Hermione had baked a cake unconsciously.
Her eyes had zeroed in on the number 31 of July and her mind had immediately made a list of ingredients that she needed to purchase that same afternoon without giving it a second thought.
Now, standing in the middle of the kitchen and looking at the fully decorated cake, she was hit with the realization that she wouldn't be able to walk up to the black haired man and sing happy birthday off tune, because Harry didn't remember her.
But she'd baked the cake, because she had done it so many times it was almost a second nature during the last days of July. Harry would grumble; he'd get red in the face and tell her she didn't have to do anything for him, but Hermione kept doing it because the smile that framed his face when he thought nobody was watching and the shine on his eyes when he spied his name on the frosting was everything to her.
Ron found her like that; piping pipe on hand, glaring at the decorated cake as if it was at fault for her problems. The redhead didn't say anything; he didn't have to. He'd done the same thing.
He had bought and wrapped a box of chocolate frogs and a new pair of Seeker gloves before stopping just outside the Leaky Cauldron, realizing that the man who would've received this gift had no memory of him. He tried returning it exactly four times before giving up and taking it home with him.
They had debated what to do with their respective gifts; not giving them to Harry felt like a betrayal, but they couldn't afford to drop on his new life unannounced to just fill his arms with cake and products unknown to him and leaving again.
They do it anyways.
Hermione and Ron hold on to their resolve for about half an hour before grabbing the cake and the wrapped gift and leaving Grimmauld Place in a haste, with Number Four Privet Drive as their destination.
The house looks abandoned and uncared for, except for the single light shining on the living room window. There's no car on the driveway and no smoke coming out of the chimney, but the shadow reflect on the curtains makes it known that the sole occupant of the house was waking back and forth.
The bushy haired woman and the tall redhead debated for minutes on what do until they both decided that the best way of approaching this situation was to leave the gifts on the porch, knock on the door, and leave before Harry even opens the door.
It wasn't a perfect plan; the black haired man would most likely throw away the cake, chocolate frogs and seeker gloves when his mind couldn't come up with an explanation for the way those things ended up on his property, but that felt better than throwing away the gifts themselves.
So, when 18 year old Harry Potter opened the door, stared at the gifts piled up on his porch with the note 'Happy Birthday, Harry!', Ron and Hermione watched in wonder and confusion as the black haired man sorted through the packages quickly before taking them inside.
"He took them," Hermione breathed, and the redhead man could hear the smile she wore.
When they stood outside the living room window and magically moved the curtains just enough to peek inside, Harry was sitting on the floor of the bare room and was staring at the three things he had taken inside with a mixture of gratefulness and bafflement.
Hermione and Ron don't linger much, just enough to watch him taste the cake warily and unbox the chocolate frogs—charmed to stay still—and the seeker gloves.
Hermione ignores the way her heart burns in the worst way possible as she loses sight of Number Four, Privet Drive, and Ron pretends his eyes aren't wet when he walks the stairs up to his room.
0o0o0o0o0o
Hermione didn't cross paths with Harry until four years later.
She and Ron made a tradition of sorts for the 31st of July; the bushy haired woman would bake a small cake and the redhead would buy the least magical-revealing present in Diagon Alley, and they would drop them off at Harry's house before the day was over.
The black haired man had come to expect presents after the second year in a row. He never looked too eager, as if he feared that the gifts would suddenly stop appearing on his porch, but his eyes would light up in the best of ways when he spied the wrapped boxes and the little note.
Hermione had taken to walk around Little Whinging in the last days of each month, keeping an eye out for one of the two most important men in her life as he went about his day, clocking out of his dead end job and spending his evenings alone, occasionally meeting up with work friends or having a date. Ron did, too, but he took the beginning of the month and didn't walked around as much as she did; muggle culture and fashion advanced too quickly for the redhead to completely grasp it.
It was the twenty nine of July when Hermione entered the little coffee place just three blocks away from Number Four, Privet Drive. She had become accustomed to the relaxed atmosphere that greeted her each month, and had even made casual acquaintances with the long time barista that worked on the weekdays.
This was the forty eighth time she had tea while staring out at the landscape of Little Whinging after her usual walk around the neighborhood, but it was the first time Harry came in when she was there.
She chocked on her drink, tea dribbling down her chin as she spied the black haired man enter the establishment panting, sorting through his pockets while calling out his order to Josh, the barista.
