Chapter Text
Grimmauld Place had never been warm, but it was quieter now than it had been in years. The ancestral portraits had long since been silenced. Even Kreacher, the last living soul who truly knew the house, moved like a ghost. But Harry sometimes thought he could still hear the echoes of the past in the floorboards. The wails of a thousand generations of pure-blood madness soaked into the walls.
The soft clink of glass was the loudest sound in the room.
Harry Potter sat slouched in the high-backed armchair nearest the fireplace, a half-empty bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky dangling from one hand, the cap discarded on the rug. The fire had long burned down to glowing embers, casting long, red shadows across the scarred floorboards. He didn't seem to notice the chill.
Kreacher scuttled forward with a quiet sigh, gnarled fingers reaching for the empty bottle already left on the side table. It clinked gently as he removed it, eyes flicking to the fresh one Harry had already uncorked. His wrinkled brow furrowed, lips pursed in disapproval, but he said nothing. He hadn’t said anything in a long time.
This had become the new routine. The new normal. The once Boy-Who-Lived, now a man who had survived too much, drank alone in the house that had once belonged to his godfather. Kreacher cleaned in silence. Neither acknowledged the other more than necessary.
There had been visitors, in the beginning. The Weasleys. Hermione. Hagrid. All of them trying, in their own way, to pull Harry back into the light. But he'd retreated from them all. These days, they mostly sent letters—thin envelopes tinged with worry, stacked like unwanted bills by the edge of the mantel. He hadn’t opened them. He didn’t need to.
He knew what they said.
“Come for dinner, Harry.”
“We miss you.”
“You don’t have to be alone.”
He did, though. He had to be. It was easier.
Harry took another swig of the Firewhisky, the burn familiar and comforting. It didn't help anymore—not really—but he kept drinking anyway. What else was he supposed to do?
He had joined the Auror Department straight out of the war, skipping his final year at Hogwarts on Kingsley's recommendation. He'd tried to do the right thing. Tried to channel the chaos inside him into purpose. But he had been broken even then—something fundamental had fractured inside him in the aftermath. But nothing could have prepared him for what came next.
Ron.
Losing Ron had destroyed him in a way Voldemort never could.
They’d fought beside each other. Bled beside each other. Laughed, even, when laughter seemed impossible. But after surving the war he had lost his best friend to a simple auror mission gone wrong. Ron’s death hadn’t been noble or poetic. It had been fast. Ugly. Final.
After that, Harry had slowly unraveled.
Hermione had tried to hold them together, but she’d been shattered too—her own grief an open wound. Ron had been her everything. Her fiancé. Her future. The person she was supposed to build a family with. Five years ago, she’d buried that future. Since then, she'd thrown herself into her work as an Unspeakable, disappearing into Department of Mysteries projects and things she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—talk about. She still sent him letters, still checked in, still cared, but Harry saw the strain in her words. She could barely look at him anymore. Not without that grief swelling in her eyes like a tide.
Mrs. Weasley had been the strongest of them all. Somehow. She’d lost more than anyone, and yet she was still the one everyone leaned on. Still sending jam jars and hand-knitted scarves and hopeful letters nearly begging him to come visit.
But Harry couldn't face her. Not when every glance at her reminded him of the son she’d lost. Not when her hugs were still warm and full of forgiveness, and he felt so monstrously undeserving.
And Bill...
Bill had been quietly stepping into the space Ron left behind. Not pretending to be him—no one could—but watching over Harry with a quiet protectiveness that said he hadn’t forgiven himself, either. Maybe he thought this was his penance: checking in on the last, broken piece of his youngest brother. But Harry couldn’t look at Bill without remembering Ron's laugh, Ron’s fury, Ron’s loyalty. It was there in the shape of Bill’s jaw, in the familiar tilt of his head—even with the scars and the long hair and the quiet grace.
Harry was a coward.
