FicWad

The first hints of dawn stretched lazily across the sky, painting the ocean in soft streaks of silver and gold. The waves shimmered in the early light, rolling in like they were still half-asleep. Perched above it all, Shell Cottage stood quietly, its windows fogged with the breath of a night passed peacefully.

Harry sat on the cold stone steps, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, letting the sea breeze brush against his face. The air smelt like salt and dew and something faintly floral—maybe from the garden Fleur obsessively tended, muttering in French about “proper order”. He smiled faintly at the thought, but it faded as quickly as it came.

The silence was soothing, but his mind refused to be still. It had been a week since the ritual. Just a week. It already felt like a lifetime ago.

He could still see it all.

Harry closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the stone. He still felt echoes of the pain, like tiny shards of glass in his chest. Not constant, but always there—reminders of what they’d pulled from him. Or tried to. He wasn’t even sure what they’d managed to purge and what had simply gone deeper into hiding.

But through all of it, they’d been there.

Ron’s hand, clammy and too strong, gripped his like they were about to jump off a cliff together. Hermione’s voice—calm but cracking just slightly at the edges. And Ginny… Ginny had held his other hand and pressed her forehead to his, whispering through clenched teeth, “We’ve got you. We’ve got you, Harry.”

She’d said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The warmth of that memory nudged aside the cold in his chest.

The cottage door creaked open behind him, and footsteps padded softly onto the stone. He didn’t need to look. He could tell by the way the steps staggered and the sleepy shuffle who was coming.

“You know it’s early, right?” Ron muttered as he slumped onto the steps beside him, still in pyjama bottoms and a shirt that said Chudley Cannons Forever in fading letters. “Like, offensively early.”

Harry smirked. “Blame the sunrise. It keeps happening.”

Ron grunted. “Rude of it.”

Hermione appeared next, wrapped in a blanket. She gave them both a look that was half fond, half exasperated. “You do realise this is not what normal people do after nearly dying?”

“Define ‘normal’,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m sitting outside in May wrapped in a throw blanket,” Hermione muttered. “You tell me.”

Ginny was the last to appear, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, her hair a soft mess around her shoulders. She settled next to Harry without a word, tucking her legs under her and leaning lightly against his side. He felt her warmth and let it steady him.

No one spoke for a while. The only sounds were the waves below and Ron occasionally yawning like a dying walrus.

“I had the dream again,” Hermione finally said, her voice quiet. “The ritual. It felt so real.”

Harry nodded, not looking away from the ocean. “Same. I woke up thinking it was happening all over again.”

Ron sighed. “I dreamed we were doing it again, only Slughorn turned into Snape halfway through and started reading poetry. Bloody horrifying.”

Ginny chuckled. “You always have the weirdest dreams.”

“They’re creative,” Ron defended, though he looked mildly concerned. “Probably a sign of brilliance.”

“Or trauma,” Hermione offered gently.

Harry smiled faintly. That was what he loved about them—about this. Even now, even after everything, they could still sit here, teasing each other, passing jokes around like sweets. That was how he knew they were healing. Or trying to.

“I keep thinking,” he said slowly, “about how much worse it could’ve gone. If you hadn’t been there…”

“You’d have found a way,” Hermione said quickly.

“Or exploded,” Ron added helpfully. “You were really glowing, mate. Like—fireworks-glowing. I thought you were going to sprout wings or explode. Honestly, I was prepared for both.”

“You’re not helping, Ron,” Hermione sighed.

“Just saying, I was emotionally ready.”

Ginny squeezed Harry’s hand. “But you didn’t explode. We got through it. You got through it.”

Harry looked at her then and felt the ache behind his ribs ease, just a bit. She didn’t say it like it was a big deal. She said it like it was the only possible truth. As if failure had never even crossed her mind.

“I still feel… off,” he admitted. “Like something’s missing. Or like too much is still inside me. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You don’t have to,” Ginny said softly. “We get it.”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “We’ve all got bits rattling around inside. Emotional leftovers.”

Hermione nodded. “Healing isn’t a straight line. Some days it hurts. Some days you laugh and then feel guilty for laughing. But you’re allowed both.”

Harry let that settle in the quiet. The sun was rising fully now, casting golden warmth over the sea and the stone steps beneath them. He didn’t know if the worst was behind them. He didn’t even know if he’d ever feel whole again.

But he had them.

And right now, in this quiet moment, with Ron yawning dramatically beside him, Hermione giving unsolicited mental health advice, and Ginny resting against his side like she belonged there—maybe that was enough.

Maybe that was everything.