Hermione coughed, disguising the surprise on her face by hiding behind Jane Austen's Persuasion as her mind scrambled to organize her thoughts and emotions.
Harry was here.
Harry was here.
She had managed to calm herself down to a degree when the black haired man had cursed softly and apologized to Josh; with his wallet missing for now, he only had pocket change that would barely cover the plain, black coffee he had ordered, and would leave his bagel abandoned.
Hermione had walked over to the counter before she could think it through, ruffling through her purse and pulling out a big enough bill to cover Harry's full order. Avoiding his gaze, she left the coffee place in a hurry with her mind reeling.
"Hey!"
He caught up to her. Of course he did.
It took Hermione all the will power she had to not react as the man slid to a stop next to her, coffee in one hand and bagel on the other, panting from the jog he had done to catch her.
"I just wanted to thank you."
He looked almost the same; the smile he wore wasn't as heavy as it used to be during his Hogwarts days, most likely a product of getting rid of the weight of the world on his shoulders, and the way he carried himself was as shy and clumsy as it had been years ago.
Hermione froze for a second; his eyes were what gave her pause. Still the same brilliant shade of emerald, they held too many memories and associated emotions for her to untangle them in the mere second it took her to respond.
She shrugged and tried to wave it away, saying it was no big deal and that she was glad she could be of help, while her insides were twisting uncomfortably at having Harry so close to her and unable to act on the impulse of throwing her hands around his frame and hugging the life out of him
Harry didn't let it go; he was so humble, stating that he should repay her in the coming days by maybe buying her a coffee or tea, or dinner, whichever she preferred.
Hermione recognized all of his flirting signs; she'd had to crack them years ago, when Slughorn's party was announced and Harry kept tripping over his own tongue as he tried to ask her to be his date to the event. The same nervous, tilted smile and crinkled eyes were present, and she had to fight the urge to smile and press a kiss to his lips.
She needed to say no.
She ended up accepting his invitation to dinner anyways.
0o0o0o0o0o
Ron didn't exactly know how he and Hermione had managed to get on with their respective lives so quickly after losing Harry. The first month after he was erased from the magical world, they had spent each day on denial, preparing themselves for an unknown future while secretly hoping that Harry would come back home.
When the deed to Grimmauld Place, along with the half the contents of Harry's monetary assets—the other half had been given to Andromeda for Teddy's care—were delivered to them by a Gringotts employee, both of them went from staring at the door, hopeful, to cleaning up the cursed house and mourn the loss of the man they had come to love as family.
They got rid of the dangerous books of the Black library, along with the dusty, old wallpaper that seemed to cover every inch of the property and anything that would be a reminder of the dark and bloody history of the family that had built the house.
When it was time to decorate the rooms, Ron chose the one he had used back in Fifth Year while Hermione chose the one across the hall. They maintained Sirius' old room, cleaning it every once in a while and keeping anything important tucked away in its drawers and closet.
The room next to Sirius' was perhaps the most well-kept room in the whole house, even more than the library itself; it was painted a lighter gray with white and black furniture and had no human presence since its complete redecoration, but the painted stag on the wall and the Gryffindor Quidditch uniform hanging inside the modest closet made it very clear who this room belonged to.
So, yes, Ron didn't exactly know how he and Hermione had managed to get on with their lives so quickly after losing Harry, but he reckoned it was because they had never made a true effort of moving on.
The monthly walks around Little Whinging made the pain and sadness go away for a few hours when they spied Harry, living his life away from the world that had asked too much of him and, in the end, had failed to protect him. He looked…carefree, as he should've been all those years that Ron had known him.
Did he look happy?
Ron couldn't really tell. Had Harry been happy before? Yes, but it had always been forced down, subdued, as if he had known the feeling wouldn't last too long. He looked healthy and relaxed, at least, and that was a win.
When Hermione came running into Grimmauld Place, distraught and with tears streaming down her face, Ron had dropped the pot he had been holding and had walked over to her, sitting down next to her and fearing the worst.
Hermione had met Harry.
She had actually spoken with him.
Ron didn't know what else to do but to offer comfort in the form of a hug and a home cooked meal, and when they both sat on the sofa after dinner with a muted television and cold tea, he remembered the way Hermione's voice had broken when speaking to him.
"I'm being selfish." She had said, sounding so sure, and he could tell she was recalling the conversation with Harry and wishing she had denied his invitation and kept her distance.
"Yeah, you are," He agreed easily, but flashed her a small smile. "Between the both of us, though, I think you've earned the right to be selfish when it comes to him."
