Archive of Our Own

Harry sits on the edge of his bed, still dressed in his pyjamas and staring off into nothing. 

Grimmauld Place was always a bit too cold this time of year, a prickle of cold sweat running down his spine as his fingers twitch– hands still shaky.

Nightmares were just as much a part of his life now as his wand, an extension of himself that he’d wondered aloud once to Ginny– in the middle of the night, waking up screaming– if he could ever really recognize himself without them. 

Ginny had given him a long, searching look, one that he’d dismissed before she got the chance to press by turning over and saying he’d feel better in the morning.

It’d been some weeks then, just enough time for them to mutually decide to end things– again– as she went off to join the Bats for their upcoming season. 

They’d done the long distance thing and it hadn’t really worked so now they were trying this– together when they were together, separate when they weren’t. Harry didn’t keep up too much with what Ginny was up to when she was in Ireland in that way but he’s sure she knew of his dating life– or lack thereof– when she was gone.

She was kind enough not to say anything, at least that what he tells himself– feeling the beginning of a headache starting to form right across his sinuses. 

There’s a sharp rap on the door, Harry startling as he looks on and sees Kreacher lean in. 

“Breakfast, Master?” He asks, in a question though it sounds more like a statement. Kreacher might have called him such but Harry knew who was really in charge of the house. 

“Not yet,” Harry says, because saying no tends to not go over well. “Thank you.”

Kreacher gives off some kind of displeased grunt, still quietly closing the door before Harry hears the familiar crack of apparition– no doubt to the kitchens of Hogwarts or somewhere else to complain.

While Kreacher wouldn’t ever be one to talk to the Prophet , Harry idly wonders what would happen if some enterprising journalist ever deigned to listen in on what the elves had to say. 

It’s as if he can hear Hermione and her rants in his mind, the thought of it enough to cause him to sigh– closing his eyes and taking off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve some of the pressure there. 

He wasn’t particularly hungry and now, with Ginny gone, there wasn’t really anything pressing to bring him out of bed. He had nowhere to be, no one expecting him. He was, for the first time in his life, completely free.

Darkly, Harry thinks, there was some part of him that felt as if this was a heavier burden than any Horcrux.

“You need a hobby, mate.”

Harry withholds the urge to roll his eyes, Ron sitting back on the sofa and making himself comfortable as he fiddles with the television remote. It was a new purchase for Harry, namely because of how much time that he spent inside Grimmauld Place and how unwilling he was to change that– not anymore , at least. 

For a time, Harry had figured that the attention surrounding him, who he was, what he’d done, would all eventually fade away. It was a naive and foolish thought, but something that carried him nonetheless as he joined up with the Ministry, fell in rank and file with the Aurors. Standing around with his former classmates, learning the theoretical of things he’d been doing out of survival since he was eleven years old had given him the illusion of invisibility. Everyone knew and expected that Harry Potter would become an Auror, so to Harry it made his role in the grand scheme of things that much smaller. He could blend in, with his friends and coworkers, keep his head down and try and focus on doing something meaningful– something good still with his life, now after everything.

Three years of learning, of an apprenticeship that increasingly felt less like a job and more like a play, to get redirected away from field assignments as his peers continue to move forward– only for him to finally confront Shacklebolt and get the truth. 

Harry Potter might have been expected to become an Auror but there was no chance in hell they would ever let him be one– not a useful one, anyway. He’s too valuable , too precious , Kingsley having the grace not to use either of those words but Harry feeling them all the same. 

“There’s still good work to be done,” Kingsley had said kindly, Harry trying– and failing– to take the words for what they are. He can see it now, in a way his seventeen-year old self couldn’t, what that would mean if Harry Potter were to die in the field, under the Ministry’s watch. To survive Voldermort and then to die in something as simple as a smuggling confrontation– as one of his colleagues Pierce had just a few weeks before– wouldn’t do. 

He understood it and yet still, couldn’t do it– Harry firmly, but politely, putting in his resignation just a few days later. 

While Harry’s presence in the press rang like a constant low buzz, it was front page news now– questions and commentary and endless opinion pieces about what he was going to do now with his career, where the Ministry failed or where he failed the Ministry. Harry didn’t read it, but he heard enough of it from Hermione–flustered and angry and tightly coiled tension as she muttered to herself and threw it away. 

Hence, the television– a Muggle thing he hadn’t been exposed to much growing up except for whatever programs Dudley had on when they were small and yet now served as it’s own form of entertainment. 