“Do you ever think about where we’d be if we hadn’t done the ritual?” Harry asked suddenly, his eyes fixed on the crashing waves below. The question slipped out before he could second-guess it. “I don’t know if I’d have made it through.”

The words hung in the air. He hadn’t meant to sound so bleak—it was just the truth. And somehow, saying it out loud made it feel a little less heavy.

Ron let out a long breath and scratched the back of his neck, as if the thought had been sitting with him too. “Mate, I think about that all the time. It was awful. I mean—really awful. I thought you were going to burn from the inside out.” He gave a nervous laugh, then added more softly, “But I wouldn’t trade it. Not a second. We fought for each other. And we’d do it again.”

Harry looked at him, his chest tightening with that strange, warm ache—like gratitude and guilt mixed together. Ron’s loyalty was loud, clumsy, and unwavering. Harry didn’t deserve it, but he held onto it anyway.

Hermione leaned forward, arms still tucked in her blanket, her voice gentler than usual. “We learnt so much. About magic, yeah—but also about each other. About what it means to really carry someone else’s pain.” She glanced at Harry, then at Ginny. “We’ll always have that. No one else could understand it like we do.”

Harry nodded slowly, his throat thick with emotion. He looked at the three of them—his family in every way that mattered—and something shifted inside him. The ache didn’t disappear, but it didn’t feel quite so lonely anymore.

“We’re stronger now,” he said quietly, lifting his gaze to the light spilling across the water. The sun had risen fully now, chasing the last of the shadows away. “Stronger because of everything we went through.”

For a moment, the four of them sat in silence, soaking in the golden morning. The wind tugged at their hair. The waves rolled on. And somewhere in Harry’s chest, a little flicker of hope nudged its way through the cracks.

It was Ginny who spoke next. “I don’t think it’s going to be easy,” she said, her voice thoughtful but firm. “Life doesn’t exactly have a track record of going easy on us. But I believe we can handle it—as long as we stick together.”

Harry turned to look at her, the early sun catching in her hair like fire. Her eyes met his, steady and bright. He reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I believe that too,” he said. “With you lot beside me… I think we can face anything.”

Ron cleared his throat, a little too dramatically. “Okay, this is getting a bit mushy. Can we go back to talking about food or explosions or something?”

“Ron,” Hermione chided, but she was smiling.

“No, I’m serious,” Ron went on. “You think we’ll ever get to explore the world? You know, see all the cool magical places out there—like, properly. Without running for our lives.”

Harry blinked at the unexpected shift in tone but then grinned. “I’d like that.”

“Definitely,” Hermione said at once, her face lighting up. “I’ve been reading about American magical folklore. It’s fascinating—and completely unregulated. We could start there!”

Ron made a face. “Do they have treacle tart?”

“They have pie.”

Ron considered that. “Close enough.”

Laughter bubbled up between them, light and unforced. For the first time in ages, it didn’t feel borrowed or fragile. It felt real.

Ginny leaned forward, a sly glint in her eye. “So what’s the plan when we get back to the Burrow later? Besides eating everything Mum’s cooked, I mean.”

“We should celebrate,” Hermione said firmly, brushing hair from her eyes. “Harry’s better now. That’s reason enough.”

“Yeah, Harry,” Ron agreed, grinning at him. “You survived being a human Horcrux. That’s got to earn you at least three puddings and a victory banner.”

Harry chuckled under his breath. “I’m not sure I’m ready for banners.”

“Well, too bad,” Ginny said. “You’re getting a feast. And maybe fireworks.”

He smiled at all of them, and for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel forced. The laughter, the love—it was all starting to break through the fog.

“I appreciate it,” he said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I do. But before I come to the Burrow, I want to make a stop first.”

Hermione gave him a look, already guessing. “Hogwarts?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to talk to Slughorn. I owe him that. I need to thank him—for everything he did. He didn’t have to help, but he did. He saved me.”

“And after that?” Ginny asked softly, though she already knew the answer.

“Godric’s Hollow,” Harry said. “I want to see my parents. I just… I feel like I need to.”

A hush settled over them again. No one questioned it. No one tried to stop him.

Ginny gave a quiet nod. “Then you should go.”

Ron shifted beside him. “But you’ll come back to the Burrow after, yeah? Mum’s already threatening to make seventeen desserts. She says if you skip out, she’ll hunt you down and drag you back by the ear.”

Harry snorted. “I’ll be there,” he promised. “I just need a little time first. I’ll come home after.”

Home. He hadn’t meant to use that word, but somehow it felt right.

The sun had risen completely now, bathing them in light. The darkness hadn’t disappeared—it probably never would—but they were still here. Still standing. Still laughing.

And that was more than enough for now.