0o00o0o0o0o
Hermione goes on one date with Harry, then a second, then a third, and next thing she knows it's been a year since that fateful meeting and they're moving in together.
Hermione thought of quitting her Ministry job several times, but whenever she pulled out the resignation form and started to fill it, her hand would always crumple the paper and sling it into the fire of her modest office.
The guilt of hiding her magical life from harry is too much to bear sometimes but she loved the work she was in charge of, and when she talks about her issues with Ron, he shrugs.
"You've always wanted to make a difference, didn't you? I don't think Harry would've like it if you gave that up for him."
"He doesn't remember, though," She weakly countered.
"But you do," Ron answered, finality on his tone. "And you knew him better than anyone."
In the end, she stops grabbing resignation forms, and before she knows it she's been made Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures just before Harry asks her to move in together.
She says yes instantly, and the whole two months it takes them to find an apartment suitable for them has been the two most stressful months of her entire life, barring that horcrux hunt of their Seventh Year.
Ron helps them with their boxes without needing to be asked, showing up at Harry's in an outfit so out of date that it makes the black haired man snort and laugh for five minutes before carrying his boxes to the rented truck.
The house warming party is just the three of them eating takeout and watching bad television as they talk about anything and everything, and Hermione aches for a reality where she didn't have to hide her wand and work papers every time she comes through the door, and where Ron could show off his genius pranking equipment without resorting to modifications to hide the magic from Harry.
She gets accustomed to living with Harry pretty easily; he's known her for a year, still learning her quirks and the way she takes her tea or cooks dinner, but she has over a decade of memories and interactions that have made Harry an open book for her to read and reread, and so she has no problem knowing that he's an early riser and takes his coffee black, as well as committing to memory the way he gives up on fighting with his mop of a hair and eventually just cuts it shorter than usual.
Hermione's regret and guilt over accepting his dinner invitation had faded over the first few months of their relationship, and when she comes home exhausted from a hard day at the Ministry to be welcomed by Harry's smile, freshly baked cookies and their new cat, she sighs, smiles, and mentally thanks Ron for telling her to be selfish for once in her life.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0
Ron had been unsurprised when, on a Saturday morning, Harry had wind up on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place with an unusual request.
'I want to ask Hermione to marry me, and I'd like to pick an engagement ring with your help.'
It made sense for him to ask Ron; the redhead was, after all, the closest person to Hermione outside of Harry. The black haired man didn't know any of her coworkers; not the real ones, anyway, just the ones form the Muggle Relations division that sometimes spoke to him at the galas in London and that Hermione passed as her usual, day to day coworkers and friends that she wasn't that close to.
Harry himself didn't have a lot of friends, either, and Ron reckoned that was the reason why he hadn't even blinked when Hermione didn't introduce him to anyone other than Ron and the few 'friends' from work.
In reality, Shacklebolt had explicitly forbidden anyone from the magical world to interact with Harry a few months after the Battle of Hogwarts, citing the need to protect the young man's mind and soul from the strain of his injuries, but had quickly amended his statement when Hermione had sued him in from of the new Wizengamot just days after she and Ron had dropped off the first gifts on his porch.
Now, only he and Hermione had full permission to interact with Harry as long as they'd like, as long as they were being careful with their magic around the black haired man; with that, Harry Potter faded into a legend that would be spoken of for generation in the magical world, and he and Hermione enjoyed life with a version of their best friend that had no knowledge of their previous adventures but was still the same humble, kind and brave man they used to know.
So, yes, it was no surprise that Harry had stumbled upon his porch and asked him to pick out an engagement ring with him, but Ron still smiled and his eyes misted over, a bitter sweet feeling lodging on his throat.
The walked through several stores before Harry pulled him in one that didn't look as fancy as the other ones, but after a minute of searching he stood close to the glass and pointed a ring in the top row for Ron to see.
The redhead stepped up behind the other man and stared at the ring; it was thin, white gold, with an emerald stone in the center and two tiny diamonds framing it from each side. Simple, not too flashy, but fancy enough to let it be known it wasn't just any type of ring.
"I have a feeling this one's it." Harry whispered, nervous.
Ron nodded and smile. "I think she'll love it."
When Harry left the store with the redhead in tow, staring reverently at the ring box on his hand, Ron grinned and slung an arm over the other man's shoulder, thanking his lucky stars he had been able to be there for Harry in moments like this.
