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Chapter Text

One month ago.

One month ago, amidst the swirling dust and fractured stone of the Great Hall, Harry Potter had finally defeated Lord Voldemort. The final, echoing curse had ripped through the silence that followed, a silence heavier than any tomb. The air, thick with the scent of ozone and spent magic, tasted like ash in his mouth. The victorious cries of his friends and allies seemed muted, distant, as if he were listening to them through a pane of glass.

He remembered the scene as if it were painted on the inside of his eyelids: the grotesque, vacant expression on Voldemort’s face as he crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut; the eerie stillness that replaced the frantic chaos of battle. He remembered the faces of the fallen, illuminated by the ethereal moonlight filtering through the shattered windows of the Great Hall. Faces young and old, etched with fear and bravery, now frozen in the finality of death.

One month ago, he’d watched innocent, young souls – children barely old enough to shave, idealistic teenagers brimming with hopes and dreams – perish in a battle they had no reason to be a part of. He saw the light extinguished in their eyes, their potential snuffed out like candles in a hurricane. He tasted the bitterness of injustice, the agonizing weight of responsibility for a war that had stolen their futures.

One month ago, Harry had stumbled through the wreckage, his ears ringing, his body numb. He had seen Fred Weasley’s vacant grin frozen on his face, a cruel mockery of his usual mischievousness. He had seen Lavender Brown, her face pale and peaceful, as if she were merely asleep. Each fallen body was a fresh wound, a stark reminder of the price of victory.

One month ago, Harry saw Remus and Tonks lying dead on the hard ground next to each other. Remus, his usually kind face drawn and lined, his silver hair matted with blood. Tonks, her vibrant pink hair faded to a dull grey, her hand outstretched as if reaching for him. The sight had cleaved him in two. They were more than just allies; they were family. Remus, a surrogate father, a guide through the darkness. Tonks, a burst of chaotic energy, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, laughter was possible. And now, they were gone, leaving behind their newborn son, Teddy, orphaned by a war that should never have been.

Now, a month later, Harry found himself staring out the window of Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of the Black family. Rain lashed against the glass, mirroring the storm raging within him. The house, once a symbol of darkness and decay, had been painstakingly cleaned and repaired by Hermione and the remaining Order members. But the shadows lingered, clinging to the corners of the rooms like cobwebs, whispering reminders of the past.

He hadn't slept properly in weeks. Nightmares plagued him, vivid replays of the final battle. He'd see faces contorted in pain, hear screams echoing in his ears. He'd wake up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, the phantom weight of his wand heavy in his hand.

He hadn't eaten much either. Food tasted like ash, offering no comfort, no solace. He'd pick at his meals, pushing the food around his plate, feeling a profound disconnect between his body and the act of nourishment.

Hermione and Ron were worried, he knew. They tried to talk to him, to coax him out of his shell of grief and guilt. But their words felt distant, hollow. He appreciated their concern, but he couldn't bring himself to share the suffocating darkness that consumed him. They hadn't seen what he had seen, felt what he had felt. They couldn't possibly understand.

He was a hero, they said. He had saved the world. But what kind of hero was he, when so many had died in the process? What kind of victory was it, when it tasted so much like defeat?
He glanced at the photograph on the mantelpiece. Remus and Tonks, beaming at the camera, their arms wrapped around each other. A pang of grief, sharp and agonizing, shot through him. He closed his eyes, willing the pain to subside, but it was no use. It was always there, a constant, dull ache in his chest.

He had promised Remus that he would look after Teddy. A promise made in the heat of battle, a promise he intended to keep. But how could he care for a child when he could barely care for himself? How could he offer hope when he felt so utterly hopeless?

He wandered through the house, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls. He paused in the library, running his fingers along the spines of the ancient books. He remembered spending hours in this room as a child, poring over dusty tomes, searching for answers, for a way to defeat Voldemort. Now, the books seemed to mock him, their pages filled with knowledge that couldn't bring back the dead, that couldn't erase the horrors he had witnessed.

He found himself drawn to the drawing room, the room where Sirius used to spend his days, pacing restlessly, trapped within the confines of the house. He could almost see Sirius’s ghost, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of pain and defiance. Like Sirius, Harry felt trapped, not by walls of brick and mortar, but by the weight of his past, by the burden of his responsibilities.
He sat down on the worn velvet sofa, staring into the empty fireplace. He imagined the crackling fire, the warm glow that used to fill the room, the laughter and conversation that echoed within its walls. But the room was cold, the fire long extinguished.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn piece of parchment. The Marauder's Map. He unfolded it, his eyes tracing the familiar lines and labels. Hogwarts. His home. A place of magic, of friendship, of hope. But also a place of pain, of loss, of war.

He saw his own name, floating near the Gryffindor common room. He was supposed to be there, with Ron and Hermione, celebrating their victory, planning their future. But he couldn't. He was stuck here, in Grimmauld Place, haunted by the ghosts of the past.

He closed the map, his hand trembling. He knew he couldn't stay here forever, wallowing in his grief. He had a responsibility, a duty to the living, to the future. He had to find a way to move on, to heal, to rebuild. He owed it to Remus and Tonks, to Fred and Lavender, to all those who had sacrificed their lives for the greater good.

He stood up, his legs feeling heavy and stiff. He walked to the window, pushing aside the curtains. The rain had stopped, and a sliver of moon peeked through the clouds. A faint ray of light illuminated the street below.

His thoughts circled back to the little orphaned boy. Teddy. He was all he could think of the last few weeks, tomorrow he would take Teddy full time from Andromeda. Tomorrow he will become a parent.
A broken man like him being a parent? He almost laughed at the thought. How could he take care and raise such an innocent boy while being the broken man he was?

Harry shook his head, trying to dislodge the spiraling negativity. He leaned back against the worn sofa, the familiar creak a small comfort in the growing storm of his anxiety. He had to stop this. He had been doing so well. He focused on the rhythm of his breathing, a technique his mind healer had taught him. Deep inhale, hold, slow exhale. Again. It was a process, chipping away at the layers of grief and guilt that had clung to him since the war. The mind healer, a kind woman named Elara, was someone Hermione had recommended, and surprisingly, she was also seeing Elara. He had been skeptical at first, distrustful of anyone poking around in his head, but Elara had a gentle way of guiding him, helping him navigate the treacherous landscape of his memories without drowning in them.
He thought of Hermione, forever looking out for him, even when he didn't realize he needed it. That was Hermione for you.

Tomorrow. He would be responsible for a living, breathing, one-month-old baby. Teddy Lupin. The weight of it settled on him, heavier than any horcrux he had ever carried. He knew, intellectually, that he wasn't alone. Andromeda would be there, a constant source of support and guidance. Ron and Hermione were practically bursting with excitement, offering unsolicited advice and mountains of baby supplies. But, ultimately, it was him. He would be the one facing the sleepless nights, the endless feedings, the overwhelming responsibility of shaping a young life.

Doubt gnawed at him. He was so young. Barely out of the war himself, still trying to figure out his own place in the world. How could he possibly guide someone else? He had no experience, no innate understanding of babies. He was just… Harry. The boy who lived. The chosen one. None of those titles came with instructions on how to change a nappy or soothe a crying infant.

He closed his eyes, picturing Teddy’s face. Or, rather, what little he could picture of it. Andromeda had sent him a few photographs. A tiny, wrinkled face, a shock of bright blue hair (courtesy of his Metamorphmagus abilities, inherited from his mother), and wide, curious eyes. In those eyes, Harry saw a spark of hope, a tiny flicker of light in the darkness that threatened to consume him.
That was it, wasn't it? He wasn't doing this for himself. He was doing it for Teddy. For Remus and Tonks. To give their son the life they would have wanted for him. A life filled with love, laughter, and the unwavering knowledge that he was cherished.

He stood up, suddenly restless. He needed to do something, anything, to distract himself from the swirling chaos in his mind.
He ran his hand over the soft, knitted blanket that lay inside. It was a gift from Molly, of course, a riot of colors and patterns that somehow managed to be both comforting and slightly overwhelming. He imagined Teddy nestled in it, small and vulnerable, completely dependent on him.

The image was both terrifying and incredibly sweet.

He straightened up, a newfound resolve hardening his gaze. He wasn't perfect. He was flawed, broken, scarred by the past. But he was also strong. He was resilient. He had survived things that would have crushed most people. And he loved it. He loved fiercely and unconditionally.

He could do this. He had to.

The next day dawned gray and overcast, mirroring the nervous anticipation churning in Harry's stomach. He Apparated to Andromeda's house, Grimmauld Place strangely silent. The old house always felt heavy with memories, ones Harry would rather not dwell on.

Andromeda met him at the door, her face etched with a mixture of sadness and relief. She looked older than he remembered, her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun, her eyes weary but bright.
“Harry,” she said softly, offering him a small, tremulous smile. “Come in.”

He stepped inside, the familiar scent of lavender and old books filling his nostrils. Andromeda led him to the living room, where Teddy was sleeping peacefully in a Moses basket. He was even smaller than Harry remembered, his tiny hands curled into fists.

Andromeda hovered beside him, her hand resting protectively on the edge of the basket. “He’s been a good boy this morning,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “He usually wakes for a feed around now.”

Harry knelt down beside the basket, his heart swelling with a tenderness he had never known before. He reached out a hesitant finger and gently stroked Teddy’s cheek. The baby stirred slightly, then settled back into sleep.

“He’s beautiful, Andromeda,” Harry said, his voice barely a whisper.

Andromeda nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “He is. He looks so much like Remus.”

A wave of grief washed over Harry, a familiar ache in his chest. He thought of Remus, his kind smile, his unwavering loyalty. He thought of Tonks, her bright pink hair and infectious laughter. They were gone, but their son remained. A living testament to their love.

Andromeda sighed, wiping away a stray tear. “It’s time, Harry,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I’ve packed his things. Everything he needs. And I’ve written down his routine, his feeding schedule, everything.”

Harry stood up, his legs feeling strangely weak. He looked at Andromeda, her face etched with years of grief and hardship. He knew how much she loved Teddy, how much it must be hurting her to give him up.

“Are you sure about this, Andromeda?” he asked, his voice filled with concern. “I know it’s not easy.”

Andromeda nodded, her gaze unwavering. “It’s the right thing to do, Harry. I’m getting old. I can’t give him what he needs. You can. You’ll be a wonderful father to him.”

Harry wasn't so sure about that, but he didn't voice his doubts. He knew Andromeda needed to believe it, even if he didn't.
They spent the next hour going over Teddy’s routine, Andromeda patiently answering Harry’s endless questions. She showed him how to prepare the formula, how to change a nappy, how to soothe Teddy when he cried. Harry listened intently, trying to absorb every piece of information.

Finally, the time came to leave. Andromeda carefully lifted Teddy from the Moses basket and placed him in Harry’s arms. The baby was surprisingly light, his body nestled against Harry’s chest.

“He knows you,” Andromeda said, her voice choked with emotion. “He recognizes your scent.”

Harry looked down at Teddy, his heart overflowing with love and responsibility. He met Andromeda’s gaze, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and hope.
“Thank you, Andromeda,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for everything.”

Andromeda nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Take care of him, Harry,” she said softly. “Love him. And never let him forget who his parents were.”
Harry nodded, his grip tightening on Teddy. “I promise,” he said. “I won’t.”

He turned and walked towards the door, his steps hesitant but determined. As he stepped out into the gray morning, he knew that his life had changed forever. He was no longer just Harry Potter, the boy who lived. He was Harry Potter, the father. And he was ready.

Harry didn’t apparate back to Grimmauld Place. He could already hear Hermione’s voice telling him it isn’t worth it with such a young child. Harry smiled at hearing Hermione’s imaginary voice, it was a light in a time full of darkness in Harry’s life.

The walk wasn’t long, but it allowed Harry to get out and enjoy the morning breeze, to enjoy the sounds of the birds chirping, just to enjoy the peace he fought for.
Harry had Kreacher go out and buy a new muggle cot. Harry was shocked when the old house elf agreed to his order without any fuss, it was something that had changed instantly after the war. Kreacher, feeling that old master’s mission had been finished, looked up towards Harry now, with unusual eagerness. Harry scooped Teddy from his lap and gently placed the boy in the cot. The young boy gently stirred in his arms, which caused Harry’s heart to fluster with emotion.

Harry wanted Teddy to grow up being able to traverse both worlds, something Harry himself had started doing. He would go out at night and walk the bustling streets of Muggle London, sometimes he would walk into random pubs. No one knew who he was, and that let him feel free. He wasn’t carrying a burden when in the Muggle world. He didn’t have the expectations of thousands of people on his shoulders. He was just Harry, not Harry Potter, or The Boy who lived. Just Harry.

But it simply wasn’t that simple. That was evident during Harry’s short lived relationship with Ginny. Harry knew Ginny had loved him, but she had loved Harry Potter, not Harry. They tried continuing their relationship after the war but it didn’t work. Ginny simply wasn’t able to comfort and support Harry during his night terrors. He felt bad for Ginny every time she would go and fetch Hermione to calm Harry down. But she just didn’t understand him, not like Hermione.

Harry would’ve called it a lovely 2 weeks but he and Ginny both know that saying that would be doing the relationship a disservice.

The Burrow, usually a chaotic symphony of clattering pots, boisterous laughter, and the general mayhem only a large, loving wizarding family could create, was draped in a suffocating silence. The vibrant, almost sentient house, which usually throbbed with a unique brand of Weasley energy, felt static, the magic within it dulled and muted by grief. The two weeks following the Battle of Hogwarts had been an exercise in strained normalcy, a hollow charade played out by people desperately trying to find their footing on ground that had shifted beneath them.

Ginny, usually a vibrant spark of defiance and warmth, was a pale imitation of herself. She moved with a slow grace, her usual fiery spirit dimmed to a flicker. When Harry reached for her hand or offered a comforting embrace, she responded, but the affection felt…distant. It lacked the vibrant, unreserved passion that had characterized their relationship. He couldn't shake the feeling that a chasm had opened between them, filled with unspoken grief and perhaps something else he couldn't quite decipher.

George, robbed of his other half, his partner in mischief and life, was a raw wound. The vibrant humor that had always danced in his eyes was gone, replaced by a haunted, simmering anger. He was quick to snap, his voice laced with a brittle edge. He avoided the company of others, preferring the solitude of his room, where Harry imagined he was grappling with the unbearable weight of Fred’s absence. The Weasley twin dynamic was something Harry always envied, and seeing it shattered like this was like a punch to the gut.

Arthur Weasley, normally a beacon of optimistic enthusiasm, threw himself into his work at the Ministry with a frantic energy. He volunteered for every overtime shift, tirelessly working to help rebuild the shattered wizarding world. Harry knew it wasn't just about public service; it was about earning desperately needed money and maybe, just maybe, finding some solace in the mundane tasks that could momentarily drown out the pain.

Molly Weasley, the heart and soul of the family, tried valiantly to maintain some semblance of normalcy. She bustled around the kitchen, attempting to conjure up the familiar comforting smells of home. But even her magic seemed weakened, tinged with a melancholic aura. The loss of Fred had clearly carved a deep wound in her, one that threatened to engulf her in its sorrow. Harry watched her, a knot of sympathy tightening in his chest. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that no amount of coaxing, no amount of love, could ever truly mend her broken heart.

Ron, perhaps surprisingly, seemed to be coping the best out of all of them, at least on the surface. He was the only one of the trio who ventured out into the public regularly, helping with the cleanup efforts in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. He spoke of Fred with a quiet reverence, sharing fond memories and refusing to let his brother's spirit fade. Harry knew the grief had to be eating at him, but Ron possessed a resilience, a grounding practicality, that allowed him to function even in the face of unimaginable loss.

Then there was the matter of Ron and Hermione. The whirlwind romance that had finally erupted during the heat of battle had fizzled out with startling speed. They had officially declared their relationship a week prior. The announcement, delivered in the kitchen amidst a backdrop of simmering resentment and palpable tension, was awkward and unsettling. Hermione had grabbed Ron by the hand and dragged him into the pantry, the hushed murmurs of their conversation barely audible through the thin wooden door. They re-emerged a few minutes later, their faces flushed and strained, to deliver the news that, after careful consideration, they had decided they were better off as friends.

"We've realized we're just not… compatible, romantically," Hermione had said, her voice a carefully constructed mask of casual indifference.
"Yeah," Ron had chimed in, avoiding eye contact with both Harry and Hermione. "We're much better off as mates, really."

Harry, however, wasn't buying it. The air crackled with unspoken words, with suppressed emotions that threatened to burst to the surface. They avoided certain phrases, danced around specific topics, their carefully chosen words only highlighting the vast, unacknowledged truth that lay between them. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something had happened in those final moments of the battle, some seismic shift that had irrevocably altered the landscape of their relationship. He was sure they were hiding something, a secret they were both desperately trying to bury under a veneer of amicable friendship.

Harry was snapped out of his thoughts by a knock at the door. He punched himself mentally for forgetting that she was coming to see Teddy for the first time. He got up carefully not wanting to wake up a now sleeping Teddy. He walked over to the door to see the bushy haired Hermione Granger. Except this time instead of smiling at him and giving him a friendly hug, she had thrown herself at him. Harry, not expecting her to soar through the air towards him, still caught her effortlessly.

Harry pulled her closer against him, taking in the scent that was distinctly Hermione.

She looked up at him and smiled before her face turned cautious and timid.

“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” Harry asked cautiously. Hermione had been victimed to lots of mood swings after the war. The trauma she faced specifically had impacted her a lot. In Harry’s opinion it was one of the main reasons her and Ron broke up. Only Harry understood what she went through, only Harry could calm her down just by walking into the room. It was the same for him, only Hermione could get him to brighten up.

“I left the Burrow today.” Hermione replied with a voice that sounded like she was on the verge of crying. “I know it's a lot to ask for Harry, but can I please stay here for a while?”
Harry would’ve never said no in a million years, but he could never say no to Hermione when she pleaded in that voice.

“Of course Hermione, there is tons of room for you to stay here.” Harry couldn’t help but notice he sounded like a parent talking to a toddler.
“Thank you so much Harry.” Hermione whispered as she pulled closer to Harry.

Hermione quickly pulled away from Harry before he had a chance to respond, only this time she was bursting with excitement, “Can I see him? Is he here yet?”

Harry, shocked from the rapid fire of questions, moved out of the way for Hermione to have direct sight of the little boy sleeping in his cot. Hermione froze, her eyes lighting in ways that made Harry’s heart stop. She quickly, but quietly ran over to the sleeping boy while whispering about “How gorgeous” he was.

Hermione, not wanting to wake up the little boy, softened her powerful strides."Oh, Harry," she whispered, her voice barely audible, laced with awe. "He's... he's perfect."
She carefully, so carefully, reached out a finger and hovered it inches above Teddy’s tiny hand, as if afraid her touch might shatter him. A small, involuntary sigh escaped her lips. Harry watched her, feeling the familiar ache in his chest – a mixture of sorrow for those lost and a fierce, protective love for this small, fragile life left behind.

He shuffled closer, stopping a respectful distance behind her. The initial shock of her arrival was fading, replaced by a familiar comfort in her presence, a sense of shared burden. Yet, with comfort came vulnerability. Seeing Teddy through Hermione’s eyes, seeing the raw innocence and the profound responsibility, amplified the doubts that constantly gnawed at him.

"He is," Harry agreed quietly, his voice rough. He ran a hand through his perpetually untidy hair. "He really is."

A moment of silent observation passed, filled only by the soft sounds of Teddy's breathing. Hermione straightened up slowly, turning to face Harry, her expression now a complex mix of tenderness and concern as she finally looked at him. Her eyes, usually so sharp and inquisitive, held a depth of understanding that spoke volumes about the shared path they’d walked.

"How are you, Harry?" she asked, her voice still hushed, but the intensity back in her gaze. "Really?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and significant. It wasn't about whether he'd eaten or slept; it was about the labyrinth of grief, responsibility, and fear he was navigating. He looked at Teddy, then back at Hermione. Her steady presence was an anchor, but it also felt like permission to voice the thoughts he usually kept locked away.

"I... I don't know, Hermione," he admitted, the words tumbling out hesitantly. "I'm tired. And Grimmauld Place... it's still Grimmauld Place, isn't it? Still feels like hiding."

He gestured vaguely around the room, at the peeling wallpaper, the sinister portraits hidden behind curtains, the general air of decay. "And Teddy..." He trailed off, looking back at the cot. The blue hair seemed to mock him, a constant reminder of the vibrant, chaotic energy of Nymphadora Tonks and the quiet, steady strength of Remus Lupin. Two people who had loved this boy fiercely, two people who were gone.

"He deserves... he deserves everything," Harry finally managed, his voice low and thick. "A proper home. Parents who know what they're doing. Parents who..." He swallowed hard. "Parents who aren't me."
Hermione's gentle expression vanished like smoke. Her eyes blazed, and before Harry could react, she took a quick step forward and delivered a sharp, pointed tap to the back of his head. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, not really, but it was firm, correcting, and delivered with an unmistakable air of exasperation.

"Don't you dare say that, Harry Potter!" she hissed, though her voice remained low for Teddy's sake. Her hand lingered for a moment, a silent emphasis on her words.

Harry blinked, startled more by the sudden physical contact than the reprimand. He rubbed the back of his head reflexively. "Ow! What was that for?"

"For being an absolute idiot!" Hermione retorted, her gaze fixed on him, unwavering. "For thinking, even for a second, that you aren't exactly who Teddy needs!"

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a fierce, passionate whisper that carried more weight than any shout. "Look at him, Harry. Look at this innocent, beautiful little boy." She gestured towards the cot. "He is here, he is safe, and he is sleeping peacefully in your temporary care because of everything you did. Because you fought, because you suffered, because you won."

She took a deep breath, her chest rising. "Do you actually believe," she continued, her voice trembling slightly with emotion, "that after everything we went through, everything we sacrificed, that this child won't have a better life than if... if things had gone differently? That he won't be loved?"

Her eyes searched his, demanding he understand. "Teddy will have the life that we fought for, Harry. The normal, safe, loved life we dreamed of for everyone after the war. He will grow up without fear, without hiding, without the shadow of You-Know-Who lurking over him."

She stepped back slightly, but her intensity didn't lessen. "And who will love him, you ask? You will, obviously. fiercely and completely. And Andromeda will. And Ron and I. And George, and Ginny, and the rest of the family. He will be surrounded by people who loved his parents, who honour their memory, and who will pour all that love onto him."

She gestured back at the cot again, her hand sweeping in an arc that seemed to encompass not just the room, but the entire future. "Teddy will have more love in his little finger than You-Know-Who received in his twisted, miserable life. He will know family, not just blood, but the kind forged in shared experience and unwavering loyalty. He will know safety, not the fragile, conditional safety of the war years, but true security."

Hermione’s gaze softened slightly, though the fire remained in her eyes. "You might not have had parents who taught you childcare manuals, Harry," she said, her voice gentler now. "But you had people who loved you fiercely, despite everything. And you learned what true protection means. You learned empathy, sacrifice, and enduring love."

She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch firm and grounding. "Those are the things that make a good parent, Harry. Not knowing the exact temperature of bathwater, although we can figure that out with a charm. It's about the heart. And yours, despite everything it's been through, is bigger and more capable of love than anyone I know."

A wave of emotion washed over Harry. Her words, delivered with such conviction and fierce loyalty, chipped away at the fortress of doubt he’d built around himself. He looked at her, at the unwavering belief in her eyes, and then back at the sleeping baby. Teddy’s hair was still a soft blue, a gentle, hopeful colour.

"But what if I mess it up?" Harry whispered, the fear still lingering, a stubborn knot in his stomach. "What if I'm too broken?"
Hermione squeezed his arm. "We're all a bit broken, Harry. That's part of it. But we heal. And we have each other. You won't be doing this alone. You have Andromeda, and you have us. We will help you. We will help Teddy."

Her gaze returned to the cot, and the protective reverence returned to her face. "This little boy is the future, Harry. The hope we fought for. And you are the one who will help give it to him. Don't diminish that. Don't diminish yourself."

Harry looked around the room thinking to himself before looking Hermione directly in the eye. “Okay Hermione, I admit defeat.” That earned a glare from Hermione. “But will you at least go to Gringotts tomorrow with me.”

