in the first section:
c/w for graphic injury, bone setting, discussion of injuries

a friendly reminder that, towards the end of this chapter, we will be entering the part of the story that deals with harry's knee injury, and I'm not pulling any punches. please be kind to yourselves and skip anything that wouldn't serve you well.

in the last three sections:
c/w for graphic injury, forced administration of a sedative, hospital scenes, discussion of paralysis, signs of depression

Mud, cold and spongy between his hooves. Ferns, catching against his thick, coarse hide. Air, cold and brilliant in the pre-dawn, hitting the fresh cuts along his flank. Harry took a shuddering, triumphant breath, and felt it ripple through his massive body. He smelled the water before he saw it — a still pool, a pond, a few paces away through the trees.

Around him, the Forest was quiet, most of its occupants either slumbering or waiting for him to leave. In spite of his appearance, they could still sense something other about him, something that, he guessed, smelled somewhat of a human. Harry turned his head to one side, catching a flicker of movement in the undergrowth, and kept walking.

Relief overcame him at the sight of the water, but when he bent over the surface of the pond, he stopped, the relief soon replaced by horror.

Ten minutes later, Harry stumbled out of the Forest on two legs and roared, "Remus!"

Neville was with him in an instant, bundling him into a massive, warm blanket, handing him his glasses, and shoving a potion in his face. "Quiet, Harry—"

Harry let himself be coddled for a moment, and he choked down the steaming potion, wincing when it tore through him with a surge of heat. As soon as he could speak again— "Remus! I'll bloody kill you!"

Neville swore again, wand in one hand, grabbing at him with the other. "Harry, calm down— hold still—"

They must've looked a sight — two men, hunched on the ground; one of them naked and covered in mud and injuries, the other struggling to keep him steady.

"Tell me," said Neville, gripping his shoulders. "Where?"

"My ribs, and my left shin."

Neville gave a nod, pointed his wand, and spoke.

Harry gave a loud, feral grunt as his bones set themselves. Another wave of burning heat whipped through him, and he tried not to move as Neville healed his cuts and bruises.

"Damn," Neville muttered when he got to the gash on Harry's shoulder. "This one's deep."

Harry nodded, wincing as Neville poured Dittany over the exposed flesh. "The smaller one charged at me when I wasn't looking, knocked me onto some rocks." He paused, met Neville's gaze. "I still won, though."

"Damn," Neville said again, knitting the skin back together with his wand. Harry felt it all the way down in his wrist. "It'll probably scar, you know."

"That's fine." Harry sat there for a moment, dazed from the cold and the pain and the triumph and the— "Remus!"

"Merlin, Harry!" Neville wrapped the blanket even tighter around him. "Keep your voice down, you'll wake Hagrid—"

"You lied to me!" Harry roared, tugging the blanket away from his mouth. "Remus, you bloody lied to me, you son of a—!"

Neville tackled him, shoving him down into the grass. That worked for all of two seconds before Harry flipped and disarmed him, kneeling on his chest.

"Harry." Neville seethed up at him, but didn't fight back. "Calm down."

Harry ignored him. "A fucking moose!" he yelled in the direction of the Forest. "A fucking moose, Remus!"

"What are you on about, Harry—"

"Stag," he said to Neville, and this really was quite the perspective — he'd never thought he'd be on a grown man's chest, or, at least, this man's chest. Neville had filled out quite a bit in the past couple of years, but his scowl was still the same. "When I was younger, Remus and everyone else went on about my Patronus being a stag. A stag. A deer, Neville."

"I know what a stag is, Harry!"

"But it isn't!" Harry looked at the Forest again. "It's a moose! A bloody moose!"

Below him, Neville went very quiet. Then— "What's a moose?"

"Fuck," Harry bit out, rolling off of him. He stood up, testing his newly-healed leg, and wrapped the wool blanket more tightly around himself. It was cold, even for July. "It's like an elk, only bigger." Fuck-me bigger, he thought.

"How can you tell the difference?"

"The fucking antlers." Harry glared at the shadowy trees. "And I've got a snout the size of fucking Wales!"

Neville was getting to his feet. "Harry, calm down. It's hardly the end of the world."

"No," Harry agreed, "but it does mean that Remus has been having a laugh since I was thirteen years old. Wanker!" he shouted at the trees.

Neville was trying not to laugh, now. "Come on, let's get back."

Harry shot one final glare at the Forest, then turned away from it. He watched as Neville retrieved his wand, and felt a distant pang of guilt. "Thanks."

Neville smiled. "Don't mention it." He fell into step beside Harry, and together they began to walk back towards the castle, which carried the promise of a hot shower and a change of clothes, provided that Minerva didn't catch them at it. She had no idea Harry was at Hogwarts, and he wanted to keep it that way.

They walked in silence for several minutes before Neville spoke again. "I've never seen a moose."

After a few moments, Harry caught on. "Don't."

Neville grinned. "Come on, give us a peek—"

Harry sighed and shook his head, then dropped the blanket and took off his glasses, shut his eyes, and allowed his magic to come swimming to the surface.

When he opened his eyes once again, Neville was gaping up at him, stunned.

"Well," Neville finally managed. "Shit."

Harry let a soft, rumbling noise come out of his chest. He bowed his head, and Neville had to duck one of his enormous antlers.

"Hey! Play nice!"

Harry shook his head, letting the movement travel down his long body. Now that he was healed, it was much easier to move around. Warmer, too, thanks to his hide. He bent down again, used his snout to nudge the blanket closer to Neville.

