Chapter Text
He stopped short at the doorway, his breath catching. His gaze bypassed the bushy brown head in front of him and locked in a straight line with what might as well have been his own reflection, cast forward twenty years.
Eventually, his eyes dropped, and whatever she saw in them made hers widen.
“I—I have to go check on the elves… see if they need any help with the food.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. In the next breath, she was already moving, almost scampering past him. He stepped aside without a word, and just like that, she was gone—her footsteps fading down the corridor.
He moved past his father without a word, crossing to his locker. He hooked the broom onto the iron peg fixed to the side, where it hung suspended, gleaming faintly in the dim light.
Fingers found the clasps of his gloves next; he tugged them free, dropping them onto the bench. His shoulder pads followed, the leather creaking as he peeled them off. Next came the emerald jersey, damp with sweat, pulled over his head and flung aside. The boots were last—unbuckled, thudding heavily to the floor until he stood in little more than his undershirt and trousers.
One by one, the rest went too. Shirt. Belt. Trousers. Each piece landing in a careless heap. In the end he was down to only his underwear, skin chilled by the cool locker-room air.
He padded barefoot toward the far end of the room, where the stone wall cut away into tiled alcoves. The showers stood quiet, rows of taps and drains gleaming faintly in the low light. He slipped behind the wall, pulled off the final scrap of fabric, and twisted a handle until a rush of hot water crashed over him.
The sound of water filled the room, breaking the stifling silence.
Through the steam and the hiss of the spray, he caught movement at the edge of his vision: his father stepping toward the bench, toward the pile he’d left. Without hesitation, the man bent, scooped up the clothes, and carried them to a squat brass bin built into the corner. He dropped the bundle inside. At once, the lid shimmered, and the heap vanished—sent off to the castle laundry with a faint whoosh of magic.
His father crossed back to the lockers, stopping before the Firebolt. He lifted it from the hook with deliberate care, turning it slowly in his hands, eyes moving along the polished shaft and bristles.
Then he sat on the bench, laying the broom flat across his lap. His fingers traced the wood in measured strokes, inspecting it as though it were something delicate, something that demanded his full attention—like he’d taught him.
Harry twisted the tap off, the stream cutting to silence but for the drip of water from his hair and shoulders. He reached for a towel from the wall rack, dragging it roughly over his skin before wrapping it around his waist. Barefoot, he padded back across the tiles toward his locker.
His father rose as he approached, the Firebolt still gleaming across the bench where he’d left it.
Harry opened the locker door and pulled out the suit folded neatly inside. Black jacket, pressed trousers—Muggle dress for the ceremony. Piece by piece he dressed, tugging the shirt over damp skin, buttoning stiff cuffs, shrugging into the jacket. The last thing was the tie.
He tried once, twice, fingers fumbling with the knot, pulling it crooked, too tight, then loose again. His teeth clenched, frustration biting into his movements.
A shadow loomed closer. Without a word, his father swatted his hands gently aside and took hold of the tie himself, straightening it with quiet, practiced motions.
“Come on.” His father patted his shoulder once, then turned for the door.
Harry hung the broom back up on the hook and pivoted to follow, but the room was empty—he was already gone.
He stepped out into the corridor, turning left, but saw nothing. The stone passage stretched ahead, lit in patches by torches, empty of all sound but his own footsteps.
Then—a sharp whistle from behind.
Harry spun. At the far end of the tunnel, just at the edge where the light gave way to shadow, stood his father. Half in darkness, barely there.
Harry’s steps echoed against the stone, each one sharp in the hush of the tunnel, carrying him closer to the shadowed figure.
“Wand out,” his father said.
He raised his wand, and with a flick, its tip flared to life—no incantation, just clean white light spilling into the tunnel. Harry followed suit, his own wand blooming silently with the same glow.
In the pale illumination, his father’s eyebrow lifted—just slightly, but enough to carry a wordless message. Almost impressed.
“Now, it’s been a long time since I was last here, so bear with me,” he said, running his hand along the stone where the side wall met the back. A low rumble shook through the tunnel as a slab of wall—five feet tall and two wide—shifted inward, opening like a hidden door.
“There we are.” A faint smile curved his mouth. “Tell me that isn’t one of the things you love most about our world. Hidden doors, false walls—discovering them was a pastime of mine. And the benefits far exceeded finding a shorter route.” His eyes glinted as he glanced back. “I’m sure you know what I mean. No prefects or Head Students knocking on the broom cupboard, demanding you come out. Watch your head.”
