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Harry Potter sat trembling in the Headmaster’s office, his hand shaking where it rested against his knee.
The room felt smaller than it had any right to be. Four walls crowded in, heavy with portraits of long-dead men who had once held this same office and, presumably, believed themselves wise. Their eyes followed him. Some with curiosity. Some with pity. A few with open judgment.
Harry kept his gaze fixed on the carpet.
His nerves were shot. Every breath felt measured, deliberate, as though the room itself were counting them. The Headmaster would arrive soon. He always did. And when he did, he would ask questions—soft ones, careful ones—and offer explanations that explained nothing. He would say Harry, my boy, and for your own good, and somehow expect that to be enough to justify the years of pain Harry carried like a second skin.
Where was Sirius?
Where was Remus?
Where was anyone who did not believe that suffering was a necessary educational tool?
The Floo flared.
Albus Dumbledore stepped out with the grace of a man entirely certain of his place in the world. His robes were immaculate. His expression, gentle. His eyes sharp behind half-moon spectacles.
He took in Harry in a single glance and then did nothing.
No greeting. No reassurance. He simply waited.
It was a game Harry recognized. Who would speak first. Who would blink. Who would yield.
Harry lifted his head.
“Tell me two things, sir,” he said. His voice shook only once. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Dumbledore inclined his head, as though granting a courtesy. “I will try,” he said. “There are some things you cannot know as yet.”
Harry swallowed.
“Why does Voldemort keep coming after me?”
Dumbledore sighed. It was practiced, that sigh—heavy with regret, polished smooth by repetition.
“There is a prophecy,” he said.
Harry did not move.
Dumbledore recited it as though reading from a familiar page, each word measured, careful:
“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."
Harry sighed, the weight of everything the magical world had taken from him settling coldly on his conscience. He nodded once, swallowing the Headmaster’s words without accepting them before speaking again.
“Where is Sirius?”
Dumbledore eyed Harry, clearly expecting him to question the prophecy first. He knew the inevitable outcome for the boy; this small boon of knowledge was nothing to grant him.
“Sirius is in the hospital wing. Remus was able to remove him from the Ministry without being seen. Poppy is looking after him.”
Harry stood without comment or acknowledgment and quietly made his way toward the door.
“Harry, my boy. We still need to speak about the prophecy and your role in the war to come.”
Without looking back, Harry nodded. “I need to see Sirius, sir.” His voice was heavy with strain.
Silently, the Headmaster let him go. He hoped he had not pushed the boy too far.
But it was for the greater good.
***
The hospital wing smelled sharply of potions and clean linens, a scent that clung to the back of Harry’s throat as soon as he stepped inside. Beds lined the room in neat rows, their white curtains drawn back to reveal the cost of the battle only hours before.
Hermione lay nearest the entrance.
She was almost swallowed by bandages, her normally animated face pale and still. Each breath came shallow and uneven, as though her lungs were fighting to remember their rhythm. Ron sat beside her, hunched forward in the chair, his eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and grief, one hand resting protectively near hers. Nearby, Neville, Luna, and Ginny stood close together, speaking in hushed tones. Ginny’s arm was held carefully in a sling as she waited for Madam Pomfrey to return.
Harry’s chest tightened.
He lingered only a moment, committing the sight to memory, before moving farther into the ward.
That was when he saw Sirius.
His godfather lay asleep, features relaxed in a way Harry had rarely seen. Remus Lupin dozed in a chair beside the bed, arms folded, his head tipped forward in exhaustion. Harry already knew what had happened — Bellatrix’s Killing Curse had been deflected by a falling boulder, the explosion of stone sending jagged shrapnel tearing into Sirius’s legs instead.
He approached slowly.
Harry reached for Sirius’s hand, wrapping his fingers around it. It was warm. Strong. Alive.
Relief crashed through him so hard it almost hurt.
“It’s all my fault,” Harry whispered, his voice breaking in the quiet room. “I’m stupid and brash and I don’t think. But I’ll fix this, Sirius. I promise.”
He squeezed his godfather’s hand twice, the small gesture grounding him, then gently let go.
For once, he would listen to Hermione.
For once, he would prepare instead of react.