"Want to stay like this?" Neville took the blanket and Harry's glasses. "I don't blame you. Scottish summers aren't the nicest." He flashed Harry a grin. "Come on, then. Kreacher's got lots of bacon waiting."

Together, they began the long walk back up to the castle, and when dawn broke, it bathed man and moose alike in a warm, glittering light.

The summer began, and Harry watched. He watched as Teddy slouched into adolescence, and waited for the ball to drop. He waited for the scowls, the eye-rolls, the attitude, and was only rewarded a handful of times.

Claudia was laughing, her hand in his. "Maybe he's baiting you."

"Don't laugh, I'm really starting to worry." Harry sidestepped a cluster of young boys, and had a sudden flashback to Teddy at age twelve. "Everyone said he'd be a nightmare. I feel a bit cheated, honestly."

"Teddy's a good kid," said Claudia. The sunlight caught her eyes, made them shine. "He might spare you the angst."

They were walking through London, killing time before a dinner reservation. Teddy was also somewhere in the city, raising hell with a few mates from Hogwarts in his spare week before his internship began. Harry tried not to think about what they were getting up to.

"Yeah, but isn't the angst normal?" said Harry.

"What, are you worried he isn't a normal teenager?" Claudia snorted.

Harry considered this. "Well…"

"Hey." She stopped walking, squeezed his hand. "You've done great with him. Whenever I've been around him, he's been lovely. Which is far better than most teenagers these days."

He nodded. "Thanks." That helped, a little.

Then, Claudia seemed to notice where they were. "Ooooh." She ogled the three-piece suit mounted behind the glossy windowpane. "Very nice."

Harry smiled. "Claudia, this is Saville Row. Everything's nice, even the dirt."

"Yeah, but." She leaned in, her hand hovering above the glass. "Harry." Her eyes, when they turned on him, were enormous.

It took him all of three seconds to catch on. "No."

Claudia pouted, reaching for him. "Oh, come on, why not?! You'd look fantastic—"

"They're not—" Harry gestured at the bespoke suits, words failing him, "—very me—"

"Are you kidding?" Her eyebrows were very pointed. "International man of mystery, Harry Potter, was made to wear one of these things—"

He began to laugh. "Claudia, I'm hardly James Bond—"

"Says you! See that man with the dog? I bet you could kill him from here and I wouldn't even see it—"

She's technically right, came Hunt's voice in Harry's ear. "I'd look ridiculous in one of those—"

"No, you'd look delicious." Claudia slunk up to him, and the heat in her eyes was unmistakable. Harry shook his head, even as he felt his will bend. "Come on. Just one? You only have to try it on! Besides," she added, sneaking a hand over his shoulder, down his chest, "it's not like we had any plans."

A half-hour later, Harry faced himself in the shopkeeper's enormous mirror and hated himself for really liking what he saw.

Behind him, Claudia was laughing where she sat on a couch that probably cost more than his entire home. "Why are you so grumpy?!"

"Because I look like an absolute—" Harry glanced to his right and realized the tailor was watching him with a smile. "I don't think it suits me."

"Ha, nice one." Claudia leaned back in her seat. "You're kidding, right? You look absolutely incredible." She winked. "Ready to go for the jugular."

Harry shook his head. He couldn't keep himself from staring at the fabric — a deep navy, with the faintest sheen when it caught the light — and the way it hit the lines of his shoulders, his hips, his thighs. Something about it — something about him — was mesmerizing.

"All right," Harry found himself saying. "I'll take it."

When they walked out of the shop, Claudia smacked a kiss to his cheek and wiped away the crimson lipstick she left behind. "I like it when you indulge yourself."

Harry snorted. "Claudia, that was less of an indulgence and more of a gigantic middle finger to my wallet—"

But she was still smiling. "Harry, you have the money. Why not spend it every once in a while? You can't take it with you, you know." Claudia shrugged. "It's a lesson I learned, as well."

Later, when they'd said goodnight and Harry was left to stare at the contents of his wardrobe, he wondered if maybe she was right. The suit wouldn't arrive for another week or so — non-magical alterations took time, apparently — and as he looked at himself in the mirror, he wondered what it would be like. To indulge — properly.

Harry looked up as someone sat down across from him and nodded hello.

"Hi." He smiled tentatively in return. "Thanks for meeting me."

"No problem." Julia glanced around. "Were you followed?"

"No. You?"

"No." And he knew her confidence was well-earned. "Ordered yet?"

"Just some tea." He pushed the teapot and the sugar bowl across the table. Around them, the Muggle café buzzed, and quite suddenly, Harry didn't know what to say.

Julia looked at him, the mid-morning light highlighting the various silvery scars scattered across her face. One in particular, deep and short, tugged down the left corner of her mouth into a permanent frown. "What did you want to talk about?"

Harry cleared his throat. "There's been some stuff going on with my son. And I wondered… Well, it's not like there's books about this sort of thing."

Julia nodded, still wary, and poured herself a cup of tea.

"Teddy, he— he's not mine, obviously, I mean—" Harry winced. "Genetically. His dad was a werewolf, and his mum was human."

Again, Julia nodded.

"And something happened, this past spring, when he was at Hogwarts. He went into the Forbidden Forest, as a laugh, with two of his mates. They didn't realize it, but… they crossed into centaur territory."

Julia winced. "Right."