So he'd retired. Quietly. The Auror Department had let him go with polite applause and slight reluctance. The Prophet had printed another gushing headline about "The Hero’s Well-Earned Peace." What a joke.
He was probably the richest wizard in Britain now. Inheritor of both the Potter and Black vaults, gifted more trinkets, gold, and honors than he ever wanted. People sent him things even now. Portraits. Books. Trinkets. Thank-you gifts for the Man Who Conquered.
If only they could see him now.
But it was better this way, wasn’t it?
Better to disappear quietly, to become the ghost the world had always wanted him to be. He had tried to get used to the spotlight after the war, had tried to fulfill the expectations placed on him. But even then, the whispers had started.
“He still looks so young, does he?”
“He was seventeen then—he’s almost twenty-five now, surely?”
“Its been so many years. You’d never know by looking at him.”
“It’s... uncanny, isn’t it?”
At first, he thought he was imagining it. Harry had always looked younger than his age. A byproduct, maybe, of years spent underfed and underslept in a cupboard.
Now, over ten years after the war had ended, it was undeniable.
It wasn’t just that Harry Potter looked young for his age. It was that Harry Potter wasn’t aging at all.
He hadn’t changed. Not in any meaningful way. He still looked like the boy who had walked to his death in the Forbidden Forest, heart pounding and mouth dry, clutching the Snitch like a lifeline.
It had started right after that. After that strange, liminal place where he’d spoken with Dumbledore, his own body weightless and glowing with something he still didn’t understand. He had returned from death, but something had stayed with him—something had shifted in a way that no spell or curse could ever undo.
At the time, the first sign had seemed almost trivial. He’d noticed something strange. It had been so subtle at first, lost in the chaos, the noise, the blood and debris. His vision had gone blurry just before the final duel, and he’d assumed his glasses had been damaged or dislodged. But afterward, when he finally paused, when the fighting had stopped and the adrenaline faded, he realised he could see perfectly once he removed his glasses.
He didn’t need glasses anymore. At the time, it had felt like a blessing—a small mercy, a sign from the universe that maybe, just maybe, he’d earned some relief. The world was sharp in a way he hadn’t known since he was a child. The glasses had become a symbol for him—a part of his identity—and he’d worn them a few more times out of habit. But they were no longer needed.
And then the other changes came.
The pale white scar on his hand from Umbridge’s cruel quill faded into nothing. The jagged cut on his ribs from a Death Eater’s knife—gone. The countless scrapes and marks from years of Quidditch, curses, and battles vanished as if they'd never existed. He had even looked for the faint line on his palm from where Dudley had once cut him with a broken toy car.
There was nothing.
No scars. No damage. Not even the faintest blemish. His body was a clean slate—untouched, unmarred.
Reborn.
At first, he’d told himself it was just another side effect of surviving the Killing Curse. Again. Maybe it had simply reset him. Maybe it was a gift. A blessing. But as time passed and he remained unchanged, that comfort crumbled.
His friends aged.
Ron had gotten his first grey hair. Hermione had grown sharper around the eyes. The early creases of stress lined her forehead from long nights and too much stress over the years. Ginny had grown into her strength, fierce and bright, but older in ways Harry was not. Even Neville had changed, his once-round face now thinner and lined with quiet experience.
And Harry?
He looked like boy, barely of age even after all these years.
The panic had started slow, then consumed him. He had buried himself in his work as an Auror, throwing himself into every mission with reckless disregard. He’d taken every risk, every bait, every dark alley like he had something to prove.
And one day, it happened.
A curse to the chest. Fatal. Lights flashing. Pain blooming white-hot—and then—
Nothing.
He had woken on the ground, breathing easily, chest unbroken. The curse had carved a hole through his robes, burned the shirt beneath. But his skin? Flawless.
He hadn’t even scarred.
It was Hermione who had figured it out, of course.
They had stayed up all night in Grimmauld Place, surrounded by dusty books and ancient scrolls. Her hair wild. Her hands shaking. She had a theory—one so terrifying in its implications that neither of them wanted to believe it.