Harry ducked low, nearly folding himself in half to squeeze through. At six-foot-five, the five-foot doorframe felt made to mock him, his shoulders scraping the edges as he crouched after his father.
“There’s this thing called the Room of Requirement,” he muttered, voice dry. “I thought you discovered it—you’ve only mentioned it a thousand times.”
“I did, you cheeky sod,” came the reply, echoing off the narrow stone. “But if you’d listened even once, you’d know I didn’t stumble on it until a month before graduation. Never really got to… reap the benefits. And once I told your mother about it, she promptly admonished me for even thinking of using it for such filthy purposes.”
The same heavy twist clenched in his chest, that unnameable feeling that always rose whenever his mother was mentioned—part ache, part longing, part fury at being robbed of her.
The rest of the trek passed in silence. The tunnel sloped unevenly, the floor slick in places, winding upward, then dipping sharply, as though it had been carved more by nature than by hand. Their wandlight splashed across rough walls, catching roots that jutted from the ceiling and forcing Harry to duck now and again. It wasn’t long—two, maybe three minutes at most—before the passage ended in a wall of stone.
His father tapped it once with his wand. With a low groan, the slab shifted inward, opening to cool night air.
Harry stepped out after him—and barely kept the shock from his face. They were in the middle of the Forbidden Forest.
Fifty metres ahead lay a wide pond, its black surface glimmering faintly in the moonlight. The Moonmirror Pond.
He’d been here plenty of times before—first with Hagrid in third year, later on his own—but never like this. From the Quidditch stadium to here should have been close to an hour’s walk. Now, through the hidden passage, it had taken him only minutes.
He turned back; behind him stood a tree, its bark pale, almost silver compared to the darker trunks surrounding it, as though the forest itself had marked it as different.
His father’s voice broke the quiet. “I found this passage by accident, you know. Stormed off after a match—angry enough to hex Sirius if he’d come after me. Ended up deep in the forest before I even realised where my feet had taken me. That pond was the first thing I saw when I finally cooled down. Sat here for hours, actually.”
He nodded toward the pale-barked tree behind them. “It was when I leaned against that thing to stand up that the bark shifted under my hand. Next thing I knew, a doorway was yawning open. Thought I was imagining it at first, but I stepped inside and found the tunnel waiting. Never told anyone—not even your mother. Wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to share.”
He turned then, his eyes finding Harry’s through the faint glow of their wands. “Sometimes you just want to be alone,” he said quietly, the words carrying more weight than explanation.
He flicked his wrist, and the light at his wand’s tip snuffed out.
Harry moved past him without a word, crossing the clearing until he reached the pond’s edge. The water lay still, black as glass. He looked down and saw his own reflection staring back—tall, pale in the moonlight just peeking between clouds, eyes shadowed.
A ripple of movement joined it. A moment later, another figure appeared beside his, the outline unmistakable. His father’s reflection gazed back at him from the water, the two faces side by side.
“I’ve been doing it a lot… spending time in my own thoughts,” he said, his eyes still on Harry through the reflection. “And after the first five minutes, I realised with a shock—I’d never really done it before. Never been one for contemplation.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint lap of water against the bank.
“After our last…” His voice trailed, then steadied again. “It was fear that prompted the change. Fear of losing you. The sinking feeling that maybe I already had—but hoping there was still a chance to fix it.”
A hand pressed lightly against Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s sit,” his father said, with the ghost of a grin. “My knees don’t forgive me the way yours still do. Standing this long feels like penance.”
“You’re not even forty,” Harry drawled.
His father smirked. “That’s the outside talking. Inside, I creak like I’m pushing sixty.” A sharp crack from his knee as he sat made the point better than words.
“Pathetic,” Harry murmured, dropping down beside him and folding his arms over his bent knees.
“Hey—” his father shot back with a grin, “you don’t get to talk shit, son. You didn’t fight a war against the most powerful Dark wizard and still manage to look this good afterwards.”
Harry’s laugh came out brittle. “Good for you. I mean—you deserve that, since you’re the one who fought him. Meanwhile, a mother I never knew died because she thought saving me was more important.” His voice had gone low, flat. He lifted a hand and tapped his scar. “And I got a nice little souvenir.”
The words hung between them, draining the warmth from the air. The pond, the trees, even the night itself seemed to tighten around the silence that followed.
James let out a long sigh, the kind that seemed pulled from somewhere deep. He slipped his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand before tilting his head back, gaze lifting to the clouds drifting slowly across the moon.