"And…" Here we go. "Two younger centaurs caught them, and they attacked Teddy. They nearly killed him, to tell you the truth." Harry cleared his throat, looking out the window so he didn't have to meet her gaze. "I found out later it was because they thought he smelled… Well, apparently he smelled… off, to them."

"Off?"

"Like a wolf, and not like a wolf, they said. Human and inhuman." Harry shrugged. "The centaurs had never encountered anything like it before, apparently. So they reacted, thinking it was a threat." Here, finally, he looked at her. "I asked you here because I wanted to know if you… if this is even possible. Does Teddy… I mean, he's never shown any other signs, and he…" The words trailed off, and Harry didn't know how to pick them up again.

Julia looked thoughtful, her teacup resting in her hands. Then he noticed the scars trailing down her fingers, along her wrists, before they disappeared beneath the cuffs of her long-sleeved blouse. "You want to know if the centaurs were lying."

"Partly."

She nodded. "Werewolves do carry a particular scent, recognizable to all other magical creatures. Just as a centaur would sense me, I would sense them. And it is possible that the scent would carry according to… inheritance, rather than…" A bite, she didn't say.

"Really?" Harry began to feel it then — relief. "So it's common? Among descendants?"

A dry smile flitted across her sloped mouth. "Very few of us live long enough to produce children, or even to find a human mate." Julia took a sip of tea. "Even if such offspring existed, I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been delicately overlooked in the history books. And in the Healing records."

"Of course." Harry nodded. "But does that mean… I dunno, I sort of always assumed that what made a werewolf a werewolf was concentrated in the bite. Can it really pass from parent to child?"

"I don't see why not," Julia replied. "The transformation requires contact with the blood, and isn't a child born of its parents' blood?"

Harry sat back, letting those words wash over him. "But Teddy's… not a werewolf."

"No," Julia agreed. "You'd know by now if he were. And I've never heard of anyone inheriting the condition through a parent."

"But he's got werewolf blood in him…" Harry couldn't withhold the flicker of apprehension. "So does that make him…?"
Julia held his gaze for several moments, then shrugged and poured herself a fresh cup of tea. "He's human, mostly. Just like the rest of us. Is he any more powerful than an average wizard?"

"No, I don't think so." Though there had been a remarkable incident with yellow paint, before Teddy's Hogwarts days. "He's clever, but he's not… Why — could that happen?"

"I don't know," said Julia. "But it's worth asking. I'm not even sure there are any others like him." She shot him a pointed look. "Hopefully, that'll change soon."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, of course."

"So what did you do about it? The attack?"

"Oh." Harry reached for his tea. "I handled it."

Julia watched him for a moment, then gave him a sudden, rare grin. "I bet you did."

And then, Harry voiced his last remaining fear. "Do you think it could happen again? With some other magical creature?"

"It's hard to say," Julia replied. "Centaurs can be a lot more territorial. But maybe."

When Harry didn't reply, she added, "Does he know how to defend himself?"

Harry nodded. "Well enough, for now. I'll teach him a few more things when he turns seventeen. And he knows not to go back into the Forest."

She nodded. "Have you told him? The reason why he was attacked?"

"No."

Julia's gaze was unrelenting. "You need to tell him."

"Yeah," said Harry, his throat dry. "I know."

Ice cream, melting. Sunsets, gleaming. The summer, passing.

Teddy's room sat empty while he was in the south for his internship with the goblins. Harry hated the quiet, tried to bury himself in crime statistics and prisoner treatment policy, and one day, he went to the shop down the road and had a third copy made of his house key.

Claudia, staring at him with shining eyes. "What?"

"I want you here," he said, simple and easy. "If you… if you want."

Time ticked, and the silence grew from one moment to the next. As he watched, her mouth twisted, and it wasn't into a smile.

"Harry, I—" Claudia bit her lip. "I can't."

His mouth went numb, then his hands. He nodded. "Okay."

"It's not—" Her breath hitched. "Harry, I'm not that person."

Harry frowned. "What d'you—?"

"I'm not the person who does the house and the…" She closed her eyes, almost as if she couldn't face what she was saying. "It's not me."

His mind spun, regurgitating scattered moments from their time together. He tried, and failed, to think of a moment with her, with her and Teddy, that hadn't felt good.

"You need someone settled," Claudia went on. "Someone grounded. And that's not who I am." She opened her eyes. "I hadn't told you yet, but I'm… I'm leaving for Japan in a few weeks. For six months."

Harry had no idea what to say to that. "Okay."

"But it's not because—" She sat forward, suddenly urgent. "Harry, I really really love you, okay? It's nothing to do with you. You're brilliant. Teddy's brilliant. But what you're asking for—"

"Actually," he said, "you don't know what I'm asking for because I hadn't asked for it yet."

A beat. Then two. "Okay," she said, apologetic. When he didn't reply, she said, "I just… this took me by surprise, Harry. That's all. And I know I'm leaving soon, but we can… we can still…"

For a few moments, Harry just looked at her. Then he shook his head. "No," he said. "No, I don't think so."

"Really?" Her voice was soft. "Are you sure?"

Harry nodded. "I'm sure."

When she left, Claudia paused beside him. "I'll never regret it."

"Me either," Harry replied, because it was true. Even if he hadn't thought… "Have a nice time in Japan."

"Thanks." She smiled. "Should I call you? When I get back?"

Harry sat with it for a moment, then shook his head, and Claudia nodded. A final kiss, sweet and simple, and when she was gone, the silence seemed to ebb.

