FicWad

Harry’s heart thundered in his chest, each beat like the crash of distant waves against rock. Loud. Relentless. He couldn’t tell if it was fear or hope—or both—coursing through him like lightning. The feeling wrapped tight around his ribs, a grip he couldn’t shake.

He was close.

After everything—after the pain, the guilt, the ritual that had nearly torn him apart—he had survived. No, more than that. He had made it through. He had won.

He was still trying to understand what that meant.

His feet moved on instinct, the ground beneath him unfamiliar and shifting like a dream just before waking. Somewhere ahead, he felt the tug of something real. The world—the real world—was near. He could feel it, like a hand pressed lightly against his back. Urging him on.

A shiver ran through him. Not from cold, but from that strange, trembling anticipation that filled the air just before something changed. The way the world felt before the Sorting Hat called your name or before a wand found your hand and decided it fit. He felt like he was standing at the edge of something huge. Something final.

He slowed, then glanced back. The place where Snape had disappeared was already fading into mist, like it had never been there at all. A strange ache unfurled inside his chest.

Snape.

It was still hard to believe. Of all the people who might’ve pulled him through that darkness, he never would have expected Snape. The man who had haunted his school days like a shadow under a door, who had seemed to hate everything about him. But in the end, it had been Snape’s cold presence, sharp voice, and steady fury that cut through the fog. That yanked Harry out of the place where he’d been drowning in shame and guilt.

Without him… Harry wasn’t sure he would have made it.

Maybe he’d still be stuck in that endless loop of self-loathing.

Maybe he’d be lost.

But he wasn’t. He was here. Whole. Free.

He turned forward again—

And stopped cold.

The fog had crept in without warning. Thick. Heavy. Pale grey poured in from every side like smoke from a broken wand, wrapping the world in silence. The path ahead was gone. Everything ahead was shadows.

His heart picked up again—harder this time. Not with hope.

Is this part of the ritual? Or… did something go wrong?

He took a step forward, cautious. Then another.

“Ron?” he called. His voice sounded small. “Hermione?”

The silence that answered him was wrong. Not empty—just… hollow. As if the world had been turned inside out and sound didn’t belong here.

He strained to hear something. Anything.

No answer.

The fog clung to his skin like wet cloth, cold and suffocating. His hands clenched. His breathing came faster, shallow now.

Did I miss the way out? Did I lose them? What if—what if this isn’t the way back at all?

Then—

A flicker.

A flash of movement, just at the edge of vision. Two shadows, faint through the mist.

His breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t think. He moved—slow but urgent, drawn forward by something deeper than logic. The fog began to lift, thin as paper, and he could see more clearly now. Shapes. Light.

A golden beam pierced through the haze—sudden, blinding. Sunlight. Warm and impossibly bright after all that grey. He flinched, raising his hand to shield his eyes.

When the light softened, he looked again.

And forgot how to breathe.

There, standing in the glow, was a woman with deep red hair that caught the light like flame. Her eyes—hiseyes—were wide and shining.

She smiled. Soft and full of something that made the ground tilt beneath him.

“Harry,” she said. Her voice was a melody from a dream, one he hadn’t known he remembered. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Time collapsed.

His knees nearly buckled.

“No,” he whispered, voice cracking. “No, it can’t be—”

But it was.

“Mum?”

The word barely left his lips. It felt too big for his mouth. Too sacred.

He wanted to run to her, to close the space between them in a single heartbeat. He wanted to bury his face in her robes and feel her arms around him, feel something he had never really known. But his body wouldn’t move. He was frozen, locked in place by the sheer impossibility of it.

She’s here.

He had seen her face only in photographs. Heard her voice only through the mouths of others. But now she stood in front of him, alive, warm, and whole.

His heart screamed for him to believe it.

Then—footsteps. Rushing. Familiar.

“Harry!”

A hand grabbed his shoulder, firm and real, and spun him around. He barely had time to react before he saw the face—messy black hair, glasses askew, and a crooked, tired smile.

Harry’s breath left him in a rush.

“Dad,” he breathed. His throat tightened painfully. “You’re… here?”

James grinned, and there was something playfully exasperated in his voice. “You gave us a right scare, you know. I even checked Knockturn Alley. Figured you’d gone and gotten lost again.”

The words felt wrong—too light, too normal. Like it was any other day. Like this was any other place.

Harry stared at him, his mind twisting itself into knots trying to make sense of it.

You’re dead. You both died. I saw it. I’ve lived it. I carry it with me like a scar.