“I have never resented you for it,” he said, voice roughened into a gravelly baritone. “Not once. Not for any of it. Not for that bloody prophecy that chained you before you could even walk. And certainly not for losing your mother. You hear me?”
At that, his head lowered again, his gaze dropping from the sky to the pond, where their reflections shimmered side by side in the moonlight. “Not for a second.”
His jaw worked, the words catching before forcing themselves out. “None of it was your fault, Harry. It was just the way it was. We thought we could outsmart destiny—cheat it somehow. And in a way, we did. You lived. He died.” His voice cracked, and he dragged in a breath. “But the price was… immeasurable. Your mother’s life for yours. A trade no child should ever have to carry on his shoulders.”
He glanced at Harry through the wavering reflection, eyes burning. “Don’t twist that into guilt. Don’t. She didn’t die because of you, she died for you. There’s a world of difference in that, and it’s the only thing that’s kept me standing since.”
His father’s voice faltered, but he pushed on, his tone both fierce and pleading. “So don’t you dare carry that weight for me. Don’t twist her sacrifice into some kind of crime you’ve got to serve a sentence for. Your mother chose what she did because she loved you, more than life itself. And if you can’t believe me—believe her. That’s the one truth Voldemort could never touch.”
He swallowed, his eyes glinting in the half-light, and for the first time there was no grin, no bravado, no shield—just a man stripped bare before his son.
“Then why did you make me feel that it was, this whole time?” Harry’s voice cracked on the last word.
“Oh, son…” James breathed, his gaze lifting back to the heavens, clouds shifting pale across the moon. “I was never equipped to raise you on my own. I just didn’t have the tools—and that’s on me. I should have tried harder, fought harder, to be the father you needed. But I didn’t. Because losing myself in work was easy. Pretending everything was fine was easy. Telling myself that burying the grief would somehow bury the guilt was… easy.”
He exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging. “Facing you, day after day, with her eyes looking back at me—that was hard. And instead of learning how to bear it, I ran. I told myself I was giving you space, letting you grow without me breathing down your neck. But the truth is, I was hiding. From you. From her. From myself.”
His jaw clenched, voice thickening. “I thought if I carried on like everything was normal, if I kept playing at being James Potter—the war hero, the Head Auror, the man who had it all together—maybe I’d trick myself into believing it. But all it did was trick you into thinking I blamed you. And, Harry…” He swallowed hard, the word trembling. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”
The words lingered in the air, heavy as stone, and neither of them moved. The only sounds were the faint rustle of leaves in the trees and the soft ripple of the pond at their feet. The silence wasn’t empty—it pressed between them, thick with everything said and unsaid.
At last Harry’s voice broke it, quieter than he meant. “What was she like?”
James’s face softened, some of the hardness draining away. “Brilliant,” he said simply, and for a moment the word seemed to carry all the light in the world. “She had a mind sharper than any blade, never afraid to use it. She didn’t just learn things—she understood them, saw through them, made them her own. Fierce, too. Fierce in her convictions, fierce in her love. She could reduce me to dust with a sentence, and then lift me higher than I’d ever dreamed with a smile. She was—” He stopped, his voice breaking for the first time, then steadied. “She was everything.”
Harry stared at the water, throat tight. Then the question slipped out before he could stop it. “Would she have liked me? As I am now?”
“Of course,” James said at once, without hesitation. Then his mouth tugged into something faint, bittersweet. “Though… she’d never have let you keep that hair this long.” His eyes flicked toward the shaggy strands brushing Harry’s shoulders. “She’d have had the shears out before you could argue.”
A quiet laugh died in Harry’s throat, leaving only silence again—thicker this time. The weight of it pressed on him until he finally let the words spill.
“I don’t know when or how it began,” he said, voice low and halting. “But I never thought about her much. Not really. Until I became Head Boy and Remus said, ‘congratulations on being the second Potter to wear the badge.’ After that, she wouldn’t leave my head. She’s been everywhere—every thought, every silence. I can’t shut her out.
“I’ve hardly been sleeping. Most nights I walk for hours, because moving keeps the walls from closing in. Flying helps too—it’s the only time I can breathe, when the ground drops away and the wind gets in my face. It’s the only time I don’t feel so damned claustrophobic… like my heart isn’t folding in on itself.”
James slipped an arm around his son’s shoulder, and Harry, almost without thinking, leaned into it.
“How about this,” James murmured. “When we get back home tonight, I’ll take you through her diaries.”