The Burrow had never looked so perfect.

Its crooked towers leaned against the sky like they were holding one another up, bathed in late morning sunshine. Wildflowers swayed in the breeze, dotting the yard like spilt paint, and the grass was a bright, impossible green. Somewhere inside, Mrs. Weasley was humming—Harry could hear her through the open window—and the scent of roasted vegetables, beef stew, and potatoes wafted up the stairs like an invitation from a more innocent time.

Harry sat on the edge of his old bed, feeling like he’d stepped into a memory—but one that had changed just enough to make it new again.

The room was exactly as he’d left it. Same Quidditch posters, still peeling in the corners. Same stack of schoolbooks gathering dust. And yet… it felt different. He felt different.

Ginny and Hermione sat on the floor beside a half-exploded trunk of old school supplies and spellbooks. Quills poked out at odd angles. Parchment curled like it was trying to escape. Ron was by the dresser, arms crossed, his gaze far away, like he was seeing another lifetime.

“Can you believe we’re back here?” Ron murmured, like he wasn’t quite convinced it was real.

Harry glanced over, smiling faintly. “Honestly? Not really. Feels like we blinked and somehow made it through the war.”

Hermione nodded, brushing a smudge of ink off her wrist. “It feels surreal. Like we’ve been running for so long, we forgot what it’s like to stand still.” She paused, eyes soft. “But it’s good. We’re safe. We can finally be.”

Ginny’s voice broke through the quiet with certainty. “It’s a good dream,” she said. “I missed this. The Burrow. The gnomes. Even that weird squeaky stair. The world’s still broken—but here, it almost feels whole again.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at her. At all of them. And the lump in his throat wasn’t fear, for once—it was gratitude.

Still, he needed to shift the mood. Too much peace made his heart nervous.

“I should return those soul books to Madam Pince,” he said, half to himself, fiddling with the frayed edge of the blanket. “Promised her I would next time I went to Hogwarts.”

Ron blinked back into the moment. “Wait—so you are going to see Slughorn?”

Harry nodded. “I sent an owl this morning. He’s expecting me this afternoon.”

Ron tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You sure about that? Slughorn gets really sentimental when he’s had a sherry or two. You might end up in his office listening to his greatest hits until dinner.”

“I’ll risk it.” Harry smiled faintly. “I owe him. He gave me the final piece I needed to end it all… And he never asked for anything in return. I want to thank him properly.”

“Maybe you’ll run into McGonagall,” Ron said with a crooked grin. “Bet she’s even scarier now. You think she’ll reopen the school with full-on military drills?”

“She’s tough, not terrifying,” Hermione said, though she sounded like she was mentally preparing for drills just in case.

“Hogwarts reopens in two months,” she added, tapping her book. “I wonder who they’ll pick for Defence Against the Dark Arts this year…”

Ron lit up like he’d been waiting for that question all morning. “I hope it’s someone epic. Like a retired Auror. Or a grizzled ex-Unspeakable with a dark past and a prosthetic eye.”

“Merlin, not another Moody type,” Harry chuckled, shaking his head.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “What if it’s someone completely unexpected? Like… Draco Malfoy?”

Ron made a gagging noise. “Please don’t ruin lunch.”

“Come on,” Hermione said, amused. “That would be poetic, in a twisted kind of way.”

“It’d be chaos,” Harry added, laughing now. “Though watching first-years try to duel Malfoy could be wildly entertaining.”

“Whoever it is,” Hermione said, more serious again, “they need to understand what Hogwarts means. Not just teach spells—but remind people what we fought for. What we lost.”

Harry nodded. “They need to show students how to stand together. Not divide them again.”

Ginny had moved to the window, her hand resting on the sill. She looked out over the garden with a thoughtful smile. “It’s like the castle has new skin now. Like it finally shed all the old scars.”

Harry followed her gaze, letting the thought settle.

“It still aches sometimes,” he admitted. “The memories. The fights. But it’s like… like healing. Slow. Real.”

Hermione reached over and gently touched the ancient-looking spellbook in front of her. “We still have so much to learn. So much to rebuild. And maybe we can help write new spells—safer ones. Make sure what happened to us doesn’t happen again.”

“Or at least make the Slytherins sweat a little,” Ron added with a grin. “Some traditions are worth keeping.”

Their laughter rang through the room, easy and bright, like a spell of its own—one that lightened the air and reminded them all how far they’d come.

Then, right on cue, a voice thundered up the stairs.

“Lunch is ready!”

Mrs. Weasley’s shout could have shaken the foundations.

“Tell me there’s treacle tart,” Ron said, already halfway to the door.