The glare Hermione had on him softened before a smile erupted out of her, “Of course I will you silly boy.” Before Harry could respond Teddy started crying, Hermione, ever quick to respond, quickly scooped him up and started calming him down by whispering sweet calmings into his ear. Harry quickly walked over to the kitchen where Teddy’s bottle was. He returned to the drawing room and gave Hermione the bottle.

Hermione gave Teddy the bottle while supporting him. Harry couldn’t help but notice the perfect chemistry they had. It was like they had been doing it for years. Harry couldn’t also help but notice the way his heart had stopped at the sight of Hermione taking care of Teddy. The way she handled him with absolute care. It made Harry think all the wrong things.
Harry shook his head to end his train of thoughts, Hermione gave him a weird look but continued caring for Teddy.

They spent the rest of the afternoon playing with the boy and amusing him. Hermione would conjure yellow bubbles with her wand, and Teddy would flap his hands around in amusement as he watched them swirl around him.

Eventually it was time to put Teddy down. Hermione took Teddy upstairs while Harry carried his cot up to his new room. Harry had decorated and painted the room in preparation. It was a beautiful mix of colors and even had some old toys from the Weasley’s for when Teddy was older. It was a distinct contrast from the morally gray Grimmauld Place, it was a beacon of light, a beacon of hope.

It took a push but eventually Teddy fell asleep. They took him and his cot up in a room that would be right in between Harry’s room and the room Hermione would be sleeping in. After safely putting Teddy back in his cot they safely walked out and decided that they both should get some sleep for the big day tomorrow.

Hermione took a step forward and wrapped her arms around Harry. “Goodnight Harry” She murmured in his chest.

“Goodnight Hermione” Harry responded with a beating heart.

And with that Harry took in one final scent of Hermione and went off to his own room to get ready for bed.

Laying in bed Harry couldn’t help but smile, tomorrow he would become a parent. Which meant he would have to move on with his life and fix his shit.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger was in love with Harry Potter. She had subconsciously known it for a long time. But it was confirmed when she flung herself at Ron in the Chamber of Secrets and could still only think about how much better it would be if it was Harry.

Ronald Weasley was no bad kisser, there was a reason why Lavender couldn’t keep her mouth off him in the common room. But Ron wasn’t Harry.

She tried the relationship, she told herself that being in her first real relationship would help her get over Harry.

It didn’t.

It wasn’t fair to Ron when Hermione would have nightmares and she would call for Harry. It wasn’t fair for Ron when he would kiss her and she would imagine Harry. It wasn’t fair for Ron at all.

So, she made the quick decision to pull Ron to a random bedroom, which she thought was Percy’s, and try her best to explain the situation. Ron understood perfectly and helped cover it up. Their excuse, although true, was clearly missing another part. Hermione knew Harry knew that they were hiding something. But bless Harry for not prying.

So, when she was lying in one of Harry’s bedrooms, which would now become her bedroom, trying to fall asleep after putting down soon-to-be Harry’s kid to sleep. Hermione’s heart was pounding.
Finally, exhaustion won. She drifted off, the anxieties of the day fading into the murky depths of her subconscious.

But the peace was short-lived.

The air grew cold, a bone-chilling dampness that seeped into her very marrow. The comfortable bed beneath her transformed into a cold, hard stone floor. The soft moonlight vanished, replaced by the flickering, menacing glow of torches. The scent of lavender and chamomile, which had clung to the sheets, was overwhelmed by the stench of dust, decay, and fear.

She was back.

Malfoy Manor.

Her eyes snapped open, but she couldn't scream. Fear had paralyzed her, clamping down on her throat like a vise. She was lying on the cold stone floor of what she thought was one of the dungeons. The room was empty, save for the shadows that danced menacingly on the walls. Where was everyone?

Panic clawed at her. This was a recurring nightmare, one that had haunted her since the war. A visceral replay of those horrific days when she had been a prisoner in this very place, at the mercy of Bellatrix Lestrange's cruelty.

She tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. She was trapped, both physically and mentally, reliving the terror all over again.

A faint sound echoed through the silence, a soft scraping noise that sent shivers down her spine. Her breath hitched in her throat. She knew what was coming. She always did.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and utterly terrifying.

They grew closer, the sound resonating in the oppressive silence. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying that this was just a dream, a nightmare that would soon end. But she knew it wouldn't.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door. A long, agonizing pause. Then, the door creaked open.

A sliver of light sliced through the darkness, illuminating the gaunt, hollow-eyed face that peered into the room.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Her eyes gleamed with manic glee, her lips twisted into a cruel, predatory smile. She held a long, silver wand in her hand, the tip glowing with a malevolent energy.

"Well, well, well," Bellatrix hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Look what we have here. The Mudblood Granger, all alone and defenceless."

Hermione couldn't speak, couldn't move. She was trapped in the throes of her worst nightmare, utterly helpless.

Bellatrix stepped into the room, her eyes never leaving Hermione's. "You thought you were safe, didn't you? That the Dark Lord was gone, that you had won. But you were wrong. I'm still here, Granger. And I will make you pay for everything."

Bellatrix raised her wand, her smile widening with sadistic pleasure. "Any last words, Mudblood?"

Hermione finally found her voice, a weak, trembling whisper. "Please... no..."

Bellatrix laughed, a chilling, high-pitched sound that echoed through the room. "Too late, little Mudblood. Avada Kedavra!"

A jet of green light erupted from Bellatrix's wand, hurtling towards Hermione. She braced herself for the impact, for the oblivion that awaited her.
But it never came.

Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her away from the impending doom. A protective shield slammed into the green light, deflecting the curse.
She gasped, her eyes flying open. She was no longer on the cold stone floor of Malfoy Manor. She was back in Harry's spare bedroom, bathed in the soft moonlight.
But she wasn't alone.

Harry was there, his face etched with concern, his eyes filled with a familiar, unwavering determination. He held her close, his arms wrapped tightly around her, shielding her from the lingering terror of her nightmare.

"Hermione! Hermione, wake up! You're alright. It was just a dream."

She clung to him, her body trembling uncontrollably. The memory of Bellatrix's face, the chilling green light, was still vivid in her mind. She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Harry," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper. "It was... it was Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix... she was going to..."

Harry held her tighter, stroking her hair. "I know, I know. It's okay. I'm here. She can't hurt you."

He continued to murmur soothing words, his voice a calming balm to her frayed nerves. Slowly, gradually, her trembling subsided. The terror began to recede, replaced by the solid, comforting reality of Harry's presence.

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him. His eyes were filled with concern, a genuine care that warmed her from the inside out.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice still shaky. "Thank you for being here."

Harry cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that streamed down her cheeks. "Of course, Hermione. I'll always be here for you."

The intensity of his gaze, the sincerity in his voice, sent a jolt through her. She had always known that Harry cared about her, that he was her friend, her brother in arms. But this felt different. There was a depth to his concern, a tenderness in his touch, that she had never noticed before. This wasn’t out of loneliness like before, this was out of care.

She didn't want him to leave. The thought of being alone again, vulnerable to the lingering shadows of her nightmare, filled her with dread.

"Harry," she said, her voice barely audible. "Please... stay."

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing the implications of her request.

"Are you sure, Hermione?" he asked softly.

She nodded, her grip tightening on his arm. "Please. I don't want to be alone."

He looked at her, his gaze searching, questioning. Then, with a sigh, he nodded.

"Okay," he said. "I'll stay."

He carefully slid into the bed beside her, being mindful not to jostle her. He reached out and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close.

Hermione instinctively snuggled into his embrace, her body fitting perfectly against his. His warmth enveloped her, chasing away the lingering chill of her nightmare. She felt protected, safe, secure in his arms.

The position they were in was undeniably intimate. Unfriendlike. His arm around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest, their bodies pressed close together. It was a closeness that bordered on something more. Something forbidden. Something she stopped herself from thinking about years ago.

But at that moment, Hermione didn't care. All she could feel was Harry, his strong arms around her, his presence a shield against the darkness. She didn't care about the implications, about the potential awkwardness, about what others might think. She just wanted to be held, to be comforted, to be protected.

She closed her eyes, and she let herself sink into the comforting embrace. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat filled her ears, a soothing lullaby that chased away the last vestiges of her fear. She breathed in his scent, a familiar blend of woodsmoke and something uniquely Harry, something that always made her feel at ease.

As she lay there, nestled in Harry's arms, a sense of peace washed over her. It was a peace she hadn't felt in a long time, a tranquility that settled deep within her soul. The nightmare was still there, lurking in the shadows of her mind, but it no longer held the same power. Harry was there, and with him, she knew she could face anything.

She drifted off to sleep again, this time without the terror that had haunted her earlier. She dreamt, but this time, the dreams were not of dark dungeons and cruel faces. They were of green fields, sunny skies, and the sound of laughter.

And in every dream, Harry was there, by her side, protecting her, guiding her, and loving her with a love that she had never dared to imagine.

Hermione woke to an empty lump next to her. Her mind went to the worst. Harry was gone, dead and Hagrid was carrying his dead body in front of her. She let out a sob, she was about to break down until the door swung open and Harry was standing there.

Hermione almost let out a sigh at the sight of him. He was so Harry, his messy black hair all over the place, and those eyes! God, she could be lost in those eyes for eternity. Harry walked to the edge of the bed and sat on it facing her.

“Do you have that one normally?” He asked with a hint of cautiousness that suggested he was hesitant to ask it.

Hermione knew she would eventually have to talk about the night terrors, as would Harry have to do the same. She had talked about them with Elara, but never with her friends. But if there was one person that could make her feel safe, it was Harry.

“Yes” she replied hesitantly as if she were embarrassed about it.

“Same” Harry replied instantly. Harry then fully looked at her and said, “I hate that one the most, I hate knowing what you were going through and not being able to do anything about it.”
Hermione started tearing up again, unable to form words. She opened her mouth to at least say something but Harry beat her to it, “Come on.” He reached out his hand and she gladly took it. “Today is supposed to be a good day, I made breakfast for you.” Hermione let Harry lead her out of the bedroom, resisting every urge to not jump on him and snog him on the spot.

God she was falling hard for this boy.

When they entered the kitchen the first thing she noticed was Teddy on the floor gripping a black toy dog. She felt like she got stabbed watching him grip the dog, it was so cute watching him tug on the dog, but her heart was in shambles knowing who that dog was. Harry, sensing her pain put an arm around her waist leading her to the smell of cooked eggs and toast.

Harry took a seat and took a sip of tea before saying, “I can’t believe today's the day I become a parent.”

Hermione quite frankly couldn’t believe it either, but she just knew, she knew Harry would be the best father ever.

Harry interrupted her train of thought, “Do you know what to expect from this thing? I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”

Hermione just shrugged, “Yes, I did some research on it, but I know 100% it will be good to get you out in public for once.”

Harry stuck his tongue out at her and muttered, “Shut up and eat your breakfast.”

Hermione laughed which caused a cute giggle out of Teddy.

Harry started talking again, interrupting her staring at Teddy, “The adoption process. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. Do I need… Do I need forms? A special quill? Do I bribe a goblin?”

Hermione chuckled, the sound feeling a little shaky. “Bribing a goblin is generally ill-advised, Harry. The books said minimal as the information on wizarding adoption is. It’s apparently a formal contract, magically binding. There will be verification of guardianship claims, magical signature requirements, and most likely a financial assessment, given its Gringotts. It’s less about forms and more about oaths and magic, from what I could gather.” She shrugged, pushing a piece of toast around her plate. “No idea beyond that, truthfully.”

Breakfast became a series of snatched bites between watching Teddy, who had discovered the fascinating texture of the rug, and discussing practicalities. Harry, despite his earlier nerves, seemed to perk up as they talked about logistics – packing a bag for Teddy, deciding how they would travel.

"Apparate?" Harry suggested, already half-rising.

"With Ted?" Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't recommend it. Not until he's older. It's disorienting even for adults. Floo is an option, but King's Cross station entrance might be busy. A taxi? A Muggle taxi would be the simplest."

Harry paused, considering. He still wasn't entirely comfortable navigating the Muggle world, not without a disguise spell at least, but the thought of Apparating with Teddy clearly made him hesitant. "Okay, a taxi it is," he decided. "Let me just... wrangle Teddy."

Getting Teddy ready for the outside world was an operation in itself. Nappies checked, a change of clothes packed into a small, charmed satchel, bottles of milk prepared and kept warm with a simple warming charm, and a selection of toys chosen. The black dog, of course, was non-negotiable. Teddy clung to it even as Harry carefully bundled him into a soft, warm blanket.

Leaving the quiet safety of Grimmauld Place felt momentous. The familiar gloom of the hallway gave way first to the crisp autumn air outside, then to the bustling streets of London. Harry, holding Teddy securely against his chest, seemed to fold himself inwards instinctively, pulling his invisibility cloak from his pocket almost unconsciously before Hermione stopped him.

"Harry, no," she said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "You can't go to Gringotts invisible with Ted. It's fine. We'll be quick. And besides," she added, her voice softer, "you don't need to hide from the world anymore, not like this. Not with him." She gestured to Teddy, whose bright eyes were wide with wonder at the new sights and sounds, his little hands clutching the black dog.

Harry looked down at Teddy, then back at Hermione, a slow understanding dawning in his eyes. He hadn't needed to use the cloak in a month, not routinely. It was an old habit, a defensive reflex. With Teddy in his arms, the reflex felt... wrong. He straightened his shoulders slightly and put the cloak away.

Finding a taxi was easy enough. The journey through London felt strangely normal and utterly extraordinary at the same time. They were three people in a taxi, heading towards a bank. But one of them was the Wizarding World's most famous figure, one was his steadfast companion, and the third was a magical child whose very existence was a testament to sacrifice and hope. Hermione watched Harry in the rearview mirror, the way his arm tightened protectively around Teddy when the taxi braked suddenly, the soft murmurs he spoke to the baby. Her heart swelled.

Arriving near Diagon Alley, the familiar, slightly skewed bricks of the Leaky Cauldron entrance seemed both welcoming and intimidating. Beyond them lay the world they knew best, the world where this adoption needed to be formalised. Harry adjusted his grip on Teddy, and Hermione took a deep breath.

Entering Gringotts was always an experience. The sheer scale of the marble hall, the stern-faced goblins behind their high desks, the clinking of coins echoing from below – it was a place of immense wealth and ancient magic, and today, it felt particularly imposing. This wasn't about retrieving treasure or infiltrating a vault; it was about claiming a legacy, not of gold, but of family.

They approached the main teller. Harry, his voice slightly formal, stated their purpose. "We are here to see about the formal adoption of Teddy Lupin."

The goblin behind the counter, whose nameplate read 'Grifkin', peered down at them with sharp, assessing eyes. His gaze lingered on Teddy, then on Harry, then on Hermione. "Adoption requires an appointment and specific documentation," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones.

"We... we don't have an appointment," Harry admitted, looking flustered. "But it's urgent. We were told Gringotts handles magical adoptions?"

"Gringotts handles the legal and magical transfer of guardianship and lineage recognition, yes," Grifkin corrected curtly. "Especially concerning those with existing vaults or complex inheritances. Mr. Potter, your identity is verified. Mr. Teddy Lupin also possesses a significant inheritance, tied to vaults belonging to both his parents and his godfather. The process is complex. Without an appointment, you must wait."

Hermione stepped forward. "We understand, Master Goblin. However, the previous guardians are deceased. Mr. Potter is the designated godfather and now wishes to assume full parental rights. There is no other claimant. Speed would be... beneficial for the child's stability." She tried to sound as calm and reasonable as possible, remembering that goblins respected directness and logic.

Grifkin eyed her, clearly unimpressed by her politeness but perhaps acknowledging the logic. He tapped a long finger on the desk. "Very well. The Head Griphook is occupied. You may wait in Chamber Seven. Do not touch anything." He gestured towards a heavy oak door.

Chamber Seven was a small, sparsely furnished room with uncomfortable-looking chairs and walls lined with imposing, leather-bound ledgers. The air was cool and smelled faintly of dust and old parchment. Harry paced restlessly, Teddy still nestled against him, occasionally patting Harry's shoulder with a small hand. Hermione sat, pulling out a book to distract herself, though her eyes kept drifting to Harry and Teddy.

The wait felt endless. Harry eventually sat, bouncing Teddy gently on his knee, talking to him in a low, soothing voice. Hermione watched them, a wave of tenderness washing over her. This was Harry, the man who had faced down dark wizards and dragons, now utterly captivated by the small, gurgling human in his arms.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the door opened, and a different goblin entered. Taller, with a particularly shrewd expression, Hermione recognised him as Grifkin, though his plaque was gone. He did not introduce himself. "Mr. Potter. The chamber is prepared. Bring the child."

They followed him down a short corridor to a larger, colder room. In the centre stood a heavy stone pedestal, and on it lay a thick, rolled parchment tied with a silver ribbon. Ancient runes were etched into the stone floor around the pedestal.

"This is a magical contract of lineage and guardianship transfer," the goblin – Grifkin – began without preamble. "By signing this, you, Harry James Potter, formally petition the Gringotts Bank and the ancient magical laws it upholds to recognise Teddy Remus Lupin as your legal and magical child. It will imbue you with parental rights and responsibilities equivalent to blood relation within the magical community. It is irreversible and magically binding. Are you prepared to make this oath?"

Harry stood before the pedestal, Teddy in his arms, his face solemn. He looked down at the baby, whose head was resting against his chest, then back at the goblin. "Yes," he said, his voice clear and steady. "I am."

The goblin produced a heavy, self-inking quill. "The contract requires a drop of lineage blood from the petitioner to bind the magical signatures. A simple prick of the finger will suffice."

Harry handed Teddy to Hermione, who held the warm, squirming bundle carefully. Her own hand trembled slightly. Harry held out his index finger, and Grifkin used a small silver tool to make a tiny prick. A single drop of blood welled up. Grifkin levitated the parchment open onto the pedestal.

"Place your finger here," Grifkin instructed, indicating a designated spot on the parchment covered in radiating runes.

Harry pressed his bleeding finger onto the parchment. The runes beneath his blood immediately flared with a soft golden light, spreading outwards across the page, seemingly writing in invisible ink.
"Now, your magical signature," Grifkin said, offering the heavy quill.

Harry took the quill. His hand, which had held wands and brooms with unwavering skill, shook slightly as he signed his name below the place where his blood had touched. As the ink dried, the same golden light flared from his signature, connecting it to the bloodstain.

Grifkin then directed Harry to place his hand flat on the parchment, over the newly written contract, for a final oath. "State your full name and the name of the child you adopt. State your intention, clear and true."

Harry placed his hand on the contract, the golden light warm under his palm. His eyes were fixed on Teddy, nestled in Hermione's arms. "I, Harry James Potter, do hereby adopt Teddy Remus Lupin as my son," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet chamber. "I pledge to raise him, protect him, and love him as my own, in the eyes of magic and man."

As the last word was spoken, the runes on the floor flared brightly, and a wave of warmth pulsed outwards from the pedestal. The silver ribbon on the parchment glowed blue, then settled back to a soft shine. Grifkin nodded curtly.

"The contract is bound. The transfer is complete. Teddy Remus Lupin is now, in the eyes of magical law and Gringotts Bank, legally the child of Harry James Potter." He rolled the parchment back up and handed it to Harry. "Keep this safe. It is irrefutable proof of the adoption."

Harry took the heavy parchment, his fingers closing around it like something precious. He looked at it for a moment, then back at Teddy, a profound mixture of awe, relief, and overwhelming love on his face.

Hermione squeezed Teddy gently, a tear tracing a path down her cheek, unnoticed. The ache in her chest was still there, but it was different now, layered with immense pride and a quiet, deep joy. Looking at Harry holding the parchment, looking at Teddy, she felt a sense of completeness settle over them, a new chapter truly beginning in this cold, ancient room.

Leaving Gringotts felt lighter than entering. The bustling noise of Diagon Alley seemed less oppressive, the weight of the world a little less heavy on Harry’s shoulders, even with the physical weight of Teddy in his arms. Harry held the parchment carefully, occasionally glancing down at Teddy, a soft smile playing on his lips.

Back in the taxi, heading towards Grimmauld Place, Teddy finally succumbed to sleep, his head tucked into Harry's shoulder, the black dog still clutched in his small hand. Harry watched him sleep, his expression one of quiet wonder.

"He's... he's mine," Harry murmured, almost to himself, the words full of disbelief and fierce possessiveness.

Hermione reached over and gently squeezed his arm. "He is, Harry. He really is."

Harry met her eyes, a look of such profound gratitude and relief passing between them that no words were needed. They had faced death and darkness together. Now, they were facing something equally challenging, equally terrifying, but infinitely more beautiful: building a family, brick by painstaking brick, love filling the spaces left by loss. The black dog lay still in Teddy’s hand, a quiet guardian of dreams yet to unfold.

Hermione sat cross-legged beside the blanket, a worn copy of Hogwarts: A History forgotten beside her. Harry was on the other side of the blanket, sprawled on his stomach, chin propped on his hands, making ridiculous faces at the baby.

Teddy, oblivious to the world-saving history his guardian shared, was fascinated by the way Harry’s nose crinkled. He tracked the movement with wide, unfocused eyes the colour of his father’s before they changed hue. A tiny hand, no bigger than a walnut shell, waved vaguely in the air.

“He likes your nose,” Hermione murmured, a smile playing on her lips.

Harry grinned, the expression relaxed and happy, a stark contrast to the strained intensity that had defined his face for so long. “Do you? Yeah? It’s a very interesting nose, isn’t it, Teddy?” He wiggled it, and Teddy gurgled, a tiny, watery sound that made Hermione’s heart do something complicated.

She watched Harry, ostensibly watching Teddy. The way his dark hair fell across his forehead, just like it always had. The ease with which he lay there, completely absorbed in this tiny, helpless creature. This was Harry, the Chosen One, the defeater of Voldemort, reduced to silly noises and funny faces, and he looked utterly content.

An ache settled low in Hermione’s chest. It wasn’t sadness, not exactly. More like a recognition of a profound, simple beauty she hadn't known was missing until now. She had seen Harry brave and furious, terrified and determined, exhausted and triumphant. But Harry, gentle and goofy, captivated by a baby’s gummy smile – that was a new facet, one that felt both incredibly familiar and entirely expected.

She reached out and gently touched Teddy’s stomach. His skin was soft, impossibly delicate. “Hello, Teddy,” she whispered. “You’re doing very well today.”

Teddy stretched, a full-body manoeuvre that involved arching his back and letting out a tiny, squeaky cry of effort before relaxing again.

Harry shifted, rolling onto his back beside the blanket, gazing up at the ornate, but slightly water-stained, ceiling. “Think he’s going to be a chaser?”

“Or maybe a seeker like his godfather, or should I say father?” Hermione countered automatically, but her eyes were still on him. The way his chest rose and fell evenly. The faint scar peeking out from beneath his collar. The quiet peace that seemed to emanate from him in this moment.

She glanced away quickly, back to Teddy, feeling a blush creep up her neck. Stealing glances. She’d found herself doing it more often since Teddy had come into their lives, since they’d settled into this unexpected, shared rhythm of caring for him here at Grimmauld Place.

It wasn’t just the responsibility – they had both stepped up without hesitation after Lupin and Tonks… after. It was the way they fell into sync. Changing nappies without a word, one fetching the powder while the other held the baby. Sharing weary smiles over a late-night feed. The easy, comfortable silence that wasn’t empty but full of shared understanding and history.

Playing with Teddy together was different. It was pure, uncomplicated joy. And seeing Harry completely disarmed by that joy, seeing him cradle the baby with infinite tenderness, seeing the unguarded love in his eyes when he looked at Teddy... it twisted something inside her.

He sat up again, retrieving a brightly coloured rattling toy from the floor. “Think this is too loud?” he mused, shaking it gently. Teddy’s eyes widened, following the sound.

“He seems to like it,” Hermione said, watching Teddy’s focused expression. She watched Harry’s hands – strong, calloused hands that had held wands and broomsticks and faces in moments of comfort or farewell. Now they were holding a fluffy, harmless rattle, shaking it with a delicate touch.

He caught her eye then, and the easy smile softened further. “Remember that time Ron tried to burp Pigwidgeon?”

