watch over him. That you were in the Order.”
Mrs. Figg leaned back in her chair slowly. “I did. Watched over your dad when he was young. Wore tartan slippers and smelled like cats on purpose just to seem boring.”
He gave a weak, humorless smile.
She sighed. “I haven’t had a visitor from the magical world in years. Not since before Kingsley stopped writing. But I’ve still got tea. Still got blankets. And I still know how to keep a secret.”
He looked up sharply.
Her eyes met his firmly.
“I don’t know what you’re running from. And I don’t know what your father’s up to. But if you're telling the truth, Albus Potter—then this house is yours as long as you need it.”
His throat closed. He didn’t trust his voice.
So he just nodded.
And let himself exhale, for the first time in days.
***
The tea had gone cold in his hands.
Albus sat slouched on the edge of a sagging armchair, the scratchy wool blanket still wrapped loosely around his shoulders. Mrs. Figg had gone upstairs to feed a blind cat, leaving him alone in the room—with the cats, and the silence.
And the Daily Prophet.
It had been folded on the coffee table. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but the movement of the moving photograph on the front page caught his eye.
He reached for it with shaking fingers.
The headline hit him like a blow to the chest.
“TRAGEDY IN THE MINISTRY: VEIL BREACH, INFERI ATTACK—25 DEAD, DOZENS INJURED”
He stared at the swirling photograph: blue flame licking from the shattered floor of the Department of Mysteries, dark-robed healers carrying limp bodies, smoke curling through broken arches.
The world fell away.
He began to read.
“Sources confirm a rupture in the ancient Veil of Death, located in the Department of Mysteries, led to a violent surge of Inferi—reanimated corpses with signs of higher cognitive function…”
“…Senior Unspeakable Caelum Vance among the dead…”
“…Evidence of dark ritualistic tampering with the Veil's enchantments. Minister Higgs is expected to make a formal declaration by this afternoon.”
His heart began to race as he turned the page with trembling hands.
And then he saw the name.
“JAMES POTTER IN CRITICAL CONDITION”
There was a picture. It must’ve been taken quickly—Ginny outside St. Mungo’s, face pale, being guided by Ron. George beside her, shielding her from flashbulbs.
“…James Sirius Potter, eldest son of Harry Potter and a junior Auror, was among those gravely injured during the Ministry incident. He is currently in magical stasis, condition critical. Sources say Healer Cormac has placed him under extended observation, with concerns of severe brain and spinal damage.”
The paper blurred before his eyes.
James.
His brother.
James had been in the Ministry. James had been injured—because of him.
His hand clenched the paper tight, crumpling the edge.
He turned the next page.
And there it was.
“WHERE IS ALBUS POTTER?”
His own face stared back at him, slightly outdated, but unmistakably him. Underneath it:
“Official sources confirm Albus Potter has not been seen since the explosion. Reports suggest his magical signature was found on multiple restricted files within the Department of Mysteries. An official declaration of treason is pending.”
He couldn’t breathe.
He dropped the paper. It fluttered to the floor beside his boot.
The room was spinning.
James was dying.
People were dead.
And they thought it was him.
He stood abruptly, knocking the teacup to the rug, chest heaving, panic rushing up his throat like bile. His wand was still hidden in his boot. His bag—still by the door. He didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. Didn’t know where to go, who to trust, how to undo any of this.
Mrs. Figg shuffled back in, holding a scratched tin of cat food.
“You alright, dear—?”
Albus turned to her, wide-eyed.
“I have to fix this,” he whispered. “I have to do something. I didn’t know—I didn’t know he was hurt.”
She looked at him carefully, then lowered the cat food tin to the table.
“You need to calm down,” she said gently. “And you need a plan.”
But Albus was already trembling. The guilt threatened to choke him.
He had run.
And while he’d been hiding in train stations and under bridges, his brother had been bleeding out in a burning Ministry.
And now the whole world was calling him a traitor.
He sank to the floor beside the newspaper, hands pressed to his face, and for the first time since the explosion—
He cried.
***
Harry sat hunched on a small couch, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tightly together. The hospital air felt heavier than before—as though even the walls were holding their breath. Ginny had gone to stretch her legs. Ron was speaking with Healer Cormac again, asking questions Harry didn’t have the heart to ask. And Harry…
Harry was staring at the burn mark on his palm from a dueling injury days ago. It still hadn’t healed. Not properly. Nothing was healing.
He didn’t even look up when the door opened.
“Harry” said a calm voice. Hermione.
He stood. “What’s happened?”
She closed the door behind her, carrying a folder stuffed with hastily scribbled parchments and Ministry pamphlets. Her robes were wrinkled, her bun looser than usual.
“No new leads on Albus yet,” she said quietly. “I’ve spoken with the Daily Prophet’s editor. They’ve agreed to delay tomorrow’s full-page ‘Traitor Son’ headline—for now. But only until sunrise.”
Harry's jaw tightened. “So we’re playing hour by hour now.”
“We’ve been doing that since the explosion,” she replied, too tired to sugarcoat it.
He ran a hand through his hair, then looked toward the door to James’s room. “He moved. Earlier today. His fingers.”
“I heard,” Hermione said, a small smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. “That's good news. It's something.”
“It’s not enough,” Harry muttered. “James is still not awake. Albus is missing. And I stood in front of that boardroom and made a promise I’m not sure I can keep.”
Hermione didn’t say anything for a moment. She simply set the folder down and stepped beside him.
“I’ve known you for more than thirty years,” she said softly. “And you have never—never—given up when it mattered. You’ll find him. You’ll bring him home.”
Harry stared ahead.
“I don’t even know where to look. And now I keep seeing Kingsley’s face. In Germany, in the crowd—just for a second. I don’t even know if I imagined it.”
Hermione stiffened slightly. “You didn’t mention that before.”
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said. “But maybe it does.”
She sat beside him. “Then we follow it. Even if it’s nothing. Even if it leads nowhere. You still have sixteen hours.”
He leaned back, hands over his face.
Sixteen hours.
To find his son.
To save his name.
To stop the world from labeling him the thing Harry had spent his entire life fighting.
Hermione watched him for a long time. “If Albus were you,” she said quietly, “at seventeen, scared, hunted—where would you have gone?”
He looked at her slowly.
“I would’ve gone to someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Someone I wasn’t close to. Someone safe.”
Hermione nodded. “Then that’s what we look for.”
And for the first time all day—Harry stood with purpose.
“Then let’s start again. From the beginning.”
The desk was cluttered again.
Maps—both magical and Muggle—overlapped one another, pinned by inkpots and old spellbooks. Albus’s Ministry file lay open between them, edges curled, as though the parchment itself was exhausted. The candlelight threw long, flickering shadows across Harry’s face as he stood over it, unmoving.
Hermione flipped through the folder beside him, parchment rustling like restless wings. “No new banking activity. No magical signature recorded anywhere in England or Scotland. No transportation logs. No sightings in Knockturn or Diagon.”
Harry said nothing.
Ron leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “And we’re sure he didn’t go abroad? Could’ve hopped a ferry. Or—”
“Portkey travel is being monitored.” Hermione didn’t look up. “And he wouldn’t risk apparition that long-range without backup. You saw how shaken he was that last week. Exhausted. Not in that state.”
Silence again.
Harry rubbed at his jaw. “I checked the map of old Order safehouses. There’s nothing. He’s not there.”
Ron looked over. “You think he’s hiding in Muggle territory?”
“I don’t know,” Harry muttered. “Maybe.”
Hermione looked at him. “He wouldn’t go to a friend?”
Harry gave her a hollow glance. “He doesn’t have many. Not anymore.”
Ron shifted uncomfortably.
A clock ticked. Loud. Unforgiving.
Hermione sat back slowly. “We’re missing something.”
Harry exhaled sharply. “We’re missing everything.”
Ron’s foot tapped anxiously on the floor. “The Prophet’s gonna be at our throats by morning. If we don’t give them something—”
“We’re not feeding them anything,” Harry cut in.
Hermione’s voice was quieter. “What are you going to say, Harry? If we still haven’t found him by then?”
Harry looked down at the photograph on the file again—Albus, looking years younger, awkwardly smiling for his Ministry ID. That damn green tie slightly askew.
He didn't answer.
Because he didn’t know.
And there were only fifteen hours left.
***
The house in Devon was quiet, shadows long across the wooden floors. The study smelled faintly of ink and dragon hide bindings—Harry’s private mess of old case files and broken quills, untouched for days now.
He rifled through a drawer, searching for an old set of spell transcripts from the Department archives. Something, anything, that could link the energy from the Veil breach to a ritual he might’ve missed. He didn’t know anymore. His hands moved without focus, more out of habit than purpose.
Behind him, footsteps creaked.
He turned, half-expecting Ginny or Sirius.
It was his mother.
Lily Potter stood in the doorway, knitting needles still in one hand, her mouth slightly tight. “Harry,” she said gently, “there’s someone at the door.”
He glanced up, distracted. “Tell them I’m not—”
“It’s Draco Malfoy.”
He froze.
Lily waited a beat. “He says it’s urgent. That it’s about Albus.”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
The last person he wanted to see was Malfoy. They hadn’t exchanged anything but sharp glances at Ministry functions in years. Malfoy’s aloofness hadn’t aged well—and Harry hadn’t forgiven him for half the things he’d never even said. Their truce was old and brittle. Built more on shared silence than mutual trust.
But something tugged at him—deeper than suspicion. He couldn’t afford to ignore a lead now, especially not one with a son tied to Albus.
He took a breath. “Send him in.”
Lily nodded and turned.
Harry cleared the books from the second chair and stood, jaw clenched, heart racing with a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in days:
Hope… or dread.
Moments later, the door opened again—and there stood Draco Malfoy. Older, sharper. Still pale as bone, dressed in impeccable grey robes, his blond hair tied back, face unreadable.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
Neither spoke.
“I have something related to Albus.”
Draco stood across the room, hands gloved and steady, but there was tension in his jaw, the kind that betrayed how much he hated being here just as much as Harry hated seeing him. The silence was thick between them, like fog before a storm.
Harry didn’t sit.
Draco reached into his robe and pulled out a thick, charmed folder—sealed with a seal Harry didn’t immediately recognize. He placed it on the desk, fingers lingering there for a second, then stepped back.
Harry stared at it. “What is that?”
Draco looked him dead in the eye. “Everything Albus found. Everything he thought someone would destroy after the explosion. He left it with me two days before it happened.”
Harry’s heart lurched.
He reached out, broke the seal, and opened the folder.
Inside—scribbled notes, floor schematics of the Department of Mysteries, handwritten timelines, annotations in Albus’s tight, precise writing. A full report on Vance’s last three months. The unauthorized magical testing. A photograph—blurry but unmistakable—of the Inferi containment cell hidden beneath the Scotland branch of the Department of Experimental Magic.
Harry flipped faster now, eyes scanning dates, parchment rustling. His son had been digging for weeks. Gathering. Organizing. Preparing. Trying to expose something dark and ancient and violent.
Trying to do the right thing.
The weight of it slammed into Harry like a blow to the ribs.
Albus hadn’t run to save himself.
He had run because he knew no one else would believe him.
Not even his father.
Harry’s hands clenched around the folder.
“You knew,” he said hoarsely. “He came to you. And not to me.”
Draco’s face flickered with something unreadable. “He didn’t think you’d listen.”
Harry’s voice rose, rough and bitter. “He’s my son, Malfoy.”
“And he still thought I was safer.”
That one cut deep. Harry looked away sharply, chest tightening.
Then something turned in him. The guilt twisted, shifted—became something sharper.
His eyes snapped back to Draco. “You encouraged him to flee.”
Draco blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You told him not to go to the Ministry. You told him to run—don’t lie to me.”
“I told him,” Draco said coldly, “to protect himself until he had proof. To go to you when he was ready. I didn’t expect a pit to open under the bloody Ministry before that could happen.”
Harry’s voice was low now, dangerous. “You knew where he was. You sat on this for days. People died, Malfoy.”
“I’m not a fool, Potter!” Draco snapped, stepping forward now, his calm evaporating. “If I’d brought this folder before the explosion, you would’ve dismissed it. You were already too buried in Ministry red tape and department politics. You were chasing shadows while your own son was being set up. He trusted me because I don't see him as a mistake.”
Harry’s mouth opened—but he had no answer.
Because deep down, that was the thing that hurt most.
Draco took a step back, smoothing his robe, regaining control. “I didn’t come here for a lecture. I came here because he’s in danger. And so is everyone else, if you don’t listen.”
Harry stared at the folder in his hands.
Albus’s words.
Albus’s truth.
Everything they should’ve known.
His voice, when it finally came, was quiet. Fractured.
“…Where is he, Malfoy?”
Draco’s eyes softened just slightly. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. But if he’s still out there—then he’s probably planning to finish what he started.”
Draco turned toward the door, brushing a speck of dust from his cuff with mechanical precision. His composure was back in place, every step calculated, detached.
Harry, folder clutched tightly in one hand, watched him go—rage boiling under his skin like cursed fire. It wasn’t just Albus. It was the humiliation. The years of silence. The ache of being replaced.
And then, bitter and unthinking, the words spilled out of him.
“Funny,” Harry said darkly. “After all these years, you finally found a Potter willing to follow you into the dark. Bet your father would be proud.”
Draco stopped.
The air changed.
He turned slowly, pale eyes sharp with fury. “Say that again.”
Harry didn’t. He didn’t need to.
Draco drew his wand in a blink—faster than he had any right to be.
But Harry was faster.
His wand was already out, his stance shifting, dueling reflexes from a lifetime of war igniting like instinct.
“Expelliarmus!”
“Confringo!”
The spells collided mid-air, the shockwave rattling the windows, picture frames toppling from shelves. One of the armchairs burst into flames. A lamp exploded in a shower of glass and sparks.
Draco ducked, rolled behind the desk, and fired again.
“Stupefy!”
Harry deflected it with a twist of his wrist, sending it into the ceiling.
“Still hiding behind furniture?” Harry snarled.
“Still playing the hero with no idea what’s really going on?” Draco hissed, stepping out and unleashing a barrage—“Incarcerous! Expulso!”
Harry shielded hard, the spells crashing like thunder against his barrier. Books flew from shelves. The desk cracked down the center.
Outside the closed door of the study, Lily paced quietly, her slippers brushing against the old carpet. The house was still, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the soft hum of wind against the windows.
She’d seen Malfoy’s face when he walked in—tight-lipped, guarded, too calm. She had seen that kind of control before.
On Harry.
That dangerous calm that always came just before something stupidly brave—or incredibly reckless.
She pressed her ear lightly to the wood. Nothing. Not a whisper, not a raised voice, not even the hum of pacing steps.
A silencing charm.
Of course.
She stepped back, arms folded.
And now Malfoy was in there.
And Harry was hurt. Frustrated. Gutted.
And old wounds bled fast in closed rooms.
Lily exhaled through her nose, turned sharply on her heel, and went into the kitchen.
It was muscle memory. Water. Kettle. The clink of two ceramic cups on a saucer. A flick of her wand warmed the milk, stirred the tea. The familiar scents of jasmine and bergamot curled into the air, something soft to balance whatever sharp things were happening behind that charmed door.
She didn’t make the tea to be polite.
She made it to go in.
With the tray in hand, she walked back down the hall, her eyes narrowing at the heavy silence still pressing against the study door.
She knocked once. Lightly.
No answer.
She carefully adjusted the tray, lifted her wand, and traced a simple undoing charm against the wood, murmuring, "Finite Silencio."
The spell shivered. Resisted. Flickered.
But then— A muffled crash. A spark of light beneath the door. A grunt of effort—two voices.
Lily didn’t wait.
She dropped the tray.
And threw open the door.
The door slammed open with a sharp crack against the wall.
“Harry James Potter!”
But neither of them heard her.
The study was a ruin—papers scattered, one wall scorched, the edge of the rug still smoldering. The desk was split clean in two, and in the center of it all, Harry and Draco were no longer dueling.
They were fighting.
Fists.
Grit.
Anger.
Harry’s knuckles cracked against Draco’s jaw, sending him stumbling back into the bookcase with a low snarl. Draco retaliated instantly, ramming his shoulder forward, tackling Harry into the overturned armchair. The two men grappled, rolled—raw and wild, long-forgotten schoolboy grudges flaring with years of quiet resentment.
Lily stood in the doorway, horrified.
They were grown men.
Fathers.
But right now, they looked like feral animals—blinded by history and bruised pride.
“Enough!” she shouted, voice sharp.
They didn’t stop.
Draco landed a punch to Harry’s ribs; Harry responded with a vicious elbow, and they crashed into the remains of the desk, splinters flying.
“Protego Maxima!” Lily roared.
A blinding flash of silver-blue erupted in the middle of the room, throwing the two men apart like magnets repelled. A shimmering, pulsing shield burst up between them, cutting the space cleanly in half. Both men hit the floor on opposite sides, chests heaving, faces flushed and streaked with blood and dust.
Draco was bleeding from the lip and cheeks. Harry’s temple was bruised and swelling, eyes blazing behind his glasses.
Neither moved.
Neither spoke.
They just stared at each other across the shield—like wolves denied the kill. Every breath sounded like thunder. Every second stretched.
And still, Lily stood there, trembling slightly, wand raised, her expression somewhere between fury and heartbreak.
Draco finally rose first. Slowly. Stiffly. Adjusted his robe, though it was torn at the shoulder.
His voice was raw when he spoke. “You’re still the same, Potter.”
Harry stood too. “So are you.”
Draco didn’t answer. He turned to Lily, gave her an unreadable look —and walked past her.
He didn’t slam the door when he left.
The silence dragged.
Only the soft hum of the fading shield charm remained between them.
Lily lowered her wand slowly, and the shimmering wall dissolved into sparks, vanishing like mist in sunlight. The wreckage of the study sat between them like the aftermath of a war.
Harry didn’t look at her at first.
She didn’t speak.
But her stare—steady, piercing, the kind that had once made teenage Marauders freeze in their tracks—was locked on him.
Harry finally turned, breathing hard, knuckles raw, collar torn.
“I’m—” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.”
Lily raised one brow, wordlessly, before stepping into the room.
With a flick of her wand, the books lifted themselves back into order. The desk reassembled with a sharp snap of wood. The burn marks faded from the walls. Even the scorched rug rewove itself, fiber by fiber, as though nothing had happened.
Then she turned to him.
She tapped his split lip first. The skin stitched itself back with a faint gold shimmer. She moved to his temple, muttering a low healing incantation under her breath. The bruise faded, leaving only pale, weary skin behind. His knuckles were last—still clenched, still bleeding slightly. She took his hand in hers, gently uncurling his fingers.
“You’re not fifteen anymore,” she said quietly. “You don’t have the luxury of throwing punches when your heart breaks.”
Harry looked down. Shame flooded his chest.
“He said he knew where Albus might be,” he murmured, hoarse. “And I— I let everything get in the way of that.”
Lily nodded once. “Yes. You did.”
He closed his eyes.
“I’m so tired, Mum.”
She didn’t say anything. Just wrapped her arms around him, pulling his taller frame in, pressing his forehead to her shoulder.
He let her.
Because for a moment, he didn’t have to be Harry Potter.
Didn’t have to be the Boy Who Lived.
Didn’t have to be the father who failed.
He could just be her son.
It was decades since Lily had hold him, but she could remember just the one year old, cheerful, loving, and her perfect son, rested against his chest, just like this.
Strong and still and unwavering.
“We’ll find him,” she whispered, stroking his hair.
“And when we do—you’ll listen this time.”
Harry didn’t move for a long time.
Wrapped in his mother’s arms, the weight of the past few days pressed down like stone on his chest. He hated how easily he still folded into her strength, hated that it made him feel like a child again, but at the same time—it was the first moment of stillness he’d had since the Veil exploded.
His voice was muffled when he finally spoke. “He trusted Malfoy, Mum. Not me.”
Lily held him tighter.
“He didn’t run to me. He didn’t tell me. He thought I’d... what? Turn him in? Think he was lying?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Her hand moved slowly up and down his back, calm and grounding.
“He’s scared,” she said softly. “And so are you.”
Harry pulled away, just enough to look at her. His face was hollowed by exhaustion, guilt carved deep in the lines near his eyes.
“I’m his father. That was supposed to mean something.”
“It still does,” she said gently. “But Harry... when was the last time you told Albus you were proud of him? Not for doing something right. Not for behaving or achieving. Just... proud that he’s yours?”
Harry blinked.
The question hit harder than any spell.
He had no answer.
“I tried,” he said. “I didn’t always know how, but I tried.”
“I know,” she replied. “But he’s not James. And he never wanted to be. You spent years fighting a war to give your kids a future—he’s been spending years trying to live in the shadow of that war.”
Harry sat down heavily in the chair. The one he and Draco had knocked over only minutes ago.
Lily walked over and picked up the folder from the floor. She brushed dust from the cover, then handed it to him.
“Whatever anger you have,” she said, “whatever history you and Malfoy can’t let go of—you need to let it go now. Because this—” she tapped the folder “—this means your son was trying to do the right thing. And if he’s still out there, it means he still is.”
Harry stared at the folder in his hands.
Albus’s neat handwriting.
The creased corners.
The dates. The risk. The desperation in every scribbled margin note.
He had tried.
And Harry hadn’t seen it.
Lily rested her hand on his shoulder. “So the question is… are you going to sit here and keep grieving the mistakes, or are you going to go out there and find your son?”
Harry looked up at her, eyes glassy with something deeper than exhaustion.
“I’m going to find him,” he said.
She smiled softly, the way only a mother could.
“Good,” she said. “Because Merlin help anyone who tries to stop you.”
She kissed the top of his head like she had when he was small, and left the room quietly, leaving Harry alone with Albus’s folder, a pile of leads—
And finally, a place to start.
***
The sky over Devon was a dull silver, the kind that blurred day into dusk without ever deciding which one it wanted to be. Rain had come and gone, leaving behind the sharp scent of petrichor and wet earth. The grass was still glistening, and Harry sat alone on the back patio, shoulders hunched beneath his old cloak.
In front of him, on a small weathered table, sat a half-empty glass of something strong and amber. Firewhisky. The good kind—the one they had hidden at the back of the cabinet “for emergencies only.”
Apparently, this counted.
Harry stared out over the yard, where James and Albus used to fly when they were small. He could still picture them in the air—James loud and wild, Albus quiet but determined. Always chasing, always trying to keep up.
Now one was in a hospital bed with his life hanging by a thread.
And the other was running from a world that no longer trusted him.
The screen door creaked open behind him.
Sirius stepped out, hands in his pockets, hair wind-tousled and eyes tired. He didn’t say anything at first. Just took the chair next to Harry and sat down like he’d been there the whole time.
Harry offered the bottle without looking.
Sirius took it and poured himself a glass.
They sat in silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. The wind rustled the trees. A bird called from somewhere far off. The glass clicked softly against the table as Sirius set it down.
“You hit Malfoy,” Sirius said eventually, like it was the opening line of a casual conversation.
Harry let out a humorless breath. “He hit me first.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Harry didn’t argue. He took another sip, slower this time, like maybe he didn’t want to burn his throat quite so much.
Sirius leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out. “Lily said you two nearly burned down the study.”
“Could’ve been worse.”
Sirius grunted. “Should’ve hexed each other, not punched. Would’ve been more dignified.”
Harry glanced sideways. “Didn’t feel like hexing.”
“No,” Sirius murmured. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”
More silence. The wind picked up, a few leaves skittering across the patio stones.
“I didn’t know,” Harry said finally. “About the folder. About what Albus was doing. I just assumed…”
“That he was in over his head?” Sirius finished for him. “That he was making a mistake?”
Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
Sirius picked up his glass and rolled it between his palms. “We all screw it up, Harry. Every parent. Even the good ones. Especially the good ones.”
“I was trying to protect him.”
“From what?”
“From the Ministry. From the pressure. From turning into me.”
Sirius looked at him long and hard. “And what if he never wanted to be you in the first place?”
Harry stared into his glass, the amber liquid catching the dull sky like flame trapped in a bottle.
“I keep thinking,” he said quietly, “about Barty Crouch, Sr.”
Sirius turned to him, surprised by the shift in tone. “That’s a grim name to drop over a drink.”
Harry didn’t smile. “He was too busy with his work. Too focused on justice. On appearances. On doing the job right. And all the while…” His voice wavered. “He never really saw his son.”
Sirius said nothing.
“I used to judge him,” Harry went on. “Thought he was cold. Thought he chose the Ministry over his own child. But now…” He trailed off, eyes heavy with guilt. “Now I wonder if he just looked up one day and realized it was already too late.”
Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Albus isn’t Barty Crouch, Jr.,” he said.
Harry looked at him, tired and raw. “Isn’t he? He’s on the run. Being hunted. Framed for crimes I didn’t even think he was capable of being near. And he didn’t come to me, Sirius. He came to Malfoy.”
“That’s not the same,” Sirius said, sharp now. “Crouch Jr. was a killer. A fanatic. Your son—he’s a boy who trusted the wrong people. A boy who got scared. Who tried to fix something too big for him.”
Harry shook his head slowly. “But I was there. I was right there, and he didn’t trust me. I saw him drowning and thought it was just a phase. I kept saying the right things—but I never asked the real ones.”
Sirius was quiet for a moment. Then he said softly, “That’s not who you are, Harry.”
Harry’s throat tightened. “It’s who I became.”
“No.” Sirius turned to face him, full of fire again. “You’re not perfect. You’ve made mistakes—every damn parent does. But you’re here. Fighting. Bleeding. Chasing your son through hell to bring him home. That’s more than Barty Crouch ever did.”
Harry blinked hard, jaw clenched.
“You think Albus doesn’t see that?” Sirius added. “You think he isn’t counting on you to fix it?”
Harry looked down again, then exhaled—long and slow—like letting go of years he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.
“I just don’t want to lose him.”
Sirius leaned back again, watching Harry with that familiar half-shadowed look—the one he wore after battles, when he didn’t know whether to feel relieved or destroyed.
After a pause, he asked, quieter now, “What about James?”
Harry’s eyes flicked up, and this time there was something else there. Not just the guilt. Not just the exhaustion. A flicker of hope. Fragile and cautious.
“He moved his fingers,” Harry said, voice barely above a whisper. “This morning. Just a twitch, but... it was real. Ginny saw it too.”
Sirius let out a long breath, the kind you didn’t realize you were holding. He rubbed his jaw. “Bloody hell.”
“Yeah,” Harry murmured, allowing the barest ghost of a smile. “The healers said it could be a reflex. But they’re monitoring everything. They’re not calling it progress yet. Just… signs.”
“That’s something,” Sirius said, nodding. “That’s something, Harry.”
“It is.” Harry looked down at his glass. “They’re still saying his spinal damage could be permanent. That the brain swelling needs time. But he’s holding on.”
Sirius swallowed hard, then asked, “Can I see him?”
Harry’s expression shifted, apologetic and pained.
“They’re only letting two people in at a time,” he said. “Ginny and I have barely been able to switch off. His vitals drop if there’s too much noise or movement in the room.”
Sirius nodded slowly, but disappointment flickered in his eyes. “Right. Of course.”
Harry added quickly, “As soon as they clear him for more visitors, you’ll be first. I swear.”
“I know,” Sirius said, forcing a small smile. “Just… hard, you know?”
Harry stared at the table for a long moment, then reached out and gripped Sirius’s arm.
“You’ll get the chance.”
Sirius nodded once.
Neither of them said the rest out loud.
If he wakes up.
If it’s not too late.
If they don’t lose both boys.
Sirius reached forward, pushing the empty glass aside. His hand hovered for a moment over the folder that sat in the center of the table—creased edges, ink-smudged corners, sealed with magic only recently broken.
“Is this it?” he asked.
Harry gave a short nod. “That’s what Albus left with Malfoy. Everything he was working on. Everything he was risking.”
Sirius sat up straighter, dragging the folder toward him with care, like it might detonate. He flipped it open slowly. The first page was a hand-drawn timeline—weeks of notes crammed into cramped writing, with names, spell types, room numbers, coded references.
He whistled low. “This isn’t just scribbles. This is methodical. Precise.”
“Yeah,” Harry said quietly. “It’s not the work of a boy who didn’t know what he was doing.”
Sirius flipped through pages. Newspaper clippings from the European wizarding press. Photographs charmed to loop short, silent footage—one showed what looked like a shipment being hidden in a lower corridor of the Ministry. Another showed a dark-marked parchment with strange flaming sigils and the letters A.D. circled.
He paused at that one. “He thought this was Albus Dumbledore?”
Harry rubbed his temples. “That’s what he told Draco. Until he realized it wasn’t about our Albus or the old headmaster. It’s someone else. Someone alive.”
Sirius’s eyes narrowed as he flipped further, finding letters addressed to Vance—unsigned but traced back to Berlin. Maps of passageways beneath the Department of Mysteries. Spell lists cross-referenced with notes from resurrection texts. One page was burnt along the edges, as if Albus had had to recover it from a near-disaster.
“Merlin,” Sirius breathed. “He was in deep.”
“He didn’t tell anyone. Not even Scorpius.”
Sirius glanced up, brows furrowed. “You think he knew how bad it was going to get?”
“I think he had a target on his back the second he got close to the truth,” Harry muttered. “And Vance played him like a pawn right up until the explosion.”
Sirius’s hands paused on a page filled with quotes—interviews Albus had apparently conducted off the record. Whistleblowers. Disillusioned Unspeakables. Memos half-redacted and recovered via Revealio charms. One quote read:
“They think death is just another border. Like the veil. And they think they’ve found someone who can cross it both ways.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened. “Who the hell are ‘they’?”
Harry looked at him grimly. “We think it’s a cult. Ancient magic. The ones behind the Inferi pit, behind the Veil breach… and behind the Circle of Flame.”
Sirius shut the folder gently, as if closing a coffin.
“You realize this means Albus wasn’t just trying to protect himself,” he said. “He was trying to protect everyone else, too.”
“I know,” Harry said. His voice was barely a whisper. “And I didn’t see it.”
Sirius drummed his fingers on the table, staring at the folder as though it held the last clues to a war that hadn’t even properly started yet.
“So,” he said finally, voice low. “What are you going to do now?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately. He looked out over the damp grass, his jaw tight with the weight of too many decisions, too little time.
Then, with a quiet steadiness, he said, “First, I take this to Higgs.”
Sirius raised a brow. “You think he’ll listen?”
Harry met his eyes. “He has to. After the board’s vote yesterday, he gave me 48 hours. If I don’t give them something convincing by then, they’ll move forward with labeling Albus a domestic magical terrorist.”
Sirius’s expression turned cold. “Bastards.”
“Politics,” Harry muttered bitterly. “Half of them want blood, and the other half want a scapegoat. Albus gives them both.”
Sirius looked down at the folder again. “You think this is enough to stall them?”
“It’s not enough to clear him,” Harry admitted. “But it’s enough to raise doubt. Enough to prove that something bigger is going on. That he was investigating Vance under orders that might’ve come from someone inside the Ministry. That he wasn’t acting alone. And more importantly—he wasn’t running from guilt. He was running because someone set him up.”
Sirius let out a slow breath. “And if Higgs doesn’t buy it?”
Harry’s voice dropped to something sharper. “Then I leak it.”
Sirius blinked.
Harry continued, eyes steady. “The Prophet, WizWatch, international outlets—Grimm just gave me his endorsement and sympathy on record. If the Ministry still wants to make an example of my son, I’ll make sure the whole world sees who’s really pulling the strings.”
Sirius gave a slow nod, then smirked faintly. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
Harry didn’t return the smile. His gaze was already shifting, calculating.
“I have eighteen hours left,” he said. “Higgs will want to see me before tomorrow night. I need Hermione to go over these notes again and verify the evidence chain. I want Ron pulling international travel logs. And I want someone on Grimm’s calendar.”
“You don’t trust him?”
Harry hesitated. “I don’t know if I trust him. But I know I can’t afford not to watch him.”
Sirius stood up, stretching. “All right then. Let’s start making noise.”
Harry stood too at the edge of the patio, folder tucked tightly beneath his arm, gaze distant as the sky deepened into slate gray. The breeze picked up again, carrying the scent of rain and woodsmoke.
He didn’t turn to Sirius when he spoke. His voice was quieter now, more tired than angry.
“I have to go to the funeral tomorrow.”
Sirius, who had just picked up both empty glasses to take them inside, paused. “Funeral?”
Harry nodded, jaw clenched. “The Ministry victims. The ones who died in the explosion. The Inferi breach.” He looked down, then out toward the trees. “There were eight. Four Unspeakables, a maintenance worker, two Hit Wizards, and a floo operator.”
Sirius exhaled. “Merlin.”
“Some of their families blame me,” Harry said flatly. “Some blame Albus.”
He didn’t say it, but Sirius heard it anyway:
And part of me blames myself, too.
“Higgs will be there,” Harry added. “And the press. I’m expected to speak.”
Sirius frowned. “Even after everything?”
“They want a face,” Harry muttered. “A father. A leader. Someone to say the right things so they don’t have to explain how they let their own walls fall in broad daylight.”
“Do you know what you’ll say?”
Harry shrugged. “I’ll tell them the truth. That their loved ones died heroes. That we failed to protect them. That something darker is moving beneath our feet, and if we don’t stand together now, more will follow.”
A long pause stretched between them. The air hung thick with grief and duty and everything still left to do.
Then Harry added, almost to himself, “After the funeral, I go straight to Higgs.”
Sirius nodded. “We’ll be ready.”
Harry turned toward the house, folder in hand, shoulders squared.
Sirius lingered at the edge of the patio, just behind Harry, watching him as he stood framed in the fading light.
The folder under Harry’s arm was clenched too tightly. And his right hand—Sirius noticed it again now, just as he had earlier when Harry poured the Firewhisky—was trembling. Subtly. Rhythmically. Like a ghost was tugging at the tendons.
It wasn’t the drink.
“Your hand,” Sirius said quietly, stepping forward. “It’s shaking.”
Harry didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained on the garden beyond, the one Ginny had replanted after the children were born—now overgrown, but still beautiful in a tired way.
Then, slowly, he said, “It’s nothing.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Don’t pull that with me.”
Harry sighed, then finally looked down at the hand. He flexed his fingers once. Twice.
“It started when I was seventeen,” he said. “After the war. After the forest. After… everything.”
Sirius didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
“It’s shell shock,” Harry admitted, quietly now, like it was an old shame. “I had tremors for a few months right after the Battle. Then it went away. Mostly. Comes back when I’m… stretched thin. When things start to feel like then again.”
Sirius’s face tightened. “Does Ginny know?”
“She does.” He gave a soft, humorless huff. “She’s better at not making a fuss than you.”
Sirius crossed his arms. “It’s not a fuss. It’s called giving a damn.”
Harry didn’t reply. He just rubbed his hand slowly, willing the tremor to still. It didn’t.
Sirius took a step closer. “And how long’s it been back?”
Harry hesitated. “A week. Maybe more.”
Since before the explosion. Before the warrant. Before the pit opened in the heart of the Ministry and swallowed everything that mattered.
“You should’ve said something,” Sirius said, his voice rough now. “You’re not carrying all this alone, Harry. You never were meant to.”
Harry didn’t look up. “I know.”
They stood in silence a moment more, the weight of memory pressing in from all sides.
Then Sirius reached out and gripped Harry’s shoulder—firm, grounding.
***
The funeral had been quiet.
Too quiet.
Black robes rustled like mourning birds. The air was thick with solemnity, punctuated by flickering wandlights and the faint chime of enchanted bells. Eight caskets, draped in dark Ministry banners, had been lowered into consecrated earth. Harry had stood beside Higgs, barely hearing the speeches. His own words had come automatically—well-crafted by Hermione, rehearsed the night before, delivered with a voice too numb to crack.
But it was the faces of the families that haunted him. The quiet, hollowed-out grief in their eyes. And the way some of them looked at him—blame wrapped in politeness, fury hidden behind veils.
Your son did this, their eyes said.
Or worse: You let this happen.
By the time the last casket was gone and the reporters had been shooed off, Harry felt like he was sinking in invisible mud.
Higgs summoned him quietly after the service. No press. No boardroom. Just a private corner of the Minister’s office, with the curtains drawn and wards sealed.
Harry laid the folder on the desk with slow precision. “This is everything Albus documented. Surveillance, notes, timelines. He was following Vance’s activities. He suspected infiltration. He was—he is—trying to stop something bigger.”
Higgs leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes scanning the first few pages. Then he closed it.
He didn’t say anything for a long time.
Harry waited.
Finally, Higgs spoke, measured and cold: “The evidence is compelling.”
Harry’s chest lifted just slightly. “Then you’ll pull back the charges?”
But Higgs shook his head once. Not in dismissal—but restraint.
“Compelling,” he repeated. “Not conclusive. Vance is dead. The others who could corroborate—also dead. And Albus is still missing. That creates a dangerous narrative.”
“Dangerous how?” Harry asked, voice rising despite himself.
Higgs met his eyes. “Your son is the last living thread in a very public tragedy. The longer he stays in hiding, the harder it becomes to argue his innocence. The press are sharpening their quills. The public want clarity.”
“You want a scapegoat.”
“I want order,” Higgs snapped, then caught himself. His voice dropped again. “Harry, listen to me. The heads of departments—the ones who voted to delay a formal designation—they’re watching the clock. You have less than nine hours left in your window.”
Harry stiffened. “You’re saying they’ll brand him a terrorist?”
“I’m saying,” Higgs said slowly, “some are already arguing for a kill order.”
The room went very still.
“No arrest. No trial?” Harry asked, voice low and dangerous.
“No risk,” Higgs replied. “That’s the language they’re using. Not mine. Yet.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “You tell them if anyone lays a wand on my son, I’ll bring the whole bloody Ministry down on their heads.”
“I’m telling you,” Higgs said, rising now, “that you need to find him. Soon. Because once the Aurors are given open orders—there will be no recalling them.”
Harry stood in silence, fists clenched.
Higgs looked at him with something that might have been sympathy. Or regret.
“Do what you have to, Potter. But don’t wait.”
And as Harry left the office, his mother’s words echoed in his mind.
Find him.
And this time—listen.
***
Ron barely had time to blink before the world twisted around him and reassembled with a hard crunch beneath his feet.
They landed in a quiet, neat cul-de-sac, sunlight slanting low against rows of prim brick houses and precisely trimmed hedges. A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicked rhythmically.
Ron looked around once—then again, slower.
His stomach turned. “You’re joking.”
Harry didn’t answer.
Ron turned to him, brows raised high. “You’ve brought me to Privet Drive? As in your aunt and uncle's Privet Drive? Are you mental? What, you fancy a cup of tea with dear old Aunt Petunia?”
Harry kept walking, not even breaking stride.
“It’s not that,” he said. “We’re not here for her.”
“Well then what—?”
“Just trust me,” Harry muttered.
Ron jogged to keep up. “You know that’s what people say before doing something absolutely reckless, right?”
Harry stopped, just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “Would you rather be left out of it?”
Ron snorted. “Please. I’ve been neck-deep in your reckless since we were eleven.”
They crossed the street, past No. 4—Harry didn’t even look at it—and continued toward the far end of the block, where the houses grew older, hedges a bit overgrown, and the air slightly heavier.
Ron was about to ask again what the hell they were doing when Harry suddenly murmured, without looking, “Don’t turn around. We’re being tailed.”
Ron stiffened instinctively. “What?”
“Ministry,” Harry said under his breath. “Two of them. Maybe more. Apparated into the alley off Magnolia Crescent just after we did.”
“You think they’re here for you or me?”
Harry gave a dry smile. “Probably both. But mostly Albus.”
Ron didn’t answer right away. Then, “Bloody hell.”
“Yeah.”
They turned a corner, slowing their pace. Harry pulled his hood farther over his head, eyes scanning the street without seeming to. Ron could feel the faint tingle of magical surveillance—barely-there trace signatures in the cracks of the pavement. Ministry-grade cloaking spells. The kind designed to make Aurors seem like shadows.
“You think they’ll follow us all the way?” Ron muttered.
“They’ve had eyes on me since I left Higgs’s office. Think I know where Albus is. Maybe think I’m hiding him.”
Ron’s heart rate picked up. “And do you?”
“No,” Harry said grimly. “But I wish I did.”
Ron scanned a window across the street—saw a flicker of movement. A reflection? A charm? Hard to tell.
“And you thought the best way to lose them was to bring them here?” Ron muttered.
“I thought the best way to distract them,” Harry said, “was to make them think I was being reckless.”
“Oh great,” Ron muttered, “so we’re bait.”
Harry didn’t deny it.
Ron groaned. “Brilliant. Really top-tier Auror work, mate. I’m sure Hermione’ll give you a bloody medal.”
Harry slowed just slightly, and in the pause, Ron’s tone shifted. “Where are we actually going?”
Harry looked sideways at him, gaze sharp. “Walk quietly.”
Ron wanted to argue, to demand answers—but the look on Harry’s face stopped him. It wasn’t stubbornness. It was fear. Raw, heavy, buried under layers of stoic face.
So Ron fell silent.
They turned down a side street that looked even quieter than the last, identical houses watching like eyes from every corner. But it wasn’t just the place that made Ron uneasy—it was the way Harry moved. Alert. Purposeful. Like something might pounce at any moment.
Ron leaned in slightly as they crossed the road. “Just tell me this much—what are we walking toward?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. Then, almost inaudibly, he replied:
“Hope.”
They stopped in front of a modest house—Number 6—its white paint slightly chipped, curtains drawn tight, a line of sad little gnomes bordering the front garden.
Ron squinted at it. “This doesn’t look like a revolution’s brewing.”
Harry didn’t respond. He turned toward the gate, hand already on the latch.
“I’m going in,” he said.
Ron’s brow furrowed. “Wait—what? Alone?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. You stay out here.”
Ron stepped in front of him, voice low. “Mate, come on. That’s not a good idea. We don’t even know who—”
“There’s no time,” Harry said sharply, eyes flicking over the rooftops. “I don’t want to spook anyone inside. If it’s who I think it is, I need them calm. Not cornered.”
Ron stared at him. “Harry…”
But Harry stepped closer, lowering his voice to a fierce whisper. “Listen. If you see anyone—any robes, Ministry gear, anything off—you come inside. Immediately. Do you hear me?”
Ron blinked. “Wait, you want me to—”
“Come inside,” Harry said again, his tone brooking no argument. “Don’t try to stall them. Don’t distract them. Don’t be a bloody hero. Just get in the house and close the door behind you.”
Ron opened his mouth, clearly about to argue—
“Trust me,” Harry said, eyes locking with his. “Please.”
That gave Ron pause.
He searched his best friend’s face for a beat. There was something in Harry’s expression, not recklessness, but desperate urgency. Fear wrapped in determination. The kind of look he’d only seen on Harry’s face a few times in their lives. Always right before something huge.
Ron swallowed. “Fine,” he said quietly. “But if you’re not out in ten minutes, I’m coming in anyway. And I’m dragging you out by your bloody ear.”
Harry’s mouth twitched. “Deal.”
He turned, pushed open the gate, and strode up the path to Number 6.
Ron stood on the edge of the footpath, one trainer planted on the cracked curb, the other on the neatly trimmed grass. Number 6 loomed quietly in front of him, its curtains closed like sealed lips. The house was silent, still. Too still.
He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and scanned the street.
No obvious tails.
No popping of Apparition.
No glint of enchanted surveillance glass.
But he knew better than to think that meant no one was watching.
What the hell is going on, Harry?
Ron’s jaw tightened as he paced a few steps to the left, then back again. His eyes kept flicking to the windows across the road—one of them had fluttered a few minutes ago. A twitch of the curtain? A shadow?
He couldn’t tell.
“Bloody brilliant,” he muttered under his breath. “Just another quiet visit to Privet Drive. Totally normal.”
He glanced at Number 6 again.
Harry had walked straight in. No hesitation. Like he knew something—or someone—was in there. And now Ron was standing outside like a first-year lookout during a prank gone too far, trying not to be obvious and definitely not succeeding.
And then there was what Harry said.
If you see anyone—come inside.
Not hex them. Not stall. Not hide. Come inside.
Ron frowned.
It wasn’t just about protecting whoever was in the house. It was about protection, period. Like Harry was expecting something—someone—who wouldn’t care about collateral damage. Which begged the question:
Who the hell lives here?
Ron didn’t know many people Harry still had contact with in Surrey. And no one who’d be useful in hiding a fugitive. Unless—
He froze, a memory flashing up from years ago. A woman. Funny-looking cats. Smelled like cabbage and peppermint.
“Mrs. Figg?” he muttered. “No bloody way.”
But then again, Harry had said this wasn’t about his aunt. And he hadn’t said no when Ron asked if he was mental.
He scanned the street again. Nothing.
Still, his gut prickled.
He could feel them out there. Ministry eyes. Waiting for Harry to slip. Hoping he’d lead them to Albus.
And here he was, Ron Weasley, standing out like a sore thumb in the middle of a muggle neighborhood, guarding a door he didn’t understand, part of a plan no one had explained.
He sighed, eyes narrowing.
“Whatever game you’re playing, Harry,” he muttered to himself, “you better be winning.”
The street had stayed quiet for just long enough for Ron to start pacing.
But then—
Crack.
And another.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The air shifted—magic settling like a chill on his neck. Ron snapped his head toward the end of the road.
A cluster of people had appeared near the postbox. Four, no—five. Dressed in mismatched muggle clothes: oversized jackets, worn trainers, one bloke in a beanie and sunglasses despite the cloud cover. Trying to look inconspicuous.
But Ron had been around enough Aurors to spot one when he saw them pretending not to be Aurors.
“Shite.”
He backed up, one step at a time, as the group began walking casually—too casually—down the pavement. Like they were on a stroll. Like they didn’t just crack into existence seconds ago.
The tallest one was muttering into a spell-encoded cufflink.
Ron’s pulse quickened. His first instinct was to stay, to slow them down—ask about the weather, feign confusion, maybe even knock over a dustbin or two.
Buy Harry more time.
But then he remembered it—Harry’s voice, low and firm:
Don’t stall them. Don’t distract them. Don’t be a bloody hero. Just get in the house and close the door behind you.
Ron swore under his breath, then spun on his heel.
He crossed the lawn of Number 6 in three quick strides and rapped twice on the door before pushing it open.
The quiet warmth of the house hit him instantly—faintly musty, but safe in a way that made his heart stutter. As he stepped in, he reached back with one hand and shut the door just as the group reached the end of the drive.
And locked it.
Behind the curtains, the street outside continued like nothing was wrong.
But inside, Ron stood just inside the entryway, breathing hard, spine tense.
Whatever Harry was doing—whoever was inside—he had only moments left.
And now they were both in it.
Ron stepped into the living room, and everything in him halted.
The room was dim, quiet in a way that rang too loud—like sound had drained out of it, replaced only with breathless, cracking emotion.
Harry was crouched on the threadbare carpet, his cloak spread out around him like shadow. And there—clutching him, curled against his legs like a child—was Albus.
Albus, who hadn’t been seen in days. Who was being hunted across the country. Who the entire wizarding world now whispered about like he was some kind of monster.
But what Ron saw wasn’t a monster.
Albus was shaking. Convulsing, really—sobs racking through his thin frame, hands fisted in the back of Harry’s coat like he was drowning and this was the only thing keeping him above water.
“Please,” Albus was whispering, voice hoarse, cracked, heartbreakingly young. “Please, don’t let them take me. I didn’t do it—I didn’t do it—I didn’t kill them—I swear, I swear—I didn’t—”
Harry didn’t speak right away. His hand was pressed firmly over Albus’s back, not restraining—anchoring.
“I know,” Harry murmured, his voice rough, steady. “I know, Al. I’ve got you.”
Albus just kept shaking his head. “I didn’t know about the Inferi. I didn’t know what Vance was doing—I thought it was research—I thought—he said I was helping—I thought—”
His voice cracked into another sob.
Harry leaned down closer, pressing his forehead against the top of his son’s messy hair. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “I know you’re innocent. But I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me, Albus? Just breathe.”
Albus didn’t seem to hear him. His words had dissolved into a chant, fast and fractured:
“I’m not a killer I’m not a killer I didn’t kill them I didn’t mean for them to die I didn’t know—please please—”
Ron took a step forward, stunned and still, the lump rising in his throat nearly suffocating him.
He’d seen Albus before. Moody. Quiet. Sarcastic.
But never like this.
Never this broken.
Harry finally looked over his shoulder, eyes landing on Ron with a mix of exhaustion, pain, and silent pleading. But he didn’t say anything—just turned back to his son and kept rubbing his hand slowly over Albus’s back, murmuring in a voice no one else was meant to hear:
“I’m here. You’re safe. I’m here.”
Ron cleared his throat softly, still standing near the doorway. “Harry…”
Harry didn’t look up—just kept one steady hand pressed to the back of Albus’s head, the other still rubbing slow circles over his son’s spine.
“They’re here,” Ron said. His voice was low but urgent. “The ones from the Ministry. They’re at the end of the drive.”
Harry exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that carried too much weight. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes and nodded.
“Come closer, Ron.”
Ron hesitated for a second, brow furrowing. “Harry, what are you—?”
“Just come here.”
Ron crossed the room cautiously, his boots thudding softly on the old carpet. As he stepped in beside Harry, he glanced down at Albus, who was still clinging tightly to his father, tears soaking the hem of Harry’s coat.
Harry looked up at Ron—his expression wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t even panicked. It was decided. He had that old look in his eyes, the one Ron remembered from battlefields and impossible plans.
Harry turned his attention back to Albus and gently grasped the sides of his son’s face, lifting it just enough so that their eyes met.
Albus’s cheeks were blotchy, his lower lip trembling, but he didn’t pull away. He was gasping more than breathing now, terror swimming in his eyes.
“Al,” Harry said, voice low and full of something unshakable, “listen to me.”
Albus blinked, eyes wild. “They’re going to kill me—”
“No,” Harry said firmly, gently. “Not while I’m breathing. Not ever.”
Albus sniffled, blinking furiously, his voice no more than a whisper. “They think I did it…”
“I know,” Harry said. “But I don’t. I know what kind of boy you are. And I know you’re scared. But I need you to trust me.”
Albus flinched.
“Not just the way you used to,” Harry continued. “Not the way you tried to. I need you to really trust me, Albus. With everything.”
Albus swallowed, still trembling.
“I will not let anything happen to you,” Harry said, steady as a promise. “You hear me? Not Vance. Not the Ministry. Not anyone. As long as I’m standing, no one’s laying a wand on you.”
Albus blinked again. Then, slowly, miserably, he gave a small, shaky nod.
Harry let out a breath. “Good.”
Harry stood slowly, helping Albus to his feet. His son swayed a little, like his legs were unsure how to hold him again.
He turned his head toward Ron, who was watching silently, his arms crossed tight over his chest.
“They’re going to knock,” Harry said quietly, eyes fixed on the door. His hand was still firm on Albus’s shoulder, grounding him like an anchor in a storm.
Ron stepped beside him, lowering his voice. “Right… and what exactly are we going to do when they do?”
Harry didn’t answer.
His jaw was set. His expression unreadable.
“Harry—” Ron tried again, glancing between him and the trembling boy pressed to his side. “Mate, what are you doing? If we just stand here, they’re going to take him. You know they will.”
Still no answer.
Harry didn’t even blink.
Then—Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp raps against the door.
Albus’s body flinched violently, and his grip on Harry’s coat tightened like a vice. His fingers curled into the fabric, knuckles white, breath shallow.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Faster this time. Louder. A voice followed:
“Harry Potter. This is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We are authorized to enter.”
Ron turned toward the door, fingers twitching at his wand. He looked at Harry again—this time with disbelief. “Harry, come on! Say something, do something!”
Still, Harry didn’t move.
His hand tightened slightly on Albus’s shoulder. His other hand hovered near his wand—but he made no move to raise it.
Another voice rang out from behind the door. “You have ten seconds to open up or we breach!”
Albus whimpered, shaking harder now. “Please—Dad—”
Harry closed his eyes for just a beat, then opened them. They burned with something silent and molten.
Boom.
The door exploded inward with a flash of light and a bang like thunder. The wards buckled—resisted—and then gave way under the combined force of multiple Ministry spells. Wood splintered across the carpet, smoke curling into the hallway like grasping fingers.
And then they poured in.
Four Aurors, wands drawn. Standard stance. Faces grim.
“In the name of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—”
Ron raised his wand instinctively, but Harry shot an arm out in front of him. Not in defense—in command.
The room went tense as a crossbow string.
The lead Auror—a tall, broad woman with a scar slicing down her cheek—stepped forward, wand trained directly on Albus.
“Step away from the boy, Harry.”
Harry didn’t flinch.
He didn’t speak.
He just stood there—between them and his son.
The lead Auror’s stance didn’t waver as she raised her voice, sharp and cutting through the thick air of the living room.
“Albus Severus Potter. You are hereby ordered to surrender yourself into Ministry custody for investigation into charges of treason, conspiracy, and magical terrorism.”
Albus let out a strangled noise, backing further behind Harry like a child, hands still clutching at his coat. “Please—please, I didn’t—I didn’t do anything—”
“Enough,” the Auror barked, her voice clipped and emotionless. “You are to be restrained immediately. If you do not comply, we are authorized to use force.”
Harry stood solidly in front of his son, his own wand still sheathed. “He’s not resisting,” he said, voice low but clear. “You don’t need force.”
“You’re obstructing,” she snapped. “Step aside.”
“I’m not letting you take him like he’s some fugitive beast,” Harry said. “He’s coming in with me.”
The Auror’s eyes narrowed. Then she nodded once, curtly.
“So be it.”
Two others moved forward swiftly, raising their wands. “Harry James Potter, Ronald Bilius Weasley,” one read, with practiced formality. “You are under arrest for harboring a fugitive, obstruction of magical justice, and interference with Ministry operations.”
Ron let out a shocked, “What?!” but Harry didn’t even turn to him. His posture remained still, but a flick of his fingers told Ron all he needed.
Don’t fight it.
Another Auror had already approached Harry, snapping a thin magical cuff around his right wrist with a flash of blue light. They shimmered, binding with a spell that suppressed wand access. Ron was next. He stiffened as the cold metal closed around him, but didn’t resist.
Albus cried out, wrenching toward Harry, trying to grab at him again—but the lead Auror caught him, forced his arms behind him, and bound his wrists too. The cuffs glowed a harsher blue, almost cruelly tight.
“No—no!” Albus sobbed, panicked. “Don’t take him—Dad, please – I didn’t — I didn’t kill them—”
Harry turned then, eyes softening, jaw tight.
“I know, Al,” he said quietly, as the Aurors began to separate them. “I know you didn’t.”
Ron opened his mouth, furious, helpless—
But Harry met his eyes.
Don’t.
So Ron shut it. Swallowed hard.
The three of them stood side by side in the shattered quiet of Number 6 Privet Drive.
Surrounded.
Bound.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please do take a moment to drop a review, they mean the world to me! ❤️❤️
Chapter 46: Burdened Blood
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry kept his face carefully blank as they moved him through the crackling Apparition tether the Aurors conjured—a rotating ward-ring designed to transport multiple prisoners without giving them the chance to move, speak, or cast.
He let them cuff his hands tighter.
Let them push him forward with short commands and cold fingers on his shoulder.
Let them treat him like every other man he'd arrested in his career.
Because he knew this game.
He knew the intake cells they’d bring him to—low ceilings, grey stone, a single floating quill documenting every breath. He knew the holding parchments they’d fill out, the preliminary classification runes, the rotation of shift guards. Knew which ones were arrogant. Which ones were cruel. Which ones could be rattled. Which ones liked power too much.
He'd trained many of them.
He knew the layout of the temporary detention cells under Level Two—the ones they used for cases under review. He’d helped re-ward the corridors after that Azkaban breach eight years ago. He knew where the blind spots were in the security enchantments. He knew the protocol for family containment. Knew they’d try to separate them, interrogate Albus in a private chamber, isolate him under the assumption he'd fold under pressure.
And when they came to question him—when the Department heads and legal advisors and Higgs himself came down to try to make Harry Potter beg, explain, or apologize—he wouldn’t say a word about strategy.
He would do what every captured wizard he’d ever arrested should’ve done:
Wait.
Watch.
Learn the board.
Harry walked beside Albus now, their shackles linked with a short magical tether. Albus was shivering, wide-eyed and pale, still crying but quieter now, like something had cracked and emptied inside him.
Ron was behind them, muttering curses under his breath.
Harry didn’t turn around.
He couldn’t.
Because part of him wanted to scream—to rip the chains off, to punch the Aurors in the jaw, to take Albus by the hand and vanish them both into a warded house in northern Scotland.
But that would get his son killed.
So instead, Harry Potter—Auror, war hero, and now prisoner—lowered his head slightly as the Ministry’s prison corridor swallowed them whole.
Let them lock him up.
Because now the game had begun.
And no one played it better than the man who used to enforce it.
***
The halls of the holding cells smelled the same as they always had—damp stone, old magic, and the faint tang of metal and sweat.
It was colder down here than most places in the Ministry. Not because it had to be. Because it was meant to be.
Every part of Level Two was built to strip you down. Not just your wand or your rights—but your dignity, your identity. Your very self. Harry had helped write the new intake procedure after the war. He'd sat at this exact table, years ago, telling the Wizengamot that every prisoner should be treated fairly.
Now he stood in line to be processed like a number.
A form floated up to them as they entered the gray-walled intake chamber. A quill scratched across the page by itself, recording their arrival with the efficiency of a machine. The same script he’d seen a hundred times before when he was on the other side of this desk.
A young clerk—barely out of training, by the look of him—stood behind the glass. He didn’t dare meet Harry’s eyes.
“Full name.”
“Harry James Potter.”
“Ronald Bilius Weasley.”
“Wand.”
Harry pulled it out slowly. The young man’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for it. Harry didn’t miss it.
They were scared of him.
He handed the wand over without resistance. Ron did the same.
“Rings, watches, belts, shoelaces, neckwear, any magical artifacts on your person.”
They obeyed. One by one.
Harry slid off his wedding ring last. Held it for just a second longer in his palm than the others before placing it in the tray.
Next, came the frisking. Silent, efficient, humbling. The enchantments scanned every inch of them. Ron muttered something under his breath about privacy charms and "bloody ridiculous routines," but stopped when Harry gave him a look.
Then—
“Albus Severus Potter.”
Harry’s head snapped up.
Another pair of guards appeared at the far end of the corridor, holding his son—his nineteen-year-old son—by the arms. Albus wasn’t crying now. He looked stunned. Hollow. His eyes darted between Harry and Ron as they reached the junction where the hallways forked.
The hand came down on Albus’s shoulder.
“Separate intake,” the Auror announced. “Charges pending include treason, terrorism, conspiracy against the Ministry, and magical biowarfare. He goes to Level Three.”
Harry stepped forward, a warning in his eyes. “He stays with me. He’s not resisting, and you’ve got nothing proven. He doesn’t belong in high-risk containment.”
“He’s of age,” the Auror replied sharply. “And by Ministry protocol, individuals facing Tier One charges are held in secure isolation during pre-interrogation, regardless of blood ties.”
“I know the protocol,” Harry snapped. “I helped write it.”
“Then you know this isn’t personal.”
“It is personal,” Harry said, voice low and razor-edged. “You’re hauling a nineteen-year-old into solitary like he’s a mass murderer without trial. You so much as leave a bruise on him—”
“Mr. Potter,” the supervising officer interrupted, tone clipped but calm, “stand down. You are under arrest. You do not get to direct holding procedure.”
Ron swore. Harry’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
Albus took a shaky breath. “It’s okay,” he whispered, almost too soft to hear. “It’s… it’s okay.”
Harry’s chest burned. But he couldn’t stop it. Not yet.
The guard tugged Albus down the right corridor. Away from them.
Harry didn’t call after him.
Didn’t shout.
He just stood there, watching his son disappear around the corner with a gaze that could shatter glass.
Ron came to stand beside him. Quiet. Steady.
The intake clerk cleared his throat. “You’ll be taken to Holding Cell Block B-17.”
Harry didn’t respond.
They led Harry and Ron in silence down the long corridor of holding cells on Level Two.
It was a bleak stretch—each cell carved from thick, rune-etched stone, designed to suppress magic and drain magical stamina. Pale lights flickered overhead, magically dimmed for surveillance but never off. The walls hummed faintly with security charms. No windows. No time.
Just stone, steel, and silence.
Ron was breathing hard beside him. Not from panic—Harry knew that sound. This was restrained fury. The kind Ron only ever carried when someone had gone too far, and he hadn’t yet figured out how to hit back without making it worse.
The guard didn’t speak as he unlinked their tether and directed them to opposite sides of the corridor. “Cell 2C,” he barked to Harry. “2D for Weasley.”
Ron turned. “You’re really putting us across from each other?”
The guard ignored him. Just opened the doors one by one with a flick of his wand.
Harry stepped into the cell.
The door slammed behind him.
It was just as he remembered from years ago, when he’d stood on the other side of these bars—bringing in Death Eaters, dark wizards, war criminals. Back then, he thought he’d never see the inside from this angle.
The cell was barely wider than a corridor. A cot. A metal sink. A magically bolted bench. Surveillance orb glowing dull red in the corner. The runes on the walls pulsed with low hums that settled in his teeth. No wand. No light. Just the thick, cold air and the weight of the silence.
He sat on the cot, elbows on his knees.
Across the corridor, Ron paced in his own identical cell, shooting occasional glances toward Harry.
Finally, he hissed, “This was your plan, wasn’t it?”
Harry didn’t answer. Just looked down at his hands, fingers still faintly red from the restraints.
“You wanted him to be arrested,” Ron muttered. “Bloody hell, Harry.”
Still, Harry said nothing.
Ron let out a long exhale, then leaned against the wall facing Harry. “You better have a damn good reason.”
“I do,” Harry said quietly.
Ron didn’t press further.
Because for now, they were locked in.
But Harry’s mind wasn’t.
He knew how the intake worked.
They’d be questioned soon. Probably separately.
They’d try to isolate Albus. Maybe intimidate him. Maybe bait him into saying something—anything—that would justify a formal charge and wash their hands of the rest.
But Harry had already bought them time.
By making this public. By ensuring he was in the room.
Let them think they'd won.
Because the clock had started ticking the moment those cuffs went on.
And Harry Potter was counting down.
***
The interrogation chamber on Level Three was colder than Albus expected. Not in temperature—though the stone floor bit at his bare feet through the thin detention-issued socks—but in feeling. The air itself felt sterile, heavy, like it had been drained of life by design.
The room was bare. Circular. Rune-sealed. A single metal table bolted to the floor, two chairs. No windows. No clock.
He was already seated.
His wrists were bound by a lighter version of the magical cuffs, now tethered to a magical ring affixed to the tabletop. They’d left him alone for at least twenty minutes—long enough to sweat. Long enough to think. Long enough for his heart to race in patterns that hurt.
He didn’t even know what time it was.
Didn’t know if his dad was still arrested.
Didn’t know if James was alive.
Didn’t know if he’d ever get to know.
The door opened.
Albus stiffened as two figures entered: one a tall, hawk-nosed wizard in long, grey-blue robes—Magical Law Enforcement, upper level. The other, a witch with short-cropped white hair, carrying a clipboard and a wand she didn’t bother to conceal.
Neither of them introduced themselves.
The man took a seat across from him, folding his hands. “State your full name.”
Albus stared at him. “You know my name.”
“State it.”
“…Albus Severus Potter.”
“Louder.”
“Albus Severus Potter.”
Quill to parchment. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
“Do you understand why you’ve been brought here today?”
He hesitated. “No.”
Another pause.
The witch waved her wand. The table shimmered faintly. A series of magical projections hovered above the surface—copies of files, maps, photographs, and worst of all: images from the explosion. Still frames of Inferi crawling through fire. Of the gaping Veil. Of Vance’s bloodied corpse.
The man’s voice didn’t change.
“You were found to be in possession of multiple unauthorized files relating to the Veil of Death. Resurrection studies. Department-classified material. True?”
“I was given those files. For research. I didn’t know what they were—”
“That is not an answer.”
Albus’s voice cracked. “Yes. But I wasn’t—I didn’t steal them. Vance—he—he gave them to me—”
“Vance is dead,” the witch said flatly. “As are three Unspeakables. Dozens more injured. Some still unaccounted for.”
Albus swallowed hard. His heart was thunder in his throat.
“I didn’t—kill them.”
“You were not among the dead,” said the man. “You were not found at the scene. You fled the Ministry. Why?”
“I was being framed! I heard them say it—I overheard Vance saying it. He said—they said I was already ‘knee-deep in resurrection files.’ That I was the distraction. That they were going to clean it all up after.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “You’re claiming you overheard a conspiracy?”
“Yes!”
“Where?”
“In the Department of Mysteries. Behind the west archive shelf, near the wand-reactivity records.”
“When?”
Albus hesitated. “Two nights before the explosion.”
The witch wrote it down without reacting. Her hand was steady.
“And your first thought,” said the man slowly, “was to run?”
Albus looked down.
“No,” he said. “My first thought was to tell someone.”
The man leaned forward. “Who?”
Albus was silent.
The witch pressed. “Who did you tell?”
He clenched his jaw.
“…Draco Malfoy.”
Silence.
Then the man’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite surprise.
“I see.”
Another note scratched down.
“You were gone for nearly a week before your arrest,” he said. “Where were you hiding?”
Albus didn’t answer.
The witch flicked her wand. The shackles around his wrists tightened just slightly.
“Where were you?”
Albus flinched.
“I don’t know. I took a train. I moved every night. I wasn’t hiding, I was surviving. I didn’t have a plan—I just didn’t want to die!”
“Why would you assume anyone wanted to kill you?”
Albus’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Because Vance said so. Because I saw the way the Ministry handles people it’s scared of. Because—” he broke off, shoulders shaking.
“Because I’m a Potter.”
That silence hit harder than the others.
The witch didn’t write that part down.
Albus looked up, eyes shining.
“Do you admit to having any involvement with the cult known as the Circle of Flame?”
Albus stared at the man across from him—words caught in his throat, heart hammering so hard he thought it would shatter his ribs.
The Circle of Flame.
He’d seen the name in Vance’s files. In fragmented, redacted reports. Symbols. Diagrams. Names that felt too powerful, too ancient to be real. He’d thought it was a code. A myth. Something… theoretical.
Not something real enough for people to die over.
But now they were asking him about it. As if he belonged to it. As if he understood it.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
The witch lowered her quill deliberately. The man didn’t blink.
“I’ll take that as a hesitation,” he said. “Interesting.”
“I don’t even know what it is,” Albus whispered.
The man leaned back, not smiling. “Sure you don’t.”
The room shifted then—not physically, but tonally. The interrogation pivoted. The tension twisted, sharpened into something more insidious.
The witch spoke next, voice smooth and low. “Did your father help you avoid capture?”
“No,” Albus said quickly. “No, he didn’t even know where I was.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t supply food? Shelter? Contact with legal protection?”
“I didn’t even talk to him,” Albus snapped. “He arrested me.”
“Hmm,” the man said, voice almost amused. “He had to. Given the attention. But you don’t know what happened afterward, do you?”
Albus narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
The witch leaned forward now, face unreadable.
“He turned you in, Albus. The moment he knew where you were, he called it in. Arranged your arrest. Let the Aurors bind you, chain you, bring you here.”
“That’s not true,” Albus said automatically.
“Isn’t it?” the man asked gently. “Your father was released an hour ago. He’s not in holding anymore. He’s cooperating with the Ministry. All charges against him have been waived. He's going home.”
Albus's chest hollowed.
“No,” he muttered. “That’s not—”
“Look at the facts,” the witch said. “He was arrested with you. Spent a few hours in holding. Then suddenly, once you’re classified high-risk, he’s free. Not even a public statement. Do you know what that means?”
“Stop,” Albus whispered.
“They cut a deal. He gave you up. In exchange for his freedom.”
Albus’s hands were trembling in the cuffs now.
“No,” he said again, louder. “You don’t know my father.”
The man gave a sympathetic shrug. “We’ve seen it happen, Albus. He’s not the first war hero to break under pressure. You were always… difficult. Strange. Not quite the legacy people expected. He did what he had to do. Protected his reputation. His real son is in a hospital bed. You?”
Albus's breath caught. His shoulders hunched. “Stop talking.”
The witch’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“You’re going to Azkaban, Albus. You know that, don’t you? No trial yet. No public defense. Not with what they’re saying you did. Not with how scared the Ministry is. You'll rot there. While Harry Potter goes home to the son he actually loves.”
The silence that followed was colder than the room.
Albus stared at the table. Jaw locked. Fingers white on the edge of the cuffs.
But in his mind—through the rising tide of fear and doubt—he clung to one moment:
Harry, crouched beside him, arms around him, saying, "You're not alone."
Saying, "I know."
And even though everything hurt—Albus held onto that.
He said nothing.
The silence in the room dragged, long and deliberate. The kind designed to crack nerves and make truths slip.
But Albus didn’t speak.
He sat stiff-backed in the cold metal chair, his fists clenched in the cuffs, staring at the table as if willing it to shield him. His heart was pounding, but his expression was hardening, bit by bit.
The witch glanced at the man beside her, and a wordless exchange passed between them—agreement. A shift of tactics. They weren’t done yet.
“Albus,” the man said again, voice softened now. “You’re a smart young man. Slytherin. Top percentile in Magical Theory. The Veil Project had your fingerprints on nearly every resurrection model submitted this quarter.”
Albus didn’t respond.
The man continued, measured, gentle, as if offering a mercy. “The truth is… even if you didn’t know how it would end, even if Vance manipulated you, you were involved. That’s already more than enough for a conviction. But we’re offering you a chance here—to cooperate. To save yourself.”
Albus’s eyes flicked up—slow, unreadable. “Save myself how?”
The witch leaned in, taking over.
“You admit you were coerced. That Vance misled you. That you had no intention of harming anyone but were led astray. That you were vulnerable. Misunderstood. Frightened. Say your father didn’t understand you—say he was distant. Say he made you feel like you didn’t belong. That’ll play well. The Wizengamot is old. They love the tragic, broken youth narrative.”
Albus blinked. “…You want me to throw my father under the broom?”
The witch didn’t flinch. “We want you to survive.”
“By turning on the only person who hasn’t given up on me?”
The man gave a faint sigh. “Albus, you don’t seem to understand. This is not about what’s true. This is about what works. And right now, the Ministry is losing control. You’ve become a symbol—a threat. They’ll throw you to the Dementors if it quiets the public.”
A pause. Then he added, casually:
“Your father knows this. That’s why he’s staying quiet.”
Albus’s lips parted, just a little.
“Ask yourself,” the man said, leaning closer. “Why hasn’t he said a word to the press? Why hasn’t he demanded your release? Why hasn’t he stormed the Wizengamot himself, screaming that his son is innocent?”
“I—” Albus started, then stopped.
The witch’s voice slid in like a knife.
“Because deep down, he doesn’t believe you are.”
Albus jerked in the cuffs. “Shut up!”
But the witch was already speaking over him, voice rising—soft but insistent:
“He brought you in to keep his hands clean. You’ve always been difficult. He just needed a way to end the embarrassment. Why do you think they kept you alive, Albus?”
“Stop!”
“Because killing you would make him a martyr. But letting you vanish quietly into a cell? That’s easier. Cleaner. That’s the kind of thing the Ministry knows how to do.”
The man’s tone turned colder.
“You can either rot. Or you can cooperate. Give us what you know. Names. Rituals. Documents. Timelines. Who else is part of the Circle of Flame. And in return, we petition for mercy.”
Albus was shaking again, but not like before.
Not with fear.
With fury.
“I don’t know anyone in the Circle,” he spat. “I told you. I don’t even know if it’s real. I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t want anyone to die. I tried to stop it.”
“Then prove it,” the man said, quietly. “Tell us something we don’t know.”
The witch’s wand hovered an inch above her parchment.
And for a moment, Albus stared at the table.
The words almost came.
But then he saw it again—his father’s hand on his back, firm and steady. The weight of that whispered promise in the safe house:
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”
So instead—
Albus raised his chin.
And said nothing.
The silence cracked—just slightly—under the weight of his defiance.
The witch didn’t speak at first. She tapped the quill once, then slid a folder across the table, just far enough that the image inside angled toward him.
Albus didn’t want to look.
But he did.
It was a photo—moving, but barely. James lay motionless in a hospital bed, swathed in charms and spelled gauze. His head was bandaged, half his face swollen and bruised. Monitors hovered over his body, magical runes pulsing with warning-red flickers. Tubes ran into his arms. His chest moved, but only just—like each breath had to be coaxed from somewhere far away.
A sharp pain sliced through Albus’s chest.
The photo flinched again. A nurse walked into frame, checking his vitals. James didn’t stir.
Albus couldn’t breathe.
“We thought,” the witch said slowly, “you might want to see what you’ve done.”
His fists tightened in the restraints.
The man spoke next—voice quiet, but edged with something cruelly paternal. “You’re not just a suspect, Albus. You’re the reason the Veil cracked. The reason the Inferi came through. The reason your brother was crushed beneath half a Ministry floor.”
Albus’s throat burned. “I didn’t know—”
“But you helped them. And that’s all your family will remember.”
The witch tapped the photo again, making it zoom in—just slightly—on James’s face. Pale. Unmoving. Foreign.
“Your mother hasn’t left his side. Not once,” she said. “She was in that hospital wing when the healers told her he might not ever wake up. That the damage might be permanent.”
“Stop,” Albus said hoarsely.
“She held his hand while he seized in the night. While he bled through the pillows. While the bones in his spine re-broke from convulsions.”
Albus looked away.
“Stop.”
“And your sister?” the man added. “She doesn’t even ask about you. Do you know that? Not once. Not ‘Where’s Albus?’ Not ‘What happened?’ She saw the papers. Saw the names of the dead. She saw James.”
Albus’s voice cracked. “Please.”
The witch tilted her head.
“Do you really think they’ll ever forgive you?” she asked. “If James dies—”
Albus flinched so hard the cuffs scraped the metal.
“If James dies,” the witch repeated, more slowly, “they won’t ever speak your name again. You will not be a son. Or a brother. You’ll be a headline. A warning. You’ll be the reason their golden boy was buried.”
He was shaking.
“Do you want that?”
Albus squeezed his eyes shut.
But the image of James was seared there now—motionless, helpless. Too quiet for James. The brother who’d always been loud and laughing and unbreakable. That person didn’t exist in that bed.
And if he died—
It would be because of him.
He didn’t know if he sobbed, or if it was just his breath catching in his throat. But his arms felt like they might go numb from the trembling.
The witch tapped the image once more with her wand, and it shrank back into the file with a dull snap of magic. She let the silence settle for a few seconds, just long enough to ensure it would sting.
Then she opened a second folder.
“Do you know what happens to a body when it falls from nearly a hundred feet, Albus?”
He didn’t respond. He was staring at the table now, jaw clenched, eyes glassy but dry.
She continued anyway.
“Multiple compound fractures in both legs. Left arm shattered in four places. Left shoulder nearly detached. Twelve ribs broken—one punctured his lung. His jaw dislocated. Right eye crushed. Skull fractures along the temporal and frontal bones. There was a magical hemorrhage in the brain. He’s in a stasis charm, Albus. They had to remove part of his skull just to relieve the pressure.”
Albus’s head dropped.
“They’re calling it a miracle that he wasn’t killed instantly. And the only reason he’s not dead is because his body landed between two load-bearing spells that slightly slowed the collapse.”
The man chimed in quietly, as if offering a closing note at a funeral.
“But they don’t know what he’ll be like if he wakes. Brain swelling that extensive? He might not remember who you are. He might not remember who he is.”
Albus didn’t move.
“His spine was compressed in the fall,” the witch added. “Even if he wakes, he may not be able to walk again.”
That hit.
Albus’s shoulders curled forward, and a tiny, involuntary gasp escaped him—a sound too soft to be called a sob, but far too broken to be anything else.
The man’s voice lowered. “Your brother is fighting for his life in a ward full of mourning families. Because of you.”
Albus didn’t look up. Couldn’t.
His voice, when it finally came, was barely audible.
“I didn’t… I never wanted that.”
The witch tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.
“You may not have cast the spell, Albus,” she said. “But you opened the door.”
And this time, he didn’t deny it.
He just sat there.
As if he was the one buried under rubble now.
The witch closed the file with a gentle snap. She stood, smoothing down her robes with military precision, her tone clipped now—clinical.
“That will be all for now.”
The man rose with her, pushing his chair back without sound. He didn’t look at Albus again, not directly. Just gathered the parchments and slipped them into a reinforced case bearing the seal of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
The witch finally looked down at him. “We’ll continue tomorrow morning. Perhaps you’ll be more… willing by then.”
She gestured toward the door with her wand, and it creaked open with a heavy grind of metal and runes. A pair of junior Aurors entered, silent and grim-faced.
“Escort the prisoner back to holding. Standard containment,” she instructed. “Solitary.”
The Aurors nodded.
Albus didn’t resist as they unshackled him from the table and fastened a fresh, lighter restraint to his wrist—a shimmering magical tether designed to limit wandless outbursts and accidental surges. It buzzed faintly with suppressing runes.
He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
He didn’t say a word.
They led him through the bowels of the Ministry, down dim, winding corridors. Albus kept his eyes down the whole time, focusing on the worn-out tiles beneath his feet, the occasional flickering lantern, the slight squeak of his own steps echoing back.
He was placed in a narrow cell with a translucent magical barrier in place of bars. It glowed a sickly pale blue. The inside was clean but sparse—just a cot, a sink, and a stone wall too blank to look at.
As the Aurors turned to leave, one of them paused—an older wizard with greying stubble and a scar along his temple. He looked at Albus for just a second too long.
“You don’t look like a killer,” he muttered.
Then he left.
The barrier reactivated with a faint hum, sealing Albus in. The silence that followed was absolute. No footsteps. No voices. Not even a ticking clock.
He sat down slowly on the edge of the cot, his shoulders sagging.
James...
What if he never wakes up?
What if they were right?
His fingers hovered near his temple as if they could squeeze the guilt out through his skull. He didn’t even know what time it was. Didn’t know if his dad was still locked up. Didn’t know if anyone believed him.
He curled up, knees to chest, hands clenched in his lap, head resting against the wall behind him.
No tears came.
Only the weight of it.
A small, venomous seed of doubt:
What if I really did deserve this?
***
Harry sat on the narrow bench bolted to the wall of his holding cell, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced tightly beneath his chin. The cell was cold—not from temperature, but from the sterile, humming silence of Ministry containment chambers. The familiar hum of wards, the gentle, pulsing glow of anti-apparition magic—it was all too known. He’d been on the other side of it for years.
Now he sat inside. Not as an Auror. As a detainee.
He didn’t feel the cold.
His mind was spinning too fast.
Albus.
Interrogation.
He would’ve been taken straight from the intake wing. No preparation. No advocate. Nothing but sharp questions and cruel suggestions. That’s how they broke you.
What would he have said?
Harry had seen hundreds of interrogation reports over the years—knew every tactic, every pressure point. He knew the kinds of things they’d have used. Fear. Shame. James.
And Albus was vulnerable to all three.
He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. The image came at once—etched into him like a curse:
Albus on the floor of Mrs. Figg’s house, curled into himself, face buried against Harry’s legs. Sobbing.
“I didn’t do it… I didn’t kill them… I swear…”
That voice.
That voice would haunt him.
It hadn’t been just guilt. It was terror. The kind of terror that didn’t come from being caught—it came from being betrayed. From realizing the world wanted you gone, not because of what you’d done, but because it was easier to believe you had.
And his face—
That broken face, the moment Harry had stepped through the doorway. The way Albus had looked up at him—like he couldn’t believe he was real. Like he was too scared to even hope.
And yet… he’d clung to him.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He imagined Albus across a table now, surrounded by Ministry officials. No lawyer. No advocate. No warmth.
What were they saying?
James is dying because of you.
Your father turned you in.
No one believes you.
You’re just a mistake.
Harry’s gut twisted.
Would he have said anything? Given them a name? Panicked?
No. No, not Albus.
Not when he’d been hugging Harry like that. Not when his voice had cracked with the weight of truth, not fear.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t breaking now.
The silence was broken by the sharp hiss of the holding cell door sliding open, followed by the quick, clipped steps of heels on tile. Hermione’s voice came before her face did.
“Harry?!”
She rushed into view, eyes darting between the cells, face pale with worry and confusion. Her hair was windblown, her Ministry robes hastily buttoned—she’d clearly come the moment she heard.
She stopped between the two facing cells. One held Ron—slouched on the bench with a tired, grim scowl. The other held Harry, upright, hands folded tight, gaze steady.
“What—what happened?” she demanded in a frantic whisper. “Why are you in here? Why is Albus here? What did you do?”
Harry didn’t move.
He just glanced up at the glowing ceiling orb, then toward the corners of the cell. Hermione followed his gaze—saw the slight shimmer along the walls, the faint glimmer of enchantment. Monitoring spells. Listening charms.
She froze.
“Oh,” she breathed. “You’re under surveillance.”
Harry gave the barest nod.
Hermione swallowed hard and schooled her expression. Her hands twitched—itching to ask, to demand, to throw legal protocol at someone. But now she stood straighter. Calmer. Like the old days.
“What do you need?” she said, quietly.
Harry’s eyes met hers.
“Get us out,” he said simply. “Me and Ron. The Aurors won’t object. There’s nothing to hold us on.”
Hermione nodded once. “And Albus?”
Harry’s voice lowered.
“Go to Higgs. Demand a trial.”
Hermione blinked. “What?”
“He has the right to defend himself,” Harry said. “Don’t let them push it through emergency protocol. That’s what they’re planning. To bury him without a trial.
“He’s nineteen. And that means they’ll throw him to Azkaban unless someone stops it.”
Hermione’s face tightened. “If they send him there—”
“They’ll eat him alive,” Harry finished, voice flat.
The silence afterward hung sharp in the air.
Hermione nodded again, her mouth a tight line. “I’ll talk to Higgs. I’ll pull every string I have. But you’d better be right about this, Harry. You’d better know what you’re doing.”
Harry looked back at the wall.
“I have to be.”
Harry’s fingers drummed once against his knee, then stopped. His voice was low—controlled, but there was an edge beneath it, rough with dread.
“Does Ginny know?”
Hermione hesitated.
Ron sat up straighter in his cell across the corridor, watching her face just as closely.
Hermione exhaled. “I don’t think so,” she said softly. “She’s still at St. Mungo’s. She hasn’t left James’s side since yesterday. I don’t think she even knows you and Ron were arrested—let alone that Albus is here.”
Harry pressed his knuckles to his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment.
“She’s going to find out,” he muttered.
Hermione nodded grimly. “She always does.”
There was silence again—just the faint hum of the barrier wards, the pressure of things unsaid.
“I’ll keep her out of it as long as I can,” Hermione added, gently now. “Let her stay with James. Let her hope.”
Harry’s voice, when it came, was barely audible. “She’s going to hate me for this.”
Hermione stepped a little closer to his cell.
“She might,” she said. “But not forever.”
And then, quietly—so even the enchanted walls might miss it:
“She’ll understand. Because this—this is what you do when you love someone more than yourself.”
Hermione gave Harry one last look—one that carried more than words could say—then turned and stepped toward Ron’s cell.
She didn’t say much.
Ron stood up as she approached, pressing his hands lightly against the barrier between them.
They exchanged a quiet few words—nothing long or dramatic. She rested her forehead briefly against the glass-like shield, as if to transfer some strength through it. He gave her a small smile, weary but reassuring, and then with a whispered “Go on, then”, she turned and disappeared through the corridor doors.
Silence lingered in her absence.
Then Ron dropped back down onto the bench and let out a long sigh.
Harry glanced over through the shimmering blue light that separated them. “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was quiet, hoarse. “For dragging you into this. You didn’t have to—”
“Oh, shut up,” Ron cut him off, leaning his head back against the wall. “You never did grow out of this habit, did you?”
Harry blinked. “What habit?”
Ron cracked a tired smile. “Charging headfirst into madness and dragging me along like some reluctant sidekick. First year, the Chamber, the Department of Mysteries, and now… this.”
Harry huffed. “Not exactly the same thing.”
Ron shrugged. “Madness is madness, mate.”
Harry leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees again. “You could’ve said no.”
Ron looked at him, voice steady now. “And what? Let you go alone while the Ministry tracks down your son like a fugitive animal?”
Harry said nothing.
Ron softened. “Albus is my nephew. Don’t think I’d leave him just because things got complicated. He’s still a Weasley where it counts.”
Harry looked at him—really looked—and gave the smallest nod of gratitude. His chest tightened, and for once, he didn’t try to fight it.
“Thanks, Ron.”
Ron shrugged again. “Someone’s gotta keep you from setting the whole Ministry on fire.”
Then, under his breath, smirking faintly—
“Though at this point, I think we’ve only got about two days left before you try.”
Ron shifted uncomfortably on the bench, frowning as a thought crossed his mind. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked across the corridor.
“What about Theia?” he asked, brow furrowed. “How’s she letting this all happen? She’d never let them throw Albus under the—” He stopped himself. “She’s not the type to just vanish.”
Harry’s expression darkened.
“She didn’t vanish,” he said quietly. “She’s been suspended.”
Ron blinked. “What?”
Harry nodded. “Internal Affairs. Said she interfered with an active investigation—unauthorized obstruction, dereliction of duty.”
Ron scoffed. “That’s bollocks.”
“Of course it is,” Harry muttered, jaw clenched. “She refused to sign off on the arrest notice. Refused to authorize lethal force. Filed a complaint against the way Vance was running the case—”
“Vance,” Ron said bitterly. “Of course.”
“She pushed back,” Harry said. “Too hard. So they removed her.”
Ron leaned back again, shaking his head slowly. “Merlin. So now she’s out, we’re in holding cells, Albus is being interrogated like a war criminal… and Vance is six feet under, conveniently unable to answer questions.”
Harry said nothing.
Ron stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then muttered, “And they say the system isn’t rigged.”
Harry let out a dry, humorless sound. “It is. I helped build it.”
“And now it’s eating your son alive.”
Harry didn't answer. He didn’t have to. The silence said enough.
***
The soft hum of magical monitors filled the room, accompanied by the rhythmic, faint beeping of enchanted life-support charms. Pale morning light filtered through the enchanted window of James’s room at St. Mungo’s, casting a tired golden hue across the bedsheets.
Ginny sat beside him, one hand gently holding his—careful not to disturb the delicate network of spells pulsing just beneath his skin.
His face looked unfamiliar in this state: pale, bruised, still. His right eye was covered by a fine white charm-woven cloth, and his breathing was shallow, chest rising in careful, mechanical movements under the spell that supported it.
She brushed his hair gently back from his forehead.
“You’ve always been stubborn,” she whispered, voice thick. “But if there’s one time in your life where I need that Potter stubbornness, it’s now.”
Her thumb stroked the back of his hand, slow and rhythmic, as though it might pull him back.
“I know it hurts,” she said. “I know it’s hard. But you’ve got to come back to us, Jamie.”
She glanced at the door, then at the monitoring charms hovering above his bed—several pulsing amber, some a muted red. She tried to ignore them.
“Your sister wants to come home,” she added, more softly. “Lily’s been sending owl after owl to the hospital, begging to see you. But with everything happening… with everything being said… it’s safer she stays at Hogwarts for now.”
Ginny blinked hard, forcing back the sting in her eyes. “She’s scared. We all are.”
Her fingers squeezed his gently.
“Grandma Molly gone grey worrying about you. You know she came to St. Mungo’s with a knitting bag and sat in the waiting area for six hours before we finally sent her home? Grandad had to practically levitate her out.”
She tried to smile, but it broke partway through.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “You’re not alone. You’ve never been alone.”
She shifted forward in the chair, brushing her lips to the back of his hand.
“The healers won’t let more than two of us in here at a time. That’s how delicate your state is.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a trembling whisper.
“So please, baby… just fight a little more. For me. For daddy. For Lily. For Albus.”
Ginny shifted in her chair, her knees tucked up just slightly, arms curled around James’s limp hand like it was the only thing anchoring her. Her voice, when it returned, was raw—gentle, but stretched thin with grief she hadn’t named yet.
“You remember Mother’s Day?” she said quietly, smiling without mirth. “This year. You forgot to get me anything.”
Her thumb traced slow circles on his hand, grounding herself more than him.
“I didn’t even mind,” she went on. “You were so flustered—you ran down the stairs barefoot, tripping over the cat, yelling, ‘Mum! Don’t go anywhere! I have… something. I’ll get something!’” She let out a shaky breath of laughter. “And then you promised you’d do anything I wanted. One wish. No arguing, no ‘But Mum…’ Just yes.”
She paused, the room growing still again around them. Outside the window, the hospital’s morning ward charms dimmed slightly as visiting hours officially opened. But Ginny didn’t move.
“I never cashed it in,” she said after a moment. “Saved it for something special.”
Her smile flickered—soft, wounded.
“Well, James Sirius Potter,” she whispered, brushing her fingers through his hair, “I’m cashing it in now. This is the wish. Come back to me. That’s all I want.”
A beat passed. No reply. Only the low, magical echo of stabilizing spells and the gentle ticking of time she hated more with every second.
Ginny sniffed once, quietly, and gave a small, crooked smile—one that tried too hard to be brave.
“And just so we’re very clear,” she said, her voice wobbling as she straightened in the chair, trying to summon her old fire, “the moment you wake up… you’re grounded.”
She leaned back and folded her arms, blinking furiously.
“For life, James Sirius Potter.”
She tried to laugh, but it caught somewhere between her ribs.
“No Auror job. I don’t care if you passed the entrance exams with top marks—you’re not throwing yourself into danger like your father. Not anymore.”
Her voice shook. “No Quidditch either. Don’t even look at a broomstick.”
She paused again, her throat tight.
“And absolutely no girlfriends unless I personally approve them and they know how to make a proper cup of tea and aren’t terrified of me. And if they say ‘Mrs. Potter’ instead of ‘Ginny,’ they’re out.”
The tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them. She turned her face for a moment, inhaled hard, then looked back at her son, cradling his hand again.
“I’m going to drive you mad. I’m going to hover. I’m going to be in your way all the time. And you’re going to roll your eyes and complain and tell Dad to ‘get Mum off my back’…”
Her voice cracked completely then, and the next words came out in a whisper.
“But at least you’ll be here.”
She bent down and kissed his temple gently, her tears brushing his skin.
“At least you’ll be here.”
The door creaked open.
Ginny didn’t turn right away. She thought it was a Healer—maybe Cormac again, come to adjust the charms or check the spell matrices hovering above James’s bed. Her fingers stayed curled around James’s hand, her voice soft.
“He’s still stable,” she said absently. “Vitals haven’t changed since dawn. He moved his fingers yesterday, did they tell you? I’m holding on to that like it’s a miracle.”
There was no reply. Only quiet steps behind her.
Something in the air shifted.
She turned—and froze.
Harry stood in the doorway.
His robes were wrinkled, shoes scuffed with Ministry dust. His tie was gone, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He looked tired—beyond tired. The sort of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from fighting sleep, and pain, and truth.
Ginny’s eyes narrowed slowly. “Where have you been?”
Harry stepped in, closing the door behind him.
“I—” he started, but didn’t finish.
Ginny stood up, her face searching his.
“You missed the Healer’s morning update,” she said. “You missed the 7 a.m. report, and the 9 a.m. spell rotation. I thought you were working on the press release for the funeral.”
“I was… held up,” Harry said quietly.
“Held up?” Ginny repeated. “Harry, where—?”
And then she saw it. The faint red mark on his wrist. A remnant of magical cuffs. She stepped closer and grabbed his arm before he could pull away.
Her voice dropped. “What is this?”
Harry looked at her.
Her heart thudded. “Where have you been?”
Harry took a long breath, and his next words came like something pulled from his throat:
“I was arrested.”
Silence.
The humming of James’s monitors filled the vacuum.
Ginny’s mouth parted, eyes searching his face, not quite believing what she’d heard. “What?”
“I had to protect him, Gin,” Harry said quietly. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Her brows furrowed. “Protect who?”
Harry hesitated. His voice dropped again.
“Albus.”
Ginny’s hand fell away from his wrist like it burned.
“What… what are you talking about? What happened to Albus?”
Harry looked at her.
He hadn’t seen her this pale since the war. Her lips parted, breath gone cold.
“Harry,” she whispered. “Where is our son?”
Harry swallowed, his throat dry, words weighing like stones on his tongue.
“I had to have him arrested.”
Ginny stared at him as if she hadn’t heard right. “You—” Her voice came out in a stunned breath. “You what?”
Harry stepped closer, slowly, hands out—pleading without touching her. “Ginny, listen to me. There were orders. Quiet ones. From the Department. They were going to kill him on sight.”
Her lips parted in horror. “He’s our son, Harry—!”
“I know,” he snapped—not at her, but at the impossible truth of it. “I know he’s our son. That’s why I couldn’t risk it. That’s why I had to do it this way.”
He looked over at James, still lying motionless in the bed, then back to Ginny. His voice lowered, hoarse.
“They were watching me. They thought I was helping him. I was. But if they caught him before I did—” He broke off, jaw tight. “They would’ve struck first. Claimed he resisted. That it was necessary. And we’d never have gotten to say goodbye.”
Ginny was shaking now, hands trembling at her sides.
“So you turned him in,” she whispered, eyes glistening. “You let them take him.”
Harry flinched. “I didn’t let them do anything. I made sure they followed procedure. That he wasn’t killed in the street. That Ron and I were there. That he made it into custody alive.”
