FicWad

Harry’s heart pounded, each beat echoing like distant thunder against the inside of his ribs. It was the sound of something ancient and unstoppable—fear, perhaps. Or hope. Or both, twined together so tightly he couldn’t tell them apart. The feeling coiled in his chest, sharp and bright, as though a spell had seized him by the heart.

He was close.

After everything—the pain, the loss, the ritual that had threatened to tear him apart—he was still standing. More than that: he’d come through it. Not untouched. Not unscarred. But whole.

He just didn’t know what that meant yet.

His feet moved without thought, the ground beneath him soft and insubstantial, like walking through a half-formed memory. Ahead, somewhere beyond the fog, he could sense the world—the world—waiting. The living world. Solid, real. It called to him like a light beneath deep water.

Something shifted inside him—a shiver, but not from cold. It was the quiet, trembling anticipation that came just before something changed. The kind of moment that preceded a Sorting, or the snap of magic when a wand chose its wizard. The stillness before the storm broke.

He slowed.

Behind him, the place where Snape had stood was already vanishing into mist, the last of his presence curling away like smoke. Gone, and yet not. The ache it left was sharp and sudden.

Snape.

Even now, it hardly felt real. That he had been the one to find Harry in the dark. That it was his voice which had cut through the fog. Not Dumbledore. Not Sirius. Not his parents.

Snape, whose disdain had been as constant as gravity. Who had seemed to loathe everything Harry was. And yet—Snape had stayed. Had helped. Had, in his own cold, furious way, pulled Harry back from drowning in guilt.

Without him…

Harry swallowed hard.

Without him, I might still be lost.

He turned away from the memory, breath misting in the cool air.

And froze.

Fog had rolled in thick, unbidden, curling around his ankles and wrists like ghostly ropes. The path vanished. The horizon was gone. The world pressed close—silent, smothering. He couldn’t tell if he was moving forward or standing still.

His heart kicked harder.

Is this part of it? The end? Or did something go wrong?

He took a step. Then another.

“Ron?” he called. “Hermione?”

His voice sounded strange—flat, swallowed by the fog before it could travel.

No answer.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was wrong. Not empty but vacant, like something had scraped the life out of the world.

Harry’s hands curled into fists.

What if I’ve gone the wrong way? What if this isn’t the path back? What if I’ve already—

A flicker.

Movement, just beyond the veil of mist.

Two shapes. Not solid, not yet. But real enough to make his breath catch.

He moved again, faster now. The fog thinned around him, wisping away in threads. Light began to break through—soft at first, then brilliant, golden.

Sunlight.

He flinched, lifting a hand to shield his eyes as it flooded through the greyness.

When he looked again, he stopped breathing.

There—bathed in gold—stood a woman.

Her hair was the colour of autumn leaves catching fire, and it shimmered in the light as though it had never known dust or decay. Her eyes—his eyes—were fixed on him. Wide. Green. Shining with something so gentle and full it hurt to look at.

She smiled.

“Harry,” she said, and her voice was a note from the past, a sound he had never known he remembered. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Time didn’t just stop—it folded. Harry felt the world pitch beneath him. His knees nearly gave way.

“No,” he breathed, voice raw and cracking. “It can’t be—”

But it was.

“Mum?” he said.

And the word wasn’t a question.

It was a homecoming.

The word barely left his lips. It felt too large. Too sacred to say aloud.

He wanted to run to her—close the distance in a single breath, collapse into her arms, and bury his face in the robes he had never known. But his body refused to move. He stood rooted to the spot, trembling, as if any step forward might break the spell.

She’s here.

He had only ever seen her in photographs. Heard her voice second-hand—through memories, through echoes in others. But now she stood before him. Alive. Whole.

His heart pounded so loudly he thought it might burst.

Then—

Footsteps. Familiar. Fast.

“Harry!”

A hand caught his shoulder—firm, real—and turned him. Before he could think, he was staring into a face he knew better than his own reflection. Messy black hair. Glasses askew. A smile that looked too tired for someone so young.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

“Dad…” he whispered. The word nearly undid him. “You’re—”

“Here?” James said, grinning. “’Course I am. Gave us a bit of a scare, though. I even checked Knockturn Alley. Thought you’d slipped off again.”

The tone was teasing, light—too light. As though this were just another Sunday in Diagon Alley. As though none of it had happened.

Harry stared, the world tilting around him.

You’re dead.

I saw it. I’ve lived with it. I carry it in my bones.

And yet—his father stood there, warm and solid and impossibly alive. And just behind him, Lily—glowing with quiet pride—watched him as if she had waited his entire life to do so.

Harry shook his head, unsteady.

