c/w for depression, trauma, self-harm, vomiting, unwanted weight loss, mentions of withdrawal
Nothing compared to a spring sunrise. The sun, cracking into the periwinkle sky like a fresh orange, bold and warm and brilliant, spilling over and seething even as it constricted and turned, rolling up the horizon. Then, red became yellow, and periwinkle became blue. Stars and galaxies faded, yawning out of sight, and clouds came running, scudding low and desperate. Harry could see them through the trees, through the windows, through the space between his fingers. He could smell the cold, taste the sandy air of the Thames, hear the tentative birds. He watched the clouds, saw how they ebbed and shrank and grew. Sometimes, they would swell, near-black and oily, and in spite of the sunrise, the day would fold under a blanket of rain.
Harry felt it now, in his leg. The rain. He would press his hand to the ruddy-hot skin, sweat clotting his brow, and think, I grow old, I grow old.
He didn't know how many days had passed like this. He watched the clouds, watched the sky boil blue and turn gray, and gripped his right knee hard enough that he felt something.
"Harry— Harry—" A voice, frayed with worry. A hand on his, gently pulling at his fingers, then harder when he wouldn't budge. "You're drawing blood—"
He didn't feel the bandages, or the worried look Ron sent his way. He watched the sun become the moon, and the moon become the sun, and all the blank skies that filtered between.
Soon enough, the fevers became unbearable. They gripped him, toyed with him, teased and licked at him. Harry dreamed and woke, then dreamed awake.
He put his hand to Tom Riddle's twisted face, swallowed Moony's electric eye, listened to the warbling song of Gryffindor's sword. He felt the Forbidden Forest swaying under his feet, he tasted rotten leaves, he reached for the Elder Wand and forced it beneath the surface of his skin, watched it bloom ivory-thick and green. He grew, his roots stretching into the depths of Gringotts, where goblins whispered Khuzdul in his ear and poured molten copper between his feet. Bend me, he hissed in Parseltongue, the words like mint and silver in his mouth. Warp me. Unmake me.
The dreams worsened as Doctor Liu's work faded, as magic began to seep back into his body like mud, pooling and catching in his joints. Never had Harry been more aware of the power in his body; never had he been less awake, or more asleep. He closed his eyes, watched the sparks, lifted his hands, and let it swim.
Those, of course, were the good moments.
On the third or the fourth night — he couldn't remember which — Harry wrenched himself out of bed and stumbled, half-crawling, half-sobbing, to the toilet, where he heaved and retched until stars exploded in front of his eyes. Dripping in cold sweat, he curled around the toilet, shivering and burning, his hair falling in his eyes, and blinked back tears. "Remus, don't leave— please, don't leave—"
"I'm here, Harry—" A hand, cold but firm on his brow. "Let's get you—"
"Remus," he managed, but then another wave took him, and he moaned over the toilet, his eyes slipping shut. The hands disappeared, and when he caught his breath, he let out a sound that he didn't recognize. "You said you wouldn't leave—"
A hum, kicking in the air. Then, suddenly, every light and appliance in the bathroom surged on, illuminating a stricken but familiar face—
"Sally," Harry mumbled, her name thick on his tongue. "Where's Remus?"
And then the whole world went black.
"This can't go on, mate." Ron looked so much older now, when he was worried. "You need to talk to us, you need to…" Get out of bed, he didn't say.
Harry didn't think about all the unanswered messages from Seymour chirping in his Floo, on his mobile. In fact, he hadn't looked at his mobile in days.
Ron followed Harry's gaze, saw that it landed on his cane. It was wooden, but lighter than plastic. A Mungo's special. "I know." Ron reached for it, rubbed his thumb against the grain. "I know you don't want to use it. But you need to face it, Harry. Things have changed. Your body's changed. And the longer you wait," he added, "the harder it is to start." He paused. "Teddy's asking about you. He saw the papers, he's worried."
Harry closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the light had shifted, and Ron was gone. In his place was a tray with a steaming bowl of soup, a hunk of bread, a few apple slices.
He ate a little. It was getting easier to keep food down. And he looked out the window, at the mellow late-afternoon light. A robin alighted on a nearby branch, cheerful and chirping.
When he woke again several hours later, drenched in sweat and panting with relief, Harry shoved his dripping hair out of his eyes and reached for the damn cane.
He could walk, technically. But bending his knee was almost impossible, and putting weight on his leg was awful. Harry hobbled away from his bed, one small, shuffling step at a time, wincing at the pain that ricocheted through his body, and into the bathroom. He switched on the light.
"I look like a ghoul."
Stubble, half an inch thick, on his chin and his cheeks. His eyes, pupils blown, shadowed violet and grim. His face, pale and lined with exhaustion. His body, pinched and pallid, shining. He'd lost weight and muscle, even though it had only been—
Harry leaned forward, easing off his right leg and bracing himself against the sink. His hair was lank, filthy, caked in sweat and grease. From one moment to the next, he made up his mind, and reached into the cabinet.
An hour later, Sally paused in the doorway to his bedroom and called out, "Harry?"
"In here," he called back, his voice echoing against the tile.
When she came to the bathroom, she jumped, her hand smacking against the light switch. "Jesus Christ!"
