FicWad

The first hints of dawn stretched thin across the horizon, painting the sea in streaks of pale gold and silvery blue. The waves rolled in quietly, half-asleep, their rhythm slow and steady. Shell Cottage stood above it all, windows misted over from the night’s breath, the stone still holding onto the last of the dark.

Harry sat alone on the front steps, arms resting on his knees, chin tilted to the breeze. It smelt of salt, of seaweed, and something soft and floral—probably something Fleur had planted, muttering about “proper charm and balance” in the garden. He gave a faint smile at the memory, but it passed as quickly as it came.

The quiet was gentle, but his thoughts wouldn’t settle. It had only been a week since the ritual. Just a week. It felt like both a heartbeat and a hundred years.

He could still feel it all.

Closing his eyes, he leant back against the cold stone, letting the chill sink into his spine. The pain wasn’t constant anymore—more like the echo of something deep and splintered, lodged too far inside to reach. He couldn’t tell what had truly left him and what had merely gone to ground, lying in wait.

But what he remembered most was that they’d been there.

Ron’s hand in his—clammy and uncomfortably tight, like they were about to jump off a cliff together. Hermione’s voice, calm but cracking just a little. And Ginny… Ginny had held his other hand and pressed her forehead to his, whispering through her teeth, “We’ve got you. We’ve got you, Harry.”

She’d said it like it was the simplest truth in the world.

That memory brought a little warmth to his chest. Enough to loosen the tightness for a moment.

The door behind him creaked open, followed by a slow, familiar shuffle of feet. He didn’t have to look.

“You do realise it’s disgustingly early,” Ron muttered, dropping onto the step beside him. He was in pyjama bottoms and a battered Chudley Cannons T-shirt that had seen better centuries. “Like… insulting, really.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Take it up with the sunrise.”

“Yeah, well, tell the sun to mind its business.”

A few moments later, Hermione appeared, wrapped in a woollen blanket and already wearing the expression of someone equal parts fond and exasperated. “This isn’t what normal people do, you know. After something like that.”

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

“I’m outside in July in a blanket, that’s what,” she muttered, settling down next to Ron.

Ginny came last, barefoot and half-asleep, her hair a mess of copper waves that caught the first light like fire. She didn’t speak—just curled in beside Harry and leaned gently against him. He felt the press of her warmth, the familiar weight of her. And he breathed just a little easier.

They sat like that for a while, letting the sea speak for them.

“I had the dream again,” Hermione said at last, her voice quiet. “The ritual. It felt… like it was still happening.”

Harry nodded, gaze steady on the horizon. “Me too. Woke up thinking I was back there.”

Ron made a noise between a sigh and a groan. “I dreamt we were doing it again, only Slughorn turned into Snape halfway through and started reciting poetry. In French.”

Ginny gave a sleepy laugh. “You always have the weirdest dreams.”

“Yeah, well, it’s probably genius. Or madness.”

“Could be both,” Hermione said, not unkindly.

Harry smiled faintly. That was what he loved about them. Even now, after everything, they could still sit here, flinging half-jokes and nonsense back and forth like nothing had changed.

That was how he knew they were healing. Or trying to.

“I keep thinking,” he said slowly, “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, with the air of someone describing a mildly interesting Quidditch mishap. “You were really glowing, mate. Like—actual fireworks. I thought you were either going to sprout wings or blow the whole place up. I was ready for both, honestly.”

“You’re not helping, Ron,” Hermione sighed, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“I’m just saying,” Ron replied, shrugging. “I was emotionally prepared.”

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

Harry turned to look at her, and something eased under his ribs, that old tightness softening just a fraction. She said it like it was obvious. Not like a miracle, not like luck—just a truth. Solid and unquestionable.

“I still feel… off,” he said after a pause. “Like something’s gone missing. Or like there’s still too much inside me. I can’t tell which.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Ginny said quietly. “We understand.”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “We’ve all got bits rattling round. Emotional leftovers, you know?”

Hermione nodded. “Healing’s not linear. Some days it hurts more than you think it should. Some days you laugh and then feel guilty about it. But both are allowed.”

Harry let that sit. The sun was climbing now, washing the sea in gold. Its light touched the stone beneath their feet, turning the cold grey warm. He didn’t know if the worst of it was behind them. He didn’t know if ‘whole’ was even something he could get back to.

But he had them.

Ron, still yawning like it was his life’s purpose. Hermione, blanket-clad and ever logical. Ginny, warm at his side, like she’d always been meant to fit there.

Maybe that was enough.

Maybe it always had been.

“Do you ever think,” Harry said suddenly, eyes on the waves, “where we’d be if we hadn’t done the ritual? I mean… I don’t know if I’d have made it.”

He hadn’t meant to say it, not like that. But once the words were out, they stayed—quiet and unflinching. They didn’t feel as heavy, somehow, once spoken.

Ron scratched the back of his head, face serious now. “Mate, I think about it all the time. It was horrible. Watching you like that—like you were being torn open from the inside. I didn’t know if you’d come back from it.” He paused. “But I wouldn’t undo it. Not any of it. We did it for each other. And I’d do it again.”

