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Chapter Text

Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hand, staring down his enemy’s shell.

Silence punctuated the moment as everyone in the Great Hall failed to comprehend the event they had just witnessed, and then the chaos broke around Harry as a frenzied mob absorbed him. He was pulled and dragged by the hundreds, their cheers and roars deafening his ears, unable to lift his arms in the stampede of his followers. The sobs, the screams, the gratitude all muddled into a cacophony as faces lost all meaning, reduced to blank canvases painted in blood and soot. In the back of his mind, Harry understood that they belonged to the Weasleys, to McGonagall, to Kingsly, and more. People who loved him, people who followed him, but all he saw were the corpses, Fred, Remus, Tonks, and all he wanted was to be in the arms of her.

He kept his promise. He came back.

Back from a place where he felt no pain, no discomfort. And now he was being drowned in bodies, absurdly aware of his own mortality as the heat and pressure of the masses made it almost impossible to breathe. 

The relief came with the odd sensation of being plucked like a toddler. The sweat on his skin immediately cooled, and Harry took in a massive, soothing breath of air as he was spun in a hug by Hagrid. His first friend, the man who saved him from the Dursleys. “Yer a wizard, Harry. Yer a great wizard.” His savior said, and as Harry returned his hug, he felt it- The journey was over.

Hagrid took a step back from the crowd before placing Harry down. Their enthusiasm hadn’t died as the cheers for the Boy Who Lived erupted, but their need to touch him had tempered. Harry was reminded of a Quidditch pitch or a zoo as the onlookers huddled around an invisible barrier to ogle at the attraction. His eyes scanned the masses for her familiar brown eyes and bushy hair, the primal fear mounting with each pass that came up empty. 

No. No. No.

She had to be alive, he prayed. He had cast some well-timed shield spells in the rush of the final showdown, and by the time he faced Voldemort, there were no more Death Eaters left; she couldn’t have died. But even as he thought that, the image of her face and the sound of her scream as Voldemort presented Harry’s corpse flashed through his mind. She had given up. At that moment, the war was lost for Hermione. 

She can’t be.

And then he saw her. Her clothes, tattered and stained with dirt, grass, and blood, hung loosely on her unhealthily thin frame. A trail of red ran from the scalp of her disheveled bushy hair past her hollow cheeks. She had never looked more beautiful.

As she crossed the invisible line that surrounded Harry, he rushed to meet her, matching her energy and forcefulness in their embrace. As he pulled back, he saw the light return to her brown eyes, the hope, and he knew his look mirrored it, the relief consuming him. 

From the corner of his vision, he subconsciously registered the stares and gaped jaws from the crowd. Years of rumors, speculations, and fears by students, teachers, the press, and the other member of their trio were on the precipice of being confirmed, and he didn’t care. They had survived.

As their lips met, Harry once again felt the weightlessness he experienced at Kings Cross Station. The aches of his battered body vanished; resting his forehead against hers, their teary-eyed laughs blocked all other sensations.

I came back.

It was an absurdly windy day. 

Fourteen funerals in, and so far, the weather had been agreeable, but it seemed the universe had it out for Colin Creevey. More than once, the arrangements of lilies and carnations had been blown off their pedestals, bringing the already drawn-out ceremony to a screeching halt. It wasn’t till the third time that the banister spelling out the fallen boy’s name had blown off its hinges that someone bothered to cast sticking charms to all the set decorations. 

Harry Potter sat stiffly, a statue defiant against the gale. He was expertly dressed in the finest bereavement robes money could buy, designed by Madam Malkin, somehow darker than typical robes with a matte grey accent on the trim. Given his stature in the Wizarding World, he could not afford to present himself in any way that would seem uncaring. He had even combed his hair, not that it did much to tame its unruliness, but his wild mane, much like every one of his physical features, was public knowledge. The audience would know he put the effort in.

The audience.

Who was he putting this effort for?

It was the question that consumed Harry as he attended funeral after funeral. What did any of it matter? Colin certainly wouldn’t care how Harry dressed for his service. Having walked towards his own death, Harry was absolutely certain none of the pageantry involved in mourning would hold any concern for him in the afterlife. 

He could picture just how extravagant a funeral for the Chosen One, the savior of the Wizarding World, would be, and none of it would matter. If Harry took his life today, tens of thousands would mourn, and hundreds would gather for the burial. Tears would flow, shed at the idea of him and what he represented, but inside that performance would be the knowledge that they didn't really know him. 

It was a realization he came to at Dumbledore’s funeral a year ago, although, at the time, he couldn’t make sense of what he was feeling. Maybe only now that Harry had sort of died could he come to grips with how absurd the whole process was. The dead didn’t care, and neither did the universe. 

Just look how windy it was.

It was strong enough to interfere with the ceremony official's sonorous charm as he spoke to the crowd. The chopping gusts drowned his pre-written speech as he tried to desperately hold on to his speaking notes, threatening to fly away.

“Colin Creevey was a true Gryffindor. Much like Godric, he stood up for what he believed was right even when-oops shit-” The ceremony official's speech stopped abruptly as a gust of wind blew his notes out of his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he pinned them to his chest to keep them from flying off-stage. “Pardon me,” He said as he gathered his notes, which were now in random order. “It seems I’ve lost my…”  He trailed off as he tried to find his position on the page.

Such a beautiful ceremony. 

Harry had lost count of how many times he had heard that pleasantry in the past month. It had lost all meaning, and he wondered if anyone would say it today, and more importantly, would anyone have the courage to dispute it? During Fred’s ceremony, he had heard those four words well over a hundred times. At first, he was shocked by the turnout to the fallen Weasley's funeral; the grounds of Hogwarts were packed to capacity, the rows of chairs almost reaching the front gates of the castle.  The twins were certainly well-liked, their joke shop became invaluable to the war efforts, and the Weasleys were an old wizarding family. However, soon after, it became obvious to anyone why the world seemed to stop for Fred- his connection to Harry. 

Such a beautiful ceremony.

A line of people stretched past the horizon had affirmed that sentiment to the Weasleys and made sure to give Harry a glance as they offered their condolences. He stood off at a distance, Hermione by his side, as the red-headed family endured the onset of empathetic strangers who, at one point, looked down on the poor house. Now, they were practically royalty. All it cost was adopting the orphan boy who got one of their sons killed and broke the heart and trust of another one.

Ron hadn’t spoken to him or Hermione since their relationship went public. Quite fittingly, the Weasleys had burrowed themselves at the Burrow. Relying on each other in their grief. The funerals were the first time since the battle that Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys were in the same vicinity. Harry saw the look of love in Molly’s eyes when they reunited, then saw her bury it beneath the motherly instinct to protect her children from the realities of death and betrayal. Arthur gave Harry and Hermione a nod, and with it, the distance formed. Close enough for the public to believe they were still Harry’s found family but wide enough for Harry to know the truth.

It was all a performance, and now Harry was acting as the war hero, the strong and silent man mourning his friend and fellow Gryffindor. In truth, he really didn’t know Colin that well. Most of the time he found him annoying, and Harry hated himself for thinking that. Hated how he couldn’t stop thinking about himself during someone else’s funeral. But if funerals had no effect on the dead, then wasn’t it only natural that they be a personal experience for the living? 

And personally, he didn’t know much about Colin Creevey.

He was a Muggle-born. His father was a milkman, and he liked taking pictures.

Like most of the funerals, Harry found himself observing the audience, rather than the ceremony. The difference in size between Colin’s ceremony and the other fallen was drastic. Wizarding Britain’s promotion of their newfound progressiveness was absurdly transparent, and this funeral was a clear indicator of how far away true change was. Publicly mourning, Colin Creevey, a muggle-born, the son of a milkman, offered no social credit; as such, there were very few ministry officials in attendance and only a handful of Slytherins, who calculated that their efforts to rehabilitate their image were best spent elsewhere.

Oddly, the Greengrass’s were present. The pure-blood family stood in the back, expertly dressed in dark robes that matched their stoic temperament, save for Astoria, the youngest daughter, who was plainly weeping into a handkerchief. Harry had no memory of her and Colin interacting but felt a rush of pride for him for forming a relationship with a house rival, something Harry had never managed during his time at Hogwarts.

His gaze then turned to the front row where Colin’s mother, Jane, his father, Donald, and, of course, his little brother, Dennis, sat, pale and unmoving. The brightness Harry associated with the Creevey brothers had dimmed in Dennis; any traces of the wonderstruck boy had long vanished. And even though Harry had never seen their father before, he was undoubtedly a shell of himself. Maybe it was his frame or the disposition of his kids, but Harry knew immediately that this was once a man who whistled as he delivered milk to his neighbors, who laughed with his entire body. A man of perfect posture, not the slumped-shoulder figure who moved as if he were dragging a boulder behind him.

However, it was Colin’s mother, Jane, who occupied Harry’s attention. She was sunken in the fullest sense of the word, her eyes hollow, her hair flat, her body and soul drowned in grief. The wind was blowing her hair and black veil across her face, smacking against her sullen features, to no reaction. 

Every witch and wizard here had applied freezing charms to their clothes and hair to combat the wind, and no one had offered it to her. Cowards, all of us. Harry cursed himself as he watched the haunted woman, imagining ways to approach her and offer the creature comforts of magic. The same magic that killed her son. It was likely everyone was thinking the same thing. They could all see what the wind was doing to her, and none of them had the courage to breach those waters—content to wait for someone else to take the plunge.

Harry felt the reassuring squeeze of his hand and turned his head towards Hermione. Her gaze was similarly locked on the Creeveys. Tear tracks marked her face as she studied the muggle family. No doubt imagining her own. How they would be if they lost their daughter to a war they were previously unaware of. If she had died fighting for her best friend, for her boyfriend. Did they know he and Hermione were together? There was so much Harry didn’t know about them.

What did they think of him?

Where did they go into hiding?

And why weren't they back yet? 

Harry knew there was more to the story than Hermione was letting on, but now was not the time to confront it. All they had was each other. The isolation they experienced during the war had somehow only increased. There were days neither left the bed, lying awake in each other's arms, terrified of stepping outside and even more scared of falling asleep.

So they let the mysteries fester. Her parents and his death sat there like unopened howlers, a ticking time bomb of secrets, temporarily put on hold until after the funerals. 

Such a beautiful ceremony.

What a joke, Harry thought, as the wind once again blew the ceremony official’s speaking notes out of his hands. This time, he couldn’t react fast enough to grab them, and dozens of people watched the befuddled man stagger across the stage, trying to stomp on pieces of parchment before they flew away. 

A dark object sped through Harry’s vision and caught onto a flagpole bearing the Gryffindor banner. It was a black veil, flapping wildly against the current. Harry turned to see that the wind had forced Colin’s mother’s veil off, and now her blonde hair was comically windswept, completely covering her vision and still she sat there unmoving. 

This is the worst day of her life, and the universe doesn’t care.

Harry raised his wand and silently cast Accio notes. As all the pieces of parchment flew towards his outstretched hand, he could feel the stir of attendees. The anticipation, as if he were about to perform a miracle. Harry kept his head up and his gaze straight as he approached the stage, ignoring the onlookers, “Take this fucking seriously,” Harry growled at the man as he shoved the notes into his chest.

The official nodded nervously and apologized as he backed toward the podium, his gaze darting from his notes to Harry in rapid succession. He swallowed, and his eyes bulged as he looked down at the parchment, “Uhmm.” He stuttered as he flipped through the pages before ultimately folding them into his pocket. 

“Colin is survived by his mother…” He started with a swipe of his arm to the family before his words quickly died as he stared at the wild-haired woman, “Mrs. Creevey… and his father, Mr. Creevey, and his younger brother… er… The Creeveys.” He finished lamely before shrinking backstage.

Couldn't even bother to learn their names—just the son of a milkman.

Colin’s funeral dragged on for another hour. McGonagall and other professors carried themselves far more graciously than the ceremony official, offering anecdotes about his study habits and curiosity. Unfortunately, there was no professor to provide stories about Colin’s favorite class, Defense Against The Dark Arts, although Harry spotted the side eyes of fellow DA members. They all knew why he enjoyed the subject and why his grades skyrocketed in his fourth year. 

Dennis's eyes flashed briefly to Harry at the mention of his brother's favorite subject, followed by a glance from his mother. It was the first time her gaze bore any emotion. For the briefest of moments, her sunken features sharpened, the previously gaunt expression subtly shifting to one of pure hatred.

Harry didn’t look away, welcoming the anger, accepting the responsibility. He didn’t have the courage to offer her any relief from the wind, but he could bear her hate, the blame, the pain. His capacity to endure was his greatest strength. He’d take it all from her, and as she turned back to the stage, a silent pact formed between them. 

After the funeral, a few attendees approached the Creevey’s, pleasantries in hand, but it became apparent the family and Jane in particular wouldn't indulge them. Any attempt at small talk was quickly shut down by a glare almost daring them to say this was a beautiful ceremony.

The uncertainty was palpable. Without the social reciprocity of the Creeveys, everyone was left stranded. Harry could see the internal debate raging in the audience, questioning if they should be the first to leave. Unlike them, Harry knew exactly what his role was in this funeral, so he stood by the back of the school grounds, Hermione by his side, waiting. After a few exchanges with some professors, the family strode towards the couple.

Dennis had retrieved a large box from somewhere and was carrying it with both hands, leaning back slightly so he could disperse the weight on his chest. His father trudged by his side, his gaze never leaving his feet. His mother, however, stood straight, her path true. The force of the wind billowed her dress, causing the grass beneath her feet to ripple out in waves, appearing as a banshee seeking her vengeance.

Harry released his grasp of Hermione’s hand and took a step towards the approaching family. He would not say anything. There would be no empty pleasantries. Jane Creevey stopped a pace away from him, shorter in stature than the Creevey men, but at that moment, she commanded the space. 

She doesn’t want another apology. Harry thought as he stood motionless in front of her, once again accepting his role as a symbol. His honed instincts spotted the twitch of her shoulder and the swing of her arm. He felt nothing as her slap connected but an odd sense of accomplishment at the volume of her hit. It was a thunderous sound that seemed to alert everyone at the funeral. Harry heard Hermione’s gasp and he saw the dozens of turned heads from the corner of his dazed vision. Let her have this.

She studied him as he recoiled from the hit. Harry could see the curiosity and hesitation in her eyes, wondering if he would perform magic in response, if he’d retaliate, waiting for the hundredth empty apology she had heard from the wizarding world. Harry gave nothing, standing straight, hands by his side, an invitation for more.

Her hand balled to a fist, and with the full weight of her body, she threw a sweeping punch. Her form betrayed someone who had never fought before, whose previous life had been one of peace. He had an eternity to step out of the way or duck under her swing, but he stood motionless and embraced.

His head snapped back, and the iron taste of blood dominated his senses as his vision went white. “You monster!” she bellowed through the grapple of her husband, who was pulling her back. She twisted against his grip on her waist, thrashing and turning, and now screaming towards the rest of the funeral, “YOU’RE ALL MONSTERS! ALL OF YOU!”

Her screams spread through every corner of the school grounds, silencing the wind. The aura of the castle and the Great Lake seemed to reverberate her words as she beseeched the secret society that destroyed her family. Donald, the milkman, held her tight, eventually bringing her face against his chest as he carried her away. Her screams persisted, muffled by his body but still clear enough for everyone to hear the distillation of her tirade as she kept repeating, “They killed my baby!” 

Harry ignored the blood trickling down his nose as he watched the husband and wife collapse in the distance, their silhouettes merging into a singular being as their shoulders bounced with each wrecking sob. The bright blue sky and sun-laden field were a cruel contrast to their sorrow. It wasn’t till he heard the hurried gasps of air behind him did Harry avert his gaze, turning around to see Hermione weeping into her palms. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder and bringing her face to his chest, Harry kissed the top of her head as she wailed against him, and when he pulled back, he spotted his blood pouring freely from his nose and mouth, matting her bushy hair.

Dennis stood rooted to the spot, his eyes trained on Harry, the large box still in his grasp. He didn’t carry the anger of his mother or the despondence of his father. From their previous conversations, Harry knew that Colin had told Dennis he’d be joining the battle, and when Dennis tried to follow him, his older brother stunned him and took his wand. It was one of the few possessions they found on his corpse, along with a letter to his family. 

“I, uhm—” Dennis mumbled, looking down at the box. “These are Colin’s magical photos… Mum doesn’t want them in the house.”  He approached Harry and Hermione and placed the box by their feet. “I think he’d want you to have them,” he said with a nod. Harry responded in kind as Dennis turned and followed the path of his parents. 

Looking down at the box, his chin parting Hermione’s bushy hair, Harry saw a vast assortment of photos spread randomly as if they had been taken down from a wall and hurriedly stuffed inside. At the top was a photo from a Gryffindor Common Room party after a Quidditch victory, and there, in the center of the frame, he stood smiling, ignorant of the pain he would cause the family of the boy who took the picture.

I came back.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean your parents don’t know who you are?” 

“I obliviated them.” 

“What!? Why!?”

“So I could fight with you.”

You made a promise. Harry reminded himself before taking a deep breath and knocking on the door, his knuckles rapping right below the nameplate, reading Dr. Kissling.

The door opened, and a balding, bespectacled man's face appeared. His eyebrows raised, recognizing his visitor “Harry Potter, welcome.” 