***
The library was nearly empty by the time Harry reached it, the great hall of shelves hushed and echoing. Lamps glowed softly between the stacks, casting long shadows across the tables. He gathered books with shaking hands at first — volumes on Gringotts inheritance law, vault access rights, international magical governance, and everything he could find about the International Confederation of Wizards.
He stacked them high beside a secluded desk and began to copy furiously.
Ink smeared his fingers as hours slipped past unnoticed. Page after page filled with cramped handwriting, legal terms, and notes scribbled in the margins. For years, he had stumbled from crisis to crisis, reacting to whatever the world threw at him.
Now, he was choosing his own path.
When his hand finally cramped too badly to continue, Harry leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath. The panic that had once lived constantly in his chest was gone, replaced by something steadier. Colder. Stronger.
“I will fix this,” he whispered into the quiet. “And no one will ever control me again.”
Carefully, he packed the notes into his bag.
He would do better.
He would be better.
***
The compartment smelled faintly of steam and dust, the windows fogged by the cold outside as the train carried Harry south. The ride home passed in near silence, broken only by the steady rhythm of wheels on rails.
Harry sat with his forehead resting lightly against the glass, watching the countryside blur past. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Sirius—injured but alive. To Hermione, still unconscious in the hospital wing. To everyone who had nearly died in the space of a single night.
Regret settled heavily in his chest.
But it did not crush him.
It sharpened him.
King’s Cross arrived with a screech of metal and steam. The platform was loud and crowded, but Vernon Dursley stood out immediately, his broad frame rigid with impatience.
“Boy!” Vernon barked the moment he spotted him. “Move it.”
Harry followed without a word.
The drive to Privet Drive passed in brittle silence. Once inside the house, Harry was shoved up the stairs and into his room, the door slamming shut behind him with finality.
Contained.
So they thought.
Harry sat on the edge of his bed, the familiar smallness of the room pressing in around him. He waited until the house settled into its usual quiet before whispering, carefully, “Dobby?”
With a soft pop, the elf appeared at the foot of the bed.
“Harry Potter called for Dobby,” he said, eyes wide and attentive.
“Dobby,” Harry said quietly, “you work for Hogwarts.”
“Yes, sir,” Dobby replied, ears drooping slightly. “Dobby must tell the Headmaster if asked. Dobby cannot lie.”
Harry nodded. “I understand. But if you bond to me, you’ll be my elf. Your loyalty will be yours to give—freely.”
Dobby’s ears trembled. “Dobby… would belong to Harry Potter?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “And you’ll be paid properly.”
Hope burst across Dobby’s face, lighting him from the inside out.
“Dobby is Harry Potter’s elf!”
“Good,” Harry said softly. “Then we go to Gringotts.
***
Harry approached the first available teller and quietly asked if he might speak with someone regarding the Potter account. He fully expected to be laughed out of the bank — perhaps even escorted out by goblins with spears — but instead the teller merely inclined his head and gestured for Harry to follow.
Corridor after corridor wound deeper into the bank until Harry stood before a large wooden door. A gold-plated sign gleamed against its surface:
POTTER AND BLACK
He hesitated only a moment before knocking.
“Enter,” came the sharp voice from inside.
Harry opened the door and stepped into a spacious office where a familiar goblin sat behind a heavy desk.
“Ah. Heir Potter,” the goblin said calmly. “Please, have a seat.”
Harry did so slowly, nerves humming.
“I assume you are here at last to discuss your heirship,” the goblin continued, folding his hands together. “We have made numerous attempts to contact you over the years.”
Harry blinked, then straightened his shoulders.
“Hello, Griphook. May you see continued wealth for your grandchildren’s grandchildren,” he said carefully, remembering proper goblin courtesy. “I have many questions. But first — what do you mean by Heir Potter? And what correspondences are you referring to? I have received nothing.”
Confusion crossed Griphook’s sharp features.
“What do you mean you have received nothing?”
An inheritance test was produced.
Then bank statements.
Then ledgers.
The numbers told the story far more brutally than words ever could.
Vaults accessed without consent.
Funds removed under emergency exemptions.
Assets transferred “for the war effort.”
All authorized by Albus Dumbledore.
Harry stared at the parchments, his hands trembling — not with shock, but with grim confirmation.
“So it’s true,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Griphook said coolly. “Your vaults have been systematically siphoned for over a decade.”