He was the Master of Death.
It had been a title, once. Something Dumbledore had spoken of with twinkling eyes. The one who unites the Hallows. But Harry had never wanted it. He had dropped the Resurrection Stone in the forest. The Cloak lay untouched in a drawer. The Wand was buried with Dumbledore again, as it should be.
And yet…
Perhaps it was never about possession. Perhaps it was about something else.
He had walked to his death. Willingly. Without hesitation. Without fear. And for some reason Death had decided this made him worthy of being his master. Or perhaps this was a punishment for defying Death yet again.
He had become the thing Voldemort sought so desperately and never could have. Immortal. Eternal. Unkillable. Trapped.
Robbed of the simple privilege of growing old.
Hermione had cried when she realized it. Knowing him enough to know what a curse this truly was.
And Harry—well, Harry had laughed. Bitter and sharp. Because of course. Of course he had won a war he never wanted to be a part of, defeated a Dark Lord, saved a world that only ever asked more of him—and been given a life sentence as reward.
He couldn’t even look forward to death.
He would be the last.
Watching, always watching, as everyone he loved was taken from him one by one. Until he was a relic. A name in a book. A face in a museum. A boy frozen at seventeen while time marched cruelly on.
And if that wasn’t a good enough reason to drink, he didn’t know what was.
He tipped the bottle back again, wincing as the last burn of alcohol hit his throat. It wasn’t enough to numb anything, but at least it gave him something to feel for a moment. Something hot and sharp and real.
He glanced at the cold, unlit corner of the room, where a dusty mirror leaned against the wall. He caught a glimpse of himself there—wild-haired, pale, eyes too old for his face.
What would they say if they saw him now?
If the press ever got wind of the truth?
They’d call him a Dark Lord in the making. They always did, eventually. They’d say he cheated death. That he hoarded power. That he was too dangerous.
He knew how quickly the tide could turn. He’d lived through it before.
The boy who lived. The Chosen One. The Savior. The Weapon. The Threat.
He closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. It didn’t matter. None of it did. The world had moved on. And he had… not.
His eyes drifted to the pile of unopened letters again. The pile was larger now that ever before. Most were from the Weasleys. Hermione’s narrow script peeked from the top envelope. A few had the heavier parchment Bill favored. All of them were trying to make sure he was still breathing.
Harry exhaled slowly. Bitterly. Like he had a choice anymore.
It was only a matter of time before someone sent a Howler.
Just as he was about to turn away, he paused. He almost didn’t notice the unfamiliar envelope tucked underneath.
But it was there.
A thick parchment, not familiar. Coarse. Edged with wear. The ink was darker, heavier.
And the handwriting wasn’t familiar.
Harry stared at it for a long time.
Then, with a sigh, he set reached for it. The letter was older than the rest, yellowing slightly at the edges, the parchment thin and rough. The handwriting wasn’t familiar, but what stopped him—what made the half-empty bottle in his hand freeze halfway to his lips—was the name written on the front.
Sirius Black.
His breath caught, sharp and involuntary.
Not Harry Potter. Not The Boy Who Lived. Not The Chosen One. Just Sirius.
The ache in his chest bloomed instantly, deep and raw. Even now, over a decade later, the sight of that name in ink could cleave him in two. He lowered the bottle slowly, his fingers trembling.
He hadn’t heard that name spoken in years. Sirius had been gone for so long—but grief didn’t follow the rules of time. Some wounds never closed.
Grimmauld Place had been Sirius’s last known residence. Of course the owl would deliver it here. Still, something about that felt cruel. A reminder of what was lost, delivered to the ruins of what once was.
Harry’s fingers hovered over the seal. He hesitated, then cracked it open.
The parchment inside crackled with age. He unfolded it gently and began to read.
Dear Sirius,
I don’t know if you remember me. It’s been many years, and I expect I was more of a curiosity to you than anything else—just another rebellious limb of your tangled family tree. But I remember you.