For as much as Arthur seemed to enjoy Muggle things, Ron had been tacitly disinterested– save for the television and the moving pictures that never responded back. Whether Ron actually cared about it or if it was just a way of showing interest in the same thing that Harry was, he didn’t quite know and wasn’t interested in figuring out. 

Having Ron there was company enough.

“Look, see,” Ron says, pointing to what Harry recognizes now as a soap opera. “They got some kind of… oh.”

Harry bites back a smirk, looking over to Ron as the characters on screen passionately embrace.

“You saying I need a good snog, then?”

“Might do,” Ron grumbles to himself, forcibly tapping the remote. 

“Your sister left the country.”

“Oi, don’t talk about her like that.”

“Like what?”

“Just, you know,” Ron says grumpily, as he usually does at the acknowledgement that Harry and Ginny even looked at each other, much less dated. Ron didn’t tell him what he thought of their dating life and Harry didn’t ask, the extent of any conversation they had revolving around Ron asking if they were “messing about” through gritted teeth. 

“Can’t you just, get out there? I’m sure Romilda’s still carrying a torch for you.”

“Yeah, that’ll work out well,” Harry deadpans, Ron giving him a look. 

“You know what I mean.” 

Harry says nothing, avoiding Ron’s eyes before hearing him sigh– glancing over as Ron turns his attention back to the television.

“It’s not good for you, mate. Sitting up in this old house.”

Harry doesn’t reply and Ron takes that as answer enough, sighing again before settling into the sofa. They did this every few days– Ron coming over during his lunch hour away from George’s shop to sit and not so gently push, only to sit back and keep him company as the two of them watched whatever was on. Ron got better at the remote and Harry got the chance to give Kreacher something to do beyond serving him a cold breakfast– a silent agreement between the two of them not to tell Hermione who was serving their lunches. 

If Ron noticed that Harry only picked at his sandwich or whatever other spread that Kreacher created, he didn’t say– just as Harry didn’t mention to Ron that he didn’t have much of a hobby either besides hanging out with him.

Harry wasn’t really in the mood, these days, for pointing out what other should be doing when he wasn’t much sure of what to do with himself. 

“Alright, Harry?” 

Harry lifts his head up, immediately tense only to relax when he sees who it is– Neville’s bright smile putting him at ease as he nods to him.

“You back in from Bulgaria already?” Harry asks as Neville comes and sits beside him, flicking the rain off him with a subtle wand movement. 

Harry surreptitiously looks around, the Muggle pub that they’re in an intentional choice on his part– the chances of anyone seeing him, much less caring, be that much less likely. It would all be for nothing if anyone were to see that Neville went from dripping water down the floor to completely dry in an instant but as ever– no one noticed or cared.

It affirms to Harry, as he relaxes even further, why this was the better option than the Leaky Cauldron. 

“Yeah, got in last night,” Neville says he grins, sitting more properly now on the pub chair as the bartender comes up. They’ve done this a few times, enough that Neville know what to order without much fuss– yet another concession that the people in his life tend to give Harry as he leans his arms across the counter. “How about you? Been up to anything lately?”

Harry gives him a long, searching look– raising an eyebrow as Neville’s grin twists. 

“Sorry mate, I had to ask.”

“Who was it this time?” Harry bounces back, taking a long sip of his drink as Neville huffs out a laugh.

“Luna, actually,” he replies, Harry setting his drink down and looking over in surprise. 

“You’ve seen her?” 

Neville shakes his head. “Got a letter. She’s still off in Canada, I think. Or maybe the Americas now, I’m not sure.” He shrugs, a fond smile on his face as he continues, “anyway, she wanted to know how you were doing. Asked me specifically to say that she hopes the jillywarts aren’t affecting you too badly this time of year.”

“Ah,” Harry says, not understanding but not needing to. 

Luna had never been one to follow anyone else’s expectations. It’s something he admired about her. 

Neville seems to as well, the smile on his face brightening up his features. “She might come home soon, or well, soon enough.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Yeah.”

The bartender comes back with Neville’s drink, the two of them falling into a comfortable silence. Like Ron, Harry expects the gentle push and the questions of what he plans to do now with the rest of his life– a contrast to the Muggle world in so many ways. Like Harry, Neville had no lack of fortune and every opportunity available to him to fuck off into the world. It wasn’t the thing to do, in the Wizarding World, every family and every Great House always in search of some greater purpose. In school, Neville had constantly looked as if he had something to prove but now, after the War and after Nagini, Neville had come into his own. 

He had thrived as an Auror, a surprising career choice for him to everyone except for Harry– still unsure if or when he should finally share about the prophecy that had defined his life and could’ve defined Neville’s. 

