Chapter Text
Chapter One: Life Goes On
Potter Residence, Grimmauld Place
Thursday, June 19th, 2014
Harry Potter watched his children with a mix of tenderness and quiet fascination as they roamed the expansive backyard of their home. Spring had fully transitioned into summer, and the golden light seemed to lift their spirits. James and Albus, their dark hair gleaming under the sun, darted around in a roly-poly scavenger hunt, overturning stones and scouring the base of flower beds. Meanwhile, Lily, his youngest, was content under the shade of the flowering jacaranda tree, surrounded by its purple blossoms, engrossed in her mud pie "factory." Unlike her brothers, whose skin had deepened to a healthy tan, Lily's fair complexion had turned a coral hue, a trademark of her redhead heritage. Her emerald-green eyes—so much like her father's—sparkled with mischief as her wild curls framed her freckled cheeks.
Watching them play warmed Harry's heart. After the storm of grief, anger, and frustration that had enveloped their lives over the past year, moments like this felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Ginny's absence still lingered heavily in the house, especially for Harry and his older boys, but Lily had adapted with the unburdened resilience of a five-year-old. She remembered her mother, of course—Harry made sure of it with photographs and stories—but her world was filled with too much play and laughter to dwell on sadness. She was their family's little ray of sunshine, and her joy had become a balm for all of them.
Harry hated to break their reverie, but the clock was ticking, and the Burrow awaited. Ron had an announcement to make, and Harry suspected what it might be. He stepped to the threshold of the French doors, calling out to his children.
“James, Albie! Time’s up—time to get ready!”
The boys groaned in unison but complied, dragging their feet as they trudged inside.
“Lily Luna, you too, darling!”
Lily beamed at him, her gap-toothed smile radiant, and bounded over with a "gift"—a dripping mud pie. Harry braced himself as he scooped her into his arms, mud and all, carrying her upstairs toward the bathroom. Cleaning Lily's curls was always a challenge, but Harry cherished these simple, hands-on parenting moments. Unlike Ginny, who favored spells for efficiency, Harry reveled in the tactile, mundane rituals of fatherhood. Bathing, shoelace tying, even cooking—it grounded him, a kind of magic all its own.
As he passed James and Albus’s bathroom, the muffled sounds of bickering spilled into the hallway.
“Knock it off, you two!” Harry called, chuckling to himself. The house was finally regaining a sense of normalcy—or rather, a new kind of normal. It was comforting and daunting all at once. Life, he realized, went on.
The Potters arrived at the Burrow only slightly late—a small victory. The side-along Apparition had left them dizzy but intact, and Harry felt a flicker of pride at how clean and presentable his children looked. As they entered, James and Albus bolted toward the living room, where their cousin Rose was perched on the couch, engrossed in a book.
Rose’s resemblance to her mother was uncanny. Her rust-colored curls, a rich blend of Hermione’s honey tones and Ron’s Weasley-red, framed her face, and her large brown eyes radiated intelligence. She greeted her cousins with a wide grin, abandoning her book as they beckoned her outside.
“Uncle Harry!” she cried, throwing her arms around him.
Harry lifted her in a bear hug, her scent of gardenias and sun-kissed pages stirring fond memories. Rose had been like a first daughter to him, a bright presence long before Lily was born.
“I missed you, Uncle Harry. You promised to visit us in Tenby, but you never came,” she said, her tone tinged with disappointment.
Harry sighed, guilt gnawing at him. He had promised Rose, Hugo, and Hermione a visit to their seaside home, but grief had kept him rooted.
“I’m sorry, Rosie. Things have been... busy. But I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he said, brushing a curl from her face.
Satisfied, Rose skipped off to join her cousins, leaving Harry alone with Molly Weasley.
Dinner at the Burrow was as lively as ever, with Molly presiding over the bustling kitchen like a conductor. Halfway through the meal, Ron stood, taking Luna’s hand.
“Listen up, Weasleys, we’ve got an announcement,” he began, grinning at his mother, who already looked ready to interrupt.
“Ronald and I are expecting a baby!” Luna said, her dreamy voice carrying the joyful news.
The room erupted in cheers, Molly squealing in delight as she enveloped them in hugs. The announcement brought a rare spark of unfiltered happiness to the family, and Harry couldn’t help but feel his own heart lift.
But not everyone shared the jubilation. Across the table, Harry noticed Rose’s expression falter. Her brown eyes glistened with unshed tears, her lips pressed tightly together.