“This… this isn’t real,” he said, barely above a whisper. “It can’t be.”

But oh—he wanted it to be. More than anything. The ache in his chest was a wound reopening.

James frowned slightly, bemused. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Why are you looking at me like I’ve grown a second head? Have I?”

Harry let out something like a laugh, though it cracked on the way out. It felt absurd. All of it. He had crawled through grief, waded through war and death and darkness—and now this?

His father stood there like it was nothing at all. Like everything Harry had endured was just a bad dream.

And maybe that was what made it so unbearable.

His fists trembled as they unclenched, slow and uncertain. His throat was thick with words he couldn’t shape.

Lily stepped forward, and her smile softened into something steadier—gentler. Not a stranger’s smile, but a mother’s. There was something about her presence—calm, composed, quietly formidable—that stilled the air.

“There’s nothing wrong with your face, dear,” she said to James with a glance. Then she looked at Harry, her gaze narrowing—not in suspicion, but in that knowing way mothers have. “But you, young man… We were beside ourselves. One minute you were at the owl emporium; the next—vanished. What were you thinking?”

It wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t even stern. But it hit him squarely in the chest. Not a blow—something softer. Something worse.

He opened his mouth. Shut it again.

How could he explain?

That they were dead. That he had grieved them every day of his life. That this moment—their voices, their faces—was something he had longed for but never dared hope to have.

That he wasn’t a boy in Diagon Alley. He was seventeen. And the war had ended.

This isn’t real.

The thought came again, sharper now. Certain.

It can’t be.

James cleared his throat and gave a crooked, uncertain smile. “Lils, maybe give the boy a break. First trip to Diagon Alley is a bit overwhelming. Merlin knows I got myself turned around. Wound up in Knockturn Alley, nearly bought a cursed biscuit tin.”

Harry let out a shaky breath. Something between a sob and a laugh.

Lily gave James a look that could’ve melted the shopfront windows.

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

Harry didn’t laugh. He wanted to, vaguely—but it stuck somewhere between his chest and throat. His lips twitched, but no sound came. Everything around him felt… wrong. The sunlight was too golden, too warm, as if it had been conjured rather than earned. The cobbles beneath his feet were just as he remembered them—too exactly. Unworn, untouched. The witches and wizards bustling past spoke with voices that didn’t seem entirely theirs. As though they were actors reading lines in a dream he didn’t remember choosing to enter.

It was Diagon Alley, but not.

His life, polished up and painted over—stitched together from memories too neat to be true.

Then he saw it.

Just the barest flicker, caught in the corner of his eye.

He turned instinctively—

—and froze.

In the reflection of a glass-fronted shop cabinet, a boy stared back at him. Small. Fragile. His knees stuck out awkwardly from beneath too-short robes, his face pale, cheeks slightly hollow. Green eyes blinked out from behind round glasses, too large for his narrow frame. His hair was the same wild mess, but he looked—

Terrified. And young.

Too young.

Eleven.

“No,” Harry whispered, stumbling a step backwards. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

That’s not me. Not anymore.

But the glass didn’t lie. Somehow—somewhere between the ritual and this—time had slipped sideways. Peeled back the years like old wallpaper.

He wasn’t seventeen. Wasn’t the Chosen One. Wasn’t the boy who had buried friends and enemies and pieces of himself.

He was just that scared boy again. The one who had stepped into this alley for the first time and had no idea what was coming.

What is this place?

An illusion?

A trap?

A memory he’d fallen into like a hidden staircase?

Is this the residue of the ritual? Or something worse?

Voldemort’s doing? A punishment? A mirror world meant to tear me apart?

His chest tightened. It was suddenly hard to breathe. The ground shifted beneath him like a staircase that had moved without warning.

“Harry?”

His mother’s voice cut through the spiralling panic, light but laced with concern. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”

He looked up. Her eyes were full of worry—real worry. And that made it worse. He couldn’t answer. Not properly. Not honestly.

“I…” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”

James, of course, misunderstood. “Bit much, yeah?” he said, resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder with that easy, familiar warmth. “First trip’ll do that to you. We’ll pop into the Leaky Cauldron and have a bite. Let your brain catch up with your feet.”

Harry nodded without thinking. But inside, he was screaming.

I’m not hungry. I’m not tired. I’m terrified.

He wasn’t meant to be here.

Not like this.

Lily moved in beside him and touched his cheek with the back of her hand. Cool. Gentle.

It should’ve calmed him. It didn’t. It only made his eyes sting.

“You’ve gone a bit peaky,” she murmured, smiling. “Some pumpkin juice and treacle tart’ll sort you right out. You always light up for 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 words rang hollow in his ears, thin and brittle. Glass under pressure.

