FicWad

Something warm nudged his shoulder.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” came his mother’s voice—soft, soothing, like sunlight filtering through curtains. “You can nap once we’re home.”

Harry groaned. His eyelids felt glued shut, heavy as stone. He forced them open, expecting the dim, firelit cosiness of the Leaky Cauldron—murmured voices, the clink of cutlery, the lingering taste of lemon squash.

But what hit him instead was a flood of sharp sunlight.

It slapped his face like a shock spell—bright, merciless, real.

He squinted, blinking rapidly as the world reassembled itself in front of him. The pub was gone. So was the table, the laughter, the strange conversation with his parents. No trace of James’s ridiculous enchanted menu or the echo of Draco’s unreadable stare.

Instead, there was the front of Flourish and Blotts. Familiar yet distant. The old bookshop stood proud and weatherworn, its bricks glowing gold in the sun, its green awnings fluttering like sleepy flags. The display window was crammed with teetering stacks of books, as though they were trying to climb out. A parchment sign squeaked and flapped faintly in the morning breeze: Closed Until 10AM.

Harry sat bolt upright, heart thumping hard against his chest like it was trying to escape. He looked around in confusion. They were on a bench now—how had they gotten here? Had he fallen asleep mid-meal?

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

Lily looked up from rummaging through her seemingly bottomless handbag. She blinked at him, her brow creasing slightly. “The Leaky Cauldron? Sweetheart, we haven’t been there yet.”

Harry’s mouth went dry.

“What?” he said. “We were just… you were talking to the Malfoys, and Dad was eating that weird—”

“We’re here to buy your schoolbooks,” she said calmly, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

Schoolbooks?

No. That wasn’t right. They’d already done that. He remembered the books—gold-edged, stacked like treasure. He remembered James laughing about Lockhart’s ridiculous face on every cover.

“But… you already bought them,” he said slowly, trying to grasp something solid. “I remember. The books were shiny. Dad was making jokes, and—”

“Don’t be silly,” she interrupted gently, brushing some hair from his forehead like he was five years old again. “We haven’t bought a single one yet. Those Lockhart books are outrageous this year. He’s got a new one every term. I swear he’s trying to drain every Galleon from Diagon Alley.”

Lockhart.

Harry’s stomach clenched. That name. Again. It kept showing up like a cracked note in a song that was supposed to be familiar. “But… what about Professor Quirrell?” he asked carefully, searching her face.

Lily tilted her head, confused. “Quirrell? Who’s that?”

Harry stared. “He… he wore a turban. Taught Defence last year.”

His mother gave a soft laugh—one that tried to sound casual but landed wrong. “Darling, Lockhart has always been your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Since first year. Don’t you remember?”

Harry didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

A cold shiver slid down his spine like water running beneath his skin. This wasn’t just confusion anymore. It was wrongness—deep, creeping wrongness.

He looked down and saw he was holding a folded bit of parchment. A booklist.

Hogwarts: Second Year Supplies.

Second year?

He stared at it like it might vanish. He barely remembered his first year—at least, not clearly. There were fragments: floating candles, whispers in corridors, flashes of spells. Laughter in the dark. A name he couldn’t say out loud. But it all felt distant, like a dream viewed through fogged glass.

Had he really finished a whole year already?

Or was this the dream, and the Leaky Cauldron—the tension, the strange familiarity of Malfoy, the lemon squash—that was the real thing slipping away?

He slid the parchment into his pocket, trying to act normal. Trying to anchor himself.

Lily was watching him too closely now. Her smile wobbled slightly at the corners. Concern flickered behind her eyes, the kind that people wear when they think something’s off but they’re afraid to name it. Harry knew that look. He’d seen it on teachers’ faces. On Hagrid. On Dumbledore.

Should he say something?

Should he tell her the world felt like it had shifted sideways while he wasn’t looking? That there were memories crowding his head that didn’t line up with this world—memories filled with danger and darkness and whispers in the night?

Should he admit he felt like a stranger in his own life?

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

What could he even say that wouldn’t make everything worse?

Across the street, Madam Malkin’s sat quiet and waiting, a little pocket of normalcy he wasn’t sure he trusted.

