FicWad

Something warm nudged his shoulder.

“Up you get, sleepyhead,” came his mother’s voice—soft and familiar, like sunlight through gauze. “You can nap once we’re home.”

Harry groaned, dragging himself up from what felt like a pit of treacle. His eyelids were heavy, stuck together with sleep. He forced them open, expecting to see the cosy dimness of the Leaky Cauldron—the flickering firelight, the clink of goblets, the clatter of cutlery, the sugary aftertaste of lemon squash still on his tongue.

But instead—

Sunlight.

Sharp and unfiltered, it hit him like a slap. Bright and blinding, with none of the gentle flicker he’d expected. It filled his vision like an overexposed photograph, searing its way through his lashes until he had to squint.

The Leaky Cauldron was gone.

No sign of the table, the warm fire, or his father’s menu. No echo of Lucius Malfoy’s silk-threaded sneer or the unreadable flicker in Draco’s eyes.

They were outside now.

A bench. Wood, slightly warm from the sun. Behind it, the familiar brick front of Flourish and Blotts, dappled gold in the morning light. The windows were steamed slightly at the corners, shelves within groaning under towers of spellbooks. A green awning fluttered gently above the door, where a parchment notice had been charmed to wave politely at passers-by:

Closed Until 10AM.

Harry shot upright as though he’d been doused in cold water. His heart thumped—sharp, off-beat—against his ribs. He looked around, breath quickening.

What—?

“Mum?” he rasped, voice hoarse with confusion. “How did we—how did we get here? What happened to the Leaky Cauldron?”

Lily looked up from her handbag, her fingers still rummaging for something unseen. She frowned slightly. “The Leaky Cauldron?” she repeated, tone light but puzzled. “Harry, we haven’t been there yet.”

Harry froze.

“What?” he said. His voice cracked.

“You were talking to the Malfoys,” he insisted. “And Dad was going on about snails, and we were—”

“We’re here for your schoolbooks,” Lily said gently. She gave him a small smile—reassuring, calm. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

And something in it made his stomach twist.

Schoolbooks?

That didn’t make sense. He remembered the books already—had them, hadn’t he?

“But…” Harry said slowly. “You already bought them. I remember—”

“Darling,” Lily interrupted, brushing a stray bit of hair from his forehead like he was still small, like he didn’t know what he was saying. “We haven’t even stepped inside yet. Those Lockhart books are outrageous again this year. New one every term. I swear he’s trying to bleed Diagon Alley dry.”

Lockhart.

Harry’s insides went cold.

The name again—shining, smiling, wrong. It was everywhere. Popping up like a bad hex, over and over. Like the world was stuck on a skipping record.

He tried again.

“What about Quirrell?” he asked. Carefully. Quietly. “He… wore a turban. Stuttered a lot. He taught Defence last year.”

Lily paused, her expression gently confused. “Quirrell?” she repeated. “Who’s that?”

Harry stared.

“He… he was the teacher,” he said, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince anymore. “Defence Against the Dark Arts. He—he died.”

Lily laughed, light and airy, but there was something strained behind it. “Darling, you must’ve dreamt that. Lockhart’s been teaching you since first year. Don’t you remember?”

No, he thought. No, he hasn’t.

But he didn’t say it aloud. His mouth had gone dry.

He looked down—and noticed, for the first time, the folded bit of parchment in his hand. He smoothed it open with trembling fingers.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Second Year Booklist

Second year.

Harry stared at the words. They looked perfectly ordinary. Neatly printed, lightly creased. As if they belonged.

But they didn’t.

He could feel it—that ache of wrongness, low and steady in his bones. Like walking into a familiar room where all the furniture had been moved half an inch to the left.

Had he really finished a whole year? If so, where had it gone?

His first year flickered behind his eyes—floating candles, a sea of star-speckled black. Whispers in the corridors. A flash of pain, sharp and white. A face on the back of someone else’s head.

Fragments.

Nothing whole.

He clutched the booklist tighter, trying to focus. Trying to stay anchored.

Was this the dream?

Or had the firelit pub—the laughter, the lemon squash, the brittle edge of Lucius’s voice—been the real thing, slipping away?

He folded the parchment slowly, sliding it into his pocket with as much care as if it were glass.

“Come on,” Lily said, rising to her feet with the easy grace of someone whose world hadn’t just tilted sideways. “Let’s get you some new robes too. You’ve grown out of everything again.”

Harry stood, legs unsteady beneath him. The sun was still shining. The shop windows glittered. The world carried on.

But inside his head—

Something was beginning to crack.