Hermione rolled her eyes but followed, gathering parchment in her arms.

Ginny glanced back once, catching Harry’s eye. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I think I really am.”

And as they clattered down the stairs, laughter echoing behind them, Harry felt something stir in his chest—not just relief, but joy. The kind that didn’t come from survival but from belonging.

Harry stepped into Professor Slughorn’s office again, the familiar scent curling around him like a welcome back. Polished wood, old parchment, and something sweet—maybe crystallised pineapple—hovered in the air like a potion still brewing. Dust floated lazily in the beams of afternoon sunlight, giving the whole place a hazy, almost enchanted feel.

Books lined the walls like thick, ageing sentinels, spines gleaming with gold titles in fading script. Plants dangled from high shelves, their leaves brushing against tomes and dangling in little green arches, like they, too, had settled in for tea. The room hadn’t changed. That, oddly enough, made Harry’s chest tighten with something between comfort and grief.

At the far end, Slughorn stood at his usual spot, half-hidden behind a tall dresser cluttered with photographs. Harry knew the layout by heart now, but the sight still caught him off guard—like running into a memory when you weren’t ready for it.

He drifted closer to the dresser, almost on instinct. The pictures were all moving, of course—smiling faces, waving hands, some even raising glasses in celebration. Every photo felt like a window into someone else’s world. And at the centre of it all, nestled in the middle, was her.

Lily.

His mum stood frozen in mid-laugh, her green eyes crinkling, red hair catching the light like fire in motion. She looked impossibly alive, like she might turn and wink at him if he just stared long enough. She was surrounded by friends, glowing with warmth and energy—and none of them had a clue what was coming for them.

Harry’s throat tightened. A familiar ache settled in his chest—the one that came when he missed her too much, when he let himself really think about all the things he’d never get to say. He wanted to ask her what her laugh sounded like. Whether she liked coffee or tea. Whether she would’ve made fun of his hair or helped him tame it. But all he had was this photo. This frozen second in someone else’s memory.

Still… at least she was remembered. That meant something.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” came Slughorn’s genial voice, pulling Harry out of his thoughts like a gentle tug on a rope. “Caught admiring my collection again, are we?”

Harry straightened, blinking back the sting in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “You’ve known… so many people.”

Slughorn chuckled, stepping around the dresser with the careful shuffle of someone used to navigating both tight spaces and sensitive emotions. “Each one with a story, dear boy. But your mother—now, she wasn’t just remarkable. She was radiant. She made people better simply by being near them.”

Harry smiled, and for a moment, the ache inside him softened. She did that to me, too, he thought. Even now.

“Thanks,” he said. “For keeping her picture here. It’s nice to know someone remembers her… like this.”

Slughorn gave a slow, solemn nod. “It’s not a memory I’d ever part with.”

Then, in his usual style, he clapped his hands and motioned toward the deep, squashy armchair beside the desk. “Come, sit. Let’s talk about you for once! Any lingering symptoms? Headaches? Strange dreams? Sudden urges to turn into a phoenix?”

Harry snorted. “Nope. Nothing fiery or feathered, I promise. Whatever happened in that ritual worked. I feel… like myself again.”

He sank into the chair, feeling the plush cushions give way like the room itself was exhaling with him.

“I mean it,” he added, more serious now. “For the first time in… ages, I feel normal. Like I’m not dragging around a piece of something else. Like I finally shut a door that’s been open too long.”

Slughorn gave him a long look. “That’s excellent news, Harry. Truly. I’d hoped the ritual would ease your burden, but results like these—well, it’s practically alchemy meeting miracle.”

“You’re being modest,” Harry said. “Without your help, I might still be waking up in cold sweats with headaches and that burning feeling all over my body.”

Slughorn gave a modest cough, though his moustache twitched with pleasure. “Well, I did once tutor a Latvian warlock through a cursed soul tether, so I daresay I’ve had practice.”

Harry raised a brow. “Is that the guy with the silver eyebrows in the photo over there?”

“Indeed! Bright fellow. Terrible fashion sense.”

They both chuckled, but then Slughorn’s face grew distant. His gaze dropped to the fire crackling gently in the hearth.

“You know, I still think about it,” he said softly. “Tom Riddle. What I told him. The things I gave away without realising what they’d become. It’s a weight I haven’t shaken, not even after all these years.”

Harry’s smile faded. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The flickering firelight danced over the old rug between them.

“You didn’t know what he was planning,” Harry said. “No one did. And even if you had—he was already on that path, professor. You didn’t lead him there.”

“But I handed him the map,” Slughorn whispered, voice strained. “The boy was curious, brilliant… persuasive. I wanted to encourage him. I wanted to be part of his success.”

