Harry leaned against the stone wall that bordered the all-too-familiar rectangular courtyard. His ink-colored hair was trimmed into a manageable fashion just above his ears, though a few strands were whipping around with the assistance of the chilly wind. He was dressed, appropriately so, in winter robes, the Auror Office seal embroidered on the front, just above where his beating heart lay inside of his torso. A scarf (maroon-colored, of course, because he would always be a Gryffindor) was wrapped around his neck to fight off the chill the January day brought.

It had been almost eight years.

Eight long, reconstructive, and life-altering years since he had stepped foot on the Hogwarts grounds. As he stood analyzing the castle (now updated from the almost irreparable damage it occurred eight years before) and was overcome with too many emotions to identify at once. Pain, of course, was filling them. Not physical, of course, but definitely emotional. The pain of that night, where he saw so many faces for the last time. Then, gratitude. For those who were willing to sacrifice themselves for a cause worthy enough, for a cause that not only would better the magical world, but a cause that valued Harry's life. Joy, too, strangely enough, was an emotion he felt in the moment. As he replaced memories of damage, death, and destruction with those of wonder, happiness, and friendship, he felt a warm feeling overcoming his icy exterior. Still, he was always brought back to pain. Too many people, he knew, died fighting for him at this castle, and not a minute went by without their faces flashing into his thoughts, the sight of their limp, cold bodies lying in rubble.

It was for that reason alone that Harry had avoided returning to Hogwarts after all these years.

"He's grown tremendously, Mr. Potter."

Harry tensed at the sound of his name, though relaxed almost as immediately when he saw the intruder. She wasn't really an intruder at all, actually, seeing as she was the one responsible for the running of the institution and lived in the castle year-round. Minerva McGonagall stood to his side, her hair completely grey from a long life, lines of age evident underneath her eyes and on her forehead that he was all too sure he was mostly responsible for (with the help of his father, of course). She was clad in her trademark black robes and pointed hat, black gloves and a scarf accessorizing the dark display of fashion. Despite her outward intimidation, she smiled fondly, albeit sadly, down at her former student.

He didn't reply. It wasn't necessary, as they both knew the validity in her statement. Both of their eyes—Harry's soft green ones and McGonagall's icy blue ones—gazed into the center of the courtyard. A young boy, just a few years shy of Hogwarts age, was running around in an animated duel scene, a stick in his hand for the purposes of a wand. His hair, normally caramel-brown colored, was bright red. An unnatural red for the purposes of hair color, akin to that of a juicy, Gala apple.

"He looks like his father," McGonagall observed, eying the small boy with care. Then: "Aside from the hair, of course."

There was a hint of amusement in his former professor's tone, and Harry smirked. "As you can tell, he's been hanging around the Weasley family too much," the Auror joked. He adjusted his seat on the stone wall, shoving his uncovered hands into the pockets of his robes to regain blood flow. The headmistress took a seat next to the boy—well, man, she supposed he was now—and Harry acknowledged internally that he'd never seen the woman appear so casual in conversation with anyone before, let alone him. Still, they continued to watch the animated boy traipse around the courtyard, completely unfazed by the onlooking adults.

"He's just like his mum, y'know," Harry added thoughtfully.

"A handful to raise then, I expect?" she quipped. "Knowing Nymphadora, of course."

"Very much so," he agreed.

They sat in silence for several moments. It wasn't the type of the silence that made either party involved uncomfortable; rather, it was the type of silence where both parties were acknowledging that no words were needed in order for thoughts and feelings to be relayed. Both Harry and the headmistress were completely content with the lack of verbal communication, rather finding joy in the sight of a young boy's imagination put to work in a setting that had been so previously plagued with horror from nearly a decade before. Finally, McGonagall was the one to break it: "How is everything in the Potter household?"

Harry smiled at the thought of his family. "Things have been very hectic lately," he admitted. "What with the season and all that, but Ginny and I are managing." Hectic, he knew (and so did she, for that matter) was an understatement. Life inside Harry and Ginny Potter's three-bedroom, two-bathroom cottage in Godric's Hollow was completely mad. As if having two sons alone wasn't enough to drive the young couple up the wall, the addition of a third child into their house was the cherry on top. Financially, the family had nothing to worry about. But since the death of Andromeda Tonks and the upgrade from being a family of four to a family of five (almost six, as Ginny was due just in a matter of months) had settled in, life was jammed packed with things. Inconsequential things, significant things, slightly-though-not-quite-life-altering things. It left Harry, and Ginny, of course, drained at the end of each day.

The headmistress seemed to understand the complexity that was Harry Potter's life just from the look on his face.

"And how are the boys?" she asked nonetheless.