He opened the door entirely, motioning Harry forward. Dr. Kissling wore a slightly ill-fitting blue button-down shirt tucked into black dress pants that were too baggy. Harry got the impression that the man had lost some weight and hadn’t bothered to buy new clothes. For some reason, Harry found it comforting, immediately less ill at ease in the doctor’s presence. It was a rare quality some had. He wondered if they gained it from their profession or if they were destined to be therapists and headmasters because of that quality. 

Two burgundy leather chairs sat opposite each other in the center of the white rugged room. Side tables adorned with small house plants and a waiting glass of water stood adjacent. The room was perfectly designed for comfort, save for the desk tucked away in the corner, stacked with papers. Behind it, the wall was decorated with diplomas. Harry understood that was where the tedious paperwork was done. In front of him, on those two leather chairs, is where the counseling would happen.

“Take a seat, please.” Dr. Kissling said, leaving the choice of which chair to Harry. 

Harry hesitated. Does the chair I choose say something about me?

“It doesn’t matter which one, Harry.” the man smiled.

Harry chose the one on the right. The man slowly lowered himself to the other chair, taking a moment to collect himself, “So, Harry. I know you’ve been told a bit about me, but I feel it’s best if I reiterate some of the basics. I know who you are, well, at least who you are to the wizarding world. I hope to learn about the real you in these sessions. I’m a muggle-born wizard with a doctorate in psychotherapy from Oxford, specializing in existential psychotherapy. There’s no need to worry about the Statute of Secrecy in these walls, and anything you say to me will be strictly between us. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Harry nodded.

“Very good, so where would you like to start?”

“Well, err… My girlfriend left me.”

Harry awoke with a gasp and then a groan. The sudden movement felt like a bludger against his brain. It was the third night in a row that he had drunk himself to sleep, although this time, it was still dark out, which kind of defeated the point of getting pissed in the first place. 

Through the fog of his inebriated mind, he could hear faint rustling beside him. Immediately, his thoughts went to Hermione, but she was in Australia, and he was on his couch in Grimmauld Place. An observation that had just come to him as he felt the leather fabric along his triceps. 

He turned his head to see Ron Weasley sitting across from him on the footstool, studying a photograph. Colin’s box of photos between his feet.

“Ron,” Harry mumbled in a haze.

“How did I not see it?” He said to the photo, bringing it closer to his face.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hermione wrote to me,” he responded, still not breaking eye contact with the photo. “She apologized for the hundredth time and asked me to check up on you, that you might need help, which, of course, I agreed to.” Lowering the photo and turning to Harry, he said, “You're drinking.”

Harry nodded, not trusting his words.

“So is George… I’ve thrown away so many bottles.” He swung his leg out to kick a garbage bag Harry hadn’t noticed lying on the floor. As his foot connected, the sound of clinking glass broke the eerie silence of Grimmauld Place at night. “Where’s Mione?”

“Australia.”

Ron raised his brows questioningly. 

“She Obliviated her parents and sent them there before the war.”

Ron nodded and looked off to the distance, absentmindedly flicking the photo in his hands back and forth. “You guys fought about it.”

“Among other things.” Harry turned towards the ceiling. “My death was a big topic.”

“You guys and your secrets.” Ron scoffed

“I’m sorry, Ron.”

“Save it.” The redhead interrupted, “How long?”

“Sixth year.”

Ron grimly laughed, shaking his head, “And you both thought it was a good idea not to tell me.”

Harry gulped as he thought back to the day. A day he’d always regret. How stupid and naive they both were. How much pain could have been avoided if they just dealt with the uncomfortableness sooner.

“What should we do about Ron?” Hermione asked with a kiss on his neck. 

“I was kind of hoping you would have an answer,” Harry said, stretching himself on the bed and wrapping an arm around her.

“Why do I have to?”

“Hermione, clearly I’m an idiot.” He grinned.

She rolled her eyes and said. “And I’m tired of being the one with the plan.”

Harry breathed in, losing himself in her. He wanted to hold on to this feeling as long as possible. “I say we leave it up to Future Hermione and Future Harry.”

“Future Hermione and Future Harry?” She questioned, looking up at him, searching. “They would be more equipped to handle it.” 

“My thoughts exactly.”

“And maybe Future Ron will have a girlfriend.” She added

In their expression a wordless agreement, “Luna!” “Lavender!” Harry and Hermione blurted, respectively.

“Whatever,” Harry smirked as he rolled Hermione on her back and kissed his way down her stomach.

Present Harry really wanted to slap some sense into his past self: The stupid twat. “We weren’t thinking, Ron. We just… We just weren’t. It had nothing to do with you. It was easier to keep it to ourselves.”

“Fuck easy!” Ron shouted, his eyes glaring with fury. "What about the right thing to do?!”

“I know you’re right, Ron, and I’m sorry. We didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Did you guys have a good laugh?” Ron scoffed as he stood up and paced the sitting room. “Did you! Merlin, I was throwing myself at her, and the entire time she was… It must have been so funny to you both.”

“It wasn’t like that-”

“Don’t lie to me!” Ron screamed, throwing a punch in the air. “The summer before… At the wedding…I thought she…What did you two wait till I fell asleep so you could fuck? 

“No, I swear…” Harry pleaded, his throat choking with guilt

“You swear, right.” Ron shook his head and looked back down to the photograph. His eyes closed, and a single tear rolled down as he shoved the photo into his coat pocket. “Tell me… when we had the fight… Tell me there wasn’t a part of you that was glad I left.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but the lie couldn’t come out.

“Fuck you, Harry,” Ron hissed, picking up the bag stuffed with every liquor bottle in the house. His last act as a friend “Don’t come to the Burrow again.” He said as he made his way out the front door and out of Harry’s life.

“It was my choice, Harry!”

“Well, hooray for you!  We were dating! Why wouldn’t you tell me?!”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had to die!”

“Why did you not tell her you were walking to your death?” Dr. Kissling asked, his pen scribbling away on the notepad, but his eyes never leaving his patient. Harry felt the man was unnervingly calm even after hearing the story of the Battle of Hogwarts.

“Cause she would have begged me not to.” Harry said, “Or worse, ask to come along.”

“And this frightened you?”

Harry stiffened at the question. “I wouldn’t say frightened. I was doing the right thing.”

The doctor nodded. “Would you say walking to your death was easier than confronting Hermione?”

“I… yeah… I suppose.”

“Why do you think that is?’

“I don’t know.” Harry shrugged contentiously. “Shouldn’t you tell me?”

“We’re here so you can understand the choices you make.”

“I just… It’s what was supposed to happen.”

“Your death.”

Harry nodded. “I did the best I could. Most of the Horcruxes were destroyed. I put my faith that my friends could handle the rest… I just had to do my part. Walk towards it.”

“What was going through your mind on the walk?”

Harry hesitated, that primal fear of revealing too much creeping towards him as he spoke, “I don’t know… At first, I wanted to stop, go to Hermione, run away, but then… The resurrection stone brought my parents, Sirius, and Remus back, and I felt okay with it. When Voldemort…I didn’t fight back…. I let the curse hit me.”

“You were okay with it?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “I had my parents by my side.  I had friends. Hermione loved me, and I loved her. I got to experience that. The ten-year-old me couldn’t have asked for more. He wouldn’t have believed it possible.”

“And now. Would you be okay with it?” Dr. Kissling asked. His pen down, focus unitinreputed

“What?” 

“If you were to die today, would you be okay with it?”

Harry’s mind seized, overtaken by the instinct to flee. Yes or No, the question required a simple answer, and yet… It had only been two months since he made the decision. Two months of painful funerals, of guilt, of heartache, of loss. Harry dreamed of Kings Cross every night before it inevitably turned into a nightmare. And yet, He couldn’t say yes. 

“I’m done.” He said, getting up abruptly.

The old man’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, Harry. I came in too strong.” Dr. Kissling apologized, gesturing for Harry to sit back down.

“Yeah, you think,” Harry snarled, marching toward the exit.

“Harry-

“Fuck You!” He yelled, slamming the door in his wake.

“ Let me come with you, please.”

“I have to do this on my own. I have to own up to my choices.”

“Please, Hermione. I can’t-”

“I have to Harry. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

The hallway was endless. The flickering illuminance of green flames lit up the dark walls, revealing the innumerable doors and corridors. Harry ran, chasing the sound, chasing her scream.

“Harry!”

“Where did you get this sword!”

“PLEASE!”

Every door led to another hallway, another corridor, her screams never getting closer. Taking corner after corner, Harry ran praying to see her face, screaming “Hermione!” hoping for an answer.

Bellatrix’s voice rang across the space. “You filthy Mudblood!”

A door at the end. An ivory-white double door with golden snake ornaments for handles. Their eyes gleamed red. Harry pulled them open and rushed in and saw her. 

On her knees, blood leaking from the gash on her forearm. Her brown eyes filled with tears as she spotted him. 

And behind her, Voldemort stood, wand raised. “The Boy Who Lived.” he laughed, his wand to the back of her head. “ Avada-”

Harry awoke with a scream and, for the first time in weeks into an embrace. He recognized her smell, the faint traces of old books and coconut. The light from the hallway silhouetted her bushy, angelic mane. “Hermione,” he whispered.

She squeezed him harder. Sweat was pouring from his forehead, pooling on his back. “I’m sorry.” She said softly. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He said, wrapping his arms around her. “I’m the one… I’m so sorry, Hermione... Did you get my letter?”

She nodded, “I already restored their memories when it arrived.”

Feeling her shrink against him, Harry sat up straight, holding on to her. Brushing her hair aside, he cupped her face to see her chocolate eyes shimmering. “What happened?”

“They can’t stand me…” She whispered, her expression glazed, “I’m… I’m no less a stranger, they said.”

Harry lost any words of comfort. The overwhelming need to relieve her shut off his ability to speak. He simply engulfed her in a hug. Neither spoke as quiet sobs rocked her shoulders and reverberated on his chest. Tracing circles on her back, every nerve ending on Harry warmed to her touch, as if his body was returning to the living world now that Hermione was back. 

“You were screaming my name,” Hermione said after her sobs died down.

“Nightmare,” Harry murmured against the top of her head. “Malfoy Manor.”

Hermione’s breath hitched at the name, “Harry, how are we going to get through this? I can’t… I can’t-”

“Together.” Harry interrupted softly. “We’ll get through this together.”

“Harry, I need to apologize.” Dr. Kissling started. “And I suppose thank you for agreeing to another session.” 

“It’s okay.” Harry shrugged. He hadn’t been able to get his mind off their last meeting. The question replayed on a loop like an annoyingly catchy song.

“Therapists can make mistakes. People often forget that.” The doctor shook his head, his eyes filled with remorse. “We have to be mindful of our own prejudices and past experiences and try to start anew with each client.”

Harry nodded, accepting his apology. “Why did you ask me that? And why did it affect me so much?”

Dr. Kissling’s gaze drifted as he mulled the question, “There is a fundamental principle of existentialism: Existence precedes essence. We are born, and then we make something out of it. You probably have a unique perspective on the matter.”

“Yeah.” Harry chuckled. The doctor smiled alongside him.

“We existential psychotherapists try to help our clients live a personally meaningful life by helping them figure out who they are. Help them confront the paradoxes of their worldview, and that’s why I asked the question. A tad too early, I should add and apologize for again.”

“I still don't understand.”

“When you spoke in absolutes about your death, it triggered the younger, more aggressive existentialist in me, and rather than let you come to that question on your own. I forced it on you. Which was a mistake.”

“So I didn’t have to die?” Harry asked, still profoundly confused.

“It’s never an either/or solution. What makes life beautiful and terrifying is that we have the freedom to consider all possibilities.”

“There was no other option,” Harry said, leaning forward on his chair. “Voldemort had to be stopped.”

“And in making your choice, you denied yourself the opportunity to say goodbye to Hermione.”

“But I… I had to.” He stuttered. The instinct to flee once again roared like a flame from deep inside him.

“Harry.” The old man calmly interrupted, “From the very little I know of you. It’s likely you would have made the same choices, even if you weighed the paradox of them. But by thinking in absolutes, can you honestly say those choices were yours?”

The face of his old Headmaster flashed in Harry’s mind as he shook his head. 

“There is no right answer.”  Dr.Kissling said. “I want to help you ask the right question.”

“Which is?”

“Who is Harry Potter.”

Chapter Text

“What’s on your mind, Harry?” Dr. Kissling asked about ten minutes into the session in which Harry felt he had already divulged plenty.

“Didn’t I just tell you?” He replied flatly.

“You told me about the start of your final year at Hogwarts, but I noticed a slight discomfort in your voice when you talked about your classes.”

“I guess.” Harry started. Dr. Kissling consistently picked up on Harry’s hesitations and distress, often ones he didn’t realize he had. “It’s weird… School is easy.”

“Is this new for you?”

“Kind of,” Harry said, recalling his years at Hogwarts. “It’s never been impossible, but now it’s easy.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I have time and peace now, I guess… I'm realizing it doesn’t take much. You just study a few hours in the morning and an hour at night, don’t procrastinate on the homework, and if a professor mentions something twice, you write it down… it’s easy.”

Dr. Kissling nodded along, “And this upsets you?” 

“Kind of.”

“Why do you think that is?’

Harry stopped himself from blurting out the first thing that came to him, the annoyance that he couldn’t explain, before conceding that he was spending money on a therapist to help with these very unexplainable anxieties. “I can’t fucking stand Ravenclaws.”

The end of the summer always had a rejuvenating effect on Harry during his Hogwarts years, as the dull and depressing months at the Dursleys made way for a world of magic. He’d buzz with excitement for the new year, a new adventure. Ideally, one free of trauma and death. Of course that almost never happened, but those months at the Dursleys had a weird way of washing the grime off the memories of the year previous.  Without fail, he’d step into Diagon Alley with the same enthusiasm he had when Hagrid first brought him all those years ago.

He learned it was a sentiment felt by Hermione as well. Even if her home life was filled with familial love he had never known, the excitement of stepping back into the Wizarding world never faded. He spotted the change immediately. Delighting in her first proper smile in weeks when the list of school supplies arrived by owl along with Head Badges for both of them. Witnessing her celebrity status among the staff of Flourish and Blotts as they perused the shelves in search of the year's textbooks and the mountain of supplemental reading material she felt was necessary. Harry cooked her dinner after their shopping trip- seared trout and roasted potatoes. That night, they made love for the first time since the war ended.

Unlike his other school years, the buzz of the new term didn’t evaporate within the first few weeks. There was no mystery, no vengeful murderer after him, no unwanted tournaments. A big reason for Harry’s contentment was how much he enjoyed being Headboy.  When the badges arrived for Hermione and him, a small hint of dread came along with it. He already had too much iconography attached to him: his scar, titles, and the gaudy statue unveiled in the ministry earlier that summer. He feared the Headboy badge was another bar on the gilded cage the wizarding world was trapping him in. 

However, in the walls of Hogwarts, the position provided him with a refreshing level of privacy. Head students were given access to private dorms and a shared common room decorated in the red and gold motif of their house. In theory, the common room was where the Head Boy and Girl would collaborate on duties and schoolwork, but Harry and Hermione tended to spend the majority of their time in his bedroom. Eventually, the castle's magic removed Hermione’s room altogether and expanded Harry’s to accommodate her books and vanity. Harry briefly wondered if the castle did the same for his parents before shutting his brain off to what that would entail. 

It wasn’t just their sleeping arrangements that afforded them their privacy. It was their reputation, only magnified by the head badges pinned to their chest. They existed separately from the rest of the school. Harry supposed he always had to an extent, but before, he craved to be normal. Now, he just wanted to be left alone with Hermione. They went on patrols together. Often ate in their common room or privately with the professors. Order members and Ministry officials worldwide stopped by the school to discuss the rebuilding efforts with them. Harry and Hermione existed in a bubble of perceived eminence. In reality, they were just randy teens, but as they strode along the Great Lake hand in hand, completely undisturbed from the rest of their classmates, who felt compelled to give them their space, Harry felt grateful for his reputation. A bizarre experience for him.

Of all the places they could spend their day in, they tended to lose track of time in their bedroom. Studying, shagging, reading, sleeping, shagging, anything was possible in their sanctuary. Right now, Harry was doing a combination of two, revising his Transfiguration essay while making Hermione scream his name.

“Merlin, what did you do to me?" She panted, her curly hair splayed across the pillow as she took in deep breaths and fanned herself.

Harry raised his head from between her legs. “Good, huh?”

“Obviously.” She huffed in a laugh. "I need to thank you somehow.”

“‘You already have. I’m definitely getting an Outstanding on McGonnagal’s assignment.” Harry smirked as he peppered kisses on her inner thigh. 

Hermione looked down at him with raised brows.

“On the table.” Harry motioned with a head twitch. She stretched across the bed to reach for the parchment, opening it curiously. “I find going over my essays orally helps with the revision process.” He explained as she read.

Hermione snorted, then rolled up the essay and playfully smacked Harry on top of his head. “You git, I thought you were doing this out of the kindness of your heart.”

“Can’t it be both?” He chuckled. “You particularly liked what I had to say on Leillart Locke's Law of Lengthening Conjurations… Lots of L’s ”

Hermione giggled and opened the roll of parchment again, “Actually, I see a few mistakes here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why don’t I read it out loud, and you work alongside me?”