Ginny’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “He’s nineteen, Harry. He’s barely—he’s still a boy. Do you know what it must’ve done to him? Being handed over to those people?”
“I know,” Harry said, his voice cracking. “I saw his face. I was there when they cuffed him. When they separated us. He was—Ginny, he was terrified.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the desperation surfacing like a tide. “But if I hadn’t done it, they would’ve found him anyway. And then—then he’d be dead.”
Ginny was quiet, trembling. “Where is he now?”
“In holding,” Harry said. “He was interrogated. They’re pushing for Azkaban. Hermione’s working on getting him a trial—real trial, not whatever rigged mess Higgs wants.”
Ginny looked as if the air had been punched out of her lungs. She stumbled backward into the chair beside James’s bed.
“I left him out there,” she whispered. “I didn’t even know. I was so focused on James I didn’t even ask. I should have asked.”
Harry moved closer, dropping to a crouch before her, taking her hands in his.
“No,” he said gently. “You stayed here. You stayed with him,” he nodded toward James, voice breaking. “And I handled Albus. It’s what we had to do.”
Ginny’s gaze fell to their joined hands.
“And now we might lose both of them,” she whispered.
Harry pressed his forehead to her hands.
“Not if I can help it,” he said. “I swear to you, Ginny—I’m not losing either of our boys.”
Ginny’s breath hitched, then broke.
She pulled her hands from Harry’s and covered her face, shoulders trembling as the sobs finally broke loose—raw, guttural, unguarded.
“I failed,” she choked out between gasps. “I failed as a mother.”
Harry’s heart cracked. He reached for her, but she leaned away, as if even the air between them hurt.
“I should’ve seen it—how much he was hurting. How alone he felt. I let him think he wasn’t wanted—like he wasn’t good enough. I let that happen. What kind of mother does that?”
“You didn’t fail him,” Harry said quietly, his voice tight. “We—both of us—we didn’t always say the right things, but we never stopped loving him.”
“But he didn’t know that!” she sobbed. “He thought we were ashamed of him—of being in Slytherin, of not being like James. And instead of fixing it, I let it fester. I told myself he’d grow out of it. That he was just moody, or distant, or going through a phase. But he wasn’t—he was hurting. And now—”
She looked toward the hospital bed, where James lay pale and still, tubes and spells keeping him breathing.
“—now one son is lying here barely alive, and the other… the other thinks the whole world wants him dead.”
Her body shook with each sob.
Harry rose slowly and sat beside her, wrapping his arms around her even as she resisted—just for a second—then collapsed into him, burying her face into his shoulder.
“I want him back,” she cried into his chest. “I want to hold him like I used to. I want to tell him that none of this matters—that he’s ours. That he’s always been ours.”
Harry held her tighter, rocking slightly, even though his own eyes burned and his jaw clenched to keep the grief from spilling over.
“We’ll get him back,” he whispered. “We’ll get both of them back.”
But in his heart, he wasn’t sure if he was promising her, or begging the universe.
Ginny pulled back slightly, wiping at her eyes with shaking fingers. Her voice was hoarse, fragile.
“What… what do we do next, Harry?”
Harry exhaled slowly, like dragging weight up a hill. His voice was steady, but his face was carved in stone.
“First,” he said, “we keep him out of Azkaban.”
Ginny flinched. “They’re really considering that?”
Harry nodded grimly. “The charges are serious. Treason. Sabotage. Collusion with a terrorist faction. And Vance is dead, so he can’t clear anything up. Albus is an easy scapegoat—and he’s a Potter. Half the Ministry still thinks we’re some untouchable family. The other half’s been waiting for a reason to bring us down.”
Ginny’s lips parted, horrified. “But Azkaban, Harry? He wouldn’t survive a week—he—he’s—”
Harry met her eyes, fierce and cold.
“There are still Death Eaters locked up in there,” he said. “Old blood. Radicals. Some of them still toast to Voldemort in the dark. And they all know the name Potter.”
Ginny looked sick.
“They’ll eat him alive, Ginny,” Harry said, barely above a whisper. “Not figuratively. Literally.”
She shook her head, almost violently. “No. No. I won’t let that happen.”
“Neither will I.”
He stood, pacing the room now, voice gaining urgency. “Hermione’s pushing for a formal trial. She’s using everything she’s got—legal precedent, public image, international ties. She’s even involving foreign allies.”
Ginny’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Like Grimm?”
Harry hesitated for half a second too long.
“Yeah,” he said. “Like Grimm.”
She noticed the pause, but didn’t press. Not now.
“Does Albus know?” she asked.
Harry shook his head. “He barely spoke during the interrogation. They’re breaking him down, playing dirty—showing him James’s photos, telling him we turned on him.”
Ginny’s mouth trembled.
“They said I turned him in.”
Ginny looked up at him. “Did you tell him the truth?”
“I told him to trust me,” Harry said quietly. “That’s all I had time for.”
Ginny’s hands curled into fists in her lap, her jaw tight. “Can I see him?”
Harry paused.
Her eyes snapped up to his. “Can I see him, Harry?”
He looked away.
“I don’t think it’s possible,” he said carefully. “They’ve got him in the high-risk wing of the holding level. Shielded walls, full surveillance, rotation shifts of Aurors watching him day and night. He’s not allowed visitors. Not even family.”
Ginny stared at him. “But you saw him.”
“I had to blackmail them for that,” Harry muttered, running a hand over his face. “I called in favours, twisted arms, and reminded them what I know about half their voting records during the war. They gave me one minute. One. And even that had three people watching.”
Ginny’s throat closed around a sound like a swallow and a sob.
“He looked… wrecked,” Harry added, voice low. “He couldn’t even meet my eyes at first. He kept saying, he didn’t do it. That he didn’t kill anyone.”
Ginny wiped at her eyes. “Of course he didn’t.”
Harry nodded. “I know.”
A silence hung between them until Ginny asked, softer now, “And Theia? What happened to her? She was the one coordinating all this… she wouldn’t just let it happen.”
“She didn’t,” Harry said, voice bitter. “She fought. She called out the Department for rushing the charges, tried to pull rank over protocol. She got into a screaming match with Higgs in the middle of the Atrium—”
Ginny blinked. “The Atrium?”
“—in front of a dozen department heads,” Harry said with a huff that was almost a grim laugh. “They suspended her for ‘compromised judgment.’ Officially, they’re saying she’s too emotionally involved.”
Ginny closed her eyes for a moment, jaw trembling.
“I should be there,” she whispered. “He shouldn’t be alone. Not after everything.”
Harry stepped closer and knelt again beside her, his voice low and fierce.
“He’s not alone, Ginny. He is not alone. I’m going to fix this. We are going to fix this.”
Ginny straightened in her chair, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with the kind of precision that meant she was trying to pull herself together.
“We should hire a lawyer,” she said firmly, eyes fixed on James’s motionless form. “A proper one. Someone who’s not family.”
Harry looked at her, brow furrowed. “Hermione—”
“—is his aunt,” Ginny said, cutting him off gently but firmly. “And she’s brilliant, yes. But everyone knows how close we all are. The Ministry’s already trying to paint us as biased, sentimental, desperate. If she fights too hard, it’ll look like she’s protecting her nephew.”
Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. “You think they’ll try to disqualify her.”
“I know they will,” Ginny said. “They’re just waiting. Higgs, the others—they want to delegitimize anything we present. They want the narrative to be that Albus is guilty, and the Potters are scrambling to cover it up. We need someone outside our circle. Someone with teeth. Someone who can access case files, records, interrogation tapes—everything—and force them to treat this like a proper investigation.”
Harry didn’t argue this time. He simply stared ahead, jaw clenched.
Ginny continued, more quietly now. “We need someone who doesn’t care about our name. Who’ll go in there and tear holes in the Ministry’s case because it should be torn apart. Someone they won’t see coming.”
Harry gave a slow nod. “I’ll talk to Hermione. See who she recommends.”
Ginny stood, brushing the wrinkles from her jeans, then leaned over and kissed James gently on the forehead.
“You hear that?” she whispered. “We’re not giving up on your brother either.”
Then she looked back at Harry.
“Find someone, Harry. Find someone who can tear the Ministry apart if they try to bury our son.”
He nodded.
“I will.”
***
The house in Devon was quiet when Harry Apparated to the front garden, the sun already low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the porch. He stood there for a moment, collecting himself. His fingers were still twitching faintly from the magical restraints he’d been in barely hours ago.
Inside, the living room was softly lit, the scent of tea and lavender hanging in the air.
Lily Potter Sr. was sitting in her usual armchair by the fireplace, knitting something pale blue and soft. James Sr. was by the window, glasses low on his nose, pretending to read the Daily Prophet but clearly rereading the same paragraph over and over. Sirius stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like a restless dog waiting for a reason to bark.
They all looked up as Harry entered.
Sirius frowned first. “You look like hell.”
Lily’s needles paused. “You’ve been gone all day.”
James Sr. lowered the paper and sat up straighter. “What’s happened?”
Harry didn’t speak at first. He walked to the hearth, stared into the dim, flickering embers for a long moment, then turned around.
“I found Albus,” he said, his voice tired.
Lily gasped, hand flying to her chest. James Sr. stood up.
“Where?” Sirius asked, already moving closer.
Harry held up a hand. “He’s in custody.”
The silence hit like a dropped cauldron.
“In—what?” James Sr. said slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
“In holding,” Harry clarified. “At the Ministry.”
Lily’s knitting dropped to the floor. “You had him arrested?”
“I had to,” Harry said, raising his voice slightly. “There were standing orders—unofficial, but real. If they found him first, they would have killed him on sight.”
“They were going to kill your son?” Lily said, her face pale.
“He’s being framed,” Harry said. “Vance set him up. The cult—this whole resurrection faction—they used him. He didn’t even know until it was too late.”
“Then why the bloody hell is he in a cell?” Sirius demanded, voice sharp.
“Because this is the only way I could keep him alive long enough to get him a trial,” Harry said, stepping forward now. “The Ministry wants a scapegoat. They’re trying to paint him as a traitor. But he’s not. He’s scared. He’s hurting. And he needs us.”
James Sr. looked stunned. “What happens next?”
“We get him a lawyer. Hermione’s trying to push for trial instead of summary judgment, but we need someone outside the family too. Someone they can’t discredit. I’m working on it.”
Lily blinked back tears. “Does Ginny know?”
“She knows everything now,” Harry said. “She wants to see him. She can’t.”
The room was still.
Then Sirius said quietly, “You did the right thing, Harry.”
Harry looked over, surprised.
Sirius’s jaw was tight. “You got him in alive. That’s more than most would’ve managed.”
Lily nodded slowly. “Then we fight. Just like before.”
James Sr. walked over and clasped his son’s shoulder. “We get him out. Whatever it takes.”
Harry closed his eyes and nodded once.
The knock on the door came just as they were settling into the silence, the kind that weighed heavy with old grief and new fear. Harry opened it to find Hermione standing there, her bag slung over one shoulder, files clutched in her arms, and exhaustion written plainly on her face.
“Hi,” she said quietly.
“Come in,” Harry replied, stepping aside.
She entered quickly, nodding to Lily Sr., James Sr., and Sirius, all seated around the living room. They had cleared the table in front of the hearth, and Lily had already begun setting out teacups with trembling hands, like muscle memory.
Hermione sat beside Harry, setting down her files and exhaling hard. “How’s Ginny?”
“Shaken,” Harry said. “But she’s holding. Barely.”
Hermione nodded grimly, then got straight to it. “We need a lawyer.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You’re not enough?”
Hermione shook her head. “Legally, no. I’m his aunt by marriage, and I’ve already acted as his advocate in internal discussions. I’m too close. If I try to formally represent him, Higgs and the Council will dismiss everything I say as family bias.”
Lily Sr. frowned. “Then who?”
Hermione opened her folder and pulled out three names, scribbled neatly in her tight, tidy handwriting. “There are a few options. All highly experienced in magical criminal law. I cross-referenced for independence—none of them have strong ties to the Ministry or the Prophet.”
“I’ve spoken to five different solicitors,” she began, her voice low but firm. “Three from the Department of Magical Justice. Two independents.”
Harry’s posture tightened.
She sighed. “None of them will take the case.”
The silence was immediate, like the breath had been knocked out of the room.
“Why?” James Sr. asked, voice tight.
Hermione didn’t hesitate. “They’re afraid of the Ministry. Afraid of Higgs. Afraid of what representing Albus Potter would do to their careers.”
“They think it’ll sink them,” Sirius said grimly.
“They know it will,” Hermione corrected. “The moment one of them files a formal defense for Albus, the Prophet will paint them as pro-cult. Their practice would collapse. They’d lose clients. Some are already under Ministry contracts—they’d be fired by morning.”
Harry’s hands clenched into fists on the table. “Cowards.”
“Harry—”
“No.” He stood up, shoving the chair back with a harsh scrape. “They’d let a kid—my son—rot in a holding cell while politicians cover their arses with headlines and scapegoats. They’re cowards.”
“We’ll find someone else,” Lily Sr. said gently, but Harry was already pacing.
“Someone who doesn’t give a damn about the Ministry,” he muttered. “Someone who’ll take them apart word by word.”
Sirius tapped a finger against the rim of his teacup, his brow furrowed. “It’ll have to be someone not on their payroll. Not part of the normal circles.”
Hermione gave Harry a long, almost pitying look. “The other half,” she said carefully, “won’t come near this case for a very different reason.”
Harry stopped pacing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sirius arched a brow. “Hermione?”
Hermione glanced around the table, then fixed her eyes on Harry again. “Because they hate you, Harry.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“They despise you,” she said bluntly. “You’ve made enemies out of almost every high-profile criminal defense barrister in Britain.”
“I was doing my job,” Harry snapped.
“And you did it well,” Hermione said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve put away some of their highest-paying clients. You’ve undermined their defenses. You’ve testified against their tactics. You’ve embarrassed them in courtrooms and public inquiries. You’ve made more than one of them look like a fool.”
Sirius gave a low whistle. “You always were charming, Harry.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “It can’t be that bad.”
Hermione arched a brow and pulled a small folded parchment from her bag—clearly something she’d come prepared for.
“Actually,” she said, voice clipped, “you’ve publicly called three of the top ten criminal advocates in Britain ‘amoral vultures,’ two others ‘corrupt, wand-for-hire snakes,’ and if I recall correctly—” she cleared her throat dramatically “—you once told The Daily Prophet that ‘half the Wizengamot’s legal defence network wouldn’t know integrity if it hit them in the face with a Summoning Charm.’”
Harry opened his mouth. Closed it.
Sirius snorted behind his hand.
Hermione wasn’t done.
“Oh, and during the Abbot case in 2018, when you accused Percival Munch of bribing a witness, you also told every press outlet in London that you’d ‘rather duel a banshee naked than let a gutter-fed showman like him stand within ten feet of justice.’”
James Sr. blinked. “You said that?”
Harry scratched the back of his neck. “I mean… I stand by it.”
“Harry,” Hermione deadpanned, “you have personally insulted or investigated nearly every criminal defense barrister in this country. Half of them would rather gnaw off their own wands than help you. The other half are scared of crossing the Ministry. That leaves us with—what? A grand total of zero options.”
“I didn’t insult all of them,” Harry muttered, but the heat in his ears gave him away.
Hermione raised a finger. “Oh, and don’t forget the time you hexed Hugo Flume in the court hallway for calling you a washed-up relic.”
“That was self-defense,” Harry said defensively. “He spat on my boots.”
Lily Sr. looked mildly scandalized. Sirius just burst into laughter.
Harry took a breath, running his hand over his jaw. “Alright. What about—what’s his name— Daniel Payne? He used to work war trials, didn’t he?”
Hermione didn’t even blink. “You called him a ‘sympathetic mouthpiece for cowards who plead the Imperius Curse like it’s a birthright.’”
Harry grimaced. “...Right.”
“Next?”
“Er—Theresa Bletchley?”
“You said she should be locked in Azkaban with her clients,” Hermione snapped. “Twice. Once during a trial, once in courtroom tea break.”
Sirius let out a low whistle. “That's talent.”
Harry groaned, rubbing his temples. “Okay, okay, um—Septimus Greaves?”
Hermione raised a hand. “You accused him of laundering money through fake potion shops. At a press conference.”
“Well, he was!”
“You never proved it!”
Harry pointed at her. “Yet.”
Hermione glared.
“What about Araminta Rowe?”
Hermione didn’t hesitate. “You told the Prophet she ‘resembles a hungover banshee with the morals of a Niffler and the ethics of a troll.’”
Sirius burst out laughing.
“That was supposed to be off the record!” Harry groaned.
“It was front-page, Harry,” Hermione deadpanned. “Front. Page.”
Harry dropped his head onto the table with a dull thud.
“Okay,” his muffled voice came. “We’re doomed.”
Hermione pressed her palms together and took a deep breath. “So. If we’re going to find someone who hasn’t been personally alienated by you and is still brave enough to take this case, we need to look outside traditional channels.”
Harry sat back down, rubbing his temples. “You’re saying we need a legal miracle.”
“I’m saying we need someone who hates the Ministry more than they hate you,” Hermione said. “And that, Harry, is going to be a very short list.”
Sirius smirked. “Don’t worry. Hate is a powerful motivator. Somewhere out there is a brilliant, dangerous, anti-Ministry lunatic with a grudge and a law degree.”
“And we’re going to find them,” Harry said, voice low.
Hermione didn’t even look up from the parchment as she said it. “There is one person I can think of… someone who hates the Ministry even more than he hates you.”
Harry immediately stiffened in his chair. “No.”
“You don’t even know who I’m going to say,” Hermione said, though her voice had that knowing, exasperated edge that said she absolutely knew he did.
Harry leaned forward, eyes sharp. “If it’s who I think it is—no.”
Hermione looked up. “It’s for Albus.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. His knuckles went white against the armrest.
Sirius glanced between them. “Okay, hold on. Who the hell are we talking about?”
Hermione sighed. “Logan Williamson.”
Hermione said grimly. “He was a prosecutor. Brilliant one. Ruthless. Then he turned whistleblower—tried to expose a covert operation in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that had been blackmailing witnesses and tampering with trials.”
James’s eyes widened. “And?”
“They disbarred him from the ministry. Stripped him of his wand rights for a year. Humiliated him publicly. Claimed he fabricated the whole thing. A month later, he got his wand back—but he never went near the Ministry again.”
Sirius let out a low whistle. “So he went rogue?”
Hermione nodded. “He lives in the Muggle world now. Operates solo. Picks and chooses his cases. Most lawyers are afraid to even talk to him. But he knows the law better than anyone. And he hates the Ministry. Calls them ‘a disease pretending to be government.’”
Sirius gave a short laugh. “He sounds fun.”
Harry shook his head. “He’s arrogant, reckless, and unstable. He doesn’t care who gets hurt as long as he gets to burn something down. And he hates me.”
“He hates everyone, Harry,” Hermione countered. “But he takes cases that no one else will. He fights like a dragon with a vendetta. And right now, that’s exactly what Albus needs.”
Harry looked down at the floor, teeth clenched, the memory of past court clashes flashing through
his mind—Logan’s piercing voice, his brutal cross-examinations, the way he had once called Harry “the Ministry’s golden hypocrisy.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“I know,” Hermione said gently. “But Albus doesn’t need someone you trust. He needs someone who wins.”
Silence fell again.
Then James Sr. asked, “Can he actually do it?”
Hermione nodded. “If anyone can tear holes in the Ministry’s case and expose the cult trail buried under it—it’s Logan Williamson.”
Harry didn’t look up, but after a long pause, he said quietly—
“Find him.”
The room fell still again after Harry’s quiet command. The fire in the hearth popped faintly, casting shadows across the walls.
James Sr., sitting forward, rested his arms on his knees. “What happened between you and this Williamson?” he asked, voice low but curious.
Harry exhaled, long and slow. “I was twenty-seven,” he said. “Freshly appointed as Head Auror. Youngest in the Ministry’s history. They were calling me the new backbone of justice in those stupid articles. I still had no idea how deep the rot went.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, as if the memory physically ached.
“There was this case—code name Diricawl. Deep undercover operation, months in the making. A smuggling ring that turned out to be tied to post-war Death Eater remnants. Logan was the prosecutor assigned.”
He rubbed his hands together, eyes darkening with memory.
“I didn’t know back then that the higher-ups were cutting corners. Pressuring witnesses, hiding evidence that didn’t fit. I was green. Thought justice meant doing your best. Logan… found a witness statement that had been altered. I didn’t believe him at first. Thought he was trying to sabotage the case.”
Lily Sr. sat forward, eyes worried. “And did he tell you?”
Harry gave a humorless laugh. “He told the press. Went behind my back, blew the whistle publicly. Made it look like I was in on it. My name was dragged into every headline for weeks. People were saying I’d knowingly imprisoned innocents. I had to testify before three internal inquiries to clear myself.”
Lily Sr. watched him quietly, her hands folding slowly in her lap.
“The charges stuck—for the Ministry, not for me. They needed a scapegoat, and Logan was easy. Disbarred. Blacklisted. Never forgiven me since. Says I should’ve backed him. Should’ve torn the whole system down with him.”
“But you didn’t know,” James said firmly. “You were trying to clean it from the inside.”
Harry looked away. “Try telling him that.”
He looked up now, his face tight.
“The next day, he was suspended. A week later, the Wizengamot held a public disciplinary hearing and dragged his name through the mud. His wand was taken. His house searched. His wife left him. His reputation was incinerated.”
James Sr.’s expression twisted. “All for telling the truth.”
Harry nodded once.
“He sent me a letter afterward,” Harry said. “Just one sentence. You’re just another spine they’ve snapped into shape.”
Sirius leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath.
Hermione said quietly, “He never forgave you.”
Harry met her eyes. “Neither did I.”
There was silence. The room felt heavier now.
Then Lily Sr. stood and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Then maybe this is your chance to do right by him. And by Albus.”
Harry didn’t speak, but he nodded once, slow and solemn.
Sirius muttered, “Hell of a story.”
Hermione gathered the last parchment from the table. “I’ll try to find him. No promises he’ll say yes.”
Harry’s voice was gravel. “Tell him he doesn’t have to like me. Just save my son.”
***
The chamber was dimly lit, walls lined with shifting, ancient runes that moved like veins beneath old stone. The only illumination came from the flickering tongues of green-blue fire hovering in a half-circle above a vast, obsidian table.
At the head of the table, he sat. Composed. Polished. A crystal goblet of dark red wine rested untouched beside his folded hands.
Around him, shadows.
Figures cloaked in enchantments, faces blurred by illusion and secrecy. Their voices filtered through layers of magic, distorted and low.
“Vance was warned,” one said coldly. “We told him the Veil wasn’t stable.”
“He was overzealous,” said another. “Arrogant. He wanted spectacle. A warning to the Ministry.”
A pause. Then, the figure at the head of the table finally spoke.
His voice was calm, precise. Refined with a cultured accent that carried authority like a blade unsheathed.
“And now he’s dead. Along with half the Unspeakables we spent years positioning.”
A ripple of discomfort passed through the circle.
“It accelerated the timeline,” someone murmured.
He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled. “It derailed the timeline.”
“But the breach worked. The Inferi emerged. Fear spreads faster than plague.”
“Control spreads faster when it's quiet,” he snapped. “Now the world sees chaos instead of providence. And the Potter boy—Albus—is in Ministry custody. Precisely where we didn’t want him.”
“He was a tool,” another voice said dismissively.
“No,” the leader said softly. “He was a crack in the façade. One we cultivated. And now, instead of dangling over the line, he’s being dragged into the spotlight. Investigated. Questioned. They’ll dig.”
“Should we extract him?”
He considered the question in silence. Firelight danced across his sharp cheekbones, his jaw clenched tight with thought.
“No,” he said finally. “Not yet. The Ministry is already poised to eat its own. Let them choke on him. Either they break him… or he breaks them.”
“And what of the father?”
The man allowed a faint smile to pull at the corner of his mouth—charming, chilling.
“Harry Potter still believes in the system. That is his greatest weakness.”
He stood, cloak falling cleanly behind him as the flames dimmed on cue.
“Let them believe they have the upper hand. Let them bury Albus in procedure and shame. We will not need to silence him… if the world stops listening.”
And with that, he turned. The circle extinguished.
Only darkness remained.
Notes:
So sorry for the delay! I didn’t mean to leave this chapter hanging for so long, but I had exams and barely found time to breathe -- let alone reply to your lovely comments. But I’ve read every single one, and I’m so happy (and honestly overwhelmed) by your reactions! I’ll get back to replying once I’ve sorted a few things out. Thank you so much for your patience and support! 💞
Chapter 47: Hope
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The cell was colder than it had any right to be.
Stone walls pressed in from all sides—silent, oppressive. The only light came from a narrow slit high above the door, where a pale shaft of charmed torchlight flickered from the corridor. It didn’t warm anything. Didn’t reach the corners. The shadows there felt deeper than shadows should.
Albus Potter sat on the edge of the narrow cot, elbows on his knees, hands hanging uselessly between them. His fingers trembled. Not from fear. Not entirely.
It had been hours. Or maybe more. Time didn’t flow here; it pooled—stagnant and slow.
His wrists were still red where the magical restraints had bit into his skin. His wand was gone. His laces. His watch. His name.
Only “the suspect” now.
He’d been quiet when they brought him back—shaking, yes, but silent. He didn’t resist. What would have been the point? He'd already screamed his throat raw in the interrogation room. Now, his voice felt like it didn’t belong to him.
They had told him everything. About James.
He couldn’t get the image out of his head. The picture they’d shown him. James, fragile and broken under the harsh glow of St. Mungo’s wards. Tubes. Charms. The hollow places where strength used to be.
He curled his hands into fists until the skin strained tight over bone.
They think he did that. They think he—
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
I didn’t. I didn’t. I didn’t.
But it didn’t matter.
Vance had made sure of that.
He’d trusted him. Gods, he’d trusted him. And now? Vance was dead. The cult was gone. Scattered or hidden. And Albus was the sacrificial lamb left behind, still too stunned to understand how the altar had appeared beneath his feet.
He thought of Harry. Of the way he’d said “trust me” before the Aurors took them. Of how tight he’d held him. The words he hadn’t said.
He thought of Ron, silent and watchful.
He thought of Emma. Of Scorpius. Of Rose. Of the tiny heartbeat she was carrying.
Albus leaned forward, curled in on himself, forehead against his knees.
The quiet gnawed at him.
It wasn’t peaceful. It was empty. A silence full of things unsaid, of futures unraveling before they ever had the chance to exist. The walls weren’t just stone—they were judgment, echoing his heartbeat louder than any sound in the world.
Albus shifted on the cot, staring blankly at the door. The runes around its frame shimmered faintly with containment magic. No wandless magic would work in here. No Patronus. No way out.
And if no one stopped it—no one believed him—then the next door he passed through would be Azkaban.
The thought sat in his chest like ice.
He tried to picture it—cold salt air from the sea, the damp rot of a crumbling fortress, the constant weight of magical suppression. Dementors no longer guarded the prison, true—but Azkaban didn’t need them to be hell. It was hell, carved into rock and suffering.
And worse—he knew who was there.
He remembered the files he'd once read in passing, cleaning up after Vance’s long meetings: names, trial reports, magical fingerprints. Faces etched into memory. People Harry had caught—monsters Harry had helped lock away.
People who’d watched the Boy Who Lived become the Man Who Hunted.
People who would recognize a Potter the moment they saw him.
He knew what they’d do to him.
Some would want revenge—not for what he had done, but for who his father was. For the legacy Albus had never wanted but was shackled to anyway. Others would hurt him just to send a message.
He wouldn’t survive a week.
And worse… he wasn’t sure if part of him wanted to.
If they condemned him for what he didn’t do, if they threw him in that stone cage and closed the door on his life—
Would there be anything left to survive for?
He sat back down slowly, spine pressed to the cold wall, legs curled up just enough to hold onto himself.
His thoughts wandered—no, drifted—past Azkaban, past the horrors that might come, and slipped somewhere soft, somewhere he hadn’t let himself think of in days.
His mother.
The way her fingers always smelled faintly of ink and cinnamon, from old parchment and her morning tea. The way she used to ruffle his hair absentmindedly when she passed him, like he was still six years old. The way she could look at him—just look—and know what he wasn’t saying.
He hadn’t seen her face since the night he fled. He didn’t even know if she believed he was guilty. If she'd cried. If she'd screamed. If she’d defended him—or cursed his name.
He hated himself for even wondering.
He remembered the last thing she said to him before this all began—“Don’t work too late, sweetheart. And eat something. You’re skin and bones.”
And he had laughed. Like an idiot. Said something like “Yes, Mum, fine, Mum” and waved her off like it didn’t matter. Because he was too busy, too involved, too proud to admit that hearing her voice grounded him more than any anchor spell ever could.
Now all he wanted was to hear her voice again.
He wanted to be twelve, back in the kitchen at the Burrow, fighting with James over the last treacle tart while Ginny warned them not to hex each other inside the house.
He wanted her to hold him and say, “We’ll figure this out, Al. No matter what.”
His throat tightened, and he pressed the heel of his hand hard into his eye.
But no tears came.
He’d spent them all already.
He just missed her. In a way that cracked through his bones and curled under his skin like cold fire.
If she had come to see him… he would have told her everything. Every broken, shameful detail. Every choice, every fear, every moment he should have listened.
I’m sorry, Mum, he thought, staring up at the flickering light slit. I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t know how to fix it. I just wanted to prove I was worth something.
The silence settled again—this time heavier, thicker.
Albus shifted, back still pressed against the cell wall, and let his eyes fall closed. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.
But even in the dark behind his lids, he saw him.
His father.
Harry Potter.
The boy in every history book. The name on every chocolate frog card. The face that had filled the world before Albus was even born. His father—who carried nations on his back, and somehow expected his sons to walk straight beneath the weight of his shadow.
He had cursed him.
Merlin, how many times?
Had screamed at him. Called him cold. Distant. Called him the Ministry’s puppet. Accused him of loving James more, of only caring about his job, about public image, about being the bloody Harry Potter instead of being a dad.
There had been shouting matches so loud that Ginny had left the room crying. Doors slammed. Spells flared. Albus had stormed out of the house more times than he could count.
“You never really wanted a Slytherin son, did you?”
He’d said that once. He remembered the silence after.
And then Harry had quietly replied, “I just wanted my son safe.”
At the time, Albus had laughed. Cruel, bitter, defensive. Safe from what? Homework? A bad grade? The world?
Now…
Now he was sitting in a holding cell beneath the Ministry his father had dedicated his life to protecting, arrested for crimes he hadn’t committed, framed by men his father had tried to warn him about.
And the only reason he was alive—
Was because Harry had gotten there first.
Had held him like he used to when Albus was little and scared of storms.
Had told him to trust him.
Had looked him in the eye and believed him.
Even after everything.
After every cruel word Albus had thrown like knives.
After every time he’d said he wished he wasn’t Harry Potter’s son.
Now all he could think—sick, silent, shattered—was:
How did you never give up on me?
He clenched his jaw, and the burn behind his eyes returned—but no tears fell. His face was hollowed out by exhaustion, by shame, by the quiet realization that he had never, once, understood the man who had been trying to protect him.
Not until now.
Not until it was too late to take it back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the stone.
His voice trembled.
“Dad… I’m so sorry.”
The cell door groaned open with a low mechanical click and a thrum of magic. Albus blinked against the sudden flare of corridor light that slashed through the gloom, squinting up at the figure in the doorway.
An Auror. Robes dark, expression blank. One of the nameless ones who hadn’t spoken during his arrest.
“Get up,” the Auror said flatly.
Albus hesitated. “Why? Where—?”
“No questions.”
The restraints at his ankles clicked loose with a wave of the wand, but his wrists remained cuffed—tight, glowing faintly with containment magic. His arms ached. His legs shook slightly as he stood, body stiff from hours of sitting, unmoving and curled into himself.
The Auror gripped his arm—not hard, not cruel, but like he was an invalid that still needed to be controlled—and led him wordlessly out into the corridor.
It was silent except for the soft scuff of boots and the low hum of wards all around.
They passed empty holding cells. Offices with closed doors. A few other guards didn’t even look up.
They went down.
Deeper than Albus expected. Below the standard detainment floor. Below even the temporary processing chambers.
His breath caught. Were they moving him? Was this it? Was this the part where he vanished—where he never saw the sky again?
The Auror stopped in front of a black stone door. No markings. No Ministry crest. Just ancient, old magic thrumming through it like a pulse.
He tapped a series of quick patterns against the stone with his wand. The door clicked, and slowly, soundlessly, it opened.
The Auror didn’t enter.
He pushed Albus in gently and shut the door behind him.
Albus’s heart thundered as he looked up—bracing for fire, for questions, for another round of manipulation—
But it wasn’t an Auror.
It wasn’t the Minister.
It wasn’t a courtroom.
It was him.
Harry.
Albus froze.
His father stood in the middle of the chamber—simple stone walls, one low table, two chairs—nothing else. No chains. No guards.
Just him.
Harry Potter. Still in the same clothes from yesterday. Jacket rumpled. Eyes red. Jaw clenched like he’d been biting down on everything since the moment they pulled him from Albus’s side.
He looked older.
He looked like he hadn’t slept.
For a long, suspended second, neither of them moved.
Then Harry exhaled—slow and heavy, like it hurt to let the breath go—and pulled out a chair.
“Sit down, Al.”
Not as an order.
But as a father.
Albus didn’t move.
His legs wanted to run. His hands twitched with shame.
But something else pushed him forward—like gravity, like the memory of his father’s voice saying “trust me”.
He stepped forward.
And sat.
Harry leaned forward, both elbows on the table, palms flat. He looked at Albus like he was trying to memorize him—like he'd been trying to hold himself together for days and was now barely succeeding.
"We don’t have long," Harry said quietly. "I’m not supposed to be here. This meeting isn’t on record. It was… arranged. Off the books."
Albus’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “So this is—what—some goodbye?”
“No,” Harry said, firm. “This is preparation.”
Albus blinked. His hands were still cuffed. He looked so young in that moment—haunted, thinner than ever, a shadow of the boy who used to fly too fast on the family broom just to annoy his mother. “You had me arrested.”
Harry exhaled, the breath shaky.
“I had to,” he said. “If I hadn’t… they would’ve killed you. There were orders, Al. Orders I couldn’t intercept in time. You were listed as kill-on-sight. Do you understand what that means?”
Albus looked down.
"I didn't want you in a cell. I wanted you alive. And this was the only way."
Silence stretched again. Then Harry leaned closer.
"Listen to me. Right now, they’re trying to break you. That’s the game. You’re alone, you’re scared, they know you’re young and exhausted. They’ll lie to you. They’ll say I’ve betrayed you, that your mum’s abandoned you, that the family has disowned you—don’t listen to them."
Albus’s voice was paper-thin. “They already did.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “And you believed them?”
Albus looked away. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
Harry inhaled. Nodded once. He didn’t push. Not yet.
"You’re going to be interrogated again. Soon. Here's what you do. Don't volunteer anything they didn’t ask. Don’t guess. If you don’t know something, say you don’t know. They’ll try to make you speculate so they can twist your words later. Don’t fall for it.”
Albus’s eyes flicked to his.
“And when they mention the Circle of Flame,” Harry added, lowering his voice even further, “don't give them names. Don't try to connect the web for them. Let us do that. Let me do that.”
Albus opened his mouth. Closed it. Then finally asked, “Do you… do you believe me?”
Harry’s face shifted. The ache behind his eyes, the years of regret—it all surfaced at once.
“I always believed you,” he said softly. “Even when I didn’t understand you. Even when you didn’t make it easy. I’ve failed you in more ways than I can count, Al… but I never stopped believing you.”
Albus’s throat clenched. His hands were trembling now.
Harry looked to the sealed door. Time was running out.
“One more thing,” he said quickly. “If it comes to trial, don’t speak without counsel. Hermione’s trying to get someone we can trust, but until then—say nothing. No statements. No confessions. Not to anyone, even if they sound kind.”
“Dad—”
“No.” Harry met his eyes. “You survive this. That’s your job. Survive it. I’ll do the rest.”
“I’ve got you, son,” he said. “No matter what happens next.”
Albus blurted, "I gave the evidence to Mr Malfoy."
"I know," Harry said quietly. "He brought it to me."
Albus's mouth opened, stunned. “He… he actually gave it to you?”
His eyes, tired and dark-rimmed, softened just a fraction. “You trusted him when you didn’t trust me. That hurt more than I can say. But you gave it to someone. That’s what matters now.”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know if you’d even believe—”
“There’s no time for apologies,” Harry said gently, but firmly. “Not now. Not here.”
Albus lowered his head, teeth gritted.
Harry continued, voice measured but quick, knowing the seconds were slipping fast. “They’re building a case, but your folder—it’s good. Damning. You did the right thing holding on to those documents. Malfoy made copies. It’s already with Hermione, and she’s lining up your defense.”
Albus looked up, hesitant. “So there’s… hope?”
“There’s always hope,” Harry said, then added with a dry smile, “You’re a Potter, after all. We have a bad habit of surviving the impossible.”
Albus gave the faintest, thinnest huff of breath that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t break halfway through.
Harry leaned closer again, voice low and urgent. “Now listen. I need you to act like you’re not alone in here. Because you’re not. There are still people inside the Ministry I trust. People watching. Not many—but enough. One of the guards, Mitchell, brown hair, scar on his temple—he’s ours. He won’t speak to you, but he’ll pass messages. If you’re in danger, you drop your spoon three times at meal. He’ll see it.”
Albus blinked, startled. “You—set that up?”
Harry’s jaw flexed. “I’ve been doing nothing but setting things up since you disappeared.”
He reached into his robes, paused, then pulled out something small and flat. He passed it quickly under the table and into Albus’s cuffed hands.
It was a folded square of parchment. Faintly warm.
“Magically muted. Don’t open it until they move you back to your cell. It’s warded—only you can read it. It will burn after.”
“What is it?” Albus whispered.
“Names,” Harry murmured. “People to be careful around. And someone else I trust, in case I can’t get to you again soon.”
The heavy door creaked once—someone was outside.
He looked at Albus, his son, as if trying to memorize him again. Not as the boy who had shouted at him, not the one who ran.
But the one sitting here now—scared, brave, older.
A man.
“Be smart,” Harry said. “Be cautious. And be Albus. That’s all I’m asking.”
Harry had just stood when Albus lurched to his feet too—shackled hands out, eyes wide, heart in his throat. He didn’t think—he moved, the way he had as a child after a nightmare, stumbling forward to close the unbearable space between them.
“I—Dad, please—” he whispered, chest cracking open, arms trembling as he reached out for the man he had pushed away for years.
But Harry flinched back.
“Al,” he said, voice low, guttural, like it cost him his soul, “don’t.”
Albus froze. Confused. Shattered.
Harry took another step back, like he was afraid his own instincts would betray him. His hand flexed once at his side, as if aching to reach out.
“I can’t,” he said again, quieter now. “If I touch you—if they find even a trace of my fingerprints on you—they’ll know I was here. They’ll destroy the evidence, shut you off from counsel, and use it to smear both of us in the press.”
Albus looked like someone had punched the breath out of him. His arms dropped slowly, helplessly. The cuff chain between his wrists clinked.
“I just—” he choked. “I just wanted to hug you.”
Harry’s throat moved. “Merlin, Albus, I want to. More than anything. But not yet. Not here. I won’t risk you for a moment’s comfort.”
Albus blinked hard, but the tears spilled anyway. Quiet, searing lines down his cheek.
Harry’s voice cracked. “You survive this. Then we’ll have all the time in the world.”
The silence stretched for a beat—then another—until finally, Albus swallowed thickly and whispered, “James?”
Harry drew a long breath. “He moved his fingers.”
Albus’s eyes widened. “That’s good, right?”
“It’s not bad,” Harry said. “He’s still critical. Still hasn’t woken up. But he’s fighting. Just like you are.”
“I didn’t know…” Albus said. “I didn’t even know he was hurt until I saw the paper. I thought—I thought I’d killed him by running.”
“No,” Harry said, fiercely now. “You didn’t do this. They did. You were manipulated, but you didn’t cause the Veil breach. You didn’t make the explosion happen.”
“But I helped them,” Albus whispered.
“And you stopped them,” Harry shot back. “And that’s what matters now.”
The door behind them clicked.
Harry’s eyes locked with his son’s, sharp and unwilling to break.
“Stay alive, Albus. Stay smart. I’m not done fighting for you.”
And before Albus could respond, Harry turned—
And left him again.
The two guards outside stepped in as soon as Harry exited the chamber.
“Ready?” one asked, curtly.
Albus didn’t reply. He only nodded, numb again, the rawness of what had just happened bleeding under his skin.
The cuffs stayed on.
They took him through the same cold corridors, the walls echoing with the tap of boots and the faint, distorted hum of Ministry magic. He kept his head down, barely hearing them, his mind still anchored to the sound of his father’s voice.
I just wanted to hug you.
He should’ve known Harry wouldn’t risk it—not here, not now. And yet it stung. Deeply. The ache of a son too far gone and a father too late to save him. They’d both tried. In different ways. And now… he was being walked back to a cell like a prisoner of war.
They rounded the corner into the holding block.
The corridor was still dim, the flickering enchanted sconces humming faintly against stone walls. Familiar. Terrible.
The guard with the scar on his temple—Mitchell, Harry had said—met his eyes for a fraction of a second. A look. Almost nothing. But there.
They unlocked the door to Cell 7. Albus’s cell.
“Inside.”
He stepped in. The metal door closed behind him with a final, hollow clang.
He stood for a moment, still, letting the silence settle like dust. His hands were freed from the cuffs with a flick of the guard’s wand through the bars.
And then he was alone again.
Same cot. Same walls. Same carved lines in the stone where someone before him had scratched marks, counting days—or regrets.
He sat slowly. And only when he felt sure no one was watching, pulled the little square of parchment from the seam in his sleeve.
It fluttered open in his hands. Ink glowed faintly—only for him.
Names. Instructions. Warning signs. A tiny, smudged symbol Albus remembered from childhood—his father's Auror mark, signed in the corner.
A lifeline.
And at the bottom, in a slant that looked rushed and achingly human:
We’ll get you out. I swear it. – Dad
Albus pressed the parchment to his forehead. Let the tears fall quietly this time.
He was still in the dark.
But maybe—just maybe—not completely alone.
***
The building was sleek, warded, and far too modern for Harry’s taste. Glass panels instead of stone, floating parchments flitting through open hallways, a receptionist with glamoured eyes and a cold, professional voice.
“Logan Williamson is in his office. Third floor. He knows you're coming,” she said, as if it were an unfortunate inevitability.
Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione as they stepped into the lift. He cracked the bones in his neck. “I hate this already.”
Hermione sighed. “Don’t say anything stupid.”
“That’s asking a lot.”
They stepped out into a high-ceilinged corridor with a single door at the end, framed by moving ink-scripts of past legal victories—news clippings of cases overturned, Wizengamot rulings disputed and won. In all of them, the same name: Logan Williamson, Barrister at Magical Law.
Harry knocked.
“Come in, Potter. Granger.”
The voice was smooth, amused, and already two steps ahead.
The door swung open on its own. The office was sunlight and shadows—towering shelves, gold-inked books, deep green leather chairs. And there, lounging behind his desk in a robe that looked like it cost more than Harry’s entire wardrobe, was Logan Williamson. Dark eyes, sharper than his grin. Salt-and-pepper hair slicked back. A cut-glass decanter of brandy on the side table. Wand resting openly across the legal briefs like a signature.
He didn’t stand.
“Didn’t think you had the nerve, Potter.”
Harry’s jaw flexed. Hermione put a hand on his arm, warning.
“We need your help,” she said, taking the seat across from Logan. “You’ve heard about the Potter case—Albus—”
“I’ve heard, yes,” Logan interrupted, swirling his drink without looking at them. “Potter’s golden boy turned rogue. Chaos in the Ministry. Bodies. Fire. Very dramatic.” He smirked at Harry. “Almost as dramatic as your last press conference calling me a ‘slippery weasel who’d sell his wand for a Galleon and a headline.’”
Hermione winced. “He didn’t mean—”
“Oh, I did,” Harry said coolly, sinking into the chair beside her. “And I was being generous.”
Logan’s grin widened. “Ah. There he is. The Chosen One. Still allergic to gratitude.”
“We didn’t come here to swap insults,” Hermione said, crisp.
“Didn’t you?” Logan turned his eyes to her. “Because from where I’m sitting, the Boy Who Lived is now the Man Who’s Desperate. And desperation, Hermione, is very unattractive.”
Harry’s fingers curled around the armrest. “My son’s life is on the line.”
“And you want me to risk mine for him?” Logan raised a brow. “You think I don’t know what the Ministry’s cooking? No lawyer wants that case. That boy is a lit match and they’re holding a box of explosives.”
“You used to stand for people who couldn’t defend themselves,” Hermione said quietly. “You made your name doing that.”
“I made my name winning.” Logan’s voice cooled. “And I don’t win by walking into a courtroom holding the devil’s spawn by the hand.”
That was it.
Harry stood, fire behind his eyes. “Don’t you dare call him that.”
Logan stood too—fast, fierce. “Why not? You did. Every time he needed you. Every time he begged for your attention while you were too busy saving the world again.”
Hermione gasped softly.
Harry stepped forward, chest to chest now, growling, “Say that again.”
Logan leaned in, smiling. “He didn’t run because of Vance. He ran because he knew deep down you’d never fight for him. Not like you fight for the others.”
The silence snapped like glass.
“Get out,” Logan said, voice suddenly cold and dangerous. “You had your five minutes.”
But Hermione stayed seated. Her voice calm, cutting through the air like a blade.
“Logan. He’s nineteen. He’s been manipulated. Framed. He saved lives. You can spin that. You know how to spin that.”
Logan didn’t answer.
Then Hermione said softly, “You hate the Ministry more than you hate Harry.”
Logan glanced at her, just a flicker. A hesitation.
“I’ll send you the files,” she said. “All of them.”
Harry was still seething, fists clenched. Logan met his eyes again, but this time… there was something else. Not sympathy. Not exactly.
Something colder. Calculating.
Logan circled behind his desk like a predator settling into his lair. He straightened his robes with deliberate elegance, the smugness returning in full force.
“If—and that’s a massive if—I take this case,” he began, pouring himself another drink, “you’ll play by my rules. No interruptions. No second-guessing me in front of the press, the court, or even your own family. This is my arena now. You lot already bungled it the first time.”
Harry was still standing. Rigid. Seething. Hermione sat stone-faced beside him.
“And what else?” Harry asked tightly.
Logan took a lazy sip of his drink before answering. “Let’s talk price.”
Hermione leaned forward. “You usually charge six thousand Galleons per proceeding.”
“Yes,” Logan said. “And for your son, who is the Ministry’s most wanted, blamed for breaching the Veil, indirectly injuring half their senior staff, and blowing a hole in the ministry legislation I’ve spent five years opposing—”
“Logan,” Hermione warned.
“—I want sixty thousand Galleons.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
Logan didn’t flinch. “Sixty thousand. Non-negotiable.”
“That’s ten times your rate!” Hermione hissed.
“Yes,” Logan said cheerfully. “Because this case isn’t a legal defense. It’s professional suicide. If I win, I become the most hated man in the Ministry. If I lose, I lose everything I’ve built. So yes—sixty thousand. And you pay my entire retainer up front.”
Harry stared at him. “I could get three barristers for that.”
“Yes,” Logan said, swirling his glass again. “But none of them are me.”
Hermione sighed. “He’s not wrong.”
“And lastly,” Logan added, setting down his glass, “I want public silence from you, Potter. No press releases. No self-righteous grandstanding. You want to help your son? Stay out of my way and let me do what you clearly couldn’t.”
Harry took a step forward. “Say one more thing like that—”
Hermione cut in sharply. “We’ll pay.”
Logan tilted his head.
“We’ll pay,” she repeated. “But we want a signed confidentiality clause, and you present a full legal strategy by tomorrow night.”
Logan grinned like a wolf. “Done. And for what it’s worth—if you wanted someone worse than me, you could’ve found one. But I doubt they’d win.”
He extended a hand to Harry.
Harry didn’t take it.
“I’ll shake your hand,” he muttered, “when Albus walks free.”
Logan smirked, drawing his hand back. “Then I suppose we’ll both be waiting.”
They were halfway to the door when Logan’s voice cut through the room again—smooth, laced with amusement.
“Oh, and Potter—one more thing.”
Harry stopped, already gripping the handle, his back tense.
“I’ll also be expecting a formal, public apology. Press-conference level. Statement to the Prophet, at minimum. You know, to make up for the decade of character defamation.”
Harry turned slowly, glaring over his shoulder. “You’re joking.”
Logan smiled, leaning against his desk like a man with all the time—and leverage—in the world. “Dead serious.”
Hermione groaned under her breath. “Logan—”
“No, no. It’s essential,” Logan said, gesturing vaguely. “You called me corrupt in the Prophet. Said I ‘represented the rot in wizarding law.’ That one hurt.” He tapped his heart mockingly. “If I’m going to throw myself in front of a political firestorm for your son, I want the world to know the Chosen One admits he was wrong.”
Harry’s jaw ticked. “You care more about your reputation than people’s lives.”
Logan’s grin only widened. “I’m a lawyer, Potter. Reputation is life.”
Hermione grabbed Harry’s sleeve before he could explode. “We’ll discuss it.”
“I’m not apologizing to—”
“You will, if it means Albus walks,” she snapped, dragging him out the door. “You want to save your son or your pride?”
The door slammed behind them with a warded hiss.
Inside, Logan chuckled to himself and muttered, “I’m going to enjoy this.”
The moment they stepped out into the open air of the enchanted corridor, the doors of Logan’s office sliding shut behind them with a smug hiss, Harry exhaled sharply—like he’d been holding his breath the entire time.
And then—
“Arrogant, preening bastard!” he snapped, raking a hand through his hair. “Sixty thousand Galleons? A public apology? I’d rather duel a Hungarian Horntail blindfolded.”
Hermione didn’t even flinch. “Well, good thing this isn’t about your pride, then.”
Harry spun to face her. “He sat there like I owed him for saving my son’s life. He practically laughed while naming his price.”
“He’s a shark, Harry. You knew what we were walking into.”
Harry clenched his jaw. “He enjoyed watching me squirm.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “He’s also the only one who might win this case. You said it yourself—Albus won’t survive Azkaban.”
That sobered Harry. Instantly.
His breath caught, and he looked away, jaw working. The hallway was quiet now, save for the distant hum of floating case files drifting past glass walls.
“I don’t care what Logan thinks of me,” he muttered finally. “But I’m not letting him use this as a stage to humiliate me.”
Hermione gave him a look. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have publicly called him ‘a snake with a wand and a subscription to Dark Law Monthly’.”
Harry winced. “You remember everything, don’t you?”
“Comes in handy when you spend your life cleaning up after you,” she said, but her voice was softer now. She reached over and put a hand on his arm. “He’s expensive. He’s smug. He’s... a nightmare.”
“Sounds like you’re about to propose to him.”
“But,” she said firmly, “he wins. And we need a win right now.”
Harry sighed, long and bitter. “Merlin help me… I’m going to have to thank him.”
“And apologize,” she added with a smirk.
Harry groaned loudly. “If I die of embarrassment, tell Albus it was for him.”
They walked toward the lift in silence for a few steps before Harry added under his breath:
“Still think I’d rather face the Hungarian Horntail…”
***
The corridors of St. Mungo’s were quieter than usual, the night-shift hush thick with the scent of potions and sterilized cloth. Harry moved with purpose, his footsteps echoing lightly off the marble as he passed closed doors and weary healers.
He reached the ward and found Healer Cormac already waiting just outside James’s room.
The man looked pale, tense—his robes slightly rumpled, his eyes betraying hours without rest. But there was something in his stance, the set of his shoulders, that made Harry’s stomach tighten with anticipation.
“Healer Cormac,” Harry said, voice tight with fatigue and hope.
“Mr. Potter,” Cormac nodded once, and then without preamble, added, “We’re going to begin the waking protocol.”
Harry blinked. “Now?”
“Yes,” Cormac confirmed, his voice calm but serious. “He’s stable enough. Brain swelling has decreased. The neurological readings are promising. We won’t know the extent of the damage until he wakes, but it’s time.”
Harry’s knees nearly buckled. His hands curled at his sides, breath catching. “Ginny—”
“She’s already inside,” Cormac said. “She’s been talking to him all day.”
Harry swallowed and stepped forward, his voice a little hoarse. “What happens now?”
Cormac met his eyes. “We lift the stasis charm gradually. The body will need time to adjust—heart rate, motor response, breathing. The healing magic has done most of what it can. The rest... is up to James.”
“And if something’s wrong?” Harry asked.
“We’ll know. Very quickly.”
Harry nodded, jaw set. “Then let’s do it.”
Cormac turned toward the door and pushed it open. The warm, soft glow from inside spilled into the hallway.
“Come in. You’ll want to be there.”
The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ribs.
James lay still on the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of stasis charms and magical stabilizers, his skin pale but no longer ghostly. The harsh swelling around his temple had gone down. Bruises had faded to yellow. His right eye, though closed, looked less sunken. Tubes and runes pulsed softly around him, monitoring, mending.
Ginny sat at his side, one hand in his, her head resting lightly on the edge of the mattress. Her eyes were red, her shoulders tense, but when she looked up and saw Harry, her face broke in something like hope.
Harry moved to her side without speaking. He took James’s other hand. It was warm. Solid. Alive.
Healer Cormac stepped to the foot of the bed, flicked his wand once, and the glowing chart above James's body adjusted its rhythm—one by one, the protective charms peeled back like veils being lifted from glass. The golden stasis shimmer began to dissolve into the air.
“Vitals holding,” Cormac murmured, more to himself than them. “Pressure within limits. Proceeding.”
Another flick. James’s chest twitched.
Ginny inhaled sharply.
Harry gripped his son’s hand tighter.
James’s fingers moved—just slightly, just enough to confirm that it wasn’t a trick of the light.
“Come on, James,” Ginny whispered. “You’ve got this.”
A few more seconds passed. His eyelids fluttered. His head shifted the barest inch.
And then—with a small, broken gasp—James Sirius Potter opened his eyes.
They were dazed, unfocused, unseeing at first. He blinked hard, flinched at the light, and tried to lift his hand.
“James,” Harry said, voice thick. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
James’s gaze moved toward the sound. He blinked again. “Dad…?”
Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth. She sobbed and laughed all at once.
“Yeah,” Harry whispered, leaning in. “I’m right here.”
James swallowed, throat dry, voice scratchy. “Hurts…”
“I know,” Ginny choked, brushing the hair from his forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”
Healer Cormac moved forward, wand already scanning, murmuring charms to monitor his responsiveness.
Harry stayed where he was—hand wrapped around his son's—watching his boy struggle to reorient, to return.
Healer Cormac leaned over the bed, his wand emitting soft pulses of blue and green light as it scanned along James’s chest, head, and limbs. The magical chart floating beside the bed adjusted with each sweep, lines shifting, pulsing softly in rhythm with James’s heartbeat.
“Pupillary response is slow, but present,” Cormac murmured, almost to himself. “Cognitive return—delayed but functional. Reflexes… inconsistent, expected given spinal trauma. Lungs are holding. No fluid in the cavity. That’s a bloody miracle.”
James blinked again, his lips parting. “Where—where am I…?”
“You’re at St. Mungo’s,” Ginny said quickly, brushing a trembling hand down his cheek. “You’ve been asleep, love. You’ve been… healing.”
James groaned softly, his brow furrowing as he tried to move. Harry’s hand tightened.
“Don’t try yet,” Harry said gently. “You took a fall. A big one.”
“How big?” James croaked.
“About a hundred feet,” Healer Cormac said bluntly. “You went head-first into an enchanted floor after a Veil malfunction. Be thankful you’re breathing.”
James made a faint noise, something between a laugh and a cough. “Sounds… bad.”
“It was,” Ginny whispered, her other hand now gripping his arm. “You’ve been out for almost ten days.”
James’s face twisted slightly as he tried to focus. “The Ministry… the attack—what—”
“Don’t,” Harry said quickly. “Not yet. You need rest.”
But James was already trying to speak again. “Albus…?”
Harry faltered.
Ginny looked down.
Cormac cleared his throat. “Mr. Potter, we’ll have to run full motor assessments tomorrow. There may be some nerve interruption below the waist—”
“What?” James rasped, panic flickering in his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“Don’t panic,” Cormac said firmly. “We don’t know the full picture yet. You had spinal trauma. We’ve reinforced the vertebrae with magical supports, and regeneration is ongoing. You’ll feel tingling, weakness—that’s normal. We need to wait before making any conclusions.”
“Wait how long?”
“Give it a few days. Let your body adjust. Right now, the fact that you’re awake and aware is huge.”
James looked to Harry again, pale and exhausted. “Albus… did he…?”
Harry reached over and smoothed a hand over his son’s hair.
“He’s alive,” he said softly. “That’s all you need to know right now.”
James nodded weakly. His eyes were already growing heavier again, pulled down by exhaustion and pain.
Cormac checked the readings one last time, then adjusted the wandlight and stepped back. “We’ll give him dreamless sleep for a few hours. Let the brain settle.”
Harry didn’t let go of his hand.
Ginny didn’t move from her seat.
Healer Cormac, satisfied for a moment with the vitals, didn’t step away entirely. Instead, he moved to the head of the bed, running a more focused diagnostic charm—this one emitting a thin golden beam that lingered near James’s temples and eye sockets.
James flinched at the light. His hand, sluggish but deliberate, moved shakily toward his face. First to his temple… then up toward his right eye.
He blinked. Tried again.
Then froze.
His fingers brushed across the bruised, sealed skin and the heavily padded charm dressing. His other eye widened.
“…What—” His voice cracked. “Why can’t I see out of—what’s—?”
Ginny stood abruptly, reaching for his hand. “James—don’t panic.”
But he was already struggling to sit up, panic breaking through the haze. “I—I can’t see—what happened to my eye?!”
Harry stepped in quickly, gripping his shoulder. “James, listen. You hit the floor hard. You had fractures all over—your skull, your ribs. Your eye took damage in the fall. But you're here. You’re alive. You're—"
James jerked away, his voice rising. “Am I going to lose it?”
Healer Cormac raised both hands calmly. “James. Listen to me.”
James stopped moving, breathing sharp and shallow.
Cormac moved closer and began another spell, this one blue and spinning like a coil across the air near his face. “There was a lot of trauma around the orbital socket. The bone was fractured. There was rupture in the retina and internal bleeding. You’ve been under spell-stasis to preserve the tissue and prevent necrosis.”
James was staring at him with his one good eye, terrified.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” Cormac continued, voice low but firm. “We don’t know yet. The tissue’s healing, but magic only does so much when it comes to the retina. You might regain partial vision. You might not. I’ve had patients worse off regain more than expected. And others less. But it’s too early to say definitively.”
James slumped slightly, his hand falling away.
Ginny clutched his wrist, blinking back tears.
Harry looked like someone had pressed the air from his lungs.
“But you are alive,” Cormac repeated, his tone hardening just a little. “You survived something most wouldn’t. Your spine is healing. Your lungs are strong. Your brain is intact. Don’t fixate on what might be gone—focus on what’s still here.”
James closed his eye.
And whispered, barely audible, “I don’t want to be broken.”
Ginny leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his.
“You’re not,” she said fiercely. “You’re my boy. You’re breathing. You’re here. We can do anything after that.”
James’s lip trembled.
He looked away from Ginny and turned his face—slowly, shakily—toward Harry. His one good eye was glassy with unshed tears, but when they spilled, they did so in silence.
They streaked across the bruises on his cheek like silver against ink.
“Dad…” he rasped. “I—I can’t be an Auror now, can I?”
The question hung in the air like a curse.
Harry felt it tear something deep inside him. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. No words felt safe. Or fair.
James was still watching him, like he was waiting for permission to fall apart.
Harry sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned in—slowly, carefully—like he had when James was a child after a nightmare. He looked at his son, really looked, through the battered face and the frightened eye and saw the boy who’d grown up chasing every shadow in their backyard pretending it was a dark wizard.
“James,” Harry said quietly, “you survived falling through a veil that eats souls. You survived the worst of dark magic and didn’t let it take you. You’re not weak. And you’re not done.”
James let out a shaking breath. “But they won’t want someone like me now.”
Harry nodded slowly. “Maybe not right away. Maybe not the way you imagined it. But being an Auror isn’t just about chasing criminals. It’s about what’s inside you when everything else breaks. And right now, you’re still here. That says more than a uniform ever could.”
James stared at him, breathing uneven, his expression twisted in pain and helplessness.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Harry admitted, voice thick. “But if it means anything—you were already one of the bravest Aurors I’ve ever seen.”
That broke something.
James turned his face into the pillow and sobbed.
Ginny wrapped her arms around him carefully, holding him through it, her own tears falling silently into his hair.
Harry sat beside them, eyes burning, his hand still on James’s shoulder—offering the only thing he had left in that moment:
Presence. And love.
After several long minutes, once James had quieted again—his chest still hitching, but no longer shaking—Healer Cormac stepped forward. He cleared his throat gently, giving them a moment before he spoke.
“I'm sorry to bring us back to this,” he said softly, “but now that he's awake, we need to discuss the treatment plan.”
Harry sat up straighter, his hand still resting on James’s arm. Ginny turned slightly, though she didn’t let go of her son.
James looked drained, like the tears had hollowed something out of him. He nodded faintly, not trusting himself to speak.
Cormac conjured a glowing chart in midair, filled with flowing diagrams, numbers, and runes. He tapped it once, and a section of the body lit up—the spine.
“First, the spinal fractures,” he began. “There are three compression injuries in the lower vertebrae. We’ve placed magical supports and are encouraging the bones to regenerate with controlled Skele-Gro and guided charms. That process will take at least three weeks, and even then, we’ll need to assess motor nerve responsiveness.”
“Will he walk again?” Ginny asked quietly.
“There’s a very good chance,” Cormac said with cautious optimism. “We’ve already seen some movement in the feet and hands. That’s encouraging. He’ll need physiomagical therapy—intensive, targeted exercises, spell assistance, and likely a custom walking brace for several months.”
James closed his eyes, swallowing.
“Second, the eye,” Cormac continued. “The optic nerve and retina took serious trauma. The area’s still under a tissue-preservation charm, but we’ll attempt regenerative stimulation using optical potion therapy and direct nerve spells in a few days. We’re aiming to preserve basic function. If that fails, we may look into magical prosthetics—but that’s down the road.”
Harry clenched his jaw. James didn’t speak.
“Third, the lungs and ribs. One lung collapsed from a rib puncture, but it’s reinflated, and your breathing is steady. We’ll continue potion management. You’ll feel tightness and pressure—that’s normal.”
He waved a hand, and the diagram switched to a skeletal overlay of the skull.
“Finally, the skull fractures,” he said. “There was bleeding, but we managed to relieve pressure magically. You’ll be monitored closely for any signs of cognitive disruption. So far, your memory and language functions appear intact, which is very good.”
James shifted slightly in the bed. “And… how long…?”
“Minimum six weeks in St. Mungo’s,” Cormac said gently. “Then another three to six months of physical therapy. If we can avoid secondary complications, your prognosis is good. But you’ll need to take this seriously, James. No pushing yourself. No pride getting in the way.”
Ginny brushed the hair from her son’s forehead again. “He won’t. We’ll make sure of it.”
Cormac nodded. “I know you will.”
He adjusted the chart and turned back to Harry. “I’ll check in again in two hours. Try to let him sleep. I’ll leave a charm monitoring station at the door.”
Harry gave a quiet nod. “Thank you, Cormac.”
The healer paused at the door. “He’s lucky to be alive, you know.”
“We know,” Ginny whispered.
And then Cormac left them in the quiet again, the soft beeping of magical runes and James’s even breath the only sounds filling the room.
The door clicked softly behind Healer Cormac, leaving the room dim and still—thick with the smell of antiseptic potions and quiet magic.
Ginny gently smoothed the blanket over James’s legs, her hand trembling only slightly now. James’s eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open, his body exhausted from the sheer act of being awake.
Harry remained seated at his bedside, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
And then Harry’s breath hitched.
He brought a hand up to his face, trying to stifle it—but the sound escaped anyway. A quiet, raw sob that seemed pulled from somewhere deep.
Ginny looked over, her own eyes misting again—but she said nothing.
Harry leaned forward, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezed shut. “I thought I was going to lose you,” he whispered. “I thought—when I saw you lying there—I didn’t think there was going to be another time.”
James shifted his head, just slightly. “Dad…”
Harry wiped at his face but the tears didn’t stop.
“I kept thinking about when you were little,” he murmured. “When you tripped chasing that pygmy puff of Lily’s and skinned your knees so bad you cried like the sky was falling. I picked you up and carried you inside and you said, ‘Don’t let Mum see, she’ll think I’m weak.’” He gave a choked laugh. “And I told you—you were the strongest person I knew.”
There was silence.
Then, in a hoarse, sleepy voice, James muttered, “Merlin, Dad… you’re such a crier.”
Harry gave a startled, wet laugh through his tears. Ginny blinked, then smiled softly as she reached for a tissue.
James smirked faintly—only barely—but it was there. “If you’re going to keep doing that, I’m going back to coma.”
“Git,” Harry whispered, wiping his eyes again with the heel of his palm.
“You’re the one blubbering,” James said, his voice weak but warm. “I just got impaled by the Veil and tossed a hundred feet and still managed to keep it together better than you.”
Ginny laughed quietly through her own tears. “Oh, thank God, his humour’s intact.”
Harry leaned over, brushing James’s hair back. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Good to know I’ve still got it,” James murmured, before his eyelid drooped again, sleep starting to drag him back under.
“I love you, James,” Harry whispered.
James, eyes mostly shut now, breathed, “Yeah, I know.”
And with that, he slipped gently back into rest—Harry and Ginny still sitting beside him, holding him through the silence, grateful for one more moment they almost didn’t get.
Ginny gently tucked the blanket up to James’s chin, then leaned back in her chair beside the bed. The quiet hum of monitoring charms buzzed softly around them. Harry hadn't moved much, sitting close, watching James sleep as if the moment he looked away, the spell would break and everything would be lost again.
She glanced over at him, her voice low so as not to wake James. “What happened with the lawyer?”
Harry exhaled, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “We found one.”
Ginny arched an eyebrow. “Really? I thought every lawyer in the wizarding world wanted to hex you on sight.”
“They still do,” Harry muttered. “But Hermione dragged me to the one person who might hate the Ministry more than he hates me.”
Ginny blinked. “Wait… no.”
Harry gave her a flat look.
Ginny’s eyes widened, and then she burst out laughing—covering her mouth quickly so as not to wake James. “You asked Logan Williamson?”
Harry groaned. “We didn’t ask. We begged. Bribed. Blackmailed. I lost track after he asked for ten times his usual rate and a public apology.”
“Oh, Merlin,” Ginny snorted. “Karma. Honestly, Harry—karma.”
“I know,” Harry muttered. “You’d think saving the wizarding world would earn me at least one good lawyer.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder gently, still smiling. “You saved the world. And now the world’s making you pay for it—with legal fees and personal humiliation.”
Harry chuckled under his breath. “Figures.”
They both went quiet again, eyes on their son—his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, his hand twitching every so often in healing reflex.
Then Ginny whispered, “Do you think he’s really going to be okay?”
Harry didn’t answer right away. He looked at James. Then nodded slowly.
“I think he’s going to fight his way through it.”
She closed her eyes and leaned closer into him. “Good. Because I don’t think we can take another blow.”
Harry said nothing. Just wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held on like it was the only thing anchoring him in the storm.
Ginny stayed tucked against Harry’s side, her fingers loosely laced with his over her knee. For a while, they just sat there—watching James sleep, the monitors ticking softly, the smell of potions and polished wood filling the quiet room.
Then Ginny murmured, “So… how much is this Logan character charging?”
Harry let out a short breath through his nose, like he was bracing himself all over again. “Ten times his usual rate.”
Ginny turned her head to stare at him. “Ten times?”
“He said it’s hazard pay. For dealing with me.”
She blinked. “How much is that in actual numbers?”
Harry muttered a number under his breath.
Ginny sat up straighter. “Is that in Galleons?”
“Unfortunately.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then Ginny dropped her head back and let out a tired, incredulous laugh. “We’re going to go broke saving our kids.”
Harry gave a crooked grin. “Well, that or I’ll have to sell off the Firebolt collection.”
“Oh no,” Ginny said, mock-gasping. “Not the broom shrine. Next you’ll be saying we have to cancel the enchanted bathtub.”
“The bathtub does sing opera at random intervals.”
She snorted. “Still better than you singing.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered.
Ginny reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek, but this time it was from laughter rather than grief. “So,” she said, biting back another smile, “how long do you think before they sack you?”
Harry gave her a long look. “Pretty sure that happened the second I got myself arrested.”
“Oh no,” she said mock-solemnly. “The great Harry Potter. Criminal record. Fired from the Ministry. We'll have to pawn your Order of Merlin next.”
Harry held up an imaginary medal and mimed giving it away. “Here lies my dignity.”
“And our pension,” Ginny added, grinning. “Hope you didn’t need retirement.”
He smirked. “Retirement? Ginny, I haven't slept in three days. If anything, I’m dying on the job.”
“Correction,” she teased. “You got arrested on the job. Slight difference.”
They both burst into another round of quiet laughter, careful not to wake James. It felt strange—this lightness. Fragile, like glass, but so desperately needed after everything.
Harry leaned back in the chair, rubbing his face with both hands. “You know, I was trying to do the right thing.”
Ginny reached over and laced her fingers through his. “You did. Even if the Ministry’s about to send you a fruit basket full of hexes.”
“Maybe they'll at least give me a nice 'Congratulations, You’re Fired' cake.”
“I’ll bake it myself,” she said.
Harry laughed again—really laughed, for the first time in what felt like days.
Ginny gave Harry a sideways glance, eyes glinting mischievously. “So,” she said slowly, “what exactly are you going to say in this public apology to Logan?”
Harry groaned like someone being asked to eat flobberworm stew. “Don’t remind me.”
“Oh no, I absolutely must.” She nudged his knee with hers. “Come on, humor me. I want to hear it. What are you going to say? ‘Dear Mr. Logan Williamson, I, Harry Potter, national icon, publicly and humbly admit that you are—’”
Harry held up a hand. “—a smug, egotistical, manipulative nuisance with a God complex?”
Ginny snorted. “Perfect start. Add in a compliment and you’re good.”
He sighed theatrically and adopted a posh, dramatic tone. “I, Harry James Potter, do solemnly swear that Logan Williamson is a brilliant, charming, and deeply underappreciated member of the wizarding legal community, and that my previous assessments of him being a pompous prat with a wand up his—”
“Harry!” Ginny cackled, pressing her fist to her mouth to keep from laughing too loud.
Harry grinned, eyes bright. “What? I’d have to put that in the fine print.”
“Oh yes,” Ginny said. “In disappearing ink, right under the Ministry’s seal.”
Harry leaned back, stretching his sore shoulders. “You know, I once called him a ‘dung beetle in dragonhide robes’ on WizVis.”
Ginny let out a gasp of mock horror. “That’s the one he’s going to demand you retract. I hope he makes you wear a ‘Team Logan’ badge in the statement.”
Harry clutched his heart. “Kill me now.”
Ginny giggled, wiping her eyes. “You’ll survive. Barely. But I’ll make sure there’s tea and cake waiting for you when it’s over.”
“I don’t deserve you,” he muttered fondly.
“You absolutely don’t,” she agreed, smirking.
They both sat in the hush again, surrounded by the slow beep of magical monitors and the rising sun pouring pale light through the window. James stirred lightly in his sleep.
And for that one hour in a long, cruel month—they laughed. And it was enough to keep going.
***
That evening, the Potter home was quieter than usual, dimly lit by the fading golden light slipping in through the windows. The fire crackled low in the grate, casting flickers over the modest chaos of parchment, tea cups, and half-eaten biscuits strewn across the living room table.
Harry sat hunched forward in one of the mismatched armchairs, sleeves rolled up, carefully filling out a Gringotts-issued cheque. His wand was laid beside his mug of tea, and his hair looked like he’d dragged his hands through it one too many times.
Across from him, James Sr. sipped his tea with a curious brow raised. Lily Sr. had taken up her knitting again, her needles clicking softly, while Sirius sprawled sideways across a faded old loveseat, boots half off, watching Harry like a kneazle tracking a particularly suspicious rat.
Finally, James Sr. asked, “Who’s the lucky soul getting all those zeroes, then?”
Before Harry could respond, Sirius leaned in sharply. “You’re not bribing someone, are you?”
Harry didn’t even look up. “No. It’s to bloody Logan Williamson.”
Lily blinked in surprise, her knitting pausing. “You got him?”
Harry nodded, scribbling the last signature with a tired flourish. “After an hour of him insulting me, demanding a public apology, and quoting my old press clippings back at me—yes.”
Sirius let out a long whistle, sitting up straighter. “Didn't you hate him?”
“I did,” Harry muttered. “But Hermione insisted. And he was the only one who didn’t slam the door in our faces.”
Sirius barked a laugh. “And now you’re cutting him a cheque big enough to buy half of Hogsmeade.”
Harry waved the signed parchment in the air. “The price of keeping Albus alive.”
Lily smiled softly, eyes warm. “You did the right thing.”
Sirius huffed. “Yeah, well, let’s hope this vulture’s as good as he thinks he is.”
Harry leaned back, rubbing his temples. “He better be. Or we’ll be living off Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes coupons for the next decade.”
James Sr. chuckled and raised his cup. “To poverty.”
Sirius clinked his cup with a grin. “Cheers to that.”
Harry just shook his head and muttered, “Kill me.” But a corner of his mouth twitched. They all drank.
Harry set the teacup down with a soft clink and rubbed a hand over his face. For a moment, the room was quiet again—just the soft crackle of the fire and the rhythmic click of Lily’s knitting needles.
Then James Sr. leaned forward slightly, his expression gentler now. “And… James? Any word?”
Harry looked up slowly. “Yeah,” he said, voice low but clearer than before. “They woke him today.”
Lily’s hands stilled. Sirius straightened in his chair.
“He woke up?” she asked, eyes wide. “Properly?”
Harry nodded. “He’s weak. Can’t stay awake for long stretches. But… he opened his eyes. Both of them.”
Sirius blinked. “Both? They said the right one—”
“Damaged, yeah,” Harry cut in. “Still is. He’s probably going to need magical grafting to restore full vision. But he’s… aware. Talking. Even joked with me a bit.”
A collective breath of relief filled the room. Lily pressed a hand to her mouth. James Sr. exhaled deeply, his shoulders dropping for the first time in days.
Harry glanced down at the tabletop, voice softening. “First thing he asked me—he asked if he could still be an Auror.”
Sirius gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And what did you say?”
Harry’s jaw clenched for a second before answering. “I said… we’ll see. That there’s time. But he cried. He—he really cried.”
Lily whispered, “Oh, sweet boy.”
Harry nodded, fingers tapping the envelope with the check. “He’s got a long road ahead. Bones are healing fine. They’ve started deep tissue work on his lungs. Nerve damage… we won’t know the full extent yet. But the Healers seem optimistic.”
“And his spine?” James Sr. asked gently.
“They reinforced it with magical supports. He might need permanent stabilizing charms, maybe even a prosthetic weave, but he’s not paralyzed.”
Sirius let out a breath. “Thank Merlin.”
Harry looked up at them all. His face was tired—beyond tired—but his eyes, just for a second, were alive again. “He’s alive. He’s James. And he’s fighting.”
Lily got up quietly and walked around the table. She placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, warm and steady. “So are you,” she said softly. “Both of you.”
Harry closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let the silence hold him.
***
The clank of iron unlocking echoed through the corridor, sharp against the low murmurs of the holding cells. Albus sat up on the cold cot, stiff and exhausted, his limbs sore from nights on stone. He blinked into the wandlight as the door creaked open and a gruff Auror stepped in.
“Potter. On your feet.”
Albus’s heart thudded. “Why? Where are you taking me?”
“No questions. You’ve got representation.”
Albus stared, confusion flickering across his face. Representation? He hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Who would even take his case?
They marched him past the grey bricked walls of the holding sector, past guards who didn’t meet his eyes, through the security enchantments humming faintly in the stone. Then, finally, into a private interview room—enchanted for confidentiality, but clinical and cold. A long table split the room. Two chairs. A pitcher of water. No wand, no comforts.
Waiting inside, leaning back in his chair with a perfectly pressed cloak, was a man Albus had only seen in WizVis headlines and scandalous legal gossip.
Logan Williamson.
Sharp-eyed. Impeccably dressed. More like a predator than a lawyer. He glanced up from the parchment he’d been reviewing with a lazy, almost amused smile.
“Well. You must be Potter Junior,” Logan said coolly. “You look like someone shoved your father into a thunderstorm.”
Albus stood frozen in the doorway. “Who—?”
“Logan Williamson,” he said, rising and offering his hand like this was some kind of polite brunch meeting. “Your defense attorney. As of now.”
Albus stared. “My father hired you?”
Logan smirked. “With reluctance and extreme bitterness, yes. Also a very large check. And a promise to grovel.”
Albus didn’t move to take his hand. He just sank into the chair, dazed.
Logan sat again, flipping open a file. “I’ve reviewed the evidence you gave Malfoy. Impressive for a kid who’s been hiding in drainage pipes and stealing bread. Also reckless. But brave. Unfortunately, bravery doesn’t hold up in court.”
“I didn’t do it,” Albus said quietly. “I didn’t know what Vance was planning.”
Logan looked up sharply. “Save that for trial. From this moment, you say nothing without me present. You don’t answer questions. You don’t react. You don’t even sneeze without checking with me first.”
Albus nodded slowly.
“Good. Now.” Logan leaned forward, tone shifting to something harder. “They’re not going to make this easy. There are bodies. There’s a wounded brother. There’s political pressure. Everyone wants someone to blame. And you, Mr. Potter, are the most convenient scapegoat this side of the Channel.”
Albus's throat tightened.
“But you’ve got me now,” Logan added, his voice smoother. “And if there's one thing I hate more than the Ministry—it’s losing.”
He closed the file with a snap. “Now, let’s begin.”
Logan slid the file aside and steepled his fingers on the table, eyeing Albus like a professor sizing up a barely-passing student before an exam.
“Alright, let’s go over the basics,” he said, his voice crisp and sharp, every word deliberate. “You may be the son of Harry Potter, but that won’t earn you favors in this courtroom. In fact, it’s going to make them more eager to burn you alive. So. First rule—don’t help them light the match.”
Albus blinked at him.
“Which means,” Logan continued, “you do not speak unless I give you a signal. Not one word. Not even a twitch. You keep your face blank. Eyes neutral. No outbursts, no protests, no sulking. You will not make the Wizengamot feel sorry for you—they are not your friends. They’re trained to sniff out guilt, and right now, you reek of it.”
“I didn’t—”
“You look like you did,” Logan cut him off, sharp but not unkind. “You’ve been on the run, your flat was scrubbed clean, and you were caught in hiding. That’s what they see. Doesn’t matter what the truth is if you can’t control the narrative.”
Albus swallowed hard. Logan leaned forward.
“Rule two: if they rattle you, you breathe through it. You do not cry, flinch, or plead. The moment you lose control, they win. You can fall apart later—after. When you’re out.”
Albus nodded tightly.
“Rule three: trust me. Even when I say something that makes you want to throw a chair, you keep your mouth shut and trust that I’m playing the long game. There will be lies. There will be spin. But the worst thing you can do is panic and say something noble and idiotic like ‘I deserve to be punished.’”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“You would be amazed how many sons of war heroes say that in the name of honor.” Logan gave him a flat look. “We’re not here for honor. We’re here for survival.”
Albus looked down at his cuffed hands. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“You can,” Logan said, not with comfort, but with certainty. “Because you have no choice.”
He leaned back again, rolling his shoulders. “Now. The trial won’t be immediate. They’ll push for a fast-track, but Hermione’s already building resistance. Our first goal is to stall—to get you out of this hellhole and into house arrest or secure holding.”
Albus looked up. “Wait. There’s a chance I don’t go to Azkaban?”
Logan gave him a dangerous smile. “Oh, they want to send you there. But I’ve pulled clients out of worse. Azkaban is not inevitable. If you follow everything I say—and I mean everything—you might walk out of this with your soul intact.”
Albus nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll listen. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Good,” Logan said, rising to his feet. “Because this is war, Potter. And I don’t lose wars.”
Logan adjusted the cuffs of his immaculate robes, then glanced at the enchanted clock ticking silently on the far wall. He exhaled sharply through his nose before turning back to Albus with that same cutting precision in his eyes.
“Alright. Here's what’s next.”
Albus straightened instinctively, nerves flickering across his face.
“The first hearing will likely be this week. Could be as early as Friday. The Department is moving fast—they want blood on the floor before the papers cool.”
“What happens in the hearing?”
Logan gave him a look. “You plead. That's it. Formal charges will be read out—everything from conspiracy, theft of Department property, reckless endangerment, probably even aiding necromantic terrorism, if they’re feeling dramatic. And you, in response, will stand up and say—clearly, confidently—not guilty.”
Albus’s fingers curled around the edge of the chair. “Even if they shout? Even if they don’t believe me?”
Logan’s tone was pure steel. “Especially then. They’re going to expect you to tremble. They want to smell fear. Don’t give it to them. You say not guilty like you’re daring them to question it. Do you understand?”
“…Yeah.”
Logan tilted his head. “Say it.”
Albus blinked. “What?”
“Say it. Now. Like it’s real.”
Albus took a breath, then said, “Not guilty.”
Logan raised a brow. “You sound like you’ve just been caught nicking Chocolate Frogs. Again.”
Albus sighed, sat up straighter, and repeated with more force: “Not guilty.”
Logan nodded. “Better. We’ll practice more.”
He moved to the table again, spreading out parchment from a thin black file. “After that, I’ll request bail. Temporary release under magical monitoring, preferably house arrest with Ministry supervision. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“Why?” Albus asked, eyes flickering nervously.
“Because you ran,” Logan said flatly. “And not just ran—you vanished. Burned your trace, torched your spellphone, squatted in Muggle cities, and went completely off the grid. As far as the Wizengamot is concerned, you’re a flight risk wrapped in Potter name drama.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You were scared. I get it. But you gave them exactly what they needed to label you dangerous.” He looked directly at Albus. “So expect them to deny bail. Don’t panic when they do. That part was already factored into my plan.”
“Which is what?”
“Keep you alive. Keep you out of Azkaban. And, if I’m very lucky, keep your father from having to publicly duel half the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”
A pause. Then Logan’s voice softened—barely.
“You’re not the only one they want to make an example of, Potter Junior. They’re gunning for your whole family now. So don’t flinch. Not in front of the press, not in front of the judge, not even in your own head.”
Albus nodded slowly.
Logan folded the parchment crisply and tucked it back into his case. “I’ll see you before the hearing. Try to sleep. Look like hell, and they’ll believe you're broken.”
As the guard opened the door, Logan glanced back once, voice low.
“Remember—not guilty. No matter how much they want you to believe otherwise.”
The holding cell wasn’t any warmer, but Albus’s nerves had dulled. Days had passed—slow, grinding, monotonous—but in that time, something inside him had shifted. It wasn’t peace. Not even hope. But clarity. He wasn’t alone. And Logan, for all his sharp edges and smug remarks, had become something like a shield between him and the storm.
That evening, the clank of the cell door opening didn’t jolt him like it had the first time. He looked up, already expecting him.
Logan Williamson stepped in like he owned the Ministry.
His robes today were slate grey, razor-creased and untouched by a single wrinkle. His hair, as always, not a strand out of place. In his arms, a neat black case.
“Potter,” he greeted curtly. “Stand up.”
Albus obeyed.
Logan dropped the case on the bench with a soft thud and clicked it open. Inside was a neatly folded set of deep navy formal wizarding robes, sharp-collared, minimal gold piping, polished shoes, and a plain silver pin.
“These are yours. You will wear them tomorrow,” Logan said. “Exactly as I sent them. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
Albus eyed them uncertainly. “Why?”
“Because you don’t walk into a courtroom looking like a fugitive. You walk in looking like someone who doesn’t belong in chains. Someone clean. Someone calm. Someone not guilty.”
Albus gave a slow nod.
Logan stood straighter. “Tomorrow, you will not be questioned. Not yet. This is the preliminary appearance. No evidence. No witness stand. The court will read the charges, and I will enter your plea.”
“Not guilty,” Albus said softly.
“Louder tomorrow,” Logan replied. “You speak with your spine, not just your voice. You make them believe you don’t belong in that chair.”
He circled the cell once, then faced him again, his tone hardening.
“Now. A few more things.”
Albus met his eyes.
“You will not fidget. You will not look at the press. You will not look for your father in the crowd. I know you want to. I know your mother might be there too. Doesn’t matter. You keep your eyes forward, your posture straight, and your face neutral. You are not a child on trial—you are a man wrongly accused.”
Albus swallowed. “And if they shout things?”
“They will,” Logan said. “And you will ignore it. You are above it. The moment you respond emotionally, they’ll say it proves you're unstable. Let them bark. Let me worry about everything else.”
There was a long pause.
Then Logan’s voice lowered, just a fraction. “I’ve seen too many people lose their lives in that room. You won’t be one of them. Not tomorrow. Not on my watch.”
Albus felt his throat tighten. “Do you really think I have a chance?”
Logan stared at him, unreadable. Then, in the quietest voice Albus had ever heard from him:
“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
He closed the case gently.
“Get some rest. And wear the damn robes.”
***
The night before the trial was unnaturally still.
Albus lay curled on the thin cot, the unfamiliar stiffness of the borrowed robes folded beside him. He hadn't changed into them yet—Logan said morning would be fine. For now, he stared at the stone ceiling, counting heartbeats and trying not to think of the world outside.
The quiet was broken by the soft metallic click of the cell door opening.
He sat up quickly, every muscle tense.
A tall figure stepped in, not with the heavy-footed confidence of Logan, nor the rushed indifference of the guards. This one was quiet. Intentional.
An older man—an Auror, judging by the faint insignia embroidered on his dark overcoat. His face was lined, but not unkind. He held something in his hand.
“Evening, Mr. Potter,” the man said softly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Albus didn’t speak. His back pressed slightly against the wall.
“I thought you might like some tea.” He lifted a plain white mug. Steam curled gently from it. “Not poisoned. I promise.”
Albus hesitated, then took it slowly. It was warm. Real tea. Not the watery broth they served with the Ministry’s rationed meals. He didn’t sip.
The Auror sat on the bench opposite him, casual. Too casual.
“They’ve got you in the cold cell. Not exactly hospitable. I worked down here a long time. Know what it does to a person.”
Albus kept silent.
The man continued, sipping his own cup. “My name’s Fletch. Auror Division. I’m not on the prosecution team, so don’t worry. This isn’t an interrogation.”
Still, Albus didn’t relax.
Fletch glanced at him, voice low and gentle. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of trials. Been on the floor for some nasty ones. And I’ve watched what happens to young ones who try to fight the tide.”
Albus stared into his tea.
“I read the file,” Fletch went on. “What happened to your brother—that’s tragedy. Real tragedy. No one’s blaming you for the explosion directly. But you were involved with Vance. With restricted materials. With lies to your superiors. That… does matter.”
Albus’s jaw clenched.
Fletch’s eyes softened, almost fatherly. “Look, son. You plead guilty—just to a few charges—the rest might get dropped. You won’t go to Azkaban. Probation, maybe. House arrest. Quiet resolution. If you fight it... the press won’t let it go. Neither will the Ministry.”
Albus looked up. “So I should lie. So they feel better?”
Fletch didn’t flinch. “I’m telling you how the system works. No one wants another Potter martyr story in the Prophet. They want this… wrapped up. A neat ending.”
Albus’s voice was raw. “I didn’t do it.”
“Then say you were misled,” Fletch offered. “Say you made mistakes. Let them call it naivety instead of intent. It’s not about guilt, Mr. Potter. It’s about survival.”
He stood, finished his tea, and left his mug behind.
“Think about it. You’ve got hours.”
Then he turned and walked out. The door shut quietly behind him, leaving only the rising steam of the untouched cup—and Albus, still sitting in the dark.
Albus sat frozen for a long time after the door shut. The tea grew cold in his hands, untouched. The Auror’s words repeated over and over in his head like a low, venomous hum:
“It’s not about guilt… It’s about survival.”
His fingers curled around the mug tightly. He wanted to throw it—smash it against the wall, shatter something—anything—but he didn’t. The moment of fury passed, leaving only a deep, hollow ache in his chest.
They wanted him to lie.
They wanted him to give them an ending. Neat. Controlled. Quiet.
He rose slowly from the bench and crossed the tiny cell to the sink in the corner. He poured the tea out. It hit the metal with a hiss, swirling down the drain like spilled ink.
He stood over the sink for a while, gripping its edge, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror above it.
His face looked thinner. His eyes sunken. There was a bruise beneath his jaw he hadn’t noticed before. He barely recognized himself.
Say you were misled. Say you were naive.
That was what they wanted.
Not the truth. Not the weeks of terror and guilt. Not the fear in his bones when he ran. Not the betrayal of Vance. Not the truth that he didn’t set that explosion. That he didn’t kill anyone. That he was framed.
They wanted a confession. A headline.
He turned from the mirror. Logan’s words came back to him—sharper, colder, unyielding:
“You walk in like someone who doesn’t belong in chains.”
He sat back down on the cot, pulled the robes into his lap. Ran his hands over the fabric.
He would plead not guilty.
Even if they hated him for it.
Even if he lost.
Because if he let them write this story for him, then Vance won. The cult won. Grimm—whoever he was—won.
His father hadn’t turned him in just to watch him surrender.
And if Logan Williamson was going to fight like hell for him—then he’d meet him halfway.
He folded the cold tea mug and Logan’s instructions into his bones.
And he waited for the sun.
***
The next morning arrived grey and cold, like the Ministry itself had drawn in a breath and refused to exhale.
Albus dressed in silence.
The robes Logan had given him were heavier than he expected—thick, formal wool lined with something smooth at the collar and cuffs. They fit perfectly. No frays, no stains, no creases. He looked less like a prisoner and more like a young diplomat being escorted to a hearing.
If not for the shackles binding his wrists.
The guards gave no instructions, only motioned with curt gestures for him to step forward. The march through the Ministry was as it always was—grey walls, high arches, the sharp glint of enchanted torches overhead. But today, the silence was heavy.
As they reached the lift and descended toward the courtroom levels, one of the Aurors muttered something into a spellphone. The other shifted slightly, tightening his grip on his wand.
Then came the final corridor.
And Albus heard them.
The moment the courtroom doors opened—the press were everywhere.
Bright flashes from magical cameras nearly blinded him. Microphones enchanted to float jostled each other for position. Voices rose at once, loud, urgent, relentless:
“Albus! Do you admit involvement in the Veil incident?”
“Did you betray the Ministry?”
“Did Harry Potter help you escape?”
“Were you working with the resurrection cult?”
“Do you deny killing the Unspeakables?”
“Did you attack your own brother?”
Albus didn’t flinch. Not like Logan had warned him not to. He kept his eyes forward, posture straight, breath steady. But his hands were trembling slightly against the chains.
He spotted no familiar faces in the crowd—not his mother, not Hermione, not even Logan. They must already be inside.
But the journalists were hungry. Some leaned over barricades; others tried shouting over each other, their questions turning uglier.
“Do you feel guilty for James Potter’s condition?”
Albus clenched his jaw.
The Aurors flanked him tightly and walked him forward, through the barrage of cameras and microphones. He focused on the distant echo of his footsteps on stone, trying to drown everything else.
He had no wand. No voice yet. But he still had control.
He walked as if the noise didn’t touch him. As if his knees weren’t shaking.
As if he belonged there—not as a criminal, but as a man about to fight for the truth.
And then the great courtroom doors opened.
The courtroom was cavernous—stone walls that had seen centuries of wizarding justice, lined with floating torches that flickered dimly above. The high dome overhead was veiled in shadow, making the place feel more like a tomb than a hall of justice.
The wooden doors closed behind him with a deep thud, the sound echoing through the silence like a final verdict.
Albus paused only a moment on the threshold, his shackled hands held in front of him. Then he stepped forward.
He saw Logan first.
Standing tall near the defense bench, arms folded behind his back, dressed in sleek, dark robes with an emerald lining and an expression carved from steel. His eyes found Albus immediately, scanning him head to toe, then gave the smallest of nods—approval, or instruction, Albus didn’t know.
To Logan’s left sat a cluster of people under restricted attendance—family, officials, Department heads. His gaze flitted across them.
Hermione sat composed and firm, her quill already scratching something on parchment. Next to her—his mum.
Ginny Potter wore a black dress, sharp and neat, but her eyes were swollen from crying. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white. The moment she saw Albus, her breath hitched—just slightly—but she didn’t look away.
And then—him.
Harry.
Standing at the far end, not seated like the others. He wore no Auror robes. Just plain clothes. Simple. Civilian. But his eyes—those impossibly green eyes—locked on Albus, steady and unreadable. There was no judgment in them.
Only sorrow.
Albus looked away.
He let the Aurors guide him forward until he stood beside Logan, behind the defense stand. A low hum of whispers passed through the courtroom as the gallery—press, officials, Ministry staff—took in the sight of the Potter boy in chains.
The presiding judge, an older witch in crimson robes with cold, hawkish eyes, banged her wand once on the bench.
“Bring the court to order,” she said crisply. “We begin the hearing of Albus Severus Potter. Charged with treason, conspiracy, reckless endangerment, violation of Department of Mysteries protocols, and obstruction of justice. Mr. Potter, how do you plead?”