Hermione laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room. “Oh, Merlin, yes! He was absolutely convinced the poor owl had gas.”

“He kept patting his back like this,” Harry demonstrated the awkward, heavy pats on thin air, “and Pigwidgeon just looked utterly bewildered.”

They shared a look, a quick, deep current of shared memory and affection that bypassed words. That was their language, forged over years of crises and triumphs. Laughter and shared history, layered over unspoken understanding.

She looked back at Teddy, who was now attempting to grab the rattle with staggering inaccuracy. “He’s going to be a handful, isn’t he?”

“Definitely,” Harry agreed, his voice warm. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They settled back into watching Teddy. The minutes stretched, filled with the baby’s soft noises and their own quiet presence. Hermione felt a profound sense of peace, sitting here in the dusty grandeur of Grimmauld Place, with Harry beside her and Teddy between them. It felt… complete. In a way she hadn’t realised she craved.

She stole another glance. Harry was humming softly, a tuneless, low sound, while he gently rubbed Teddy’s back. The afternoon light caught the faint scar on his forehead, still a stark white against his skin. He looked younger, somehow, stripped of the weight he’d carried for so long. He looked like a father.

The thought landed in her mind with a quiet thud. A father. And what did that make her, sitting here with him? Auntie? guardian? friend? A friend. The word felt both true and insufficient.

Teddy started to fuss, a low grumble that escalated quickly into a full-blown cry.

“Right,” Harry said, sitting up properly. “Someone’s battery is running low.”

Hermione was already reaching for the baby, expertly scooping him up. He immediately burrowed into her shoulder, still whimpering. “Poor thing. Must be hungry again.”

They moved easily into the routine. Harry fetched the prepared bottle while Hermione settled onto the sofa, cradling Teddy. The house felt less imposing now, filled with the mundane magic of milk warming and gentle rocking.

As Teddy sucked greedily at the bottle, his cries subsiding into contented gulps, Hermione met Harry’s gaze across the room. He smiled, that soft, unguarded smile, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the three of them in this quiet corner of Grimmauld Place. It felt intimate, domestic, intensely personal.

She saw the reflection of the scene in his eyes – the baby, her holding him. Did he see it the same way? Or was it just… looking at his best friend caring for his godson? She couldn’t tell. Harry was an open book in some ways, utterly opaque in others, especially when it came to his own deeper feelings.

Later, after Teddy had finished his bottle and drifted off to sleep in Hermione’s arms, they sat in comfortable silence on the sofa. The sun was beginning to dip lower, painting the room in hues of orange and purple.

“He’s a good sleeper today,” Harry commented softly, careful not to wake him.

“He is,” Hermione agreed, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Teddy’s soft, fuzzy head. “Must be tired from all that intense blinking.”
Harry chuckled quietly. “Or from figuring out my nose.”

They stayed like that for a while longer, reluctance clinging to the moment. The house was quiet now, the kind of deep quiet that follows activity. It was peaceful. And it felt, in a strange, unexpected way, like home. Not just a home, but their home.

Eventually, the responsible part of Hermione nudged her. “Right. Time to take him up.”

Harry nodded, standing up smoothly. Hermione carefully rose, cradling the sleeping baby. They moved in tandem, a silent, practiced choreography. Up the creaking stairs, past the portraits whispering their disdain.

Teddy’s small nursery, charmed into being brighter and less forbidding than the rest of the house, was a haven of soft colours and gentle light. They carefully laid him down in his crib. He stirred slightly, let out a tiny sigh, and settled back into sleep, his hair now a gentle, sleepy brown.

They stood by the crib for a moment, just watching him. The miracle of his existence, the weight of their responsibility, the bittersweet reminder of the parents he would never know. All wrapped up in this small, breathing form.

Harry reached out and gently tucked the blanket around Teddy. His hand brushed against Hermione’s, a brief, electric contact. Neither of them pulled away immediately. The air between them seemed to hum, thick with unspoken emotions.

Hermione looked up at Harry. His green eyes, usually so bright and full of life or haunted by memory, were soft, tender, and held a depth of emotion she couldn't quite decipher. Was it just the reflection of the moment, of shared love for Teddy and shared grief for his parents? Or was there something else there, something she had only glimpsed in stolen moments?

The silence stretched, filled only by Teddy’s quiet breathing. It felt charged, fragile. Like if either of them spoke, the moment might shatter.

Finally, Harry lowered his hand, breaking the contact. “He’s really settled in, hasn’t he?” His voice was low, a little rough.

“He has,” Hermione agreed, her own voice a little unsteady. She had to force herself to look away from his face, back to the safe, sleeping baby.

“Well.” Harry cleared his throat. “Long day.”

“It was,” she said. A good day. The best kind of day.

There was another pause. The hallway outside the nursery felt vast and suddenly empty. The spell of the quiet, shared moment was beginning to dissipate, replaced by the awkwardness of transition.

“Guess I’ll… I’ll head up then,” Harry said, gesturing vaguely towards the stairs leading to the upper floors where their individual rooms were located.

“Right,” Hermione said, feeling a ridiculous pang of disappointment. Of course. Respective bedrooms. That’s how it was. That’s how it had always been.

She gave Teddy one last wistful look. “Goodnight, Teddy.”

Harry murmured his own goodnight.

They left the nursery, closing the door softly behind them. The hallway felt colder, less warm than the room they had just left, less warm than the space they shared around Teddy.

They walked together down the short stretch of corridor, past the unsettling portraits, towards the different staircases that wound up to the separate wings of the house. The easy companionship of the day felt strained, replaced by a quiet formality.

At the point where their paths diverged, they stopped.

“See you in the morning,” Harry said, offering a small, tired smile.

“See you,” Hermione replied, trying to make her own smile look natural.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze lingering on her face, before turning and heading up his staircase. Hermione watched him go, the familiar shape of his back, the slight slump of his shoulders at the end of a long day.

When he was gone from sight, she turned and walked towards her own staircase. Her footsteps echoed a little on the old floorboards. The house felt large and empty again, the magic of their shared afternoon retreating into corners.

She reached her room, a comfortable space she had claimed years ago, filled with books and the familiar scent of parchment. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it, letting out a shaky breath.

The image of Harry with Teddy swam before her eyes. His gentle hands, his soft smile, the unguarded look in his eyes. The way he looked like he belonged, effortlessly, in that role. The feeling of his hand brushing hers by the crib. The charged silence.

She undressed slowly, her mind replaying the day. The sounds, the smells, the images. Harry’s laugh, Teddy’s coos, the way the light fell on the blanket, the soft weight of the baby in her arms, the brief touch of Harry’s hand.

Lying in bed, the house settling around her, Hermione Granger, the woman who had always had a plan, found herself adrift in a sea of feeling she couldn’t chart. She thought of Teddy, sleeping peacefully in his crib downstairs. She thought of Harry, sleeping somewhere on the floor above. And she thought of her own complicated, buzzing heart, suddenly illuminated by the simple, profound light of a shared day with a baby, and the undeniable truth revealed in the soft gaze of a man she thought she knew completely. The quiet hum in the heart of Grimmauld Place felt less like the house settling, and more like her own life shifting on its foundations.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter was a parent. How he had even gotten this far was unbelievable. How had the eleven year old boy that lived in a tiny cupboard under the stairs gotten so far that he was a parent to the most beautiful boy he had ever seen? How did he even get here? The boy that was raised like a pig for slaughter now was a parent. The same man that encountered death and walked out alive.

Obviously he hadn’t done it alone. Andromeda gave up this child to him. She could’ve easily raised him for another five years but she gave him up to a broken man who had suffered from a war for the last seven years. He thought of the Weasley’s. The family that had brought him in with open hands and had taken care of him like one of their own. The family he had thought of his first, the one that fed him, the family that had sheltered him and made him feel welcomed. The family that sent him gifts every Christmas that reminded him that he was loved, and cared for. His thoughts wondered to Hermione… god, everytime he thought of her his thoughts wandered back to holding her in bed.

They haven’t done that since the tent, they didn’t do anything in the tent but they had sought after comfort when Ron had left. It was peaceful and it just felt right. Laying in those beds with her had made Harry question his feelings for her, and for Ginny. Ginny would always be important to Harry’s life, but never could she be in the same department as Hermione. Ginny understood Harry better than all the other fangirls, but no one could be even close to Hermione. It was disrespectful to put someone within three tiers of her. Not even Ron could read and understand Harry like she could.

And what had Harry done for the first four years of knowing Hermione?

He had taken Ron’s side on every argument.

But what had Hermione done?

She had stayed loyal to Harry no matter what. She was the reason he didn’t die from that damn dragon. Yet he couldn’t even muster up the courage to ask her to the Yule Ball.

God she looked so beautiful that night. It was the first subconscious moment that he knew he was a goner for her.

Harry’s mind wandered to the last time he had held her.

Shell Cottage.

Harry had taken the backseat and let Ron comfort Hermione, no matter how much he wanted to walk into her room and just hold her while whispering comforts to her. Just to say that everything would be alright. But he didn’t, he watched from the sidelines as Ron would do those same things he so badly wanted to do.

That was until she took action.

It was late one night and Harry hadn’t fallen asleep yet. (Something common after Malfoy Manor) Harry sat up in his bed, hair all tangled with blurry vision without his glasses. He stayed like that just thinking of how he failed Ron, but more specifically how he failed Hermione.

His train of thought was broken by his bedroom door slowly opening. Harry, startled at first, didn't need long to recognize the forest of curls that surrounded the face of Hermione. She had a blanket wrapped around herself and as she got closer it was clear she had been crying.

Words weren’t needed as Harry automatically opened his arms for her. Hermione gladly went into his arms as Harry gently guided both of them back onto the bed.

Harry held her and whispered comfortings into her ear until he felt her breathing stabilize. When she had fallen asleep, Harry pressed one simple kiss into her curls and passed out to the simple scent that would always be associated with Hermione Granger.

When Harry woke the following morning Hermione was gone, and oh how deep in love Harry Potter was with Hermione Granger. But, although Harry wasn’t a broken man yet, he was darn close to one. Hermione couldn’t possibly want someone who didn’t even know what love could feel like until he was laying in a tent on the run holding a girl while she sleeps. Harry was in love with Hermione, but Hermione was not in love with Harry. Hermione was in love with Ron. Because no one could be in love with a broken man.

‘No’ he thought, he wasn’t permanently broken, he just needed repairs, and the sleeping child laying on his lap was the solution.

Teddy would get him out of his bad state. Harry would eventually have to go out and get a job. He had enough money for him to live comfortably without a job, but without one he would sit and remember the terror he had gone through. A job would keep him occupied.

Not any job though, Harry had turned down Kingley’s offer to become an Auror the moment it left his tongue. Harry wanted no part in going back out and fighting the same people he had desperately been trying to avoid since he was eleven years old.

But it would be out of his nature to not do anything at all. Harry had thought up the idea of becoming the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher. Since the defeat of Voldemort the curse on the job had been lifted, this would allow Harry to purchase a house in Hogsmeade if he pursued the job.

However with the arrival of Teddy and the rebuilding of Hogwarts, Harry had no idea when he would be ready to go out and work. He would have to bring the idea up to McGonagall and he would have to go through the course modules.

It would allow the new generation to actually have someone teach them defensive and offensive spells, which was something Harry had never had beside Remus. It would also not be as pressured as having the job as an Auror. Harry could easily grade sheets of parchment for a couple of hours.

Harry’s train of thought led him back to houses. He needed to get out of this dark, old, and pathetic house. Harry didn’t consider 12 Grimmauld Place a house, it was a station. A station to live at until he could move to his actual home. The thought scared Harry though, he never had a home. Sure, he had Hogwarts, but escaping death every year wasn’t exactly homish. He also had the Burrow, more of a home than Hogwarts but Harry needed his own home. If he didn’t go the teacher route he could always find a home in the countryside.

Harry also had one more piece of business he had to do at Gringotts.

Lordship.

Harry pulled out a folder from the cabinet he had been avoiding since he got here. The gold-embossed crest on the cover – a badger and a griffin intertwined – seemed to glare at him. Potter.

Beside it lay another folder, black and equally imposing, bearing the stark, skeletal remains of the Black family tree he had once seen tapestry-woven onto a wall downstairs. This one felt colder, somehow.

He’d been putting this off for a month. Years, if he was honest. Ever since Sirius had died, since the war had ended, these documents, meticulously packaged by Gringotts with a rather curt accompanying letter, had sat untouched. It was time, Mrs. Weasley had gently but firmly told him just last week. You can’t just ignore your inheritance forever, dear.

His inheritance. Not just the house, not just the contents of the vaults he knew existed, but the titles. Lord Potter. Lord Black.

The words felt alien, ill-fitting. He was just… Harry. Harry who survived. Harry who built things back up. Harry who helped Fred and George open their joke shop, who was now Teddy’s father. Not ‘Lord’. It sounded pompous, ancient, like something Malfoy would sneer about.

But the letter from Gringotts, tucked inside the Potter folder, wasn't about titles in a purely ceremonial sense. It was about legacy, responsibility, and… process. The process he had to undergo, formally, within the hallowed halls of Gringotts Goblin Bank, to acknowledge and claim his birthright.

He imagined walking up to a counter, perhaps one of the more intimidating ones. "Harry Potter," he'd say, his voice probably too quiet. "I'm here about the Potter and Black inheritances. The… the Lordship claims."

He pictured the goblin's reaction – a slow, assessing gaze, a nod towards a heavy wooden door. He’d be led down one of those dizzying, narrow marble corridors, the one that always felt like it was sloping downwards away from the sunlight and towards the earth’s core. He’d be shown into a small chamber, perhaps, sparsely furnished but with a sense of immense age.

A senior goblin, probably. Older, perhaps with more intricate gold jewellery woven into his ears or wrists. He’d introduce himself with a name Harry wouldn't quite catch, a series of guttural clicks and stops. Then, the questions would begin.

He’d have to prove his identity, of course. Not just with the scar, which he suspected counted for little with goblins, but magically. Blood tests, perhaps? Magic signature verification? He remembered the intricate tests the goblins used for detecting stolen magical items, the way they could sense enchantments hidden deep within objects. Proving who you were, on a foundational magical level, must be a standard procedure for inheriting ancient lines.
Then would come the family histories.

The goblin would lay out the lineages, tracing back hundreds, maybe thousands of years. Potter – an old pure-blood line, respectable, mostly quiet, known for solid magical ability and decent wealth accumulation. Black – infamously old, Purest of Blood, steeped in dark magic rumours, immense wealth tied to complex property holdings and investments, a history of… difficult personalities.

He'd have to acknowledge both. Accept the weight of their histories. The goblin would likely explain the nature of the titles – not just ceremonial, but legally binding. In the magical world, Lordship wasn't just about being called 'Lord'. It was about power.
This was where the prompt asked him to focus – the benefits. Why would he want this? Why hadn't he just signed away the responsibility?

He shuffled the folders, the cool leather against his fingertips. The goblin, in his imagined scenario, would lay it out in blunt terms, because goblins dealt in facts and transactions, not sentiment.

"As Lord Potter," the goblin's voice would be gravelly, precise, "you gain full, undisputed control over the Potter family assets. This includes the primary vault, of course, but extends far beyond liquid gold held here at Gringotts."

Harry pictured the mountains of gold coins he'd seen before, almost comically vast. But that was just one part, wasn't it?

"There are properties," the goblin would continue. "Land holdings purchased over centuries. Some with houses, some without. Some magical, some mundane, requiring different forms of management.
Lease agreements, tenant contracts – the financial flows from these are considerable. Your ancestors were prudent investors."

Properties. Harry had only ever known Privet Drive and the Burrow, Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place. The idea of owning land, scattered across the country, possibly even abroad, felt staggering. It wasn't just passive income; it was management, responsibility for people living on that land, potentially magical creatures or historical importance tied to the sites.

"Investments," the goblin would state flatly. "Shares in various magical enterprises. Ownership stakes in businesses ranging from cauldron manufacturers to broomstick companies to potion ingredient suppliers.
These generate significant returns, but require oversight. Decisions must be made regarding diversification, reinvestment, potential acquisitions."

This sounded incredibly complicated. Harry barely understood pounds and galleons fluctuating, let alone magical stock markets. He imagined teams of goblins, or perhaps human accountants and lawyers, who managed these things, reporting to the Lord. It wasn't just wealth; it was an empire of wealth, requiring active direction.

Then came the Black inheritance. This, the goblin would explain, was even more complex, and arguably, more powerful.

"Lord Black," the goblin would intone, and Harry inwardly flinched, thinking of Sirius. "The Black family assets are vast, accumulated through centuries of, shall we say, determined acquisition and strategic alliances. Grimmauld Place is merely the most visible property. There are numerous other residences, both known and undisclosed due to ancient enchantments. Extensive land holdings, particularly in areas with magical significance."
Undisclosed properties? Ancient enchantments? This sounded like something out of a fairy tale, or a horror story depending on the Black family's tastes. It added another layer of mystification and potential lurking dangers.

"Financially," the goblin would press on, "the Black vaults are... considerable. Their investments are deeply entrenched in the foundational elements of the magical economy. Furthermore, the Black family held significant ownership in sectors now considered sensitive or even restricted, requiring careful legal navigation."

Harry darkly suspected what 'sensitive or restricted' might mean, given the Black family's history with the darker aspects of magic. It was more than just money; it was power potentially tied to illicit dealings or influence gained through questionable means.

But the benefits weren't purely financial or property-based.

"Beyond assets," the goblin would continue, perhaps leaning forward slightly, his eyes gleaming, "Lordship confers influence. Both the Potter and Black lines hold historical seats on the Wizengamot."
The Wizengamot. The high court, the legislative body of magical Britain. Harry remembered Dumbledore's presence there, the stuffy robes, the formal procedures. The idea of sitting amongst that body, having a vote, a voice in shaping the laws of their world... it was terrifying. He'd spent his life reacting to the Ministry, fighting against injustice, but sitting within the system, wielding its levers? It felt like stepping into a different, perhaps even more dangerous, battlefield.

"Your presence on the Wizengamot," the goblin would clarify, "would grant you a platform. The ability to propose legislation, to influence debates, to form alliances with other houses. The Potter name carries immense public goodwill. The Black name, while controversial, still carries weight and commands attention, for better or worse."

Influence. The ability to do things. To push for policies that supported muggle-borns, perhaps. To reform outdated, prejudiced laws. To ensure that the sacrifices made in the war weren't forgotten, that the Ministry didn't slide back into complacency or corruption. It was the flip side of being a hero – translating that reputation into tangible, systemic change.

"Furthermore," the goblin might add, tapping a long finger on the folder, "Lordship gives you significant legal standing. As head of a family, you have inherited certain rights, certain protections, and the authority to act on behalf of the family's interests. This includes accessing ancient family magic, managing family artifacts, and potentially, the ability to pursue legal action regarding historical injustices or claims."

Accessing ancient family magic? Harry had only ever associated that with pure-blood rituals he wanted no part of. But maybe there were protective spells tied to the properties, wards only the Lord could reinforce. Family artifacts… were there useful or dangerous items locked away in vaults or hidden rooms? And 'pursue legal action regarding historical injustices' – for the Black family, that surely meant Sirius. While his name had been posthumously cleared, owning the title might give him further legal avenues, perhaps regarding compensation or official repudiation of past Ministry actions. It felt like a way to continue fighting for Sirius, even after his death.

The goblin would summarize, the benefits laid bare: immense wealth, extensive property, significant influence within the magical government, unique legal standing, access to ancient resources. It wasn't just being called 'Lord'. It was inheriting centuries of power, responsibility, and potential.

Harry shivered, despite the sunlight streaming through the window. It was overwhelming. The sheer scale of it. He hadn't just survived Voldemort; he seemed to have inherited a significant chunk of the world Voldemort had tried to dominate.

But then he thought about the alternatives. If he didn't claim it, the wealth and influence would be tied up, perhaps managed by distant relatives or potentially even the Ministry, or Gringotts itself, in some form of custodianship. That power, that wealth, the potential for good it represented, would be inert, inaccessible. Or worse, someone else might find a way to claim or exploit it.

He thought of the Burrow, of how much the Weasleys struggled sometimes. He thought of Andromeda and his new son Teddy, starting over. He thought of the countless people affected by the war, the businesses ruined, the homes destroyed. The financial resources alone could fund reconstruction, support new ventures, provide for those who had lost everything. It wasn't just about him being rich; it was about the capacity to help others, on a scale he had never imagined.

The Wiazengmot seat. He hated public speaking, hated politics. But he also hated injustice. He had seen firsthand how easily the Ministry could be corrupted, how quiet prejudice could become loud policy. If he had a voice, even a reluctant one, couldn't he use it? Couldn't he be a force for progress, for fairness, for ensuring the wizarding world learned from its mistakes? It felt like a terrifying burden, but also a unique opportunity.

And the legacy. Being Lord Potter and Black. It wasn't about upholding the pure-blood nonsense the Blacks had championed. It was about redefining what those names meant. The Potter name, now synonymous with hope and survival, could be used to champion those values in the wider world.

The Black name, stained by generations of darkness, could perhaps, slowly, be redeemed, associated with progress and healing, a tribute to Sirius's memory.

The process, he realised, wasn't just a formality. It was a ritual of acceptance. Accepting the past, the good and the bad. Accepting the future and the responsibility it entailed. It was stepping out of the shadow of being 'the Boy Who Lived' and into the demanding, complex role of 'Harry Potter', a man with immense power and influence, tasked with navigating a world he had fundamentally changed.

He closed the folders, the sound a soft thud in the silent room. His hand trembled slightly. The apprehension hadn't vanished. The thought of the goblins, the tests, the sheer weight of the assets and responsibilities still felt daunting. But the image of what could be done, the potential for real, systemic change and aid, settled alongside the fear.

Mrs. Weasley was right. It was time. Time to stop sitting in the historical dust of Grimmauld Place, postponing the inevitable. Time to go to Gringotts, face the process, and step – however awkwardly, however reluctantly – into the lives Harry Potter, Lord Potter, and potentially, Lord Black, was meant to lead.

Harry heard a soft knock on the door, he propped Teddy up so his head was on Harry’s shoulder. Harry knew exactly who this was, but for what reason was she here?

As he softly walked over to the door, praying he wouldn’t wake the sleeping baby drooling on his shoulder, when he opened the door he saw exactly who he thought it was.

Hermione Granger. Her wild curls everywhere, her nose slightly pink, and a small blush creeping up her cheeks as she took in Harry holding Teddy.

Hermione immediately opened her arms, no matter how much Harry wanted to walk into those arms and never leave, he knew that it wasn’t an intended hug but wanting the prized possession he was holding. He gracefully passed over Teddy to Hermione who already curled him up in her arms.

Hermione walked right past Harry and sat down on the sofa while studying Teddy’s features intensely.
Harry muttered something about girls and babies and went to sit down next to Hermione.

Hermione looked up and noticed the folders that were still out and spread around.

“What are those Harry?” Hermione asked quietly but affirmatively.

“Oh, just Lordship papers, Molly was bugging me about becoming the head of the houses. I figured with me getting Teddy that I should probably do it soon.” Harry replied with the same volume praying they wouldn’t wake up Teddy.

“Oh, that’s good, I think that would help us make changes to the country.”

That was the main reason why Harry wanted to do it anyway. Being the head of two old Pureblood families would help out big in the Wiazengmot. It would allow them to help out Muggles get a voice and help other creatures like elves get rights.
Silence took over the two as they both looked at the sleeping baby on Hermione’s lap, Hermione was stroking the boy’s head while looking off into the fireplace.

She eventually broke the silence asking, “I was at the Burrow getting something I forgot, Molly asked if you were going to bring Teddy next Sunday.”

Teddy was technically the first “Grandchild” in the unofficial family, Harry had been debating whether to bring him or wait it out a couple of weeks.

“I think I will bring him,” Harry replied honestly. He did want everybody to see Teddy, he wanted everyone to see why they fought for so long. The silence ensued again.

He looked at Hermione again. She was stroking Teddy's back with a gentle, rhythmic motion, her gaze distant, thoughtful. Her face, usually alight with intense focus, was soft now, weary but peaceful. The war had etched lines of strain around her eyes, but holding Teddy seemed to smooth them out.