I remember the night you came to our reservation, digging for the truth your family tried to bury. You were angry, and reckless, and wild—but kind. You said your name was Sirius Black, that you were chasing bloodlines long since exiled from your House. You spoke of Ephraim Black, banished for being a 'squib', but you had a theory. You believed the magic wasn’t lost—just changed. That maybe, just maybe, the magic wasn’t gone at all—just sleeping.
I laughed at you then. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Because the shifting has started again.
It’s a young man from our community. His name is Sam Uley. He changed—turned into a wolf. Just like the old stories. The timing fits too perfectly to ignore. It began not long after the Cullen family returned to Forks.
You said once that the presence of vampires might awaken something buried deep in our blood. That Ephraim’s exile didn’t mean his legacy was gone. I didn’t believe it. Not then. I thought the magic had left us for good. But now I’m not so sure.
Bella Swan—the daughter of my oldest friend —is in danger. She’s fallen into the orbit of the Cullens. I tried to dissuade her, but she’s young and stubborn and sees none of what I do. I promised I’d look after her. I hate to ask this of you. Truly. But if things continue as they are, I won’t be able to protect her.
We only have one wolf, and he’s barely holding it together. I have a feeling more will follow, but that takes time. And we may not have much of it.
Before you left all those years ago, you told me that if I ever needed anything—anything at all—I could write to you. Just send an owl, you said before gifting me Bastet. You told me to keep her—that she’d find you again if ever the need arose. She’s old now. Slower. But I hope she reached you.
I know it’s a lot to ask after so many years. I don’t even know if this will reach you, or if you’ll care. But if there’s any part of you that remembers what you said to me—that still holds true to the blood you once chased—I ask you now.
Come. Help us.
If not for me, then for the innocent girl. For the magic in your veins that lives on in us.
I hope this letter finds you in health and strength.
With respect,
Billy Black
Harry’s eyes lingered on the signature. He let the letter fall into his lap, its weight curiously heavy. His hand moved to rub at his temple, a familiar throb beginning to pulse behind his eyes. Too much drinking and too little sleep was finally catching up to him.
Billy Black. The name was not familiar. The story about squib branches, family dishonor, a bit of rebellion Sirius had worn like a badge of pride was plausible. Sirius had always chased freedom in strange places.
Harry leaned back in his chair, the fire flickering low beside him. The shadows in the drawing room reached long across the floor, wrapping around him like a second skin.
He should have felt something more decisive. Urgency, perhaps. Curiosity. But he was just… tired.
The Cullens. Vampires. Shapeshifters. A girl named Bella.
It didn’t make sense. Not yet. But something about the letter tugged at him. The man had known Sirius. Was connected to him.
Harry reached again for the bottle, but missed it.
The effects of nearly two bottles of firewhisky were catching up fast. His mind spun, the fire’s warmth suddenly too hot against his skin. The room tilted slightly. He clutched the armrest, but his fingers slipped.
As his vision blurred and the parchment slid from his lap to the floor, Harry’s last thought was a hazy echo of something Dumbledore had once told him: The dead are not truly gone. Not while those who love them remember.
He remembered.
And then the darkness took him.
_______________________________________
When Harry stirred, it was with a groan and the unmistakable throb of a splitting headache hammering behind his temples. His mouth felt dry, as though he had swallowed a handful of ash, and his limbs were leaden with the dull ache of too much Firewhisky and too little sleep. He blinked blearily, sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains of Grimmauld Place, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. Then it all came rushing back.
He pushed himself up slowly, wincing at the creak of the old arm chair beneath him. A blanket had been draped over him at some point in the night, tucked neatly with care. On the table beside him, the empty bottles were gone, replaced by a single neatly labelled vial. The familiar sickly green hue of a hangover potion caught his eye.
Kreacher. Of course.