“You’ve outgrown those robes,” Lily said quickly, as if grateful for the chance to steer them away from whatever cliff they’d been about to fall over. “Why don’t you pop in for a fitting while I grab your books? Then we can head home early. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

He looked at her. Her smile had steadied, but her eyes were still searching his face for cracks.

He gave a small nod. “Yeah,” he said, voice dull. “Sounds good.”

But it didn’t.

Nothing sounded good. Not when the world felt like it had flipped inside out.

As he stepped into Madam Malkin’s shop, the smell of cloth and faint enchantments wrapped around him like a memory he couldn’t quite place. The bell above the door jingled softly, and for a moment, everything was still.

The shop had that peculiar quiet of places trying not to be awkward—soft rustling, low muttering, and the occasional hiss of fabric being yanked too hard. A few customers dotted the room like scattered chess pieces, each absorbed in their own fashion-related woes.

Harry stood stiffly near the counter, fingers tugging absently at the frayed edge of his robes. His reflection in the glass display looked just as lost as he felt. When Madam Malkin swept in from the back room, she looked much the same as he remembered—formidable and vaguely glittery, with pins clamped between her lips like weapons she might throw at you if you flinched at the wrong time.

“You there,” she said crisply, pulling the pins free with a sound like a zipper opening secrets. “Step up. Footstool. Don’t wobble.”

Harry obeyed, climbing onto the wobbling pedestal with all the grace of someone dreaming they were falling and waking up to find they already had.

Around him, robes swished and voices murmured. A woman was scolding two unruly boys off to his left, the kind of scolding that sounded more habitual than hopeful.

“Fred, George, if you knock over one more mannequin, so help me—”

Harry’s ears pricked up.

Fred and George?

His gaze slid sideways, and there they were: the Weasley twins, unmistakably red-haired and restlessly mischievous. One was stuffing scraps of robe material into the other’s hood. The other retaliated with a whispered hex that turned a measuring tape into a wriggling eel.

But the woman beside them wasn’t the warm, flustered Molly Weasley Harry knew. Her hair was drawn into a tight bun, her robes the startling lime green of a St. Mungo’s Healer, and her expression was sharp, clinical.

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

She turned, and the look she gave him was the sort of polite detachment one might reserve for a patient talking about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.

“Yes?” she said, slowly. “Do I know you?”

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

“Ron?” She tilted her head, the name landing like a marble dropped onto a stone floor. “I don’t have a son named Ron.”

He stared at her. His mouth opened, then shut. “I—I must be mistaken,” he managed, swallowing a knot of dread.

Her tone softened, but the look in her eyes didn’t. “It’s alright, dear,” she said, though her gaze lingered on him a second too long, as though trying to diagnose something that couldn’t be named.

The twins had stopped messing about. Fred and George glanced at Harry, then each other, their expressions shuttering. The air between them stiffened—like wands drawn under the table. The mischief was gone, tucked away beneath the tension thickening in the room like a gathering storm.

“Alright, Harry!” a voice called cheerily from behind.

He turned—and there was James, sweeping into the room like the idea of a hero. His robes shimmered faintly in the shop’s soft lighting—deep navy with subtle embroidery that looked like starlight. Harry could practically hear the swish of pride as James walked.

“Turn around, let me see!” James grinned. “Your mum’s probably right that we don’t need matching dress robes, but honestly—where’s the fun in that?”

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

James looked momentarily affronted. “What, this old thing? You think I’d show up underdressed for a celebration?”

“But… I’m here for school robes. Just school robes.”

“Really?” James frowned. “I thought we were getting ready for the Yule Ball.”

Harry turned to Madam Malkin for confirmation—but she was gone.

In her place stood a fireplace, crackling with familiar warmth. Stone walls rose around him like they’d always been there. A chill crept up his spine. The shop was gone. So was the pedestal. The world had rewritten itself again.

He was in the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory, warm with firelight and echoing with faint music from the Great Hall far below. The mirrors shimmered with magical polish. The windows were fogged with December breath.

Harry’s stomach dropped.

“What—how did we get here?” He breathed, spinning in place, his heart tripping over itself.

James chuckled, completely at ease. “Bit of nerves? Understandable. Big night. I remember the first ball I went to with your mum—I could barely tie my own cravat.”