"Hermione?" Harry kept his voice low, barely above a whisper. Teddy stirred slightly, letting out a soft sigh, and Hermione immediately quieted her movements, watching him intently until his breathing settled again. She gave Harry a small, apologetic smile, a silent plea to keep it down.
Harry nodded, lowering his voice further. "Thinking about... things?"

She hummed noncommittally. "About everything, I suppose. The quiet is... loud sometimes."

He knew exactly what she meant. The absence of immediate threats left room for all the other noise – the grief, the uncertainty, the ghosts of what had happened and the anxiety of what was yet to come.
"Yeah," he murmured. He hesitated, then pressed on, feeling his way forward into territory they hadn't fully explored yet. "Have you... have you thought about what you might do?"

Hermione tilted her head slightly, her eyes meeting his. "Do?"

"Yeah. For work. After... after everything. Everyone's talking about Aurors, or rebuilding the Ministry... but you always had so many ideas. It just got me thinking." He paused. "I mean, you're brilliant at Charms, Potions... you could do anything. But you're also... you care so much about people, about doing what's right. I was trying to imagine... I dunno, something... between, maybe, being a lawyer and being a healer?"

It felt like a clunky way to phrase it, but he saw understanding dawn in her eyes. The legal route, perhaps working to change oppressive laws or prosecute former Death Eaters, was definitely something she’d consider, given her passion for S.P.E.W. and justice. But she also had a deep-seated desire to help, to fix, to care for others, evident in her constant concern for their well-being and her quick thinking with medical aid on the run. Was there something that combined those instincts?
Hermione considered this, her brow furrowing slightly in thought, careful not to disturb the sleeping baby.

"Between a lawyer and a healer..." she whispered, testing the words. "That's an interesting way to put it, Harry. I suppose... well, there's always the Ministry. Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, perhaps, continuing S.P.E.W.'s work on a larger scale. Or the Department of International Magical Cooperation – I could work on treaties, ensure rights are upheld across borders."
She shifted slightly, easing a cramp in her leg. "But yes, those feel more... legal, bureaucratic. The healer side... I don't know if I have the temperament for St. Mungo's, for constant critical care. But something involving people, helping them directly rebuild their lives perhaps? Magical aid for victims of the war? Rehabilitation?" Her voice trailed off, the possibilities vast and somewhat daunting. "Honestly, Harry, I haven't settled on anything. It feels... too big. What about you?"

He shrugged, uncomfortable. "Me? Everyone expects me to be an Auror. Moody always said it. But... I don't know if I want to chase Dark wizards anymore. At least, not right now. It feels like... I've had enough chasing." He thought about the relentless years, the constant fight. The idea of signing up for more felt utterly draining. "Maybe eventually. But right now? I just feel... tired."

A comfortable silence settled again, filled only by the clock and Teddy’s breathing.

"What about Hogwarts?" Harry asked, shifting the subject slightly, though it was still part of this large, looming 'future' question. The castle was a symbol of so much – their education yes, but also their home, their battlefield, the place of countless memories, both good and terrible. Rebuilding had already begun, ambitious plans being drawn up. "Will you go back? To finish your NEWTs?"

Hermione was quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on Teddy's face. When she spoke, her voice was very quiet, laced with a deep exhaustion Harry hadn't fully registered until that moment. "No," she said simply.

Harry blinked, surprised. He hadn't expected that. He’d assumed, of course, that she’d be the first one back, eager to resume her studies, ace her NEWTs, get back on the academic track that had been so brutally derailed.

"No? You aren't?"

She shook her head slowly. "I don't think I can, Harry. Not yet. Maybe not ever, not in the way I would have before." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "It's... it's not the same, is it? The Great Hall... I keep seeing... I keep seeing faces. The corridors... I see Death Eaters, fighting..." Her voice grew softer, tinged with pain. "...Fred..."

Harry felt a sharp pang in his chest. He understood. How could you sit in class, walk those halls, when every corner held a ghost, every stone echoed with screams and spells? Hogwarts was home, but it was also a graveyard now.

"Right," he said, his own voice tight. "Yeah. I hadn't really thought about it like that. Just... going back."
"I need to study," she continued, her tone becoming more practical, more like the Hermione he knew, even as the underlying sadness remained. "I need those NEWTs if I want to do... well, anything I was talking about. But I think... I think I'll study from home."

"From home?"

"Yes. There are resources. Textbooks. I can probably arrange things with Professor McGonagall – she’d understand. Private study, perhaps sit the exams at the Ministry or something when the time comes. It would be... quieter. Less... triggering." She looked at him, a hesitant hope in her eyes. "It would give me more control. Over my time, over the environment. After... after so long with no control at all."

Control. Harry latched onto that word. That made sense. Running, hiding, reacting, surviving – it had been a year of absolute lack of control. The idea of reclaiming agency over something as fundamental as their education felt powerful.

"Study from home," Harry repeated, mulling it over. He thought about packed classrooms, the uncomfortable desks, the noise, the forced cheerfulness that would inevitably descend as people tried to pretend the war hadn't happened within those walls. Compared to the relative peace of Grimmauld Place, studying at Hogwarts felt... difficult. Exhausting.

"You know what?" Harry said, a sudden decision forming. It felt lighter than the weight of uncertainty it replaced. "I think I'll do that too."

Now it was Hermione's turn to look surprised again. "You will? Study from home?"

"Yeah," Harry affirmed, feeling a strange sense of relief. "Why not? I've got a lot to catch up on too. Maybe... maybe we could study together sometimes? Like we used to, but... properly. No sneaking off to hunt Horcruxes." He managed a small, weak smile.

A genuine smile touched Hermione’s lips then, quickly subdued for Teddy’s sake, but it reached her eyes. "I'd like that, Harry. A lot."

The conversation had opened a door, revealed a shared path forward they hadn't seen before. It emboldened Harry to voice another thought that had been swirling in his head, one that felt even more tentative.

"So," he began, shifting slightly, trying to find a comfortable position in the worn armchair.
"Speaking of... future plans. The job thing."

Hermione waited, her expression curious.

"This is going to sound maybe a bit mad," Harry said, feeling a warm flush creeping up his neck already, purely from the awkwardness of saying it out loud. "And I haven't really... told anyone yet. Not properly. But I was thinking... you know how you were saying you didn't know what to do, between things?"

Hermione nodded, her attention fully on him, though her eyes occasionally flicked down to Teddy.

"Well," Harry took a breath. "I was thinking... maybe... I could teach?"

He watched her face carefully. Hermione's eyes widened fractionally.

"Teach?" she whispered back. "What... what would you teach?"

He hesitated. This was the part that felt most exposed, most vulnerable. "Defense Against the Dark Arts," he said quickly, quietly, as if saying it fast would make it less significant.

He saw it instantly. A spark ignited in Hermione's eyes. It wasn't a dramatic reaction – impossible with Teddy sleeping – but it was intensely there. Her lips parted slightly, a small, almost soundless gasp escaping her. She leaned forward fractionally, her movements economical and precise, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that made his flush deepen.
Her voice, when she spoke, was barely a breath, a fierce, concentrated whisper that held more energy than a shout. "Oh, Harry. Oh, that's... that's brilliant."

Her quiet enthusiasm was infectious. It felt like a validation he hadn't realised he desperately craved.
"You think so?" he mumbled, still feeling awkward and slightly stunned by her reaction.

"Think so?" she echoed, her whisper dropping even lower, urgent and fervent. "Harry, it's a perfect idea! It's not mad at all, it's inspired!"

She shifted Teddy gently without waking him, adjusting the blanket. "Think about it," she continued, her voice practically vibrating with suppressed excitement. "After everything that's happened... after having inadequate teachers for years, or worse... having someone who knows Dark Magic, who knows how to fight it, how to survive it... who better to teach Defense than you?"

Heat rose again in Harry's face. He wasn't used to this kind of direct, unqualified praise, especially not from Hermione about something he considered... well, just something he did.

"But... I'm not a trained teacher," he protested weakly. "I haven't even finished school yet.”

"Pah!" The small, quiet sound was pure Hermione, dismissing his self-doubt instantly. "Training? What training prepares you for teaching real Defense better than living it? Than fighting Dark Wizards and witches since you were eleven? Than facing down You-Know-Who himself, multiple times?"

She leaned forward again, her eyes shining even in the dim light. "And you were a teacher, Harry. You were. Don't you remember? Dumbledore's Army?" Her whisper grew even more intense. "Harry, you were the best DADA teacher we ever had at Hogwarts! You didn't just teach us spells; you taught us how to fight, how to defend ourselves, how to think under pressure. You taught us spells the Ministry didn't want us to know, spells we needed. You taught us practice, not just theory. You taught us courage."

Her words hit him with unexpected force. The DA. He hadn't really thought of himself as a teacher then, just someone sharing what he knew because Umbridge was useless and they needed to learn. But Hermione remembered it differently. She remembered it as teaching. And she thought he was good at it.

"You," Hermione continued, her voice softening slightly but losing none of its conviction, "you empowered us, Harry. You gave us the tools to survive. That's what a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher should do. Especially now. After... after so many lost people, people who weren't prepared..."

Her eyes grew a little misty then, reflecting shared losses. "You could make sure that never happens again, Harry. Not to a new generation."

He felt a deep blush cover his face, spreading from his neck all the way to the roots of his hair. He could feel the warmth stinging his cheeks. He looked away for a moment, embarrassed by the intensity of her praise, especially the part about him empowering them and teaching courage. He'd just been trying to help his friends not get killed.

"I... I don't know about all that," he mumbled, running a hand over his face.

"It's true, Harry," she insisted, the quiet intensity unwavering. "Every word. You were remarkable in the DA. You made us believe we could fight back. You gave us hope. A good DADA teacher gives their students the skills and the confidence to face darkness. You did that, instinctively. Imagine what you could do properly?"

He finally looked back at her, meeting her earnest gaze. Her eyes were alight with conviction, with genuine belief in him. It was astonishing. For years, his worth had been measured by prophecy, by the scar on his forehead, by the enemy he had to face. To hear Hermione, the cleverest witch he knew, speak about his worth as a teacher, as someone who could build and protect rather than just constantly fight and destroy... it was a powerful feeling. It felt like seeing a potential future that wasn't just defined by his past battles.

"Wow," he whispered, the blush still warm on his face. "I... I hadn't thought of it quite like that."

"Well, you should," she said, a hint of her usual, sharp Hermione tone peeking through the whisper, softened by the moment and the sleeping baby. "It makes perfect sense. And think how happy Professor McGonagall would be! Finally, a DADA teacher who lasts more than a year and is actually competent!"

A small, shared smile passed between them at the long, troubled history of the DADA post.
The clock ticked on. Teddy shifted slightly in Hermione’s lap, making a soft, sleepy sound. They both fell quiet again, watching him. The immediate future – studying for NEWTs, figuring out their paths – was still uncertain, daunting in many ways. But this quiet conversation, here in the dusty, familiar silence of Grimmauld Place, had opened up possibilities. Hermione, finding a quieter way to pursue her studies, reclaiming control. Harry, seeing a potential future that wasn't just fighting, but teaching, protecting, building on the skills he'd learned in the hardest way imaginable.

Hermione got up and looked towards Harry, “I’m going to go put him up and go to bed myself, it has been a long day.”

Harry smiled at her before saying, “Thank you Hermione for taking him up with you.”

“Of course, Harry, it's the least I could do since you're letting me stay here.”

Hermione walked towards the stairs but before turning the corner she looked back and softly said, “And thank you Harry for coming in my room last night.” Then she turned the corner and left Harry stuttering on his thoughts.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger had a massive problem.

She thought she was as in love as she could get.

That was until Harry Potter climbed into her bed and calmed her down after one of her normally occurring nightmares. The way he held her, the way they so perfectly fit together like puzzle pieces. It was so lovely and so infuriating at the same time.

Having Harry, the man of her dreams, hold her during one of her worst nightmares was something she could only dream of. But, unlike the tent, she prepared herself for it to not happen again. Why? Because Harry didn’t love her. It had been a repeating chain of events since the Yule Ball. Harry had looked at her during that night, she had for sure thought that Harry would have looked at her differently after that night. He looked at her with those stupid green eyes like she was the only thing in the world.

Then it repeated during 5th year. Hermione had fully realized her crush for Harry during that summer, and she accidentally let it show when she saw Harry holding a prefect badge. The thought of them and only them roaming the castle at night sent jitters through her core. Only for that badge to be Ronald’s. Then Harry went through the year all googly eyed for Cho. Thankfully for her though things between them didn’t go that far.

Then came 6th year and Harry was all googly eyed for Ginny now. This had been when Hermione realized that she wouldn’t get her chance with Harry. However she was sure Ron was into her. So, she tried to muster up feelings for Ron. She was smart enough to realize that it would never work between them, especially when things had escalated to physical and emotional abuse. Of course Hermione had loved Ron, they had spent six years together conquering the impossible. But Hermione didn’t love Ron the same way she loved Harry.

It was simple in her mind, because without Harry Potter there would be no Hermione Granger.

Without Harry Potter, Hermione Granger would’ve died on that fateful Halloween to a troll.

So, when Harry had told them he was the final horcrux she had jumped on him instantly offering to go with him. Even if she had thought it over the answer was simple.

She would go.

The least she could do was die with Harry after he had provided seven years of absolute bravery and loyalty to them.

But no, stupid Harry Potter went to his death alone. Those minutes without Harry were the worst moments of her life. Worse than torture at the hands of Bellatrix, worse than almost dying to a curse in her 5th year.

She was an absolute mess without Harry, she could not stop crying. And that was when it had hit her. It was Harry or no one.

It wasn’t fair to Ron though, Hermione knew that and felt terrible. She kissed him after some remark about house elves to try and muster up some sort of real love deep inside her. But no, she could only think about Ron lips being Harry. She could only think about what Harry would taste like.

They had a brief one week ‘relationship’ before Hermione couldn’t stand to hurt Ron any longer. She explained to Ron about everything, that seeing Harry’s dead body in Hagrid’s arms was the most pain she had ever felt, that kissing him only got her thinking about what Harry’s mouth could do. Thankfully, Ron had noticed, he had agreed that the relationship was nothing but a ship waiting to sink. There were no hard feelings between them, it would take a while for the awkwardness to go away, but they tried their best in front of everyone to be like the normal friends they were.

Around the same time Harry and Ginny had broken up. It was all or nothing now for her.

She had come up with a plan that involved 3 things on how to get Harry to notice her.

12 Grimmauld Place.

Although she knew the structure was not a home. It was a temporary staying area for Harry. Hermione needed to live here too. Molly would’ve let her stay at the Burrow no matter how long, but she needed to see Harry everyday. This allowed her to show herself off subtly. Short shorts that clung to her in the morning, accidentally lifting her shirt up to expose her stomach and bra. Simple stuff that would get Harry’s mind racing. They may both be war veterans, but they were still teenagers, and the teenage body reacts weirdly to exposed skin. Hermione knew her body wasn’t as great as other women, but it wasn’t as bad as it used to be. After being on the run for so long, and recently setting up a running schedule every morning, Hermione glutes had been forming. Her breast had also started filling in nicely around 6th year. Obviously nowhere as big as some other girls her year, but she could hold her own. She had always had a flat stomach which worked in her favour and she was proud of how she looked.

Teddy

This one was a guarantee no matter what. The kid was so stinking cute and adorable. It didn’t help how madly hot Harry looked with him slung over his shoulder, or when he was so carefully feeding him. Having Harry being the only parent to Teddy would mean Teddy would need someone of the opposite sex. This was perfect for Hermione to jump in and assert her position in this role. It also didn’t help how heat would rush in between her thighs when she thought of Harry and the term parent. Being a major part of Teddy’s life would hopefully help Harry when looking for long term partners.

3. The upcoming Ministry Ball

With all the rebuilding taking place and the hunting of the remaining Death Eaters the Ministry has decided to host a public ball to help boost public morale. It was something so small but arguably the most important part of Hermione’s plan. She knew no matter how much Harry didn’t want to go she would be able to force him to go with her as friends. However she didn’t want to go as just friends. She wanted this to be their first date. (Possibly second if she got lucky) This could be the first formal dance between the two and the first dance they shared since the tent, since she oh so thought he would kiss her. The tension during that dance was so thick it could have been cut with a knife, and stupid her, if only she had a tiny bit of that damn Gryffindor courage she was supposed to have and just kissed him. Their relationship could be so different and she wouldn’t have to make this list.

Part one began splendidly. She picked out short denim shorts that she recently bought just for this. They clung to her hips perfectly, showing off every bit that she did indeed have. As she turned in the mirror mixed emotions began to overtake her. What she was doing was indeed risky and very not like her, but this was Harry, Harry would never take advantage of her. It wasn’t like she was full on naked for him. Her logical side took over as she thought of some of the very questionable stuff witches have sent Harry after the war.

She threw on a long, oversized shirt to go with it and Hermione had to admit, she looked pretty hot. The curls on top of her head were still wild, but they were tamed wild.

As she descended the stairs she could hear Harry cooking breakfast while talking to Teddy. Her heart filled with love as she heard Harry use such an adorable voice whenever he spoke to Teddy. As she descended the stairs fully, Harry turned to look at her.

His face went blank as he took in the sight of her, she quickly walked up to him and placed her hugs around his now filled form. Harry had rapidly grown into his body after the war. It shocked Hermione how much weight and muscle he put on so fast. She put her face on his chest and muttered, “Morning Harry”

“M-morning Hermione” Harry replied like he had been with a confundus.

Hermione distangled herself from Harry and walked over to Teddy on the opposite side of the kitchen, her back now turned to Harry. She walked up to Teddy and placed a kiss on his cheek causing him to squeal a sound of joy. Hermione then went over to the kitchen table and purposefully bent over it to reach for a piece of bacon.

Harry hadn’t moved an inch since Hermione had entered the room, when Hermione looked back over he was still shell shocked at what she was wearing.

Hermione couldn’t help but smile, this was exactly what she needed, she needed Harry to look at her and admire, even if it was obvious.

Her next steps took place later in the day.

Harry was laying on the sofa reading an old Quidditch playbook. Hermione was sprawled out on the floor reviewing some spells, while Teddy was sleeping in his cot. Hermione feeling the sudden urge to stretch, arched her back, leaned back and lifted her hands above her head. This was enough for her jumper to come over her stomach revealing the soft, flat stomach that was underneath. Harry’s eyes went toward the curse on her stomach, guilt instantly forming in his eyes. But it was quickly overrun by a look of pleasure when he saw a hint of her bra.

Hermione initially cursed herself for forgetting about the curse; she'd never blamed it on Harry, but it had left him distraught thinking about how Hermione had potentially died right in front of him. But the thought turned into pleasure as she looked into his eyes seeing them beam at her. It was a sight she could get used to.

She got up and moved towards him, softly placing a hand on his shoulder she barely said in a whisper, “I’m going to get dinner ready.” Her hand lingered on his shoulder but she slowly moved it away and swiftly walked away slightly swaying her hips. Hermione smiled the entire way to the kitchen. This was going perfectly so far, she wasn’t done though. She had one more trick up her sleeve.

After a silent dinner that involved multiple lingered touches when passing things to each other. Hermione got in the shower, her heart beating at her final act for the day. She was going to purposefully forget an important research book in the kitchen where Harry was still cleaning up, and she was going to walk in with just a towel wrapped around her.

As she finished her shower Hermione stepped out of the steaming water, hair dripping with water. She tightly wrapped a towel around her figure and walked out into the chilled bedroom. She could still hear Harry cleaning the pans in the kitchen.

“Harry?” Hermione called halfway down the stairs. “Can you grab my book on the table?” She finished once she got down the stairs.

“Sure!” Harry called out and as he went to pick up the book Hermione turned the corner and oh my.

Hermione saw the most bewildered face she has ever seen on Harry and it made her body heat up. She took long powerful steps, reaching the kitchen table. She slightly bent over and picked up the book Harry had completely forgotten about.

Hermione looked at Harry smugly and simply said, “Thank you.” She even added a little wave at the end and then she promptly turned around and walked away back up to her bedroom.

Hermione didn’t hear any clicking of pans for ten minutes after that, which she took as a good sign.

Feeling good, Hermione got her night clothes on and got in her bed, she opened the book and started reading. But, something rare was happening, Hermione Granger couldn’t focus on the book she was reading. Instead her mind went to her future, something that had been brought up earlier by Harry. She was stuck between two careers.

Hermione took action and got up out of her bed and sat down at the desk in her room.

She sat on the edge of the worn armchair, a quill held loosely in her hand, hovering over a blank sheet of parchment laid flat on the scarred surface of an old writing desk. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her lower lip caught between her teeth, a familiar posture of deep thought. The air in the room was cool, carrying the faint, persistent scent of old neglect and the faint smell of damp stone, but Hermione barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the empty parchment and the two paths diverging in her mind.

Post-war life was a peculiar mix of profound relief and unsettling uncertainty. The immediate, all-consuming purpose of defeating Voldemort had dissolved, leaving a void that needed to be filled. For Hermione, that void was particularly vast. Her entire adolescence had been defined by the fight, by the pursuit of knowledge as a weapon, by unwavering loyalty and courage. Now, the battle was over, and the question loomed: what did she do with the rest of her life?

Two distinct possibilities had taken root in her thoughts, growing from seeds planted years ago but nurtured by the harsh realities of the war. One was the logical extension of her relentless fight for justice, her passion for righting systemic wrongs:
The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, specifically its policy division. The other was born from the visceral, urgent need for healing she had witnessed and participated in: becoming a Healer at St. Mungo's.

She tapped the quill against the parchment, a rhythmic, hesitant sound. This wasn't a decision she could simply research in a library and deduce the correct answer. It required introspection, weighing not just facts, but feelings, strengths, and the kind of impact she wanted to make on the world.

She mentally divided the parchment in half, dedicating an invisible column to each path.
Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (D.R.C.M.C.) - Policy Division

Pros:

The first pro sprang immediately to mind, almost with the force of an old battle cry: S.P.E.W. Her ill-fated Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. Everyone had mocked her, even Ron, but the core principle remained as fiercely held as ever. Magical creatures, sentient or semi-sentient, were routinely mistreated, misunderstood, and denied basic rights. The war had only highlighted this injustice – the casual cruelty towards house-elves, the historical discrimination against centaurs and werewolves, the exploitation of other beings.

Working in the D.R.C.M.C., especially in policy, meant she could effect change on a monumental scale. Not just freeing one Kreacher, but drafting legislation that could improve the lives of thousands. She envisioned pouring over dusty old laws, identifying loopholes and prejudices, and proposing new regulations rooted in fairness and empathy. She could challenge the entrenched biases of the Ministry, fight against ignorance and fear with carefully constructed arguments and irrefutable logic.

Her mind was perfectly suited for this. Years of devouring legal texts and Ministry decrees, understanding intricate rules and regulations, had prepared her for the bureaucratic maze. She could dissect complex issues, identify the root causes of discrimination embedded in outdated laws, and work to dismantle themBrick by brick. This felt like a continuation of her wartime efforts – fighting injustice, but with parchment and ink instead of spells and curses.

It would be a challenge, undoubtedly. The Ministry was notoriously slow, resistant to change, possibly still riddled with pure-blood sympathisers who saw creatures as lesser beings. But the idea of being a persistent, undeniable force for good within that system was exhilarating. She could be the voice for the voiceless, the advocate for the marginalised. The potential for long-term, systemic change was immense. She could rewrite the rules of the magical world to be more inclusive, more just.

Cons:

The flip side of working within a bureaucracy was the bureaucracy itself. She pictured endless meetings, tedious paperwork, proposals gathering dust in forgotten filing cabinets. Change would be frustratingly slow. Years might pass before a meaningful piece of legislation was passed, and even then, enforcement would be another battle.

She recalled moments during the war when the Ministry's inertia had felt suffocating. Kingsley Shacklebolt was Minister now, a good man, a friend, but even he couldn't magic away decades of systemic rot overnight. Would she spend her days fighting pointless battles against apathy or outright obstruction? Would her passion be slowly eroded by the sheer weight of bureaucracy?