You won’t be able to speak , Harry thought as he brought his tongue back to her entrance. Her words quickly devolved into moans as he let the peace he felt in this room consume him. He always said Hogwarts was his first home, but only now did the words truly fit. He was loved here, he was comfortable, he felt safe. Free from outside forces, pressure, and expectations.

“I expect more from you two.” Professor McGonagall scolded them with her trademark scowl. They were being lectured to in the headmaster's office, which was no longer filled with bizarre trinkets Harry had grown accustomed to back when Dumbledore was alive. McGonagall was made Headmaster, but due to the lack of available personnel still worked as the Transfiguration Professor. They both wanted to ease her burdens and were already failing.

“We haven’t missed any patrols.” Hermione defended, “The Hogsmeade trip is already planned. There hasn’t been a major incident. What have we done wrong?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong. You haven’t done much of anything.” She explained, her gaze darting between the two of them. “You two rarely leave your private dorms. You don’t eat with the other students, you patrol only with each other. You are a part of no clubs, no extracurricular activities. The heads of this school are supposed to represent the students, not stand apart from them.”

Well, there goes that, Harry thought grumpily . “ We’ve been busy with our schoolwork. Your essays are tough, professor,” he said.

“A problem every Head Boy and Girl have had to overcome. You were given the role because we felt you could handle your school work and the responsibilities of being a leader. Although I must say, I’ve been very impressed with your writing lately, Potter.”

Harry hid a smirk and noticed the color creeping up Hermione's neck. “Thank you, professor. Hermione’s been a huge help.”

“But it still stands. You need to be more engaged with your fellow students. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, professor,” Hermione responded as they both nodded.

This was how Harry found himself in a study group with Hermione and a rotating cast of very annoying Ravenclaws. As there were no official Quidditch games this year, Harry’s default choice for an extra-curricular activity was not an option. He briefly hosted a flying club that seemingly every able-body student signed up for within the day, turning his hobby and escape into a responsibility. Flying meant freedom, so he stepped down from the club the next day and latched onto Hermione’s project, Students Uniting to Nurture, Testing, and Studying Skills. She still struggled with naming her organizations and didn’t take too kindly to Harry’s suggestions on changing Students to Classmates.

Merging two tables in the library, eight to ten would gather to discuss their schoolwork, particularly their NEWTs, and how it would affect their career prospects. Besides Harry and Hermione, the rest of the club consisted of Ravenclaws. A couple of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors enrolled initially but soon grew bored. No Slytherins joined, which weirdly upset Harry, as he would have liked to compare them to the Ravenclaws that he was quickly growing to despise. 

“Do you think you’ll restart the DA, Harry?” Asked Maggie Stolt, a sixth-year Ravenclaw with thin blonde hair and a mousy nose.

“Probably not,” Harry shook his head. “No point, really.”

“I disagree.” Terry Boot said, “We could go over The Guidebooks with some more practical training.”

The Guidebooks where study guides passed down by previous generations of Ravenclaws that explained what to expect to be tested on during the OWLs and NEWTs. Sacred texts that guided their every study habit. Hermione almost hyperventilated when she saw them for the first time. Harry couldn’t deny that they were bloody useful. However, he found the material covered to be needlessly esoteric. 

“The Guides don't mention spell chaining, patronus charms, or even combat transfiguration. I don’t see how learning all twelve vanishing spells matters when Evanesco works on anything.”

“It’s the theory behind it.” Lisa Turpin explained. “Understanding the magic behind a spell like Vipera Evanesca shows you have a grasp on transfigurating live animals and poisonous materials.”

“Shows who?”

“The Wizarding Examinations Authority.” Several Ravenclaws and Hermione answered at once.

Why would I care? Harry thought bitterly but nevertheless nodded and said, “I’ll think about it.”

“Anyway,” Anthony Goldstein spoke to the group. “I sent a letter to the assistant to the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation in the Portugal Ministry. I made sure to mention how my dad worked there. And Mandy, I took your advice and wrote how I was the Vice President of the Positive Charms for Society Club. At first, I was worried I was coming on too strong, but I figured-”

“Excuse me!” Stephen Cornfoot interrupted.

“What?”

“You were not Vice President. I was.” The boy seethed with his arms crossed.

“No. You were our treasurer.”

“No, I wasn’t, and you need to send a redaction or else my CV will be flagged.”

“Well, you should erase any errors on your CV.”

“They're not errors!” 

Harry tuned out the table as the Ravenclaws broke into an argument. He turned to Hermione, who was scratching away at her parchment. Looking down, he peaked at her writing.

Portugal Ministry: Pros and Cons

They hadn’t discussed their career plans after Hogwarts, likely on purpose, and he hadn't considered leaving the country. Harry looked away from the parchment and studied her face deep in concentration, wild chestnut mane controlled in a bun, accentuating her long neck and slightly crooked nose. Her jaw grinding as she wrote furiously. She was all features. It made her an easy mark in childhood, so many targets for little shits to aim for. Hermione admitted she still struggled to see those parts of herself as anything but flaws when she looked in a mirror and that Harry’s compliments helped that critical voice in her head. Her compliments did the same for him. Thinking back, that’s how their relationship started. 

She was so much better with words, so much smarter than him, her compliments so beautifully constructed and resonant. It didn’t seem fair she had such a dumb brute for a boyfriend who had no idea what he wanted for himself. Looking at her now, he felt Hermione could have been a silent film star. On the big screen, a director would have found their muse in Hermione, the camera drawn to those features that where the target of ridicule in her younger years. The features that absorbed Harry's thoughts so often. He would tell her that later. He wanted to tell her that now. 

“You got an A on your transfiguration OWLs, and you expect to land a job with the Department of Defense.”

“I’ve been practicing!”

As the arguments continued, Harry reached for her under the table, his hand sliding up her thigh. Hermione’s breath hitched as he made contact. The tingle of skin-on-skin caused her leg to jolt. Her side-eye glance told him to continue, and he traced his hand upward, squeezed her upper thigh, and made his way inward.

“Harry, Hermione.” Amy Egerton, a sixth-year Ravenclaw, spoke above the rest, snapping their attention, although Harry kept his hand where it was. “You guys can both conjure a Corporeal Patronus, right?”

“Yes,” Hermione nodded, her voice high-pitched.

“Is the form of a person’s Patronus the same as their Animagus?”

“Not always,” Hermione explained, “But it is a good indicator.”

“What’s the theory behind it? The Guides say we’ll need to understand advanced topics on magical signatures.”

“From what I understand, a Patronus is channeled from a person's experience, and an Animagus is channeled from their essence. So, in theory, if you’ve undergone a great change, your Patronus can change with it, but I’ll have to do more research.”

“Do you guys think you’ll try the Animagus ritual?” Amy asked the table.

“Maybe after Hogwarts.” Terry answered, “It’s not in the curriculum.”

“My mum was at it for years,” Lisa chimed in. “She said the process was incredibly long and hard .”

Harry would blame what he was currently doing to Hermione under the table for the snort that escaped him at Lisa’s words. He immediately felt childish and tried to play it off as a cough, as Hermione pinched his arm under the table as a warning. “Excuse me.” He muttered, “Did she pull it off?” 

“Yes. She transformed into a beaver.”

Hermione’s pinch intensified as Harry willed himself not to laugh. “That must have been interesting around the house.”

“Yeah, I guess. Apparently, you get animal urges while in your Animagus form. Mum would gobble down wood.”

“Mmm hmm,” Harry forced out, Hermione’s pinching the only thing keeping him from breaking.

“She actually chewed off the third leg of our-.”

Oh, come on. How is no one saying anything? Harry screamed internally as he nodded along to whatever the girl was saying. The rest of the table focused on their classwork, completely uninterested, and Harry couldn't help but imagine the jokes a certain redhead would say if he were here.

“-The only interesting Ravenclaws I ever met were Luna and Will, and they were bullied mercilessly by their house,” Harry said to the ceiling, leaning back against the chair, his head bent over the backrest. “I dated a Ravenclaw for five minutes. She was dull, and her friend was pathetic…. There is this mystique about the wisdom of Rowena Ravenclaw, and you just assume the rest of the house share some similarities, but they’re so damn boring… And now that I see how easy school can be… it’s just… They’re not smarter than me. They’re definitely not more talented. They just have a work ethic because they’re well-adjusted… No well-adjusted is the wrong word… but maybe they have parents who gave them more direction or something… I don’t know. They have no real-world experience. They’ve lived too boring lives to have done anything interesting-” Harry paused his speech when he heard Dr. Kissling’s pen scratching against his notepad. “What?” he asked.

The man looked up from his pen. “Harry, I haven’t spoken in minutes. You’ve been monologuing.”

“Well, you’re taking notes. Something must have caught your attention.” Harry said as he sat straight on his chair and waited for Dr. Kissling to speak.

“Quite a few things.” The doctor sighed and put his pad down. “Let’s start with the Ravenclaws' lack of real-world experience. Do you think your experience has made your final year easier?”

Harry didn’t have to think long on the question “No, not at all, actually. The skills and spells we’re learning in defense and charms aren’t practical, even if they’re challenging. It’s like just because they’re difficult, they’re part of our curriculum, and we keep having to learn all these theories and complex wand maneuvers that I know I would never use in a duel. Even if I got an ‘O’ in my Defense NEWTS, I know it wouldn’t mean much outside the castle.”

“Ah, Harry.” The man chuckled. “You're experiencing a phenomenon most people, muggles included,  will have after they graduate. With some exceptions, you’ll learn more in the first week of a new career than in a year at school. Look at our first session and the mistake I made. No class or textbook could have prepared me for a client like you.”

“Then what’s the point of school?”

“Foundational skills and for the paper that says you graduated.” Dr. Kissling answered, his tone reflective and wistful. “In theory, if we live in a meritocracy, that paper helps weed out the exceptional from the rest. However, Ravenclaws and Slytherins tend to be disproportionately more privileged. So they have the resources and home life more conducive to better school success.”

“But, in reality, they’re boring and not particularly talented,” Harry said acidly.

The doctor chuckled lightly. “I should point out I was a Ravenclaw.”

“Ohh, sorry.” Harry grimaced.

“That’s okay. There were a lot of posh pricks in my house.”

Hermione had vanished. Having checked the Great Hall, the library, the grounds, and her other favorite resting spots, Harry had to concede she was nowhere to be found. Out of principle, he didn’t want to resort to the Marauders Map to keep track of his girlfriend, so instead, he decided to wait in their bedroom. It was there that he found the letter on her vanity.

The exterior read To Hermione Granger from Olivia Granger. He knew she was writing to her parents consistently without a response and that this was likely their first reply. From the envelope, he felt the lack of emotion, and even though Hermione was doing much better, he knew it was tenuous. 

Abandoning his reservations, he grabbed the parchment and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” and the map came alive. He scanned it briefly before spotting her name in the library. That’s weird. I was just there. Her marker was stationary and curiously not next to any table or near any bookshelf. Stuffing the map into his pocket, he rushed out of his dorm to find her. 

He circled the library twice in vain. No sign of her frizzy hair, nose deep into a book. It was a warm day, and most of the school was enjoying the weather in the yard. Only a few students were doing schoolwork in the library, and Hermione wasn’t among them. Looking at the map again, Hermione’s marker was next to the wall at the far end of the library, where the line of tables ended, shelves of books on either side. Harry walked curiously towards the spot, eyes peeking into each row of books for any sign of her.

“I’m here, Harry.” Hermione’s voice stopped him in his tracks. He was facing a bare stone wall.

“Are you?”

“I’m under the cloak.” She said, her voice coming from beneath him.

“Can I join you?”

There was a brief pause before she said, “Sit.” 

Harry turned around towards the rest of the library. A group of Slytherins were huddled at a table at the other end. He knew a handful of students were perusing the shelves, but no one was paying him any attention. Resting his back against the wall, Harry double-checked that he was unnoticed before sliding to the ground. As he did, Hermione threw the invisibility cloak over him.

Shoulder to shoulder, they sat. Harry turned towards her, concerned, her face impassive. She simply stared ahead, focusing on nothing in particular. “Is everything okay?” He whispered.

She gave the smallest of nods, but her eyes told a different answer. “Your parents wrote you?”

She nodded again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not now,” She said softly and rested her head on his shoulder. Her curly hair tickled his neck as they leaned into each other. Harry took her hand in his, and they sat quietly, watching the other students from their looking glass. 

There was an ebb and flow to the library that could only be seen from a distance. At first glance, what appeared to be a quiet day revealed a constant flow of activity: students trickling in and out of the room,  Madam Pince busy at work, stacking books, answering questions, and shushing people. Some students worked casually, clearly ahead of their schoolwork, others were pulling their hair. The stress evident on their shoulders as they hauled books to and fro. Harry and Hermione watched the intricate and breathing network of learning in silence. He was reminded of that night at his parents' graves. Hermione had known what to say, all he could do was hold on to her and hope it was enough. 

Eventually, some older Ravenclaws from their study group sat at one of the tables near the pair. “My mother told me Kingsly Shacklebolt and the French Minister of Magic are visiting Hogsmeade tomorrow.” Terry Boot said.

“Really, why?”

“Why do you think?”

“Do you think Harry would get mad if we asked him to introduce us?” Sue Li asked.

“I don’t see why he would.” Terry shrugged. “That’s the whole point of the SUNTSS.”

“Merlin, we’ve got to work on that name.”

“Is anyone else kind of disappointed in him,” Stephen Cornfoot said hesitatingly. 

“What?’ Several of them exclaimed.

“Ignore him,” Michael Corner laughed. “He just fancies Hermione Granger.” 

Harry tensed at that reveal, squeezing her hand possessively. Hermione ran her thumb across the back of his hand and twisted her head towards the crook of his neck. It took him a moment to register the wet, warm sensation of her mouth on his skin, and it wasn't until he felt the light grazing of her teeth that he comprehended that Hermione was turned on. 

“It’s not that!” Stephen defended with a blush. “He doesn’t take any of this seriously, and she… She should have been a Ravenclaw... I have more in common with her.”

“You don’t know her.” Sue Li said dismissively as Hermione sat on top of him, resting her back on his chest. Grabbing his hands, she placed them on her breast, and Harry squeezed, igniting a small moan from her muffled against his neck. 

“Silence,” she breathed, and Harry wordlessly cast the spell around them while Hermione fumbled with his belt, eventually scooting his trousers down enough. Flipping her skirt and adjusting her knickers with her right hand, she grabbed his length with the other and lowered herself. A guttural moan left her lips, and she begged, “Fuck me.”

“I know she loves to read and to study, and Harry’s… not that. Did you hear him laugh at Lisa’s Mother’s beaver?”

Someone else snorted. “I think he was laughing because she turned into a beaver.”

“Whatever, it’s childish.”

“It’s kind of funny.”

“It’s Gryffindor.”

“Hermione’s a Gryffindor.” 

“She shouldn’t have been.”

Hermione’s panting filled his ears. With her legs pressed together and stretched in front, she was unbelievably tight. Using the back of her heels to lift herself up and down she was running out of stamina quickly, momentum slowing, as she didn’t have much core strength. Harry brought his hand under her bum while the other squeezed her chest and guided her, lessening the effort. He felt the tension of the invisibility cloak against the back of his head slacken and tighten with her movement as she breathed, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Besides, Harry is basically Wizarding Jesus.” 

“Wizarding Who?” 

“It’s a muggle fantasy character from a book.”

“So?”

“They’re both Muggle-raised and apparently, he’s pretty popular.”

 “I’ll have to read up on it, I guess.”

“Check the muggle section. Some bloke named King James wrote it.”

“You have no chance, is what they’re trying to say.”

“Fine, fine, fine... I wasn’t actually going to try anything.”

Hermione pressed herself down against Harry and shuttered, collapsing on his chest. Harry twisted his head and gave her a searing kiss, grabbed her waist, and rolled her hips, chasing his release. “I’m almost...” he groaned through his lips.

“Do it,” she whispered, running her hand through his hair and pulling him closer.

Harry squeezed her waist in place as he let go inside her. Resting his forehead against her temple, he ran his hands up her stomach, pulling her closer to him as they both panted heavily in the hot air of their makeshift cacoon.

Hermione twisted slightly to stare directly into his eyes. “Jesus Christ.” 

“Yeah,” Harry replied with a kiss.

“You spoke of the Ravenclaws and how they knew what they wanted to do after Hogwarts. Why do you think that upset you?” Dr. Kissling asked. 

“Because they’ve never done anything outside of school. How can they be certain they know what they want.”

“Harry, there’s always time to change your career and life path.” The doctor smiled. “Trust me, you’ll change a lot in your early twenties… I didn’t always want to be a therapist.”

Harry considered the man's words. How much change could he expect? He’d lived quite a life already, and he was already close to his… “My parents were twenty-one.”

“I know.” The man responded softly.

“Everyone does, but I… I don’t even know what they wanted to be.”

“It’s very likely they had no idea either. They were children having children. A lot of wizarding families are.”

Harry felt curiously okay with the man's comments about his parents. They weren't exactly positive or negative, just realistic. Maybe they had no idea what they were doing. All they knew was that they loved their son. He found that comforting, and he nodded to his therapist. 

“What do you want to do after Hogwarts?” Dr. Kissling asked.