The room was silent.
Logan glanced at him. A flicker. A signal.
Albus lifted his chin.
“Not guilty.” His voice was hoarse, but clear.
A sharp murmur broke out. Someone gasped. A camera clicked.
Ginny closed her eyes. Hermione’s quill snapped mid-stroke.
Harry stood very still.
The judge banged her wand again. “Order!”
Logan stepped forward, his tone clipped but commanding.
“We will be filing for a full evidentiary hearing, Your Honor. And a motion for bail.”
The judge raised one eyebrow. “Bail? For a suspect considered a flight risk and linked to the deaths of multiple Ministry personnel?”
Logan didn’t blink. “The prosecution has yet to provide verified evidence of direct intent. And until then, my client remains innocent by law.”
Albus didn’t move.
The courtroom sat poised on a knife’s edge.
And the battle had begun.
The judge’s lips pursed, her fingers tapping the edge of the bench.
"Very well. Bail will be discussed after preliminary motions. Mr. Williamson, your request is noted."
Logan inclined his head with precise formality, then stepped back beside Albus. He whispered low, without looking at him:
“Good. Don’t waver. The worst thing you can do in this room is look uncertain.”
Albus gave a barely perceptible nod.
Across the room, the prosecution team stood—four stern-looking Ministry barristers with scrolls stacked high and polished boots that echoed when they moved. Their lead—Marius Gant, a tall man with silver temples and a voice like stone—rose with his wand and began outlining the charges.
“Mr. Potter is accused of aiding in a catastrophic breach of Department of Mysteries containment protocols, resulting in multiple fatalities and injuries, including one Auror-in-training—James Sirius Potter…”
The words struck like a slap.
Albus felt his throat tighten, his jaw clench. He didn’t look at his mother. He didn’t dare.
“…he was found in possession of restricted files, illegal portkeys, and extensive magical residue linking him to the Veil malfunction and subsequent Inferi uprising. Furthermore, his disappearance for seven days following the attack is—”
Logan raised a hand sharply. “Objection to editorializing. This is not yet trial. The prosecution is aware this is a preliminary hearing.”
The judge gave a sharp nod. “Sustained. Mr. Gant, keep to the scope.”
Gant didn’t apologize—he merely turned a page on his scroll. “We request that the accused remain in holding until formal trial, as he poses a continued risk to national magical security and has demonstrated clear intent to flee justice.”
There was a quiet tension in the gallery now.
And then Logan stepped forward again. Calm. Cold. In control.
“We submit affidavits, reviewed under Veritas sanction, that indicate my client was not acting of his own design, but under manipulation and indirect coercion by one Caelum Vance—recently discovered to be a traitor and dead under suspicious circumstances. Furthermore—” he pulled a scroll from his inner robe “—we have Ministry-archived logs of Albus’s scheduled assignments and magical authorizations, signed off by Vance himself.”
There was a ripple in the crowd.
Hermione allowed herself the tiniest flicker of a smile. Ginny looked up, uncertain, but slightly hopeful.
Albus couldn’t breathe.
Logan went on, relentless. “My client turned over evidence to a third party for protection—evidence which places him not as an orchestrator, but as a scapegoat. Your Honor, he did not flee to hide. He fled because he was being hunted.”
Gant stood again, voice sharp. “These are just words—”
“And yours were just threats wrapped in a polished voice,” Logan shot back. “Shall we continue this contest of poetry or submit the evidence to the Wizengamot?”
The judge leaned forward.
“I have heard enough for now.”
She glanced at Albus. Her expression softened only slightly—an unreadable flicker.
“Given the gravity of the charges, and the public nature of this case, I deny bail. But I will not allow indefinite detainment without formal trial. Mr. Potter’s court date is to be set within ten days. Until then, he will remain in secure Ministry custody under monitored status, and no further unsanctioned interrogations will take place.”
Logan bowed. “Understood.”
A bang of the gavel.
“Court adjourned.”
Albus exhaled for the first time in what felt like an hour.
As the Aurors moved to re-shackle him, his eyes briefly met Ginny’s.
She smiled—barely. But it was real.
And then his gaze flicked to Harry.
His father gave him the smallest nod.
Albus didn’t smile.
But for the first time since he fled, something steadied inside him.
This wasn’t over.
But he wasn’t alone.
Outside the grand stone steps of the courtroom, the press had gathered like a swarm of crows—quills scratching, cameras flashing, and enchanted microphones floating midair, all aimed at the heavy doors just as they creaked open.
Aurors emerged first, forming a protective formation.
Then came Logan Williamson, his robe crisp and stride sharp, ignoring the reporters who screamed his name.
And then—Albus.
The chains around his wrists had been loosened, though not removed. He wore the tailored dark-gray garments Logan had sent, collar high, shoulders squared, but his face was pale and his eyes heavy with exhaustion.
The moment Ginny saw him, she broke past the Auror line.
“Al—Albus—!”
Her voice cracked, and her heels clacked against the stone as she ran straight to him. The Aurors flinched, moving to block her—but one sharp look from Harry stopped them.
And then she was there.
She threw her arms around her son before he could even say her name, clutching him with both hands, burying her face into his shoulder. He staggered slightly but then melted into the hug, pressing his face into her neck like he was six years old again and had skinned a knee.
“I’m so sorry, Mum,” he choked.
Ginny was crying silently, her fingers fisted into the back of his robe.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t say sorry. Just hold on, Al. Please just hold on.”
Flash. Flash. Flash.
The press didn’t miss a second of it.
“Albus Potter, do you deny involvement in the Inferi incident?”
“Mrs. Potter! Is your son being framed?”
“How does it feel to see your family torn apart, Mr. Potter?”
Harry stepped between them and the cameras, blocking their view, his jaw tight.
“That’s enough,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud. But it was Harry Potter’s voice. And the press took a collective step back.
Ginny finally let go of Albus, brushing his hair back as if she could erase the damage with a touch. “You did well in there,” she whispered. “I saw you.”
Albus swallowed, throat tight. “Is James—?”
Harry stepped closer. “He’s awake,” he said gently. “And he’s asking for you.”
Albus’s knees nearly gave out.
But Logan, who had been watching silently from the edge of the steps, stepped forward and said coolly to the Aurors, “He’s done here for today. Don’t drag him. He walks.”
Albus looked at Harry. “Do I have to go back to the cell?”
Harry hesitated. “Just for now,” he said, regret thick in his voice. “But not for long. We’re fighting.”
Ginny leaned up and kissed Albus on the cheek.
He didn’t want to turn away.
But he did.
And as he walked down the stairs, flanked by Aurors, his spine stayed straight.
Because this time, he wasn’t walking alone.
***
The crowd was thinning now—reporters ushered away by Ministry officials, murmurs still crackling down the corridor. Aurors stood watchfully along the walls, eyeing the press with suspicion.
Harry was about to suggest they go when a familiar, low voice came from just behind them:
“Mr. and Mrs. Potter.”
Harry turned, and Ginny startled slightly before managing a polite smile.
Minister Elias Grimm stood there—tall, well-dressed, his expression carved from respectful concern. A pair of foreign aides flanked him at a slight distance, holding leather folders. Grimm’s coat, ash-grey with subtle silver threading, gave him an elegant, commanding presence. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, and his dark eyes softened as they landed on Ginny.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” he said with practiced grace. “I was passing through for a diplomatic session when I heard the hearing had begun.”
Ginny quickly composed herself and stepped forward.
“No, of course not,” she said, voice still shaky but genuine. “Minister Grimm… thank you. For your support earlier—Harry told me. I know you didn’t have to do that.”
Grimm gave a gentle, apologetic smile and nodded once.
“I did only what any friend would do, Mrs. Potter. Family matters should never become political weapons. I’m deeply sorry your son is going through this.” His voice was smooth, his words deliberate. “If there is anything I can do on my side of the continent, you need only ask.”
Harry remained silent, his face unreadable.
Grimm turned slightly toward him.
“Mr. Potter,” he said with a nod of professional civility. “I understand today must have been difficult. But your son handled himself… admirably.”
Harry held his gaze for a beat too long, then gave the smallest of nods. “We’ll see if it’s enough.”
Grimm’s eyes lingered a moment, almost searching. Then, with a light bow, he turned to Ginny once more.
“I’ll be returning to Berlin tomorrow morning. But if you wish to speak before then—privately—I’ll make time.”
Ginny nodded, murmuring a soft thank you.
Then the Minister turned, speaking briefly in German to his aides before walking away down the corridor, his steps measured and confident.
Only after he disappeared around the bend did Harry speak, his voice low.
“He shows up exactly when the cameras are around. Every time.”
Ginny glanced at him. “He’s a politician, Harry. That’s what they do.”
Harry didn’t answer. His eyes were still fixed on the place where Grimm had stood—his jaw tight, his instincts louder than ever.
Something about the man… was off.
But now wasn’t the time.
He took Ginny’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go see James.”
***
The fluorescent lights in St. Mungo’s cafeteria buzzed faintly overhead, casting a cold, sterile sheen across the rows of half-empty tables and charmed food counters. Harry moved through them briskly, balancing a tray with two bowls of stew, a loaf of warm bread, and pumpkin juice for Ginny. His mind was half in the courtroom, half in James’s hospital room, and nowhere near present.
That’s why he didn’t notice the man until he felt a hand graze his elbow.
“Mr. Potter,” came a quiet voice, “a word. Now. Please don’t make a scene.”
Harry blinked and turned, eyeing the man: nondescript robes, thinning hair, but unmistakably a government liaison—foreign, German, likely security.
Harry’s grip on the tray tightened.
“I’m taking food to my wife.”
“She can wait five minutes,” the man said firmly, his eyes darting around. “He insists.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Who?”
But the man was already turning, beckoning Harry through a side hallway past the potion wing, then down a restricted corridor behind the old apothecary. Harry followed warily, wand within easy reach in the sleeve of his jacket.
Finally, the man stopped at an old wooden door marked Storage – Sec. Level 3. With a murmured unlocking charm, it creaked open, revealing a dusty, long-disused storeroom stacked with empty potion crates, disassembled diagnostic equipment, and silence.
And in the far corner, beneath a single swinging lightbulb—
Minister Elias Grimm.
He was without his entourage now, his coat slung over the back of a chair, his sleeves rolled up to the forearms. He looked more human here, almost casual, but the elegance still clung to him like a second skin.
Harry stepped in slowly. The door shut behind him with a soft thud.
Grimm smiled.
“I apologize for the… cloak-and-dagger approach,” he said. “But there are eyes and ears everywhere in this hospital, and I needed to speak to you without interference.”
Harry didn’t return the smile. “You could’ve requested a meeting. I’m not hard to find.”
“No,” Grimm agreed, “but you are difficult to reach—truly reach. And the matters I wish to speak of… can’t be put through official channels.”
“At the Ministry… today. I saw it.” His gaze sharpened slightly, thoughtful. “The pit. The cursed fire. The Inferi rising like they remembered being alive. And the Veil… no longer vertical, but stretched—horizontal. Like something torn open from beneath.”
His eyes glinted under the flickering light.
“I’ve studied magical anomalies across every continent, Mr. Potter. But I’ve never seen anything like that.”
Grimm let the silence hang, just long enough for tension to thicken in the dusty air. Then, with that same measured grace, he turned his back to Harry, as if inspecting the cracked wall behind the shelves.
“We both know,” he said softly, “that something ancient was disturbed that day. Something the Department of Mysteries never truly understood. The Veil was meant to divide worlds, not... open them.”
Harry didn’t move. His grip on the tray tightened.
Grimm went on, voice smooth as parchment sliding from an envelope. “If that breach spreads—if the boundary between the living and the dead is permanently weakened—we risk far more than Inferi crawling out of pits. We risk magic unraveling.”
He faced Harry again now, his expression not urgent, but quietly insistent.
“There’s only one person I’ve known who’s ever stood at the brink of death and returned intact. Who’s held power older than even our magical governments acknowledge. One man whose presence seems to command fate itself.”
Harry’s jaw set. “Don’t romanticize what happened to me.”
“I’m not,” Grimm replied calmly. “I’m pointing out that you’ve been there. You’ve touched what no one else dares name.” He took a slow step forward. “That day in the Ministry… the Veil responded to something. Not to Vance. Not to chaos. To you.”
Harry shook his head. “No. It was a malfunction, or dark magic they pumped into it. We still don’t know.”
“But you felt it, didn’t you?” Grimm asked, voice low. “That pull. That recognition.”
A pause.
And then, almost offhandedly, almost as if the thought had just occurred to him:
“There are still artifacts of great power in this world, Potter. Not all of them gone. Not all of them buried. Sometimes… when something is broken, it takes an equally ancient force to bind it.”
Harry blinked.
He didn’t speak.
Grimm smiled faintly, just a ghost of it.
“Of course, such things are dangerous. Perhaps even cursed. But then, you’ve never been afraid of that, have you?”
He took a step back, brushed some invisible dust from his sleeve.
“Something to think about,” he said lightly, as if discussing weather patterns. “The world needs mending. And I believe… deep down… you already know how.”
Grimm took a step closer, brushing his fingers along the edge of the shelf like he was reminiscing. “It’s not stable, you know. The Veil. It’s no longer anchored properly. That flame—that was never supposed to be part of it. It's an intrusion. A symptom.”
Harry folded his arms. “You think I don’t know that?”
Grimm tilted his head. “I think you know exactly how dangerous it is. I think you’ve seen what’s trying to come through.”
There was a brief silence. The soft hum of the light globe overhead buzzed faintly.
“Then help me stop it,” Grimm said, quietly. “Before it gets worse.”
Harry tensed. “Help you?”
Grimm raised a hand in mock surrender. “Poor phrasing. I meant—fix it. Close it. Before it consumes more than just your son.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “We don’t even understand what it is yet.”
“That’s the thing,” Grimm said gently, stepping into the center of the room now. “You do understand it. More than most. You’ve felt the Veil before. You’ve been close to it. And… you have something no one else does.”
His eyes flicked meaningfully downward for a fraction of a second.
Harry’s hand drifted instinctively toward his wand holster—but not the regular one.
Grimm smiled like he’d planted a seed and now watched it grow.
“Power like that leaves a resonance,” he said. “Old magic responds to older magic still. The Veil is ancient… wild… but it recognizes authority. It yields to it.”
Harry’s brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”
Grimm met his eyes, all calm intensity. “I’m saying perhaps… the one who conquered death before might be able to… steady it again. Nudge the currents. Close what was opened.”
He turned away again, voice casual now. “You don’t need me to tell you how. You’ve always known, deep down, haven’t you?”
Grimm looked back once, softly.
“You’re the only one it might still listen to, Harry.”
He opened the door slowly.
“I’ll let you get back to your family.”
And then he was gone, coat trailing behind him like smoke.
Notes:
AAAAAAARGH things are finally heating up!!! 🔥 The next chapter is going to be more than interesting—I seriously can’t wait to share it with you all!
Also… full disclaimer: I’m basically a Grey’s Anatomy-certified doctor at this point 😂 So while I did some research to keep James’s treatment somewhat realistic, don’t expect full medical accuracy.
And uh… if you’ve seen Grey’s, you know what it means when someone starts doing a little too well after a coma. 😬 Don’t get too hopeful just yet...
Chapter 48: Behind the Flames
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The corridors outside the medical wing felt colder than before. Harry walked slowly, tray in hand, Grimm’s words still echoing like a curse he couldn’t shake. You’re the only one it might still listen to, Harry. The bastard hadn’t even said the words outright—but Harry heard them all the same.
When he stepped into James’s room, the sterile brightness hit him first, followed by the gentle sound of the monitoring charms humming quietly in the corners.
Ginny looked up immediately from her seat beside the bed.
James was awake now.
Sort of.
He was half-sitting, propped up against the angled mattress, supported by cushions and a series of light enchantments woven through his hospital gown. His right eye remained bandaged, his skin pale and drawn, but his left eye flicked toward Harry, sluggish and heavy-lidded.
Ginny had one hand curled protectively around James’s wrist, her thumb gently stroking the pulse point like she was trying to will strength back into him.
Harry stood frozen for a second, tray in his hands.
Ginny’s gaze sharpened as she looked at his face.
“What happened?” she asked quietly, rising partway from her chair.
“Nothing,” Harry said instantly, voice too smooth, too rehearsed.
He moved forward and set the tray on the side table, careful not to meet her eyes.
Ginny didn’t sit back down. “Harry.”
“I just… saw someone,” he murmured, unwrapping the tea. “From the international delegation. Nothing important.”
Ginny gave him a look that said she didn’t believe a word of it—but also wasn’t going to push. Not here. Not in front of James.
The boy stirred weakly, his head lolling slightly to the side. His good eye fluttered half-open again. There was confusion in it. Discomfort.
Harry sat down in the chair beside him and reached for his hand.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re awake.”
James didn’t answer—but his fingers twitched faintly around Harry’s.
Ginny stood silently across the room, her eyes moving between them—Harry’s tired face, James’s damaged one—and she knew something was building. Something Harry wasn’t saying. She went out for a breather.
And the room returned to quiet.
Harry sat quietly for a moment, watching James breathe. The boy—man, really—looked so different like this. Not just from the damage, but from the stillness. James had always been loud, all restless limbs and sly grins, never quite able to sit still unless he was scheming or chasing something.
But now, he looked like he was holding himself together with sheer will.
Harry cleared his throat. “You look like hell.”
James’s lips twitched slightly. “Thanks, Dad. Really needed the confidence boost.”
Harry huffed a small laugh, relieved at the spark. “Well, I figured I’d get it out of the way before your mum comes back and drowns you in sympathy.”
“She already did,” James muttered, shifting with a wince. “Think I got tear stains on my face.”
“She only cries when she thinks you can’t see.”
James didn’t respond to that, but his expression softened. After a beat, he asked, “Is Albus…?”
Harry stiffened slightly, but James cut himself off. “No. Sorry. That’s not—never mind.”
Harry forced a calm tone. “We’ll talk about Al later. Right now, you need to rest. Heal.”
“Rest is boring.” James groaned quietly, then looked down at his hands. One of them was trembling faintly. “I was… I was supposed to go on my first full solo mission next week. I had it on the board and everything.”
Harry exhaled slowly. “You’ll get there.”
“Will I?” James asked, not bitter—just honest.
Harry looked at him for a long time. “You’re a Potter. We’re hard to kill.”
James let out a soft, tired laugh. “Yeah. Stubborn like mold.”
“Exactly.”
There was a beat of silence, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Then James gave him a sideways look. “You look weird.”
Harry blinked. “Weird how?”
James tilted his head as much as his neck brace allowed. “Like… something got in your head. What happened?”
Harry shook his head. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
James raised an eyebrow. “You say that like I’m not stuck in a hospital bed with nothing but time to worry.”
Harry chuckled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll be back on your feet before long. And when you are, I expect you to finish that solo mission. And bring a partner next time.”
“Aw, come on. I was this close to being the youngest Auror to—”
Harry shot him a look, mock stern. “Bring. A. Partner.”
James gave him a lopsided grin. “Alright, alright. No solo glory. Lesson learned.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, letting the warmth of the tea drift between them.
And for a few minutes, they just sat there. Father and son. A moment of peace, however fleeting.
The door creaked open softly, and Ginny stepped back into the room—her arms piled high with boxes, bags, and a bouquet of enchanted sunflowers that bobbed cheerfully as if greeting them. Floating just behind her was a hovering charm holding two more parcels, a stack of “Get Well Soon” cards, and what looked suspiciously like a hand-knitted Gryffindor-colored quilt shaped like a lion.
“Look who’s already more popular half-conscious than most people are fully awake,” she said with a grin, nudging the door shut behind her with her foot.
James opened his eye again, groggy but alert enough to groan. “Mum—”
“You’ve got letters from all the family, half your training cohort, and six girls whose names I didn’t even recognize,” she said breezily, dropping the gifts gently onto the visitor’s couch. “One of them sent you chocolate in the shape of her Patronus. A wolf. Bit on the nose, honestly.”
James let his head fall back against the pillows with a low, muffled “Merlin help me.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Six girls?”
Ginny smirked. “I’m not naming names, but if one more of your fan club tries to use your near-death experience as a reason to confess undying love, I will start screening your visitors.”
“I want to die again,” James muttered into the blanket.
Ginny marched over, kissed the top of his head carefully, and fluffed the pillow behind him. “Don’t be dramatic. You’ve still got a full box of Fizzing Whizbees to get through.”
James blinked. “Those from Aunt Luna?”
“She sent a dream journal, a rune-inscribed pebble for clarity, and a letter that just said ‘You're not done yet.’” Ginny’s smile faded slightly at that, warm but touched with meaning. “She always knows, somehow.”
Harry watched quietly from his chair, that same knot in his chest tightening and loosening at once.
Ginny turned to him. “You sure nothing happened while you were gone?”
Harry gave her a look. “Just tea. Sandwich. Some vague bureaucratic nonsense.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. But after a pause, she let it go—for now.
Then she began sorting the cards into a neat pile. “We’ll read some of these later. Though I might censor the ones with perfume.”
James groaned. “Please do.”
Harry sat back, watching them—his wife fussing, his son alive and smirking despite the pain—and for a moment, the shadow of Grimm’s words didn’t seem quite so close.
There was a soft knock on the door, followed by the gentle creak of hinges opening.
“Healer on duty,” came a voice—cool, efficient, but not unkind.
Healer Cormac stepped inside, crisp green robes billowing slightly as he entered.
“Evening, Mr. and Mrs. Potter,” he greeted with a polite nod before turning his attention to James. “And how’s our favorite near-casualty doing?”
James raised a brow. “You’ve got others? Should I be worried about my ranking?”
Healer Cormac gave a faint smile as he drew his wand and began a slow circular pass above James’s chest, murmuring incantations under his breath. “Still got your humor. That’s promising.”
A series of glowing sigils shimmered briefly in the air before dissolving. The quill scratched a few notes on the hovering parchment.
“No signs of internal bleeding. Magical scarring is holding stable. Neurological traces from the Veil exposure are still fluctuating, but within tolerable bounds.”
Harry frowned slightly. “Fluctuating how?”
Cormac waved a hand gently. “Think of it as static—echoes, magical residue. Not uncommon in proximity trauma to artifacts like the Veil, especially one in an unstable state.”
James blinked slowly. “So I’m haunted?”
Ginny swatted his leg. “Don’t even joke.”
Cormac tapped James’s temple lightly with two fingers, eyes scanning the diagnostic readings. “You’re not haunted, Mr. Potter. You’re recovering. And doing quite well, considering you were almost vaporized.”
He pulled back, scanning the notes, and then looked up at them with the tone of someone issuing a challenge and a warning all at once.
“Tomorrow, if his vitals remain steady overnight, we’ll attempt a preliminary motor function evaluation. Standing, walking, balance. Nothing stressful, just seeing what your body remembers—and what it doesn’t.”
Harry and Ginny both sat straighter.
“Will it hurt?” James asked quietly.
“Most likely,” Cormac said, not unkindly. “But pain is just your body waking back up.”
“Terrific,” James muttered, sinking slightly deeper into the pillows.
“We’ll sedate you again tonight,” the healer continued, packing up the last of his tools. “You’ll rest. Dream. Heal.”
He turned toward Harry and Ginny as the quill folded itself and vanished.
“I’ll return in the morning. Try not to let him eat all the Fizzing Whizbees in one go,” he added with a nod to the overflowing gift pile.
Ginny smiled tightly. “We’ll ration the sugar.”
“Good,” said Cormac, heading toward the door. Just before stepping out, he paused and looked over his shoulder.
“And Mr. Potter—” he nodded at James, “—you’ve got a strong magic core. That’s in your favor. Let’s see if your legs agree.”
Then he was gone.
The door clicked softly shut behind him.
***
The gentle, rhythmic sound of James’s breathing filled the hospital room, and Harry sat watching him for a while longer. The monitors pulsed soft green light, casting shadows across his son’s face—peaceful now, but fragile, like the calm between storms.
When he was sure James was asleep, Harry rose quietly, pulled the blanket up to his chest, and slipped out of the room.
It was nearly midnight by the time Harry stood on the porch of the Granger-Weasley home, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at the familiar old oak door. Soft yellow light glowed from within, shadows moving across the curtains. A kettle whistled inside.
He raised a hand and knocked.
Footsteps approached, and a moment later, Hermione opened the door—hair pulled back in a messy twist, quill tucked behind her ear, wearing an old jumper that had probably belonged to Ron back when they were still at Hogwarts.
She blinked. “Harry?”
He gave her a tired smile. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”
Hermione stepped aside immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come in.”
The warm scent of cinnamon and parchment wrapped around him as he entered. Ron was at the kitchen table, a biscuit in one hand, papers spread out in front of him.
“Hey, mate,” he said, sitting up straighter when he saw Harry’s face. “Is it James?”
Harry shook his head quickly. “No. He’s stable. Sleeping.” He hesitated, glancing between them. “It’s something else. Something I… need to say out loud.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. She motioned for him to sit.
He dropped into the chair, running a hand through his hair.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth of Ron and Hermione’s living room, throwing a warm glow over the worn wooden floors and shelves crowded with books, framed family photos, and enchanted oddities. A small teacup rattled gently on the saucer in front of Harry, untouched. He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames like they might speak back.
Hermione and Ron sat across from him—Ron in his favorite sagging armchair, feet propped up; Hermione cross-legged on the edge of the coffee table, sharp-eyed and silent.
Harry finally spoke.
“He saw it.”
“Grimm?” Hermione asked.
Harry nodded. “The pit. The cursed fire. The Veil—horizontal now, like it’s trying to collapse into itself. He said it’s… unanchored. That it’s not just dangerous anymore, it’s open.”
Ron frowned. “What does that even mean, open? Like… a door?”
“No,” Hermione said slowly, already thinking. “More like a tear. A rift.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair. “He said someone has to fix it. That the Veil might respond to someone who’s… conquered death before.”
He looked at them, eyes shadowed with something uncertain. “And the thing is… I think he’s right.”
Hermione blinked. “You mean—?”
“The Elder Wand,” Harry said softly. “I still have it.”
Ron sat up straighter. “I thought you got rid of it.”
“I did. I left it in Dumbledore’s tomb.” Harry hesitated. “But I went back for it. After the attack on Burrow. Quietly. I told myself it was just for safekeeping...”
Hermione said nothing, her expression unreadable.
Harry leaned forward. “The Wand was made by Death. The Veil is of Death. If anything could reach that kind of magic—if anything could stabilize it—it’s that wand. And maybe… maybe someone like me using it.”
Ron scratched the back of his neck. “Alright, but let’s just say for the sake of argument that makes sense—why’s Grimm telling you this? Why now?”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t think he knows about the Elder Wand. He never mentioned it. Never said the words. It was just… the way he talked. Like he was planting the idea without saying it. But I don’t think he meant to.”
Hermione leaned in. “Harry. You do realize that’s what manipulation looks like, right?”
Harry frowned, then waved it off. “No—it didn’t feel like that. It felt… like he was confirming something I already knew.”
Ron exchanged a glance with Hermione. She didn’t look convinced.
Harry went on. “And anyway, even if the idea came from him, that doesn’t make it wrong. If there’s a way to close the Veil—stop the Pit, the Inferi, everything—then I have to try. I have to at least try.”
There was a long pause.
Hermione finally said, “If you’re going to use the Elder Wand again, Harry… be careful. That wand doesn’t just respond to power. It magnifies purpose. Intent. You have to be sure of your reasons, or it will turn on you.”
Ron nodded, somber for once. “And if Grimm really did plant the idea in your head… even if you didn’t feel it… he might not just want you to fix the Veil. He might want to see what happens when you touch it with something that old. Something that dangerous.”
Harry stared at the fire again, jaw set.
“I don’t know what he wants,” he said quietly. “But I know what I have to do.”
Hermione exhaled. “Then we’ll help you. Whatever happens.”
Ron gave a tight smile. “Someone’s got to stand behind you when you do your whole dramatic ‘I’ll fix it myself’ routine.”
Harry huffed a laugh—just barely.
But in the back of his mind, the ember of Grimm’s voice still glowed.
You’ve always known, deep down, haven’t you?
Hermione stood, arms tightly crossed, as if she were holding herself together with sheer will. The flickering fireplace cast shadows across her face, making her look older—tired in the way only someone who knew too much could look.
Ron exhaled loudly from his chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Well... if you’re going to do it, I’m coming with you.”
Harry blinked. “Ron—”
“I’m not letting you walk into a pit of intelligent undead and cursed fire alone, mate,” Ron cut in. “I know you. You’ll say it’s just a test, just a poke, and then the next thing we know, you’re dueling Death itself while quoting Dumbledore. Nah. Not happening without me.”
Harry almost laughed, but the tightness in his chest wouldn’t let him. “You’ve got a family.”
Ron gave him a half-smile. “So do you.”
Hermione didn’t smile. She was staring into the fire like it might give her a different answer if she looked hard enough.
Finally, she said, very quietly, “Harry… what if this is what they want?”
Both men turned toward her.
She met Harry’s eyes. “You said Grimm didn’t mention the Elder Wand. But you’ve also said he’s... unusually intuitive. That he knew the Veil had changed without being told. That he felt the magic of the Pit before stepping into the room. Doesn’t that seem… convenient?”
Harry hesitated. “He didn’t push it.”
“No. He led you to it,” she said sharply. “You don’t see it because he didn’t tell you to do anything. He just spoke in a way that made you think you’d figured it out yourself. That’s manipulation, Harry. And the worst kind.”
Ron shifted uneasily. “Okay, but even if she’s right—and I’m not saying she’s not—what other option do we have? We can’t leave that thing churning out Inferi until it swallows the whole Department.”
Harry nodded slowly. “Exactly. I don’t think Grimm knows about the Wand. I don’t think he’s got some master plan.”
Hermione cut in, voice taut: “You don’t think. But you don’t know. And if you’re wrong—if he’s using you to test something on that Veil, to force it open or bend it to his will—then we’re handing him the key.”
The room went quiet again.
Harry looked down at his hands. They were scarred, steady, and suddenly felt very, very heavy.
“I’m not saying I’ll blast it with raw power,” he said. “I just want to… touch it. Sense the reaction. See if the Elder Wand resonates with it the same way. If it doesn't—fine. We leave it. If it does…”
He looked up.
“We might finally learn what we’re really dealing with.”
Hermione pressed her lips together, then walked over and sank into the couch beside him, rubbing her temple with slow, circular motions.
“I hate this,” she murmured. “Every piece of it.”
“I know,” Harry said quietly.
She turned to him. “Promise me one thing, Harry. If something answers back from the other side… you stop.”
Harry nodded.
But in his heart, he wasn’t sure if he could promise that.
Because part of him already wanted to hear what might speak through the veil.
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples like the weight of the entire Ministry had settled there.
“And how exactly,” she said, voice edged with frustration, “are you planning to get permission from Higgs to go near the Veil again? You do remember he suspended you, right? Publicly. In front of half the Office.”
Harry didn’t look up.
“He thinks you helped Albus escape. He thinks you’re compromised. I’d be shocked if he even lets you into Level Nine without a full security escort—let alone near the Pit with the most dangerous wand in history.”
“I don’t need his permission,” Harry said quietly.
Ron straightened in his chair. “Mate—”
“I don’t,” Harry repeated. “The Veil is a Class X unstable magical artifact. There's no official protocol anymore—Kingsley’s gone, half the Unspeakables are dead, and Higgs barely understands what he's dealing with. If I wait for permission, we’ll be reading Albus’s obituary.”
Hermione looked at him like he was already halfway to madness.
“And what if he catches you? Or worse, Grimm? You go down to that chamber with the Elder Wand and someone will report it. Higgs won’t just suspend you again, Harry—he’ll make an example out of you. And if word gets out that the Elder Wand’s in play... it won’t just be the Ministry watching.”
Harry met her gaze. “I’m not going down there to break the law. I’m going to stop the world from collapsing.”
Hermione opened her mouth—then closed it. The room was quiet for a moment.
Ron scratched his chin. “Well. Might be the first time breaking into the Department of Mysteries ends with saving the world instead of wrecking it.”
Hermione gave him a look. “Not helping.”
Harry stood. His voice was low, but firm.
“I’ll go when it’s quiet. After midnight. No announcement. No one else down there. Just me, the wand, and the Veil. I don’t need an audience.”
Hermione stood too, blocking him. “Harry—he hates you. Right now, Nathan Higgs sees you as a rogue operative with a legacy complex. If you step out of line again, he won’t blink before sending the whole damn Department after you.”
“Let him,” Harry said. “I’m not doing this for him.”
Hermione stared at him, eyes full of fear and fire.
“You’re walking a knife’s edge, Harry.”
“I know.”
And with that, he turned toward the door—already lost in the weight of what waited below the Ministry’s surface.
The Pit was calling.
And Harry was already answering.
***
The night was thick with silence by the time Harry Apparated just beyond the edge of the wards surrounding Sparrow Cottage.
A sleepy breeze rustled through the tall grass that bordered the quiet Devon lane. The windows glowed faintly from within—soft candlelight, likely left by his mother, who always insisted on keeping at least one lamp burning until everyone was home safe. Even after all these years. Even after coming back from the dead.
Harry walked slowly up the stone path, his boots brushing dew off the overgrown thyme and clover. For a moment, he just stood at the front door, hand on the old brass knob, breathing in the scent of soil and night jasmine.
He opened the door with a whisper of magic, careful not to let the hinges creak.
Inside, the warmth hit him like a memory. Faded blankets draped over the couch, teacups from earlier still in the sink, James Potter’s leather boots by the door, Sirius’s wand tossed carelessly on the side table. The hearth had burned down to a soft orange glow. The quiet was sacred here.
He padded softly through the hallway, past the staircase. He could hear soft snoring—Sirius, probably. Or maybe his father.
He reached the study. His study. A room the others rarely entered. It still smelled faintly of ink and old parchment, and the small, magically reinforced trunk in the corner sat where it always had. Ordinary to anyone else. To Harry, it held the last piece of a past he tried so hard to bury.
He knelt beside it and whispered the unlocking charm. The trunk clicked, then hissed as the inner enchantments released.
Harry lifted the lid slowly.
Inside, wrapped in dragonhide and bound with silver twine, lay the Elder Wand. The Deathstick. The Wand of Destiny.
Its surface was smooth and cold, as if the wood itself rejected warmth. The air around it always felt thinner, like the wand refused to share space with anything less than purpose.
Harry stared at it for a long time.
He hadn’t touched it in years.
Not since the war.
Not since he’d gone back to Dumbledore’s tomb and retrieved it in secret, telling himself it was only for safekeeping. That the world might need it someday. That he’d know when the moment came.
This is that moment, something whispered in him.
Or maybe it wasn’t a whisper. Maybe it was the wand itself.
He reached in, unwrapped it slowly, and took it in his hand.
The magic was instant—hot and cold, roaring and silent. The wand recognized him. Still his. Always his.
Harry exhaled slowly and stood.
As he turned to leave the study, he paused. Down the hall, he could hear the soft creak of floorboards—someone shifting in their sleep. Then a murmur.
But they didn’t rise, didn’t follow. They must’ve only stirred.
Harry stood in the hallway for a long moment, wand hidden in the sleeve of his coat.
Then, without a word, he slipped silently out the door and into the night.
The Veil was waiting.
And Death would recognize its master.
The world twisted in on itself as Harry Apparated, landing with a sharp crack in the shadowed outer atrium of the Ministry of Magic.
It was well past midnight, and the building felt like a tomb—quiet, echoing, the fountains turned off, the golden statues eerily still beneath moonlight filtering through enchanted glass. His boots tapped softly on the marble as he moved forward, cloak drawn close, his wand concealed beneath his sleeve.
He headed toward the Minister’s wing first. If Higgs was still working—and knowing him, he might be—he’d be there.
But as Harry reached the familiar corridor, something felt… off.
The lights were on.
The door to Higgs’s office stood ajar.
Harry stepped closer, heart ticking faster. He knocked softly—out of habit more than anything.
No answer.
He pushed the door open further.
Empty.
But not untouched.
The office was in disarray. Higgs’s quill lay snapped in half on the desk. A drawer had been yanked open, papers spilled across the floor. There were faint traces of magical residue—burned parchment in the corner, the smell of recent spellfire. Someone had either left in a hurry… or been made to leave.
Harry stepped inside cautiously, his eyes scanning. The fireplace was dark. The Floo had been cut off. There were faint traces of something else—confinement magic, old and fading.
And on the desk, half-crumpled beneath a fallen inkwell, was a Ministry memorandum.
He pulled it out and squinted at the smudged ink:
"To Acting Minister Nathan Higgs — all access to Level Nine restricted from 12:01 AM onward until structural review complete. Authorization: Grimm."
Harry stared at it, dread blooming in his chest.
“Where are you, Higgs…” he murmured.
He reached for the magical locator charm on his wand—basic Auror training, keyed to all Ministry officials.
But when he whispered the spell, it sparked—and fizzled out.
Blocked.
Someone had scrambled the trace.
That wasn’t protocol.
Harry turned on his heel and left the office, boots echoing too loud now. He moved quickly, heading for the lifts—but the magical elevator runes were inactive. Frozen.
He stopped cold.
Then he felt it.
A presence.
Low. Distant. Watching.
Something was moving below. Not footsteps—a pulse.
From Level Nine.
The Veil.
Harry’s grip on the Elder Wand tightened in his sleeve.
Whatever was happening… Grimm had moved first.
And Higgs was missing.
Harry didn’t hesitate.
He turned away from the inert lifts and sprinted for the emergency access stairs—a narrow, spiral chute hidden behind a tapestry on Level Two, known only to Aurors and high-clearance personnel. He whispered the override enchantment, and the wall peeled back with a mechanical groan, revealing a dimly lit stone passage spiraling downward into the Ministry’s underbelly.
The deeper he went, the colder it became. Not physically cold, but magically—the kind of chill that soaked into your bones and whispered that something ancient was awake below.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, wand drawn, heart pounding.
The hallway to Level Nine stretched before him—dark stone, flickering torches, silence broken only by the occasional drip… drip… drip of condensation on enchanted marble.
He passed the broken door that had once sealed the Hall of Prophecies, then the shattered remains of the Time Chamber—still leaking faint gold vapors. And then, finally, he reached the entrance to the Department of Death and the Veil containment zone.
But something was wrong.
The runes.
They were dim.
The blue-white fire that he had etched around the Veil pit—fire that had never once flickered—was faltering. Flickering like candlelight in wind.
And worse—
The reinforced iron doors were ajar.
Harry froze.
That chamber should have been sealed. The Pit—never unattended.
His instincts screamed as he slipped through the opening, wand raised, every muscle coiled.
Inside, the once-pristine white-marble containment hall was bathed in shadow.
The Veil still hung over the pit—flat and shimmering, an impossible wound in the air—but now it shuddered, as if reacting to an unseen force. The cursed fire sputtered in unnatural rhythms. Runes on the walls blinked erratically. Smoke clung low to the ground.
And near the Pit—standing at the edge of the blue flames, coat fluttering slightly in the ambient energy—was Grimm.
Hands clasped behind his back. Staring into the Veil.
Harry’s heart stopped.
The elder wand practically hummed in his grip, reacting to the wild, corrupted magic in the room.
Grimm didn’t turn.
He didn’t need to.
His voice drifted into the air like smoke.
“I wondered how long it would take you to find the hole in the chessboard.”
Harry raised his wand.
“Where is Higgs?”
Grimm finally turned, his face bathed in the ghostly light of the flickering flames. His expression was calm. Almost… sad.
“Higgs is alive. For now. But he’s not part of this game, Harry. He never was. He only ever believed the board was real.”
Harry stepped forward, wand aimed directly at Grimm’s heart.
“I’m not going to ask again.”
Grimm smiled faintly. “You still think this is about questions and answers.”
His eyes flicked toward the Pit.
“You brought the wand. Good. I was afraid you wouldn’t listen to your own instincts.”
Harry’s blood went cold.
“You knew.”
Grimm’s smile deepened, but there was no joy in it.
“I’ve always known.”
And then—the Veil pulsed.
Not just shimmered—pulsed—a deep, resonant boom that echoed without sound, shaking the entire chamber. The cursed flames surged, reacting violently.
Harry took a step back, instinctively raising his wand to reinforce the fire’s runes.
But Grimm… just stood there.
Arms spread slightly.
Like he was welcoming the storm.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” he whispered. “The line fraying. The breach growing. This world… wants to be open.”
And Harry realized, with dawning horror, that he wasn’t looking at a man trying to contain the Veil.
He was looking at the man trying to set it free.
Notes:
👀👀👀👀
Chapter 49: The Unseen Master
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry's grip on the Elder Wand tightened, his pulse a roar in his ears.
“No,” he said quietly, shaking his head as if the words themselves were refusing to take root. “No. You’re Grimm. You’re the Minister of Magic for Germany. You helped with the triage after the explosion. You helped Albus with his case. You —”
Grimm’s gaze didn’t waver.
“I did,” he said calmly.
“You stood next to me while I was trying to keep my son alive!”
“I did,” Grimm said again, voice low, almost reverent. “And I meant every word. James is strong. But strength doesn’t exempt anyone from the tides of the world.”
Harry felt sick. “You're the one who caused those tides.”
“Caused?” Grimm tilted his head. “No. I revealed them.”
Harry stepped forward, wand aimed between Grimm’s eyes.
“Vance,” he said sharply. “He was part of this. He framed Albus. He helped sabotage the Department. You were working with him.”
Grimm’s expression flickered, but only for a moment. “Vance was… convenient. But don’t overestimate his importance. He was a useful fanatic with a poor grasp of vision. He dreamed of miracles but choked on power the first time he tasted it.”
Harry’s voice dropped to a razor edge. “So there are more.”
Grimm smiled.
It was the kind of smile people wear before pulling a curtain off a secret.
“ More? ” he echoed, as if it were a joke. “Oh, Harry.”
He took a slow step forward, unafraid of the Elder Wand.
“I don’t have followers. I have believers. Devotees. People who would kill you with their bare hands if I asked. Not out of fear— out of devotion. ”
Harry didn’t flinch. “You’re lying.”
Grimm's eyes glittered. “Am I? How do you think I became the most beloved magical leader in Europe in five years? How do you think the Circle of Flame moved beneath your nose without a trace? They’re not hiding, Harry. They’re already in power. ”
A silence fell between them, pulsing with the energy of the cursed fire. The Veil behind them hissed again— alive, responding to the magic in the air.
Harry’s wand didn’t move.
But something in his soul twisted, as he realized—
This man had never needed to deceive him.
He'd only needed Harry to trust his own idea long enough to bring the Elder Wand into the room.
Harry whispered, “You used me.”
Grimm’s smile softened.
“I guided you.”
Another pulse from the Veil. The fire cracked, and from deep beneath the mist— something moved.
Grimm turned to face it again, the blue glow casting strange shadows on his face.
Harry's voice was barely a whisper—raw, wounded, seething.
“You wanted me to bring it.”
Grimm didn’t turn immediately. He stood at the edge of the cursed fire, hands still folded neatly behind his back as he gazed into the trembling, pulsing Veil.
“You knew I had it,” Harry said, louder now. “You knew I would come here with the Elder Wand. How?”
Grimm finally looked at him, and the smile that bloomed on his face was colder than the fire around them.
“Oh, Harry,” he said softly, almost pityingly. “You’re still so wonderfully naive. After everything you’ve seen. After everyone you’ve buried.”
Harry’s stomach turned.
“You think the Elder Wand is a secret? You think it’s hidden just because you whispered your intentions to a tomb?”
Grimm took a slow step forward, and the Veil behind him pulsed again, a soft boom like a heartbeat. The cursed fire flickered against his dark coat, casting inhuman shapes.
“I’ve studied the Wand longer than you’ve known it existed. I know every wandlore text Ollivander wouldn’t dare publish. I’ve spoken with the bones of those who once wielded it.”
“You’re bluffing,” Harry growled, wand raised.
Grimm smiled wider. “You’re standing in a fortress built by Death—and you think bluffing matters now?”
Harry didn’t wait.
“Expelliarmus!”
The red spell shot across the room like a lightning strike—but Grimm was faster.
“Protego Maxima.”
A shield shimmered into being, dome-like and layered with dark silver runes. Harry’s spell struck it and shattered like glass, sparks scattering across the floor.
Grimm’s eyes narrowed. “Still using schoolboy spells, Harry?”
Harry didn’t answer.
He flicked the Elder Wand in a whip-fast motion—“Confringo!”
A blast of fire roared toward Grimm, this time charged with the Wand’s unnatural weight—but Grimm vanished in a swirl of darkness, reappearing midair behind him.
“Stupefy.”
Harry twisted, caught it with a deflection charm—“Reflectum!”—and Grimm’s spell spun back toward him. But Grimm simply stepped aside, graceful, unhurried.
He wasn’t attacking.
He was testing .
Harry’s face hardened.
No more games.
“Levicorpus. Petrificus Totalus. Serpensortia—Ignis forma!”
He cast rapidly, chaining spells like firecrackers. A coiling serpent erupted toward Grimm. Fire clawed at the floor.
Grimm raised both hands—and commanded the fire .
Not extinguished. Redirected. The cursed flame bowed away from him like an obedient beast.
And then, for the first time, Grimm struck.
“Mortalis Umbra.”
The spell flew like a spear—black, silent, humming with cursed energy. Harry deflected it barely, but the force knocked him backward into a column. Stone cracked behind his shoulders.
Grimm stepped closer, the Veil writhing behind him.
“You think this duel is yours to win?” he said, eyes burning. “I brought you here. You’re playing my part. ”
Harry stood again, bleeding from the temple, wand glowing bright gold in his grip.
“I don’t care whose part I’m playing,” he snarled. “I’m ending this tonight. ”
The Veil howled behind them as magic surged.
The duel had only begun.
Magic surged like a storm trapped in stone.
Harry dove behind a shattered pillar as Grimm’s next curse exploded against it, pulverizing marble into dust. Shards slashed his cheek, but he barely felt it. His mind was racing—not just with tactics, but with something deeper. Wrong.
The Elder Wand vibrated in his hand, hot and volatile—but not obedient. Every time Harry cast, it responded with a fraction of its usual force, as though reluctantly obeying.
That wasn’t how it was supposed to feel.
“Expulso!” he shouted, aiming at the ceiling. The stone cracked and fell in a cascade of rubble toward Grimm.
But Grimm didn’t flinch. With a flick of his hand, the rubble froze midair— and spun, transforming into jagged projectiles.
“Reductum.”
The shards shot toward Harry like knives. He spun, conjured a quick barrier—“Protego Totalis!”—and half of the daggers shattered. But two slipped past, slicing into his arm. He hissed, fell to one knee.
And still—the wand in his hand hesitated. Trembled.
Why?
Grimm stalked forward, his own wand still not raised fully, the Veil behind him pulsing like a second heart. The cursed fire curled along the edges of the chamber, wild but controlled— by him.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Grimm said softly, circling. “It’s pulling away from you.”
Harry struggled to his feet. “You did something—”
“I did nothing,” Grimm said with quiet triumph. “The wand simply knows. It remembers what you’ve forgotten.”
Harry slashed the air—“Ventus Tempestas!”—a whip of hurricane-force wind spiraling toward Grimm, aiming to launch him back into the cursed fire.
But the Elder Wand pulled —not forward, but sideways, like resisting a leash. The spell fizzled mid-flight, spiraling uselessly into the dark.
Grimm raised his eyebrows. “You’re fighting with a weapon that no longer believes in you.”
Harry froze.
“What?”
Grimm stepped closer, eyes gleaming with power and pity.
“Do you think the wand obeys love? Legacy? Nostalgia?”
He gestured at it.
“It bows only to power. And to those who do not fear Death. That’s how Dumbledore won it from Grindelwald. Not because he was kinder. But because he was stronger. And because he knew death was a door—not a curse.”
Harry’s breath caught.
Grimm whispered: “You feared the Veil the moment you laid eyes on it.”
The Elder Wand had felt it.
That flicker of doubt. That instinct to preserve life. That terror of losing a son.
It had turned away.
Harry’s hands tightened around the wand, sweat mingling with blood. It still answered him—but not fully. Not the way it once had. He was holding a reluctant king.
“Avada Kedavra.”
The green bolt screamed toward him.
Harry dropped flat—barely avoiding it—and rolled, slamming his hand to the floor.
“Bombarda Maxima!”
The floor beneath Grimm detonated. Stone ruptured. Grimm was flung upward, cloak flaring—but he landed gracefully, shield spinning around him, not even winded.
He turned his hand, and the very walls groaned.
From the Veil, the Inferi stirred.
Long arms clawed up from beneath the shimmering pit. Pale bodies, twitching. Intelligent eyes glowing faintly. Four… five… six of them rising.
Grimm smiled.
“Let’s raise the stakes, shall we?”
And the Inferi stepped forward.
Not shambling.
Not mindless.
But poised.
Waiting.
The chamber descended into chaos.
The Inferi stepped from the edge of the Veil like soldiers marching from shadow—silent, coordinated, horrifyingly alive . They moved with unnatural grace, eyes glowing the same cursed blue as the flames flickering around the pit. These were not the mindless dead Harry had seen before.
These were designed.
Harry didn’t wait.
“Incendio Ignis Draconis!”
A torrent of fire burst from the Elder Wand’s tip—hot, golden-white, dragonflame —sweeping across the stone floor and engulfing the first two Inferi. Their bodies shrieked , curling in on themselves as the fire scorched through muscle and magic.
But the other four didn’t flinch. They adapted , shifting to flank him. One leapt—too fast—but Harry turned on instinct and blasted it midair .
“Depulso! Expulso! REDUCTO!”
His spells crackled with raw power. Columns shattered. The ceiling rumbled. The cursed fire surged along the walls as the duel became a war zone.
He spun, ducked, cast again—“Incarcerous!”—ropes shot forward, binding one Inferius’s legs. Another lunged from the side, claws grazing his ribs.
Blood splattered across the marble. Harry spun again, casting fire directly into the swarm.
The flames exploded— living , snarling, a serpent of fire that tore through the Inferi, burning them to dust and ash.
For a moment— just a moment —Harry stood in the center of the storm, breathing hard, wand smoking, victorious.
And then—
The wand hesitated.
It jerked in his grip, violently , like something was pulling it. Harry tried to reinforce his hold—but the magic burned in his hand.
He gasped. “No—”
And the Elder Wand ripped itself free.
It flew into the air, spinning like a dagger.
And landed, cleanly, into Grimm’s waiting hand.
The flames dimmed.
The Veil steadied.
The chamber went still.
Grimm looked down at the wand in his fingers with a reverent sigh, as though reuniting with an old friend.
Harry’s knees nearly buckled. His own magic stuttered. He could feel the void where the Elder Wand’s allegiance had once lived.
Grimm’s voice was gentle, triumphant.
“Now, Harry,” he said, raising the wand, which glowed in his grip. “You are no longer the Master of Death.”
Grimm smiled.
“Death has chosen another.”
Harry stood frozen, panting, disarmed, surrounded by six snarling Inferi, and now—
Now facing Grimm with the most powerful wand in existence.
One of the Inferi snarled, then lunged.
Harry ran.
He bolted through them, skidding across blood-slick stone, narrowly dodging the clawed hands and snapping teeth. A bony hand caught his coat, tore it open—another swiped his back, shallow but bleeding.
He tumbled, rolled, slammed into the ground hard.
Then his hand reached inside his torn jacket.
Fingers curled around something old. Something familiar.
He yanked it out.
Holly and phoenix feather. His first wand.
Snapped once. Repaired by the Deathly Hallows. And in use ever since.
“Let’s see if you’ve still got it,” he whispered.
And then he stood.
“Incendio!” he roared.
The spell tore from the wand like an arrow from a bow. Fire erupted across the floor, swallowing the closest Inferius. The wand practically sang in his hand, as if grateful to be remembered.
The Inferi hissed.
Harry turned, face lit by flame, and charged.
“Reducto!”
“Stupefy!”
“Diffindo!”
One fell. Then another. His movements blurred with instinct and rage. He spun, dodged, ducked—magic bursting from his wand like he was seventeen again, like the battlefield of Hogwarts had never ended.
Grimm watched from the steps above the Veil, Elder Wand in hand, not lifting a finger.
But his eyes burned with something unreadable.
Not with fury or fear.
But curiosity.
As if he were watching a myth fight to prove it still mattered.
The last Inferius shrieked and lunged.
Harry caught it midair—“Expulso!”
It exploded.
Then silence.
Harry stood in the ring of fire and ash, chest heaving, blood dripping down his temple, his old wand still raised.
And Grimm?
He applauded.
Slowly. Softly.
“Well done, Harry,” he said, voice like a knife in silk. “The boy who lived… still lives.”
Harry stared at him, furious, breathless, and utterly unbroken.
Grimm didn’t vanish.
He stepped forward.
Slow. Measured. Eyes glinting with something halfway between reverence and hunger.
In his hand, the Elder Wand pulsed with authority. But Harry now stood firm, cloak torn, blood on his temple, the phoenix feather wand gripped tight.
Not the most powerful wand in the world.
But his.
The silence cracked.
Grimm moved first.
"Confringo!"
Harry’s wand snapped up—"Protego!"—and the fireball slammed into his shield with an ear-splitting bang, rocking the ground but not breaching his guard.
Harry shot back—"Expelliarmus!"
Grimm sidestepped and countered—"Incarcerous!"—sending coils of burning black rope.
Harry cut them midair —"Diffindo Maxima!"—spinning to the left and launching another—"Depulso!"
Grimm was fast, but Harry was faster now. The wand in his hand felt like lightning—pure muscle memory and instinct fused. Every flick and arc was a piece of himself— not borrowed power, but earned.
The Elder Wand cracked like thunder as Grimm raised it high.
"Ventus Caligo!"
A whirlwind of choking black fog ripped across the chamber—concealing him. Cloaking him. Hiding his next move.
Harry didn’t flinch.
Eyes closed. Breath steady.
Step.
He ducked. Rolled left.
"Stupefy!" he barked—his voice echoed—and the stunning spell hit empty fog.
From behind—Grimm struck:
"Oppugno Umbra!"
A shadow-beast, shaped like a jackal made of smoke and eyes, lunged from the wall.
Harry turned—"Expecto Patronum!"
A brilliant silver stag exploded from his wand and impaled the shadow mid-charge. It howled—and dissolved.
Fog parted.
Their eyes met again.
Then they charged.
Sparks flew as their spells clashed midair, blinding and searing— red against violet, gold against black.
"Reducto!"
"Protego!"
"Fulgur Tempestum!"
"Finite Incantatem!"
Stone cracked beneath their feet. The Veil behind them rippled wildly. The cursed fire circled like a living thing, drawn to the energy.
Harry dodged a hex that scorched his shoulder, rolled behind a fractured plinth, and shouted—"Expulso!"
It detonated at Grimm’s feet, knocking him back.
Grimm hit the floor hard—cloak smoking, breath sharp.
Harry stood over him, wand raised.
They both paused.
Silence.
Smoke curled between them, painting the air with ash and magic.
Grimm looked up at Harry—eyes still sharp, lips curling.
“You shouldn’t be able to keep up with this wand,” he murmured.
Harry’s chest heaved, his voice rough. “Then maybe it’s not about the wand.”
He stepped forward. “Maybe it’s about who doesn’t need it.”
Smoke still curled in the air as Harry stood, panting, blood trickling from a shallow cut across his brow.
Grimm lay sprawled on the cracked marble, cloak scorched, wand hand slack against the floor— the Elder Wand mere inches from his fingers. He reached for it.
Harry kicked it away.
Then he grabbed Grimm by the collar and hauled him up. Their faces were inches apart—Harry’s eyes blazing with fury, breath hot with adrenaline.
“Why?” he snarled. “Why all this? The Veil, the Inferi, my son— what are you trying to open? ”
Grimm just chuckled, blood at the corner of his mouth.
“Still asking questions,” he rasped. “Still chasing answers like they matter.”
Harry’s knuckles tightened in his coat. “You talk a lot for someone who just lost. ”
Grimm’s reply died on his tongue.
Because suddenly—
A familiar sound pierced the chamber.
Soft.
Ethereal.
A low, rising note. Like dawn catching fire.
Harry froze.
So did Grimm.
They both turned.
Up above them, gliding in from the ruined archway in the ceiling, was a phoenix.
Its feathers shimmered in gold and red, its wings vast and slow, each beat humming with truth. Light pooled from its body like warmth given form, spilling down over them like sun through water.
And for one suspended second—
Time stopped.
The phoenix circled once—slowly—above the Veil.
Its eyes met Harry’s.
And then it sang.
The note hit Harry like a wave—pure, cleansing, familiar.
A sound that once echoed in the Chamber of Secrets.
A sound that lifted his spirit through Dumbledore’s funeral.
A sound that whispered: You are not alone.
Harry took a breath—deep and full—and let go of Grimm’s collar.
Harry whispered, stunned, “...Fawkes?”
But something was wrong.
Grimm laughed—a low, delighted, maddening laugh that echoed between the cracked walls.
“Oh, Harry,” he said breathlessly, “You still don’t understand what side you’re on.”
Fawkes dove.
But not toward Grimm.
At Harry.
A blur of heat and motion slammed into Harry’s chest, not in attack, but forceful enough to knock him back. The phoenix’s wings flared, dazzling, and Harry stumbled, dropping to one knee.
He hit the ground hard, wand slipping from his grip.
Too late.
Grimm moved like lightning.
He rolled, grabbed the Elder Wand, and was back on his feet in one motion.
He didn’t raise the wand yet. He just stood—rising tall—while the phoenix perched behind him like a crown of fire.
Harry’s mouth was dry. “Fawkes... why?”
Grimm’s hand closed around the Elder Wand like it was born there.
“Because he chose me,” he said simply.
The phoenix let out a long, haunting cry—one that echoed with sorrow, yes, but also with something older.
Resolve.
The firelight pulsed like a heartbeat.
Grimm stood tall now, the Elder Wand steady in his grip, its tip glowing faint gold. Behind him, Fawkes settled on a blackened pillar, wings folded like burning parchment, his eyes fixed—not on Grimm, but on Harry.
The betrayal stung more than the wounds.
Harry slowly rose to his feet, bloodied, chest rising and falling. His phoenix wand was still nearby, just out of reach—five feet, maybe. But that distance felt like a canyon.
Grimm twirled the Elder Wand slowly in his fingers, the confidence back in his step.
“No clever words now, Harry?”
Harry didn’t answer.
He moved.
Dove for the wand—
—but Fawkes shrieked, launching from the pillar.
Flames exploded around Harry’s path, forcing him back as the great bird swept past, wings fanning magical fire in a brilliant arc. The flames licked the air like ropes trying to bind him, herd him.
Harry skidded to a stop, boots sliding through ash.
Grimm raised the Elder Wand.
“Crucio.”
Harry barely dodged, the curse searing the air beside him.
“Stupefy!” he snapped, wandless—but the bolt came from nowhere.
A wand.
His wand.
It had slid across the floor during Fawkes’s dive—right into his hand. Whether by accident, instinct, or loyalty, he didn’t care.
He caught it mid-air and fired .
The Stunning Spell crashed into Grimm’s shield—but it cracked it.
Grimm’s eyes flashed. “Still fighting with sentiment.”
“Sectumsempra!” Harry roared.
Grimm flicked his wand to deflect, but Harry followed it —“Reducto!”—and the floor beneath Grimm exploded again, sending him staggering.
Fawkes screeched again—wings igniting.
Flames swept toward Harry, but he slashed the air—“Aguamenti Cyclonis!”
A cyclone of water burst from his wand, dousing the phoenix fire midair.
Steam exploded around them.
Visibility gone.
Footsteps. Breaths. Cracking stone.
Then:
“Expelliarmus!”
“Protego!”
“Incarcerous!”
“Diffindo!”
They moved like shadows. Blades of light in fog. Magic twisted the air as spells ricocheted, shattering marble columns and splintering the broken containment runes around the Veil.
And through it all—Fawkes soared above, releasing shrieks of golden magic that bent the battlefield.
Harry was faster now, not because of strength—but because the phoenix wand responded to him like an extension of his soul.
They clashed in the open once more—wand against wand.
Elder Wand vs Phoenix Feather.
A lightning bolt of green magic met a crimson arc midair, the explosion knocking both men backward. Harry rolled hard, hit the steps—but rose again.
Grimm landed gracefully—cloak billowing, a faint burn on his neck.
“You’re still not stronger than me,” Grimm growled, stepping forward, wand raised.
Harry wiped blood from his mouth. “Maybe not.”
Then raised his wand again.
“But I don’t need to be.”
They launched toward each other one final time.
Spells collided.
A battle not between power and power—
—but between belief and dominance.
And the chamber trembled with the force of their wills.
The chamber roared to life.
No more words.
No more mercy.
Harry lunged forward, and Grimm met him spell for spell, the Elder Wand blazing like a live wire in his grip—each flick of his wrist sculpting pure force from the air. Harry’s phoenix wand surged with him, alive with desperate clarity.
“Bombarda Maxima!”
Grimm’s curse shattered a pillar to dust, the shockwave ripping toward Harry.
“Protego!”
“Protego Duo!”
Two layers of shield absorbed the blast—but barely. Harry was launched backward , heels scraping, before he twisted midair and hit the ground in a slide, wand snapping upward.
“Fulgaris!”
A bolt of pure lightning exploded from Harry’s wand—wild, arcing straight for Grimm’s chest.
“Volucris Vane!” Grimm bellowed.
A twisting black ward—a spell of flight-binding and mirror shielding —intercepted the lightning and hurled it upward into the ceiling, which cracked open with a deafening blast.
Stone rained down.
Harry dashed through it, weaving between falling debris.
“Relashio! Confringo!”
Flames and pressure exploded toward Grimm, smoke blinding, fire spiraling—
But Fawkes shrieked from above, wings bursting into flame, and dived.
He cut through the spell-fire like a scythe of heat, shielding Grimm as though it were instinct—protecting him the way he once protected Dumbledore.
Harry’s chest twisted at the sight.
Grimm emerged from the smoke.
He didn’t look regal now.
He looked feral .
The Elder Wand surged with dark gold magic, and the stone floor beneath his boots cracked in a spiderweb of force.
“Mortem Obedire!” he screamed—Death Obey.
A curse Harry didn’t recognize shot from the wand, howling like a banshee , its tail leaving behind black ash.
Harry dove left, barely evading it—but the curse tore through a support beam, splitting it with a screech of steel and stone.
The Veil pulsed again.
Still silent. Still horizontal. But now rippling like water disturbed.
The duel continued.
Harry rose from the rubble and charged.
“Expelliarmus! Diffindo! Petrificus Totalus!”
“Protego Totalis. Oppugno Corpus. Repulso!”
Grimm pushed Harry’s spells away with sweeping, elegant counters. His casting was surgical, devastating.
But Harry was unpredictable. Emotional. Desperate.
He ducked , slid across the ground, and launched—
“INCENDIO CIRCLUS!”
A ring of fire erupted around Grimm.
And this time—
Fawkes didn’t stop it.
The fire caught Grimm’s cloak. Flames curled up his arm, and he roared—not in pain, but in fury. He slammed the Elder Wand downward—
“Glacialis Ruptura!”
Ice exploded from the marble floor in jagged spears, extinguishing the fire and launching shards of frost at Harry.
One struck his shoulder. Another grazed his ribs.
But Harry didn’t falter.
He flung his hand out—
“VENTO MORTIS!”
A howling wind— laced with magic —slammed into Grimm, hurling him back against the base of the Veil pit. His body hit with a crack of bone and air.
Grimm grinned through blood.
“You’re better than I expected,” he spat, rising.
Harry’s wand glowed bright gold.
“I’m just getting started.”
They charged again .
The Elder Wand and the Phoenix Wand collided mid-spell—shockwaves blinding, flame and lightning spiraling together—
The Veil behind them twitched.
Not screaming or opening.
But listening.
Waiting.
And neither of them noticed.
Because this duel wasn’t over.
And the next blow would decide the soul of the world.
The battle raged on—
but Harry was losing ground.
His breath came in ragged bursts, limbs screaming with effort, robes torn and bloody. Every spell he cast was met with merciless precision. And every time he almost got through—
Fawkes intervened.
Once a friend. A companion. A silent symbol of hope.
Now?
A fiery shield. A weapon Grimm wielded without lifting a finger.
Harry blasted flames—Fawkes tore through them.
Harry hurled water—Fawkes screamed , turning it to steam.
He tried stunning spells, slicing hexes, misdirection charms—
But the phoenix was everywhere at once, his cry cracking through the chamber, wings blazing with golden-red fire that never burned Grimm.
Grimm advanced step by step, the Elder Wand aglow like the tip of a god’s spear.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Grimm shouted over the storm of magic. “The world shifting? The Veil watching?”
Harry staggered backward, casting wildly—“Expulso! Expelliarmus! INCARCEROUS!”
Grimm blocked it all, effortlessly.
Then—
“Confringo!”
The explosion cracked the floor beneath Harry’s feet. He flew backward, slamming hard into the marble with a choked grunt. His wand skittered from his hand.
His vision swam.
His limbs felt made of lead.
He couldn’t—
Grimm approached slowly, like a man about to claim a throne, the Elder Wand aimed squarely at Harry’s chest.
“You fought well,” he said softly. “But you were never the ending, Harry.”
He raised the wand higher.
Fawkes shrieked above, circling.
And then—
“STAND DOWN!”
A dozen pops of Apparition snapped through the smoke like gunfire.
Cloaked figures flooded the broken Veil chamber—wands drawn.
Hermione. Ron. Theia. Aurors from all ranks. Even Higgs himself, eyes wide and furious.
Hermione’s voice rang like a sword: “Minister Elias Grimm, step away and surrender your wand immediately.”
Grimm stilled.
The Elder Wand stayed raised for one long second.
Then—
He smirked.
Not a trace of fear in his expression.
Behind him, Fawkes shrieked, wings flaring in a burst of phoenix fire.
And in a whirlwind of golden flame—
Grimm vanished.
Gone.
The flames curled upward like a signature left in smoke.
Silence fell.
All that remained was the shattered ground, the twitching cursed runes, the horizontal Veil still pulsing behind where he stood—
And Harry, on the ground, blinking up at the Aurors, heart pounding, hand bleeding, wand a foot out of reach.
Ron rushed to him. Hermione fell to her knees beside him.
And above them, Harry whispered:
“…He had the Elder Wand.”
Higgs stared at the Veil, pale.
But Harry only looked at the space where Grimm had stood.
And thought:
This is only the beginning.
Notes:
I really hope you enjoyed the action scene, it was a tough one to write, but I poured a lot into it. The story’s starting to climb now, and if you have a moment, leaving a review would mean everything to me. Your words truly keep me going and make all the difference. ❤️❤️
Chapter 50: Unshackled
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry couldn’t hear them.
Not really.
Shouting. Running. Someone yelling “We’re losing him!” as they dragged him through the corridors of the Ministry toward the emergency Floo. Someone else—Ron maybe—pressing something to his side, trying to stop the bleeding.
But Harry couldn’t feel the pain.
Because it was drowned .
By something colder. Heavier.
He had lost the Elder Wand.
It rang in his skull like a bell struck too hard.
He had brought it out. He had opened the tomb.
He had pulled it from Dumbledore’s resting hands.
And now it belonged to Elias Grimm.
He should’ve screamed. He should’ve fought harder. He should’ve known.
But all he did was lie there—blood on his lips, ash in his hair, and shame choking his lungs.
They reached St. Mungo’s.
Bright light. Healer robes. Gloved hands. Clean smells.
“Sir? Sir, stay with us—”
But Harry didn’t look at them. His eyes stared at the ceiling. Through the ceiling. Backward.
To a moment, decades ago, when he stood beside Dumbledore’s tomb, and made a vow in silence.
No one would touch that wand again.
Not for power. Not for war. Not even for protection.
Not unless it was the end of the world.
And he had broken it.
He had broken it because he was afraid.
Because after the attack on the Burrow—after Albus was nearly killed, and the Veil had split open—he had thought, just for a second: maybe I’ll need it. Just in case.
That one second … had led to this.
Grimm now held it. The wand forged by Death himself.
And Harry—Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the man who swore he’d be different—had done exactly what Voldemort did.
Desecrated a grave. Violated a legacy. Tried to use death’s weapon for life.
And failed.
He hated himself for it.
Even as they lifted him onto the hospital bed, even as someone pressed a potion to his lips, Harry turned his face away, muttering—
“I gave it to him. I gave it to him.”
Ron was beside him, shaking his head, gripping his shoulder. “No. He took it, Harry. You were fighting—”
But Harry’s voice cracked.
“No. I opened the tomb.”
Hermione had arrived. She stood at the foot of the bed, tears in her eyes, mouth open—but she couldn’t speak either.
Harry looked at her.
A whisper.
“What if I’ve become what we fought?”
No one answered.
Because in that moment, as the healers worked to stop the bleeding, and the city outside slept unaware of what had just risen in their world—
Harry Potter didn’t feel like a hero.
He felt like a man who had handed death the crown.
***
The room was dim, sterile, and silent—except for the faint ticking of the magical vitals monitor and the drip of potion tubes.
Harry sat on the edge of the hospital bed, one hand bandaged, the other trembling as it gripped the edge of the mattress. His face was pale, skin streaked with dried blood and soot. The mediwizard had just finished cleaning his wounds, but they hadn’t touched what was broken inside.
He hadn’t spoken in over an hour.
Ron sat in the chair beside him, shifting uncomfortably. Hermione stood by the window, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Neither knew what to say.
Finally, Hermione tried.
Her voice was soft, but steady. “Harry, this wasn’t your fault. He manipulated you. This was planned—”
“Don’t,” Harry rasped.
She froze.
He stared straight ahead. Not at her. Not at Ron. Not at anything in the room. Just the wall—like he was trying to see through it. Like if he stared hard enough, he could will himself out of this timeline.
Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Mate, I was there. You were holding your own with that wand. I’ve never seen anything like it. And that phoenix—he used Fawkes against you. That’s not—”
“I said don’t .”
The room snapped silent.
Harry’s shoulders were shaking slightly.
Hermione took a small step forward. “Harry, we’re just—”
“Leave me alone.”
It was a whisper, but it cut.
Ron blinked. “What?”
“I don’t want either of you here.” Harry’s voice was hollow. “I don’t want you looking at me. Or trying to explain it. Or telling me it’s not my fault.”
“Harry, come on—”
“I dug up the Elder Wand,” he said, more forceful now. “I gave it to him. Don’t you get it? All he had to do was wait. I walked straight into it. I made Grimm the master of death.”
Hermione’s lips parted in protest.
“I opened the tomb,” Harry said again, this time like he was choking on it. “I took it from Dumbledore’s hands. And for what? Because I was scared? Because I thought I’d be smart? That’s what Voldemort did. That’s what we swore we’d never be.”
Ron stood now, helpless. “That’s not what this is. You’re nothing like him—”
“I desecrated the grave of the greatest man we ever knew.” His voice cracked. “ Don’t you dare tell me I’m not like him. ”
Hermione looked like she might cry.
Harry didn’t.
His eyes were dry. Empty. He turned his face to the window, where the glass reflected nothing but dark sky.
“Please,” he whispered.
“Just go.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Hermione nodded, her throat tight. Ron hesitated, opened his mouth, then thought better of it.
They left without another word.
The door clicked softly behind them.
And Harry was alone again.
Just him.
And the crushing silence of everything he had sworn never to become.
The silence pressed against his ears like cotton soaked in guilt.
Everything around Harry was still—the sterile white walls, the cooling charm on the bed, the faint ticking of his enchanted vitals charm—yet his mind screamed.
He sat there, head bowed, elbows on his knees, feeling the weight of the moment pressing so hard into his spine it felt like his bones might snap.
Grimm had predicted him.
Laid a trap with elegance and patience and—worst of all— understanding.
Not brute force.
Not rage.
Not even greed.
But Harry.
He knew exactly what Harry would do.
And Harry—bloody, stupid Harry—had done it.
He clenched his jaw, trying to shut down the memories, but they came anyway— Mercy on his breath. Duty on his shoulders. The elder wand clenched in his hand.
He had thought he was acting out of necessity. Responsibility. That just this once , he could control it.
But that’s what Voldemort had thought too.
And worse?
He didn’t even see it coming.
It felt exactly like that night in the Ministry, so many years ago. When he was fifteen. When he rushed in to save Sirius because Voldemort knew he would. Because he knew Harry would always choose family over caution. Emotion over reason.
And back then, they all told him it wasn’t his fault.
Back then, they all said, “You were just a kid, Harry.”
But what’s his excuse now?
He wasn’t fifteen anymore.
He wasn’t the boy who lived in a cupboard and believed he could fix the world if he just tried hard enough.
He was a father.
He was supposed to know better.
And still, Grimm had read him like a book.
He played on Harry’s fear. On his desperation to protect James. Albus. Ginny. Everyone. He gave him just enough truth to make the lie feel like a solution. Let Harry believe the idea was his own.
Like Voldemort had.
Like every monster who understood how to exploit the goodness in people.
And Harry had handed him the most dangerous wand in history.
Worse—he’d broken a sacred promise.
He had gone to Dumbledore’s tomb.
He had opened it.
His fingers trembled.
He remembered that moment too vividly—the feel of the earth, the stone cold and silent, the sight of Dumbledore lying in perfect stillness, white robes like untouched snow.
And he had stolen the wand.
For safety.
For “just in case.”
But he knew the truth now.
He didn’t take it for the world.
He took it because, deep down, he didn’t trust that he could win without it.
That the things weren’t like before. He was not seventeen and alone; he had so much to lose now and a little help couldn’t hurt anyone.
And that—
That thought made him sick.
Grimm hadn’t just taken the wand.
He had taken Harry’s faith in himself.
And now?
Now he would have to look the world in the eye and pretend he still believed he deserved to stop this.
When deep down, something inside him whispered—
You don’t.
What now?
Harry stared at his own reflection in the dark window, his face barely visible in the glass—just the faint outline of a man who had failed.
What happened now?
The Elder Wand was gone.
The Circle of Flame had it.
Grimm had it.
A man whose wandless charisma could sway crowds, whose influence in Germany was so deep-rooted the ICW listened to his voice before their own conscience. A man with Fawkes on his shoulder and Death’s own wand in his grip.
What would he do now?
What would any of them do?
Because this wasn’t just about Inferi anymore.
Not just about blue fire and a broken Veil.
This was about belief.
The Circle of Flame didn’t see themselves as a cult. No, they saw themselves as pioneers. Revolutionaries. Redeemers.
They were rewriting death.
Grimm had shown his cards. He didn’t just want to defeat death—he wanted to control it. Harness it. Dominate it.
And now, with the Elder Wand, he could.
The wand made by Death himself.
The wand that had changed hands through war and legend, through blood and brotherhood.
It was supposed to be at rest.
Buried with Dumbledore. Unclaimed. Unused.
And now it belonged to a man who believed death was a door, and he was the one who deserved the key.
Harry closed his eyes.
What would happen now?
More Inferi? Stronger? Faster?
What if Grimm could pull not just bodies from the Veil—but souls?
What if the pit was never meant to be a hole in space—
But a throne room?
How many witches and wizards would join him willingly?
How many were already in the Circle, lying in wait in every Ministry across Europe?
How many believed he was a visionary?
A savior?
A messiah?
How do you stop a war , Harry thought, when half the world wants it?
And worst of all… when you started it?
Because Harry had given him the Elder Wand.
He had handed Grimm his crown.
And now the world would burn.
Not with wild, uncontrollable fire.
But with purposeful, controlled, resurrected flame.
A circle.
Perfect.
Closed.
Unbroken.
Unless he found a way to break it.
The windowpane reflected the night, but Harry didn’t see it.
He saw wings.
Burning. Beautiful. Betraying.
Fawkes.
His breath hitched in his throat. Of everything that happened—everything that had been taken, broken, lost—it was Fawkes that cleaved deepest.
That bird had cried over his wounds. Carried him from battle. Brought hope where there was none.
And now he had come back...
Not for him.
But for Grimm.
Harry didn’t know what tore more: that Fawkes had chosen Grimm—or that he hadn’t stopped him.
Why?
Why would he follow a man like that?
Phoenixes were supposed to come to those of pure heart, of courage, of faith in something greater than themselves. That’s what Dumbledore always said. That’s what he believed.
And Grimm had one.
Harry had seen it with his own eyes. Not just perched silently nearby—no. Fawkes had fought for him. Protected him. Carried him into flame and vanished with him like some triumphant, celestial escape artist.
He hadn't even looked at Harry.
Not once.
The betrayal stung worse than any spell.
Because if Fawkes could be turned...
What did that say about everything Dumbledore had taught him?
What did it say about Grimm?
What did it say about Harry?
He’d always believed he carried some part of Dumbledore’s legacy—however small. Not his brilliance. Not his power. But maybe his conviction.
Fawkes, for years, had felt like a silent acknowledgment of that. That he was doing something right.
But now…
Now Fawkes had made his choice.
And it wasn’t him.
Had he changed so much?
Become so tainted by fear, by compromise, by anger?
Was it because of the Elder Wand?
Because he opened the tomb?
Because somewhere, deep down, he’d hoped he’d need it?
Maybe Fawkes saw that.
Maybe he saw who Harry was becoming .
And chose to stand beside someone else.
The edges of the room blurred.
His thoughts, once so sharp they cut him from the inside, began to slip into molasses—slow, sticky, tangled.
The healing potion they’d forced down his throat was finally taking hold.
He felt it first in his fingers, going numb. Then in his chest, where the weight didn’t lift but dulled. Just enough to breathe without it cracking a rib.
And then came the sleep.
Unwanted.
Unkind.
But inescapable.
His body craved it—dragging his mind into fog—but his heart clung to the waking world, frantic with one last thought:
How do I tell Ginny?
She didn’t know. About the wand. About the tomb. About what he’d done.
She didn’t even know such a wand existed.
He had kept that secret for years—Dumbledore’s last legacy. The wand buried with him, unmoving, unreachable. Harry had promised himself that truth would die with them.
But now it wasn’t a secret anymore.
It was a catastrophe.
And when she asked what happened in the Veil chamber—when she demanded to know why Grimm had nearly killed him and how he got away—he would have to look her in the eye and say:
“I gave him the one thing that should never have seen daylight again.”
And how could she not look at him differently after that?
The potion pulled harder.
He let go of the thought, because it was the only way to sleep.
His body slumped back into the pillow, breath finally slowing.
And the last thing that passed through his mind before darkness took him was:
How do I tell the woman who trusts me most… that I might have just doomed us all?
And then everything went still.
He slept.
But peace did not follow.
***
The light filtering through the hospital window was soft and golden—almost kind.
Harry stirred, the sheets rustling faintly beneath him. The dull throb in his ribs had lessened. The stiffness in his arm had faded to something he could almost ignore.
For a breath, he was just… awake.
And for a moment— just a moment —he didn’t remember.
No pit.
No Inferi.
No duel.
No Elder Wand.
Just sunlight and silence and—
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
The faint vibration broke the illusion.
Harry turned his head groggily toward the bedside table, eyes blinking against the light.
His spell phone.
The enchanted glass shimmered faintly with incoming alerts. The name blinking on screen in golden runes:
Ginny ❤️
—Missed call (3)
—New message: “Harry where are you??”
—Missed call (4)
His stomach dropped.
And just like that—
It all came rushing back.
The fire. The Veil. Grimm’s voice.
Fawkes.
The Elder Wand leaving his hand.
The look on Grimm’s face as he vanished in flame.
And he had told no one. Not Ginny. Not yet.
The guilt surged so fast he had to sit up, breath catching in his throat.
The moment was broken further by a knock on the door. A mediwitch peeked in gently, smiling.
“You’re cleared to leave, Mr. Potter. Minimal spell trauma. Just take the scar balm with you—and don’t skip meals.”
Harry managed a nod.
She left, and he finally looked at the phone again.
Today was the day.
James. Walking.
Harry swore under his breath, flung the blanket off, and stood. His legs ached, but he didn’t care.
He couldn’t miss this.
Even if the world was falling apart.
Even if he had helped tip it over the edge.
James didn’t know about any of it. Probably neither did Ginny. And for a few minutes— just a few —Harry needed to stand beside them and pretend he was still whole.
He grabbed the spell phone, tucked it into his new jacket, probably Hermione left it, and said aloud to no one:
“I’ll tell her. But not now.”
Then he left the room with quietly.
To go see his son try to walk again.
To see something worth saving.
Harry reached the door to James’s hospital room, breath tight in his chest. He paused for only half a second, hand hovering over the doorknob, then pushed it open.
The light inside was softer than he expected—gentle enchantments floating above, casting warm tones on the white walls. Balloons still hovered lazily in the corner, and a clutter of “Get Well Soon” cards sat on the shelf, pulsing with faint magical glows.
James sat upright on the hospital bed, his posture slightly stiff but alert. His dark red hair was tousled, and a thin scar curved along his jaw from the explosion. His legs dangled over the side of the bed, bare feet hovering just above the ground.
Ginny stood beside him, arms crossed, wand tucked behind her ear. Her eyes met Harry’s the second he stepped in—and they were sharp.
“Where were you?” she asked, not harshly… but not gently either.
Harry opened his mouth.
Paused.
Swallowed.
And said nothing.
He couldn’t. Not yet. Not here. Not in front of James.
Ginny’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, narrowing slightly, but she said no more.
He moved to James’s other side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hey.”
James turned his head, flashing a faint, crooked smile. “You look like you got hit by a Bludger.”
“Something like that,” Harry muttered, forcing a tired grin.
Just then, the door creaked open again.
Healer Cormac stepped in, crisp and efficient, floating a clipboard behind him with a flick of his wand. His robes were spotless, his glasses perched low on his nose.
“Good,” he said briskly. “You’re all here.”
He turned to James.
“Today, we try something new. We’ll assess your motor control, muscle response, and see if your legs remember how to carry you. No pressure.”
“None taken,” James said, voice dry. “Just my spine and dignity on the line.”
Cormac smirked. “That’s the spirit.”
He flicked his wand toward the corner of the room—summoning a padded support frame and a slim magical walking aid with softly glowing runes. The support unfolded next to James’s bed like scaffolding built out of light and magic.
“Right then,” Cormac said, suddenly gentle. “Let’s see if you can stand.”
Ginny stepped back.
Harry didn’t move—his hand still on James’s shoulder.
And James looked down at his legs.
There was a flicker of hesitation. A moment of fear. And then he drew a breath through his nose and nodded.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
James took a shaky breath, bracing his hands against the edge of the bed. He looked up once at Healer Cormac, who nodded, calm and watchful. Then at Ginny. Then—finally—at Harry.
Their eyes met.
Harry gave a small, firm nod. No words. Just a father's silent promise: I’m here.
James turned back.
He pushed.
His arms strained, muscles tight beneath pale skin, and slowly—slowly—he began to rise. Cormac steadied the magical support frame just as James’s legs locked into place. For a breathless second, he stood. Shaky, leaning on the rune-lit brace—but standing.
Ginny let out the smallest gasp. Her hands flew to her mouth.
Harry didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.
James looked down at his feet, almost disbelieving. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.
Cormac stepped back, letting the boy find balance with the support aid.
“Now,” he said gently, “step.”
James shifted.
His right foot dragged. The muscles clearly weren’t ready. But he focused, jaw clenched, and then—
One step.
Then a pause.
Then another.
Harry could feel his throat tightening.
He had fought dragons. He had held dying friends. He had watched the sky fall over Hogwarts.
But watching James—his son—fight for every inch of movement with more courage than Harry had seen in a battlefield…
It nearly broke him.
Ginny had tears in her eyes, hands pressed together like she was holding herself from rushing in.
And James—wobbling, determined, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead—was grinning.
“I’m walking,” he said, stunned. “Bloody— hell. I’m walking.”
Cormac smiled faintly. “Yes, Mr. Potter. You are.”
Harry stepped forward, still wordless, and gently placed his hand on James’s back—not to support him or to steady him. Just to be there.
For the first time since the Veil had ripped open, something flickered in Harry’s chest that felt like hope.
James was gently helped back into the bed, his arms trembling from the effort but his face glowing with pride and exhaustion. His fringe, dark and unruly like Harry’s, was damp with sweat. But he was smiling.
Ginny brushed a hand over his hair and whispered something only he could hear. He gave a tired little laugh in response and rested his head back against the pillows.
Healer Cormac was just adjusting the floating clipboard with a flick of his wand when the door creaked open again.
A young assistant from the Ministry, barely more than a trainee by the look of him, stepped in, clearly nervous.
“Um—Mr. Potter? Sir—Acting Minister Higgs is requesting your presence. He says it’s… urgent.”
Harry blinked once.
His stomach sank.
Of course it was.
He nodded slowly. “Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.”
The assistant glanced awkwardly at the others, gave a quick nod, and vanished out the door again.
Cormac turned to Harry. “We can wait. It’s nothing we can’t discuss later.”
But Harry shook his head, already straightening his jacket. “No. You might as well say it now. With Higgs, ‘a moment’ usually means an hour. And… they should hear it too.”
He turned his eyes back to James, who was watching with an alert sort of curiosity.
“Tell us,” Harry said, voice firm, eyes tired.
Cormac gave a brief nod, tapping the clipboard once. The runes flared, and a projection shimmered faintly above the bed, showing a vague skeletal outline, highlighted in green and gold threads of magical diagnostics.
“Overall motor response is recovering much faster than we projected,” Cormac said. “The nerves we were most concerned about—lumbar and sacral—are showing signs of magical healing. That means his ability to walk independently is possible. Not guaranteed, not immediate, but very possible.”
Ginny let out a soft, tearful exhale.
James blinked. “You mean… I might not be stuck like this?”
“You might not,” Cormac said with a small smile. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll test your strength daily. You’ll need physio, charms, mind-body stabilization. But today?” He looked down at James. “Today was a very, very good sign.”
James blinked. “So… good news?”
Cormac chuckled. “Yes. If your progress continues at this rate, you may be released within a week. Two at most. Light physical therapy at home and continued monitoring—but you’re on track.”
Ginny covered her mouth, tears prickling again, but this time from relief.
James exhaled hard and leaned back, closing his eyes with a grin. “Merlin. I thought I’d be stuck in here forever.”
Harry watched him for a heartbeat longer, pride mingling with that distant ache still burning in his chest.
Then he turned to go.
The weight of the Elder Wand’s absence pressed harder with every step. But still—he carried the knowledge that James might walk again like armor.
He didn’t know what Higgs wanted.
But for the first time in days, he walked toward the war with something to fight for again.
***
The atrium of the Ministry of Magic was unusually quiet for mid-morning—its once-bustling golden space now patrolled by grim-faced Aurors and ringed with layers of silent enchantments. The massive statue of magical unity still stood, but now with added wards circling its base. After the explosion, everything here felt... nervous. Watching.
Harry strode through it without pause, ignoring the eyes that followed him, some whispering, others just staring.
He rode the lift up in silence.
When the doors slid open to the Minister’s level, the atmosphere tightened immediately. Clerks scattered at his approach, sensing the tension like static in the air.
He didn’t knock.
He stepped straight into Higgs’s office.
Nathan Higgs looked up from behind his desk, his fingers laced, eyes sharp behind rimless glasses. Papers were scattered across his desk, and several magical monitors showed surveillance footage from different parts of the Ministry—including the sealed Department of Mysteries.
“Potter,” Higgs said, coolly. “Do sit.”
Harry didn’t.
“What happened last night?” Higgs asked. “You weren’t cleared for Veil access. And yet I’m being told you nearly died in the pit chamber.”
Harry met his gaze. “Grimm was there. He took the wand.”
Higgs’s brow twitched. “Yes. The wand you were screaming about on your way out. The one you were so ‘devastated’ to lose, according to three mediwizards and two Aurors. Want to tell me what it was?”
Harry didn’t flinch. “It was powerful. And dangerous.”
Higgs stood, slowly circling the desk. “That’s not an answer. We’re talking about an international diplomat attacking a British official inside our Ministry, and you’re keeping secrets?”
“We don’t need secrets,” Harry said. “We need to act. Grimm isn’t who he says he is. He was waiting for me. He wanted the wand. And now he has it.”
“ And what wand is that, exactly? ” Higgs snapped. “What kind of wand would cause the Head of Magical Law Enforcement to break into the Department of Mysteries, open a sealed chamber without clearance, and engage in an unsanctioned duel?”
Harry didn’t blink. “I’m not answering that.”
Higgs’s eyes narrowed. “You realize how that sounds.”
“I realize exactly how it sounds,” Harry said quietly.
Higgs exhaled sharply and paced a step back, rubbing his temple. “I’m not the enemy here, Potter. But I need evidence. Something. You say Grimm attacked you. He’ll say you attacked him. Germany is already fuming. And without proof, I can’t even say anything without sparking a diplomatic crisis.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Then I’ll find proof.”
“You’d better. Because right now, Grimm is the Minister for Magic of an ally nation and you’re a suspended officer with a bruised reputation and a history of vigilante behavior. So unless you plan on dragging Merlin out of the grave to testify for you, we need more than wild warnings.”
Harry’s voice was ice. “You want proof, I’ll get it. But when I do—don’t you dare wait to act.”
They stared each other down for a beat.
Higgs exhaled sharply through his nose and turned back to face Harry fully. His tone dropped, lower and more urgent now—his polished demeanor cracking under the pressure.
“We have to act fast,” he said. “If what you’re saying is true—if Grimm orchestrated this, manipulated you, and now holds a wand of serious power—then we may already be behind.”
Harry turned slowly back toward him, eyes cold. Now he wanted to act fast.
“Funny,” Harry said quietly, stepping closer. “Now you want urgency. Now you’re listening. But where the hell were you when you were signing orders to bring my nineteen-year-old son in like a criminal? Where was that ‘strategic foresight’ when you plastered his face across every Prophet front page and labeled him a traitor?”
Higgs’s jaw tightened. “Don’t twist this into personal vengeance, Potter.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” Harry shot back. “You’re the one who dragged my son through the mud while the real threat— Grimm —stood beside you smiling. You let yourself be played, and you damn near let a child pay for it.”
“He was found with restricted magical texts,” Higgs snapped, “fleeing the scene of a magical terror attack. You think I had the luxury of nuance when the Ministry was on fire and Inferi were crawling out of the Veil?”
“No,” Harry said, stepping even closer. “But you had the choice to trust me. To trust Hermione. To ask questions. Instead, you fed the press, fueled the paranoia, and buried the truth because it was easier to keep the story clean.”
There was a long, bitter silence.
Then Higgs said, slower now, “Do you want to fix this or not?”
Harry’s voice dropped to a low, unflinching calm.
“You want my help?” he said. “Then here’s the price.”
He stepped forward again until they were just feet apart.
“You release Albus. Immediately. And you give him a public apology.”
Higgs blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re not going to drag him into court again while Grimm’s out there building an army under your nose. Albus is innocent. You want my wand, my name, my help fixing this— you clear his name. Publicly.”
Higgs looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Do you have any idea what that would look like? I can’t undo an active case without evidence, without paperwork—”
“You dragged him through the headlines without evidence,” Harry said. “Undo it the same way.”
The air in the Minister’s office turned heavy—like the magic in the walls was listening.
Higgs stiffened, his expression tightening as he tried to regain control of the conversation, of the room—of Harry.
“And what if I don’t?” he said, voice cold and clipped. “What if I decide that clearing Albus’s name without process damages the Ministry more than it helps? That protecting our structure means letting the case run its course?”
Harry stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. His presence filled the office like thunderclouds rolling in—quiet, but dangerous.
“Then I walk.”
Higgs blinked.
Harry didn’t stop.
“I’ll go to the holding floor. I’ll break Albus out myself. I’ll take my wife. My kids. My family. And I’ll leave this whole damn place behind. I won’t look back. I’ve got enough gold to feed seven generations of Potters without lifting a wand.”
His voice dropped colder.
“You think I haven’t thought about it? About vanishing? Disappearing to some quiet patch of coast where no one says the name Voldemort or Boy Who Lived or Ministry Procedure ?”
Higgs swallowed, but said nothing.
“But I didn’t. Because I’ve spent my whole bloody life doing what’s right, not what’s easy. ”
Harry leaned across the desk now, his voice razor-sharp.
“But I swear to Merlin—if you make me choose between my family and this rotting, bureaucratic, half-blind Ministry, I will choose my family. Every. Single. Time.”
Higgs looked at him, something flickering in his eyes—uncertainty, maybe even fear.
Harry straightened again. “This isn’t about me needing you. This is about you needing me.”
“I’ve faced Dark Lords. I’ve buried friends. I’ve watched the worst of this world and still stood my ground. But if you think I’ll stand by while you parade my son like a criminal to save your reputation—”
He turned toward the door.
“You have until evening. Make it right.”
He looked over his shoulder, tone final.
“Or I’ll make it mine.”
Then Harry walked out.
And this time, the door didn’t click closed.
It slammed.
***
The cell was silent. Too silent.
The Ministry’s holding cells were designed not just to detain—but to disorient. There were no clocks. No windows. Just sterile stone, a hard bench, and the soft hum of enchantments that dulled every sense like a fog settling behind your eyes.
Albus sat against the wall, knees drawn up, his fingers tracing the cracks in the stone floor like he could read something in them. Like they might spell out a way forward.
They didn’t.
His mind wandered. It had nowhere else to go.
And it wandered to her.
Emma.
He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she was the only thing in his life that hadn’t felt like it was made of smoke and lies.