Harry glanced down.

He was no longer wearing school robes.

His reflection showed him in tailored, emerald-green dress robes that looked like they’d cost a small vault. He felt older. Taller. Wrong.

“But what’s happening?” he asked again, voice brittle.

James smiled, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “Let’s not keep your date waiting, eh?”

Harry’s legs moved before his brain did. He was being ushered through the dormitory door. Familiar—but twisted, as though built from his memories but rearranged by someone else.

The dormitory stretched before them, impossibly long, and as Harry walked, one question echoed louder than the rest:

Whose life am I living?

And if it wasn’t mine… where had I gone?

They’d only just started down the staircase—Harry still reeling from the idea of attending a Yule Ball with his father dressed like a fashionable comet—when the steps beneath his feet vanished.

No warning. No shift. Just… gone.

Instead of the warm glow of firelight or the familiar murmur of common room chatter, he was hit by the crunch of snow and a blast of winter wind that cut straight through his dress robes. He blinked. Once. Twice.

He was standing in Hogsmeade.

The cobbled street unfurled before him in a wash of golden light and glittering frost. Shop windows glowed with soft holiday enchantments. Wreaths hung from lampposts like ornate punctuation marks, each one whispering, Welcome to a dream you didn’t sign up for. The air smelt of roasted chestnuts and peppermint, the scent curling around him like an old song. Somewhere nearby, a harmonica warbled a carol—off-key and strangely comforting in its imperfection.

“Come on, Harry!” A voice rang out, high and familiar.

He turned. Lily was there, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, eyes sparkling like starlight on snow. She looked younger than he remembered. Happier. Real.

“We’re meeting your dad and Sirius. I need a hot butterbeer before I turn into a snow sculpture.”

“Sirius?” Harry echoed, the name catching in his throat.

It felt too sacred to say aloud. Too steeped in grief. But Lily only smiled, tugging his arm as if she were inviting him into a fairytale.

“Yes, your godfather! Honestly, I’m surprised he’s early. He’s usually late to everything except pranks and dessert.”

The words felt like a punch wrapped in ribbon. Harry stumbled slightly as they stepped inside The Three Broomsticks, warmth blooming against his frozen skin like a memory come to life. The pub looked exactly as it always had—wood-panelled, cosy, fogged with butterbeer steam—but something about the light felt… staged. Like the set of a play written just for him.

Across the room, a boy with turquoise hair and a jumper three sizes too big waved at them as if his whole year had led up to this one moment.

“Oh, perfect,” Lily beamed. “Teddy’s here!”

Harry froze.

“Teddy?” he asked, voice tight.

“Teddy Lupin, of course.” Lily scanned the pub as if expecting the rest of the family to materialise on cue. “Surely Remus and Tonks are nearby…”

Harry stared at the boy. He looked seven, maybe eight—far older than Teddy should be. Andromeda should still be taking care of him. He should be babbling half-sentences, not waving like he ran the place.

“It’s so lovely to see you, Teddy!” Lily said, kneeling to hug him.

Harry’s chest twisted.

Then Teddy flung his arms around him, and Harry caught him on instinct.

“Harry! I missed you!”

There was so much joy in the boy’s voice, so much trust, that Harry couldn’t help but hug him back. But the moment felt fragile. Artificial. Like holding a snowflake and pretending it wouldn’t melt.

“You’ve missed Harry so much, haven’t you, Ted?” Lily teased.

“Yes!” Teddy grinned up at him, confident and utterly convinced of a closeness Harry couldn’t remember earning.

They sat. Butterbeer steamed gently in front of Harry, untouched. Teddy chattered beside him, his words muffled under the weight of Harry’s thoughts. He was trying to remember the rules of time, of space, of reality. Trying to remember who he was supposed to be here.

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

“Daddy’s coming after work,” Teddy replied. “And Mummy—there she is! MOMMY!”

Harry turned—

And the world turned with him.

The Three Broomsticks evaporated like breath on glass.

He was standing in the village square of Godric’s Hollow; the snow here had gone. Lamps flickered along the path like memories trapped in glass. The sky had faded to indigo. The wind carried silence. Reverent. Waiting.