“I don’t know. I thought I wanted to be an Auror, but now I don’t think so… If I choose to go into the Auror Academy. I’ll be an Auror. You know?

“I don’t follow?”

“That’s how the world will see me.” Harry shrugged. “Harry Potter, the Auror. Defender of justice.”

Dr. Kissling tilted his head. “Harry, it matters only how you see yourself.” 

“You say that, but the real world doesn’t work that way.” Harry snorted angrily. “I was the Boy Who Lived, Slytherin’s Heir, Triwizard Tournament Cheater, Chosen One … At the Dursleys, I was a deviant, a future criminal, everyone thought so. The neighbors, the teachers…If I weren't a Wizard, I probably would have become a criminal if that’s how the world saw me.”

“I won’t deny the realities of social constraints and prejudices. But no matter the opinion the Wizarding World had of you, positive or negative, you chose to be kind and forgiving. Or, at the very least, you tried.”

“So I’d be a kind person with a criminal record, great.” He scoffed. “What would be my career options? Waiter, dishwasher, maybe I could be a milkman-” Harry’s words caught in his throat as the silhouette of the grieving parents in the distance flashed.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He shook his head and sipped on his glass of water.  “I just miss Ron.”

Chapter Text

 His parents are dead.

The words rang in Harry’s head as he entered the immaculately organized spare room. For once, Harry was grateful for Petunia’s obsessive cleaning habits. All of Dudley’s toys were sorted by function and use. His telly and video game consoles stood in the center of the far wall. To the left were Dudley’s action figures. An umbrella stand filled with cricket bats and other rod-shaped objects that his cousin would use to smack Harry rested by the door. In the far right corner was a bookshelf filled with comics and Dudley’s secret hiding spot. It was where Dudley would hide treats, and Harry was hoping where his cousin had hidden the necklace. 

He swiftly made his way to the shelf, careful not to disturb anything. He found the metallic box with Superman’s logo on the front and opened it. Chocolates and marbles rattled around the container, and in the corner, there was a gold chain. 

Jonathan Thompson’s gold necklace. 

A fire burned in Harry's chest as he imagined holding up the chain to the Dursleys and screaming, “I told you!” But he knew it would accomplish nothing. They would never accept anything negative about their son. The teachers wouldn’t listen either. 

“Always up to no good!”

The whole class was forced to stay after hours as Jonathan’s parents reported the necklace stolen. One by one, the students were questioned and asked to empty their bags, and Harry didn’t miss the extra attention he got, the whispers that surrounded him, and the scorned glare from the headmaster, who assumed the worst of him. 

A week before, he had another one of his strange occurrences. Dudley and his gang had locked Harry in a locker after class. Harry banged against the door in a panic, knowing what was waiting for him at the Dursleys if he arrived late from school. He must have done something because, eventually, the door opened. Unfortunately, so did every other locker in the corridor, and of course, that was the moment the Headmaster chose to enter. Harry’s pleas went ignored as the man handed out detention and called his uncle. Vernon almost popped the protruding vein on his forehead, screaming later that night. 

All the kids knew who took the necklace but stayed silent, knowing what Dudley and his gang would do if they tattled. They continued the charade of ignorance, even as Jonathan’s mum cried to the class and told the story of the necklace and how it had survived one of those wars with the Germans. Harry hoped against hope that Dudley was stupid enough to keep the chain with him, but just as he was about to be questioned, Vernon and Petunia arrived, accusations ready. 

“How dare you blame my son!”

“It was the boy.”

“Always up to no good!”

“His parents are dead.”

Harry felt it was an odd thing to say to divert suspicion onto him, but it seemed to work. Dudley was pulled out of class, and everyone was sent home, but not before Harry was searched again. Somehow, his parents' deaths made him more likely to steal. A troubled boy from a broken home who couldn’t stop himself. Maybe they were right. How else could one explain the strange occurrences?

But he wasn’t a thief. Whatever was wrong with him, that truth he knew for certain. Harry felt that if he kept repeating that to himself, it would make the strange feeling inside his belly go away. He may be an orphan, his clothes may not fit him, and he may not be able to look Jonathan in the eye anymore, but he wasn’t a thief. 

The feeling persisted, however.

Like one of the permanent stains on his hand-me-downs, no matter how hard he tried to scrub, it stuck to the fabric of his soul. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt like he had done something wrong. Even though he knew nobody would listen to him if he tried to tell the truth, somewhere along the way, he’d messed up. He wasn’t sleeping well. The walls of his cupboard were getting smaller.

He had to do something. He had to remove the stain. 

As soon as class ended, he raced home to beat Vernon and Dudley. Today was grocery day, so Petunia wouldn’t be there either. If Harry dropped the necklace off at Jonathan’s before Dudley got home, his cousin wouldn’t be able to say anything without admitting his crime.

Not wanting Vernon and Dudley to spot him on their drive back home, Harry climbed over the backyard fence and sprinted through his neighbor's yard and onto the adjacent street. The Thompsons lived a good distance away, but if Harry crossed through the small woods, he figured he could make it back before sundown. 

The necklace felt warm in his hand as he squeezed it like a cleansing fire to wipe out the stain. If he brought the Thompsons the necklace, they would see him for who he was, and they would tell other people, who would tell more. A Professor once said one act of selflessness goes a long way, and today was the day he’d prove it.

“THERE HE IS!” 

Harry heard the scream from a distance and turned to see Dudley and two of his friends, all on bikes, speeding towards him. Before he could make sense of what was happening, his legs were moving, racing across the street and passing a dozen houses, Harry reached the border of the woods. He could hear the sound of whirring tires reaching up to him. As he passed the clearing, he glanced back to see Dudley and his gang hopping off their bikes to follow him. 

Without any hesitation, Harry barreled through the brush, branches, and thorns, cutting through his skin. His chasers' taunts only quickened his pace.

“Come here, cousin!”

“Let's play some Harry Hunting!”

Eventually, Harry spotted a tree with evenly spaced branches and began to climb, knowing Dudley always had a hard time lifting his own body weight. He heard their footsteps slow to a stop beneath him, and soon, rocks were being flung in his direction, so he climbed faster, with reckless abandonment.

A flash of light invaded his vision as a rock connected with the back of his head. Losing his balance, he hugged the closest branch to him for dear life, his legs dangling precariously in the air. With some effort, he swung one leg over the branch and rested on his belly. A trickle of blood ran down his neck as he saw the three kids below hurling rocks at him, a good fifty feet away now. 

“You have to come down soon. It's getting dark!” Dudley’s friend Mark yelled upward.

“No, I don’t,” Harry said simply, in a tone he hoped wouldn’t betray his nervousness.

Now it was Dudley’s turn to shout. “Mum and Dad are going to get mad if you’re out after dark!” 

“I don’t care,” Harry responded. 

“No one’s going to believe you!”

“You don’t know that!” Harry yelled back. A nerve struck, tears beginning to cloud his vision. 

“Yeah.” Dudley taunted, “You don’t have parents. No one wants you around!”

“I’m not coming down!” Harry screamed, “You have to come and get me… Fatty!” 

Dudley’s face, now a deep red, truly resembled his father as he yelled, “I’m not fat!” 

A rush of glee filled Harry that his remark seemed to have worked. “Yeah, you are. I heard Petunia talking to the doctor.”

“Shut up!”

“You shut up!” Harry snapped back.

Dudley turned to Mark and motioned towards the tree. “Go after him.”

Mark shook his head vigorously. “I can’t… I’m afraid of heights. Mum said it was normal.”

Dudley grunted and turned to the other boy. “You!”

“D. This is between you and your cousin.” The boy shrugged nervously. 

Dudley stomped his feet in a tantrum and roared back at Harry, “No one likes you!”

“No one likes you!” Harry yelled back. Dudley opened his arms, pointing towards his two friends, which were significantly more friends than Harry had. “They don’t count… they're stupid,” Harry argued.

“Hey!” The two boys yelled and proceeded to start throwing rocks at Harry again, which had no chance of reaching him behind the branch. 

Eventually, after it was clear that Harry would not be coming down anytime soon, the boys retreated back to their bikes, but before Dudley disappeared from view, he turned around and yelled back, “Fine, stay there! You’ll see, Mum and Dad won’t believe you. No one will!”

Harry stayed motionless for another twenty minutes, worried that the gang was hiding in wait for him to come down. Eventually, his fear of his cousin was usurped by the fear of encroaching dusk. Almost instantly, the forest had darkened, making it difficult to see the branches on which he was placing his feet as he descended. 

It was a slow process, as he tested every new branch with a little hop before completely letting go of the one above. And just as he was getting into a rhythm, just as he let go of a hold- 

SNAP.

His feet fell through suddenly open space as he clawed against the tree trunk, ripping his nails, to no avail. Before he had a chance to yell, he was falling back-first towards the ground. The canopy above rose rapidly as he fell, the lights dimmed, and in a moment, he’d hit the ground with a…

Soft thud.

Like landing on a mattress, not that Harry had much experience with that, he hit the floor without ceremony. No pain, no loss of air. He was simply on the ground now, as if a ghost had caught him mid-air and placed him down. For a split second, he thought of his dad, or a dad, as he couldn’t picture what the man looked like. He’d seen other parents toss their kids in the air and catch them. 

But he was alone in the woods. Harry whipped his head in a swivel for an explanation. He felt a tingle on his skin, the same one he’d get when he had one of his strange occurrences. 

No answers came to him as he sat in the leaves and twigs that made up the forest floor. The only hint of other life was the soft hoot of a nearby owl. 

A flash. 

A sparkle- where the little light left reflected on a metal object on the ground. Jonathan’s necklace. 

He was trembling as he stood up, necklace in hand. For a moment, he felt like he couldn’t move anymore. That his legs wouldn’t work. The darkness was suffocating and the air felt unseasonably cool against his face, his skin. The only warmth came from the necklace in his palms.

It was a simple gold chain that felt heavier than it looked, with a small pendant that, for the first time, Harry noticed had writing on it.

איזהו גיבור הכובש את יצרו 

He had no idea what the inscription meant, and for some reason, that only added to its importance. To its sentimentality. The Thompsons would know what it read. 

He had to bring it back. 

Then they’d see. They’d see that they were wrong about him.

One step at a time, he journeyed deeper into the woods to finish his adventure.

“And how did you want her to react?” Dr. Kissling asked while adjusting his glasses.

“I wanted her to yell at me.” Harry shrugged, “Which I guess she kind of did, but not the way I wanted her to.”

“You feel you deserve to be yelled at?”

Harry sighed exasperatedly, as he knew the conversation was veering into well-trodden territory. “Not this again, please.”

Dr. Kissling smiled knowingly. “I apologize, Harry, but you have to see how that sounds to my ears.”

“I get it.” Harry nodded, “I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Our goal here is to talk,” The doctor raised his hand to stop Harry’s interruption. “Can I ask how the rest of your interactions with her went?”

“We ignored each other, which worked for a while.”

“And then?”

“It didn’t,” Harry said flatly as he looked away, ending the conversation. The only noise came from Dr. Kissling scribbling away at his notepad.

Right now, he was hoping he gave off the impression of the reluctant leader. He certainly didn't want to be standing center stage for the world to see, but he felt he owed it to both Hermione and Professor McGonagall.

The great hall was buzzing with excitement and nervous energy, not since the Battle of Hogwarts had the castle house so many people. It was time for exams, and because of the war, many students opted to stay home to help their families recover, with the reassurance that they could still take their exams. Because of the importance of the exams in Wizarding Britain, the Board of Governors had allowed students to repeat their fifth and seventh years, meaning there was double the amount of kids testing this year. 

Reading lists and curriculum guides were sent to all the Out-of-Castle students. Study meetups were scheduled throughout The U.K. and Ireland so students could get hands-on practice without traveling far. It was a remarkable education initiative spearheaded by Professor McGonagall, who was now speaking to the arriving students and their families while Harry and Hermione stood behind her. From his vantage point, Harry spotted many familiar faces in the crowd who opted out of Hogwarts: Neville and his Grandma, Luna and her father, and the Weasleys chief among them.

“It goes without saying that these are unusual circumstances. However, I have full faith that if you have followed our syllabus and stuck to your reading and assignments, even those students who did not attend Hogwarts will achieve great success in their exams.” Headmistress McGonagall said with conviction “Now as you may know the exams are still three weeks away, however, in order to maximize your passing odds in this unusual year, we felt it would be best to offer some more intensive learning beforehand.”

Taking a step to the side, McGonigal motioned to Harry and Hermione, “Fortunately, our Head Boy and Girl this year have organized a club called…” Her words died as she read the name on the parchment. “S.U.N.T.S.S… That can’t be right.”  

“Students Uniting to Nurture, Testing, and Studying Skills,” Hermione added, helpfully.

“Merlin,” The Headmistress shook her head “Very well, they along with our professors will be hosting practice sessions in the Hogwarts grounds free for anyone to join. Our Head Girl Hermione Granger has offered to help students in Charms, While our Head Boy Harry Potter.” She paused as the hall began to rumble with anticipation at his name “Will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

If Harry had known how important S.U.N.T.S.S. would end up being, he would never have joined, and he definitely would not have suggested changing Students to Classmates. He was already eternally grateful for Hermione’s restraint and level-headedness, but it only intensified as the school became abuzz with excitement for his first class. 

He was standing in the grounds by the lake facing upwards of seventy students, while parents, teachers, and key figures of Wizarding Society stood on the borders, expectedly. He would be primarily going over OWL-level defensive spells as well as some basic dueling practices. For the NEWT students, he would expect them to cast nonverbally, but first, he had to introduce himself. 

“Er, hello.” He said to the crowd, who stood enraptured, but silent. Harry waited for an agonizingly long time for someone to acknowledge him and when no one did he tried again. “Hello, class.”

“We can’t hear you!” A voice from the back shouted.

“Oh shit, right. I mean not shi- Shoot-” Harry shut himself up and silently cast the sonorous charm . “Can you hear me now?” His voice was now amplified.

The crowd murmured affirmatively. 

“Ok, right. Uhm… I’m Harry Potter. You likely know that, but if you don't, hi… For the next few days, I’ll be going over some DADA lessons that won’t only help you with your exams but in real life if you’re ever faced against a dark wizard.”

The crowd tittered excitedly to his words, which Harry expected.

“I won’t be teaching you how to defeat Voldemort.” He punctuated the man's name for effect and watched the vast majority of students and adults flinch. “If you're expecting me to regale you with stories or feats of implausible magic, this isn’t the class. The truth is the most simple spells, done right and with enough power can take you very far. Honestly, my hand-eye coordination is the biggest reason for my success, so if, for some god-forsaken reason, you want to become like the Chosen One, I suggest you train as a seeker or gain some perspecti-” 

Harry caught himself, realizing he was in the middle of another rant and that he wasn’t in Dr. Kissling’s office but in fact speaking to hundreds of witches and wizards who were hanging on to his every word. “Sorry… Anyway, today we will be going over the Expelliarmus charm, the Stunning Spell, and other practical hexes. Any questions?”

Every hand shot up in the air.

The day went by in a hurry and Harry was quickly reminded of why he enjoyed the DA so much. Teaching was simply rewarding. Seeing a student's eyes light up when they successfully disarmed their opponent, immediately erased any hesitation about leading his own class.

Without the benefit of the Room of Requirement, it was up to Harry to conjure crash pads and target dummies, which actually served as a great exercise for his Transfiguration skills. As the class migrated between lessons, Harry nonverbally conjured the appropriate supplies. At first, his target dummies appeared deformed, as if they had been hit with a particularly nasty stinging jinx, but by the end, he was able to cast over twenty flawless ones with a flick of his wrist. 

As for his students, they ran the spectrum of competence. Former members of the DA were proficient and were soon assisting in the class. Even Ron helped, only giving Harry a grunt as he showed some younger students the correct wand position for the disarming jinx. 

Throughout his lessons, he noticed the adults studying him, Professors, ministry officials, and other key figures in Wizarding society. There was even a goblin among the crowd, all waiting to make their introductions. The year was almost ending, soon it would be time to make a career decision, and the top students would be recruited heavily. Hermione already had three lunch meetings scheduled for the next Hogsmeade weekend. So far Harry had turned down every offer.

“Excuse me, sir.” A fifth-year Hufflepuff with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair said. She was bracketed by two of her friends, all of them were panting heavily from the lesson.

Harry, slightly taken aback by being addressed as sir, studied her briefly before saying, “Yes. How can I help you?”

“Is it true you can cast a Corporeal Patronus?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded “Although you won’t need to learn it for you OWLs.”

“I know, but we just want to see it.” She asked softly as she played with her hair.

Harry hesitated; he didn’t want to show off in front of everyone, but at the same time, he knew he needed to use his reputation as some sort of motivator. “I’ll tell you what.” He said as he conjured a dummy a dozen meters away. “Show me you can cast a Reductor curse, and I will-”

Instantly all three of them raised their wands and shouted “ REDUCTO” At the dummy which was reduced to dust. 

“Merlin,” Harry said to himself. Turning to the kids who were now beaming at him, Harry shrugged and raised his wand, and before he uttered the incantation, an idea came to him. Smiling, he yelled, “Expecto Patronum!”

The enormous white stag erupted from the tip of his wand as silence befell the grounds. Radiant and bounding, the stag ran across the air in an upward spiral until all eyes were on it, and with Harry’s voice emitted, “Class dismissed. Tomorrow, we will go over Shield Spells and Hex Deflection!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Harry only had eyes on one person standing next to Mcgonagall, the bushy-haired witch biting her lip.