Lily only smiled that knowing, resolute smile that all mothers seemed to have. The one that meant arguing was pointless.

“We’ll go anyway,” she said lightly.

They began walking, Lily’s hand resting gently on his back. Harry’s feet moved, but he didn’t remember choosing to go. The crowd parted easily, as though the street itself wanted this to happen. Everything was too smooth. Too scripted.

Then—he saw it.

A flash of white in a shop window, high in the shadows of the Owl Emporium.

He stopped short.

A snowy owl.

Perched still and silent on her stand, eyes fixed on him.

Amber eyes.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

He couldn’t breathe.

James whistled. “Stunning, isn’t she?”

Harry’s throat tightened. The name escaped before he could stop it.

“Hedwig!”

James turned, blinking. “Hedwig? Do you… know her?”

Harry faltered. “No—I mean—not really. I just thought… the name suited her.”

The lie was clumsy. Awkward. He could hear it.

But James only raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but too polite—or too detached—to press. “Well, she does look like a Hedwig.”

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off her. She still hadn’t moved. But her gaze—steady, sharp, aware—cut straight through the fog.

She remembers me.

The thought was ridiculous. Impossible.

But it rang in him like a bell.

She knows who I am—even if I don’t.

Lily stepped up beside him without hesitation.

“She’s the one,” she said firmly, pointing to the snowy owl’s cage.

James, who had been eyeing a rather uninspired brown rat, 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 response. “Harry doesn’t need ‘efficient’. He needs something noble. Loyal. Not something that’ll chew through his pillowcase at midnight.”

“That happened twice,” James muttered, returning the rat to its enclosure with exaggerated delicacy. “Fine. Owl it is.”

Harry took a cautious step towards the cage. The owl turned her head, amber eyes meeting his unflinchingly.

And in that gaze—sharp and ancient and far too knowing—something shifted. The world around him, glossy and golden, wavered at the edges. A thread of truth tugged at him, fine as spider silk, cutting clean through the fog.

Warmth flared low in his chest. Not enough to anchor him, but enough to hurt.

She looked at him.

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

They moved on through the crowd like a memory slipping loose—a scene replaying itself half a second out of time. The cobbled street rolled out before them, sun-warmed and bright, too bright. Everything was vivid: the pop of fireworks from a distant stall, the shout of vendors hawking Fizzing Whizzbees and roasted nuts, the mingled scent of parchment and toffee. Too vivid.

Too perfect.

Harry walked between them in silence, flanked by two people he’d never truly had—but who now moved beside him as though they always had.

They’re so… them.

He couldn’t help watching them. Couldn’t stop. Lily, steady and sure, one hand resting on James’s arm, the other brushing Harry’s back now and again as if to remind herself he was still there. James, all elbows and boyish momentum, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his excitement bubbling over at every turn.

It hit Harry like a slow spell: he was made of both of them.

His mother’s quiet resolve. His father’s restless energy. Her patience. His impulse. Lily’s eyes. James’s grin.

No wonder I’m a disaster, Harry thought, and the thought was warm, almost affectionate. It actually makes sense. For once, it makes sense.

They passed the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, and James let out a noise like he’d just been hexed in the chest.

“Oh—now that’s what I’m talking about!” He dashed towards the glass, hands splayed against it like a child spotting his first broom. “Look at the handle! That grip! It’s practically whispering my name—James. James.”

Harry laughed before he could stop himself.

It rose out of him, bright and startled, like something escaped. There was something ridiculous and wonderful about his dad’s complete, unashamed awe. His palms pressed to the glass, his breath fogging it slightly as he squinted closer. Harry recognised that face.

Lily did not break stride.

“Absolutely not,” she said crisply, her voice slicing through the air like a well-aimed charm. She’d probably said it a hundred times before.

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

“You thought it very loudly,” she replied, folding 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 rubbish.”

Harry winced, grinning despite himself. There was something oddly comforting in the way they bickered. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just… familiar. Well-worn. Like a scene he’d walked into the middle of, one that had been playing out long before he arrived.

James leaned close, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “For you, I would.”

The words hit Harry like a Bludger to the ribs.

He didn’t know why it got to him, except that it was so… sincere. So easy. So stupidly real.

“Dad… it’s fine,” he said quickly, blinking hard. “I don’t need anything.”

James threw up his hands. “There’s no winning against your mum,” he said, resigned. “Small, but terrifying.”

“She’s got a wand,” Harry murmured, nodding at Lily’s cloak.

James stopped dead, face solemn. “Right. The stick of doom.”

They both laughed, and for a moment—a real, gleaming moment—it was simple.

No prophecy. No Horcruxes. No graves.