Harry grinned up at her, or tried to. He was slumped against the tub, clumps of hair stuck to his chest, his hands, his neck, the floor. "My leg went into spasm and I fell. I haven't been able to—"
"Harry!" She knelt beside him and immediately started checking him for new injuries, her hands deft and quick. "What have you done to your hair?!"
"I was fed up with it," he said, which was true. "Sorry about the mess, I tried to do a cleaning charm and—" He gestured to the burn mark on his cabinet.
Sally tsked. Apparently satisfied he hadn't broken anything, she sat back and frowned at him. "Well, I'm glad to see you out of bed. How are you feeling?"
"Yeah, okay. A little shaky, obviously." He tapped his knee. "How do I look?"
Her face did something he didn't understand. "Will it grow back?"
A laugh caught in his throat. "Yeah, it will."
"And with the beard…" Sally shook her head. "I dunno, Harry, you look a bit intense."
"Good," he started to say, then the pain spiked and he jerked with it. "Fuck!"
Sally muttered something under her breath and reached for him. "Let's get you cleaned up. Come on, put your weight on your left leg, and lean on me."
"Sally," he managed, even as he obeyed her, "I don't think Ron would want you seeing my short and curlies—"
She rolled her eyes. "You can keep your pants on, you lunatic. Now get in the tub."
As the fevers subsided, the dreams stopped, and his magic settled in. Harry tested it, without his wand at first, and didn't even bother with spells. He just tried to turn switches, fold paper, levitate an apple. The power was the same as before — frothing insistent and ready, just beneath his skin — but impatient, determined. As if it wanted to make up for lost time.
Harry sympathized. He started eating more, walking around more, even braving the stairs once, which turned out to be a phenomenal mistake. Ron found him lying in the kitchen and bellowing like a bull, and had to Apparate him back to his bed.
Bed. His prison, his sanctuary, his torment. Late one night, surrounded by an inky blackness, Harry stared up at the ceiling and wondered.
And then, much to his surprise, he found himself transformed into his moose form.
A startled bleat hardly left his mouth before the bed shuddered and collapsed beneath his colossal weight. Harry lay there, his enormous limbs tingling, and let out a loud, begrudging grunt. Well… at least he could still transform.
When Sally came in the next morning and caught him in the middle of repairing the bed, she met his gaze and said, "Do I want to know?"
"No," said Harry, pocketing his wand.
"Teddy will be here soon." She smiled. "Let's get you dressed up."
A half hour later, Teddy stepped out of the sitting room fireplace, took one look at Harry, closed the distance between them, and buried him in a hug. Harry clung to him with his free arm, rocking a little on his cane, and let his eyes slip shut for just a second.
They stood like that for a while, silent and clinging, until finally, Teddy pulled away, gripping Harry's shoulder, his eyes shining. "You're okay."
"Yes, Ted." Harry squeezed his arm. "I'm sorry you couldn't see me sooner." I wasn't in any shape to be seen, he thought.
"I understand." Teddy's throat worked. "You were ill." Then— "What happened?"
"It was an accident," Harry said, which was partly true. "I made a mistake. But I'm getting better, Ted. Really."
Teddy nodded, setting his jaw. "A mistake?"
"Sort of, yeah."
"You were in Mungo's."
Harry nodded. "Yes. For about a week, all told. But I was unconscious for most of it."
Teddy looked stricken. "A week?" He turned to Sally. "You said—"
"Teddy." Harry waited until Teddy met his gaze. "Please don't be angry with them. They did what they thought was best, and they didn't want to make any decisions until I was awake. And… I didn't want to tell you right away, not until I knew the extent of the situation."
He watched Teddy take that in. He was starting to look like an adult now, sharp and wary. "And what is it? The extent of the situation?"
"Well…" Harry took a breath, steeled himself. "I can still walk, sort of. I have to rebuild a lot of muscle in my leg, and do some strength training." He offered a weak smile. "Basically, I've got a load of physio to get through."
Teddy watched him, waiting. "That's all?"
Harry nodded. "That's all, really. Mungo's did amazing work."
"You didn't—?" Teddy frowned. "You didn't take a curse to the head or something?"
Harry blinked. He hadn't expected that. "No."
"Then why were you unconscious for so long?"
Harry's hands started to shake. His mind churned, regurgitating those few, terrible moments he'd been awake before the Healers had put him under. Behind Teddy, he saw a worried look pass over Sally's face. But he could handle this. "They, uh… they had to do that. To keep me sedated. In order to get me to heal properly."
Teddy's eyes went huge. "Really?"
"Yes." Then— "I'm sorry, Ted. I'm really, really sorry."
Teddy hugged him again, and when he spoke, his voice was low and fierce. "Next time, you tell me. I need to know, even if it's bad. Have them send me a Floo or an owl or a bloody text, I don't care. But I need to know."
Harry nodded, squeezing him tight. "Okay."
After a moment, Teddy spoke into his shoulder. "I like your beard."
Harry laughed then, and felt something in his chest go easy.
"Come on, harder." Healer De Santos' face was set, grim. "You need to really kick—"
"I am bloody kicking, you buffoon—"
"You're paddling, Potter." De Santos swatted at Harry's foot under the surface, his enormous hand creating a small wave. "Kick."
Harry spluttered, nearly gagging on the chlorinated water. He churned his right leg, focused on keeping the movement steady and controlled. And slowly, but surely, the rest of his body began to float.
De Santos nodded, and his barrel-sized chest nodded with him. "Better."