Harry thought of Tom Riddle—handsome, sharp-eyed, and cold beneath the charm—and of how good he’d been at pretending.

“You were human,” Harry said. “You made a mistake. But then you helped me stop him. That matters more than what came before.”

Slughorn didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the fireplace, reflecting orange light like wet glass.

Harry kept going, voice quiet but certain. “You gave me something no one else could. That memory? It changed everything. Without it, I wouldn’t have known what he was or how to stop him. And if you’re still carrying guilt for what you told him—then let me carry some of it, too. Because I’m the one who used it.”

The silence stretched between them, thick with emotion. Then Slughorn blinked hard and sat back with a weary sigh.

“Perhaps,” he murmured. “But feelings, Harry… they don’t always listen to logic. It’s one thing to know it wasn’t your fault. It’s another thing entirely to feel it.”

Harry nodded. He understood that all too well.

“I reckon that’s grief’s evil twin,” he said. “Guilt shows up to the party even when it’s not invited.”

That drew a huff of laughter from Slughorn. “Very astute. Did your mother give you that wisdom, or is it pure Potter improvisation?”

“Bit of both,” Harry said. “She gives the brains. Dad contributes the reckless commentary.”

They both laughed, and the warmth between them settled back in. Harry glanced once more at the dresser—at Lily’s laughing face, frozen in time—and felt a flicker of peace.

“But think of all the good that’s come from it. The friendships we’ve built, the victories we’ve fought for. You’ve taught generations of young witches and wizards and inspired them. You continue to inspire me.”

Slughorn glanced at him, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You flatter me, Harry. But it’s not entirely undeserved. I do take pride in watching my students grow… flourish.”

“And you should,” Harry said, his tone earnest. “You deserve that joy. You’ve shaped lives. Mine included.”

He hesitated, choosing his next words carefully, wanting them to stay with the professor. “You once told me we have the power to shape our destinies. Even if the shadows of our past linger, we can still choose to step into the light.”

A hush settled between them, broken only by the gentle crackle of fire. Candlelight danced across Slughorn’s face, revealing not just the wisdom of age, but something more vulnerable—something human.

“Harry,” Slughorn said at last, his voice low and steady, “you’ve become an extraordinary young man. You carry so much—more than most—but you wear it with grace. That’s a rare kind of strength.”

Warmth spread through Harry’s chest. It mattered—that someone could see him for more than his past, more than his scar. “I’m just trying to be the person you believed I could be. You showed me that there’s always hope, even in the darkest places. That’s stayed with me.”

Slughorn leaned forward with a familiar glint of amusement in his eye. “Are we engaging in a bit of mutual admiration now? I might be tempted to give you an ‘Outstanding’ in Charm.”

Harry laughed, the heaviness between them lifting. “Only if you promise not to assign me any more potions essays.”

Slughorn chuckled, the tension ebbing into something gentler. “Very well, Harry. I’ll spare you—for now.” His tone softened. “But truly, what brings me peace is knowing you’re free. That gives me hope in return—more than I ever expected.”

Their conversation lingered, not soaked in tears or regret, but in something quieter and more enduring—emotional clarity, shared understanding. Two souls weathered by loss, finding solace in each other’s presence.

Harry’s gaze shifted to an object resting atop Slughorn’s desk: a curious hourglass, swirling with silver sand.

Slughorn reclined in his armchair, the firelight catching in his eyes. The hourglass had come up in their talks before—an artefact Slughorn claimed would adjust the speed of its sand based on the quality of conversation. As Harry watched, he noticed the grains falling achingly slowly, suspended in a moment that seemed reluctant to end.

“That thing has a mind of its own,” Slughorn chuckled, following Harry’s gaze. “It reads the room. Rather marvellous, isn’t it?”

Harry smiled, then shifted in his seat, a spark of excitement flickering in his voice. “Professor… I was wondering if you might come to the Burrow tonight. We’re having a bit of a celebration. It wouldn’t feel right without you.”

Slughorn’s eyes lit up at the invitation. “The Burrow, you say? A Weasley gathering?” His expression turned wistful, touched by old memories. “What a splendid idea. I’d be honoured to join.”

Right after he left Hogwarts, the cool evening air wrapped around Harry like an old, familiar cloak—one stitched with memories, stitched with longing. As he walked through the wrought-iron gates of Godric’s Hollow cemetery, the last rays of sunlight spilt across the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange, violet, and gold. But within the cemetery’s hush, time seemed to pause. Silence stretched around him, vast and eternal.