Harry glanced over. The look in Ron’s eyes—awkward, honest—made something catch in his throat. Ron’s loyalty had always been like that. Clumsy and loud and absolutely unshakeable.

Hermione leaned forward, her blanket shifting around her knees. “We learnt a lot,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “Not just about magic. About… about carrying each other’s pain. Really carrying it. And we did it. We’re still here.”

Her eyes flicked between them—Ginny, Harry, Ron. Harry nodded, slow and quiet. The lump in his throat remained, but the loneliness in it lessened.

“We’re stronger now,” he said, voice hoarse. He looked out at the water, where the last of the shadows were giving way to light. “Stronger because of it.”

They didn’t need to answer. They didn’t need to say a thing.

The four of them sat there in the hush of the new morning, the sea below and sky above. The wind pulled at their hair. The sun climbed higher.

And somewhere deep in his chest, beneath scar and memory, grief and love, Harry felt it:

A flicker of hope.

Small. Fragile.

It was Ginny who spoke next.

“I don’t reckon it’s going to be easy,” she said, her voice steady, though there was a thoughtful crease between her brows. “Life doesn’t exactly have the best record when it comes to going easy on us. But I think we can manage—as long as we stick together.”

Harry turned to look at her. The early morning sunlight caught in her hair, setting it alight in copper and gold. Her gaze met his—clear, unwavering—and he reached for her hand, giving it a soft squeeze.

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

Ron made a rather pointed noise in his throat—somewhere between a cough and a sigh. “Alright, this is getting a bit mushy. Can we go back to talking about food or explosions or something useful?”

“Ron,” Hermione said reproachfully, though she was smiling.

“No, I mean it,” Ron went on, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You reckon we’ll ever get to see the world? You know—without having to run for our lives the whole time. Actually go places. Magical ones.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question. But then he found himself smiling. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Definitely,” Hermione said at once, her eyes brightening as though she’d been waiting for someone to bring it up. “There’s so much out there. I’ve been reading about American magical folklore—completely fascinating. Entire regions without a proper ministry. We could start there!”

Ron looked sceptical. “Do they have treacle tart?”

“They have pie,” Hermione replied.

Ron gave that a moment’s thought, then nodded. “Close enough.”

Laughter stirred between them, light and easy. It wasn’t the brittle kind they’d forced out during dark days. This was different—this was real.

Ginny leaned forward, tucking her feet beneath her. “So what’s the plan when we get back to the Burrow later? Aside from eating everything Mum’s made?”

“We ought to celebrate,” Hermione said firmly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Harry’s well again. That’s reason enough.”

“Yeah, Harry,” Ron added, elbowing him lightly. “You survived being a human Horcrux. That’s got to earn you at least three puddings and a banner or two.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh. “I’m not sure I’m ready for banners.”

“Well, too bad,” Ginny said. “You’re getting a feast. Possibly fireworks. We’ll see what George has left.”

He smiled at them, and for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like he was trying. The laughter, the warmth… it was beginning to break through.

“Thanks,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean it. I’d love to come straight back with you. But there’s somewhere I want to go first.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, already a few steps ahead. “Hogwarts?”

He nodded. “I want to speak to Slughorn. I never really thanked him properly—for everything he did. He didn’t have to help. But he did. He saved me.”

“And after that?” Ginny asked softly, though her hand tightened slightly around his.

“Godric’s Hollow,” Harry said. “I need to see them. My parents. I don’t know why exactly… I just feel like I need to.”

A quiet fell over the group, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. No one argued. No one tried to talk him out of it.

Ginny nodded. “Then you should go.”

Ron shifted where he sat, picking at a loose thread on his pyjama top. “But you’ll come back after, yeah? Mum’s already threatening to make seventeen desserts. Said if you don’t show up, she’ll track you down and drag you home by the ear.”

Harry snorted. “I’ll be there,” he said, meaning every word. “I just need a bit of time first. Then I’ll come home.”

Home.

He hadn’t planned to say it. It just came. But as soon as he did, it settled in his chest like something that had always belonged there.

The sun was fully up now, casting the sea in brilliant silver. The wind was brisk but not sharp. The world hadn’t changed much—but they had. The darkness wasn’t gone. Maybe it never would be. But they were still here.

Still standing.

Still laughing.

And for now, that was enough.

The Burrow had never looked so right.

Its higgledy-piggledy towers leaned into the sky as though holding each other up, bathed in late morning sunlight. Wildflowers swayed in the breeze, scattered across the garden like someone had dropped a box of paints. The grass shimmered an almost unnatural green. From somewhere downstairs, Harry could hear Mrs Weasley humming—faint and familiar—and the scent of roast vegetables and rich stew drifted up the stairwell.

He sat on the edge of his old bed, feeling as though he’d walked back into the past—but one that had softened at the edges, as though time had made it gentler. The room was just as he remembered it. Quidditch posters clung to the walls. A pile of dusty textbooks teetered on the bedside table. Everything in its place, and yet—he wasn’t the same boy who had slept here last.

Ginny and Hermione were on the floor beside an overturned trunk, surrounded by stray quills, bent parchment, and half-forgotten spellbooks. A cracked ink bottle lay on its side, oozing quietly onto a scrap of parchment. Ron stood by the dresser, arms folded, gazing at nothing in particular.