Harry turned his head, frowning. “Diaries?”
James nodded. “She told me once she started documenting her life from the time she was ten.” He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching with something between fondness and regret. “I could never bring myself to read them. And—well, I’m not ashamed to admit I was a little afraid she’d find some way to punish me if she disapproved. She never told me that outright, but I was never brave enough to test the theory.”
A small huff of laughter escaped Harry, more like a shrug of sound than mirth.
“But you’re braver than me,” James said quietly. “And I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you reading them.”
Harry hesitated, then asked softly, “How about this—we read them together. Before the fireplace.”
For a moment, James only looked at him. Then his eyes shone, and he gave a small, quick nod before glancing away, sniffing hard.
“Why didn’t you watch me play?” Harry asked after a while, his tone taut, as if the question had been clawing at him for years.
James cleared his throat. “I did watch. All of it. Every second of those two minutes. That pull-up from your dive…” His mouth curved faintly. “Clean. Sharp. Perfect.”
Harry’s brow furrowed, but before he could speak, James pressed on.
“I know. Our last fight—our worst fight—was about this. Me telling you Quidditch wasn’t enough. That you should make something more of your life. Something greater.” His voice tightened, every word dragging. “And I thought I was right. Your mother hated flying—absolutely hated it. I convinced myself she’d never have wanted you to chase Quidditch, and that if I let you, I’d be failing her memory.”
He exhaled, hard, shaking his head. “But the truth is… she would have been there for you. In anything. Screaming herself hoarse from the stands. She’d have been proud of you no matter what you chose.” His voice caught, and for once he didn’t hide it. “That was her gift—belief. And I denied you that, thinking I was honouring her, when all I was doing was honouring my own fear.”
He drew a slow breath, eyes fixed on the pond. “But I needed to see you out there. To know if it was really in you. Because I’ve always believed—if a man can hold his skill steady when the world’s on fire around him, when every breath feels like rage—that’s mastery. That’s unshakable. And you showed me that today.”
James’s gaze shifted back to him, steady and unblinking. “No one in that stadium would ever say you got into Puddlemere United because you’re my son. Not one.”
“Puddlemere United, huh?” Harry let out a short chuckle, shaking his head.
His father’s lips twitched. “The manager’s here tonight.”
Harry’s eyes snapped wide. He sucked in a sharp breath, the name escaping him in a gasp. “Jasper Flint?”
Harry’s voice came out tight. “What did you talk to her about?”
James’s smirk lingered as he stepped past him. “Now what kind of man would I be if I broke her confidence, huh?”
Harry stayed rooted where he was, a flicker of heat rising in his chest at the thought of what his father might have said to Granger—what embarrassment he might have left in his wake. He didn’t move until his father pressed a palm against the pale-barked tree.
The stone groaned, and James glanced back over his shoulder with a smirk. “Ready to have your mind blown?”
Harry ducked through after him, crouching low beneath the short arch. This time the tunnel stretched barely five metres before ending in another wall of stone. James laid his hand flat against it, casting a quick look back at him.
“Get ready to have your jaw drop,” his father said, the corner of his mouth twitching as the wall shuddered and slid back.
They stepped through. Harry straightened from his crouch—and the world seemed to open all at once. After the tight press of stone, the sudden blaze of light, sound, and colour crashed over him. His breath caught; his jaw actually slackened.
The Great Hall.
Except it wasn’t. Not the hall he knew.
The long teachers’ table had vanished, the dais stripped bare. The endless floor had been remade into a sea of round tables draped in white, every inch alive with motion. Students in their finest pressed close beside families and professors, a swell of voices rising and falling like a tide. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling glittered with stars, the house banners dimmed so the night sky could spill its silver light more vividly than ever.
They emerged through the narrow door by the staff common room—a door Harry had walked past a hundred times without a thought. Yet now it had disgorged a secret passage, mocking the limits of what he thought he knew about Hogwarts.
His senses fought to keep up. Elves in crisp black-and-white uniforms darted between the throng, trays of food floating before them—Muggle food. The smells tangled in the air: roast meats and herbs, something fried and sharp he couldn’t name. His mouth twitched; only Granger could have managed to put elves in uniforms and get them serving chips.
And at the far corner, a wizarding band had abandoned their usual robes for Muggle suits, crooning slow songs from another world altogether. The notes curled through the chatter, warm and strange, soaking into the stones of the hall until the familiar space felt wholly transformed.