Harry exhaled.

He didn’t belong here either.

He was between things—between worlds and memories and someone else’s dream. None of them felt like home.

Then a voice cut through the quiet.

“There you are,” said James, stepping from the shadows like he always had a right to be there. He smiled, but the corners of his eyes betrayed the worry. “Why the worried look, son?”

Harry turned slowly. Something in him recoiled—don’t trust it—but another part, louder and more tired, surged forward in relief.

“I—Dad, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said, voice shaking. The words came thick, heavy with intent. They felt final. Like stepping through a door you couldn’t close behind you.

James tilted his head. “You must be wondering what’s going on.”

That was… one way of putting it.

Harry nodded, though his heart was clanging in his chest like a clock striking midnight on the wrong day. His hands curled into fists at his sides, as if anchoring himself to something. Anything.

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

Will it? Harry wanted to ask. Or would it just keep spiralling? More faces he couldn’t trust, more places pulled from old photographs and fading dreams?

His father’s voice was gentle, but it had an edge to it now. A purpose. As if he were leading Harry somewhere—not through a place, but through a decision.

And for the first time since the staircase had disappeared beneath him, Harry wondered:

What happens if I don’t follow him?

His father’s voice dropped to a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone. “Your mother and I… we didn’t want to keep it from you forever. I told her we’d have to explain eventually.”

Harry’s stomach flipped. His mouth went dry. Explain what? His heart thudded once, twice, like it was waiting for a blow that might never come.

This had to be it. The truth. The reason this world shimmered at the edges like an illusion barely holding together.

James leaned in a little closer. “Please,” he said gently, “don’t tell your mother we had this conversation.”

Harry blinked. “Er… alright?”

The words came out too easily, like some unconscious part of him still trusted this man implicitly—even if every rational part screamed caution.

James grinned, eyes bright with mischief, then straightened his shoulders as though bracing to reveal a secret of world-ending importance.

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

A pause followed, thick and strange.

“A… birthday party,” Harry repeated, the phrase landing in his ears like a translation gone wrong.

“Yes!” James beamed. “At home. Seventeen is a big one! Everyone’s coming. Even Severus—can you believe it? We’ve patched things up. Water under the bridge and all that.”

Harry stared, silent.

That was the secret? A party? With Snape?

“I… that’s… great,” he managed, his voice faltering under the weight of disbelief.

James nodded like it was the best news anyone had ever delivered. “You’re shocked. Knew we’d pull it off! It’s going to be brilliant—music, food, and a bit of chaos if Sirius gets bored.” He laughed softly. “You know how he is.”

Harry didn’t laugh. Couldn’t.

Because somewhere behind his ribs, something twisted—tight, aching.

Snape and Sirius. Alive. Civil. In the same room.

Every part of this world felt like it had been stitched together from scraps of wishful thinking and leftover dreams.

And yet—it was warm. Tangible. His father’s hand had gripped his shoulder. The snow had stung his cheeks. The butterbeer had smelt real.

James paused, watching him closely. “If you’re not up for it, we can cancel.”

“No,” Harry said quickly, too quickly. The guilt bloomed behind his ribs—sticky, sudden. “I’m happy. Really. I’m just… a bit overwhelmed.”

James softened. “Understandable,” he murmured. “You’ve been through a lot. But tonight is about joy. You deserve that much.”

Do I? Harry thought.

Deserve joy? After everything? After everyone?

But he didn’t say it. Couldn’t.

Instead, he gave a thin, uneven smile—the kind that hurt more than it helped—and nodded.

They walked in silence through the village, their footsteps crunching softly against the path. The quiet was heavy, like it knew something was wrong but chose not to speak.

As they passed the churchyard, Harry’s eyes drifted toward the old graveyard. The stones sat solemn and still. The wind stirred nothing but old ghosts.

The last time he’d stood there, he’d felt like the world was ending. Now, it just felt distant. Removed. As though grief had been painted over with a dream.

Then they turned the final corner—and Harry stopped dead.

The cottage stood at the end of the lane like it had stepped out of a photograph someone had kept safe in their wallet for too long. Intact. Whole. Glowing.

No shattered windows. No blackened scars across its frame.