Just a boy and his parents, walking down Diagon Alley.

But beneath it, like a note struck just out of key, something thrummed.

A warning.

A fracture.

How long does this last? Harry wondered, pulse steadying into dread. When does it start to break?

Around them, Diagon Alley shimmered with life. Horses with feathered hooves clattered by, pulling carts piled high with enchanted books that whispered as they passed. Cauldrons stirred themselves lazily in open crates, sending up small puffs of steam. A witch tripped and spilt a bottle of fizzing pink potion onto the cobbles; it hissed and bubbled like champagne, sending a glittering mist into the air that made a toddler nearby squeal with delight.

It was all too alive. Too vivid.

And somehow, so was Harry.

He hadn’t felt like this in months—hadn’t realised how numb he’d been until colour came roaring back. His skin buzzed with it. Every sound, every glint of movement struck sharper, clearer. As though the world had been scrubbed clean.

He turned slightly and caught their reflection in a shopfront window—two boys, shoulder to shoulder, messy black hair and glasses sliding down identical noses.

Father and son. Or brothers. Or—as James might put it—“chaos twins separated by time.”

James jabbed a finger across the alley, grinning with barely contained excitement. “That one! See that shop there? Wands carved from elder trees in the Forbidden Forest. Probably banned. Definitely dodgy. Brilliant.”

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

Harry laughed. Properly. And it didn’t feel borrowed or out of place. It just felt… right.

He knew about wands, of course. Knew about cores and regulations, about magical loyalty and the ancient laws that bound spellwork to the self. He’d studied it all. Fought with it. Killed with it.

But here, walking between them, it all felt new again.

Not the magic that came with war, or survival, or the kind that left splinters in your soul.

This was different.

This was warm. Whole. Alive.

They passed a shop selling bottled sunlight, golden liquid sloshing gently behind glass. A flock of floating quills drifted by on a breeze that didn’t quite exist. Enchanted sweets in a nearby window giggled when touched. And still, Harry kept glancing upward—at fluttering banners strung across crooked rooftops, at windowsills where plants waved leaves like hands.

He knew this street. Knew it from that first day with Hagrid. Knew the exact shape of the awe that had filled him then.

But this—this feeling like his chest might burst just from being here—

That was new.

And then—quietly, gently—a hand slipped into his.

He looked down. Lily’s fingers, warm and steady, curled into his.

On the other side, James reached out and took his hand too, easy as anything, like they’d done it a thousand times before.

Harry’s throat ached. He wanted to hold tighter. To never let go.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want the moment to end. Didn’t want to remember.

But somewhere deep beneath the joy, a crack was beginning to form. A silent splinter under the skin.

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

He pushed it away. Shoved it down beneath the heat of their hands.

Beside him, Lily laughed at something James said—light and free, the kind of laugh that sounded like summer. The kind Harry had imagined a hundred times in dreams that never lasted.

He smiled because he had to. But something inside him shifted. A crack. A fault line. Something small, sharp, and inevitable.

If this is a dream, he thought desperately, please… Just let it last a bit longer.

“Are you all right, Harry?”

Her voice cut through the noise gently—soft and certain, the way morning light breaks through the grey.

He blinked. Looked up.

Lily was watching him, brow slightly furrowed, concern plain in her face. But it wasn’t demanding or impatient. It was just there. Quiet. Steady.

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

It wasn’t exactly a lie. But thinking didn’t cover it. His thoughts were circling like birds in a storm—grief and longing and disbelief all tumbling over one another, impossible to sort.

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

It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t even understanding.

It was love.

Not the vague, hopeful kind he’d imagined. Not the kind drawn from old stories or photographs.

Real love. Present and whole. The kind that wrapped itself round you and made the rest of the world fade.

It settled in him like warmth beneath a winter cloak. Softening the sharp edges. Dulling the ache.

He didn’t know what this was. A spell, a memory, a mercy. Maybe even a trap.

But whatever it was, he couldn’t let go. Not yet.

Being here—with them—was like breathing sunlight. Like tasting joy for the first time.

And it felt like coming home.

They walked on, drifting through Ollivanders like ghosts made flesh.

Harry cradled his wand in both hands—his wand, the wand: holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather. It thrummed faintly beneath his fingers, as though it recognised him.

As though it was glad to be home.

The same wand. The same weight. A circle drawn shut.

But even the quiet hum of magic couldn’t muffle the unease crawling along his spine. That low, steady whisper in his bones, cold and certain.

This isn’t right. Something’s wrong.

He swallowed. The air felt thinner here, like it was waiting.

Carefully, too casually, he said, “Mum?”