After a few minutes of this general torture, De Santos said, "Rest a moment." He waded over to the side of the pool, and reached for something. Something purple and foamy. "Now you can use this."
Harry glared at him. "Are you joking? Have you had that the whole time?"
De Santos ignored him and handed him the buoyancy belt. "Put it around your waist. We're going to the deep end."
"Oh, are we?" Harry bit out, buckling the damn belt all the same. "Bloody brilliant."
De Santos looked at him for a moment. "You know, even growing up in Puerto Rico, they told us stories about the Chosen One."
Harry couldn't hide his surprise, or his horror. "Did they?"
De Santos nodded, heading for the deep end. Half the water moved along with him. "I thought many things. How brave the Chosen One must be, and how wise. But I never thought he'd be such a little bitch." And he cut Harry a sudden, wily grin.
Harry gaped at him, then swallowed a laugh and shoved at the water, sending a wave splashing over De Santos' face.
A pause. A tense, quiet moment. Then De Santos looked at him, and calmly raised his arms, then brought them down to smack the surface of the water.
"Oh, shit—" Harry tried to dive under, but he couldn't, not with the belt. Which meant that he took a three-foot wave straight to the face.
When he emerged, spluttering, his nose burning, De Santos said, "Come. You have exercises to learn."
Later, when Harry was so worn out he could barely move, De Santos joined him where he sat at the edge of the pool and said, "You are making good progress. But you have to keep working."
Harry winced as he tried to bend his right leg. Things were so much easier, in the water. "You're from Puerto Rico?"
De Santos nodded. "I moved here for the weather, obviously."
"Is this your specialty, then? Knees and waterboarding?"
"Yes. But the waterboarding is a special treat." He watched Harry try to bend his leg again and tsked. "Give it here. I will show you a massage." And without waiting for an answer, he reached out and took Harry's right leg in his massive paw. Then his fingers flexed, and Harry fought the urge to punch him in the face.
"Jesus fucking Christ—" He scrabbled midair, gripped De Santos' monolithic shoulder. The man was somehow even stronger than he looked.
"You can do this with a cricket ball," said De Santos, as if he were still discussing the weather. "Or a tennis ball, if you are being a bitch."
Harry let out a thoroughly embarrassing whine. A few of the other swimmers at the Nottingham County Pool turned to glance at him askance. But the feeling — it was like agony and relief all rolled into one—
"And don't overdo it," De Santos went on. "A minute or two is enough."
"A minute?" Harry laughed a derisive, pained laugh. "Get off me, you big—"
De Santos did something final and wonderful to his knee, then shoved him into the water.
"Seriously?" Teddy's face hovered in the handheld mirror; Harry caught a flash of his hazel eyes, and a familiar stone ceiling. "David Attenborough?"
"It's calming," Harry gritted out as he raised his leg. An elastic band was wrapped around his foot, and he let out a gush of air as his hamstring stretched. Not his best angle. "I could use a bit of calm right now." On his TV, penguins flapped and honked at each other.
Teddy shook his head. His earrings flashed. "That's no excuse. You're such a nerd."
"Maybe." Harry forced himself to watch a penguin select a pebble. "Have you heard about this? How some penguins build nests for their soulmates, out of stones?"
"Don't get any ideas," said Teddy, but before Harry could do anything other than splutter, he swore and said, "Flitwick's coming, talk to you later—"
And the connection ended. Harry stared at the mirror, wondering when Teddy had decided to become such a little shit.
Later, as Harry worked his way through a corner of chocolate and watched jellyfish migrate, he thought that maybe Ted had a point. He couldn't very well bury himself in nature docs until the end of time. Isis was perched on her stand by the window, nibbling at her seed cake. Outside, dusk had ebbed into night, and the waves glittered where they reflected on the glass. It made his sitting room feel like a huge aquarium.
Harry lay back, sinking into the cushions. His couch was just as indulgent as his bed, and nearly as comfortable to sleep on. He watched a whale swim past the jellyfish, speckled and slow, and when he raised his hand in front of his face, his fingers were webbed.
"Gillyweed," he said, the word bubbling and muted in his ears. Harry looked down, and saw that he was floating in the water beside the whale. He kicked out, his webbed feet propelling him through the current, and tasted salt. He looked up, and saw the sun above the rippling water. He looked down, and saw the reef.
Pinks, yellows, oranges, purples. A Mars bar sat between a brain coral and an anemone. As he paddled past, whale song in his ears, he saw Teddy's Legos sitting down to dinner among the seaweed. Then, George and John Frederick, trading toy broomsticks. "This one," said George, "has the airspeed velocity of an unladen sparrow."
A pile of pirate gold, buried among fluffy white towels. More kinds of fish, dazzling in the blue water, than he knew how to name. He watched a seahorse dance around a hammerhead shark, and saw a diver's helmet go floating down between the coral. Harry paused, then kicked out, following it.
A crease, a fissure — a deep, swallowing darkness. The helmet glinted in the remaining sunlight before it vanished, descending into the dark. He followed, and the water got warmer.
Darkness, and then a pinprick of light. Harry swam toward it, curious but not afraid, and felt it grow towards him.