Again, the Auror smiled. "Well, Albus is almost completely self-sufficient by now," he joked in reference to his youngest son. "Walking, talking, antagonizing his big brother, hiding pacifiers from his mother...he'll have landed a desk job by the summer, I suppose." McGonagall chuckled softly, shaking her head at the man's quips. "And James is...well, James is practically running the house at this point. Three years old and already correcting his mum when she doesn't prepare his peanut butter sandwich correctly. Though, with his genes, I'm sure it'll only worsen from here so Ginny and I are trying to enjoy it while it is still cute."

McGonagall smiled fondly. "That doesn't surprise me in the least. He's a Potter, after all," she reminded.

Harry couldn't argue with that, especially with the age woman positioned next to him. She had dealt with more than her fair share of Potters of the years—and Weasleys, for that fact. His sons, after all, were both.

"Just be sure to remind me when his eleventh birthday is coming up, will you?" she said with a very serious expression on her face. Harry furrowed his brow, not understanding. "So that I can put in my notice that I will be retiring that next May." Harry let out a bark of a laugh and Minerva simply smirked. Then, a few moments later, he faced turned serious once more. She reached her hand over and touched her former student's arm softly. "Albus would be very proud of the man you've become, Harry," she stated. Then: "Merlin knows I am."

Out of all the years Harry had know Minerva McGonagall, not once had she ever called him by his first name. Aside from now.

"Thank you, Professor," the man said seriously. And he meant it. "For everything."

She smiled, once more, at Harry. Then she stood and dusted the small amount of dust that had settled onto her robes. "I suppose I should let you get back to what you came here for, then." She started for the door, but turned after a few clicks of her heels on the stone ground. "Take care, Mr. Potter."

"You too."

Harry watched as the woman turned once more and exited the courtyard through the pair of large, oak doors that led to the Entrance Hall. When the doors shut with finality, he turned his attention back to his godson. The boy, having ditched his wand-stick, was now opting for a much messier form of entertainment: digging into the planter with his bare hands. Harry watched him for several moments, noting how innocent and unaffected he was by the world. The thought alone brought a smile to his face. Then, he cleared his throat.

"Teddy!" he called, catching the eight-year-old's (almost nine) attention. "Come here, bud."

The Black Lake was frozen over, the quintessence of life in January: icy, still, and desolate.

Harry sat on a toppled over tree trunk. Next to him, the small frame of an eight-year-old leaned into his godfather's side to fend off the winter chill. Both of their cheeks were flushed red and, every time they exhaled, a cloud of breath escaped from the space between their respective lips. The scene could've been on a postcard, wishing family and friends a happy holiday from a father-son duo.

"Y'know, Teddy, you're going to be coming here in a few years."

"I know," the boy, whose hair had returned to its normal, chestnut brown color, said to his godfather.

And know, he did. Just a couple months around the corner he would be turning nine, thus making it two more years until he was officially ready to be enrolled in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if there was any date that a young wizard of his age was aware of it, it was his eleventh birthday, and the year he would be permitted to go to school and learn magic.

Teddy seemed to be contemplating something, his soft, youthful blue eyes staring out over the frozen abyss. Then: "My mum and dad went to school here." It wasn't a question, rather a definitive statement. Teddy may have been like his mother in the way that he was curious, outgoing, and stubborn-to-a-fault (much like Harry himself, actually), but he also inherited his father's brain. Remus Lupin was, as Harry witnessed himself, an intelligent and knowing man.

"That's right," Harry confirmed. He stole a glance down at the young boy. Then, in fatherly fashion, wrapped a tight arm around his small shoulders. The purpose of today's excursion replayed over in the Auror's mind.

He had been on his lunch break when he received the letter, time-stamped from just an hour before. The writing, cursive and loopy, was in his wife's hand. He smiled at the realization: she sent him small letters periodically throughout the year while he was at work. Usually they were penned around the noon hour, when both boys were down for an afternoon nap and the busy mom was allowed a moment of quiet, reminiscent peace. She'd recount the events of the morning following his departure for the Ministry, then she'd go into the sappy details of love and affection for her husband. Ginny Potter wasn't the most outwardly affectionate woman Harry had ever encountered, thus was why he held these letters in such high regard. It was his affirmation that he wasn't completely failing as a husband, father, and provider. It proved to him that woman of his dreams, his best friend's fiery, redheaded sister, was still as deeply and irrevocably in love with him as he was her.

As his eyes darted across the page, however, he quickly realized that this wasn't a love letter by anyone's standard.

Instead, a few lines down, the purpose of the letter was revealed: Teddy found a box of old pictures in the attic. You know, the ones from Andromeda of your parents, Sirius, and Remus. Peter Pettigrew's name was, inconspicuously so, left out of the letter, despite his face being plastered on several pictures inside the aforementioned box. Her writing continued in rounded cursive where one letter flowed seamlessly into the next. He started asking so many questions about who they were and why we had pictures of them. I totally panicked, was completely unprepared for him to do that after the morning we had. Albus blew out his diaper TWICE in a span of an hour and James tripped down the stairs and gashed his eye open. So I told Teddy that it was a conversation that he needed to have with you, instead. I know it's not the ideal timing, but can you please, please take this one for me?