“Yes, dear?” Lily didn’t glance up. She’d unfolded the Daily Prophet and was scanning it with mild interest, as though politics were no more pressing than the pastries in the Leaky Cauldron’s front window.

Harry hesitated. The question itched under his skin. The wrongness pressed at him from all sides—but the moment felt fragile, like glass stretched too thin.

Still, he reached for it.

“Do you know anything about Vol—”

“Oh, look at this!” Lily exclaimed suddenly, nearly jolting the wand from his hands.

Harry flinched. “What?”

She held the paper out, grinning as if she’d stumbled on buried treasure. “This is astonishing! The Muggle Prime Minister announced a joint security initiative with Minister Tom Riddle. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Harry stared at her, uncomprehending. The words struck him like slaps.

He leaned in.

The headline blared back, calm as anything:

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

He read it again. It didn’t change.

Peace. And safety. With Tom Riddle.

It felt like a joke. Like something Fred and George might’ve slipped into the Prophet for a laugh.

Surprise! Voldemort’s Minister for Magic, and he’s passionate about public policy.

“Tom Riddle?” Harry repeated, too stunned to keep his voice down. “The Tom Riddle?”

Lily nodded, entirely serene. “Of course, darling. You’ve read all about him, haven’t you? His reforms have been absolutely remarkable.”

The world tilted. Just slightly. Enough to make the floor feel uncertain.

Harry looked at her properly, searching for a crack in the illusion. But she looked pleased. Proud, even.

He dropped his gaze to the front page. Riddle stood beside a Muggle official, sharp in a tailored suit. His eyes were dark—but not reptilian. No slits. No red. No trace of the thing Harry had faced in a graveyard, or in a forest, or in dreams.

Just a man. Calm. Smiling. Handsome, even.

“He’s… always been like this?” Harry asked, careful not to let his voice shake.

“Oh, he’s brilliant,” Lily said, like she was talking about a Quidditch captain or an old school friend. “So gifted. A little intense, I suppose—but polished. Charismatic.”

Polished. Charismatic. That’s what people always said about monsters before the stories turned dark.

Beside him, James peered over her shoulder, nodding. “Ah, Riddle. What a bloke.”

Harry turned sharply. “You knew him?”

“Course I did,” James said lightly. “Worked with him for a bit back in my Auror days. Headed Magical Law Enforcement for a while. Ruthless, mind you—but effective.”

Ruthless.

The word hit like a cold draught.

“Ruthless?” Harry echoed, voice thin.

James nodded, as though he were complimenting a particularly fast broom. “You admired him, actually. Said he was a symbol of justice. Unity. You were dead set on following in his footsteps.”

Harry stared at him. “I—I said that?”

“You did!” James clapped him on the back, grinning. “You were proud of it, too. Wanted to fix everything. Clean up the ministry.”

Fix everything.

Clean up the ministry.

Right. With curses and fear and snake-faced speeches.

Harry looked back at the photo. Riddle’s smile was still in place. Easy. Controlled. He looked like the kind of man who could run your country or burn it down—and you’d thank him for the privilege.

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

Lily squeezed his hand gently, as if calming a fussy child. “You always get like this after Ollivanders,” she said fondly. “It’s the wand fumes.”

Wand fumes.

Right.

That explained the pit yawning open inside him. That explained the world tipping sideways and the way his skin no longer seemed to fit.

He let out a laugh. It came out high and brittle. Wrong.

Ahead, the Leaky Cauldron loomed, spilling golden light onto the pavement. Familiar. Warm. Safe.

But the words ‘peace’ and ‘safety’ echoed in his mind like a spell gone sour.

He tightened his grip on the wand.

If this was a dream, it was shifting. Warping at the edges.

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

And Harry wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep pretending he wasn’t afraid.

Harry must have looked dazed—slack-jawed, eyes gone distant—because his mother gave a small, deliberate cough. Not sharp. Not scolding. More like brushing dust from an old windowsill—gentle, careful, familiar.

“Do you remember Riddle and his wife?” She asked, folding the Prophet on her lap. “Bellatrix?”

The names landed quietly. But they rippled through him all the same, unsettling as a spell murmured in the dark.

Harry blinked. “Lestrange?”

He said it before he could think. The syllables tasted wrong in his mouth, like he’d bitten down on metal. Bellatrix didn’t belong here, in this warm place, in his mother’s voice. Not softened by sunlight. Not smoothed out like the edge of a well-loved photograph.

Lily tilted her head, confused but not alarmed. “Yes, that’s right. Surely you remember? They were at your dad’s promotion do—back when James became Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Riddle and Bellatrix were partners in the Auror Office then.”

Harry stared at her.

He was suddenly aware of his heartbeat, thudding like footsteps in an empty corridor.