But his father was here. Standing solidly, grinning like he had all the time in the world. And behind him, Lily waited, glowing with pride and love.

Harry shook his head, barely able to breathe.

“This isn’t real,” he said under his breath. “It can’t be real.”

But oh—he wanted it to be. He needed it to be.

James frowned a little, like he couldn’t understand why Harry was staring at him like he was a ghost. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?”

Harry gave a shaky laugh, but it came out closer to a sob. He was spiralling inside, his heart pulled in a thousand directions.

His dad stood there like this was just another Sunday stroll. As if Harry hadn’t just clawed his way back from death and torment and loss.

And maybe… maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was what he’d fought for.

But he didn’t trust it. Couldn’t trust it. Not yet.

His fists unclenched slowly, trembling. His throat ached with everything he couldn’t say.

Lily stepped up beside James, and her smile faded into something more serious. Not angry—just steady. Grounded. Her voice, when she spoke, carried that quiet authority Harry somehow recognised even though he’d never truly heard it before.

“There’s nothing wrong with your face, dear,” she said to James with fond exasperation, then turned her full attention to Harry. Her eyes narrowed in that unmistakable way mothers seem to have when they see through you. “But you, young man—we were terrified. You vanished while we were at the owl shop. What on earth were you thinking?”

Her tone wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even sharp. But it hit him like a spell to the chest—soft but devastating.

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again.

I…

How could he explain any of it? That they were dead. That he had mourned them, longed for them, neededthem through every aching year of his life.

That he had stumbled into something unspeakably ancient and broken time or memory or death itself.

And now he was here. In this twisted echo of the past.

This isn’t real.

The thought returned again, cold and certain.

It can’t be.

James let out a soft, awkward cough, trying to cut through the tension. “Lily, love, maybe he just got a bit too excited. First time in Diagon Alley, remember? I got lost three times on my first go. Ended up in Knockturn Alley. Nearly bought a cursed tea kettle.”

Lily gave him a look that could’ve melted glass.

James just grinned, unrepentant. “What? He’s got my sense of direction.”

Harry didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. His lips twitched, but the sound wouldn’t come. Everything around him felt… off. The sunlight was too warm, too golden. The cobblestones beneath his feet looked exactly as he remembered them—but tooexactly. Too clean. Too cheerful. The witches and wizards bustling nearby sounded like they were reciting lines in a play.

A play made from his memories.

His life, stitched back together into something bright and easy and wrong.

Then—he caught sight of something. A flicker in the corner of his eye.

He turned—

—and froze.

In the glass of a nearby shop cabinet, a reflection stared back at him. Small. Fragile. Pale skin and knobbly knees. Green eyes too wide in a narrow, childish face. His hair was a mess. He looked scared. And young.

Too young.

Eleven years old.

“No,” he whispered, stumbling back. His heart kicked into a sprint.

That’s not me. That’s not me anymore.

But the mirror didn’t lie. Somewhere between the end of the ritual and this place, time had folded back in on itself, peeling away the years like pages torn from a book.

He wasn’t seventeen.

He wasn’t the Chosen One.

He was just that boy again.

The one who had stood in this alley, overwhelmed and awestruck. The one who didn’t yet know what he would lose. What he would have to survive.

What is this place?

An illusion?

A trap?

A memory I’m not meant to be in?

Is this what the ritual left behind? Or… is this Voldemort’s doing? Some twisted punishment? Some mirror world designed to break me?

His lungs felt tight. His stomach churned. The ground shifted beneath his feet like a moving stair that had suddenly stopped.

“Harry?”

His mother’s voice broke through the spiral, light and concerned. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”

He looked up at her. The worry in her eyes was real—looked real—but it only made the panic worse. He couldn’t answer her, not properly. Not honestly.

“I…” His voice came out cracked, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

James misunderstood. Of course he did.

“Bit much, huh?” He said kindly, clapping a warm hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, kiddo. We’ll grab a bite at the Leaky Cauldron, sit down, and let your brain catch up with your feet.”

Harry nodded automatically, but inside he was screaming. I’m not hungry. I’m terrified.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

He wasn’t supposed to be this.

Lily stepped closer, touching his cheek with her palm—cool, gentle. It should’ve soothed him, but it didn’t. It made his eyes sting.

“You look a bit green,” she murmured, smiling gently. “Maybe some pumpkin juice and treacle tart will help. You always light up when you see treacle tart.”

I haven’t had treacle tart since the war. I haven’t lit up for anything in a long time.

“I—I’m alright,” he lied. The tremble in his voice made the words sound like glass cracking under pressure.