He remembered how she used to tilt her head when she was confused—just slightly. How she called him “Potter” with a smile that didn’t sound like a curse. How she once brought him coffee just because she’d noticed he looked tired. Everyone in the Department had looked tired—but only she had seen him.
No agenda. No fear. No legacy to prove or escape.
Just... Emma.
And Merlin, maybe—maybe that meant something.
Albus let his head rest back against the cold wall, closing his eyes.
He’d always told himself he didn’t have time. That nothing good ever lasted for someone like him. That she deserved someone less… haunted.
But now, sitting here—accused, alone, locked away—he couldn’t help wondering:
What if she was the one?
What if he’d just said something? What if he’d let her in?
What if he hadn’t been so goddamn scared?
A bitter laugh escaped him, dry and quiet.
Too late now.
Or maybe not.
He didn’t know where she was. Whether she believed the papers. Whether she thought he’d betrayed them all.
But if he ever got out—
If he ever earned that kind of peace—
The clank of the lock jolted Albus from his thoughts.
He blinked as the heavy door creaked open, light spilling into the dim cell like a slap to the senses. He didn’t move right away—just sat there, bones aching from the cold floor, heart still echoing in Emma’s name.
A young Auror stepped in—tall, expression unreadable, badge glinting faintly.
“Potter,” he said flatly. “You’re being summoned.”
Albus’s eyes narrowed. “Summoned?”
The Auror didn’t elaborate. “You’ve got five seconds before I drag you.”
Albus stood. Slowly. Shoulders stiff, mind still half in the memory of Emma’s laugh. He gave the man a glance—recognizing the way his hand twitched near his wand.
Still treated like a threat. Like a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet.
The Auror bound his wrists with a light containment charm— procedure , they always said. Albus didn’t fight it.
They walked in silence through the stark underground corridors of the holding wing, the only sound their footsteps and the occasional distant clatter of Ministry security patrols. The Auror didn’t speak, and Albus didn’t ask.
But when they reached the sealed hearing prep chamber—usually reserved for legal meetings—the Auror gave a short nod toward the door and muttered the unlocking spell.
“Your lawyer’s waiting,” he said, almost like it tasted bitter.
Albus stepped in.
And there, leaning against the edge of a sleek stone table with that same smug, infuriating, impossibly sharp eyes—was Logan Williamson.
Expensive robes, perfect posture, no smile—but eyes glittering with quiet calculation.
“About time,” Logan said coolly, without looking up from his parchment. “I was starting to worry your guards were too busy tossing you into Azkaban to show up on time.”
He finally glanced up, his gaze scanning Albus like a hawk assessing damage.
“You look like hell.”
“I feel worse,” Albus muttered, rubbing his wrists as the Auror closed the door behind him.
Logan didn’t offer sympathy. But his tone softened by half a degree.
“Sit down, Junior Potter. We’ve got a lot to go through. And if what I just heard from your father is true— everything’s about to change.”
Albus lowered himself into the chair across from Logan, still stiff from the cold floor of the holding cell. He kept his expression guarded, worn. Tired. He was used to more bad news than good these days—and Logan's calm expression didn’t help.
Logan tapped the parchment in front of him with his wand. A blue Ministry seal shimmered to life at the top. Then, with maddening nonchalance, he pushed the sheet across the table.
“There you go,” he said. “You’re a free man.”
Albus stared at the document. Then back at Logan.
“…What?”
“No more charges,” Logan said, voice clipped. “No terrorism. No conspiracy. No ‘unauthorized breach of Departmental protocol.’ Not even a fine for running off into the woods like a panicked Banshee.”
Albus’s brow furrowed, eyes locked on the parchment like it might be a trap. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
Logan leaned forward, folding his arms, tone turning matter-of-fact. “Official statement will go out to the press by tomorrow morning. The Ministry has issued a formal withdrawal of all active charges against Albus Severus Potter. Effective immediately.”
“…Why?” Albus asked, voice low. “What changed?”
Logan arched a brow. “You really don’t know?”
“I’ve been in a damn cell.”
Logan gave a short laugh, more of a huff through his nose. “Your father happened.”
Albus blinked.
Logan stood and began to pace slowly, gesturing lazily with one hand as if delivering a lecture.
“Potter walked into Higgs’s office this morning with fire in his veins. Told him, and I paraphrase, ‘Release my son and apologize or I walk out of this Ministry forever and take my whole damn family with me.’ Said he’d vanish. Live off his vault for the rest of his life. And that he’d do it gladly.”
Albus stared, heart kicking in his chest.
“He told Higgs that he’s done playing by rules written by cowards. That he’d faced Dark Lords, dragons, and Death itself—but if anyone tried to take his family from him again, he wouldn’t stand still this time. And he meant it.”
Albus’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
Logan shrugged, voice turning dry again. “And for what it’s worth, it worked. Higgs blinked first. The charges were dropped an hour later. Public apology is still being ‘drafted.’ But legally? You’re done. You’re out.”
There was a beat of silence.
Albus picked up the parchment with trembling hands and read it again. Slowly. Word for word. His name. The seal. The formal withdrawal. Every letter written like it was in stone.
He didn’t realize he was shaking until he put the paper down.
“…He did that?” Albus whispered. “ For me? ”
Logan looked at him for a long moment. And, just this once, didn’t hide the sympathy in his voice.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “He did.”
Albus swallowed hard. His throat felt like glass.
He leaned back, pressing a hand to his face to steady himself.
“…I thought he didn’t trust me,” he muttered.
“Doesn’t matter what you thought,” Logan said. “He chose you.”
Albus sat still, eyes unfocused, Logan’s words echoing louder than the room itself.
He chose you.
For so long, he’d believed that wasn’t true. That Harry had always been torn between being a father and being the symbol the world demanded. But now…
Now, the weight of it all was hitting him like a delayed hex to the ribs.
His breath shuddered as he ran a hand through his hair, chest tight, trying to keep the wave of emotion from tipping over.
Logan watched, arms crossed, letting the silence stretch just long enough.
“I don’t do emotional moments,” he said finally, dryly. “But if you cry on my perfectly tailored robes, I’m billing you double.”
Albus let out a short laugh—a surprised, sharp sound—half-hiccup, half-choked breath. He wiped his face roughly.
“I’m not crying.”
“Of course not,” Logan said, deadpan. “Your eyes are just sweating.”
Albus shook his head, the faintest smile twitching at his lips before vanishing again. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
There was a short pause.
Then, almost as an afterthought, Logan added, “By the way. That girl—Swift? Emma?”
Albus’s head snapped up.
Logan didn’t look at him directly, instead examining the edge of his cuff. “She’s been pestering me since the day I took your case. Owls. Spell-notes. Even tried to intercept me outside Courtroom Four. Practically declared herself your personal moral support division.”
Albus’s stomach twisted, heart lurching in his chest. “She… she’s okay?”
“She’s fine,” Logan said. “Bit annoying. Very persistent. Kind, too, in that sort of 'makes-you-feel-guilty-for-being-a-sarcastic-bastard' kind of way.”
Albus exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.
“She wanted to see you,” Logan said, finally meeting his eyes. “I told her it wasn’t a good time. You were still covered in a public stink cloud. But something tells me she didn’t care.”
Albus looked down again, his fingers curling around the edge of the table. “She never did.”
Another pause. Quieter now.
Logan gave a small nod, adjusting his cuffs.
He cleared his throat and tapped the stack of parchment that had been sitting quietly at his side the whole time, suddenly back to business.
“Before you start fantasizing about walks in the moonlight and heart-to-hearts with your star-eyed archivist,” he said, sliding the papers across the table, “you’ve got a pile of Ministry paperwork to sign.”
Albus blinked, caught between emotional whiplash and sheer exhaustion. “What… what is all this?”
“Standard release procedure,” Logan said, flipping open the top parchment with a flick of his wand. “Form 22B for legal dismissal of all active charges, 9E for barring media access to your records, and a whole lot of signatures confirming that you won’t sue the Ministry for unlawful detainment—which you could, but let’s not make things messier.”
Albus arched a brow. “And this is you being helpful?”
“This is me being expensive.”
He handed over a self-inking quill.
Albus hesitated only a second before taking it. The first signature came out stiff, his fingers still sore from days without wand use. He scrawled through the rest slowly, reading only the headers as Logan narrated.
“Here’s your bail revocation reversal… immunity clause… oh, and this one waives any Auror-led follow-up surveillance, assuming you stay clean. Which—let’s be honest—might be asking a bit much.”
Albus didn’t rise to the bait. Just signed.
By the time he was finished, the stack had thinned considerably, and Logan was already stacking the signed sheets with precise efficiency.
“You’re legally cleared,” Logan said, standing tall and adjusting the cuffs of his deep navy robes. “No ankle chains, no house arrest. Ministry will have to eat its own boot on this one. You’re free, Junior Potter.”
He tapped the final page with his wand, sealing it with a flick. “And that,” he said, “is my job done.”
Albus looked up, the weight in his chest shifting again. Lighter now. But still tangled with disbelief.
“…Thanks,” he said, the word rough in his throat.
Logan gave him a sharp glance—then, finally, a smirk with a trace of warmth.
“Don’t thank me. Thank your dad. All I did was twist the knife.”
Logan was mid-page, eyes flicking over Ministry seals and verification charms, quill scratching notations in the margins when Albus spoke:
“So…”
He shifted slightly in the chair, a hint of a smirk trying to form despite the exhaustion. “…how much are you charging my dad for all this?”
Logan didn’t look up. “Mm. You want the number with or without the trauma tax?”
Albus gave a soft chuckle. “Is that an actual line item?”
Logan finally looked at him, quill stilling in his hand. “Let’s put it this way—your case came with late-night press calls, Ministry surveillance interference, four death threats, and one very persistent Department of Mysteries girl asking me daily whether you were emotionally stable enough to hold a wand.”
Albus looked mildly alarmed. “Emma asked you that?”
“Repeatedly,” Logan deadpanned.
Albus ran a hand down his face, half-laughing, half-mortified.
Logan leaned back, resting one arm along the top of his chair. “As for your actual question…” He paused dramatically. “Let’s say your father is paying me enough to buy a new flat in Paris, an original 16th century wand from the pre-reform era, and—if the exchange rates hold—possibly a small dragon.”
Albus gaped. “You’re serious.”
“Always,” Logan said smugly. “But don’t worry. It’s pocket change to him. I was going to charge more, but he glared at me like I kicked his dog.”
Albus laughed again—really laughed this time, head tipping back just slightly.
“…Still,” he said, quieting, “I owe you.”
Logan scoffed. “You don’t owe me anything, Potter. You’re the client. That’s how this works. I bill, you nod, the Ministry grumbles, and everyone goes home.”
But his tone softened again, just enough.
“You want to pay me back? Stay out of cells. And next time someone offers you a book of resurrection spells written in blood, maybe don’t open it. ”
Albus smirked. “Noted.”
Logan nodded once, satisfied, then turned back to his notes.
Silence settled for a beat, comfortable this time. Like the eye of a storm, before the next wave.
Because they both knew—this wasn’t over.
Not with people behind this still out there.
Not with the Veil cracked open.
***
The heavy doors creaked open with an enchanted groan, and for the first time in what felt like years, Albus Potter stepped out of the holding wing—not as a prisoner, but as a free man.
A silent Auror guided him down a short corridor. No words. No looks. Just the sound of boots on Ministry stone, and the quiet thrum of magic in the walls.
At a small desk near a checkpoint, a clerk lifted a worn satchel from under the counter and placed it on the table without ceremony.
“Your personal effects,” the clerk muttered, avoiding eye contact.
Albus opened the bag slowly. Inside: His wand—scratched, but intact. He gripped it for a long moment, grounding himself in its familiar weight. His watch. Still ticking. He slid it back on his thin wrists. An old letter from Emma. Crumpled slightly. He didn’t read it. Not yet. His Department of Mysteries badge—cracked. Useless now.
The Auror gestured. “This way.”
They led him through another corridor, wider, brighter. He could feel people watching him from behind warded glass. Officials. Secretaries. Some curious. Some judgmental. Most unsure.
The door ahead opened into a waiting room.
And there—standing just beyond the threshold—were Harry and Ginny.
Ginny’s hands flew to her mouth as she saw him.
Harry stood frozen, eyes wide with everything he couldn’t put into words.
Albus stopped dead.
For one long second, none of them moved.
Then Ginny was across the room, wrapping him in a hug so tight it stole his breath. Her arms clung around him like she’d been holding her own world together for weeks and had only now begun to breathe.
“My baby,” she whispered. “My sweet boy.”
Albus didn’t respond right away. He just held her back, burying his face in her shoulder. She smelled like home. Like warm parchment and cinnamon tea.
Harry hadn’t moved. Still staring.
And then—
He stepped forward. Slowly.
Albus pulled back from Ginny and looked up at his father.
The room was full of tension, of guilt, of memories they hadn’t dared speak aloud yet.
But Harry just opened his arms.
“…You’re home,” he said softly.
And for the first time in weeks—
Albus walked into them.
Albus stood in the circle of his parents' arms, the weight of everything he'd carried pressing harder now that he was no longer fighting it.
Ginny was crying, and she didn’t try to hide it. Her hands moved through his hair, down his arms, like she couldn’t believe he was really standing in front of her. Alive. Free. Still hers.
Harry didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.
His hand was on the back of Albus’s neck, holding him close, like he’d fall apart if he let go. And for once, Albus let him.
No resistance.
No walls.
He just let himself be held.
After a long while, Ginny finally eased back, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. “You’ve lost weight,” she said, her voice cracking with that odd mix of humor and heartbreak only a mother could manage.
Albus gave the barest of smiles. “Food wasn’t great.”
Harry let out a soft breath—half laugh, half pain—and stepped back, looking at his son like he was trying to memorize every scar, every bruise, every shadow.
“I should’ve come sooner,” Harry said.
Albus shook his head. “You came when it mattered.”
Another beat.
Ginny reached into her bag and handed Albus a small wrapped sandwich and a flask of warm pumpkin broth. “You’re not walking another step until you eat something real.”
Albus sat down, almost too overwhelmed to eat, but obeyed. He took slow bites while Harry and Ginny sat across from him, still studying him like he might vanish.
He looked up at them between bites. “So what happens now? Am I supposed to lie low? Go back to the Department?”
Harry and Ginny exchanged a look.
Harry leaned forward. “You’ll be coming home. Just for a while. Until things settle.”
Albus nodded, though something in his eyes dimmed— going home didn’t feel simple anymore. Too much had changed.
He tried to shake it off.
“And Grimm?” he asked quietly. “Is he… is he okay with all this? I mean, he backed my case, right?”
A silence fell over the room.
Harry’s expression flickered. A quick, subtle fracture. Ginny’s brows furrowed.
Albus looked between them.
“What?”
Harry hesitated, then said calmly, “There’s a lot you don’t know yet. And we’ll get there. But not today.”
Albus’s stomach tightened. “So…?”
Harry’s voice was steady. Controlled.
“Eat your sandwich, Al. We’ll talk soon.”
The small WizWaz orb nestled in the corner of the ceiling—no bigger than a Quaffle—flickered softly above them. It had been playing low instrumental music, something calming from the Wireless Harmonies channel.
But without warning, the orb shifted. The soft glow turned crimson, and a glowing sigil of the German Ministry for Magic replaced the notes in the air.
Then came the voice.
“We interrupt all channels for an emergency press statement from Minister Elias Grimm, speaking live from the Reichstag of Magic, Berlin.”
Albus paused mid-bite, sandwich halfway to his mouth. Ginny blinked up at the orb, confused. Harry… stiffened.
The screen shimmered—and there he was.
Grimm.
Standing tall, polished in a high-collared black robe trimmed with starlight silver. Not a single strand of his dark hair was out of place. His expression was grave. Calculated. Convincing.
Behind him stood rows of German officials, solemn and motionless.
“ My friends,” Grimm began, voice heavy with solemnity, “I come to you today not as a politician, not even as your Minister—but as a survivor.”
Albus furrowed his brow.
Ginny glanced at Harry.
Harry didn’t move.
“Last night, during my independent inspection of the Veil disaster in London—a humanitarian act of magical cooperation—I was ambushed. Ambushed by none other than Harry Potter. Yes. That Harry Potter.”
Albus nearly choked. “What?”
Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth. “He what —?!”
“He attacked me,” Grimm continued. “Not alone. I was assaulted by a group of British officials—Aurors, no less. Among them, Acting Minister Nathan Higgs. Hermione Granger-Weasley. Theia Hodges. And several others. High-ranking figures in the British Ministry.”
“This was not a misunderstanding. This was an assassination attempt.”
The room fell utterly silent—save for Grimm’s voice, ringing like polished iron.
“I have always believed in peace. In diplomacy. I came to Britain to help protect the world from the horrors emerging beneath the Veil. I believed we were allies. But I was wrong.”
Ginny looked at Harry, pale. “Tell me this isn’t true.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. His fists tightened on his knees. “It’s a lie.”
“ As of this morning,” Grimm said, “Germany’s Magical High Council has filed formal international charges against all involved. Including Mr. Potter. For use of illegal curses. For summoning cursed fire. For attempting to murder a foreign Head of State.”
Albus stood, stunned. “He—he’s serious. They believe him?”
“ These are painful actions,” Grimm said with mock sorrow. “But justice must be served. No one—no matter how famous—should be above magical law.”
Harry stood abruptly, chair screeching back.
“Turn it off,” he snapped.
“We must ask ourselves,” Grimm’s voice echoed, “has the hero of yesterday become the threat of today?”
The orb dimmed. Automatically silencing the broadcast as it detected magical agitation in the room.
Ginny stood too now, eyes wide with disbelief. “Harry, what is going on?”
Albus looked between them both, voice quiet.
“…Dad?”
Harry turned to them slowly, his voice low, and bitter.
“He’s flipped the entire world upside down. And they’re going to believe him.”
Harry stared at the now-silent orb, its red glow fading into nothing. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like his teeth might crack. There was a tremble in his hands—not of fear, but fury.
He turned abruptly toward the door.
“Harry—” Ginny’s voice caught. “What is this? What happened ? That broadcast—Grimm said you—he said you tried to kill him. ”
Harry stopped. He didn’t turn to face her. His voice was rough, clipped.
“Take Albus and go home.”
Ginny blinked. “What?”
“James needs someone with him at the hospital. 24/7. I don’t want him left alone. Not after this. And I need you to tell Lily to be careful. She can’t trust anyone—not professors, not Ministry visitors, no one.”
“Harry—” her voice cracked again, “ what danger are you talking about? What is going on? You owe us answers!”
Albus looked between them, his eyes wide, heart pounding.
Harry finally turned.
His eyes met Ginny’s—haunted, heavy with the burden of everything he couldn’t say.
“We are in grave danger,” he said quietly. “All of us.”
He looked at Albus, his voice tightening with restrained emotion. “Stay close to Mum. Don’t go anywhere alone. And if you see anyone from the German Ministry— run. ”
“Dad, what—?”
But Harry was already walking. Fast. Grabbing his wand, throwing on his cloak, striding toward the door.
Ginny stepped forward, panicked. “You can’t do this alone!”
He paused for the briefest second at the threshold.
“I’m not alone.”
And then—
He was gone.
As the door shut with a hollow thud , Ginny stood there, staring at the space Harry had just vanished from—like she could will him back with just the force of her breathless disbelief.
The silence in the room was suddenly immense.
The kind of silence that came before lightning struck.
Albus shifted awkwardly beside her, still holding the half-eaten sandwich she’d lovingly packed only an hour ago. It now felt absurd in his hands—like some leftover piece of a life that was quietly crumbling at the edges.
“Mum…” he said softly.
Ginny didn’t answer.
She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, shoulders trembling. Her hands went to her face, fingers pressing into her temples as if she were trying to physically hold herself together.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why didn’t he tell me? Why—why does he always do this?”
“Mum—”
“He promised,” Ginny said suddenly, voice louder now, rising with emotion. “After the war, after Teddy lost Remus and Tonks and we lost Fred—he promised me we would never lie to each other like that. Never keep secrets like our parents did. Never send each other off into the dark.”
She looked up at Albus then, her eyes red, her voice cracking.
“And now he’s running off again. Bleeding, shaken, carrying Merlin knows what guilt on his shoulders—and pushing us away like that’ll protect us!”
Albus sat beside her, gently putting the sandwich down.
“Mum… I don’t think he’s doing it to protect himself. He’s doing it because he doesn’t want us in the crossfire.”
Ginny let out a hollow laugh, wiping at her eyes.
“Well, we’re already in it, aren’t we? They’ve declared half the family criminals and the other half traitors.”
She turned to look at Albus, brushing his hair back like he was still five years old. Her voice softened.
“You shouldn’t have had to see this side of him. Not like this.”
Albus didn’t pull away. He leaned into her hand slightly, like some small part of him still needed to remember what safety felt like.
“I don’t blame him,” he said quietly. “He came for me when no one else did.”
Ginny exhaled, then pulled him into a hug again, fiercer this time.
“I just wish he'd stop thinking he has to save the world alone .”
She didn’t cry anymore. She didn’t have the energy for tears. Only the simmering ache of love and fear—of watching the man she loved become a soldier again.
And knowing this time, the war might not be on a battlefield—
—it might be in the shadows, in the lies, in the very walls of power.
***
The doors to the Acting Minister's office slammed open with a blast of wind and tension as Harry strode in, cloak half-flung over his shoulder, wand still holstered but his eyes sharp with barely contained rage.
Inside, the room was already full.
Hermione stood by the window, arms crossed, her face pale but composed. Ron was pacing like a lion in a cage, muttering curses under his breath. Theia Hodges sat stiffly on a chair, her Auror uniform creased and stained—likely from another night of no sleep.
Nathan Higgs stood behind his desk, grey-faced and tight-jawed, the documents spread out before him like a minefield.
“Potter,” Higgs said without looking up. “You’re late.”
Harry ignored the jab and slammed the door shut behind him.
“You’d better tell me you’ve already burned every international warrant they’ve issued.”
Higgs raised his eyes slowly, then reached for a parchment at the top of the stack. “Germany has filed formal charges with the ICW,” he said flatly. “Against all of us. Attempted murder. Magical terrorism. Violation of diplomatic immunity. Abuse of classified artifacts. Even misuse of government authority.”
He tapped the scroll. “These aren’t just headlines anymore. These are war declarations —dipped in legal ink.”
Ron stopped pacing. “Legal ink my arse. It’s all fabricated. And everyone knows it!”
“No,” Hermione said grimly, “they don’t. Grimm’s controlled the press. Half the wizarding world thinks we’re plotting a coup.”
Theia muttered, “They’re already calling us the Shadow Cabal online.”
Harry stared Higgs down. “And what’s the Ministry doing about it? Other than feeding the ICW more rope?”
Higgs met his glare. “You think this is easy? We’re under international surveillance . They want extradition, Potter. Not just you— all of us. If we don’t handle this delicately, there’ll be sanctions. Magical trade bans. Portkey network suspensions. Britain could be magically isolated in a week.”
Ron scoffed. “So what, we’re just supposed to sit on our hands and let Grimm become the next Grindelwald?”
Higgs’ tone sharpened. “We need evidence. Not emotion or vengeance. And definitely not half-baked accusations about a man who, to the rest of the world, is a visionary saint.”
Harry’s voice was low and bitter. “He nearly killed me.”
“And you have nothing to prove it.”
The silence was ice.
Then Hermione stepped forward, calm but tense. “So what’s your plan, Higgs? Sit tight and hope Grimm slips? Or are you going to back Harry so we can stop this before it gets worse?”
Higgs looked at them all—four war heroes now branded criminals—and for the first time, there was something almost like doubt in his usually impassive face.
“…I don’t have a plan yet,” he said quietly.
“Well,” Harry muttered, voice like steel, “you’d better come up with one fast. Because if you don’t act, I will.”
Higgs exhaled sharply and rubbed his temple, as though trying to physically press the political weight back into his skull. He looked more exhausted than ever.
“There’s something else,” he said, his voice low and heavy. “Grimm’s already issued a diplomatic expulsion order. Every British official in Germany—Aurors, diplomats, even Magical Attachés—are being deported immediately.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “On what grounds?”
“National security,” Higgs said bitterly. “He’s labeling them ‘agents of instability.’ Some of them were already detained and interrogated overnight. I had to send three emergency recall Portkeys this morning to get them out.”
Ron cursed under his breath.
Higgs continued, “But it’s not stopping there. He’s submitted a motion to the German High Council—one that would allow him to expel all British-born witches and wizards living in Germany. Not just officials. Civilians. Families. Students. Entire communities.”
“That’s…” Hermione’s voice faltered, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “That’s a violation of the Magical Citizenship Charter. That’s ethnic expulsion—”
“He’s framing it as ‘containment,’” Higgs cut in. “He’s arguing that Britain’s Ministry is compromised. That until we ‘clean house,’ it’s unsafe to allow our citizens to operate within their borders.”
Alarming silence filled the room.
Harry’s fists clenched again. “And the ICW’s just letting this happen? ”
“They’re not stopping it,” Higgs said flatly. “Because Grimm has support. His allies—Bulgaria, Sweden, even the Romanian Dragon Registry—are echoing his language. They’re ‘reviewing their British partnerships’ as we speak.”
Theia looked up. “You think they’ll follow suit?”
“I’d bet my wand on it,” Higgs muttered. “Grimm’s playing a long game. He’s isolating us. Country by country. Law by law. He doesn’t even need a war—he’ll make Britain irrelevant by the time we realize what he’s taken.”
Harry took a long, slow breath. His voice came out like a blade.
“We don’t have time, then. We need to show the world what he really is. Fast.”
Hermione nodded, already calculating. “If we can find physical proof of Inferi activity… of resurrection experiments… anything tied to the Circle of Flame—”
Ron turned to Higgs. “Will you back us if we do?”
Higgs met his eyes. And for once—after all the coldness and doubt—there was conviction there.
“…If you bring me proof , I’ll tear Grimm’s world apart myself.”
The tension in the room turned razor-sharp the moment Harry spoke.
He straightened, still radiating the quiet fury that had carried him through the hospital, through the accusations, through the night of blood and flame.
“You want to fix this?” Harry said, eyes locked on Higgs. “Then stop playing safe. Go public. Say it wasn’t an ambush. Say Grimm attacked me too . That I was defending myself.”
Higgs raised an eyebrow. “You want me to say that you—Harry Potter, national icon and suspected wand-wielding maniac—nearly dueled a foreign minister to death… and I’m backing your version?”
“Yes,” Harry said, steady. “Because it’s the truth.”
Hermione stepped forward. “And because it’s the only way we balance the narrative. If Grimm’s version is the only one people hear, he wins . Every day the world thinks he’s a saint is another day he turns allies into enemies.”
Theia, who’d remained silent since the legal talk, finally spoke up.
“I agree,” she said softly. “He’s using the press like a weapon. If we’re going to survive this politically… we have to fight fire with fire.”
Higgs stared at the three of them. His lips pursed, his fingers tapping a rhythmic pulse on the desk. “Fine,” he said after a long moment. “I’ll make a statement. Controlled, measured. Enough to say you acted in defense.”
Harry gave a short nod of thanks.
But then Theia frowned. “One thing still doesn’t make sense,” she said, turning to Harry. “That night… when we found you. You were delirious, shouting about ‘the wand.’ Over and over. ‘He took it.’ ‘The wand.’ What wand?”
Her question hung in the air.
Higgs looked curious.
So did Theia.
But Harry didn’t answer.
Ron shifted awkwardly, crossing his arms. Hermione’s shoulders tensed.
Higgs narrowed his eyes. “What wand, Potter?”
Harry stared straight ahead, unmoving.
“I said,” Higgs repeated, slower this time, “ what wand? ”
The room was still. The only sound was the faint ticking of a silver magical clock near the corner of the office.
Hermione spoke first, carefully. “It’s… classified.”
Higgs scoffed. “There’s no such thing anymore.”
Harry finally responded, voice low and cold.
“It’s not something I can explain. Not now.”
“But it’s something Grimm now has,” Theia said, quietly. “Isn’t it?”
Harry didn’t nod.
But he didn’t deny it either.
And that was all the answer they needed.
Higgs stepped back from the desk slowly, a look of dawning realization beginning to settle over his face. “What the hell have you gotten us into, Potter?”
Harry looked him in the eye.
“Something old. Something dangerous. And something I intend to end.”
***
The iron gates of the Malfoy estate creaked open with a soft hum of enchantment, revealing the path Albus hadn’t walked in over a year.
The grand house stood tall and gleaming, softened by afternoon light filtering through the trimmed hedges and rows of enchanted rosebushes. The gardens looked the same. The marble fountain still sang. But Albus didn’t feel the same.
He paused at the steps, suddenly uncertain.
Then the door opened—and Scorpius stood there.
For a second, neither of them said anything.
Then Scorpius crossed the space in two long strides and wrapped his arms around Albus in a fierce, wordless hug.
Albus stiffened for a breath… then gave in. He clutched his best friend like a lifeline.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” Scorpius whispered into his shoulder.
Albus’s voice cracked. “I thought you’d hate me.”
Scorpius pulled back, his hands gripping Albus’s shoulders like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he said, voice shaking with emotion. “You’re my brother. You’ve always been.”
The words hit harder than Albus expected. His throat closed up.
“I didn’t want to drag you into it,” he murmured. “I stayed away because I was scared they’d hurt you. Or Rose. Or…”
“I know ,” Scorpius said softly. “And I hated you for that. But only because I missed you.”
He stepped aside, ushering Albus in.
“Come on,” he said with a smile that didn’t need to be perfect. “Rose is dying to see you.”
Albus stepped into the grand foyer of the Malfoy estate, his eyes adjusting to the warm golden light inside. The polished floors gleamed, portraits whispered along the hallway, and everything looked exactly the same—yet entirely different.
He barely had time to take a breath before he heard quick footsteps from the parlor.
“Albus?”
It was Rose.
She moved slower than usual—her hands instinctively resting on her round stomach—but when their eyes met, she hurried forward as fast as she could, her voice trembling.
And then she was in his arms.
Albus caught her carefully, wrapping her in the safest, most protective hug he could manage. Her red curls brushed against his cheek, and for a moment, everything that had happened—Vance, the cult, the prison, the press—it all slipped away.
“You’re here,” Rose whispered, voice thick. “You’re actually here.”
Albus felt his own eyes sting. “I’m sorry. I should’ve come sooner.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him—tears already slipping down her face.
“I thought…” She placed a hand on her belly. “I thought this baby was going to grow up without a godfather.”
That broke him.
“I’m still here,” he whispered. “If you’ll still have me.”
Rose smiled through her tears and touched his cheek with her palm.
“Of course we still want you. There was never anyone else.”
The three of them moved into the sitting room, where a tea tray had already been laid out—Rose's doing, no doubt. The cozy space, lined with soft carpets and tall windows, felt lived-in despite the grandeur of the manor. A few plush armchairs and a crackling fireplace made the whole place feel like a refuge rather than a palace.
Rose eased herself into the sofa with a soft sigh, one hand resting protectively on her belly. Scorpius immediately moved to prop a pillow behind her back, and Albus couldn’t help but smirk.
“Well, look at you two,” he said, pouring himself a cup of tea. “Married, domestic, scandalously radiant.”
Rose raised a brow. “Scandalously radiant?”
“I mean…” Albus sipped his tea with exaggerated nonchalance. “Getting pregnant before the wedding and hiding it for months? What would Uncle Ron say?”
Rose laughed, her face lighting up with amusement and warmth. “He said, and I quote, ‘Well, at least you married the right idiot.’”
Scorpius groaned. “I’ll never forget that dinner.”
“He was still chewing when we revealed it,” Rose added, giggling.
“Honestly,” Albus said, shaking his head, “I’m impressed you kept it quiet for so long. The Prophet would’ve had a field day if they knew the daughter of Ron Weasley got knocked up by a Malfoy.”
“ Husband Malfoy, thank you,” Scorpius said, pretending to be wounded. “We did get married a month after we found out, if you remember.”
“Sure,” Albus teased.
“You almost fainted during the vows,” Rose added helpfully.
“I was lightheaded from the pressure!” Scorpius defended.
They all laughed—really laughed—for the first time in what felt like ages. For a few minutes, it felt like Hogwarts again. Like before everything went sideways.
Then Albus looked at Rose, his smile softening.
“How are you really doing?”
Rose looked down at her belly and exhaled. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “But I’m also… really happy. It feels like this is something good in a world that’s gone mad.”
Scorpius reached over and took her hand.
The warmth in the room dulled in an instant.
Rose’s smile faltered, her eyes glossing over—slowly, quietly, as if she’d been carrying the weight of it for too long.
Albus, still holding his teacup, immediately straightened. “Rose?” he asked gently. “What’s wrong?”
Rose looked at him, and something cracked in her.
“Do you remember Amélie?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Albus blinked, caught off guard. His grip on the cup tightened just slightly. “Yeah,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Of course I do.”
Rose gave a weak, bitter sort of smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“She was caught in the Ministry blast.”
The words hit like a brick wall.
Albus just… stilled.
“Oh,” he said—because there was nothing else he could say. Nothing that fit.
But Rose wasn’t done. Her voice wavered as she continued, the tears finally touching her lashes.
“It’s not just that. She was four months pregnant.”
Albus’s head snapped toward her, heart skipping a beat.
“What?”
“She sent me a letter,” Rose said, reaching into a nearby drawer and pulling out an envelope. The edges were worn. She’d clearly read it more than once. “It arrived just two days before the explosion. She said she was excited. She was happy. She was coming to the UK to meet the father.”
Albus stared at the letter like it was a ghost.
Pregnant.
Excited.
Coming here.
“Does anyone… know who the father is?” he asked, his voice hollow.
Rose shook her head slowly. “She didn’t say. And apparently the Ministry didn’t find her body. She’s just… missing.”
Albus sat there in absolute stillness, the ticking of the enchanted wall clock suddenly louder than anything else in the room.
Four months.
The timing hit him like a cold hand around the throat.
Amélie. James.
That night after the wedding—casual, careless, meaningless for James, but not for Amélie.
And then… four months pregnant.
Coming to the UK.
To the Ministry.
To find him .
The tea in Albus’s cup had gone cold, but his hands felt burning hot.
Rose’s voice pulled him out of the silence. “Albus?”
He looked at her, startled.
Her brow was furrowed, eyes red. “What just happened? You look like you’ve seen a—” She cut herself off with a wince. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”
Albus looked away, jaw tight. His heart thudded like he’d just run a mile, but all he said was, “Nothing. Just… remembered something.”
But Rose knew him too well. She didn’t push—just watched him, a little more carefully now.
Albus’s knuckles turned white on the edge of the teacup.
Four months ago, James and Amélie had hooked up. It hadn’t been serious. In fact, James had ended it not long after—right when the family tension over Albus started spiraling out of control. James said he didn’t have the space for anything more. That it was too much.
Too messy.
Albus had punched him for it. Not because of the girl, not really—but because it was always James. Always James taking what he wanted, walking away, and not looking back.
And now?
Albus stared blankly at the table. James was lying in a hospital bed, his right eye damaged, his spine fractured. He might never walk properly again.
And Amélie might be dead.
And what if... what if the baby had been his?
Albus felt like something caved in behind his ribs.
Rose was still looking at him. “Albus,” she said more softly, “what happened?”
He swallowed hard.
Then shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just… ghosts.”
Rose leaned back slowly, her hands resting over her belly, eyes growing misty again—this time with a gentler kind of ache.
“You know…” she began softly, “it’s a miracle James is alive at all.”
Albus blinked out of his spiral and looked up.
Rose continued, “Aunt Ginny said the blast nearly tore through his spine. His skull was fractured. His heartbeat flatlined twice before they stabilized him.” She paused. “There was a moment when we didn’t think he’d ever wake up again.”
Her voice cracked, just a little.
Albus looked down, guilt tugging in his chest like barbed wire.
He hadn’t even thought of visiting James since getting out. Not really.
His mind had been spinning with Grimm, with the veil, with Emma, with… everything else.
Rose gave him a small, sad smile. “He’s awake now. But he’s not really talking much. I think he’s scared. He won’t say it, but I can tell.”
Albus nodded faintly, still in the haze of his thoughts.
Rose hesitated. “Have you seen him yet?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then: “I will,” he said, voice quiet and distant. “Tomorrow.”
Rose studied him for a moment. She could tell he wasn’t fully present—but she didn’t pry. Not yet.
She just reached across the space and gave his hand a light squeeze. “He’d like that, Al. Really.”
Albus gave her a small nod.
But inside, his mind wasn’t with James.
It was with Amélie.
And a child that might have existed.
And a Ministry pit that had swallowed too many names.
Albus walked home alone that night, the chill in the evening air biting into his coat, but he barely noticed.
He was supposed to feel free.
Released.
Clear of charges.
Instead, every step felt heavier than the last.
How could he go see James now?
He’d been looking forward to it. Longing, even. The one silver thread he clung to during those cold, sleepless nights in his cell had been the idea of seeing James again—mending what was broken, rebuilding the pieces.
But now?
Now all he saw was Amélie’s face.
He imagined her smiling awkwardly at the wedding, brushing her hair behind her ear when she laughed. He remembered how he'd tried to flirt and failed—and how later, James had been with her without even knowing the storm it would cause.
Albus clenched his fists in his pockets.
It wasn’t James’s fault.
It never really was.
It was mine, Albus thought bitterly.
I acted like a child.
I turned one stupid misunderstanding into war. I accused him of stealing her, of knowing how I felt. I made it about pride. About being second. Always second.
And now...
Now James lay broken in a hospital bed, barely able to sit up.
And Amélie?
She was gone.
No funeral, no grave.
Not even a body.
Just another name whispered beneath the blue fire near the Veil.
Where could she be?
Was she dead?
Trapped beyond the Veil somehow?
Or worse… taken by the Circle of Flame?
A dark thought crept in: What if Grimm took her?
What if her child had power they could use?
Albus stopped walking, breath catching in his throat.
He didn’t even realize it until then—until that split-second of cold dread—how much he hoped she was still alive. Because if she wasn’t…
Then he’d never get the chance to say anything.
And the guilt would stay. Forever.
Notes:
I hope you felt this chapter the way I did while writing it. It’s been sitting with me for ages—I just hadn’t found the right moment to upload. If the stars align, I’ll post the next one this Saturday. Fingers crossed.
The last chapter stirred up so many theories (especially about wand ownership!) and I’ve done clear things up. I hope it helps… but this story is full of shifting ground, and some answers come slowly.
And honestly? It hit me hard this week. I went back and reread those early chapters—James Jr. calling himself “Evans,” meeting his grandparents with all that mischief and charm. It was soft. It was fun. And now? My boy is lying in a hospital bed and I want to scream. I want to write him so badly. I miss him. 😭
The next chapter is mostly written—just waiting for a final pass. I keep going back and forth on whether to show Amélie in captivity now or let her scenes breathe later.
In the meantime, please share your thoughts, theories, emotions—anything. I read every single comment, and they genuinely keep me writing.
All my love. Always. ❤️❤️❤️P.S. I just remembered--tomorrow’s my boy Harry’s birthday! May he get many more years to enjoy treacle tart, and to be surrounded by his maddening, stubborn, beautiful, loving family. He deserves that much. 💛🎂
Chapter 51: The Hidden Legacy
Chapter Text
The hospital was quiet in the early morning.
Too quiet.
Albus stepped into James’s room slowly, the faint hum of spell monitors and the rustle of linen the only sounds that greeted him. The light from the enchanted window cast a gentle glow across the bed, where James lay—still, pale, and sunken against the stiff white pillows.
His right arm was bandaged to the elbow. There were small sigils glowing softly over his spine. The eye closest to Albus was bruised but closed—peaceful in a way that didn’t match the storm of thoughts Albus carried in.
He stood there for a long while. Just watching.
Then he pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His gaze never left James.
“I wanted to come yesterday,” he murmured, almost too softly for the room to catch. “I meant to. I just…”
Albus looked away, jaw tightening, then looked back again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For all the things I never said.”
A pause. Then:
“You’ve always been a good older brother. Even when I hated you. Even when I acted like I didn’t care—I did. I always did.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“You were brave. Talented. Kind. And… and I was jealous. I told myself you got everything I didn’t, but the truth is… you earned it. You never stopped trying to protect me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”
Albus sat back, running a hand through his hair.
“I said awful things. I blamed you for things that weren’t your fault. I thought you were selfish, but maybe I was. I was selfish because I thought you had everything and didn’t care. But you did. You always did.”
He laughed again, bitterly.
“I wish I could say this to your face. But I’d probably mess it up. Or shout. Or make it about me again. And I can’t do that anymore. I won’t .”
He reached out and rested a hand gently on James’s arm.
“You’re strong. You’ll get through this. You have to.”
Albus took a shaky breath.
“Because if there’s one thing I’ve always believed… it’s that you were the best of us.”
Albus leaned forward again, burying his face briefly in his hands before lifting his gaze to James’s sleeping form.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wasn’t a good brother. I made everything harder—for you, for Mum and Dad. I pushed you away when you were just trying to help. I was so wrapped up in how lost I felt that I didn’t see how much pressure you were under too.”
He paused, his voice softening even more.
“I should have told you all this a long time ago. And I should have thanked you. For staying. For fighting for this family when I—”
A rustle.
Albus froze.
James’s eyelids fluttered, then blinked open—slowly, dramatically.
Albus jerked upright. “James?”
But James didn’t look at him.
Instead, he turned his head—wincing slightly from the motion—and looked toward the door.
“Oi, Louis,” James croaked hoarsely, “did you get all that on your spell-phone?”
A soft snort-laugh echoed from the hallway, and Louis Weasley peeked his head around the door, holding up his glowing magical phone. “Crystal clear, mate.”
Albus blinked, stunned. “What the—?”
James turned back toward him, smirking weakly through the bruises. “Had a hunch you’d come today. Told Louis to camp out and start recording the moment you walked in.”
Albus’s face was a mix of horror and disbelief. “You faked being asleep ?!”
James gave a half-hearted shrug. “Well, I was asleep. Until you started talking. And, mate... that was bloody beautiful. Honestly, I might make it my alarm tone.”
“James—” Albus stood, flustered, cheeks flushing.
“No, seriously.” James grinned. “My younger brother, pouring his heart out, finally admitting I’m the best. I’ve waited years for this moment. Do you know how validating that was?”
Albus groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re the worst .”
“Yeah, but you love me.” James coughed a laugh, then winced. “Okay, ow. That part still hurts. But worth it.”
Louis strolled in, still smirking, and gave Albus a friendly pat on the back. “Mate, I’ve never seen you go soft like that. Do you want me to send you the file? For your archives?”
Albus glared at both of them. “Delete it.”
“Never,” James said, grinning wide. “Blackmail material for life .”
Despite himself, Albus laughed—just a little.
James rested his head back on the pillow, grinning like he’d just won the Quidditch World Cup.
“I mean—Merlin, Al,” he said, mock-dramatic. “I was genuinely starting to think you didn’t have tear ducts.”
Albus, still red-faced, folded his arms. “They don’t exist when you’re around.”
James gasped, pretending to be offended. “After that beautiful speech? You wounded me.”
Louis snorted. “Mate, you’ve been actually wounded. Don’t be so dramatic.”
James raised a finger. “Yeah, but emotional wounds? Deeper. More poetic.”
Albus just rolled his eyes and pulled the chair closer again. “I should’ve let you think I didn’t care.”
“But you do ,” James said cheerily. “And now I have a recording to prove it. I might play it at family gatherings. Maybe loop it during your wedding.”
Louis grinned. “Best man speech—done.”
Albus buried his face in his hands. “You’re all insufferable.”
“You love it,” James said smugly. “Admit it. This was healing. Emotional catharsis. We should do this more often.”
“Next time I visit, I’m bringing a pillow,” Albus muttered, “to smother you.”
“Now that’s the little brother I know,” James said with a weak but happy chuckle.
The banter softened the room, grounding it again. James winced slightly as he shifted, but his eyes were brighter now, watching Albus with genuine warmth.
“Hey,” he added, quieter now, “I know things have been... complicated. But I’m still your brother. And you’re still mine. That won’t change.”
Albus looked at him for a long moment.
Then nodded. “I know.”
And for once, the words didn’t feel forced.
Louis stretched, stuffing the spell-phone into his coat pocket with a cheeky grin. “Alright, I’m off. Got a lunch date with Dom, and she’ll hex me if I’m late again.”
He gave James a mock-salute. “Don’t fall out of bed.”
James smirked. “Wouldn’t dare. Might miss more heartfelt confessions.”
Louis laughed and turned to Albus. “Take care of him, alright?”
“I’ll try,” Albus muttered, still recovering from the emotional ambush.
Louis walked to the door, then paused as he gripped the handle. Just as he was about to leave, James called out behind him, voice light but mischievous:
“Oh—and Louis?”
“Yeah?”
“Clear your schedule next week. I’ll call you again when Lily comes to visit.”
Albus groaned. “ James. ”
James leaned back smugly. “What? If I have to lie half-dead in a hospital bed, I’m milking it for all the sibling content I can get.”
Louis burst out laughing. “You’re incorrigible, mate.”
“I’m injured,” James corrected with an exaggerated wheeze. “Delicate. Frail. Craving affection.”
Louis shook his head as he stepped out. “You need professional help.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
James turned to Albus, eyes still twinkling with mischief. “Now, where were we? Oh right—my glorious redemption arc, and your emotional collapse.”
Albus rolled his eyes. “I should’ve brought the pillow.”
James tilted his head slightly, studying Albus now that they were finally alone. The grin slowly faded from his face as the quiet settled between them again.
“Alright,” he said, voice lower, more serious now. “Jokes aside…”
He paused, eyes flickering to the window, then back to his brother.
“What the hell actually happened ?”
Albus stiffened slightly.
James continued, “All I know is that I woke up to a crater in the middle of the Ministry and people saying I was lucky to still be breathing. Mum and Dad have been dodging every real question. The Healers keep telling me to rest. And you—”
He narrowed his eyes, still watching Albus carefully.
“You were locked up. Accused. ”
Albus looked down, jaw tightening.
James’s voice softened. “Mate. Talk to me. Please.”
Albus hesitated. His fingers gripped the edge of his chair, knuckles whitening.
“You’re not supposed to worry about it yet,” he said finally. “Mum and Dad… they just wanted you to rest. To heal.”
James gave him a look.
“I almost died , Al. I think I’ve earned the right to know why .”
A long silence.
Then Albus let out a breath. “There was an explosion. In the Department of Mysteries. The Veil… it broke. Like, actually broke.”
James frowned. “ Broke? ”
“It’s horizontal now. Like a pit. There’s… there’s something leaking through it. Inferi. Hundreds of them. Maybe more.”
James sat back slowly, stunned.
“Merlin,” he breathed. “That’s why it was so cold... I remember cold.”
Albus nodded. “You were near the edge. It nearly swallowed you.”
“And you?”
Albus looked away. “I got framed. They said I caused it. That I was part of some resurrection cult. They locked me up. It was… bad.”
James blinked. “What—? That’s why you were arrested? That’s insane. You’d never—”
“I know,” Albus said quickly. “I know .”
James stared at him for a long moment, then ran a hand down his face.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “And Dad?”
Albus didn’t answer right away.
James narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Albus finally met his gaze.
“There’s more,” he said quietly. “A lot more.”
James leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Tell me everything.”
Albus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together nervously. The weight of everything hung on his shoulders like a mountain.
“You know the German Minister? Elias Grimm?” he asked.
James nodded slowly. “Yeah, the charming one. Gave that speech last year at the Unity Accord. Dad said he was ‘sharp’ or something.”
Albus let out a humorless breath. “Yeah. Him.”
“What about him?”
Albus looked his brother in the eyes, then said, flatly, “He’s behind it all.”
James stared. “Behind the explosion ?”
Albus nodded. “And the Inferi. And the resurrection cult. He is the cult. He’s the leader. Has been for years. The Circle of Flame—he runs it.”
James’s mouth opened slightly. “No. No way.”
“It’s true. Dad figured it out. That night… when I got released, and you were still recovering… Grimm lured Dad into a trap. They dueled. Grimm won .”
James’s face darkened. “How?”
“I don’t know all the details,” Albus admitted. “But Dad nearly died. Grimm’s not just a politician—he’s unbelievably powerful. He’s been planning this for years. And everyone loves him. No one suspects him. No one sees what he really is.”
James shook his head slowly. “That’s—insane.”
Albus’s voice lowered.
“He’s trying to tear apart the Ministry. The magical world. He framed Dad, Aunt Hermione, Uncle Ron, Theia, Higgs—everyone who could stand against him. Germany’s already declared them criminals.”
James blinked. “Wait. Dad’s being hunted?”
“Not just hunted,” Albus said quietly. “He’s being discredited . Grimm gave a public statement. Claimed Dad tried to kill him. That he was helped by traitors.”
James looked like he’d been punched.
“And… and what now?” he asked. “What’s Dad doing?”
“He’s not backing down,” Albus said, eyes hard. “He’s going to fight. Expose the truth. But…”
“But?”
Albus hesitated. “He’s shaken. Grimm got to him. Somehow… Grimm knew things. Things he shouldn’t have. Dad’s been acting different since. Like he lost something.”
James frowned, confused. “What could he lose that would scare him more than facing Voldemort?”
Albus shook his head. “I don’t know. He hasn’t told me.”
James looked away, mind spinning. “Bloody hell. All this time… I’ve been lying here healing and the world’s falling apart. ”
“I didn’t want to dump this on you,” Albus said gently. “I know you’re still recovering.”
James looked back at him. “You should’ve told me sooner.”
“I know.”
James reached over with his uninjured arm and gripped Albus’s wrist.
“You’re not alone in this, Al. Not anymore.”
Albus blinked, caught off guard by the seriousness in James’s tone.
“I may be half-broken, but I’m still your big brother,” James said firmly. “We’ll fight this together. Whatever it takes.”
Albus sat in silence, the warmth of James’s words still lingering in the air.
But his gaze drifted—just for a moment—past his brother, past the comfort of the room, to somewhere far more distant. His hands clenched slightly.
Amélie.
The name hovered in his chest like a ghost.
He thought about her laugh at Rose’s wedding. The way she’d thrown her head back, carefree. The soft French lilt in her voice. The curve of her fingers when she reached for tea. He thought about the letter Rose mentioned. Her excitement. Her unborn child. Her disappearance.
And then he thought about James.
The timelines.
The fact that no body was found.
His throat tightened.
How could he say it? How could he look James in the eye—this brother who just welcomed him back—and ask what he was terrified to know?
Was it James’s child?
Was that why Amélie came back?
Was that why she died?
Before he could stop himself, his hand trembled slightly against the armrest.
“Al?” James’s voice broke through gently, noticing the shift in his brother’s expression. “You alright?”
Albus forced a faint nod. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
But James didn’t press. He knew that look—he’d worn it himself before. So he let Albus sit with it.
A soft knock on the door interrupted them.
It opened—and in stepped Harry.
Worn. Silent. His eyes immediately darted between both his sons. For a second, it looked like he wasn’t sure which one to speak to first.
“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse.
James sat up slightly, forcing a grin. “Look who’s awake.”
Harry stepped closer, his gaze lingering on Albus longer than usual. “They told me you two were in here.”
Neither son spoke.
Then James, ever the glue, gestured to the second chair. “Come on, Dad. Sit. Before you start brooding in the hallway like some tragic hero.”
Harry allowed a tiny, exhausted smirk. “No brooding today.”
But as he lowered himself into the chair, the weight of everything that had happened clung to his movements.
James leaned back into his pillows, looking between the two of them. The lines around his eyes were sharper now, more alert.
“So,” he said, careful and direct, “Grimm.”
Harry blinked.
Albus glanced sideways.
“Albus told me,” James continued. “Said Grimm’s the one behind the explosion. Behind… everything.”
Harry’s jaw tensed. His eyes flicked to Albus.
“You told him?”
Albus shifted uncomfortably. “He deserved to know, Dad. He nearly died. And he’s still a bloody Auror—”
“I know what he is,” Harry cut in quickly, his voice tighter than intended. He ran a hand through his hair, then exhaled slowly. “But this… this isn’t something you two need to worry about right now.”
James raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Harry said. “Grimm’s gone back to Germany. He’s surrounded by power, support, protection. This isn’t going to be solved with a couple of wands and a press conference.”
“But—” James began.
“No,” Harry interrupted, more firmly now. “I mean it. There are things about Grimm… things you don’t know. Things I didn’t even believe until it was too late.”
James narrowed his eyes. “Then tell us.”
But Harry’s silence said more than any answer could.
Albus watched him carefully. Something unspoken flickered behind his father’s eyes—guilt, grief, maybe even fear.
“It’s nothing you need to carry,” Harry said at last, more quietly. “You’ve both carried enough.”
James looked like he wanted to argue, but the sharpness in Harry’s tone finally made him pause. For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Harry leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “For now, we focus on healing. On being a family again. We’ll deal with Grimm. But not through you.”
James leaned back into the pillows, still eyeing his father with concern. The silence in the room had settled like mist—heavy, dense, and full of things unsaid.
After a long pause, he asked quietly, “So… what happens now?”
Harry looked up.
His eyes met both his sons'. Albus, still cautious. James, wounded but sharper than ever. He sighed.
“The ICW has been alerted,” Harry began.
“The International Confederation of Wizards ?” James asked, sitting up straighter.
Harry nodded. “Yeah. Minister Higgs contacted them this morning. We gave them a formal briefing on Grimm’s misconduct, the Veil breach, the Inferi, and the charges Germany’s trying to throw on us.”
James frowned. “And?”
Harry ran a hand down his face. “They’re deliberating. But it’s complicated. Germany’s one of the five primary signatories in the Continental Accord. It has pull —and Grimm’s reputation with the ICW is clean.”
Albus crossed his arms. “So they’re going to believe him ?”
“Not exactly,” Harry said. “But they won’t act against him without hard evidence. Testimonies, magical records, Pensieve memories. And Grimm… he’s too smart. He left no trail.”
James muttered, “Sounds like he planned this from the start.”
“He did,” Harry said. “And now the political machinery is turning. Germany's pushing for diplomatic sanctions against us. They want all British Aurors recalled from their borders, magical trade frozen, extradition treaties nullified. They’ve even drafted a vote to censure our entire Ministry at the next ICW gathering.”
Albus’s eyes widened. “ That’s huge.”
“It is,” Harry said grimly. “If they get two-thirds, Britain could be cut off from the international magical community. No commerce, no academic exchange, no shared intelligence. Like we’re a rogue state.”
James blinked. “And all of that… because you fought back?”
Harry gave a bitter smile. “Because I made the mistake of surviving Grimm’s trap.”
A long silence followed.
“And now?” James asked again. “What’s the plan?”
Harry leaned forward, voice low and steady.
“Now, we gather what we can. Witnesses. Artifacts. Allies. We prepare a counter-case. And when the ICW calls the next summit in Geneva—I'll be there.”
Albus’s heart beat faster. “What if they arrest you?”
Harry looked him in the eyes. “Then they’ll hear the truth before they put me in chains.”
James let out a low whistle. “Dad, you’ve gone full Dumbledore .”
Harry chuckled softly, but his eyes were tired.
“No,” he said. “Dumbledore played the long game. I’m just trying to survive the week.”
Albus looked at his father for a long, quiet moment. Then, gently:
“Dad… what happened when you fought him?”
Harry’s gaze dropped to his hands, fingers interlaced, knuckles tight.
James leaned in, curious now too. “You said he was powerful. But how ? You’ve fought worse, haven’t you?”
Harry was still for a second too long.
Then he let out a breath—measured, flat. “He was fast. Controlled. Like he knew every move I was going to make before I made it. He didn’t waste energy. Just—precision and pressure.”
Albus frowned. “But you’ve fought dark wizards before. You’ve beaten worse.”
Harry didn’t meet their eyes. “It wasn’t just about power. It was about how much he wanted it. He was… committed. Obsessed. There was no fear in him. No hesitation. Like he’d already made peace with whatever he’d become.”
There was a heavy pause.
James, softly: “And you didn’t?”
Harry finally looked up, and there was something raw in his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to win. I was trying to stop him.”
Albus’s jaw tightened. He could feel it—something his father wasn’t saying. Something behind those words.
“But you said you nearly died, ” he said. “You came back bleeding and half-conscious. And everyone said… you were shouting. For your wand.”
Harry’s expression flickered—just a moment. Just a ghost of guilt.
“I was angry,” he said. “Angrier than I’ve been in a long time. I thought I could end it there. I thought I could… fix something that can’t be fixed.”
“You lost something,” Albus said quietly. “Didn’t you?”
Harry didn’t answer.
Instead, he stood, suddenly full of motion, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. “I need to speak with Hermione and Higgs again. We’ve got a list of diplomats who might vote with us at the summit.”
James and Albus watched him.
Albus didn’t press. Not yet.
But the silence his father left behind said more than the words ever could.
Whatever happened in that duel… it hadn’t just shaken Harry.
It had changed him.
Harry had just stepped into the corridor outside the hospital room, his coat thrown over his shoulder, his mind already shifting to diplomatic names and ICW strategy—when he heard footsteps behind him.
“Dad,” Albus called out quietly.
Harry stopped.
Albus approached slowly, hesitant, as if the weight of the question he was carrying might crack the floor beneath them.
Harry turned, his face softer now, seeing the tension in his son’s eyes. “What is it?”
Albus glanced back to make sure no one was near, then looked up at his father, voice low and careful.
“If I… if someone wanted to know who died in the Ministry explosion,” he said, “is there a list? I mean—people who were confirmed dead. Or maybe not found at all?”
Harry narrowed his eyes slightly, immediately catching the shift in tone. “You looking for someone specific?”
“No,” Albus said too quickly. “I mean—not exactly. Just…” He exhaled. “Some people were caught in the blast, right? Civilians. Visitors. Staff.”
Harry nodded slowly. “A lot of people were down there. The Department of Mysteries was never built to handle that kind of collapse.”
“And what about the ones who weren’t recovered?”
Harry studied him for a long beat.
“There’s a report,” he said finally. “It's not public, but I can get you a copy. Names, last known locations, who was found, who wasn't. But Albus…”
Albus looked up.
Harry tilted his head slightly. “If there’s someone you’re looking for— really looking for—you can just tell me.”
Albus hesitated. His jaw twitched, his throat tightened.
He wanted to say it.
He wanted to ask— What if she was pregnant? What if she was coming for James? What if I never get to know if she forgave me?
But all he managed was a nod. “Just the report.”
Harry gave a quiet nod. “I’ll have it sent to the house.”
He turned again, walking away down the corridor, coat billowing behind him.
Albus stood there, pulse steady but heavy.
He didn’t know what he was expecting from the report. Closure?
Or more questions?
But one thing was certain—
He had to know.
***
Harry stepped into the familiar, dimly lit office of Acting Minister Nathan Higgs.
The fireplace glowed low behind the desk, the scent of parchment and old stone curling faintly in the air. Higgs stood at the window, arms behind his back, watching the enchanted forecast swirl over the Thames skyline.
Without turning, he said, “You’re late.”
Harry closed the door behind him. “I was with my sons.”
At that, Higgs turned, eyes sharp but not unsympathetic. “Understandable.”
He moved behind his desk and gestured for Harry to sit. “Let’s get to it.”
Harry took the seat, bracing himself. “So?”
Higgs exhaled, reached into the stack of files on his desk, and pulled out a thin parchment folder. “France and Italy have signaled their support.”
Harry blinked. “They’re siding with us?”
“Yes. Quietly, for now. Both sent envoys this morning. They agree Grimm’s accusations are suspicious and that the political timing is too convenient.”
“That gives us three votes,” Harry said.
Higgs nodded. “Including ours.”
Harry frowned. “And Germany?”
“Doubling down,” Higgs said, eyes darkening. “Grimm’s launched an international PR campaign accusing you—and me—of orchestrating an illegal cross-border attack. He’s painting the entire Veil incident as a British magical experiment gone wrong.”
Harry scoffed. “He caused the explosion.”
“Of course,” Higgs said. “But he’s got charisma. Control. He’s flooded the wizarding world’s news channels. And most countries—especially the ones who rely on German magical tech—are hesitant to contradict him.”
Harry leaned forward. “So what’s the ICW saying?”
Higgs pulled out a sealed document and slid it across the table.
“The International Confederation has granted us a provisional hearing,” he said. “Geneva. Two weeks from now. A full assembly. We’re being treated as defendants.”
Harry opened the folder. The seal of the ICW glinted in silver wax.
Higgs continued, “We have exactly a fortnight to present evidence. Verifiable, magical, and legally sound. Eyewitness accounts. Artifacts. Magical signatures. Anything that ties Grimm to the Veil explosion or proves he’s leading the Circle of Flame.”
Harry looked up. “And if we don’t?”
“Britain will be sanctioned,” Higgs said flatly. “Trade shut down. Travel revoked. All international cooperation suspended. Magical academia cut off. We’ll be on our own. And you , personally, will likely be tried in absentia.”
Harry exhaled through his nose. “So we have fourteen days to pull off the impossible.”
“Less,” Higgs said. “They want preliminary briefs in seven. ”
Harry stood. His mind already racing.
Harry didn’t move. His hand stayed on the folder stamped with the silver ICW seal, but his eyes were locked on Higgs.
“What exactly happens,” he said slowly, “if we fail to convince them?”
Higgs didn’t blink.
“The official charges Germany has filed against you and the others—Hermione, Ron, Theia, myself—would stand uncontested in front of the full International Confederation of Wizards.”
“And?”
Higgs’s tone remained even, but colder now. “The Confederation will issue a unanimous formal censure of the British Ministry. Our diplomatic standing will be revoked. We’ll be stripped of voting rights in international magical law. Magical travel licenses will be suspended. Our Healers and Aurors won’t be allowed to cross borders for international duty. Academic exchange programs—gone. No more auror exchange programs. No more World Cup hosting. No legal international wand trade. No protection for our diplomats or magical citizens abroad.”
Harry stared at him, processing.
“And me?”
Higgs hesitated—just briefly.
“You’ll be named a fugitive under the ICW Charter. A magical terrorist. You’ll be wanted in over two dozen countries. No sanctuary. No extradition protection.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “So that’s it? Grimm spins a lie, and we’re buried alive in bureaucracy.”
“No.” Higgs leaned in. “That’s what happens if we let him win.”
Harry’s voice turned quiet. Dangerous. “And you think two weeks is enough to tear apart the story of a man who’s spent decades building a perfect lie?”
“I think,” Higgs said, “that if anyone can do it—it’s you.”
Harry gave a bitter smile. “That’s what they always say. Right before they let me walk alone into fire.”
Higgs didn’t answer.
As Harry turned to leave, the heavy ICW folder tucked under his arm, Higgs’s voice stopped him once more.
“Harry.”
He paused in the doorway.
“What did Grimm take from you that night?” He asked again.
Harry’s back remained to him. The room hung in silence, even the hum of the enchanted window faltering for a moment.
Higgs stepped forward, his tone lower, more measured now. “You were shouting for something. I carried you half-conscious to the Healer’s Wing. You kept saying, ‘He took it. He took it.’ You said it like you’d lost the war.”
Harry didn’t turn.
He just said, without emotion, “I lost something that should’ve never left the ground.”
Higgs frowned. “What does that mean?”
Harry finally looked over his shoulder—just enough for Higgs to see the flicker of pain behind his eyes.
“It means,” Harry said quietly, “I broke a promise I swore I never would.”
And then he left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Higgs remained frozen, staring after him—unsettled, and more convinced than ever that something deeper was unraveling beneath the surface.
***
Albus sat alone in the quiet room the Ministry called the Records Chamber for Magical Casualty Verification . It was stark and cold, filled with softly glowing scrolls that sorted and updated themselves midair. The silence buzzed with a kind of reverent finality.
He stared down at the report in front of him—a clean, official list compiled by the Department of Mysteries. Each name was marked as Deceased – Confirmed , Missing – Presumed Dead , or Recovered – Awaiting Identification .
He scrolled slowly, scanning each name with aching care.
But she wasn’t there.
No Amélie Faure .
Not under the deceased. Not even among the missing.
Not a single trace.
He double-checked every variation. Faure, Amélie. Faure, A. Unnamed French Female Visitor. Still nothing. The ink didn’t lie. She wasn’t recorded. As if she’d never been in the building.
Albus leaned back, his hand running through his messy hair.
His heart had pounded faster as he looked—part hope, part dread—but now it settled into something worse: confusion.
Was she not there when it happened?
Or worse… was her presence intentionally erased?
And the baby?
Albus felt like he couldn’t breathe. He pressed his palms to the table, grounding himself.
She had written to Rose. She had said she was coming. She had been excited . She had wanted to meet the father.
She wouldn’t have just… vanished.
Unless someone made her vanish.
He looked again, one last time, just to be sure.
Still nothing.
And now a new, terrifying possibility clawed at him:
What if Amélie wasn’t dead?
What if she’d been taken?
***
Albus sat in the quiet garden behind the Ministry, away from the noise and people and too many memories. His spell-phone felt unusually heavy in his hand as he hovered over the contact he’d found— Faure, Juliette. Amélie’s mother.
He took a deep breath and tapped Call.
The magical line rang once. Twice.
Then a voice answered, breathless and raw. “ Allô? ”
“Madame Faure?” Albus said, his throat tightening.
“ Qui est-ce? ” she asked sharply, but there was panic in her tone.
“I’m—I'm Albus Potter. I knew Amélie.”
There was a beat of silence. Then a gasp.
“ Mon Dieu... Albus? She spoke of you once. Years ago.” Her voice broke, and she began crying. “Where is she? Where is my girl?”
Albus closed his eyes. “That’s why I called. I was hoping… maybe you knew more.”
Juliette’s sobs came softly through the line. “I’ve been trying to contact the British Ministry for weeks. I’ve written, called, even sent owls. No one replies. ”
“I’m so sorry,” Albus whispered. “No one should ignore you.”
“She left for London,” Juliette said, her voice cracking again. “Didn’t tell me why. Only said she had something important to do. I begged her to wait. But she left that night and never came back. No letters. No call. I—I don’t even know if she’s…”
She couldn’t say the word. Albus felt it tear through him.
“She’s all I had left,” Juliette whispered.
Albus swallowed. “I promise I’ll find out what happened. Even if the Ministry won’t help you—I will.”
There was a pause. Then a whisper, soaked in grief.
“ Please… bring her home to me.”
“I’ll try,” he said, his voice shaking. “I swear I’ll try.”
The call ended. Albus stared at the phone for a long time, the screen dark, his reflection pale in the glass.
He had to know.
He had to find her.
***
James lay motionless, eyes fixed on the ceiling as Sirius snored rhythmically across the room. The shadows from the magical night-lamps danced faintly above him, but his mind wasn’t in the room anymore.
It was back in that moment.
That hallway.
That look on Amélie’s face.
He hadn’t just avoided her. He’d run .
But the part that haunted him more—the part that twisted like a blade—was that he hadn’t wanted to.
He wanted her. He always had.
Even after their brief, impulsive night together, James had found himself thinking about her. About her laugh, her fire, her wit. There was something different about her—unfiltered and strange in a way that made him feel alive. He wanted to explore that. He wanted to see where it could go.
But then—
Albus.
The punch. The silence. The tension in their already fractured family. Albus had looked at him like he was the final betrayal in a world full of them. And James, for once, didn’t know how to fight that.
He had told Amélie they couldn't continue. That it wasn’t the right time. That there was too much going on.
But he hadn’t told her the truth.
That he broke it off not because he didn’t care—
—but because he did .
And because he didn’t know how to love her without tearing his family further apart.
He never thought she’d disappear from his life.
He never thought she’d end up in that building.
That corridor.
That explosion.
Now he couldn’t stop replaying it.
The moment he saw her.
The way she reached for him.
The way he turned away.
James clenched his jaw, eyes stinging. He didn't dare blink. He wasn’t sure if the tears would stop if he let them start.
Across the room, Sirius snorted and turned in his sleep.
But James couldn’t sleep.
He couldn’t stop thinking…
What if she came back for him?
What if Albus had been right —to hate him?
And what if it was all too late ?
James turned onto his side, the stiff hospital sheets rustling beneath him. The dull ache in his back was nothing compared to the gnawing emptiness hollowing out his chest.
He didn’t even know if she was dead .
That thought alone made his breath catch.
He hadn’t asked. Not once.
Because deep down, he had been afraid of the answer.
Because if she was gone…
He wouldn’t even have known where she was buried.
Wouldn’t have sent flowers.
Wouldn’t have stood in the back row with his hands clenched behind his back, paying quiet penance for what they could’ve been.
He would have missed her completely.
And what if no one was even looking for her?
What if the Ministry hadn’t even written her name down?
What if she was just
gone
, like a ghost that only existed in his guilt?
He hadn’t just lost time—he’d lost days. Weeks.
Locked in this sterile white room, sedated and broken, while the world fell apart outside. No newspapers. No spell-phone. No updates. Only Ginny’s soft voice and Harry’s evasive calm, carefully telling him nothing.
They were protecting him, he knew that.
But in the silence, grief had crept in. And now—
All he could think about was Amélie.
He remembered the night she laughed so hard she snorted.
The way she stole his jacket and wore it like armor.
The way she rolled her eyes when he flirted too hard.
And the way she smiled—just once—like she was daring him to break his rules.
He hadn’t even said goodbye.
James covered his eyes with one arm and tried to breathe. The room smelled like antiseptic and overwatered roses. It made his stomach churn.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the dark.
It wasn’t enough.
But it was all he had.
***
The room was silent—eerily, perfectly silent.
Amélie Faure sat on a narrow cot pressed against the cold stone wall. Her arms cradled her swollen belly, now unmistakably five months along. The baby kicked, and she exhaled slowly, like she had to convince herself she was still here .
Still alive .
The cell wasn’t a dungeon, not in the traditional sense. No chains. No mold. It was... clinical . Padded corners. No windows. No clocks. A magical barrier in place of a door. Soft lights that never turned off. Always glowing, always watching.
Her wand was gone. Her time, forgotten. And her name? She hadn’t heard anyone speak it aloud in weeks.
She used to count the days. At first with hope. Then out of habit. Then it became meaningless.
She didn’t know where she was. Only that it wasn’t the UK. The language outside the barrier wasn’t English. The guards wore dark robes without emblems. They never spoke to her—just looked at her like she was a… specimen .
Sometimes she thought she was in a lab, not a prison.
Sometimes she thought she was in a tomb.
She didn't cry anymore. There was no one left to cry to . Not her mother. Not her friends. Not... James.
James.
She still dreamed of him. Of that day in the Ministry. Of how he saw her—and walked away.
Had he known?
Had he guessed?
Did he care?
Her hands moved protectively over her stomach. "It’s okay," she whispered in French, soft and soothing. " Maman est là. "
The baby kicked again, gently.
She could feel the magic in the air sometimes—strange, pulsing, wrong . Like the walls themselves were alive with something rotten . Whatever they were doing here… it wasn’t natural.
And it was growing stronger.
Sometimes, at night, she heard things through the walls. Murmurs. Screams. The howling of something that wasn’t human.
She closed her eyes and steadied her breath.
Grimm had visited her once. Just once.
He had smiled like a priest. Touched the barrier like it was glass. And said only one thing:
“You carry a child born from power and pain. That makes you very special , Amélie.”
Then he left.
That was two months ago.
Amélie held her stomach tighter. "You're not his," she whispered to the baby. "You're mine. "
No matter what they did—no matter how they tried to twist fate—
She would not let them take her child.
Not without a fight.
She leaned her head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as a soft ache pulsed low in her spine. The baby shifted again—more restless these days. More aware .
She smiled faintly, instinctively rubbing her belly in slow, rhythmic circles. Her hands, though thinner, still carried the gentle grace of someone used to holding wands, books, flowers—life.
Her smile faded.
James.
She hadn't stopped thinking about him. Not once.
Not since she saw him that day in the Ministry corridor—his dark hair slightly tousled, his Auror robes rumpled from haste, a cup of coffee in one hand. She’d called after him. Her voice had cracked from excitement, nerves, fear. But he had kept walking.
He didn’t turn around.
She had told herself there must have been some reason. That maybe he hadn’t heard her. That maybe the corridor was too loud. That maybe… maybe he was just in a rush.
But deep down, she knew. There was something behind his silence.
Still, she never imagined he would truly cut her off. Not after the night they'd shared. Not after the way he held her like she meant something.
She’d written letters. So many. To James. To his department. No response. No word. Just silence.
Had something happened to him?
Did he even know she was gone?
Did he ever think of her?
She didn’t know about the fight. About Albus’s anger. About the blow that severed more than blood. She didn’t know that James had been told to walk away—to let it go—to keep the peace.
To sacrifice her.
To sacrifice them .
Amélie’s eyes stung, but no tears came.
“You didn’t know,” she whispered to the silence, not sure if she meant James or the baby . “You didn’t know what it meant to me.”
Her fingers grazed the small silver bracelet around her wrist—the only thing they hadn’t taken. The one Rose had given her back at Hogwarts. A goodbye gift.
Her heart thudded.
Was James even alive?
Had the explosion taken him too?
Had he run because he was afraid?
Or because... he never really felt what she felt?
Amélie pressed her lips to her knuckles, breathing in slow, as if she could smell the smoky scent of his jacket, hear the half-laugh he made when he was pretending not to care. She remembered the way he softened only when he thought no one was watching.
And that night— their night—he had looked at her like he was scared to feel that much.
She never told him about the baby.
She had wanted to do it right . Face to face. No letters. No distance. Just her, him, and the truth.
Now?
She didn’t even know if she’d get that chance.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, and whispered like a prayer:
“Please… let him still be out there.”
She suddenly sat upright on the cot, her spine stiff despite the ache in her lower back. The air shifted—she felt him before she heard him. The hum of the barrier shimmered, then fell away like silk being drawn back from a curtain.
Grimm entered.
Elias Grimm—Minister for Magic of Germany, leader of a movement no one dared name, and the reason her world had been reduced to this glowing white cell.
He was calm. Immaculate, as always. Dressed in dark blue robes embroidered with subtle silver—nothing ostentatious, just enough to whisper power .
"Good evening, Amélie," he said, voice warm, almost fatherly. "You look well."
She didn’t answer. Her arms wrapped protectively around her belly, which now rose like a gentle slope beneath her robe.
Grimm stepped forward slowly, like approaching a skittish animal. He looked around as if inspecting a luxury hotel room, not a cell.
"Are you sleeping alright? Eating well?" His tone was genuine. He could've been a concerned uncle. A physician. A… guardian.
Amélie’s jaw tightened.
"Let me go," she said softly.
Grimm blinked. Not surprised—merely acknowledging.
"I can’t do that. Not yet."
"Then what do you want from me?" Her voice cracked with frustration. "You’ve kept me here for months. I haven’t seen real sunlight. I don’t know where I am —I don’t even know what day it is!"
He tilted his head, as if her desperation were data.
"You’re safe here, Amélie," he said gently. "You’re important. That child you carry is... unique. I want to make sure you’re both cared for."
"You want control ," she snapped. " I didn’t ask for this. And they —they didn’t either." She laid a hand on her belly. "It has nothing to do with your… your twisted war."
For a moment, something flickered in Grimm’s expression. Not anger. Not offense. Something quieter. Almost... personal.
Then it was gone.
He stepped closer. Not too close.
"One day, you’ll understand," he said softly. "Your child is part of something greater than you realize. And you, Amélie… You are so much more than what you’ve been told you are."
Her heart hammered.
"What are you talking about?" she whispered.
Grimm smiled—kind, distant, maddening.
"Rest now. I’ll have your room warmed. And I’ll send a fresh meal—something from Lyon, yes?"
He turned to leave.
"Wait!" she called. "At least tell me what happened. To the Ministry. To James —"
But the barrier shimmered back into place before she could finish.
Grimm didn’t answer.
He walked away in silence.
Amélie couldn’t sleep that night.
The walls of the room felt tighter than ever, like they were breathing with her, watching her. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw Grimm’s calm smile— that smile, the one that made her skin crawl no matter how gentle his words were.
Her fingers dug into the thin mattress. One hand protectively cradled her belly. The other gripped the metal edge of the cot as her mind spun.
He came unguarded.
No guards. No wards stronger than that flickering charm he lowered with a flick of his wand.
He comes in alone. Because he thinks I won’t try anything.
He thought she was weak. Fragile. A vessel.
But she wasn’t .
She was a witch. She was a mother. And she wasn’t going to let her child be born in a cell—raised in a world twisted by a man who thought he could own people through kindness and chains.
She stared at the corner of the room where Grimm always stood before stepping inside. She began to pace—slowly, because of the weight she carried—but steadily, a rhythm building in her limbs.
She thought about the moment he crossed the barrier. The way he held his wand low, casually. His thumb resting near the base. The way his eyes lingered on her—not with suspicion, but calculation.
Tomorrow, she’d wait until he was inside.
She’d cry if she had to. Fake vulnerability. He liked it when she was scared.
Then she’d move fast—grab the wand, or even just his wrist, press her weight into him, channel every ounce of panic and fury and love she had left into one strike. She didn’t know what spell she’d cast—she didn’t care.
She could disarm him. Escape.
Or die trying.
She touched her belly again, slower this time.
"I'm not raising you in this," she whispered to the child inside. "I won’t let him decide who you become. Even if I have to burn every door down to get out."
And then she lay down, eyes wide open in the dark, memorizing every step in her mind.
***
The next morning arrived like a quiet warning.
Amélie sat upright on the edge of her cot, already dressed in the clean robes that had been delivered during the night—soft grey, loose-fitting, meant to keep her calm, passive. Contained . She had braided her hair tightly, every movement slow and deliberate. Her hands trembled faintly, not with fear—but with tightly wound anticipation.
The ward at the far end of the room shimmered. A ripple of magic crawled across the walls. She knew the pattern now.
He was coming.
She moved to stand, one hand instinctively bracing her belly. She was slower these days, heavier. But she kept her posture proud. She forced her breathing even.
The veil of shimmering magic lifted with a faint hiss.
Elias Grimm stepped inside.
Same robes. Same expression. Warm. Calculating. Hollow.
"Good morning, Amélie," he greeted, as if this were a country home and not a prison.
She gave him a small, tentative smile. Her eyes glistened slightly, and she glanced down.
He noticed. He always noticed.
"Did you sleep better?" he asked, stepping closer. His wand was in his right hand, loose, casual.
"Yes," she said, voice soft. "Thank you for the tea last night. I was thinking..."
Grimm tilted his head. "Yes?"
She looked up at him—eyes wide, innocent. Her fingers brushed her stomach.
"Could I have something to read?" she asked gently. "It’s just… sometimes I feel so disconnected from everything. I think it would help. A story. Something small."
Grimm smiled again. A flicker of warmth, pleased with her "progress." He nodded.
"Of course. I’ll send something in today. Maybe poetry. Something French?"
He took another step forward.
And that’s when she moved.
With a sudden burst of motion, Amélie surged forward—her left hand shooting for his wand arm, her right shoulder slamming into his chest with all the weight of five months and fury.
Grimm stumbled—startled—but his reaction was fast . Too fast.
Her hand grazed his wrist—she almost had it—but then his other hand caught her by the shoulder and spun her, gently but firmly, guiding her back before she could gain leverage.
He didn’t throw her. He didn’t curse her.
He just held her, steadying her with terrifying calm.
“Amélie,” he said, voice low, controlled, but darker now. “That was… unwise.”
She tried to wrestle away—but he only tightened his grip by inches, forcing her back into stillness. His wand hovered now at her side—not aimed, but present.
“Don’t touch me!” she spat, her eyes burning. “Don’t pretend you care!”
Grimm exhaled through his nose. Not angry—just disappointed.
“I do care. But I can’t allow recklessness. Not from you. Not with your condition.”
Her chest heaved.
“You’re keeping me here like an animal,” she said bitterly. “Like a… like I’m just useful to you.”
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Something unreadable passed through them.
“You’re more important than you understand,” he said quietly. “One day, you’ll see. You’re carrying the future, Amélie.”
She stared at him. Her voice cracked.
“You don’t even know who the father is.”
He didn’t answer.
She watched his face—calm, thoughtful. But something in his silence made her blood run cold.
“You don’t,” she said again, this time more firmly. “Do you?”
He gave her a gentle smile.
"I know more than you think."
Then, he stepped back. The barrier began to shimmer again between them.
“Rest,” he said softly. “We’ll talk again soon. And Amélie... please don’t try that again.”
She didn’t answer.
She just stood there, breathing hard as he vanished through the veil of light, her hand still clenched into a trembling fist.
The next day, Amélie didn’t rise when the barrier dropped.
She didn’t sit at the edge of the cot. She didn’t pace. She didn’t fix her hair or prepare herself to strike. She stayed curled beneath the thin blanket, her back to the door, one hand gently resting on the rise of her belly. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t blink when she heard the footsteps. When she heard him .
The shimmer peeled again. Light folded inward, and Elias Grimm stepped through the ward.
He paused.
Silence settled thick in the air—no greeting, no movement from her.
He waited a moment, then walked in slowly, more cautiously this time. Not fearful. Careful.
“I thought you might be hungry,” he said gently, setting the tray of food down on the small table in the corner. He conjured a chair with a flick of his wand and sat—not too close, not too far.
Still, Amélie didn’t turn.
She didn’t speak.
She couldn’t .
Grimm studied her for a long moment, quiet. The silence between them was heavy, stretched across emotion unspoken.
“I know you’re angry,” he said eventually. “And tired. You have every right to be.”
Still no response.
He leaned forward slightly. “If I were in your place, I’d feel the same. But… I want you to understand something.”
Her hand tensed around her belly at the word understand .
“I’m not your enemy, Amélie,” he said softly. “I don’t want to hurt you. I never did.”
She closed her eyes at that. Then why does it feel like a prison?
He continued, quieter now. “I’ve given you everything I can. Safety. Healing charms. The best nourishment. Magical protections around your child that most witches could never dream of.” A pause. “I’ve kept you hidden from those who would use you. Or your child. Or worse.”
She shifted slightly under the blanket, her shoulders tightening—but still said nothing.
“I know this isn’t how you wanted your life to go,” he said. “But it’s not the end of it. Not by far. And when the time comes… when the world is ready… you’ll have choices. More than most.”
He stood slowly, smoothing his robes.
“I’ll return tomorrow. Unless you’d prefer someone else.”
Amélie still didn’t answer.
Just as he turned to leave, his voice softened further.
“You’re not alone,” he said gently. “Even when you feel like it.”
The ward closed behind him.
She lay there in silence, tears running into the pillow, hating how miserable she felt—and how much of her wanted to believe just one word he said.
***
Amélie woke with a jolt.
A sharp, twisting pain bloomed low in her abdomen—tight, foreign, wrong. She gasped, curling forward on the cot. It wasn’t a kick. It wasn’t pressure. It was something else . Something that made her heart spike with pure, electric panic.
“ Help! ” she shouted, her voice raw with fear. “ Please—someone help me! ”
Within seconds, the shimmering ward flared. A sound like thunder cracked the silence as the door opened with magical urgency. Two robed Healers swept in, wands already drawn and glowing. Grimm followed—cloak still half-unfastened, as if he hadn’t even finished dressing before running to her.
“What’s happening?” Grimm asked, crossing the room in three long strides. “Amélie—”
“It hurts,” she panted, pressing both hands over her belly, eyes wide. “It’s not the same—it’s not the same as before—it’s not normal.”
“Step back,” one of the Healers said calmly, already casting diagnostic charms that lit the air in shimmering golden runes.
The other conjured a small hovering table of potions and monitoring tools, eyes narrowing in focus.
Grimm stood near the foot of the bed, hands clenched behind his back, his face unnervingly still. But Amélie saw it—the tension in his jaw, the barely concealed fear behind his cool expression.
The Healers muttered to each other in quick German, spells passing between them like threads of light.
The older witch turned to Grimm. “There’s stress magic around the womb. Emotional trauma,” she said. “But the child is stable. Very strong, actually.”
Amélie exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her body sagged against the pillows, a sheen of cold sweat on her skin.
“Will they be okay?” Grimm asked, voice low.
The Healer nodded. “Yes. But she needs complete rest. And emotional stability. No more fear responses like this. It’s too late in the pregnancy.”
Grimm gave a nod and flicked his wand. The shimmering barrier over the door strengthened, as if sealing the world out further.
The Healers moved around Amélie with practiced care. One of them gently placed a hand over her belly, murmuring a soft incantation. A calming glow spread across her stomach.
She felt the baby shift—more gently this time. And then… stillness. Safe.
She turned her head and met Grimm’s eyes. For once, the charm was gone. He looked… human. Frightened. As if something in this moment had shaken him, too.
The room had quieted, dim now under softened lights, the rush of healers fading into stillness. The tension in Amélie’s body had lessened, but her eyes remained wide, tired, and brimming with unspoken questions.
Grimm didn’t leave.
He conjured a chair beside her bed, not with the usual polished flourish, but with a quiet flick of his wand—almost weary. He sat slowly, hands resting on his knees, as though unsure what to say. For the first time since she had been brought here, he didn’t seem in control.
Amélie turned her head toward him, her voice small, fragile. “Please.”
Grimm looked up.
“I need to know about James,” she whispered. “Is he alive? Does he know I was there? Does he know? ”
Grimm was silent.
She pushed herself up slightly, grimacing through the weight of her pregnancy, her eyes filled with pain—not physical pain now, but something deeper. “He didn’t even say goodbye. He left me like I didn’t matter. And I—” her voice broke, “—I was going to tell him. I was . About the baby. That day. That’s why I went to the Ministry. I never got the chance.”
Grimm inhaled softly, then leaned forward. His voice, when it came, was low and measured.
“He’s alive.”
Amélie’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She let out a breath that sounded like a sob, her hand flying to her mouth.
“He was gravely injured in the explosion,” Grimm continued. “For a while… they weren’t sure he’d make it.”
“But he—he did?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Grimm gave a single, slow nod. “Yes. He’s alive. Recovering. In St. Mungo’s.”
She closed her eyes, tears streaming down the sides of her face, soaking into the pillow. “Thank Merlin…”
“I didn’t tell you before,” Grimm added gently, “because I didn’t want your condition to worsen. And you were in no shape to hear bad news. But now you needed to know. And I will not lie to you.”
Amélie opened her eyes again, staring at the ceiling. “He doesn’t know, does he?”
“No,” Grimm said quietly. “Not about the baby. Not about you surviving.”
“Will you… will you let me write to him?” she asked, hopeful now, her voice trembling. “Just to let him know I’m here. That I’m alive. Please.”
Grimm looked at her, long and unreadable. Then, softly, he said:
“Not yet.”
That broke something in her.
“Why not?” she whispered. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“I am protecting you,” Grimm said.
“From what ?”
He didn’t answer.
Amélie turned her face away from him, tears falling silently. She didn’t ask again.
Grimm watched her a moment longer. Then, almost inaudibly, he said:
“There will be a time for reunions. But not while the world burns.”
He stood. This time, he didn’t look back.
And as the barrier shimmered closed behind him, Amélie stared into the dark, cradling her belly, her heart aching with hope, fear—and now a terrible, suffocating patience.
The stone corridor outside Amélie’s chamber was cold and silent, the only sound Grimm’s slow footsteps echoing against the enchanted walls. His expression had shifted once again—gone was the gentleness he’d shown Amélie. Now, his eyes were sharp, calculating. Purposeful.
He stepped into a private alcove and with a flick of his wand, summoned a silver-glass orb from within his robes. Whispering a foreign incantation, he placed the orb to his lips and spoke clearly.
“Condition report,” he said in flawless English.
The orb shimmered once, then a faint voice echoed back—filtered, distant, but unmistakably familiar.
“St. Mungo’s. East Wing, Level Five. Subject: James Potter. Still confined to bed. Responding well to treatments. Spine regeneration holding. Eye vision partially restored. Motor response at 78%.”
Grimm’s eyes narrowed. “Neurological?”
“Stable,” came the reply. “Nightmares frequent. Muscle fatigue expected. Recovery estimated: two weeks, possibly less.”
“Good,” Grimm said smoothly. “Monitor closely. Send word if anything changes. And…”
He paused, his tone dropping colder.
“…he is not to die.”
“Understood, sir.”
The connection ended.
Grimm tapped the orb once, and it dissolved into a stream of mist, vanishing in his palm.
He stood still for a long moment, staring at nothing. Then, with an almost imperceptible smirk, he murmured to himself:
“Can’t have the boy dying before he meets his child.”
He turned and walked away, cloak trailing behind him, silent as the shadows.
He had people everywhere.
And he intended to keep it that way.
The next morning came quietly, the faint golden glow of enchanted sunlight filtering into Amélie’s chamber from a charm-hidden window. The room had been magically warmed, scented faintly with lavender, and the usual sterile chill had lifted just slightly.
Amélie sat up against the headboard, her hands resting protectively over her belly. The previous day’s scare had left her shaken but also strangely more grounded. The baby moved again that morning—soft, rhythmic kicks—and she pressed her palm over them, whispering to herself in French. A lullaby.
Then the door opened.
Grimm entered.
But he didn’t come alone.
Behind him floated half a dozen conjured parcels and gift boxes—lightweight bundles wrapped in soft fabric and trailing silver ribbons. A magically folded crib hovered among them, charmed to assemble itself quietly in the corner. A mobile made of floating stars and phoenix feathers began to hum a lullaby on its own as it settled above it.
Grimm himself held a box in his arms. Inside was a thick, hand-stitched baby blanket—cream-colored with subtle embroidery: stars, moons, and blooming flowers.
He approached slowly, like someone uncertain whether their gesture would be accepted.
“I thought,” he said softly, “you might want something comforting. Something for them.”
Amélie stared at the items, her expression unreadable.
She didn’t say thank you.
Grimm set the blanket on the edge of the bed. “There’s clothing. Soft wool. Charms for protection. And some salves. I had a French healer prepare them. They’re from Lyon. Familiar craft. And this crib is the only one in the whole world” He said charmingly.
Amélie finally spoke, her voice quiet. “Why are you doing this?”
Grimm looked at her with something almost like regret. “Because I care about the child. And I care about you.”
She shook her head slowly. “But you won’t let me go.”
“No,” he said simply.
“Or let me contact James.”
“No.”
She stared down at the blanket, tears prickling again, and finally asked, barely above a whisper: “Are you going to take the baby from me? When they’re born?”
Grimm didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was soft and serious.
“I don’t know yet.”
That sent a chill down her spine.
He stood there for another moment, then stepped away, conjuring a soft, winged chair to sit across from her.
“You should rest. Eat well. I’ll return later.”
Before she could say anything more, the shimmering veil over the door swelled, and Grimm exited in silence.
She looked down at the blanket on her bed—beautiful, perfect, and haunting.
She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
The days passed slowly in confinement, the walls never changing, the silence only broken by soft movements of enchanted torches or the distant hum of magical wards. Amélie had stopped trying to count the days—each one bled into the next with no sunrise or sunset, just artificial light and endless stillness.
Then the door shimmered again.
Grimm entered.
This time, he wasn’t carrying anything. No gifts, no potions, no updates.
Just a conversation.
Amélie didn’t look at him as he approached. She sat by the window-shaped charm, her hand resting idly on her swollen belly, tracing invisible patterns.
“I thought we could talk,” Grimm said gently. “About names.”
That caught her attention.
She turned slowly, frowning. “Names?”
“For the child,” he said, sitting down in the same conjured chair from his last visit. “You’re nearly eight months now. It’s time to consider it.”
Her brows pulled together. “You think I’ll let you name my baby?”
“I didn’t say I would name them,” he replied calmly. “But if you have something in mind, I’d like to hear it.”
Amélie looked away, jaw clenched. “I did… once. Before. When I thought I’d raise them in Paris. Maybe near Montmartre. Just us and the sky and the chimneys…”
Her voice trailed off.
Grimm said nothing for a long moment. Then: “Was it a girl’s name or a boy’s?”
“I didn’t want to know,” she said quickly. “Not yet. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
He nodded slowly. “I can respect that.”
Amélie turned to him, cautious now. “Why do you care so much?”
Grimm’s expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped—sincere, low. “Because the world they’ll be born into is changing. And names… matter more than people think.”
He paused, then asked, as if it truly mattered to him, “Do you have one?”
She hesitated. And then, perhaps out of defiance or simple weariness, she whispered, “If it’s a girl… I always liked the name Élodie. ” Her hand moved across her belly. “Soft. Strong.”
Grimm smiled faintly. “Élodie Faure.”
“It wouldn’t be Faure ,” Amélie said quietly, then looked at him. “It would be Potter.”
Grimm's smile vanished.
Amélie leaned forward, her eyes sharp. “No matter what you do to me, or to him, that child will know who their father is. James deserves to know. They both do.”
Grimm rose without a word, but there was a flicker of tension behind his eyes. Something unreadable. Ancient. Bruised.
He nodded once and turned away, the air chilling slightly as the wards shimmered open.
Before leaving, he said:
“Élodie. It’s beautiful.”
Then he disappeared again, leaving Amélie alone, with only the sound of her own breath—and the child moving within her, pressing forward into a world they had not yet seen.
***
The Ministry of Magic’s lower archives were quiet at that hour—most employees had left, and the only sounds were the scratching of quills and the faint whisper of charmed lamps swinging gently overhead.
Albus Potter moved like a ghost through the aisles.
He wore a deep grey cloak, hood up, not because he needed to hide—he’d been cleared of all charges—but because the habit of caution hadn’t left him. Not after everything. Not while she was still missing.
In his hands were the old records again. The Ministry’s registry of magical casualties and disappearances from the explosion—the original print logs, not the ones they filtered for public access.