Riddle. Bellatrix. At a ministry party. Wearing dress robes and smiling into champagne flutes. The thought didn’t fit. It slid through his mind without catching—like trying to remember a dream that had never belonged to him.

“Right,” he managed, though his voice was hoarse. “That’s… yeah. I think I do.”

He didn’t. Not even a little.

The image wouldn’t come. Couldn’t come. His brain rejected it outright, like oil repelling water. All he could picture was blood and screams and that awful, high laughter echoing through the Department of Mysteries.

But none of that had happened here.

Not in this world.

Here, Tom Riddle was the Minister for Magic. A reformer. A diplomat. A name on the front page, not a scar on Harry’s mind. And Bellatrix—his wife—was remembered like an old schoolmate. A bit intense, perhaps. But respectable.

Something curdled in Harry’s chest.

Same names. Different shapes.

The street outside bustled with noise and life. Laughter rang out from the pub. The world didn’t seem to notice it was wrong.

But he noticed.

And still—they walked. Down the cobbles toward the Leaky Cauldron, his parents flanking him like bookends from some half-remembered childhood.

It was too much. Too lovely. Too quiet.

The sign above the pub creaked in the breeze. Familiar. Welcoming. The sort of place you ought to feel safe in.

But Harry didn’t.

Not really.

The door swung open, and warmth spilt out—light, fire, voices. He stepped inside and was hit by the smell of butterbeer and stew and pipe smoke. People laughed. Cutlery clinked. Someone was playing the violin near the hearth.

It should have been comforting.

And maybe it was. But it all felt just slightly out of key—like someone had cast a glamour over the world and forgotten to adjust the pitch.

They found a table in the back, near the fire, half in shadow. Harry slid into the seat like someone performing a task from memory. His hands were stiff. His wand still pressed warm against his arm, like it knew something wasn’t quite right.

James clapped him on the back with easy cheer. “You’re doing brilliantly, son. Just give it a minute. Sometimes it takes time to settle.”

Harry nodded. But he didn’t speak.

He was still trying to settle when the door behind them opened again.

Soft. Barely a sound. Just a breath of air, a flicker in the room.

But the effect was immediate.

The pub seemed to still—only slightly, barely a pause—but Harry felt it. Like a pressure drop before a storm.

He turned.

And saw them.

The Malfoys.

Lucius moved first—elegant, deliberate—his silver-blond hair catching the firelight like frost. Narcissa followed, all poise and pale silk, every step measured. And behind them came Draco, taller than Harry remembered, his eyes sweeping the pub with that same detached confidence, like he already knew where everyone would end up.

Harry sat a little straighter. The warmth from the hearth no longer touched him.

Lucius’s gaze drifted slowly across the room, unhurried, until it landed on James and Lily.

For a breath, nothing happened.

And then he walked forward—graceful, controlled—as though the air bent around him. Like he was moving on strings no one else could see.

Harry’s fingers curled beneath the table. His wand arm twitched. His pulse ticked faster—this was it. This was the moment. The fracture. The part where the picture peeled back and the truth bled through.

Lucius stopped at the table. Tilted his head just so. And said, almost silkily, “The famous Head Auror.”

James stood in one smooth motion. “Lucius.”

There wasn’t anger in his voice. Not really. But there was something underneath—something older. Something sharp, honed over years.

Harry held his breath.

And then—

They laughed.

James gave a low, dry chuckle and stepped forward, clasping Lucius’s hand in a gesture that was half handshake, half challenge. Like two old chess opponents meeting in a pub and pretending they weren’t still playing.

“You’re as dramatic as ever,” James said, grinning.

Lucius’s smile barely moved. “And you’re still insufferably casual.”

It felt like watching a memory someone else had lived. Familiar faces, unfamiliar lines. But the tone was real—genuine, even. Respect wrapped in old barbs. History folded into politeness.

Harry watched, unblinking.

Lucius Malfoy just hugged my dad.

“Come sit with us!” Lily chirped, bright and warm, as though this were perfectly normal. “Harry, love, grab a few chairs, would you?”

Harry stared at her. For a second, he thought she was joking. But her eyes were shining, her smile easy. So he stood, because his body remembered how. He found himself dragging chairs from a nearby table, the sound of wood scraping across stone oddly muffled, like hearing through fog.

Behind him, Narcissa had stepped forward. There was a coolness to her grace—as though she floated, rather than walked. Her robes whispered when she moved.

“Thank you,” she said, voice soft, refined. “But we only came to pay our respects. We won’t intrude.”

She spoke like someone giving a gift—measured, precise. Not quite cold, but something close to it. There and not. Present only where necessary.