Just as he had so many times before, he decides against it– if only to see the peaceful way Neville carries himself, the confidence that comes from a job well done and from a purpose in life that felt bigger than his own two feet.

Harry didn’t miss it, but sometimes, he wondered if he’d made the right decision at King’s Cross with Dumbledore. 

At least then, his life had a purpose. 

Now, Harry considers as he takes another drink, he’s not so sure. 

He listens to Neville as he launches into a story about a mandrake kerfuffle and gives off the appropriate reactions to hearing that his team has fought off a troll— it’s not that he doesn’t care about what’s happening or even Neville, especially considering all the ways he’s made it easier for Harry to disappear by choosing to come here. 

It’s hearing about the expeditions, the plans, all the different things that Harry had thought he wanted to do were all frustratingly out of reach— Neville being far more perceptive than he ever lets on as he finally nudges Harry with his elbow. 

“Anything I can do?” 

Harry shakes his head, not bothering to play stupid— not with Neville. 

“I’m fine. Really, just,” he blows air out of his mouth, a hand around the empty glass and wondering if it would be a cause for concern if he asked for another. He’s already had two with Neville here, not counting the two and a half he felt before. 

“Looking for something else to do,” Harry says lamely, Neville accepting that easily enough.

“Seems like if anyone’s earned it, it’s you,” he replies, taking a swig of his drink as Harry looks over to him. It’s innocuous, direct and said plainly but coming from Neville it feels less like an expectation and more of a statement of fact.

It reminds Harry of why he likes meeting with Neville, out of all his Hogwarts friends.

Neville didn’t like to play games. 

From what he’s heard from Ginny, after that last year in Hogwarts, he can understand why. 

Harry’s days take on a monotony that sooner, rather than later, he knows he’ll have to account for. 

Kreacher ensures that he’s well fed at least, in the providing if not in the certainty that he consumes it. Harry’s taken to going off into Muggle London for his days, sometimes to wander and other times just to explore. He’d never really had much exposure to the city when he lived on Privet Drive and the majority of his life since then had either been spent running away from Dark Wizards or running to them. The anonymity helps but more it’s a rare comfort to be surrounded by people in a way that he tried and failed to explain to Ron and Hermione a few nights before at dinner. 

“It’s mental,” Ron had said, shaking his head. “You want to be out and around all those crowds?” 

Hermione had bit the inside of her cheek, visibly trying to hold herself back from saying something as Harry had given her a look. 

“What?”

“I just think maybe there’s a reason for it, that’s all,” she had said in a rush, clamping her mouth shut then taking a deep breath– as if to steady herself. 

“Why he’s out there with the Muggles? Yeah, Hermione we got that,” Ron had replied, no doubt referring to the case of Muggles not giving a shit who Harry Potter is– which is what Harry had figured well enough for himself as she’d shaken his head.

“It’s too quiet here,” she’d said, head tilting to the place that was now officially his home. “No one lives here.”

“Yeah, it’s a bloody dream. Really Harry, you’d think you’d appreciate the peace and quiet,” Ron had said into his drink, Hermione giving a pointed look as if the two of them were missing something obvious.

Hermione, as ever, helped lead them there as she had continued, “I don’t think he can .”

“I’m right here.”

“I know, I’m–” she had said, pressing her lips together. “It’s just different now, right? You being alone.”

“We could always move in again,” Ron had suggested, shrugging. “Keep you company.”

“Your mum would have a fit,” Harry had said with a huff, looking over to Hermione who had continued to look annoyed.

“That’s– that’s not what I mean,” she’d replied in a rush, cheeks still flushing pink as she pressed on, finally getting to the point. “You’ve been constantly around people for years, Harry. It’s– it’s different now.”

“Yeah, he can get some peace and quiet,” Ron had countered, Hermione slowly shaking her head as she stared at him in that odd way she did sometimes– like he was a puzzle she was trying to solve. 

“If that’s what he wants,” she’d finally said before redirecting the conversation, letting Ron and Hermione’s bickering take the forefront as Harry had continued eating his food. 

Her words had stuck with him, ringing around in the back of his mind in a way he couldn’t escape– now here in The National Gallery surrounded by tourists and staring at a painting that’s become one of his favorites, a depiction of a bird in a glass tube surrounded by people. 

Why Harry was drawn to An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump is about as unsubtle as his friends’ attempts to make sure that he was alright but Harry wasn’t into subterfuge anymore, just as tired of tricks and game plans as he was with the Ministry’s continued to attempts to bring him back into the fold in whatever way they could. 