0o0ooo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
Their wedding preparation was both easy and bitter sweet, but the later only for Hermione.
Harry was ecstatic, and the bushy haired woman was radiating a happiness she hadn't felt in this capacity in years, but when Harry spoke with her in the middle of the night before their wedding she was reminded of how he had grown up unloved.
"I love you," He had whispered out of nowhere, eyes closed in the darkness of their shared room, inside the apartment they would leave the next month to move into their new house. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For loving me back," Harry shrugged. "Feels odd to me, you know?"
"Your aunt and uncle?" Hermione didn't need previous memories to know that one; Harry had opened up to her three months after they started dating, speaking of the fact he had no family to introduce her to, looking more and more ashamed with every second that passed as if he wasn't good enough for her anymore.
She had taken his hand, rubbed his knuckles, and told him about how her parents had gotten into a car accident and had completely forgotten they had a daughter due to a brain injury.
Not a full lie, but not a full truth either.
"Yeah, and my parents too,"
"Oh?"
"They left me behind, you know? Drunks, had me but decided they didn't want me and just tossed me into Vernon's porch before disappearing and dying in an accident."
Hermione had closed her mouth before a scoff could leave it, but she had taken his hand and whispered 'I love you too, Harry' with as much emotion as she could put into the words, and when the man's breathing had evened out, she had sat up in the bed with fire in her eyes and murder in her mind.
How dare they lie to him in such a way?
Harry's years at Hogwarts were marked by a tendency to have trouble follow him, and an admiration and worship for the man and woman who had been his parents before dying for him.
Petunia and Vernon had stripped that away from him the moment he was old enough to understand words, spitting lie after lie, and now that Harry had been stripped of days spent looking at pictures of Lily and James Potter and hearing stories about his parents' lives; he had grown up with the belief that the two people that loved him more than anything had abandoned him on a whim.
She wanted to wake him up; to erase the false belief of his parents and give him the photo album deeply hidden in a compartment of the closet, which contained all of the Hogwarts memories he had managed to capture in pictures. She wanted to tell him how he was so loved by a high number of people, that he had been the face of a revolution that had changed the magical world for the best, and that he deserved every bit of happiness in the world for everything he had done selflessly for everyone.
She didn't.
She couldn't.
Because if she did, his mind wouldn't be able to take on the strain of the memories without his magic present on his blood, and it would collapse before even beginning to comprehend what she was showing him, and she'd lose him forever.
So Hermione laid down again, tucked herself into Harry's side, and drifted off to sleep with a troubled mind and moist eyes.
0o0o0o0o0o0o
Ron gave Hermione away at the wedding.
The bushy haired woman didn't have a shortage of offers from the older men in her life—Arthur himself had spoken to her days before the wedding, asking and saying he would be honored to walk her down if she wanted—but every single one of the offers felt wrong when none of them were as present in her life as Ron was.
The redhead had been there for everything, and Hermione would be damned if she didn't let him give her away to his best friend in her wedding day.
All of their magical guests were aware of who the groom was, and Shacklebolt himself had taken on the job of watching over Harry during the ceremony and reception, keeping the more fanatic guests out of his bubble and keeping his eye out for anything magically suspicions.
When Hermione asked why—because she herself had made it clear that no one was to endanger Harry's mind in any way—Shacklebolt had shrugged, his eyes guilty, and had said that he couldn't do much to repay Harry but to keep an eye on him on his special day.
Hermione had nodded and left it at that, pleased that Harry—the real life man, no the legend—was still important in the small circle of friends and acquaintances they kept from the magical world.
She had to take a breath to calm herself when she spied Harry being introduced for the first time—that he remembered—to the Weasleys, and Hermione knew exactly how each of them felt as they gazed at the honorary member of the redhead family.
Teddy had met his godfather under the pretense of being the son of one of Hermione's distant aunts, without actually knowing what role Harry would've played on his life. The metamorphmagus only understood fully who the man he met at a wedding was when he was finally old enough to ride the Firebolt that had been passed down to him, with the name Harry H. carved into the black handle of the broom.
0o0o0o0o0o
Sometimes, Ron realizes that Harry can remember certain bits and pieces of his old life.
In one of those times, a year after his wedding to Hermione, while talking to Ron during their weekly meeting at the pub, Harry had laughed and shook his head fondly at the fact that Hermione always chose the ugliest cats.