There was also the impersonal nature of policy work. She would be dealing with abstract concepts, drafting laws that affected groups of beings she might never meet. The satisfaction would come from seeing reports of improved conditions or successful legal challenges, but it wouldn't be the immediate, face-to-face impact of helping an individual in need. She wouldn't see the gratitude in a creature's eyes or feel the direct relief her actions brought.

The risk of becoming jaded was real. Fighting against ingrained prejudice and indifference could be exhausting. She might find herself compromised, forced to accept small, inadequate victories instead of the sweeping changes she desired. She might become just another cog in the machine, her revolutionary fire dimmed by the daily grind. Could she maintain her idealism in the face of relentless opposition and slow progress? The thought was chilling.

Healer at St. Mungo's

Pros:

The immediate counterpoint to the impersonality of policy work was the profound, direct impact of healing. The war had left countless people physically and emotionally scarred. Wounds that needed mending, curses that needed reversing, trauma that needed care.

Becoming a Healer felt like a direct response to the suffering she had witnessed. She remembered the smell of antiseptic and Dittany in the Hogwarts hospital wing, the pale faces on the cots, the quiet competency of Madam Pomfrey. The war's casualties were not just numbers; they were faces, friends, strangers who had fought and suffered. Healing felt like a way to mend the immediate brokenness, to soothe pain, to restore people to health and wholeness.

Her encyclopaedic knowledge of Charms, Potions, and Herbology would be invaluable. She had always excelled at practical application of magic, understanding not just the theory but how spells and potions truly worked on living things. She could envision herself studying advanced healing spells, learning intricate diagnostic charms, mastering complex potion brewing for recovery.

The work would be incredibly demanding, but it would also be intensely rewarding. Every successful treatment, every patient who recovered, would be a tangible victory against the damage wrought by darkness. She would be working directly with people, offering comfort, hope, and care. It was a deeply human, deeply compassionate path.

It also felt like a way to connect with others on a fundamental level, beyond the intellectual debates of politics. The shared goal of healing, the teamwork required in a busy hospital ward, the simple act of caring for another person – this offered a different kind of fulfillment. She pictured the quiet satisfaction of closing a wound, banishing a stubborn hex, or simply holding the hand of a frightened patient.

Cons:

The emotional toll would be immense. St. Mungo's dealt with the worst of magical maladies, curses gone awry, potion accidents, and the lasting effects of dark magic. She would see suffering every day, face conditions she might not be able to fix, and inevitably lose patients despite her best efforts. Could she bear the weight of that constant exposure to pain and loss? The war had already taken its toll; would this break her spirit?

The hours would be punishing, the pressure constant. A busy hospital ward was a place of high stakes, requiring split-second diagnoses and unwavering focus. There would be little room for error, and the consequences of those errors would be devastating.

While she would be mending individuals, she wouldn't be addressing the underlying conditions that caused the suffering. Healing a werewolf bitten during the war was vital, but it didn't change the discriminatory laws that made their lives a misery.

Treating someone injured by a rogue charm was necessary, but it didn't address why such dangerous charms were readily available. This felt like treating the symptoms without curing the disease.
Her particular strengths – her argumentative prowess, her ability to navigate complex legal frameworks, her drive for systemic reform – might be less utilized in a direct healing role. While diagnostic thinking and problem-solving were crucial, the core work was practical application and care, rather than policy formation and debate. Was she really using her unique talents to their fullest potential by focusing solely on individual healing?

Hermione leaned back in the chair, the quill now resting on the parchment. The silence in the room felt heavier now, filled with the weight of her thoughts. Both paths were noble. Both were desperately needed in the post-war world. Both appealed to different facets of her personality and her history.

She thought of the creatures she had championed: Grawp, misunderstood and alone; the Centaurs, proud but marginalised; Dobby, the house-elf whose tragic death had underscored the fundamental injustice of their bondage. The desire to fight for their rights, to ensure no other creature suffered as they had, burned brightly. That was the D.R.C.M.C. calling.

But then she thought of the faces of the injured: Ron, poisoned and near death; Harry, bearing scars both visible and invisible; the countless students and Order members wounded in battles. She remembered the helplessness she had sometimes felt when faced with injuries her academic knowledge couldn't immediately fix. The drive to acquire the practical skills to genuinely mend those wounds was powerful. That was St. Mungo's calling.

She looked at her hands. These were the hands that had turned thousands of book pages, cast complex spells, brewed intricate potions, and also painstakingly wrapped bandages and applied Dittany during the war. They were capable of many things. But where could they do the most good?

The D.R.C.M.C. promised a long, arduous war against apathy and injustice, fought with words and laws, potentially leading to changes that could improve the lives of entire species decades from now. It was intellectual, strategic, focused on the big picture.

St. Mungo's promised a constant stream of immediate crises, fought with spells and potions, leading to individual recovery and comfort. It was practical, empathetic, focused on the personal.
Which path felt truly hers? The one that leveraged her analytical mind and dedication to systemic change, or the one that satisfied her profound need to care for suffering individuals? Was one inherently "better" than the other? Was it possible to do both, perhaps later in life? The thought surfaced – maybe start as a Healer, gain practical experience of magical ailments and their effects on people and creatures, then move into policy with that understanding? Or vice versa?

The complexity was overwhelming. It wasn't just about choosing a job; it was about choosing a life's purpose, the way she would define her contribution to the world after the greatest contribution had already seemingly been made.

She picked up the quill again, dipping it into the inkwell. She wouldn't make a decision tonight, not yet. But she would start the process properly. She would write down the pros and cons, see them laid out clearly before her, analyse them with the same rigour she applied to a complex Potion or a tricky Charm.

She wrote the first heading at the top of the parchment, her handwriting neat and decisive, a stark contrast to the swirling confusion in her mind:
Career Paths Post-War:

Analysis

Beneath it, she wrote the two options:

Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (Policy)

Healer (St. Mungo's)

She paused, looking at the words. It was the beginning. A small step into the vast, uncharted territory of her future. The quiet room at Grimmauld Place seemed to hold its breath with her, waiting. The decision was hers to make, and the weight of it settled onto her shoulders, heavy but also, strangely, full of possibility. She just had to figure out where she belonged. The parchment remained otherwise blank, a waiting canvas for the detailed arguments and emotional considerations she knew would fill it in the days to come. For now, she simply sat there, lost in the intricate, demanding architecture of her own thoughts.

Chapter Text

The day came fast for Harry as the blazing sun unwillingly took him out of his bed. He was still having dreams about Hermione after seeing her in those short shorts. He was enjoying those dreams and didn’t want them to end.

Harry had no idea if she knew what she was doing. But, goddamn was it sexy. After spending seven years with Hermione, Harry thought seeing a little bit of skin from Hermione would not turn him on.

Turns out Harry was definitely still a teenager.

They had both seen a little bit of each other's skin when on the Horcrux hunt. Nothing crazy but enough to send Harry’s body into a frenzy. Masturbating was something Harry did, alongside every other teenage boy in his year. He wasn’t as bad as Seamus or Ron, but he did it.

It was a good way to relieve stress especially when on the run while the entire population was looking for you and your best friend.

It also really didn’t help that when after Ron left, Hermione and him seemed to be more carefree on boundaries. When Ron was still around Hermione made it very clear every day that you changed in the bathroom, no where else, no exception. When Ron left Hermione didn’t constantly remind Harry about this, things didn’t need to be said aloud. As they got older Harry and Hermione started speaking without speaking, on the outside of their trio it may seem they don’t enjoy each other.

They knew though, they knew what the other was feeling, what the other was thinking, what the other needed.

Harry had changed in the bathroom since the beginning because he thought this was common courtesy. However It didn’t make sense to someone who lived with five other boys.

Living in the tent was the most stressed Harry had ever been. Constant subtle remarks about how no progress was being made, comments about the food being bad, it was a very toxic environment.

So when Harry, who was already very stressed, got sight of Hermione’s thigh or accidentally saw her knickers, masturbating was the only solution. Of course he didn’t do it while laying in his bunk. He did it during his daily shower.

Most of the time he fantasized about Hermione. He knew he most certainly should not do that but the logical side of his brain was always off during his shower time.

It drove him insane the way he would accidentally see a part of Hermione’s thigh or stomach and he wasn’t able to climb on top of her and just taste her and feel her.

This hadn’t happened since the tent, until Hermione fucking Granger started wearing the tightest short shorts Harry had ever seen. It drove him insane the way she would so innocently bend over to pick something up. It was like she was doing it on purpose.

Harry obviously couldn’t do anything to stop her from wearing those clothes, she lived here in 12 Grimmauld Place. She was allowed to wear whatever she wanted. Harry just had to put his teenage fantasies away.

But, just a taste, just to snog her senseless, just to run his hands on her thi– Harry shook his head, erasing the thought. There was much to be done today and he couldn’t spend it fantasising about Hermione, not when he was going to spend the day with her.

Today was Sunday, which meant lunch at the Burrow.

It was something Molly had insisted on doing after the war, a tradition to help piece everyone back together.

Unfortunately for Molly there were still lingering tensions with each other.

Hermione and Ron still gave polite waves and hellos but seemed to avoid each other as much as possible.

Ginny and him were no better, they both seemed to have a silent agreement to just avoid each other, Harry wasn’t too interested in what Ginny was doing though. Not after he realized his feelings for Hermione.

This would be their first time traveling to the Burrow together. Hermione would normally already be at the Burrow but this was the first Sunday since she’d moved in.

They even had a special guest with them, Harry’s newly adopted son, Teddy. It would be his first time at the Burrow and Harry was nervous. Harry knew there was no threat inside the Burrow. The nervousness came from the environment. The Weasley clan would lean on little Teddy for morale and he was worried about how long little Teddy could last.

Harry desperately wanted Teddy to experience the magic that the Burrow was. The comfort you’d get just from walking in. The magic engulfed Harry and made him feel safe and protected. He wanted Teddy to feel the same.

However, Harry would not push his child. If Teddy didn’t feel comfortable he would take him home and comfort him.

Hermione had told him that emotions from a child as young as Teddy largely depend on the child's magic. If Teddy’s magic felt unsafe in the Burrow his magic would respond, making Teddy throw a tantrum. Hermione had also told him that as the child got older they would grow out of this and would be able to make decisions for themselves.

Harry took a look at the clock and got out of bed, he grabbed a chocolate, brown shirt and quickly threw it on. He walked out of the room into the dark, colorless hallway and headed towards Teddy’s room. As he opened the door he wasn’t surprised to see Hermione already in there caring for him.

Hermione turned towards him and gave him a smile, “Good morning sleepyhead.”

“You know you don’t have to wake up early every morning to take care of him. You should be able to sleep.” Harry said thoughtfully as he crossed his arms. It was true, Hermione had been up every morning taking care of Teddy and preparing him for the day. It should be Harry doing that. Hermione had spent the last seven years keeping him alive, he should be able to wake up early to get his child up and allow her to sleep.

“Nonsense Harry, I don’t mind it, besides I wake up this early normally.” She whipped her head towards the baby in her hands. “Plus I get the extra bonus of seeing this one waking up every morning.”

Harry sighed knowing he wasn’t going to win this time, “Okay, but I will make breakfast.”

Hermione let out a giggle that warmed Harry’s heart. “You know I can’t cook anyway so I suppose I’ll agree to that.”

“I know you’re terrible in the kitchen, that’s why I do the cooking.” He muttered under his breath, which earned a playful scowl from Hermione.

Harry walked up in front of the chair Hermione was sitting in, she was still in her pajamas and it was clear to Harry based on her hair that she hadn’t showered yet.

Harry bent down in front of Teddy and kissed his temple while whispering, “Today’s the big day buddy, the Burrow.”

Teddy giggled and swiped his hand up, catching Harry in the nose.

“Hey you cheeky boy.” Harry said while pressing his forehead to Teddy’s.

Teddy was as enthusiastic as one could get, giggling and flapping his arms around. Harry pulled back and gave Teddy one last forehead kiss before saying, “I should go shower.”

He pulled Hermione into a half hug and whispered into her ear, “Still want toast and coffee for breakfast.”

Hermione snuggled into his embrace as much as she could while still holding onto Teddy before replying, “Yes Harry, thank you.”

“No, thank you Hermione, truly, thank you for being here for him.”

Hermione didn’t reply, she didn’t need to, but Harry swore he heard her breath hitch at his remarks.

And with that Harry swiftly walked out of the room and back to his own to prepare for a shower he so desperately needed.

Harry closed the bathroom door, an echo that rang throughout his still bedroom. Harry turned on the wizarding radio, choosing a station that was playing ‘The Weird Sisters’. This was something Elara had told him to do. Before, Harry would shower in grief during his showers. His thoughts always turned back to the war.

Fred

Sirius

Remus

Tonks

Cedric

Dumbledore

Lavender

The music allowed him to move forward, to focus on the future, the future that was once uncertain but now was as clear as a sunny day. The music allowed him to focus on his son Teddy, it allowed him to focus on giving his kid the best future possible, a future that was once uncertain for himself.

As Harry undressed and stepped under the water a wave of calmness flooded him. The water flowing through his crazy, jet black hair, dripping down onto his rough, beat up skin. As the steam rose Harry took a deep breath, today wasn’t the day for sulking, today was about taking his son to the Burrow. As Harry exhaled his muscles released all their morning tension. His thoughts went to the person that seemed to occupy his mind most of the time now.

Hermione.

He wanted to be Hermione’s boyfriend. He wasn’t going to be stupid this time. Harry considered himself lucky that he even had a chance considering he didn’t even slightly consider her a possible partner until the tent.

The Ministry Ball.

Harry had to act fast to ask her, he wasn’t going to blunder it like he did with Cho during the Yule Ball. He just had to act fast.

He knew that Hermione would have dates piled up waiting for her. Hermione was not only a hero but she was a very pretty lady. However, none of these people knew Hermione like Harry knew Hermione. No one saw the way her curls would spill all over her face when lying down and reading. No one else knew the huff of annoyance she would make before putting her hair in a ponytail. Only Harry got to see these simple things.

Harry saw these things but never got to act on them, never got to run his hands through her hair, never got to press a kiss on her head when she was up late at night reading.

Harry could change this, and there was no place better to do it then at The Forest Of Dean.

The place where Hermione had asked Harry to grow old at, the place where they could have stopped fighting the war that tormented them for years. They could be cowards, they could have ran. But, they both knew that they would fight until the end.

Now Harry had the chance to go back to that same spot and confess his feelings to Hermione. To confess that just one simple date could eventually allow them to grow old together.

Harry finished washing himself off and stepped out into the steam filled bathroom. Struggling with his vision he eventually found his glasses and wiped them off with a towel.

Putting the chocolate, brown shirt on again and a pair of jeans Harry stepped out into the hallway and headed down towards the kitchen. He got started on bacon, toast and eggs. He also got out Teddy’s food and started preparing it for him.

As he was finishing cooking the eggs he heard Hermione walk down the stairs. He instinctively turned around only to see her still in her pajamas. He dumped the eggs onto a plate before casting a ‘Scourgify’ on the pans he used.

He set the plate alongside the others on the table before turning to Hermione and saying. “Please Hermione, I can take him, please go take a shower.”

“Are you saying I stink Harry James!” Hermione exclaimed with a smirk.

“N-n-no” Harry stumbled out, “It’s pretty obvious you haven’t done anything to take care of yourself this morning.” Harry said with more confidence.

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Harry Potter.” Hermione exclaimed

“I know I know, but you do realize that you don’t have to do work around here, I’m not going to kick you out just because you sit around and do nothing.” Harry took a breath before continuing, “We are equals in this place, you don’t have to tire yourself out because you think you are being a burden.”

Harry looked over Hermione’s kitchen into the next room, only to find Teddy on the floor next to his stuffed black dog.

Hermione sat in her thoughts for a moment before engulfing Harry in a hug.

Hermione mumbled into his shoulder. “Okay, I’ll go take a shower.”

“Good because you stink.”

“HARRY JAMES POTTER!”

But it was too late, Harry had already hurried off into the room Teddy was in.

While Hermione went up to take her shower Harry picked Teddy up and brought him back to the kitchen. Harry slowly gave Teddy his milk making sure he didn’t choke. This was Harry’s favorite time of the day, just feeding Teddy his milk as the baby looked at him with wide eyes.

Eventually, after Teddy finished his milk, Hermione came back down dressed in a nice green sundress. She looked very pretty and Harry was in awe. He shook his head and regained his composure, he grabbed both of their plates and sat them down across from each other. Harry took his seat while still having Teddy in his lap and as Hermione followed Harry asked. “How long do you think he’ll last today?”

Hermione thought for a moment before saying. “I think he’ll make it to lunch, but I don’t think he’ll last long after that.”

“That would be good enough for me, I just don’t want him getting overwhelmed.”

Hermione didn’t reply, just nodded her head, they both knew what he meant. The Burrow could be seen as really intimidating from someone who didn’t know the Weasley family. Especially if that someone is a one month old child who people will lean on for morale after going through a war that lasted multiple generations.

Harry would not overwhelm Teddy especially at this young of an age. He didn’t want to make Teddy’s magic go out of control due to the environment. If that meant staying only thirty minutes, then that sucks for the Weasley’s.

Teddy comes first.

That was something Harry had instantly adopted before even adopting Teddy. He would always come first, no matter the circumstances.

Teddy would NOT be treated as he had been treated for many years by the Dursley’s. Teddy would know of his birth parents and how they died like heroes. Teddy would be cared for by Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley’s.

Harry looked up at the clock, the polished brass hands indicating they had only about fifteen minutes left before their departure. He felt a familiar knot tightening in his stomach, a blend of excitement and trepidation. He and Hermione had decided the night before to have a late breakfast, just in case Teddy couldn't make it to lunch at the Burrow.
He pushed back his chair, the legs scraping lightly on the floor, and gathered his and Hermione’s plates. He walked them to the sink, the ceramic cool beneath his fingertips, and uttered the familiar incantation he’d learned from Molly Weasley weeks ago. “Scourgify! Tergeo!” The plates gleamed instantly, spotless, before he set them on the drying rack. He felt a quiet ripple of pride, thinking back to Molly’s patient instruction in the cluttered, warm kitchen of Grimmauld Place. It was a simple household charm, but for Harry, it was another small thread connecting him to the idea of a normal, functioning home.

Harry watched Hermione as she was meticulously checking Teddy’s nappy bag, a practical, enchantingly, expanded satchel that seemed to hold an impossible amount of baby
He watched her murmur off her checklist before shutting the satchel shut with a soft click. Her posture was relaxed, a stark contrast to his barely contained nerves. She seemed to possess an innate calm, a soothing presence that Teddy, and himself gravitated towards.

“Ready?” Harry asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as her.

She met his gaze, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “As we’ll ever be. Remember the Floo etiquette, Harry. Straight through, no dawdling.”

He chuckled, remembering his first chaotic Floo journey to the Burrow. “I think I’ve got it down by now, thanks to Ron’s excellent tutelage.”

Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly, then scooped Teddy gently into her arms. The baby giggled, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he nestled into the crook of her arm, his small hand instinctively gripping a lock of her hair. Harry’s heart twinged. He still found himself startled by the depth of his affection for the small, perpetually changing bundle.

They made their way to the hearth in the sitting room, where a pot of shimmering Floo powder sat on the mantelpiece. Harry’s apprehension spiked. Floo travel always made him slightly queasy, but with Teddy involved, it amplified tenfold. The idea of something going wrong, of Teddy getting dislodged or dropped, sent a jolt of ice through him. He knew it was irrational, Hermione was more than capable, and they’d done this journey before, but the protective instincts were a primal hum beneath the surface of his composure.

“You first, Hermione,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady. He wanted to see her and Teddy safely through before he followed.

She nodded, understanding the unspoken worry in his eyes. She took a pinch of the iridescent powder, her movements precise and unhurried. “The Burrow!” she announced clearly, stepping into the emerald flames. With a whoosh and a roar, she vanished, leaving only the lingering smell of ozone and burnt wood.

Harry took a deep, bracing breath, waiting a beat before grabbing his own handful of powder. He closed his eyes, picturing the chaotic warmth of the Weasley kitchen. “The Burrow!” he roared, stepping into the inferno. The familiar sensation of being squeezed through a narrow pipe, the world blurring into a flame of green and black. He stumbled out moments later, landing ungracefully on the familiar floor of the Burrow’s kitchen.

His eyes snapped open, scanning frantically. A wave of profound relief washed over him as he saw them: Hermione, standing calmly by the kitchen table, Teddy still nestled securely in her arms, looking around with wide, curious eyes. They were safe.

The relief was short-lived, however, as the familiar chaos of the Weasley household descended. Before Harry could even properly straighten his clothes, the kitchen door burst open.

“They’re here!” Ron’s voice boomed from the doorway, followed by the clatter of feet.

And then, they were swarmed.

Molly Weasley was the first to reach them, her ample frame enveloping Hermione in a bone-crushing hug. “Oh, my dears! And little Teddy!” Her eyes, though still holding the faint shadows of grief, sparkled with unadulterated joy as she peered at the baby. “Let me see him, Hermione, let Granny Molly have a look at this precious angel!”

Molly practically wrested Teddy from Hermione’s arms, though with the utmost gentleness. Teddy, surprisingly, didn’t protest, his small face scrunched in mild bewilderment as Molly cooed over him, her voice thick with emotion.

“He’s got Andromeda’s nose, hasn’t he? And that hair! Oh, Harry, he’s absolutely beautiful!” Molly declared, tears welling in her eyes as Teddy’s hair flashed from a soft blonde to a vibrant turquoise as she bounced him lightly. “Did you see that, Arthur? He’s changing colours already!”

Teddy had been changing colors ever since Harry knew him, it was something he and Hermione were used to, but he made sure to note the changes around certain people.

Arthur Weasley, a wide smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, stepped forward, patting Harry warmly on the back. “Wonderful to see you, Harry, Hermione. And young Teddy, too! Fascinating, isn’t it, Molly? Like a… like a Muggle mood ring, but for hair!” He peered closer, his customary curiosity already piqued. “Does he need… a charger, perhaps?”

Hermione bit back a smile, shaking her head. “No, Mr. Weasley, it’s just his Metamorphmagus ability showing through.”

Ron, meanwhile, had sidled up to Harry. “Blimey, mate, you actually look like you’ve slept more than three hours. Being a dad suits you, I guess.” He ruffled Harry’s hair playfully, then peered at Teddy over Molly’s shoulder. “He’s… small, isn’t he? Like a little, wrinkly pygmy puff.”

Harry gave him a mock glare. “He’s a baby, Ron.”

“Right, right. Just saying. So, no nappy explosions on the Floo, then?”

Hermione simply watched them, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She had passed Teddy to Harry the moment Molly had let go, stepping back slightly but remaining close, a steadfast anchor in the swirling chaos. She let Harry navigate the brunt of the initial Weasley onslaught, offering quiet support and the occasional clarifying detail about Teddy when asked. It was a silent agreement, a dance they had perfected over weeks of shared parenthood.

George, looking thinner than Harry remembered but with a spark of his old mischief in his eyes, gave Harry a hearty clap on the shoulder. “Look at you, Harry Potter, a father! Who’d have thought? Bet you’re already teaching him to pick locks, eh?” His gaze softened as he looked at Teddy, a flicker of something unreadable, grief, perhaps, for what Fred would have said, passing through his eyes before he squared his shoulders. “He’s a handsome little fellow, Harry. Those Tonks genes are strong.”

Bill and Fleur arrived shortly after, Bill looking rugged and kind, Fleur exuding an ethereal grace even as she cooed in French over Teddy. “Magnifique,” Fleur murmured, her eyes softening as she watched Teddy’s hair shift from blue to a soft pink as she spoke. Even Percy, usually so stiff, managed a genuine, albeit slightly awkward, smile as he offered a polite nod and a “Congratulations, Harry.”

Then Ginny appeared, emerging from the living room, her eyes meeting Harry’s across the crowded kitchen. “Harry,” she said, a simple greeting.

“Ginny,” he replied, the name feeling both familiar and distant on his tongue. Their exchange was brief, almost curt, a polite acknowledgement of shared history now layered with a quiet understanding of separate paths. She offered a small, almost imperceptible nod to Hermione, and then her gaze lingered on Teddy for a moment before she moved to speak with Ron. There was still lingering awkwardness, but mostly just a quiet acceptance that things were different now.