Each step on the gravel path echoed softly, resonating with the rhythm of memories too old and too sacred to name. The crisp air carried the earthy scent of damp soil and fallen leaves, and Harry’s heart thudded slowly, reverently, as he passed by the gravestones—each one a quiet witness to the tangled history that had led him here.

Finally, he stopped before the grave he had returned to countless times in dreams. Nestled beneath the protective limbs of a great oak, the headstone gleamed with solemn dignity. One side read “Lily Potter,” the other “James Potter”. The letters, though familiar, still stole his breath. He knelt slowly, folding himself onto the grass—lush, a little wild, like the love that had once grown here.

Despite the coolness in the air, a quiet warmth unfurled in his chest. A mingling of grief and peace. The battle was over. The darkness he had carried for so long had receded, leaving behind a tender scar that pulsed now with memory instead of pain.

“I did it,” he whispered, the words both fragile and triumphant. “I defeated him, Mum… Dad.”

He closed his eyes, imagining their faces. His mother’s kind, fierce smile. His father’s mischievous gleam. The thought of their pride filled him with a joy so sharp it ached.

“I’ve been carrying this weight for so long,” he said, voice trembling. “I didn’t even realise how heavy it was… until it was gone.”

Tears welled in his eyes—warm, unbidden, welcome. The kind of tears that didn’t weaken but healed. The last piece of Voldemort was gone, and in its place, Harry found something he never expected: peace. For the first time in his life, he could breathe without fear. Without guilt.

“There were times I didn’t think I’d survive,” he admitted, his voice soft but steady. “I faced so much darkness. I lost people I loved. But through it all, I kept thinking of you—of what you’d say, what you’d want for me.”

He smiled through the tears. “You would’ve told me to fight with love, wouldn’t you?” He said to the stillness, to the stars beginning to blink open in the sky.

A breeze stirred the branches overhead, a gentle rustling like a whispered answer. And in that moment, Harry felt it—that unseen tether, the quiet presence of those he loved. Not gone, not really. Just on the other side of the veil.

“I wish you could see me now,” he said, lifting his eyes to the stone. “I’m happy. I never thought I would say that, but I am.” His heart swelled with the memory of friends’ laughter, of sun-dappled afternoons and late-night talks. Of Dobby’s grave, lovingly tended. Of a future no longer imagined but finally possible.

His thoughts turned, as they often did now, to Ginny.

“You would’ve loved her,” he said, a fondness blooming in his chest. “She reminds me of you, Mum. Brave, fierce, full of fire. She’s my light when everything else fades.”

A single tear traced his cheek—hot, honest, grateful.

“I still get lost sometimes,” he admitted, looking up at the soft, watchful moon. “I wish I could talk to you. I wish I could share the good things. The struggles. Just… hear your voices.”

But even as he spoke, it felt as though he could hear them. His mother’s soothing hum. His father’s low, comforting laugh. It lived in him now and always had.

“But I know you’re with me,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “You’ve always been with me.”

Each word became a vow. A promise to carry their love, to honour their sacrifice—not in mourning, but in life. In light.

There, in that sacred hush, something magical stirred. Not a spell, not a miracle—just truth. That love, real love, doesn’t die. It transforms. It stays.

“I feel you everywhere,” he said. “In my dreams. In my friends’ laughter. In every step I take.”

With a heart both heavy and whole, Harry rose to his feet. He brushed the grass from his trousers and looked once more at the gravestone, memorising it—not as a monument to death, but to love.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice full of all he could never say. “For everything.”

The wind rustled through the cemetery like a hymn, low and sweet. Leaves swirled gently at his feet as if the world itself had sighed with him. He turned, taking one last look before walking away, not with sorrow, but with a strange, radiant peace.

In the cosy kitchen, the Weasley family was alive with spirits—both the emotional kind and, thanks to Slughorn, the fermented kind. Ron stood with his arm around Hermione, who was organising several dishes on the table with the precision of someone who had either read Witch’s Guide to Buffet Etiquette or written it herself.

Mr. Weasley and Slughorn were chatting merrily about plug sockets and pineapple mead—though it was unclear which fascinated Slughorn more. Ginny, with a determined sparkle in her eye, was wrangling several magically bouncing banners reading “WELCOME BACK, HARRY!” One banner tried to escape, but she snatched it out of the air with the skill of a seasoned Seeker and scowled it into submission.

In the corner, Draco Malfoy—yes, that Draco Malfoy—was standing stiffly in an apron that read Kiss the Cook (He Dares You) as he squinted at a frying pan. Mrs. Weasley hovered nearby, clearly torn between supervising and exorcising the kitchen.

“Don’t burn them, Malfoy!” Ron called, grinning as he passed by with a plate of treacle tart. “Although I suppose a smoke alarm might be the most exciting thing this house has seen since Fred enchanted the loo.”