But Lily only smiled that calm, certain smile of mothers who’ve already made up their minds. “We’ll go anyway.”

They started walking, her hand still lightly resting on his back. His legs moved, but he didn’t remember deciding to follow.

As they passed the owl emporium, a flicker of white caught his eye—and stopped him in his tracks.

A snowy owl. Silent. Regal. Watching him.

Amber eyes locked with his, sharp and aware in a way nothing else here seemed to be.

His breath caught in his throat.

James whistled. “Isn’t she stunning?”

“Hedwig!”

The name tore out of him, unfiltered and raw.

James blinked. “Hedwig? Do you… know her?”

Harry hesitated, pulse racing. “No—I mean… not exactly. I just… thought the name suited her.”

The lie sounded ridiculous. But it was the best he could do.

James raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, but didn’t press. “Well, she does look like a Hedwig.”

Harry couldn’t look away. Her eyes never left his. Intelligent. Fierce. Familiar in a way that ached.

She remembers me.

The thought was absurd. But it rang in his chest like a bell.

She knows who I am—even if I don’t.

Lily stepped up beside him, not hesitating for a second.

“She’s the one,” she said with conviction, pointing toward the cage.

James, holding a rather uninspired brown rat in his hand, looked mildly betrayed. “But—look at him! He’s… efficient.”

Harry glanced at the rat. It yawned. Then sighed.

Lily didn’t dignify it with a reply. “Harry doesn’t need ’efficient’. He needs something noble. Something loyal. Something that won’t chew through his pillowcase at midnight.”

“That happened twice,” James muttered, placing the rat back with exaggerated care. “Fine. Owl it is.”

Harry stepped closer to the snowy owl’s cage. She tilted her head, eyes never leaving his.

And in that gaze—fierce and knowing—he felt something shift.

Something real.

A thread of truth tugged at him through the fog of this too-perfect world. Warmth bloomed in his chest, brief and fleeting, like a fire in deep snow.

She looked at him.

And in that look, he almost heard her say, There you are.

They moved through the crowd like a memory caught in motion—half ghost, half golden. The cobbles of Diagon Alley stretched ahead, warm beneath their feet, the noise and colour swelling around them like a tide. Street vendors shouted cheerfully. The scent of toffee apples and smoke curled through the air. Everything shimmered with life.

Harry walked between them, quiet and watchful, caught in the gravity of two people he’d never really had but somehow belonged to.

They’re so… them.

He couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop seeing.

Lily’s calm, steady presence. The way she kept them oriented—hand on James’s elbow, glancing at Harry every few seconds like she was making sure he was still there. James, on the other hand, moved with wild, restless energy, stopping every few steps to point something out, to marvel at a display or nudge Harry with conspiratorial excitement.

It hit him like a slow-motion crash—he was made of both of them. His mother’s gentleness, his father’s mischief. Her grounding, his momentum.

No wonder I’m such a mess, Harry thought, but the thought was warm, almost proud. It makes sense. For the first time, it makes sense.

They passed Quality Quidditch Supplies, and James let out a noise like he’d been winded.

“Oh—now that’s what I’m talking about!” He gasped, flinging himself toward the window like it might vanish if he blinked. “Look at the handle! Look at the grip! It’s practically saying my name—James. James.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He laughed.

There was something infectious about it—his dad’s whole-hearted awe, the way he pressed his palms to the glass like a kid spotting Father Christmas. It was ridiculous. And it was wonderful.

Lily was less impressed.

“Absolutely not,” she said, not even slowing her stride. Her voice was like a clean slice of steel—decisive, practised. She’d probably said the same words to James a hundred times before. Harry could hear the history in them.

James turned, injured. “What? I didn’t say I’d buy it!”

“You thought it very loudly,” Lily replied, crossing her arms. “You already have five broomsticks.”

“Five and a half,” James muttered. “The Comet’s in pieces.”

“That doesn’t make it half a broom. That makes it trash.”

Harry half-wince, half-grinned, caught in the whirl of secondhand embarrassment that came with watching your parents bicker in public. They weren’t yelling—just sparring. Affection disguised as annoyance. A script written years before he’d ever existed.

James leaned close, voice dropping into a dramatic whisper meant only for Harry. “For you, I would.”

The words cracked something open in Harry’s chest.

It was sweet. Stupid. Real. Dangerously easy to believe in.

“Dad… it’s fine,” he said quickly, blinking against the burn behind his eyes. “I don’t need anything.”