Teddy, for his part, seemed to be taking it all in with a mixture of wide-eyed wonder and growing bewilderment. He gurgled at Charlie, who, fresh from Romania, looked fascinated by the baby’s shifting hair. He chuckled when Ron made a funny face. But as the horde of voices swelled, and hands reached out to gently touch his cheek or tickle his chin, a subtle shift occurred. His bright, curious eyes began to dart around, his little mouth pinching at the corners. His hair, which had been enthusiastically changing colours, settled on a muted, slightly anxious grey.

Harry felt it first, a subtle tension in the bundle he held. He instinctively tightened his grip, glancing at Hermione. She was already watching Teddy, her brow furrowed slightly. Their connection was undeniable, a silent language spoken between them.

“I think he might be getting a bit… overstimulated,” Hermione whispered to Harry, her voice barely audible above the cheerful din.
Harry nodded. “He’s done well, though. Made it to lunch.”

Indeed, shortly after, Molly, ever the matriarch, herded everyone to the long, groaning kitchen table for lunch. The food, as always, was a feast: roast chicken, mountains of potatoes, fresh vegetables from the garden, and several pies. Teddy, propped up in Hermione’s lap, watched the proceedings with a quiet intensity. He drank from a bottle that Hermione was feeding him, his eyes tracking the blur of hands and faces.

The conversation flowed, loud and boisterous, filled with laughter and updates from everyone’s lives. Harry found himself relaxing slightly, enjoying the familiar warmth of the Weasley family. Teddy made it through lunch, a mild miracle in Harry’s eyes, even managing a small, sleepy yawn towards the end.

But about thirty minutes after lunch, as people lingered over cups of tea and slices of treacle tart, the inevitable happened. Teddy’s grey hair flashed to a bright, angry red, and a piercing wail erupted from his small lungs. It wasn’t a hungry cry, or a wet nappy cry. It was the distinct, high-pitched cry of an overwhelmed, overstimulated baby.

Harry’s body tensed instantly. Hermione was already moving. Without a word exchanged, she was by Harry’s side, her hand gently on Teddy’s forehead, her voice a soft, murmuring comfort.
“It’s alright, Teddy-bear,” she whispered, her fingers tracing soothing circles on his tiny temple. “Just a bit much, isn’t it?”

He began to sway gently, instinctively, while Hermione continued her soft ministrations, her other hand reaching for the nappy bag. They moved as one, a perfectly synchronized unit, their actions flowing from an intuitive understanding of Teddy’s needs and each other’s roles. Harry swayed, Hermione murmured, and within moments, the nappy bag was open, a small, plush blanket unfolded, and Teddy was wrapped snugly, his cries softening to whimpers.

“He’s hit his limit,” Harry announced, his voice quiet but firm, over the sudden lull in the Weasley’s conversation. “Think it’s time we headed home.”

Molly, ever understanding, nodded. “Of course, dear. He’s been so brave! You must bring him back soon, though.”

As Harry continued to rock the now sniffling Teddy, Hermione retrieved his pacifier from the bag and gently offered it. Teddy latched on, his cries finally subsiding into soft whimpers.

Some of the Weasleys were watching them. Ron had his mouth slightly agape, a surprised expression on his face. Ginny’s gaze was fixed on Harry and Hermione, a subtle, unreadable expression in her eyes. George simply watched, a faint smile playing on his lips, perhaps recognizing the quiet strength of their partnership. Percy cleared his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable at the display of such raw, seamless care.

Harry felt their eyes, but he barely registered them. His focus was entirely on Teddy. Hermione had already gathered Teddy’s small blanket and pacifier, her movements efficient and quiet. She reached for Harry’s arm, a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Ready?” she asked, her voice calm, a quiet anchor in the fading storm of Teddy’s cries.

He met her gaze, and in her eyes, he saw a mirroring of his own resolve, his own dedication. There was no judgment, no question, only perfect understanding. “Ready,” Harry confirmed, his voice low and certain.

Together, they made their quiet goodbyes, promising to return soon. Harry held Teddy securely, Hermione carrying the nappy bag and keeping a protective hand on Harry’s back as they moved towards the Floo. The Weasleys watched them go in complete stunned silence.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with a groan, looking at the clock, she flopped her hand on it until it stopped ringing. Orange streaks started to fill through the curtains which caused her to throw a pillow on her face, blocking the breaking sun.

She felt like an idiot.

She had tried too hard, tried to get Harry to look at her, which to her credit, he did, but why? Why would she do something so unlike her normal self. She groaned again as the sun kept creeping through, she felt stupid, like a total idiot.

She even made a list. She punched herself mentally again. It was right in front of her the entire time, she just had to be herself. Harry had given her looks when she wore the shorts, but none were as impactful as the ones he gave at the Burrow. The look he gave her after they worked perfectly together to bring Teddy back to Grimmauld.

She saw the looks, most notably Ron. His jaw was gaping open and she had to be honest they did look like a married couple. But her and Harry had always worked like that, the way they could just read each other, the way they knew what the other was thinking without needing words. This was different though, it wasn’t the normal way where she could sense his pain from his scar, or when he could sense when she felt worried. It was with his kid, it was so much more intimate.

As the sun kept rising Hermione finally sat up, she thought back to last night when they had returned to the Burrow. Harry played with Teddy for a bit while she went up to work on her career choice. She didn’t make any progress and she probably wasn’t going to make a decision soon. She also sent Headmistress McGonagall a letter stating her and Harry’s interest in completing their final year of school from home. After sending the letter off she went downstairs to fetch dinner.

She saw Harry and the couch watching television from a muggle television he had installed the first day he moved in. It took a while to make it compatible with the magic in the house but they got it to work and she noted that he did use it a lot.

He told her that he already put Teddy to bed, Hermione oblivious to the time realized that it was late. She decided to settle for a piece of toast rather than a full dinner, already stuffed from Mrs. Weasley’s lunch.

Then Harry invited her to watch some television with him. This wasn’t unusual; they both usually watched some before going to bed but it felt different this time.

Harry was watching a nature documentary about Wolves and how pacts respect one another. After about fifteen minutes of having a respectful distance between them, she felt an arm come around her from the back of the couch. She instantly curled into his side and laid her head on his shoulder noting how perfectly they fit with each other. Her breathing was getting heavier as she tried her hardest to focus on the television. The tension filled the air, if she had to give it a description she would describe it as slime like, thick and gooey.

Neither of them budged, finally taking a risk she looked up at him and he instantly looked down at her. Those green eyes, she could get lost in them forever, they were so beautiful, so bright and full. He smiled and softly said. “I think Teddy did well today.”

Her heart was pounding, he had to know what he was doing, but maybe he didn’t. Harry had been pretty clueless about girls the entire time she knew him. She calmed herself down before saying. “Yeah he did really well, hopefully next time he can stay for longer.”

“One step at a time.” He murmured while still looking at her.

She couldn’t reply with the way he was looking at her, she couldn’t stay there or she was going to go crazy. She had to get out, she took a deep breath and said. “I should head to bed.”

She saw Harry get caught off guard for a second before he regained his composure. He bent down and kissed the top of her head while whispering into her curls. “Okay sleep good and remember, sleep in.”

She couldn’t respond, she was going to die if she didn’t get out, she quickly nodded her head up and down. Then went up to her room as fast as she could without making it noticeable.

When she entered her room she closed the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily still. She could only think of one thing, she had to confess to Harry soon. It would be done within the next week, she couldn’t stand to watch him fall to another girl because she didn’t confess her love again. She didn’t even know why she was put in Gryffindor, what bit of courage did she truly have?

She shook her head, regaining her thoughts, she looked at the clock, she had lunch with Luna today. If you would’ve told her that in 5th year she would have looked at you like you had seen Nargles. But no, her and Luna had become friends at Shell Cottage. It helped being able to talk to a female about the trauma, Hermione could always talk to Harry but sometimes she really wished she had more female friends. They stayed close after the war and tried their hardest to have lunch together on a weekly basis.

It turns out that Luna Lovegood had a side to her that Hermione would have never thought could exist. Luna Lovegood was freaky, and Hermione loved it.

It was nice to be able to let out her fantasies to someone.

Hermione had Ginny as a friend but their relationship was unstable. They stayed friendly during the weekly Burrow lunch, they had the regular conversation, but no effort was made to do more with their friendship.

Hermione honestly didn’t have any plans to mend it either, especially not after the way Ginny treated Hermione and others after she got with Harry. Ginny probably didn’t mean any harm, just protectiveness. But Hermione didn’t like the looks she would throw her whenever she tried speaking to Harry, or the subtle way she’d drag him out of their conversation.

It also didn’t help that her and Ginny honestly didn’t have anything in common. Ginny loved Quidditch, while Hermione only loved Quidditch if Harry was involved, and most of the time it was frightening how close he came to death during that stupid sport. Ginny was popular and outgoing, while Hermione stayed in her friend group and didn’t enjoy going out as often.

Luna may have come off weird when she first met her but she had quickly realized Luna was a Ravenclaw for a reason. She had lots of knowledge, and they had great conversations, conversations she could never have with Harry, Ginny, or Ron.

Hermione looked at the clock again, she had woken up late. She honestly didn’t know how to react, normally she would have been up and taking care of Teddy already, however Harry instantly put an end to that. Waking up late felt good, she felt relaxed, her muscles were loose instead of the normal tension they held. She didn’t have to do anything, didn’t have to force herself to work, she didn’t have to go out of her way to prove she belonged here.

She felt free, like the wind was blowing through her curls, her arms free and waving around with no restrictions. It felt amazing.

She kicked the covers off herself and slowly walked over to her bathroom. She observed herself in her mirror.

She looked crazy, her brown, bushy hair was everywhere, it was like a wildfire the way it seemed to cover everything. Her nightgown was half off, probably from the awkward sleeping position she fell asleep in.

She looked like an absolute mess. And she would not have preferred to have woken up any way else. She looked like she had just gotten the best sleep of her life, and to her credit she did just get the best sleep of her life.

She fully took off her nightgown and let it fall to the floor. She admired herself in the mirror for a while before turning the shower on. She turned on her radio and turned it to the wizarding news channel, then she got in the shower. Her therapist, Elara, had told her to do this. She had told her that it would take her mind off things, to stop her mind from spiraling into deep thoughts. Deep thoughts that would obviously be about the war.

She would only think about two things:

Her parents.

Harry’s dead body.

Kinglsey had talked to the Australian Ministry to try and track and locate her parents. They had made little progress so far but it was to be a process. She still believed that she did the right thing, considering that her house was indeed searched only confirmed her belief.

She had also found out the counter spell while scrolling through the black library. All that was needed was to just find them.

What scared her the most was thinking about what their reactions would be. Would they understand? Would they be upset? Would they never talk to her again?

It saddened her that all of these could be possible. However if it meant that her parents were safe, Hermione would gladly take a couple of years to regain their trust. Their lives were what mattered most.

As Hermione washed her armpit her thoughts transferred to her second topic.

Harry’s dead body.

Seeing his lifeless body in Hagrid’s arms tore at her straight from the heart.

Harry may like Albus Dumbledore.

Hermione Granger fucking hated him.

How could he? How could he lie to someone so innocent, someone so precious as Harry. How could he set him up for death with no regards.

How could she try her absolute hardest to not let the beautiful boy who had known death his entire life not die, only for him to find out he had to die.

His dead body would haunt her forever. Seeing it made her feel so dumb for not taking the risk, for not leaning in for a kiss during the dance, for not going to Slughorn’s party with him. It all hit her at once seeing his body lay lifeless.

Then she knew she loved the boy much more than anybody could.

She would occasionally think about Malfoy Manor.

She had that nightmare a lot. It was traumatizing, but she fought. She fought for Harry.

Because Harry would have never let Bellatrix get the information, because Harry had already been tortured in the graveyard.

She did it because Harry went through it every year, yet no one stood up for him, yet no one seemed to actually care for him.

She fought because it was the least she could do for Harry.

The aftermath was bad. Once again someone Harry loved had died, this time it was Dobby. The house elf that loved Harry Potter had died to keep them safe.

Harry was rightfully devastated, he dug the entire grave without magic. The statement was powerful to Hermione and it shattered her. All she wanted was to be comforted by Harry.

Ron had comforted her, or he at least tried. She was very thankful for him but she needed Harry. Because his presence calmed her. Being around Harry was like being at the ocean on an early morning, the chirping of the birds, the calm waves crashing gracefully into the shore. Harry was her anchor, and she needed him more than ever to keep her stabilized.

She couldn’t stand being alone for one more night, the thought of Bellatrix coming back, the thought of someone finding them, the thought of them finding Harry. She needed to be by him. She started crying, she wished she wasn’t this weak. How could she not handle this when Harry had gone through so much more? Yet he moved on. She desperately needed his calmness, she needed him to whisper to her that everything would be alright.

So, she lazily got out of her bed, covers still wrapped around her as she walked to Harry’s room.

He was sitting upright in his bed, his glasses were off, the only thing she could see were those beautiful, full, bright green eyes. He looked at her and just stared for a second, her breath hitched as he analysed her. Then, he opened his arms. Words weren’t spoken, words weren’t needed. They weren’t needed anymore between the two of them. They both knew what the other was feeling and thinking.

She drug herself over to his arms and went into them.

The effect was immediate, his calmness was instant and she felt like she could fall asleep again. He gracefully brought them to a lying position, and then he did it. He started whispering to her.

The last thing she had remembered was a soft simple kiss being placed on her head, before she dozed off and got the best sleep she had since Malfoy Manor.

She woke before Harry, the chances of them being caught were very high at Shell Cottage. She reminded herself that Harry and her weren’t a thing. She told herself that she shouldn’t have done that because she wasn’t his.

She carefully pulled herself free of Harry’s grip, she wrapped her covers around herself again and gracefully walked out of the room without making a sound.

They hadn’t talked about it, not once, not even a little mention. One day they would talk about it, but that day was not today.

Hermione brought herself back to reality as she turned the shower off and dried herself off. She turned the radio off and picked out a simple outfit. A good new pair of blue jeans and a brown jumper. She applied a little amount of Sleekeazy’s just to smooth her curls out a tiny bit. There was no reason to get all fancy, it was just lunch with Luna. There also wasn’t a reason to dress fancy for Harry, because that wasn’t her, if Harry loved her it would be the version of her that he had known for years.

Hermione walked down the dim stairs of Grimmauld to find Harry feeding Teddy, it was an incredible sight to see. It was also a very hot sight to see.

Harry looked up from Teddy and a broad smile took over his face when he saw her. Hermione smiled back with the same intensity and walked over towards the two boys.

“Good morning.” She said to Harry before leaning down towards Teddy. “How are you today Teddy Bear?”

Teddy looked up at her, his eyes going wide and his hair changing to chocolate, brown that mimicked her hair.

Hermione and Harry had both agreed that they should be more observant of Teddy’s hair change. Especially after the Burrow they wanted to be prepared for a tantrum.

“I’ll take that as a sign that you’re doing good.” She bent down even further and placed a soft kiss on his forehead.

Teddy’s hair changed to pink that reminded Hermione of hearts she would see on Valentine’s day. Her heart started to fill with love as she looked at the little child.

This was why they fought, this was why they sacrificed their childhood for a war.

Hermione straightened her back and looked back towards Harry, he was still looking at Teddy.

Hermione let out a small cough that brought Harry back to his senses before saying. “I’m going to lunch with Luna.”

Harry gave a small chuckle before replying. “I know, don’t worry you didn’t mess up any plans.”

Hermione let out a small breath she was holding, even though she had lunch with Luna every week she didn’t know how much she could trust Harry with planning something during it.

Hermione gave Harry’s arm a light punch before saying. “Okay I’ll be on my way, remember Patronus if anything happens.”

“Yes Professor.” Harry said with a tone that reminded Hermione of how Harry would speak to Headmistress McGonagall.

And with that she closed her eyes and focused, focused not on Harry’s scent or Harry in general but Diagon Alley. Then, she felt it, the terrible feeling of being pulled through a rubber tube.

Hermione opened her eyes and found herself at one of Diagon Alley’s apparition points. Everytime Hermione came here she found herself astounded with how the Alley had quickly recovered after the war. Granted most parts were still shut down, but the majority were able to quickly reopen thanks with the help of the Ministry.

She saw George’s shop, the bright colorful building stood out among the others. The shop was as busy as a Tube during rush hour. Her heart sank a little thinking about how Fred should be right next to George. They should have been running the shop as twins, testing new products as twins, and just being twins in general. However it couldn’t be that way.

She pulled herself out of her thoughts as she realized she hadn’t moved an inch yet. She moved her feet forward, the small stone coming against her shoes.

She found her way to the Leaky Cauldron, the meeting spot for today. She opened the door, the bell signaling her arrival, and then she saw her. Despite being impacted terribly during the war Luna Lovegood kept being her dreamy self, and Hermione had come along to respect it.

She quickly made her way over to Luna, the blonde undoubtedly already knowing she had arrived somehow, turned around and gave Hermione a smile.

Hermione returned the smile easily, pulling the stool out and sitting on it she turned to fully face Luna.

“Hello Luna, how have you been lately?

Luna gave her the classic dreamy Luna look, before ignoring the question and bluntly asking. “You gave up on the plan didn’t you? You’re more relaxed.”

Hermione sighed, this was not the first thing she wanted to talk about. But, she wasn’t going to get past Luna.

“I did give it up.” Hermione took a deep breath before continuing. “I was so foolish for it, he looked at me which I liked but it wasn’t the same. The looks he gave me at the Burrow were so much more genuine, it made me look foolish and stupid Luna!” Hermione took another deep breath, she had to deflect the conversation off of herself and back onto Luna.

With a knowing look Hermione asked. “So, any progress made with Ronald? Hermione raised an eyebrow.

Luna looked taken aback, obviously not expecting the question, she quickly regained her composure and gave Hermione a smirk before leaning in. “Let's just say that our Ronald has his head with the Nargles.”

Ron and Luna had both been volunteering at Hogwarts to help speed up the rebuilding progress. Hermione thought it was a good way for Ron to take his mind off of things. During that time at Hogwarts Ron and Luna had become close friends, and Luna was interested in pursuing a relationship with him.

Hermione had instantly encouraged Luna to go after it. That was when they both had come up with ideas of a plan to get both of their men. Hermione bowed out first, but Luna had not. Luna’s plan was something else. Hermione had thought her plan was bad, however, Luna’s plan involved ‘accidental’ nipple slips, swimming in a way too short bikini, and over- the- top touchiness.

“Are you saying that our friend Ronald Weasley has his head up somewhere he shouldn’t?” Hermione asked, obviously knowing the answer.

“Ten points to Gryffindor Mrs. Potter.” Luna teased.

The name “Mrs. Potter” sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine. She obviously wasn’t thinking that far ahead yet, considering her and Harry weren’t even a couple yet, and there was always the potential that Harry didn’t want to be with her. But, it sent a warm feeling down her stomach.

Tom came over with tea and politely asked them if they wanted anything to eat.

Hermione and Luna both settled for fish and chips.

“Well I think I need to tone my list down or else Ronald won’t remember who he is by the end of the week.” Luna said after taking a sip of tea.

Hermione chuckled. "You think? Ron's sweet, but subtlety is not his strong suit. You might scare him off if you're too forward."

Luna tilted her head, considering. "Perhaps. But the Nargles seem to enjoy the direct approach. Maybe Ronald is more influenced by Nargles than we realize."

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "Only you, Luna, would compare Ron to a creature no one else believes exists." She sobered slightly. "But seriously, Luna, be careful. You're a wonderful person, and you deserve someone who appreciates you for who you are, not just for…well, you know." Hermione gestured vaguely, referencing Luna's more unconventional methods.

Luna smiled serenely. "I know, Hermione. I am being myself. If Ronald doesn't appreciate that, then he's not the one for me. Besides," she added with a wink, "at least I'll have had some fun along the way."

Their fish and chips arrived, and they ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Luna spoke again.

"Speaking of relationships…how are things with you and Harry?" Luna asked, her eyes twinkling.

Hermione blushed despite herself. “I don’t know Luna, I really want more than friendship but I don’t know if Harry does, we worked so well together at the Burrow. I’m just scared, scared that if he doesn’t see me that way that I’ll drive him away.” She paused for a moment, regathering her breath and thoughts. “And I couldn’t lose Harry, not after everything.

The 'everything' hung unspoken in the air: the war, the loss, the trauma that lingered like a shadow. It had changed them all, even the most resilient.

"Harry is…a good soul," Luna said softly, breaking the silence. "He deserves happiness, and he deserves someone who understands the weight he carries."

Hermione nodded, her throat tight. "I just hope I can be that person. I want to be, but I don't want to assume anything. We've been through so much as friends, I don't want to ruin that."

Luna squeezed Hermione's hand. "You won't ruin anything. Just be yourself, Hermione. Be honest, be kind, and let things unfold as they will. The universe has a way of guiding us, even when we think we're lost."

Their conversation drifted to Hogwarts, to the monumental task of rebuilding. The castle, a symbol of their history and community, was still scarred and damaged. Ron and Luna were spending a lot of time there, trying to help Headmistress McGonagall restore it to its former glory.

"It's hard, seeing it like that," Hermione admitted, "all broken and…empty. It's like a constant reminder of everything we lost."

"But it's also a symbol of hope," Luna countered. "It's being rebuilt, brick by brick. Just like our lives. We're putting the pieces back together, making something new and strong out of the ruins."

Hermione thought of McGonagall, tirelessly overseeing the reconstruction, her face etched with fatigue but her eyes burning with determination. She thought of the students who were returning, eager to learn and rebuild their lives, despite the fear and uncertainty that still lingered.

"You're right," Hermione said, a sense of purpose growing within her. "It's not just about the castle itself, it's about what it represents. It's about the future."

She had been focusing so much on her personal life, on her feelings for Harry, on Luna's feelings for Ron, that she had almost forgotten the bigger picture. There was a world to rebuild, a future to create.

"I want to do more to help," Hermione said, her voice firm. "I've been so caught up in…everything, that I've neglected my responsibilities. I want to help with the rebuilding, I want to help the younger students adjust, I want to use my skills to make a difference."

Luna beamed at her. "That's the Hermione I know and love. The one who wants to change the world, one book, one law, one heart at a time."

As they finished their tea, Hermione felt a renewed sense of hope. The war had left deep scars, but it had also forged a new generation of witches and wizards who were determined to build a better future. And she, Hermione Granger, was ready to be a part of that. She would focus on rebuilding Hogwarts, helping the younger students, and letting her relationship with Harry unfold naturally. And she would support Luna's…unique approach to winning Ron's heart, even if it involved Nargles. After all, they were all in this together, navigating the complex landscape of life after the war, finding love, and rebuilding their world, one brick, and one spell.

Hermione and Luna both ate their food in silence after their heavy conversation. The only noise flowing between the two of them were the crunches of their food. When they were finished they exchanged goodbyes and Hermione went to the apparition point.

When she returned to 12 Grimmauld Place, Hermione instantly rushed up the stairs and towards her room. She needed to think. Luna’s words jumped around in her mind.

She knew what her career was going to be.

She was going into legislation, into the D.R.C.M.C.

She was going to help the “lesser”

Like she had done for Harry for seven years.

The hours wouldn’t be as bad compared to being a healer. It was perfect, she could continue to fight for the very things they fought a war for. The war wouldn’t go to waste, she could actually help wizarding society.

Slowly but surely she was rebuilding her life one day at a time.

Chapter Text

The ghost of the nightmare clung to him like a shroud. He was drenched in sweat, his forehead slick and his hair plastered to his scalp in dark, damp clumps. His bed was even worse, the sheets clinging to his skin with a clammy embrace. The outline of his body was a dark stain on the cotton sheets.

It was always the same nightmare, a relentless playback loop etched onto the inside of his skull. Time after time. He couldn't escape it. The suffocating certainty of it had settled deep in his bones, a grim belief that he probably wouldn't escape it even if he died for good. It would be his own personal hell, replaying his greatest failure for eternity.