“Shut it, Weasley,” Draco muttered, flipping what might have once been a pancake with the delicacy of someone performing heart surgery on a Blast-Ended Skrewt. “Your culinary expertise begins and ends with ‘add ketchup’.”

Ron gasped in mock offence. “You take that back! I also grill toast. Sometimes.”

Over the past weeks, an uneasy alliance had blossomed between the two boys, rooted in sarcasm, awkward nods, and a shared disdain for Voldemort’s decorating style.

Upstairs, in the Burrow’s small and perpetually foggy bathroom, Harry stood in front of the mirror. He adjusted his glasses and frowned thoughtfully. “Not bad,” he muttered. “Could use a haircut. And a week of sleep. And a facial charm or twelve.” Still, he looked better than he had in years—not like a half-dead horcrux magnet anymore, but like someone who might actually live a life.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. The narrow stairs creaked under his weight as he descended, the familiar sounds of Weasley chaos drifting up to greet him. Laughter, clinking dishes, and what sounded suspiciously like a singing saucepan filled the air.

When he stepped into the kitchen, the whole room turned to look.

“Harry!” they cheered in unison, enveloping him in a Weasley-grade group hug, which was like being smothered by a warm, affectionate bear wearing knitted jumpers.

“Alright, alright, let me breathe!” He laughed, caught somewhere between overwhelmed and delighted. George tossed a party hat onto his head.

“You made it!” Ginny beamed, hugging him tight. “We were worried you’d sleep through your own welcome party. Again.”

“Hey, I had a long week,” Harry said, stretching slightly. “Tried fighting evil. Ten out of ten, wouldn’t recommend for rest.”

“Happy to see you healthy again, mate,” Ron said, giving him a clap on the back so hard Harry nearly met the treacle tart face-first. “Especially after today—Kingsley looked like he was trying not to cry when he offered you that Auror position. I think he may have blacked out for a second.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, still stunned. “An Auror. Imagine that. Me—with authority.”

“Oh, Merlin help us all,” Ginny muttered with a grin.

“You’ve earned it,” Hermione said, nudging Ron in the ribs. “Just don’t use your position to fine people for illegal cauldron sizes.”

“Or banish homework,” Ron added hopefully.

Before Harry could respond, the front door creaked open and Andromeda Tonks stepped in, cradling a small blue bundle. “Hope I’m not interrupting the festivities,” she said, her voice gentle.

The room quieted instantly. Even the banners seemed to stop mid-bounce.

“Teddy!” Ron cried, his eyes lighting up as if someone had offered him a lifetime supply of chocolate frogs.

Harry’s breath caught as Andromeda walked toward him, her arms trembling slightly. “Harry, meet your godson,” she said with a soft smile.

The baby blinked up at him with wide eyes and a startlingly familiar expression of curious judgement—Lupin’s signature look. His hair, currently black, curled messily like Harry’s own.

“Blimey,” Harry breathed, taking him with care. “He’s tiny. How does something this small make such loud noises?”

“You’ll find out at three in the morning,” Andromeda said dryly.

Teddy let out a coo and promptly sneezed blue glitter onto Harry’s jumper.

“He’s… part Niffler?” Harry asked, brushing off sparkles.

“Just a developing metamorphmagus,” Andromeda said, proudly. “Wait until he grows in fangs next week. It’s a phase.”

Harry looked down at the child’s bright eyes and, despite the glitter sneeze, felt his heart melt into something warm and fiercely protective. “Hey there, Teddy,” he whispered, smiling. “I’m your godfather. Which means I’m legally allowed to spoil you rotten and teach you inappropriate jinxes.”

“Start with the Bat-Bogey Hex,” Ginny called. “Mum says it builds character.”

Harry’s laughter mingled with the sounds of a kitchen overflowing with love, memories, and just a bit of chaos. Holding Teddy close, he felt like the world, for once, had tilted in the right direction.

“Don’t worry, little guy,” he said softly. “I’ve got you. Just don’t ask me to change any nappies until I pass my Auror training.”

Just then, Kingsley strode in, commanding the room with the kind of presence that could quiet a rampaging Hippogriff—or at least get George to stop juggling sausage rolls for five seconds. His deep voice rang out with that rare combination of gravitas and party spirit. “Alright, everyone! Time to celebrate!”

He turned to Harry with a warm smile and the air of a man who had just come from a meeting, a duel, and possibly a jazz club. “I haven’t forgotten what I wanted to say. Today marks not just a new adventure for you but a testament to your resilience. You’ve battled through insurmountable odds and emerged not just as a hero but as a friend to all of us—even former foes.”