Harry stood still, the wonder of it rolling through him. It wasn’t Hogwarts—not the one he’d grown up in. It was something else. Something glittering, impossible. And every inch of it, he knew, bore her hand.
“Did I ever tell you I fucking hate crowds?” Harry muttered, eyes sweeping over the thrumming hall.
His father’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Glad to know you inherited some of my genes—even the shitty ones.”
“Some?” Harry huffed. “Everyone calls me James Potter 2.0. McGonagall once said she didn’t think anyone could ever top you—until I came along.”
His father’s eyes softened, pride cutting through the usual smirk. “I’ve never been more proud.”
For the first time in what felt like years, father and son shared a smile—unforced, unguarded, and the same.
“Mr Potter!”
The voice rose above the din, cheerful and overeager. Both Potters turned to see a balding man in a slightly ill-fitting Muggle suit striding towards them, his face flushed with delight.
“Minister,” James greeted, extending a hand.
Cornelius Fudge seized it with both of his, pumping it warmly. “James, James—splendid, absolutely splendid to see you here tonight. What a remarkable event, simply remarkable. I must say, it does the Ministry’s heart good to witness Hogwarts thriving under such… ah, forward-thinking organisation.” His eyes darted around the transformed hall, but always snapped back to James as if waiting for approval.
“My son is one half of the mind that brought it to life,” James said smoothly. “Thank him.”
Almost mechanically, Fudge turned, catching Harry’s hand and shaking it far too enthusiastically. “My, my—is that little Harry Potter! Goodness, how you’ve grown! Why, last I saw you, you were barely up to my waist.” He chuckled at his own joke, though neither Potter so much as twitched.
Fudge’s grip lingered a moment too long before he finally released Harry’s hand. His chuckle fizzled when neither of them returned it, and, as if tugged by invisible strings, his eyes swung back to James.
“Yes, well—fine young man, fine young man,” he said briskly, already sliding Harry out of his focus. “But of course, the real triumph here is your guidance, James. The community sees it, you know. They feel it. In times like these, steadiness of your sort—rare thing, rare thing indeed.”
Harry almost laughed aloud at the spectacle. His father hadn’t said a word beyond the briefest pleasantries, yet Fudge was practically tripping over his own praise, every sentence angling for James’s approval. Minister in title, certainly—but it was clear enough who held the strings.
James inclined his head with the faintest smile, a politician’s nod honed sharper than any blade. “I’m sure the community is in good hands, Cornelius.”
Fudge’s chest puffed, the words feeding him like wine, until James added, lightly, “But if you’ll excuse us, Harry and I have duties of our own tonight.”
The Minister faltered, caught, then bobbed his head quickly. “Of course, of course, wouldn’t dream of keeping you.”
James was already guiding Harry forward, one hand at his shoulder, moving them neatly out of reach.
Harry leaned in, smirking. “Didn’t think it was possible for Fudge to look more of a clown—but that suit sealed it.”
“You ought to see him before the Wizengamot,” James murmured back, lips twitching. “Explaining international trade tariffs on dragon hide. Man nearly tied himself into a knot. Half the chamber thought he was banning dragon breeding altogether.”
“Excuse me, sirs.”
They both glanced down—and Harry nearly choked on air. Misty stood there, balancing a silver tray half her size, dressed in the most absurdly bright pink, polka-dotted knee-length frock. He was caught between horror and amusement; he would never recover from this image.
Luckily, his father found his voice first. “Well, hello there,” James said warmly, bending slightly at the waist as though addressing a dignitary rather than a house-elf. “And who might we have here?”
Misty straightened proudly, tray wobbling only a little. “Misty, sir. Miss Granger gave Misty important duties tonight.” Her ears flushed pink against the frock. “These are sausage rolls, prawn cocktail vol-au-vents, scotch eggs, and cucumber sandwiches. Miss Granger says they are the finest of Muggle appetisers.”
James plucked up a sausage roll, bit into it, and groaned aloud in delight. “Oh, sweet Merlin. Don’t tell the elves in the kitchens, but this might be the best thing I’ve eaten in twenty years.”
Harry’s brows shot up as his father all but closed his eyes in pleasure. “You’re joking,” he muttered.
“Not in the slightest.” James licked a crumb from his thumb, unabashed. He reached back to the tray. “Misty, was it? You’ve just made my evening.”
The elf giggled, ears quivering, before thrusting the tray toward Harry. “Master Harry must try. Miss Granger says no wizarding party is complete without sausage rolls.”