Harry glanced around the room. It was spotless. Not a bottle in sight. Kreacher had cleaned everything while he slept, and had even seen to his comfort. Guilt bloomed low and bitter in Harry's chest. The old elf had been a constant presence over the years, never far, never loud. Silently loyal. Silently disappointed. Silently worried.
Harry sighed and uncorked the vial. The potion was foul as ever, but the effect was immediate—a cool wave washed over his skull, dulling the headache, easing the tension in his body. He let out a low breath and leaned back.
That was when his gaze caught on the letter.
It sat where he’d left it, as though waiting for him. No longer crumpled in his lap but smoothed flat, the parchment now weighed down by an old book Kreacher must have placed there to keep it from curling.
Harry stared at the name written on the front: Sirius Black.
His throat tightened. The ache that had settled in his chest the night before hadn’t lessened with sleep. If anything, it had grown heavier. He picked the letter up again and read it a second time, slower now. Each word carried more weight.
A plea for help. A link to Sirius. A branch Black line. A tribe stirred by ancient magic. Vampires.
How could he ignore it?
By the time he set the letter down again, his decision had solidified. A resolve he hadn’t felt in years pulsed beneath his skin like something awakening. For the first time in so long, he had a direction.
He stood slowly, the aches of self-neglect pulling at his joints. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, passing the door that had once belonged to Sirius. It was closed, as it had been since the day Harry inherited the house. He didn’t look at it.
He didn’t look at the other door either, the one with peeling red paint that had once been shared with his late best friend. That room, once full of whispered jokes and midnight laughs, now lay hollow behind its closed door.
Instead, Harry entered a nondescript guest room. It was plain, impersonal, its walls bare and its furniture untouched by memory. That was why he’d chosen it.
He stood before the mirror and stared at himself. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. His black hair, once charmingly messy, was now unkempt and greasy. His stubble had grown into an uneven beard, and his skin was pale beneath the shadows of exhaustion etched under his eyes.
He looked like a ghost.
A long bath was first. He filled the tub with scalding water and sank into it with a hiss of discomfort and relief. As the heat soaked into his bones, he closed his eyes.
He hadn’t felt purpose in years. Not real purpose. Missions as an Auror had numbed him, but this? This felt different. This felt personal. He was going. To Forks. To find Billy Black.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a familiar voice that sounded suspiciously like Hermione's snapped awake. Harry James Potter, you reckless idiot. Of course, this could be a trap. He hadn’t thought of it last night, but now the possibility sounded entirely plausible. There had been more than a few attempts after the war by sympathisers to avenge Voldemort’s death.
But he didn’t care. If there was a chance—even the slimmest chance—that a piece of Sirius still lingered out there, Harry would chase it. He would walk into danger with open arms.
But he wouldn’t tell the full truth. They wouldn’t let him. Not Hermione. Not Bill. Not any of the Weasleys, if they had a say. If Ginny knew he planned to walk into a mess involving shape-shifters and vampires, he’d be hexed into his own bed before he could pack a bag.
No. He’d write to Bill. Say he was visiting a distant branch of the Black family. It wasn’t a lie, technically. Just not the whole truth. He would let the others know.
The water cooled. He climbed out, shaved, and dressed in clean, plain robes. As he buttoned the collar, he caught his reflection again. For the first time in a long time, he looked almost… alive. His emerald eyes, still startlingly vivid after all these years, stared hollowly out of a face that bore none of the marks of age or time. Smooth, unblemished skin. Not a single scar. Not even the faint lightning-shaped mark that had once defined him, shaped him, haunted him. His forehead was bare now—unremarkable. And yet, somehow, that emptiness was more jarring than the symbol had ever been.
He reached up and slid his round glasses off his face. They’d become more of a crutch than a necessity over the years. A remnant of an identity he didn’t quite know how to part with. After the war, when he had noticed his vision had inexplicably corrected itself, he had still chosen to wear them. They made him feel more like himself. But today… today, he didn’t feel like hiding behind them.