Lily was watching him too closely now. Her smile trembled just a little, a flicker at the corners, like it wasn’t sure whether it was supposed to stay. Behind her eyes, Harry saw something he recognised too well—concern laced with fear. The kind people wore when they couldn’t name what was wrong but felt it all the same. He’d seen that look before—on McGonagall when she thought he wasn’t looking, on Hagrid when he’d come back from the forest with more questions than answers, and on Dumbledore, once or twice, in the stillness after too much had been said.

Should he say something now?

Should he tell her the world felt like it had been picked up and put down slightly off-centre?

That his head was full of memories that didn’t quite belong—shadows and echoes of danger, corridors whispering in Parseltongue, names that made the air colder just by speaking them?

Should he tell her that sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, he wasn’t sure who he was meant to be?

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

What was he supposed to say? I think I remember a life that didn’t happen?

I think something’s broken, and nobody else can see the cracks?

Across the cobbled street, Madam Malkin’s shop sat quiet and bright, the sun painting soft gold across the shopfront. The windows gleamed. Robes on display floated gently in the breeze of a preservation charm. All of it looked so normal. Suspiciously normal.

“You’ve outgrown those robes,” Lily said brightly, her voice just a bit too quick, as if she could outrun the moment. “Why don’t you pop in for a fitting while I get your books sorted? Then we’ll head home. We’ll beat the crowd. Won’t that be nice?”

He looked at her. Her smile had steadied—but only just. Her eyes searched his face like they were looking for proof that he was still himself.

He gave a stiff nod. “Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “Sounds good.”

But it didn’t.

Nothing did.

He pushed open the door to Madam Malkin’s. The bell jingled overhead, sharp and cheerful, and the scent hit him at once—polished wood, faint lavender, new fabric threaded with just a touch of enchantment.

It should’ve felt like a memory.

It didn’t.

Inside, the shop was quietly bustling. Robes rustled like leaves, wands flicked measurements through the air, and a low chorus of voices murmured spells and sizes and prices. There was a stillness to it, under everything—a held breath, a note that hadn’t quite resolved.

Harry stood near the counter, fingers curling into the frayed edge of his sleeve. His reflection caught in a mirrored panel—eyes too wide, mouth set in a line that didn’t belong on a twelve-year-old. He looked like he’d been dropped into his own childhood and told to play along.

“Step up, footstool,” came a brisk voice behind him.

He turned as Madam Malkin swept in, pins clamped between her lips, her robes glittering faintly with the sort of confidence that came from decades of pinning children into place. She yanked the pins free with a sharp sound and gestured without looking.

“Arms up. No fidgeting.”

Harry obeyed, climbing onto the footstool like someone walking into a duel they didn’t remember agreeing to.

To his left, a woman was scolding two ginger boys near the hat racks.

“Fred, George, I swear on every last drop of Pepperup Potion—if you touch that mannequin again, I’ll transfigure your shoes into soup spoons!”

Harry turned his head slightly.

Fred and George.

There they were—mischief written all over them, red hair blazing, one of them wearing a pair of half-finished dress robes like a battle cape. The other was whispering into a measuring tape, which slithered away like it had better places to be.

He almost smiled. Almost.

But then he saw the woman.

Not Molly.

Not really.

Her hair was scraped back in a no-nonsense bun, her robes a glaring lime green that screamed ‘Healer’, not ‘homemaker’. There was no warmth in her scolding—just tired precision.

“Mrs Weasley?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She turned, brows lifting politely.

“Yes?” Her voice was clipped, professional. “Do I know you?”

Harry blinked. “It’s—er—it’s me. Harry. I’m… I’m friends with your son Ron.”

She tilted her head, frowning. The name seemed to hang there, unfamiliar. “Ron?” she echoed, as if tasting the syllable. “I don’t have a son named Ron.”

The words hit like a jelly-legs jinx to the chest.

“I—I must’ve got it wrong,” he said quickly, blood roaring in his ears. “Sorry.”

Her face softened, but only by a degree. “It’s quite alright,” she said, with the kind of calm usually reserved for confused patients. Then she turned back to her boys—Fred and George, or whoever they were here—without another glance.

The twins had gone quiet.

Fred and George exchanged a glance—sharp, brief, unreadable. All the mischief drained out of them in an instant, like someone had waved a wand and vanished it. Their shoulders stiffened, and the air in the shop shifted—tense now, charged, like the moment just before a duel.

“Alright, Harry!” a voice rang out, bright as brass.

He turned.

There was James, striding in as though the world had been waiting for him. His robes were deep navy, threaded through with something silver that caught the light—like starlight stitched into velvet. He carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who knew how to fill a room. Harry could practically hear the swish of his cloak.