“Can you believe we’re back here?” He said, low and uncertain, as if the Burrow might vanish if he spoke too loudly.

Harry glanced over, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Not really. Feels like we blinked and somehow made it through.”

Hermione nodded, brushing a smudge of ink from her wrist. “It’s surreal. We were moving for so long… Now it’s quiet, and I don’t know what to do with the stillness.”

She looked up, and her voice softened. “But it’s good. We’re safe. We can breathe again.”

Ginny’s voice came from the window, quiet but sure. “It’s like a good dream. I missed it—the gnomes, the creaky stair, the kettle that wheezes before it boils. The world’s still cracked open, but here… it almost feels whole.”

Harry didn’t speak straightaway. He looked at all of them, and something tight in his chest ached—not from fear, for once, but from something warmer. Something like thanks.

Still, the stillness unnerved him a little. Peace made his heart twitch, like it didn’t quite trust it yet.

“I should take those books back to Madam Pince,” he said after a moment, tugging at a loose thread on the blanket. “The ones on soul magic. Promised I would, next time I went to Hogwarts.”

Ron blinked, returning from wherever his mind had wandered. “So you’re really going, then? To see Slughorn?”

Harry nodded. “Sent an owl this morning. He said he’ll be in his office this afternoon.”

Ron made a face. “You’re brave. Slughorn gets all misty-eyed when he’s had a few sherries. You’ll be stuck hearing stories about your mum and his pineapple chunks until tea.”

“I can handle it,” Harry said, his smile crooked now. “I owe him. He gave me the last piece of the puzzle, didn’t he? And he never asked for anything in return.”

“Bet you’ll see McGonagall too,” Ron added. “Wonder if she’s turned the school into some kind of military camp. Marching first-years around the corridors.”

“She’s firm, not frightening,” said Hermione, though she was clearly making mental notes, just in case.

“Hogwarts reopens in two months,” she went on, tapping her fingers thoughtfully against a book. “I wonder who they’ve got lined up for Defence Against the Dark Arts this time…”

Ron’s face lit up. “I’m hoping for an ex-Auror with a massive battle scar and a haunted past. Or maybe someone who once hunted basilisks for a living. You know—someone interesting.”

“Please, not another Moody,” Harry muttered, though he was grinning.

Ginny raised a brow. “What if it’s Malfoy?”

Ron recoiled as if she’d slapped him with a flobberworm. “That’s vile. Don’t say things like that, Ginny—we’re about to eat.”

Hermione gave a quiet laugh. “Actually, it’d be rather poetic, wouldn’t it?”

“It’d be complete chaos,” Harry said, trying not to laugh. “Though watching first-years try to duel him might be worth the risk.”

Hermione sobered slightly. “Whoever it is, they’ll need to do more than just teach spells. They’ll need to remind students what Hogwarts is. What we fought for.”

Harry nodded. “They’ll need to show them how to stand together. Not apart.”

Ginny had drifted to the window, her fingers resting lightly on the sill. “Feels like the castle’s got new skin,” she said. “Like it finally shed something old.”

Harry followed her gaze. The garden shimmered in the sun, peaceful and impossibly normal.

“It still hurts,” he said, voice low. “The memories. Everything that happened. But it’s like… healing. Slow. Quiet. Real.”

Hermione ran a hand over the spine of a battered old spellbook. “There’s still so much to rebuild. And we’ve still got so much to learn. Maybe now we can write new spells—safer ones. Help the next lot so they don’t go through what we did.”

“Or just scare the Slytherins a bit,” said Ron with a grin. “Some traditions are sacred.”

Their laughter rose again—soft and easy—and for a few golden seconds, it was enough to fill the whole room.

And then, as if on cue, Mrs Weasley’s voice rang up the stairs like a bell.

“Lunch is ready!”

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

Hermione rolled her eyes but followed, parchment tucked under her arm.

Ginny turned back to Harry, her smile small but knowing. “You alright?”

He paused, then nodded. “Yeah. I think I really am.”

And as they thundered down the stairs, laughter echoing off the walls, Harry felt something shift deep inside—not just relief, but joy. The sort that didn’t come from survival alone but from something far rarer.

Belonging.

Harry stepped into Professor Slughorn’s office, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud. The scent hit him at once—old parchment, potions, something syrupy-sweet lingering in the air like a forgotten dessert. Crystallised pineapple, probably. It smelt exactly the same as it had during sixth year. As if the room hadn’t noticed the war.

Sunlight filtered in through high, grimy windows, catching on dust motes that floated lazily in the warmth. The space was crammed as ever—books crammed two deep on sagging shelves, photographs cluttering every flat surface, and above them all, the familiar drape of greenish curtains that had once reminded Harry of Slytherin robes. A few of the plants looked a bit more menacing than he remembered—one of them twitched as he passed—but otherwise, the office might have belonged to any year. Anytime.

That, somehow, made it worse.

At the far side of the room, near the old dresser lined with frames, Slughorn stood hunched, fiddling with something just out of sight. Harry didn’t interrupt. He stepped forward slowly, drawn—as always—to the centre photograph.

There she was.

Lily.