He set the glasses gently on the nightstand and leaned closer to the mirror, scrutinizing himself with a rare kind of honesty. No scar. No glasses. No sign of the boy-who-lived. Maybe, just maybe, he could be someone else today. Someone untethered from the past.
With that thought, he crossed to the small wooden cabinet at the back of the room and crouched, opening the bottom drawer. Beneath a few tattered old files and stray socks, he found a leather-bound pouch, worn soft with time and use. Inside were the forged muggle identification documents he had used for field missions as an Auror—false names, backstories, everything needed to disappear into a new life. He thumbed through them until he came to the one labeled: Harry Evans.
The name stung a little. Evans—his mother’s name. A tribute, a shield, a weapon of anonymity. He pocketed the ID and documents and turned to the dresser to write a letter.
He scribbled quickly, keeping the message short and vague:
Bill,
I’m heading to America for a short while. Something’s come up—Black family business, but not urgent enough to worry anyone. I’ll be careful. Please let the others know I’m safe. Don’t expect me back right away.
Harry.
Rising from the chair, he called out softly, "Kreacher."
The crack of apparition followed a heartbeat later, and the house-elf appeared in the room. He froze for a moment, his wide eyes drinking in the sight of Harry: clean, shaven, dressed like someone who had somewhere to be, someone with purpose again.
Kreacher blinked slowly, his expression unreadable for a second. Then he bowed deeply, knobbly hands pressed together. "Master Harry looks like a proper Lord of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black again."
Harry’s smile faltered for a moment at the complement. "I’ll be away for a while, Kreacher. Just a trip. I will be back before long."
The elf nodded solemnly, his voice quiet and heavy. "Kreacher will take good care of the house while Lord Harry Potter is away."
Harry extended the letter to him. "Send this to Bill, please."
Kreacher tucked the letter against his chest with reverent care. Just as he was about to vanish, he paused, hesitating. His large eyes flicked toward Harry again. "Mistress Granger is waiting for Master Harry downstairs. She came before sunrise. Kreacher told her Master Harry needed rest."
Harry exhaled slowly, bracing himself. He had hoped to slip away before facing anyone—but of course, Hermione would never allow that. She always did have a way of finding Harry.
Harry descended the stairs slowly, the soles of his shoes silent against the worn wood. The familiar chill of Grimmauld Place lingered in the air, but it softer today—almost bearable. As he neared the kitchen, he caught the faint clink of ceramic and the scent of bergamot tea drifting through the corridor.
When he stepped inside, Hermione was sitting at the long table, cradling a cup in both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her. She didn’t notice him at first, eyes distant and unfocused, her brow drawn in quiet contemplation. She looked tired—more tired than someone her age had any right to be, the years having carved their marks into her with grief and relentless work.
Then she heard his footsteps and looked up.
Her breath caught in her throat with an audible gasp.
For a moment, she stared like she didn’t recognize him. And in some ways, perhaps she didn’t. His hair was freshly washed and combed, his jaw clean-shaven, his posture upright for the first time in what felt like years. The hollow exhaustion that had clung to him for so long seemed—if not gone—then at least momentarily kept at bay.
Her eyes widened as they settled on his face, her gaze drawn to the bare stretch of skin where his famous scar used to be.
“You look…” she blinked, dazed. “You look so much better.”
A slow, sheepish smile tugged at Harry’s lips as he walked toward her and took a seat at the table. She tilted her head, still studying him.
“I never realized,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Your eyes… they’re so green. I think the glasses always dulled them.”
Harry shrugged lightly. “I’ve worn them so long, I forget I don’t need them anymore.”
There was a beat of silence between them. Then Hermione looked at him, eyebrows knitting together with concern. “Are you… going somewhere?”
Harry hesitated.
His gaze dropped to his hands, fingers fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. For a moment, he considered lying. Saying he was just stepping out for a bit. But the truth, for once, felt lighter to carry.
“I’m going to America,” he said finally. “To Washington. A small town called Forks.”
There was a sharp intake of breath and the unmistakable sound of porcelain shattering on the stone floor.