He had already scoured them four times.
And again… no Amélie Faure.
No body. No magical trace. Not even listed as a visitor the day of the explosion. It was as if she had never walked through those doors.
Albus’s jaw tightened. He pushed the logbooks away and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling like it might give him the answer he hadn’t yet found.
He had called her mother. He had scoured the visiting records. He’d asked quiet favors from a few Unspeakables who still owed him respect. And now, standing amid the dusty records, he felt more sure than ever:
She was taken.
Not killed. Not disintegrated. Taken.
And someone had erased the evidence.
He pulled out a fresh slip of parchment and, in careful script, began listing names. People he knew were on shift that day. Portkey officials. Visitor logkeepers. Apparition monitors.
He didn’t care anymore if it was risky.
Because if Amélie was alive—and if she was carrying James’s child —then someone was keeping her from them.
And Albus had already made one mistake years ago by letting his bitterness get in the way of protecting her.
He wasn’t going to fail her again.
***
The walls of the Auror Office were scorched in places, still healing from the explosion weeks earlier. The temporary war room smelled like old parchment and sleeplessness. It was the second night since the ICW's deadline had been issued—twelve days left—and the table in front of Harry was buried under scrolls, maps, shattered wand fragments, and one fraying folder marked with Albus's messy initials: A.P.
“I don’t understand,” Higgs muttered, running a hand through his thinning grey hair. “He documented everything—this Vance bastard, the magical surges, the forged logs—why the hell isn’t Grimm mentioned even once?”
“He had to be careful,” Hermione said, her voice tight with exhaustion. “He was scared. Look at how he second-guesses himself on every other page—he was circling things without drawing conclusions. If he suspected Grimm, even slightly, he might have been too afraid to put it in writing.”
Harry leaned forward, flipping through the sections again. “These logs. They place Vance in the Veil chamber a dozen times in the two weeks before the explosion. Look at this—” He tapped a map with inked arrows. “Albus noted a door ‘off-limits’ near the chamber. I think it’s connected to that unregistered hallway Kingsley mentioned when we were rebuilding after the war.”
“We already know Grimm was in London,” Higgs said. “He gave a damn speech at the Ministry two days before the explosion. But no proof links him to the Veil tampering.”
Hermione’s fingers danced over a stack of pages. “These necromantic flux readings. They spike before the explosion. But there’s another spike—right here.” She pulled out a sheet. “The same night Grimm arrived in the UK.”
“That’s not enough,” Higgs muttered. “Correlating travel and dark magic isn't damning. We need a name, a wand signature, something .”
Harry stared at the final page in the folder. The unfinished family tree. His name scribbled at the top. Albus’s scrawl, barely legible from where it had been dampened with sweat or tears: “If anything happens to me, check the Veil.”
His jaw clenched. “He left us a trail, but he never got to finish it.”
Hermione sat back, rubbing her temples. “Unless we find something in the Veil room itself, this folder won’t be enough for the ICW.”
“The chamber’s still unstable,” Higgs said. “And the fire’s barely holding. Half the Unspeakables won’t go near it.”
Harry exhaled slowly. “Then we go ourselves. We’ve got twelve days, and we know where the trail ends. If Albus couldn't write Grimm’s name… maybe he carved it into the stone.”
Silence settled thick over the war room, broken only by the crackling hiss of the cursed fire in the hearth. The three of them sat in stillness, surrounded by parchment towers and the low hum of magical wards. The air was stale with tension, the weight of twelve remaining days pressing down like a curse no one could lift.
Harry stared at the folder.
He reached for it again, slowly, as if it might change between one reading and the next. His fingers, still rough from spell-burns, turned the pages without a sound. He wasn’t looking for what Albus had included—he was looking for what he hadn’t.
He stopped on a page—one of the older ones, almost brittle. Near the bottom, in tight script: A.D.
Next to it, in Albus’s handwriting: “Albus Dumbledore?”
Harry stared at the note, unmoving.
Then he flipped back—quickly, methodically—through Vance’s orders, ritual notes, authorization memos. There it was again. A.D. Signed and sealed.
And again.
And again.
Several after Dumbledore’s death.
Harry’s brow furrowed deeper. His fingers tightened around the parchment.
Hermione noticed. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer at first.
Then Nathan Higgs’s voice cut in, sharp and curious. “You’ve gone quiet. What are you thinking, Potter?”
Harry didn’t look up. His voice was low, cautious. “What do we actually know about Grimm’s background?”
A pause.
Higgs blinked. “What does Grimm have to do with this?”
Harry shrugged slightly. Too casual. “He rose fast. Has supporters across Europe, even in Britain. Half the ICW would bow if he blinked at them. I just… I don’t remember ever hearing much about him before he became a rising star.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You think Grimm might have forged a Ministry identity?”
“I don’t know what I think,” Harry said, finally glancing up, “but I know these orders were signed ‘A.D.’ And some of them—” he tapped the page—“were filed after Dumbledore’s death. Years after.”
Higgs scoffed, a little too loudly. “You’re suggesting Grimm is what—Dumbledore reborn? Come on, Potter. Let’s not chase phantoms.”
“I’m not,” Harry said tightly. “I’m saying someone with the initials A.D. has been pulling strings inside the Department of Mysteries, and it’s someone our records don’t name.”
Hermione leaned forward slightly. “And Grimm’s history doesn’t go as far back as it should for a man of his influence.”
Harry gave her a look that said exactly: Exactly.
Nathan Higgs let out a long breath and reached down beside his chair, pulling out a crisp Ministry dossier bound in navy leather. He tossed it onto the table with a dull thud .
“You want background on Grimm?” he said. “Here’s the official file. Every international Minister gets one on record—public, vetted, politically sterilized.”
Harry opened it, Hermione leaning in beside him.
ELIAS GRIMM
Born in Berlin, educated in France. Studied at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Top marks. Specialized in Transfiguration and International Magical Law. Served on the German Wizengamot by twenty-eight. Head of the Department of Magical Infrastructure by thirty-five…
No demerits. No scandals. Speaks six languages. Charms the press. Praised for economic reforms.
No mention of family. No mention of early childhood. No photo before age eighteen.
Harry’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s it?” he asked. “No family records, no wandmaker, no blood status record?”
“Germany doesn’t require blood status registration,” Higgs said. “And a lot of their archives were ‘accidentally destroyed’ after the war. We got this from the French Office when he was elected.”
Harry flipped the page. No sign of a mentor. No mention of parents. No connections to Grindelwald’s remnants or surviving Death Eaters. Not even a wand core.
“Perfect,” Harry murmured.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Too perfect.”
Harry closed the folder slowly. “He didn’t just rise out of nowhere. He was placed .”
Nathan folded his arms again, more tightly this time. “You think Grimm’s identity is fake?”
“I think,” Harry said, standing up and looking toward the far wall, “that Elias Grimm didn’t exist before someone needed him to.”
He turned back to the table.
“And I think A.D. gave him life.”
Harry’s hands dropped to the table with a quiet thump , his jaw clenched. The fire cast sharp lines across his face, and his eyes, when he looked up, were dark with something colder than anger.
“We’re not going to win this by playing defense,” he said quietly. “We need to go into Germany. Get into their Ministry. Find Grimm’s original file, his records—anything he’s buried. There’s no way someone like him rose from nothing without help. He’s hiding something, and it’s not in our archives.”
Hermione blinked. “Harry—”
“I’m serious.”
“You can’t be.” Her voice rose slightly, sharp with disbelief. “They’ve charged you with attempted assassination of a foreign head of state , Harry. You show your face in Berlin and the Aurors will have you in chains before you cross the threshold of their Floo Network.”
Higgs laughed—short and humorless. “And you think you can walk into their Ministry and root through their secure records like it’s a bloody library? Potter, you’re lucky the ICW hasn’t already issued an international warrant.”
Harry leaned in. “You both saw the file. It’s polished to perfection. Too polished. No childhood. No wand records. No family. He’s not a real man—he’s a fabrication. A ghost someone gave a face. You think we’re going to find the truth about him by sitting here counting down the days?”
“You duelled him, Harry,” Hermione said. “In front of witnesses. You humiliated him. And now he’s painting himself as the poor, noble reformer who barely escaped the wrath of Britain’s war hero. The international press is eating it up.”
“Exactly,” Harry said. “He’s got the world watching him. No one’s watching what he’s hiding.”
Higgs stood up and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re talking about espionage against a major magical government. That’s not reckless, Potter—it’s suicidal.”
Hermione was quiet for a long beat. Then she said, very softly, “Even if we did agree… how would you get in?”
Harry’s eyes didn’t waver. “Same way we always do.”
A beat of silence. Then:
Hermione groaned and rubbed her face. “You mean illegally .”
Harry gave her a grim smile. “Didn’t stop us last time.”
Nathan stared at him, incredulous. “You’re seriously considering breaking into a sovereign Ministry with active international charges pending.”
“I’m considering doing whatever it takes to stop him ,” Harry said. “Because if we don’t—he’s going to rewrite history. And no one will stop him until the dead are walking in every street of every city.”
Hermione sighed deeply. “God help us.”
Higgs just shook his head. “You’ll be signing your own Azkaban order.”
Harry picked up the folder again, gaze locked on the initials A.D.
Nathan sank back into his chair, rubbing his temple with two fingers like he was trying to press the headache out through his skull. His voice, when it finally came, was tired—half disbelief, half awe.
"How the hell did he even do this?"
Harry and Hermione looked over.
Nathan gestured vaguely at the scattered documents, the charges, the maps, the folder with A.P. scrawled in the corner.
"Not just the Veil. Not just the political stuff. I mean—an actual cult . People following him. Worshipping this idea of resurrection. And not just in Germany. Here. In the UK. Under our noses.”
His eyes drifted to the edge of the war table where a half-burnt Circle of Flame insignia lay. A twisting ouroboros wrapped around a flame, charred black.
Hermione spoke quietly. “He’s charismatic. Brilliant. Convincing. He speaks like he believes it’s salvation. Like death is a mistake we can undo if we’re just brave enough to try.”
“But who buys that?” Nathan asked, almost to himself. “Inferi? The Veil? Dark magic and blood rituals? That’s not hope—it’s horror.”
Harry’s voice was low. “People don’t follow horror, Nathan. They follow grief .”
That silenced the room.
He continued, “The war ended, but the loss didn’t. People lost parents, children, siblings. And no matter how many years passed, no one brought them back. Then Grimm comes along and says: What if you could? What if we’ve been doing death wrong? ”
Hermione nodded, grim. “He gives them someone to blame for death—us. The old system. Dumbledore’s legacy. The Ministry. He tells them we chose not to save the ones they loved.”
“And then he offers to fix it,” Harry said. “Not by healing. By reversing. By breaking nature itself and calling it mercy.”
Nathan’s shoulders slumped. “It’s a lie. A terrifying, seductive lie.”
Harry’s eyes darkened. “So was Voldemort’s. But this one wears a suit, makes speeches, and files charges through the ICW.”
Hermione exhaled. “We don’t just need to expose the lie. We have to show them what’s behind it.”
Nathan looked at them both, then at the fire. “Then we’d better pray whatever’s behind it doesn’t step out of that Veil first.”
The room had gone quiet again, the fire flickering low, casting long, tired shadows against the walls.
Harry sat motionless, staring at the grain of the table but not seeing it. Grimm had the Elder Wand. Grimm had Fawkes.
That part hurt more.
The wand—he could explain that away. Magical allegiance, power dynamics, ancient rules. Maybe he hesitated, maybe he wasn’t strong enough in that moment. Maybe he no longer wanted to be. But Fawkes? Fawkes had chosen him once. Not because of strength. But because of who he was.
And now… he had flown to Grimm.
The ache wasn’t just betrayal—it was loss .
Why would he follow Grimm? Why would he turn on me?
Harry pressed a hand to his face, fingers curling over the bridge of his nose. Something itched at the edge of his memory.
A voice.
Gravelly. Tired. Honest in the way that old men who’ve lived through too much become.
Aberforth.
It had been years ago, at the Hog’s Head. After a funeral. Too much Firewhisky, not enough air. They’d been talking about Albus, about the things that should have been said before the end.
And Aberforth had muttered, almost as an afterthought—
“They say phoenixes don’t bond like other creatures. They don’t pick masters—they pick blood. Loyalty. The old kind. Our family always had a tie to them. Not because of magic. Because of something older.”
Harry’s hand dropped slowly from his face.
His breath stilled.
Fawkes didn’t come to me in the Chamber because I was brave. He came because I was loyal. Loyal to Dumbledore. Because I believed in him. Because I fought for what he stood for, even when I didn’t understand it.
He thought of Grimm now—his calm voice, the way he quoted ancient magic like scripture, the way he’d looked at the Veil not with fear, but reverence .
What if Grimm isn’t just following Dumbledore’s legacy?
What if he’s part of it?
His eyes flicked back to the folder. Albus’s desperate question, circled again and again: “A.D.?” And next to it— “Albus Dumbledore?”
But that was impossible.
Unless…
Harry’s thoughts raced. A son? A descendant? No, Dumbledore never— But then again… he never knew Dumbledore that nicely.
What if someone survived? What if someone carried the blood forward?
He looked back at Hermione and Higgs, still deep in debate over logistics, over charges, over laws.
Harry's mind was miles away now.
Not laws. Not titles.
Legacy.
If Grimm had phoenix blood—Dumbledore blood—then the Elder Wand never truly left that family.
And Fawkes?
Fawkes had just gone home.
Harry let out a slow, tired sigh, the kind that didn’t ease anything—just made the weight in his chest settle a little heavier. He leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking beneath him, and stared at the cracked ceiling above.
Of course he kept it from me, he thought bitterly.
Dumbledore, brilliant and infuriating, always playing the long game. Always guarding his truths like they were dangerous artifacts. Even from the people who would have died for him.
Maybe especially from them.
Harry rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.
Maybe that’s the curse of following someone like him—you never get the whole picture. Just a wand, a riddle, and the promise that you’ll understand once it’s over.
Except it was never really over.
He gave me a war, and I fought it. Gave me a purpose, and I survived it. But he never gave me the truth.
And now?
Now the truth was wearing someone else’s face.
Grimm had the wand. The phoenix. The following. The vision.
And Harry—once the Boy Who Lived—was sitting in a scorched room with two friends, a trail of corpses, and a folder full of suspicions his son had scribbled in fear.
Brilliant job, Harry. Saved the world, only to hand it over to someone worse while you weren't looking.
The fire crackled again. Mocking.
He didn’t know what was worse: the possibility that Grimm was connected to Dumbledore…
Or the fear that Dumbledore knew it, and never said a word.
Chapter 52: This isn't what I deserve
Chapter Text
Albus sat on the steps outside the old sandstone building, hunched over with his arms resting on his knees, hood drawn low over his face. The evening air was heavy with the kind of warmth that clung to your skin, thick with the smell of summer dust and city soot. The light from the lamppost nearby flickered weakly—too dim to read by, but too bright to hide in.
He hadn't told her he was coming.
He’d walked here three times already this week. The first time, he made it halfway down the block before turning back. The second, he stood across the street and watched someone else go in, wondering if Emma was still even there. The third time, tonight, he sat down.
Now he couldn't seem to move.
His fingers curled tightly around the edge of his sleeves. His wand was tucked somewhere deep in his coat, and for once, he was glad for it. He didn’t trust himself to hold it. He didn’t trust much about himself these days.
He hadn’t seen her since the trial. Since the screaming. Since the pit and the fire and the chains and the silence.
He thought about knocking. About sending a message. About not being a coward for once.
But what could he even say?
Hey, sorry I disappeared. Sorry I nearly dragged us all into something horrific. Sorry I let Vance use me. Sorry I thought maybe death could be rewritten. Sorry I didn’t say goodbye. Sorry I’m not who you thought I was. Sorry I’m still figuring out who I am.
None of it felt like enough.
Shame curled in his stomach like smoke. He’d fought through magic worse than nightmares, but this— this —was the part he didn’t know how to survive.
He didn’t know if Emma would even want to see him. Or if she’d already closed the chapter and turned the page.
But he waited.
Because some part of him—buried, cracked, stupidly hopeful—hoped that maybe she hadn’t.
The click of her footsteps came first—quick, light, familiar in a way that made Albus’s heart jolt painfully before he could brace himself.
Emma turned the corner, arms full with two brown paper bags of groceries, a set of keys looped around her finger. Her hair was tied up messily, strands falling loose around her face, and she was murmuring something to herself, focused on balancing the bags.
She didn’t see him at first.
Albus didn’t move.
His chest tightened. He almost stood—almost—but stayed rooted. Frozen, watching her like someone watching a life they used to belong to.
Then she looked up.
And stopped.
Her body stiffened just slightly, enough for the keys to stop swinging.
A beat of silence passed between them. A whole storm of it.
Her eyes searched his face—his posture, the way he was sitting like he was still in a holding cell, still expecting to be sent away. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown either. Just looked. Carefully. Quietly.
“…Hi,” he said, voice low and rough.
Emma blinked once. “Albus.”
He stood awkwardly, hands in his coat pockets, trying not to look like he had been sitting there for an hour rehearsing a conversation that had never started.
“I didn’t know if you were… here,” he muttered. “Or if you’d want me to be.”
Emma’s grip on the bags didn’t change. “You didn’t write.”
“I didn’t know what to say.”
“That’s not new,” she said softly—but there wasn’t anger in it. Just tired honesty.
He nodded.
Another pause. The air between them felt like glass—fragile, dangerous, waiting to shatter.
“Do you—do you want help with those?” he asked, gesturing to the bags.
She hesitated, watching him a second longer. Then, with a small sigh, she stepped closer and handed him one of them. Their fingers brushed, and he almost dropped it.
She led the way up the stairs.
Neither of them said anything else.
But she didn’t send him away.
The door creaked open with a soft push of her wand, and Emma stepped inside first, her voice barely above a murmur.
“Watch the step, it catches on the corner sometimes.”
Albus followed, clutching the bag to his chest like a shield. He glanced down automatically at the uneven floorboard but barely registered it—his eyes were already sweeping over everything else.
Her flat was small, quiet, and lived-in in a way that made it feel… real. Not perfect, not staged. A slightly crooked stack of books next to the worn armchair. Tea mugs left on the counter. A striped cat toy on the windowsill, though he didn’t see a cat. The air smelled faintly of lavender, parchment, and something baked recently—bread, maybe.
It was warm. Gentle.
He didn’t belong here.
Emma placed her bag on the kitchen table and moved to unpack it without looking at him. Albus hovered awkwardly by the door, not sure if he should sit, speak, breathe.
He looked at the table. The chairs. A painting of a lake above the mantle.
“I’ve never been here,” he said quietly, just to fill the silence.
Emma made a soft noise. “You were supposed to come by for tea, remember? That one Sunday.”
He did. He’d said he would. He didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She didn’t answer right away. Just unpacked a carton of eggs and placed them, very gently, into the fridge.
“I thought something had happened to you,” she finally said. “And then something did . And I still didn’t hear from you.”
He winced. “I didn’t know how.”
She closed the fridge door with a soft click. “You didn’t need to know how. You just needed to try.”
Albus lowered his head.
The silence stretched again, heavier now.
Emma turned back to him at last, arms folded lightly. Her gaze was unreadable.
“Why now?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then said, truthfully, “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about what I left behind.”
He looked at her.
“And because… I think you’re the only person I didn’t lie to. Not fully. Not on purpose.”
Emma didn’t look away, but her face softened just slightly.
He took a breath. “I don’t want to disappear again. Even if I don’t know how to stay.”
Her voice was quiet, but clear. “Then sit down.”
He did.
The silence settled again—but this time, it didn’t feel quite so hollow.
Emma set the last tin on the shelf, then closed the cupboard with just a little too much force.
“You didn’t contact me,” she said quietly, but there was no mistaking the weight in her voice. “Not after the trial. Not after the Ministry cleared you. Not even a letter.”
Albus sat hunched in the kitchen chair, fingers laced together between his knees. He couldn’t look at her.
“I know.”
“Do you?” she asked, turning to face him fully now. “Because I waited. I worried. And when I saw you weren’t in Azkaban, I thought maybe you’d come by. Or floo me. Or send me a bloody owl.”
He swallowed hard, eyes still fixed on the grain of the table.
“I didn’t know what to say,” he admitted, his voice small and raw. “Every sentence I thought of sounded pathetic. Or selfish. Or like I was trying to make it about me again. I didn’t want to make it worse.”
Emma’s arms were folded now, her shoulders tense. “So silence was better?”
“No,” he said immediately. “It was just… all I had.”
He finally looked up at her, and there was no defensiveness in his face. Just guilt, and something more fragile beneath it—shame. Grief. Maybe even fear.
“I didn’t know how to come back from everything that happened. I still don’t. But I—I’m trying. That’s why I’m here.”
Emma studied him for a long time, eyes searching, not for lies, but for sincerity. She seemed to find it—because her posture eased, just slightly.
“You hurt me,” she said plainly.
“I know,” he said again, and this time it cracked in his throat.
And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Emma let out a quiet breath—not a sigh of anger or exhaustion, but release.
“Tea?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “Yeah. Please.”
Emma turned to the kettle without another word. And though the silence returned, it no longer felt like punishment. It felt like something beginning. Fragile, but real.
The tea was a little too hot when Albus took his first sip, but he didn’t flinch. Maybe he welcomed the sting—it gave him something to focus on. Something to hold that wasn’t everything else.
Emma sat across from him, legs crossed under her chair, cradling her cup in both hands like she was steadying herself too.
The silence stretched comfortably this time. Until Albus broke it.
“I’m sorry again,” he said. Then immediately groaned. “I’ve said that five times now. I sound like an idiot.”
Emma didn’t argue. She just took a slow sip and waited.
Albus stared into his tea for a long second, watching the faint swirl of steam rise and vanish.
Then, without quite meaning to, he said—
“My emotions are really… complicated.”
Emma blinked.
“I mean that in the worst way possible,” he added quickly, rushing now. “Like, I don’t know how to handle them. I never really have. I overthink things. Or I shut down. Or I run. I do all three, actually. It’s impressive, in a catastrophic sort of way.”
Emma raised one brow, but still said nothing.
“I’m awkward. Not in a cute way, in a deeply uncomfortable, ‘this man clearly doesn’t know what human interaction is’ sort of way. I’ve never had a girlfriend. Never kissed someone properly. I mean, maybe once—maybe—but it was raining and we were fifteen and it was a dare so I don’t think it even counts. And I didn’t know what I was doing.”
He paused to breathe. Emma looked faintly amused now, but she didn’t interrupt.
“As pathetic as all that sounds, yeah—I have the full set of daddy issues. Comes free with the Potter name, I guess. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be the son everyone expected. Or maybe trying to be him. Depends on the day.”
His voice turned quieter. “And yeah, Vance manipulated me. Easily. I was lonely, and he saw that. Used it. I believed him because… I wanted to believe someone finally saw me as more than a shadow. And that nearly destroyed everything.”
He looked up at Emma again, eyes shadowed, but earnest.
“I know you don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve me. You don’t deserve someone who ghosts you and shows up months later with a thousand-pound guilt complex and no emotional skill set whatsoever.”
Emma’s eyes softened, just a little.
“But you…” he swallowed, throat tight, “you make me feel like I don’t have to pretend. Like I can just… be me. The awkward, anxious, deeply confused version of me. You talk to me like I’m not broken. Or scary. Or stupid. And I don’t know what that means, exactly. But it makes everything hurt a little less when I’m around you.”
Albus stared down at the floor, shoulders hunched, the last words of his rant still echoing faintly in the silence.
The room felt impossibly still—like even the air had paused to listen.
He braced himself for rejection. For polite sympathy. For the quiet click of a door closing in his face.
But none of that came.
Instead, Emma set her teacup down—delicately, the porcelain making the smallest sound against the table—and stood up. Her footsteps were quiet on the rug as she crossed the space between them.
He didn’t look up.
Until she gently reached out and touched his chin, guiding his gaze to hers.
Her expression was unreadable for a moment. Soft. Steady. But intense in a way that made something in Albus’s chest flutter and freeze all at once.
Then she leaned in—and kissed him.
Not forcefully. Not dramatically. Not like in those crap daily operas his mum watches Not like he had imagined.
Just a soft, quiet press of her lips to his—like a sentence she’d been waiting to say for a very long time. Like she wasn’t trying to fix him or save him or change him.
Just be with him in that moment.
Albus didn’t move at first. It was like his mind had short-circuited, the weight of guilt and insecurity cracking open under something as simple and overwhelming as this.
And then—slowly, carefully—he kissed her back.
His eyes fluttered shut, and the noise in his head—the guilt, the fear, the comparisons to his father, the self-hate, the broken pieces—went quiet. Just for a moment.
She pulled back slightly, her forehead resting against his. Her voice was a whisper.
“You don’t have to be perfect, Albus.”
He didn’t trust himself to speak, but his hand found hers—grateful, trembling, real.
And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe that maybe he could still be loved.
Albus didn’t move. He just sat there, eyes locked on hers, trying to hold back the flood of emotions that swelled in his chest.
No one had ever kissed him like that before—not just gently, but intentionally. Not like he was something fragile to pity, or a project to fix, but something worth touching simply because he was him .
And Emma… Emma looked at him like she saw him. The mess, the fear, the way he kept folding into himself like a letter never sent.
But she hadn’t walked away. She’d leaned in.
He let out a soft, shaky laugh. Not because anything was funny—because it was too much. Too full.
Emma leaned her forehead against his, and the contact steadied him. He closed his eyes.
“I thought about you,” he whispered. “Every night. While I was locked up. When it was quiet. You were the only thing I remembered that made me feel like I was still... me .”
Emma didn’t speak. She just threaded her fingers through his—warm, firm, anchoring.
“I kept imagining what I’d say if I saw you again,” he murmured. “And I ruined all of it, didn’t I?”
She pulled back just enough to look at him properly. Her thumb brushed against the back of his hand. “No. You didn’t ruin it. You were just… honest.”
He gave her a look—half-skeptical, half-hopeful.
“You do have the emotional tact of a wounded hedgehog,” she added gently.
A short laugh escaped him. A real one.
“But I care about you, Albus. I always did.”
He swallowed. “Even after everything?”
Her voice was soft but unwavering. “Even now.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t. He just leaned forward and rested his head against her shoulder, letting the warmth of her presence fill the quiet spaces inside him.
Emma leaned her cheek against his hair for a beat longer, then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. The edges of her smile were soft, a little unsure—but warm.
“You should stay tonight,” she said gently.
Albus froze.
Just like that, his brain short-circuited.
Stay? Stay where? In this room? On the sofa? On the floor? In her bed?
He blinked once. Then again.
Words formed and unformed in his head, none of them fit for saying aloud.
She stood up and started clearing the mugs, moving with that same quiet ease she always had—like magic hummed underneath her fingers even when she didn’t use a wand.
Albus stayed rooted in place, trying not to spiral.
Okay. Think. She said "stay." That could mean sleep. But like... sleep sleep. Or just crash. Or maybe she just means rest and talk. Maybe she has a spare bed? No, this is a one-bedroom flat. It’s just the couch or—
He glanced toward the sofa.
Then to the narrow hallway.
Then back to her.
Should I ask? If I ask, it’ll sound like I’m assuming something. But if I don’t ask, I’ll just stand here like a confused idiot until she takes pity on me. Maybe she already regrets kissing me. Maybe she thinks I’m—
“Albus,” Emma said without turning, amusement laced gently through her voice.
He snapped upright like he’d been caught stealing biscuits. “Yeah?”
She turned to him then, an eyebrow raised, eyes sparkling with wicked sympathy.
“You can sleep with me, if you’re comfortable.”
There was a silence.
Then—
“Oh,” he said, brilliantly. “Right. No—I mean—yes. I mean—yes, I’m comfortable. I mean I’ll try to be. Comfortable. If that’s okay. With you.”
Emma laughed under her breath and shook her head. “You really are hopeless sometimes.”
“I’ve had a long year,” he muttered.
She came closer, brushed her fingers gently against his hand, and this time, when she smiled—it wasn’t teasing.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I just want you here.”
And somehow, that was more intimate than the kiss. More grounding than any spell.
Albus nodded, cheeks burning but heart warm. “Okay. Then... I’ll stay.”
The bathroom was small, tiled in soft sea-glass green, and smelled faintly of peppermint and whatever shampoo Emma used. Albus stood barefoot in front of the mirror, Emma’s brother’s old oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, the sleeves nearly past his elbows. The pajama bottoms were tied as tightly as he could manage, still threatening to slide down if he even breathed too hard.
He looked ridiculous.
Not tragic—just… absurd.
The kind of absurd that made his ears go hot with embarrassment, even though no one else could see him yet.
He rubbed at his face with both hands, then stared at his reflection like he was asking it for advice.
What am I doing?
What if I do something wrong? What if I snore? What if I drool? What if she changes her mind and tells me to sleep on the floor?
What if I have a nightmare and kick her off the bed by accident?
He let out a groan and leaned on the sink.
Merlin, I should’ve asked for the sofa.
And then, because his brain insisted on betraying him: Should I have brought a toothbrush? Is there a rule for that?
In the mirror, he looked somewhere between a misfit house guest and a half-drowned puffskein. He pulled at the shirt collar again and muttered, “Thanks a lot, Jason—whoever you are.”
He briefly considered sending a Patronus to James. Or flooing him. Or writing a panicked note and owl-posting it out the window.
Hey, James. What do you do when you’re about to sleep next to someone you like and you’re a neurotic disaster who has no idea what you’re doing? Please reply immediately.
He imagined James receiving the note, grinning like a bastard, then sending something wildly unhelpful back like, “Relax, mate. She probably already likes you more than think.”
Which was… deeply unfair. James made it look easy. All of it.
The flirting. The jokes. The effortless smile. Albus had grown up watching James charm half of Hogwarts while he hid behind books and spell diagrams, always the awkward second act no one stayed for.
When the hell did James learn all the woman tricks? And where the hell was I when they were being handed out?
He picked at the sleeve, heart thudding like he was about to duel a Hungarian Horntail.
Then, quietly, he took a breath.
“She asked me to stay,” he reminded himself. “She kissed me. She wants me here.”
He stared at himself for one more second.
“Don’t mess this up.”
Then he opened the door.
The hallway felt much shorter this time.
Albus padded across the soft rug on bare feet, heart thudding far too loudly for a person supposedly winding down for the night. Emma’s bedroom door was open just slightly, golden light spilling into the corridor like it had been waiting for him.
He paused at the threshold.
She was already in bed, sitting up against the headboard with a book in her lap, wearing a soft cotton shirt and sleep shorts, hair down now—casual, unguarded. She looked up as he entered and smiled—gently, like she wasn’t expecting him to perform or be anything other than what he was.
That somehow made it worse.
“I, um…” Albus gestured vaguely to the enormous shirt flopping off one shoulder. “Your brother’s got terrifying shoulders.”
Emma laughed lightly. “Yeah, Jason’s built like a Norwegian Ridgeback. You look—” she tilted her head, smile widening, “—very cozy.”
Albus offered the most strained, stiff nod in human history and shut the door behind him.
Then the bed happened.
He stood next to it awkwardly, staring at the duvet like it might bite him.
Left side? Right side? Am I supposed to ask? Or just… guess? Merlin, what if I roll the wrong way? What if she rolls this way? What if I—
“You can pick a side,” Emma offered, not looking up from her book. “I don’t usually attack people in my sleep.”
Albus let out a strangled noise that might have been a laugh. “That’s reassuring.”
He crawled in cautiously— so cautiously—moving like a man navigating a cursed tomb. He sat stiffly on top of the covers first, legs drawn up awkwardly, arms folded like he was preparing for a lecture.
Emma glanced over. “You’re allowed to lie down, you know.”
“I know. I’m just… calibrating.”
She snorted softly and set the book aside.
The mattress dipped as she lay back, turning to face him, one arm tucked beneath her head. The light from the bedside lamp glowed against her cheek, her expression calm. Curious. Kind.
Albus finally—slowly—slid beneath the duvet and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.
The silence stretched.
His hand twitched slightly on top of the blanket. It was less than a foot from hers.
Okay, it’s fine. Just breathe. Don’t overthink it. Don’t ask if she’s comfortable. Don’t say something weird. Don’t—
“I’m not made of glass, Albus,” Emma said softly.
“I know.”
She smiled again, and this time, reached out and took his hand without asking.
And he let her.
He turned his head toward her. “This is very new for me.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“Thanks for not laughing.”
“I’m not laughing,” she murmured, and then—after a pause—added, “...yet.”
He let out a small, embarrassed laugh, tension finally cracking just a little. And somehow, that made enough room for peace to creep in.
So they lay there, side by side in the dark, hands lightly tangled, hearts still nervous—but slowly, cautiously, beginning to trust the quiet.
It was awkward.
It was tender.
It was the safest Albus had felt in years.
At some point in the night, the silence became heavier—not with tension, but with sleep. The kind of deep, unspoken stillness that only existed in the hours when even time seemed to breathe slower.
Albus lay there, still half-awake, eyes open in the dark.
He hadn’t moved in what felt like an hour. Part of it was nerves—part of it was disbelief that he was even here. In her bed. In her space. Trusted.
Don’t ruin it, don’t move, don’t snore, don’t—
And then, gently, Emma shifted.
He froze.
She turned in her sleep, her brow soft, her breathing even, and without opening her eyes, her arm slipped across his chest—light but certain. Like her body already knew him. Her palm rested just under his collarbone, fingers curling slightly, possessive in a way that stole his breath.
Albus lay perfectly still, his heart thudding so loudly he was sure it would wake her.
She didn’t stir.
Her leg brushed against his under the covers. Warm. Familiar. Close.
He swallowed hard.
What do I do? Do I move? Do I stay still? Do I hold her back? Will she notice? Merlin, am I sweating?
His arm twitched on instinct, then—slowly, tentatively—he shifted just enough to let her fit closer. One breath. Two. And then he turned his head and looked at her face, half-lit by moonlight spilling through the curtains.
She was still asleep.
And even in sleep, she looked peaceful. Like she belonged here. Like he might.
He let his hand rest lightly on her arm, the barest touch—afraid even now that it might vanish.
Then he whispered so softly it barely counted as sound:
“Thank you.”
She didn’t answer.
But her fingers twitched gently against his chest, like a secret she hadn’t meant to share.
And Albus Potter, for the first time in a long, broken year, finally closed his eyes.
***
The light in Emma’s bedroom was soft and golden, the kind that filtered in through half-drawn curtains and made everything look quieter than it really was. The world outside had started to stir—some bird chatter, a distant car hum—but inside, time still moved slow.
Albus woke with a jolt, not because of a noise, but because for a fleeting, disoriented second… he didn’t know where he was.
Then warmth.
Then her.
Emma’s arm was still across his chest, her face tucked lightly against his shoulder, strands of sleep-mussed hair brushing his jaw. Her breathing was slow and even. Peaceful. She hadn’t moved much during the night—he remembered every moment she did.
Albus lay completely still, eyes wide open now, blinking up at the ceiling with his heart fluttering somewhere near his throat.
This is real.
This happened.
Oh Godric, what now.
Her scent—lavender and parchment and something distinctly her—lingered close, and her leg was tangled casually over his. His arm had ended up wrapped around her waist at some point in the night. It was both the most intimate and most terrifying thing he had ever experienced.
He considered panicking. Then reconsidered. Then panicked internally in polite silence.
What if she wakes up and regrets it? What if she’s uncomfortable? What if I breathe weird and ruin the entire mood and she asks me to leave and I trip over her cat on the way out—
“Albus,” came her voice, sleep-rough and barely above a murmur.
He stiffened.
She didn’t move. Just sighed against his shoulder. “You’re thinking too loudly.”
He flushed. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to.”
“I know,” she murmured. “But you hum when you’re anxious.”
“I—what?”
Emma gave a faint, lazy smile against his shirt. “It’s barely there. Like a nervous… whirring noise.”
Albus stared at the ceiling, mortified. “I didn’t know that.”
“I figured.” She finally shifted, lifting her head just slightly to look at him. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, but her expression was unreadable in that quiet, early-morning way.
He braced himself for the awkwardness to settle in like fog.
But it didn’t.
She reached up and gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You stayed.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. You asked.”
“I did.” A pause. “Any regrets?”
He swallowed. “Only that I didn’t come sooner.”
Emma smiled—real, slow, and impossibly grounding.
“Good,” she said. “Because I was going to ask you to stay again tonight.”
His throat tightened.
She shifted closer, tucking her head under his chin again, and with her wrapped around him like this, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Albus Potter let himself breathe fully for the first time in months.
The morning went on.
But for a while longer, they didn’t move.
Albus lay quietly for a few moments, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Emma’s breathing against him. Her hand rested softly against his side now, their legs still tangled beneath the duvet. It felt… right. Which only made the weight inside his chest more unbearable.
He stared up at the ceiling again, heart tightening, and whispered, “Emma?”
“Hmm?”
“If we’re doing this… I think you should know what you’re getting into.”
She shifted slightly, propping her chin on his chest, her brow furrowing. “What does that mean?”
He hesitated. Then sighed and said, “The press. The people. The… legacy.”
She blinked at him, clearly not following.
Albus bit the inside of his cheek, then gave her a tired half-smile. “Girlfriends of Potter boys don’t exactly get left alone. They become targets.”
Emma tilted her head. “Are you talking about—”
“James,” he said, almost instantly. “Yeah. James.”
She sat up slightly now, interested.
Albus groaned and rolled his head back on the pillow. “You remember Dahlia Morrow?”
Emma’s eyes lit up with recognition. “The Quidditch chaser? Yeah, she dated James for like… two weeks?”
“Exactly. Two weeks,” Albus muttered. “And in that time, the Prophet ran seven stories. One headline called her ‘Potter’s New Plaything’. Another published an anonymous quote calling her a ‘broom-hopper.’ She couldn’t go to a single match without someone asking her if she’d hexed him into it.”
Emma’s expression darkened.
“And when they broke up,” Albus continued, voice low, “they blamed her . Said she was ‘too clingy’ or ‘just wanted fame.’ The same cycle happened with the next girl. And the next.”
Emma frowned. “That’s disgusting.”
“It is,” he agreed. “But it’s real. And I—” He exhaled shakily. “I’m not even the charming one. James makes it look effortless. I’m the weird one who got arrested for blowing up the Ministry. The press already thinks I’m unstable.”
He looked at her then, his eyes sincere. “They’re going to come after you, Emma. If they find out. They’ll dig into your past. They’ll say you’re manipulating me. That you’re some kind of plant from France, or Germany, or the Resurrection Cult or Merlin knows what. And I can’t stop them.”
Emma was silent, taking all of that in. Her expression unreadable.
“I just…” He licked his lips. “I needed you to know what comes with me. I don’t want you blindsided.”
There was a long pause.
Then Emma said, calmly, “You done?”
Albus blinked. “What?”
She leaned forward again, settled herself gently back against him. “You done giving me reasons to run?”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“You were,” she said, not unkindly. “You were trying to protect me. Which is sweet. And infuriating.”
He stared at her.
Emma looked up and cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “If they come after me, they’ll have to deal with me. Not just the quiet Unspeakable who files reports. Me. The person who learned to hex by age ten and argued down a 100 year old warlock in Magical Ethics class.”
Albus blinked, stunned.
She softened, just slightly. “And I’ll take being called clingy or manipulative, or whatever ridiculous thing they come up with, if it means I get to be with the version of you that sat in my kitchen last night and told me the truth.”
He swallowed hard. “You’re not afraid?”
“I’m already in it, Albus,” she said gently. “You’re not scaring me away.”
Albus let out a quiet laugh, warm and surprised, the tension in his chest softening like ice under sunlight.
“You say you’re not scared,” he murmured, eyes crinkling faintly, “but you do realize there’s one more terrifying thing you haven’t accounted for yet.”
Emma raised an eyebrow against his shoulder. “Oh? Please, enlighten me.”
He tilted his head to look at her, mock-serious. “My family .”
She gave a small, amused snort.
“I’m not joking,” Albus said, grinning now. “You’ve survived Inferi, magical fire, and an emotionally unstable boyfriend—congrats—but now you’ve got Ginny Potter to contend with. The woman once hexed a gossip columnist for printing something rude about James’s haircut.”
Emma laughed properly at that, sitting up just enough to meet his eyes. “Oh no. The haircut hexer.”
He nodded solemnly. “And that’s just my mum. Dad is the polite, quiet one… until he corners you in a hallway and asks what your intentions are with his son.”
Emma gave him a mock gasp. “Harry Potter grilling me ?”
“He’ll be subtle. The kind of subtle that involves tea, soft tones, and deeply unnerving eye contact.”
Emma grinned. “And the rest?”
Albus groaned. “Lily will ask wildly inappropriate questions, most of which she’ll phrase like she's just ‘curious.’ Rose will pretend not to care and then start psychoanalyzing you within five minutes. Roxy—Merlin, Roxy’ll just say something wildly off-color to test you. And Scorpius will try to be polite and helpful and accidentally mention something embarrassing I told him in fourth year.”
He buried his face in his hands. “You still want in?”
Emma leaned down, laughing softly as she kissed his temple. “Albus. I already like you. I’m not afraid of the Welcome Committee.”
He peeked up at her through his fingers. “Even if they interrogate you over Christmas pudding?”
“Especially then,” she said firmly. “Besides… someone has to balance you out.”
He smiled, slow and honest. “You’re really not scared?”
Emma looked at him for a long moment, then whispered, “Not of you.”
Albus shifted slightly under the covers, propping himself up on one elbow so he could see her face better in the soft morning light.
“I’ve been rambling about my family and all their insanity,” he said quietly, voice still a little husky from sleep. “But what about yours?”
Emma blinked, surprised by the question. “Mine?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I want to know.”
She was silent for a moment, then glanced toward the window as if gathering her thoughts. “Well… my mum’s a Healer. Works at St. Mungo’s in trauma and mind Healing.”
“That’s intense.”
Emma smiled faintly. “She’s good at it. Brilliant, actually. But she’s… not very emotional. Very clinical. We don’t talk much. Not since I left school.”
Albus studied her quietly. “Not close?”
Emma shook her head once. “Not really. We don’t fight or anything. There’s just this… quiet distance. Like she’s always looking through me instead of at me.”
He stayed quiet, letting her talk.
“My older brother, Jason—you’ve met his clothes—he’s the golden child,” she said with a wry smile, tugging at the too-big sleeve of the T-shirt Albus was still wearing.
“He works at Gringotts. Curse-breaking team. Got promoted early. Speaks four languages. Mum loves bringing him up at dinner like she’s reading from a brochure.”
Albus winced sympathetically. “Ouch.”
Emma laughed softly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He’s not bad, really. Just… always been perfect. The kind of kid who color-coded his spell books. Got Head Boy. Won dueling tournaments. Has neat handwriting.”
Albus smiled faintly. “The horror.”
She smiled back, but then her voice dropped a bit. “My dad died when we were little. Jason remembers more. I don’t remember much beyond his voice and the way he always smelled like smoke and peppermint.”
There was a quiet pause.
Albus reached over and took her hand beneath the covers, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “It was a long time ago. But it… it left things quiet between the rest of us. Like no one knew how to fill the space he left, so we all just grew in different directions.”
Albus let that settle in the silence for a while, his thumb gently tracing circles against her palm.
“I think we both come from a long line of emotionally confused people,” he said finally, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
Emma gave a soft laugh. “Yeah. Maybe that’s why we found each other.”
Albus looked at her, something warm and unspoken flickering behind his tired green eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Maybe it is.”
Albus looked over at her, still lightly holding her hand beneath the sheets. “Can I ask you something else?”
Emma arched a brow playfully. “You're full of questions this morning.”
He shrugged, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’m trying to make up for the months of radio silence.”
Her expression softened. “Go on.”
“Why the Department of Mysteries?” he asked gently. “You’re clearly brilliant, and you never seemed… I don’t know, thrilled to be working there. Was it what you actually wanted?”
Emma grew quiet. Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling, thoughtful.
“I didn’t want to,” she said finally, voice low. “Not at first.”
That surprised him. “Then why?”
She hesitated, then gave a small, embarrassed laugh and pulled the duvet up slightly, as if it could shield her from the weight of honesty. “I… always wanted to be an Auror.”
Albus blinked. “Really?”
She nodded, eyes cast downward. “Since I was a kid, actually. Thought it was the coolest job in the world. Dangerous, brave, meaningful.” She paused, then added, cheeks coloring faintly, “And... I was sort of inspired by your dad.”
His breath caught. “My dad?”
Emma nodded again, still looking faintly self-conscious. “I mean, yeah. I know that sounds ridiculous. But after the war, he rebuilt the whole department. Changed everything. There were interviews about how he restructured things, how he trained new Aurors… and I just—I don’t know. I thought, *That’s what I want to do. I want to work under him. Learn from the person who actually lived through the worst and came out fighting.”
Albus blinked, stunned silent.
Emma laughed nervously and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Anyway. I trained. Worked my arse off. Top marks in Defense, duel certifications, all of it. But I didn’t make the cut.”
“What?”
“They said I was too theoretical,” she muttered, clearly still stung. “Too calm. Not aggressive enough in my practicals. I didn’t fight ‘with enough instinct.’ Whatever that means.”
Albus’s brows furrowed. “That’s ridiculous.”
Emma smiled faintly. “Well, it stung. But I didn’t want to waste years moping. I was offered a research assistant post in the Department of Mysteries. Didn’t expect to stay long. Figured I’d reapply after a year.”
“And then…” Albus’s voice trailed off.
She nodded. “Then the Veil started acting up. And then you got assigned to my team. And then… everything exploded.”
Albus leaned his head back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “Merlin.”
Emma gave a soft, almost shy smile. “I was preparing to reapply this spring. I thought maybe I was finally ready. But then… well. Resurrection cults. Trials. Inferi. You know how it goes.”
He turned toward her, green eyes steady. “You would’ve made a brilliant Auror.”
She met his gaze. “Think so?”
“I know so. You saw what the rest of us missed.”
Emma reached for his hand again and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Funny. I only stayed in that department because I thought there was something in it worth protecting.”
“You were right,” Albus said quietly.
And this time, when she smiled at him, it lingered.
Albus exhaled slowly, still lying back against the pillows. His thumb idly brushed over Emma’s knuckles as his thoughts swirled again into darker, uncertain waters.
“What’s actually going on in the Department now?” he asked after a long pause. “With… everything?”
Emma leaned on her side, propping her head on her hand. “Not much, honestly. Your dad, Hermione, and Minister Higgs sealed the entire floor after the explosion. No one’s been allowed near the Veil since.”
“All of it?” he asked. “Even the Resurrection research?”
Emma nodded. “Everything. The entire wing is locked. All documents confiscated. Anything that so much as mentioned the Veil is now in classified archives, under triple warding and constant surveillance.”
“So… the Unspeakables are just…”
“Clocking in. Clocking out. Pretending,” she said with a shrug. “We're being paid to do theoretical modeling on magical memory retention and static spell decay. It’s a fancy way of saying we're filling time until someone decides what to do next.”
Albus let out a hollow laugh. “Sounds... thrilling.”
Emma smiled a little. “It’s strange. The Department was always quiet, but now it’s too quiet. Everyone knows something awful happened, but no one says it out loud. It’s like we’re all pretending not to see the scorch marks in the walls.”
He fell silent again.
She tilted her head and looked at him more closely. “What about you?”
Albus blinked. “What?”
“What are you going to do now?”
That question lingered in the air like smoke.
He didn’t answer immediately. He just looked up at the ceiling, eyes shadowed.
“I don’t know,” he admitted softly. “Part of me wants to run far away from anything with Ministry walls. I keep thinking about starting over. France. New name. New life. Just disappear.”
Emma frowned gently. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m not not serious,” he said, voice flat.
She was quiet for a moment.
Then: “And the other part of you?”
Albus turned to look at her. There was something tired and honest in his face. “The other part wants to burn it down. Not the world—just the rot. I want to expose them. The Circle. Grimm. Vance. All of it. I want to tear it all into the light.”
Emma nodded slowly. “That’s the Albus I know.”
He gave a faint, bitter smile. “I’m not sure who I am, Emma.”
She reached up and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “You’re someone who saw something wrong and didn’t ignore it. Even when it cost you everything.”
Her voice was steady. Certain. She believed it.
And for the first time in days, he let himself believe it too. Just a little.
“Then I guess I’ll start there,” he said quietly. “No more hiding.”
Emma smiled. “Good. Because I don’t think you’d be any good at disappearing. You’d get lost on the Floo network halfway to Nice.”
He laughed softly. “That’s… fair.”
The morning light was climbing slowly across the walls, casting long lines of gold and grey across the floorboards.
Albus laughed, the sound lighter this time—less brittle, more real. He rolled onto his side to face her fully, grinning as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You have to mention that at a family dinner.”
Emma blinked. “What?”
He smirked. “That my dad personally rejected your Auror application.”
She gave him a playful shove. “Albus!”
“No, seriously,” he chuckled. “It’ll be perfect. Imagine it—everyone sitting around the table, passing potatoes, and you just casually drop, ‘Oh, Harry, remember when you shattered my dreams and told me I didn’t have enough instinct to chase dark wizards?’ ”
Emma covered her face with her hands, groaning. “You are the worst. ”
“You’re the one who said you wanted to meet the family,” Albus said, smug now. “Welcome to the chaos.”
Emma peeked out from between her fingers. “I can’t believe you want me to bring that up in front of Ginny Potter.”
“She’ll love it,” he said brightly. “She’ll probably give you a glass of Firewhisky and say, ‘Finally, someone with the guts to throw shade at Harry.’”
Emma burst out laughing. “Merlin, you might be right.”
He grinned, still watching her. “We’ll sit you next to Teddy. He’ll definitely make a joke about it. And Lily will pretend to be offended on your behalf , just for the drama.”
Emma burst into laughter, covering her face with her hands. “This is evil. You’re evil.”
“I’m just saying,” he said, trying and failing to keep a straight face, “if I have to suffer through a dinner where Rose and Scorpius finish each other’s sentences and James brings up his accidental fanbase in Brazil, you owe me this one moment of chaos.”
Emma peeked at him through her fingers. “You are so not as emotionally broken as you pretend to be.”
Albus raised an eyebrow. “Debatable. But even I know a good dinner table bombshell when I hear one.”
Emma gave him a skeptical look, propping her chin on her hand as she curled into the pillow. “Hold on— James has a fanbase in Brazil?”
Albus sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Emma blinked. “But he’s what, a junior Auror? Fresh out of training?”
“Exactly!” Albus groaned, flopping onto his back in defeat. “He was in Brazil for two weeks during some ICW training exchange thing. There was an incident—he helped take down an unregistered dark artifact smuggler with some flashy spellwork, and boom. Someone posted a picture of him with windblown hair and singed robes.”
Emma’s eyebrows lifted. “Let me guess… shirt slightly torn?”
He pointed at her. “Exactly. Slight blood stain. Bit of ash on his cheek. All very tragically heroic. ”
Emma burst out laughing. “And that was enough?”
“Oh, it was more than enough,” Albus muttered. “They started calling him ‘O Cavaleiro das Sombras’ —The Knight of Shadows. There’s even a fan account dedicated to his wand grip.”
Emma looked stunned. “That’s absurd.”
Albus covered his face with both hands. “You haven’t even seen the artwork. There are fan illustrations. Magical oil paintings of him standing on cliffs, dramatically holding a wand toward the sky while storm clouds swirl behind him.”
Emma wheezed, grabbing a pillow to stifle her laughter.
“And he loves it,” Albus added bitterly. “He acts all embarrassed, like, ‘Oh no, I don’t know why they’re doing this,’ but then he casually drops phrases like, ‘Well, according to my Brazilian supporters…’”
Emma was laughing so hard now her eyes were watering. “You’re telling me I’m dating the wrong Potter .”
Albus shot her a look of exaggerated betrayal. “Et tu, Emma?”
She grinned and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ve always preferred brooding, slightly awkward Potters who accidentally uncover global conspiracies.”
He grinned. “Lucky me.”
Emma curled against him again, still laughing softly. “So… when’s this family dinner?”
Albus groaned. “Whenever I get brave enough to throw you to the wolves.”
She smirked. “I think I’ll manage. I’m already learning the Potter survival guide.”
“And what’s rule number one?”
She pressed her lips to his jaw and whispered, “Never underestimate the dramatic potential of your boyfriend’s family.”
Albus glanced sideways at her, his smile still lingering from their laughter. The room had quieted again, the kind of hush that comes after too much joy—where the air is warm and hearts feel full, but thoughts begin to drift into deeper waters.
He shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, his hair a ruffled mess, the collar of Jason’s oversized shirt slipping down one shoulder.
“So…” he said, cautiously, but with that same crooked smile, “are we… dating now?”
Emma blinked, then turned her head slowly to look at him. There was something playful in her eyes—but also something serious.
“Is that your official declaration, Albus Potter?” she asked, voice soft but amused. “Because I feel like most people say ‘do you want to go out with me?’ not ‘so, are we dating now?’ after sleeping in someone’s bed.”
“I mean,” Albus shrugged helplessly, “it’s not like I have a lot of experience. I’m improvising.”
Emma bit back a smile. “Badly.”
He groaned and dropped his face into the pillow. “You’re right. Terrible. I’m awful at this.”
She nudged his arm gently. “Hey. I didn’t say no. ”
Albus looked up, green eyes flicking to hers.
“I just said you’re bad at phrasing .”
His heart gave a small, stupid kick.
“So?” he asked, quieter this time. “Are we?”
Emma tilted her head slightly, her voice gentle now. “Do you want to be?”
He nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I do.”
She smiled, the kind that was all in her eyes. “Then yes. I’d say we’re dating.”
Albus gave a breath of relief that turned into a laugh. “Wow. Okay. Cool. I’ll try to remember not to ruin it.”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
“You’re not allowed.”
He looked at her, earnest and warm and a little stunned. “I like you, Emma.”
“I know,” she said, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “And I like you, Albus. Even if you’re a mess.”
“Especially because I’m a mess,” he corrected.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Okay, now don’t push it.”
He laughed again, falling back onto the pillow beside her, heart a little steadier than it had been in months.
The quiet peace between them was broken by the sudden, shrill chirp of Albus’s wand-alarm charm going off beside the bed.
Albus groaned, burying his face into the pillow for a second before blindly reaching out to tap the charm off.
Emma peeked over at him. “What was that for?”
He exhaled, rolling onto his back. “I have to go.”
“Go where?”
“To St. Mungo’s,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I promised James I’d visit early today. He hates the morning physio sessions, so I said I’d come before and distract him.”
Emma nodded, her expression softening. “How’s he doing?”
Albus gave a small smile, sitting up and brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Better, I think. Still pretending he’s fine when he’s obviously not, but… it’s James. He’ll make jokes until the building burns down.”
“Sounds familiar,” she teased gently.
He smirked, then stood and stretched, the oversized shirt he wore drooping over his frame like a curtain.
Emma watched him quietly for a moment. “Will you tell him?”
He paused in the middle of gathering his trousers. “Tell him what?”
“That we’re dating?”
Albus turned and gave her a crooked smile. “Absolutely not.”
Emma laughed. “Coward.”
“Completely,” he agreed. “But you haven’t seen him when he finds out things before I do. He’s smug for days. ”
“I think you just don’t want to get the Fire Wizard fan club involved.”
He groaned. “See? This is why I’m keeping it quiet. You already know too much.”
Emma leaned back against the pillows, smiling up at him. “Tell James I said hi.”
Albus fastened his belt, then paused at the edge of the bed, looking down at her.
“I’ll come back after?”
Emma nodded once. “You’d better.”
He bent down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, then whispered against her skin, “Thanks… for everything.”
And with that, he grabbed his coat, stuffed Jason’s borrowed shirt deeper into the collar, and Disapparated with a quiet crack—still smiling.
***
Albus stepped into the hospital room at St. Mungo’s and stopped in the doorway, blinking.
James was sprawled on the bed shirtless, arms folded behind his head like he was lounging on a beach and not in a long-term healing ward. His chest and torso were slick with a pale yellow balm that shimmered faintly in the sunlight coming through the enchanted window. The tone of his abs— which were absolutely deliberate and definitely flexed —gleamed like some ridiculous magazine ad for “Auror Health Weekly.”
Albus squinted. “What in Merlin’s name is that ?”
James turned his head lazily. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
Albus walked in, narrowing his eyes. “You look like someone buttered you up to throw you in the oven.”
James grinned, completely unbothered. “It’s a nerve-soothing balm. Magical inflammation reduction. Smells like chamomile and jasmine oil”
Albus sniffed. “…Smells like pretentious lotion and ego.”
“Jealousy isn’t a good look on you, little brother,” James said, flashing a grin.
Albus made a face and dropped into the visitor chair beside the bed. “I swear, you’ve made this recovery process an aesthetic. ”
“I can’t help it if I heal gracefully.”
“You can’t help flexing every time someone walks in the room.”
“That too,” James said proudly. Then, as if it were an afterthought: “So, how was your night?”
Albus froze for a half-second. “What?”
James turned his head fully now, eyebrows raised in interest. “You smell like cinnamon tea and clean laundry that isn’t yours.”
Albus muttered, “I was at Emma’s.”
James’s eyebrows nearly launched off his face. “ You were at Emma’s? As in, overnight?”
Albus tried to stay deadpan. “I brought her groceries.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And we talked.”
James nodded solemnly. “Of course.”
“And drank tea.”
“Oh, tea ,” James said dramatically, waggling his eyebrows. “Scandalous.”
Albus groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Why did I come here again?”
“To visit your gravely injured, unfairly attractive older brother,” James said, gesturing down at himself.
Albus glanced up and gave him a flat look. “You are absolutely insufferable.”
“Correct. And yet you still showed up. Which means…” James paused, smirking, “you probably need advice.”
Albus glared. “I do not need advice.”
“You totally do. It’s written all over your face. You’ve got that 'oh no, she kissed me and now I might be in love and also I forgot how relationships work because I’m an emotionally tormented disaster' face.”
Albus blinked. “That’s... disturbingly accurate.”
James beamed. “I am the older brother.”
Albus sighed and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples.
James, still smirking, dipped his fingers into the yellow balm and lazily reapplied it to his chest.
Albus didn’t even look this time. “For the love of Merlin, put a shirt on.”
“Never,” James said smugly. “Healing demands sacrifice. And right now, that sacrifice is your comfort.”
Albus snorted, in spite of himself.
James smoothed another thin layer of the pale yellow balm across his collarbone with the same dramatic flourish as a painter finishing a masterpiece.
Albus, now slouched in the visitor chair with his arms crossed, stared at him like one might a particularly annoying peacock. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”
James glanced at him, amused. “Sure. When it matters.”
“That’s your definition of ‘mattering’?” Albus asked, nodding toward his brother’s glistening chest.
James shrugged. “Listen, the healers said to apply it three times a day. No one said I couldn’t enjoy the view.”
Albus pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re the worst.”
“You’re just grumpy because I know you’re into Emma.”
Albus turned scarlet. “I’m not— It’s not like—”
James grinned. “You stayed over. You brought her groceries. You drank tea and talked about your feelings. Mate, you’re so doomed.”
Albus opened his mouth, floundered, then shut it again.
James’s smirk softened just slightly. “She’s good for you, though.”
Albus glanced at him, surprised. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” James said, and for once his voice wasn’t teasing. “You smile differently when you talk about her. You look less like you’re waiting for the world to punch you in the throat.”
Albus blinked. “…Thanks?”
James smirked again. “That was me being nice. Don’t get used to it.”
There was a long pause. The sounds of the hospital floated in from the corridor—distant footsteps, the murmur of a mediwitch’s spell, a magical clock ticking softly by the window.
Then James added more quietly, “Seriously, though. I’m glad she’s around. You’ve been carrying a hell of a weight. It's good to see someone help you breathe again.”
Albus didn’t answer for a moment. He looked down at his hands, fingers twitching slightly—nervous, uncertain.
Then: “I told her we’re dating.”
James blinked. “And?”
“She didn’t run screaming. She even kissed me again. Voluntarily.”
James let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell. It’s official, then. We need to throw a party. Or buy her a medal.”
Albus rolled his eyes. “You’re going to make her regret this.”
“Not yet, ” James grinned. “Let her get at least one Christmas with us first.”
There was a beat, then Albus said, quieter, “I’m scared, though.”
James looked over, brow furrowing. “Of what?”
Albus hesitated. “Of all of it. Grimm. The Veil. What I was part of. What I might still be part of without knowing it.”
James didn’t laugh this time. He sat up a bit straighter, the teasing wiped from his face.
“You’re not him, Al,” he said, firm and sure. “Whatever Vance twisted, whatever they dragged you into—it’s over. You chose to fight back. That’s what matters.”
Albus swallowed, voice rough. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
“You don’t have to,” James said. “You just have to keep showing up. One day at a time. Like you did for me. Like you’re doing now.”
And in that moment, balm-slicked abs and all, James looked less like a smug idiot and more like the older brother Albus had needed.
“…Thanks,” Albus said softly.
James winked. “Now, if you really want to repay me, grab me one of those chocolate frogs from the med cart. The trainee nurse is terrified of me. Says I’m too flirty for someone recovering from spinal trauma.”
Albus stood up, rolling his eyes with a smile. “You are. ”
“And yet,” James called after him as he walked out, “ you still came to me for advice, didn’t you? ”
Albus’s eyes drifted toward James’s face again—this time lingering on his right eye. The bandage that had wrapped half his head only days ago was gone now, leaving the skin raw but healing. The eye itself looked clearer. Still faintly bloodshot, but no longer the milky haze it had been when Albus last saw him.
“Your eye…” Albus said slowly, leaning forward. “It’s looking… better.”
James blinked once, then twice—almost like showing off. “Yeah. It is .”
Albus stared. “You can… see ?”
James grinned, this time not smug but quietly amazed. “A bit, yeah. Blurry, like looking through rain. But I can make out light, motion… outlines. Shapes.”
“That’s—bloody hell, that’s— James, that’s huge.”
James gave a small, breathless laugh and nodded. “Mum and Dad… they found this healer from the States. She’s a neuro-visual restoration specialist. Apparently, she’s got some revolutionary charmwork involving dragon optic tissue and phoenix tear blends. Very expensive. But… it’s working.”
Albus felt something rise in his throat—a mix of hope, gratitude, and disbelief. “So… you might get full sight back?”
James hesitated, then shrugged, eyes glinting with that brave kind of optimism he’d always carried. “Maybe not perfectly. But… enough. More than we thought. Enough to duel again someday. Maybe even fly.”
Albus sat back, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for days. “Merlin.”
“I know,” James said quietly. “I still get headaches. I’m still having the spine treatments. But… it’s something. And honestly, after the first few days? I’ll take something over nothing.”
There was a pause, soft and golden.
Albus looked at him again. “I thought we might lose you.”
James didn’t flinch. “Me too.”
Then, lighter: “But Potters are annoyingly difficult to kill.”
Albus gave a watery smile. “That’s what they say.”
James nudged him with his foot under the blanket. “Also, don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging the girlfriend subject again.”
Albus groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”
“ You’re in love.”
“Stop.”
“You’re gonna marry her.”
“I will hex you, James.”
James leaned back into his pillow with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “By the way,” he said casually, “I heard Mum and Dad had a very animated conversation in the hallway yesterday.”
Albus, still riding the emotional high of the recovery news, blinked. “About what?”
James gave him a look. “About you , obviously.”
Albus frowned. “What now?”
James’s smirk widened. “Apparently, they had to give up half my bloody inheritance just to afford Logan Williamson’s retainer.”
Albus burst out laughing. “What?!”
“I’m serious!” James said, throwing up his hands in mock outrage. “Mum was saying something about 'tapping into long-term Gringotts accounts,' and Dad mumbled something about 'no one being worth that much, not even him. ’ I’m pretty sure Logan charges by the syllable.”
Albus nearly doubled over. “Oh Merlin —”
James raised an eyebrow. “So just for the record, when I finally do marry some wildly unhinged international Quidditch star and we want to buy a seaside estate in Wales— gone. Because my baby brother had to go and get accused of high treason.”
Albus wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “You’ll survive.”
“Oh, sure,” James said dramatically. “I’ll just live modestly on my junior Auror salary. Maybe get a flat in Knockturn Alley and hope the roof doesn’t collapse.”
Albus grinned. “You’re such a martyr.”
“I am ,” James said proudly. “A wounded, broke martyr. You owe me.”
Albus leaned back in the chair, still laughing softly. “I’ll name my firstborn after you.”
James perked up. “Really?”
“No.”
James grinned again, eyes glinting with amusement. “Still worth it.”
James shifted a little on the bed, wincing as the salve on his ribs tugged against the sheets. Then he fixed Albus with a familiar, too-innocent look that meant trouble.
“So,” he said, stretching the word out. “What exactly are you going to do with Emma?”
Albus’s eyebrows shot up. “Do with her? I’m not—this isn’t—she’s not some project, James.”
James raised both hands in mock surrender. “Relax, lover boy. I mean like—what’s the plan? Are you going to, you know, do dates ? Take her to see the hippogriff exhibit? Long walks through Diagon Alley? Owl her poetry under a fake name?”
Albus rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. We haven’t really talked about that yet.”
James smirked. “So you’re just winging it.”
“Basically.”
There was a pause. Then James added slyly, “Want some tips?”
Albus groaned. “No.”
“I’ve got some great ones.”
“I don’t want them. ”
James, ignoring this completely, launched in: “Right, first of all—flowers, but not roses. Too cliché. Go for wildflowers, something with personality. Something that says, ‘I see you and I paid attention.’ ”
Albus folded his arms. “Why do you even know that?”
“Second,” James went on, undeterred, “compliment her, but not on the obvious stuff. Everyone tells her she’s smart or pretty. You say something like, ‘I love how you squint when you’re reading a complicated rune translation.’ Boom. Heart melt.”
Albus shook his head, biting back a smile. “This is ridiculous.”
James grinned. “You’re still listening.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re filing it away.”
“I’m not. ”
“You’re going to use it and pretend you came up with it.”
Albus huffed, slouching in the chair. “Maybe.”
James grinned smugly. “Told you.”
There was a pause. Albus fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, then added, almost shyly, “She… makes me feel like I can be myself. Like I don’t have to be Potter’s son. I can just… be me. And she still likes me.”
James sobered for a moment, the teasing dropping from his face. “Then you’ve already done the hardest part.”
Albus looked up.
“You found someone who sees you,” James said quietly. “So don’t screw it up.”
Albus smiled faintly. “I’ll try.”
James leaned back and smirked. “And if you do—send her my way. I’ve got that Brazil fan club to impress.”
“ James! ”
James laughed until it hurt.
Albus looked up. “You think I can actually make this work?”
“I think,” James said, voice quieter now, “that Emma already sees something in you most people haven’t taken the time to. That counts for a lot.”
Albus gave a small nod. “Thanks.”
James smirked again. “And also— definitely take her somewhere with dessert. Girls love dessert.”
Albus groaned. “ Out the window, James. I’m going out the window.”
Albus laughed—genuinely laughed—for the first time in what felt like weeks. James’s expression, puffed up with proud, ridiculous older-brother wisdom, was just so James that it broke through the fog in Albus’s head.
But the smile didn't last.
It faded almost as quickly as it came, slipping from his face like a light being slowly dimmed. Something heavy and cold crept back in behind his eyes. His posture sank just slightly. His hands curled around the edges of the chair.
James noticed instantly.
“Hey,” he said, his voice shifting to something more grounded. “What just happened?”
Albus blinked, tried to shake it off, but the weight had already settled.
“Nothing,” he murmured, too quickly.
James narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”
“It’s not—” Albus started, then stopped. “It’s not important right now.”
James pushed himself up straighter in bed, wincing a little as he shifted but still watching Albus carefully. “If something’s wrong, I want to know.”
Albus shook his head and stood, walking to the window as if putting distance between them might help him keep the secret inside. “It’s just… things. There’s still so much we don’t understand. About the Veil, about what Grimm’s doing, and… other stuff.”
James didn’t buy it, but he also didn’t press—not yet.
He watched Albus’s back for a long moment, then said, “Well… whenever you do want to talk about that ‘other stuff,’ I’m here. You know that, right?”
Albus nodded without turning around. “Yeah. I know.”
But his stomach churned with the unspoken truth: that Amélie might still be alive somewhere. That she might be carrying James’s child. That Grimm might be holding her like a weapon neither of them had seen coming.
And how the hell was he supposed to say that now?
So he stood there, quiet, looking out at a charmed sky that didn’t reflect the storm inside him. And behind him, James waited… not pushing, but watching.
Knowing something was coming.
The door to the hospital room creaked open.
Harry stepped in, looking more tired than usual—hair rumpled from the wind, cloak slung over one shoulder, eyes shadowed from too many late nights and too little sleep. He held a take-away cup in each hand, one of which he offered to James with a raised brow.
“Morning,” Harry said, voice rough but warm.
“Dad.” James grinned, taking the cup. “You bring peace offerings now?”
“Only if you behave,” Harry muttered, then handed the second cup to Albus, who took it with a murmured thanks.
James leaned back in bed, sipping exaggeratedly. “So… interesting developments this morning.”
Albus shot him a look .
James ignored it. “Things you might want to know, Dad. Like, say, your emotionally constipated son actually—”
Albus’s voice cut in fast and sharp. “ James. ”
James blinked, wide-eyed with faux innocence. “What?”
Albus gave him a warning glance that said don’t you dare, then sipped his tea as calmly as he could manage.
Harry looked between them, clearly suspicious. “Do I even want to know?”
“No,” Albus said flatly.
“Yes,” James said at the same time, grinning.
Albus leaned forward and hissed, “I swear I will switch out your balm for Bubotuber pus.”
James grinned wider. “ Noted. ”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Should I be worried?”
“No,” Albus said again, more firmly.
James gave a theatrical sigh and threw an arm over his forehead like a dying starlet. “ Fine. I shall take this secret to my grave—along with my tragically sacrificed inheritance.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“Nothing!” Albus and James both said in unison.
Harry frowned, but let it go for now, shaking his head and muttering, “I need stronger tea.” Then, turning to James more seriously, “How’s the eye today?”
James shifted, letting the banter go, his tone softening. “Better. Blurry, but I can see stuff now. Thanks to you and Mum… and that terrifyingly efficient American healer.”
Harry’s face softened. “Good. That’s… really good, James.”
Albus sat back, cup warming his hands, and watched the two of them with a quiet, aching fondness. For all the chaos outside those hospital walls, this—these moments—still held him together.
But still, under it all, the weight of the unspoken truth sat in his chest like a stone.
He hadn’t told Harry. Not about Amélie. Not about the baby.
Not yet.
Harry had just settled into the chair beside James’s bed, finally allowing himself a breath that didn’t feel like it was carrying the weight of the wizarding world.
James was midway through recounting—with absolutely no embellishment, of course—his dramatic near-death experience when there was a knock at the door. It creaked open, and in stepped Arthur Weasley, his expression lined with gentle concern and the warmth only a grandfather could radiate.
“Just checking in on James,” Arthur said kindly, eyes twinkling as they landed on James. “And to remind him that if he wants to escape hospital food, Nana is ready to bring a whole feast to the hospital room.”
James lit up. “You are my new favorite person.”
Arthur chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
***
Lily Luna Potter tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders as snowflakes swirled like feathers in a snow globe around the castle grounds. Hogsmeade weekends were usually exciting, but today—it felt like a lifeline. A flicker of normalcy in a world that had gone quietly, terrifyingly mad.
Rowan was waiting for her by the gates, cheeks already pink from the cold, scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck. He grinned when he saw her hurrying down the path, boots crunching in the snow.
She smiled back, something light sparking in her chest for the first time in days.
And then—just as she reached the threshold of freedom—he stepped in front of her.
Argus Filch.
The old caretaker, hunched and grimacing, held out a shaky hand. “You can’t go.”
Lily blinked, snow catching in her lashes. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not on the list anymore,” Filch croaked. “Permission’s been revoked. By your parents.”
Lily’s smile faltered. “That can’t be right. My parents signed—”
“I don’t care what they signed before, ” Filch said gruffly, pulling a crumpled parchment from his coat. “New list came in this morning. Your name’s not on it. ”
Behind her, Rowan stepped forward. “There must be some mistake—”
“No mistake,” Filch muttered. “Parents withdrew permission. For her safety, it says here. Likely don’t want their daughter wandering about with the rest of what’s going on.”
Lily’s face flushed, not from the cold. “Because of what’s going on with my family.”
Filch didn’t answer.
Her hands clenched at her sides. “So that’s it? I don’t even get a say?”
“You can take it up with the Headmistress if you like,” Filch said, already turning away. “But today? You're not going anywhere.”
The gates creaked closed again as Filch locked them with a spell. Lily stood frozen, heart thudding against her ribs.
Rowan reached for her gloved hand. “Lils—”
She shook her head, jaw tight, throat burning with frustration. “They didn’t even tell me.”
Rowan tightened his grip on Lily’s hand, brows furrowed beneath his tousled fringe. “Then I’m not going either.”
Lily looked up at him sharply, her breath misting in the air between them. “Don’t be stupid, Rowan.”
“I’m not,” he said. “If you’re not allowed to go, I’m staying back with you. We’ll sneak into the kitchens, get hot cocoa, I’ll even let you beat me at Exploding Snap.”
“Rowan.”
He stared at her, warm brown eyes stubborn but soft. “I don’t care about Hogsmeade if you’re not there.”
For a second, she didn’t say anything. The snow danced gently around them, muffling the world in white. She was touched—more than she wanted to admit. But also furious. At her parents. At the world. At whatever had stolen her weekend, and everything else.
Lily exhaled slowly and gave a faint, sad smile. “You’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”
“So have you,” Rowan said.
She pulled her hand from his gently. “And I’ll still be here when you get back. Just… get me a sugar quill or something ridiculous.”
“Lily—”
“Go,” she insisted, nudging him with a faint shove and a mock stern look. “Before I dump you for being sappy in public.”
Rowan hesitated. His breath hitched like he might argue again—but then, with a reluctant nod, he turned. “I’ll bring back the biggest bag of sweets Honeydukes has.”
“You better.”
He lingered at the gate for a second longer, then finally slipped through with the rest of the crowd. Lily watched him go, hugging her arms tighter around herself, standing alone in the snow.
And when he disappeared behind the swirling flurries and bustling students, she turned slowly, blinking hard, and walked back toward the castle—each step heavier than the last.
The heavy oak doors of the castle creaked shut behind her, the warmth of the Entrance Hall wrapping around Lily like a second skin. Her boots left melting snowprints on the stone floor as she stormed forward, fists shoved deep into her cloak pockets, breath sharp with frustration.
She wasn’t watching where she was going—too busy trying not to cry or hex something—and collided into someone tall and solid at the foot of the stairs.
“Whoa—easy there,” came a familiar, calm voice.
She looked up, startled. “Professor Lupin!”
Remus blinked down at her, steady and warm as always in his worn wool coat and soft brown scarf, eyes crinkling with concern. “You weren’t headed to Hogsmeade, were you?”
Lily clenched her jaw. “Tried to. Filch said Mum and Dad withdrew permission.”
Remus sighed quietly. “Yes… Ginny did mention that might happen.”
Lily’s eyes narrowed. “Then why didn’t they write to tell me? I had to find out at the gates like some random first year.”
Remus’s expression turned apologetic. “Because all external posts are being magically screened and delayed. Security measures, especially for the Potter family.”
“So they can’t even send a note ?” Lily snapped. “Or a Patronus? Or literally anything except yanking me from the one thing I was looking forward to?”
Her voice cracked at the end. She hadn’t meant for it to. Her throat felt hot and tight.
Remus studied her for a moment, then said gently, “Come on. My office is warm, and I’ve just restocked the biscuit tin. Let’s get you inside.”
Lily hesitated, arms still tight across her chest.
He softened his tone further. “No class. No lecture. Just tea. Deal?”
She swallowed, nodding once.
Remus gave her a small smile and gestured for her to follow, leading the way through the quiet corridors, snow melting from their cloaks as they walked.
And for the first time that morning, Lily didn’t feel quite so alone.
They walked in silence for a while—just the low hum of castle life around them. Students bustled past on their way to the library or the Great Hall, some casting curious glances toward Professor Lupin and the youngest Potter. Lily kept her eyes forward, footsteps falling into rhythm with his. She didn’t know what she expected from his office, but when they arrived, it wasn’t… this.
It was warm.
And messy.
Books lined every shelf, but they spilled over too—into open crates, stacked on the floor, teetering in piles on the window seat. A kettle floated near the hearth, steam rising. A stack of old records sat beside a battered gramophone in the corner, and next to that, a dented tin labeled “Honeydukes Contraband – Do Not Report.”
Lily’s eyes flicked across the room. There were old photographs tucked in the corners of the desk—black-and-white smiles of the old Order. One of Teddy as a baby, sitting on the floor with a ridiculous tuft of turquoise hair. Another of Tonks laughing, eyes half-lidded, her arm slung around Remus’s neck.
Remus watched her take it all in without speaking. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he said, “You can sit anywhere that isn’t actively threatening collapse.”
Lily gave the barest smirk and lowered herself into the cushioned chair across from his desk. He flicked his wand toward the kettle. “Tea?”
“Sure,” she said quietly.
A moment later, two steaming mugs floated toward them. Lily cradled hers in both hands, the heat sinking into her fingers.
For a long minute, neither of them said anything.
Then Remus spoke, gently, “You’re angry.”
“I’m furious, ” she admitted, surprising herself with the sharpness in her voice. “They just— decided. No warning, no explanation, just ‘Oh, sorry Lily, the rest of your life has to go on pause because your family is in a mess again.’”
Remus didn’t flinch. “You feel left out.”
She looked down into her tea. “I am left out. I’m not a part of anything that matters, but I’m still punished like I am. Like I’m made of glass.”
A quiet. Then:
“I remember when Harry was your age,” Remus said softly. “He hated being left out, too. Hated being protected. Especially when the adults couldn’t even tell him why.”
Lily looked up.
Remus’s gaze was calm, steady. “But you’re not your dad. You’re you. And if I were him—I’d be worried sick. Because this isn’t just about politics anymore. It’s about magic that goes deeper than even we understand.”
Lily bit her lip. “I know that. I do. But it’s hard not to feel like I’ve already been judged guilty. Just for having my last name.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“I miss Teddy,” she said suddenly, softer this time. “He’s always the one who explains things. Or distracts me. Or just… makes it feel less lonely.”
Remus smiled faintly. “He misses you too. And… he talks about you often. Always with fondness. And a bit of exasperation.”
Lily snorted into her tea. “Good.”
They both laughed, quiet and real.
The fire popped in the grate. Outside the window, snow drifted past the glass, slow and endless.
“Thank you,” Lily said after a while. “For… not trying to fix it.”
Remus looked at her gently, eyes tired but kind. “Sometimes, not fixing is the first step toward understanding.”
And for the first time all day, Lily felt a little lighter.
***
Amélie sat propped up against a pile of cloud-soft pillows, the pale afternoon light filtering in through charmed, frost-dappled windows. The room smelled faintly of lavender and cedarwood—new linens, a softly enchanted fireplace, and something warm and herbal steeping nearby.
It was nothing like the stone cell she’d been in before. The walls here were painted in soft cream and sky-blue, and a thick rug cushioned the floor. A bassinet had been placed near the window. Toys—handmade—sat beside it.
It was… beautiful.
And that terrified her.
Her legs ached. The dull, pulsing soreness that came with late pregnancy—made worse by months of confinement, stillness, and fear. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure in her hips, her hands trembling slightly on the blanket.
The door creaked open.
She turned her head sharply—but it was him.
Grimm.
As always, dressed in calm, elegant grey. No cloak this time. No mask of cold detachment. He looked… composed. Serene. As if nothing in the world could trouble him.
“Your legs are hurting,” he said, more a statement than a question.
She stiffened. “I’m fine.”
He ignored her. Walked to the foot of the bed and gently pulled back the blanket from her legs. She didn’t stop him—she’d learned by now that defiance only got swallowed by silence in this place.
He knelt.
His fingers—surprisingly warm—found her calves, and began to gently knead them, working in slow, expert circles.
She flinched at first, then melted without meaning to. The pain didn’t go, but it dulled under his touch. It felt disturbingly good to be touched with care. That was the part that made her feel sickest.
After a long pause, her voice came out low and dry. “Why are you doing this?”
Grimm looked up at her then—his expression unreadable.
“You’re carrying something precious.”
Amélie narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t answer the question.”
He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, his hands continued their work, gentle and steady.
“Because I want you to be comfortable,” he said at last. “Because you’re not a prisoner anymore. You’re a mother-to-be. And I want you to feel safe.”
“I’m not safe,” she said quietly. “I just don’t know how to escape.”
Grimm tilted his head slightly, as though the words didn’t sting him. “You don’t need to escape, Amélie. This room, this child… none of it is a punishment. It’s a beginning.”
Amélie’s chest tightened. “You still won’t tell me what you want from me. Or from him. ”
Grimm rose, slowly, smoothing his robes. “All in time.”
He turned toward the door, but just before stepping out, he said without looking back, “You may not understand it now. But I am trying to give you a life better than the one you lost.”
The door clicked softly shut behind him.
Amélie stared at the fire, her legs still warm from his touch. But her heart? Cold. Cold and pounding. Because beauty, she was beginning to realize, was just another kind of cage.
Chapter 53: Reasonable Doubt
Notes:
TW: Panic Attacks
Chapter Text
The house was quiet when Harry stepped inside—too quiet for the weight he carried on his shoulders. The wards whispered faintly as they accepted him, and the door shut with a soft click behind him. His boots were damp from the sleet outside, his cloak heavy with the scent of London fog and Ministry dust. He didn’t bother hanging it. He just stood there for a moment, letting the silence press into his bones.
Ten days.
Only ten days left until the ICW hearing—and still no hard evidence that Grimm was anything but a beloved reformer and “tragic survivor” of Harry’s supposed attack.
He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled.
Upstairs, light flickered faintly under the bedroom door.
She was still awake.
He climbed the stairs quietly, his steps careful out of habit more than necessity. When he opened the bedroom door, Ginny was sitting upright in bed, a book resting forgotten in her lap, her wand lit dimly on the nightstand.
She looked at him the moment he stepped in.
“Hey,” she said gently.
Harry nodded, swallowing. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.”
Her voice was soft, but steady. She watched him as he shrugged off his jacket and sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples like he was trying to hold his thoughts inside his skull.
“Still nothing?” she asked.
He shook his head.
Ginny hesitated. “Harry…”
He knew that tone. That edge of worry she tried to lace in calm. It made his gut twist. She reached out and touched his arm.
“You need to tell me what’s going on. The truth. I can feel it—something is bothering you very much.”
Harry turned to her slowly.
“Ginny—”
“No more ‘I’m protecting you.’ I’ve lived through a war. I fought in one. You don’t have to shield me like I’m going to break.” Her hand squeezed his. “Talk to me.”
His throat worked. He looked at her—really looked at her. The freckles, the fire, the history in her eyes. The love. The trust.
He wanted to.
He wanted to tell her everything. About the Elder Wand. About Grimm. About how it slipped from his fingers like it never belonged to him at all. About Fawkes. About what that meant.
But he couldn’t.
Because once she knew—she would never sleep peacefully again.
He looked away, eyes cast down toward the quilt.
“There are things I can’t say,” he murmured. “Not yet. I don’t know how.”
Ginny was quiet for a long moment. Then, her voice broke gently through the air:
“Does it have to do with Dumbledore?”
His head jerked toward her, startled.
She watched him with a sad, perceptive sort of patience.
“You’ve been... different. Ever since that duel. You keep looking at the old photos in the attic. You stare at the floor like you're seeing something that’s not there. I know that look, Harry.”
He didn’t answer.
Ginny reached up and touched his face, brushing a thumb just beneath his tired eyes.
“You don’t have to tell me everything,” she said softly. “But promise me one thing.”
He blinked.
“Don’t try to carry this alone. Please.”
Harry closed his eyes. Her hand remained, warm and solid on his skin. He leaned into it, just for a moment. Just long enough to remember that some battles were worth staying human for.
“Okay,” he whispered.
And it was the most honest thing he could give her—for now.
Ginny’s hand lingered against Harry’s cheek as he leaned into her touch, but she didn’t pull away—didn’t let him retreat into silence again.
“Last night,” she said quietly, “you talked in your sleep.”
Harry stiffened, his eyes still closed.
“You said… ‘It chose him.’”
She paused. “What chose who, Harry?”
His breath caught.
Ginny let her fingers fall to his arm now, her voice low but steady. “I don’t want to fight with you. But I’m not going to sit here while something’s devouring you from the inside. I need something. ”
He looked at her then—really looked. And maybe it was the softness in her eyes, or the quiet bravery in her voice, or maybe he was just too tired to lie again—but something in him cracked.
“I think Grimm’s connected to Dumbledore,” he said hoarsely.
Ginny’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
He ran a hand through his hair again, that old frayed motion of a man unraveling. “I don’t know exactly how. But something about him… it’s too perfect. His magic, his charisma, the way people follow him like it’s a spell. It reminds me of Dumbledore—but without the conscience.”
She waited, silent, knowing he wasn’t finished.
Harry’s voice dropped, heavy with something close to reverence and dread. “Fawkes came to him, Ginny.”
Ginny’s lips parted.
“What?”
“The phoenix,” Harry said, eyes haunted. “Fawkes. Dumbledore’s phoenix. He’s with Grimm now. I saw him. He blinded me with fire after the duel—so Grimm could escape.”
Ginny sat back slowly, her breath hitching. “But… I thought phoenixes only bonded with the purest—”
“I did too,” Harry interrupted quietly. “But Fawkes isn’t just a creature. He’s… old magic. And phoenixes choose those who reflect something powerful in them. Loyalty. Purpose. Or… blood.”
Ginny froze. “You think Grimm is—?”
“I don’t know, ” Harry said quickly. “But I remember Aberforth once said that phoenixes don’t just appear for Dumbledores. They return to them. Like something in their blood sings to them.”
The words hung in the air like frost.
Ginny’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Harry… are you saying Grimm is related to Dumbledore?”
He met her gaze, jaw tight.
“I think he might be. Somehow. I don’t have proof. Just—fragments. A name Albus found: ‘A.D.’ Scattered across documents tied to the cult. Old spells. Orders. Even after Dumbledore’s death.”
Ginny stared at him, the weight of the idea settling like snow on her chest. “And if he is?”
Harry didn’t answer for a long time. Then:
“Then we’re not just fighting a dark wizard. We’re fighting a legacy.”
She reached out, took his hand in both of hers, and squeezed.
And in that quiet room, where truth and fear finally breathed in the same air, they sat side by side—two war-worn souls facing a past that refused to stay buried.
***
The morning brought a dull, grey drizzle over London, and the atrium of the Ministry buzzed with low-level panic masked as professionalism. Harry made his way through it all, jaw tight, coat still damp from the rain, folder clutched under his arm. Ten days to the ICW. Ten days to prove Grimm was a fraud and stop Britain from being politically crucified.
He took the lift down to the secure war room—a transfigured conference space layered in secrecy spells, sealed from the outside, with four desks, three coffee mugs, and zero hope.
Higgs was already there, flipping through files and muttering to himself. Hermione stood by the warded windows with Theia Hodges, both looking exhausted but alert.
And then—
“Morning, Potter,” said a smooth voice that didn’t belong.
Harry paused mid-step. His stomach sank.
Logan Williamson was lounging against the corner of the conference table, arms crossed, in a perfectly tailored navy cloak with silver fastenings and a grin that was already several shades too smug for this early in the morning.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Logan gave a lazy wave. “Good to see you too, mate.”
“I didn’t ask for you.”
“No, but you did ask me to defend your son. Which I did. Brilliantly, might I add. And now I get to return the favor—save the father. Circle of life.”
Harry turned toward Higgs and Hermione, both of whom wore the sort of expressions that said we knew this would piss you off, but it’s necessary.
“Tell me he’s not staying,” Harry said tightly.
Hermione offered a patient smile. “He’s staying.”
“Hermione—”
“He knows ICW procedures better than anyone,” she said firmly. “He’s defended worse. He won against the French delegation in the Triage Trials of ’18.”
“And got three members of the Bulgarian Wizengamot to apologize in writing,” Theia added, sipping tea.
“I don’t need someone who can talk circles,” Harry snapped. “I need someone who can help me prove Grimm is behind all this.”
“And that’s exactly why you need me, ” Logan said, straightening. “You lot are trying to win with facts. Admirable. But this is politics, Harry. The ICW doesn’t care about truth. They care about optics. About technicalities. You want to stop Grimm? You need to beat him at his own game. On parchment. In front of witnesses.”
Harry stared at him.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he muttered, “but I liked you better when you were insulting me in court.”
Logan grinned. “You’ll get used to working with me. Most people do. Eventually.”
Higgs snorted into his notes. Hermione didn’t even bother hiding her smirk.
Harry sighed deeply and ran a hand down his face. “Fine. But if you so much as breathe near anything classified—”
“I only breathe classified air,” Logan said brightly. “Now, where’s our sacrificial evidence folder?”
And just like that, the war room locked its doors behind them, sealing five uneasy allies into one desperate mission to save what was left of their world.
***
The war room stank of Ministry-grade coffee, burned parchment, and egos.
Harry sat at the head of the long oak table, quill in hand, jaw clenched, watching Higgs and Logan argue over the formatting of an international affidavit like it was a Quidditch final. The parchment in front of him remained mostly blank—mostly because every time he tried to write, Logan would lean over his shoulder with some condescending quip, or Higgs would interrupt with bureaucratic nonsense that made him want to break something.
This is hell, Harry thought grimly.
Actual hell.
Logan was currently mid-lecture. “You can’t just say Grimm manipulated the duel, Nathan. The ICW needs proof that he baited Harry into it. Otherwise it’s aggression, plain and simple.”
“It wasn’t aggression,” Higgs snapped. “He was responding to a breach of security—”
“Oh, don’t give me that parchment-pusher drivel—”
“You’re the one who suggested using the ICW’s emergency clause!”
“Yes, because I’m smart. You’re just loud.”
Harry tuned them out and rubbed his temples. He wasn’t sure who he hated more—Logan, with his smirking brilliance and absolute lack of humility, or Nathan Higgs, who somehow made even important decisions sound like committee minutes.
Working with both of them at once was some kind of cosmic punishment.
He would’ve preferred Malfoy.
Hell, even Snape might’ve been more tolerable, and Snape at least insulted you with some dignity.
He glanced down at the battered file—the folder Albus had made. So much had changed since Hogwarts. Since the days when the biggest threat was a troll in the dungeons, or a cursed diary, or a Death Eater hiding in plain sight.
God, I miss Ron.
Back then, it had been simple. Him, Hermione, Ron. Sneaking into libraries, dodging teachers, putting together clues like they were the only ones in the world who could.
They had been a team. Always.
Now? Now he was stuck between a ruthless lawyer and a self-important bureaucrat, both of whom were technically on his side, and still made everything feel like a migraine.
Hermione, at least, was a saving grace—going through documents in the corner, quietly highlighting clauses and organizing files. But even she seemed tired. Like the years had dulled even her optimism.
Harry sat back in his chair, watching Logan and Higgs bicker like crows.
He wondered, not for the first time that week, if the world really had to end again under his watch.
He sighed. Loudly.
“I swear,” he muttered, “the next person who speaks in a smug tone is getting hexed.”
Neither of them even looked at him.
He missed Ron so much.
“You know,” Logan said, flipping through one of the sealed files on the Circle of Flame with maddening ease, “this all could’ve been avoided if you hadn’t walked straight into Grimm’s bloody trap.”
Harry’s quill snapped in his hand.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.
But Logan—Logan never knew when to shut up.
“I mean it. You’re not stupid, Potter. So what were you thinking? Meeting Grimm alone, in the Department of Mysteries? Without backup? That’s not bravery, that’s a complex.”
Higgs didn’t even glance up from his notes, muttering, “For once, I agree.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t know it was Grimm waiting there.”
“No,” Logan drawled, “you hoped it wasn’t. Because you thought you could fix it. Like always. You were too busy trying to be the bloody Chosen One again instead of doing the sensible thing— reporting it. ”
“Logan,” Hermione said cautiously.
But Harry was already rising. “You weren’t there.”
“I’ve read enough to know,” Logan said, voice tightening. “You brought something into that room—something powerful. Something you shouldn’t have touched again. And you lost it.”
Harry froze. Hermione went absolutely still.
Logan’s eyes narrowed. “You did, didn’t you? You brought something. That’s why the duel went south. That’s why Grimm walked away and you didn’t. What was it, Harry?”
“I’m not discussing that with you. ”
Logan stepped forward, tone hardening. “No, of course not. Because that would require some honesty. But maybe if you had a little honesty, your son wouldn’t have ended up on trial.”
Harry’s fists balled at his sides.
“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t bring Albus into this.”
“Why not?” Logan’s voice rose. “You think I haven’t seen it? The way he looks at you? Like he’s still waiting to prove something you won’t even say out loud?”
“ Logan, ” Hermione snapped, but it was too late.
“Maybe if you’d stopped trying to be the hero long enough to be a father, he wouldn’t have walked right into Vance’s arms!”
Harry’s hand slammed down on the table so hard the inkpot shattered, black droplets splattering across parchment and wood.
“You have no idea what I’ve done for my son.”
“No,” Logan said, stepping in close, eyes flashing. “I know exactly what you’ve done. Your son nearly died because of you . You fought a war at seventeen and then expected the rest of us to live in your shadow. You built a world of silence and secrets, and when Albus needed truth, you gave him nothing. You think I don’t see it? You passed down your trauma like a bloody heirloom.”