No silence thick with loss.

The garden was in bloom—moonflowers spilling like silver over the path. The upstairs window was whole again, curtains rippling softly. Lived in.

“Here we are,” James said quietly.

But Harry couldn’t move.

His feet rooted themselves in the dirt like they were afraid of getting too close. Afraid that if he took one step forward, the world might catch on to the lie and collapse.

He stared at the house, chest tight, vision blurring around the edges.

And then—without warning—a single tear slid down his cheek.

He wiped it away quickly, ashamed of it, as though grief were something embarrassing to be caught carrying in a world this beautiful.

James said nothing.

Because what could he say?

The house still stood. The lights still glowed.

And for the first time in seventeen years, even if it wasn’t real—even if it was some fractured dream or enchanted echo—this place, this impossible moment, felt more like home than anything Harry had ever known.

Inside, the house buzzed with the kind of laughter that made Harry feel like his heart had splintered into pieces he’d never find again.

The room was warm, bright, and impossibly alive.

Sirius was throwing his head back, laughing with Remus, both of them looking younger and freer than Harry had ever seen them. Tonks was pulling faces at Lavender Brown, her nose changing shape every few seconds—goat, duck, pug—while Lavender shrieked with delight. Colin Creevey’s giggles rang out like bells, so full of life it was almost unbearable.

At the far end of the room, Fred Weasley and Cedric Diggory were deep in what could only be described as a heated Quidditch summit. Fred made a swooping motion with his hands and declared loudly, “And then I caught the snitch right out from under Malfoy’s pointy little nose. Best day of my life. Well, second best—first was pranking Mum into thinking I’d joined a monastery.”

Harry wanted to laugh. He really did. But his throat had closed up.

Even Snape was there, somehow managing to smirk and look vaguely content while discussing something with Mad-Eye Moody and Dumbledore. It was like seeing a basilisk sipping tea with a phoenix—absurd and strangely touching.

And then there was Dobby.

Carrying a tray with perfect posture, wearing real shoes and—Merlin help him—a party hat. The sight nearly undid Harry. The little elf was grinning from ear to ear, levitating bowls of treacle tart with the kind of joy that made Harry’s chest ache.

“Welcome home, Harry Potter!” Dobby said, catching his eye, and Harry nearly broke down right there. It was too much. Too much.

He hadn’t even crossed the threshold, and already it felt like grief was clinging to him.

The front door swung open, creaking as the night wind nudged it like a hand from another world.

Lily stepped out, radiant in the porch light. Her smile was bright, almost too bright—joy tinged with something quieter beneath. The kind of fear only mothers know. The kind that says something’s wrong, but I can’t fix it yet.

“Thank goodness you both are here,” she said, her voice a careful blend of relief and worry. “Come on inside—everyone’s waiting.”

James strode in, tossing a wink over his shoulder like this was the start of some merry holiday scene.

But Harry didn’t move.

His heart wasn’t racing anymore.

It was sinking.

Heavy. Final. Like it had given up pretending.

He stared at the doorway as though it were a portal—and stepping through would mean accepting everything, believing it, and risking that none of it was real.

Lily’s eyes found him instantly. “Harry? Honey?” Her voice faltered, the smile faltering with it. A faint crease appeared between her brows. “Is everything alright?”

James turned, concern replacing the easy grin. “What’s the matter? Did you forget something?”

No. That was just it.

He hadn’t forgotten a thing.

And memory—real memory—was a weight nothing in this dream could quite lift.

Lily stepped closer, slow and gentle, her words wrapping around him like a too-soft blanket.

“Are you nervous? It’s alright to be nervous. Big day and all.”

But the warmth in her voice clashed hard against the cold pit forming in his stomach.

“I’m not nervous,” Harry said.

His voice cracked.

He tried again, quieter now, as if afraid even the air might reject it.

“I just… I don’t want this to end.”

The silence that followed swallowed everything.

Even the wind seemed to hush.

Lily reached for him then, her hand cupping his arm. Her touch was warm—real—but that only made the ache worse.

“It’s natural to feel that way,” she said softly. “Growing up is full of these moments. But we’re always here. No matter what happens. You’ll always be our little boy.”