What a stupid fucking question, Harry thought. He should have said that to Dr. Kissling when he wrote it. But he didn’t because ironically he was afraid of hurting the old man’s feelings.

Which he felt could be true for every single interaction anyone had ever had. 

There were hundreds of people in the Great Hall tonight, and Harry could confidently say he had never let his true, unfiltered feelings out to any of them save one. 

Who, of course, was hiding under the invisibility cloak, running from her own problems. 

The Great Hall had never looked so disorganized for a feast. House tables had been abandoned since there were so many multi-house families in attendance. Instead, the four long tables were replaced with dozens of circular ones. Harry was dining with members of the DA and the Order of the Phoenix. 

“That was quite the presentation, Harry,” Ginny said, her eyes mockingly wide as she fanned herself exaggeratedly. 

Harry looked up from his dinner plate and smiled. “Thanks. I’ve got to give you lot something to aspire to.”

“I see why your reputation as a teacher precedes you.” Arthur Weasley said politely, while Molly nodded alongside him. They were trying to ease the tension, and Harry gave them a small smile and a nod. Ron, meanwhile, was staring daggers at his plate.

“Do you mind if I give some pointers on casting Protego Maxima in the next class?” Neville Longbottom asked in his now absurdly deep register.

“Sure.” Harry shrugged. Neville nodded magnanimously, completely oblivious to Ginny's and others' staring. 

The reunions were an odd experience. Everyone had changed tremendously over the years. During the Horcrux Hunt, he had missed the growth of Neville and only had a few moments to appreciate it during the Battle and its aftermath. Now, another year had passed, and it was impossible not to notice that the once awkward boy was a man. 

The underlying kindness and goodness were still there, but now he carried himself as a leader. It was the way his Grandmother spoke to him. The way other adults treated him signified the change. He likely would have been Head Boy if he had  returned for his eighth year. 

He had stayed at home to care for his grandmother, his estate, and the Lovegoods. Apparently, sometime in the last two years, Luna and Neville became an item. A whirlwind romance ignited during the resistance at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, their relationship ended just as quickly as it started, not that a majority of the student body was complaining about a newly single Neville Longbottom. 

For Harry, though, it was just another point of tension within the relationships in his life: Ron, the Weasleys, Neville Vs. Luna. 

Luna

There was a conflict he wanted to avoid. 

And so did she if their first interaction was any indication. She couldn’t make eye contact with him, even as her father apologized profusely, to the point of tears. Harry’s reassurances fell on deaf ears as he repeated to the man, “It’s okay. You were trying to save your daughter, I understand.”

Harry hoped his words carried over to Luna as well. 

I forgive you. 

Or, more to the point

There’s nothing to be sorry for.

But she wouldn’t look at him, and he doubted those words could reach her. The life and wonder that seemed to radiate from the Lovegoods had been stripped away in the war. A stiff breeze would have blown Xenophilius over. His unsteady feet were barely supporting his now absurdly frail body. Harry watched from the corner of his eye as Luna was encouraging her father to eat. Bargaining with him to at least try some of the food she was piling on his plate.

His stomach churned as he witnessed how physically challenging it was for her, with only one hand. She couldn’t bring the plate closer to the serving spoon, and food spilled onto the table. Her right hand had been removed, made useless by the dark spell which left burn marks that Harry knew traveled up her arm and peeked up her neck.

“You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.”

Voldemort's words rang in his head whenever he saw Luna, flashing back to the battle. Her mutilated body, her screams, the glimmer of hope that Harry could end it.

Harry’s entire day had been filled with reunions and handshakes. The sanctuary of his Eighth Year was starting to fade, and the realities of adulthood came creeping with it. It was a bizarre experience, as he spent most of his childhood wanting to be treated as an adult, wanting to be included in the Order meetings. Now that adulthood was actually at his doorstep, he wished they would go back to treating him as a child. 

He’d have to make a career decision soon. Dr. Kissling said there was always a chance to change his path, but Harry remained skeptical. He felt paralyzed by his options; there were hundreds of doors available to him, and choosing one would lock the rest.

Hermione seemed to thrive with the multiplicity of options. She always responded well to compliments about her intellect, so having practically every country's ministry invite her for an interview kept her in a positive mood all month. That was until the second letter arrived at breakfast. 

She had tried to hide the envelope from any prying eyes, but Harry saw the sender- 

Her mother. 

Hermione quietly excused herself and left for their dorms. He had hardly seen her today, although he knew where she was. Sitting under the invisibility cloak, twenty yards away, watching the castle dine.

Her marker on the map remained unmoving for the last two hours. Since the library incident, she had taken to watching people from under the cloak. Occasionally, Harry would join, and occasionally, they would have sex. Many times, they sat in silence.

Harry checked the map again. Hermione’s name was still there, unmoving. 

“Is she okay?” Ron’s question snapped Harry’s attention from the parchment. Of course, he would recognize what Harry was doing and why. 

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. 

“You keep checking like you don’t know where she is.”

“It’s where she is that’s the problem.”

“And she’s okay?”

“She just needs some time alone.”

Ron nodded and went back to his food. It was the most words Harry had gotten from his former best friend since his arrival. Mrs. Weasley followed their exchange closely, hopefully. “So, Harry, what have you considered for your future career?”

All eyes at the table turned to him. “I’m still not sure.”

“Are you still wanting to be an Auror?” She asked.

 “Maybe. I’m not sure, Hermione doesn’t think I should.” He answered, not missing Ron’s slight scoff. “I know I’m good at defense.” He added, for some reason.

“What about teaching?”

“I don’t know. I’m a bit young, aren’t I?”

“Nonsense, you’re brilliant.” She waved him off in that maternal tone that he had missed.

“Thanks,” he smiled, wishing her words rang true.

Bubbling cauldrons kept the air of the potion dungeons in a haze. Harry and Hermione circled around theirs, working silently and in sync. It was well past curfew, but Professor Slughorn gave them access to his classroom so they could revisit some potion principles before their NEWT exams in a few weeks. Right now, they were making the Bloodroot Potion, as the Ravenclaws' study guides had said this was a common testing subject in years past. 

Harry found Potions to be a far less stressful subject when you didn’t have a six-foot bat breathing down your neck the entire time. Following instructions as written was quite simple. Hell, he’d been cooking for the Dursleys for most of his childhood. Was it really any different? And with Hermione helping him memorize the theories behind the recipes, he felt pretty confident about the upcoming exam.

“Three drops of castor oil, followed by eight clockwise swirls.” Hermione read aloud, her finger following the line of text from her potion book. 

Harry did as instructed, and the potion turned from a vibrant yellow to lilac almost instantaneously. 

“In two minutes, we’ll need to add six eel eyes, one every five minutes. In between them, we add a thin slice of Mandrake Root.”

“A thin slice of Mandrake Root.” Harry scoffed, “What type of measurement system is that?”

Hermione smiled as she read along. 

“They never say how thin or how long.” Harry continued, “And are all eel eyes the same size? I doubt it. I find it hard to believe the Wizarding Society has never heard of the metric system.”

Hermione lowered the heat on the burner and set her wand to alert her in ten minutes. “Why must Motherwort be harvested during a new moon?” She quizzed.

“The moon draws its oils out, lessening its effectiveness,” Harry answered.

She nodded. “Very good.”

“I’m quite the student.”

“Don’t credit the professor, per usual.”

“Oh, I give her all the credit in the world. Especially how she rewards her students.”  Harry smirked

Hermione ignored him, but he spotted the small smile playing on her lips. “How long must one dry age Hemlock for and why?”

“At least two months, and because it isolates the poison from the fiber of the root, making it easier to extract.”

She beamed at his answer and gave a small hip check. “Well done.”

“I'm a good listener.” He said quietly, lacing his words with meaning. 

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, Harry,” she said softly, lowering her gaze back to her textbook. “I’d settle for the imperial system.”

Harry could only chuckle at her blatant attempt to change the conversation. “We do use inches, I suppose, but I always preferred metric when cooking.”

“Why’s that?”

“It was easier to add.” Harry answered casually, “One-fourth of all the ingredients, so there’d be enough leftovers for me to eat.”

Hermione stilled like she always did when his childhood was brought up. He knew that she knew that she couldn’t ask him to expand without Harry asking about the letter, so instead, she simply said. “I’m not much of a cook.”

“I remember.” Harry said lightly, “How you are so much better than me at potions is a mystery.”

“I’m not that good.” She replied and then, at Harry’s dismissive grunt, continued. “It’s true. I knew it during Sixth Year when the half-blood… Snape was much better than me. There's an intuitiveness, a creativity, you need.”

“I know what you mean.” Harry nodded, “Apparently, my mum had it.” 

Harry added another eel eyeball while Hermione swirled the cauldron. The potion gradually turned to a darker shade of purple as the smell of fresh grass overtook the wet stone aroma typically present in the dungeons. “I like to think that after the war, she would have become a Potion Master. Maybe owned an apothecary.” Harry said, watching a plume of gas bubble up from the cauldron. 

“Maybe she would have been our professor.” 

Harry gave the idea some thought. “Kids typically don’t like having their parents as their instructors, right?”

Hermione turned to him, considering his question. “There was a boy in primary, a real menace, whose mother taught music at the school. He’d always be on his best behavior during her class.”

“Hmm, maybe not then. I wouldn’t have been able to get away with half the stuff I did.” Harry shook his head.

Hermione grasped his forearm lightly. “I think she’d be brilliant.”

“You’d be her favorite student,” Harry said softly, taking her hand in his. “She’d tell me how to help you.”

“You are helping.” She whispered, “You're by my side.”

“That's all I can do,” Harry turned to her completely. “I know I’m not good with the words or the emotions, but I want to help.”

“That's not it…” She said, avoiding his gaze, “You’re more than enough. More than anyone else.“

“You would know what to say. What to do…I feel useless.”

“You shouldn't.”

“It's hard not to. If the positions were reversed, you wouldn’t stop pressing me.”

Hermione sighed. “I know.”

“That does seem slightly hypocritical,” Harry stated pointedly

“It does.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Something between a sigh and a laugh left Harry’s mouth as he said, “You’re lucky you fell in love with me, Mione.” 

“Why’s that?”

“'Cause you would’ve driven any other bloke mad.”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” she rolled her eyes with fond exasperation, “That’s why we fell in love with each other.”

Harry nodded, leaned in, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and went back to cutting slices of Mandrake root. Hermione stood motionless, watching him. “The letter they sent me was quite literally a list of everything I did wrong,” she started with a shaky breath. “They didn’t even bother to write complete sentences. It was a grocery list of my failures as a daughter.”

Harry turned to her, abandoning his task. She seemed so small at that moment, and she needed him to help her the way she always did for him. “That sounds more like a writing exercise than, you know, a reflection on…” Harry began, his words dying as he felt their ineffectiveness. “Dr. Kissling has me do them sometimes.” He finished lamely.

“Okay.” She responded and waited for Harry to add more. Unfortunately, the right words weren’t coming to him, and eventually, she turned back to their work, the conversation over.

Harry watched her monitor the cauldron, hating himself. “What else?” He asked desperately, hoping for a redo.

Hermione sighed. “Harry, there’s nothing-”

“How are you feeling?” He softly interrupted.

With a huff, she began again, “I followed them… for weeks. I was disillusioned in their clinic, the restaurants they ate, their… everywhere. Another invasion of their privacy.”

“Why?”

“They were happy, and I was looking for a sign that they weren’t, that they were missing something. That adding me to their lives would be a benefit.” Hermione took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts, as Harry reached for her hand. “I didn’t find it, and I restored their memories anyway, and I just… Everything they said about me is true.” 

She stopped, lowering her head away from his gaze. Harry squeezed her hand tenderly, willing the right words to come out of his mouth, and said, “I told Dr. Kissling to fuck off in our first session.” 

Hermione shot her head up, baffled at his words, her eyes glistened with held-back tears. Harry continued quickly, losing faith that he could tie his rambling thoughts into something cohesive, let alone reassuring. “I uhm…  I told him about dying in the forest and how I was okay with it. That it made sense.”

Hermione’s breath hitched as anger built up behind the tears. Don’t fuck this up, Harry. “I know you don’t want to hear it anymore, but I was so sure it was the right thing to do… then he asked if I were to die today, would I be okay with it, and I… I snapped. I told him to fuck off and left the session early.”

“Why?” She asked worryingly. To Harry’s dismay, she instantly put her troubles on hold for him once again.

Help her! You stupid twat!

“Everything was worse, you were gone, the funerals, the nightmares… everything. My answer shouldn’t have been any different than it was in the battle, and yet I didn’t. I wanted to live. And with it… I… The certainty about my decision vanished. And I had to confront that I left without saying goodbye to you.”

Hermione took a step closer to him. To comfort him. When it should have been the other way around, Harry held her back by the shoulders and leaned in, staring directly into her caramel eyes. “I’m okay, Hermione. What I’m trying to tell you is that at that moment, nothing made sense anymore… And I’m learning that the universe doesn’t make sense, and that’s okay.”

“Okay.” She whispered. Her eyes locked on his.

“If you offered to erase their memories of you again, do you think they would take it?” 

Her brows furrowed at the question, and Harry felt a spike of fear at his word choice but pressed on, “I think they’re angry because their answer doesn’t make sense… Even with all the pain and hurt, they would say no… I mean, honestly, who would want to forget you?” He ended with a powerful whisper and a purposeful pause. “You can fix this, Hermione. I know it.”

Hermione gave a small nod as he finished, and as Harry slid his hands from her shoulders down her sides, she leaned forward. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached to kiss him, threading her hands through his hair. Pulling him towards her, Hermione dictated the pace, and as Harry let out a moan, she slipped her tongue through his lips, quieting him. Harry took a tentative step back, and her force had him quickly bumping into a table. Instinctively, Harry hopped onto the table, and Hermione climbed after him, knees on either side of his hips. Her mouth was never far from his as she began disrobing him.

Harry hurriedly removed his arm from the sleeve, robe pooling behind him, then grasped the hem of Hermione’s top and pulled upward as she raised her arms in the air. Peppering kisses at the first sight of her chest, he undid the clasp of her bra as Hermione kissed the top of his head. “My wand.” She breathed.

“Forget it.”

“Locking charm…” She moaned, “The door.”

Harry grunted, gripped her bum, and slid off the table, speeding towards the door. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms behind his neck and her legs around his waist as Harry pressed her against the surface.

“No one’s getting in.” He said huskily as Hermione worked at his belt, pressing her back against the door for support.

Foreheads pressed together, and they both looked down as he entered. Her legs pulled tighter against his waist, encouraging him. Teeth lightly grazing his neck, she murmured, “Nothing makes sense, but this.”

“How do I look?” Hermione asked while fixing her hair on the reflection of a window pane. They were headed up the stairs for their first Slug Club as a couple. Each was a bundle of nerves for what would be the biggest networking event of the year if the guest list was anything to go by. Hermione had done background checks on nearly all the attendees. Inches of parchment filled with each guest's work experience, ideology, and even personal anecdotes. The night before, Harry watched as she practiced conversation starters with the mirror of her vanity, rehearsing over and over again on how she could organically slip in her career prospects into the conversation. 

Ron was far and away the most outgoing of the Trio. His life at the Burrow had prepared him in the ways of casual conversation. Harry always assumed Hermione would be next in line when it came to social skills. She actually had friends, or at least acquaintances, outside of the Gryffindor house.

Now, he wasn’t so sure. It seemed that she approached social interaction in the same way she did homework. Something to be researched and completely prepared for, with no room for improvisation. Thinking back, she seemed to know personal details about everyone at the school. Whenever they broached a student to join the DA or S.U.N.T.T.S, she would offer small tidbits about their lives. 

Harry always felt a little guilty about how little he knew about his classmates, who were so willing to follow him. Always caught up in his own world, but at least his indifference was organic and less invasive. Maybe that’s why Hermione and he worked so well together, they resided on the opposite ends of the introvert spectrum, and together they could pass as the socialites the world wanted them to be. 

“You look beautiful.” He responded after a beat. And she did in a dark purple dress that shimmered subtly under the room’s lights, gracefully exposing her collarbones. 

Hermione turned to face him, her eyes sharpening. “But do I look hireable?”

“Err… yeah.” He nodded

 “You hesitated.” Her tone was serious, but her face was bright with mirth at Harry’s obvious discomfort. He could feel himself walking into a boyfriend trap.

“I don’t know what that means,” Harry admitted with a small laugh. “You’re not covered in blood or naked, but I’d still hire you even if you were.”

“Good answer.” She said magnanimously and turned back to her reflection. Harry followed her gaze, standing next to her, they did make a striking couple, although he felt she was doing most of the heavy lifting. 

Harry gave her a steadying arm, with her high heels ascending the various stairs required to reach Slughorn’s quarters proved difficult. On the way, they passed several gawking students, who pointedly gave the couple their space. 

It was only once they gave their names to the overly excited usher that the nerves fully hit her. Before they stepped through the curtains that would lead to the main floor, Hermione grasped Harry’s arm, pulling them to a stop, then began fanning herself.

“It’s going to be fine,” He comforted, tracing a circle on her lower back.