He walked into a large room, his feet echoing on the bare wooden floor. Harry paused, glancing around, and realized that he was in the Records Hall at the Ministry. The E-F wing. Shelves loomed in rows and towers, high above his head and well past his line of vision. Ladders, suspended on their tracks in front of the shelves, moved of their own accord in slow, steady silence. And then, he heard it.
A footfall, a murmur. He turned, caught a flash of red. A laugh, echoing down the row, and he followed it.
As he passed the shelves, he noticed the coral and the seaweed blooming between the files, on the books. Harry brushed his fingers against an urchin and watched it shrink. He glanced to his left, and saw a school of moon jellies keeping pace with him.
There, again— a flash of red.
Harry chased it, bubbles popping on his teeth. He halted at the end of the row, and took in the sight before him.
Hermione — in the crimson dress from the Christmas party, wearing the same sneakers she'd always kept tucked in her bag when she needed to take off her heels. He'd caught her in them once, late one night when he'd taken a detour through the Records Hall. She'd been neck-deep in files, her hair twisted away from her face, and she hadn't noticed him slip past.
She noticed him now. She turned, raised an eyebrow. "Found me, then?"
Harry forced himself to move, and soon, he was close enough to see her freckles. "Were you looking for something?"
Hermione sighed, reaching to cup the side of his head. The second she touched him, his skin burned. "You," she whispered, then smiled, and leaned in.
Harry fell into her with a gasp, his hands clutching at her hips. Her mouth, supple and warm beneath his, let out a sigh as he licked past her lips, slid his tongue across her teeth. She tasted like coffee, sweet and bitter all at once, and when she raked a hand through his hair, he trembled.
"Don't be gentle."
Like an ember, they caught flame between one moment and the next. He licked a stripe up her neck, bit the bolt of her jaw and pushed her up against a ladder, tasting her gasp and feeling her hands as they skated across his back. Her mouth, wild and wet and wonderful, catching on his forehead, his cheek, his ear. His hand, tangling in her silky hair and pulling until her mouth met his.
Their kiss was messy, perfect, full of teeth. And when she tugged at his clothing, it vanished.
Harry moaned, getting his hands under the hem of that damn dress, burying his face in her chest. Her skin — blistering hot, silky, tense — was like butter to the touch, and he tongued at the swell of her breasts, the dip of her collarbone. He felt and heard her breath hitch, and he chased it, yanking at the straps of her dress, pulling them down her arms until her breasts spilled over the fabric, her nipples hard and dark in the glowing yellow light. Hermione let out a sound of desperation and arched towards him. He fell into her, sucking and lapping until she keened. And then, she reached up, gripped the rung above her head, and hitched her legs up around his hips.
Surprise overcame him, warring with a desire so overwhelming he nearly blacked out. Harry pressed his bare cock into the flesh of her thigh, and he reached for her left leg, getting it up on his shoulder. Her shoe fell off, clattering to the floor, but none of it mattered because Hermione met his gaze and held it as he sank into her body.
A tight, wet, overwhelming heat. Harry shook as he fucked into her, gripping her hips hard enough to feel her ricocheting pulse through his fingers. The world had narrowed to the space between them, tense and perfect, and around them, the jellyfish ebbed, pooling them in a warm blue glow. Hermione's face flushed a delicious red as her swollen mouth fell open on a strangled moan, and she rolled her hips, matching him thrust for thrust. He could feel every inch of her as she clenched around him, and he reached out, tweaking her nipple, tugging at the long hair that spilled over her shoulder, over her breasts—
"Oh, Harry—" Her voice, clear as a bell— Hermione's eyes slitted open before rolling shut. "Harry, I'm going to—"
Harry woke like a shot, gasping into the darkness, his cock leaking through the thin fabric of his pajamas. His head thumping, his heart roaring, it was all he could do to put his hand to himself and squeeze. A moan came cracking out of his throat and he closed his eyes, chasing the sound of her, the feeling, even if it hadn't been real— He shoved a hand under his waistband, stroked himself once, twice—
Harry came with a grunt and a gasp, spilling onto his bare stomach as sparks exploded in his chest, his head, his belly. He slumped into the cushions, dazed, bathed in the glow of his television, where hundreds of jellyfish ebbed in the current. Time passed while he lay there, slowly coming down from one of the best orgasms he'd had in months.
"Right," he said eventually, his voice thin. "That's back to normal, then."
"Teddy's home tomorrow," he said, smiling.
Seymour smiled in return. "Are you ready for your trip?"
"Think so." It was the first time Harry was traveling, properly traveling. He'd had to learn a bunch of spells to pack his suitcases, even though they were only going to Brittany.
"And how are you feeling?"
"Good, yeah." He nodded, rubbing at his knee through his jeans. He wasn't using the cane anymore, and the pain had died down to a simmer. "Really good. Ready for a change of pace."
Seymour hummed, tilting her head to one side. They sat in silence for several moments, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft.
"You know, Harry… We've talked a lot, these past few months, about your injury, and your time in Mungo's, and your time at home… We've talked about your compulsion to take unnecessary risks, and how to cope with those feelings. But we've never talked about what made you engage in that duel when you had the option of walking away."
His mouth went dry as sand. He could only look at her, and wait.
"You knew what you were walking into," Seymour continued. "You knew that you had a son, and a career, and a healthy body. Why did you feel a need to push the ticket?" Her eyes, steely. "Was it the compulsion? Or something else?"