James had moved back to his side, laying a steady hand on his shoulder.

It should have been comforting. But instead it pressed like a reminder—too solid, too perfect, too impossible.

Because none of this was real. Not truly.

It was beautiful. But it was borrowed.

It had to be.

Harry looked down, then slowly raised his eyes to meet theirs.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

The words trembled, fragile, almost breaking on their way out.

James tilted his head, that old warmth flickering again. “But we’ve always been here, Harry.”

Harry’s breath caught. The tears came fast, sharp, and blinding.

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

Lily’s smile vanished. A hush fell between them, deeper than silence.

“You and Dad died,” Harry said, each word unravelling him. “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 as if the night had exhaled all at once.

The breeze stopped.

The porch light flickered—just slightly.

Lily’s hand slid from his arm. Her eyes shimmered. James looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Harry’s voice broke. “I fought Voldemort. I buried friends. I—I held Dobby in my arms while he died. I saw Fred—”

His throat caught.

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

The tears came freely now. He didn’t try to stop them.

Because it hurt. It hurt so much to be given what you lost—and know it wasn’t yours to keep.

Lily stepped forward and folded him into her arms, holding him like she never got the chance. She smelt like cinnamon and warm sheets and Christmas mornings that never were.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, her voice thick with grief. “I am so sorry.”

James wrapped them both in his arms, solid and steady. “You didn’t deserve any of that,” he said. “Not a second.”

Harry clung to them like a boy lost in a storm.

He didn’t know how long they stood like that—entwined, unmoving, caught between two worlds. On the porch of a house that shouldn’t exist. In the arms of people who should be long gone.

Inside, laughter echoed—soft, cheerful, distant. A memory dressed in music.

But out here, beneath the still stars, reality waited.

And still, Harry couldn’t let go.

He could feel his pulse throbbing in his throat, a steady reminder that he was still here, still tethered to something real. Or nearly real. Or perhaps too perfect to be.

He had said it. Finally. Admitted the jagged truth that had carved itself into him over the years like a second scar.

He had missed them—not just as a child misses a bedtime story or a warm hand to hold, but as a soul aches for something it never had, yet always knew it needed.

James looked stunned. Not offended, not confused—just still. The usual twinkle in his eyes was dimmed, not by shame but by sorrow.

And Lily—Lily’s eyes were full of tears. Not falling, not yet, but shimmering at the edges, brimming with the kind of grief only a mother can carry when she sees what her child had to survive alone.

Harry dropped his gaze, ashamed of the torrent he’d unleashed. “I know it sounds mad,” he muttered. “I know this whole thing—whatever it is—is probably just in my head. A dream. Or… or a dying wish.”

Lily’s hand curled around his like sunlight finding skin after a storm. “If this is a dream, then let it be the kind that stays with you forever,” she whispered.

“I thought I could protect myself by pretending I was fine,” Harry said, blinking hard, as if the tears burning in his eyes were some kind of betrayal. “Like if I buried it deep enough, I could make peace with it. But I didn’t. I just got better at not crying in public.”

That earned a soft chuckle from James—quick, rough, almost a sigh. “Merlin, that’s so like me,” he said, his voice catching slightly. “You’re braver than I ever was, Harry.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m tired of being brave.”

And there it was: the deepest truth of them all. Not anger, not resentment—just bone-deep exhaustion.

Lily stepped forward and did what no one else in the world had ever done before—what Harry hadn’t even known he needed. She pushed his hair back from his forehead, fingers trembling ever so slightly as they brushed over the faded scar he’d carried like a badge and a curse.

“You shouldn’t have had to carry this alone,” she murmured, her thumb tracing the lightning bolt gently, reverently. “You shouldn’t have had to be strong every moment of your life.”

“I kept thinking I’d earned this,” Harry confessed. “This house. This peace. You two. Like maybe if I defeated enough evil, the universe would finally give me what I wanted.”

He looked up at them, eyes shining with rawness. “But I don’t think that’s how it works, is it? You don’t win your parents back just because you fought hard enough.”

“No,” James said, his voice firm but kind. “You get to have us now not because you fought for it, Harry—but because you deserve it. You always did. From the moment you were born.”