He thinks of Hermione’s words again, staring at the bird before he starts to feel as if he himself can’t breathe– eyes tracking as they do to the others in the painting. 

Harry’s never been much for art, until Ginny. Athletic and in a house full of brothers, it had surprised him how much of a creative side that she had– mentioning half-written poems and a few sketches she’d done here and there as a way to keep her hands busy.

“You do remember I kept a diary once, right?” She’d easily joked, even the casual way that she mentioned Tom’s possession of her being something that caused him to find another reason to admire every part of her. Dates in the Wizard world were filled with camera flashes and adoring– or not so adoring– fans so much of their outings when they’d been officially on had been in places like this, browsing around hand in hand and acting as if they were any other Muggle couple out for the day. 

Ginny was a country away but Harry still found himself here– some part to still feel closer to her and pretend that he wasn’t miserably trying to be okay with the fact that she wasn’t, another part enjoying that comfort of the people around him who didn’t give a damn of who he was– when Hermione’s words finally clicked.

It’s too quiet here.

For eleven years of Harry’s life, his life had never been quiet but had been unbearably alone– shunted off to the side and hidden away in quiet rooms, Vernon’s loud outbursts in competition with Petunia’s constant fussing and Dudley’s tantrums. Moving to Hogwarts, sharing a room with his housemates and constantly being around members of his House and others had been an adjustment but one that the younger version of him had clung to– Harry now realizing with an almost embarrassing hindsight of how starved he’d been for that kind of connection, even if he wouldn’t have said as much at the time. 

The War is over, his “purpose” for lack of a better term was done and now, after realizing that his secondary goal of still trying to do some good in the world would forever be thwarted for the case of political expediency– under the guise of personal safety– had brought him right back to where he started; alone, and by himself, seeking connection in whatever way he could.

His eyes fix upon one of the little girls in the picture, looking in horror at the bird stuck in its glass cage, the other presumably hid away by covering her face with her hands. Their father or grandfather seemed to explain what was happening, Harry’s eyes shifting in the usual way from one side to the other. The conversation to the left, the rapt attention from the man on the same side– the scientist looking as if he was just on the brink of saying something. 

It’s oddly comforting and disquieting all at once, to feel so seen by a painting created so many years ago. 

If that’s what he wants , Hermione had said– about the peace and the quiet, about living alone as he does. 

Funny, Harry thinks. 

He’s not sure he’s ever been allowed to have such a thing. 

He’s not sure, really, if he knows how. 

A week passes, the cold flowing into town in a way that sends a chill right down to the soles of his feet. He has ample heat now because of the fires that Kreacher keeps constantly running but the memories of shivering in his cot growing up are memories that now– inexplicably– are rising back to the surface. 

He makes an effort to spend more time with Ron and Hermione, making appearances at the Burrow so he can be properly fussed over by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. He gets a drink with Neville, but never too much, stops in to bother George at the shop and inevitably lead to a mob that reminds him why he doesn’t stop there– spends his days at the National Gallery and others, a routine in his life that still didn’t solve the question of what he was going to do with his life now in any tangible way.

He ignores the owls from the Ministry and avoids more the looks that the Weasley family gives him, concerned glances and not so quiet whispers from the kitchen. 

He’s figuring it out, namely in that he’s giving himself the chance to figure out what it is that he wants to figure out– though how much of that could actually be found on his sofa watching television or wandering about the streets of London was anyone’s guess. 

It’s on one of those walkarounds, a bitter chill in the air that sent a shiver down his spine as he bundles his coat closer together that he hears it– an inexplicable whining that gives him pause. 

Harry looks down the alleyway that he was passing, avoiding the foot traffic around him by a chippy when his eyes land immediately on a small dog– shivering and looking mournfully up at him.

Harry moves without thinking, slowly coming up to the dog– more of a puppy really, from the size of it as he slowly kneels down.

“Hey there, what are you doing out here?” Harry asks softly, reaching out his hand gently to it as it backs away slightly– it’s whines getting even louder as it continues to stare. Harry can see from here that it’s fur is cut short, almost too short, with its ribs protruding in a way that makes his heart clench. Its dirty and shivering so much it can barely keep still, Harry acting on instinct as he comes closer.

“It’s okay, it’s alright, hey, come here,” he says gently, still extending one hand. The dog is shivering so much, looking up at him in complete terror before slowly sniffing at his hand– something shifting in him as it takes a tentative step forward. 