Another silence, echoing in Harry's ears, vibrating beneath his heartbeat. And an internal chorus of Shit, shit, shit. Because he'd known that someday, someone would ask.
"I was curious," she went on. "I pulled the Prophet records for the two weeks prior to your incident. Just to check." She paused again. "And I saw the announcement in the personal pages."
"Well." He flashed a bitter smile. "You've outdone half my recruits, there."
"Harry." And now her voice was soft with sympathy. "Tell me what happened."
"You know what happened," he bit out. "So why ask?"
"Were you angry? With her, with yourself?"
"Yes," he said, then, "No. I just— I just needed to do something, I needed to get out of the office, to get my mind off of—" The memory, burning raw and brilliant, of Wilkes' surprised face when Harry had insisted on taking lead. "And it was fine, until it wasn't."
Seymour nodded. "It worked, until it didn't." Still, that sympathy. "Have you spoken to her since then?"
Harry smiled again. "No. She knew what happened, but she didn't—" Another memory surfaced, of his first week back at the Ministry. Passing Hermione in the hall. Her gaze, darting to his leg, then to his face. Her cheeks flooding red, and her eyes sliding away. "We've had meetings, obviously. And everything's the same as it was."
"Do you wish it were different?"
Harry paused, glancing at the rosy sunset reflected in the window. "Does it matter?"
People had been telling him for years that he'd redefined history. Harry had always brushed the words aside, unconvinced that they were true. And never had he been more certain of his own insignificance than when he watched the tides shifting around Hermione Granger.
He wasn't sure when it happened — if it was one day to the next. Sometimes, the world did change that quickly. Sometimes, it didn't. And he didn't know if this was something people actually talked about, if it happened in words or memos or looks. Is it a curse? he wondered, watching Hermione sweep into a conference room. If they say it aloud, will it ruin everything?
So he waited. He watched as Hermione made up her mind. And he watched as everyone else started to notice.
Harry looked up at the sound of the lock. He watched, through the plush darkness, as Teddy not-so-silently snuck into the front hall, gently shutting the door behind him. The moonlight cutting through the sitting room window illuminated his curly hair, his sleek profile. Teddy bent down, toed off his boots, and caught his weight against the coat rack.
Then, Harry cleared his throat.
Teddy jumped, flailing like a spooked colt and smacking his hand against the hall table. He let out a garbled swear word, hissing with pain, and jabbed the light switch. The entryway flooded with light, and he stared up at Harry, agape. Harry looked back at him, unimpressed.
"You're shit at sneaking in." Harry was sitting against the wall, suspended in mid-air above the staircase, his good leg tucked up under his bum. A flashy stakeout habit, from back in the day. "I could hear you from all the way down the street."
"Dad." Teddy blinked at him. "Are you Spider-Man?"
"One o'clock, I said." Harry raised an eyebrow. "It's a quarter past two, young man."
Teddy blushed; he was an easy read, with a few pints in him. "Max had this bet—"
"Max is lucky he can still tell up from down." Harry broke his spell, dropped through the air, and landed with most of his weight on his good leg. He walked up to Ted, watched him gulp. "Do I have to say it?"
Teddy shook his head. "I'm grounded 'til Hogwarts, I know."
"Good." Harry leaned in. "How shitfaced are you?"
He frowned, seemed to think about it for a moment. "Not very."
"Good," Harry repeated. "So you'll remember it when I tell you that I'd better not catch you again."
Teddy nodded, cowed.
"Teddy," Harry said, louder now. He waited until Teddy met his gaze. "I said I'd better… not catch you… again."
It took a moment, then Teddy grinned. "Got it."
Harry grinned back. "Come on. Let's have some ice cream."
"You seem better. More settled."
"Really?" Harry looked up at Saira. He was perched on a stool, in the middle of peeling a mountain of potatoes. "You think?"
She nodded, and slid a cup of chai onto the worktop beside them. He took a sip as she sat down beside him, blowing the steam off her own cup. "Do you need a better chair?"
"Nah," he said. The tea was incredible, as always, and offered them a patch of quiet in the chaotic rumble of the soup kitchen. "This is fine." Harry watched some of the others start setting up the buffet line. Saira noticed, and squeezed his arm.
Harry shot her a smile. "It's all right. It's just weird, you know? Never thought I'd miss being on my feet."
"Take it a day at a time," she said. "Soon enough, you'll be able to stand for hours, and you won't even notice it."
That was some wishful thinking. But he said, "You have such faith in me."
Saira nodded. "I do. And so should you."
"I think she's gonna do it," said Ron, late one night after all the kids were in bed. He and Harry were sitting in Ron's half-darkened kitchen, finishing their beer and listening to the house settle in. "I really think she's gonna do it."
"And she should," Harry said with a nod. "I think Kingsley's a bit fed up with it all."
Ron smiled. "Who'd have thought, eh? When we were back in that damned tent?"
"I wasn't thinking much," Harry replied. "Except about how I was going to die."
Ron snorted. "Don't be morbid."
"It's weird, isn't it?" Harry shook his head. "We've done so much, but we're still so young."
"Are we?" Ron thumped a hand on his belly. "I don't feel like it, mate."
The announcement came a week later, and Harry, along with hundreds of other employees, watched as Hermione crossed a stage mounted in the Atrium and shook Kingsley's hand. The hall exploded with cheers and applause, and he saw her bury a look of surprise. She didn't expect this, he thought, clapping while she waved at the crowd.
