Chapter Text
Harry Potter had fought a war and won.
But somehow, victory didn’t taste like it was supposed to.
It was bitter, metallic, and heavy on the tongue, like old blood.
The Boy Who Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, had found his way home after the Battle of Hogwarts with a broken wand, a battered soul, and a baby in his arms.
Teddy Lupin.
Teddy, who had no parents left because Remus and Tonks had laid down their lives with a fierceness that Harry understood too well. Teddy, who grinned and gurgled and cried and cooed, and filled the hollow places inside Harry’s chest where hope used to be.
So Harry left.
He packed up his grief, his guilt, and his stubborn need to protect, and he took Teddy to Number 12, Grimmauld Place — the ancient, creaking Black family home, thick with shadows and memories.
He hid there, away from the Daily Prophet headlines and the Ministry’s offers of medals and meaningless jobs.
He became Teddy’s world, and Teddy became his.
The first few nights after the adoption were the hardest.
Teddy was small — heartbreakingly small — only five months old, with wispy tufts of hair that changed color depending on his mood. His tiny face would scrunch up, and his hair would flash a furious red when he cried, or a soft blue when he slept peacefully in Harry’s arms.
Harry watched him one evening, cradling him gently by the fire in Grimmauld Place, the room quiet but for the occasional crackle of the flames.
"You’re going to be special, Teddy," Harry whispered, brushing a fingertip against Teddy’s downy hair, which shimmered silver in the firelight.
But the world wasn’t kind to "special."
Harry knew that better than anyone.
He swallowed hard, pulling out a small, delicate bracelet from his pocket — a thin band of woven magic-infused silver, charmed carefully by Hermione just days before.
"Just for a little while," Harry murmured. "Just until you’re ready."
He slipped the bracelet carefully around Teddy’s chubby wrist. The instant it clasped, Teddy’s hair and eyes flickered — then settled into a consistent, soft brown, like any ordinary baby.
The magic was subtle — powerful enough that anyone looking at Teddy would see only the same hair, the same eyes, no matter how Teddy’s real abilities tried to shine through.
Only Harry would see the truth.
Teddy shifted, tiny fingers curling around Harry’s thumb, his hair flashing a playful violet for a heartbeat before calming again.
Harry smiled, blinking rapidly against the sudden sting in his eyes.
"I’ll keep you safe," he promised quietly, voice thick.
"No matter what. Always."
The bracelet glinted faintly in the firelight, like a silent guardian around Teddy’s wrist.
And somewhere deep in his chest, Harry felt the first, fragile glimmer of hope take root.
They were safe.
They were together.
It was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
Until the accident — a shimmering, snapping thread of wild magic, a toddler’s first burst of untrained power, a protective spell Harry had cast in desperation — and the world had twisted itself into something unrecognizable.
When Harry opened his eyes, it was January 1979.
And nothing would ever be the same again.
Three months later, Harry Ronald Granger — as he called himself now — stood behind the counter of a small, sleepy café tucked into a rainy London street.
The sign above the door read “Wilson’s Coffee and Cakes” in cheerful hand-painted letters. The bell above the door chimed sweetly whenever someone walked in, and the place smelled perpetually of cinnamon and fresh bread.
Harry liked it here.
He liked the clatter of mugs, the low hum of conversation, the scrape of chairs against the worn wooden floors.
He liked the way Jacob Wilson, the owner, treated him like a regular young bloke down on his luck, not a war hero or a freak.
He liked how Teddy, now nine months old, could sit in a battered high chair in the corner of the kitchen and babble happily to himself while Harry worked.
And whenever Teddy’s hair sometimes shifted colors — from brown to blue to bright, bubblegum pink — the Muggle customers didn’t notice.
Life was quiet.
Almost peaceful.
Which, of course, meant it couldn’t last.
It was a Tuesday when the storm rolled in.
The sky outside the café windows was the color of bruises, the rain coming down in hard, slanted sheets. The bell above the door barely tinkled over the roar of the wind.
Harry glanced up from the coffee he was making — a complicated double shot caramel macchiato with extra foam — just as the door swung open.
A man stepped inside.
He was drenched, rain dripping from the ends of his black hair, the shoulders of his dark overcoat gleaming wetly. He carried himself with a kind of sharp, restless grace, like a blade looking for something to cut.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat.
Because the man — no, the boy, really, he couldn’t be older than twenty— was handsome in a way that was almost too much.
Pale skin, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked carved out of marble.
And eyes — silver-grey, quick and cutting — that raked across the room before landing on Harry.
For a moment, the world tilted.
The man — boy — frowned slightly, and something flickered across his face. Recognition? Confusion?
Harry quickly looked down, pretending to busy himself wiping the counter.
“Welcome to Wilson’s,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “You, uh, want to sit down? Dry off a bit?”
The stranger shook his head slightly, scattering droplets of rain.
"I’ll take a coffee," he said, voice low and smooth, a little rough around the edges. "Black. Strong."
Harry nodded, heart hammering.
As he turned to the coffee machine, he heard a soft coo from the kitchen doorway.
Teddy.
Of course. Teddy always picked the worst moments to demand attention.
Harry risked a glance — Teddy was standing, wobbling on chubby legs, gripping the doorframe, hair bright teal today in a halo around his round face.
"Da!" Teddy called happily, throwing up his arms.
The stranger stiffened.
Harry almost dropped the cup.
He forced a smile as he poured the coffee, trying not to look too obvious about checking the stranger out of the corner of his eye.
Tall. Lean. Well-dressed, but in a way that spoke of old money, not new fashion.
Dark hair, sleek and damp, curling slightly at the temples.
And those eyes — cool, assessing.
Dangerous.
Harry slid the coffee across the counter.
"Here you go," he said, then, because he couldn’t help himself, added, "Rough day?"
The stranger’s mouth twitched into something almost like a smile.
"You could say that," he murmured. He picked up the cup, fingers long and elegant, and sipped. His gaze didn’t leave Harry’s face.
"You work here?" the stranger asked, head tilting slightly. "You don’t seem the type."
Harry blinked.
"The type?"
The man shrugged lazily, coat sliding open to reveal a flash of dark green jumper underneath.
"You’ve got the look of someone who’s seen a war," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. "Not someone who pours coffee for a living."
Harry’s stomach twisted.
He forced another laugh, light and easy.
"Maybe I have," he said. "Or maybe I just make a lot of bad coffee."
The stranger chuckled, low and rough. It made Harry’s skin prickle.
"What’s your name?" the man asked.
Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second too long.
"Harry Granger," he said finally, sticking out his hand over the counter.
The stranger looked at it, then at him, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
Then he smiled — sharp and slow — and shook Harry’s hand.
"Regulus Black," he said.
Harry’s heart stopped.
Oh.
Oh no.