Frozen mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with delight, hair blazing as it caught the light. The way she leaned into the friend beside her, carefree and unaware of anything darker than the moment… It hit Harry like it always did, sharp and sudden. There was no preparing for it. You could see a hundred photos of someone you’d lost and still not be ready for the hundred and first.

She looked so alive. So full of things he’d never get to know.

He swallowed, throat tight, and didn’t try to speak.

“Ah, Mr Potter,” came Slughorn’s voice, gentle this time, almost reverent. “Caught you visiting her again.”

Harry blinked and looked up. Slughorn had straightened, his eyes soft and glinting in the sunlight, though his smile was slightly tremulous.

“She’s… always been the centrepiece,” Slughorn added. “Some people light up a room when they enter. Your mother—well, she lit up the air itself.”

Harry nodded, still watching her. “I think about her all the time. But seeing her like this… it’s different. It’s like she’s still here. Just a little out of reach.”

Slughorn came round the desk, walking more slowly than Harry remembered. His moustache twitched, but his voice stayed steady. “Memory’s a peculiar sort of magic. It doesn’t obey rules. Doesn’t care for time. And it doesn’t always make things easier, I’m afraid.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “But it matters.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer. Then Slughorn clapped his hands lightly, the spell broken.

“Well then! Come in, come in—don’t hover like an Unspeakable on a bad day. Sit! Let’s have a proper catch-up.”

Harry moved to the squashy armchair by the fire, sinking into it gratefully. It gave under his weight like it had been expecting him.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said, once they’d both settled. “For what you did. For helping with the ritual. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Slughorn waved a pudgy hand, but there was a flicker of something serious in his eyes. “Oh, it wasn’t easy at all, my boy. But I knew I owed you. I owed her.” He paused, looking over at Lily’s photograph again. “And… perhaps I owed myself the chance to be brave, for once.”

Harry smiled faintly. “You were. You are.”

The old man seemed to shrink a little, touched and uncomfortable all at once. “Well, yes, thank you. That’s very kind. But truthfully, I rather thought you were going to burst into flame. Gave me quite a fright, that final surge of magic.”

“Hagrid said he thought I might sprout wings.”

Slughorn chuckled. “Well, phoenixes do have a flair for drama.”

The laughter faded gently, settling into something more reflective.

“You feel whole again?” Slughorn asked, leaning forward, fingers steepled. “Truly?”

Harry nodded. “It’s hard to explain. It’s not like flipping a switch. But… the weight’s gone. That pressure in my chest. It used to feel like I was dragging something behind me every minute. I don’t feel that anymore.”

“Good,” Slughorn said, and meant it. “I worried… Well, soul magic’s not something to meddle with lightly. Not even when it’s in the name of healing.”

There was a pause. The fire crackled. Outside, a bell rang faintly—one of the enchanted clocks from the tower, probably.

Then, softer, Slughorn said, “I still think about him, you know. Tom.”

Harry glanced over. Slughorn’s gaze had dropped to the fire.

“All the things I told him. All the things I didn’t stop him from discovering. The pieces I handed over without realising what they were.” He shook his head slowly. “There are days when I wonder if I helped create him.”

“You didn’t know what he was planning,” said Harry, his voice steady. “No one did. And even if you had—he was already heading down that path, Professor. You didn’t lead him there.”

“But I handed him the map,” Slughorn whispered, barely more than a breath. His gaze stayed fixed on the hearth, the firelight flickering against his features, making them seem older somehow—more worn. “The boy was clever. Charming. Brilliant. I wanted to encourage him. I wanted—Merlin help me—I wanted to be part of his success.”

Harry thought of Tom Riddle as he’d seen him in the Pensieve: dark-eyed, well-spoken, impossible not to admire if you didn’t know better. He’d been a master at pretending.

“You were human,” Harry said quietly. “You made a mistake. But you didn’t hide from it. You helped me stop him. That matters more than what came before.”

Slughorn didn’t reply at once. His eyes shone faintly, but it wasn’t from the firelight now. His hand twitched once on the armrest, as if brushing away a memory. Harry pressed on.

“You gave me something no one else could. That memory—it changed everything. Without it, I wouldn’t have known what he was or what he’d done. I wouldn’t have known how to stop him.”

He took a breath and steadied himself. “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.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the low crackle of flames. Then Slughorn let out a long breath, sagging back into his chair as though something in him had finally given way.

“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 believe it.”

Harry gave a small nod. He understood that better than most.

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

That drew a dry huff of laughter from Slughorn. “Very astute. Was that your mother’s wisdom, or are we hearing pure Potter improvisation?”

“A bit of both,” said Harry with a half-smile. “She gave me the brains. Dad supplied the questionable commentary.”

They both chuckled, and the heaviness in the room eased a little. Harry glanced again at the dresser. At Lily, laughing. Still.

“But think of everything that’s come from it,” he said. “The friendships. The chances we’ve got now, the people still standing. You’ve taught generations of students—encouraged them, helped shape them. You’ve shaped me.”

Slughorn turned to look at him, eyes glinting, and Harry met his gaze without flinching.

“You once told me we have the power to shape our destinies,” Harry went on. “Even with shadows behind us… we can still choose the light.”

For a moment, Slughorn didn’t speak. Then, quietly, “You’ve become an extraordinary young man, Harry. You carry more than most, and yet you wear it with grace. That’s rarer than you know.”