Harry blinked at the little bundle of pastry and meat, then back at his father, who was watching him with a smirk that said go on, prove her wrong. Reluctantly, Harry took one and bit.
It was better than he expected—hot, savoury, comforting in a way Hogwarts feasts rarely managed. He chewed, swallowed, and then—despite himself—let out a short laugh. “Merlin help me, she’s right.”
“Of course she is,” James said easily, plucking a scotch egg from the tray. “She usually is.”
Harry froze, the words hanging heavier than they should have. Misty, oblivious, beamed and bobbed a little curtsey before scurrying off, tray wobbling but miraculously steady.
“Well, well, well… what do we have here? Potter men lurking by the buffet like it’s a battlefield,” came a drawl from behind them.
They turned, and Sirius Black strolled into view with a beautiful young woman hanging off his arm. His dark hair, still thick but streaked through with white, spilled in waves past his shoulders, framing a beard that did nothing to blunt the teasing smirk on his face. He looked effortlessly roguish despite — or perhaps because of — the outlandish Muggle suit he wore: velvet midnight-blue, cut a little too sharply at the shoulders, with a shirt patterned in wild paisley peeking out beneath.
The woman at his side was even bolder, her black dress slit scandalously high and her skin inked with curling tattoos that climbed her thighs, arms, and neck like serpents twined in roses. Her confidence blazed as bright as Sirius’s grin, and she leaned into him as though they owned every eye in the room.
James arched a brow, straightening. “Well, look who finally learned what soap is.”
Sirius smirked, adjusting the velvet lapel of his jacket. “Says the man who thought a sausage roll was the height of culinary sophistication.”
James snorted. “Better than turning up dressed like a seventies sofa.”
Sirius gave a theatrical bow, his companion laughing softly against his arm. “Envy doesn’t suit you, Prongs. You’ve still got the shoulders, but I’ve clearly stolen the style.”
Then, without warning, he slipped free of his date and crushed James into a fierce embrace, clapping him twice on the back. For a moment the room fell away; two brothers, older, rougher, but unchanged in the bond that welded them.
When Sirius finally released James, his gaze shifted to Harry, and the grin that spread across his face was pure mischief.
“Merlin, you get taller every time I see you. When’s it going to stop? You’ve already passed your dad—and he’s practically troll height.”
Harry let out a short laugh before he could help himself. Beside him, James snorted. “Watch it, Padfoot.”
Sirius only grinned wider, tilting his head as he gave Harry an appraising look. “And that hair—you’ll have half the castle tripping over themselves. Don’t let your father tell you otherwise; he’s just bitter he never could pull it off.”
James rolled his eyes. “Says the man dressed like a deckchair.”
His date laughed at that, the sound low and sultry, and Sirius basked in it as if it proved his point. Still, when his eyes returned to Harry, something softer flickered there, a pride that didn’t need words.
Then, without warning, he pulled Harry into a firm embrace, clapping a hand against his back.
“You’ve done well, pup,” he murmured in his ear, the teasing edge stripped from his voice. “Better than well.”
When he drew back, the smirk was back in place, as though nothing had slipped through at all.
Another voice carried over the din. “Well, look at this—took me a minute, but I should’ve known I’d find you lot together.”
Harry turned to see Remus threading his way toward them, a glass in hand and that familiar, tired smile softening his scarred face. In an instant, the three men folded together, old laughter rising up as though decades hadn’t passed.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, half-smiling at the sight, when movement at his side drew his attention. Sirius’s date extended her hand toward him, palm angled just so, as though waiting for a courtly kiss.
He raised a brow.
She answered with a teasing smirk, dark eyes daring him.
Padfoot always picks the dangerous ones, he thought, shaking his head. Still, he bent and brushed her knuckles with his lips.
The faintest laugh escaped her, warm and low, and then he felt her breath against his ear. “If you don’t mind… showing me where a witch can freshen up?”
Harry straightened, blinking. She was even younger than he’d originally thought—only a little older than him. Twenty, maybe twenty-one at most.
And then he noticed her tattoos. What he’d taken for static ink was alive: roses curled and bloomed across her collarbone, their petals unfurling before folding back into thorns; a serpent coiled around her arm, scales glinting faintly as it shifted, tongue flicking out as though tasting the air; runes etched along her thigh rearranged themselves slowly, like a puzzle spelling out something he couldn’t quite catch. It was impossible to tell where the artistry ended and the magic began.