"I mean, I love Mister Stripes, but his face literally looks like he was struck in the face with a pan, mate! I don't know what she sees in those cats, honestly. It was bad enough with Crookshanks."
Ron had sniggered, taking a swig of his beer before nudging the ribs of his friends. "I reckoned she has a soft spot for ugly faces, seeing as she's married to you."
Harry had barked out a laugh and punched Ron lightly on the shoulder before asking for another beer. In the time that it took the bartender to fulfill his request, Ron's mind had gone into overdrive and had panicked slightly before a sliver of hope had risen in his chest.
Did Hermione ever tell Harry about Crookshanks, who had died a month after the Battle of Hogwarts?
Ron didn't think so, and after a brief conversation with Hermione the next day, the bushy haired woman had confirmed the redhead's suspicion; Hermione hadn't told him about Crookshanks, but Harry had known.
It was a sign that his mind was unearthing memories past, and Shacklebolt agreed, but he was quick to stamp out their hopes of a full recovery.
"Harry will never remember, not fully," Shacklebolt had said bluntly, and Ron hated the way the man's eyes stared at him and Hermione with pity. "His mind might be able to grasp into simple facts of his old life that don't endanger him, but it means nothing in the grand scheme of things. He'll never fully remember anything from before the Battle of Hogwarts, no matter how much you want him to."
Ron had stumbled into Grimmauld Place that night, morose, and had fallen asleep to thoughts of the life Harry would've been able to live if not for incompetent authorities and old, untrusting wizards.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Harry got his high school diploma at the age of twenty seven, after having saved enough and changing jobs to have more time to study his school books and do his homework.
He had told Hermione he had dropped out after his aunt and uncle left him behind when they moved away, and that finishing his education had been his plan, even if school wasn't really of his liking. He needed his documents to get a better job in the long run, he'd stated, mentioning that he didn't want to keep working on retail for the rest of his life.
Hermione knew better, though; Harry had spent his middle and high school years on Hogwarts instead of the shady institute Vernon had wanted to send him to, studying magic and breaking rules while challenging one of the darkest wizards in history.
So Hermione had smiled at him, kissed his lips and clapped her hands as loud as she could on the small graduation ceremony that the school program had for their late graduates.
Harry had moved up on the security company he had found a job in, and the bushy haired woman was assaulted by memories of their Fifth Year where Harry expressed his desire of being an Auror, his eyes shining in anticipation.
They had a good life; their house was big, affordable, and had two extra rooms that would someday be filled with loud cries and little feet running around. Their jobs, while taxing, were both challenging in the best way possible and it made Hermione extremely happy to see her husband thrive, living a life he had confessed he wasn't sure he'll ever get.
But, when she laid awake on cold night, Hermione wasn't able to let go of the bitterness that assaulted her mind whenever she peeked at closet door of their room, where the photo album laid tucked away.
She wasn't mad at Harry, of course not; she couldn't be mad to the man that had made a sacrifice he didn't even know about to save them. Harry was still Harry, even after being stripped of his memories and magic, and loving him was one of the best decisions Hermione had made in her entire life.
She was mad at the adults, at the authorities, and the whole magical world for letting a teenage boy fight a war he never should've fought in the first place; she cursed Fudge and Dumbledore in the same sentence, the first for being unable to see past his pride and money and the second for using such a sweet, self-sacrificing boy as bait without batting an eye.
She lamented, for what seemed the thousand time, about the unfairness of the situation they had found themselves in, but marveled at the fact that she and Ron had managed to know and love Harry again, even after everything.
0o0o0o0o0o0o
When Adam Potter got his letter to Hogwarts, Hermione had to sit Harry down and explain that every odd thing that their eleven year old son had done while having tantrums were magical.
Shacklebolt had given her the green light; the Saint Mungo's investigation he had ordered had approved the fact that Hermione wanted tell him about magic, but for the good of his mind, she'd have to keep Harry's previous life under wraps no matter what.
Hermione nodded and counted her blessings; the fact that she didn't have to hid her magic anymore let a weight fall off her shoulders as she showed Harry and Adam her wand and finally spoke of her real job and her day to day in the office.
Adam was ecstatic; a perfect combination of Harry and her, he was athletic and a bookworm, and his untamable mop of brown hair moved uncontrollably as he nodded his head excitedly when Hermione asked if he wanted to use her wand.
Harry had grinned teasingly, and joked about how he should've known she was a witch when she had managed to make every parent in Adam's school agree on a single theme for the Halloween party, even if John's parents were a pain in the ass when organizing the school events.