Warmth stirred in Harry’s chest—not pride, exactly, but something like it. It mattered, somehow, to be seen for more than his scar.

“I’m just trying to live up to what you saw in me,” he said. “You showed me that there’s always hope. Even when it’s hard to believe in.”

Slughorn’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Are we slipping into mutual admiration now? I might be forced to award you an ‘Outstanding’ in Charm.”

Harry laughed. “Only if you promise not to set me any more essays.”

Slughorn chuckled richly, his shoulders easing at last. “Very well. I’ll spare you—for now.” His voice softened again. “But truly, Harry… It brings me more peace than I expected, knowing you’re free. Knowing he didn’t take that from you.”

The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt earned—something calm at the end of a storm.

Harry’s eyes landed on the hourglass resting on Slughorn’s desk. The silver sand within it moved slowly, dreamlike. He remembered Slughorn telling him once that the hourglass’s pace shifted with the depth of conversation. As Harry watched, the grains fell in slow, deliberate spirals, as though reluctant to let the moment pass.

“That thing’s got a mind of its own,” Slughorn said, following his gaze. “It reads the tone of the room. Rather marvellous, isn’t it?”

Harry smiled. “I always thought it was bluffing. But maybe it’s right this time.”

There was a pause. Then Harry shifted forward slightly in his seat, a glint of something hopeful in his tone.

“Professor… I was wondering. We’re having a small thing at the Burrow tonight. Just a celebration. Family. Friends. It wouldn’t feel right without you.”

Slughorn’s expression flickered—surprise, then something fond. “The Burrow, eh? A Weasley affair?” He gave a wistful little smile, eyes going distant for a moment. “Now there’s a gathering worth attending.”

He looked at Harry again, warm and content. “Yes. I think I’d like that very much.”

As Harry stepped out into the fading evening, the air met him like an old cloak—cool, familiar, lined with memory. The sky above Godric’s Hollow was streaked with fire: deep orange bleeding into violet, gold flickering along the horizon like the last echoes of a day too full to hold.

The iron gates of the cemetery gave their quiet groan as he pushed them open. Inside, the hush was immediate and complete. Even the wind seemed to tread carefully here.

Gravel crunched softly beneath his feet. The path wound through rows of stone—some worn smooth by time, others freshly etched—and each one whispered a name, a story. The scent of damp earth mingled with the sweetness of summer leaves, and the trees stood still as sentinels in the dying light.

Harry walked with quiet purpose, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. There was no rush. The silence allowed him space to think—or perhaps to feel, which was harder.

He reached the grave and stopped.

There it was, just as it had been: nestled beneath the same great oak, its broad limbs casting gentle shadows over the grass. The stone bore their names with quiet grace—James Potter. Lily Potter. No dates were needed for Harry; he knew them by heart.

He lowered himself slowly to the ground, crossing his legs as he had so many times in dreams. The grass was cool and soft, a little untamed, as though even nature couldn’t bear to tidy this place too much.

“I did it,” he said quietly.

The words felt small and immense all at once.

“I defeated him. He’s gone.”

The last light caught on the edge of the stone, and Harry watched it, blinking hard. His voice wavered, but he didn’t care.

“I wasn’t sure I’d make it. Not all the way. But I did.”

He let the silence answer him for a while. He could feel the ache, deep and slow—grief and peace, woven so tightly he couldn’t have pulled them apart even if he wanted to.

“I didn’t realise how heavy it was,” he murmured. “Carrying him around. That bit of him, inside me. It’s gone now. All of it.”

His hand brushed the grass beside the grave, fingers absently plucking at a clover. “I can breathe again. Properly. It feels… strange. But good.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks, warm against the cool air, and this time he let them fall. They didn’t sting like they used to. They healed.

“I kept thinking of you,” he said, voice soft. “All the way through it. What you’d say. What you’d want for me.”

A faint smile curved his lips, even as tears clung to his lashes.

“You would’ve told me to fight with love, wouldn’t you?” He asked the stillness, the sky, and the stone.

A breeze stirred the branches above, making the leaves shiver. Something in it felt like an answer.

He closed his eyes and pictured them—his mother’s green eyes, alive with fire and kindness; his father’s grin, just this side of trouble. They weren’t just memories now. They were with him. In him.

“I’m happy,” he said, as though surprised to hear it aloud. “Really, I am. I never thought I’d be able to say that. But I am.”

The image of Ginny rose in his mind—her laugh, her steady gaze, and the way she held her ground like no one else could.

“You’d love her,” he said, his voice thick with warmth. “Mum, she’s got your fire. And Dad—she’d hex you right back if you tried one of your pranks. She’s brilliant. And she’s mine.”

Another tear slipped free, this one laced with something closer to joy.

“I still get lost sometimes,” he admitted, glancing up at the stars beginning to bloom above the trees. “There are things I wish I could ask. Things I wish I could tell you. But even when I can’t hear you, I still feel you.”

His voice dropped to a murmur.

“You’ve always been with me.”

And it was true. He knew it now—not as something he hoped, but as something he believed. Their love had never left him. It had shaped him, shielded him, and led him forward. It had carried him through every shadow.