James threw up his hands. “There’s no winning against your mum,” he said as they moved on. “She’s small, but she’s terrifying.”

“She has a wand,” Harry pointed out, nudging his head toward Lily’s cloak.

James stopped walking like he’d just remembered the laws of physics. “Right,” he said solemnly. “The stick of doom.”

They both laughed, and for one shining moment, it was all simple. No prophecy. No scars. Just… life.

But underneath it, something flickered. A dissonant note, subtle and sharp. The wrong key in a familiar song.

How long does this last? Harry wondered. When does it start to crack?

Around them, Diagon Alley glowed. Horses with feathered hooves clattered past, pulling carts stacked with enchanted books. Cauldrons stirred themselves in open crates. A witch spilt a bottle of fizzing pink potion onto the stones, and it bubbled like champagne, sending up a puff of glitter that made a toddler nearby squeal with delight.

It was all too alive. Too vivid.

And Harry felt alive in it.

More alive than he had been in months.

He turned his head, and in a glint of shop glass, caught their reflection—two boys with messy black hair and glasses slipping down their noses.

Father and son. Or brothers. Or, as James might say, “chaos twins separated by time.”

James pointed across the alley, his voice gleeful. “That’s the one! That shop over there sells wands carved from elder trees in the Forbidden Forest. Probably illegal. Definitely dangerous. Totally awesome.”

Lily sighed, but her smile betrayed her affection. “They also sell self-polishing cauldrons, but I suppose that’s not quite as thrilling.”

Harry laughed, and it felt real. Not forced. Not weighed down.

He knew about wands. Knew the rules. The cores. The laws of magic. He’d memorised spell theory and duelling forms and the ethical implications of magical loyalty.

But here, walking beside them, it all felt new.

Like magic had uncurled inside him again. Not the kind born of battle or desperation. Not the kind that broke things.

This magic was soft. Whole. Alive.

They wandered past a shop selling jars of bottled sunlight. Past floating quills and boxes of enchanted sweets that giggled when touched. And still Harry’s gaze kept drifting upward—to the fluttering banners overhead, to the crooked rooftops he remembered from childhood but had never seen like this.

With them.

He remembered this street. He remembered the day with Hagrid, the awe and wonder.

But this feeling—that deep, aching fullness—

That was new.

And then—something quiet.

A hand slipped into his.

He glanced down. Lily’s fingers, warm in his.

On his other side, James reached out, casually lacing their hands together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Harry’s throat closed. He wanted to hold tighter. To fuse the moment into his skin.

He didn’t want to let go.

Not ever.

But there it was again—that quiet fracture beneath the joy. The seam running through the dream.

This isn’t real, the voice whispered. You don’t get this. You never did.

He shoved it away. Buried it beneath the warmth of their hands.

Beside him, Lily laughed at something James said—light and full of joy, like music he’d never heard but had always longed for.

Harry smiled. He had to. But somewhere inside him, something cracked. Small. Sharp. Inevitable.

If this is a dream, he thought, please… let me sleep a little longer.

“Are you okay, Harry?”

Her voice was sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

He blinked. Looked up.

Lily was watching him with that gentle, endless kind of concern—the kind that didn’t demand, just saw.

“I’m… yeah,” he said. “Just thinking.”

The truth, sort of. Except “thinking” felt too small a word. He was spiralling. Thoughts crashing over each other like broomsticks in a storm. Grief and joy and disbelief all tripping over themselves in his chest.

She smiled at him, and the love in her eyes nearly undid him.

Not just affection, not politeness—love. The kind that wrapped around his ribs and made it hard to breathe. The kind he’d conjured in a hundred fevered dreams, drawn in smoke and guesswork, always fading before he could touch it.

Now it was here. Solid. Real. And it settled into him like warmth under a winter cloak, muffling the static in his chest that had been screeching since—well, since whenever this started. Whenever the world had decided to rearrange itself into something too perfect to trust.

Still, Harry clung to the moment. Grasped it with both hands like it might vanish if he blinked too hard or thought too loudly. He didn’t know what this was—illusion, spell, madness—but he didn’t want it to end.

Being here, with them, was like drinking sunlight. Joy soaked in honey and wrapped in something ancient. Something that felt like home.

They walked on, drifting through Ollivander’s like ghosts made flesh. Harry cradled his wand in both hands—his wand, the wand: holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather. It thrummed softly in his grip, like it remembered him.

Like it was relieved to be home.

The same wand. The same weight. A circle folding in on itself.

But even the warmth of magic couldn’t drown the whisper in his bones. That creeping dread, winding up his spine like frost on a windowpane.