For the first time that night, Harry wasn’t sure if Sirius’s date was dangerous because of her dress and smirk—or because of whatever pulsed beneath her skin.
Her lips curved into a sly smile, as though she’d caught him staring. “These?” she murmured, tilting her head so a rose along her collarbone unfurled again. “They’re only the ones I let people see.” Her gaze flicked up, dark and daring. “The others are hidden. Maybe you’ll be the one to unravel them… somewhere private.”
Up until that point, he hadn’t thought much about his abstinence since his last time with a witch—Daphne Greengrass, in the locker room showers, four months ago. That had been hurried, half-wild, steam and water masking the heat of it.
He’d thought the memory would linger, but it hadn’t. Something else had crowded it out—someone else. Granger had taken over his head in ways he couldn’t untangle, waking thoughts he hadn’t invited and couldn’t quiet.
And that was precisely why, faced with this very inviting offer, he had to turn it down.
“There you are.”
He turned his head—
and for a moment, the hall itself seemed to dim. She stood there as though conjured, a vision carved out of starlight and fire. The crimson of her dress caught the glow of the enchanted ceiling, clinging close before spilling into folds that moved like liquid flame with each breath she drew. Her curls were swept back loosely, errant strands catching the light as if the room had been designed for no other purpose but to frame her face.
It was only when he fixed on those eyes that the spell cracked. She wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was angled down—straight at his hand, still caught in the grip of the tattooed siren.
Oh, fuck.
Of course the infuriating witch would choose precisely this moment.
“Oh,” Granger said, her voice clipped. A beat, then she squared her shoulders, blanking her expression as though slotting into armour. “Time for the speech.”
She turned on her heel, walking without waiting for him. Harry dropped the siren’s hand like it burned and fell into step behind her.
Together they cut through the crowded hall, heading toward the dais at the front. Dumbledore’s voice, warm and commanding, rose above the noise: “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention.” The chatter died away, the weight of hundreds of eyes turning to fix on them.
Beside him, Granger’s composure flickered—her shoulders tight, her fingers white around the parchment in her hand.
The words left his mouth before he even realised they were his own.
“On behalf of Hogwarts,” he said, voice carrying farther than he expected, “welcome.”
A whistle pierced the silence. “That’s my boy!” Sirius’s voice boomed from somewhere near the front, sending laughter rolling through the crowd.
“Black!” McGonagall’s reprimand cut in sharp as ever. “For heaven’s sake, control yourself.”
The hall chuckled again, and Harry opened his mouth to fire something back—
but Granger’s voice rang out, clear and sure, filling the space.
Granger lifted the parchment, her voice steady, measured. “Tonight’s celebration is more than just the end of our years at Hogwarts. We chose this theme because it speaks to where many of us began—those who walked through these doors from families who knew nothing of magic, who looked at these moving staircases and portraits and thought the world had cracked open.”
Her gaze flicked across the hall, then back to the words. “For us, every lesson was learned twice. First in the classroom, and then in the long hours after, teaching ourselves what others had known since they were children. We worked twice as hard to keep up, twice as hard to belong.”
The parchment dipped slightly, and she let the silence stretch before she spoke again. Her voice softened, warmer, no longer rehearsed. “But what we once thought was weakness… was never weakness at all. It was strength. To carry two worlds inside yourself, to straddle them both and not fall—that takes courage. And I believe it is that courage that makes us stronger. It is that courage that makes us whole.”
She let the words settle for a moment before continuing.
“It is also,” she said softly, “to celebrate those who championed this idea years ago, when there was very little to be happy about.”
McGonagall moved forward and pressed a slip of parchment into her hand. Granger glanced down, her lips parting, then began to read.
“Albus Dumbledore. Minerva McGonagall. Filius Flitwick. Pomona Sprout. Rubeus Hagrid. Rolanda Hooch.”
The hall responded with warm applause, the sound of respect that belonged to teachers who had given their lives to the school as much as to the war.
Her eyes dropped to the next lines. “Marlene McKinnon. Benjy Fenwick. Caradoc Dearborn. Edgar Bones. Dorcas Meadowes.”
Gasps and low murmurs rippled through the hall. Names tied to sacrifice, to lives cut short but never forgotten.
Granger steadied herself and read on. “Arthur Weasley. Molly Weasley.”
Harry’s head turned before he could stop himself. The entire Weasley clan was gathered at one of the front tables, a sea of red hair and bright smiles. Their pride was unmistakable—applause loudest among them, faces alight as Arthur and Molly’s names echoed through the hall.