Harry sat there for a few minutes, then wandered over to his fridge and dug out a nice cut of ribeye, a basket of tomatoes, a fresh sprig of oregano. "Dinner for one," he muttered.

"I liked her," said Teddy, in a way that was supposed to be helpful.

"I know," said Harry, because it was all so real and so fresh. "I'm sorry."

Teddy shrugged. "It's all right. It's not like she lived with us." Then, he gave Harry a weirdly piercing look. "Are you… are you okay?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded. "I'm fine." And somehow, he was.

"Okay." Teddy watched him for another moment, then shrugged. "I don't mind it, you know."

"Sorry?"

"You dating." But he made the word sound like vinegar. "S'long as you… you know."

"Okay?" Harry had no idea what that meant. "But I think I'm… good, for now."

Again, that piercing look. "How's Hermione?"

Harry blinked at him. "I— what? She's… fine, we had a hearing the other day and she only glared at me once, which I think is a new record."

Teddy nodded once. "Good. Progress, then." He flashed Harry a grin.

Harry's face went hot. "What?"

Teddy shrugged and grabbed a Mars bar from the cupboard. "Don't worry, Dad. I won't tell anyone." And he walked off whistling, unaware that he'd just cut Harry to the quick.

"I didn't cry," Harry said to Seymour later. "But that little turd—"

She grinned. "He's clever, Harry. He takes after you." But then she sobered. "Have you given yourself time? To mourn your relationship with Claudia?"

"The further I get away from it," Harry said, "I'm actually not sure it was much of a relationship. Not in the way you mean."

"Really?" Seymour raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"It's hard to describe." And it was. "It was like we did all this stuff together, but we were never actually together."

"It's that vulnerability, Harry. If you keep people at an arm's length, they'll do the same to you." Seymour raised her other eyebrow. "Do you wish you'd been more open with her?"

"No," said Harry. "I think maybe a part of me knew… I knew she wouldn't do the same."

"I understand," said Seymour, her voice gentle, "but sometimes, when you try to protect yourself, all you do is close yourself off to what could be."

Harry heard about the bet after Bonfire Night. He heard about it, and fought off a grin.

"Odds aren't in your favor," said Hathaway, when they were burning the midnight oil.

"I know," said Harry, letting a case file fall to the surface of his desk. Andromeda and Teddy beamed at him from the framed photo on his desk, and he smiled back at them.

He heard the whispers, ignored the darting looks. Sometimes it was real, his frustration — sometimes he let it get the better of him, let it rear its head and take the charge. But sometimes he just pushed because she was the only one who pushed back.

God, he could watch her. Harry loved seeing her in court, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was where she belonged. Hermione had it down to a science — she could flay a defendant alive in less than five minutes, less than two if she really wanted to test herself. It was an exercise in precision, in control. Two things that Harry had always struggled with.

So he wasn't expecting to win.

The look Hermione gave him across the dancefloor would've made a lesser man wet himself. But Harry just took it in stride, took a deep breath, letting the Firewhisky seethe in his stomach. He ignored everyone around them, ignored the stares and the poorly-hidden leers. It's the two of us, he thought, putting one foot in front of the other. Just us.

She was wearing a knee-length crimson dress that shone and glittered in the hovering candlelight, and the fabric felt supple as sin beneath his hand. Her eyes were outlined in gold and smudged with something dark, and her hand was soft and warm in his. Harry fought off a shiver as they began to move in time to the music.

It was some dreadful Warbeck ballad, because of course it was.

"Any plans for the holiday?" he muttered.

He felt her spine go rigid. "Don't. Let's just get this over with."

Harry smiled, gently spun her into a turn, and went quiet.

Harry kept his eyes fixed on a point over her left shoulder, because he knew looking her in the eye would be a terrible idea. Hermione, at least, had her head turned pointedly away from him, her jaw set, her expression mutinous. She was so close he could smell her shampoo or her perfume — floral, heady, but not overwhelming. Enough to make him wish he could lean in, close the distance between them, taste the skin where her neck met her chest.

The air caught in Harry's lungs, and he forced himself not to shiver. Keep it together, Potter. He hoped his hand wasn't sweaty as he spun her into another turn, ignoring the surprised glance she sent his way.

When the song ended, she immediately stepped away, and he missed the heat of her hand on his shoulder, the steady proximity of her body. Hermione shot him a final look, all irritation and something else, something he couldn't parse, then walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

The song changed, people flooded the dancefloor, and Harry forced a smile as Hathaway and a few of the other DMLE crowd came up to him.

"God, I hate these stupid parties." Harry took the glass of Firewhisky one of them handed to him. "How long d'you think we have to stay?"

Some of them laughed, and one of them said something, but Harry heard none of it. His mind was still buried in the air they'd shared, in the way she'd felt, the way she'd looked at him. With annoyance, and with surprise.

"Things are changing, Potter," said Wilkes, his new Deputy Head robes fresh and sharp in the office light. Beside him, Felicia, now Department Head, smiled in her usual enigmatic way. Wilkes handed him a sheaf of parchment. "Up for it?"

Harry sat with it for a few days, long into the nights and before the sun broke the horizon. Is this me? he thought, tracing his fingers over the words Head Auror. Is this really meant to be my legacy?

A part of him churned with it, uneasy and unrelenting. He thought of the werewolves, fighting and fighting for the barest minimum. He thought of the danger, the dueling, the razor-thin burn of energy seeping into his teeth, his feet, his hands. He thought of Teddy, and had no idea what his other options might be.