Harry feels as if his world begins to slow, the bustle of the street traffic fading away as the little dog slowly makes its way over to him– still feeling the chill in the air and all the more intent on getting the dog away from all of this as soon as possible. 

As soon as the dog is closer to him, it all but tries to leap into Harry’s arms– Harry pulling it up and bringing it close to his chest, unbuttoning his coat so that he could stuff him closer to his chest. 

The dog instantly burrows into his chest, rubbing its head against him before looking up– Harry looking into its eyes and feeling grounded in a way he hasn’t in weeks, maybe in years.

“Let’s get you warmed up, alright?” He whispers to the dog, feeling it burrow itself even closer.

Harry holds it tight to his chest, looking out over into the street and around– seeing no one even spare them a second glance. 

The dog whines, Harry putting his focus back on it as he holds it tighter.

“I got you,” he says, stepping out of the alleyway and moving with the crowd to make it back to Grimmauld Place. 

“You have a dog.”

Harry glances over at Ron who is still staring at it– or him as Harry’s learned– the dog ravenously eating from a plate that Kreacher had reluctantly made. 

“Where… you sure it’s… you know” Ron begins awkwardly, Harry looking over to him in bewilderment. 

“Sure it’s what?”

“You know,” Ron says, the memory clicking into place for Harry in a way that makes him feel stupid for not considering it before he says, “an actual animal.”

Harry hadn’t, in fact, thought about that at all– getting his wand out carefully and whispering out a few spells. The dog was unphased– either a very powerful, unknown animagus or more simply, just a dog– though the revelation that this was the case not something that made Ron anymore comfortable.

“Not been around dogs much,” he says, eyes still looking at it carefully. “Crookshanks is about all I can handle.”

“I couldn’t just leave him,” Harry explains, though he knows on some level he doesn’t have to– not with Ron at least. “It’s bloody freezing out there.” 

“Right.”

“He was just… sitting there, crying,” Harry says, Ron nodding– eyes still on the dog who has now moved on to the water.

Harry’s never been one to waffle about on his decisions– these last few weeks notwithstanding– hearing the words come out of his mouth with the same kind of certainty he’s had with everything he’s ever done with his life.

“I’m keeping it.”

That finally gets Ron’s attention, looking over to him with widened eyes as he asks, “You’re serious?”

Harry shrugs, feigning a nonchalance that he doesn’t feel– more certain of this than he’s been in anything in the last few years, save for the way that he feels about Ginny.

“Why not?” He says, avoiding the look that Ron is giving him as he fiddles with the ends of his shirt, Harry’s gaze on the dog. “Not like I got anything better to do.”

Ron says nothing, a first when Harry finally looks over to him– seeing an unreadable expression on his face. 

It’s discomforting, considering Ron wore his emotions on his sleeves and hardly ever held back what he really felt– Ron giving off a clicking noise before turning his attention back to the dog in question.

“Right,” he says, just when the dog has finished eating, Harry looking over too to see the way his tail tucks underneath, slowly moving towards the sofa that he’s closest to. They both watch as he begins to crawl beside it before he slips underneath, Harry moving with a hand half-extended out to get him before stopping when he sees the dog move so that he’s facing the two of them– safe, underneath the sofa but staring up at them. 

“What you gonna name it?” Ron asks, Harry staring at the dog who, as if he somehow knows that he’s being talked about, looks at Harry.

The dog’s body begins to shake, concern flooding through him before the dog slowly creeps out from under the sofa– Harry seeing the reason for this as his tail begins to wag, so much so that his whole body was shaking– making his way over to Harry.

He’s surprised but pleased when the dog gets to him, bringing it’s paws up as if to ask Harry to pick him up.

Harry does instantly, rewarded with licks all across his face as he’s unable to hold back the laugh that comes out of him.

The name comes to him just as quickly as his decision had been to bring him home, ruffling his hands through his fur and looking over to Ron with a smile on his face.

“Chippy,” he says, “cause of where I found him.”

Ron nods, pursing his lips as he stares at him– and then down to Chippy.

“Alright then,” he says, accepting this far too easily and yet Harry finding himself unable to care why that might be the case. “Chippy it is.”

Chippy wags his tail, bringing his attention back to Harry as he awkwardly tries to avoid getting licked in the face. 

“Think he likes it,” Ron offers, Harry’s eyes closed and unable to catch the expression on his face as he laughs.

“Yeah,” Harry replies, finally taking hold of Chippy better as he grins. “Guess he does.”

Harry’s life has been stressful to say the least for as long as he could remember. Constant hunger and the threat of violence that never came but could with the Dursleys, trolls in dungeons, Dark Wizards and Horcruxes– sleepless nights and a pulling in his gut from the worry being a constant to him.