Anger burned hot and steady in Harry’s chest.
Not reckless.
Not explosive.
Purposeful.
“Thank you for showing me,” Harry said quietly. “I would also like to request a temporary glamour. I wish to walk Diagon Alley without being recognized.”
Griphook inclined his head. “Granted.”
The magic settled over Harry like a second skin.
Harry left the bank and headed straight for a small shop he remembered from his third year — a magical optometrist tucked between a robe store and a potion supplier, its narrow windows filled with softly glowing lenses.
Inside, a gentle hum of magic swept over his face as the witch behind the counter scanned his eyes.
“Vision corrected,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll never need glasses again.”
Harry blinked.
The world snapped into perfect focus.
Every line, every color, every distant shape sharpened until it felt as though he were seeing properly for the first time in his life. It was almost overwhelming — and strangely symbolic.
Afterward, he moved through Diagon Alley with quiet purpose, purchasing clothes, supplies, and an expandable rucksack large enough to hold everything he would need. When he was finished, he nodded to Dobby.
“King’s Cross, please.”
With a soft pop, they were gone.
The Muggle station was loud and bustling, full of hurried travelers and rolling suitcases. Harry approached the ticket counter with his Gringotts card in hand and asked calmly for two one-way first-class tickets to Amsterdam.
When the clerk slid them across the counter, something in Harry’s chest settled.
The choice felt final.
Back at Privet Drive, the house silent for once, Harry sat at his small desk and pulled parchment toward him. His hand hesitated only a moment before he began to write.
Dear Padfoot,
I’m writing so you won’t worry.
I know you trust the Headmaster. I don’t. Not anymore.
If you show him this letter, that’s your choice. If you don’t, I’ll always be grateful.
King’s Cross — Muggle side
Train car three
Leaves at 4 a.m. in five days
Prongslet
The reply came hours later, delivered in a hurried scrawl that looked as though it had been torn from the pages of a book.
Prongslet,
Wherever you are. Whatever you need.
I’ll be there. Five days.
Padfoot
Harry finally exhaled.
The tight knot in his chest loosened for the first time since leaving Hogwarts.
Part one was complete.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Harry did not take much.
He packed only what he could carry easily — a change of clothes, the expandable rucksack, and the bundle of notes he had copied so carefully from the library. When everything else was settled, he knelt and lifted the loose floorboard beneath his bed.
His wand.
His invisibility cloak.
The only things he truly needed.
The rest could stay behind.
“Dobby,” he whispered.
With a soft pop, the elf appeared beside him.
“Ready, Harry Potter?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “Take me to King’s Cross.”
The familiar twist of apparition folded the world inward, and a heartbeat later they stood on the platform.
King’s Cross was nothing like the crowded chaos of daytime.
It was dark and nearly silent, lit only by rows of dim yellow lamps that cast long shadows across the stone floor. A single train waited at the far end of the platform, steam drifting lazily into the cold early-morning air.
There were no crowds.
Only quiet.
And that was when Harry saw the large black dog.
It sat beneath one of the lamps, its dark fur blending with the shadows, watching him closely.
Harry’s breath caught.
He moved slowly toward it. The dog rose and padded closer, eyes warm with recognition — and in a soft shimmer of magic, Sirius stood where the dog had been.
“Prongslet,” he murmured.
Harry rushed forward, hugging him fiercely. Sirius wrapped his arms around him just as tightly.
“You made it,” Harry whispered.
“Always,” Sirius replied.
They boarded the nearly empty train together, settling into a quiet compartment as the whistle blew softly and the train began to move.
Outside, the dark city slipped away.
For a while, only the rhythm of the tracks filled the silence.
Then Harry began to talk.
He told Sirius everything — about the prophecy, about Dumbledore’s manipulation, about the stolen money, about the endless danger.
“I’m so tired,” Harry said quietly, staring at the faint reflection of himself in the window. “Every year someone nearly kills me. Every year they tell me it’s necessary. This time was the last straw.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened.
“They failed you,” he said softly.
“Yes,” Harry replied. “So I’m leaving.”
Sirius reached across the small table and squeezed his hand. “You’re not leaving alone.”