“You’re not nervous?”

“For you, No. Whatever job you want, you’ll get.”

She didn’t seem convinced as she played with her hair, trying to style it.

“Who's at the top of your list?” He asked, knowing that the process of going over her plan would calm her nerves.

“Daniel Foreman, he’s the head of the Department of Magical Creatures.”

“Ok, and what’s he like?”

“On paper, he seems a moderate progressive, willing to hear both sides of and compromise on Magical Creature rights. But Slughorn said if you get a few drinks in him, he lets slip his radical beliefs.”

“Good radical?” He asked.

Hermione nodded, biting her nails. “What if he thinks I’m too moderate?”

Harry could only chuckle at her insecurities. “Hermione, you fought in a war to stop a tyrant. I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

“That was different. There was a clear line between right and wrong.” She shook her head. “Politics are different… messier.” 

Remembering the advice Remus had given him years ago, Harry squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll be okay. Just give him your undivided attention, and he’ll follow. Hell, you’ll probably walk out of here with your own office.”

“It won’t be that easy.”

“For you, it will be… All the work you did at Hogwarts was so this could be the easy part. You don’t have to convince anyone of anything.”

Hermione took a few deep breaths and nodded, steeling herself. Then she turned to Harry and asked, “What about you?”

“I’m nervous because I don’t want to be here.”

“You still haven’t made a decision.”

“It’ll come to me.” He shrugged, and before she could pry any further, he guided her through the curtains and into the lion's den. 

The party proceeded much like Harry expected, first with the booming voice of Slughorn, “ Harry, My Boy! ” simultaneously announcing his presence but also his connection to Harry, in a naked attempt to impress his guests. 

An endless row of Wizards and Witches made their introductions to the pair. With every new fac,e a factoid of their lives, courtesy of Hemione’s intensive research, sprang to mind. 

“Walter Spindle- Department of Transportation”

Married with two kids. Trains dogs in his free time. 

“Daisy Grouse- Consultant For Gringotts International Trading”

Former Professor. Has a slight limp from a Quidditch Injury.

“Rosemary Crane- Archivist for the Hogwarts Alumni Committee” 

Always brings her own hot sauce to restaurants and dinner parties. She’s very proud of it.

“Aiden Mulberry- Arithmancer- Private Practice”

Recently engaged, finds Rosemary Crane (and her hot sauce) unbearable.

Hermione’s research had paid off as she seamlessly switched between varying topics of conversation, all while fitting in her own career prospects into the conversation. Meanwhile, the most Harry could do was offer the occasional affirmative grunt. 

Eventually, Daniel Foreman made his introduction to the pair. He was a short, balding man with unproportionally broad shoulders, with a perpetual chip on them. Hermione, taking Harry’s advice, gave the man her undivided attention. “I’ve been following your work closely, especially this year.”

“That’s praise to my ears. Any questions you have?”

Hermione was in her element, Harry recognized, trying to impress someone with her intellect. With a drink in her hand, she exuded the confidence of an aristocrat. “There’s definitely a reinvigorated progressive sentiment in the Wizarding Britain following the war, but how does that look practically in your day-to-day work?”

“Excellent question,” Daniel smiled while giving a small nod of acknowledgement. “As is expected from your reputation. Well, I can say I've been invited to meetings that would have seemed impossible years ago, but it’s still an uphill climb. Right now, the goal in my department is to capitalize on the momentum. Provided by your generation.” He finished with a raise of his glass to the couple. Hermione raised hers, while Harry could only offer a tight smile.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it.,” Harry said, squeezing Hermione’s hand and detaching himself from the conversation. “I’m going to get a drink.”

He had no idea what Hermione had to be nervous of; of all her numerous talents, perhaps her greatest was impressing authority figures. The entire concept of the Slug Club was built for Hermione to shine. Harry, on the other hand, had the bizarre task of being at a networking event and trying to actively unimpress people.

Hermione would likely spend the next hour or two talking with Daniel, which was a long time trying to avoid people, especially at a party where everyone was ogling at him. At the moment, his only recourse was to use the loo. No one stops to talk to someone if they think they are on their way to a piss. If he split his time between drinking at the bar and taking extended bathroom breaks, perhaps he could make it through the party unscathed. 

One walk through the dance floor and a couple hurried “ Pardon me,” and he found himself in the restroom, dick in hand. He had long dried up and was now waggling his cock to disperse some imaginary drops. Why he felt the need to act like he was pissing, he couldn’t explain, but he’d follow it up with a thorough washing of his hands. All in all, he killed ten minutes off the clock going to the bathroom. Next, he’d go to the bar, ask the bartender to take his time, nurse his drink, and then come back here to piss again, he might even make it an imaginary shit this time. 

Why couldn’t he be grateful?

Everyone wanted a piece of him, and for the most part, it was due to merit. He defeated Voldemort. His grades were good. He was Headboy and Quidditch captain. Why couldn’t he enjoy the moment?

He was simply overcome by the abundance of options. With the sheer number of hungry faces in the crowd. He just wanted to scare them away. For the first time, he wanted his scar to hurt again. Another attack where he collapsed. Another moment where the wizarding world thought him insane. Deplete the options until there was only one left. Maybe as a contractor or a plumber, some wizarding equivalent of a blue-collar job. 

Harry downed a glass of fire whiskey at the bar, ready to make his way back to the toilets, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and a woman’s voice said, “May I have a minute, Mr. Potter?” 

“Sure thing, I just need to use the loo,” Harry replied without glancing back.

“Harry Potter has a small bladder. How did Witch Weekly miss that factoid?”

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle into his drink at the comment. The maker of the quip deserved his attention, and he turned to find a witch out of time, adorned with turquoise earrings and layers of multi-colored fabric draped on top of her thin frame. Like many older witches and wizards, she had an energy and life force that didn’t match her age. Her hazel eyes burned with curiosity, and her wrinkles radiated passion as she smiled at him. 

“Fascinating crowd, isn’t it?” She said, studying him. 

Shrugging, Harry said, “I haven’t talked with many of them.”

“Neither have I.” She replied, turning from the bar onto the dance floor, “But you don’t have to, to find them fascinating. The fact that they are in attendance is in itself remarkable.”

“Ok… then. Well, I’m going to-.”

“-Decisions will be made tonight,” She interrupted. “At least that’s what everyone is led to believe.”

“Right.” Harry eyed her curiously  as she turned back to him and placed her drink down, 

“Life is but a series of crossroads. Every decision one makes has consequences, cause, and effect, so is any day really more important than the next?”

“I don’t-”

“We have no way of knowing the effects of our choices, of tracking the ripple effects of any of our actions.” She continued, waving her arms excitedly. “In reality, my choosing to drink a red wine over a white wine may be more meaningful than any career choices made at this party.”

“Right.”

“Or choosing this scarf.” She emphasized, grabbing the fabric, or eyes hyper-focused on him. “Or these shoes. Or this bracelet. Or these earrings.”

“I get it!” Harry interrupted the odd witch before she pointed out every accessory she wore. “But if everyone believes that today is important, then it becomes important.”

“Exactly!” She clapped. “No decision lives in a vacuum. Maybe someone here likes the color of my scarf. Maybe they find it makes me attractive. Maybe drinking a heavier red wine lowers my inhibitions, giving me the courage to talk to the Boy Who Lived .” 

Harry froze at the moniker, growing suspicious. “I have a feeling you were always going to talk to me, no matter the drink.”

“Correct! I’ve been dying to meet you.”

“And you are?” 

“Rosalind Rilke, Department of Mysteries.”

None of Hermione’s research notes sprang to mind at the name, making him all the more weary. “Harry Potter. Look, I'm not interested in a job right now.

Beaming, she replied, “Good. What I'm offering is an opportunity.”

“For?”

“To work at the Department of Mysteries”

“So a job,” Harry replied dryly.

She waved his remark away, “I prefer to think of it as a research position.”

“What would I be researching?” Harry asked, unsure if he felt amused or annoyed.

“Choice, free will, cause and effect, etcetera.” She twirled her hand in a circle, her bracelet rattling, "But in a lab environment, you control the variables. You get to choose the wine and study the ramifications.”

“So I can drink on the job?” He joked. 

“I mean it's discouraged, but I’m sure we could make an exception for the Boy Who Lived … Twice.”

Once again, he paused at the moniker and raised his drink to his lips, “Not quite a boy the second time.”

“No.” She nodded, tilting her head to study him, like an owl. “Maybe the Master of Death is a more appropriate title.”

Harry almost choked on his drink, any playful energy immediately evaporating with the name. Very few people were aware of the title, let alone his connection to it. He willed his features to remain unreadable and pushed his magic outward, letting it be known the conversation was over. 

“Cause and effect,” Rosalind smiled, seemingly unperturbed by his aura, as she backed away. “Think on it, dear. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with a floating tray of canapés.”

And with that, she turned and merged into the crowd, Harry’s eyes locked on her back until he lost track of her. He stood rooted to the spot, staring straight ahead, trying desperately to collect his breathing. The noise of the party was muddled. Moments passed before he could register the other faces in the crowd staring back at him, waiting for their chance. 

He put his drink down and walked straight towards the exit, ignoring the calls of his name. 

Inhaling the cool air of the castle, Harry yanked his tie loose as he stepped out of the party and into the open corridor. He nodded towards the usher, telling the man he’d be back and just needed a breather.

Harry wrapped his tie around his right knuckles and closed his hand into a fist. For some reason, it reminded him of Dudley. Maybe he should try boxing, he thought with a smile, as he made his way to the central staircase and leaned on the railing. Looking down, he fought the urge to spit. 

“Potter.” A voice said.

Fuck me, can’t they leave me alone?

“What!” He snapped and turned around to see Draco Malfoy.

Ohh. Harry froze at the sight of his nemesis. Who he begrudgingly admitted looked quite sharp in his dress robes. Dark green dress robes, Harry thought. Before concluding that Draco only looked presentable relative to how shit he looked throughout the war. 

The ferret had put on some weight again and washed his hair, it seemed. 

“Fashionably late?” Harry said as he eyed the man.

“Fashionably uninvited.” Draco shrugged.

“Still trying to sneak into the Slug Club.” Harry chuckled darkly, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

Draco leaned against the railing, his eyes focused on the entrance to the party. “And you’re still trying to find an excuse to leave early.” 

Harry grunted in response. Neither of them spoke for a minute. He’d never had a civilized conversation with Draco and had no idea where to start. Every impulse was telling him to make fun of the ferret.

Eventually, the silence became too unbearable, and he asked, “Nervous about the exams?”

A flash of smugness spread through Draco’s face that Harry was the first one to speak, but it was quickly subdued by what Harry assumed was self-doubt. “I guess… I know I’m going to fail.”

Well, I figured that, moron. Harry thought instantly, but had the mental fortitude to instead say, “What makes you say that?”

“I didn't keep up with the study materials.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded while keeping the glee from showing on his face.

“I didn’t attend any of the meetups, either. So you know… I’m fucked.”

“Yeah, probably.” Harry nodded. 

“It’s hard to find the initiative to study on your own,” Draco added.

Harry thought of his summer breaks, when he would find any excuse not to do his assigned readings. The Dursleys didn’t care if his homework got done, and Malfoy’s parents were both in Azkaban. “When’s your mum getting out?”

Draco stilled briefly before responding, “End of the Summer.”

Harry nodded as he remembered the day of the Malfoys' sentencing. It would be a long time till his father was a free man. 

“Why not come to Hogwarts?”

“With you and Granger as Heads?” Draco scoffed, “As if.”

“What?” Harry asked, genuinely confused.

Draco matched Harry’s confusion with a look of incredulity. “Are you honestly saying you wouldn’t have made my life a living hell?”

“Probably.” Harry grinned. “No less than you would have deserved.”

“There you go,” Draco stated, as if the matter was closed.

“We both know if the positions were reversed, you would have been a hundred times worse.” Harry defended himself “Whatever you may think of me I did save your life, and I saved your arse from Azkaban.”

“My mother bargained for me. You had nothing to do with it?”

“Yeah, just ignore my testimony,” Harry retorted sharply. “And that was for your role as a Death Eater. Not for your attempted murders of Ron and Katie.” 

Draco’s eyes widened at the mention of his two classmates. “I didn’t… they weren’t supposed to… I.” 

“Which would have been murders if not for me, by the way.” Harry continued. 

“Well, Hooray for the bloody hero Harry Potter !” Draco snarled. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Draco, being an idiot doesn’t make the crime any less true.”

Draco turned fully towards Harry and growled “Fuck you.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Harry smirked. A sense of accomplishment washed over him. 

“Whatever, you weren’t the reason I skipped Hogwarts.” Draco shrugged, straightening his posture. “So, don’t feel too smug. You sanctimonious bastard.”

“You just said-”

“I know what I said! Merlin, you are annoying.” Draco rolled his eyes, trying too hard to appear nonchalant. “I just had the whole house to myself, you know. Who wants to share a dorm after that?”

Harry immediately thought about his summers, and how the best parts were when the Dursleys left him unsupervised. “I guess, but if you weren’t studying, what were you doing?”

“Wanking mostly,” Draco shrugged.

“Ugh, Draco,” Harry recoiled, “Don't tell me that.” 

“Well stop asking me fucking questions.” Draco responded with an odd sense of superiority, “ Prude ,” he added.

Harry bit down on any response as, once again, memories from his summers came to him. He and Dudley had found one of Vernon’s magazines in the tool shed. For a fraction of time, the cousins were civil to each other as they flipped through the pages, staring at the pictures in awe. That was before Dudley punched him in the ribs and took the magazine to his room and locked the door. 

Seemingly reading his mind, Draco continued, “You won’t believe these Muggle magazines, Potter.”

“Draco, I’m begging you to shut up.” Harry pleaded.

A crooked grin spread across his rival's face at Harry’s discomfort. 

Looking for any angle to gain some control of the conversation Harry asked “What would your dad say about you wanking off to Muggles?”

“There were his.” Draco answered, his grin turning pensive, “Found them in his study.”

Once again, Harry thought of Vernon and the magazine. How he could never take his uncle's puritan rants seriously, knowing what he kept hidden. “Hypocrites, the lot of you.”

“Yeah,” Draco said softly. 

“You weren’t in any of my lessons,” Harry said to change the course of the conversation, as Malfoy was getting too relatable for comfort.

“Merlin, No.” He scoffed.

“You do realize you’re jeopardizing your future ‘cause of this demonstrably one-sided rivalry? You lost, move on.” 

“And what?” Draco glowered. “Happily, be subjugated to Professor Potter. Be grateful that the Chosen One graced me with his genius, please. S.U.N.T.S.S is a stupid fucking name by the way.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at Draco’s animosity. If he were looking from the outside, he’d likely feel the same way. “Yeah, it is. Wasn’t my idea, to be fair.”

“Granger?”

Harry nodded. “And the Ravenclaws.”

“Ravenclaws?” 

“Yeah, S.U.N.T.S.S. was meant to be a study group.”

“Merlin.” Draco shook his head “I’d rather spend the year wanking than hanging out with the Ravenclaws.”

Harry snorted in agreement, and he said, “They’re an interesting bunch.”

“Flavorless twats.” Draco spat. “After this, they’ll enrol in some academy, then an apprenticeship, but right before they actually get the job, they’ll apply for a Master's program and then another, cause it will look better on their CV. As long as they keep getting report cards that affirm how bloody brilliant they are, they’ll delay the real world forever.”

Harry nodded alongside him until Draco added, “You’re girl is no different.”

A spark of anger lit inside Harry as he eyed Malfoy dangerously. Be careful, ferret.

But Draco seemed to pay him no mind as he continued, “Remember her Boggart? Merlin, that was hilarious.”

“Malfoy, shut the fuck up,” Harry growled.

“You know it’s true. Ten Galleons, she enrolls in one of those Muggle universities.” 

“Maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t.” Harry defended, standing tall. “But she’s a Gryffindor. She takes action. Remember, when she slapped you? Merlin, that was hilarious .” Draco glared back, but before he could counter, Harry continued, “She has to work hard. You wouldn’t understand, you’re still a Malfoy. Merit doesn’t apply to you.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed and darkened. “Hence my invitation to the Slug Club.”

“ The fucking Slug Club .” Harry rolled his eyes, stepping towards Draco. “The party’s an endless cycle of self-flagellation. So no different to the rest of your year.”

“Merlin.” Draco snarled, then started exaggeratedly waving his arms towards Harry.

“What’s this?” Harry stepped back, taking a defensive position. “What are you doing?”

“I’m casting a Cheering Charm with the world’s tiniest wand. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position?”

“Actually, kill? Just you.” Harry bit back

“I’m not a killer.” 

“Yeah, and you’re welcome for that.”

“Are you ever going to let that go?” Draco scoffed. “You're not even friends with the Weasel, shagging Granger behind his back. Killing him would have been a mercy.”

That’s it. Harry thought as he stepped away from the ferret before he did something rash “Fuck you, I’m going back inside maybe if you blow the usher you can follow me.”

“Potter-” Draco began to follow.

“I’m so fucking sick of you and the other envious,” Harry yelled over his words as he marched towards the party. 

“POTTER, WAIT!” Draco screamed with everything he had.

“WHAT?” Harry yelled back, turning around

Draco stopped in his tracks, “I-I-I,” He stuttered, clenching both of his fists, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “I just wanted… I… fuck you.”

