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Harry Potter disappeared without a trace.
Well.
That’s not exactly true.
Harry Potter disappeared and no one knew quite where or why.
On 5 May, 1998, three days after the battle, everyone Harry knew was either dead or in stable condition.
On 6 May, 1998, Molly Weasley woke up to a crack of Apparition.
Harry had gone already, but left an envelope in her hand.
With an awful feeling of dread, Molly stood from the chair beside the floo to move to where dawn’s light was creeping in at the window.
Shaking fingers tore open the envelope, and Harry’s familiar handwriting brought fresh tears to her eyes.
Molly,
I’m so very sorry to do it like this, but I can’t bear any other way.
I’m going. I’m not sure if when I’ll be back, maybe not for a long time. I have a lot to do.
Part of my mind feels like it’s missing - the part that was connected to Voldemort. I don’t know what - if anything - is meant to fill that space. I feel guilty and angry and upset but mostly I feel empty, and I don’t know what to do about it yet.
It’s time I find my own way. Without Dumbledore, without Sirius and without all of you. I don’t want to leave you behind, but your family needs to heal just as much as me, and it’s not fair to make you fix me before you can fix yourselves.
Yesterday, I met with a solicitor. I bought a muggle house. All the rest of my money is going to fund repairs and help the muggles who were dragged into this. It won’t solve everything, but it makes me feel better to be doing something. I asked her to set aside some for you, to repair your house or pay hospital bills or go on holiday, whatever you want. Please take it.
To Ron and Hermione, you’re the best friends anyone could ever ask for, and I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.
To Ginny, I’ll always love you in some way. Not sure exactly what that is right now, but I don’t think it’s what I felt before.
I hope you can forgive me for leaving. I think it’s best right now.
All my love,
Harry
Molly sobbed, a tear dropping onto the paper with a dull tap.
“Arthur? Ron, Hermione, Ginny!”
No one was happy about it, but Harry hadn’t expected them to be. He didn’t think anyone could be happy right about now.
He left for his new house with nothing but the moleskine pouch around his neck and the few clothes he’d kept from Hermione’s bag.
Wizarding world left behind, Harry found that working with his hands kept his mind at peace. He found the most muggle job he could in a car garage, training with a grouchy old man and his even grouchier wife.
Three times every month, Harry would take his holly wand from the jar which held various biros, pencils, a sole screwdriver and a stray paintbrush, and he would Apparate back into his old life.
Two people had Harry’s best interests in mind from the moment he met them. Two people never tried forcing Harry into what he was supposed to be, but rather what was best for him. Two people who Harry knew didn’t need or want anything from him.
He visited Professor McGonagall for tea and biscuits on every second Saturday.
He visited Aberforth Dumbledore for a hearty meal and a chat about nothing on every third Saturday.
The third trip every month was to Harry’s mind healer, a witch named Anya. She was portly and had big black eyes, a lisping Spanish accent and no tolerance for Harry’s attempts at avoiding her questions.
But this is not a story about what Harry did whilst he was away.
This is a story of what happened when Harry came back.
At nine o’clock on 1 January, 2001, Molly Weasley hears a rap at the front door.
It’s odd, considering her family and both Lovegoods are all still asleep sprawled around the living room.
Still, she shuffles over to answer it, wondering if perhaps Neville or Draco had returned for some reason.
It’s not Neville or Draco.
“Hi Molly.”
Molly screams, throwing her arms around a no longer frail, still long-haired Harry Potter.
“I am furious with you.” She hisses into his ear, holding him tight.
“I know.” Harry laughs. “I know.”
Molly’s scream had woken the rest of the household, who groan in varying levels of irritation.
“Oh shut up , Harry’s back!” Molly shouts over her shoulder.
“Harry?”
“Harry Potter?”
A thundering of footsteps is Harry’s only warning before a crowd of red haired Weasleys and blond Lovegoods descend upon him.
There’s a fair amount of berating, loads of hugs and enough tears to water the garden.
Harry grins and wipes at his own cheeks.
“Alright, all, thanks for the warm reception.” He says brightly, squeezing his way through the throng and into the house. “I’ll answer your questions now so long as you ask one at a time.”
They don’t, and Harry laughs as their voices overlap.
Merlin, three years.
“Harry!” Hermione hisses, head poking out from behind Ron’s door.
Harry raises his eyebrows and pauses outside, but Hermione drags him in, where Ron sits on the bed.
“Have you been lying in wait for me this whole time?” Harry asks in a quiet voice, knowing anything louder will bring Molly upon him once more.
“Naturally, what did you expect?” Hermione asks, rolling her eyes.
“Is this who you are, now? All jokes? Ignoring everything you put us through?” Ron asks from the bed.
“No. No, of course not.” Harry says, smile falling. He sits beside Ron, knee bent so he’s facing Ron’s profile. “I know what I did was…”
“In your own best interest?” Hermione offers, tilting her head. Ron snorts.
“I get why you did it. I’m not mad you did it.” Ron says, finally looking up at Harry. “It’s how you did it. One sentence, mate. One sentence after everything we’d been through together.”
“I knew you wouldn’t let me go off alone.” Harry says carefully. “And I needed to.”
“Maybe not, Harry,” Hermione cuts in. “Maybe we would’ve argued, but really, don’t you think we deserved our own letters? A bit of explanation, maybe? You didn’t trust us with even that.”
“I did! I do!” Harry cries, pushing his hair back. “I tried writing you each a letter. I tried for hours, but I couldn’t get through it. And I’m sorry, you deserved so much more than bleeding letters , but I just… I couldn’t. I’m sorry, I hope you can forgive me.”
Ron frowns at the floor for another moment, then stands up, facing Harry.
“Yeah, I can. I don’t think I’d have been able to do it either. Come on, give me a proper hug.”
Harry smiles at his best friend, so much taller, so much older now, and accepts the embrace.
Ron claps Harry on the back.
“‘Mione?”
Hermione fidgets with her hands.
“I’ll forgive you. But don’t you dare do something like that again, you hear me?”
But she hugs Harry just as tight.