The first night with Chippy takes on a different meaning, a new kind of protectiveness he didn’t know he had at constantly watching over him to see if he was still breathing– falling asleep on his sofa only to wake suddenly with the fear that Chippy would’ve found a way to get out of his area. 

Harry had Transfigured a chair to be something more of a pen, remembering an old Muggle neighbor that had a dog in one such thing. Kreacher had grumbled to himself as Harry had asked for blankets or some sort of linens after Chippy had an accident in the house. A bath had shown that his previously darkened fur gave way to a light, golden collar– though what kind of dog he was remained to be seen. 

Now, a quarter past three and awake yet again to try and get him outside– Harry was beginning to wonder what exactly he was doing. 

He’s felt the responsibility of the lives of his friends and of the Wizarding World yet this was a singular kind of worry Harry wasn’t sure he had ever felt before– the crack that he felt rip through him anytime Chippy cried when he seemed to realize Harry wasn’t right there with him setting off a new wave of nerves.

“I’m right here, mate. Look,” Harry said softly, watching as Chippy seemed to sniff around and then see him, coming off the sofa and kneeling beside the pen– Chippy’s whole body shaking in delight. 

He whines, Harry’s heart clenching in his chest and he brings him up and out of the pen– holding Chippy again like he had against his chest and being rewarded with an instant snuggle that grounds Harry once again. 

“I got you,” he whispers again, Chippy snuffling in response as Harry holds him. 

The pen is forgotten, Harry bringing Chippy back over to the sofa. Chippy takes this as a sign to play, Harry scrunching his eyes shut then open again as he tries to wake himself up. 

“Alright, you wanna play then?” He asks, Chippy softly growling in response– crouched so that his behind was lifted up as Harry laughs. 

He plays around with him, hands moving this way and that as Chippy follows along– still small enough that anytime he gets close to the edge, a spike of worry flows through him. 

A few minutes pass, no more than ten before Chippy gives the biggest yawn he thinks he’s ever seen from a dog– Chippy shuffling closer to him and then plopping down into his lap, Harry smiling as he watches Chippy’s eyes close.

“Alright,” he says, mostly to himself as he leans back on the sofa– a hand gently resting on Chippy’s middle and his head back. He’s slept in worse positions before. 

If this made Chippy feel safer, then Harry was in no way going to stop that. 

“Harry.”

He startles, Chippy doing the same from his position in his lap– Harry blinking a few times and looking over to where Hermione and Ron were standing.

“What are you doing?” Ron asks incredulously, eyes wide as Hermione silently takes in the scene. “You slept here all night?”

“What time is it?” Harry asks, stretching slightly and tilting his head to the side to get the crick out of it– Hermione checking her watch.

“9:17,” she says, “have you fed him yet?” 

Harry looks down to Chippy who settles more solidly in his lap, realizing how little he’s thought this through when he looks back to Hermione– seeing now the bags in each of their hands as she walks forward.

“Figured as much,” she says, in that same here’s what we’re going to do voice. It had grated on him at times over the years but he welcomes it now, unsure of what the two of them have in their bags but certain that it was more helpful than what he has currently.

“You need to keep him on a schedule, it’s good for them. Order and discipline,” Hermione says, no doubt having taken that from a book as Ron snorts. 

“Bloody hell, Hermione. This isn’t school,” he says, Hermione rolling her eyes as she kneels down and begins to sort out the things in the books. “We got him the stuff, Harry’s able to figure out the—“

“You got me stuff?” Harry asks, wanting to sit up but stopping when he remembers— belatedly looking at Chippy to see that he’s still soundly sleeping. 

“Just some things to get you going,” Hermione says with a hand wave, “some food, toys, a good crate—“

“Bought half the shop,” Ron says, giving him a look as Harry frowns. “Did you know there’s not a pet place in Diagon Alley? We had to go to some Muggle pet shop over there off—“

“You didn’t have to buy me anything,” Harry interjects, more stuck on that than anything else. Money hadn’t been an object in his life for years, having his friends buy him things he could buy for himself feeling more of an unnecessary burden. 

“You can pay us back whenever you want,” Hermione says dismissively, waving her hand again before bringing out a massive looking pet bed. “Here, Ron wasn’t very descriptive of how big he is–”

“I told you it was too big, Hermione–”

“And besides, he’ll grow into it,” she says, a bright smile on her face. “Now, you didn’t answer my question.”

“Which was?” Harry asks, feeling a little overwhelmed now as Hermione makes a face.