“Turn round, let’s have a look at you,” James beamed. “Your mum reckons we shouldn’t match, but honestly—where’s the fun in that?”

Harry blinked. “Dad, why are you dressed like that?”

James looked mildly offended. “What, this? Just a bit of formality. You don’t turn up to the Yule Ball looking like you’ve rolled out of a broom cupboard.”

Harry frowned. “The Yule Ball? I thought we were getting school robes.”

James cocked his head, puzzled. “Were we? Thought we were suiting you up for the ball. It’s tonight, isn’t it?”

Harry turned towards Madam Malkin for some kind of explanation—but she wasn’t there.

In her place stood a fireplace, low and crackling. Walls of warm stone flickered into view. The familiar scent of woodsmoke reached his nose—Gryffindor Tower.

No shop. No pedestal. No twins. Just the dormitory.

It was as if someone had peeled one world away and slipped another over it like a second skin.

“What—” he spun, voice rising, “how did we get here?”

James gave a lazy chuckle. “Bit jumpy, aren’t you? Just nerves. I was a wreck before my first ball with your mum. Couldn’t even tie my cravat properly.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He glanced down—and found that he wasn’t in school robes anymore.

Emerald-green dress robes had replaced them, tailored and heavy. The fabric shimmered faintly, like dragon hide at dusk. His reflection in the mirror showed someone older. Broader in the shoulders. A stranger wearing his face.

“But this isn’t—this isn’t real,” he said quietly.

James didn’t seem to hear. “Come on, then. Don’t want to leave your date waiting.”

Harry followed without thinking, feet moving as if enchanted, his mind still caught somewhere between doubt and dread. The staircase wound downwards, familiar and foreign all at once. His father’s silhouette led the way, all swagger and ease, a living echo of a photo Harry barely remembered seeing.

Then the stairs vanished.

Just gone.

He stumbled forward and landed—not on carpeted stone—but in snow.

The air slapped him. Sharp. Real. Hogsmeade.

He was standing in the middle of the street, frost dusting the cobbles, the world lit by soft golden lanterns and windows glowing like hearths. Wreaths hung from every lamppost, enchanted with little charms that made the holly leaves wink. Somewhere, a harmonica was playing an off-key carol, clumsy and oddly comforting.

“Harry!”

He turned. Lily was waving, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She looked younger again, her cloak pulled tight against the cold.

“We’re meeting your dad and Sirius. If I don’t get a butterbeer in the next five minutes, I’ll freeze where I stand.”

“Sirius?” The name caught in his throat.

It landed like a stone thrown into still water.

“Of course, Sirius,” she said, grinning as she looped her arm through his. “You do remember your godfather, don’t you?”

The words almost knocked the breath out of him.

He could barely nod.

Harry stumbled slightly as they crossed the threshold into the Three Broomsticks, warmth blooming across his frozen skin like the memory of a summer he’d never quite had. The pub was exactly as it always had been—low-beamed ceilings, amber lantern light flickering off polished wood, and the rich, comforting scent of butterbeer drifting like steam from a cauldron.

But the light felt… off. Too golden. Too still. As though someone had captured the place in a snow globe just for him and was now shaking it gently to watch it swirl.

Across the room, a boy with bright turquoise hair and a baggy jumper waved with the sort of hopeful urgency that suggested he’d been waiting all day.

“Oh, perfect,” said Lily brightly, her face lighting up. “Teddy’s here!”

Harry froze mid-step.

“Teddy?” he said, his voice caught halfway between disbelief and dread.

“Teddy Lupin, of course.” Lily was already scanning the pub as if she expected Remus and Tonks to appear from behind the bar or materialise between the tables. “Surely Remus and Tonks are nearby…”

But Harry wasn’t listening. He was staring at the boy—seven, maybe eight years old. Far too old. Andromeda should still be looking after him. He should be learning to walk in a straight line, not waving like he ran the place.

“It’s so lovely to see you, Teddy!” Lily said, crouching to wrap him in a hug.

Harry’s chest gave a sharp, involuntary twist.

Then Teddy turned and flung his arms round Harry’s waist. Harry caught him by instinct alone, the way one might catch a falling memory.

“Harry! I missed you!”

There was so much joy in the boy’s voice, so much innocent trust, that Harry’s arms came up around him before he could think. But it felt brittle, unreal—like holding a snow globe and pretending it wouldn’t crack.

“You’ve missed Harry terribly, haven’t you, Ted?” Lily said fondly.

“Yes!” Teddy beamed, all confidence and closeness, Harry didn’t remember earning.