He exhaled slowly, letting the weight settle, not as a burden but as something grounding.

“I’ll carry you,” he said. “Not in grief. In life.”

The wind moved through the cemetery like breath, a quiet rustle through the leaves. Not a spell, not magic. Just presence. Just truth.

He stood, brushing off his trousers, and looked once more at the stone. Not with longing this time, but with quiet gratitude.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything.”

The grave stood silent, but the peace it gave him was real.

As he turned to go, the wind swirled gently round his ankles, the leaves stirring as if the world had exhaled with him. And this time, when Harry walked away, he did so not in mourning but with something gentler.

He walked away whole.

The Burrow’s kitchen was alive with its usual chaos—this time seasoned with celebration, steam, and more than a little help from Slughorn’s extensive stock of fortified mead. The air buzzed with the familiar scent of roasting parsnips, cinnamon, and slightly overcooked Yorkshire pudding.

Ron stood near the fireplace, one arm around Hermione, who was organising dishes on the table with the grim determination of someone who might have either memorised Witch’s Guide to Buffet Etiquette or contributed heavily to its appendix. She frowned at a bowl of pickled eels Slughorn had brought, then subtly shifted it behind the breadbasket.

Mr Weasley and Slughorn were deep in conversation about plug sockets and pineapple fermentation—though it wasn’t entirely clear which fascinated Slughorn more. The older wizard’s cheeks were flushed, his voice booming with exaggerated interest as he peered over a teacup of something suspiciously golden.

Over by the hearth, Ginny wrestled with a set of enchanted banners that read WELCOME BACK, HARRY!, though one rogue strand kept trying to rearrange itself into WALRUS HACK, BYE! She finally caught the rebellious ribbon mid-flight with the sharp reflexes of a seasoned Seeker and muttered a hex that sent it sulking back into position.

Near the stove stood—rather astonishingly—Draco Malfoy. He looked stiff and faintly horrified in a striped apron that read Kiss the Cook (He Dares You). A frying pan hovered in front of him, and he prodded at it with a wand as though the food might bite back. Mrs Weasley watched nearby, arms folded, torn between the urge to supervise and the temptation to exorcise her kitchen.

“Careful not to burn the place down, Malfoy!” Ron called as he sauntered past with a tray of treacle tart. “Though I suppose setting fire to the Burrow would still be more tasteful than whatever that is.”

Draco scowled without turning. “You’d know, Weasley. Your culinary expertise begins and ends with putting ketchup on things that should never see a tomato.”

Ron gasped in mock outrage. “I’ll have you know, I can grill toast. And I don’t set off the smoke wards anymore.”

In truth, some strange sort of truce had settled between them in the weeks since the war—built not on trust exactly, but on mutual exhaustion and an unspoken understanding of what it meant to survive things that should’ve killed you. Sarcasm had become their native tongue.

Upstairs, the Burrow’s perpetually steamy bathroom wheezed and whistled as Harry stood at the mirror, inspecting himself with mild suspicion.

“Not terrible,” he murmured. “Could use a haircut. Or sleep. Possibly both.” He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw, then adjusted his glasses. He didn’t look like someone about to be offered an official post in law enforcement. More like someone who’d just woken up on a broom in a hedge. Still… better than the near-death look he’d carried around for most of his teenage years.

He took a steadying breath, then stepped out into the corridor. The staircase creaked familiarly beneath his feet as he made his way down, the scent of roast beef and pudding pulling him towards the kitchen. Laughter echoed upward, along with what sounded suspiciously like a saucepan singing in French.

As Harry entered the room, it went quiet for half a heartbeat. Then:

“Harry!”

The cheer rose like a spell, and before he could so much as smile, he was engulfed in a full-strength Weasley hug—warm, crushing, and slightly perfumed with treacle and something that might’ve been dragon polish.

“Blimey, let me breathe!” Harry laughed, somewhere between overwhelmed and utterly at home. George plonked a crooked party hat onto his head with an exaggerated bow.

“You made it!” Ginny beamed at him, arms tight around his middle. “We thought you might sleep through the party again.”

“I had a long day,” Harry said, stretching his shoulders. “Spent the morning saving the wizarding world. Again. Five stars; would not recommend resting.”

“Kingsley looked like he was about to cry,” Ron said, handing him a butterbeer. “When he offered you that Auror post. Honestly thought he was going to hug you or throw up. Maybe both.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, still faintly dazed. “Auror. Me. With a badge. Can’t imagine what Mad-Eye would say.”

“Oh, Merlin, help us all,” muttered Ginny, though her smile never faltered.

“You’ve earned it,” Hermione said, giving him a look that managed to combine pride, caution, and a reminder not to let it go to his head. “Just promise us you won’t use your position to start fining people for having untidy cauldrons.”

“Or banish homework,” Ron added, hopefully.

Before Harry could reply, the front door opened with a soft creak, and the atmosphere shifted. The laughter dulled, though not unkindly, as Andromeda Tonks stepped into the kitchen, a small bundle wrapped in blue resting against her chest.

“Hope I’m not intruding,” she said, her voice gentle but clear.

Harry turned, his heart catching in his throat.

Andromeda approached slowly, her eyes a little tired but warm. She stopped in front of him and looked up. “Harry,” she said softly. “Meet your godson.”

The room had fallen quiet. Even the bouncing banners seemed to hover in anticipation.

Harry took the bundle carefully, his hands suddenly unsure of themselves. The baby blinked up at him with wide eyes—soft, luminous, and startlingly familiar. He looked… thoughtful. Judging, even. Just like Lupin.

And his hair—thick, tousled, currently jet black—was a near match to Harry’s own.

“Blimey,” Harry breathed. “He’s… so small. How does something this small make such terrifying noises?”

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

Teddy let out a curious little coo—then sneezed. A puff of sparkling blue glitter erupted from his tiny nose, coating Harry’s jumper in shimmer.

“He’s part Niffler,” Ron said, eyes wide.

“Just a metamorphmagus finding his flair,” Andromeda replied proudly. “Wait till he starts teething. There were fangs last Tuesday.”

Harry looked down at the baby nestled in his arms, at the wide, curious eyes that shimmered between grey and turquoise, and felt something shift in him—soft and fierce, like a spell cast straight into his chest. Despite the glitter clinging to his jumper and the faint scent of milk and mischief, his heart melted into something warm and stubbornly protective.

“Hey there, Teddy,” he murmured, brushing a stray curl from the baby’s forehead. “I’m your godfather. Which apparently means I’m legally allowed to spoil you senseless and teach you all the jinxes your grandmother would disapprove of.”

“Start with the Bat-Bogey Hex,” Ginny called from across the room without missing a beat. She was leaning against the dresser, arms crossed and smiling fondly. “Mum says it builds character.”

Harry laughed, the sound bright and surprising even to his own ears. It mingled with the clatter of cutlery and the clink of butterbeer bottles, the Weasley kitchen alive with conversation, warmth, and that familiar brand of chaos that always made him feel like the world, just for a moment, had remembered how to spin properly.

He held Teddy a little closer, gently rocking on the spot. The child gave a soft hiccup and blinked up at him, as if vaguely assessing whether he was worth the trouble.

“Don’t worry, little bloke,” Harry said under his breath, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ve got you. Just don’t ask me to change nappies until I’ve passed my Auror training. I hear that’s the real test of courage.”

The door to the kitchen swung open with a creak, followed by the unmistakable stride of Kingsley Shacklebolt. He entered like a gust of cool air and quiet authority, the sort of presence that made even George pause mid-juggle of three sausage rolls and a spoonful of trifle. The deep timbre of Kingsley’s voice carried easily through the room.

“Alright, everyone! Time to celebrate properly.”

He turned towards Harry with the sort of smile that didn’t just warm the face—it steadied the air around it. He looked, as always, like he’d just stepped from a diplomatic meeting, a broom chase, and perhaps a jazz set—all without removing his cloak.

“I haven’t forgotten what I wanted to say,” Kingsley went on, his voice quieter now, but no less commanding. “Today isn’t just the start of something new for you, Harry—it’s a testament to who you are. You’ve stood against what most would’ve run from. And through it all, you’ve remained—remarkably—yourself. Loyal. Brave. Human.”

Draco, who had just managed to flip something that resembled a pancake onto a plate without incinerating it, went rigid. He glanced briefly at Harry, then back to his pan, ears faintly pink. Harry caught the look and offered the smallest of nods—quiet, nothing flashy. Just I see you. It was enough. Draco didn’t smile, but he didn’t leave either.

Kingsley extended a hand, broad and steady. “You’ve been offered a position in the Auror Office, Harry. And we need people like you—people who understand that courage doesn’t mean being unafraid. It means doing what’s right even when you’re terrified. Preferably, now, without any more cursed tiaras.”

The kitchen let out a ripple of laughter, and Harry, still holding Teddy with one arm, took Kingsley’s hand with the other, his grin wide and unmistakably real. For once, the applause that followed didn’t feel undeserved.

Outside, a couple of garden gnomes startled at the noise and bolted into a patch of rhubarb.

“Here’s to Harry!” Ron bellowed, raising his mug with the exuberance of someone who’d clearly been sampling more of Slughorn’s mead than was strictly advisable. A generous splash of butterbeer promptly soaked Hermione’s carefully arranged table runner. She sighed and vanished it with a flick of her wand, though her eyes were fond.

“May you save the world one dark wizard at a time!” Ron added, still beaming.

“And try not to blow up the house while you’re at it,” Ginny said, stealing a sip from Harry’s butterbeer before he could object.

“To peace!” Hermione said, raising her glass.

“To hexing people who deserve it!” George added cheerfully.

Slughorn cleared his throat and raised his goblet with both hands. “To Harry, who has reminded us that even in the darkest times, there is still light, if we know where to—oh, wait—Lumen in tenebris, claritas in corde—” He launched into a toast so long it included three misremembered Latin incantations and a deeply unnecessary anecdote involving a goat, a broomstick, and a case of elderberry brandy.

Harry tuned it out gently, his attention drifting back to the child in his arms. Teddy had yawned—wide and unbothered—and now dozed quietly against his chest, a small fist curled around the fabric of Harry’s jumper.

He looked at the others—his family, in truth, if not by blood—and then back down at the boy who had lost as much as he had and who, like him, would grow up with stories rather than memories.

“I’ll make it better for you,” Harry thought, though he didn’t say it aloud. He didn’t need to.

They sprawled across every available seat, patch of rug, and tottering kitchen stool, passing round slices of cake generous enough to serve as flotation devices. Conversation drifted between laughter and half-hearted debates—whether hippogriffs made better companions than kneazles or whether nifflers could ever truly be house-trained. Hermione, naturally, was defending the rights of house-elves with such intensity Ron had leaned sideways to mutter something about ‘S.P.E.W. resurfacing’.

“Hippogriffs are proper loyal, though,” Ron was saying now, mouth half full of icing. “They remember who treats them right.”

“And who kicks them in the shins,” muttered George.

“I once had a Crumple-Horned Snorkack sleep at the end of my bed,” said Luna serenely, her eyes on a flickering lantern charm above them.

There was a beat of silence. Ginny raised an eyebrow.

“No, you didn’t,” Ron said.

“No one’s quite sure whether to believe me,” Luna replied cheerfully, sipping her tea as though that settled the matter.

Harry grinned, watching them all. It felt oddly surreal—this hum of voices, the scent of warm treacle and pumpkin, the dull shimmer of magical banners still bouncing lazily above the hearth. As if the war had happened in another life entirely. Or perhaps a dream they’d all woken from, blinking in the soft glow of normality.

He didn’t notice Neville approaching until the clink of his pumpkin juice cup nudged him back into the moment.

“Did anyone ever tell you what happened in the Forbidden Forest?” Neville asked, voice quiet—earnest in that way Neville always was, especially when he was trying to downplay something entirely mad.

Harry turned to him, brow raised.

“I, er… I used Polyjuice,” Neville admitted, glancing down into his drink. “Pretended to be you. Just for a bit. It was my way of helping, you know? I’ve always—well—I looked up to you.”

Harry blinked. “Tough being the Chosen One for the evening, then?”

Before Neville could respond, George appeared out of nowhere, somehow balancing two butterbeer bottles and a bowl of crisps. “You should’ve seen him, Harry,” he said, grinning wickedly. “Leapt straight into the fight. Like a very brave, slightly panicked squirrel.”

Neville turned the colour of a Gryffindor banner. “I wasn’t that panicked.”

“You tripped over your own wand.”

“It was dark!”

“Still heroic,” Harry said, meaning it. He clapped Neville gently on the shoulder. “Honestly. You were brilliant.”

A light, dreamy voice drifted in. “He was. The wrackspurts told me so.”

Luna stood nearby, her hair threaded with what looked like silver thistle, smiling in that luminous, far-off way she had.

“You’re looking more solid than usual,” she added to Harry. “Less ghostly.”

Harry gave a short laugh. “Thanks, Luna. Been working on my corporeality.”

At the far end of the table, a familiar bellow rang out.

“Oi, Harry!”

Hagrid was standing behind what could only be described as a structural hazard masquerading as a cake. It had seven layers—each a different shade of violet—and listed slightly to the left, wobbling dangerously every time the air shifted.

“Look at this beauty!” Hagrid beamed. “Made it meself. Only dropped it twice!”

Harry eyed the suspicious dent on one side and the very frosted Crookshanks hiding under the table. “It’s perfect, Hagrid. Honestly.”

“Yeh’re tougher than a Hungarian Horntail now,” Hagrid said proudly, his eyes slightly misty. “Thought I’d have to blast yer fever off meself at one point!”

“Glad we skipped that method,” Harry muttered. He could just imagine Hagrid storming in with a kettle and a dragon’s egg, declaring it medicinal.

Just then, Draco approached. He still moved like someone expecting to be hexed for loitering near warmth, but his shoulders were squared, his gaze steady.

“I never imagined I’d end up here,” he said, low enough only Harry could hear. “Surrounded by Weasleys and—pumpkin-based beverages. But… it feels right. Strange, but right.”

He held out a hand.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He grasped it firmly. “It is right,” he said simply. “You’re one of us now. No going back. There may be hugs.”

Draco went slightly grey. “Merlin, help me.”

Laughter rippled across the room—gentle, genuine. It spread like warmth on a winter morning.

Near the hearth, Andromeda stood quietly, her gaze fixed on Teddy, now sporting turquoise hair and happily chewing on George’s sleeve while he made no attempt to stop him. Just patted the baby’s back absent-mindedly as he reached for another biscuit.

Harry’s eyes swept over the faces around him—Ginny beside Hermione, both laughing over something Ron had just spilt; Luna threading ribbons through a butterbeer bottle; Hagrid wiping frosting off his beard with a rag that may once have been a tea towel; and Draco, somehow managing to look both deeply awkward and unexpectedly at ease.

And there was Neville, still blushing slightly. Andromeda watching on with quiet pride. Teddy drooling blue sparkles.

The fire crackled. The ceiling twinkled with reflected candlelight. And for the first time in years, Harry realised that the future no longer loomed like a threat. It stretched ahead like a road worth walking—a strange, beautiful road full of stumbles and laughter and far too much cake.

He raised his butterbeer.

“To beginnings,” he said simply.

And it was a beginning. A new one. And for once, Harry felt ready.

THE END