And, he thought of her. He heard the whispers and he saw the formal announcement in the Prophet. Hermione Granger, the youngest Muggle-born ever admitted to the Wizengamot. He heard it, and got a feeling. A feeling that this was only the beginning.

Maybe I could stick around, Harry told himself as he signed his new contracts. See what happens.

Being Head Auror meant being in charge of operational security for all of the Ministry's high-profile employees, and soon, Harry realized that they didn't have enough personnel. Within days, he had a new plan, a new budget, a new goal.

Kingsley smiled and signed the paperwork. "I have to hand it to you, Harry." He held out the sheaf of parchment. "You don't waste any time."

A new program meant upping recruitment numbers, meant changing the training program, meant adapting the resources they already had. Harry leaned into it, let his new Deputy, Rutherford, handle the day-to-day cases, and worked hard enough that he fell asleep when his head hit the pillow.

Then Hunt, offering him a grimace across their pint glasses. "I'm going back to Spain, Potter. For the time being."

Harry stared at him. "Why?"

"My mother-in-law needs the change in climate, for her health." He shrugged. "And the special forces reached out. They want an extra pair of hands to keep an eye on a new political movement. Anarchists, of all things." He met Harry's eye. "I'll be back, Potter. You'll see."

When he met Teddy on the platform, Harry noticed, as he always did, the looks and the whispers sent their way. Teddy had come into his own and no mistake, but a part of him had to wonder— "Do you ever get fed up with it?"

Teddy glanced around them, shrugged. "I don't really notice it anymore." He shot Harry a sly grin; they were of a height, now. "I tell people that you wander around in your pants, eating Nutella off a spoon and singing Pink Floyd. That usually takes the edge off."

"Teddy," Harry managed, fighting the urge to splutter. Was nothing sacred? "Jesus Christ—"

They only had a few weeks together before Teddy left, and Harry tried to keep the little moments to himself. The moments between the hours Teddy spent ensconced in his room or traipsing around London with Max. A shared breakfast, or a laugh in the garden, a night with Jimmy Stewart. This is enough, Harry told himself, watching Teddy grin in a way that was his mother and his father all rolled into one.

Ron shook his head. "They don't listen to me like that."

Harry glanced down at where the twins were sitting in their high chairs, happily working their way through a pile of little crackers. He shrugged. "They're having a good day."

Ron grinned. "Yeah, or you're Mary bloody Poppins." He dodged the oven mitt Harry chucked at his head and ducked away, laughing.

It helped, when Teddy was gone, to be around the kids. Harry tried not to think about that too much. He settled for telling stories, making cheese toasties, tucking them into bed with a kiss.

Teddy came back from the goblins in Morocco with a dark tan, two earrings in his left ear, and a grin as wide as his face. Harry knew, then, exactly what Teddy would be doing post-Hogwarts.

"Are you excited, then?" Harry said to him one night, when they were out in the garden nursing a few beers.

"For school?" Teddy shrugged, and Harry was surprised to see a blush hit his cheeks. "Yeah, sure. Now that my OWLs are over, I can actually relax."

It took all of Harry's self-restraint not to poke and prod at him. "Not too much relaxation, mind you." Not that he thought that was a problem. Teddy had come home for the summer with a staggering number of OWLs.

Teddy rolled his eyes and smiled. "Yeah, Dad, I know." And for just a second, Harry saw the boy instead of the teen.

Within a few months, Harry started to catch on. He saw the threads pulling and tightening; he saw the looks, the handshakes. He saw Hermione, chin up, determination in her gaze.

God, he thought one day, when he saw her coming down the hall, surrounded by a flock of junior researchers. What if it actually happened? "Nice job in court today, Granger."

She didn't even look at him when she said, "Bite me, Potter."

And for a wonderful, blinding moment, it took all of his self-restraint not to follow through.

"Wow," said one of his trainees, their eyes huge. He remembered her name — Thistlewhit. "She really hates your guts."

Harry grinned. "Only on her better days."

The Forest was cold and crunchy, even for December. Harry looked up as Remus joined him.

"Harry." He frowned. "Why are you—?"

"Kreacher," said Harry. "He, well." It was hard to find the words. "He passed away last night. I'm here to get things ready for the burial."

"I see." Remus' face flickered. "Is Teddy—?"

"Yeah, he's fine. A little shaken, but fine. Kreacher looked out for him, apparently. Saved him the best pieces of cake." Harry turned, leaning against the nearest tree. "You still owe me an explanation, Remus."

"Ah." Remus had the good grace to look nervous. "Well—"

"I'm a moose, Remus. Not a stag, not a bloody elk, a moose."

"Well, see, I know that now." Remus took a hesitant step back. "I didn't know that before—"

"How?" Harry wanted to laugh, or scream. "How could you not know?"

"It's not like I'd seen one before—"

"Don't hurt yourself, Remus." A new voice — familiar, amused. James Potter appeared out of thin air, his hair floppy and his face young. He caught Harry's eye. "Sorry, son, this one's on me."

"Dad," Harry croaked. His heart shot into his throat, then plummeted down to his feet.

James held up a self-deprecating hand. Harry drank in the sight of him — skin, darker than he remembered; that thatch of black hair; kind, round eyes; a strong chin, a crooked mouth. "I always thought it was an elk, too, until your mother saw my Animagus for the first time."