Draco, mid-pancake flip, stiffened slightly. He looked like he might rather be battling trolls than dealing with heartfelt compliments, but Harry gave him a reassuring smile. That seemed to help. Slightly. Maybe.

“You are offered the position of Auror,” Kingsley continued, holding out his hand. “We need people like you—courageous, passionate, and preferably not still being hunted by cursed tiaras.”

Harry shook his hand with a wide grin, and the kitchen exploded with cheers, applause, and the sound of several gnomes in the garden panicking at the sudden noise.

“Here’s to Harry!” Ron bellowed, raising his mug of butterbeer so enthusiastically that a bit sloshed onto Hermione’s neatly arranged table runner. “May you save the world one dark wizard at a time!”

“And not burn the house down doing it,” Ginny added, stealing a sip from Harry’s drink.

Toasts echoed through the kitchen, ranging from heartfelt “To peace!” to slightly questionable “To hexing people who deserve it!” Slughorn proposed one so long and meandering it included three Latin incantations and an anecdote about a goat.

They shared stories, passed around cake slices big enough to serve as flotation devices, and argued good-naturedly about which magical creature would make the best pet. Hermione insisted on house-elves being treated with dignity. Ron said hippogriffs were cool. Luna claimed she once had a Crumple-Horned Snorkack sleep at the foot of her bed. No one was quite sure whether to believe her.

Neville wandered over, holding a cup of pumpkin juice and looking unusually serious for someone surrounded by confetti and magically glowing banners. “Did anyone tell you about what happened in the Forbidden Forest?” he asked Harry. “I, uh… used Polyjuice Potion. Pretended to be you. It was my way of helping, you know? I’ve always looked up to you.”

Harry blinked. “Tough being the Chosen One for a night, huh?”

George appeared beside them with a devilish grin. “You should’ve seen him, Harry. Leapt right into the fray. Like a slightly panicked—but very brave—squirrel.”

Neville went red as a Gryffindor scarf. “I wasn’t that panicked.”

“You tripped over your own wand, mate.”

“It was dark!”

“Still heroic,” Harry said sincerely, placing a hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Seriously—you were brilliant.”

A dreamy voice drifted in. “He was. The wrackspurts told me so,” Luna said serenely, appearing beside them as if conjured by moonlight and flower petals. She smiled at Harry. “You’re looking more solid than usual. Less ghostly.”

Harry chuckled. “Thanks, Luna. Been working on my corporeality.”

His eyes wandered to the end of the table, where Hagrid stood beaming behind what could only be described as a cake the size of a modest hill. It had seven layers, each in a different shade of purple, and it wobbled slightly every time someone breathed near it.

“Oi, Harry!” Hagrid bellowed, grinning. “Look at this beauty! Made it meself. Only dropped it twice!”

Harry glanced at the slight dent on the side and the frosting-covered Crookshanks hiding under the table. “It’s perfect, Hagrid. Truly.”

“Blimey, Harry,” Hagrid said, eyes crinkling with joy. “Yeh’re as tough as a Hungarian Horntail now. Thought I might have ter blast yer fever away meself at one point!”

“Glad we avoided that particular healing method,” Harry muttered, imagining Hagrid charging in with a fire-whistle and a cauldron of soup.

As Hagrid wiped frosting on a dish towel and declared it “good as new”, Draco approached, slightly hesitant but determined. He still looked like someone who expected every warm moment to be followed by a hex, but he managed to meet Harry’s gaze.

“I never imagined I’d end up here,” he admitted, glancing around the room with a slightly dazed look, “surrounded by Weasleys and—pumpkin-based beverages. But… it feels right.”

He held out his hand.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He clasped Draco’s hand firmly. “It is right,” he said. “You’re one of us now. No backing out. There may be hugs.”

Draco blanched. “Merlin, help me.”

Laughter rippled through the group. As the noise swelled and the fire crackled, Harry looked around at the sea of familiar, beloved faces. The Weasleys. Hermione. Neville. Luna. Hagrid. And even Draco—awkward, sarcastic, and finally at peace.

Andromeda stood by the wall, her eyes watching over Teddy, who now sported turquoise hair and was enthusiastically drooling on George’s sleeve. George didn’t seem to mind.

Harry’s heart lifted. For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like a looming threat. It felt like an adventure. There would be dark alleys, fierce battles, ridiculous cake-related accidents—but also laughter, friendship, and the maddening, beautiful chaos of family.

It was a beautiful beginning. And honestly, Harry thought as he raised his butterbeer for another toast, that was more than enough for a new chapter in his life.





THE END