Of course, Harry realised with a pang. She thinks she’s being replaced.
Rose loved her father dearly, and even though she adored Luna, there was always a part of her that worried about where she fit in his life now. Harry watched as she exhaled heavily, her small shoulders stiffening, before she discreetly wiped her eyes and plastered on a smile.
Rose, Harry thought, was far too much like her mother.
That night, Harry couldn’t sleep. The empty space beside him was a stark reminder of all he had lost, and the silence of the house felt oppressive. Giving up, he padded down to the kitchen, intent on fetching a sleeping draught.
As Harry flicked on the kitchen light, his eyes immediately fell on a white envelope resting on the table. The elegant handwriting on the front was unmistakable, and his breath caught for a moment.
He picked it up gingerly, almost as though it might vanish, and slid the letter out. Inside was a photograph. Hermione stood on a beach, her honey-coloured curls wild in the ocean breeze. She wore sunglasses perched atop her head and a smile that was almost unrecognisable—carefree and unguarded. Beside her, Rose beamed with the same uncontainable joy, and Hugo, holding a bucket of sand, sported a mischievous grin, clearly seconds away from dumping its contents somewhere it didn’t belong.
Harry chuckled, shaking his head, but his amusement faded as he turned the photograph over. Written neatly on the back were Hermione’s words:
“Harry, what are you waiting for? We’re waiting for you. With love always, Hermione.”
He lowered the photo slowly, his fingers brushing over the edges. It had been so long since he’d seen Hermione like this—radiant, lighthearted, utterly at peace. For years, she had carried so much, often more than she should, and he hadn’t noticed how far she’d come until now.
Guilt crept in alongside longing. How had he let so much time slip by without reaching out properly? They had been through everything together—war, loss, triumph—but somewhere along the way, he’d let grief and the chaos of life pull him away from her. Hermione had always been his constant: the voice of reason, the fierce protector, the person who knew him better than anyone.
And yet, she was right. He had been waiting—for what, he wasn’t sure. For life to start again? For Ginny’s absence to hurt a little less? For a moment of clarity?
But life wasn’t going to wait for him to figure it out. Hermione’s words hit him like a jolt of electricity. She was waiting for him. His family—his best friend—was waiting for him.
Harry’s chest tightened as he set the photograph down and unfolded the small letter tucked alongside it.
“Harry, you’ve been through so much, and I know it hasn’t been easy. But you’re stronger than you realise, and so are those beautiful children of yours. Don’t hide away anymore. Come and find us. With love, Hermione.”
In that moment, something shifted. For the first time in months, he felt a flicker of something more than survival—a pull toward hope, toward connection, toward her.
The next morning, Harry awoke with a sense of purpose that had eluded him for over a year. The sunlight streaming through the curtains seemed brighter, the birdsong louder, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt... lighter.
As he sat at the kitchen table, the scent of freshly brewed tea and toast filling the room, he watched his children chatter away, their heads bent over bowls of cereal. The ordinary domesticity of it all struck him as extraordinary, and it spurred him into action. He cleared his throat, setting down his tea with a decisive clink.
“Right, listen up,” he began, his tone carrying an unfamiliar excitement.
James and Albus paused mid-chew, turning their curious eyes toward him, while Lily tilted her head, her curls bouncing.
“We’re packing our bags today,” Harry announced, his voice firm and full of promise. “Tomorrow, we’re hopping on a train to visit Aunt Hermione, Rosie, and Hugo at the beach—for the summer.”
For a moment, there was silence as the words sank in. Then, as though a spell had been lifted, the kitchen exploded with joy.
“Really, Dad? The beach?” Albus shouted, practically bouncing in his seat.
James whooped, already rattling off ideas for sandcastle competitions.
“Can we go swimming? Will Rosie be there? Can we have ice cream every day?” Lily’s emerald eyes shone with delight as she peppered Harry with questions, her hands clasped under her chin.
Harry laughed, holding up his hands. “All of that and more—if you get packing.”
They needed no further encouragement. The children shot out of their seats, their cereal abandoned as they bolted upstairs to start throwing clothes into suitcases. Their laughter and the sound of feet thudding on the stairs filled the house, and for the first time in months, it felt alive again.
Harry leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea as a small smile played on his lips. It had been so long since he’d felt this way—hopeful, like he was moving toward something instead of merely surviving. Hermione’s letter had been a lifeline, pulling him out of the fog of grief and reminding him of what still lay ahead.
There was no going back now, and Harry wouldn’t want to.
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