They sat. A mug of butterbeer steamed gently before Harry, untouched. Teddy chattered at his elbow, bright and endless. Harry barely heard him. The room might as well have been underwater. He was trying to recall how time worked, how life had unfolded, and what was supposed to be real. This wasn’t it.

“Where are your parents, Ted?” Lily asked.

“Daddy’s coming after work,” Teddy said cheerfully. “And Mummy—there she is! MUMMY!”

Harry turned.

And the world turned with him.

The warmth of the pub vanished like mist under a sudden wind. The walls, the tables, the fire—gone.

Now he was standing in the square at Godric’s Hollow.

No snow. Just bare cobbles underfoot and old lamplight casting long, deliberate shadows. The sky had gone indigo. Everything was still, waiting, like the world was holding its breath.

Harry exhaled. It didn’t help.

This wasn’t right either. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere. Every place felt borrowed. Every face wore someone else’s memory.

Then—

“There you are.”

The voice slid into the silence like it had always been meant to.

James stepped out from behind a low wall, hands in his pockets, his smile warm but guarded.

He looked like himself. Almost. The way Harry remembered him through a fog of photographs and secondhand stories. Too young, too whole. Too alive.

“Why the worried look, son?” James asked gently.

Harry turned slowly. Something in him resisted—don’t trust it—but another part, a tired, aching part, leaned forward, hungry for something solid.

“I—Dad, I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice low, uncertain. “Something’s wrong. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”

James gave a small nod, like he’d expected as much. “You must be wondering what’s going on.”

That was putting it mildly.

Harry nodded, though his stomach was coiling tightly, and the thud of his heart felt out of place in his chest. His fists clenched at his sides, trying to feel the difference between dream and truth. There wasn’t one.

James stepped closer. “It’s alright. I know it’s strange. But it’ll make sense. Soon.”

Harry wanted to believe him. But he could still taste the wrongness in the air, like a charm cast sideways. The whole world felt like it was stitched together from memory and make-believe.

His father’s voice was kind, yes—but there was something beneath it now. A current. A pull. Like he was trying to lead Harry not just somewhere, but towards something.

And for the first time, as the cold wind stirred the lamps and the dark closed in around them, Harry asked himself—

What happens if I don’t follow him?

What if I stay right here?

His father’s voice dropped to a low murmur, almost conspiratorial.

“Your mum and I… We didn’t want to keep it from you forever. I told her we’d have to explain, eventually.”

Something sharp curled in Harry’s stomach. His mouth went dry. Explain what?

His heart gave a heavy, deliberate beat—twice—like it was bracing for an answer he didn’t want.

This was it.

It had to be.

The moment everything tipped sideways. The reason the world shimmered at the corners, like paint spread too thin over truth.

James leaned in a fraction. “Just—don’t mention to your mum that we’ve had this chat, alright?”

Harry blinked. “Er… okay?”

The agreement came out before he’d even thought about it—too easy, too familiar. As though some old part of him still trusted James Potter without question, even when everything else screamed wait.

James grinned, that same crooked grin that lived in photographs and fogged memories. His eyes sparkled like mischief bottled just for Harry. Then he straightened, shoulders squared as though he were about to announce the return of the Holyhead Harpies.

“We’re throwing you a birthday party tonight.”

There was a pause. A beat of quiet that stretched.

“A… birthday party,” Harry repeated, the words slow and uncertain on his tongue, like he’d misunderstood.

“Yes!” James beamed. “At the house. Seventeen—big deal, that is! Everyone’s coming. Even Severus—mad, right? We’ve sorted all that now. Water under the bridge.”

Harry stared.

That was it? The secret?

A party? With Snape?

“I… that’s… brilliant,” he said eventually, though his voice came out brittle.

James nodded eagerly, clearly thrilled with himself. “Knew we’d surprise you. Sirius has been planning chaos for weeks. You know what he’s like with a guest list.”

Harry didn’t laugh.

Couldn’t.

Because something inside him was twisting in on itself, quiet and raw.

Snape. Sirius. Alive. Civil. Laughing at the same table?

This place wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. It was stitched together from memories Harry didn’t have and dreams he’d never dared. And yet—his father’s hand had felt solid. The cold had stung his skin. The butterbeer had smelt of comfort.

James must’ve noticed the look on his face because he hesitated. “If you’re not up for it, we can call it off.”

“No,” Harry said too quickly, guilt blooming hot beneath his ribs. “I mean—thanks. It’s lovely. I’m just… surprised, that’s all.”

James’s expression softened, losing some of its shine. “Understandable. You’ve had a lot on your shoulders. But tonight—it’s just joy. That’s all. And Merlin knows you deserve some.”