Harry watched her and thought, She hasn’t changed. Not really. She was always the ghost in the background, the shadow behind the throne.

Lucius lingered, of course. He stood just behind her, looking perfectly at ease, like the centre of gravity in the room bent subtly toward him.

And Draco—

Draco hadn’t said a word.

He hovered a few paces back, shoulders too tight, jaw stiff. He looked like someone waiting for permission. Like a puppet caught between strings.

Harry sat again, the table solid under his hands. He didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust any of it. The air felt like it might crumple if he pushed too hard.

A goblet clinked somewhere. Someone near the bar laughed. Life resumed. Or pretended to.

But the edges were off. Crooked. Like someone had tilted the world two degrees sideways and forgotten to fix it.

“Leaving so soon?” James asked lightly. Too lightly. Harry heard it—that thread running under the words. Thin, stretched tight. “We don’t see each other often anymore.”

That thread caught something in Harry, tugged at it.

Because it wasn’t about time. Not really. It was about distance. About old alliances gone thin, about people who used to share late nights and inside jokes now exchanging pleasantries across some invisible divide.

He glanced at his mum.

Her smile was too bright. A fraction too high. Like she was trying to hold the moment still with sheer will. As if, if she smiled hard enough, it wouldn’t slip through her fingers.

And maybe that was what this whole world was doing.

Smiling. Pretending. Holding on to something it didn’t want to lose.

Even if it had already changed.

Even if it wasn’t real.

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

Harry’s eyes drifted to Draco.

He looked like someone half-carved out of marble—too stiff in the shoulders, too pale at the edges. His hand lifted in a hesitant wave, fingers curling halfway, then pausing—as if he wasn’t sure whether he was meant to greet someone like Harry Potter or whether the rules in this place were written differently.

Something shifted in Harry’s chest.

Not anger. Not suspicion, either. Something quieter.

Recognition, perhaps. Or understanding—the sort that only came when you saw someone else trapped beneath the same kind of name. The kind that walked into every room before you did. Heavy and inherited.

“Are you sure you can’t stay a little longer?” Lily asked. Her voice was light and hopeful, but it trembled slightly at the edges. Like a candle in a draught. “Just for a cup of tea?”

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

Perhaps. A word with just enough room for doubt. But Harry could feel it—that quiet, inevitable finality behind the softness. It wasn’t cruel. Just true. A word people used when they didn’t want to say never.

He knew how this worked. People didn’t come back. Not really. Not once they’d packed up their lives and started speaking in other languages, sending owls with unfamiliar postage and new signatures. They moved on. They rewrote themselves.

A small knot twisted behind Harry’s ribs. Frustration—slow, steeped like overbrewed tea. He looked down at the table, jaw clenched, as though the grain of the wood might ground him. Or offer answers. Or anchor him in a world that still made sense.

James nodded, smiling too easily. But Harry caught it—the faint flicker of tension near his temple, the clench of his jaw. Like someone biting back the truth.

“Of course,” James said. “Sadly, you’re going to be missing the ministry celebration tomorrow. It’s bound to be… memorable.”

Lucius’s mouth twitched. “Indeed. I expect you’ll be holding court as usual. Boasting about your latest honour. Feeding that ever-expanding ego.”

Harry braced for it—for a flash of heat, a line crossed, a spell drawn.

But instead—

James laughed.

Not a strained chuckle. A proper laugh, full and warm and alive. It filled the space between them like something real. Like it had always been there.

“You haven’t changed at all,” James said, grinning. “Still allergic to joy.”

He clapped Lucius on the shoulder, half-friendly, half-daring, and for a heartbeat, Harry saw something strange beneath the surface. Something older than rivalry. Familiar.

A history.

Two boys in old school robes. One smug, one smirking. Late-night duels behind the greenhouse. A shared joke over detentions and forgotten homework. It didn’t erase the years between. It didn’t undo what had happened. But it coloured the edges—unexpectedly, impossibly—with something close to fondness.

“Bring us something absurdly French, would you?” James added, eyebrows raised.

Lucius rolled his eyes with the exaggerated grace of a man used to being watched. “Naturally,” he said, voice clipped and dry. But there was something at the corner of his mouth—too faint for a smile. Almost amusement.

Then he turned. His cloak flared with the movement. He didn’t look back.

The Malfoys left like a vanishing charm had been cast on them—elegant, efficient, and final. A nod, a hug, a glance held a second too long. That was all.

Draco lingered. His eyes flicked to Harry.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

There was something in Draco’s gaze—not sharp, not mocking. Just searching. Like he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the words. Or maybe didn’t trust the shape of them anymore.

Recognition, again. Maybe regret. Maybe neither.