Harry’s breath hitched. His magic sparked, raw and unfiltered, just beneath the surface.
And Logan—fuming, fists tight—looked like he might throw a punch.
“ Enough! ” Hermione shouted, stepping between them, shoving Logan back with one hand and Harry with the other. “Both of you!”
Logan’s chest was heaving.
Harry turned away, his back to them, breathing hard. His reflection trembled in the darkened window glass.
The room was silent—except for the distant hum of Ministry wards, and the soft scratching of Higgs adjusting a line in his notes like nothing happened.
“Grow up,” Hermione said coldly, to Logan. “You want to stay in the team? Then stop acting like you’re still in school fighting over who gets the last word. You’re on the same side.”
“So, Logan, sit down,” she ordered. “Harry, go get some air before you say something you’ll regret.”
Logan exhaled slowly through his nose, still staring daggers at Harry. “You think I enjoy working with you? You’re a liability. A legend who’s outlived his usefulness.”
Harry didn’t answer. He just turned and walked out, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the glass.
He barely made it to the men’s room before the walls closed in.
He stumbled inside, the door creaking shut behind him like a judgment. Cold tiles. Humming lights. Silence.
His breath hitched.
His hands braced against the sink, gripping the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He tried to breathe. In. Out. In—
—but nothing came.
The walls seemed to pulse. The mirror swam. The room twisted under his feet.
He gasped, a sharp sound—half sob, half choke.
Albus’s face flashed behind his eyes—bloodied, terrified, caged. James’s limp body in the rubble. Fawkes flying away. The Elder Wand slipping from his grasp.
You handed it to him.
You brought the wand.
You failed.
Again.
He couldn’t breathe.
His knees buckled. He collapsed against the tiled wall, sliding down until he hit the floor, chest heaving, throat raw. His glasses were fogging, or maybe those were tears—he couldn’t tell. Couldn’t care.
He was shaking. Violently. His fingers curled into fists against the cold floor, nails digging into skin. The world felt like it was underwater. Too loud and too quiet at once.
And all he could hear—again and again—was Logan’s voice:
“You gave a madman the keys to the kingdom.”
“Albus nearly died because of you.”
“You thought you could outwit Grimm.”
His eyes burned. His lungs screamed.
He wanted to scream. Wanted to shatter the mirror. To rip the wand from Grimm’s hand, to pull James and Albus and his family out of all this. To go back. To undo every step.
Instead, he sobbed.
Silent, awful sobs, wracking his whole body. The kind of sobs no war hero should ever make. The kind no father should ever have to.
And no one saw.
The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived.
Collapsed on a bathroom floor, shaking like a boy in a cupboard again, praying no one came in. Praying someone did.
For a moment—just a moment—he wished it had been him instead. In the rubble. In the fire. Gone.
But then he thought of his family.
And he forced himself to breathe again.
A long minute passed.
Then another.
The air in the room still felt wrong—too thin, like it refused to fill his lungs—but the trembling began to slow. His heartbeat was still pounding in his ears, but now it was duller, like the echo of a storm moving off into the distance.
He pressed his forehead to the cold tile behind him.
He hated this.
He hated feeling like this. Like the boy from the cupboard again. Like the soldier after the war, waiting for someone else to die next. He hated that Logan had gotten under his skin. Hated that Logan was right , even if only a little.
He had brought the wand.
He had thought he could control it.
Dumbledore had trusted him to hide it, never to use it , never to draw it back into the world. He'd made a vow by the white tomb, one of the only ones that mattered anymore. And he’d broken it. Just like that. For what? A few desperate answers? A sliver of hope?
Grimm hadn’t even needed to steal it.
Harry had given it to him.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stop the tears before they fell again, but it was no use.
Everything was unraveling. His family was broken. His name was being dragged through international courtrooms. His son had been arrested because he’d brought him into the line of fire. And James—
James could barely walk. Could barely see. And Harry hadn’t even told him the truth. Or any of them. About Grimm. About the wand. About any of it.
Because he couldn’t face what they would say if they knew.
The floor felt miles below him, even though he was sitting on it. His palms were scraped, but he didn't notice. All he could think of was the growing silence between him and the people he loved. The weight of secrets he couldn’t share. The feeling that this time—this time—it wasn’t going to end in victory.
It was going to end in something else.
And he didn’t know how to stop it.
A soft knock came at the door.
Harry flinched. Wiped his face quickly. Tried to stand, stumbled. Managed it on the second attempt.
“Harry?” Hermione’s voice. Low. Careful. “It’s me.”
He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t trust himself not to fall apart again if he did.
“I won’t come in,” she said gently. “Just… take your time. I’m outside.”
Silence.
Then—
“I know what Logan said was cruel. But you need to hold it together. Not for him. Not for the ICW. For Albus. For James. For Lily. For Ginny.”
Her voice cracked just slightly.
“You’ve done the impossible before. You can do it again. But not alone. Not this time.”
He stared at the door, throat thick.
“I’ll be out soon,” he finally managed. His voice was wrecked. Barely there.
But it was something.
He gripped the sink again, bracing himself. Looked into the mirror.
He looked like hell.
But beneath the bloodshot eyes and unshaven jaw, he saw it—the same stubborn flicker he’d seen as a boy facing down Voldemort.
Harry splashed cold water on his face, scrubbed it roughly with a hand towel, and stared at his reflection until it steadied. The tremble in his hands had mostly faded. His chest still ached, but the storm was sealed—barely—behind a thin wall of focus.
He stepped out of the bathroom.
The corridor was empty. Hermione was gone.
She’d given him space, just as she always had—just enough to find his footing, but never enough to fall alone.
He drew in a breath that still felt too sharp, and made his way back down the hall.
The war room was quieter now. A heavy silence had settled over the table like dust. Higgs was sitting with his feet up, arms crossed, pretending not to notice the tension crackling in the air. Logan was by the window, arms folded, gazing out over the Ministry courtyard as if none of it touched him.
Harry walked in slowly.
No one spoke.
He stepped up to his chair, didn’t sit.
He looked directly at Logan.
Voice calm. Low. Dead serious.
“If you ever mention my children like that again,” Harry said, “I won’t care how useful you are. I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Logan turned, brow raised, but something in Harry’s eyes must have caught him off guard. That cold, deliberate fury that had silenced Death Eaters on battlefields.
Not a temper.
A promise.
Logan didn’t smirk this time. Didn’t speak.
Harry sat down.
Higgs adjusted in his chair, suddenly interested in the document in front of him.
No one spoke for a long moment. The quiet felt like held breath.
Then Harry opened the file on Grimm again.
“All right,” he said, voice even. “Let’s work.”
And the room moved forward. But the air had changed.
No one would cross that line again.
Over the next few days, Harry became a master of disguise again.
Not the magical kind—just the subtle, quiet art of hiding.
He learned exactly how long he could stay in the war room before the pressure built too high. He knew the right moments to take a call in the corridor, when in reality he just needed to breathe without someone watching. He timed his exits during lunch breaks, ducking into unused rooms or Ministry bathrooms, locking the door and leaning against it as his vision blurred and his lungs betrayed him again.
The panic attacks were getting worse.
Faster. Meaner. Less warning.
They came like cracks in glass—sudden, spreading, unstoppable. And Harry knew exactly what they were, but knowing didn’t help. He’d fought Dark Lords, faced death a hundred times over, but these were different.
These were internal.
In the middle of a strategy meeting, someone would say Veil , or Dumbledore , or wand , and he’d feel the edges of the world start to tilt. His jaw would clench. His breath would shorten. His hands would tremble—just enough that he had to shove them into his pockets or grip the chair too tightly. He’d nod at something Hermione was saying, even though the only thing he could hear was blood in his ears.
No one noticed.
Not Hermione. Not Higgs. Not even Logan, who seemed to see everything.
That was the part that scared him the most—how good he was at pretending.
He’d smile during reports. Joke with Aurors. Offer plans. But the moment the door closed behind him, it was like someone cut all the strings holding him upright.
One afternoon, he found himself in a storage room off Level Seven, crouched between two crates of worn-out magical typewriters, gripping his knees and biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood.
You’re fine.
You’re fine.
You have to be fine.
Because if he fell apart—if he let it show—what would happen to the others?
To Albus, already trying so hard to rebuild something from the ruins of his name?
To James, fighting through every second of recovery?
To Ginny, who looked at him like he still had answers?
To Lily, who needed her father, not a ghost?
And the worst part—the cruelest part—was knowing that no one else could carry this.
Because no one else knew the whole truth.
No one else knew about the Elder Wand.
No one else knew that Harry had already lost the battle before it began.
So he pulled himself together. Every time.
And walked back out into the light like nothing had happened.
Because the world still expected Harry Potter to save it.
And he didn’t know how to say:
I can’t.
***
It started with a look.
Ginny had always been the one person who could read him without a word, without a wand, without even trying. And tonight, as he stood by the sink in their dim kitchen, pretending to be washing dishes he’d already cleaned, she just knew .
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
Harry blinked. “What?”
She stood behind him, arms folded, eyes steady. “I said Lily wrote. She’s worried. Thinks you’re avoiding her.”
“I’ve just been—”
“Busy,” Ginny finished for him. “I know.”
Harry turned off the tap. The silence between them stretched.
“Harry,” she said softly. “You’re not sleeping.”
“I am.”
“You’re not ,” she said, stepping closer. “You wake up soaked in sweat. You flinch at the smallest sounds. You disappear into the bathroom for twenty minutes and come out pale and shaking.”
He swallowed.
“I’m fine.”
“No,” Ginny said, not cruelly. “You’re not . Tell me.”
He stayed quiet.
“Harry.”
He looked down, hands gripping the counter.
“They’re panic attacks.”
Ginny’s face didn’t change, but her breath caught.
“How long?”
“A few days,” he said. “They’re… getting worse.”
She reached for him, but he stepped away.
“They always come fast,” he muttered. “My chest locks up. I can’t see straight. Sometimes I think I’m going to pass out and—” He stopped. Shook his head. “I don’t want the kids to know.”
“Harry,” she said, gently this time. “You need to talk to someone.”
“I’m talking to you .”
“ Professionally .”
“I don’t have time,” he snapped, harsher than he meant to. He rubbed his face, frustrated. “The ICW hearing’s in six days, Ginny. Six . And we’ve still got nothing concrete. Grimm’s name is spotless, the evidence is scattered, and Logan’s barely tolerable on a good day.”
Her voice softened, but her words didn’t.
“And what happens if you collapse in front of the ICW? Or if Grimm finds out you’re breaking down in toilets between meetings?”
He didn’t answer.
“You won’t help anyone by dying on your feet, Harry.”
That struck him harder than he expected.
Ginny stepped forward again, this time slowly, like approaching something wounded.
“Do you remember what you told me, when I was falling apart after the war?” she said. “You said we don’t have to carry everything alone. That some battles need more than bravery.”
She reached up, touched his cheek. “This is one of them.”
Harry closed his eyes.
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” he whispered. “But if I stop now—if I slow down—I’m afraid we’ll miss something. And we can’t afford to miss anything.”
Ginny nodded. “Then don’t stop. Just don’t do it alone.”
He didn’t promise.
But for the first time in days, he let her hold him.
And for a little while, the panic stayed away.
The next morning, Harry showed up at St. Mungo’s with his hood pulled low and his name signed under a pseudonym. Not even the receptionist batted an eye—he was led through a quiet corridor used for sensitive cases, straight to the Mind Healers’ wing.
He wouldn’t have come. Not on his own.
But Ginny had cried.
“I need you to be okay,” she’d whispered, her voice wrecked. “Not for the world. For us. For me.”
She had pleaded, then begged. When that didn’t work, she blackmailed him.
“If you don’t go,” she had said through clenched teeth, “I swear to Merlin I will call Hermione, Ron, and Higgs and tell them everything. Every panic attack. Every moment you’ve collapsed behind closed doors. And then I’ll tell Logan.”
Harry had blinked. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
So now he was here.
Waiting in a softly lit office that smelled like rosemary and calming charms. His chair was too comfortable. The room was too quiet.
The Mind Healer entered—a woman in her forties, calm eyes, wand tucked neatly into a loop at her belt. She didn’t smile too broadly, which he appreciated.
“Healer Marlowe Tamsin,” she said gently. “You must be... Mr. Blackwell.”
He nodded once. “We’ll keep it that way.”
She took a seat across from him and conjured a steaming cup of something herbal between them.
“I’ve already read the file,” she said. “Or what little your wife provided. I understand this meeting is off the record?”
Harry pulled a parchment from his coat. “I need you to sign this.”
She blinked but didn’t look offended. She took it, scanned it—an airtight Non-Disclosure Agreement that would prevent her from disclosing his presence, condition, or statements to anyone, even under magical coercion.
After a beat, she signed. “You’re not the first high-profile wizard to request this. And I doubt you’ll be the last.”
Harry sat back. “Good.”
There was a long silence.
“Would you like to begin?”
Harry hesitated. Then:
“I don’t want you to ask me about my childhood.”
“I wasn’t going to,” she said simply.
“I don’t want you to talk about Voldemort either.”
“Understood.”
He stared at the wall behind her for a long time.
“I’m having panic attacks.”
She nodded.
“They’re bad.”
“How often?”
“Every day.”
“Severity?”
He laughed bitterly. “I passed out in a storage room on Level Seven on Monday. No one noticed. That should tell you everything.”
She didn’t react. Just wrote a single word on her parchment.
“I’m not here for help,” he added quickly. “I don’t have time for help. I’m here because my wife told me to show up or she’d expose me to half the wizarding world.”
“Sounds like she loves you,” Marlowe said, without sarcasm.
Harry looked down at his hands. “She’s the reason I’m still functioning.”
They sat in silence for a while. No rush. No pressure.
Marlowe finally spoke, voice low. “You don’t need to break. Not to be taken seriously. But you do need to breathe. And right now, Harry… you’re not.”
His throat tightened. He didn’t argue.
“I can give you calming draughts. Not for suppression, but regulation. We can set up brief mental anchoring sessions each morning. No one has to know. But you do.”
He hesitated. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll see you again tomorrow.”
“I didn’t—”
“You will,” she said, and this time she did smile. “Because you’re not just Harry Potter. You’re someone who has more left to lose.”
He stood. Nodded.
And when he stepped out of that room, he breathed—not deeply. Not freely.
But he breathed.
***
The fire crackled low in the hearth of the war room. Maps were spread across the table, magical diagrams half-illuminated by hovering orbs of light. Four days left. Four days until the ICW hearing.
Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes dark with focus. He’d just come from another session with Tamsin, and for the first time in days, the fog in his head had begun to lift.
“We’ve been going about this backwards,” he said.
Hermione looked up from her notes. Logan arched a brow. Higgs didn’t even blink.
Harry continued. “We keep trying to prove Grimm is leading the Circle of Flame. But Grimm’s clean. He’s covered every trail. Even the Veil explosion isn’t enough. There’s no direct line from him to the cult.”
“And?” Logan said, flipping his quill between his fingers.
Harry met his eyes. “Then we don’t follow the trail to Grimm. We follow it to the ones who serve him.”
That got everyone’s attention.
He stood and moved to the board, tapping it with his wand. Vance’s name hovered there, surrounded by red string lines and magical notes.
“Vance worked at the Ministry. Right under our noses. He framed Albus. Helped with the sabotage. That means he wasn’t acting alone.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “You think there are more?”
“I know there are more,” Harry said. “You don’t infiltrate the Ministry and pull off a resurrection ritual with just one person. Grimm has followers. Cells. Maybe even sleeper agents. If we can find them—and get one to talk—we don’t need to prove Grimm is the leader. We just need enough to raise doubt.”
“Reasonable doubt,” Logan muttered. “That’s all we need to delay or derail the ICW proceedings. If we can show there’s a broader conspiracy, the council will demand more time before ruling.”
Higgs sat forward now, intrigued. “And if one of those followers confesses on record…”
“We could name Grimm indirectly,” Harry said. “Not as a Dark Lord. Not even as a leader. Just as someone connected. Someone who benefitted. Someone they serve .”
Hermione nodded slowly. “It would change the game.”
Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Problem is, we’ve got four bloody days. Where do you propose we find hidden cultists in four days ?”
Harry’s voice was calm. “We start with everyone who had access to the Veil in the last two years. Everyone who was near the Department of Mysteries. Cross-reference with anyone who signed off on necromantic clearances, magical body permits, or restricted flamework studies. We’ve already got Vance’s signature authorizing Albus’s clearance. Someone helped him cover that.”
Hermione was already pulling files. “I can get access logs from the DoM.”
“I’ll talk to the DMLE,” Higgs added. “Ask around discreetly. See who’s been acting strange.”
Logan tapped his fingers on the table. “And if we find one—how do we get them to flip?”
Harry’s expression darkened. “We make them understand what’s coming if they don’t.”
He looked around the table.
“We find them,” he said. “We flip them. And we buy ourselves the time we need.”
For the first time all week, no one argued.
Hermione was already halfway through conjuring a list from the Ministry’s magical access archives, her quill scribbling across the parchment at record speed.
“The Department of Mysteries doesn’t keep standard logs,” she said, frowning, “but there are magical imprints left behind—wand signatures, enchantment trails. We might be able to isolate ones that shouldn’t have been there.”
“Start with anyone who had clearance revoked, or who used access codes tied to dead employees,” Harry said.
“Grimm’s people might’ve been using ghost credentials,” Logan added, pacing now. “Dead wizards’ files. It’s an old spy trick—keeps the paper trail clean.”
Higgs looked up. “You think these people are still in the Ministry?”
“I think some of them are,” Harry said. “And I think they’re watching us. Waiting.”
The room fell quiet.
Logan broke it. “Fine. Say we get one. A name. Maybe even a confession. What do we do—march them into the ICW hearing and hope they don’t get vaporized before they open their mouth?”
“No,” Harry said. “We give them something they want. Immunity. Safety. Truth serum if needed. But we do it quietly . Behind closed doors. Then we present them after the Council has convened.”
Hermione looked up. “Drop the name mid-hearing. Undercut Grimm’s testimony. Make it public and undeniable.”
“It’s a risk,” Higgs muttered. “We bring a cultist into the courtroom, and it backfires…”
“They don’t testify as a cultist ,” Harry said. “They testify as someone coerced, used, scared. Someone trying to come clean.”
Logan folded his arms. “It’s a bluff unless we find someone. Fast.”
“I’ll find them,” Harry said, firm. “Start with the internal spellcraft logs. Grimm’s cult is obsessed with resurrection magic. If we track the use of necromantic spells—anything related to the Veil, death signatures, body binding rituals—we’ll find someone who slipped up.”
Hermione glanced over her growing list. “Harry… these people might not talk. Even if we find them.”
“They will,” he said, voice low. “Because I won’t be asking nicely.”
He turned back to the board, gaze locked on Vance’s red-threaded name.
“There’s always someone who’s scared enough to flip. Someone who thought they were joining a cause—only to realize they were building a pyre.”
“And what if they believe in Grimm?” Logan asked.
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Then they burn with him.”
No one spoke after that.
The quills resumed their scratching. The fire crackled on. And behind it all, the clock ticked closer to judgment.
Chapter 54: Buried Traces
Chapter Text
The next three days blurred into a haze of frustration and dead ends.
They worked around the clock—Hermione at the Ministry Archives, eyes red-rimmed from hours scanning magical access logs; Higgs quietly leveraging his network inside the DMLE, asking vague questions with pointed undertones; Logan burning through legal correspondences, searching for anything— anything —that linked Grimm to someone, anyone, who could be flipped or even pressured.
Harry didn’t sleep. He barely ate. The only moment he took for himself was the hour he spent each evening with Healer Tamsin. And even then, his thoughts raced.
They built a wall of names—former Department of Mysteries staff, security personnel, archivists, clerks, custodians, even old interns. Vance had to have had help. Someone had covered for him, maybe without knowing who they were working for. But with each new name, they hit the same problem:
Nothing stuck.
No ties to necromancy. No odd disappearances. No unexplainable promotions. Just normal people with clean records and quiet lives.
Even the few who had slight irregularities—late night access logs, misfiled reports—turned out to be mundane. One had been covering for a colleague with a sick child. Another was sneaking into the archives for a forbidden romance. Another was just a kleptomaniac with a taste for magically enhanced parchment.
Grimm had left no trail.
Each meeting in the war room became more strained. Files piled higher. The map of suspects turned into a web of crossed-out names. Leads that had once sparked hope now lay cold on the table.
On the third night, rain lashed against the Ministry windows as Harry stared at a glowing list of names. He rubbed his forehead, eyes burning. A blank space on the board seemed to mock him.
“This is impossible,” Logan said at last, slamming a file shut. “Either Grimm’s using people we haven’t thought to look at, or he’s not using people at all. Could be enchanted constructs. Could be Inferi doing the dirty work.”
“No,” Hermione said tiredly. “The surveillance charms Vance bypassed… they required human intelligence. Real human approval.”
“Then where the hell are they?” Logan snapped. “Where do you hide a cult inside the most watched institution in Europe and leave no trace ?”
No one answered.
Higgs stood near the window, arms folded. “I’ve asked every contact I trust. Even the dodgy ones. They all say the same thing: Grimm’s clean. Or they’re too scared to talk.”
Hermione leaned back, defeated. “He’s not clean. He’s just better than we thought.”
Harry said nothing.
He stared at the blank space on the wall again. The one name he hadn’t written there. The one lead he hadn’t dared to follow. Not yet.
Because it wasn’t a paper trail.
It was a phoenix.
His hand trembled slightly, just for a moment.
“Harry?” Hermione asked softly.
He blinked, looked at her.
“We’re running out of time,” she said gently.
He nodded once. But in his mind, something had already shifted.
Grimm had hidden his followers. Or they had hidden themselves .
And maybe—just maybe—they weren’t in the Ministry at all.
They were somewhere else.
Watching. Waiting. Wearing the faces of people they trusted.
And he was starting to think…
Maybe he’d already spoken to one.
In the middle of the chaos, therapy was the only thing holding him together.
Each evening, no matter how bad the day had gone—no matter how many dead ends, arguments, or sleepless hours stacked behind him—Harry found himself in the quiet, low-lit room across from Healer Tamsin. And for reasons he still didn’t fully understand, he kept going back.
It was the only place he didn’t feel like he had to wear the armor.
Tamsin never pressed too hard, never coddled him either. She asked questions that were surgical—precise, piercing—but never cruel. She didn’t treat him like a symbol, or a war hero, or a man slowly drowning under the weight of the wizarding world’s expectations.
She treated him like a person. A man with scars. With failures. With grief that had never quite healed.
He told her things he hadn’t told Ginny. Not because he didn’t trust Ginny—but because saying them aloud to her would make them real. Would make the guilt harder to bear.
But here, in this room, with the NDA floating silently on her shelf, Harry could speak freely. And he did.
About the war.
About Dumbledore.
About how sometimes he wished someone else had been chosen instead of him, just so his children wouldn’t have to carry his shadow.
He didn’t cry, not again. But he came close. And that, in itself, was something.
And slowly, quietly, something inside him began to shift.
The panic attacks didn’t disappear overnight—but they came less often. When they did, they didn’t consume him like before. He started to notice the signs earlier—the shortness of breath, the racing thoughts—and he used the techniques Tamsin had taught him: anchoring, breathwork, grounding spells. Little rituals. Things that worked.
Ginny noticed the difference before he said a word.
“You’re standing straighter,” she said one morning, brushing her fingers along his shoulder. “Breathing easier.”
He hadn’t realized until she said it. But she was right.
In the war room, he was more focused. Sharper. His voice steadier in strategy meetings. His decisions clearer. When Logan sniped at him, he no longer snapped—just gave him a look that shut him down in two seconds flat.
Higgs even grumbled something like, “You’re less annoying lately, Potter.”
Harry just smirked.
But beneath it all, he knew the real reason he could stand taller.
Because for the first time in a long time, someone had helped him carry the weight.
And though he would never say it out loud—
He was grateful to Healer Tamsin.
***
Albus hadn’t moved in, not officially.
There were no signed leases or drawn-up plans. No big discussion about toothbrushes or drawers or where things belonged. But somehow, Emma’s flat had become his compass point—the place he ended up when the world felt too sharp.
His wand stayed tucked in a teacup by the sink.
His spare cloak hung crooked on the back of her door.
A half-read book on obscure Veil theory sat beside her potted plant, bookmarked with an old chocolate frog card she teased him for using.
He didn’t even remember when he’d started sleeping there more often than not. It just happened. Quietly, like everything with Emma did.
He’d never imagined himself doing domestic things. Not really.
Growing up, he thought love was this intense, sweeping thing full of heat and risk. Drama and fire. But with Emma, it was soft. Muted. Like a spell whispered under breath.
He’d find himself standing at her kitchen counter on a Saturday morning, wearing mismatched socks, frying eggs badly while the Daily Prophet floated beside him. He could never get the yolks right. Emma ate them anyway, every time, without complaint—just a quiet smile and a kiss on the temple.
Sometimes she came home from late shifts, tired and cold, and he’d already have run a warming charm over the blanket, set her slippers by the sofa, and brewed tea—still awful, but getting better.
He’d never done this for anyone. Hell, he didn’t think he could .
He'd lived most of his life in compartments: family on one side, trauma on the other, guilt tucked into the corners. He was always in control. Always coiled too tight.
But Emma would walk into the room and hand him a chipped mug and suddenly the ache in his chest would ease. She never asked him to be anything other than what he was. She didn’t push. She just made space —and somehow, that was worse and better than being pursued.
There were moments that startled him:
Folding her laundry.
Finding her sock inside his shoe.
Getting irritated when she left and empty mug on top of the island again.
Little things. Mundane. Ridiculous. But they felt like magic he didn’t understand.
One night, he watched her brush her teeth in his oversized jumper, her hair a mess, and felt something sharp and real hit his ribs. Not lust. Not infatuation. Just… permanence.
He didn't say it out loud.
He wouldn’t dare.
But in his head, he thought: If this is what home feels like… I’ve never had one before.
And she looked over at him in the mirror—foam on her lip, one eyebrow raised—and said, “You’re staring.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”
She smiled.
And he stayed.
***
The window beside James’s bed overlooked the St Mungo’s courtyard. Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but the clouds outside were pale and heavy with the promise of it. He watched a pair of interns walk by below, their cloaks billowing as they talked and laughed, heads bent close together against the wind.
Healers said he’d be discharged before Christmas. Two weeks, maybe less.
The words had landed like a weight, not a gift.
Everyone around him had reacted with hope—Ginny had cried when she heard. Lily had sent a letter full of terrible jokes and drawings of the three of them in Christmas jumpers. Even Harry had looked relieved, his tired eyes softening just a little, voice cracking when he said, “You’re coming home, James.”
But James didn’t feel relieved.
He didn’t feel anything .
His spine still ached with phantom pain, even as the healers said the nerves were stabilizing. He still had to use a cane to walk more than a few steps. His vision in his right eye remained blurred, and though they said it would recover, he could already feel it: the future narrowing.
He couldn’t say it aloud, not to them. Not to his family who had been through so much already.
But he knew what this meant.
The Auror Office wasn’t going to take him back—not really. Oh, they’d give him a badge, maybe even a standing ovation. They’d smile and call him a miracle , a hero , a fighter .
And then they’d put him on desk duty for the rest of his life .
Paperwork. Case reviews. Committee notes. A quiet office in the basement, with a plaque that said James Sirius Potter, Field Status: Inactive.
They’d call it caution .
They’d mean liability .
And worse than that, they’d be right .
He knew his body couldn’t chase criminals down alleyways anymore. Couldn’t sprint through fire or vault a wall or duel two criminals at once. He’d always been fast. Fearless. The one they sent in first.
Now he had to lean on a bloody cane to reach the bloody bathroom.
His hands clenched the sheets. He let out a slow breath.
Grimm was out there—doing gods knew what, getting away with everything , and Harry was fighting him, Hermione was fighting him, even Albus was back in it now. But James? He was in a quiet hospital room, watching the world move on without him.
And it would. Move on. Leave him behind.
He didn’t blame anyone. Not his dad, not Albus. Not even the healers.
But there was a hollow, gnawing voice inside that whispered:
You’re done.
He tried not to listen.
He smiled when visitors came. Joked with the nurses. Laughed with Lily on her letters and teased Scorpius for the name ideas he’d sent for the baby. He even said he might come home in time to put the tree up himself this year.
But at night, when the lights dimmed and the pain came crawling back through his bones, he stared out the window and wondered—
What now?
What was left, when the job he loved was gone?
When the fire in his chest had nowhere to go?
He wasn’t angry. Not really.
He was just… lost.
And no one could see it. Because James Sirius Potter, golden boy , oldest son , reliable and brave and steady , never showed when he was breaking.
He didn’t know how.
James lay awake long after the healers had done their last round, long after the lights had dimmed in the hallway. The enchanted lantern beside his bed flickered gently, casting soft shadows across the white walls and the corner chair where Ginny had fallen asleep more times than he could count.
He stared at the ceiling, arms folded across his chest, and tried not to think.
But the future kept creeping in.
He imagined getting released. Coming home.
At first, there’d be joy. Balloons, maybe. A cake Lily would try to bake. Dad might even get off work early to set the wards. The house would be warm, filled with people pretending everything was normal.
And then… the quiet would settle in.
What would he do ?
The Auror Office was gone. Maybe not officially—maybe they’d try to find something noble to call it, like reassignment or strategic repositioning . But he knew what it meant.
He’d never be sent into the field again. He wouldn’t run after dark wizards. Wouldn’t flash his badge in the name of justice. Wouldn’t do the thing that made him feel alive .
And what other job would want him?
Who hires a half-blind, partially disabled wizard whose name opens doors but whose body can’t walk through them anymore?
Not Gringotts. Not the DMLE. Not even the Department of Magical Games—he couldn’t so much hold a glass these days without his hands trembling. There’d be offers, sure. Politely made. Carefully phrased. Would you consider a public-facing ambassador role? Maybe a speaking engagement? A charity program?
He could see them now—smiling with too many teeth, offering him roles that meant nothing , calling it inspirational , using him as a name on a banner while quietly hoping he wouldn’t collapse during the event.
Even if he found something steady, he’d always be that guy.
The broken Auror.
The pity story.
The one who almost died.
And girls—what girl would want him now?
He imagined it. Awkward dates. The way their eyes would flick to his cane, to the jagged scar that ran down his left arm. The way they'd smile too much or too little, not knowing whether to ask about the accident or pretend they hadn't read about it in The Prophet.
He could still flirt, still make them laugh—but eventually the charm would wear thin. Eventually they’d find someone easier. Someone whole.
And even if he did settle down, somehow , even if someone loved him—what then?
He wouldn’t be the kind of dad his own had been. He wouldn’t be chasing his kids through the garden or lifting them onto his shoulders. He wouldn’t be able to train them on a broom or run into the waves at beach. He’d watch from the porch, cane in hand, smiling like it didn’t hurt.
He’d be the one who said “Be careful” too often. The one who needed help on the stairs. The one his children whispered about when they thought he couldn’t hear.
“Dad used to be an Auror, you know?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Before the fire.”
He rubbed his eyes.
Maybe his friends would still care.
Maybe Albus would keep coming around.
Maybe Lily would still tease him and bring him sweets.
But he knew the way people looked at injury.
He’d seen it himself—after duels gone wrong, after raids turned messy. That careful, uncertain look. That shifting of weight. That pause before asking if someone was okay .
They meant well. But it still carved a space between you and the rest of the world.
He would never be one of them again.
Not really.
And worst of all, he didn’t want to make them uncomfortable. Didn’t want to burden them with his bitterness. So he’d laugh, and smile, and be fine . He’d say he was grateful . He’d lie.
Because what else could he do?
The room was quiet.
The wind howled faintly outside.
And James lay in his bed, staring at a ceiling that had no answers, imagining a life that looked more like a cage the closer he got to it.
The thought came quietly at first, almost like a whisper—one he could pretend hadn’t really formed. But once it arrived, it stayed.
Maybe it would’ve been better if I hadn’t made it out.
James stared at the ceiling of his hospital room, where soft magical lights pulsed gently to mimic the stars. It was late, deep night, the kind of hour where shadows stretched longer than they should and thoughts felt heavier than they ought to.
He hated himself for thinking it. But he couldn’t un-think it.
If he had died in the explosion… it would have been awful, yes. His parents would have been shattered. Lily. Albus. Ginny. All of them. He knew that. He knew the grief would’ve gutted them. They would have wept. They would have mourned. He even imagined the funeral: the Auror honor guard, the flags, the damn press.
He’d be another Potter lost too soon.
But then…
Then it would be over.
There wouldn’t be this—this endless limbo where everyone was waiting to see what he’d become now. This strange, suffocating kindness that surrounded him like cotton wool, where no one ever asked too much, never brought up the war room, never mentioned Grimm in front of him. They were all pretending he wasn’t broken. That this— this —was a recovery.
He hated it.
At least if he’d died, there wouldn’t be this burden—this pressure to get better , to heal fast enough, to return to something that no longer existed.
At least if he’d died, his family wouldn’t have to watch him fade by inches.
They wouldn’t have to lie and say You’re still the same when he knew he wasn’t.
They wouldn’t spend the rest of their lives worrying over him.
No more anxious glances when he picked up a cane.
No more silent panic when he took the stairs too slowly.
No awkward pauses when someone asked what he did now.
He wouldn’t be this—
This half-saved version of himself, too injured to be useful, too alive to be mourned.
James turned his face toward the wall, throat tight.
He could still hear the explosion sometimes. In his dreams. In quiet rooms. In the buzz of healing charms when the hospital ward was silent. He remembered the heat, the roar, the way time folded into itself. He remembered thinking— this is it.
And he hadn’t been afraid.
Not then.
In those final seconds, he remembered feeling clarity . Peace, even. Like all the pressure, all the noise of legacy and duty and fear, had finally fallen away.
And then…
Nothing.
And then pain.
And now, this.
This in-between.
He wasn’t brave enough to say it out loud—he never would be.
Not to his dad, who already carried too much.
Not to Albus, who had finally started standing again.
Not to Dora, who still looked up to him like he was a knight from one of her stories.
So he smiled.
He joked.
He played the part.
But deep down, under the weight of bed sheets and bone-deep ache, the truth remained:
He didn’t know if surviving had been the better ending.
He wasn’t sure he deserved this second chance.
And he didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do with it.
The cane leaned silently against the bedside table, its varnished wood gleaming faintly in the soft light of the ward.
It wasn’t just any cane—it was custom made. Expensive. Crafted from a rare, rich dark oak with runes etched delicately along the shaft in silver. The grip was polished dragon hide, curved to fit his palm perfectly, the kind of small detail meant to say this was made for you. Meant to say you are worth this.
Harry had it commissioned after James regained consciousness. Hadn’t said a word about it. Just showed up one day—pale, quiet, eyes too tired for someone his age—and handed it over like it was nothing.
"Figured you'd want something a little less… clinical than the hospital ones," he'd said.
James had held it, turned it over in his hands, and muttered a quiet thanks. That had been the end of the conversation.
He hadn’t said what he was really thinking.
That it felt like a gift wrapped in mourning.
A farewell to the life he used to have.
He looked at the cane now, and it was beautiful, undeniably. But it didn’t feel like his. It felt like it belonged to someone older, someone steadier, someone resigned. Someone who needed it.
And that was the part he hated most.
Because he did need it.
He needed it to walk to the window. To get to the bathroom without doubling over. He needed it because his left leg still seized up without warning, because stairs were a negotiation, because he couldn’t trust his own bloody spine not to betray him.
He remembered being seventeen, sprinting across the Auror training grounds, wand drawn, heart hammering with joy. He remembered vaulting over barrels, disarming three targets in a single move, high-fiving his friends as instructors whistled in surprise.
He remembered pride. His body had been his weapon.
And now…
Now, that weapon had splintered.
The cane was a kindness, sure. A thoughtful gesture. But it also screamed You’re not getting better, James. This is the new normal.
And he didn’t want it.
He didn’t want to carry something that reminded him, with every step, that the Veil had taken something permanent from him. That no matter how well the healers stitched nerves back together, or how often they claimed he was progressing remarkably, this cane was the thing he would always carry.
He’d tried not using it, once. The second night he was allowed to walk the corridor.
Ten steps in, he collapsed against the wall, heart pounding from sheer pain, from the shame of hearing the Healer’s footsteps racing toward him.
He used the cane after that.
Because he didn’t have a choice.
But sometimes, at night, he wanted to throw it across the room. Wanted to hear it crack. Wanted to see the silver runes splinter and bleed into the polished floor. Wanted to break it the way his life had broken. Loudly. Messily.
He never did.
Instead, he sat there, looking at it, hands cold, jaw clenched.
It wasn’t just a walking aid. It was a symbol.
Of what had been lost.
Of what would never return.
Of who he’d once been—and who he might never be again.
He reached for it slowly, fingers brushing over the etched runes. Each one pulsed faintly under his skin—spells for balance, stability, pain relief. A reminder that magic could ease the damage, but never erase it.
He pulled it into his lap, held it across his knees like a sword he didn’t want.
“Stupid thing,” he muttered, even as he gripped it tighter.
And in the dim silence of the hospital room, James Potter sat with the cane across his knees and the echo of his former life ringing in his ears, trying to pretend it didn’t feel like grief.
The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of a magical clock charmed to keep perfect time, no matter the enchantments in the ward. James sat there for a long moment, the cane across his lap like dead weight, heavy in all the wrong places.
The thought came again—quiet, but steady.
I should be stronger by now.
He set his jaw.
With one breath, he pushed the cane aside.
It landed gently on the sheets, almost like it was reluctant to let go.
James gripped the edge of the mattress, steadying himself. Every muscle in his abdomen tightened as he eased himself upright. His bare feet hit the cold tile with a thud, knees trembling, spine aching.
He rose to his full height slowly, painfully, as if remembering how to be vertical.
His legs shook. The left one almost buckled, and his right hip spasmed sharply, a dull pain that shot down through the back of his thigh. He gasped softly through his teeth, tightening his grip on the bedframe.
No cane. Just stand.
His arms trembled from the effort.
For a second, he did it—he was standing. No supports. No pitying Healer watching from the doorway. Just him and the will not to be this.
Then he tried to take a step.
His leg gave way before his foot fully lifted. He barely caught himself on the nightstand, the edge jamming into his ribs.
He stood there, chest heaving, shame crawling up the back of his throat.
Slowly, without looking at the bed, he reached behind him and grabbed the cane again.
His fingers curled around the grip like it belonged there.
Like he belonged with it.
The soft tap of wood against floor followed him as he moved forward, measured and slow, breath hissing through his nose. Three steps. Four. The muscles in his lower back burned. He didn’t stop.
Across from his bed stood a tall mirror framed in brass—standard-issue St Mungo’s, enchanted to shimmer faintly with healing diagnostics, though he’d asked them to mute the colors weeks ago. He didn’t need a glowing red outline to remind him of what was broken.
He stopped in front of it, one hand gripping the cane, the other clutched in a tight fist at his side.
And there he was.
James Sirius Potter.
Still tall, still broad-shouldered.
But thinner now, hollower. A long scar crept up from his collarbone, disappearing beneath his loose hospital shirt. His right eye—once his sharper one—still lagged slightly, a strange shimmer to the iris that hadn’t yet faded. The line of his spine pulled just off center, subtle but there.
He looked older. Not just tired—aged.
And worst of all, he looked fragile.
The boy who had once grinned at danger, who had stood with reckless courage in battle, who had been called unstoppable… was now standing on shaking legs, leaning on polished oak to stay upright.
James looked at his reflection for a long time.
Then, under his breath, voice cracking just slightly, he said:
“…What the hell happened to you?”
The mirror didn’t answer.
It just reflected the truth.
James stood there, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, the cane steady beneath his right hand. The mirror offered no mercy—just a reflection stripped of illusion. No wand, no uniform, no battle-ready stance. Just him.
He didn’t look away.
Not this time.
He let his eyes trace the changes, one by one.
His shoulders—still broad, still familiar—had lost their ease. They were tense now, like he was always bracing for something. His left side dipped slightly lower than the right, a subtle tilt in posture that would’ve driven his old Auror trainers mad. A result of the spinal trauma, they’d said. Nerve damage and muscle atrophy. He hadn’t even noticed until he saw it reflected back at him.
He rolled his left shoulder slowly. It crackled like brittle parchment.
His chest, once strong from years of dueling and sprinting and rough training, looked leaner now. Not fit—worn. Like strength had been burned out of him and not yet returned. The scar running from beneath his collarbone curved downward, angry and red, a souvenir from the shrapnel that nearly severed a rib.
He ran a finger over it. The skin was raised and oddly smooth.
Further down, his stomach bore faint bruising from weeks of potions and magical injections. His hips had thinned. His legs—his legs were the worst.
The left one was thinner than the right, visibly so. He could see where the muscle had wasted. Where the healers had worked their spells again and again, trying to rebuild what had been shattered. His calf twitched as he stared, as if in protest. It still trembled when he stood too long.
Even his feet looked unfamiliar. Paler. Slightly discolored from the long weeks of immobility.
He shifted his weight to stand straighter—and gasped as pain lanced down his spine again. He gripped the cane tighter.
His face was the last thing he studied.
The familiar James Potter smirk—cocky, quick, unbothered—was nowhere to be seen. His cheekbones looked sharper, not out of health but from weight loss. His jawline was shadowed, unshaven. There were faint circles under his eyes, not quite purple, but sunken enough to make him look older than twenty-one.
His lips were pressed into a thin, unreadable line.
And his eyes—
That was the hardest part.
They were still brown. Still his. But duller now. Like the fire behind them had been dimmed, flickering in a draught he couldn’t stop. The left one remained clouded, vision still partially blurred—a strange shimmer curling around the edges. The healers said it would heal fully.
They always said that.
James leaned in closer.
For a second, he tried to see the boy he had once been—the fresh-faced Auror recruit, the one who charged into danger without thinking, who laughed too loudly, loved too recklessly. The boy who believed he was invincible.
But all he saw was a man who had survived something he might never recover from.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t curse. Didn’t cry.
He just stared at his reflection and, for the first time in weeks, allowed himself to grieve—not the pain, not the explosion—but the loss of the version of himself who had never known this kind of fragility.
James turned away from the mirror, the cane clicking softly against the tile as he made his way back toward the bed. His legs ached—more than he let on—but he didn’t sit down right away. He hovered, breath shallow, spine tight, trying to shake the image of himself that the mirror had just thrown back at him.
He reached for the bedside table.
And there it was.
Still sitting exactly where the nurse had left it two days ago.
An envelope. Thick. Crisp. Official parchment bearing the deep red wax seal of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His name— James Sirius Potter —inked in precise handwriting across the front.
The Auror Office.
He stared at it, unmoving.
He didn’t touch it. Didn’t even lift it.
Just the sight of that seal made his stomach twist into knots.
The hope of it. The dread of it.
He imagined what could be inside.
A reassignment letter.
An apology for the explosion.
A decision. Field status: retired.
A plaque. A desk. A permanent seat in the Monitoring Division.
Or worse—worse than all of it—
A carefully worded statement saying nothing at all. That they were still evaluating . That they would keep him updated . That they believed in his recovery .
He couldn’t take that.
He couldn’t take any of it.
James reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the envelope.
He wanted to rip it open. To know. To stop letting his imagination pull him apart.
But his hand withdrew.
Because knowing meant finality.
Knowing meant facing the truth in black ink—what the Ministry thought he was still capable of. Or not.
And right now, in this quiet moment, James needed the possibility—however faint—that maybe, just maybe, they were still waiting for him. That he hadn’t already been filed away as a lost cause.
He sat down slowly, wincing as his spine crackled and adjusted.
The envelope stayed untouched on the table.
He looked at it, jaw tight, heart hammering. He could hear the healer’s shoes in the corridor. Hear someone laughing a floor below.
But in his room, there was silence. Heavy and waiting.
James leaned back against the pillows and turned his face toward the window.
The envelope remained.
Unopened.
Like a door he couldn’t yet walk through.
He closed his eyes, the cane resting against his thigh like a secret.
And for the first time all day, he let himself whisper—quiet, barely audible:
“I’m not ready.”
***
The next morning, the hospital room was dim with winter light—gray and pale, the kind that seeps into your skin and makes everything feel still.
James sat on the edge of the bed, the letter in his lap.
He had woken before dawn, unable to sleep. The cane rested nearby, and the room smelled faintly of potions and peppermint salve. For a long time, he didn’t move—just stared down at the envelope.
He had decided sometime between midnight and now. Slowly. Quietly.
No more avoiding it.
His fingers slipped under the flap, and he broke the seal with a sharp crack. The wax crumbled under his thumb, the Auror Office emblem folding in on itself like an old scar.
The parchment inside was thick and smooth. Too official. The kind used for promotions, reprimands, terminations. It smelled like ink and distance.
He unfolded it.
To Auror James Sirius Potter,
We extend our sincere support during your recovery following the incident at the Department of Mysteries.
Your service has been invaluable, and your bravery is recognized across the Department.
Effective immediately, you are granted extended medical leave, with full benefits and access to St Mungo’s rehabilitation ward as needed.
Upon your formal request to return to duty, you will be placed on non-field reassignment for a minimum of six months, pending medical evaluations and Department approval.
We understand this may be a difficult period of transition. Please know that the Department values your contributions and hopes for your full recovery.
Sincerely,
Head of Human Resources
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
That was it.
James read it twice.
Then again.
No signature from a commanding officer. No mention of returning to his unit. No comments from Hodges. No mention of the Crater Squad, his team, the one he’d built with his own hands. Just HR— human resources.
He knew what it meant.
It was a polite pause. A quiet step away from him. The kind of letter they sent to heroes they didn’t want to fire, but didn’t want back in the field either. They weren’t pushing him out—but they weren’t pulling him back in, either.
Six months of reassignment. Maybe longer.
He could already imagine the desk. The new office with a charmed window and a teapot. Review work. Cold case files. Supervision of junior reports.
Paper instead of danger. Quills instead of wands.
They were trying to be kind. He could see it between the lines.
But James knew the truth.
They didn’t think he could do it anymore. And maybe… they were right.
He let the letter fall into his lap.
The silence in the room felt colder now.
Not angry. Not dramatic. Just final.
James leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
There was no more pretending.
The job— the life —he had lived before the explosion… it was gone.
No matter how tightly he held onto the cane, no matter how hard he pushed himself in therapy, he wasn’t going back to that James. Not now. Maybe not ever.
He felt the loss settle in his chest like concrete. Heavy. Unmoving.
It wasn’t death.
But it was an ending.
And he didn’t know yet what kind of beginning would come next.
***
The room was too quiet. Too clean.
James sat at the edge of the bed, hunched slightly forward, elbows digging into his knees. He wore a navy jumper that Ginny had brought from home—one that still smelled faintly like the cedar chest it had come from. The sleeves were too long. The collar sat awkwardly on his thinner frame.
He had dressed himself that morning. Slowly. Stiffly. Every motion a reminder of how different his body had become. He hadn’t met his own reflection in the mirror. Hadn’t wanted to.
Now he just sat there. Motionless. Hollowed.
His cane leaned against the wall nearby, within reach. He hadn’t touched it. Not yet. Like if he just waited long enough, he might find another way out of the room. One that didn’t involve leaning on wood and swallowing pride.
Harry stood a few feet away, near the foot of the bed, talking gently.
Trying.
He hadn’t stopped talking since he walked in.
“…Lily’s coming home from Hogwarts this weekend. She made this massive banner for you, it says ‘James is Back!’ in glitter. The owl was still wearing it when it arrived,” Harry said with a breathy laugh. “It’s ridiculous. She says it’s enchanted, but—well, it keeps yelling at Ginny to ‘Hang Me Up Already!’ so I think she messed something up with the spell…”
No reaction.
James’s eyes were fixed on the same tile in front of his feet. A square near the leg of the bed. Faded. Chipped at one corner.
Harry’s smile faltered.
He tried again.
“Teddy stopped by. He—he left you some new books. Muggle ones. Thought you’d want something that didn’t smell like antiseptic and spell damage. Oh, and Dora—she’s been asking when she gets to race you again. We told her to wait a few weeks, but you know her—she’s stubborn. Says you promised.”
Nothing.
James didn’t even blink.
His jaw was set. His hands clenched loosely in his lap, his thumb rubbing at a worn callus on his palm. He looked like he’d been carved out of stone—still and heavy and silent.
Finally, Harry sighed and stepped forward.
He lowered himself onto the stool in front of his son, close enough now to see the way James’s gaze was slightly unfocused. Not blank, just… distant. Somewhere far from this ward, from this day.
“James,” Harry said quietly.
Still nothing.
“Can you look at me?”
The silence that followed felt like it stretched a mile wide.
Harry leaned forward on the stool, elbows braced on his knees, voice quiet—gentle in the way only a father’s could be when trying not to break something already cracked.
"James," he said softly. "Please. Talk to me."
For a long moment, James didn’t.
He just stared ahead, shoulders tense, jaw locked, breathing shallow. The kind of silence that wasn't about stubbornness, but fear. The kind that came from knowing the words waiting inside you would hurt more when spoken aloud.
Harry waited.
Didn’t rush him.
Didn’t fill the silence.
And finally—just when Harry was about to speak again—James shifted.
His eyes lifted slightly, not quite meeting Harry’s. His voice, when it came, was low and uneven.
"I want you to be honest with me."
Harry nodded instantly. “Of course.”
James looked at him then. Really looked at him. His eyes were dull, rimmed with shadows and sleepless nights. But beneath it, something flickered—raw, exposed.
"I won’t be the same again," James said.
Not as a question.
As truth he already knew.
And he was asking Harry to say it. To confirm it. To say what no one else had dared to.
The silence that followed was heavier than any before.
Harry felt his heart twist, throat tighten. He didn’t answer right away.
Because lying would have been easier.
But James hadn’t asked for easier. He’d asked for honest.
So finally, Harry nodded—slowly, painfully.
“No,” he said, voice thick. “You won’t.”
James stared at the floor again, shoulders caved in slightly like the words had taken more out of him than he’d expected. But now that he’d said them— I won’t be the same again —they seemed to unstop something inside him. A pressure valve, cracked open.
His voice was quiet. Brittle. Like he was afraid if he raised it, it would all shatter.
“So… what do I do now?”
Harry didn’t speak. He waited. He knew his son wasn’t finished.
James’s hands trembled slightly in his lap. He noticed and quickly stilled them, gripping his knees like anchors.
“I was an Auror. That was… that was everything. I trained for it, I bled for it, I belonged there. And now they’ve stuck me on suspension. Field duty revoked. They didn’t even ask me how I felt—they just assumed I’d never be fit again.”
His voice cracked a little on the word fit.
Harry opened his mouth, but James kept going—building now, words flooding forward like a dam breaking.
“And maybe they’re right. I mean… I can’t even take a shower without falling. I can barely climb a bloody stair. They gave me a cane that cost more than my wand and called it a miracle, and everyone acts like that’s supposed to make it okay.”
He scoffed, bitter and small.
“People say I’m lucky. Lucky to be alive. Lucky the fire didn’t kill me. But I don’t feel lucky, Dad. I feel useless. I feel like I’m going home to a life I don’t fit into anymore. What the hell am I supposed to do, sit in my old room while everyone else risks their lives to stop Grimm?”
Harry’s face tensed at the name but didn’t interrupt.
James shook his head, voice dropping again.
“And even if I did get better… who’s going to want me? What kind of job is there for a half-broken Auror who can’t run, can’t duel, can’t even stand for more than twenty minutes? Who’s going to hire me? What woman’s going to want a guy who can’t even pick up a child, let alone chase one around the garden like you used to?”
He paused then. A breath too sharp, like he was trying to swallow something bigger than his chest could hold.
“I see how people look at me already,” he whispered. “In the halls. In the lifts. Even family. Everyone’s careful. Like I might fall apart if they breathe too hard near me.”
Harry didn’t deny it.
James rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He wasn’t crying—yet—but he was close. The tears hovered like mist behind his words, weighing them down.
“I don’t know how to be this person,” he said. “I don’t even know who this person is. I spent my whole life becoming someone I could be proud of. And now… it’s all gone. Everything I worked for. My future’s just… it’s in shambles.”
His voice cracked on that word.
“Everything I dreamed of feels like it died in that explosion. And I didn’t. And I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a punishment.”
The room was so quiet that even the ticking of the wall clock felt too loud.
Harry reached forward slowly and rested a hand on James’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to have all the answers now,” he said gently. “You don’t have to fix everything in a day. And you don’t have to be who you were.”
James looked at him, jaw tight, trying not to let his face crumple.
Harry’s voice stayed steady.
“You can grieve the life you lost. You should. That life mattered. But there’s still life ahead of you, James. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but there is. And I’ll be here while you figure out what it looks like. Every step.”
James’s eyes stayed on the window, the morning light pooling at the edge of the glass like something fragile. It was the first sunlight he’d seen in days that didn’t burn. But it didn’t warm him either.
His voice, when he spoke again, was so soft Harry almost missed it.
“I wished I’d died.”
The words didn’t land like a scream or a punch.
They landed like a quiet funeral.
A whispered surrender.
Harry froze. His breath caught halfway in his throat.
He wasn’t sure he’d heard him right—but he had.
He had .
James didn’t look at him.
He just kept speaking, low and steady, like each word cost him something.
“Not at first. At first I was just confused. Then scared. Then angry. But after the third night—after I fell trying to get to the loo on my own, and the nurse had to help me back into bed like I was a toddler—I started thinking… maybe it would’ve been better. If I hadn’t made it out.”
Harry’s hand, still on his shoulder, flinched. He hadn’t meant to let it show, but it did. His fingers tightened slightly—then relaxed.
James noticed.
“I’m sorry,” he added quickly, almost automatically. “I know that’s a horrible thing to say.”
But Harry shook his head. His voice cracked.
“No. No—don’t apologize for what you feel.”
He had to swallow before he could keep going.
He wasn’t ready.
Not for this.
But James was.
“I just thought… at least if I’d died, people would remember me at my best. I wouldn’t be this thing people pity. This burden. Dora wouldn’t have to pretend I’m still fun. You and Mum wouldn’t have to visit me in this place and pretend like I’m still strong.”
Harry stepped in front of him now, carefully, quietly, his eyes shining.
“You listen to me,” he said, voice hoarse but firm. “You are not a burden. You are not broken. You are my son. You are still here. And I would rather have you hurting and angry and healing than buried beneath a bloody headstone.”
James blinked, his throat working, face twisted like he was trying not to let go—but it was already happening.
Harry reached forward, his voice trembling.
“I’m so damn proud of you. For surviving. For standing. For still being here, even when it’s hell. You have no idea how much strength that takes.”
James’s face broke then. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly—his mouth trembling, eyes full, a single tear sliding down his cheek.
Harry reached out and pulled him into a hug.
And James didn’t resist.
He sank into his father’s arms like someone who’d been underwater too long and had finally, finally surfaced.
For the first time in weeks, he let someone carry the weight.
***
Albus sat in the dim hush of the Records Room, shoulders hunched, the sleeves of his robes pushed up, eyes bloodshot from hours of scanning documents by wandlight. The silence around him wasn’t peaceful—it was oppressive, like the air itself was growing heavier with every hour he failed.
Stacks of folders and parchments surrounded him, teetering dangerously on either side of his cluttered workspace. His wand, abandoned for the moment, lay across a stack labeled "Unresolved Disappearances – France/Britain Corridor" . He had searched everything. Cross-border transit logs, international Portkey usage, private Apparition traces, Auror call records, St Mungo’s anonymous patients, even accident victim IDs logged after the Veil incident.
Nothing.
Not a single lead on Amélie.
He ran both hands through his hair and leaned back in the chair with a sigh that trembled at the edges. His head ached. His back was stiff. But it was the hollow pit in his chest that truly weighed him down.
She had to be somewhere.
He had even asked Emma to bring him restricted files—ones he couldn’t access even as an Unspeakable without high-level clearance. She hadn’t hesitated.
When she arrived earlier that evening, she said nothing about the shadows under his eyes or the cold tea that had gone untouched beside him.
“I brought what I could,” she said softly, placing a slim set of files on the table. “There’s a few tagged as off-limits even to me. I’ll try again tomorrow.”
He nodded absently. “Thank you.”
Now, hours later, even those files had proven useless. Vague magical anomalies. Misdirected reports. A dozen potential false trails that all led nowhere.
He stood abruptly, knocking over a small pile of scrolls.
His voice cracked the quiet.
“Where the hell are you?”
The words echoed against the stone walls, met by silence.
He dropped back into the chair, elbows on knees, hands gripping his hair.
If Grimm had her…
No. He knew Grimm had something to do with it. The timing. The lack of evidence. The signature— A.D. —that kept appearing in off-the-record files. But he had no proof.
No one else would believe him. Not with his last name. Not after what happened. Not when the world still thought he had something to do with the Veil explosion.
And yet—he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t.
She was carrying James’s child. She was kind. She didn’t deserve to vanish like this.
“Come on,” he muttered, reaching for another folder. “There has to be something. ”
His fingers paused as he opened the next report—another anomaly flagged near the French border. A spell trace with conflicting magical signatures. It was a long shot. Probably another dead end.
But Albus read anyway. Because …if there was any chance she was still out there, he had to keep going.
Albus rubbed his eyes and leaned forward, scanning the parchment with renewed urgency. The report was dated three days after the explosion at the Ministry—a time when all international travel had been under strict ICW oversight. According to the file, a low-level French Auror had flagged a spell signature on the outskirts of Marseille. It had been dismissed as residual Veil interference and filed away without follow-up.
But what caught Albus’s eye was the magical fingerprint: a blend of ancient protective charms layered over Disillusionment and Seclusion spells. The final line made his stomach drop.
"Untraceable magical shielding consistent with Department of Mysteries protocol. Origin: Unknown. Investigation suspended."
“Why would DoM-level magic be used in rural France?” he muttered, grabbing a quill. “Unless someone wanted to make sure no one ever found what they were hiding.”
He flipped the page and found something stranger—there was a name redacted under 'Potential Civilian Contact,' but the initials beside the mark were A.F.
His heart stopped.
Amélie Faure?
“Emma,” he whispered, yanking a parchment and scribbling a note. But before he could send it off, a quiet knock broke the stillness.
She was already there.
Emma stepped in, holding a steaming mug of coffee. “You haven’t gone home.”
“I think I found something,” he said quickly, standing and crossing the room. He handed her the parchment with shaking fingers. “Look. Right there. A.F. — redacted, but the timeline fits. The location. The spells.”
Emma’s brow furrowed as she read. Her hands tightened around the mug.
“This was buried under minor anomalies?” she asked.
“Dismissed as Veil aftershock. But those spell layers—Emma, who the hell uses Department-level concealment spells in the middle of nowhere? And look at the initials.”
Emma looked up, slowly. “You think that’s Amélie.”
“I know it is,” Albus said. “And if someone went through this much trouble to hide her, then she’s alive—and she’s being kept somewhere deliberately. ”
Emma’s voice dropped. “Grimm?”
Albus’s silence was answer enough.
“I need more,” he said. “If I can prove this wasn’t random—if I can find even one more trace—we can bring this to Higgs. Or Dad. Someone who can act on it.”
Emma nodded slowly, but he could see the worry in her eyes. “They’ll call it a conspiracy theory unless you have something concrete.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Albus—”
“I have to find her,” he said, not caring that his voice broke. “She cared for James. She didn’t deserve this. And she might be carrying a child. His child. If I fail her—if we lose both of them—”
Emma gently set down the coffee and took his hand, grounding him. “You won’t.”
He swallowed hard. “I just need more time. And maybe… a little more help.”
Emma gave a faint smile. “You’ve got me. I’ll pull the rest of the suppressed French files from the deep archives. But Albus—promise me you’ll sleep. Even an hour. You’re no good to her like this.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “One hour. Then I’m going through the Marseille records.”
As Emma turned to leave, she paused in the doorway.
“Albus?” she said softly. “If she’s alive… we’ll find her.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared down at the parchment in his hands like it was a lifeline.
Because right now—it was.
***
Amélie stood barefoot on the cool marble floor, one hand resting on the swell of her belly, the other loosely gripping the silk curtain drawn halfway open. The artificial window shimmered before her—charmed to reflect a serene Parisian dusk, glowing gold and lavender, as if she were standing somewhere near Montmartre at the edge of summer. But she wasn’t in Paris. She wasn’t anywhere.
She sighed quietly, her breath fogging the enchanted glass for a second before the charm wiped it clean again. The illusion had been designed to comfort her, but it made her feel lonelier somehow. Because it wasn’t real. None of it was. Not the blooming magnolias. Not the swaying rooftops. Not the sky.
She pressed her palm gently to the side of her bump. The baby kicked, not violently—just a gentle shift, a stretch. Her child. James’s child.
"You're getting stronger," she whispered, more to herself than to the baby. “You're the only real thing in this place.”
There were moments she imagined breaking the illusion, shattering the charmed pane to expose what lay beyond the walls—but she knew there was nothing there. Just cold stone and silence and him. Grimm—no, Elias. No, whoever he really was.
He had been kinder lately. Almost doting. Always asking how she slept. Bringing her books in French. Even making her laugh once or twice. And that was the most frightening part—how good he was at making her forget she was a prisoner.
But today, the illusion wasn't working.
She turned away from the window slowly, walking to the chaise by the fireplace and lowering herself down with practiced care. She rubbed her belly in slow circles, trying to focus her mind. Maybe James had found out she was missing. Maybe help was coming. Maybe...
Her gaze drifted back to the window, to the painted skyline beyond the glass. And for the first time in weeks, she felt a tear fall down her cheek.
"I want to go home," she whispered.
And the window, like everything else in this place, said nothing at all.
She wiped her cheek quickly when she heard the click of the door unlocking—soft, deliberate, the sound of someone who never needed to knock. Grimm entered the room like always: composed, elegant, utterly in control. Today he wore deep forest green robes trimmed in silver, the cut sharp and diplomatic. He looked like he’d just come from a council meeting. Maybe he had.
Amélie didn’t stand. She couldn’t. Not because of her condition, but because of something deeper—her spine stiffened instinctively every time he entered. She turned her head just slightly toward him, offering no smile, no greeting.
Grimm, of course, smiled.
“Amélie,” he said smoothly, walking toward her with his hands behind his back. “You look well today. The color is returning to your face.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting?” she asked quietly.
“It’s meant to be truthful.” He tilted his head. “I have news.”
Her heart skipped. She masked it, barely.
He continued, “James Potter has been discharged from St Mungo’s.”
The words hit like a soft blow to the chest—silent, but deep.
Amélie sat straighter. “He woke up?”
“Several days ago,” Grimm said calmly. “He’s walking again. Slowly. He’s speaking, too. Healing, you could say, though I imagine not all wounds will leave quietly.”
Her fingers curled into the edge of the cushion. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I thought you’d want to know,” he said. “You’ve been anxious. Restless. And you deserve a bit of peace.”
She let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You think this gives me peace?”
“Knowing that he’s alive?” Grimm asked, his voice smooth as silk. “Yes, I do. After all, you carry his child. I would expect even you to feel... relief.”
Her jaw clenched. “What game are you playing?”
“No game,” Grimm said, approaching slowly. “You’ve been good, Amélie. Calm. Cooperative. I see no harm in telling you what’s true.”
She looked up at him then, eyes shining but cold. “Is he looking for me?”
A pause. Not long, but heavy.
Grimm’s expression didn’t falter. “I don’t imagine he’s forgotten you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He knelt beside her chair slowly, folding himself like a gentleman before a fire. “No. It’s not. But I’ll give you one, just this once: James doesn’t know where you are. And he won’t. Not yet.”
“Because of you,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said simply.
The baby kicked again, and Amélie placed a protective hand over her stomach. “He’ll come.”
Grimm smiled. Not cruelly. Almost... with affection.
“I hope he does.”
And with that, he stood, nodded politely, and walked toward the door, his robes whispering across the floor. Before leaving, he glanced over his shoulder.
“You should eat something,” he said. “The baby needs strength.”
Then he left, and the door sealed itself shut again, as if he had never been there at all.
Chapter 55: Proof of Nothing
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The snow hadn’t melted on the rooftops of Geneva. Cold clung to the stones of the city like an old memory. The headquarters of the International Confederation of Wizards loomed over the narrow street—its towers pale against the grey sky, windows casting long shadows over the square below. Inside, the firelight flickered dimly in the high-ceilinged chambers, and the air smelled faintly of ink, old parchment, and judgment.
Harry walked slowly up the steps.
He wasn’t wearing robes that morning—just a long black coat, collar turned up, a threadbare scarf stuffed into the neck. His gloves were missing, hands red from the cold. His wand was holstered beneath his sleeve, but it felt heavier than usual, useless, almost mocking. The day before the trial, and there was still no proof—no document, no witness, no revelation they could hold up and say: this is what he’s done . No one dared speak Grimm’s name in accusation. Not without being crushed.
He stopped outside the chamber door and drew in a breath.
Inside, the office was warm but austere. Thin curtains softened the winter light. Shelves ran from floor to ceiling—treaties, declarations, volumes of law and magical ethics. At the desk sat a tall, stern-faced witch in deep plum robes. High Councilor Alethea Marchand. She was not known for kindness, nor cruelty. Just precision. Her hair was silver, wound into a thick knot at her crown, and her eyes were steady, like a scale measuring weight without judgment—yet.
She looked up as he entered.
“Mr. Potter.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
Her quill hovered for a moment in the air, then settled into the ink pot. She nodded to the chair across from her. “You have ten minutes.”
Harry sat. The room was quiet except for the creak of the chair and the soft tick of a timepiece on the mantle.
“I don’t have a case,” he said finally, voice low. “Not on paper. Not one that will hold in your court tomorrow.”
She said nothing.
“But I’m asking you not to base your ruling solely on that.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “You are asking me to judge without evidence.”
“I’m asking you to listen,” Harry said. “To the things that aren’t written in Grimm’s reports. To the things that don’t appear on parchment. You’ve seen what’s happened in Britain. You’ve seen the Inferi. The Veil ruptured. Magic breaking down in places we never thought it could.”
Her fingers were folded over each other. Her expression remained unreadable.
“You think these are coincidences?” Harry pressed, leaning forward. “You think Grimm just happened to be the one who appeared with answers before the rest of us even knew the questions?”
“You are suggesting conspiracy,” she said, evenly.
“I’m suggesting war. And I don’t think it’s tomorrow or next month. I think it’s already started.”
A silence passed between them. The hearth crackled. Marchand studied him—not just his words, but the lines around his eyes, the weight in his voice. The scar on his forehead, faded but still unmistakable.
He took a breath. “I’ve made mistakes. I won’t deny that. I’ve broken protocol. I’ve acted recklessly at times. But never for gain. Never for power. And I’ve never lied to protect the guilty.”
“You have no proof that Grimm is guilty,” she said.
“I have instincts.” His voice tightened. “I have patterns. I have people disappearing—one of them my own son. I have a Veil that should never have moved. I have an international crisis growing in the shadows while Grimm smiles at the cameras and calls it unity.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Then why come to me? Why not go public, if you believe you’re right?”
“Because no one would listen,” Harry said. “Not until it’s too late. But you—you don’t need permission to listen. You already know how power operates. How it wears masks.”
Marchand’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction. “And what do you want from me?”
“Tomorrow, when I speak—don’t silence me. Let them hear it all, even if I don’t have scrolls to wave in the air. Let me name names, let me speak truth, even if no one else dares back me up.”
She studied him for a long time.
“I’m not asking you to believe me now,” he said softly. “I’m asking you to remember this conversation if everything falls apart. I’m asking you to give me one chance before it does.”
The clock ticked once. Then again.
Marchand didn’t move for several seconds. But she spoke—voice measured, cool as steel.
“You’re asking me to risk political suicide. To give you space on that floor without a single legal filing or corroboration. Why should I bet my career on your gut?”
Harry looked up, met her gaze squarely.
“You already know something’s wrong. You’ve seen it. You’ve felt it in every closed-door session where Grimm sidesteps questions with charm. You’re not just protecting your career. You’re protecting the Council. If he turns out to be what I think he is, and you said nothing… that blood’s on your hands.”
She tilted her head. “Don’t moralize. This isn’t a war zone, it’s diplomacy. If you want my help, talk terms.”
He hesitated only briefly. “Fine. You let me speak. You don’t interfere. In exchange—when I prove Grimm’s manipulating the ICW, I won’t mention your silence. You walk away clean.”
Marchand laughed once, a short, elegant thing. “You think you’re in the position to offer me protection?”
“I’m offering you insulation. You let me talk, and I’ll make it clear you weren’t part of it. You can play neutral tomorrow, and when the truth lands, you’re already positioned as the voice of reason who heard both sides.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “And if you fail?”
“If I fail, you still win,” Harry said. “You let me hang myself in front of the entire international community. You gain credibility with Grimm, with the German delegation, and with every moderate in that room. It’s a strategic gamble—but one where you can’t lose.”
She stood slowly, walked around the desk, heels echoing with deliberate weight. Stopped a few feet from him, arms folded.
“I don’t like being manipulated, Potter.”
“I’m not manipulating you. I’m giving you options. That’s more than he’s done.”
“Grimm doesn’t need to offer me options,” she said coolly. “He offers stability. A future.”
“He offers a lie,” Harry countered. “And you know what happens to leaders who stand too close to beautiful lies when they burn.”
Her jaw tightened. But her silence cracked just enough to be a tell.
“You want to win tomorrow?” she said finally. “You need more than a speech. You need a moment.”
Harry blinked. “A moment?”
“The Council doesn’t care about ideals. They care about optics. You want to swing them? Don’t just tell them Grimm is dangerous— make them feel it . Prove he’s hiding something. Even if it’s small. Give them a reason to look closer.”
“I don’t have—”
“Find it,” she said sharply. “You have until tomorrow morning. One thread. That’s all it takes to unravel a tapestry.”
He hesitated. Then nodded.
Marchand turned back toward her desk but didn’t sit.
“Potter,” she said over her shoulder, “If you come into that chamber with nothing… I won’t stop them. Not because I want you gone. But because I can’t save someone who won’t save himself.”
He met her eyes.
“I don’t need saving. I just need ten minutes.”
Marchand stayed standing. Her eyes lingered on the parchment, but she didn’t read it. Her mind was elsewhere—and Harry knew it. He stepped closer, slow, deliberate.
“You want to talk strategy?” he said, his voice quieter now, more surgical. “Let’s talk about the real chessboard.”
She didn’t answer. He continued.
“You back Grimm now, you get short-term security. Political favor. Maybe even a seat higher up in the next cycle. But what happens when the tide turns? When the press gets a whiff of the Veil, of the inferi, of what happened in the Department of Mysteries? When the names start leaking?”
She turned to him. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m reminding you,” Harry said, evenly, “how fast public sentiment shifts when someone’s hands aren’t as clean as they pretended. Grimm’s walking a line, and if he slips, you fall with him. You think he’ll protect you? You think your name isn’t already on one of his contingency files?”
Marchand folded her arms. “You’re making a lot of assumptions for someone without proof.”
“I’m making bets,” Harry said. “Calculated ones. And so are you. But here’s the difference—when this blows up, I’ll be the one holding the match. You’ll just be in the blast radius.”
She raised a brow, almost amused. “You’re very confident for someone whose country is bleeding allies.”
“I’ve lived through worse than political isolation,” Harry said. “I’ve seen Ministries collapse. I’ve buried friends who made quieter choices than you’re making now. And I know what fear looks like.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“You’re afraid of being wrong.”
Silence.
Then she replied—voice low. “Everyone is.”
He let that sit. Then, with a faint smirk: “You know what’s funny about fear? It only controls people who don’t know how to weaponize it.”
Marchand’s expression twitched at the corner—almost a smile.
“And you do?”
“I’ve had years of practice,” Harry said. “So has Grimm. But only one of us is using it to stop a war. The other’s using it to start one.”
Marchand moved closer, the air between them sharp with the weight of decades of diplomacy and war.
“You’ve got ten minutes tomorrow. You make them count, Potter.”
“I will,” he said. Then added, “And when I do—you’ll want to be the first one to stand. Not the last.”
Marchand turned her back to him, pacing slowly toward the high-arched window behind her desk. The golden light of the hall fell across her shoulders, softening her otherwise steely presence. Harry watched her with the kind of stillness that wasn’t quite patience—more like calculation.
“I assume,” she said, her voice cool, “that you’ve also tried your charm on the others. Caligari. Cheng. Mvula. What did they give you? A polite nod? A sympathetic frown?”
“I wasn’t asking for sympathy,” Harry replied. “And I wasn’t charming them. I was warning them.”
Marchand turned, sharp now. “You’re gambling on allies who’ve already made their peace with Grimm.”
“No,” Harry said, stepping toward her. “I’m gambling on the fact that none of them trust him.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Cheng,” Harry continued, ticking the name off his fingers, “has spies embedded in Berlin. She knows about the expanded security forces Grimm’s been building up for months. She didn’t say it outright, but she’s not comfortable with it.”
“Yet she won’t speak out.”
“She will—if someone breaks first.”
Marchand’s lips tightened.
“Caligari,” Harry went on, “respects order more than power. He’s old-fashioned, stubborn, and slow—but he’s also seen enough coups to recognize the scent of one.”
“Caligari wants consensus,” Marchand replied. “He’ll wait until everyone else chooses a side.”
“Then give him a reason to choose ours.”
She scoffed, “You think I can pull him?”
“I think you’re one of the few people he still listens to,” Harry said. “And as for Mvula—he’s not convinced Grimm’s war will stop at our borders. He said as much to Higgs in private.”
She raised a brow. “And what do you offer him?”
“An endgame he can explain to his people without setting off alarms. A trial that doesn’t end in blood. Peace with justice. Not just silence.”
Marchand regarded him for a moment. “You’re trying to build a coalition in forty-eight hours.”
Harry smiled grimly. “I’ve done more with less time.”
“You had Dumbledore then.”
“I have myself now.”
They stared at each other, silence thick as concrete between them.
Marchand folded her arms again. “If I step out of line with Grimm, he’ll know. He’ll retaliate.”
“I know,” Harry said. “That’s why I’m not asking you to accuse him. I’m asking you to question him. Publicly. Subtly. Just enough to tip the scale.”
She tilted her head. “And if I fall in the process?”
Harry’s voice was quiet. “Then I’ll make damn sure you don’t fall alone.”
That gave her pause.
She turned away again, looking out over the skyline. When she finally spoke, her voice was distant—but not cold.
“You know, Potter… you have the kind of fire that topples leaders.”
Harry’s eyes didn’t leave her. “Then help me topple the right one.”
Marchand paced behind her desk now, fingers steepled, eyes sharp. The earlier levity between them had drained, replaced with something colder, more surgical. The kind of atmosphere where words were scalpels, and each cut mattered.
“You’ve given me whispers,” she said, pausing mid-step. “Insinuations. Paranoia, maybe. But not proof. And I don’t deal in maybes.”
Harry stood, arms crossed, the flickering light from the sconces playing off the lines etched into his face.
“Then let’s talk certainty,” he said. “Because Grimm’s betting you won’t look twice.”
She turned, eyebrow raised.
“You think I’m being used.”
“I think you’re being positioned,” Harry said. “And if you’re half the strategist I know you are, you’ve already sensed it. He’s been feeding you breadcrumbs—leaks, tension, chaos out of London. A slow-drip campaign to make the British Ministry look like it’s on fire, with me dancing through the flames.”
“And you aren’t?”
“I’m trying to put them out,” he said evenly. “But Grimm’s not after my country. He’s after your chair.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Meaning?”
“The elections are next month,” Harry said. “Supreme Mugwump.”
Her stare didn’t falter, but something in her posture shifted—just slightly.
“He hasn’t declared candidacy,” she said slowly.
“He won’t. Not until the dust settles. Not until Britain is discredited, and the rest of the Council is desperate for a new ‘vision.’ That’s how Grimm works. Not by rising—by making everyone else fall.”
She leaned against the desk now, her arms folded, as if weighing every word. “You really believe that.”
“I know it,” Harry said. “I’ve seen how he moves pieces. Quiet, precise. This whole hearing? It’s not about Albus. It’s a public crucifixion designed to make the ICW look like the only functioning institution left. And you, Madame Marchand, are the final piece. The one voice of reason left—until Grimm offers you the ‘relief’ of leadership.”
She was silent.
He stepped closer. “He’ll get the German bloc. He’ll buy Italy. He’ll split the east with promises of reform. And by the time anyone sees what he really is, it’ll be too late.”
“You’re suggesting a coup.”
“I’m telling you he’s already halfway through it.”
Marchand picked up her glass again, but didn’t drink. Her voice came out quieter. “And if you’re wrong?”
“Then you’ll have sided with a reckless British Auror,” Harry said. “And you’ll lose some political capital. But if I’m right—if I’m even close —and you back Grimm…”
He let that hang.
“You’ll wake up one day and realize the man who took your seat never intended to give it back.”
Marchand turned to the window, the skyline bleeding into indigo. She said nothing for a long moment.
“You should leave,” she said finally, not turning back.
Harry held her gaze a moment longer. Then he nodded once and stepped out the door—leaving behind silence, and the slow ticking of a clock inching toward midnight.
***
The lift groaned to a stop, metal gates rattling open with a mechanical sigh as Harry stepped into the cool, dim light of the British Ministry’s War Room. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and the lingering tension of people who hadn’t slept in days. Enchanted maps shimmered on the far wall—Britain, Europe, the shifting clusters of ICW alliances glowing in wary, color-coded groups. A pin marked Berlin pulsed faintly.
Hermione was already at the long table, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled into a haphazard knot that suggested she’d gone straight from a diplomatic corridor to a war briefing. Higgs stood near the fireplace, arms folded, still in his storm-grey robes from his meeting in Madrid. Logan Williamson sat sprawled in one of the chairs, eyes closed, mouth twisted in irritation.
“You look like hell,” Logan muttered without opening his eyes.
Harry dropped into a seat across from him. “You should see Marchand.”
Hermione looked up sharply. “How did she take it?”
“She didn’t throw me out,” Harry said. “But she’s playing it close. Too close. She’s waiting for something—confirmation, blood, collapse. Maybe all three.”
“She’s calculating her own odds,” Higgs said darkly. “They all are.”
Logan leaned forward now, tapping the table. “Let’s not pretend we’re the only ones who’ve noticed Grimm’s campaign. The Spanish Minister won’t say it aloud, but he all but admitted Grimm’s team has been courting their support for months. Economic aid, shared security protocols, a bilateral magical defense force. He’s building an empire.”
“And the Italians?” Hermione asked, glancing at Higgs.
He nodded grimly. “They’re worse. They’re already halfway in. I spoke to Fiorenza personally—she kept using phrases like ‘new leadership for a new age’ and ‘collaborative vision.’ Sounded like campaign slogans.”
“They are,” Logan said. “And they’ve been planted. This isn’t diplomacy—it’s theatre. Grimm has been scripting it for months.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Marchand said he hasn’t declared for Supreme Mugwump yet.”
“Because he doesn’t need to,” Hermione said quietly. “The longer he delays, the more power he consolidates in the shadows. He’s making himself inevitable.”
Logan scoffed. “Except he’s not. Not if we burn the script.”
“Easy to say,” Higgs muttered. “Harder when every time we speak up, it looks like Britain crying wolf.”
Hermione stood, walking to the map. “We have less than a month. Grimm’s going to play this to the edge. He wants us divided, desperate, humiliated. And if we make the wrong move, he’ll walk into that seat unchallenged.”
“He’s setting us up,” Harry said. “Turning us into the symbol of our decay, using the Veil disaster to frame Britain as unstable.”
Logan ran a hand through his hair. “We can’t just defend anymore. We need to go on the offensive.”
Higgs raised a brow. “Meaning?”
“We leak something,” Logan said. “Real, or strategic. Doesn’t matter. Enough to make Grimm sweat. Enough to make Marchand hesitate.”
Hermione frowned. “We’re not going to fabricate evidence.”
“No,” Harry said. “But we can give them a reason to start asking the right questions. Maybe not about Grimm’s campaign—but about his motives, his proximity to the Veil breach, how fast he moved afterward.”
“I can reach out to Patel in India,” Hermione said. “She’s been uneasy about Grimm’s rise. If she starts asking questions at the Council, others might follow.”
“And I’ll speak to the Canadians,” Higgs said. “They’re not aligned yet. If we can even shift one neutral bloc—”
“It’ll stall him,” Harry finished. “Buy us time.”
The room fell quiet for a beat. The kind of quiet that settled before a storm.
Logan leaned back, eyes scanning the faces around the table. “You know this means we’re putting ourselves on the chopping block. If Grimm wins—”
Harry cut him off. “Then we lose. Not just Britain. All of us.”
Higgs placed a hand flat on the table, voice low. “Then we’d better make damn sure he doesn’t.”
Hermione pulled a thick folder from her satchel and set it on the table with a dull thump . Her fingers lingered on the cover for a moment, then she opened it and began sorting through the papers inside. The others watched her silently, the air tight with anticipation.
“We need to be ready for tomorrow,” she said without looking up. “The ICW’s preliminary hearing is scheduled at midday. France will chair, and Grimm’s bloc will be present. That includes Spain, Italy, Bulgaria, and—possibly—Denmark. We don’t know yet about Norway.”
Harry frowned. “You think they’ll bring formal charges?”
Hermione glanced at him. “They won’t call them charges. They’ll dress it up in policy language—concerns about Britain's magical containment protocols, leadership failures, weaponization of cursed artifacts. But the point will be to paint us as unstable.”
“And to paint Grimm as the only reasonable alternative,” Higgs added bitterly.
Hermione nodded. “Exactly. We’ll be asked to explain the Veil incident, the Inferi outbreak, and Harry’s use of Fiendfyre. And we’ll have to tread carefully—because the moment we give them something that sounds like negligence, they’ll exploit it.”
Logan, who had been quiet for a few moments, now sat forward and placed both palms on the table. His voice, for once, was measured.
“Here’s what you need to expect,” he said. “Tomorrow isn’t a trial. Not officially. It’s a public vetting session, broadcast within the international chambers and later summarized for ICW delegates. It’s political theatre, but every word you say will be picked apart. Every pause, every glance. So we don’t go in swinging like we’re defending a battlefield—we go in calm, factual, united.”
Harry leaned forward. “How’s it going to be structured?”
Logan lifted a parchment and tapped it. “First, a formal reading of concerns. That’s where they’ll bring up the Veil incident, Albus’s arrest, and the growing instability in London. That’ll be chaired by Marchand and co-signed by Spain.”
“Then?” Hermione asked.
“Then they’ll open it for statements. That’s our window. One of you—probably Hermione—will speak first to establish the facts. No defensiveness, just facts. Clear, precise. You’ll make it clear Britain is cooperating fully with the ICW, and that we have internal inquiries already underway.”
“And what about Grimm?” Higgs asked.
Logan’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t mention him by name. Not tomorrow. That’s exactly what he wants. If we accuse him too early, he’ll flip it—claim we’re weaponizing ICW politics to slander a fellow minister. We sow doubt, not fire. Not yet.”
“So we let him stay ahead of the narrative?” Harry said, jaw clenched.
Logan shook his head. “We show we’re the grown-ups in the room. We don’t need to make noise—we need to make the right noise.”
Hermione nodded slowly. “Which means we’ll need statements prepared by tonight. Facts about the Veil. About the Ministry’s response. A timeline that shows we acted quickly and responsibly, even under duress.”
“I can help with that,” Higgs said. “I’ve got the full operations log from the Unspeakables and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I’ll cross-reference it with the day of the explosion.”
“I’ll write our official statement draft,” Hermione said. “I’ll take the lead tomorrow. Harry, you’ll follow me with a personal account of what happened at the Veil—brief, but honest.”
Harry looked reluctant but gave a stiff nod.
“And I’ll be the one who objects,” Logan added dryly. “If they push the line, I call it out. But only if absolutely necessary.”
There was a pause, then Hermione glanced across the table at Harry. “Anything else we need to know?”
Harry hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering toward the flickering map on the far wall—Berlin glowing faintly beneath the dark clouds. Then he looked back at the others and spoke quietly.
“Yes,” he said. “Grimm’s planning to run for Supreme Mugwump.”
The room stilled.
“He hasn’t announced it yet,” Harry went on, “but Marchand suspects it. So do the Spanish and Italians—they’re already treating him like the heir apparent. Elections are in four weeks. And if he gets it...”
“We won’t be able to touch him,” Hermione finished.
Logan gave a low whistle. “He won’t just be dangerous. He’ll be untouchable. Leader of the ICW. Every wand in the world, one vote away from falling in line.”
Higgs let out a slow breath. “Then tomorrow’s not just about defending ourselves.”
Hermione closed the folder with a soft snap . “It’s about stopping him before he crowns himself king.”
Logan leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his expression sharp beneath the low amber glow of the Ministry’s briefing chamber. The tension in the room hadn't eased, and he could see it building behind Harry’s eyes like stormclouds—quiet for now, but ready to burst.
He uncrossed his arms and gestured slightly toward Harry. “You’re going to want to punch someone tomorrow. Don’t.”
Harry’s brow furrowed. “I’m not—”
“You are ,” Logan cut in, voice like flint. “Because they’re going to twist every word. They’ll bring up your family. The veil. Your name. They’ll question your sanity, your integrity, maybe even your family. You’re going to hear things that make your blood boil.”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his stare locking with Harry’s.
“You lose your temper, we lose the room. You snap, we look unstable. Grimm’s whole pitch is that Britain’s run by hotheads and relics of a war they should’ve buried years ago. If you give them even one moment of that hero-glare fury—he wins.”
Harry was silent. Jaw clenched. The scar on his forehead, faded but always present, looked sharper in the light.
Logan continued, quieter now. “I’m not asking you to lie. I’m not asking you to be soft. But when they come at you tomorrow, don’t give them the man who faced down Voldemort. Give them the man who won . The one who’s still standing. The one who knows how to keep his head when the world wants it on a spike.”
Hermione was watching closely, but she didn’t interrupt. She knew Harry better than anyone. She also knew he’d take this personally. He always took it personally.
“And if I do lose my temper?” Harry asked, quietly.
Logan smirked. “Then I’ll be the one cleaning up the diplomatic mess while you’re sitting in front of a second inquiry, this time for endangering ICW decorum.” He tilted his head. “But if you don’t lose it—if you keep your footing, hold your line—they’ll start to doubt Grimm. They’ll wonder what he’s afraid of, if the people he’s trying to bury are still calm enough to smile.”
There was a moment of stillness between them, and then Logan pushed his chair back and stood.
“I’ve defended cursed families, corrupt ministries, and one man who turned half his house into a basilisk tank. You’re the first one I actually think might win without cheating.”
Harry looked up at him. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Logan gave a wry half-smile. “Don’t get used to it.”
Hermione gave Harry a sidelong look. “You are going to behave, right?”
Harry leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Define ‘behave.’”
Higgs groaned softly, rubbing his temples. “We’re going to die.”
Hermione stood up and began gathering the documents again. “Not if we get through tomorrow. Not if we stay calm. Not if we show them we’re stronger than he is, without lifting a wand.”
Harry nodded, eyes distant. “Then let’s get ready.”
By the time the enchanted clock on the far wall chimed seven, the war room on Level Eight of the British Ministry looked like the aftermath of a legal siege. Half-drunk mugs of coffee and energy potions littered the polished table, and parchment scrolls were unrolled and marked with furious annotations. The lighting charms had dimmed slightly—Ministry protocol after midnight—but none of them had noticed.
Hermione stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to her elbows, wand in one hand and a crumpled ICW dossier in the other. Her voice was steady, crisp from repetition. “You will not speculate anything about Grimm unless prompted, and even then, only what we can prove. You will not bring up Fawkes or the attack.”
Harry nodded, rubbing his eyes. His tie was long discarded, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up like hers. “I’ll stay on message.”
“Your message is the truth,” Logan cut in, pacing beside the glowing wall map of Europe where Grimm’s influence shimmered in red. “But we deliver it like silk, not shrapnel. We aren’t here to win a fight. We’re here to make them uneasy about voting Grimm in.”
Higgs leaned over a list of ICW head delegates, scratching out notes beside names. “Margaux Beaumont—France. Soft spot for Harry. Germany’s obviously a no. Spain’s on the fence. Australia—probably neutral, but they listen to Hermione. Greece—indecisive. We push there.”
Logan snapped his fingers and pointed at Higgs. “That’s good. We use their fear of instability. We remind them that Grimm’s reforms haven’t even passed yet and already Inferi are slipping through the Veil.”
Hermione looked at Harry. “When they ask about Albus—because they will —what do you say?”
Harry recited, voice hoarse but even, “My son was framed. I will not apologize for protecting him. But I also respect the ICW’s processes. I’m not asking for immunity. I’m asking for clarity.”
Logan raised a hand. “Pause there for effect. Then lean in. Give them the father and the strategist.”
“I’m not performing,” Harry muttered.
“You’re always performing,” Logan replied coolly. “You just don’t like to admit it.”
Hermione stepped between them. “Enough. We’re tired. We’re all… stretched. But we can’t lose the thread now.”
They all looked worn, shadows under their eyes, but no one suggested stopping.
They ran scenarios—dozens of them. What if France questioned the use of force? What if Romania accused them of provoking Grimm? Every answer was dissected, sharpened, rephrased.
At one point, Harry snapped slightly. “I’m not a diplomat, Hermione. I’m not even good at this. I’m just—”
“A symbol,” she said gently. “And that’s exactly what they’re afraid of.”
By six-thirty, Logan’s jacket was off, and he was coaching them like a barrister prepping witnesses before the Wizengamot.
“Don’t say ‘resurrection cult.’ Sounds paranoid. Say ‘unauthorized magical faction.’ Don’t say ‘the Veil’s curse’—say ‘unstable phenomena exacerbated by unknown interference.’”
“Don't mention what we suspect about Germany’s archives,” Higgs muttered. “They’ll shut us down fast.”
And still, the conversation circled back to Grimm.
“Someone,” Hermione said, voice dry, “needs to mention the elections tomorrow.”
Harry nodded slowly. “I will. Near the end. Let it sit in their minds like a hex waiting to trigger.”
Logan gave him a look of approval. “Now that’s strategy.”
Finally, at 7:04 a.m., Hermione dropped her stack of notes and exhaled. “We can’t do more. If we push any harder, we’ll fall apart.”
Harry stood, stretching his back with a groan. “Let’s get an hour. Then robes. Then war.”
Logan smirked faintly. “Not war. Just court. But close enough.”
They filed out slowly, minds buzzing, hearts heavier than when the night had begun. But their lines were clear. Their roles rehearsed. The pieces were set.
And the game—dangerous, global, rigged against them—was about to begin.
***
The morning light creeping through the curtains was pale and cold, casting long grey shadows across the bedroom floor. The house was quiet—too quiet.
Harry stood at the foot of the bed, half-dressed, his white shirt open at the collar, hands braced on his knees as he stared down at the floor. His suitcase sat by the door, not fully packed. His robes were hanging from the wardrobe handle, still untouched.
He looked up when he heard soft footsteps padding across the floorboards.
Ginny entered without a word, holding a dark blue tie in one hand. It wasn’t the one he'd pulled out earlier. This one was a bit faded at the edges, and the stitching on the back was frayed from years of use.
She tossed it gently on the bed. “Your lucky one.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “It didn’t feel all that lucky the last time I wore it.”
“You wore it the day you solved your first case as the head auror,” she said, walking over to him. “And the day you argued to shut down that blood purity registry in Eastern Europe. The day you stood in front of the Bulgarian Ministry and made them flinch.. And the day you asked me to marry you, though you won’t remember it.”
Harry let out a low breath and smiled faintly. “You remember everything.”
“Someone has to.”
She stepped closer, brushing his hands away from the shirt buttons and beginning to fasten them herself. Her fingers moved easily, like she’d done it a hundred times—and she had.
When she reached his collar, she picked up the tie and looped it around his neck. “Stand still.”
He obeyed. As she worked, her knuckles brushed his skin, her breath warm on his chin.
“I know you’re worried,” she said, voice quiet but certain. “And I know Grimm’s been planning this longer than we can even guess. But none of that changes what you are, Harry.”
He let out a weary sigh. “He’s had years, Gin. Years to plant seeds, spin stories, rig everything in his favor. And we’ve had—what? A week? Hours?”
Ginny finished the knot and tightened it gently, smoothing it down with her thumbs. Then she looked up at him. “You’ve had a lifetime.”
Harry blinked.
“You think this is the first time the odds were against you?” she continued. “You think this is the first time people doubted you? Lied about you? Tried to make you the villain?”
He said nothing.
She reached for the small wooden box on the dresser, opened it, and took out the cufflinks he hadn’t worn in years. Gold, worn at the edges. The ones Arthur had given him after his first week as Head Auror.
She slid one onto his left cuff, then the right. “You’re not just some symbol anymore, Harry. You’re the reason people like Grimm are scared. You’ve already survived the kind of darkness he only pretends to understand.”
Harry swallowed thickly, meeting her eyes. “What if I lose my temper?”
“Then you’ll take a breath, remember who you are, and keep going.”
“And if I say the wrong thing?”
Ginny stepped back, inspecting him one last time—tie straight, collar neat, cuffs secure. “Then you’ll fix it. You always do.”
He laughed softly under his breath. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” she said. “But it’s you.”
Harry stared at her for a long moment, something tight in his chest easing for the first time in days.
“You believe me,” he said quietly.
“I always have.”