"What?" Remus stared at James. "She never said—"

"I know." James was grinning now. "Lily convinced me not to tell you lot, just to see if any of you caught on. But you never questioned it, not even once."

"What?" said Remus again, louder now.

"Don't take it personally." James clapped him on the shoulder. "It was right fun, until we realized you'd told our son his Patronus was a stag." James caught Harry's eye and grimaced. "Sorry about that."

"S'fine," Harry managed. His mind was buzzing, completely offline at the sight of two Marauders carrying on as if they'd decided death to be beneath them.

"Could be worse," James went on, slowly approaching Harry. His semi-transparent form seemed to hum in the dull light. "Moose are bloody huge."

"They are." Harry stared at his father, unable to stop himself. He was older, now, than his own father, and something about that was maddening.

James stood a foot away from him. They were the same height. "I saw what you did for Teddy. With the centaurs." He gave Harry a nod. "It's exactly what I would've done."

"Really?" Harry felt a rush of relief, one he hadn't expected to need.

"Really." James glanced behind him. "Just don't tell your mum."

Harry let out a laugh, brilliant and shocked, and James grinned at him, looking a dozen years younger and a dozen years older. And it was perfect.

"Dad," said Teddy, a few weeks later. They were lying half-stupid and lazy, full of mince pies, among the Christmas mess in the sitting room. "Can I bring someone to dinner?"

"Sure," said Harry. "Max?"

"No." He hesitated. "Vera. She's in my year at Hogwarts."

Harry's mince-slowed brain chugged on that for a moment, and he carefully didn't react. "Sure," he said. "We're having ham."

Vera was short, beautiful, and heart-stoppingly brilliant. And Harry didn't miss the way Teddy watched her, his eyes shining, flushing red every time she smiled at him.

"She's lovely," he said to Ted the next day. He paused, chewing on the words before he— "You know you can talk to me, right? You can ask me any questions, about anything at all—"

Teddy's face went purple, then so did his hair. "Yeah, I— I know—"

God, Harry had to ask, he had to— "You're being careful, right?"

"Of course," Teddy spluttered. "But we're not— we haven't—"

Harry nodded. "Okay. Don't rush it," he added. "Just do what feels right."

Teddy seemed to calm down. He nodded. "Yeah, Dad. I know." And then, to Harry's surprise, Teddy leaned in and hugged him, burying his face in Harry's shoulder.

Every part of Harry wanted to bite off a teasing comment, but he forced himself to stop. He wrapped his arms around his son and took the moment for what it was.

Harry woke in a flash of blinding agony, spitting fire out of his throat. It was nothing compared to the heat burning in his body, up his leg, down his arm— He thrashed where he was bound, livid and yanking, against a bed— a bed?

Someone was yelling, and the room around him burned a horrible, brilliant white. The pain crested, and Harry arched with it, let out a roar that didn't even feel human. He heard and felt something explode, sparks raining down on his half-naked body. His head was bursting, and he was bursting with it, clawing at his right leg, desperate to rip, to tear—

"Get him out!" A familiar voice, commanding and loud. "Put him under!"

"No," Harry tried to say, the word like acid in his throat. "No, please—"

But then a throttling, inescapable darkness. Harry choked on it, felt it clot in his mouth and his nose and his eyes, then gave in, and knew no more.

When Harry woke again, it was slow, ebbing, his consciousness dragging like mud at the bottom of a river. He tasted salt, and something bitter. He tried to open his eyes, and failed. Then he tried again, gritting his teeth, and succeeded.

He lay in a small, dull room, awash in the patient glow of dusk. Harry's blurred vision took in the formless, softened shapes, and he realized that he was in a bed, and most of his body felt cold, stiff. A thick blanket covered him from feet to chest, and it took him several tries to move his hand.

When he did, he knocked into what seemed to be a little table next to his bed. Something on it rattled and fell to the floor, and then there was movement — The dark lump on top of a white lump shifted, bending to retrieve—

"Here you are, mate." Ron's face, drawn and pale, swam into focus. He unfolded Harry's glasses, leaned in over him, gently slipped them into place on the bridge of Harry's nose.

Harry winced, staring up at him. A soft glow was coming from his left — a lamp, he guessed — and some machinery let out a gentle, steady hum. "Fuck. Am I—?"

Ron nodded. "You're in Mungo's." His eyes were pinched, and his mouth was in a tight, thin line. He reached for the table, poured a cup of water. "Here. I bet you're thirsty."

Harry was — so much so that he didn't care Ron had to hold the cup for him while he fastened his mouth to the straw and drank, long and deep. The water was cold and clarifying, but he still felt fuzzy, muted, sluggish. The water gone, he spat out the straw and said, "I'm on pain potions, aren't I?"

Ron nodded, refilling the cup. "Lots."

That explained it. Harry drank again, slowly this time. His memory blurred and shifted, trying to pull at something that just wasn't coming. "What happened?"

A shade passed over Ron's face, and he squeezed Harry's shoulder. "Not now, mate. You need your rest."

"Fuck rest." He looked at Ron. "What happened?"

Ron winced, glancing at the door. Harry guessed that any moment now, a Healer would be sweeping in and taking over. "A call came in. Hostage situation, some poor blokes out of their minds on something, holding a few shopkeepers for ransom. You…" He sucked in a breath. "You insisted on taking the call, taking the lead. I'm not sure what happened then, you'd have to ask someone on your team… You got the hostages to safety, but things went wrong, at the last moment. You started dueling, and one of them—" He cleared his throat. "One of them sent a Bombarda at your knee."