Harry looked away.

Did he?

He didn’t answer. Just nodded and offered a lopsided smile that felt more like a mask than a thank you.

They walked on. The village spread out in soft pools of golden light, their footfalls quiet against the path. The silence between them wasn’t heavy, exactly—it just knew too much. Knew what was missing.

As they passed the churchyard, Harry’s gaze shifted. The gravestones stood like forgotten names, their outlines softened by time. He looked for his parents’ stone, out of habit.

But the space was empty.

Clean. Quiet. As if nothing had ever gone wrong here.

A shiver passed through him.

Then they turned the final corner.

And Harry stopped.

The cottage stood ahead, bathed in gentle lamplight, its windows warm and whole. No shattered timbers. No scorched brick. No scar across its roof.

The place looked untouched by war. Untouched by time.

The upstairs window glowed softly. Curtains billowed like they’d been waiting.

Moonflowers lined the path in silver bunches.

“Here we are,” James said, voice low, almost reverent.

Harry couldn’t move.

His feet had rooted themselves to the ground, unwilling—afraid—to cross the threshold. As if doing so might break the spell and send it all crumbling. As if this place, this perfect lie, couldn’t bear to hold him too long.

He stared at the house.

It was whole.

He hadn’t known how much he needed that—until he saw it. Until it hurt.

A single tear slid down his cheek.

He wiped it away quickly, almost angrily. As though grief was something shameful in a world like this—something he had no right to carry.

James said nothing.

Because what could he say?

The house still stood. The lights still glowed.

And for the first time in seventeen years—whether it was real or not, whether it was some twisted memory or a charm gone wrong—this place, this impossible moment, felt more like home than anything Harry had ever known.

Inside, the house hummed with the kind of life that made his chest ache.

It was warm—lit from within by golden lamplight and laughter that curled through the air. Laughter that tugged at something deep in him, something frayed and fragile.

Sirius was roaring with laughter beside Remus, his head thrown back, eyes gleaming with mischief. They looked young. Unburdened. Alive in a way Harry had never truly seen.

Tonks was by the fireplace, pulling faces for Lavender Brown, her nose shifting shapes—elephant, ferret, squid—while Lavender shrieked with delight. Colin Creevey darted between chairs with a camera slung round his neck, his grin so wide it was almost painful to look at.

Near the far wall, Fred Weasley was locked in animated conversation with Cedric Diggory, both of them gesturing wildly, their hands miming broomsticks and Bludgers and near misses that must’ve made sense only to them.

“I swear on Merlin’s pyjamas,” Fred was saying, “the git’s broom was upside-down and he didn’t even notice. Still tried to score.”

Cedric laughed, that easy Hufflepuff laugh, and nodded in agreement. “Better than Flint flying backwards the whole match.”

Harry watched them all—faces he’d mourned, voices he hadn’t heard in months—and something in him splintered.

Even Snape was there, oddly subdued, standing stiffly by the bookcase, speaking with Dumbledore and Moody like it was the most natural thing in the world. His lip curled now and then in mild disdain, but his arms weren’t folded. He looked… at peace.

And then there was Dobby.

Carrying a tray of party food, his ears bouncing with each proud step. He wore actual shoes—polished and tied—and atop his head, a crooked party hat that kept sliding down over one eye. He caught Harry’s gaze and beamed, teeth and all.

“Harry Potter is here!” he squeaked. “We is so happy you is come home!”

Harry swallowed hard. His hand clenched around the doorframe.

He hadn’t even stepped inside. But already the weight of it—the wrongness and the wanting—was pressing down on him.

The door swung wider on its own, creaking slightly in the still night air. A soft wind brushed his face, as if urging him forward.

Lily stepped into the glow of the porch light, hands clasped lightly in front of her. Her eyes, so bright and green, searched his face with quiet care.

“Harry,” she said gently. “There you are. Everyone’s waiting.”

James turned from just inside the doorway and offered him a lopsided grin. “Come on, son. We’ve even got your favourite pudding—don’t let Dobby eat it all.”

But Harry didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His heart wasn’t pounding any more. It was sinking. Heavy with something he couldn’t name—something close to knowing.

He stared at the doorway like it was a threshold, not just into a house but into something else entirely. Something he might not be able to come back from.

Lily’s expression softened, but a flicker of unease touched her smile. “Are you alright?”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again.

His throat felt thick. His legs were unsteady. And all at once, he hated how much he wanted to step forward. To pretend this was real. To believe he could live here, stay here, and be wanted here.

“I just…” he began, voice cracking.

He swallowed and tried again—quieter now.