With a guttural groan, he rolled over, his face colliding with the cool, dry fabric of a spare pillow. He grabbed it, pulling it over his head and screaming into its muffled depths. The sound was raw, torn from his throat, a desperate plea for a silence that never came. Why couldn't he escape this one? He’d fought basilisks, faced down dragons, and walked willingly to his own death. Yet, this memory, this single, fractured moment, held him more captive than any cell in Azkaban. Why was it always the same one?

He wished it could be obliviated from his mind. A clean, neat cut. It would fix so much. It would quiet the frantic thrumming in his chest that posed as a heartbeat. It would erase the cold, heavy stone of guilt that lived permanently in his stomach. Most of all, he wouldn’t have to see her. He wouldn’t have to see Hermione's body lying on the cold, unforgiving floor of the Ministry, a discarded doll amidst the swirling chaos of light and shadow, utterly and terrifyingly lifeless.

He tossed the pillow aside, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe. He tried focusing on the pattern Elara, his Mind Healer, had taught him. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. But the numbers jumbled in his head, meaningless digits against the roaring tide of his panic. His heart was a wild drum against his ribs. The techniques, so calm and logical in the quiet light of Elara’s office, scattered like dust in the suffocating darkness of his bedroom. He had nightmares almost every night; a grim lottery of his past traumas. Hell, he had this specific nightmare the most.

But it was different this time. It felt… real. The edges were sharper, the cold of the Ministry floor more biting, the silence after she fell more absolute. It felt like Voldemort was in his mind again, a phantom limb of a connection he thought long severed. A sliver of that old, invasive poison seeped into his thoughts, and he hated it. Hated the vulnerability, hated the phantom sensation of another’s will pressing against his own.

The nightmare was a masterpiece of his own self-loathing. The Ministry battle that had cost him Sirius. But his mind, cruelly, rarely lingered on his godfather’s fall through the veil. Instead, it zeroed in on the moment before, on Antonin Dolohov’s curse, a whip of purple flame, and Hermione, brave, brilliant Hermione, taking the hit. He remembered the sickening thud as she hit the ground, the way her limbs went slack. He recalled, in excruciating detail, how he had failed, how his obsession with a manufactured vision had led them all into a trap. How he put her, Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna in a danger they never should have faced. How he had almost lost her because he couldn't control his own mind. Because he hadn't listened.

He pushed himself out of his bed, his bare feet hitting the cool wooden floor. Sleep was a lost cause now. The shower was the only answer, a desperate attempt to wash away the sweat and the lingering chill of the dream. He stumbled into the small bathroom, the tiles cold beneath his feet, and turned the knob. Steam began to billow, fogging the mirror and obscuring his own haunted reflection. He forgot about the Wireless, his brain still recovering from the nightmare was in a roller coaster of emotions.

He quickly disregarded his underwear and stepped in the shower. The water beat down on his head and shoulders. It felt peaceful for a second. Until his thoughts came slithering in like a snake.

Hermione. It always came back to her. She followed him across a country while being hunted by Death Eaters. She faced torture from the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange and didn’t falter once. She took a curse in the stomach from Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries. A curse that could potentially impact her future greatly. All of that happened to her because he couldn’t focus, he let Voldemort get the best of him, and it almost cost Hermione her life. Yet, Hermione went through all of that and didn’t leave his side once, not even for a second.

He couldn’t keep going on like this. He had to confess soon, every second wasted was time for someone else to come scoop her up. Someone better than him, someone who knew what they were doing in life, someone smarter than him, someone who didn’t make her wake up early in the morning to help get his kid up.

He thought of the Tent, the endless, desolate days spent tracking Horcruxes, often in silent, suffocating despair. Hermione had been the anchor, the one who remembered to eat, to move, to hope when he was mired in self-pity and paranoid visions. He remembered the cold, the hunger, the gnawing certainty that they were failing, that he was failing. He saw, as if through a distorted lens, the way she had tended to Ron’s splinched arm, her face a mask of determined concentration even as her own exhaustion was palpable. He recalled the look in her eyes, a mixture of fear, frustration, and unwavering loyalty, when he had, in a fit of rage, shattered Dumbledore’s will. He had been reckless, impulsive, a liability, and she had remained.

Then there was Malfoy Manor. The memory seared through him like a cruciatus curse, fresher and more painful than any other. Bellatrix Lestrange, her manic laughter echoing off damp dungeon walls, the glint of her knife, the screams, Hermione’s screams, that still tore through his sleep. He had been there, helpless, captured, listening to the woman he loved being tortured, and he couldn’t stop it. He, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, had been utterly useless. He’d almost let her die. Not almost, she had almost died, countless times, because of his mission, because of his connection to Voldemort. Every scar on her body, every haunted flicker in her eyes, felt like a direct consequence of his inability to control his own destiny, to shield the people he cared for.

He got out of his thoughts, he needed to do something. He needed fresh air. He cut the hot water off and the effect was immediate, he shivered and quickly fetched his towel. He quickly dried himself off, his skin slowly turned back to its normal color. He went for simplicity when getting dressed. A Blue sweatshirt with grey sweatpants.

The outfit represented what he wanted his life to be after the war, simple.

He walked out of the bathroom and felt flashed when he saw streaks of orange and yellow being painted across the sky. He had definitely stayed in the shower for too long.

It felt like time had stopped when a wail came from Teddy’s room.

He instinctively grabbed his wand and rushed down the dark hall towards Teddy’s room. He barged through the door with a force and instantly casted a silencing charm around the room so he didn’t wake Hermione.
Teddy was lying in Cot, his hair was an angry red as he cried with such a force Harry thought he could go deaf.

Harry rushed over to Teddy’s cot and instantly picked him up, resting him against his chest.

Harry bounced Teddy around in his arms as the boy slowly started to regain control of himself. It was then Harry heard a soft knock coming from the door behind him, he turned around to see Hermione.
Her nightgown was still on, her hair was everywhere but she didn’t look tired one bit.

Harry sighed then looked at Hermione with deep meaning before saying. “Sorry, I tried getting the silencing charm off in time.”

Hermione blatantly ignored what Harry had said and simply said. “You had a nightmare didn’t you?”

Harry had no idea how she had known. Her tone indicated that she was right. It wasn’t a question, it was a fact. Before he could open his mouth to respond she clarified.

“I’ve been reading books on parent bonadge with their young kids. Ever since the adoption you’ve slowly been building a bond with Teddy. He bases his vibes off what you are feeling, he’ll do this for the first couple months of his life.” She looked at Teddy before continuing. “Based on the fact that you look terrible and that he was crying louder than I’ve ever heard him I can assume that you had a nightmare.”

There it was again, the confidence in her voice. This time she allowed Harry to respond.

“Yeah it was a pretty bad one, the worst one yet.” Harry looked down at the floor in embarrassment.

Hermione walked closer to him, he could smell her scent. Her scent would always calm him down. It reminded him of the forbidden forest after a rainstorm.

“Harry, please let me take him, you look terrible.” She said it with such softness and careness s that it made his heart melt.

Harry sat in his thoughts for a moment, completely oblivious to the fact that Hermione was still creeping closer. He slowly gave Teddy over to Hermione, his hair instantly changing into the color of Hermione’s hair.

Harry stayed frozen as Hermione propped Teddy up into her arms. Then, he felt the outlines of lips being pressed against his cheek.

He instantly looked towards Hermione, who had a slight blush forming. She whispered in such a quiet tone. “Thank you Harry, and please try to get some more rest.”

Harry stood rigid again, his thoughts swarming all over the place, it was like his brain was on a roller coaster and it had just gotten over the big hill.

With all of his strength he simply said. “Okay”

Hermione smiled at him and walked out of the room with Teddy.

Harry somehow managed to return to his bedroom, slowly navigating through the dimly lit walls of 12 Grimmauld Place. The air around him felt heavy, laced with a metallic tang of fear. His mind was still racing, Hermione’s soft touch of her lips on his cheek, his nightmare. It was like his brain had split in half and both halves were running in the opposite direction.

He sat on the edge of his bed. The mattress groaned softly under his weight. He needed sleep. Just like Hermione had said.

Hermione.

Her lips.

She had never kissed him like that, even on the cheek. It was different, it felt different.

He shook his head, there was no way in hell he was going to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the distorted images of the dream threatened to resurface. The shower had been a quick escape route, but its defenses wouldn’t hold for that much longer. He felt trapped, like the walls of Grimmauld Place were slowly closing in, slowly suffocating him. It made him feel weak and powerless, sensations he despised more than anything.

The other half of his brain was still thinking about Hermione. How her presence calmed him and Teddy down instantly, how she quickly explained why Teddy was acting the way he was. Her words replayed in his mind, how she was almost begging for him to get sleep. How the simple brush of her lips against his cheeks sent his mind swirling, his body trapped, and his eyes frozen. How could she have that much of an effect on him?

He laid back, staring up at the ceiling, the patterns going all over the place. He tried to focus on one, just to figure out if it meant anything. He felt a yawn escape his mouth and before he knew it he was out.

Hours had passed. He knew they did, by the way the light outside his window fully shined throughout his room. It wasn’t early morning anymore, it was midday.

He blinked, still disoriented. The room was shining, glowing with an aura. He turned around in bed to look at the clock. It was 11:30.

He had lunch with Ron in an hour. Fuck. How could he almost forget? He slowly lifted off from the bed and onto the floor, the boards creaking with every step. He entered the bathroom and looked at himself.

His hair was still crazy but nothing would fix that. He washed some water over his face to get the sleepy look off. He quickly shaved to at least make himself presentable for Ron. He didn’t change his clothes, preferring comfort over style.

The media would be there. Like always, Harry had already expected them to be there no matter where he went. They camped for him 24/7, waiting at every possible location.

The Ministry, Diagon Ally, even outside Hogwarts. He hated all of it. Why in the world would he want to talk about the war? Why did the public think he wanted to be this public hero? He wasn’t Lockhart, the public should know this by now. But they didn’t, they didn’t care, they only cared about getting a story. He wouldn’t speak, not now, not later, not even his kids would speak. No one of his family would speak to those attention seeking people.

He stepped out into the hallway, the scent of fresh coffee and something sweet, wafted from the kitchen. It was a comforting, domestic smell that felt strangely out of place with the lingering unease in his gut. He heard a soft chuckle from the living room, followed by Teddy’s delighted squeal. They were fine. More than fine.

He walked through the lit hallway, the portraits murmuring about his recent nightmare. As he finished walking the final steps he saw them, Hermione bouncing Teddy up and down on her lap. The sight was spectacular. Seeing them here, alive, made him feel instantly better.

He walked over to the couch and sat down next to Hermione.

She smiled at him and asked. “Feeling better?”

Harry grabbed Teddy from her while responding. “Yeah, thanks for keeping him company.”

“Of course Harry, you’re not in this alone. I know from the tent that your nightmares are terrible.” She blushed a little. “You need to properly recover from them.”

Harry just smiled at her. They were silent for a while, just watching Teddy flail his arms around as he tried to reach for strangled pieces of hair.

Harry finally broke the silence by saying. “I have lunch with Ron today. I hope you don’t mind watching over him for a while.”

“Of course I don’t care, I love spending time with this one.” Teddy’s hair went to a bright pink as if he knew what Hermione had said.

“Okay, thank you so much Hermione.” Harry said, and he was genuinely thankful, he didn’t know where he would be without her.

He gave Hermione a side hug, taking in her scent before whispering into her curls. “Ask Kreacher to make something for lunch, I want to come back with the house still intact.”

“Harry James! Are you implying that my cooking is terrible! I’ll let you know that I am perfectly capable of not burning the house down!”

Teddy looked confused between the two before laughing again.

Harry laughed the hardest he had in the last couple of weeks, after calming himself down he looked at Hermione who was still glaring at him. “No, I would just appreciate it if Kreacher did the cooking, just so there are no risks.” Harry still had a giant smile plastered across his face.

Harry’s face faltered and got serious again as he spoke next. “Wish me luck against the mob.”

“Remember, just ignore them, any word that comes out of your mouth will be put on the front page of the paper.”

Harry just sighed. “Okay well I’m going out. Patronus if you need anything.”

“Okay, please be safe Harry.”

Harry just smiled at her.

He walked out onto the porch, he closed his eyes and felt the pull in his stomach. He heard them before he opened his eyes. Making his shoulders wide, and standing straight up, Harry walked through the reporters without giving a single one the attention they wanted. Before he even knew it he saw it.

The Leaky Cauldron, a beacon of warped familiarity, loomed into view. Its crooked facade and warm, inviting glow beckoned him inside. The reporters wouldn’t be allowed in here, which made it perfect. The sounds of clinking glasses, hearty laughter, and the murmur of countless conversations washed over him as he pushed through the worn wooden door. The air inside was thick with the scent of ale, fried food, and pipe smoke. It was loud, boisterous, and exactly what he needed.

He scanned the crowded room, every eye was on him, he didn’t care though, his eyes quickly landing on a shock of fiery red hair near the back. Ron. He was already there, nursing a pint, a half-eaten plate of chips in front of him. Ron looked up, his face breaking into a wide grin.

"Harry! There you are, mate! Thought you'd forgotten about me, or got stuck under a particularly grumpy house-elf." He took a long, exaggerated swig of his drink. "Bloody hell, though, you look like you’ve been wrestling a Grindylow blindfolded. Another nightmare?"

Ron's keen observation cut through Harry's carefully constructed facade of normalcy. Harry felt a familiar wave of relief wash over him. With Ron, there was no need for pleasantries or evasions. He knew. He always knew. Harry slid into the booth opposite him, slumping against the cracked leather seat.

"Yeah," Harry admitted, pulling a face. "The worst one yet." He paused, considering. "And it wasn't even about Voldemort this time." He looked at Ron, and for a fleeting moment, he saw not just his best friend, but a confidant, a steady anchor in the swirling currents of his life. He knew he'd tell Ron everything. The nightmare, Teddy’s mirroring magic, and even, eventually, the kiss. But first, he needed a pint.

"Get us a Butterbeer, will you?" Harry said, leaning back. "And maybe something to eat. I think I've forgotten to do that all day."

Ron chuckled, waving over Tom the barkeeper. "You look like you need something stronger than Butterbeer, mate. You sure you're up for this?" His eyes, though lighthearted, held a genuine concern that Harry deeply appreciated.

"I'll manage," Harry replied, a small, tired smile touching his lips. "I always do." He took a deep breath, ready to try and articulate the strange, unsettling tangle of emotions that had been churning inside him all morning. He started with the basics, the overwhelming nature of the nightmare, the sheer visceral terror of it. "It was... different. Not the usual stuff. Just a sense of wrongness, of being trapped, helpless." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Teddy… he picked up on it. Cried louder than I've ever heard him."

Ron's expression softened, his usual boisterousness momentarily subdued. "Poor little fella. It's a lot for him to take in, isn't it? All those new emotions, especially from someone like you, mate, who's got more baggage than a trunk full of Blast-Ended Skrewts." He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "And Hermione? Is she alright? She sounds like she’s got her hands full with you two."

Harry chuckled weakly. "She was... amazing, actually. She took Teddy, got him settled. Said I looked terrible." He paused, staring into the frothy head of the Butterbeer that Tom had just placed in front of him. "And then she... she kissed my cheek." He looked up at Ron, expecting a teasing smirk, a raised eyebrow, but Ron's expression was uncharacteristically thoughtful. "Just a thank you, I think. But... it felt different."

Ron took a long sip of his pint, his eyes fixed on Harry’s face. "Different how?" he prompted, his voice surprisingly gentle. He wasn’t mocking, not even teasing. He was genuinely curious, genuinely listening.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "I don't know, Ron. Just... different. Confusing. Like everything else lately." He felt a knot in his chest loosen just by saying it aloud. "She's been incredible with Teddy, honestly. Like she was born to it. And me... I'm a mess. I feel like I'm failing him half the time, especially with these nightmares." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the exhaustion, the fear, the confusion. "It’s supposed to be a bond, right? Parent to child. But I just feel like I’m passing my own messed-up feelings onto him."

Ron set his pint down with a soft thud. "Look, mate, you're not failing anyone. You're trying, and that's more than half the battle. And it's not like you asked for these nightmares. They're just… a part of you, unfortunately. And Teddy's a baby, he's resilient. He'll be fine. And as for Hermione..." Ron leaned forward, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes, though it was tempered with a rare seriousness.
"Are you sure it was just a 'thank you' kiss, Harry? Because I've known Hermione Granger for a long time, and kisses from her, even on the cheek, tend to carry a bit more weight than that." He took another sip, watching Harry intently over the rim of his glass. "What did you want it to be?" He asked, his voice low, probing.

Harry felt his cheeks flush, he used all of his Gryffindor courage and looked at Ron while firmly saying. “I want it to be more.”

Harry quickly looked away again, his cheeks now a flaming red. This conversation could get very awkward. It was no secret to the trio that Ron had jealousy issues. Harry gave Ron credit though, he had matured a great amount in such a small amount of time.

His jealousy was most evident during 4th year. He was still confused on why Ron had thought he put his name in the Goblet. Ron had ditched him for a month and during that time it allowed Harry to bond with Hermione. Younger him at the time missed Ron tremendously. Hermione wasn’t boring but Ron always had always made times easier. However, looking back at it he was so thankful for Hermione. He would’ve been dead without her.

The last instance of Ron’s jealousy had come during the time on the run. It was a very confusing time for Ron and Hermione. Harry could hardly stand to watch them. Ron had made it some sort of unannounced competition to whoever could comfort Hermione the fastest.

It was incredibly tense and awkward being around her with Ron. But, that was an old Ron.

Hermione and Ron’s relationship was very weird after their breakup. They were on speaking terms but it seemed like everytime they were in a room together there was a giant elephant between them.
Harry noticed Ron leaning in close. Harry regathered himself and leaned in too.

“Now Harry I have to tell you something.” Ron said with a whisper that could barely be heard.

Harry didn’t respond, he raised his eyebrows.

“Luna Lovegood has been messing with me and I am sure of it.”

"You're serious?" Harry managed, biting hard on the inside of his cheek to suppress the tremor of laughter that threatened to erupt. He stared at Ron, whose ears were slowly turning a shade of crimson usually reserved for particularly potent Firewhisky.

Ron nodded vigorously, leaning even closer, his voice dropping to an even more conspiratorial whisper, despite the general din. “Serious as a heart attack, Harry. I’m telling you, it’s deliberate. She’s... she’s flaunting.”
Harry spluttered, nearly choking on his Butterbeer. He slammed the tankard down, splattering a bit of foam on the scarred wooden table. “Flaunting? Luna Lovegood? The girl who used to wear radish earrings and believed in Wrackspurts?”

“Exactly!” Ron hissed, his eyes wide with a mixture of exasperation and genuine bewilderment. “That’s what makes it so unnerving! One minute she’s talking about the importance of Nargle-free scaffolding, the next she’s… well, she’s just there.” He gestured vaguely, as if the very air around him was permeated with Luna’s unsettling omnipresence. “Like, yesterday, we were carrying those old Hogwarts tapestries – heavy things, mind you, covered in all sorts of dust and… well, ancient grime – and Luna, she’s just there, in some sort of… I don’t know, tunic? And it keeps riding up! Or she’ll bend over to pick up a dropped nail, and it’s just… there.” Ron’s face was a mask of pure mortification, his gaze darting around as if afraid someone might overhear.

Harry could feel the muscles in his jaw aching from the effort of holding back his laughter. He pictured Luna, ethereal and slightly detached, going about her business of rebuilding Hogwarts, completely oblivious to Ron’s internal turmoil, or perhaps, enjoying it immensely. The thought was equally hilarious and baffling. “And ‘accidental slips’?” Harry prompted, his voice strained, a dangerous tremor beneath it.

“Oh, those are the worst!” Ron groaned, burying his face in his hands for a moment before peeking out through his fingers. “Like, she’ll be climbing a ladder to check the roof, and her foot will ‘slip,’ and she’ll just kind of… flail a bit, and I’m always the closest one, so I have to… you know… steady her.” His voice dropped to a near-inaudible mumble. “And sometimes she’s got these… these quite short robes on, Harry. Shorter than usual for her. And she smiles, Harry, that smile.” He shuddered dramatically.

Harry finally gave in. A loud, uncontrollable bark of laughter erupted from him, echoing slightly in their secluded nook. He slapped his knee, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Ron looked up, his expression a mixture of profound annoyance and deep betrayal.

“It’s not funny, Harry! It’s deeply unsettling!” Ron protested, though his own lips twitched, a tiny, involuntary concession to the absurdity. “I’m trying to focus, alright? We’re rebuilding the greatest magical school in the world, and I keep getting… distracted.”

“Distracted by Luna Lovegood’s… tunic?” Harry managed to gasp out, wiping a tear from his eye. This was glorious. This was exactly what he needed. The weight of the world, the lingering shadows of the war, the endless paperwork from the Ministry, it all receded, replaced by the simple, unadulterated pleasure of teasing his best friend.

“Don’t look at me like that! You haven’t seen it!” Ron insisted, taking a defensive swig of his own Butterbeer. “It’s like she’s trying to… to seduce me, or something! And I don’t know what to do! I mean, it’s Luna! She’s… Luna!” He threw his hands up in despair.

Harry leaned back, a wide grin plastered across his face. “Well, Ron, maybe she fancies you.”

Ron nearly spat out his Butterbeer. “Don’t be ridiculous! Luna? Fancy me? She’s always talking about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and the importance of believing in things no one else does.” He added, his voice dropping, his eyes darting towards the bustling main bar area.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. He knew Ron was genuinely uncomfortable, but he also sensed a deeper layer of confusion, perhaps even a hint of flattered bewilderment. Luna, after all, was as unique as they came, and her attention, even if perceived as unwelcome, was rarely boring. “So, what are you going to do about it, then? Confront her about her revealing tunics?”

Ron looked horrified. “Are you mad? I’d rather face a dragon! No, I just… I need it to stop. I need her to go back to her normal, Nargle-obsessed self, wearing sensible, long robes, and not distracting me while I’m trying to fix a crumbling gargoyle.” He sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy red hair. “It’s like she’s trying to… to break me, Harry. To unravel my very core being.”

Harry considered this. Ron, for all his bluster and occasional dim-wittedness, was a good, straightforward bloke. The idea of Luna, sly and subtle, intentionally messing with him was almost too perfect. He knew Luna was capable of more than met the eye, but this kind of elaborate, teasing game seemed… un-Luna-like, in its directness. Unless, of course, it wasn't a game to her at all. Unless she really was trying to get his attention, and this was her utterly unique way of doing it.

“Maybe,” Harry said slowly, a mischievous glint entering his eyes, “she’s just trying to make you… notice her.”

Ron stared at him, aghast. “I notice her! She’s always there, humming to herself, talking about the auras of the castle stones! How could I not notice her?”

“No, I mean… really notice her,” Harry clarified, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. The very concept seemed to cause Ron’s brain to short-circuit.

“Harry, stop it!” Ron practically pleaded, looking utterly miserable. “This is exactly why I came to you. I thought you’d have some helpful advice, not… not suggest Luna Lovegood has a crush on me!” He shuddered again, more violently this time. “That’s just wrong on so many levels.”

Harry savoured the moment. It was good. This was so good. The Leaky Cauldron continued its cheerful clatter around them, a perfect backdrop for their ridiculous, deeply important, utterly normal conversation. He took another sip of his Butterbeer, feeling the comforting fizz on his tongue. The war was over, Voldemort was gone, and while the healing was slow and unending, there were moments like this. Moments of ordinary, absurd, hilarious friendship.

“Alright, alright,” Harry conceded, though his grin never quite faded. “Tell you what. Tomorrow I'll drop Teddy off at Andromeda’s and Hermione and I will come to Hogwarts to help rebuild. I’ll keep an eye out. I’ll observe Luna’s… movements.” He put extra emphasis on the word, earning him another glare from Ron. “I’ll be your secret sentinel against the rampant… revealing tunics.”

Ron eyed him suspiciously. “You promise you won’t laugh?”

Harry pressed his lips together, fighting a fresh wave of amusement. “I promise nothing, Ron. But I will observe.”

Ron groaned, slumping back in his chair. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Hermione would have at least pretended to take me seriously.”