Ice, settling deep in his veins. Harry's brain chugged and churned, trying to reconcile reality with the fragments of his memory. His hand fumbled, dragging over the blanket to touch one leg, then the other.

Ron noticed. "You kept the leg. Merlin, I've no idea how they managed it, but you kept the leg, Harry." He reached out, his hand hovering over Harry's right knee. "It's this one."

And then, Harry realized that he could feel very little, if anything at all, in his right leg. He gripped his thigh through the blanket, waiting to feel it, but the response never came—

"Shit." Harry sucked in a breath, steadier than he'd expected. "Shit."

"Yeah." Ron nodded. "It's Saturday, by the way. Saturday night."

Harry's mind spun. "I've been unconscious for five days?"

"Something like that." Ron hesitated. "You put up… you put up one hell of a fight when they got you in. They had to sedate you, keep you under while they worked."

And then, Harry tried to sit up "Teddy—"

"Is fine, he's at Hogwarts." Ron met Harry's gaze. "Sally and me, we… we decided not to tell him, not yet."

Harry nodded, letting Ron ease him back down into his pillows. "That's… that's good." He had no idea what he would say, how he would handle seeing Teddy's face, not now, not when he'd done something so stupid, so reckless—

But why had he done it? Why would he have insisted on taking lead? True, they didn't often get hostage situations, but Rutherford could've handled it—

"Did anyone else—?"

Ron shook his head. "Your team's fine. A few minor hex injuries, but nothing like—"

"Like me," Harry finished for him, but before Ron could reply, the door opened and a Healer came into the room.

Harry didn't recognize him, especially not in the low light. He was massive, both wide and tall, and he frowned as he looked at Harry. "Well, Mr. Potter. You woke sooner than we'd expected."

"Don't look at me," said Ron, sitting down in his bedside chair. "He's stubborn."

The Healer snorted softly. "That's a word for it." He glanced at the machinery, slid his wand into his hand. He had an accent — American. "How are you feeling, Mr. Potter?"

"Peachy. What's—?"

"Please refer to the pain management scale provided at the foot of your bed, Mr. Potter."

Harry stared at the Healer, mute with outrage — this was new. He looked at the foot of his bed, and sure enough, hanging there on the other side of his chart was a scale of one to five, with descriptions to aid.

"One and a half," he settled on. "I can't feel much of anything."

The Healer nodded, still taking his vitals. "Good. Now that you're awake, and in stable condition, we can start weaning you off the heavy-hitters."

"Is that why I can't feel my leg? The potions?"

The Healer met his gaze. "In part, yes." He put away his wand, made a note somewhere. "You have no sensation at all, in the limb?"

"None," said Harry, giving his right thigh another squeeze through the blanket to be sure. He steeled himself, asking the question that had been nagging in the back of his mind like a flea. "Have I lost it, then? All the nerves, all the muscle? Am I paralyzed?"

"No, Mr. Potter." The Healer's voice was still grim. "You've suffered significant damage. But you will retain use and function of the limb."

Harry let out a breath and let his head fall back into his pillows. Fuck.

"You were lucky, Mr. Potter. Very lucky." The Healer paused at the foot of his bed. "We can go into greater detail tomorrow. For now, you need to rest."

"I've had enough rest—"

"No, you haven't." A touch of amusement laced the Healer's words. "Trust me."

"Fuck rest," said Harry again, ignoring Ron's blush. "I want a damn burger."

"Noted." The Healer made for the door. "See you in the morning, Mr. Potter."

"God," said Harry, once the door shut. "That one's a treat."

"He was right, Harry. You've had a hell of a week." Ron sat forward. "Maybe try to get some sleep. It can only help."

"Yeah." Harry knew he was sulking like a toddler, but he felt sort of entitled. "You don't have to stay, Ron." He glanced at his friend. "But I appreciate you coming."

Ron snorted. "Sally painted a very clear picture of what would happen if I left you by yourself. So you're stuck with me, mate." He held up his travel chessboard. "Fancy a game?"

"Yeah, why not." And as Harry watched him set up the board, he got the feeling that he was floating at the head of a sudden, sharp plummet.

When Harry woke again, he wasn't alone. He blinked at the person who had taken Ron's seat, who was watching him, motionless.

Harry shifted, groaning when his limbs protested. He was glad he'd slept with his glasses on. "Healer Rutherby. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You're a handful, Harry Potter." She sat up, started taking his vitals. He wondered if it was just a reflex, for Healers. "Thought I might pay you a visit. I know Healer De Santos only gave you the gist of the situation last night."

"Was that his name? De Santos?" Harry's fuzzy brain filed that away. "Why are you here? Potions had nothing to do with it."

"But potions had everything to do with keeping you alive," Healer Rutherby replied, frowning at something before putting her wand away. Then, her hand at his wrist. "Pulse slightly elevated. That might be a reaction to the decreased levels of Dreamless Sleep."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Already? You lot don't waste your time."

Healer Rutherby hummed, thoughtful. "Don't fret, you're still on a dozen other potions."

"A dozen?" Harry repeated. "That seems excessive."

"It's not," Healer Rutherby replied. She met his gaze, and he knew he was in for it now. "Do you remember it? Waking up when you first came in?"

He couldn't lie, not to her. He nodded.

"You were knocked unconscious on-scene, and the Mediwitches gave you a measure of sedative to make sure you wouldn't move during transport. We couldn't risk that, not until we knew the full extent of the damage. But you burned it off in record time." She leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "And you destroyed half the emergency ward when you woke up."