This isn’t right. Something’s wrong.

He swallowed. Then, carefully, casually, he said, “Mum?”

“Yes, dear?” Lily didn’t look up. She had unfolded the Daily Prophet and was scanning it with polite interest, as if world events mattered less than the pastries in the Leaky Cauldron’s window.

Harry hesitated. The air around the question felt fragile. He reached for it anyway.

“Do you know anything about Vol—”

“Oh, wow!” Lily burst out, nearly startling him into dropping his wand.

Harry jolted. “What?”

She held the paper up, grinning like she’d found gold in a gutter. “This is unbelievable! The Muggle Prime Minister just announced a joint security initiative with Minister Tom Riddle! Isn’t that extraordinary?”

Harry blinked. His stomach dropped.

He leaned in to read the headline, and the words felt like static in his ears:

AT LAST! THE MUGGLE PRIME MINISTER UNITES WITH MINISTER TOM RIDDLE TO PROMOTE PEACE AND SAFETY FOR ALL.

He stared. The letters didn’t rearrange. The meaning didn’t change.

Peace. And safety. With Tom Riddle.

It felt like a prank. Like Fred and George had bewitched a copy of the paper, and this was the punchline. Surprise! Voldemort’s running for office, and also—he’s into diplomacy now.

“Tom Riddle?” Harry repeated, half-hoping the name would dissolve if he said it aloud. “The Tom Riddle?”

Lily nodded, serene. “Yes, dear. You’ve read all about him, haven’t you? His reforms have been absolutely incredible.”

The world tilted a little.

Harry stared at her, but she looked calm. Happy, even.

He dropped his eyes to the picture on the front page—Riddle, clean-cut and charismatic, smiling beside a Muggle official. His eyes were dark but human. No slit pupils. No serpents. No cold dead stare. Just a man in a suit.

“He’s… always been like this?” Harry managed.

“Oh, he’s a marvel,” Lily said, as though describing a neighbour’s particularly well-behaved Kneazle. “Brilliant student. A bit intense, of course. But so polished. So persuasive.”

Harry swallowed. Polished. Persuasive. That’s what people said about cult leaders before the bodies turned up.

From beside him, James leaned over, peering at the paper. “Ah, Riddle. What a bloke.”

Harry turned to stare at him. “You knew him?”

James shrugged casually. “Sure. Worked with him back when I was in the Auror Office. He headed up Magical Law Enforcement for a while. Ruthless, but effective.”

Ruthless. Harry’s stomach flipped.

“Ruthless?” he echoed, trying to find a thread of normalcy in a room that was quickly turning upside down.

James nodded approvingly. “You admired him too, remember? Said he was a symbol of justice and magical unity. You were so proud.”

Harry felt like his mind had slammed into a wall.

“I—I did?”

“Of course you did!” James gave him a fond clap on the back. “Always said you wanted to follow in his footsteps. Make the world better. Clean up the system.”

Clean up the system. Right. With fire and fear.

Harry looked back at the photo. Riddle’s smile didn’t waver. His tie was straight. His handshake was firm. He looked like someone you’d trust to run your government.

Or poison your tea.

“But…” Harry said softly, “that can’t be real.”

Lily squeezed his hand, laughing gently. “You always get like this after Ollivander’s. It’s the wand fumes.”

Wand fumes. Sure. That explained everything. His brain was melting because of wand fumes.

Harry let out a laugh—tight and high and cracked around the edges. His own voice sounded foreign.

The Leaky Cauldron loomed ahead, glowing with warmth. Familiar. Safe.

But as they stepped inside, the words peace and safety echoed in his skull like a curse.

He tightened his grip on the wand.

If this was a dream, it was starting to take a very wrong turn.

Like someone had rewritten the world with good intentions and bad memory.

And Harry wasn’t sure how long he could keep pretending it didn’t scare him.

Harry must have looked dazed—his face slack, eyes distant—because his mother made a gentle sound, a soft clearing of her throat. Not a sharp interruption, but something quieter, like brushing cobwebs from an old mirror.

“Do you remember Riddle and his wife? Bellatrix?” she asked lightly, almost wistfully.

The names fell like a pebble into still water, small and quiet but rippling out far.

Harry blinked. “Lestrange?”

It felt like someone had whispered a spell behind his back. The air shifted. His chest tightened without warning, and a pulse of cold bloomed just under his ribs. That name didn’t belong here—in his mother’s soft voice, in the gentle afternoon light spilling through the windows.