“I don’t want this to end.”

The words settled between them like dust.

James’s grin faltered. Lily stilled. Even the laughter inside had gone muffled, as if the house itself were holding its breath.

She reached for him, her hand barely brushing his sleeve.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered.

And in her voice, there was no illusion. No spell.

Just love. Grief-shaped and fierce.

He let her touch linger for a heartbeat, two—and then he looked away, towards the stars above the cottage. Still there. Still shining.

Real.

Somewhere.

And he began to understand—perhaps for the first time—that grief wasn’t a wound to be healed.

It was a doorway. And he’d been standing in it all along.

“It’s only natural to feel like that,” said Lily quietly. “Growing up’s full of these moments. But we’re always here. Whatever happens. You’ll always be our little boy.”

James was beside him again, one steady hand resting on Harry’s shoulder.

It should have been a comfort.

Instead, it pressed down like a weight—too steady, too solid, too right.

It was lovely. But it was borrowed.

It had to be.

Harry lowered his gaze, then looked up slowly, eyes meeting theirs.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, and the words felt fragile, as though they might splinter and collapse if he breathed too hard.

James’s face softened. That familiar warmth flickered behind his eyes.

“But we’ve always been here, Harry.”

Harry’s breath caught. His eyes burnt.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, you haven’t.”

Lily’s smile faded.

“You died,” Harry said, voice rough, cracking with the weight of it. “When I was one. I grew up without you. I lived in a cupboard. I watched people die. People I loved. And you weren’t there.”

It was like the night exhaled around them.

The wind stilled.

The porch light gave a soft, flickering twitch.

Lily’s hand slipped from his arm. Her eyes were shining. James looked as though all the breath had gone out of him.

Harry swallowed hard. “I fought Voldemort. I buried friends. I held Dobby when he died. I saw Fred—”

His voice broke. His whole body trembled.

“And I let you go. I did. I had to. But now you’re here, and it’s… perfect. And I don’t think I can lose you again.”

The tears came then—fierce, unbidden, relentless.

He didn’t fight them.

Because it hurt. It hurt in a way words couldn’t reach to be given back something so precious only to know it was never truly his to hold.

Lily stepped forward and folded him into her arms.

She smelt of cinnamon and clean air and a kind of comfort Harry had never known but had always longed for. The kind that only ever existed in daydreams.

“Oh, Harry,” she murmured, voice thick with sorrow, “I’m so sorry.”

Then James was there too, wrapping his arms round both of them, solid and strong.

“You didn’t deserve any of that,” he said. “Not one second.”

Harry held on as if he might fall if he let go.

He didn’t know how long they stood like that, swaying gently on the porch of a house that shouldn’t have stood at all, in the arms of people who should have been dust and memory.

Inside, the sound of laughter drifted through the open door. Soft, warm, distant—as if from another life.

But out here, beneath the cold stars, the truth waited. Quiet and patient.

And still, Harry stayed.

He could feel his heartbeat hammering against his ribs, a reminder that he was still here. Still anchored to something. Or trying to be.

He’d said it. At last.

Let the truth out like a scream after years of silence.

He had missed them.

Not in the simple way a boy misses his parents, but in the aching, unrelenting way someone longs for something they never truly had. A longing carved into his soul.

James stood frozen, not with shock, but with sorrow. A stillness born of helplessness.

And Lily—Lily hadn’t cried, not quite. But her eyes shimmered with the grief only a mother carries when she learns what her child has survived alone.

Harry looked down, shame prickling at the edge of his grief.

“I know it sounds mad,” he muttered. “I know this—whatever it is—it’s probably just in my head. A dream. Or… something else.”

Lily’s fingers curled around his. Warm. Real. Or nearly real.

“If it is a dream,” she whispered, “let it be the kind that stays with you.”

Harry gave a broken laugh, wiping his eyes clumsily on his sleeve.

“I thought if I just kept going, I could convince myself I was fine,” he said. “Like if I buried it deep enough, it’d stop hurting. But it didn’t. I just got better at not crying where anyone could see.”

That earned a low, breathy chuckle from James—half-laugh, half-sigh, as if the sound had slipped out before he meant it to. “Merlin,” he said, voice catching faintly. “That’s so like me. But you… you’re braver than I ever was, Harry.”

Harry gave a tired shake of the head. “I’m tired of being brave.”

And that was it. The clearest truth of all. Not rage, not defiance—just a weariness carved deep beneath the surface. A weight that no magic could lift.

Lily stepped forward and did something no one else had ever done—something Harry hadn’t even known he needed. She reached up and gently pushed the hair back from his forehead, her hand trembling ever so slightly as her fingers grazed the scar that had marked him before he could even speak.