Harry swallowed, the lump in his throat growing larger.

“I see you,” Lily said, brushing a tear from his cheek. “Not just the boy who survived. I see you. The child who scraped together joy from nothing. Who loved fiercely. Who kept going when the world gave him every reason to stop.”

“And I see you,” James added quietly. “The man who built a life out of rubble and still made room in it for love. For friends. For hope.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His chest ached from holding too much at once—too much grief, too much gratitude, too much impossible beauty.

Finally, he managed a small, broken smile. “I wish I could stay here forever,” he said.

James drew him into another hug, this one tighter, more urgent. “Maybe you can’t. Maybe that’s not how this works,” he said. “But you can take this with you, Harry. This love. It doesn’t vanish. It’s stitched into your bones now.”

Lily kissed his forehead, soft and trembling. “We are always with you. Forever. In every breath. In every step. And when the road gets hard again—and it will—you remember this moment. Remember that you were never unloved. Not for a second.”

Harry closed his eyes and let himself fall into their embrace, held not by ghosts but by the memory of what should have been and the impossible magic of what was—however fleeting.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he let the tears fall freely, without apology.

The world had narrowed to this embrace—three heartbeats, one breath, and a silence so complete it seemed holy.

Harry didn’t move.

He barely dared to.

It was as if the slightest shift might break the spell and send him tumbling back into the cold. Back into a world where they weren’t here. Where this warmth didn’t exist.

And so he stayed, eyes closed, forehead pressed against Lily’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of something that felt like home, even though he had no memory of it.

Time passed—or maybe it didn’t. In dreams, the minutes didn’t obey the same rules. They stretched and folded, unfurling around emotion rather than clocks. Here, in this moment, there was no need for tomorrow. No rush to move forward. Only the ache of now.

“I used to imagine this,” Harry said eventually, his voice quiet, hushed, like he was afraid the stars themselves might be listening. “When I was little. When I was cold. When I didn’t think I’d make it through the night. I used to picture you both coming for me. Opening the cupboard door. Holding me like this.”

Lily’s arms tightened around him. She didn’t speak—she couldn’t. Her tears soaked silently into his hair.

James whispered, “I’m sorry we weren’t there.”

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

That hurt more than anything else. Saying it out loud.

The child he’d been had never truly stopped waiting for them.

James placed a hand over Harry’s heart, warm and sure. “No child is ever meant to carry that kind of hurt. You didn’t lose us, Harry. We lost you. And not a day would have gone by that we wouldn’t have fought to get back to you.”

“And maybe,” Lily added softly, “maybe this is the place in the world where that wish came true.”

Harry nodded, slowly, trembling beneath the weight of it all.

Because for once, he wasn’t fighting back the storm.

He was letting it move through him.

All the years of pretending. Of pushing the grief down. Of showing up for everyone else while quietly bleeding inside. It was all pouring out now—not in screams or sobs, but in tears that tasted like memory.

“I just wanted one normal moment,” he said. “A meal. A laugh. A stupid argument about socks on the stairs.”

Lily gave a soft, tearful laugh. “Oh, we would’ve had plenty of those.”

James smirked faintly. “You’d have hated my snoring.”

Harry smiled through his tears. “I’d have taken it. All of it.”

The wind stirred again, a whisper through the trees, as though even the night were listening—mourning with him for all that was lost and all that could never be.

But also… bearing witness to something that had been found.

James broke the quiet again, his voice low and full. “You’ve spent your whole life making room for other people’s pain. Let this moment be yours, Harry. Just yours.”

Harry nodded, his throat too thick for words.

And so they stood there, the three of them, wrapped in something deeper than time.

Love, yes.

But also mourning. And memory. And a thousand days that never were—but should have been.

And in the sacred hush of that dream, under a sky stitched with stars, Harry Potter allowed himself one small, impossible thing:

He believed.

That they loved him.

That they saw him.

That, for a moment—just one—they were a family.

He just wanted peace.

Not the kind that came with headlines or medals or whispered legends. Not even the kind that followed war, fragile and uneasy. No—something quieter than that. Something real. Like this moment. A breath suspended outside of time, where he wasn’t a symbol or a saviour. Just… a son.