His heart skipped. And skipped again.

Lily tilted her head. “Yes, that’s right. You don’t remember? They were at your dad’s ministry promotion party. Riddle and Bellatrix used to be Auror partners.”

The words didn’t settle. They floated around him instead, too light and too strange to hold onto.

Riddle. Bellatrix. Not the howling names carved into the walls of his past. Not shadows that haunted dreams. But people? Partners? Guests at a party?

The thought barely registered. It bounced off his mind like rain on glass.

He tried to summon the picture she was painting—Riddle laughing beside the punch bowl, Bellatrix clinking glasses with his mum—but the image refused to stick. It was like trying to remember a dream you hadn’t had. Familiar shapes in unfamiliar places.

“I think… It’s coming back to me,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t. Not even close. His voice sounded far away, muffled by fog. Thin and slow, like it had drifted up through water.

Nothing made sense.

It felt like someone had taken his life, peeled back the paint, and repainted it in softer colours. The outline was the same—but the heart of it had changed.

Same street. Same sky. Same names. Different world.

Still his, somehow. But not.

And yet—his mum was here. His dad too. Talking and laughing and reaching for his shoulder like it was normal. Like it had always been this way. They were whole and solid and alive.

So maybe the logic didn’t matter.

Maybe he didn’t need it to make sense. Maybe being here—being with them—was enough.

They walked together down the cobbled lane toward the Leaky Cauldron, and the world shimmered around him like it was caught between frames of an old film. Familiar, but off—tilted just slightly, like a photograph hung at an angle on a wall no one else noticed.

The pub’s crooked sign swayed above the door, and golden light flickered from inside. It should have felt like home. Instead, it felt like a memory of home—warm but distant. As though someone had described it to him, lovingly, from far away.

Inside, the air was thick with laughter, the scent of roasted meat, butterbeer, and smoke. Candles flickered. Voices danced across tables. Music was playing something sweet and aimless.

It should’ve been comforting.

And maybe it was. But Harry still felt like he was on the wrong side of a windowpane. He could see it. Hear it. Almost touched it. But some part of him hadn’t arrived yet.

They found a table tucked in the back, half in shadow, half near the fire. James dropped into his seat with a sigh and clapped a warm hand on Harry’s back. “You’re doing great, son. Just let yourself feel it. No rush.”

Harry nodded, offering a faint smile. Let yourself feel it.

He wanted to. He really did.

He was just starting to breathe—just starting to feel the table under his hands and the light on his skin—when the door opened behind them.

It creaked softly. No louder than the whisper of a page turning. But the pub quieted like it had been enchanted.

Harry turned, slowly.

The Malfoys entered like they’d stepped out of a dream.

Not a nightmare. Not quite. Something cooler. More distant. Like frost on a window, delicate and cold.

Lucius glided forward first, his silver hair catching the light. Narcissa followed, wrapped in pale blue silk, her expression serene. And behind them—Draco. His eyes swept across the room as though he already knew how it would end.

Harry felt his spine straighten. The warmth of the fire no longer touched him.

Lucius’s eyes moved slowly, languidly, until they landed on James and Lily.

The moment stretched.

And then he walked toward them, calm and practised, like he was gliding on strings only he could see.

Harry’s hands tensed beneath the table. His heart ticked faster. This was it. The turn. The rupture. The moment the spell broke and reality cracked open.

“Ah,” Lucius said softly, his voice like silk caught on thorns. “The famous Head Auror.”

James stood in a blink. “Lucius.”

His voice wasn’t angry. Not exactly. But something older lived underneath it. Something that hummed.

Harry held his breath.

And then—

They laughed.

James let out a low, genuine chuckle and stepped forward, clasping Lucius’s hand in a gesture that was half handshake, half unspoken challenge.

“You’re still dramatic as ever,” James said, shaking his head.

Lucius smiled faintly, lips barely moving. “And you’re still… insufferably cheerful.”

It felt like watching actors play roles they hadn’t auditioned for. Familiar faces, unfamiliar lines. But the emotion underneath—warmth? Respect? Something softer, even if brittle—seemed real.

Harry stared, trying to ground himself. His thoughts were drifting.

Lucius Malfoy just hugged my dad.

Lily’s voice broke through the haze, bright and clear. “Come sit with us! Harry, darling, could you fetch a few more chairs?”

He stared at her like she’d spoken a language he didn’t know. Then, slowly, his body moved on instinct—standing, stepping away, reaching for empty chairs as if it was all a spell he’d been taught long ago.

His mind, though—his mind was somewhere else entirely.