A silence settled between them, but it wasn’t heavy. It was warm, grounding. The kind of silence that felt like home.
Ginny reached up, brushing a bit of lint from his shoulder and smoothing down his lapel. “You ready?”
He nodded slowly. “As I’ll ever be.”
“Then go remind them who you are.”
Harry leaned in, kissed her gently and pulled on his traveling cloak. As he moved toward the door, she followed him, hand brushing his arm.
Just before he stepped out to go to the ministry, he turned.
“You always pick the right tie.”
Ginny smirked. “Lucky, remember?”
And with that, he was gone.
***
The Ministry loomed ahead, a tall pillar of authority and tension. Harry adjusted his collar as he stepped into the atrium, already crowded with reporters and officials scurrying about like beetles. The day felt too bright for what lay ahead.
Near the international portkey chamber stood Hermione and Higgs, both already deep in a quiet, precise discussion. Hermione wore navy blue robes with gold pinstriping, hair swept up into a style that practically screamed “don’t test me.” Higgs, beside her, looked like a disgruntled statue in his grey overcoat, arms crossed, jaw clenched, wand visible just under his sleeve. Not a man to mess with.
And then there was Logan.
Logan Williamson was lounging like the floor belonged to him. Not standing. Lounging. One hand tucked into the pocket of his sharply tailored, midnight black robe that was absolutely not off the rack. His tie was charcoal silk, shirt collar crisp and immovable, and the lapels on his overcoat were lined in something that shimmered faintly, like crushed starfire. He was leaning against a Ministry column like it was his private office.
He caught sight of Harry and gave him a once-over. Then he smirked.
“Thank God,” Logan said. “For a moment, I thought you were going to show up in corduroy.”
Harry shot him a look. “And good morning to you too, princess.”
Logan pushed off the column with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “Nice tie,” he said, narrowing his eyes at the green silk around Harry’s neck. “Let me guess—your wife picked it. She tied it, didn’t she?”
Harry scowled slightly. “What gave it away?”
Logan stepped in close and flicked the knot, straightening it with a practiced tug. “It’s symmetrical..”
Harry stepped back. “You’re insufferable.”
“You say that like it’s a flaw.”
Hermione finally looked up. “Logan, are you done evaluating everyone’s wardrobe?”
“Absolutely not,” Logan replied. “I haven’t even started on Higgs.”
“Don’t,” Higgs said flatly.
Logan grinned. “Noted.”
Harry eyed Logan’s outfit. “You know you’re not going to seduce the ICW into changing their minds, right?”
“Please,” Logan said, with a mock-wounded expression. “I don’t seduce. I command attention. There’s a difference.”
“You’re literally sparkling,” Harry said, motioning to the trim of his robe.
“Not sparkling. Strategically gleaming. There’s a difference there too. It's a subtle blend of style and psychological warfare. Imagine trying to argue with someone who looks like they own half of Gringotts.”
“You’re not wrong,” Hermione muttered, glancing at her notes. “Unfortunately.”
Logan smiled, smug and easy. “Potter, my friend, we are not going into this as rebels. We’re going in as royalty.”
Harry raised a brow. “So what does that make you? The crown prince of smug?”
“No,” Logan said coolly. “I’m the legal assassin they didn’t see coming. You’re the war hero. Hermione’s the unstoppable intellect. Higgs is the weapon we unleash if they get cheeky.”
“And you?” Harry asked.
“I’m the reason they don’t dare interrupt us mid-sentence.”
A chime echoed across the atrium—final boarding call.
Hermione snapped her folder shut. “Time to go.”
Logan smoothed his cuffs with one final flourish. “Let’s make them regret underestimating us.”
Harry adjusted his now-perfect tie and gave Logan a sideways look. “If say one more thing about my dressing choices before lunch, I’m throwing you through the veil myself.”
Logan grinned. “That’s fair.”
***
The portkey landed them just outside the main entrance of the International Confederation headquarters in Geneva, a vast, gleaming structure of white stone and enchanted glass, standing proud atop a cliff overlooking Lake Geneva. The water sparkled under the morning sun, and behind them, the Alps loomed, silent and ancient.
It was only 9 o’clock, but the tension was already thick in the air. Uniformed ICW security officers flanked the gates, their movements stiff and precise. Witches and wizards from half a dozen countries filtered into the main plaza—delegates, clerks, aides, a few international press members flashing badges, trying to sneak glances at the arriving figures.
Logan, of course, drank it in.
“Smell that?” he said, taking a deep breath. “That’s the scent of bureaucratic dread and diplomatic egos about to be bruised.”
“Smells like Swiss pastries to me,” Harry muttered, glancing at a nearby vendor cart floating trays of croissants through the crowd.
Hermione ignored them both. “We have three hours. I’ve arranged a private conference room in the east wing—no windows, charmed for privacy, and warded to prevent eavesdropping. I want to go over our statements again, and I need you all sharp.”
Higgs gave a grunt of acknowledgment. He hadn’t spoken much since they landed. His eyes were scanning the crowd like a hawk.
Logan was still too amused. “I’m always sharp,” he said, flipping his folder open as they began walking through the main gate. “But you can rehearse your outrage if it makes you feel better.”
“You’re not the one they’ll try to crucify in that room,” Hermione snapped.
“I’m not,” Logan said without missing a beat. “But I am the one who’ll stop them if they try. Trust me, Granger. I’ve been waiting to tear into the ICW for years. Today, I finally get to do it with a legal excuse.”
They passed through security—thorough and silent. Every wand was registered, every document examined, every article of clothing scanned for enchantments. The Italian delegates got nods. The French ones were greeted with smiles. When the British group stepped forward, the guards didn’t smile.
Harry felt it. The subtle shift. The eyes that followed him, not with admiration, but suspicion. The weight of Grimm’s propaganda.
“Eyes up,” Hermione whispered to him. “Let them look. That’s all they can do right now.”
The four of them walked together through the grand halls, past enormous charmed tapestries and floating silver globes showing international magical currents. The ICW didn’t do subtle. Everything about the place screamed importance, power, and control.
Their conference room was tucked into the east wing, exactly as Hermione said: small, windowless, and silent. The wards shimmered faintly as they stepped through the threshold.
Inside, the air felt still.
Harry shrugged off his coat and ran a hand through his hair. “Three hours to wait.”
Hermione sat, already unrolling parchment. “We use every minute.”
Logan threw himself into a chair with far too much ease for someone who was about to walk into political war. “Of course we do,” he said, crossing his legs. “But after this—lunch is on me. Assuming we’re not arrested for treason.”
Harry gave him a look.
Logan winked. “Kidding. Mostly.”
They settled in. Hermione reviewed their statements. Higgs went over tactical concerns. Logan fine-tuned his language, scribbling notes in the margins with a golden quill and muttering about “making them sweat by paragraph three.”
Harry leaned back in his chair for a moment, staring at the table, then at the sealed folder beside him.
Grimm was here. Somewhere in this building.
And in three hours, the whole world would be watching.
As the others began reviewing the timeline of events and preparing their statements, Harry stayed quiet for a while, seated at the corner of the long enchanted table. He kept his eyes on the parchment in front of him, but his thoughts were elsewhere—running beneath the surface like an undercurrent threatening to spill into open water.
Grimm was here.
Somewhere in this vast building, perhaps even in the same wing. The man who had stolen the Elder Wand, who had framed his son, who had left James barely breathing, who had taken Amélie—and maybe more. The man who called himself Elias Grimm but signed things “A.D.” in secret.
His fingers curled slightly on the tabletop.
Don’t spiral.
He could hear Marlowe Tamsin’s voice in his head, calm and low and infuriatingly steady. Name the feelings first. Give them a seat at the table, don’t let them climb on top of it.
“Fear,” Harry admitted silently. “Rage. Guilt. Dread.”
His chest had been tightening since they arrived in Geneva, though he hadn’t noticed until now. It was subtle—but familiar. That creeping heat in his ribs. The pressure behind his ears. The little voice that whispered you’re going to fail again.
He exhaled slowly.
Breath, Harry. Breath.
Four in. Hold for four. Four out. Hold again.
He focused on that pattern. One breath at a time, like he’d been told. Visualized the pressure as smoke, something he could pull out of his chest and release. Let it rise, then disappear.
He did it again. And again. His feet stayed firmly planted. One hand braced on the edge of the table. The other rested open on his knee. Not clenched. Not hiding. Just there.
He remembered what Marlowe had said in one of the quieter sessions: You’re not weak because you feel it coming. You’re strong because you know how to stop it.
“Harry?”
Hermione’s voice snapped him out of it gently. She was watching him closely, her expression tight with concern, but she didn’t press.
“I’m alright,” he said. His voice came out steadier than he expected. He looked up and even managed a faint smile. “Just... getting my head in order.”
“Good,” said Logan from across the room, not looking up from his notes. “Because if you fall apart mid-statement, I’m going to have to actually emote, and I didn’t bring a handkerchief.”
“Keep it up, Williamson,” Harry muttered, grateful for the banter, even if he’d never admit it.
He sat up straighter. The panic hadn’t gone completely—but it wasn’t winning either.
He was still in control.
And in three hours, he would need every ounce of that control.
The time had come.
At precisely eleven fifty-five, a Ministry liaison led them through the spiraling golden corridors of the Geneva International Confederation headquarters. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and rosewood polish, and the silence that accompanied them was oppressive—thick with anticipation, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.
The door to the Grand Hall loomed ahead: a pair of colossal bronze arches carved with magical symbols representing justice, unity, and truth. The irony of that symbolism wasn't lost on Harry.
As the doors opened, the sound hit them like a wave—dozens of overlapping voices, the constant pop of magical cameras, and the electric hum of restless energy. The hall was vast, grand, circular, and already filled to capacity. Witches and wizards from across the globe sat in tiered rows, representing different nations, departments, and press corps, all their attention focused on the long semicircular tribunal platform raised above the center.
Harry stepped in first, flanked by Logan, Hermione, and Higgs.
Cameras immediately turned toward them. Flash after flash after flash. A sea of quills scratched furiously. Names were whispered. Judgments already formed behind narrowed gazes.
But none of that mattered—not in the moment Harry saw him .
Elias Grimm.
Sitting not twenty feet away at the opposite table reserved for representatives of the German Ministry. Dressed in obsidian-black robes tailored with impeccable precision, his posture relaxed, his hands folded loosely on the table before him like he had all the time in the world.
And he was smiling.
Not smugly, not cruelly— twinkling . The kind of smile that once lived on Albus Dumbledore’s face. Warm, amused, calm. It made Harry’s stomach turn.
Then their eyes met.
Grimm gave him a small, almost cordial nod, as though this were a chess match they’d both agreed to years ago. A show. A dance.
But Harry's eyes went lower.
To Grimm’s wand hand.
A long, pale wand rested against his fingers—so unassuming at a glance. But Harry knew it. Felt it. His heart slammed against his ribs.
The Elder Wand.
He was holding the Elder Wand like it was nothing. Like it was just another tool.
Harry forced himself not to react. Not to let the cameras catch a flinch, a flicker, a crack.
Behind him, he felt Logan lean in and mutter, “Breathe. In through the nose, remember?”
Harry didn’t nod, didn’t speak. He just walked forward to take his place at the table. Straight-backed. Head high.
He could feel Grimm watching him still.
Let him.
This wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Alethea Marchand rose slowly from her seat at the head of the dais.
Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. The most powerful legal authority in the magical world.
Her presence alone silenced the hall more effectively than any charm could. Tall, statuesque, and dressed in deep plum robes embroidered with constellations in moving silver thread, she looked every inch a woman carved from ancient marble and fierce intellect. Her white-gold hair was braided into a crown, and her eyes—piercing grey—swept the room like twin searchlights.
“Let the record show,” she began, her voice smooth but resonant, “that the hearing is now in formal session. I, Alethea Marchand, presiding as Supreme Mugwump, convene this inquiry under Section Four, Article Twelve of the ICW Wartime Accord.”
She lifted a scroll and read:
“The hearing will address the following: the explosion at the British Ministry of Magic, the destabilization of the Veil of Death, the use of cursed magical fire in an international stronghold, and allegations of unsanctioned magical aggression between nations.”
Her gaze passed slowly across both sides.
“All parties are expected to conduct themselves with restraint. This chamber will tolerate no interruption, no spectacle, and no delay in the pursuit of clarity.”
Grimm inclined his head politely.
Harry, beside Hermione, gave the smallest of nods.
Alethea continued. “The ICW recognizes Nathan Higgs as Interim Minister of Magic for the United Kingdom during this investigation, pending resolution.”
Nathan Higgs, seated beside Hermione, looked crisp and composed in his navy dress robes, though his hands were tightly clasped in his lap. There was a certain stormy reserve about him today, something that clashed with the media’s usual portrayal of him as dry and academic. He said nothing.
“The first matter,” Alethea said, her voice never wavering, “is the explosion at the Department of Mysteries. The ICW will hear testimony from the United Kingdom regarding events that took place on October the 6th.”
Hermione nodded once to Logan, who rose with an almost theatrical elegance.
He adjusted his cuffs—his pinstriped suit so sharp it could have sliced through paper—and walked calmly to the center of the speaking floor. Cameras shifted. Quills hovered. Dozens of enchanted recorders hummed softly overhead.
“Honourable Mugwump, Esteemed Council,” Logan began, “you will forgive my lack of dramatics. I’ll leave those to my learned friend from the German delegation.” He gestured vaguely in Grimm’s direction without looking at him. “We will present evidence—unembellished, magical, and indisputable—that the attack on the British Ministry was not a tragic accident, not a spontaneous surge of ancient magic, but a coordinated act of sabotage.”
He paced once, hands behind his back. “We have eyewitness accounts, spell residue, ward logs, and forensic trace from the blast zone—most of which your investigative agents have already confirmed.”
“And?” Alethea asked.
“And,” Logan said, pausing, “we will demonstrate that this sabotage was not merely to damage infrastructure—but to access the Veil of Death. To rupture it. And to begin an operation far more sinister than we have ever seen attempted.”
Another whisper cut through the crowd.
Logan’s voice lowered a shade. “Your Honours… Britain has not come here to cry foul. We have come to warn the world.”
Silence.
Then Grimm stood.
“No one questions the trauma suffered by the British people,” he said smoothly. “But trauma alone does not make a conspiracy true.”
He turned toward the judges, hands open.
“They say they have evidence. So let us see it. Let us examine it. Let us weigh it by law, not by fear.”
Alethea’s eyes flicked between them both.
“Very well. The ICW calls its first witness.” Her tone left no room for delay.
Hermione stood and turned toward the long wooden benches at the side of the hall.
“Harry Potter.”
Harry rose.
The courtroom was quiet—then filled with a low murmur as he stepped forward. Even after all these years, his name still carried weight. Some of the international journalists leaned forward as if they could see the war hero in his posture. Others simply looked curious, even skeptical.
But Harry didn’t focus on them.
He focused on his breathing. On the feel of his boots on the stone floor. On the voice in his head reminding him:
Feet. Ribs. Present. You are not a boy in the graveyard.
He reached the podium at the center of the hall and gave a small bow.
“State your name and occupation,” Alethea said.
“Harry James Potter,” he said calmly. “Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement, British Ministry of Magic.”
“You may proceed with your statement,” she said, gesturing with a hand.
The room was vast and silent—marble walls gilded with centuries of politics, scarred by magic too old to name. Delegates from every nation sat in heavy chairs that made their titles feel heavier still. The International Confederation of Wizards had convened under fire: a veil torn open, a city shaken, and a rising fear that the United Kingdom had fallen under dangerous hands.
Harry Potter stood alone at the centre.
He wore no robes of office, no symbols of status. Just plain black. His scar—once the mark of the boy who lived—was faded into a crease of memory. But his eyes were sharp. Older. Unforgiving.
The hall did not greet him. It measured him.
He looked up, scanning the room. Italy watched him coldly. Germany leaned back, unreadable. Only a few—from France, from India, from Portugal—met his gaze without hostility. Behind him, Hermione sat silent. Higgs beside her. Theia was somewhere in the gallery. But this moment belonged to Harry alone.
He began.
“ I was fourteen when I first saw the cost of silence.
*When I watched friends fall, and people cheer for it, because someone powerful told them it was necessary. Told them it was good . Told them they were righteous for turning away.”
“And now I’m older. I’ve led wars. I’ve buried comrades. I’ve watched my children grow up in a world we all swore would be better. Safer. Kinder.”
“But lately, I’ve started to wonder… if we kept that promise.
Because it starts so quietly, doesn’t it?”
“Not with killing curses or dark marks—but with doubt. With clever rhetoric. With a speech so moving you forget to ask what it cost. It starts with the kind of man who doesn’t shout, but listens. Who says he wants peace, but only once he's rewritten the truth.”
“It starts with someone who calls truth inconvenient .
“Someone who stands in front of fire, and tells you it’s only light.”
He let the words hang for a breath. A pause.
The German delegation shifted uncomfortably.
“ You want me to explain what happened the day the Veil ruptured.
“You want me to explain the Inferi, the flames, the explosion. You want me to explain my son’s absence. The death of Vance. The accusations that followed.”
“But I won’t give you a reconstruction. Not yet.”
“Because the real question isn’t how the Veil broke. It’s why we let it get so fragile in the first place.””
He stepped forward, voice quieter now—but heavier, like thunder wrapped in silk.
“ There are forces in this world who believe death is a flaw. Not a mystery or a journey. A flaw .
“They believe resurrection is a right for the worthy. That if you command enough power—if you hold the right wand, speak the right words, sacrifice the right people—then death itself will bow.
“And worse—many of you believe them. Or at least, you believe they might be right.”
“And so, you look away. You tell yourself it’s too soon to judge. Too risky to confront. Too political to oppose.”
“But let me remind you what I’ve seen.”
“I’ve watched what happens when the world decides evil is simply misunderstood genius.
“I’ve seen what happens when charm wears the face of madness.”
“You want my defense? I don’t have one.
I have warnings.”
Another silence fell. He turned his gaze directly to the German seat. Not pointing or accusing. But not blinking, either.
“Some truths come wrapped in blue fire. Some men rise to power not because they are honest, but because they know what you’re afraid to name.
“And if we keep punishing those who speak plainly—if we keep chasing scapegoats to avoid confronting what really broke open in the Department of Mysteries—we’ll lose more than this war.
“We’ll lose our soul.”
“You don’t have to believe me. You never did. But ask yourself why the Veil broke. Ask yourself who benefits from chaos. Ask who was ready to lead the moment death spilled into the world.”
“And ask why, in the middle of it all, a phoenix changed its loyalty.”
Murmurs broke out. Delegates turned. That final line struck like lightning—because they knew. They’d seen the bird.
“You think the British Ministry is unstable. That our leadership is compromised. That I’m hiding something.”
He lifted his chin, jaw tight.
“You’re right. I am hiding something.
I’m hiding the names of those still loyal to truth.
I’m hiding a generation that still remembers what tyranny cost us last time.
“And I’m hiding one truth I swore I wouldn’t say until I was sure:
This isn’t about me. It never was.”
“It’s about a man who smiles too easily, and history that’s starting to repeat itself.”
“And if you can’t see it—if you choose not to—then you’re not just watching the fall of Britain.
“You’re helping cause it.”
He turned away from the podium.
Not defeated.
Finished.
The silence afterward wasn’t empty.
It was scared.
***
The Burrow glowed with warm lantern light, floating in soft orbits above the garden as the last of the winter sun dipped behind the orchard. The familiar smell of Molly Weasley’s cooking—roast chicken, Yorkshire pudding, buttered carrots—hung like a comforting spell in the crisp evening air. Children darted through the garden in laughter-filled games, their scarves trailing behind them like Gryffindor banners. Laughter crackled alongside the bonfire. It felt—for the first time in weeks—like home again.
James Potter sat in a cushioned chair by the firepit, wrapped in a blanket despite the enchantments keeping him warm, his leg still elevated and his face pale but alive. His hair was messier than ever, and his smile even wider. Lily was curled beside him, telling him some absurd story about a classmate who had swallowed a live puffskein by mistake. Albus stoodnearby, a bottle of butterbeer in one hand, watching his brother talk with that tired, ridiculous grin that made it hard to be angry at him for long.
Molly bustled out of the kitchen with a fresh tray of treacle tart, and everyone cheered. She waved her spoon at them all like a general brandishing a wand. “If I don’t see clean plates tonight, I’ll assume you’ve all been cursed.”
Harry sat on the porch steps, quietly nursing a drink, his eyes taking in every moment—the swirl of scarves, the golden laughter, the low thrum of peace. Beside him, Ginny rested her head on his shoulder. He felt her sigh, a deep release of something they'd both been carrying too long.
The ICW verdict had arrived that morning. Neutrality. A classic move. They wouldn’t interfere. Germany and the UK were to resolve matters "peacefully" by January 15, as if it were a simple diplomatic spat and not a magical catastrophe wrapped in a veil of fire and death.
Still, it was better than condemnation. Better than war.
It bought them time.
“Grimm looked furious,” Hermione had whispered when the news broke, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Like someone had just slapped away his chessboard.”
Ron had laughed. “Let him sulk. We’ve got a month now. One whole month to unravel him.”
And now, at least for tonight, there were no inferi, no elder wands, no courtrooms or betrayals—only firelight and the rare, healing magic of family.
Percy was trying to give a speech, raising his glass awkwardly. “To James—our indestructible auror, mischief-maker, and pain in the arse. We’re glad you’re still with us.”
“Speak for yourself!” George shouted from the back. “I had a bet he was a goner.”
Everyone roared. James flipped him off with theatrical flair.
Ron nudged Albus. “That’s your cue. Say something sappy.”
Albus cleared his throat. “To James,” he said, raising his bottle. “The only person I’ve ever met who can be concussed, exploded, and stitched back together and still find a way to flirt with the Healers.”
James beamed. “You noticed!”
“You’re impossible,” Lily muttered, blushing on his behalf.
The toasts went on. Rose and Scorpius arrived late, Rose glowing with pregnancy and already scolding Ron for telling the baby it was going to be a Chudley Cannons fan. Even Logan showed up briefly, dressed less like a peacock and more like a tired man with work ahead. He gave Albus a brief nod and muttered, “Eat. Sleep. War resumes tomorrow.”
It would. Tomorrow would bring strategy, secrets, and more meetings. There were things to dig up, wands to trace, lies to unravel.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Harry stood, raised his glass, and looked out at his family—whole and warm, just for now.
“To the ones who came back. And the ones we’re still fighting for.”
Silence, then a quiet chorus of raised glasses and soft echoes of “To the ones we’re still fighting for.”
Ginny slipped her hand into his. Albus met his father’s eyes across the yard.
For the first time in a long time, Harry felt a fragile, flickering thing—hope.
The kitchen at the Burrow smelled of spiced cider and cinnamon-roasted apples, the kind of warmth that lingered in the chest and softened even the harshest of winters. The fairy lights blinked gently along the wooden beams. Molly had charmed them herself—no Weasley gathering was complete without her touch.
James sat by the fire, his legs still a little weak but his grin wide and infectious. George was trying to teach him a card trick, while Teddy watched with half-concealed amusement. Ginny was in the kitchen with Molly, exchanging cookie trays and stories, and every now and then, loud laughter floated out, a reminder of times long before everything had gone complicated.
Harry stood near the window, a cup of tea warming his hands, watching his son laugh without pain. That sound—it had been missing for weeks. For a time, he hadn’t been sure if he’d hear it again.
Hermione was helping Lily and Fleur sort through old ornaments. Hugo had enchanted the tree topper to make farting noises when touched, and Ron looked tremendously proud. Even Higgs had turned up, awkward at first but quickly swept into the noise and stories like driftwood in a current.
Harry exhaled. For once, the world didn’t feel like it was pressing down on his ribs.
The ICW verdict had come earlier that morning—neutral. They had declined to rule on the accusations, called for diplomacy, and given the UK and Germany until January 15 to “resolve their conflict peacefully.” In essence: a delay. A breath.
He had been expecting worse. Perhaps even bracing for it.
But now, in the flickering light of the Burrow, the shadows of Grimmauld Place felt far away. He felt… still.
The sessions had helped. More than he’d expected. The healer—Marlowe—was calm and sharp and didn’t flinch when he told her how sometimes, even now, he woke up choking on the air in his lungs. How guilt curled in his spine like old magic. She listened. She didn’t rush to reassure him, and somehow that helped. He liked her for that. She understood silence, too.
It had taken him weeks to open up.
But each visit carved out a little more space inside him. Enough to breathe.
Now, the scent of pine and treacle tart wrapped around him like a memory. Christmas was in ten days. He had barely noticed it creeping up on him, too distracted by Grimm and the ICW, by speeches and strategy and dread. But here, now, with family wrapped around him like a shield, he remembered.
Lily came up beside him, nudging his arm.“You’re quiet,” she said.
He looked down at her, smiling. “Just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” she teased, eyes twinkling. “Especially for a Potter.”
He gave a soft laugh, ruffling his hair. “I forgot how loud this place could be.”
“That’s the point,” she said. “You don’t have to think so much here. You just… be.”
The words struck something in him. For so long, he’d been reacting—defending, unraveling lies, preparing for the worst. But now, at least for tonight, he could just be Harry.
James caught his eye from across the room and raised his butterbeer in a mock toast. Harry smiled back, deeply and quietly, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he’d come home.
Across the room, Albus sat near the window, cradling a warm mug of butterbeer in his hands, the distant laughter of his family echoing softly from the kitchen. The Burrow was glowing with light and warmth—floating candles, golden fairy lights, the scent of cinnamon and pine in the air—but his mind was elsewhere.
He stared out into the winter garden, where gnomes rustled under the snow-laden shrubs, and his breath left faint marks on the glass.
Amélie.
She was always there now—just behind every thought, every breath, every quiet second he got to himself. It had been months since the Veil explosion, and though he’d turned over every theory, scoured every lead with Emma, they were still no closer to finding her. It felt like searching for starlight in a storm—he kept reaching out, but his hands came back empty every time.
They’d gone through Ministry records, traced portkeys, tried to work out the trajectory of the magical pull that night. Emma had even suggested they try to access the Veil chamber again—quietly, unofficially—but the place was sealed tighter than Gringotts. Albus had a dozen ideas, but none of them made sense in the real world. It was like trying to run through fog.
He shifted slightly, his thumb rubbing the side of the mug. One night, just a week ago, he’d come close to telling his dad everything. Harry had been quiet, sitting in the garden alone under a lantern, and for a second, Albus thought—maybe. Maybe this was the moment. But the words had stuck in his throat like a hex. The gap between them still felt too wide. Too fragile. As if revealing one more failure, one more obsession, would break whatever fragile peace they'd started to build.
He knew Emma would have encouraged him to say something. She always did. But she was gone now—only temporarily, visiting her family in Edinburgh for Christmas—but he felt the absence more than he liked to admit. She had offered to stay, but he told her to go. He didn’t want her missing out on her family for his mess. Still, now that the Burrow was so full of people, and yet so distant, he wished she were here. He could almost imagine her standing behind him, arms looped around his waist, chin resting lightly on his shoulder. The way she steadied him without ever trying to fix him.
He wasn’t ready to introduce her to the rest of the family. Not yet. It wasn’t that he was ashamed—far from it. But this family was... large. Loud. Complicated. And despite everything, despite how warm the evening was and how glad he was to see James finally out of St Mungo’s, Albus didn’t quite feel like he belonged tonight.
Only James knew about Emma. And if he were being honest, Albus kind of regretted telling him. James had taken it surprisingly well, even teasing him about “finally not being a complete loner,” but Albus still remembered the flash of surprise—of something unspoken—in his brother’s eyes. He didn’t like people looking at him like that. Like he was fragile. Like he was trying.
He took a sip of the butterbeer, the sweetness grounding him for a moment.
They’d need new strategies. Smarter ones. Maybe they were missing something obvious, or maybe the answer was buried deeper than anyone had dared to dig. He knew Emma was thinking the same. She’d sent him a letter just yesterday—filled with cautious optimism, scribbled theories, and a little doodle of a phoenix. She had a quiet way of reminding him not to give up.
No, he wouldn’t stop. Not after how far they’d come. Not with Amélie still out there—somewhere.
He leaned his head back against the windowpane and closed his eyes for just a second. The voices of his family rose and fell behind him, a warmth he wasn’t quite ready to join. Not yet. But maybe later. Maybe after one more moment to gather himself.
For now, he held on to the thought of Emma. Of Amélie. Of the truth that waited just beyond the fog.
***
The flat was quiet when Albus arrived, the warmth of the Burrow’s laughter still clinging faintly to his jumper like the scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke. But that warmth didn’t follow him inside. Emma’s flat was still and cool, dark save for the soft amber glow of a single lamp she always left on by the bookshelf—something about not liking to come home to shadows. He stepped inside without lighting the rest, toes curling out of habit on the worn rug, letting the door fall shut behind him with a soft click.
He didn’t bother changing, just toed off his shoes and headed straight for the bedroom. The room smelled faintly of rose tea and parchment—her scent—woven into the duvet, the pillows, the walls. His fingers brushed the side of the bed she always slept on before he settled onto hers. Her side was always warmer, as if it remembered her better than he ever could. He tucked his arm under the pillow, burying his face in it, breathing her in like it would soothe the restlessness still clawing at his chest.
His mind wouldn’t still. Even as exhaustion tugged at his limbs, his thoughts whirled like a storm: Amélie, the dead ends, the blurred clues, the silence. He thought of how Emma’s brow furrowed when she read the Veil texts, how she’d scribble notes until her fingers cramped, how fiercely she had fought to keep him sane when everything collapsed. He missed her. Fiercely.
And selfishly, he wanted her here tonight.
She’d gone to her family's place for an early Christmas celebration. He told her to go—he meant it—but now, lying in her bed, it felt like the apartment was missing its pulse. He hadn’t told her he was coming. He didn’t need to. Lately, he just... appeared here more than not. His own flat had become nothing more than a cupboard he visited out of guilt.
He let out a long breath and closed his eyes.
Then, he heard it—the front door clicking open.
He bolted upright, heart thudding once before his wand leapt into his hand. The instinct was fast, fierce, automatic. Too many nightmares had taught him not to ignore sounds in the dark.
A soft thud of boots being taken off.
Then silence.
And then a voice, hesitant:
“Albus?”
Emma.
Relief loosened something in his chest, and he exhaled so deeply he thought it might take the anxiety with it. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, padding barefoot down the hall. She was just slipping out of her coat, damp curls falling around her face, cheeks flushed with wind. Her eyes lit up the moment they met his.
“I thought you’d be at the Burrow,” she said gently.
“I was,” he murmured. “I just... didn’t want to go home.”
Emma set her bag down, smile softening. “So you came to mine. As usual.”
He gave a small shrug. “Yours smells better.”
“Because I clean,” she teased.
“Because it smells like you,” he said.
That quieted her.
She crossed the room and stood on her toes to press a soft kiss. “I’m glad you’re here.”
They pulled apart slowly—Emma’s fingers trailing down his arm until they dropped away entirely. For a moment, the only sound between them was the rustle of fabric and the low hum of the wind outside.
Albus searched her face, still dazed by the way she’d leaned into him, as though he was something solid. Something safe.
“I thought you were staying a few more days,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “With your mum.”
Emma exhaled sharply through her nose and leaned back against the edge of the kitchen table. “Yeah, that was the plan. Until dinner turned into a polite version of hell.”
“What happened?”
She gave him a look that was half-weary, half-irritated. “What always happens. Jacob opened his pompous mouth, Mum nodded sagely like he was quoting prophecy, and I got told I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Albus blinked. “Wait—Jacob? Your brother?”
Emma rolled her eyes. “The very same. Fresh off his latest excavation from Egypt and now somehow an expert on magical ethics, international policy, and Unspeakable protocol—despite having never worked a day in the Department of Mysteries.”
Albus tilted his head, expression softening. “What did he say?”
Emma crossed her arms, her tone laced with frustration—and underneath it, something thinner, more fragile. “He was being… a pretentious, condescending arse. Started talking about the Veil incident like it was an academic case study. Said the Department had handled it poorly— that I had handled it poorly—and that if we’d just been more ‘transparent,’ none of this international fallout would’ve happened.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “And Mum agreed. She always does. I said they didn’t know what it was like to be on the ground, and she said that’s exactly why I shouldn’t be involved—because I’m too ‘emotional.’”
Albus frowned, a shadow of anger flickering in his eyes. “That’s not fair.”
Emma shrugged, but there was a tightness in her jaw that betrayed how much it hurt. “It’s whatever. I said I wasn’t hungry anymore and packed my things.”
“You left over that?”
Emma’s mouth twisted. “Albus, that’s not just a one-time thing. It’s always like this. Jacob says something smug, Mum backs him up, and I’m the reckless one who’s just making things worse by having a spine.”
She looked up at him then, eyes tired but burning with defiance. “I’m not going to sit there and nod along while they make me feel like a foolish little girl with delusions of competence.”
Albus didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at her—really looked at her—and felt a deep, bitter twist in his chest. Because he knew that look in her eyes. The quiet fury. The exhaustion of not being heard. He saw it in his own mirror more times than he liked to admit.
“I’m glad you came,” he said finally.
Her expression flickered—surprised, vulnerable, maybe even a little relieved. She nodded once, slowly, like that permission meant more than she was ready to admit aloud.
“Anyway,” she said after a pause, dragging her sleeve across her cheek with an awkward sort of laugh, “that’s my dramatic family saga. Nothing like a peaceful homecoming, huh?”
Albus didn’t smile. “They were wrong, you know.”
Emma blinked. “About what?”
“About you not knowing anything.” He looked at her steadily. “You know more than most people I’ve met. You care more. You see more.”
There was a long silence. Her eyes searched his face, but this time, she didn’t look away.
“Thanks,” she said softly. “You always say the one thing I need to hear, don’t you?”
“I never know if it’s the right thing,” he admitted.
“It usually is.”
Then she stepped forward again—not to kiss him this time, but just to rest her head lightly against his shoulder, as if to anchor herself. Albus stood still, letting her lean there, and for a moment the world didn’t feel like such a mess.
***
They climbed into bed together, the quiet of the flat wrapping around them like a blanket. Emma pulled the duvet up to her chin and turned on her side to face him, her brows still faintly creased from the evening’s tension, though her voice was softer now.
“So… how was the family thing?” she asked, brushing a hand through her hair. “Did everyone behave themselves?”
Albus exhaled through a small laugh. “Shockingly, yeah. It was… nice, actually. James is out of hospital, so everyone was in a good mood. Mum kept crying into the gravy. Dad kept pretending he wasn’t crying too.”
Emma smiled. “That sounds like a nice Christmas, alright.”
“Not quite Christmas yet,” Albus said, glancing toward the window where the moonlight filtered in through the slats. “But it’s close enough. There were candles and mince pies and grandmum made over about six different puddings, so it definitely counts.”
Emma rolled closer and rested her head gently against his shoulder. “Was Rose there?”
“Yeah. She's huge now. Like— could-pop-any-second huge. I swear if someone sneezes too loudly around her, we’ll be rushing to St Mungo’s.”
Emma giggled into his chest.
“Scorpius was panicking the entire time,” Albus went on, smiling faintly. “He kept hovering like she was made of glass. Rose was about to hex him, I think.”
Emma sighed contentedly. “I bet she did.”
“Lily was there too. Just back from Hogwarts and talking enough for ten people. You’d have liked it. Everyone was happy, or pretending to be, and for once, it felt like the war wasn’t in the room with us.”
Emma was quiet for a moment, then murmured, “I wish I could’ve been there.”
Albus looked down at her. “I wish that too.”
He thought about saying more, about how he kept imagining introducing her—just showing her off, honestly—but something always stopped him. Not fear, or shame… just the way the air seemed to tighten around him when he thought of blending these two halves of his life. Like the world wasn’t quite ready to hold both.
Emma picked up on his silence and said gently, “It’s okay, you know. I get it. We’ll get there.”
“I want to,” Albus said softly.
“I know.”
She kissed his collarbone lightly, then nestled closer.
They lay in silence, listening to the faint hum of the city outside, the occasional car or owl winging past. Somewhere in the distance, church bells were marking the midnight hour. Christmas was nine days away.
Albus stared at the ceiling and let the rhythm of Emma’s breathing soothe him. He’d spent the last few weeks in a storm of confusion and frustration—Grimm’s games, the ICW standoff, the fruitless search for Amélie—but right now, here, it was quiet. Safe. Emma’s hair smelled like mint and jasmine. Her fingers had found his under the blanket.
“Do you think we’ll ever find her?” he whispered into the dark.
Emma didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, she simply reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze.
“We will,” she said quietly. “But not tonight. Tonight, we sleep.”
***
The knock came again—firm, measured, and entirely out of place in the stillness of their flat.
Albus stirred beneath the sheets, his brow furrowing as consciousness dragged him from sleep. The soft morning light filtered through the curtains in thin golden shafts, warming the edges of the bed. For a moment, he considered rolling over, burying his face in the pillow beside Emma’s shoulder, and letting the world wait.
But it didn’t.
The knock came again. Not a casual visitor. This was the knock of someone who wouldn’t go away.
Albus groaned softly, scrubbing a hand over his face. Beside him, Emma didn’t so much as twitch—she was curled on her side, her hair spilling over the pillow, her breathing slow and even. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand.
10:03 AM.
Merlin.
Another knock—sharper now. Less patience this time.
Albus sat up slowly, pushing the covers aside and shivering as the cool air met his bare skin. He reached for the dressing gown draped over the armchair, shrugging it on with a muttered sigh. The flat was silent apart from the rhythmic thud of knuckles on wood. Whoever was on the other side wasn’t going to give up easily.
He moved quietly, careful not to wake Emma as he stepped out of the bedroom and padded barefoot across the floor. The chill of the wooden boards seeped into his toes. The flat still smelled like last night’s dinner and lavender from Emma’s shampoo.
Another knock. He rolled his eyes.
“I’m coming,” he muttered under his breath.
As he reached the door, he paused—just for a second. Months of unease, of being watched, followed, accused, had left their mark. He tightened the belt of his robe and rested his hand briefly on the wand tucked beneath the edge of the coat rack.
Then he opened the door.
He saw six Aurors standing outside the door—six. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the corridor, taking up the entire width of the narrow hallway. Their robes were uncreased, their expressions unreadable, and their hands rested just close enough to their wands to make Albus's heart thud unpleasantly.
They looked exactly like how he'd once imagined them appearing at his door. And for a moment, the memory of cold stone floors and magical restraints wrapped itself around his nerves again.
His voice came out low and hesitant. “What’s the matter?”
He ran through ten thousand possible scenarios in his mind. Something had happened at the Ministry. Someone had been attacked. Maybe they were here for him again—maybe Grimm had twisted another thread, and this time no one would come to undo the knot. Or worse—maybe someone was hurt. His dad? James?—
The lead Auror—a broad-shouldered woman with a wand holster visible across her chest—stepped forward.
“Is this the residence of Emma Swift?” she asked, her tone clipped and formal.
Albus froze.
Something cold swept through his gut.
Albus asked again, slower this time, his voice just above a whisper.
“What’s going on?”
The tallest Auror stepped forward and handed him a piece of parchment. The Ministry’s wax seal caught the light like blood. Albus unfolded it with trembling fingers. His eyes raced across the lines—then stopped.
Name: Emma Swift.
Offense: Suspected affiliation with the Circle of Flame. Probable ties to Elias Grimm.
Signed and sealed by: Harry James Potter, Head of Magical Law and Enforcement.
The words blurred.
“No,” Albus breathed. “No, this has to be a mistake. This—this isn’t right.”
His father’s name glared back at him in dark green ink, stamped beneath the official Auror insignia. It wasn’t his dad’s handwriting—Albus knew it wasn’t. But the stamp was real. Unmistakable.
His stomach twisted so violently it hurt.
“I’m going to have to ask you to step aside,” the Auror said firmly, reaching toward the doorframe. “We have a legal warrant to enter and question Miss Swift, and search the premises.”
“No—wait—she’s sleeping, she doesn’t even—” Albus stammered, his hand still clutching the parchment like it might vanish if he held on tight enough. “She doesn’t know anything. You’ve got the wrong person—she works in the Department of Mysteries, for Merlin’s sake—she’s—”
Another Auror, a woman with grey eyes and a tight braid, stepped forward. “Exactly. That’s why we’re here.”
Albus felt the floor shift under him.
He stood there barefoot, a knot rising in his throat, still in his dressing gown—his heart pounding in his ears.
“I’m not letting you just barge in there and scare her—she’s not—she’s not involved in this. She’s not.” His voice cracked, uncertain now.
“Move,” the lead Auror said coldly.
And for a moment, Albus didn't.
He didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Then footsteps sounded behind him.
Emma’s sleepy voice, soft and drowsy. “Albus? What’s going on—who’s at the—?”
She stopped when she saw them.
Six Aurors in her doorway. Wands holstered but visible. Their expressions carved in stone.
The parchment slipped from Albus’s hand.
“Emma Swift?” the lead Auror asked sharply.
Emma blinked. Still in her oversized shirt, her hair tangled from sleep. She looked at Albus, confused. Then back at them.
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“You’re under investigation for suspected ties to Elias Grimm and the Circle of Flame. We have a warrant for questioning and a search of this property.”
Emma paled. “What?”
Albus stepped between them instinctively, voice low and shaking. “You can’t just accuse her of this. She hasn’t—she’s not one of them.”
“She’ll have a chance to prove that,” the Auror said. “Now stand aside, Mr. Potter.”
Albus looked at Emma.
Her eyes—wide and stunned—locked onto his. Something in her expression cracked.
And quietly, like a thread snapping inside his chest, Albus stepped aside.
The Aurors entered.
Emma didn’t move at first. She just stood there, frozen in the early morning stillness, as if her brain hadn’t caught up to her body yet. Her bare feet were rooted to the cold floor, her hands trembling at her sides.
“Please,” she said finally, voice small. “There has to be some mistake.”
But the Aurors didn’t stop. Two of them moved into the sitting room. Another conjured a glowing orb that floated toward the ceiling and cast a soft blue light over every surface, scanning for magical residue. The woman with the braid flicked her wand at the bookshelf, sending volumes flying from the shelves, one by one, each one landing with a sickening thud.
Emma flinched. Her mouth opened again—maybe to protest, maybe to scream—but nothing came out.
Albus watched, helpless, burning. He took a step toward her.
“Emma—”
But she was looking at him now. Not the Aurors. Him.
“You knew,” she whispered.
The words cut deeper than a curse.
“I didn’t,” Albus said quickly, stepping closer. “I swear—I didn’t know. I just woke up and they were—Emma, I didn’t—”
She shook her head, backing up. “But it has your dad’s signature. Your dad thinks I’m—”
“He didn’t write that warrant,” Albus said hoarsely. “I know he didn’t. I—I don’t know what this is, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It has to be Grimm. Or someone framing you to get to me—Emma, please believe me—”
“Enough,” the lead Auror snapped. “Mr. Potter, step away from the suspect.”
“She’s not a suspect!” Albus roared.
All six wands flew out, aimed at him in an instant. The air surged with sudden magic. Emma gasped.
He didn’t care.
Albus stood his ground, every nerve in his body pulsing, his fists clenched.
“If any of you point that wand at her,” he said through his teeth, “you’ll have a war on your hands.”
“Albus,” Emma said, louder this time. “Stop.”
He turned to her.
Her hands were raised now—not in fear, but in surrender. Her face was pale, but her voice was steady.
“Don’t make this worse,” she said softly.
His heart cracked.
“But—”
“I’ll go with them,” she said. “Let them question me. I have nothing to hide.”
Albus swallowed hard. The Aurors were already conjuring binding sigils and containment charms. One of them approached her with a small brass bracelet, etched with runes.
Emma lifted her arm without flinching.
The metal snapped shut around her wrist.
“Please,” she said again, this time to the room. “Just...don’t tear my home apart.”
The Aurors didn’t answer.
And Albus Potter, wand clenched uselessly in his hand, watched as the girl he loved was led away in chains, beneath a warrant that bore his father’s name.
And for the first time since he's with Emma—he didn’t know what to do.
Notes:
Sorry for the long absence—I’ve been swamped with work (and probably will be for a while), but I’ll do my best to keep updating! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Writing Harry’s speech was so tough—I honestly got secondhand embarrassment while proofing it. I didn’t even reread that part because I kept thinking, what am I writing, this sounds so cliché and awkward! So please forgive me if it feels a bit clunky.
There are quite a few loose ends in the story right now, and tying them up is my top priority. In the earlier chapters I wasn’t sure where this fic would go, but now I want to straighten out that mess. And as for Emma—don’t be mad! You know I had to go there eventually. Albus is not exactly destined for too many blissful days in a row, so… yeah.
As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts—your comments truly make my day. Thank you for reading! 💙
Chapter 56: When the Trust Broke
Chapter Text
They’d taken Emma.
The door still hung open, a cold breeze whispering through the frame like a ghost that had watched it all unfold. A few Aurors remained, combing through drawers and cabinets, overturning cushions, slicing open her books with silent Severing Charms. Their wands moved with cold efficiency, their faces carved from the same stone as the ones who’d just dragged her out.
Albus stood in the center of the wreckage, still in his dressing gown, barefoot on the splintering floorboards. He felt absurd—soft and vulnerable and stupidly human against the thunderstorm that had just torn through his world.
They hadn’t even let her change. They’d roused her from sleep and told her to raise her hands. Emma hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t asked why. She’d only looked at him once—her face pale, eyes wide with a wordless, breaking question.
And Albus had been too frozen to answer.
Now the flat was in pieces. The home she’d made with quiet tenderness—a tea mug still on the table, her books stacked in careful uneven towers—was being turned inside out.
He was still holding the warrant. His fingers trembled.
Suspected involvement in the Circle of Flame. Possible contact with Grimm.
The words blurred.
But what struck like lightning was the seal at the bottom. Not the name.
The stamp.
His father’s official seal.
Ministry authorization.
Authorization to tear Emma from him.
Albus’s stomach roiled.
Was it true?
Was Emma—Emma, who made his tea just the way he liked, who touched his hand when he couldn’t speak, who made the darkness of his days feel momentarily less unbearable—was she part of that ?
Had he been played again? Like Vance? Like the others?
No.
He crushed that thought like glass in his palm.
No.
Because if that were true, if Emma had betrayed him, if she had lied —then the ground beneath his feet was never real to begin with. He would rather fall than accept that.
But then why hadn’t his father told him?
Why hadn’t Harry warned him?
Unless… unless he didn’t know either.
Or worse, he did .
Albus’s jaw clenched. He looked around at the Aurors ravaging the bookshelves, uncorking ink bottles like they might hide secrets. One of them glanced at him but said nothing.
He suddenly felt alone in a war zone.
Just a ghost in a dressing gown.
He needed to act. He needed to find out what the hell was going on. Whether Emma was being framed—like he had been. Or whether—
No. He refused to think it.
He shoved on his boots, grabbed his wand, and stalked out into the hall, chest burning with anger and something colder underneath.
If his father had signed off on this without warning him—then he would demand answers.
Because if the Ministry was right, then Emma needed a miracle.
And if the Ministry was wrong—
Then Harry Potter had just helped destroy the only good thing Albus had left.
***
The Ministry atrium was pulsing with morning energy—officials in dark robes rushing between lifts, memos soaring through the air like restless birds, enchanted quills scribbling furiously on floating parchment. But Albus barely noticed any of it. His feet carried him swiftly through the marbled corridor, damp hair clinging to his neck, his wand stuffed hastily into the pocket of his borrowed dressing gown beneath a coat he’d only half-buttoned. He looked dishevelled, out of place—too frantic for the still, bureaucratic rhythm of the building.
He reached the Auror Headquarters first, shoving open the heavy door to Harry’s old office. Empty. The curtains were drawn, and the desk—normally brimming with clutter—was hauntingly still. Albus lingered for only a second before spinning on his heel and striding to the adjoining corridor.
Theia Hodges’s office was next. Her name gleamed in brass on the polished door, but when he tried the handle, it was locked. No hum of movement behind it, no shadows stirring beneath the crack of the door. He waited. Nothing. The nearby offices were mostly shut, the occupants evidently called away for some operation—or more likely, watching Emma’s interrogation unfold.
He didn’t waste more time.
The lifts groaned as they carried him upward, toward the highest level of the Ministry. Level One: Minister for Magic and Support Staff. Albus barely slowed as he approached the stately double doors that guarded Nathaniel Higgs's inner sanctum. Two guards stood there, not the usual administrative clerks but senior security officers with steel in their eyes.
“I need to speak to the Minister,” Albus said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Now.”
The guards didn’t move. One of them gave him a slow once-over—he probably recognized him, most people did—but made no motion to open the door.
“The Minister is not receiving unannounced visitors.”
Albus's hand clenched at his side. “This is about Emma Swift. She’s been arrested—taken this morning. You know why I’m here.”
They exchanged a brief glance, unreadable and measured.
“I said it’s urgent.”
Still no response. The taller of the two leaned slightly forward.
“You’ll need an appointment.”
Albus laughed, a bitter sound. “An appointment? My flat was raided this morning. Six Aurors took her. The place is being torn apart right now. You want me to sit here and schedule a meeting?”
His words echoed down the corridor. No one answered.
Albus stepped back, the surge of fury now giving way to a colder feeling, something darker. He could feel it pressing against his ribs, whispering things he didn’t want to believe. Emma… the Circle of Flame… Grimm. Lies. It had to be lies.
But why would his father sign the warrant?
His jaw tightened. The Ministry suddenly felt colder, more unfamiliar than it ever had.
Albus stepped away from the guards, heart pounding, fury dissolving into something far more corrosive—helplessness. The corridors around him buzzed with movement, but it all felt muffled, like he was watching the Ministry from the other side of glass. Emma was somewhere in this building. Interrogated. Judged. Possibly already condemned. And Harry wasn’t answering for it. Theia was missing. And Higgs—Higgs was hiding behind a door guarded like a fortress.
He pulled out his spellphone with shaking fingers. The metal edges were cold, smeared with residual flour from when he'd grabbed it off the kitchen table mid-chaos. He fumbled with the runes until the green-glow sigil for Logan Williamson shimmered on the screen.
He pressed it.
Nothing.
The phone clicked softly, trying to connect. Then again.
Still nothing.
It tried one more time, then dulled, returning to the contact screen. No response.
Albus stared at it, unmoving. Of course Logan wasn’t answering. It was early. Maybe he was in a meeting. Maybe he was ignoring him. Maybe—hell, maybe someone had reached Logan too.
The spellphone hung loosely in his hand now, forgotten. He leaned against the wall near the Minister’s office, one palm pressed flat to the cool, ancient stone. He felt like he was being shut out of something bigger—something carefully planned, cruelly executed, and rapidly spiraling out of his control.
A pair of witches passed by, whispering when they saw him, but he didn’t hear what they said. His thoughts were on Emma. On the way she looked when they took her—calm, dignified, not protesting even as they led her away like a prisoner.
Had she known?
Was she guilty?
Was he wrong about her?
Think like your father. He closed his eyes. Think like an Auror. But the image that came wasn’t of Harry with a wand drawn—it was Harry at, eyes hollow, saying, "You won't always see betrayal coming. Sometimes it’s the ones closest to you.”
He straightened. No. No—he wouldn’t let himself spiral. Not yet.
If Logan wouldn’t answer… then maybe there was someone else. Someone who could help. Someone who had to help.
The Ministry’s cold air clung to Albus’s skin like a curse as he stormed out the main atrium. He didn’t even stop to think. His hand clenched tighter around the spellphone, and with a sharp twist on the spot, he Disapparated.
The world folded around him, sound bending, his heart thudding in his ears.
He landed just outside the iron gates of the Malfoy estate.
The tall hedgerows and immaculate gravel drive stretched out under the early morning mist, silver dew beading along the sharp grass. The manor stood in its usual haunting grace, quiet and watchful, as though it had seen too many secrets already to be disturbed by one more.
He walked up the path quickly, breath catching in his throat. His dressing gown flapped behind him—he hadn’t even changed. His slippers were soaked from the grass. He didn’t care. The world could be burning.
He knocked. Once. Then again, harder. And again.
The door creaked open at last. A quiet house elf peeked through, eyes widening at the sight of him.
“Is he home?” Albus said breathlessly. “Is Draco—Mr. Malfoy—in?”
The elf nodded and vanished with a soft pop .
Albus stood trembling in the foyer until Draco Malfoy appeared moments later, dressed in elegant dark robes, hair perfectly in place, a steaming cup of tea in one hand. His expression was neutral at first—until he fully took in the sight of Albus, disheveled and pale, eyes raw with panic.
“Albus,” he said slowly. “You look like death. Come in.”
Albus stepped inside, trying to catch his breath. His voice cracked when he spoke.
“They took her.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
“Emma. The Aurors. They came to our flat this morning. They— They had a warrant. They dragged her to the Ministry, and they tore the place apart and I— I don’t know why. I don’t know if it’s about Grimm or the Veil or something else, but it was signed with my dad’s official stamp. I thought— I thought she was safe.”
Draco didn’t move, but his posture changed—shoulders squaring, voice quiet.
“Are you telling me you think she’s part of all this?”
“I don’t know what I’m telling you,” Albus snapped, then immediately softened. “I just— I need help. I didn’t know where else to go.”
Draco set the teacup down on a silver tray and crossed his arms, studying him.
“And why not go to your father?” he asked, with no small edge of bitterness. “You do remember the last time you came to me instead of Harry. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. In fact, if I recall, he thought I was manipulating you.”
“I tried ,” Albus said. “I went to his office first. He wasn’t there. Neither was Theia. I tried Higgs and got stonewalled. I called Logan—he didn’t answer. No one’s talking to me. I don’t even know if I’m allowed back into the interrogation wing without getting arrested for obstruction.”
He was spiraling, pacing now across the immaculate marble floor, hands in his hair. “I can’t lose her too. Not again. Not because of another secret. Not because someone else decided what she was worth.”
Draco didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Then he sighed—deep and weary, as though something in him had already known this moment was coming.
“All right,” he said.
Albus froze. “You’ll help?”
“I’ll help,” Draco repeated.
Draco led Albus into the drawing room, the soft click of his boots echoing against the polished floor. The fire was already burning—Malfoy Manor was never truly cold, but the air always held a touch of ancestral chill, and Draco had long since learned to light the hearth early.
“Sit,” he said quietly, gesturing to a low, plush sofa. Albus sank into it, still damp, still shaking slightly. His eyes darted to the fire, but didn’t focus.
Draco left without another word. A few minutes passed in silence—just the crackle of flames and the faint ticking of a longcase clock in the corner. Then Draco returned with a silver tray balanced neatly in his hands.
On it sat two delicate cups of steaming tea—loose-leaf Darjeeling, steeped with a precise hand—and a small bowl of sugar cubes and lemon slices. Draco set the tray down and poured with the quiet grace of a man used to control, to ritual. He handed Albus a cup without asking how he took it—milkless, no sugar. Just like Scorpius.
Albus took it with trembling fingers.
“Drink,” Draco said softly. “It’ll help.”
For a moment, Albus didn’t. Then he took a sip—and though it didn’t fix anything, it grounded him. The warmth moved through his chest, loosening the tight coil in his lungs.
Draco sat opposite him, legs crossed neatly, eyes studying the fire.
“You don’t need to explain,” he said after a long pause. “I know enough.”
Albus swallowed. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Draco gave him a wry, sad smile. “You always come here when the world goes mad.”
“That’s not true.”
“No?” Draco tilted his head. “You came to me when the Prophet smeared your name. When Scorpius and Rose went on a honeymoon and you were left behind. You came to me after James was hurt.”
Albus looked down into his tea.
“And you came to me now.” Draco leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You think I don’t know what that means? You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel like the only people you can’t talk to… are your own?”
Albus blinked fast. “She’s innocent. Emma. I know she is.”
“I believe you.”
Albus looked up sharply.
“But what if I’ve made it worse?” Albus whispered. “What if I dragged her into this? What if I’m the reason she’s—”
“Stop.” Draco’s tone was firm, but not unkind. “Breathe, Albus. You’re spiraling. You’re not going to help her like this.”
Albus ran a hand through his wet hair. “I tried calling Logan. He didn’t answer.”
“Good,” Draco said.
Albus blinked.
“He’s probably doing something useful, then. And if he’s not, I’ll make sure he is by the end of the day.” Draco sat back again. “But for now, you need to wait. Not forever. Not idly. But for the next few hours. Drink your tea. Breathe. Let me make a few quiet inquiries. We’ll know more by this evening.”
Albus didn’t move for a while.
Then, softly: “Why are you always so kind to me?”
Draco looked over, his expression unreadable.
“Because you remind me of someone,” he said quietly. “Someone who spent half his life carrying weight that was never his to bear. And because… if Scorpius was in trouble, and he didn’t come to me first…” He trailed off, then exhaled. “I’d want someone to take him in. Give him tea. Remind him to breathe.”
Albus stared at the fire, throat tight.
Draco rose and placed a hand on his shoulder—light, steady, and warm.
“You’re not alone, Albus. Not here.”
***
Harry couldn’t have chosen a worse day to fall sick.
The pain in his head pulsed steadily behind his eyes, dull and insistent, like a curse cast too close to the skull. His throat was sore, raw from a night of coughing, and the lingering chill in his bones made his skin feel tight and sore. Even the warmth of the long black formal robes did little to help. Ginny had tried to keep him home—she had sat at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed, her eyes unwavering.
“You’ll do no one any good if you collapse halfway through the day,” she’d said.
“I’ll be back by evening,” he had promised hoarsely.
But he had known it was a lie even as he said it.
He turned up at the Ministry just after noon, long after the atrium had filled with its usual noise—heels on marble, fireplaces crackling green, interdepartmental memos zooming like paper dragonflies through the air. He ignored the stares. Some were the usual—people still looked at Harry Potter as if he might glow if you caught him at the right angle—but others were more curious. Hesitant. After the events of the past few weeks, nothing about Harry's presence went unnoticed anymore.
His footsteps echoed more than usual as he made his way to the Minister’s office, a slight limp betraying the pain in his knees. The corridors were unusually quiet. Even the portraits seemed subdued. His badge clipped to his robes identified him plainly: Head of Magical Law Enforcement . But no one stopped to speak to him. Everyone knew today was not the day to ask Harry Potter about anything unrelated to the hunt for Grimm.
Nathan Higgs’s office was guarded, but the moment they saw Harry, the door was opened. He stepped into the high-ceilinged room, the scent of old parchment and lemon polish hitting his nose immediately, followed by the sharp sting of mint—Higgs’s preferred brand of tobacco, which he sometimes chewed when he was anxious.
Higgs was already at his desk, a silver tea tray floating beside him, steam curling lazily from the two cups. His hair was impeccably combed, and his posture military straight, but even he looked tired. As if the last few months had worn away the smooth political polish he usually wore like a second skin.
“You’re late,” Higgs said without looking up from the folder in front of him.
“I’m dying,” Harry croaked, his voice more gravel than words. He coughed into his elbow and dropped into the chair opposite Higgs.
“Your definition of dying is walking into the most secure office in the building with a flu,” Higgs muttered. Then he pushed a teacup toward Harry. “Drink that. I’m not having you collapse in here.”
Harry took the tea without comment. His fingers curled around the ceramic like it was a lifeline. The heat from the cup seeped into his palms, doing more to soothe him than any of the Pepper-Up potion he’d refused to take that morning. The warmth was grounding, and the silence between them stretched for several long moments—comfortably, like two men preparing to speak a truth neither particularly wanted to say.
Then Higgs closed the folder in front of him with a snap. “First phase of the operation is done.”
Harry blinked. “That fast?”
“They moved last night,” Higgs said. “Simultaneous sweeps at the designated departments. Magical surveillance did the rest. Three dozen suspects. Varying degrees of infiltration.”
“Three dozen,” Harry echoed. He took a slow sip of tea. It burned down his throat, but he welcomed the pain. “Inside the Ministry?”
“Some. Department of Magical Transport. Regulation of Magical Creatures. One—possibly two—in the Department of Mysteries. We’re still verifying. And seven at St Mungo’s.”
Harry’s stomach turned slightly. “Seven.”
“Yes,” Higgs said grimly. “Healers, nurses, administrative clerks. People with access. To potions, records, patients. The kind of access a man like Grimm would find very useful.”
Harry set his teacup down, the sound sharp against the wooden desk.
“Any arrests?”
Higgs shook his head. “Not yet. We’re watching. The directive was to identify and observe, not detain. Grimm’s network is dense—if we act too quickly, we risk losing the trail upward.”
Harry nodded slowly, but tension coiled inside his chest like a tightening rope. “You’re waiting to see if they lead us to the others.”
“To him,” Higgs corrected. “To the top. Vance was just the beginning. You and I both know that.”
Harry leaned back in the chair, eyes half-lidded from the fever, but his mind sharp despite it. “What about the magical signature analysis? Did MLE pick anything off the Veil explosion residue?”
“Too unstable,” Higgs said. “The unspeakables’ report was inconclusive. The magical blowback from the cursed fire disrupted almost everything. There’s no clear trace of who cast what.”
“Of course not,” Harry muttered bitterly.
The two men sat in silence again, broken only by the faint clink of Higgs setting down his own teacup. Outside the tall windows, the afternoon sunlight was beginning to wane. The city stretched far below—an illusion, courtesy of magical enchantments—but it looked real enough. The illusion of order, of control. But Harry knew better. Chaos was still seething beneath the surface.
He glanced at Higgs. “We need to start phase two as soon as possible.”
“We will,” Higgs replied. “But only if you stay upright long enough to approve it.”
Harry exhaled, long and slow, and looked down into his nearly empty teacup. His voice was barely above a whisper. “He’s ahead of us. We need to catch up.”
“We will,” Higgs said again. But this time, there was steel behind the words.
And Harry believed him—at least for now.
***
Albus Apparated just beyond the garden hedge of Sparrow Cottage, his boots crunching on the gravel path as he stormed toward the front door. The cottage sat quiet and familiar, its whitewashed walls and creeping ivy almost mocking in their calm.
He didn’t knock. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Ginny looked up from the sitting room, where she sat curled on the couch with a book and a steaming cup of tea. She blinked, surprised to see him. “Albus?”
“Is he here?” Albus asked, his voice too sharp.
Ginny’s brow creased. “No—he’s at the Ministry. With Higgs, I think. Something to do with that new task force—”
“Of course he is,” Albus muttered, coldly. “Probably too busy deciding who else’s life to ruin.”
“Albus!” Ginny stood, book forgotten. “What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his fists trembling at his sides. She moved toward him, alarmed now.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Albus said, too quickly.
“Albus, I’m your mother. Don’t do this. Tell me—”
“I said it’s nothing!” he snapped, more harshly than he meant to. Her face fell, just a little. Enough to make his stomach twist, but not enough to stop him.
“I’ll find him myself,” he muttered, already turning toward the door.
“Albus—”
But he was already gone, the crack of Apparition echoing in the hallway like a slammed door.
Albus pushed through the revolving golden gates of the Ministry of Magic, ignoring the enchanted lift that politely opened for him. He took the stairs instead—two at a time, fast and forceful, like his anger needed a physical outlet. He didn’t even bother with a Disillusionment Charm; let them all see him. Let them watch him storm down these halls like a curse barely contained.
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement corridor was quieter than usual, which only made his fury ring louder in his ears. The walls, lined with dull portraits of long-forgotten officials, seemed to narrow as he approached the familiar door.
His father’s name was still etched into the plaque beside it.
He forced himself to stop just outside and looked at the secretary sitting at her small desk to the right, quill scratching across parchment.
“Is he in?” Albus asked, his voice tight with something halfway between restrained rage and panic.
The secretary—Meredith, a thin, bespectacled woman who had always been unfailingly polite to him—looked up with a blink. “Mr. Potter? He’s not in his office just yet. He’s still with the Minister, but he should be back shortly.”
Albus didn’t respond. He just exhaled hard through his nose, jaw clenched. Then, without a word, he dropped into the stiff leather chair opposite her desk—just outside Harry’s door.
The moment he sat, the emotions crashed in all at once. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, but his leg began to bounce almost immediately. He tried to keep still. He failed.
His breathing was heavy. Not from the stairs. From the pressure building in his chest, in his skull. From the weight of everything that had happened in the last few hours—what he’d seen, what he’d realized. From the image of Grimm’s hand on Amélie’s shoulder still burned into his memory like a scar.
Why hadn’t Harry told him?
Why had no one warned him?
Why—after everything—did it feel like he was still being kept in the dark?
The waiting was unbearable.
The corridor's silence seemed to mock him. The low ticking of the magical clock. The faint flutter of papers. The soft, unnecessary humming of a Ministry intern who passed by, then paused awkwardly upon seeing him and hurried away.
He barely noticed.
His eyes were fixed on the floor, but his mind spiraled like a storm. Every terrible scenario raced through his thoughts: Was this some kind of game? Had Harry known about Emma all along? Had he done nothing? Had he chosen not to tell him—again?
His breath caught.
He stared at the door.
The same door he used to knock on with pride. The one that used to open with warmth.
Now it felt like the entrance to a courtroom.
He better have a good explanation.
Because if he didn’t—
Albus wasn’t sure what he’d say. Or what he’d do.
He waited, eyes closed, his breath shallow and sharp. The corridor was quiet in the way only government buildings could be—faint rustle of parchment behind closed doors, the occasional click of a shoe on stone. He sat stiffly in the visitor’s chair just outside Harry’s office, the cushions worn from decades of anxious waiting. Albus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head down, as if trying to hold himself together with posture alone.
His mind was spiralling—again.
Why didn’t he say anything?
Did he think I couldn’t handle it? That I didn’t deserve to know?
If Emma was with Grimm… if he always knew…
He clenched his jaw, pressing his eyes tighter shut. Every muscle in his body felt taut, wound to the breaking point.
Then, muffled footsteps echoed at the end of the corridor, followed by a harsh cough—dry and ragged, a sound like someone trying to clear dust from their lungs. Another cough. Then a voice:
“Meredith,” Harry said, his voice hoarse but casual, “I think I’m going to head out a little earlier. Just need a bit of—” Another cough, deeper this time. “—rest.”
Albus’s eyes opened slowly.
Harry’s boots came into view first, then the worn hem of his overcoat, then the face—tired, flushed, with a sheen of sweat along his brow. He looked pale beneath the scruff of his stubble. But when his eyes landed on Albus, something shifted in his expression.
Surprise. And then—worse—a touch of gentle curiosity.
“Albus,” he said, voice still raspy but warm, “What are you doing here?”
Albus stood slowly.
His heart was pounding too hard in his chest.
Harry’s expression didn’t change. No guardedness. No guilt. Just open, slightly amused concern—as though he hadn’t done anything. As though this was just a casual midday drop-in.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Albus took a breath, steadying himself. But his voice came out lower than he intended, tight.
“I needed to talk to you.”
Harry blinked. “Of course. Is everything alright?” His tone was still pleasant, still fatherly, but there was a slight falter beneath it—as if he’d only just now realized something was off.
Albus didn’t answer right away. He looked at Meredith, who had half-stood behind her desk, clearly uncertain whether to leave or stay.
“I—” Harry rubbed his temple. “Can we step inside? Just give me a minute to sit down. This flu’s bloody awful.”
Another cough tore through him before Albus could speak, and Meredith quickly said, “I’ll bring some pepper-up, sir,” before hurrying off down the hallway.
The door to Harry’s office opened with a creak.
He gestured for Albus to follow, completely unaware that his son’s hands were shaking at his sides.
Harry led the way into the office, still coughing into the crook of his arm. The room smelled faintly of ginger tea, ink, and the sharp tang of pepper-up potion that had long since burned out of his system. Papers lay scattered across his desk—files he hadn’t had time to sort, a cracked teacup half-full of something dark and forgotten. A knit scarf, clearly Ginny’s handiwork, lay draped over the back of his chair.
He lowered himself slowly into the seat with a small groan and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, wincing.
“This flu’s bloody awful,” he muttered, squinting at the light from the tall window. “Think I’ve got a fever again. Can barely see straight. And Higgs wouldn’t stop talking—went on for an hour about magical resource reallocation as if that’s remotely urgent right now. Meredith gave me another dose of potion but it’s barely touching it anymore.”
He looked up at Albus then, his eyes glassy but still kind.
“Sit down, Al. You look like you haven’t slept either.”
But Albus didn’t move.
He stood there, rigid, just inside the door, shoulders tense and hands still clenched at his sides. The soft golden light of the office fell across his face, catching the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the drawn set of his mouth. But Harry didn’t seem to see it.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples again.
“Really—just sit. I promise I’m listening, even if I look like I’m about to pass out.”
Still, Albus didn’t budge.
He didn’t want to sit. Couldn’t. The idea of relaxing into one of the leather chairs opposite Harry—of pretending this was a normal conversation between father and son—made something twist painfully in his chest. How could Harry look so calm? How could he be sick, distracted, talking about Higgs and fever when everything—everything—was coming apart?
Albus’s voice, when it finally came, was low and strained.
“You’re really sick?”
Harry gave a weak chuckle. “I’ll live. Hopefully. Your mum says it’s the worst she’s seen me in years. Apparently even the cat won’t come near me. You know how he gets when he smells pepper-up…”
But Albus didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink. He was staring at Harry like he was trying to solve a puzzle that had stopped making sense.
“I tried to find you for hours,” he said quietly.
Harry looked up again, slightly confused.
“I didn’t know you were coming. You didn’t send word.”
“No,” Albus said flatly. “I didn’t.”
Harry sat up a little straighter. A flicker of alertness—of attention —finally reached his eyes.
“You alright?” he asked again, this time more carefully. “Is something wrong?”
Albus didn’t answer. He was still standing. Still staring. The silence stretched, heavy and electric.
And finally, Harry leaned forward, eyes narrowing, trying to read his son’s face.
“Albus… what’s going on?”
Albus’s laugh was a sharp, brittle sound. “What’s going on?” He took a step forward, and the air in the room seemed to thin. “You. You’re what’s going on. You swoop in with your Auror’s badge and your Saviour’s guilt, but you never actually see me. You just see a problem to be solved. A mistake to be corrected.”
Harry flinched, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “That’s not true. I’m trying to understand—”
“You understand nothing!” Albus’s voice cracked, raw with a pain he’d held in for too long. “You don’t care about
me
. You care about your own conscience. Every time you show up, it’s not for me. It’s to quiet the voice in your head that whispers ‘failed father’.
You’re not protecting me, Dad. You’re performing an exorcism on your own guilt.”
Harry stared, his expression shifting from confusion to a dawning, horrible realization that the ground beneath his feet was not what he thought. “Albus,” he said, his voice low and careful, “if something has happened, please, just tell me. Let me help.”
“ Help ?” The word was a venomous spit. “You’ve already helped . You arrested her. You dragged her in for questioning like a common criminal.”
A blank, uncomprehending silence. “Arrested who?”
“EMMA!” Albus roared, the name tearing from his throat. “Emma Swift! My girlfriend! Was her name just another line on a report you skimmed? Another piece on your board you moved without a second thought?”
Harry’s face went pale, the colour draining away to leave his fever-flush stark and alarming. He blinked, his mind visibly racing through files and lists. “Emma was…? The operation… Albus, that day we brought in over fifty people for questioning. I signed a stack of warrants this high,” he said, holding his shaky hands a foot apart. “It was a coordinated strike across five departments. If I had known—if I had even the slightest idea she was important to you—I would have pulled her file myself. I would never have—”
“You’re never where you’re supposed to be!” Albus cried, cutting him off, unmoved by the logistical nightmare his father described. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. “Except when it’s time to play the hero. Too late. As always. She is the most important thing in my life, and you… you obliterated it without even noticing. Because she was just a name in a stack of fifty.”
“You never told me she was so important,” Harry said, the defence sounding weak and hollow even to his own ears. He was a General explaining a battlefield strategy to a soldier who had just lost a limb to its collateral damage.
“WHEN?” Albus screamed, the force of it shaking his frame. “When should I have told you? In between your crises? Your meetings? Your endless, bloody war on shadows? You were never listening! You only hear me when I’m already shattered!”
The silence that followed was absolute, choked with the ashes of Albus’s words. Harry could only stand there, hollowed out, watching as his son looked at him not with anger, but with a final, devastating disappointment. His explanation about the scale of the operation wasn't a defense; it was just more proof of his absence.
Albus’s voice dropped to a shattered whisper. “Don’t try to fix this. You can’t glue the pieces of a bomb back together.”
The door didn’t just slam. It detonated, leaving Harry alone in the ringing silence, the ghost of his son’s pain clinging to the air like smoke. His justification—fifty warrants—echoed in the empty room, not as an excuse, but as the perfect measure of his failure.
Harry didn’t follow.
He couldn’t.
He sat still, as if moving would make Albus’s words more real. “You didn’t save me. You saved yourself.” The words had cut deep — and the worst part was that Harry didn’t know if they were wrong.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
Meredith stepped in, holding a steaming goblet. “Pepperup Potion,” she said, her tone clipped, her eyes flicking briefly toward the door. “You look like you’ve been trampled by a hippogriff.”
Harry didn’t respond. His voice was low, rasping. “Bring me the file on Emma Swift’s arrest.”
Meredith blinked. “Swift?”
“Emma Swift. Unspeakable. She was brought in this morning. I want the file.”
She hesitated only a second longer before nodding. “Yes, sir.”
As the door closed behind her, Harry leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. His fingers were trembling. Albus had loved her. And I— He couldn’t even finish the thought.
A few minutes passed before Meredith returned with a thin black file, sealed with a red ribbon. She handed it to him wordlessly.
Harry undid the seal with stiff fingers and opened it.
Subject: Emma Swift
Department: Department of Mysteries
Status: Currently held under investigative detainment – Level Two clearance
Reason for Detainment:
"Subject was identified during a security sweep post-Veil breach. Immediate concern due to familial link to known Grimm affiliate, Marlowe Tamsin. Subject denied knowledge of mother’s activities. No magical traces connecting her to cult operations have been found yet, but surveillance is ongoing."
Relative of Interest:
Marlowe Tamsin – Mother.
Occupation: Mind Healer, St. Mungo’s.
Status: Under ICW surveillance. Grimm affiliation suspected and supported by three flagged communications with Berlin office. Evidence not yet sufficient for arrest."
Harry froze.
He read it again.
Marlowe Tamsin. Mother.
His mind reeled. No. No, that can’t be…
The same Marlowe who had guided him through sleepless nights, who had asked him, gently, about his fear of losing control. The woman who told him, “You’re still grieving. That doesn’t make you broken.”
His breath hitched.
“She’s her mother,” he said, more to himself than Meredith.
Meredith crossed her arms. “We didn’t think it would be relevant when she was brought in. Thought maybe it was a fluke. But when the Grimm connections to Tamsin became clearer… we couldn’t ignore it anymore.”
“And Emma?” Harry asked, voice brittle.
“She’s been in holding under observation. Didn’t resist. Said she’d cooperate.” Meredith hesitated, then added quietly, “But Albus was with her when she was taken in. He was there. He watched her get dragged out.”
Harry looked up sharply.
And in that moment, it all clicked. The rage in Albus’s voice. The hurt. “You took her from me.”
Harry had.
And he hadn’t even known it.
He had looked his son in the eye and expected understanding, when all the boy saw was betrayal.
Harry closed the file slowly, his throat dry.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
Meredith hesitated. “Holding chamber three. Secure wing. Want me to clear it?”
Harry stood up. “No. I’ll go to her.”
And he left, not with the stride of a war hero—but with the burdened steps of a father who finally understood what he’d broken.
***
The secure wing of the Ministry was quiet in the worst way—too still, too cold, the air pressing against Harry’s skin like damp stone. The corridor stretched long and grey before him, heavy with enchantments that dulled sound and stole warmth. It was the place they kept the people no one wanted to speak of, the ones brought in under suspicion too damning to ignore.
Harry moved quickly, his breath visible in the dim lighting. He passed locked doors, each marked only by a number and a small glowing orb above the handle—red for high security, blue for passive surveillance, and green for minimal threat. Most were red today. Most were full.
He reached the log post mounted beside the security desk. A flick of his wand summoned the roster: a list of names in glowing ink, hovering in the air like ghostly indictments.
Marlowe Tamsin. Jason Swift. Emma Swift.
The names glared at him like open wounds. Harry’s eyes lingered on Emma’s. His jaw tensed. He didn’t remember signing her name into this list. Too many had been pulled in during the operation—arrests made in the chaos, swept by the tides of suspicion. He hadn’t been watching close enough.
He turned to the name just above hers.
Marlowe Tamsin.
A chill licked his spine. She was in custody. That meant… it wasn’t just paranoia or Albus’s grief lashing out—it was real. Her mother had ties to Grimm. And now Emma was paying for it.
He moved down the corridor again, boots echoing dully on the stone, until he found the room.
Room 12.
Behind the reinforced door, the soft flicker of a monitoring charm danced on the iron frame. Marlowe was inside. A shadow passed across the pane of enchanted glass. She was pacing.
Harry didn’t go in.
Instead, he pressed a button near the door, activating the auror call rune. Moments later, the handle on the room beside hers turned and Auror Helene Vorn stepped out, rubbing her temples, a quill still tucked behind one ear.
She paused when she saw Harry. “Head Auror.”
“Is she talking?” Harry asked, his voice low.
Vorn glanced back toward the interrogation room, lips pressed thin. “Not much. Smooth as silk. Denies everything, calmly. But she’s not panicking. That’s what bothers me.”
Harry folded his arms. “Do you think she’s tied to Grimm?”
The auror nodded once. “There’s a pattern. Her visits to Germany match several known meetings of Grimm’s inner circle. She was part of a medical exchange years ago—left Britain for two years, then came back and opened that therapeutic practice. We traced some of the wards used in her office—they’re similar to the ones found around Grimm’s Berlin estate.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “So she’s not just a sympathiser.”
Vorn hesitated. “We don’t have direct proof yet. No message logs, no financial trails. But… yes, sir. High suspicion. She knows something. Probably more than she’s letting on.”
He looked again through the glass. Marlowe stood with her back to them now, hands folded, head bowed slightly as if in prayer or thought. Her composure was unnerving.
“And Emma? Her daughter?” he asked quietly.
Vorn glanced down at her clipboard. “Emma Swift was brought in under the precautionary clause. Standard protocol. Family connections, proximity, and her position in the Department of Mysteries flagged her.”
“She doesn’t even speak to her mother anymore.”
“Hard to prove that under a sweep. We had no time to be precise.”
Harry exhaled through his nose, barely containing the heat in his chest. Albus’s words came back to him, sharp and bitter: You only saved me to ease your guilt. You took the most important person I had.
He turned from the door, the air seeming to thicken around him.
“Clear Emma’s name,” he said to Vorn, voice low and hard. “Do it fast. I want her file re-evaluated tonight. And Jason Swift too.”
Vorn blinked. “But, sir, their magical traces—”
“I don’t care what flagged them,” Harry said sharply. “Emma Swift is not her mother. And we will not let Grimm destroy someone else’s life through shadows and guilt. Do you understand?”
Vorn stood straighter. “Yes, Mr Potter.”
Harry gave the interrogation room one last look. Marlowe Tamsin had turned. She stared through the glass as if she could see him.
He didn’t flinch.
Then he walked away, the silence pressing harder with every step.
The corridor to the administrative wing was quiet, but Harry’s mind was anything but. His boots echoed sharply against the stone floor, each step carrying the weight of betrayal, of foolish trust, of memories too raw to touch.
He had told her everything. Marlowe Tamsin—calm, composed, intelligent—had sat there with her quill poised and her eyes soft. Harry had spoken, not just about the war, or the dead, or the veil burning against his spine like a buried ember. No, he had spoken about Albus.
About the silence that had grown between them like a creeping vine. About how he couldn’t seem to find the words to reach his son, how everything he did—every warning, every protection—was misinterpreted, weaponised, flung back at him with bitterness in Albus’s voice and pain in his eyes.
He’d told her how afraid he was that Albus would end up like Tom Riddle. Or worse—forgotten, angry, used by someone more cunning. He had wept, once. Quietly. In her office with the blinds drawn and the fire gently crackling, he had admitted that sometimes he didn’t recognise his own child. And worse—he had admitted he didn’t know if Albus would mourn him if he died.
And all the while, she had sat across from him, nodding gently, offering him tea, asking just the right questions to make him peel himself apart like an onion. And now she was sitting in an interrogation room three floors below. Not a therapist. A spy. A follower of Grimm.
Harry stopped for a moment by a window, placing a hand against the cold glass. Outside, the Ministry courtyard was bathed in a silver haze. Aurors bustled back and forth, but they looked like shadows to him. He couldn’t feel the warmth of the torch sconces or the faint hum of security enchantments. He just saw her face.
Marlowe Tamsin. Not just a stranger who had fooled him—but someone who knew him better than most. She had seen the cracks in him. She had smiled and nodded and taken notes, and now those memories sat twisted in his gut like poison.
Had she told Grimm everything? Had she repeated his fears over wine and whispered conversation? Had she described, in detail, how Harry Potter—the great, lionhearted Harry Potter—had broken down over his son?
His fists clenched.
Albus. God, what if he found out? What if Albus learned just how much of their pain had been served up to Grimm like a feast?
And Emma. Arrested. Emma, who had never once flinched when Albus withdrew into himself. Emma, who had looked at his son like he was worth listening to. Like he mattered.
Emma, whose only crime was being Marlowe’s daughter.
Was she safe? Was she even awake? Was she crying out for someone to explain why she was in a cold Ministry cell?
He resumed walking, more like storming now, past startled clerks and junior Aurors who scuttled out of the way. He needed Hermione. Needed her sharpness. Her precision. Her absolute refusal to be fooled.
Because right now, Harry felt like a man walking through a maze where every turn led to Grimm. Every secret. Every crack in the wall. Every friend he thought he could trust.
Grimm knew everything. Had always known. He had taken the Elder Wand. Stolen Fawkes. Orchestrated the Veil disaster. Manipulated the ICW. Framed Albus. And now, he had peeled Harry open from the inside using the one person Harry had thought was safe to talk to.
Every word he’d said to Marlowe was now suspect. A confession offered up to the wrong gods.
He turned the last corner, Hermione’s door just ahead. His chest felt tight, and for a moment he paused, gathering himself.
If he told her, it would become real. The betrayal. The idiocy of it. The sheer depth of his miscalculation.
But he had to.
Because this wasn’t about guilt anymore.
This was war.
***
Albus paced back and forth in front of the interrogation rooms, his mind spinning in every direction, each thought more confused than the last. His stomach twisted as he glanced up at the frosted windows of the Ministry, his eyes following the movements of the Aurors who passed by, pretending they weren’t watching him, pretending they didn’t know the pain eating at him from the inside out.
He hadn’t seen Emma yet, but he knew she was in there. The hours seemed to stretch on endlessly, and each minute that passed was another stab to his already raw nerves. He couldn’t understand it—how had it come to this? Emma, who had always been so steadfast, so calm, was now behind those doors, under suspicion. Her mother’s connections with Grimm, the Circle of Flame—Albus had never thought it would come to this. He wanted to scream, to make sense of it, but all he could do was wait. And in that wait, his thoughts spiraled further, each possibility more terrifying than the last.
Then, the door to the interrogation room creaked open. Albus’s heart leaped in his chest.
Emma stepped out, her gaze unfocused, her shoulders hunched slightly as if the weight of the world had suddenly settled on her. She looked… different. Gone was the confident, steady woman he had shared moments with—gone was the soft smile she had so often flashed him in quiet moments. In her place was someone broken, someone who had been dragged through something terrifying, and had barely made it out the other side. Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers shaking slightly as they hovered near her, like they didn’t know where to land. Her face was pale, eyes glassy and distant.
Albus’s breath caught in his throat. Without thinking, he moved toward her, the instinct to comfort overwhelming. He reached her in a few quick steps, his hands coming up to gently grip her arms. "Emma..." he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "Are you alright?"
She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she just blinked at him, her eyes unfocused, like she wasn’t entirely sure who was standing in front of her. Albus squeezed her arms gently, his thumb brushing her skin, urging her to come back to him, to focus. “Emma, please… Talk to me.”
But she didn’t. She didn’t return the gesture. She didn’t hug him back, didn’t even seem to acknowledge him properly. Her gaze slid past him, her lips parting in a breathless sigh as she stepped back. The moment stretched out like an eternity between them.
Albus’s chest tightened painfully. What had they done to her? His mind raced—had they done something to her? Had they tortured her?
Before he could gather his thoughts, the heavy sound of footsteps caught his attention. His heart nearly stopped when he saw the next figure emerge from the door.
Jason. Emma’s older brother.
He was tall—so tall that he towered over Albus. A mountain of muscle, his frame broad and imposing. His face, usually strong and confident, looked just as shaken as Emma’s. His eyes were wide, scanning the hallway before locking on Emma.
Albus stepped back, watching as Emma’s eyes finally seemed to focus, her body straightening as she saw her brother. The moment she did, her face crumpled, and without another word, she rushed toward him. She threw herself into his arms, wrapping herself around him like a lifeline.
Jason caught her easily, his strong arms holding her tightly as she pressed her face into his chest, her body still trembling. His brow furrowed as he glanced over her head, his eyes flicking over Albus briefly, but his focus was entirely on Emma. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air.
Albus stood there, frozen, staring at them. His heart felt like it was being torn in two. The image of Emma, so vulnerable and fragile, clinging to her brother, was a painful contrast to the woman he had come to know. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to hold her. But the moment had slipped away from him, and all he could do now was watch as she and Jason held on to each other in a way he couldn’t be part of.
“What happened?” Jason asked softly, his voice deep and worried as he held Emma close.
Emma pulled back just a little, enough to look up at her brother’s face, her eyes filled with confusion and fear. “I… I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I don’t know what’s going on, Jason.”
Albus could only watch, unable to speak, unable to find the words. His own thoughts felt muddled, jumbled together in a way that didn’t make sense. He didn’t know what to say. Was Emma telling him the truth? Had she been part of this all along? Or was she a victim of circumstances beyond her control?
The questions rattled in his mind like stones in a jar, and as he stood there, he realized he didn’t have answers. He didn’t know who to trust, who was lying, and who was telling the truth.
And as the two siblings stood together, locked in their embrace, Albus was left on the outside, watching them, unable to bridge the gap.
Chapter 57: Invisible Chains
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sirius pushed open the kitchen door, his boots echoing softly against the floorboards. The scent of rosemary and roast chicken hit him first, followed by the warm hum of conversation. The dining room looked cozy, familiar—wooden chairs tucked in, firelight flickering against old photographs on the mantle.
At the table sat Ginny, her red hair tied back messily, a glass of wine in her hand. Beside her were James and Lily—his James and Lily—older now, with silver streaking James's temples and Lily’s laughter lines deeper, but still unmistakably them.
“Evening,” Sirius greeted, ruffling his hair on his way to his seat. “Quite the gathering. Thought I’d be late.”
“You are,” Ginny said lightly. “But the food forgives you.”
Sirius pulled out a chair and sat down, glancing around the table. “No James? Or Lily?”
Ginny shook her head. “Lily’s at her cousin's house and James' at Teddy’s tonight. Said they hadn’t had time to properly catch up.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Catching up, huh? You mean Quidditch stats and takeout?”
Ginny gave a tired smile. “Probably. But I’m not asking questions.”
Sirius reached for a bread roll. “And Harry?”
That question hung in the air a moment too long.
Ginny’s gaze didn’t leave her glass. She swirled it slowly before answering. “He’s not home.”
Sirius frowned. “Working late again?”
“Something like that.”
Lily Sr. shifted in her seat. “He’s been... preoccupied.”
James Sr. nodded slowly. “Hard to blame him. He’s carrying more than anyone should.”
“He always does,” Sirius muttered, tearing the bread in half. “You’d think after everything, he’d have learned to lean on someone now and then.”
The room was quiet again. Outside, wind rattled the windows gently. Inside, Sirius leaned back in his chair, eyes heavy with something older than tiredness.
The sound of cutlery tapping against plates was the only noise that filled the kitchen now. Whatever warmth had been sparked by food or flickering firelight had dulled into an uneasy quiet. Even Gavin, the cat. had stopped picking at his meal.
Sirius ate slowly, though the taste of food barely registered. His thoughts were half on Harry, half on the way Ginny's face had tightened when she spoke of him. Across the table, James Sr. buttered a roll in slow, methodical movements, as though trying to stretch the task longer than it needed to be. Lily Sr. sipped her tea, eyes unfocused, her mind clearly somewhere far away.
Then Sirius froze, knife still in his hand.
A flicker—movement in the corner of his eye. Just beyond the frost-covered window.
He turned sharply, eyes narrowing at the glass.
Outside, it was snowing lightly. The flakes fell slow and soft under the glow of the garden lanterns. But something had moved. Not a shadow or a tree.
Something darker.
Someone.
Sirius stood slowly. “Did any of you see that?”
The others looked up.
“See what?” James Sr. asked.
“There was someone. Outside the window.” He was already walking toward it, boots silent on the floor.
Lily Sr. craned her neck toward the glass and squinted through it. “Sirius, it’s snowing. Could’ve been a flake catching the light. Or a branch.”
“No,” he said sharply. “That wasn’t a trick of the snow.”
Ginny had already put down her fork and reached for her wand. “Harry’s cast at least a dozen protection wards around the property,” she said, rising. “Nothing gets through without an alarm.”
Sirius didn’t answer. His eyes scanned the white garden beyond the glass, every instinct in him crawling to the surface.
Lily stood up too, her wand clutched tightly in one hand. “Could it be... one of them?”
“I don’t know,” Ginny said quietly, moving toward the front door. “But no one comes this close to our wards by accident.”
James Sr. pushed his chair back and drew his wand with a deliberate movement. Lily followed. Sirius stepped closer to the window, his breath fogging up the glass. His voice was low but urgent. “Something’s out there. I swear on it.”
A gust of wind swept across the garden, shaking the trees.
But no alarms or flicker of the outer wards.
And yet… the uneasy silence felt too heavy now, like the air had turned brittle.
Ginny motioned with her wand and whispered, “Homenum Revelio.”
Nothing.
But Sirius’s knuckles were white around his wand now.
“Whatever it is,” he muttered, “it’s good at hiding.”
And without warning Sirius spun opened the backdoor and went outside, James following his lead.
The night air bit hard as Sirius and James stepped into the garden, snow swirling around them like ash. Sirius was first to spot the movement again—this time not a shadow, but a flicker of motion against the treeline. His hand snapped out, grabbing James’s arm and pointing.
“There.”
A figure. Thin, hunched slightly, staggering.
They moved swiftly but quietly, their boots leaving clean marks in the snow as they circled the garden toward the source. The man—if it was a man—was weaving slightly, as though disoriented or injured. His coat, a long grey thing, hung damp and clinging to him, dripping with melted snow. His hair was dark and plastered to his forehead. He was muttering—no, chanting —in a guttural voice.
“Do you hear that?” James murmured, wand drawn.
“Yeah,” Sirius said. “That sounds like German.”
“I don’t speak German.”
“Neither do I. But I know fear when I hear it.”
They crept closer. The man hadn’t noticed them yet—he was facing the house, eyes wide and unblinking, like he was in a trance. His skin was too pale, bluish from cold, but his hands moved in odd, rhythmic gestures. Like wandless spellwork—but broken.
“Stop right there!” Sirius barked, wand pointed straight at the figure’s back.
The man spun around, startled—his hands raised as if to ward something off. “ Bitte! Ich—ich bin nicht—bitte, hören Sie mir zu! ”
“English!” James snapped, stepping beside Sirius. “Speak English!”
“ Ich— ” The man staggered forward, eyes wide, breathing shallow. “ Sie beobachten mich… ”
“Do you understand us?” Sirius demanded. “Put your hands on your head!”
The man didn’t respond—just kept mumbling, his knees trembling. For a second, it looked like he might fall.
Then he lunged.
Fast, jerky—desperate.
“ Stupefy! ” Sirius shouted, sending a flash of red light that slammed into the man’s chest.
He crumpled instantly, falling hard onto the snow.
James rushed forward and kicked the wand—yes, there was a wand—out of the man’s hand. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, binding his wrists with a sharp flick of his own. “Who is he?”
“No idea,” Sirius said, eyes scanning the darkness. “But he wasn’t just wandering. He was watching the house.”
Sirius crouched beside the unconscious man. “He’s soaked through. Probably half-frozen. We need to get him inside before he dies of exposure.”
James hesitated. “He could be a trap.”
“Or he could be someone Grimm sent,” Sirius growled. “Either way, I want him awake and talking. Let’s go.”
Together, they hoisted the limp, light frame of the man between them. He was ice-cold to the touch. His coat was threadbare and smelled of stagnant water and pine. Whatever trail he’d followed had led him directly to their home, bypassing every alarm Harry had set—without triggering a single one.
“He wasn’t here by accident,” James muttered.
“No,” Sirius said grimly, pushing the door open with his shoulder. “He was sent. ”
Inside, the warmth hit like a wave. Ginny was already on her feet in the dining room, wand up. Lily had her wand drawn too
“Merlin’s beard—what happened?” Ginny demanded.
James shut the door behind them. “We found him at the edge of the garden. Speaking German. He tried to run.”
“Ran at us,” Sirius corrected. “Didn’t even notice the cold.”
“He’s freezing,” Lily Sr said, hurrying forward now with a blanket. “He needs Pepperup and a scan—”
“Later,” Sirius said sharply. “He talks first.”
Ginny stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “You think he’s one of Grimm’s?”
“I think he got here somehow, ” Sirius said, laying the man on the rug. “And I want to know how.”