The rest of the ride passed in exhausted calm. Harry slept for the first time in what felt like forever, his head resting against Sirius’s shoulder.
When the train finally slowed hours later, dawn was just beginning to color the sky.
Amsterdam awaited.
They stepped off stiff and weary, eyes heavy but hearts steady.
Sirius glanced at him. “Ready?”
Harry nodded.
Together they walked toward the ICW’s neutral wards, the air humming with ancient magic.
At the entrance, two robed witches looked up.
“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry said, voice hoarse with exhaustion. “This is Sirius Black, my guardian. We’re requesting sanctuary and protection.”
The witches exchanged a look.
“You look as though you need both,” one said gently.
The wards parted.
“Welcome to ICW territory. You are safe here.”
Harry finally breathed.
***
The wards closed behind them with a low, resonant hum.
The sound settled deep in Harry’s chest, not loud but heavy — like the sealing of something ancient and absolute. The air inside the ICW complex felt different from anywhere he had ever been. Cooler. Steadier. As though the magic itself was watching.
They were led through pale stone corridors etched with faint glowing runes until they reached a circular chamber lit by soft floating orbs. Several witches and wizards in dark robes sat behind a curved table, their expressions calm and intent.
Sirius stayed close, his shoulder brushing Harry’s.
A silver-haired witch rose.
“I am Magistrate Elswyth of the International Confederation of Wizards,” she said. “You have requested sanctuary and investigation under international law.”
“Yes,” Harry said, his voice rough with exhaustion. “We’re not safe in Britain.”
Elswyth studied his face — the scar, the hollow shadows beneath his eyes — then nodded once.
“Before protection can be granted, the truth must be verified. You will both submit to Veritaserum and Pensieve review.”
Sirius stiffened.
Harry’s heart hammered.
“We stay together,” Harry said immediately. “I won’t be questioned without him.”
Sirius’s hand closed around his shoulder. “Nor will I leave him.”
For a moment the room was silent.
Then Elswyth inclined her head. “So be it.”
Crystal vials were brought forward. Three shimmering drops fell onto each of their tongues, warm and heavy as truth settled into their veins.
A Pensieve was wheeled into the center of the chamber, its silvery surface swirling softly.
“Harry Potter,” Elswyth said gently. “Show us why you fled.”
Harry swallowed hard and stepped forward.
The surface of the Pensieve rippled — and the memories burst free.
Fire roared through the chamber, heat rolling in waves as a monstrous three-headed dog loomed over a trapdoor in the floor. The scene twisted and Harry was suddenly tangled in Devil’s Snare, the vines crushing his ribs as he struggled to breathe. Keys screamed through the air in a storm of wings, metal glinting, before the ground shifted into a massive chessboard that shattered beneath exploding stone.
Then cold replaced heat.
Stone walls closed in.
Professor Quirrell staggered backward, screaming as smoke poured from his hands — and Voldemort’s pale, twisted face unfurled from the back of his skull.
A sharp intake of breath rippled around the chamber.
“You were eleven,” someone whispered.
Harry nodded faintly. “They called it a test.”
The memory warped again.
A diary lay open in trembling hands, whispering softly in the dark. Students lay petrified along the corridors. Then the chamber opened wide — the basilisk rising like a living nightmare, its massive body coiling as venom dripped from gleaming fangs.
Pain exploded through Harry’s arm.
The sword fell.
The diary was stabbed through.
Tom Riddle’s scream tore through the air as the pages blackened and dissolved.
“A destroyed soul vessel,” an Unspeakable breathed.
“I was twelve,” Harry said quietly.
The world twisted violently.
Gravestones stretched under a cold, open sky. Hands forced Harry to his knees. Bones lifted from the earth. Wormtail’s silver knife flashed.
Blood hit the ground.
And Voldemort rose — whole, terrible, alive once more.
Cedric’s body fell beside him.
No one in the chamber spoke.
“You witnessed his resurrection,” Magistrate Elswyth said softly.
Harry’s voice barely carried. “They said I was lying.”
Another surge of memory burned forward.
Umbridge’s office.
The sick scrape of metal against skin as the blood quill carved words into Harry’s hand.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Pain. Shame. Silence.
Then the Ministry erupted in chaos — spells tearing through shelves of glowing prophecy orbs, Death Eaters shouting, curses flying.