A world where Lucius Malfoy hugged his dad.

Where Bellatrix Lestrange went to parties.

Where Tom Riddle smiled at toasts.

And where Harry—somehow—had parents who still looked at him like the sun rose just for him.

He dragged the chairs over, the legs scraping gently along the floor, the sound oddly distant—like hearing something underwater. Harry tried not to stare as Narcissa stepped forward with the kind of elegance that seemed impossible to teach. She moved like her bones were made of music and cold glass. Impeccably composed. Untouchable.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t have to. Her voice was soft, polished, and perfectly civilised.

“Thank you, but we only came to say a brief hello.”

She said it as if the visit were a courtesy call made in passing, a flicker of politeness between more important things. Harry almost admired it—this uncanny ability to enter a room like a ghost and leave without ever truly being there. A social apparition.

Lucius, by contrast, lingered like perfume—intentionally. He stood just behind her, drawing in the attention like someone soaking up candlelight. And Draco—Draco looked as though he were being held in place by invisible wires, waiting for someone to cut him loose.

Harry sat back down, trying to breathe in time with the room.

Somewhere nearby, a chair scraped, a goblet clinked, and someone laughed. Life resumed its rhythm.

But for Harry, everything still felt slightly askew. Like someone had tilted the floor a few degrees and forgotten to warn him. Like reality had been rotated in its frame, just enough that nothing quite lined up.

“Leaving so soon?” James’s voice was casual on the surface, but Harry could hear it—an undercurrent of something stretched thin. A thread of longing hiding behind the ease. “We don’t get to see each other often these days.”

That thread pulled at something inside Harry too.

It wasn’t about catching up. Not really. It was about time. About the past slipping out of reach, about people who used to be close standing politely on opposite shores. About trying, just for a moment, to pretend that nothing had changed when everything had.

He glanced at his mum. Her smile was too wide. Too bright. Like she was trying to keep the moment from floating away—hold it still with sheer hope.

Narcissa’s voice softened, almost tender. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Lucius has accepted a position in France, and we’re leaving this afternoon. Draco insisted we stop by when he saw you, though. We’ll stay in touch once we’ve settled.”

Harry’s eyes drifted to Draco.

He looked like a boy cast in marble and then brought to life too suddenly. His hand lifted in a quiet, uncertain wave. Fingers curled halfway, hesitated. As if he didn’t quite know whether he was allowed to greet someone like Harry Potter or whether the rules were different here.

Harry felt something flicker inside him.

Not anger. Not suspicion. Something quieter.

Recognition, maybe.

Or sympathy—for the weight of a name you never asked for and the way it pinned you down in every room you entered.

“Are you absolutely certain you can’t stay just a little longer?” Lily asked, and her voice was so soft and bright that it nearly broke Harry’s heart. Like a songbird trying to hold back the wind. Hopeful, and already knowing the answer.

Lucius smiled, barely. “I’m sorry, Lily. We really must be going. Perhaps another time.”

Perhaps. A word that sounded like a door half-open. But Harry could feel the lie in it. Not cruel, just inevitable. A word you used when you didn’t want to say never.

He knew what this was. People didn’t circle back. Not really. Not once they’d started writing new chapters in other languages. They didn’t return to the scenes they’d already left.

Frustration stirred in his chest, slow and hot, like tea that had steeped too long. His jaw tightened. He dropped his gaze, staring at the table as if it might offer answers or maybe just something solid to hang on to.

He didn’t know what he wanted to say—only that none of it felt real enough to hold.

James nodded, his expression smooth, but Harry saw it—the twitch of his jaw, the line that formed near his temple.

“Of course. I’d hate for you to miss the ministry celebration tomorrow,” James said. “It’s bound to be… memorable.”

Lucius’s mouth twitched. “Indeed. I can already picture you holding court. Boasting about your latest promotion. Feeding that ever-growing ego of yours.”

Harry flinched internally. He expected tension to crack open the air again—a wand drawn, a sharp retort, something ugly.

But instead—

James laughed.

Not a forced chuckle. A real, rich laugh that filled the space like a warm breeze. For a second, it was as if none of this was strange at all.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Lucius,” James said, shaking his head. “Still allergic to enthusiasm.”

He reached out and clapped a hand on Lucius’s shoulder—half-teasing, half-fond—and for a moment, Harry saw something that felt older than rivalry.

Something like history.

Two boys in school robes, smirking over their textbooks. Duelling behind the library. Laughing when they probably shouldn’t have. It didn’t erase what Harry knew—what he remembered of the world as it had been—but it added a strange, impossible layer beneath it.