“You should never have had to bear this alone,” she murmured, her thumb brushing softly across the lightning bolt. “You shouldn’t have had to be strong every moment of your life.”

Harry’s throat tightened.

“I kept thinking I’d earned it,” he said quietly. “This house. You. Peace. Like maybe… if I fought hard enough, if I kept going, then one day the world would finally give me what I’d lost.”

He looked up at them—his parents—and his eyes shone with something raw and painful and unguarded.

“But that’s not how it works, is it? You don’t win your parents back by surviving.”

James’s voice was steady. “No. You don’t get us because you endured enough, Harry. You get us because you deserve to be loved. You always did. From the first moment you drew breath.”

Harry swallowed, his chest tightening with every word.

“I see you,” Lily said, her fingers brushing away a tear from his cheek. “Not just the boy who lived. I see the child who found joy where there was none. Who loved without measure. Who kept going when everything told him to give up.”

“And I see the man,” said James softly. “The man who stood when others fell. Who made a family for himself out of friendship and fire and fierce, foolish hope.”

Harry didn’t speak. His heart was too full. It felt like he was trying to hold water in his cupped hands—grief, love, longing, all spilling through his fingers faster than he could grasp it.

But then, slowly, he managed the ghost of a smile—small and cracked and real. “I wish I could stay,” he whispered.

James pulled him into a hug—tighter this time, more urgent. “Maybe you can’t. Maybe none of this can last. But it’s yours. You carry it with you. This love—it’s yours to keep. Always.”

Lily pressed a kiss to his forehead. Her lips trembled against his skin. “We’re in you, Harry. Every step. Every breath. When the road gets dark again—and it will—remember this. Remember that you were never unloved.”

And Harry let go. Finally. All of it.

He didn’t hold back the tears. He didn’t try to bury them or blink them away. He let them fall, openly and honestly, for everything he’d lost and everything this impossible moment had given back to him.

For a while, there was nothing but the hush of their embrace. Three heartbeats, bound together. The porch light flickering gently above them. A stillness so complete it felt sacred.

Harry didn’t move.

He was afraid to.

As if the smallest shift might shatter everything, might pull him out of this strange, stolen dream and back into a world where they were only photographs. Only stories. Only echoes.

So he stayed, eyes shut, forehead pressed into the curve of Lily’s shoulder, drinking in the scent of something he’d never truly known but somehow remembered.

Time passed. Or maybe it didn’t. In this place, time had no say. Only the moment mattered.

“I used to imagine this,” Harry said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “When I was small. When it was cold. When I didn’t think I’d make it through another night. I used to picture you both… coming for me. Opening the cupboard. Telling me it was over. Holding me like this.”

Lily held him tighter. She didn’t speak. Her tears answered for her, falling silently into his hair.

And James, quiet and steady, leaned in and whispered into the still night:

“I’m sorry we weren’t there.”

Harry shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I know that now. But back then…” He paused, swallowed. “Back then, it felt like I was the mistake. Like maybe I’d done something wrong, something to deserve losing you.”

The words sat in the air, heavy as stone. Saying them aloud hurt in a way nothing else quite had.

Because the truth was, the boy he’d been had never really stopped waiting. Waiting for a knock at the door that never came. For someone to say it had all been a terrible mistake.

James laid a hand over Harry’s chest—warm, steady, grounding. “No child should ever carry that kind of pain,” he said quietly. “You didn’t lose us, Harry. We lost you. And if there had been any way back to you—we’d have taken it. In a heartbeat.”

“And maybe,” Lily added, her voice barely more than a breath, “maybe this is where that wish was answered. Just for a moment.”

Harry nodded slowly, his whole body trembling under the weight of it all. But he didn’t run from it, not this time. He let it in. Let it wash through him like rain through cracked earth.

Years of grief—hidden, buried, numbed by war and duty—spilt out, not in sobs, but in tears that ran quiet and constant. Saltwater and memory.

“I just wanted…” His voice caught. “Just one normal moment. A silly row. A laugh over dinner. Someone to tell me off for leaving socks on the stairs.”

Lily gave a watery laugh. “We’d have had plenty of those, I promise.”

James smirked. “You’d have cursed my snoring within a week.”

Harry huffed a broken sort of laugh. “I’d have taken it. All of it.”

The wind stirred in the trees—soft, deliberate. Like the night was listening, bearing witness to the quiet ache of all that had never been.

And still—something had been found.

James spoke again, his voice low, rough with feeling. “You’ve held space for everyone else’s hurt your whole life, Harry. Let this one moment be yours.”