Sirius running toward him—
Harry’s breath hitched.
The memory blurred, breaking apart before the fall.
Elswyth raised her hand. “Enough.”
The silver light faded.
Silence settled thick and suffocating.
“You were subjected to lethal trials, dark artifacts, confirmed Horcrux destruction, a resurrection event, state-sanctioned torture, and active combat,” Elswyth said steadily. “All before adulthood.”
Harry nodded once.
“That was school,” he whispered.
Something fractured in the room.
*****
Sirius stepped forward, shoulders squared though his hands trembled faintly at his sides.
“The Fidelius Charm,” Magistrate Elswyth prompted gently.
“Dumbledore cast it,” Sirius said hoarsely. “And he knew Peter Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper. He insisted it was safer that way.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
Shock rippled outward, murmurs rising and dying as Sirius’s memories spilled into the Pensieve.
The silver surface did not show the curse.
It showed the aftermath.
Sirius arrived to a house already broken.
The Potters’ home stood in ruins, walls blasted outward and the upper floor collapsed into itself. Smoke drifted lazily into the night air, carrying the wrongness of magic violently interrupted. The wards were gone. The protection was gone. Everything felt hollow.
He had not been there when it happened.
He would never remember the moment the spell was cast.
He stumbled through the wreckage, calling James’s name, then Lily’s, his voice cracking against the silence. No answer came. The stillness pressed in, heavy and absolute.
Footsteps crunched behind him.
Hagrid pushed through the debris, eyes red and stunned, cradling a crying child against his chest.
Harry.
The sound broke something open in Sirius’s chest. He reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the baby’s sleeve, grounding himself in the warmth of living skin. For one desperate heartbeat, instinct screamed at him to take Harry and run — to disappear, to protect the last piece of James and Lily left in the world.
But Dumbledore’s voice echoed in his mind. Plans. Wards. Blood.
Trust.
“Take him,” Sirius said hoarsely, pressing his motorbike keys into Hagrid’s massive hand. “Get him somewhere safe.”
Hagrid hesitated, then nodded, turning away with Harry held close.
Sirius stayed behind.
Grief didn’t fade.
It sharpened.
The memory lurched forward.
A crowded Muggle street. Peter Pettigrew’s voice rose shrill and panicked, accusing loudly enough for everyone to hear, drawing eyes, drawing attention.
“How could you, Sirius?”
People stared. Wands lifted.
Then the explosion tore through the street.
Stone and fire ripped outward, bodies thrown aside, screams echoing through the smoke. When the air cleared, Peter was gone.
All that remained was a severed finger.
And Sirius — wandless, blood-spattered, laughing in shock and grief because his world had already ended and his mind could not hold it all.
Aurors arrived within minutes.
They didn’t ask questions.
Chains closed around his wrists.
Iron doors slammed shut.
Azkaban swallowed him whole.
Cold.
Darkness.
Dementors glided endlessly through narrow corridors, feeding on despair and replaying the same memories again and again — James laughing, Lily smiling, a baby’s cry fading into silence.
Years blurred together. Time lost meaning. Sanity thinned beneath the weight of grief.
Then escape.
Wind tore past as Sirius fled across the sea in his Animagus form, driven by a single burning truth that had kept him alive.
Peter Pettigrew was alive.
The memory shifted again.
The Shrieking Shack.
Pettigrew cornered, shaking, sobbing as he confessed — betraying the Potters, serving Voldemort, framing Sirius.
Hope flared.
Proof at last.
And then—
Chaos.
A flash of blinding light.
Stone and dust exploding outward.
When the air cleared, the rat was gone.
“They had him,” Sirius said brokenly, his voice thick with pain. “A confession. Witnesses. Proof. And they let him escape.”
The silver surface of the Pensieve stilled.
The chamber remained utterly silent.
No one argued.
No one needed to.
A healer finally stepped forward, lifting her wand as soft lattices of pale blue magic unfolded around Harry.
“We must scan for dark enchantments,” she said gently.
Harry nodded numbly, barely feeling the glow as it passed over his arms, his chest, his spine — searching, probing — until it reached his scar.
The magic flared violently.
A shadow writhed beneath Harry’s skin like living smoke, twisting against the light.