The man groaned faintly as he stirred, lips twitching into another string of unintelligible German. His eyes fluttered, unfocused. Then locked on Sirius.
He screamed. High, thin, like a rabbit caught in a snare.
James raised his wand. “ Legilimens, ” he snapped, driving into the man’s mind with raw force.
The man jerked violently. Images flew—snow. A train. Forest. A mark. A letter. Fire. A blue bird. Then—
James was shoved out.
“Damn it!” he gasped, stepping back, panting. “He’s trained. Or cursed.”
The man’s eyes fluttered shut again.
Sirius stood over him, jaw tight.
“We need Harry,” he said.
Ginny nodded grimly. “I’ll floo him. Now.”
The man’s boots left faint wet streaks on the polished floor as Sirius and James dragged him into the study, his soaked coat shedding melting snow. He stumbled, knees nearly giving way, and James yanked him back upright with a firm grip on his collar. The man’s lips trembled—not just from cold, but something else. His breath came in quick bursts, words tumbling out in a panicked stream of German, unintelligible and low, like a chant. His eyes were wide, rimmed red, face drained of blood.
Lily lit the fireplace with a flick of her wand. A roar of heat burst into the room, licking the stone walls with warmth, but it didn’t touch the man. He looked half-dead. The flames cast sharp shadows on his face, revealing gaunt cheekbones and bluish skin that almost seemed translucent.
“Put him there,” Lily said tightly, pointing at the armchair near the fire.
Sirius shoved the man down. The legs of the chair scraped against the floor as the stranger slumped into it. His hands remained bound, twitching slightly, the rope wet from melted snow. His breath steamed in the firelight. His eyes flicked toward the windows, the door, even the corners of the ceiling—like he was looking for escape, or maybe something worse. Something that might come for him.
Sirius stood over him, wand drawn. James paced to the corner, glancing toward the hallway.
And then Harry came in.
He looked half-awake—flushed with fever, eyes shadowed, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. He was still in his dressing robe, wand already in hand. For a moment, he just stood there, taking in the scene: the bound man, the fire, the tension in Sirius’s stance. The silence was almost louder than the wind screaming outside.
Then Harry walked forward, slow, methodical, until he was in front of the man. He didn’t ask a question. He didn’t speak a word. He just raised his wand, and placed the tip directly on the man’s chest—right over his heart.
The man whimpered.
Harry’s green eyes, glassy from illness but sharp with something deeper, locked onto the man's.
“Look at me,” Harry said. His voice was hoarse. Heavy. Almost cold.
The man looked up.
For a long moment, no one moved. No one breathed.
Harry stared, deeper and deeper, boring into the man’s soul with a gaze that could’ve burned holes through steel. The tip of his wand pressed harder into the thin wool of the man’s coat. Somewhere behind Harry, Lily shifted uneasily. Even Sirius looked unnerved.
The man swallowed. He looked like he wanted to speak—but no words came. His mouth trembled.
Harry leaned forward slightly.
“You came here,” he said slowly, softly, dangerously, “through wards no one has ever broken. Do you know what that means?”
The man didn’t answer.
“Who sent you?”
Still nothing. Only a blink. A flicker of the eyes.
Harry’s grip on his wand tightened.
“Don’t lie to me,” he whispered. “Because I will know.”
The fire crackled behind them. James stood rigid by the doorway, muscles tight, gaze flicking between Harry and the man. Sirius didn’t move, but his wand hand was tense.
Harry drew in a breath and whispered a spell.
“Legilimens.”
The man flinched violently, eyes widening in pain. His body shuddered, teeth chattering, as Harry’s spell surged into his mind like a blade. Harry held the contact for only a few seconds—but it was enough. He pulled back sharply, as if scorched.
Then he stepped back, breathing hard, hand trembling slightly from fever and rage.
He said nothing.
But his expression—his eyes—said enough.
Ginny stepped into the study, her arms crossed, face pale from worry. “Harry?” she asked quietly. “What was that? What did you see?”
Harry didn’t answer.
His hand lowered from the man’s chest, but the tension in his body didn’t ease. He stood there, wand still drawn, breath ragged, eyes glassy not from sickness now—but fury. And something else. Dread.
“Harry,” Ginny said again, more firmly. “What is it? Tell us—”
But he didn’t turn to her. He turned away.
With slow, deliberate steps, Harry crossed the room, ignoring the crackle of fire and the flickering shadows dancing across his path. He went to the far wall—an old bookcase sat there, dusty and unused, with a heavy wooden cupboard built beneath it. Harry reached down, gripped the brass handle, and pulled it open with a creak.
Inside the cupboard was a Pensieve.
Swirling silver liquid sat quietly in the wide basin—identical to the one that once belonged to Dumbledore. Ginny’s breath caught. She hadn’t seen that thing in years. It had been kept locked away. She didn’t even know Harry still used it.
But what startled her more were the shelves lining the cupboard. Dozens—no, hundreds—of tiny glass vials lined every inch. Each one glowed faintly, softly, like captured moonlight. Some were labeled in Harry’s untidy scrawl. Others weren’t. A whole life’s worth of memories, categorized, archived, hidden.
Lily took a step forward, her eyes wide. “Harry… what is all this?”
Harry didn’t reply. He reached in, removed an empty vial, uncorked it, and then raised his wand to his temple. Ginny instinctively stepped toward him, but Sirius held her back.
A shimmering strand of silver memory peeled away from Harry’s temple as he pulled the wand back. The thread stretched and glowed—soft and strangely delicate. He guided it carefully into the vial. Another. And another. Each memory handled like it was too fragile to speak aloud.
James watched, unmoving.
Lily whispered, “Why those ones?”
But Harry still didn’t answer.
When he’d finished sealing the last vial, he returned to the man bound in the chair. The man was shaking now, his lips moving silently, almost like he was praying. His eyes darted between the people in the room—wild and unfocused—but when they landed on the Pensieve, something shifted.
Terror. Pure and bone-deep.
“No,” the man rasped. “Bitte… bitte nicht…”
Harry didn’t flinch. He raised his wand again.
“I need to know what you know,” he said.
The man tried to turn his head, but James was already behind him, holding him steady.
“Don’t fight,” Harry said, his voice low and tight. “You came here for a reason. You crossed through ancient blood wards, past protections no one should’ve breached. And whatever’s in your head is the key to why.”
With a practiced motion, Harry placed the tip of his wand to the man’s temple. The stranger thrashed once—violently—but James and Sirius held him down.
A thread of memory, darker and more tangled than Harry’s, pulled free. The magic resisted. It twisted. Flickered like it didn’t want to leave.
Ginny stepped closer to the fire, watching with growing horror. “Harry… are you sure—”
But she didn’t finish. The memory strand thickened, grew more chaotic as it left the man’s head, and Harry gritted his teeth as he siphoned it fully, sweating from both fever and the strain of the magic.
Finally, he guided the thread into a separate vial. The moment it sealed, the man sagged in the chair, gasping like something vital had been wrenched out of him.
Harry swayed slightly, dizzy. Ginny caught his arm.
“Sit down,” she whispered.
He didn’t. Instead, he stared at the two vials in his hands.
Then, without a word, he turned and stepped toward the Pensieve.
The fire crackled softly in the corner of the study, casting flickering shadows across the polished wood floor and old, dust-laced shelves. The room had gone utterly still, the kind of silence that made the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall feel loud, obtrusive. Harry stood over the Pensieve, his jaw tight, his fever-flushed face pale beneath the scruff of a growing beard. The glass vial in his hand trembled slightly as he lowered it into the swirling silvery pool of thought.
Everyone watched him.
Ginny, standing just behind him, still in her dressing gown, arms folded tightly across her chest. Lily sat curled in the far armchair, her wand in one hand, her eyes wide. James Sr. leaned against the fireplace, one hand white-knuckled on the mantle, and Sirius paced—back and forth, back and forth—until Harry lifted his gaze.
“I don’t know what I saw,” Harry said, voice raw. “The memories were in German.”
The quiet returned, heavier this time.
“But you’re sure?” Sirius asked, stopping mid-step.
Harry nodded once, curtly. “He’s Grimm’s.”
The man in question—thin, soaked, still trembling from the cold—was now slumped in the corner, bound by invisible cords. He wasn’t putting up a fight. He hadn’t even spoken since Harry had extracted the memory. His eyes had rolled back briefly during the spell, but now they stared emptily at the fire, lips twitching occasionally as if muttering prayers only he could hear.
James stepped forward. “Harry—how do you know ? If the memory wasn’t translated—?”
“Because I know the look,” Harry snapped. His voice cracked like a whip in the small space, silencing even the fire for a moment. “The way he looked at me when I pulled that memory—he wanted me to see it. Or someone did. Grimm’s people, they don’t always send messages by owl or Patronus. Sometimes they use memories as traps. Or warnings.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed. “Why would he let himself be caught then? Walk up to the house?”
“He didn’t come to be caught,” Sirius said slowly, turning toward the window. “He came to be seen .”
Lily whispered, “A message.”
Harry stepped away from the Pensieve and looked down at the vials still sitting on the shelf in the cupboard. Dozens of them. Each one a fragment of his mind, a catalog of pain and strategy, of faces long lost, of secrets too heavy to carry alone.
He rubbed his temples, exhaustion creeping into his bones again.
“I’ve got to get this translated,” he muttered. “The memory. I need someone fluent in German. Someone I trust.”
Another silence, then the sound of wood snapping in the fire. The bound man let out a soft, unintelligible murmur and closed his eyes again.
Ginny stepped forward. “What if it’s not just a warning? What if he’s part of something… now ?”
Harry didn’t answer.
He stared at the man for a long time, eyes dark and unreadable.
And then, quietly, he whispered, “Grimm knows where I am. He sent this man to remind me.” He turned toward the cupboard, pulled out a fresh vial, and whispered, “And I’m tired of always being reminded.”
He stood near the fire, a hand pressed to the side of the desk as though steadying himself. The fever had dulled a little, but his skin still bore a pale flush. The light glinted off the pensieve cabinet behind him, which now stood ajar — the silver surface of the basin rippling gently, holding stolen memories like secrets floating just out of reach.
At last, Harry turned, his jaw set, his expression unreadable.
“What I’m about to say…” His voice was low. Controlled. “Does not leave this room. Not under any circumstances. Not even by accident.”
He scanned their faces — Ginny, Sirius, Lily, James — measuring their attention. When no one objected, he flicked his wand again. A shimmering bubble surrounded the unconscious man, thickened until not even sound could penetrate. A silence charm folded in on itself.
Harry took a long breath. “Do you remember Aberforth?”
There was a slight shift in the room. They all nodded.
“He died a few years back,” Ginny said carefully, “heart trouble, wasn’t it?”
“So it seemed,” Harry said. He moved to a pile of papers on the desk — files he had apparently already prepared — and flipped one open with precision. “No autopsy was conducted. He was old, he lived quietly, and the healers chalked it up to natural causes. I thought so too. Then I went back.”
He lifted his eyes. “I had St. Mungo’s reopen the file, quietly. I reviewed the final potions report myself.”
Ginny crossed her arms slowly. “And?”
“It wasn’t heart failure. It was poison. Subtle. Highly unstable. Almost impossible to detect unless you know exactly what to look for.” He tapped the parchment once. “A mixture of powdered hellebore root and something much darker — something designed to mimic the symptoms of age.”
Lily Sr blinked, shaking her head slightly. “Why would anyone want to kill Aberforth?”
Harry’s mouth thinned. “Because Aberforth was the last person alive who knew everything about Grindelwald’s prison years. About Nurmengard. And about Dumbledore’s bloodline.”
There was a heavy pause.
Sirius leaned forward slightly, brows raised. “You think this has something to do with Grimm?”
Harry nodded once. “I don’t just think. I know.”
He turned toward Ginny. “Do you remember what happened during the duel? With Grimm — when Grimm's intentions were revealed?”
Ginny’s voice was cautious. “You said Fawkes appeared. Saved Grimm. And disappeared again.”
Harry stepped closer to the fire, speaking slowly. “Phoenixes don’t just appear for anyone. They’re not casual creatures. They bond for life, and only with people worthy of that bond. Fawkes was bonded to Albus Dumbledore.”
Ginny opened her mouth, but Harry held up a hand. “Not metaphorically or sentimentally. Magically. It was a magical bond. When Dumbledore died, Fawkes vanished. We assumed it was grief. But phoenixes don’t just die or disappear. They return to the bloodline. The family.”
There was a growing chill in the room now — one not from the winter outside.
Lily Sr stared at Harry. “You’re saying…”
“I’m saying Fawkes didn’t just save Grimm. He returned to him. Like a phoenix does to its bonded kin.”
Sirius’s lips parted slightly. “Grimm is a Dumbledore.”
Harry nodded. No one spoke.
James Sr finally let out a breath. “That’s impossible. We don’t even know if Aberforth or Albus had children.”
Harry didn’t blink. “So did Grimm. Until he showed up twenty-five years ago with no history. No trace. No known parents. But Fawkes found him.”
“And Aberforth?” Lily asked quietly.
Harry’s face darkened. “Aberforth was the only person alive who would have recognized the signs. The family likeness. The power. The… past.”
“And now he’s dead,” Ginny said grimly.
Harry looked down at the paper in his hands, then folded it with quiet precision.
“He’s dead because he knew. And now we’re facing someone who has the grace, the charm, phoenix loyalty, and a claim to Dumbledore’s legacy.”
The fire crackled.
Outside, snow began to fall again — soft and soundless.
Inside, no one moved.
Lily’s voice was barely above a whisper, brittle and tight with fear.
“What are we going to do now, Harry?”
The fire crackled in the study hearth, but its warmth did nothing to touch the chill spreading in the room. Sirius leaned forward, wand still in hand, his jaw clenched. James Sr. glanced between his son and his old friend, his fingers drumming silently on the armrest. The stranger in the corner remained suspended within the thick bubble charm Harry had cast, eerily still and unaware of the truth hanging heavy in the air.
Harry exhaled slowly, his fever-drenched skin still damp, but his eyes had the same old, flinty resolve that had carried him through war once before. He was pale, more exhausted than any of them had ever seen him, but there was something in him now—something raw and thunderous.
“Just today,” he said, his voice low, “we arrested twenty-three people. All of them working secretly for Grimm. Not just inside the Ministry—St. Mungo’s too. Department heads, Healers, Aurors, receptionists. People with clearance. People with access.”
Ginny looked stunned. “Twenty-three? In one day?”
Harry nodded. “We moved fast. Simultaneous raids at 4 a.m. The hit list was compiled by Hermione and Logan. We couldn’t risk a leak. We weren’t even sure who we could trust.”
Sirius let out a sharp breath, half a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “So Grimm’s been planting people for years. Building a shadow operation right under everyone’s noses.”
“Longer than we thought,” Harry said. “He’s not just manipulating policy. He’s been preparing a takeover. Quietly. Systematically. He has people in Spell Registry, International Magical Cooperation, Magical Transportation... they’re all over.”
“Why didn’t we see this sooner?” James Sr. asked. “How did he hide it all?”
Harry's gaze went to the fire, as though the answer were buried in its coals. “Because he didn’t move like a tyrant. He moved like a friend. A visionary. He won hearts before he touched legislation. He helped rewrite refugee laws. He gave speeches on magical equity. He charmed the ICW. And while we watched the stage—he was building something else backstage.”
Lily Sr. looked horrified. “And now?”
Harry turned to look at the stranger again. “Now we try to find out what part this one plays. I don’t know if he’s high-ranking or just another cog, but he was sent here. That means they’re watching us. Grimm knows I’m getting close.”
The fire hissed and popped, the only sound in the thick air until Sirius’ voice broke it.
“Also, Harry, he—” Sirius jerked his chin toward the thin, pale man huddled in the magical restraints. “He had a wand on him when we tackled him. Just… surrendered it. Didn’t even try to fight for it.”
Harry, who had been standing motionless near the Pensieve, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the study walls, slowly turned his head. The glassiness in his gaze snapped into razor-sharp focus, like a blade catching the light.
“A wand?” he said, voice low, almost dangerous. “Where?”
The sudden intensity made Sirius pause. “Er—probably outside,” he said with a frown. “James and I were carrying him, so we couldn’t pick it up.”
But Harry wasn’t listening anymore. The fever-flush across his face deepened, his breathing changing, shoulders tensing. He moved like a predator catching scent, crossing the room in three quick strides toward the door. His eyes were no longer dull with illness—they were alive, alight with a kind of wary hunger.
Ginny straightened from her place by the hearth. “Harry, what is it?”
He didn’t answer. His hand was already on the latch, yanking the door open to a rush of night air so cold it stung the skin. Snow swirled in under the threshold, the wind carrying a faint metallic tang that seemed to catch in his throat.
He stepped out onto the porch, scanning the whitened garden. There—half-buried near the dark line where the path vanished into the trees—a thin length of wood jutted from the drift, glinting faintly under the moonlight.
Harry’s steps were soundless over the snow. He crouched, gloved fingers brushing away the powder until the wand lay exposed in his palm. The moment his skin met the grain, a shiver ran through him, quick and deep, as if the magic in it were whispering directly to his bones.
It wasn’t just a wand.
His grip tightened. The wood felt familiar—uncomfortably so—and there was something else, something old, woven into its core. A thread of magic he’d felt only a handful of times in his life, and never without consequence.
Behind him, Sirius called his name again, but Harry didn’t turn. The snow fell heavier, muffling everything, as though the world itself was waiting for him to speak.
***
James Sirius Potter stepped into the Ministry’s dusty, ancient file room, the air thick with the smell of parchment and time. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Officially, he was still on medical leave from the Auror Department, and unofficially, he’d told his family he was spending the night at Teddy’s. But none of that mattered.
He had to know.
Two bloody months trapped in a hospital bed, spoon-fed the whitewashed version of events, had left him simmering with frustration. Every story he’d been told felt incomplete—rounded edges where there should have been jagged truth.
Now, leaning heavily on his cane, his limp dragging slightly with each step, he navigated the narrow aisles of shelves that seemed to stretch forever into the dim. Dust motes floated in the thin shafts of lamplight, settling on boxes labeled in fading ink. The guard outside had probably pitied him, or maybe simply recognized the name Potter and decided not to ask questions.
Either way, James didn’t care.
His fingers brushed over the spines of thick, cracked folders, eyes scanning for one name— Vance . The one person who might blow open the truth about the Veil blast. Somewhere in this labyrinth of paper and dust, the Ministry’s secrets were waiting for him.
And more importantly, he was looking for Amélie .
The name burned at the edge of his thoughts with every step he took deeper into the archives. It wasn’t just about the Veil, or Grimm, or any of the official reports—he had to know if she’d survived the blast.
The last time he’d seen her, things between them had been messy, words sharp where they should have been soft. He’d let the silence stretch for weeks afterward, convincing himself it was easier that way. But lying in a hospital bed, staring at the same ceiling day after day, he’d had too much time to replay it all.
He owed her more than this—not just the truth, but an apology for disappearing, for ghosting her when she might have needed him most.
His cane tapped lightly against the stone floor as he turned another corner, the shelves closing in around him like the walls of a maze. Somewhere in this room was her name, a file, a note—something that would tell him whether she was still out there, or if he was already too late.
Then he heard footsteps.
He froze, heart kicking hard against his ribs. Please, Merlin, not an Auror on rounds—and definitely not his dad. His mind raced through every excuse he could cobble together on short notice. Research assignment? Wrong room by mistake? Looking for the loo? None of them sounded remotely convincing.
The footsteps grew louder, steady and unhurried, until a pale beam of wandlight spilled around the end of the aisle. James squinted against it, raising his own wand instinctively.
The light shifted, catching on a familiar face.
“Hazel?” he blurted, relief and suspicion colliding in his voice.
Her dark eyes flicked over him, sharp as ever, before she let out a sigh. “Figures I’d find you here, Potter.”
Their wandlight crossed between them, glinting off the dust in the air, and James found himself grinning despite the situation. Out of everyone in the Auror Office, it just had to be Hazel Duarte.
But Hazel didn’t grin. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth tightening as the light caught the sharp angles of her face.
“You’re out of the hospital?” she asked, her tone flat but laced with something underneath—relief, maybe, or disbelief.
James’s grin faltered. “I am.”
“I know,” Hazel said, the words coming out with more bite than she probably meant.
James tilted his head, still leaning on his cane. “What’s the matter, Haze?”
“What’s the matter?” Hazel let out a short, incredulous snort. “You nearly got yourself killed, Potter, and you ask me what’s the matter ?” Her voice rose just enough to echo faintly in the dusty aisle, and for a moment the air between them felt hotter than the lamplight.
James gave her his most disarming smirk. “Well, on the bright side, I’m harder to kill than I look. And I already look indestructible.”
Hazel didn’t even blink.
Instead, she lowered her wand slightly, her expression softening just a fraction. “I came to visit you,” she said quietly. “More than once. But I couldn’t.”
James’s smile faded into something smaller, more guarded. “Yeah. Dad had this rule—no visitors outside family. Something about keeping things ‘controlled.’” He made air quotes with his free hand. “You know how he is. Can’t risk me being corrupted by dangerous influences like you.”
Hazel rolled her eyes, but her voice was still tight. “It wasn’t funny then, James. And it’s not funny now.”
James met her gaze, feeling the weight of her words despite himself. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint rustle of parchment somewhere deep in the archives.
James shifted his weight on the cane, the usual easy comeback dying on his tongue.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, the words low but sincere. “For not finding a way to let you in. For… making you wonder.”
Hazel’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, her expression unreadable in the dim light. “You scared the hell out of me, Potter,” she murmured.
“I scared the hell out of me too,” he admitted, a crooked smile ghosting across his face before fading again. “Guess I just… didn’t want you to see me like that. Half-conscious, hooked up to potions, looking like I’d lost a duel with a dragon.”
Hazel shook her head, but there was no real heat behind it. “You think I’d care about that?”
He shrugged, eyes dropping to the wandlight pooling on the dusty floor. “Maybe I didn’t want to find out.”
Hazel’s eyes flicked down, catching on the cane he was leaning so heavily on, then up to his face. Her brow furrowed.
“And the cane?” she asked, her tone hovering between concern and challenge. “You planning to make that a permanent fashion statement?”
James glanced at it, then back at her. “Thought it added character.”
She didn’t smile. “And your eye…” Her gaze lingered on his right one, the faint discoloration around it visible even in the low light. “It’s… different. Off-colour.”
James instinctively touched the skin beneath it, his fingers brushing the faint purplish hue that never quite faded. “Healer says it’s from the blast. Some magical scarring under the surface. Guess I’ll be stuck looking slightly lopsided forever.”
Hazel tilted her head, studying him. “You joke about it like it doesn’t bother you.”
“Yeah,” he said, forcing a small smirk. “That’s the trick, isn’t it?”
James straightened, forcing a brightness into his voice that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright, this is getting far too depressing for my taste,” he said with forced cheerfulness, clapping his free hand against his cane. “How about we get out of here before the dust gets into my lungs and I start sounding like a seventy-year-old smoker?”
Hazel arched an eyebrow, clearly not fooled by the sudden mood shift.
He pressed on quickly, partly to drive away the heaviness in the air—and partly to steer her away from asking why exactly he was prowling the archives in the first place. “Come on. Let’s go see our old shared cubicle. I haven’t set foot in it for months, and I’m dying to know if someone’s stolen my chair.”
Hazel gave him a long look, but after a beat, she nodded. “Fine. But if it’s full of your old snack wrappers, you’re cleaning it.”
“Deal,” James said, already limping toward the door, the thought of the familiar, messy little space tugging at something warm in his chest.
They reached the cubicle, the cramped little space exactly as James remembered it—papers stacked at odd angles, a coffee mug with a suspiciously green ring at the bottom, and the faint scent of ink and old parchment hanging in the air.
James dropped into his chair with a heavy sigh, the effort of even that short walk catching up to him. His cane clattered softly against the desk as he leaned back, running a hand over his face.
Hazel stood in the doorway, watching him.
“Don’t,” James said without looking up. “Don’t give me that pitying look.”
“I wasn’t,” Hazel replied evenly.
He glanced at her, searching her expression for any hint of sympathy, but found only that steady, assessing gaze she always had—serious, but not soft.
“Good,” he muttered, settling deeper into the chair. “Hate that look.”
“Then don’t expect me to give it,” she said, stepping inside and pulling up the other chair like she was reclaiming her side of the space.
James sank deeper into the chair, wincing slightly as the worn leather creaked beneath him. He glanced sideways at Hazel, who was already settled across the desk, arms crossed and eyes sharp.
“So,” he began, voice light but tinged with curiosity, “what’s the latest gossip around the office? Anyone finally figure out who keeps stealing Roger’s snacks? Or has that mystery become the new unsolved curse?”
Hazel didn’t smile. She just raised an eyebrow.
“Alright, alright,” James chuckled, wiggling his fingers in mock surrender. “How about—what’s going on with the team? Has Dan and Clive finally kissed each other.”
Still no reaction. Hazel’s expression was steady, unreadable.
He leaned forward, trying another angle. “Any new disasters I should brace myself for? Or just the usual paperwork avalanches and misfired spells?”
Hazel’s gaze didn’t waver. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, voice low but firm. “James, why are you really here?”
The lightness in the room drained away like mist. James felt the weight of her question settle over him, heavier than any file or report.
He swallowed, then forced a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Curiosity,” he said softly. “And maybe a little stubbornness.”
Hazel didn’t move, didn’t press further—at least, not yet. But the silence between them spoke volumes.
James met Hazel’s steady gaze, his voice dropping just enough to carry the weight beneath his words. “I have to know what’s really going on,” he said quietly. “All I’ve had so far are the whitewashed versions my family feeds me… or the Prophet’s exaggerated lies.”
He let the silence stretch for a moment, then added with a bitter half-smile, “Neither of them tell the whole story.”
Hazel’s eyes softened slightly, but she remained silent, letting him speak without interruption.
James shifted in his chair, the fatigue settling heavier now. “I can’t just sit back and trust what I’m told. Not after everything that’s happened.”
Hazel leaned back in her chair, studying him for a long moment. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken concerns.
"When are you coming back to work?" she asked finally, her voice carefully neutral.
James let out a laugh—sharp, bitter, completely devoid of humor. "I'd be bloody lucky if they don't put me on retirement after this injury."
The words hung in the air like a curse. Hazel's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes.
James stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if testing their functionality. "Let's be honest here, Hazel. I'm a cripple and half blind, and I'm mentally not fit for fieldwork. What use is an Auror who can barely walk without a cane and jumps at shadows?"
"Don't say it like that."
The sharpness in her voice made him look up. Hazel's jaw was set, her dark eyes flashing with something between anger and hurt.
"Like what?" James asked, though there was no real challenge in his tone—just exhaustion.
"Like you're already dead." Her voice was steady, but there was steel underneath. "Like you've given up."
James opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. He looked away, focusing on the stack of files on the desk rather than the intensity of her gaze.
"I'm just being realistic," he said quietly.
"No," Hazel said, leaning forward slightly. "You're being cruel. To yourself."
James's shoulders sagged. "Am I wrong, though?" He gestured vaguely at his leg, then touched the side of his face where the scars were still visible. "I can't chase suspects down dark alleys anymore. Half the time I can't even see what's coming from my right side properly."
"So?”
The simplicity of her response caught him off guard. He blinked at her.
"So?" he repeated. "Hazel, being an Auror isn't exactly a desk job—"
"Stone spends half his time behind a desk analyzing evidence," she interrupted. "Dawlish hasn't run anywhere in years—he coordinates raids from the command post. And your father—" She paused, then pressed on. "Your father has been doing more strategic work than fieldwork for ages."
James shook his head. "That's different. They chose that. They weren't forced into it because they're—"
"Experienced enough to be valuable in other ways?" Hazel finished. "Because that's what you are, James. Experienced. Not broken."
He looked at her for a long moment, searching her face. "When did you become so bloody optimistic?"
"When you became so bloody pessimistic," she shot back without missing a beat.
James felt a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
"Touché." Hazel's expression softened slightly.
"Look, I'm not saying it won't be different. But different doesn't mean over.”
James stared at his hands again, turning them over as if looking for answers in his palms. "The nightmares haven't stopped," he said quietly. "Sometimes I wake up thinking I'm back there, in that building. I can still smell the smoke."
Hazel didn't respond immediately. She just waited.
"How can I protect anyone when I can't even trust my own mind?" His voice was barely above a whisper now. "What if I freeze up? What if I make the wrong call because I'm seeing things that aren't there?"
"Then you'll deal with it," Hazel said simply. "Same way you're dealing with it now."
James looked up sharply. "I'm not dealing with it. I'm hiding in my parents' house, feeling sorry for myself."
"You're here, aren't you?" She gestured around the cramped cubicle. "You could have stayed home, wallowing. Instead, you dragged yourself down here on a cane because you needed to know the truth. That doesn't sound like giving up to me."
"It sounds like stupidity."
"Maybe." Hazel shrugged. "But it's your kind of stupidity. The kind that makes you a good Auror."
James was quiet for a long moment, processing her words. Outside their cubicle, he could hear the distant murmur of voices, the shuffle of papers, the ordinary sounds of the department carrying on without him.
"They'll want me to see the department counselor," he said eventually.
"Probably."
"Regular evaluations. Desk duty for months, maybe years."
"Probably," Hazel repeated.
"And you think that's enough? That I can just... come back from this?"
Hazel met his gaze steadily. "I think you won't know until you try."
James rubbed his temple, feeling the familiar ache behind his eyes that came with too much thinking. "What if I try and fail spectacularly? What if I have a breakdown in the middle of a case briefing, or freeze up when someone needs backup?"
"Then you'll have failed spectacularly," Hazel said matter-of-factly. "And we'll figure out what comes next."
He stared at her. "That's it? That's your pep talk?"
"Did you want me to lie to you?" She tilted her head. "Tell you everything will be fine and you'll be back to your old self in no time?"
"Maybe a little," James admitted with a weak laugh.
"Well, tough. You said you wanted the truth, not the whitewashed version." Hazel leaned back in her chair. "The truth is, you might fail. You might not be the same Auror you were before. But you might also surprise yourself."
James picked up a quill from the desk, twirling it between his fingers. "You really think they'd take me back? Even like this?"
"I think your father would have you back in a heartbeat," Hazel said. "The question is whether you want to come back."
The quill stilled in his hands. "Of course I want to come back."
"Do you?" Hazel's voice was gentle but probing. "Or do you just think you should want to come back because it's what everyone expects?"
James opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. The question hung in the air between them, more complex than he'd anticipated.
"I..." He trailed off, frowning. "I don't know anymore."
James was quiet for a long moment, still turning the quill over in his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, distant.
"I always looked up to my father when I was little," he said. "I used to wait by the window for him to come home. He'd walk through the door in that Auror uniform, looking tired but... pleased. Satisfied with himself. Like he'd made a difference that day."
Hazel watched him carefully, sensing the weight behind his words.
"I wanted that," James continued. "That feeling of knowing you'd done something that mattered. That you'd helped people, kept them safe." He let out a bitter laugh. "Seems naive now."
"Does it?" Hazel asked quietly.
James looked at her. "Doesn't it? Look where it got me. Look where it got him. Dad's been fighting this war against the dark for years, and what does he have to show for it? A son who can barely walk, another who hates him, and an enemy who's always three steps ahead."
"He has a family that's alive," Hazel said simply. "He has colleagues who respect him. He has cases solved and people saved."
"And nightmares. And guilt. And the weight of every decision he's ever made." James shook his head. "I used to think being an Auror was about being a hero. Now I think it's just about surviving long enough to make the hard choices."
"Maybe that's what being a hero actually is," Hazel said.
James looked at her sharply. "That's a depressing way to look at heroism."
"Is it?" Hazel shrugged. "Or is it just honest? Your father doesn't save the day with dramatic speeches and perfect timing. He shows up, does the work, makes the hard calls, and goes home to his family. Day after day, year after year. Even when it's ugly. Even when it hurts."
James was quiet, considering this.
"You know what I see when I look at him?" Hazel continued. "I see someone who's scared half the time but does his job anyway. Someone who's made mistakes and carries them, but still gets up the next morning and tries again."
"You're terrified of him," James pointed out.
Hazel's cheeks flushed slightly. "That's different. He's intimidating as hell in a professional capacity. But that doesn't mean I don't respect what he does."
James set the quill down, leaning back in his chair. "I just... I don't know if I can be like that. Strong enough to keep going when everything's falling apart."
"You've been doing it for months already," Hazel said. "Ever since the injury. You think sitting in that house, dealing with the nightmares, forcing yourself to get better—you think that's not strength?"
"It feels like weakness."
"Because you're doing it alone. In your head. Where no one can see it." Hazel leaned forward. "But I can see it, James. The fact that you're here, asking these questions instead of giving up entirely—that tells me everything I need to know about what kind of hero you'd be.”
James was quiet for a moment, absorbing her words. Then, despite everything, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"So what you're saying is, I'm already halfway to being a proper tragic hero? All I need now is a dramatic backstory and maybe a cape?"
Hazel rolled her eyes, but he caught the hint of relief in her expression at seeing him joke again.
"The cape would probably get caught in your cane," she said dryly.
"There goes my superhero career." James chuckled, then his expression grew more serious. "Thanks, Hazel. I mean it. For not... for not treating me like I'm made of glass."
"Don't get used to it," she replied, but there was warmth in her voice. "I still think you're an idiot for dragging yourself down here when you should be resting."
"Yeah, well," James grinned, "someone's got to keep you on your toes while I'm gone.”
***
Amélie sat rigidly in the high-backed chair, her hands folded protectively over her swollen belly. The room was eerily pristine—white walls, gleaming instruments, the sterile smell of healing potions hanging in the air. But beneath the clinical perfection, she could feel the wrongness of this place, the way shadows seemed to linger too long in the corners.
Grimm stood by the window, his back to the room, seemingly absorbed in whatever lay beyond the glass. The two healers—a stern-faced woman with graying hair and a younger man who wouldn't meet Amélie's eyes—flanked her chair like sentries.
"The examination confirms what we suspected," the woman said, her voice professionally detached. "The child is developing well, but Mademoiselle Faure's pelvic structure may present complications during delivery."
Amélie's breath hitched. She pressed her lips together, willing herself not to show fear.
The male healer cleared his throat nervously. "We recommend a series of preparatory potions beginning immediately—pain management draughts, muscle-relaxing elixirs, and if necessary, magical intervention during the birth itself."
"No." Grimm's voice cut through the air like a blade. He turned from the window, his pale eyes settling on Amélie with an intensity that made her skin crawl. "It will be natural. Completely natural."
"Sir," the female healer ventured carefully, "the risks—"
"Are irrelevant." Grimm stepped closer, his gaze never leaving Amélie's face. "This child carries ancient blood. Pure blood. It will not enter this world tainted by artificial magic or chemical interference."
Amélie found her voice, though it came out smaller than she intended. "What if something goes wrong?"
Grimm smiled, the expression cold and predatory. "Nothing will go wrong, ma petite. Nature will take its course, as it was meant to."
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Amélie alone in the sterile white room. For a moment, she sat frozen, listening to the retreating footsteps fade down the corridor. Only when the silence stretched long enough to feel safe did she allow the carefully held composure to crumble.
The tears came quietly at first—hot tracks down her cheeks that she wiped away with trembling fingers. But as the reality of her situation settled over her like a suffocating blanket, the sobs grew harder to contain.
She pressed both hands against her belly, feeling the baby shift restlessly inside her. "Je suis désolée," she whispered in French, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry, mon petit."
Six and a half months. She'd been here for months now, watching her body change, feeling life grow inside her while trapped in this gilded prison. The baby kicked, as if responding to her distress, and fresh tears spilled over.
"What does he want with you?" she murmured to her unborn child, stroking the curve of her stomach. "What kind of life..."
She couldn't finish the thought. The implications were too horrible, too final.
Amélie had stopped believing in rescue weeks ago. James didn't even know she was pregnant—didn't know she'd come to England to tell him. By now, he probably thought she was dead like everyone else. And maybe that would be kinder than the truth.
She closed her eyes, remembering the last normal moment she'd had—standing outside the Ministry, gathering courage to find James, to tell him about the baby. Then the world had exploded into chaos, and she'd woken up here, in Grimm's care.
Care. The word tasted bitter. He fed her well, gave her comfortable rooms, ensured she had everything she needed for the pregnancy. But she was still a prisoner. Still alone. Still terrified of what would happen when the baby came.
"I don't know how to protect you," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the empty room.
Amélie leaned back in the chair, her hand still resting on her belly as she stared at the pristine white ceiling. The baby kicked again, a gentle flutter that should have brought joy but only deepened the ache in her chest.
"If I had just..." she whispered, then stopped, the words catching in her throat.
She closed her eyes and let herself imagine it—what should have been. She would have found James that morning, before the Ministry, before the explosion. He would have been shocked, maybe even angry at first. But James... James would have done the right thing. He always did, underneath all his jokes and careless charm.
They would have figured it out together. Maybe a small wedding, nothing grand—Rose would have helped plan it, despite the awkward circumstances with Albus. They would have found a little house somewhere, maybe near his parents. James would have painted the nursery, probably gotten more paint on himself than the walls, making her laugh until her sides hurt.
The baby would have been born in St. Mungo's, surrounded by Healers who cared more about safety than purity. James would have held her hand through the pain, whispering encouragement and terrible jokes to distract her. His whole family would have crowded into the waiting room—even Albus, despite everything.
"Tu aurais été aimé," she murmured, switching to French as the tears came harder. "You would have been so loved, mon bébé."
Instead, her child would be born here, in this cold place, to serve purposes she couldn't even fathom. And James—if he was even still alive—would never know he had a son or daughter.
One day. If she had just waited one more day, or gone to him the night before, or been braver, or faster, or—
"Stop," she told herself firmly, but the alternate reality clung to her thoughts like a cruel dream
A soft pop echoed in the room, and Amélie quickly wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself. A small house elf appeared by the door, carrying a silver tray laden with what looked like a proper French meal.
"Mademoiselle Amélie," the elf said in a gentle voice, her large eyes immediately taking in Amélie's tear-stained face. "Pippa has brought your dinner.”
Amélie managed a weak smile. Of all the horrors in this place, Pippa was the one bright spot—always kind, always concerned, treating her like a person rather than a prisoner or a vessel.
"Merci, Pippa," Amélie said softly, attempting to straighten in her chair.
Pippa set the tray on the small table beside her, then hesitated. "Mademoiselle has been crying again," she observed quietly, not accusingly but with genuine worry. "The baby is making you sad?"
Amélie's hand moved instinctively to her belly. "Non, not the baby. Just... everything else."
The elf nodded knowingly, her large ears drooping slightly. "Pippa understands. This is not how babies should come into the world." She glanced nervously toward the door, then leaned closer. "But Pippa takes very good care of Mademoiselle. And when little one comes, Pippa will take good care of them too."
Something in the elf's tone—a fierce protectiveness—made fresh tears spring to Amélie's eyes. "You are too kind to me, Pippa."
"Mademoiselle deserves kindness," Pippa said firmly, arranging the food with careful attention. "Now, you must eat. Baby needs strength, and so does Mademoiselle."
The smell of the food—coq au vin, proper French bread, even a small tarte aux pommes—made Amélie's stomach rumble despite her despair. "How do you always know exactly what I'm craving?"
Pippa's expression brightened slightly. "House elves know these things. Is important to keep Mademoiselle happy and healthy.”
Amélie picked at the coq au vin, the rich sauce that should have been comforting instead sitting heavy in her stomach. She watched Pippa fussing over the arrangement of the bread, the elf's genuine care a stark contrast to everything else in this place.
"Pippa," Amélie said quietly, glancing toward the door. "Can I ask you something?"
The elf's ears perked up. "Of course, Mademoiselle."
Amélie set down her fork, her heart racing. "Could you... could you help me leave this place?"
Pippa went very still, her large eyes widening with what looked like fear. She wrung her small hands together, looking toward the door, then back at Amélie.
"Mademoiselle," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Pippa cannot... Pippa is bound to serve the Master. If Pippa helps Mademoiselle leave..." She shuddered, unable to finish the sentence.
"I understand," Amélie said quickly, seeing the terror in the elf's expression. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."
But Pippa stepped closer, conflict clear on her face. "Pippa wishes she could," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "Mademoiselle is kind and good, and this is no place for babies. But if Pippa disobeys..." She touched her chest, where Amélie knew the magical binding would be strongest.
"It would hurt you," Amélie said softly, understanding. "I won't ask again, Pippa. I promise."
The elf looked utterly miserable. "Pippa is so sorry, Mademoiselle. So very sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Amélie said firmly. "You've been the only light in this darkness. That's enough.”
Pippa's eyes filled with tears, and she wrung her hands more frantically. "But Mademoiselle shouldn't be here. Baby shouldn't be born in this place. Master, he..." She stopped abruptly, clamping her hands over her mouth as if she'd said too much.
"What about the Master?" Amélie leaned forward, her pulse quickening.
The elf shook her head violently. "Pippa cannot say. Is forbidden to speak of Master's plans." But her large eyes were full of anguish, as if the words were burning to get out.
Amélie reached out slowly, placing her hand gently on Pippa's small shoulder. "I understand. You've already done so much for me."
Pippa looked up at her with desperate eyes. "Pippa can bring extra blankets when baby comes. Can make sure room is warm. Can bring healing herbs that Master doesn't know about." Her voice dropped to the faintest whisper. "Small helps. Secret helps."
The offer was heartbreaking in its limitations, but Amélie felt a surge of gratitude anyway. "That would mean everything to me, Pippa."
The elf nodded quickly, then glanced toward the door again. "Mademoiselle must eat now. Must stay strong." She hesitated, then added in barely a breath, "For when chances come."
Amélie's heart skipped. "Chances?"
But Pippa was already backing away, shaking her head as if she'd said nothing at all. "Please eat, Mademoiselle. Pippa will return later for tray."
With another soft pop, she was gone, leaving Amélie alone with her racing thoughts and the faintest, most dangerous thing she'd felt in months: hope.
Notes:
If all goes well, I’ll be updating again this weekend—most likely Saturday! The next chapter is packed with angst and plenty of Harry/Albus drama. Some of you might end up hating me for it 😅 but I promise, if you have a little patience, it’ll all be worth it. Love you all! 💓
Chapter 58: No Time Left
Chapter Text
Harry stood in the narrow corridor outside the holding room, his hands pressed against the reinforced glass. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows, making everything look sickly and pale.
Inside the cell, the German man was barely recognizable as the figure they'd dragged in from the snow. He sat slumped against the far wall, magical restraints around his wrists and ankles, the chains glowing faintly with binding spells. His wet coat had been replaced with standard Ministry detention robes, but they hung loose on his gaunt frame.
The man's skin had taken on a grayish pallor, and his breathing was shallow, labored. Dark circles ringed his sunken eyes, and his lips had a bluish tinge that spoke of something far worse than exhaustion.
Harry frowned, studying the deterioration. It had only been two days since they'd brought him in. Two days, and he looked like he was dying.
"He's been like this since yesterday morning," came a voice behind him.
Harry turned to see Auror Mills approaching with a thick file under her arm.
"Any idea what's causing it?" Harry asked, not taking his eyes off the prisoner.
Mills shook her head. "The Healers can't find anything physically wrong with him. No poison, no curses they can detect. It's like he's just... fading."
Through the glass, the German man's head lolled to one side, and for a moment Harry thought he might have lost consciousness entirely. Then the man's eyes opened—pale, watery, and filled with what looked like resignation.
"Has he said anything yet?" Harry asked.
"Nothing coherent. Sometimes he mutters in German, but even the translators can't make sense of it. Mostly just... fragments."
Harry watched as the man's chest rose and fell with obvious effort. Whatever this was—illness, curse, or something else entirely—it was killing him slowly.
And with him might die any answers about Grimm's next move.
Harry pressed his palm against the cold glass, studying the dying man's face. The memory from that night flickered through his mind again—the brief glimpse he'd caught when he'd first extracted the German's memories before storing them in the Pensieve.
A teenage girl's face. Honey Blonde hair, delicate features, frightened eyes. The image had been fleeting, buried among fragments of German words and flashes of stone corridors, but it had stuck with him.
He knew that face. He was certain of it.
Harry closed his eyes, trying to pull the memory into sharper focus. Where had he seen her? The features were familiar in that maddening way that sat just beyond reach, like a word on the tip of his tongue.
"Sir?" Mills's voice broke through his concentration.
"The memories we extracted," Harry said, still staring at the prisoner. "Has anyone been through them properly yet? With a translator?"
"We've been waiting for you to review them first. Standard protocol for high-security extractions."
Harry nodded absently. That girl's face haunted him—young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with an expression that spoke of terror barely held in check. She'd been somewhere important, somewhere he should remember.
A wedding? A Ministry function? The memory felt recent, within the last month or two, but frustratingly vague.
The German man stirred slightly, his pale eyes opening to stare at nothing. His lips moved soundlessly, and Harry found himself leaning closer to the glass, as if proximity might help him understand.
"I need to see those memories," Harry said finally. "Now."
Mills nodded. "I'll have them brought to Pensieve Room Three."
As she walked away, Harry remained at the window, that familiar face cycling through his thoughts. Whoever she was, she was connected to this man, to Grimm's network.
And Harry had the unsettling feeling that time was running out to remember why he knew her.
Harry was turning away from the glass when a firm hand gripped his shoulder. "Potter."
He spun around to find Logan standing behind him, the man's expression grim.
Logan's usual composed demeanor was strained, and there was an urgency in his eyes that immediately put Harry on alert.
"Logan, I was just heading to—"
"I'm sure it can wait," Logan interrupted, his voice low but insistent.
"Not now, Logan," Harry said, trying to pull away from his grip. "I need to see those memories—"
"Harry, listen to me." Logan's voice carried that sharp edge that had made him formidable in courtrooms and insufferable in their past confrontations. "This is urgent."
Harry stopped, recognizing the tone. Logan didn't use that voice unless something was seriously wrong.
"What is it?"
Logan glanced around the corridor once more, then lowered his voice. "Your son came to see me this morning."
"Albus?" Harry's stomach tightened. "What did he want?"
"He wants to file a case against the Ministry," Logan said bluntly. "Wrongful detention. Unlawful arrest. The full works."
Harry felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. "For himself? Logan, we've been through this. If he sue now, it will be more media—"
"Not for himself," Logan interrupted, and something in his expression made Harry go very still. "For Emma Swift."
The words hit Harry like a physical blow. He stared at Logan, processing the implications.
"Emma Swift," he repeated slowly.
"Your son is in love with her, Harry. And he's convinced the Ministry—that you—deliberately targeted her to hurt him." Logan's voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes were watchful. "He's prepared to take this public. Press, ICW, the whole circus."
Harry leaned back against the wall, suddenly feeling every ache from his recent illness. "Christ."
"It gets worse," Logan said quietly. "He's not wrong about the optics.”
"Did you take the case?" Harry asked, though he already dreaded the answer.
Logan shook his head. "I didn't. Told him it would be a conflict of interest given my current work with the Ministry." He paused, his expression darkening. "But Harry, you know your son. Do you really think he's going to stop there?"
Harry closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. Of course Albus wouldn't stop. His son was nothing if not persistent when he felt wronged, and this... this was personal.
"He'll find another lawyer," Harry said quietly.
"He will. And there are plenty who'd love to take a high-profile case against the Ministry right now. Especially with everything that's happened." Logan's voice carried the weight of professional experience. "The timing couldn't be worse."
"Because of the ICW situation," Harry said, understanding immediately.
"Exactly. We're trying to build a case against Grimm, paint him as a rogue minister who's infiltrated the German government. The last thing we need is headlines about the British Ministry wrongfully detaining innocent civilians." Logan leaned closer. "Your son filing suit makes us look exactly like what Grimm's been claiming—overzealous, paranoid, willing to arrest anyone on suspicion."
Harry felt the walls closing in. Between the dying German prisoner, the mysterious girl's face in the memories, and now this...
"How long do you think we have?" he asked.
"Before he files? Days, maybe a week if we're lucky." Logan's expression was grim. "Before it becomes a PR nightmare that tanks our credibility with the ICW? The moment it hits the papers.”
Logan left with a curt nod, his footsteps echoing down the corridor as he headed back to whatever legal minefield awaited him. Harry remained standing against the wall, staring at the floor tiles as the weight of everything crashed down on him at once.
The German prisoner was dying in that cell, taking whatever secrets he held with him. Those memories—including the face of that girl he couldn't quite place—were sitting in Pensieve Room Three, waiting to be analyzed. Every minute they delayed could mean losing crucial intelligence about Grimm's next move.
Then there were all the people they'd arrested in the raids just days ago. A dozen suspected operatives now sitting in Ministry holding cells, each requiring interrogation, each potentially holding pieces of the puzzle. Among them was Marlowe Tamsin—his former mind healer, Emma's mother, the woman who knew his deepest vulnerabilities because he'd been stupid enough to trust her.
Harry's jaw clenched. He still hadn't told Ginny about Marlowe. How could he explain that the woman who'd helped him through his darkest moments, who knew about his nightmares, his guilt, his fears for his children—how could he tell his wife that she'd been feeding all of that directly to their enemy?
And now Albus wanted to sue the Ministry. For Emma Swift, the girl whose mother might be a traitor, the girl Albus loved and Harry had inadvertently destroyed.
Harry pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the fluorescent lights, the constant hum of the Ministry, the weight of a thousand different crises all demanding his immediate attention.
He couldn't be everywhere at once. Couldn't solve everything. But people kept expecting him to.
The corridor suddenly felt suffocating.
And then there was the Elder Wand.
Harry's hand unconsciously moved to his pocket, where his own wand rested—reliable, familiar, but not the most powerful wand in existence. That honor now belonged to the weapon they'd found clutched in the German intruder's frozen fingers, the same wand Harry had stupidly lost to Grimm in their last duel.
The Elder Wand. The Deathstick. The wand that had caused more bloodshed than any magical artifact in history.
Harry still couldn't fathom why Grimm had given it to this dying stranger. Why send the most powerful wand in the world with what appeared to be a suicide mission? The German had made no attempt to use it, had barely seemed aware he was carrying it. He'd stumbled through the snow like a man already dead, clutching the Elder Wand like it was just another piece of wood.
It made no sense. Grimm was many things—cunning, ruthless, always three steps ahead—but he wasn't wasteful. Every move he made served a purpose, often several purposes at once. So why give away his greatest weapon to a man who was clearly meant to be captured?
Unless that was the point.
Unless Grimm wanted Harry to have the wand back.
The thought sent a chill down Harry's spine that had nothing to do with the Ministry's air conditioning. What kind of trap required giving your enemy the Elder Wand? What was Grimm planning that made the most powerful weapon in existence expendable?
Harry pushed himself off the wall, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He needed those memories analyzed. He needed answers.
Because if Grimm was willing to sacrifice the Elder Wand, then whatever came next was going to be worse than anything they'd faced yet.
"Sir?"
Harry looked up to see Hazel standing at the end of the corridor, her expression professional but concerned. She held a file in her hands and was clearly trying to gauge his mood.
"The Pensieve room is ready, sir. The German's memories have been prepared for review."
Harry straightened, pushing himself away from the wall. "Delay that. I need you to come with me first."
"Sir?"
"We're going to interrogate Marlowe Tamsin."
Hazel's eyebrows rose slightly. "The mind healer? Sir, I'm just a second-year junior Auror. Shouldn't someone more senior—"
"No." Harry's voice was sharper than he intended. He caught himself, moderating his tone. "I want you there. You're observant, and you won't have any preconceptions about her."
What he didn't say was that he couldn't trust anyone else with this. Tamsin knew too much about him, about his family, about vulnerabilities he'd never shared with his colleagues. The fewer people who witnessed this interrogation, the better.
Hazel looked uncertain. "Sir, if this is about her suspected connections to Grimm, wouldn't Auror Mills or Auror Thompson be better suited—"
"It's not a request, Duarte." Harry was already walking toward the interrogation levels. "And everything said in that room stays between us. Understood?"
He could hear Hazel's quick footsteps behind him as she hurried to keep up. "Yes, sir. But sir... may I ask why me specifically?"
Harry didn't answer. How could he explain that he needed someone junior enough to follow orders without question, but sharp enough to catch details he might miss through his own emotional haze?
Someone who didn't know that Marlowe Tamsin had once been the only person he trusted with his deepest fears.
As they approached the holding cells, Harry stopped outside the corridor leading to Tamsin's room. "I want you to go in alone."
Hazel's steps faltered. "Sir?"
"I'll observe from outside, through the viewing window. But I need you to conduct the actual interrogation."
The color drained slightly from Hazel's face. "Sir, I... I've never led an interrogation of this level. She's a suspected high-value target, and I'm just—"
"A second-year junior Auror, yes, you've mentioned that." Harry turned to face her fully, his expression serious but encouraging. "Hazel, do you know why I chose you for this?"
She shook her head mutely.
"Because you're observant. You see things others miss. And because Tamsin won't see you as a threat." Harry's voice grew quieter. "She'll underestimate you, think she can manipulate you easily. That's when people make mistakes."
Hazel straightened slightly, though uncertainty still flickered in her eyes. "What if I mess it up?"
"You won't." Harry's confidence was genuine. "You've got good instincts. Trust them. Ask the questions that feel right, follow your gut when something doesn't add up." He paused. "And remember—she's not just someone's someone. She's suspected of working with the enemy. Don't let sympathy cloud your judgment."
Hazel took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "What specifically should I focus on?"
"Her connection to Grimm. How she got involved, what she's been feeding him, what she knows about current operations." Harry met her eyes. "But most importantly—find out what she knows about the girl."
"What girl?"
"You'll know when you see her reaction.”
Harry positioned himself at the one-way viewing window, then turned back to Hazel one last time.
"Remember," he said quietly, "start with the basics. Name, occupation, how long she's lived in Britain. Let her get comfortable, think she's in control of the conversation."
Hazel nodded, her hand resting on the door handle.
"When you move to the serious questions, watch her hands. Tamsin has a tell—when she's about to lie, she touches her left earring. It's subtle, but once you know to look for it..." Harry paused. "Also, she'll try to turn the conversation back on you. Make you feel like you're the one being analyzed. Don't let her."
"How do I stop that?"
"Keep redirecting. 'We're not here to talk about me, we're here to talk about your activities.' Be polite but firm. She responds better to respect than aggression."
Hazel took a steadying breath. "And if she asks for a lawyer?"
"She's entitled to one, but see how long you can keep her talking before she thinks to ask." Harry's expression grew more serious. "One more thing—if I tap on the glass twice, end the questioning immediately and come out. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Remember, you're not trying to break her in one session. You're gathering information, looking for inconsistencies, finding pressure points we can use later." Harry stepped back. "Trust your instincts, Hazel. You've got this."
With that, Hazel squared her shoulders, opened the door, and stepped into the interrogation room.
Harry moved to his position at the window, watching as his former therapist looked up with carefully controlled surprise at the young Auror entering her cell.
Through the one-way glass, Harry watched as Hazel entered the sterile interrogation room. Marlowe Tamsin sat at a metal table, her hands folded calmly in front of her. Even in Ministry detention robes, she maintained that composed, analytical demeanor Harry remembered so well—the same expression she'd worn during their therapy sessions.
"Ms. Tamsin," Hazel said, settling into the chair across from her. "I'm Auror Duarte. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
Marlowe's eyebrows rose slightly. "So young to be an Auror. You must be very talented."
Harry tensed. Already she was doing exactly what he'd warned about—turning the focus onto Hazel, trying to establish control.
"Let's focus on you," Hazel replied smoothly, consulting her notes. "Can you state your full name and occupation for the record?"
"Marlowe Elizabeth Tamsin. I'm a licensed mind healer, practicing in London for the past eight years."
"And how long have you been a resident of Britain?"
"More than twenty five years. I moved here from France after completing my advanced healing certification." Marlowe's voice was steady, professional. "May I ask what this is about? No one has explained why I've been detained."
Hazel didn't answer directly. "You have two children—Emma and Jason Swift. Different surname?"
"From my first marriage. Their father died when they were young." A flicker of genuine pain crossed Marlowe's features. "Emma works for the Ministry, actually. Perhaps you know her?"
Harry watched Hazel's reaction carefully. She kept her expression neutral.
"We'll get to that. Can you tell me about your client list, Ms. Tamsin? The nature of your practice?"
"I specialize in trauma counseling. War veterans, Aurors, people who've experienced significant magical accidents." Marlowe leaned forward slightly. "It's confidential work, as I'm sure you understand."
Harry's jaw clenched. She was already laying the groundwork for refusing to discuss specific clients.
"Of course," Hazel said. "But we're more interested in your activities outside your practice. Your travel patterns, for instance."
"Travel?" Marlowe looked genuinely confused. "I rarely leave London except for the occasional conference."
"No trips to Germany? France? Contact with foreign nationals?"
For just a split second, Harry caught it—Marlowe's left hand twitched toward her ear before she caught herself. The tell was still there.
"I attended a conference in Berlin last year," she said carefully. "European Council of Mind Healers. It was well-documented, completely legitimate."
Hazel made a note. "Anyone specific you met there?"
"Colleagues. Other healers. I can provide a list if necessary." Marlowe's voice had acquired a slight edge. "What exactly are you implying, Auror Duarte?"
"I'm not implying anything. Just gathering information." Hazel looked up from her notes, meeting Marlowe's gaze steadily. "Tell me about your relationship with anyone named Grimm."
The reaction was subtle but immediate. Marlowe's pupils dilated slightly, and her breathing became more controlled—the way someone breathes when they're fighting panic.
"I don't know anyone personally by that name," she said, but her hand moved toward her earring again before she stopped it.
Lie.
Hazel leaned forward, and Harry could see the inexperience beginning to show. "Ms. Tamsin, we have evidence connecting you to subversive activities against the British Ministry."
Harry winced. Too aggressive, too soon. Marlowe's expression immediately shifted, becoming more guarded.
"Evidence?" Marlowe's voice took on a clinical tone. "What sort of evidence?"
"That's classified," Hazel said, consulting her notes again. "But we know about your connections to—”
"Auror Duarte," Marlowe interrupted smoothly, "you seem very young for this sort of responsibility. Are you quite sure you're qualified to be handling an interrogation of this magnitude?"
Harry watched as Hazel's confidence visibly wavered. She was falling right into the trap.
"I'm perfectly qualified," Hazel said, but her voice had lost its earlier steadiness.
"Of course you are, dear." Marlowe's smile was patronizing. "Tell me, what made you want to become an Auror? It must be difficult, being so far from home. Portugal, isn't it? I can hear it in your accent."
"We're not here to discuss—" Hazel started, but she was flustered now.
"Such a dangerous job for someone so young. Your parents must worry terribly." Marlowe leaned back, completely in control now. "Do you have much experience with interrogations? Because I have to say, this feels rather... amateur."
Hazel's face flushed red. "Ms. Tamsin, I need you to answer my questions about—"
"Perhaps you should fetch someone more senior? Someone who actually knows what they're doing?"
That was it. Harry rapped twice on the glass, sharp and decisive.
Hazel looked toward the mirror, relief flooding her features. "This interview is concluded," she said quickly, gathering her notes with shaking hands.
As she headed for the door, Harry could hear Marlowe's parting shot: "Do send in a real Auror next time, won't you?”
Hazel stepped out of the interrogation room, her face flushed and her hands still trembling slightly as she clutched her notes. The door closed behind her with a soft click that seemed to echo in the narrow corridor.
Harry was waiting for her, arms crossed, his jaw tight. He tried to arrange his expression into something neutral, but the disappointment was written clearly across his face—in the way his eyes wouldn't quite meet hers, in the set of his shoulders, in the controlled way he was breathing.
"Sir, I—" Hazel started, her voice small.
"Not here," Harry said curtly, glancing toward the interrogation room where Marlowe was undoubtedly still listening. He gestured for Hazel to follow him down the corridor, away from the holding cells.
They walked in silence, Hazel's footsteps slightly uneven as she struggled to keep pace with Harry's longer strides. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed harsher somehow, casting everything in an unforgiving glare.
When they reached an empty conference room, Harry opened the door and waited for her to enter before closing it behind them. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken criticism.
"I know I messed up," Hazel said quietly, not looking at him.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, the gesture sharp with frustration. "She played you, Hazel. Completely."
"I know." Hazel's voice was barely above a whisper.
"You let her turn the entire interrogation around. By the end, she was interrogating you." Harry couldn't quite keep the edge out of his voice, despite his efforts.
Hazel flinched as if he'd slapped her.
Harry looked at Hazel's defeated posture—shoulders hunched, head down, notes still clutched in her trembling hands—and felt his frustration drain away, replaced by something closer to guilt.
He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. "Hazel."
She looked up reluctantly, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
"You did good," he said, his voice gentler now. "Better than you think."
"Sir, I completely lost control of that interrogation. She made me look like an idiot."
"She's had years of practice," Harry said, moving to lean against the conference table. "Marlowe Tamsin has been manipulating people professionally for over a decade. She's made fools of people far more experienced than you."
Hazel shook her head. "But I should have—"
"You should nothing." Harry's voice was firm but kind. "Do you know how many seasoned Aurors have walked out of rooms with her feeling exactly like you do right now? Questioning themselves, wondering how they got so turned around?"
He paused, thinking of his own therapy sessions, how easily Marlowe had gotten him to reveal things he'd never intended to share. How skillfully she'd made him feel understood while cataloguing his every weakness.
"People with twenty years of experience have sat across from her and come away wondering if they were the ones being analyzed instead of doing the analyzing," he continued. "Don't take it personally."
Hazel's grip on her notes loosened slightly. "Really?"
"Really." Harry met her eyes. "The fact that you recognized something was wrong and didn't just keep going? That shows good judgment. Some people would have doubled down and made it worse.”
"What should I do now, sir?" Hazel asked, her voice still shaky but more composed than before.
Harry considered for a moment. "Go back to the office. Review the arrest files for the other suspects we brought in during the raids. Cross-reference their known associates, look for patterns we might have missed." He handed her his notebook. "And pull everything we have on that Berlin conference Tamsin mentioned. I want dates, attendee lists, anything that might tell us who she really met there."
Hazel nodded, straightening slightly as she was given a concrete task. "Yes, sir."
"And Hazel?" Harry waited until she looked at him. "Good work today. I mean it."
After she left, Harry stood alone in the conference room, staring at the closed door. He should assign the Tamsin interrogation to Hodges, or Mills, or literally anyone else. Anyone who didn't have a personal history with her.
But he was already walking back toward the holding cells.
Why am I doing this? he asked himself as his footsteps echoed in the corridor. This is exactly what I shouldn't do.
He knew the answer, even as he tried to deny it. Because she had been inside his head. Because she knew things about him—about his family, his fears, his guilt—that he'd never told another living soul. Because somewhere in those carefully constructed therapy sessions, she'd been feeding every word directly to Grimm.
Harry paused outside her door, his hand on the handle. Through the small window, he could see Marlowe sitting calmly at the table, as if she'd been expecting him.
This is a mistake, his rational mind warned. She'll get under your skin. She'll use everything she knows against you.
But Harry pushed open the door anyway.
Marlowe looked up as he entered, and her carefully neutral expression shifted into something that might have been genuine surprise—or perfectly calculated performance.
"Hello, Harry," she said softly.
The sound of his first name in her voice hit him like a physical blow. In this sterile room, in these circumstances, it felt obscenely intimate.
"Ms. Tamsin," he replied, keeping his voice level as he took the seat Hazel had vacated.
"It's been what, six days since our last session?" Marlowe's tone was conversational, as if they were meeting for tea rather than an interrogation. "You look tired. Are you sleeping?"
Don't, Harry warned himself. Don't let her do this.
But even knowing it was manipulation, he felt the familiar pull of her voice, the way she'd always made him feel heard, understood.
"We're not here to discuss my sleep schedule," he said.
Marlowe smiled—that same gentle, knowing smile from their sessions. "No, I suppose we're not. Though I have to say, Harry, this is quite a change from our usual dynamic.”
Harry settled into the chair across from Marlowe, studying her composed expression. The fluorescent light cast harsh shadows across her face, but her eyes remained calm, watchful.
"What did you tell Grimm about me?" he asked directly.
Marlowe's expression didn't change. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Our sessions, Marlowe. The things I told you in confidence. What did you pass along?"
She leaned back slightly, her hands still folded on the table. "Harry, even if I knew someone by that name—which I don't—patient confidentiality would prevent me from discussing our sessions with anyone."
Harry watched her carefully. No tell this time, no movement toward her earring. Either she was getting better at controlling it, or she genuinely believed what she was saying. The thought that she might have been unknowingly manipulated herself occurred to him, but he pushed it aside.
"This conversation is off the record," Harry said quietly. "Whatever you tell me now isn't going to be admissible in court. No recording, no official transcript. Just you and me."
Something flickered in Marlowe's eyes—surprise, perhaps, or calculation.
"If you cooperate now," Harry continued, "if you help me understand what's really happening, I can make sure that's taken into account. But if I have to piece this together myself, if I have to assume the worst about your involvement..."
He let the implication hang in the air. Marlowe was silent for a long moment, her gaze searching his face as if trying to determine whether he was telling the truth.
"Off the record," she repeated slowly.
"Off the record," Harry confirmed.
Marlowe's hands moved slightly on the table, her fingers drumming once against the metal surface. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"What do you want to know?”
Harry leaned forward, his elbows pressing into the cold metal of the table. The dim light from the enchanted lantern above threw sharp shadows across Tamsin’s face, making her eyes glint in a way that felt almost taunting.
“What did you tell Grimm about my children?” His voice was quiet, but the weight in it was enough to push the air between them into something thick and suffocating.
Tamsin’s fingers drummed lightly on the tabletop, an idle rhythm that only made his pulse quicken. “Not much,” she said finally, her voice smooth, measured. “He wasn’t particularly interested in them.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “You expect me to believe that?”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips, not one of warmth but of calculated cruelty. “What do you think he’d want to know? How James is limping and too proud to admit how much pain he’s in? How your daughter buries herself in work because she’s afraid she’ll lose people the moment she slows down? Or maybe how your precious Albus—” she tilted her head, watching his reaction “—still carries that shadow you put on him like a second skin.”
Harry’s hands curled into fists on the table. “You don’t know anything about my children.”
“Oh, I know enough,” Tamsin murmured. “Enough to see how deep the cracks go. But Grimm… no, he didn’t care about the details. He only asked if they were a weakness you knew about or a weakness you refused to admit to yourself.” She paused, studying his face as though she was cataloguing every flicker of emotion. “And I told him the truth—about how much you hate yourself for being a father who couldn’t keep them untouched by all of this.”
The breath Harry dragged in was sharp, ragged. “You told him that?”
“I told him you think you’re a shit father,” she said plainly, leaning back in her chair. “And he laughed. That’s all he wanted from me—confirmation that the great Harry Potter sees himself as a failure at home. The rest… he can work out on his own.”
The silence that followed was molten, burning through both of them. Harry’s eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, he imagined what it would be like to wipe that knowing look off her face. But he didn’t move. He just let the silence sit, heavy and suffocating, until it was almost unbearable.
“You think that’s going to help him?” he said finally, his voice low and dangerous. “You think feeding him that’s going to make him stronger?”
Tamsin’s smile widened, slow and deliberate. “I think it already has.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed, but his tone stayed deceptively calm.
“Emma. Is she in on this too? Was she planted in my son’s life to keep him off-balance, make him trust the wrong people?”
Marlowe’s composure cracked instantly.
Her head snapped up, her gaze sharp and cold. “Leave Emma out of this,” she said, each word clipped and hard. “She has nothing to do with Grimm, or with any of this mess.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more of a hollow echo of one. “Oh, I see,” he said quietly. “When it’s your children, you suddenly find your claws. All that urgency. All that instinct to protect.”
Her jaw tightened. “This isn’t about my children.”
“Isn’t it?” Harry asked, voice low, steady, almost too controlled. “Because when I asked about mine, you didn’t flinch. You sat there, perfectly comfortable, dissecting what Grimm might know. You were clinical about it. Detached. But now—now you’re ready to bite my head off just for saying Emma’s name.”
Marlowe’s fingers curled against the tabletop. “Emma doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this. She’s innocent.”
Harry’s voice darkened. “So were my children. Until your master decided they were pawns.”
For a moment, the air between them was heavy enough to choke on. Marlowe’s eyes darted away, but her lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line. Harry studied her, every small twitch, every pause, the way her breath came quicker than before.
“You can tell yourself you’re loyal to Grimm,” he murmured, “but what I’m seeing right now? That’s a mother protecting her own. And maybe you should think about how far you’re willing to go before you realise what you’ve already done to someone else’s family.”
"It's for greater good." She said, unfazed.
Harry’s gaze darkened.
“Greater good,” he repeated, the words like shards of glass in his mouth. “Funny. That’s exactly what Grindelwald used to say before he burned half of Europe.”
Tamsin leaned forward on the narrow cot, hands clasped, eyes sharp. “You think I don’t know history? You think I don’t know the cost? This isn’t about power for its own sake. Grimm can bring stability—he can control what’s coming.”
“What’s coming?” Harry’s voice was low, dangerous. “The end of free will? The end of people deciding for themselves whether they live or die? You’re not saving anyone—you’re just building another prison.”
Tamsin’s mouth twisted. “And what have you done, Harry? Locked away the truth, buried it in the Department of Mysteries, lied to your own children because you were afraid they’d turn out like you.”
Harry took a step closer, so close the iron bars between them seemed irrelevant. His shadow fell over her. “We’re not talking about me.”
“Oh, but we are,” she said softly, almost with pity. “Because the reason you hate Grimm so much… is that he reminds you of yourself. The speeches, the followers, the sacrifices you tell yourself are worth it if enough people live to see the sunrise.”
He stared at her, jaw tight, but she pressed on.
“You call me a traitor, but I’ve simply chosen the side that might actually win. The side that can fix this broken world before it tears itself apart.”
Harry’s voice dropped to a growl. “No. You’ve chosen the side that tells you what you want to hear. And when it’s your children in the crossfire—suddenly it’s different, isn’t it?”
For the first time, her composure cracked—just for a heartbeat.
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly,” Harry cut in, a hollow smile pulling at his mouth. “When it’s my kids, you call it necessary. When it’s yours, it’s sacred. That’s the only difference.”
They stood there, locked in silence, her knuckles whitening on the edge of the cot, his breathing harsh through his nose. Somewhere down the corridor, a door slammed, but neither of them moved.
The air between them was sharp enough to cut.
Harry leaned forward, voice low but cutting. “You can walk out of here without a trial, Marlowe. You tell me everything you know—every plan, every order, every person Grimm’s got on his leash—and I’ll make sure you get immunity. I’ll protect you and your children from him.”
Her eyes flickered. It wasn’t disbelief—it was calculation. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers drumming against the wood. “Immunity,” she repeated, testing the word like she might find a trap hidden in its syllables.
“I’m not lying to you,” Harry said, the strain in his voice betraying the heat building under his calm. “You think I enjoy offering this? You think I want to give you a free pass after what you’ve done?” He shook his head slowly. “But I’ve buried enough people because they wouldn’t talk. I’m not burying anyone else—not Emma, not my son, not yours.”
Her gaze darted to the wall for half a second too long. Harry noticed. He always noticed.
“You think Grimm will protect them?” he pressed. “He won’t. The moment you’re no longer useful, you and your kids will be nothing but names on parchment in his drawer. I’ve seen the kind of loyalty he inspires—it’s a lie dressed in silk.”
Marlowe’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t speak. Harry leaned closer, so close that his breath stirred a lock of her hair.
“You can still make a choice that isn’t his. You can still make sure your children grow up in a world where they’re not just pawns in Grimm’s game. But that window’s closing, Marlowe. And when it closes, the only thing you’ll have left is the knowledge that you could have stopped him—and didn’t.”
Her lips parted, just barely, but no sound came out.
Marlowe’s mouth curled in a humourless smile, a sharp exhale through her nose carrying more contempt than laughter.
“You?” she said, her voice low and cutting. “You’re no one compared to him. Grimm doesn’t need to pretend to be powerful—he just is. And don’t act like you’re some noble saviour offering me a lifeline. You use people too, Harry. You always have. Even you admitted it to me.”
Harry’s jaw tightened.
“In those sessions, remember? You told me how many people have died for you—how you regret it, how it haunts you. You think they all did it out of pure loyalty? No, Harry. You pulled them in, made them part of your fight, whether they wanted to be or not. And they paid for it with their lives.”
Harry’s breathing quickened, fury prickling up his spine. His voice came out sharper than he intended.
“That’s not the same—”
“It’s exactly the same,” she cut across him. “Grimm, you—they both build armies, both make sacrifices sound like choices. And both of you sleep better at night thinking it’s for some greater purpose.”
Harry’s hands curled into fists on the table, the muscles in his forearms tightening. “You think you know me because you sat in a chair and wrote notes? You think hearing the worst of what I’ve lived through gives you the right to throw it in my face? I’ve carried every name, every face, every body with me for decades. I never once pretended they didn’t matter.”
Marlowe’s eyes gleamed with something between challenge and satisfaction, like she’d touched the exposed nerve she’d been aiming for all along.
Harry rose to his feet, shoulders squared but breath coming slower than he wanted. The air between them thickened, his jaw set in a line that promised this was no longer a conversation.
Marlowe leaned back in her chair, that knowing smile curling at the edges. “Deep breaths, Harry,” she said smoothly, as if they were back in her office and he was a patient on the verge of another confession. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t let your temper dictate the narrative—you’ve told me yourself how it clouds your judgment.”
Her tone was almost tender, but it was the kind of tenderness laced with mockery, the way a cat plays with a trapped mouse.
Harry was about to snap back, the words already burning on his tongue, when Theia’s voice rang through the room—sharp, urgent.
“Harry! Outside. Now.”
He froze, the tension in the air stretching like a drawn bowstring. Slowly, he turned back to Marlowe. The look he gave her was pure, unfiltered loathing—so cold and sharp it could have cut glass.
“You’ve made your choice,” he said, his voice low but carrying a lethal weight. “And now—no matter if you end up my son’s future mother-in-law—I’m coming after you.”
Her smirk didn’t falter, but a faint flicker crossed her eyes—just for a heartbeat. Then Harry turned on his heel, the door swinging shut behind him with a slam.
Harry strode out of the room, his boots hitting the corridor floor with hard, clipped steps. The door swung shut behind him with a sharp snap.
Theia was standing near the far wall, her expression tight, one hand clutching a folded document so hard the edges were crumpled. She didn’t even bother with a greeting—just thrust the parchment into his hands.
He took it, frowning, and began to read. The words seemed to burn into his vision, each line worse than the last. Halfway through, his eyes darted up to meet hers.
"Logan said we still had a few days," Harry said, voice low but edged with disbelief.
Theia shook her head, a grim set to her mouth. "Well… he was wrong." She glanced over her shoulder, lowering her voice even further. "And now the clock’s run out. What are we going to do?”
Harry didn’t answer straight away. His gaze fell back to the parchment, scanning the same sentence over and over as if somehow the meaning might change. But it didn’t. The reality was fixed, unyielding.
For a moment, the sounds of the corridor—the distant hum of the lift, the faint scratch of a quill from an open office—faded into a suffocating silence between them.
Theia stepped closer. "Harry?"
He slowly lifted his eyes from the page. And for perhaps the first time in his life—after battlefields, dark lords, and decades of crises—there was no immediate plan forming behind them. No instinctual path forward.
"I don’t know," he said at last, his voice barely audible. He looked up, not at Theia but at the high Ministry ceiling as if it might offer an answer. But the ceiling, like the parchment in his hand, remained stubbornly silent
***
Harry Apparated directly to the edge of Sparrow Cottage, the familiar pop echoing across the snow-covered garden. Fat flakes were falling steadily, coating the bare branches of the old oak tree and muffling all sound except for his ragged breathing.
Harry's hands shook as he pushed through the garden gate, his feet slipping slightly on the snow-slicked path. The cottage looked warm and inviting with golden light spilling from the windows, completely at odds with the chaos consuming his professional life.
He burst through the front door without bothering to knock, snow falling from his robes onto the worn carpet.
"Lily!" he called out, his voice sharper than he'd intended.
His youngest daughter appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, looking up from what appeared to be holiday decorating—tinsel was draped around her shoulders like a feathered boa, and she had a smudge of glittering gold on her cheek.
"Dad?" She looked startled by his abrupt entrance, taking in his wild expression and the snow melting at his feet. "What's wrong?"
"Where's your mother?" Harry asked, already moving toward the stairs.
"She's in the kitchen with Grandmum, making mince pies for tomorrow." Lily's voice carried a note of concern. "Dad, you look terrible. What's happened?"
But Harry was already heading toward the back of the house, his footsteps heavy on the old floorboards, leaving wet prints in his wake.
He burst into the kitchen, his boots still dripping snow onto the flagstone floor. The warm air hit him like a wall—scented with cinnamon and nutmeg from the mince pies cooling on the counter. Ginny and her mother were standing at the old wooden table, flour dusting their aprons, both looking up in alarm at his dramatic entrance.
Without a word, Harry pulled out his checkbook from his inner robes pocket and thrust it toward Ginny.
"Take this," he said breathlessly.
Ginny stared at the checkbook, then at his face, flour-covered hands hovering uncertainly. "What is it? Why are you giving me this?"
"Go to the Daily Prophet offices. Now." Harry's voice was urgent, desperate. "Pay them whatever they want to hold off publishing the story."
"What story?" Ginny asked, alarm creeping into her voice. Mrs. Weasley had gone very still, her eyes darting between them.
Harry ran his hands through his wet hair, leaving it even more disheveled. "They'll know. Just... just tell them it's about the wrongful detention case. Tell them Harry Potter is willing to pay any amount to keep it quiet until after Christmas."
"Harry," Ginny said slowly, taking the checkbook but not looking away from his face, "what wrongful detention case?"
The kitchen fell silent except for the soft bubbling of something on the stove and the gentle tick of the old clock on the mantel. Even the snow outside seemed to hush, as if the whole world was waiting for his answer.
"Albus filed suit against the Ministry this morning," Harry said quietly. "Against me.”
The color drained from Ginny's face as the implications hit her.
"Why would he do that?" Ginny's voice was barely a whisper. "There must be some misunderstanding. Albus wouldn't—"
Harry let out a bitter laugh that held no humor whatsoever. "A misunderstanding? Ginny, he's accusing me of deliberately targeting his girlfriend to hurt him. He thinks I'm some vindictive bastard who'd abuse my position to destroy his happiness."
Molly gasped softly from the counter, her flour-covered hands flying to her mouth.
"There has to be more to it," Ginny insisted, though her voice wavered. "He's angry, yes, but filing suit? That's not like him."
"Isn't it?" Harry's eyes were hard, cold in a way Ginny hadn't seen in years. "He punched James at Rose's wedding. He's spent months telling anyone who'll listen that I'm a terrible father. Now he's making it official."
"Harry, please—"
"I'm going to find out exactly what this 'misunderstanding' is," Harry said, turning toward the door.
"Don't go alone," Ginny called after him desperately. "You two will just make it worse. Let me come with you, or get Sirius, or—"
Harry paused at the threshold, his back still to her. "As if it isn't already the worst it could possibly be."
"Harry—"
"Just go to the Prophet office," he said without turning around. "Do this one thing for me, Ginny. Pay them whatever it takes."
And with that, he was gone, leaving only melting snow and the echo of the slamming door behind him.
***
Harry Apparated to the narrow street outside Emma's flat, the snow still falling in thick, wet flakes that immediately soaked through his hair. The Victorian building loomed above him, its windows glowing warmly against the gray evening sky. He took the steps two at a time, his boots slipping on the icy stone.
He pounded on the door marked 3B with more force than necessary, the sound echoing through the hallway.
The door opened to reveal Emma Swift, still pale and drawn from her recent ordeal at the Ministry. She was wearing a thick jumper and had clearly been crying—her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.
"Mr. Potter?" she said, startled. "What are you—"
Harry pushed past her into the small flat without waiting for an invitation, his eyes immediately scanning the cramped sitting room. Books were scattered across a worn sofa, a half-empty cup of tea sat cooling on the coffee table, but there was no sign of his son.
"Where is he?" Harry demanded, turning to face Emma, who was still standing by the open door looking shocked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Albus. Where is Albus?" Harry's voice was tight with barely controlled fury. "Don't tell me he's not here—I know he practically lives here now."
Emma's face flushed, and she closed the door with trembling hands. "He's not here, Mr. Potter. I haven't seen him since this morning."
"Bullshit," Harry snapped. "He filed a lawsuit against me today. Against the Ministry. I know you know about it."
Emma's eyes widened, genuine surprise flickering across her features. "A lawsuit? What are you talking about?”
Harry's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw working as he tried to maintain some semblance of control. But the stress of the day—the German prisoner, Marlowe's betrayal, Albus's lawsuit—all of it came crashing down at once.
"Don't play dumb with me!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the small flat's walls. "Your boyfriend is suing me for wrongful detention, and you're standing there pretending you don't know anything about it?"
Emma flinched as if he'd struck her, taking a step back against the closed door.
"You should be grateful you're not in Azkaban!" Harry continued, his voice getting louder with each word. "Your mother—your mother is working with Grimm! The number one enemy of the United Kingdom! She's been feeding him information for months, maybe years!"
"That's not true," Emma whispered, her face going white.
"Isn't it?" Harry stepped closer, his green eyes blazing with fury. "She was my therapist, Emma. She knew things about me, about my family, that she had no business sharing. And now we find out she's been passing every word directly to the man trying to destroy us!"
Emma's back was pressed against the door now, tears starting to flow down her cheeks. "My mother wouldn't—"
"Your mother is a traitor!" Harry roared. "And instead of being locked up in a cell where she belongs, we're treating her with kid gloves because her precious daughter works for the Ministry! Because her precious daughter is sleeping with my son!"
The words hung in the air like a curse, and Harry immediately saw the devastation they caused—the way Emma's face crumpled, the way her whole body seemed to shrink in on itself.
But he was too angry, too hurt, too overwhelmed to take them back.
The door behind Emma suddenly burst open, slamming into her shoulder and sending her stumbling forward. Albus stood in the doorway, his face flushed from the cold and twisted with rage. Snow clung to his dark hair and the shoulders of his coat.
"Get away from her!" he shouted, immediately moving to Emma's side, his arm wrapping protectively around her trembling form. "You have no right to speak to her like that!"
Harry spun around, his own fury blazing even brighter at the sight of his son. "No right? I have every right! Her mother is—"
"I don't care what her mother supposedly did!" Albus cut him off, his voice matching Harry's in volume and intensity. "Emma didn't do anything wrong! She's the victim here, not you!"
"Victim?" Harry's laugh was harsh and bitter. "She's free, isn't she? She's not rotting in a cell like she should be!"
"Like she should be?" Albus stepped forward, his body still shielding Emma. "For what crime, exactly? Being related to someone you suspect of something?"
"For being part of Grimm's network!"
"She's not part of anything!" Albus roared. "She works for the bloody Ministry! She's an Unspeakable, for Christ's sake! She has security clearance higher than half your department!"
Emma was sobbing quietly now, her face buried in her hands, and the sound seemed to fuel Albus's rage even further.
"Look what you've done to her," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Look at what your paranoia and your need for revenge has done."
"Revenge?" Harry stepped closer to his son. "You think this is about revenge?"
"Isn't it?" Albus's green eyes—so like Harry's own—blazed with accusation. "You couldn't stand that I was happy. That I found someone who actually cared about me. So you found a way to destroy it.”
"Happy?" Harry's voice dripped with venom. "You call this happy? Sneaking around with the daughter of a traitor? Building your whole life around someone whose family is working to destroy everything I've fought for?"
"There you go again!" Albus shouted back. "Everything has to be about you, doesn't it? Your work, your reputation, your precious legacy! God forbid your son finds something that matters more to him than the great Harry Potter's approval!"
"I'm trying to protect this country!"
"You're trying to control everyone around you!" Albus's face was flushed with rage. "You can't stand that I made a choice without asking your permission first. That I found someone who sees me as more than just your disappointing son!"
Harry felt something snap inside him. "Disappointing? You think that's what this is about? You're not disappointing, Albus—you're naive! You're so desperate for affection that you'll take it from anyone, even if it destroys you!"
"At least I'm not so broken that I push away everyone who tries to love me!" Albus shot back. "At least I'm not so paranoid that I see enemies in every shadow, even in my own family!"
"Your own family?" Harry's voice was deadly quiet now. "I'm not the one filing lawsuits, Albus. I'm not the one trying to destroy our family name in the press."
"Our family name was already destroyed the day you decided being Harry Potter was more important than being a father!"
The words hit Harry like a physical blow, and for a moment, the kitchen fell silent except for Emma's quiet sobs.
"Get out," Albus said, his voice shaking with exhaustion and fury. "Get out of her flat, and stay away from both of us.”
Harry didn't move from where he stood, his jaw set with grim determination. "I don't give a damn about my name, Albus. You can drag it through every paper in Europe for all I care."
"Then why—"
"Because if this lawsuit becomes public, if the international community sees Britain's own Ministry being accused of wrongful detention by Harry Potter's son..." Harry's voice was low, urgent. "The ICW will see us as a rogue state. They'll vote against us in everything that matters."
Albus's expression flickered with uncertainty, but his stance remained defiant.
"You think this is just about family drama?" Harry continued, stepping closer. "This is bigger than us, bigger than your hurt feelings or my mistakes. Germany has been pushing for months to paint us as unstable, overzealous. And Germany is controlled by Grimm now—he's their bloody Minister!"
Emma looked up from her tears, confusion replacing some of the anguish on her face.
"If the ICW loses confidence in Britain, they'll start siding with Germany on magical policy. Trade agreements, security protocols, extradition treaties—everything." Harry's voice grew more desperate. "Britain's magical government will be dismantled piece by piece, and Germany will fill the vacuum."
"You're being paranoid—"
"Am I?" Harry's eyes blazed. "Grimm has been orchestrating this for years. He infiltrated my therapy sessions, he's got operatives throughout our government, and now he's got you—my own son—filing the exact lawsuit that will give him everything he needs to destroy us."
Albus went very still. "What do you mean, infiltrated your therapy sessions?"
Harry's face was grim. "Her mother, Albus. Marlowe Tamsin was feeding everything I told her directly to Grimm. Every weakness, every fear, every piece of intelligence about our family.”
Emma's voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the tension like a knife. "There has to be some misunderstanding. My mother... she would never do something like that. She's helped so many people, she's dedicated her life to healing—"
"Emma's right," Albus said immediately, his arm tightening around her. "You're wrong about this. Mrs. Swift isn't capable of betrayal."
Harry let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "There it is. You'll defend a woman you've met what—once? Twice?—against your own father." His voice was raw with hurt and disbelief. "A woman whose own daughter you barely know, but you'll take her word over mine without question."
"That's not—"
"What exactly have I done, Albus?" Harry's voice cracked slightly. "What have I done to earn this level of hatred from you? To make you trust complete strangers over the man who's protected you your entire life?"
Albus's face flushed darker. "Protected me? Is that what you call it?"
"Yes! Every decision I've made, every case I've taken, every enemy I've fought—it's all been to keep you safe. To keep this family safe."
"By lying to us! By keeping secrets! By treating us like we're too stupid or too weak to handle the truth!"
"I kept you out of it to protect you!"
"No, you kept us out of it because you don't trust us!" Albus shouted back. "Because deep down, you think we're all just liabilities in your important work. Your precious war against Grimm matters more than anything—more than Mum, more than James, more than me!"
Harry stared at his son, seeing the years of resentment and pain written across his face. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Albus's voice was quieter now, but no less cutting. "When was the last time you asked me how I was doing? Really asked, not just checking if I was staying out of trouble?”
Harry drew a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging slightly as some of the fight went out of him. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more raw.
"You're right," he said, the admission seeming to cost him something. "I'm not the father you deserve. Or that James deserves, or Lily. I know that." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. "I've made mistakes—God knows how many. I've overreacted when I should have stayed calm, underreacted when I should have paid attention. I've kept secrets I shouldn't have kept, shared things I should have protected you from."
Emma had gone very still, watching this exchange with wide, uncertain eyes.
"I'm sure I'm not the perfect father," Harry continued, his voice growing quieter. "Hell, I know I'm not. But I'm also sure I'm not the worst one out there. I've tried, Albus. Maybe not well, maybe not enough, but I have tried to—"
"Oh, well done," Albus said, his voice dripping with sarcasm and pain. "What a touching speech. Should I be grateful now? Should I thank you for not being the absolute worst father in the world? For meeting the incredibly high bar of 'trying'?"
Harry flinched as if he'd been slapped.
"You want credit for not abandoning us completely? For occasionally remembering you have children between saving the world?" Albus's voice was getting louder again, more vicious. "Congratulations, Dad. You're not Voldemort. You're not your Uncle or Aunt. What an achievement."
The cruelty in his son's voice hit Harry harder than any physical blow could have.
His face went completely cold, all emotion draining from his expression until he looked like a stranger. When he spoke, his voice was flat, deadly calm.
"Take the case back, Albus."
"What?"
"You heard me. Withdraw the lawsuit. Tonight."
Albus straightened, his chin lifting defiantly. "I won't."
"Then you're making a choice," Harry said quietly. "And I want you to understand exactly what that choice means." He stepped closer, and Emma instinctively pressed back against Albus. "I don't care if you're my son. I won't let your mistake destroy the lives of every family in this country, including your own."
"You're threatening me?"
"I'm giving you an ultimatum." Harry's green eyes were like chips of ice. "You have until tomorrow morning to withdraw that lawsuit. After that..." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "After that, I won't remember you're my son when I'm dealing with the person trying to destroy everything I've sworn to protect."
Albus's face went pale, but his voice remained steady. "You'd really do that? You'd go after your own son?"
"I'd go after the enemy," Harry said simply. "And if you go through with this, if you hand Grimm the weapon he needs to tear apart our government, then that's exactly what you'll be."
The words hung in the air like a curse. Emma made a small, wounded sound, and Albus's arm tightened around her protectively.
"Until tomorrow morning, Albus," Harry said, moving toward the door. "After that, we're no longer family. We're just on opposite sides of a war.”
Pages Navigation
Jesswashere on Chapter 1 Sun 18 Feb 2024 06:56PM UTC
Last Edited Sun 18 Feb 2024 07:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 1 Sun 18 Feb 2024 07:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
Nummysworld on Chapter 1 Wed 09 Oct 2024 10:21AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 1 Wed 09 Oct 2024 10:30AM UTC
Comment Actions
Cmoneman on Chapter 1 Thu 16 Jan 2025 07:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 1 Thu 16 Jan 2025 08:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
Jesswashere on Chapter 2 Sun 18 Feb 2024 07:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 2 Mon 19 Feb 2024 06:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
SophieChase on Chapter 2 Mon 19 Feb 2024 04:59AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 2 Mon 19 Feb 2024 06:54AM UTC
Comment Actions
M5Ko on Chapter 2 Mon 19 Feb 2024 06:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
SybilltheSeer on Chapter 2 Mon 19 Feb 2024 06:41AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 2 Mon 19 Feb 2024 06:56AM UTC
Comment Actions
AnHPsuperfan on Chapter 2 Mon 19 Feb 2024 11:39AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 2 Mon 19 Feb 2024 11:43AM UTC
Comment Actions
Briar_Potter on Chapter 2 Sun 25 Feb 2024 06:41AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 2 Sun 25 Feb 2024 07:20AM UTC
Comment Actions
Maysueeee on Chapter 2 Thu 26 Sep 2024 10:17AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 2 Thu 26 Sep 2024 10:19AM UTC
Comment Actions
Cmoneman on Chapter 2 Thu 16 Jan 2025 07:59PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 2 Thu 16 Jan 2025 08:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
Jesswashere on Chapter 3 Fri 23 Feb 2024 07:44PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 3 Fri 23 Feb 2024 07:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
Jesswashere on Chapter 3 Fri 23 Feb 2024 08:12PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 3 Fri 23 Feb 2024 08:23PM UTC
Comment Actions
LaraThrone on Chapter 3 Fri 23 Feb 2024 08:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 3 Fri 23 Feb 2024 08:22PM UTC
Comment Actions
Queatles (Guest) on Chapter 3 Fri 23 Feb 2024 08:06PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 3 Fri 23 Feb 2024 08:24PM UTC
Comment Actions
MultiFandomMess1415 on Chapter 3 Sat 24 Feb 2024 02:25AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 3 Sat 24 Feb 2024 06:40AM UTC
Comment Actions
Briar_Potter on Chapter 3 Sun 25 Feb 2024 06:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 3 Sun 25 Feb 2024 07:21AM UTC
Comment Actions
Jesswashere on Chapter 4 Sat 24 Feb 2024 05:44PM UTC
Comment Actions
Queatles (Guest) on Chapter 4 Sat 24 Feb 2024 06:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 4 Sat 24 Feb 2024 07:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
LaraThrone on Chapter 4 Sun 25 Feb 2024 02:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
Jesswashere on Chapter 4 Mon 26 Feb 2024 06:23AM UTC
Comment Actions
Jesswashere on Chapter 4 Mon 26 Feb 2024 07:02AM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 4 Mon 26 Feb 2024 09:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
Janibow on Chapter 4 Fri 29 Nov 2024 08:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 4 Sat 30 Nov 2024 07:32AM UTC
Comment Actions
Cmoneman on Chapter 4 Thu 16 Jan 2025 08:10PM UTC
Comment Actions
Sirius_for_Life on Chapter 4 Fri 17 Jan 2025 06:53AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation