Chapter 25

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

He was close.

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

He just didn't know what that meant yet.

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

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

He slowed.

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

Snape.

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

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

Without him…

Harry swallowed hard.

Without him, I might still be lost.

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

And froze.

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

His heart kicked harder.

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

He took a step. Then another.

"Ron?" he called. "Hermione?"

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

No answer.

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

Harry's hands curled into fists.

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

A flicker.

Movement, just beyond the veil of mist.

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

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

Sunlight.

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

When he looked again, he stopped breathing.

There—bathed in gold—stood a woman.

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

She smiled.

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

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

"No," he breathed, voice raw and cracking. "It can't be—"

But it was.

"Mum?" he said.

And the word wasn't a question.

It was a homecoming.

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

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

She's here.

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

His heart pounded so loudly he thought it might burst.

Then—

Footsteps. Familiar. Fast.

"Harry!"

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

Harry's breath caught in his throat.

"Dad…" he whispered. The word nearly undid him. "You're—"

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

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

Harry stared, the world tilting around him.

You're dead.

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

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

Harry shook his head, unsteady.

"This… this isn't real," he said, barely above a whisper. "It can't be."

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

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

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

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

And maybe that was what made it so unbearable.

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

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

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

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

He opened his mouth. Shut it again.

How could he explain?

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

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

This isn't real.

The thought came again, sharper now. Certain.

It can't be.

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

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

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

James only grinned, utterly unrepentant. "What? He's got my sense of direction."

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

It was Diagon Alley, but not.

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

Then he saw it.

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

He turned instinctively—

—and froze.

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

Terrified. And young.

Too young.

Eleven.

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

That's not me. Not anymore.

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

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

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

What is this place?

An illusion?

A trap?

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

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

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

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

"Harry?"

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

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

"I…" His voice cracked. "I'm sorry."

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

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

I'm not hungry. I'm not tired. I'm terrified.

He wasn't meant to be here.

Not like this.

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

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

"You've gone a bit peaky," she murmured, smiling. "Some pumpkin juice and treacle tart'll sort you right out. You always light up for treacle tart."

I haven't had treacle tart since the war.

I haven't lit up for anything in a long time.

"I—I'm alright," he lied.

The words rang hollow in his ears, thin and brittle. Glass under pressure.

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

"We'll go anyway," she said lightly.

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

Then—he saw it.

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

He stopped short.

A snowy owl.

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

Amber eyes.

She didn't blink. Didn't look away.

He couldn't breathe.

James whistled. "Stunning, isn't she?"

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

"Hedwig!"

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

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

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

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

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

She remembers me.

The thought was ridiculous. Impossible.

But it rang in him like a bell.

She knows who I am—even if I don't.

Lily stepped up beside him without hesitation.

"She's the one," she said firmly, pointing to the snowy owl's cage.

James, who had been eyeing a rather uninspired brown rat, looked mildly betrayed. "But—look at him! He's… efficient."

Harry glanced at the rat. It yawned. Then sighed.

Lily didn't dignify it with a response. "Harry doesn't need 'efficient'. He needs something noble. Loyal. Not something that'll chew through his pillowcase at midnight."

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

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

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

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

She looked at him.

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

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

Too perfect.

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

They're so… them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry laughed before he could stop himself.

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

Lily did not break stride.

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

James turned, aghast. "What? I didn't say I'd buy it!"

"You thought it very loudly," she replied, folding her arms. "You already have five broomsticks."

"Five and a half," James muttered. "The Comet's in pieces."

"That doesn't make it half a broom. That makes it rubbish."

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

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

The words hit Harry like a Bludger to the ribs.

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

"Dad… it's fine," he said quickly, blinking hard. "I don't need anything."

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

"She's got a wand," Harry murmured, nodding at Lily's cloak.

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

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

No prophecy. No Horcruxes. No graves.

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

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

A warning.

A fracture.

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

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

It was all too alive. Too vivid.

And somehow, so was Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was different.

This was warm. Whole. Alive.

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

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

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

That was new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you all right, Harry?"

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

He blinked. Looked up.

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

"I'm… yeah," he said. "Just thinking."

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

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

It wasn't kindness. It wasn't even understanding.

It was love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it felt like coming home.

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

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

As though it was glad to be home.

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

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

This isn't right. Something's wrong.

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

Carefully, too casually, he said, "Mum?"

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

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

Still, he reached for it.

"Do you know anything about Vol—"

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

Harry flinched. "What?"

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

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

He leaned in.

The headline blared back, calm as anything:

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

He read it again. It didn't change.

Peace. And safety. With Tom Riddle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He's… always been like this?" Harry asked, careful not to let his voice shake.

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

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

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

Harry turned sharply. "You knew him?"

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

Ruthless.

The word hit like a cold draught.

"Ruthless?" Harry echoed, voice thin.

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

Harry stared at him. "I—I said that?"

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

Fix everything.

Clean up the ministry.

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

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

"But…" Harry said softly, "that can't be real."

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

Wand fumes.

Right.

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

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

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

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

He tightened his grip on the wand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry blinked. "Lestrange?"

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

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

Harry stared at her.

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

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

"Right," he managed, though his voice was hoarse. "That's… yeah. I think I do."

He didn't. Not even a little.

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

But none of that had happened here.

Not in this world.

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

Something curdled in Harry's chest.

Same names. Different shapes.

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

But he noticed.

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

It was too much. Too lovely. Too quiet.

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

But Harry didn't.

Not really.

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

It should have been comforting.

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

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

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

Harry nodded. But he didn't speak.

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

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

But the effect was immediate.

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

He turned.

And saw them.

The Malfoys.

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

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

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

For a breath, nothing happened.

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

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

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

James stood in one smooth motion. "Lucius."

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

Harry held his breath.

And then—

They laughed.

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

"You're as dramatic as ever," James said, grinning.

Lucius's smile barely moved. "And you're still insufferably casual."

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

Harry watched, unblinking.

Lucius Malfoy just hugged my dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Draco—

Draco hadn't said a word.

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

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

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

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

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

That thread caught something in Harry, tugged at it.

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

He glanced at his mum.

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

And maybe that was what this whole world was doing.

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

Even if it had already changed.

Even if it wasn't real.

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

Harry's eyes drifted to Draco.

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

Something shifted in Harry's chest.

Not anger. Not suspicion, either. Something quieter.

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

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

Lucius smiled—barely. "I'm sorry, Lily. We must be off. Perhaps another time."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead—

James laughed.

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

"You haven't changed at all," James said, grinning. "Still allergic to joy."

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

A history.

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

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

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

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

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

Draco lingered. His eyes flicked to Harry.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

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

Recognition, again. Maybe regret. Maybe neither.

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

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

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

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

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

Except that it didn't quite feel like his.

What just happened?

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

Harry stared.

Was that meant to be a joke?

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

Harry felt his stomach give a slow, uncomfortable twist.

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

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

Harry stared at him.

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

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

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

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

Harry's throat was dry.

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

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

Doubt.

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

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

"I—I don't…" he faltered, the sentence crumbling in his mouth.

What was he even trying to say?

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

Or worse—am I?

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

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

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

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

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

And now they were talking about lunch?

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

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

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

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

James snorted into his napkin. "That's the spirit."

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

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

But at least he was full.

Something warm nudged his shoulder.

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

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

But instead—

Sunlight.

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

The Leaky Cauldron was gone.

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

They were outside now.

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

Closed Until 10AM.

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

What—?

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

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

Harry froze.

"What?" he said. His voice cracked.

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

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

And something in it made his stomach twist.

Schoolbooks?

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

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

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

Lockhart.

Harry's insides went cold.

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

He tried again.

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

Lily paused, her expression gently confused. "Quirrell?" she repeated. "Who's that?"

Harry stared.

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

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

No, he thought. No, he hasn't.

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

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

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Second Year Booklist

Second year.

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

But they didn't.

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

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

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

Fragments.

Nothing whole.

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

Was this the dream?

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

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

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

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

But inside his head—

Something was beginning to crack.

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

Should he say something now?

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

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

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

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it didn't.

Nothing did.

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

It should've felt like a memory.

It didn't.

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

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

"Step up, footstool," came a brisk voice behind him.

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

"Arms up. No fidgeting."

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

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

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

Harry turned his head slightly.

Fred and George.

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

He almost smiled. Almost.

But then he saw the woman.

Not Molly.

Not really.

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

"Mrs Weasley?" he asked before he could stop himself.

She turned, brows lifting politely.

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

Harry blinked. "It's—er—it's me. Harry. I'm… I'm friends with your son Ron."

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

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

"I—I must've got it wrong," he said quickly, blood roaring in his ears. "Sorry."

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

The twins had gone quiet.

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

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

He turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But this isn't—this isn't real," he said quietly.

James didn't seem to hear. "Come on, then. Don't want to leave your date waiting."

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

Then the stairs vanished.

Just gone.

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

The air slapped him. Sharp. Real. Hogsmeade.

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

"Harry!"

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

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

"Sirius?" The name caught in his throat.

It landed like a stone thrown into still water.

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

The words almost knocked the breath out of him.

He could barely nod.

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

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

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

"Oh, perfect," said Lily brightly, her face lighting up. "Teddy's here!"

Harry froze mid-step.

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

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

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

"It's so lovely to see you, Teddy!" Lily said, crouching to wrap him in a hug.

Harry's chest gave a sharp, involuntary twist.

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

"Harry! I missed you!"

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

"You've missed Harry terribly, haven't you, Ted?" Lily said fondly.

"Yes!" Teddy beamed, all confidence and closeness, Harry didn't remember earning.

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

"Where are your parents, Ted?" Lily asked.

"Daddy's coming after work," Teddy said cheerfully. "And Mummy—there she is! MUMMY!"

Harry turned.

And the world turned with him.

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

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

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

Harry exhaled. It didn't help.

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

Then—

"There you are."

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

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

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

"Why the worried look, son?" James asked gently.

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

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

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

That was putting it mildly.

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

James stepped closer. "It's alright. I know it's strange. But it'll make sense. Soon."

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

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

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

What happens if I don't follow him?

What if I stay right here?

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

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

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

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

This was it.

It had to be.

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

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

Harry blinked. "Er… okay?"

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

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

"We're throwing you a birthday party tonight."

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

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

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

Harry stared.

That was it? The secret?

A party? With Snape?

"I… that's… brilliant," he said eventually, though his voice came out brittle.

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

Harry didn't laugh.

Couldn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry looked away.

Did he?

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

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

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

But the space was empty.

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

A shiver passed through him.

Then they turned the final corner.

And Harry stopped.

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

The place looked untouched by war. Untouched by time.

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

Moonflowers lined the path in silver bunches.

"Here we are," James said, voice low, almost reverent.

Harry couldn't move.

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

He stared at the house.

It was whole.

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

A single tear slid down his cheek.

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

James said nothing.

Because what could he say?

The house still stood. The lights still glowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was Dobby.

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

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

Harry swallowed hard. His hand clenched around the doorframe.

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

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

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

"Harry," she said gently. "There you are. Everyone's waiting."

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

But Harry didn't move.

He couldn't.

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

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

Lily's expression softened, but a flicker of unease touched her smile. "Are you alright?"

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again.

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

"I just…" he began, voice cracking.

He swallowed and tried again—quieter now.

"I don't want this to end."

The words settled between them like dust.

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

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

"Oh, Harry," she whispered.

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

Just love. Grief-shaped and fierce.

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

Real.

Somewhere.

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

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

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

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

It should have been a comfort.

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

It was lovely. But it was borrowed.

It had to be.

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

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

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

"But we've always been here, Harry."

Harry's breath caught. His eyes burnt.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No, you haven't."

Lily's smile faded.

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

It was like the night exhaled around them.

The wind stilled.

The porch light gave a soft, flickering twitch.

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

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

His voice broke. His whole body trembled.

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

The tears came then—fierce, unbidden, relentless.

He didn't fight them.

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

Lily stepped forward and folded him into her arms.

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

"Oh, Harry," she murmured, voice thick with sorrow, "I'm so sorry."

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

"You didn't deserve any of that," he said. "Not one second."

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

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

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

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

And still, Harry stayed.

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

He'd said it. At last.

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

He had missed them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry gave a tired shake of the head. "I'm tired of being brave."

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

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

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

Harry's throat tightened.

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

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

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

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

Harry swallowed, his chest tightening with every word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Harry let go. Finally. All of it.

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

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

Harry didn't move.

He was afraid to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm sorry we weren't there."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lily gave a watery laugh. "We'd have had plenty of those, I promise."

James smirked. "You'd have cursed my snoring within a week."

Harry huffed a broken sort of laugh. "I'd have taken it. All of it."

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

And still—something had been found.

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

Harry nodded again, throat too tight for speech.

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

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

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

He believed them.

He believed in their love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because they had been waiting for him.

And he… he had finally come home.

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

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

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

Home.

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

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

But then—her.

Ginny.

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

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

He'd been afraid.

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

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

His chest tightened. His fingers curled slightly.

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

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

"I love you."

And that—more than anything—called him back.

He wasn't done yet.

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

"Come home, love."

But it wasn't a call to stay.

It was permission to go.

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

He turned.

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

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

It wasn't enough.

But it was something.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For not knowing you. For missing it all."

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

"Thank you," he managed. Barely more than breath.

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

"We're proud of you, son."

It undid something in him.

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

"I know," he said, hoarsely. "I love you, too."

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

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

And then, he let them go.

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

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

Silence.

Then—

Sound.

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

Warmth.

Real warmth.

He opened his eyes.

Ginny.

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

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

He was alive.

He was whole.

Not unscarred. Not untouched.

But whole.

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

He had love.

He had people waiting.

He had a future.

He gave her hand a squeeze.

And smiled.

He was home.

THE END