“Have you fed him yet? Taken him out?”

“Er–”

“Right, well,” Hermione says, as is her way. “Then we should get started then right?”

We? Harry thinks but doesn’t say, choosing instead to share a look with Ron who looks at him expectantly. 

It shouldn’t surprise Harry, after all, that any new thing to happen to his life would end up being a part of theirs . 

Maybe, a small voice in the back of his mind whispers, he wasn’t nearly as alone as he liked to believe.

Ron and Hermione spend a few hours with Harry, the latter doling out some wisdom she’s learned from taking care of Crookshanks as well as the newfound knowledge she has from the books she definitely had read. He gives them promises to pay them back and asks Kreacher to give Ron a larger portion of food for lunch, which Hermione disapproves of. 

They debate yet again of the ethics of having Kreacher– and Harry’s own question of whether or not he could rightfully say that he’s only ever been responsible for Chippy when he has Kreacher, or Kreacher has him as the case may be– carries them on through lunch and early afternoon, before the two of them finally leave. 

“You need anything–”

“I’ll phone you, promise,” Harry says, though he doesn’t intend to in the slightest– Ron and Hermione already having spent so much of their lives trying to amend themselves to his. He appreciates the help, appreciates even more all the things that he hadn’t even thought to get with his impulsive decision to bring a dog home but despite how thankful he is for them, something about caring for Chippy feels as if it should be just himself– should be something that he’s capable of handling on his own. 

Chippy for his part, seems content and mostly quiet– playing with one of the squeaky toys that Ron had made explicit mention that he’d picked out– Harry settling back into the sofa with a smile on his face.

He’s grateful for his friends but maybe this was proof enough that he could handle this.

Twelve hours later, Harry begins to question himself again.

The pup that he’d brought home has utterly transformed into a screeching beast of a thing, constantly crying and whining for something though what Harry doesn’t know. He tries to take Chippy outside, only for him to cry louder– at the cold, at the wet underneath his paws, at the fact that Harry picked him up– hurrying back inside only for Chippy to poop on the floor. 

He puts him in his playpen for some relief, and to clean up since he won’t ask Kreacher to do this, only for Chippy to now keep crying once he’s been set in. He hasn’t really had the chance to skim through the book Hermione gave before but he’s thumbing through it now, looking for some answers for why Chippy would change into such a terror so quickly. 

He reads that puppies– of which it occurs to Harry that he’s not actually sure that’s what Chippy is, he could really just be a very small dog– need time away from their new owners, time enough to ensure that they’re able to be alone and to not reach for them every time they cry. 

Harry looks on, conflicted because of the terrorized cries that Chippy is giving– the advice fighting against every instinct that Harry has which causes him to throw it out the window. He reaches for Chippy, bringing him back to his chest only for Chippy to settle down– clutching onto Harry as he sighs.

He breathes, allowing himself to rest for a second, when his chest feels inexplicably warm– Harry freezing when he realizes what it is.

He leans down, looking at Chippy whose tail is now wagging as he pants and looks as if he’s smiling at him.

Bloody hell.

“I’m glad you called,” Hermione says, playing quietly with Chippy as Harry looks on miserably. All his promises to himself to be self-sufficient and to do it on his own had been shoved to the side after another sleepless night– this time because of Chippy’s cries rather than any other kind of nightmare. He tried feeding him, bundling him up, holding him, giving him water– all for Chippy to keep on crying and crying until he finally tuckered himself out, passed out on the bed that Hermione had bought him until a few hours later when he started crying again.

He’d pooped on the floor again when day had broken, Harry reaching his limit and going to the kitchen to make the call– Hermione answering on the second ring and telling Harry that both she and Ron would be over, with breakfast. 

Ron’s tucked in but Harry’s violently unhungry, far more concerned with Chippy and his seeming inability to keep everything under control for more than a few hours at a time.

“I think something might be wrong with him,” he finally admits to the two of them, something that had been slinking around in the back of his mind for hours with Chippy’s constant cries. Harry had thought it had been just an act of cruelty that had led to someone throwing Chippy out onto the street and while he still thinks nastily of the person who’d done it, he wonders now if Chippy was really a puppy. For all Harry knows, Chippy has been out on the street for much longer than the day that he found him– Hermione tilting her head to the side, unable to see her expression from this angle.

“There’s gotta be a magizoologist we can call, see what’s going on,” Ron says, though his voice is garbled from the food in his mouth– Harry seeing Hermione shake her head out of the corner of her eye before she turns, kneeling down so that she’s half facing the two of them and Chippy– who is half-asleep.