“What?” 

“No.” Draco grimaced, clearly frustrated, “No, I mean… I want to tell you that… No, I needed to tell you after… after everything I did… I came here to say….” A huff of air escaped him as he raised his head upwards to the ceiling and sighed. “I just wanted to say… to go fuck yourself.”

Harry could only watch dumbfounded as the ferret became defeated by his own words. However, he had a general idea of what Draco was trying to say.  “Right, fuck you too.”

A nod to the usher, who was watching the pair enraptured, and he was back in the lobby. Anger radiated from him, mixed with a pulsating anxiousness that seemed to match the beat of the party behind the curtain.

Reaching into his robe pockets he pulled out the wrinkled parchment, unfolding it in a hurry.

He’d been avoiding this one. 

His eyes instinctively skipped past it when staring down his list.

Of all the questions Dr. Kissling had him write this was the most challenging one to contemplate. Likely, because the answer kept smacking him in the face. 

Even Draco, the insufferable twat, was capable of guilt, it would seem. Though he may never develop the skills to apologize effectively it was a remarkable improvement to the slimy sociopath he had been. 

Guilt had made him a better person. 

It was a simple formula. Feeling bad makes you want to do better.

Over and over again, Harry had been witness to this. If he looked deep enough all of his heroics could likely be tied to it. Dumbledore’s as well.

And Snape, that miserable prick.

The disgusting truth, was that if Snape had simply gotten laid once in the intervening years since his mothers death, the Wizarding World would have been fucked. Dumbledore’s entire plan hedged on a man's twisted infatuation with his childhood crush.

Harry had lost count on how many crushes he’d had in his time at Hogwarts. Brief flights of fancy that disappeared as quickly as they arrived. Then Hermione and sex entered the picture and it all seemed frivolous. 

When he first saw Snape’s memories, he was emphatic. He didn’t doubt the man’s feelings, but time and distance only seemed to highlight its triviality. How much happier would have Snape been, if he just moved the fuck on. Lily Evans wasn’t a goddess.

But Snape needed the guilt to be the Hero.

As did Harry.

Was that such a bad thing?

Harry could hardly hear himself think. The Three Broomsticks was vibrant and pulsating with energy as the tense reunions were being dispelled with alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Even Ron had given Harry and Hermione a small head nod before convening with Seamus and Lee Jordan. The three of them were now line dancing while Seamus sang an Irish folk song.

Meanwhile, a vast majority of the pub patrons, Harry included, were gathered around Neville Longbottom. Neville, who was now one of the tallest students in the school, was like a lighthouse in the fog of the huddled masses. Neville with broad shoulders and a deep voice. Neville, who was effortlessly holding court about changes in the Wizengamot and other political machinations, was completely oblivious to the men and women ogling him. 

“Now, while the wounds are still fresh, and the rubble has yet to be cleared, is the time for change.”

Harry wondered if any of them were actually paying attention to the words Neville said. He certainly wasn’t, having lost interest pretty early in the speech. At this moment, he was simply standing by as Hermione’s chaperone, as she had already downed five glasses of fire whiskey. 

“Doesn’t Ginny look pretty!” Hermione yelled, interrupting Neville’s speech.

Neville froze momentarily. Harry noted how his eyes curiously flashed towards the window that led to the central road, and then he turned to face Ginny, whose face was now beet red. “Yes, she’s very beautiful.”

“She’s the prettiest witch or wizard…. In this pub… so you know…” Hermione slurred, turning to face Neville’s would-be suitors, “Shoo.”  She finished with a wave of her hand and a wink at Ginny.

“Okay, I think we need to get you some water.” The redhead cut in, wrapping her arm around Hermione and dragging her to the bar.

“Tell him!” Hermione screamed into Ginny’s ear, then whipped her head around. “Hey, Neville, she mmpphh. ” Whatever Hermione was about to say was thankfully muffled out by Ginny’s hand over her mouth. 

Harry scratched the back of his head awkwardly and turned to the crowd, many of whom were giving him a dirty look. “Sorry… She’s just letting loose.” However, his apology did not seem to register with Neville. His eyes were drawn once again to the window. “I’m going to make sure she’s okay,” Harry said to no one and left.

As he made his way towards Hermione and Ginny, he spotted who kept drawing Neville’s attention. Luna Lovegood was standing outside smoking a cigarette. 

Fuck.

His thoughts spiraled as the memory of a burned Luna seared into his brain. Her screams and his voice played on a loop, consumed him, so much so that he missed the playful argument currently happening between his girlfriend and Ginny.

“Hermione, I’ve shagged many more Wizards than you, and that’s not including the witches. I don't need your help.”

Hermione's eyes widened, and in a hushed tone but in a volume loud enough for everyone to hear, she repeated “ Witches !”

Ginny roared her head back at Hermione's poor attempt at being discreet. “Yes, Mione. Merlin, how many have you had to drink?”

“Enough.” Harry cut in and snatched the shot of clear liquor Hermione ordered, downing it in one gulp. 

“Boooooo.” Hermione hollered at him, while Ginny cackled and started booing him as well.

“Let her have fun!”

“Are you going to keep an eye on her?” Harry asked, slightly annoyed and amused.

Ginny raised her hand in the air while placing the other above her heart. “I promise my eyes won't leave her arse.”

“Ginny!” Hermione squealed. “My hero!” and she threw her arms around her friend, nuzzling her neck.

“Fine. I’m going out for a breather.” Harry sighed, bemused, “She’s on her fifth, so just-”

“Five shots of anything, Rosmerta!” Ginny yelled at the bartender.

“Merlin, Ginny, I just s-”

“Relax, those are for me. I have to catch up.” She waved him off, then downed two shots in an instant while Hermione egged her on, banging her fist on the counter.

“Just don’t burn the bloody pub down,” Harry said to the two girls who were paying him no attention, as he walked away towards the exit.

It was time to show some Gryffindor courage. 

The bite of the cold air sobered him as he opened the doors to leave the pub, and his courage left with it. The doors swayed shut, muffling the raucous noise of the pub. The contrast with the eerie silence made it more inviting, and he felt churning in his stomach that Luna would rather stay out here.

She was leaning against the handrail, a cigarette between her lips. She no longer wore her peculiar jewelry, and her thin, pale blond hair was no longer loose above her shoulders. Instead, it was wrapped in a tight bun that accentuated her sharp cheekbones. To those who took the time to know her, Luna could give the air of someone wise beyond her years while somehow possessing an endearing naivete. A particular innocence that manifested in a slight sway of her body as if she were floating on a lake, above all the noise.

Now she stood pointedly still, entirely earthbound.

“We don’t bite, you know?” Harry said casually.

Luna startled briefly before turning to him. “No one out here does either.”

“You’re the only one out here.”

There was no response from her as she side-eyed Harry, who made his way next to her.  Cigarette in her mouth, she reached out holding a pack as an offering.

Harry studied the rattling cigarettes briefly and shook his head. “Those things will kill you.”

“Say’s who?” She asked, raising a brow.

“Muggle scientist.”

“Then why do so many people partake?”

“Hermione says Muggle companies brainwashed us into thinking it looked cool, or something like that,” Harry replied. 

“Brainwashed?” Luna hummed to herself. “Hermione never seemed to be the type to believe in conspiracies.”

“Different type of brainwashing. No spells required,” Harry chuckled. “It’s more like showing handsome people smoking to kids and stuff, so they think it’s cool.”

“Ohh.” Luna turned to him discerningly. Even with all the changes her eyes were still uncannily perceptive. “That’s oddly boring.” 

“Most conspiracies are.” Harry said, “At least the true ones. It usually comes down to money or self-preservation.”

“Or red hair,” Luna added

Harry let out a soft chuckle “What?”

“You’ve never heard of the Red Hair conspiracy?”

“Quibbler exclusive?” he asked

Luna nodded pensively. “Minister Quincy Weasley brought red foxes from the east to the U.K. centuries ago.”

“Why?” 

“At first, it was because he liked red hair, and he wanted to subliminally influence the wizarding world to be attracted to red-haired people. It’s why there are so many of them in Wizarding Society.” She hummed contentedly, the sway subtlety returning as she spoke. 

“Via fox?” Harry asked carefully, not wanting to sound too skeptical. Not wanting to dissuade her.

Luna turned away from him, oblivious to his doubt, and nodded. “The next issue delved deeper. His wife had red hair and became obsessed with the foxes in China. So, as a gift, the minister brought hundreds of them to the island.”

“I’m lost, Luna,” Harry laughed nervously.

“The readers came to learn that there are magical Chinese foxes with nine tails that can shapeshift into humans and that it was the Department of Mystery's job to monitor all the foxes in England in order to find one.”

“Why?”

“Because Quincy Weasley missed his wife, and after her passing, he wanted to see her again, smiling. With her red hair.”

“Oh,” Harry said, trying to piece together the relevance of her story. “Didn’t he bring the foxes while she was still alive?”

“Yeah.” She smiled softly, her eyes damp. “Looking back, the details changed slightly every year.”

“I see,” Harry whispered. A weight built in his chest at the sight of Luna crying, “It’s an oddly sweet conspiracy. I’d like to believe it.” He admitted with complete earnestness.

“They were always my favorite issues of the Quibbler.” A single tear trailed down her cheek. “Looking back now, Daddy would release the latest issue every year on the anniversary of my mother's death.” She finished with a drag of her cigarette. 

Neither of them spoke. The noise from the pub heightened the silence between them. 

“You start to forget what people look like after they’re gone. It’s surprisingly easy.”

“You’re not being forgotten, Luna,” Harry assured her.

Turning completely around to face the window inside the pub, she said. “I think most of our group would rather side with Neville.”

“No one has to choose,” Harry responded, turning to face the window as well.

“Hermione and I never got on. Ginny fancies Neville. And we can’t even look at each other.”

“You and I have nothing to do with Neville,” Harry argued as he studied Longbottom, who stood out among the patrons. 

So damn tall.  

“What happened between you two anyway?”

“It made sense, then it didn’t,” She replied simply, with a drag. 

“You two do make sense,” Harry said, almost to himself. “I’m not sure why.”

“We were the kids who held onto the DA coins, even after it ended.” She casually stated. “We once hid in the same cupboard from Crabbe and Goyle. Same status for both of us.” 

“Same status.” He scoffed, annoyed. “What does that matter now we’re adults? Why did that matter then?” 

“It is likely the only reason we were ever a couple.” She replied. Her eyes were trained on her ex.

Merlin, his shoulders are so broad. Harry thought as he watched Neville hold court in the middle of the pub.

“That Neville Longbottom.” She pointed with a twitch of her head, “Would have never gotten with Loony Lovegood.” 

Harry startled at the cruel nickname. “Don’t call yourself… Neville would never. Did he tell you that, or did you decide that for yourself?”

She didn’t respond, and for one of the few times in their friendship, Harry could read her completely. “Merlin, you broke his heart, didn’t you?”

“That proves my point.” Luna said, “Everyone thinks he ended it with me.”

“Since when do you care what other people think?”

“I didn’t like being alone, Harry. I never have.”

“You don’t have to be alone, come inside with me.”

“I can’t.” She whispered softly, shutting her eyes. 

Guilt ate away at Harry. He knew from snippets that Luna often felt lonely, but for some reason, she always felt above those human feelings. “I’m sorry, Luna.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?” She said hurriedly, a rare trace of anger in her words.

“What do you mean, why?” He bit back, barely stopping himself from saying, look at your hand.

“You… You’re so frustrating!” She snapped. He’d never seen her angry. “I should be apologizing to you.”

And here it is . “Luna, I was going to do it anyway.”

“Don’t-” She flinched, shutting her eyes. Tears spilling.

“It was part of the plan.” 

“Harry, please.” She begged, turning from him.

This isn’t Luna , he thought. Guilt flooded through him at the sight of his friend. Her shoulders shook gently, and it wasn’t from the cold. Her cigarette dropped to the ground, sparks fading into the snow. 

Instinctively, Harry reached to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but froze. His fingers hovered in the air.

Monster.

It was always in these moments that he became hyper-observant of the world around him, as if his inability to emotionally engage heightened his other senses. 

Her erratic breathing. 

The sniffles. 

And poking through on the sleeve of her coat was a cork bracelet. The last vestige of the old Luna.

He had no earthly idea of what he could say to assuage her guilt. He couldn’t even begin to formulate the words.

But he had to do something.

“Give me a fag.” He said.

Who cares if it killed him? Who cares if he promised never to smoke again? 

He watched her wipe her eyes before reaching into her pocket for an extra cigarette. Having something to do seemed to calm her down, and it reinforced Harry as he placed the cigarette in his mouth. The weight felt reassuringly familiar. He leaned forward and allowed her to light it for him. “And don’t tell Mione.” 

He let the pleasant warmth of smoke envelop his lungs, like a hug from a long-lost friend, leaned his head back, and breathed out. Focusing his magic, the smoke formed into a fox with nine-tails.

They stood there silently following the fox as it slowly strode upward before dispersing into the night sky.

“I saw you smoking,” Luna said, her gaze lowering from the creature. “Behind the greenhouses. My fifth year.”

“Please, tell me that isn’t when you started,” Harry begged, cringing at his sixth-year memories.

Luna answered with a small shrug.

“Did you wear a beret?” He asked.

“No, even I thought they looked ridiculous.”

“Thank Christ.”

“Who?”

“Nobody.”

Luna’s gaze turned back towards the pub. “We were gonna break each other’s hearts.”

“Are you a seer now?” He asked, studying Neville once more.

She ignored the quip. “He wanted a pixie for a girlfriend. I could feel him getting frustrated with me.”

“What did you want?”

“What do you want?” She immediately responded.

“Yeah.” Harry chuckled darkly, “Does that mean no more wrackspurts or nargles?”

“It’s harder now,” She said softly. “But I still find myself holding on to it, afraid of what will happen if I let go.”

“I don’t want you to let it go,” Harry admitted.

“Neville, didn’t either.” She sighed, “I wish you were sorted into Ravenclaw.”

No you don’t, Harry thought impulsively. 

 “Ugh, Merlin, no.” He forced out with a chuckle. “I can’t stand that house. Save for you, of course, and this boy named Will.”

“Will.” Luna smiled. “He talked about you all the time, and his plane.”

“That plane,” Harry muttered fondly. “You were kind to him?” A rhetorical question, because, of course, she was.  The unspoken words that not many people in Ravenclaw were, left hanging. 

“You would have been too.” She nodded, "A friend to us both.”

“I am your friend.”

“It’s different when you’re in separate houses.”

“You wouldn’t want me in your house, Luna. Trust me.” Harry sighed, flicking his finished cigarette in front of him. His eyes locked onto the window of the pub, as if he were watching a play from a distant balcony. He could see his housemates performing . 

Hermione, finally letting loose, but behind every shot of liquor, every unbridled shout of glee, behind her dancing, he could see the guilt.

Ron eyed her discreetly from a distance. Playing the part of one of the lads, as he finished a drinking game with Seamus.

Ginny’s eyes flickered between Neville and her brother as she danced with Hermione. The apologetic look she gave to Ron as she twirled with the girl who broke his heart was almost imperceptible.

And more than once, Neville glanced back towards Harry and Luna, completely oblivious to those ogling him. 

Luna, what you’re feeling is inescapable, no matter the house. My orbit is simply too strong.

“The fighting had stopped for a moment. Fred was dead, we were all gathered in the Great Hall around him and the others… and I had Snape’s memories. I think I kind of expected what they would show me.” Harry said, his gaze unfocused and above the Doctor. Looking at nothing in particular helped him in retelling.

“You knew what Dumbledore’s plan was?” Dr. Kissling asked.

“I’m not sure… I wasn’t all that surprised, I guess, but Snape’s memories would make it concrete, and I think I was stalling… I took the long way to his office.”

“And this is when you saw her?”

“On the fifth floor.” Harry nodded absently, recalling the moment he spotted Luna. “On the ground. She was covered in soot, crying. The right side of her body was charred… She kept calling for her mum, saying she wanted to go home. I tried to calm her down, but she couldn’t hear me…” Harry’s words died as the smell of her burned skin came rushing back to him.

Dr. Kissling allowed him a moment before pushing, “And then what, Harry?”

“Voldemort spoke… He spoke to the school and to me… He said that no one else needed to suffer. To meet him in the Forbidden Forest… The castle went still. Everything went quiet, and so did Luna.”

“Did she say anything to you?” He asked softly

“No.” Harry shook his head. The image of a burned Luna ingrained in his mind. “She didn’t have to. She wanted it to end. She wanted me to end it… I saw it in her eyes.”

“Do you hold it against her?”

“No,” Harry said forcefully, finally making eye contact with the man. “Not in the slightest.”

“I notice a hint of frustration.” The man smiled sadly, and Harry cursed himself, knowing he was about to fall into a verbal trap, but was too stubborn to back away. 

“You’re quite observant,” Harry muttered

Dr. Kissling motioned Harry forward. “I’m inviting you to speak on it.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighed, accepting the rabbit hole he was about to enter. “You and Hermione are pissing me off.” 

Dr. Kissling said nothing but raised a curious brow, so Harry continued, “You want me to be mad at Luna. Luna wants me to be mad at Luna.”

“I never said that,” Doctor Kissling denied. “And I can’t imagine Mrs. Granger saying anything similar.”