“Remus Lupin. Sirius Black. James Potter.”
The applause thundered, students and guests alike rising to their feet. Sirius gave a sweeping bow that earned him laughter; James only inclined his head, a quiet gravity settling over his face. Remus smiled faintly, his eyes softer than either of theirs.
“And lastly…” Granger’s voice faltered. She stared down at the parchment, her lips pressing together, then stopped. After a moment, she turned and held the slip out to Harry.
Frowning, he took it. His eyes dropped to the final line, and his chest tightened like a fist around his ribs. When he looked up, Sirius, Remus, and his father were already watching him—smiling, eyes glistening with something beyond pride.
He swallowed hard. Then, steady and loud, he said:
“Lily Evans.”
The name seemed to still the very air. For a heartbeat, silence reigned, thick and reverent. Then applause erupted, deafening, rising, rolling through the enchanted ceiling as though the stars themselves joined in.
“And as you leave tonight,” Granger said once the noise ebbed, her voice clear again, “you will be given two booklets—one painting a small picture of the struggles Muggleborn students face, and the other of their unique journeys into our world. Their stories, their voices, in their own words.”
The cheers surged anew, a tide of sound that felt less like celebration than a vow.
Granger stepped down from the dais, her dress sweeping behind her. Harry called out, “Granger—wait!”
She didn’t.
He caught up with her in three strides, his hand closing around her arm. She whirled, fire sparking in her eyes. “Let me go,” she hissed.
“Not until you let me explain.”
“Explain what? The filthy thoughts in your head while you were eye-fucking that trollop?”
A sharp snort escaped him. “I’ll never get used to you swearing.”
She tried to wrench free. “Let me go.”
“Would you just let me explain, please?”
Her head snapped up—and he froze. Her eyes were wet.
“Was it all fun for you?” she whispered, voice breaking before she forced it hard again. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what’s been happening between us.”
He opened his mouth, but she cut across him, voice rising.
“Don’t you dare.”
His jaw clenched. “Of course I know. But unless you didn’t notice—you have a fucking boyfriend. And you told me to stay away, remember? What was I supposed to do?”
Her chest heaved. “I don’t know! Something!”
“So what—you mean I should’ve ignored you? Made my move without your consent?”
Her lips trembled before she spat, “You had my consent.”
He stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “I may look like a rogue, but I try to be a gentleman. And more importantly—I had no fucking clue how you felt, because you never gave me an inch, woman.”
Her eyes blazed. “Oh, I’m a woman now, am I?” She jabbed a finger at his chest, her voice shaking. “That’s it. This—” she gestured sharply between them—“is over before it even began. Glad I didn’t have to waste my time.”
She spun on her heel, dress flaring as she made to storm away.
Not this time.
Harry’s hand shot out, fingers curling around the back of her neck, the other locking hard at her waist. In one rough pull, he hauled her back against him. She gasped, fury flashing in her eyes—
and then his mouth crushed down on hers.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was months of strain and silence and near-misses breaking all at once, every unsaid word and swallowed look poured into the clash of lips and breath.
For a heartbeat she stiffened against him, hands pressed hard to his chest—then they curled into his shirt, dragging him closer.
Gasps rippled through the hall—the loudest from McGonagall—followed by Sirius’s unmistakable shout: “That’s my godson!” Cheers and whistles erupted, half the room on its feet.
They broke apart just enough to breathe, noses still brushing.
“Should I be expecting a punch from your boyfriend any moment?” Harry murmured.
Her chest still heaving, she whispered back, “We broke up.”
A slow, teasing smile curved across his mouth.
“Don’t,” she warned, eyes narrowing.
“Oh, so you couldn’t deny the truth any longer, could you?”
She huffed, cheeks pink. “I’m so going to regret this.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.” He stole another kiss, this one softer—just little pecks against her lips, one after the other.
“Alright, people!” Sirius’s voice rang out over the noise. “Let the young couple have their intimate moment. Turn away. Turn away!”
Laughter spilled across the hall. They both chuckled, still close enough to share breath.
“We haven’t even called each other by our first names yet,” she muttered.
Harry shrugged. “Who gives a shit about that?”
“I do!” she shot back.
“Alright, gravitationally challenged—”
Her fist thumped into his stomach before he could finish. He doubled slightly, wheezing, “—Her…mi—!” He caught his breath, softer now. “Hermione.”
She beamed up at him, radiant. “Harry,” she whispered.
This time, she was the one who pulled him down, sealing the deal.