Then the door shut behind him with a low, decisive thunk.

The sound echoed. It stayed in Harry’s chest like a stone dropped into still water.

He exhaled sharply and sank into his chair, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. Around him, the pub breathed back into life—spoons clinking, conversations picking up, someone near the hearth letting out a bark of laughter.

But Harry still felt off-kilter. Like the world had shifted again when no one was watching. Like he’d stepped back into his body, but something hadn’t come with him.

He rubbed his hands along the table’s edge. Solid wood. Familiar grain. Nothing wrong with it.

Except that it didn’t quite feel like his.

What just happened?

Across from him, James stretched back in his chair, limbs sprawling like a cat in a patch of sunlight. The window lit him up in gold, and for a moment, he looked entirely carefree. “Lucky sod,” he said cheerfully. “France! Always fancied a trip myself. Eat snails, get hexed by an enchanted poodle. You know—cultural stuff.”

Harry stared.

Was that meant to be a joke?

James caught his look and raised an eyebrow, grinning. There was something in his eyes, though—curious, bright, watching Harry just a little too closely. “You’ve been quiet,” he said, casual as anything. “Figured you and Draco would be catching up by now. Loads to talk about, I’d reckon.”

Harry felt his stomach give a slow, uncomfortable twist.

“Draco and I?” He repeated, not quite able to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

James let out a low chuckle, like Harry had said something faintly amusing. “Of course. You two were thick as thieves when you were small. Couldn’t separate you, not with magic or bribery. You used to tear round Malfoy Manor like it was your own back garden. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the hedge maze incident. You got stuck in it for hours and wouldn’t come out till someone summoned you with a raspberry ice cream.”

Harry stared at him.

No. Absolutely not. He’d never even been to Malfoy Manor—except once, and that hadn’t ended in ice cream.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t a childhood friend. He was a thorn. A rival. The boy who mocked Hermione’s bloodline, jeered at Ron’s family, and spent most of their Hogwarts years circling like a vulture. Not someone Harry had giggled with over sticky cones and secret corridors.

“Thick as thieves?” Harry repeated. The words came out thin and faint, as though from someone else’s mouth.

Lily reached across the table and placed a gentle hand on his forearm. Her touch was warm, grounding—but it made his chest ache. “It’s true,” she said softly, like it was a comfort. “You always came home covered in muck and twigs. You were so happy. Utterly exhausted, but grinning from ear to ear.”

Harry’s throat was dry.

He wanted to argue. Wanted to say: No, you’ve got it wrong. That’s not me. That’s not him. That never happened. But the words wouldn’t form. They fluttered at the back of his mind and scattered like startled birds before he could catch them.

And beneath it all—beneath the confusion and the protest—was something worse.

Doubt.

Not because he believed them. Not exactly. But because the certainty in their voices was unshakeable. Solid. Like stone. And his own memories—his real ones—suddenly felt like mist. Fragile. Flickering.

He could almost feel it—something on the other side of a door, just out of reach. Shapes in fog. Whispers he couldn’t quite hear.

“I—I don’t…” he faltered, the sentence crumbling in his mouth.

What was he even trying to say?

I don’t remember? That’s wrong? You’re not real?

Or worse—am I?

James didn’t push him. He simply nodded, like he’d seen this before, like it was familiar. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “Seeing him again must’ve shaken something loose. Old memories can do that. Sneak up on you.”

They’re not mine, Harry wanted to say. They don’t belong to me.

But instead, he sat there, hands slack in his lap, while the world rearranged itself around him.

James leaned forward, scanning the menu as though it might offer some kind of distraction—or maybe a bit of magic to smooth over the moment. “Look at this,” he said brightly. “Toad in the Hole with Tongue-Tying Lemon Squash. Now that’s brave. I’m getting it.”

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The room felt distant again—fuzzy at the edges, like he was watching it all through thick glass.

And now they were talking about lunch?

The rest of the meal passed in a blur, as though someone had enchanted time to flow in uneven stops and starts. Plates appeared and vanished. Forks scraped. His parents laughed about something he couldn’t follow. Everything was normal—almost aggressively so.

Harry played along. Smiled in the right places. Nodded. Tried not to show how his fingers trembled when they gripped his glass.

By the time they were done, he was full to the point of discomfort. His stomach pressed against the front of his shirt like he’d eaten half the Gryffindor table.

He groaned faintly. “Think that squash tied more than my tongue.”

James snorted into his napkin. “That’s the spirit.”

Harry slouched back in his seat, one hand rubbing his stomach, the other curled around the edge of the table like it might keep him anchored to the world.

The world was still off-kilter. Still strange. He still didn’t know what was real.

But at least he was full.