Adam had asked for stories every night before sleep up until September first, and Hermione had had to think quickly on her feet every time Harry's name wanted to slip from her tongue, changing the events when the black haired man accompanied her during Adam's night routine.
When Harry had a night shift, Hermione sat Adam down and explained how his father was also a wizard, the most famous wizard of his generation, but that he didn't know and he'd never remember.
Adam hadn't understood, but he had vowed to keep the secret from her father when Hermione's eyes started dropping tears on her cheeks and her smile had faltered after the third time the eleven year old boy had pleaded to let his father know.
Adam Potter was only eleven, but he had his mother's brains and he loved her to pieces, and had promised to keep his mouth shut no matter how many times he had wanted to ask his father where his wand was, or when Harry asked him how he was liking Hogwarts when he returned the summer after his first year.
When Adam Potter was sixteen and he learned all about the Second Blood War during his History of Magic class, he finally understood why teachers and students alike had gasped at his surname, and why his mother had made him keep his father's magic life a secret from him.
He, too, also understood why Harry had done what he did when he gazed at the full tables of the Great Hall, buzzing with carefree students and relaxed teachers as Hogwarts stood tall and unbending.
0o0o0o0o0o0o
Harry Potter was sure he had forgotten something.
He had awoken today, September first, with a bitter sweet feeling on his throat as he remembered he wouldn't see Adam for the next few months until Christmas, because he'd be away on a magical boarding school.
It sounded unbelievable to his ears, but at the same time, he had a feeling it was meant to be that way.
Finding out Ron was also magical had been a slight shock to him, but he shrugged and figured that's why he and Hermione were so close; going to the same school, they had bonded to the point they were a permanent fix on each other's lives, and Harry was grateful they had allowed him to enter their little family.
As they met Ron's own family—his wife and two children—just in front of the imposing, red colored Hogwarts Express, Harry couldn't help but rub his forehead that was throbbing uncomfortably as he gazed at the train meant to take students towards their destination.
Everything about the scene he found when he stepped inside the 9 ¾ platform was so tragically familiar that he had stopped with the pretense of tying his shoe, but had really taken the time to breath and calm his nerves.
It didn't make sense—he shouldn't feel familiarity in the way the children ran around, carrying owl cages and trunks and the way the adults patiently and sadly watched as their children went away for the next few months.
Coming up behind Hermione and hugging the stuffing out of Adam before his son left to find a compartment, Harry gazed around until his eyes stopped on the window of an empty compartment in the middle of the train, and he shut his eyes as his head throbbed painfully.
"Here's your ticket, don't lose it—"
"Can I sit here? Everywhere else is full—"
"Holy crickets! You're Harry Potter! I'm—"
"Harry? Harry!"
"Here, eat it. It's chocolate, it'll help—"
"Why do you think we stopped?"
"The—would've been better if not for the—attacking—"
A hand grabbed his arm in alarm, and through squinted eyes Harry could see his wife's concerned face as Hermione stepped closer.
"Harry, love?" She whispered.
"I'm fine," He answered, rubbing his forehead again and smiling. "I've just battled a headache since this morning, but I wanted to see Adam off."
Hermione nodded, but Harry noticed the way her eyes lingered on the spot of his forehead that held his childhood scar before she answered. "The train is about to leave anyways. I'll take you home afterwards so you can rest, it's your day off anyways."
Harry nodded, and before long the sound of the horn rumbled through the platform as the wheels of the train moved out of the station. His eyes stared at the window from which Adam was furiously waving at them, smiling.
Harry Potter was sure he had forgotten something, but as the pain on his forehead cleared and he waved back at his son with his wife next to him, there was a feeling on his chest that made it clear he was always meant to be in this place, seeing his son off to school with the two most important people in his life.
He ignored the way his chest tightened in strange longing each time he spied wands waving and magic flourishing, and instead focused on the warm feeling that traveled through his veins every time he thought about his family.
With every year that he saw Adam off to school, traveling and admiring the magic of platform 9 ¾ , the tight feeling on his chest receded until it was only a distant memory.
0o0o0o0o0o0
I really love a memory loss trope fic, and this idea wouldn't leave me alone after I finished watching 'Spider-Man: No Way Home', so yeah. I hope you've enjoyed, and perhaps I'll write another chapter expanding more on Harry, but we'll see.
See you next time!