Harry nodded again, throat too tight for speech.

They stood in silence then—no need to fill it. Just the three of them, together. A family. Not in memory, not in grief, but in this strange, suspended now.

Love bound them. But so did everything that love had to survive—loss, longing, the years that stretched too long between goodbye and reunion.

And beneath that vast, aching sky, Harry allowed himself a truth he had never dared speak aloud:

He believed them.

He believed in their love.

He believed, even if only here, even if only now… he was their son.

Not the Boy Who Lived. Not the Chosen One. Just Harry.

A boy who had loved too hard and hurt too deeply. A boy who still longed for a mother’s lullaby and a father’s grin.

He didn’t want glory. He didn’t want history. He just wanted peace.

Not the peace of endings. Not the hush that follows the final spell. But the kind that lives in kitchens and clutter and laughter down the hallway. The kind that stays.

He could feel it now, humming beneath his skin. That old, forgotten magic—older than curses, older than prophecy. Love.

It was here. In the hands that held him. In the voices that soothed him. In the moment that wrapped around him like a blanket conjured from longing and light.

He didn’t know how long he had. Whether this was real or dreamed or something in between. He only knew he wasn’t afraid anymore.

Because they had been waiting for him.

And he… he had finally come home.

A breeze stirred against his skin. He turned towards the sound.

Laughter—soft, distant—drifted from the little cottage behind him. It faded like mist. In the golden glow spilling from the doorway, shapes stood waiting: Lupin. Tonks. Fred. Even Snape. Faces from the past, caught in the hush between memory and magic.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. There was no judgement. Only patience.

Home.

The word meant something different now. Less a place, more a feeling. Them. The ones who had fought beside him, died for him and loved him still.

He could feel their warmth pulling at him gently, like the tide drawing in.

But then—her.

Ginny.

The thought struck like a Bludger to the ribs. Her laugh echoing through the common room. Her hair blazing in the sunlight behind the Burrow. The fury in her eyes the night she’d shouted at him for leaving. For pushing her away.

He’d told himself it was to protect her. That loving her made her a target. But that wasn’t the whole truth, was it?

He’d been afraid.

Afraid of needing her too much. Afraid of losing her like he’d lost everyone else.

He saw Ron’s lopsided grin. Hermione rolling her eyes, exasperated but fond. The Weasleys crowded around a noisy dinner table. That was home, too. They were waiting.

His chest tightened. His fingers curled slightly.

He’d almost let go. Almost stayed here, where it didn’t hurt anymore. Where no one needed saving, and nothing could be taken from him.

But he remembered her arms around him. The last words she’d whispered before he left.

“I love you.”

And that—more than anything—called him back.

He wasn’t done yet.

Then Lily’s voice, again, so soft he barely heard it.

“Come home, love.”

But it wasn’t a call to stay.

It was permission to go.

A mother’s blessing, wrapped in love that asked for nothing.

He turned.

His parents stood close. James had an arm around Lily’s shoulders. Her eyes shimmered with tears she didn’t try to hide.

And for a moment, Harry saw it all. A life that never was: quiet mornings, birthdays, laughter. A world where he’d grown up safe and known.

It wasn’t enough.

But it was something.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For not knowing you. For missing it all.”

His voice cracked. Lily stepped forward and wrapped him in her arms. He sank into the embrace like a boy who had never stopped needing it.

“Thank you,” he managed. Barely more than breath.

When he pulled back, James placed a hand on his shoulder. His voice, steady and warm.

“We’re proud of you, son.”

It undid something in him.

Lily stroked his cheek, light as a whisper. “We love you, Harry. Always.”

“I know,” he said, hoarsely. “I love you, too.”

There was nothing more to say. They’d said it all already.

The moonlight caught their faces one last time, silver-bright. He memorised it—his mother’s smile, the familiar mischief in his father’s eyes.

And then, he let them go.

The darkness returned, but it wasn’t cold this time. It cradled him. Not like drowning. Like drifting.

He closed his eyes, holding onto their love like a thread.

Silence.

Then—

Sound.

The low rush of waves. The scent of salt. Voices. A hand in his own.

Warmth.

Real warmth.

He opened his eyes.

Ginny.

She was there. Truly there. Her eyes wet, her grip fierce, as though she’d never let him go again.

A tear slipped down his cheek—but not from pain.

He was alive.

He was whole.

Not unscarred. Not untouched.

But whole.

The ache remained—it always would—but it no longer ruled him. It was quiet now. Bearable. He had something stronger.

He had love.

He had people waiting.

He had a future.

He gave her hand a squeeze.

And smiled.

He was home.