A son who missed his parents so much it felt like drowning.

He had fought so hard to stay tethered to life. Fought tooth and nail through darkness and blood and grief. But here—wherever here was—it didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel like giving up. The line between life and death wasn’t sharp anymore. It was soft. Like stepping out of the cold and into warmth.

He listened to their voices again, those familiar voices he’d never really heard. It wasn’t just comfort. It was truth. Every second of silence from them over the years, every birthday alone, every question left unanswered—it all made sense now. This was love. Pure and untouched by time.

They had been waiting.

Just as fiercely as he’d needed them, they had been holding on—for him. Keeping a place ready in the shadows beyond the veil. The thought of leaving them now—again—twisted painfully in his chest. He wanted to fall into their arms and never move.

This wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t be. The ritual. The flashes of light in Diagon Alley. The way his magic had shivered right before everything went dark. Something had been guiding him here. Pulling him in.

Fate. Or something close.

A breeze stirred against his skin. He turned toward the sound. Laughter—soft and echoing—drifted from the little cottage behind him. It faded like smoke in the air. Shapes stood in the doorway, bathed in gentle golden light: Lupin. Tonks. Fred. Even Snape.

They waited for him. No judgement. Just patience.

Home.

The word felt different now. Less like a place. More like them. The ones who had loved him, fought beside him, and died for him. He could feel their warmth already. It called to him, calm and constant, like the tide.

But then—her.

Ginny.

The thought hit him like a punch to the ribs. Her laugh in the common room. Her hair catching sunlight in the Burrow’s backyard. The fire in her eyes when she screamed at him for pushing her away. He’d told himself it was to protect her. That love made her a target.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He’d been scared.

Scared to need her that much.

Scared to lose her the way he’d lost everyone else.

He saw Ron’s lopsided grin. Hermione’s frustrated sighs. The Weasleys crowding around a dinner table full of noise and warmth. They were still waiting for him.

His chest tightened. His hands trembled.

He’d almost let go. Almost stayed where it didn’t hurt, where no one needed saving anymore. But the memory of Ginny’s arms around him, her whispered “I love you” the last time he left—it pulled him back.

He wasn’t finished.

Then Lily’s voice came again.

“Come home, love.”

So soft. So full of everything he’d ever craved. But now… it didn’t feel like a plea to stay.

It felt like permission to leave.

A mother’s blessing. A goodbye wrapped in unconditional love.

He turned to face them.

His parents stood close, eyes gentle, understanding already written across their faces. James had his arm around Lily’s shoulders, steady and strong. And for a second—just a second—Harry saw it all. The life they’d never had. Christmas mornings. Bedtime stories. Quiet moments.

It would never be enough.

But this—this moment—was more than he’d dared to dream.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For not knowing you. For not getting the chance.”

His voice broke. Lily stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, and he collapsed into the embrace like a child. The kind of hug that made everything else fall away. Every scar. Every burden.

“Thank you,” he choked out, voice muffled in her shoulder. It was all he had, but it was everything.

When he stepped back, James placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re proud of you, son.”

It nearly undid him.

Lily brushed her fingers down his cheek. “We love you, Harry. We always will.”

“I know,” he said, barely able to speak. “I love you too.”

They didn’t need more words. The rest was understood. It always had been.

Moonlight caught on their faces one last time, soft and silver. He memorised it—the curve of his mum’s smile, the spark in his dad’s eyes—and then let them go.

Darkness began to rise around him again, gentle now. Not like drowning. Like being carried.

He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, holding their love like a thread to follow.

Silence.

But not for long.

The world returned slowly. Distant voices. The crash of waves. The scent of salt and sea. His fingers twitched.

And then warmth.

Real warmth.

Someone was holding his hand.

He opened his eyes.

Ginny.

She was there. Really there. Her eyes wide with tears, her grip firm like she’d never let go again. He blinked, and a tear slipped down his cheek—but not from pain.

He was alive.

He was whole.

Not untouched. Not unscarred.

But whole.

The ache was still there. It always would be. But it was quieter now. Softer. He could carry it. Because he had something stronger than grief.

He had love.

He had people waiting.

He had a future.

He squeezed her hand.

And smiled.

He was home.