A friendship that might’ve happened. A version of the world that hadn’t fallen apart.

“Don’t forget to bring us back something French and ridiculous,” James added, his grin crooked and bright.

Lucius rolled his eyes like he was performing on a stage. “Naturally,” he said, voice clipped with sarcasm, though Harry caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—amusement, maybe? Then Lucius turned, his cloak swirling, and didn’t look back.

The Malfoys left with practised grace, gliding toward the door like they were part of some vanishing spell. It was fast—too fast. A hug, a nod, a glance that lasted just a second too long.

Draco hesitated. His eyes flicked toward Harry—sharp, unreadable. For a second, Harry thought he saw something flicker there. Recognition? Doubt? Maybe even guilt? Or maybe Draco was just as confused as he was. Then the door closed behind them with a deep, final thunk.

The sound echoed longer than it should have, sinking into the floorboards, rattling in Harry’s chest like the last breath of a dying memory.

He dropped into his chair with a low whuff, the air leaving his lungs. Around him, the room resumed its gentle clinking of silverware and murmured conversation, but inside, everything was unnaturally still. He didn’t feel relieved. He didn’t feel tense, either. He just felt… wrong. Like his brain hadn’t caught up to his body.

What had just happened?

Across from him, James leaned back in his seat with a lazy stretch, basking in the light from the window like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Lucky bloke,” he said cheerfully. “France! I’ve always wanted to go. Eat some snails, get chased by enchanted poodles. You know, the usual.”

Harry stared at him, his fork hovering mid-air.

Was that a joke?

James gave him a curious glance, the light in his eyes playful but probing. “You’ve been quiet, Harry. I figured you and Draco would be catching up by now. Loads to talk about, I’d think.”

Harry’s stomach gave a strange twist. “Draco and I?” he echoed.

James chuckled like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course. You two were thick as thieves when you were little. Couldn’t pull you apart with a spell. You used to run all over Malfoy Manor causing chaos. Remember that time you got lost in their hedge maze and refused to come out until someone summoned ice cream?”

Harry blinked at him. No. No, he didn’t remember that. He couldn’t even picture it.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t a friend. He was a rival, a nuisance. The boy who sneered in Potions and insulted his friends and tried to get Hagrid fired. Not someone he’d played hide and seek with. Not someone he’d visited for fun.

“Thick as thieves?” Harry repeated, his voice hollow.

Lily reached across the table, her touch warm and gentle on his arm. “It’s true,” she said softly. “You always came home covered in mud and bits of leaves, completely exhausted and happy as anything.”

Harry’s mouth was dry. He wanted to argue, to say they were wrong, but the words wouldn’t come. Something inside him had curled up, shrinking back. It was like his own memories were traitors, refusing to step forward.

He could feel something, like a whisper behind a closed door—shapes in the fog, voices he couldn’t quite hear. Ghosts of thoughts. Familiar and foreign all at once. It made his head hurt.

“I—I don’t…” He faltered. What was he even trying to say?

I don’t remember? That’s impossible? You’ve all lost your minds? Or maybe I have?

James didn’t press him. He just gave a quiet, understanding nod, like this wasn’t the first time Harry had come apart at the seams. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s a lot. Seeing him again probably stirred up all sorts of old memories.”

But they weren’t his memories. Not really. Not fully. They didn’t fit right in his head, like trying to wear someone else’s shoes.

He barely noticed James leaning forward to study the menu like it held the secrets of the universe. “Look at this,” he said, delighted. “Toad in the Hole with Tongue-Tying Lemon Squash. Now that’s a gamble. I’m ordering it.”

Harry didn’t answer. His mind was still spinning, stuck in a loop he couldn’t break out of. And now they were talking about food?

It felt like the world had flipped inside out, and everyone else was carrying on like it was Tuesday.

Lunch passed in a strange blur. Dishes appeared and disappeared. People laughed. His parents chatted like they were in a postcard version of their lives. Harry tried to play along, but it felt like moving through water—slow, heavy, distant.

By the time they were done, he was stuffed beyond belief. He glanced down at his stomach, pressing gently against his shirt. It felt like he’d eaten an entire Hogwarts feast by himself.

He groaned. “I think that squash tied more than my tongue.”

James snorted. “That’s the spirit.”

Harry slouched back in his seat, one hand absently rubbing his stomach, the other gripping the edge of the table as if it might keep him grounded.

The world was still tilted. Still strange. He still didn’t know what was real.

But at least he was full.