A horrified gasp swept the room.
“A soul fragment,” the healer whispered.
“A Horcrux,” Elswyth breathed, the word heavy with dread.
Sirius moved instantly, pulling Harry into his arms.
“There’s… there’s a piece of him in me?” Harry whispered, his voice small.
“Yes,” the healer said softly. “It has been anchored there since infancy.”
“And no one addressed it,” Elswyth said, her tone turning cold as steel.
Understanding slammed into Harry’s chest, sharp and breath-stealing.
“They knew,” he said quietly.
No one answered.
They didn’t need to
****
Elswyth rose slowly.
“The International Confederation of Wizards hereby declares the British wizarding government compromised beyond internal remedy,” she said, her voice carrying across the chamber.
“Voldemort is no longer a domestic threat. He is an international terrorist entity.”
Murmurs surged.
“Britain’s leadership will be placed under immediate investigation and international oversight. Assets will be frozen. Records seized.”
She turned to Harry and Sirius.
“Sanctuary is granted.”
“Sirius Black is recognized as legal guardian.”
“Medical extraction of the Horcrux will be scheduled immediately.”
Tears blurred Harry’s vision.
For the first time, someone had listened.
For the first time, someone had acted.
“You are safe,” Elswyth said gently.
Sirius hugged him fiercely.
Harry finally allowed himself to breathe.
_____________________________________________________________________
One Year Later
The sea beyond the sanctuary cliffs was restless tonight, waves crashing far below in steady rhythm.
Harry stood with Sirius beside him, the wind tugging at his hair, the scent of salt clean and sharp in his lungs. He was taller now. Stronger. The hollowness that once lived in his bones was gone.
And his scar was smooth.
Gone entirely.
For the first time in his life, there was nothing dark inside him.
Behind them, lanterns glowed softly along the garden paths — healers laughing quietly, children practicing spells without fear, life continuing instead of preparing for war.
Peace was not loud.
It was steady.
Sirius rested his forearms on the stone railing. “Elswyth came by earlier.”
Harry didn’t turn. “The final rulings?”
Sirius nodded once.
“Riddle is finished.”
Harry closed his eyes.
Not with relief.
With finality.
“They tracked every remaining soul fragment,” Sirius continued quietly. “When the last was destroyed, the ICW performed a full soul recall.”
Harry’s fingers curled against the stone.
“What happens when there’s nothing left to anchor it?” he asked.
Sirius’s voice was low.
“The soul collapses in on itself.”
Not death.
Unmaking.
“No afterlife,” Sirius said. “No ghosts. No echo. Just erasure.”
Harry exhaled slowly.
Tom Riddle hadn’t been killed.
He had been ended.
“And his followers?” Harry asked.
“Life sentences in null-magic containment. Some in isolation wards. A few tried to flee — the ICW classified them as international threats and hunted them down.”
Silence settled between them, heavy but clean.
“And Dumbledore?” Harry finally asked.
Sirius’s jaw tightened.
“He was stripped of every title and every magical privilege. Wand snapped. Gringotts seized everything he’d taken — plus reparations for damages.”
Harry turned now. “That’s it?”
“No,” Sirius said softly.
“He’s confined to a truth-bound residence. No visitors without ICW approval. No lies permitted. Ever.”
Harry frowned.
“He has to live the rest of his life knowing exactly what he did,” Sirius continued. “Unable to justify it. Unable to reframe it. Forced to remember every child he endangered. Every choice he made.”
A living reckoning.
Harry absorbed that quietly.
“That’s worse than prison,” he said.
Sirius nodded. “The ICW thought so too.”
The wind lifted Harry’s hair, cool and clean.
“It’s really over,” Harry whispered.
“Yes,” Sirius said. “It is.”
They stood together as the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sea in fire and gold.
Harry smiled — soft, real, unguarded.
“I don’t wake up scared anymore,” he said.
Sirius’s throat tightened. “Good.”
“I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the next disaster.”
Sirius rested a hand on his shoulder. “That’s what childhood’s supposed to be.”
Harry laughed quietly. “Bit late.”
“Not too late,” Sirius said.
They watched the light fade.
No prophecy.
No war.
No shadows waiting.
Just tomorrow.
And the next.
And a life that finally belonged to Harry.