Harry looked at the dusty Santa figurine perched on the greasy windowsill and wondered why he got himself into these kinds of situations.
"And then I told him where he could shove his bloody risk reports—"
"Dan," said Harry, clapping him on the shoulder. "Another round?"
Dan, the father of one of Teddy's friends, blinked at him for a few moments before he nodded. "That's very kind of you, Harry." His sweaty, red face was so earnest. "Very kind."
"No worries." Harry smiled, and made his escape.
The pub, Harry's local haunt, wasn't too crowded, in spite of how close they were to Christmas. Harry had been here enough times to know that he couldn't be seen from the back room if he kept to the left end of the bar. So he skulked into the corner, and let Vic, the barman, get him a fresh pint.
"And a scotch," he added, and Vic grinned.
The door to the pub opened, and Harry looked up as a group of people came bundling in from the cold. They were younger than he was, and when he caught sight of a familiar face, his heart plummeted to his feet.
"Fuck," Harry muttered into his scotch, and downed half of it in one swallow.
Silas saw him, because of course he did. But it was several minutes before he wandered over, slinking into the seat beside Harry like a cat.
"Season's greetings."
"How the fuck are you here?" Harry swirled his scotch. "We're in Barnes."
Silas shrugged. "One of my friends is in a show around the corner. At the variety theater. I'll have what he's having," he said to Vic.
"Oh, Jesus," Harry said to Vic, who chuckled.
"Why are you here?" said Silas, then his gaze caught the packed back room. "Ah. Friends of yours? Or enemies, if you're over here sulking."
"I'm not sulking." Harry polished off his scotch with a grimace. "It's a… I dunno, a mixer. Teddy and his mates put it together, for Christmas. And they invited the parents."
Silas grinned. "Oh, that is priceless. Harry Potter, domestic edition."
"Get away from me."
"Never." Silas sipped his scotch. "That's not bad, actually." Then— "You look well."
"I what?"
Silas had the grace to look a bit flustered. "Well, I hadn't seen you in person since the…" He recovered, managed a humorless smile. "Those articles weren't fun to write."
"Oh." Of course. Silas had handled all the Prophet's coverage of Harry's accident.
They sat there for a moment, stewing in the past eight months.
"But you look all right." His smirk was back. "All things considered."
"I am all right," Harry replied, before he could catch himself. He met Silas' gaze for a moment. "I am."
Silas, too, seemed unnerved by this confession. "For what it's worth," he said, red tingeing his cheekbones, "I never actually wanted you to die."
Harry smiled, and it was genuine. "Silas. I'm touched."
"I…" Silas gave his scotch a self-deprecating smile. "I was worried about you, when we got the news from the DMLE."
"I'm sure," Harry said. "Your best inside source nearly flatlined."
"Well, it was…" Silas met his gaze. Then, for just a moment, his eyes dropped to Harry's mouth. "It was a bit more than that."
Harry's heart thudded against his ribs like a jackhammer. He looked at Silas, then looked away. "Si—"
"Don't worry." Again, that grin, but it was easy, unbothered. "I know I haven't got a chance. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see the torch you're carrying for a certain Counselor."
And now, the earth, dropping from beneath his feet. Harry looked at him again.
Silas was still grinning, and he finished his scotch. "You've never said a word against her, Harry. Not when it's counted. You've built fences around her and her work for years now. No one dares challenge it. And by some miracle, she hasn't noticed." He stood up, dropped a fiver on the bar. "You should tell her how you feel, before she figures it out."
All Harry could offer him was a nod.
"See you around." Silas winked and wandered back to his friends.
Harry looked at Vic, tapped his empty glass. He would take whatever courage he could get.
Teddy received his job offer a few weeks after Valentine's. He called Harry in a fit, hardly able to get the words out of his mouth, blushing as his hair changed from green to pink to violet.
"Why are you freaking out?" said Harry with a grin. "You've known for years—"
"Well, I knew, but I didn't know—" Teddy flung himself onto his bed, his face rocking within the mirror. "I thought they'd want more NEWTs—"
"Why would they? You aced your OWLs and you've been interning with them for ages."
"Stop doing that." Teddy rubbed his face. "The logic thing. It isn't helping."
In July, as Harry watched him walk across a stage mounted on the Hogwarts lawn, he blinked back tears and knew exactly what Teddy meant.
Sally noticed, because of course she did. She leaned in and murmured, "You'll always have him, Harry. Even when he isn't here."
He sucked in a breath, grinning and clapping because Teddy looked their way. "I know."
When the ceremony had ended, they clustered at one end of the lawn. "Well done, mate." Ron clapped Teddy on the shoulder, pulled him into a hug. "Really well done."
"Thanks." Teddy was ruddy, beaming in his freshly-pressed graduate robes. "It's weird, having it all be over." He looked back at the castle. "I can't believe I'm leaving."
"You'll get used to it," said Ron. "And you'll always miss it."
Teddy chuckled, but Harry saw the flicker of unease beneath his expression. When the conversation shifted, Teddy glanced over his shoulder, at the pair of oak trees on the top of the hill.
Later, when they were getting ready to leave, Harry waited until he and Teddy were left to themselves for a moment. "I already spoke to Minerva," he said. "And we've sorted things out. You're free to come back here whenever you want, to be with them."