He could remember it — the fire, the sparks.

"Bombarda's a unique curse," she went on. "You were hit with a glancing blow, but it was enough for the magic to enter your bloodstream. Pure energy, trapped in your body. Any other wizard would have died from that alone." She raised an eyebrow. "You just had to vent it."

Harry said nothing. Reliving those scattered moments in the intake ward left his mouth dry and a fresh sweat on his face.

"The regular sedatives weren't enough. You were filtering those just like you were filtering the power of the curse. That's a two-edged sword, for us. We had to find a way to keep you in stasis, and we had to try to pull the rest of the curse out of your body." Healer Rutherby paused, but her gaze did not falter. "The only way we could manage it, Harry, was to block you."

He looked at her, his brain slowly parsing what she meant. "How?"

"Combination of potion work and physio. Doctor Liu was especially helpful in that area." Her gaze tightened, and he realized it was with sympathy. "You're still blocked, to a certain extent. Not as heavily. But you may find…" Her voice trailed off as he raised a hand from his bed.

Harry focused on the overhead light. He tried to turn it on, reaching out with every bit of magic he could muster. When nothing happened, he met her gaze again, let his hand fall to his side.

"For how long?"

Healer Rutherby let out a long sigh. "A few more days, at least. But I would strongly recommend against the use of magic for another week or two, minimum. That part of you has to heal, as well. The curse fried your body inside and out."

"Brilliant." Something welled in his chest, something huge and something awful. Harry looked away, unable to hold her gaze.

"Have you seen it yet? Your injury?"

Harry shook his head.

"Would you like to?"

After a moment, Harry nodded, wiped his nose. "Yeah, let's… let's get it over with."

She stood up, gathered her dark green robes. She reached for the edge of the blanket, folded it back, then reached for the sheet. He knew her hands would be cold to the touch, but he couldn't feel them as she gently pushed up the hem of his hospital gown.

"Take your time." Her voice was gentle, and he hated it.

Harry took a long, shuddering breath, clenched his jaw, and looked down.

His leg no longer looked like a leg. The limb was swollen — a mottled, angry thatch of red and yellow, concentrated around the injury and fading down his calf, up to his hip. But the injury itself was like nothing he'd ever seen before in his life. It licked like flames around the curve of his knee, his lower thigh — the streaks were a stark, brilliant purple, like a deep, new bruise.

Harry reached down before he could stop himself, skating his fingers over the taut purple skin. He didn't feel it in his leg, but against his touch the skin was thick, swollen, with little give.

"Holy shit." He looked at Healer Rutherby. "Do I even have a joint under all that?"

She nodded. "Structurally, your knee is quite whole. We managed to salvage or replace most of the cartilage and bone. The muscle, however, was more of a challenge." She cleared her throat, glancing at his chart. "That's what we're working on now — rebuilding the muscle. The good news for you is that that can happen from the sanctity of your own bed."

"Really?" Harry couldn't hide his surprise. "You're sending me home?"

"A day or two from now, yes." Healer Rutherby made a sound that might have been a snort. "You and I both know it's a fool's errand to keep you here, Potter. Besides…" Her voice softened. "Sometimes it's easier, when you're in a familiar space."

He nodded. "So what… what's the timeline, then?"

"Healer De Santos will take point on that, but last I heard, it'll be a few weeks of bed rest as you wean off the potion regimen. Once your strength starts coming back, we'll get you started on physio. But like I said, that's more Healer De Santos' area."

Harry nodded again. "Physio?"

Here, finally, she smiled, just a bit. "Come on, Harry. There are worse things."

He pretended to mull that over. "Actually, no. There aren't." But he found himself smiling back, because what else could he do?

"You've got three different kinds of soup, two casseroles, and Ron and I will be trading off to come check on you." Sally turned on the spot, hands on her hips, and Harry saw shades of the Critical Care Nurse come out to play. "Now, are you certain about the catheter?"

Harry winced, then nodded. "Yes, I can make it to the toilet." He was just glad he didn't have any problems in that general area.

"Really?" Her gaze was unnervingly piercing. "You sure?"

"Yes, Sal." Harry twisted his sheets in his hands for a moment. "Thank you, again."

She brushed aside his thanks. "Least we can do, you half-raised the kids." But she smiled as she came over and fluffed his pillows. "Remember what Healer De Santos said about pushing yourself too soon—"

"Yeah, I will." The insufferable Healer De Santos. Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes.

Sally paused for a moment, hovering over him. "I know… well, I know it's gonna be a bit shit, detoxing from all those potions."

Harry nodded. He knew it, too.

"So if there's anything, Harry." Her voice was low, fierce. "Anything at all. You call us at once, okay? Even if you just need someone to sit with you."

He nodded again, and after a moment, Sally stepped away.

"See you in the morning, then." She gave him a small smile as she tugged on her coat. "And not too much telly, all right?"

"Right," he echoed.

When she was gone, he listened to the sounds of his cottage. He listened to the brick settle, to the whisper of snow on his windows. He felt the pull of the sheets against his skin, he felt the jitter of his heart and the hum of his skin.

Harry looked out the window at the darkening sky, and felt a part of himself give in.

ada_lovelaced gave me the moose animagus brain rot. this is all their fault.

references to TB in this chapter can be found in chs 9, 13, 14... and probably more lol

thank u for reading 3