“You both keep questioning my choices, and you’re asking me to question them. Which must mean I’m wrong for feeling that way.”

“Harry, questioning is not the same as regretting.” Dr. Kissling said patiently, in a way that made Harry respect the man, but also sometimes want to strangle him. “I simply want you to examine why you do the things you do.”

“What difference does it make?” Harry shrugged petulantly. “Existence precedes essence, as you say. I made the choice, and now I live with it. That’s about as complicated as it needs to be.”

Dr. Kissling studied Harry briefly before speaking. Harry glared back, exhausted from going over the same talking points again and again. “Examination doesn’t have to be complicated but it doesn’t make it any less important. The same reasoning and anxieties can apply to any decision one makes. Why you walked towards your death, your career choice, the cereal you eat, the film you decide to watch. It’s why we have to examine ourselves and our choices to know if we are living authentically.”

“That’s exhausting,” Harry muttered, falling back against his chair. “Everyone has underlying reasons for doing something: Snape with my mother, Dumbledore with his sister. I bet even Mother Teresa… Somewhere deep down, she was trying to prove a point to her aunt and uncle or something.”

Dr. Kissling immediately began writing in his pad at Harry’s response. 

I fucking hate therapy. Harry growled. 

“Forgetting Mother Teresa for a moment.” The man said after putting his pen down, “Would you say Snape and Dumbledore were happy?”

“I don’t know, and who cares, honestly?”

“The people caught in their wake.” Dr. Kissling responded with a wave in Harry’s direction. 

“Yeah, well, they saved the world. They’re heroes. People are gonna name their kids after Dumbledore. And I’m sure some moron will do the same with Snape. If my actions determine who I am, then surely doing the honorable thing is the right way to live.” Harry sat up and leaned forward, eyes locked onto his hands in front of him.  

“Do you honestly believe legacy matters in an indifferent universe?” Dr. Kissling replied. Harry kept his gaze down towards his hands and gave a minimal shrug. “If you live an unexamined life, you’ll be a slave to your anxieties, Harry. Understanding why you made the choice you did can help you develop the skills to make other life decisions.”

“But why can’t people accept that this is the choice I want to make? Why must there always be something more?” Harry snapped back.

“Because, and I mean no offense, Harry. You haven’t made a lot of choices for yourself. You have been withheld from developing the mental tools necessary to do so. I believe Hermione recognizes this.”

“Well, I do take offense to that.” Harry snarled

“Just a few sessions ago, you told me you didn’t want to become an Auror.”

“I know what I fucking said!” He snapped back, “When people find out you're a therapist, do they act differently around you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do they unburden themselves on you?”

“Actually, people tend to get guarded by me, afraid they may reveal too much.”

“Well, there you go!” Harry exclaimed, “Your profession impacts how the world treats you. Everything affects everything, and trying to analyze all of it seems like a waste of time.”

“I’m not asking you to analyze everything, just yourself.”

“Being Harry Potter is everything! I can have any job I want. Any future is available to me. I mean, the Goblins have offered to train me, and I didn’t even study runes. I have to live with that, but having you and Hermione constantly question every choice I make is so fucking infantilizing , and it’s no different than how the rest of the world treats me. How can I develop any bloody agency if every fucking decision I make is wrong or layered with my tragic past and not really what I want to do. ” Harry finished with a mocking higher pitch. A mean interpretation of Hermione. 

Dr. Kissling froze at Harry’s outburst, his eyes studying him. After a beat, and with a knowing look, he asked, “ Infantilizing ?” 

Harry could only chuckle at the man's response. “Yeah, Hermione taught me the word. Kind of fits everything in my life.”

“How did she react to your decision?”

“We fought for hours… It was pretty ugly.”

“I apologize, Harry.” The man said sincerely, but Harry knew this wouldn't be the end of it. And a faint part of him didn’t want it to stop. “It’s my job to probe deeper for the underlying reason my clients make their choices.”

“Well, the underlying reason is that it’s what I want to do. There’s nothing more to it.” Harry responded, slumping back against his chair, his gaze once again unfocusing.

The question consumed Harry ever since he started this exercise with Dr. Kissling. Examined, dissected, and reinterpreted every which way. 

The exams, in contrast, passed harmlessly. Only a handful of times did the answer to a question elude him, and when it came to the practical portions, he had no doubt he excelled. Begrudgingly, he would admit that the Ravenclaws’ Study Guides helped and that S.U.N.T.S.S. was a good idea. Regardless, Harry was grateful there would be no more study groups and vowed no matter his career choice, he would not be going for his Mastership. 

One option crossed off, a hundred more left.

The clock was ticking, and preliminary interviews were already taking place. Hermione had formally accepted a position with the Department of Magical Creatures, pending her NEWT results, which, of course, she would pass. 

Ginny was invited to try out for the Harpies.

Neville was getting his Mastership in Herbology.

Harry, meanwhile, was just as lost as ever. 

Hence his obsession with authenticity. With his values.

What did he really want? Who was Harry Potter?

Every fucking question Dr. Kissling asked him to examine had no fucking concrete answer.

He valued fairness. He believed in right and wrong. He took pride in his skills in defense and dueling.

All signs pointed toward a career as an Auror.

He also liked sex. And he liked having sex with Hermione. Which would be hard to come by if he became an Auror. But was making a choice, based on someone else’s opinion, really the authentic thing to do?

To be fair his individual sense of right and wrong were destined not to always line up with the Ministry. Being an Auror, would not necessarily align with his values, and it may very likely require him to compromise on them. 

But what was the alternative, to operate independently? 

Just like Dumbledore.

He could change the Department from within, just as Hermione planned to in the Department of Magical Creatures. Why was she awarded the grace to make a positive impact on established institutions? 

“Because, Harry, you’ve already given too much to them.”

That’s what she would say, and a part of him agreed. The Wizarding World was exhausting. Still, her insistence that he should not take a job in the Auror department while she had just accepted a position in the ministry triggered a defensive pride.

Harry Potter, the Auror, made sense, even if a part of him dreaded it. Living authentically would mean he had to make the choice for himself. And when he searched deep down into his essence, he felt a pull towards law enforcement. Was that a higher calling?

Can someone just tell me what to do?

He was headed towards Headmistress McGonigal’s office for a career consultation, which he hoped would give him some clarity. The last time they had one, she vowed to make him an Auror no matter the cost, much to the fury of Umbridge. 

As Harry cleared the fourth floor staircase he spotted a line of Gryffindor students outside Mcgonigal's office. Almost all of them had stacks of parchments in their hands and were poring over their notes, muttering to themselves.

“I think I’d make a great Potions Apprentice.”

“I want to become a Curse Breaker.”

“If you could write me a letter of recommendation.”

Harry waited in the back of the line, as one by one students were called into the office. The exiting students had a look of clarity that he envied, and he promised himself whatever was discussed in his meeting, he would be making a career decision today. 

“Oi, Harry!” A voice called out from the front of the line.

Harry stood on his tiptoes to peer over the others to see Seamus Finngegan waving him over, but Harry’s eyes were frozen on the boy next to him, Dennis Creevey.

Ahhh Fuck

“Harry.” Seamus yelled again, “Come wait with us.”

“Err… I don’t want to skip the line.”

“Bollocks.” Seamus waved his words off. “No one minds, right?” He asked the others, who chorused their agreement

“No, of course not.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

Once again, the concept of authenticity rattled in his mind. Social mores dictated he shouldn’t cut in line, but he also very much didn’t want to wait for an hour for his meeting. So what if everyone was letting him skip because he was the Savior of the Wizarding World? Was it so wrong to take advantage of his status once in a while? If Draco were in his place, he’d have simply walked to the front of the line without hesitation. 

On the other hand, he did not want to stand next to Dennis Creevey. With all the uncertainty surrounding his life, that fact he knew for sure. That was authentic. He did not want to make small talk with the younger brother of the boy he killed. 

It made him feel reprehensible. 

Was being authentic just an absence of accountability? 

Placing your own self-interest over the needs of others. He did not have the faintest idea of what he could say to Dennis. If he skipped the line, what would follow was five minutes of awkward, stilted conversation as both of them ignored the hippogriff in the room. 

Everyone was staring at him expectantly. 

Cursing to himself, Harry sighed and strode to the front of the line, past his admirers. Seamus clapped him on the back and Dennis gave him a small nod. 

“I'm surprised to see you here,” Seamus said cheerfully.

Harry took his place next to him, forming a triangle with Dennis, and asked, “Why’s that?” 

“Aren't you enrolling in the Auror Program?” 

“Maybe.” Harry answered mutedly, “I just want a second opinion. What about you?”

“Wizarding careers make no sense to me,” Seamus said. “Before mum told me about magic, I wanted to be a firefighter, but with a flick of a wand, we have that handled.”

Laughing, Harry tried to recall his childhood dreams. “I remember wanting to be an astronaut.”

“Wizards aren’t going to space anytime soon.” Dennis joined in the conversation, his voice warmer than Harry expected.

“No, I doubt it.” Harry agreed, oddly buoyed by Dennis’s light tone. He was expecting it to be laced with bitterness.

“Do you think a Wizard could Apparate to the moon?” Dennis asked the group.

Seamus scratched his chin and glanced at Harry comically. “Maybe an extraordinarily powerful wizard could.”

“That’s not me.” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Whatever you say, just promise to take me with you.” Seamus joked and then punched Dennis in the shoulder. “What about you?”

“Professional footballer.” Dennis sighed.

“Okay,” Semus cackled, "Well, that's not going to happen.”

“Piss off.” Dennis snapped back with no venom.

“But honestly, are you going full-muggle or not?” Seamus asked still laughing.

Harry froze.

The hippogriff in the room.

They were all at the funeral. They had all seen that broken family. Harry had thought that would be the last he ever saw of the Creeveys, and deep down a part of him hoped it would be. A memory to be buried deep in a well. 

How could Seamus bring it up so casually?

But to Harry’s surprise, Dennis seemed relieved, if still somber. “Mum doesn’t know I’m here. I know she doesn't want me to. But I don’t know if I can give it up.”

“You don’t have to there’s room for both.” Seamus said with a warm smile that Harry couldn’t comprehend. It was authentic. 

Seamus was being authentic. Was he always like this?

Merlin, I don’t appreciate anyone.

“Colin…” Dennis started, and again Harry froze, his heart stopping at the name. “He wanted to be a photographer, even before he found out about magic.”

Seamus reached out to give the younger man’s shoulder a squeeze. “He would have been great no matter what world he was in.”

Crimson peaked through Dennis’ cheeks, and he gave a watery smile to Seamus, thanking him. 

“Although, if I’m being honest.” Semus paused, clearly working up to a joke. “I found his photos a little too revealing.”

“What do you mean?” Dennis asked.

“I was going over my old copies, and I just can’t believe I wore a beret in Sixth Year.”

“The berets!” Dennis laughed, “I wore one too!”

““Merlin, we were idiots. What about you, Harry?” Seamus asked joyfully, completely unaware of the nightmare he was recreating.

“What?... Yeah, I did.” Harry swallowed, trying to collect himself. He gave a half-hearted laugh. “What was I thinking?”  

“ Next !” McGonigol’s voice erupted from her office.

“You go on ahead,” Seamus said to Harry, hand on his back, pushing him forward. “It should be easy for you.”

Harry offered no resistance as he was led through the doors, completely lost in his head.

Easy for you.

Fuck, if only. 

How had Seamus done that? 

There was no awkwardness, no tension. Hell, Dennis looked pleased to talk about his brother. All the while, the guilty party stood there tight-lipped. 

If there was one undeniable truth about Harry was that he didn’t like talking about himself or others. The world was filled with empty platitudes and gestures of false kindness. He’d seen the Dursleys manipulate words to make them seem honorable for taking him into their home. He’d bear the brunt of Dumbledore’s verbal machinations. He’d been that target of the Ministry's propaganda. 

Big or small, words were filled with lies.

The fear that any reassuring words he might say to those unfortunate to cross his path would ring false superseded the instinct to soothe their pain. 

But actions spoke louder than words. That had always been Harry’s saving grace. 

No matter his verbal incompetence or his lack of emotional vulnerability, he could live authentically by his actions. He always tried to do the right thing. If Dennis asked him to jump off the astronomy tower as an act of penance, he’d likely consider it.

Hell, who was he kidding? He’d do it. Anything to get rid of the stain.

But the act of speaking was an action. Seamus invited Dennis to speak of his brother, to speak of his desires to stay in the wizarding world. 

And he seemed grateful.

Seemed.

Even now, he couldn’t fully believe it. There had to be some layer of guilt, of pity, of repression. Maybe Dennis was deluding himself to make the situation less awkward, or burying his anger out of some lingering respect he had for Harry. 

Somewhere along the way he had become too jaded to believe that you could ever truly understand someone. That a completely honest conversation, was a once in a lifetime event And so, Harry, would have rather ignored the subject altogether. To put the Creeveys in the past and just move forward. Their mother was right, he was a monster. 

“Oh, Harry.” McGonigal’s voice broke through his reverie. She was sitting behind her dark oak desk, stacks of folders behind her. “I was not expecting you.”

“Hello, Headmistress.”

McGonigal motioned for him to take a seat across from her desk. She then flicked her wand and a folder appeared in front of her. 

“Now, Harry. I believe I told you I would make you an Auror even if I had to train you myself.” She said curtly but with a twinkle behind her eye.

“You remember that?”

“Of course,” She nodded, “That nasty woman. Are you still wanting to be an Auror?”

You monster!

Steadying his breathing, he shrugged, “I’m not sure. It's what’s expected of me.”

McGoningal raised a curious brow. “Since when do you do what is expected of you?”

“Since when have I not?” He asked, confused by her reaction.

The Headmistress studied him for a moment, her head tilted. For some reason, Harry was reminded of her scream when she thought him dead. She closed his file, resting her hands on top of it. “Mr. Potter, is everything alright?”

“Yes.” He said too quickly. “I just wanted some career advice.”

Still, she stared at him, head tilted. “Mr. Potter, I’ve seen thousands of students pass through these halls trying to be something they’re not. It’s why I love this job, even for how mad you kids can make me. I have a hand in molding someone into the best version of themselves. Someone ready to face the adult world. In some cases, into someone completely unrecognizable from who they were when they first entered this castle. However, you’ve always been your own person. A good person.”

A good person. Him?

Monster!

He was left speechless. Across from him McGonagall's face etched her concern. “I wish I had changed more.” He admitted.

“You have changed, Harry.” She said reassuringly, with the expression she gave after a Quidditch victory. “You’ve become a man, and a talented wizard, and an exemplary Gryffindor, gifted enough to realize the potential of the wonderful person you’ve always been.”

Monster

Monster

Monster

“Harry, listen to me.” She said softly. “You could have been arrogant, a bully, self-centered, and a hundred other adjectives. Many others would have been in your shoes. Even your father, for as much as I adored him, needed some growing up to do.”

An absent-minded nod, as he pictured Snape’s memories.

“Albus, wanted you to grow up away from the fame. To become your own person, someone who could handle it.”

Harry’s head shot up. “Dumbledore said that?”

“And you have,” She nodded, unabashed pride radiating from her, “You’ve handled more than perhaps any child who has enrolled in this school. Whatever career you choose. I’ll use all my resources to help you succeed.” 

She opened his folder again and said, “The question is, what do you want for yourself?”

“You monster!”

Harry stumbled back. A sharp pain jolted from his elbow where it hit the pavement. The shrubs pillowed his head from the force of the ground, the acute pressure from its branches pulling his hair, hardly registering to him.

She’d hit him.

He’d always assumed the only adults who could lay a hand on him were Vernon and Petunia. 

“Did you think it was funny? Me crying in front of the class.” Mrs. Thompson screamed, towering over him with the necklace in her hand. “My son coming home with bruises. Is it all a game to you?”

“No… I.” 

“Stay away from my family!” She bellowed and slammed the door shut behind her.

Harry lay motionless. 

How did that happen? 

He’d done the right thing, and yet he wasn’t given a chance. 

Dudley was right.

He quickly wiped his eyes. He wasn’t going to give his cousin the satisfaction. Pulling the leaves from his hair and ignoring the scrape on his elbow, he steeled himself.

Who cares? 

He walked back to 4 Privet Drive. With his head held high. 

He passed through Little Whinging defiant of it all. Passed the families silhouetted by the domestic lighting of their homes, oblivious to him.

The Thompsons had probably gathered around the table, chain once again around Jonathan’s neck. 

Harry had done the right thing. It didn’t matter what the Durlseys or anyone else thought. 

So he walked, biting down the urge to scream, and impulse to kick over that rubbish bin.

He paused for a beat outside the front door. One fleeting moment before the consequences came crashing down.

Petunia was waiting for him.

There was no food waiting with her. 

As expected, she made a comment that he ignored, rushing to his cupboard.

She called for his uncle. The man’s thunderous footsteps rattled the stairs.

He pulled the door shut with all his strength.  

It bought him some time, but his muscles could only offer so much. With every yank, the gap widened. Till he was on the floor, his uncle towering over him.

And still he was defiant. 

“Harry.” McGonogal's voice cut in.

The parchment tore slightly in his vice tight grip. At some point he must have reached for it. 

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes not breaking from the list.

“What do you want for yourself?”

“I…I want to join the Auror Program.”