The desperation in his wife's writing practically bled out from the ink as he read the letter at his desk. And that's how, almost four hours later, Harry found himself sitting on a tree trunk in the freezing cold on the Hogwarts grounds, the eight-year-old boy in question seated next to him.

Harry sighed.

"Teddy?"

The boy looked inquisitively up at his godfather. "Yeah?"

"Did your grandma tell you much about your mum and dad?" Teddy shrugged like any eight-year-old would do when asked such a difficult question, causing Harry to suddenly realize his audience. He wasn't conversing with a bunch of middle-aged Aurors in front of the water cooler. He tried again: "Your Aunt Ginny was telling me that you found some pictures of them today at the house."

"They were really old pictures. Black and white, even."

Harry nodded. "Did you recognize any of the other people in the pictures?"

Teddy seemed to consider this question for a moment. "There was one man in the pictures that...well, he kind of looked like you, Uncle Harry," he said. Then a frown appeared on his face, as he stated, "But different. He had dark hair and glasses, just like you. But he was still different-looking than you."

The boy's ever-growing cleverness continued to amaze Harry as each day passed. He knew exactly who Teddy was referring to, and his heart bursted with joy. "That was my father," he stated simply. The boy seemed to understand immediately. "My father and your father were friends in school, y'know." This, however, came as a shock to the eight-year-old, as he understood age well at this point in life, and the gap between himself and his godfather was overtly evident.

"But—how?"

"My parents had me when I was really young," Harry explained delicately. "But your parents, they had you when your dad was older. But our dads were still the best of friends. Since their first year here at Hogwarts, actually. They did everything together." He paused for a moment, debating on whether or not to mention the two other Marauders. Then, resolutely, he decided that was a conversation for another time and continued: "Listen, Teddy...I'm sure you have a lot of questions about your parents. I know I did when I was your age. So if you can think of any right now, then I'd like to answer them for you the best I can."

Teddy's blue eyes returned to the lake. He was thinking, and Harry gave him plenty of time to do so. A few moments later, he asked, "Did my mum and dad like it here at Hogwarts?"

Easy enough, Harry thought. "They loved it here. Both of them. Your dad even became a professor here after he graduated."

The next logical question: "What did he teach?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts."

The boy crinkled his nose, reminding Harry too much of Nymphadora. "What's that?"

"Well," Harry began, "The word 'defense' means to protect, or to keep safe. And the Dark Arts is a type of bad magic that sometimes wizards and witches have to face. So Defense Against the Dark Arts is a class where your dad taught students at Hogwarts how to protect themselves against bad magic if they have to face it when they are older."

"Oh," the eight-year-old uttered. He didn't ask any further questions on the subject, leading Harry to believe that he understood that simplified explanation. His next question, however, caught the twenty-five-year-old Auror completely off guard: "How did my mum and dad die?"

He knew the question would come up eventually, but Harry had never thought it'd come this early. Perhaps when the boy was older, well into his Hogwarts years when he began to learn about the First and Second Wizarding Wars, and the force to be reckoned with that was Lord Voldemort. For it to come up so soon though, Harry was shocked. Teddy, he decided, was too precocious for his good. Still, precocious or not, he deserved an answer. Harry sighed.

"When you were just a baby, Teddy, there was a very bad man in England. He used the Dark Arts, like I was just telling you about. And he and a bunch of his friends, who were also very bad men, attacked Hogwarts using bad magic. But there was another group of people who came to Hogwarts to try and stop the bad man and protect the students of Hogwarts. Your mum and dad, they were apart of this group. They came to Hogwarts to do the right thing and try to stop the bad man and his friends, but they ended up losing their lives," he finished sadly. Then he added: "They died protecting others. They were very brave people."

Teddy's expression was enigmatic; Harry had no idea what was going on in the eight-year-old's mind.

"One day, I want to be just as brave as my mum and dad," the boy finally declared.

His words practically broke Harry's heart as he heard them. The man hugged the young boy closer into his side. "Teddy," he began emotionally, "You're going grow up to be a great wizard and a great person, just like your parents. And believe me, you're going to be just as brave as them, if not more."

"I want to be brave like you too, Uncle Harry."

If tears hadn't already began to form in the man's eyes already, they did in that moment. Harry hugged Teddy as tightly as could, fighting off the wetness threatening to spill onto his cheeks. A few moments later, he released the young boy from his grasp, and said, "Listen to me, Teddy. Your parents loved you more than anything else in this entire world, okay? And even though they can't be here with you today, that doesn't mean that you don't have other people that love you just as much. You have me, and your Aunt Ginny, and all of the Weasleys. You are so loved, buddy. And your parents, they will always be watching over you. No matter what."

The young boy peered up at his godfather. "Always?"

"Always."