Harry laughed again, a full, hearty sound that made a few patrons glance over. He didn't care. The sound of his own laughter, free and unburdened, was a melody he hadn't heard nearly enough of in recent years. And it was all thanks to Ron, and the baffling, wonderful mystery of Luna Lovegood’s short tunics. It felt good to be alive, to be normal, to be here, in the Leaky Cauldron, with his best friend, facing a problem as utterly mundane and profoundly bizarre as this. The war had changed them, shaped them, but it hadn’t broken the core of their friendship, the ability to find levity in the strangest places. And for that, Harry was eternally grateful.

Chapter Text

Andromeda was more than willing to take Teddy for a couple of hours. Harry had told her that keeping her a part of Teddy’s life was a priority. Once they dropped the little boy off her and Harry apparated to the edge of Hogwart’s wards.

Coming back to Hogwarts was always a mixed experience for both of them. The smell in the air reminded them of the battle. It would always remind them of the battle. The bitter, dark taste in the air would not go away. At least not for them.

They both avoided certain areas of the grounds. Harry never went near the Forbidden Forest, while Hermione tried avoiding the Great Hall as best as she could. They stuck to places that held better memories. The Quidditch Pitch was the first spot they always went to. Despite its history of injuring Harry it was one of the only places where he truly felt free and calm. And that made Hermione calm.

They hadn’t been here for a while, they had been here daily the first week after the war. Both of them worked day and night to fix the castle up. Eventually they were shooed out by McGonagall, she told them that they needed rest and time to recover. She reminded them that they had been the front and center of the war for seven years and that they could take time off to actually try and live.

Now they were back. It felt different for Hermione. Like one of the many layers of dark, stormy clouds had disappeared. There was a tiny bit more of fresh air to inhale and slowly exhale.

Harry had become a parent, Hermione had moved in with him, and they were the closest together they had ever been.

Hermione had let herself actually rest for the first time in seven years. She wasn’t worrying about proving herself in the brand new magical world. She wasn’t dreading every summer about how Harry was doing, just praying that he was alright. She wasn’t on the run anymore, everyday a gift from Merlin himself. It felt incredibly weird, but it felt amazing.

This time her and Harry were sticking together. Harry had come back from lunch with Ron dying of laughter. He was rambling on about how Ron thought Luna was trying to seduce him and that he couldn’t take it anymore.

Hermione barely held in her own laughter as Harry recalled his conversation with Ron. She obviously knew that what Luna was doing was in fact intentional, but she still agreed to go to Hogwarts to see exactly what she was doing.

It would allow for her and Harry to be on their own while Ron and Luna were on their own.

Hermione brought herself back to the present, they were walking up to the Gryffindor common room when she saw Headmistress Mcgonagall. Hermione also wanted to have a meeting with her. Not as teacher to student, but as friend to friend. She wanted to tell McGonagall about her career decision and potential advice about how to go about it. She wanted to ask about her and Harry finishing their 7th year of Hogwarts on their own. She also wanted to talk to her about potential dating advice.

Her cheeks flushed as she thought about asking her teacher of seven years about how to ask Harry Potter on a date. But, that teacher was one of Hermione’s best and the one she was closest to. It made perfect sense, she was still technically a student but she wouldn’t be attending Hogwarts. She was also a war hero and way more mature than the average Hogwarts student.

“Professor” Hermione shouted as she ran up the steps to catch her.

“Miss. Granger, Mr. Potter!” McGonagall smiled from ear to ear. “What a pleasure to see you two today.”

“Hello professor, we are glad to be back.” Hermione said, responding for both her and Harry. “Where do you need us?”

“The Astronomy Tower still needs work on.” McGonagall replied. “I believe Miss. Lovegood and Mr. Weasley are also up there.” She leaned in towards Hermione before whispering. “Please keep Mr. Weasley on track, he seems to be more distracted lately.”

Harry audibly snorted while Hermione barely contained her laughter, she recovered and whispered back. “Will do professor.”

Harry and Hermione both turned around to start heading towards the Astronomy tower until they heard McGonagall’s voice again.

“Potter. I believe congratulations are in order! I believe you will do a wonderful job raising your new son.”

Hermione heard Harry's breath hitch and she instinctively grabbed his hand.

“Thank you professor.”

McGonagall gave them one last smile before shooing them away with her hand.

Hermione felt the pride coming from Harry as they walked towards the Astronomy Tower. She knew how much he loved raising Teddy. It was the only thing that mattered to him. Making sure Teddy lived the life he fought for.

They were silent for a while until Harry broke the silence. “I believe that Ronald is correct. It seems there has been things distracting him lately.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, but instead of a laugh it was a giant snort. She instantly pressed her hand to her mouth as Harry started dying of laughter.

“Hermione Granger, did you just snort!” Harry exclaimed out loud.

Hermione took her hand from her mouth and smacked him on the arm.

They both were dying of laughter now.

Hermione placed her hand on Harry’s bicep to steady herself. She felt a rush of heat go through her entire body as she squeezed it. Harry didn’t seem to notice though.

It was a shock to her that Harry wasn’t the same scrawny, little boy she had first met on the train. He had matured and filled out his body.

She had done the same, she didn’t feel like the same know it all bookworm who constantly protected people. She had grown into her body as well. It just felt more surreal with Harry. Harry who had constantly been fighting for his life since his first year. Harry who had faced constant defamation from his peers, teachers, and even the government. How Harry got through it all was a shock to her. She would never understand how one could go through all of that and put on a smile everyday.

The remainder of the walk felt easier, Harry and her were walking hand in hand. They would make subtle comments about memories in certain rooms and corridors. Hermione got a pang of nostalgia through her every time she remembered a good memory in the castle.

She also got a pang of pain every time she remembered a bad memory. They mostly led her back to her first years at the castle. Back to a time where she was in constant competition with everyone. She didn’t want to be the odd muggleborn. She wanted to be the best. This unfortunately led to her being constantly bullied. It hit her like a truck. She was used to bullies, but these bullies were just cruel. Fortunately being bullied had led her to becoming best friends with the most wonderful people in her life.

Harry and Ron.

Especially Harry.

He was the blundering idiot who rushed into a women’s loo in order to save a girl he barely knew from a troll. The two of them seemed to click instantly after that. Maybe it was because they both came from similar backgrounds when it came to bullies. Maybe it was because she would have never let Harry go after he saved her life.

She would never truly know.

Harry had accidentally taught her that it was okay to stand up to some rules. She didn’t have to constantly be a rule follower.

Before she knew it her and Harry were at the Astronomy Tower and she could already see Luna and Ron.

The air in the Astronomy Tower was thin and sharp, carrying the ghosts of battles fought and the scent of pulverized stone. Dust motes danced in the milky shafts of late afternoon light, illuminating the scars of war etched into every surface. Chunks of masonry lay scattered, the railings twisted like tortured vines, and the grand telescope, once an elegant sentinel to the cosmos, lay in fractured pieces, its brass gleaming mournfully amidst the rubble. It was a place of trauma, undeniably, but Hermione felt a different kind of energy here now, a quiet hum of purpose, of repair, of stubborn, defiant hope.

Luna was perched on a pile of broken bricks, humming an ethereal tune, while Ron, looking grimy but determined, was charming a particularly stubborn pile of shattered glass into a neat, shimmering heap.

Even from a distance, the peculiar synergy between them was palpable. Hermione watched Luna wave a hand, and a collection of bent metal rods straightened themselves with a series of soft pings, before floating gently into a new, orderly stack. Ron laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound, and Luna smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. There was an ease, a lightness to their interaction, that made Hermione’s chest ache with a bittersweet feeling.

Harry nudged her gently. “For how much Ron talked about how he found it disturbing. He sure looks glad to be there.” he murmured, his voice low, but a flicker of amusement danced in his emerald eyes. As they drew closer, Luna spotted them. “Harry! Hermione! We were just discussing the optimal method for re-calibrating the celestial observation lens. Ron believes a simple Reparo will suffice, but I contend that a more delicate approach, perhaps involving a bit of Flobberworm mucus, would yield superior results.”

Ron groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bloody hell, Luna, we’re trying to rebuild a tower, not brew a potion! Just point your wand and fix it.” But even as he complained, a fond exasperation softened his tone. He didn't dismiss her; he merely rolled his eyes with affection.

Meanwhile, Hermione and Harry were a picture of perfectly compiled efficiency. Without a word, Harry conjured a sturdy scaffolding, and Hermione, with a flick of her wand, began levitating the larger pieces of stone into place. They moved with an almost telepathic understanding, anticipating each other’s needs, their actions flowing seamlessly together. There was no need for conversation, no wasted gestures. Their bond was deep, forged in the crucible of shared adversity, a quiet, unshakeable foundation built on loyalty, trust, and a comfort that transcended the need for grand declarations. They were two halves of a perfectly balanced whole, orbiting each other with the practiced grace of old friends.

As Luna, with a flourish, managed to levitate a particularly heavy, twisted section of railing using a method Ron declared seemed to involve more belief than actual magic, Ron found himself stumbling back slightly. Luna, quick as a Snidget, steadied him with a hand on his arm, her touch lingering just a moment too long. Ron’s ears, Hermione observed with a private smile, took on a distinct reddish tinge.

Harry caught Hermione’s eye. A shared, knowing smirk bloomed on both their faces. This was it. Ron claimed to Harry that she was utterly full of herself. But it was simple for Hermione to read. Ron, for all his bluster and occasional cluelessness, was finally, undeniably, falling under the charmingly eccentric spell of Luna Lovegood. It was so obviously right.

Ron, as if sensing their silent judgment, turned his head, catching their smirks. His expression hardened into an exaggerated "I told you so" face, a silent accusation that said, You thought this would never happen, didn't you? You thought I was doomed to be confused by her forever. But beneath the feigned indignation, Hermione saw a flicker of triumph, and something else, a deep, unexpected contentment.

“Right then, you two,” Ron barked, feigning gruffness. “Stop staring and make yourselves useful. Or are you just here for the entertainment?”

Harry chuckled, waving his wand. “Just deciding which one of your methods would be the most optimal.” A large, cracked stone lintel began to mend itself, hairline fractures sealing with a soft glow. Hermione stepped forward, examining the damage with a critical eye. “The structural integrity here is compromised. We’ll need more than just Reparo for the load-bearing supports. A reinforcing charm, perhaps a Reparifors coupled with a self-stabilizing enchantment, would be more prudent.” Her mind, as always, leaped to the most complex and thorough solution.

Luna, surprisingly, nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed, Hermione. The residual magical echoes of the Final Battle are still quite potent in the foundational stones. They’re rather like angry Boggarts, clinging to the despair of that night.”

Ron groaned again. “Residual magical echoes? Boggarts? Can we just fix the bloody tower, please?” He shot an exasperated glance at Hermione, then back at Luna, who was now examining a chip in a stone archway with intense concentration. But the exasperation was laced with an undeniable undercurrent of affection.

Ron and Luna, were a whirlwind of fascinating chaos. Ron would complain about Luna’s unconventional suggestions, only to grudgingly admit they sometimes worked. Luna, in turn, would tease him gently, her words laced with an innocent wisdom that often left him momentarily speechless. She’d hum Snitch-like tunes while levitating heavy beams, or declare that a particularly stubborn scorch mark was due to a lingering 'wrackspurt infestation' before effortlessly banishing it. Ron, initially resistant, found himself laughing more and more, his shoulders relaxing, the tension of the past months slowly easing from his frame. Hermione saw him offer Luna his last Sugar Quill, not just politely, but with a genuine desire to see her pleased. It was a subtle gesture, but deeply telling.

As the golden hour approached, casting long, dramatic shadows across the damaged stonework, they paused. The western wall, once a gaping maw, now stood largely repaired, patched with stones that glowed faintly, infused with the silent magic of their efforts. A sense of weary satisfaction settled over them.

“Right,” Ron said, wiping a dusty hand across his brow. “That’s enough for today, I reckon. My back’s protesting like a House-elf on strike.”

Luna giggled. “Perhaps your spine requires a visit from a Gulping Plimpy?”

Ron just grunted, but a small smile played on his lips. Harry and Hermione exchanged another look, this one less of amusement and more of quiet contentment.

They gathered their things, the silence among them now one of comfortable exhaustion. As they walked towards the spiral staircase, Luna lagged slightly behind, then turned to face Ron. “You know, Ron,” she said, her voice softer than usual, “you’re really quite good at this building work. You have a very… grounded approach to magic, which is rather charming.”

Ron, caught off guard, visibly swallowed. His ears, once again, were a fiery beacon. “Cheers, Luna,” he mumbled, shuffling his feet.

As they descended the stairs, Hermione walked beside Harry, their arms brushing occasionally. She felt a profound sense of peace settle over her. She watched Ron and Luna’s retreating figures ahead, their shoulders almost touching. The thought, He’s happy, resonated deeply within her, bringing with it a surprising lightness.

The future had been an amorphous blob of fear and uncertainty for so long, a gaping void after the war. But seeing Ron find such a peculiar, yet perfect, connection, and feeling the quiet, unwavering strength of her own bond with Harry, she realised that happiness wasn’t always a grand, dramatic affair. Sometimes, it was a mended wall, a shared glance, a friendship weathered by fire, and the sight of two perfectly mismatched people, finding their own way, together.

The Astronomy Tower, once a symbol of terrible loss, was slowly becoming a testament to enduring hope. And as they walked out into the cool evening air, leaving the mended stones behind, Hermione knew that while the scars of the past would always remain, new foundations were being laid, not just in stone, but in the quiet, unexpected architecture of their lives and loves. The stars, now visible through the partially mended roof, shone down, silent witnesses to a world slowly, beautifully, beginning to heal.

As they stepped out of the Astronomy Tower, the cool evening air, crisp with the scent of damp earth and spring blossoms, wrapped around them. Ron and Luna had already bounded ahead, their laughter echoing faintly as they descended the wide, spiral staircase, Ron pretending to trip and Luna steadying him with an almost ethereal grace. Hermione watched them, a soft smile touching her lips. The sight of Ron, so evidently content, sparked a quiet joy within her. It was a joy unburdened by past expectations, by the tangled threads of what she thought their lives, their relationships, should be.

Harry walked beside her, his arm still occasionally brushing hers, a comforting presence she barely registered as separate from herself anymore. He seemed to sense her shift in mood, the quiet settling of her spirit.

“They’re good, aren’t they?” he murmured, his voice low, as Ron’s booming laugh drifted up from below.

Hermione nodded, her gaze fixed on the fading light outside the tower windows. “They really are,” she agreed, a genuine warmth spreading through her chest. It was a genuine warmth, born of true affection for her friends, and an honest reckoning with her own heart. The future had been an amorphous blob of fear and uncertainty for so long, a gaping void after the war. But seeing Ron find such a peculiar, yet perfect, connection, and feeling the quiet, unwavering strength of her own bond with Harry, she realised that happiness wasn’t always a grand, dramatic affair. Sometimes, it was a mended wall, a shared glance, a friendship weathered by fire, and the sight of two perfectly mismatched people, finding their own way, together.

“You know,” Harry whispered, a smile playing on his lips, “he really did tell us so, didn’t he? About Luna, I mean.” His tone was light, but his eyes held a deeper understanding.

“He did,” Hermione agreed, a genuine warmth spreading through her chest. “And sometimes, Ron’s instincts are just… annoyingly accurate.” She thought of how many times she’d dismissed Ron’s gut feelings, only to find herself proven wrong. There was a simple, profound truth in his “I told you” face. He had seen something, long before she or Harry had truly grasped it, about Luna’s unique capacity for connection, and Ron’s own surprising susceptibility to it.

By the time they reached the ground floor, Ron and Luna had disappeared, likely headed towards the kitchens. Hermione paused, turning to Harry. “I’ve got a meeting with Headmistress McGonagall,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “About… the seventh year.”

Harry nodded, his expression understanding. “Right. Well, I’ll probably head up to the common room then. Tell me how it goes?”

“I will,” she promised, a small, knowing smile exchanged between them. It was more than just a meeting about their seventh year. It was about their seventh year, a plan they’d quietly concocted, one that felt like a quiet rebellion against the weight of expectations. With a final, hesitant glance that somehow conveyed more than words, Hermione turned and headed towards the Headmistress’s office, her footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors.

The walk to McGonagall’s office was a mental preparation. Hermione straightened her robes, ran a hand over her slightly frizzy hair, and took several deep, calming breaths. The familiar gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s office seemed to eye her with a knowing, ancient amusement. “Lemon drops,” she stated, and it swung aside, revealing the spiral staircase.

Minerva McGonagall’s office was much as Hermione remembered Dumbledore’s area, filled with whirring silver instruments, and lined with books that seemed to hum with knowledge. McGonagall herself was seated behind her large, crescent-shaped desk, spectacles perched on her nose, poring over a stack of parchments. She looked up as Hermione entered, a faint smile softening her usually stern features.

“Ah, Miss Granger. Do come in. I was just reviewing the updated seventh-year curriculum proposals. I assume you’re here to discuss yours and Mr. Potter’s… rather unique request?”

Hermione took a seat opposite the desk, feeling a familiar surge of respect for her Headmistress. “Yes, Headmistress. Harry and I have been discussing it at length. We feel strongly that a traditional seventh year at Hogwarts, while invaluable, might not be the most beneficial path for us, given… everything.”

“Indeed,” McGonagall replied, her gaze sharp yet understanding. She removed her spectacles, placing them carefully on a stack of neatly organised parchments. “Given the… unique circumstances of your schooling, particularly the last few years, I can entirely appreciate your desire for a different approach. The traditional seventh-year curriculum, while robust, is perhaps not tailored to those who have, quite frankly, saved our world before their eighteenth birthdays.” A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the air, as if the very walls of the office resonated with the unspoken weight of their shared history.

Hermione felt a wave of relief. She had expected a battle, a logical dissection of the merits of a formal education versus self-study, but McGonagall seemed to grasp the nuance instinctively. “Exactly, Headmistress. It’s not that we undervalue Hogwarts – far from it. It’s just that our needs have become… more specific. We’ve discussed our career aspirations at length, and we believe focused, independent study would better equip us.”

McGonagall nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on Hermione. “And these aspirations? They are crucial for me to provide you with the appropriate resources. The library is extensive, but I can arrange for specific texts, perhaps even access to Restricted Section materials, should your paths demand it.”

Hermione straightened in her seat, feeling a renewed surge of purpose. “My intention is to join the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Headmistress. After the war, and seeing how many wonderful, misunderstood creatures were exploited or harmed, I feel a strong pull towards ensuring their safety and understanding within the magical community. It’s a field that requires extensive knowledge of magical law, biology, and even inter-species communication.” She paused, a small smile playing on her lips. “And I suspect a great deal of patience, which I like to think I possess.”

A rare, genuine smile touched McGonagall’s lips. “A most commendable ambition, Miss Granger. Your talents for research and your unwavering sense of justice would be invaluable there. The D.R.C.M.C could certainly benefit from a mind such as yours. And Mr. Potter?” Her brow furrowed slightly, a hint of curiosity in her gaze. “I had imagined he would follow the Auror path, a natural progression perhaps, given his… unique skillset.”

Hermione nodded, anticipating the question. “He considered it, Headmistress, at length. But Harry has decided he wants to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

McGonagall blinked, and for a fleeting moment, her usually impassive face registered genuine surprise. “Defense Against the Dark Arts?” she repeated, the words slow and deliberate. “That is… unexpected. Not that he lacks practical experience, by any means. Quite the contrary. One might argue he possesses more hands-on knowledge than any living wizard. But to teach?” A thoughtful silence filled the room, broken only by the gentle whirring of a silver orb on a nearby stand.

Then, McGonagall’s expression softened, a deep understanding replacing the surprise. “I see,” she murmured, more to herself than to Hermione. “Yes. I suppose it makes a great deal of sense. He has a unique perspective on the subject, born not from textbooks but from lived, often brutal, experience. And the students,” she added, her voice gaining a quiet conviction, “they would surely benefit from such a teacher. A wizard who truly understands the nature of darkness, and how to fight it, who knows the weight of what they learn.” She met Hermione’s gaze. “It is a critical position, Miss Granger, one that has been… volatile, to say the least, in recent decades. A stable, knowledgeable presence like Mr. Potter’s would be a great boon to the school, should he choose to pursue it properly.”

“He’s very serious about it,” Hermione confirmed, feeling a swell of pride for Harry’s unconventional but principled choice. “He wants to ensure no other generation suffers the way ours did, from poorly taught Defense.”

“Commendable,” McGonagall said again, a faint note of approval in her voice. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Very well, Miss Granger. I will arrange for a comprehensive curriculum for both you and Mr. Potter, tailored to your chosen fields. You will have access to the library via Floo Network, and I will assign a professor to act as a point of contact for any questions or additional resources you may require. Assignments will be sent to you weekly, and final examinations will be administered here at the end of the year, should you choose to sit them. I trust you both implicitly to apply yourselves diligently.”

“Thank you, Headmistress,” Hermione breathed, the words heavy with gratitude. “You have no idea how much this means to us.”

“I believe I do,” McGonagall said, a hint of something more personal in her tone. She leaned back again, her gaze unwavering, and Hermione felt a familiar prickle of apprehension. This was the moment, she knew, when the conversation would shift from academic to something far more daunting. “Now,” McGonagall began, a subtle change coming over her features, the sternness softening into something almost… maternal, yet still retaining her characteristic composure. “If my understanding is correct, you also wished to discuss a matter of a more… personal nature?”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed crimson. She fidgeted with the hem of her robes, suddenly finding the intricate stitching fascinating. “Yes, Headmistress,” she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s about… Harry.”

McGonagall simply waited, a patient, knowing look on her face. The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of the silver instruments.

“I… I want to ask him out,” Hermione finally managed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Properly. On a date. But I don’t… Well, I don’t know how. We’ve always been… Harry and Ron and Hermione. The Golden Trio. And lately it’s been just Harry and me. It feels… incredibly strange. And scary. What if it ruins everything?” Her voice was laced with a vulnerability she rarely displayed. The war had taught her courage in the face of death, but this, this was a different kind of fear.

McGonagall’s expression did not change, but a faint, almost imperceptible warmth entered her eyes. “Miss Granger,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “you have faced down Dark Lords, traversed time, and endured trials that would break most adult wizards. Asking a boy to dinner, while it may feel equally monumental, is hardly a task beyond your capabilities.”

Hermione managed a weak smile. “It feels harder, sometimes.”

“Indeed,” McGonagall acknowledged, a wry twist to her lips. “The heart can be a more perplexing battlefield than any cursed dungeon. My advice, Miss Granger, is this: Be direct. Honesty, as I have always taught, is often the most potent magic. You have a bond with Mr. Potter that transcends friendship, a connection forged in the most intense of fires. Do not ignore it, nor make light of it. Acknowledge what you feel, and ask for what you desire. Do not overthink the ‘how.’ Choose a quiet, pleasant place away from the usual bustle. And remember that true affection is built on mutual respect and understanding, not grand gestures or intricate plans.”

She paused, her gaze piercing. “And most importantly, Miss Granger, allow for the possibility of a different kind of happiness. The war has taken much, but it has also forged new paths. Do not let the past dictate the future of your personal life. You are both young, and have so much left to experience, and to build. Friendship is a magnificent foundation, but it is not necessarily the only structure a relationship can be.”

Hermione listened, captivated. McGonagall’s words, so unlike the academic advice she usually dispensed, resonated deeply. It was practical, yes, but also profoundly wise, laced with a subtle empathy Hermione hadn’t expected. “Thank you, Headmistress,” she said, truly meaning it. “That… that helps, a great deal.”

She stood, feeling a little lighter, a little bolder. The office, with its whirring instruments and silent, humming books, now felt less like a place of official duty and more like a sanctuary where even the most daunting personal dilemmas could find a sympathetic ear.

“I should go,” Hermione said, moving towards the door. “I have a great deal to discuss with Harry.”

“Indeed,” McGonagall replied, picking up her spectacles once more. She watched Hermione cross the room, her gaze thoughtful.

Just as Hermione reached the threshold, her hand on the cold brass doorknob, McGonagall’s voice, softer than she had ever heard it, drifted across the room.

“Miss Granger,” the Headmistress called out. Hermione turned, a question in her eyes. McGonagall looked up from her parchments, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips. “I must confess,” she said, her voice a quiet, warm murmur. “After all these years, I always rather thought it would be Harry.”