Hermione’s teacup had slipped from her hands, splintering into fragments, tea pooling in a dark stain by her feet. Her face had gone white as parchment.
“Why?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
Harry leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “It’s not what you think. I’m not running off. I just… I found a letter. Someone writing to Sirius. It seems he has some distant relatives there, part of the Black family that were cast out generations ago. I want to meet them.”
She didn’t look convinced. Her hands trembled slightly as she drew her wand and cast a silent charm to clean the mess. But she didn’t look at him.
“Is it safe?” she asked eventually. “Harry, it could be a trap. You know that. Someone pretending to be connected to Sirius? People have tried things like this before.”
He nodded, his smile wry and tired. “I know. But honestly?” He met her eyes. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
The words were meant to be light, but they landed with the weight of lead. Hermione flinched like she’d been struck, and silence fell thick between them.
When she finally spoke, her voice trembled.
“I haven’t been a good friend to you,” she said softly. “Not for a long time.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand.
“Let me say this,” she said, her throat tight. “After everything… after Ron… it was easier to lose myself in my work. To forget. I told myself you wanted to be left alone, that you were strong enough, that you didn’t need—”
She broke off, her voice cracking. Her hand went to her mouth as if to stop the sob that followed. When she dropped it, her eyes were shining.
“I never blamed you, Harry. None of us did. You weren’t even on that mission. You couldn’t have stopped it.”
Harry was very still.
He stared down at the wood grain of the table, his breath shallow. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow and quiet.
“Ron was an Auror because of me.”
Hermione’s brows furrowed, but he continued.
“He wanted to work with George. After the war. Work at the shop together. But he didn't want to leave me. Said I needed someone I could trust. He didn’t want me to be alone in that job. He stayed… for me.”
He swallowed hard.
“And when it mattered most… I wasn’t there.”
Hermione let out a strangled sob and surged forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him.
“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, burying her face into his shoulder. “Ron would never have blamed you. And neither do I. Nobody does. You hear me?”
Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tears came silently, sliding down his cheeks and into the folds of her jumper. He hadn’t cried in years. Not like this. Not where it counted.
Hermione cried too, the years of unspoken grief catching up with them in that small kitchen where so many memories had been made.
When she finally pulled back, she wiped her face with the sleeve of her robe and let out a shaky breath.
“I should have married that idiot,” she said with a wet laugh. “When he proposed after the war. I kept saying we had time. I wanted to build a career before settling down.”
Harry gave her a small, broken smile. “He’d have been proud of you.”
Hermione squeezed his hand. “And he’d have kicked your arse if he saw you wasting away like you have.”
Harry laughed softly. It felt foreign on his tongue. Like the ghost of something he’d forgotten how to feel.
Hermione looked at him knowingly. “You weren’t even going to say goodbye, were you?”
He looked away, guilt rising like bile.
“I thought so,” she said, shaking her head with mock disappointment. Then, after a beat, her voice softened. “Just promise me something.”
He looked up.
“Come back,” she said. “Promise me you’ll come back. I can’t lose you too, Harry. I couldn’t bear it.”
Harry reached for her hand again, held it tightly in his. “I’ll be careful,” he said. “And I promise—I’ll come back.”
She gave a watery smile and nudged his shoulder. “You’d better. Or I won’t stop Ginny from hunting you down.”
He chuckled. “Terrifying thought.”
They sat in silence for a while after that, simply existing in each other’s company. It was the first time in a long while that it didn’t feel painful.
Eventually, Hermione glanced at the clock and groaned.
“I’m late. Honestly, everyone at the Department of Mysteries will think I’ve been kidnapped.”
Harry stood with her and opened the door.
“I’ll send you an owl when I’m settled,” he said.
“You’d better,” she replied, straightening her coat. Then, in a softer voice: “Take care of yourself, Harry.”
And with that, she was gone.
For the first time in years, Harry felt like maybe—just maybe—he could move forward.