Teddy looked at him, naked surprise showing on his face. "Really?"
"Yes." Harry nodded. "Really." He smiled. "Now go get your things."
As Teddy darted off, Harry looked back at the castle and, in spite of the goodbyes echoing in his ears, got the feeling that he and Hogwarts weren't quite finished yet.
Teddy had a month before his departure. A month of movie marathons at the local cinema, a month of pub nights and kitchen sink cookies and a cake that somehow turned out purple. And then one morning, Harry knocked on Teddy's bedroom door, laundry basket in his grip, and said, "I need your whites."
A loud thud, then a strangled gasp of pain.
"Teddy?" Harry frowned. He wouldn't normally think of going in without Teddy's permission, but— "Are you okay?"
"Yes, Dad, I'm fine—" Another thud, another gasp, followed by a curse.
That did it. Harry opened the door, walked in, and stopped short at the sight before him.
"Oh, uh—" Harry cleared his throat. "Morning."
"Dad," wheezed Teddy, where he was hunched, rubbing his head. In a flash, Harry understood — Teddy had toppled out of bed, banged his shoulder on the chest of drawers, then knocked his head into the wall. He'd toppled out, apparently, because his bed was occupied by Vera and Max, who seemed to be quite naked under the blankets. They stared at Harry, horror-struck.
Harry felt something within him come unhinged. "Sorry. I'll just—"
"Please, Dad—"
"There's coffee," he said, one foot out the door, laundry basket hitched on his hip. "And toast and bacon, in case any of you—"
"Dad!"
"I'll just go for a walk then," Harry said. "Take your time, have a shower—"
Teddy slammed the door in his face.
An hour later, Harry came into the cottage through the back door, stomped his feet, cleared his throat, and whistled a string of Zeppelin.
Teddy appeared, sulking. His face was still red, and his hair was such a dark blue it was almost black. "You don't have to do that. They've gone."
"Okay." Harry tried very hard not to grin. "A good night, was it?"
"God, shut up."
"Sorry, sorry." He didn't want to push the mortification too far. "I only came in because I thought you'd hurt yourself, you know I wouldn't—"
"Yeah." Teddy nodded. "Yeah, I know." He glanced at Harry. "Are you… are you angry?"
Harry took a deep breath. "No, not really. But you know how I feel about unannounced guests. I know you're eighteen, and you're an adult, but this is my home, and if you have someone… or some people… over, please tell me. You know I won't mind."
Teddy nodded, looking relieved.
"At the very least, I'll make sure we have enough eggs—"
That did it. Teddy flung a hex at Harry's face. Harry blocked it, got him in a Body-Bind, and sat on him.
"Gerroff me—"
"I'm happy for you, Ted." Harry smiled down into Teddy's face, which was getting more purple by the second. "As long as you're happy." A beat. "God, but your Defense work is shit."
"Dad—"
"Get up. You're coming with me to the office." He stood, using his good leg, and flicked a Finite over Teddy.
Teddy pulled himself to his feet, mutinous. "Why?"
"Because," said Harry, "you need to know how to duel."
Teddy rolled his eyes. "I know how to duel—"
"I mean properly, you pillock." Harry ruffled his hair. "Come on, get your boots." As Teddy huffed and obeyed, he said, his voice quiet, "What's the plan for you three, with you leaving?"
Teddy didn't look at him. He kept his gaze on his feet and said, "Nothing, not with Vera going to Beijing and Max going to New York. We're just… taking what we can get, while we can."
A beat passed. Then Harry reached down, squeezed his shoulder. Teddy nodded, and no more was said about it.
Teddy left for South Africa, spinning away on his Portkey, and Harry couldn't think about it, about saying goodbye or the quiet cottage or any of it. Instead, he kept working, kept watching, but it wasn't as if he had a choice. Hermione's campaign was like a force of nature — impossible to stop, absolute, and deafening. Everywhere he went, Harry heard conversations about policy and budgets and legal rights. He listened, and he realized that Hermione had done something improbable — for the first time in years, she'd ignited a spark in Wizarding Britain.
Late at night, Harry would indulge. He would revel in seeing history unfold right before his eyes. He would think how proud he was to have known Hermione Granger before she became Minister for Magic. And how proud he was of himself for not cursing Octavius Crane into oblivion.
But Hermione gave in to Crane's sly needling, or his outright disrespect. She took it in stride, with a grace that left Harry with weak knees and a dry mouth. She would pass by him, or face him across a conference table, and he would have to remind himself to breathe.
Power suited her, because of course it did.
So no one was more startled than him when the news broke.
GRANGER CALLS OFF ENGAGEMENT — TROUBLE IN PARADISE?
She never showed it. She walked through the halls as if nothing had happened, as if a change in heart hardly mattered at all.
Harry heard the rumors, the whispers, but didn't know what was true and what was false. He did know that Malcolm left the Ministry, taking some kind of deeply boring financial job in Switzerland. He did know that Ron was useless, offering him little more than a baffled shrug and a look of relief.
And Harry refused to admit that it made some kind of difference. He refused to acknowledge the kernel of hope that had bloomed in his chest, that glowed every time she looked at him, every time she frowned at him. He didn't want to think about what might grow between them, to bridge the yawning void—
Possibility.
Harry reached into the oven, whipped out a white-hot tureen of lamb pilaf. Behind him, Teddy let out a low whistle from the mirror.
"Who's gonna eat all this food?" Teddy's face hovered between two trays of apple turnovers and a huge pile of fresh roti. "Is there an army hiding in the house?"
"No," Harry said, shifting two pots and a suspicious-looking ladle to make room for the tureen. "I'm just—"
"Spinning out, yeah." Teddy yawned. "When do the results—?"
"They're called at midnight," Harry replied, knowing without glancing at the clock that they still had four hours to go.
Teddy hummed. "You voted early, didn't you?"
"No."
"Yes, you did, you big idiot."
Harry grimaced, rubbing his knee. He was overdoing it. "You voted, right?"
"Yeah, by owl."
"Good." Harry nodded. "Yeah, that's… good…"
"Harry." Teddy's eyes were sleepy, but warm. It was definitely past his bedtime. "Calm down. She's going to win."
But what if she doesn't? Harry couldn't bring himself to say. He couldn't bear to imagine the Ministry under Crane's rule.
But then, as it turned out, he didn't have to worry.
If Hermione had been captivating before, now she was nothing short of magnetic.
Harry lost himself a bit as she walked into the room full of the Ministry's highest-ranking officials for the first time as their Minister for Magic. It was still strange, to find himself counted among their number — strange, yet somehow fitting. So many of these officials, even now, with all of Kingsley's changes, had never been in a real fight, had only known danger to be something abstract and unrelated to their lives. It did bother Harry sometimes, but it didn't now, not when Hermione turned towards the room, basking in the deluge of cheers and applause, her face bright and pink with delight. Harry didn't expect her to notice him, didn't expect her gaze to lock on his and for that look, that overwhelming look of surprise, to flit across her features.
She wore her hair long and sleek now, pulled back into a ponytail that kissed the bottom edge of her shoulder blades. And Harry had no idea who had taken over her wardrobe — her campaign manager, maybe. But whoever it was had a sharp eye and merciless taste, dressing her in tailored suits and dresses that occasionally made him forget his own name. And, of course, made him want to peel them off her with his teeth.
Harry couldn't show it — that she rattled him, could flay him bare with a single look. So he made a point of pushing back, never easing up, not even when her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed with frustration. He knew he had a part to play, so he did.
"For the love of Merlin, Harry," said Seymour, showing a rare glimmer of frustration, "have you tried to speak to her like a normal person?"
He hummed, noncommittal.
Seymour frowned. "Not even a compliment?"
"A compliment?'
"Yes, about her hair or something."
Thankfully, before Harry had to reply, his phone buzzed. Seymour nodded, and he pulled it out — he had it set to only receive urgent messages, which meant—
"Shit." He hauled himself to his feet. "I've got to go."
She flashed him a warning look. "Be safe."
The DMLE kept all of its more confidential work in a sub-level near the DOM. Draco fell into step beside Harry as he headed for the room that had been the haunt of his evenings and his weekends. "It's a real one, this time."
"Seriously?" Harry cut him a look. "You sure?"
"Positive," said Kingsley, once they walked through the door. Behind him loomed walls of shifting maps and chemical lists that Harry couldn't follow. "See for yourself."
Harry glanced at the screens, which changed to show a live feed of a backroom in a dodgy Muggle pub. He watched a trio of people split off, and one of them briefly brushed their hand against someone else's. "That's it, that's the handoff."
Kingsley nodded. "We need to move up the plans."
"Understood," said Harry. "Is Parker—?"
"Ready, yes." Kingsley met his gaze. "We'll aim to engage in thirty-six hours."
Harry nodded. He heard what Kingsley wasn't saying.
The next day, when they all walked in to the bi-monthly Departmental Oversight meeting, Harry saw Hermione standing in front of the food table. She was rarely early for meetings, these days, certainly not early enough to pick over the spread, and almost never alone. But no — there she was, hovering over the baked goods, and before Harry knew it, his legs were moving of their own accord. A compliment, Seymour had said. Like a normal person.
Hermione didn't seem to notice when he joined her at the table. The two feet of space between them felt like a void.
He glanced at her profile, the face he knew so well and yet not at all, and cleared his throat.
Hermione looked up, and he caught it, the moment her face settled into battle lines. She had a plate of cut fruit in one hand, and for a weird moment, Harry felt an urge to pile three chocolate croissants on top of it.
"Hi." He felt a bit drunk. "Morning."
"Morning," Hermione said, slow and wary. A frown threatened on her brow, and a spike of nerves went down into Harry's stomach.
"Your hair," Harry began, feeling like he was flinging himself into the path of an oncoming train. "It looks really nice."
And it did. Hermione cocked her head to one side, her long ponytail sweeping back over her shoulder, and said, "Does it not normally look nice?"
Harry blinked, thrown. "No, no it does— it always… looks nice."
Her eyes narrowed. A silence bloomed. Harry very much wanted to die.
"I'd better start the meeting," Hermione said, cool as ice. "Will you be joining us?"
"Yes," Harry managed, but she'd already turned and left, her hair swishing as she marched over to the table, and holy Merlin he felt like he'd been kicked in the head—
An hour later, Harry marched into the secret room filled with screens, met Kingsley's gaze, and said, "I'm in."
gah, isn't harry a hot mess? lol
kudos to ada_lovelaced for the sex in the stacks brain rot.
thank you for reading 3