“I don’t think a magizoologist would be the right call,” Hermione says, eyebrows furrowing together. “He’s not magical, is he? You found him in Muggle London, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, belatedly realizing that he hadn’t actually told Hermione the story and that she was working through all her information from Ron. “I was out and I saw him there just, looking sad.”

Hermione purses her lips together, a faint smile on her face as she asks, “so naturally, you had to take him home?”

Harry gives her a look, Hermione huffing out a laugh as she turns her attention back to Chippy. 

“In any case, he needs a real vet, a Muggle one.”

“You think so?”

“She’s got a point, mate,” Ron says, leaning back in his chair. “Besides, you don’t want the Prophet following you into some office somewhere.”

The thought had occurred to Harry, just as another had– prompting to ask the two of them, “you know, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone of us to have a dog.”

“Hagrid,” Hermione rightfully points out, Harry making a face.

“I don’t think Fluffy counts.”

“ Fang does,” she counters, though she does shrug her shoulders and say, “he is a bit bigger than the dogs I know from back home.”

Harry turns to Ron, who was currently spooning out the last of some kind of yogurt or oatmeal that they’d brought as he asks, “you ever had a dog growing up?”

“Fuck no,” Ron says with a laugh, eyes squinting as he gets the last of it out and then licks the spoon clean. “Had enough to take care of what with the owls and Scabbers, yeah.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Saw how that turned out.”

“Now that you mention it,” Hermione cuts in, as if she hadn’t heard Harry and Ron. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone having a dog. They’re not allowed at Hogwarts, but they’re not illegal .”

She turns to Ron. “Did anyone you grow up with ever have one?”

Ron frowns, face contorting as he thinks. “I think Malfoy might’ve had some.”

“ Great ,” Harry deadpans, Hermione giving him a look before shifting her attention back to Ron. 

“No one else?”

Ron looks stumped, Harry searching his own memory and coming up empty as Hermione’s frown deepens. 

“It’s odd, though, maybe not,” she says, as if she was having a conversation with herself. “The Ministry’s tried to regulate Animagi more and it makes sense, to limit the amount of regular dogs that exist in our world if you want to ensure you know who all else is out there.”

“It’s not illegal to own a dog,” Harry says, though now he can’t help but get stuck on how few people he knew ever had one in the first place– aside from Hagrid who was already considered an outsider and allegedly Malfoy who Harry still wasn’t particularly keen on being around in any capacity. 

“No, but it does seem to be more of a Muggle thing. After everything with Voldermort that first time around, if anyone did have one, I could imagine that fewer and fewer Wizarding families would want to be associated with anything Muggle.”

The thought of that leaves a bad taste in his mouth, seeing that same reflection in Hermione’s expression only to watch as she pauses. 

“But that can’t be right, if the Malfoy’s had one. Are you sure of that?”

Ron shrugs. “Not really. Overheard the prat talking about a guard dog once but now that you mention it, could’ve been more of the Fluffy variety. I don’t remember any dogs anywhere, do you?”

The question is directed to the two of them but Harry doesn’t miss the way Hermione stiffens, the reminder of Malfoy manner and what had occurred there another memory he thought he’d buried. His eyes flick over to Hermione’s arm, long-sleeves covering a mark that Harry knows won’t ever fade— looking back up at her eyes to see she’s staring at him.

Harry swallows down his guilt as she slowly shakes her head and says, “no, I don’t.” 

Ron seems to be just aware of what they’re skirting around, Harry watching the two of them have some silent conversation. Hermione must intimate him something that lets him relax, shrugging his shoulders. 

“I don’t know, mate.”

Harry lets the silence fill the gap between them, looking over to Chippy. He’s fully asleep now, Harry’s heart feeling like it’s being squeezed as Hermione’s expression softens.

“You’ve spent enough time in London anyway,” Hermione whispers before turning back to Harry. “What’s another thing?”

“You want us to go with you?” Ron asks, Harry shooting him a grateful smile. 

“I’ll be alright,” he says, and this time– he means it. 

No one else in his chosen world might be acquainted with what it means to care for a dog but if anything, this was something to welcome. 

Just one more thing of his that the wizarding world didn’t get the chance to say it had a right to be a part of.

Chippy, it turns out, is perfectly fine.

So says Dr. Renee Hewett at least, the first vet that Harry is able to find and get an appointment with the following day. Chippy had been perfectly behaved on the way there, though Harry had cast a silencing charm on the carrier bag just in case. 

He’d watched as Dr. Hewett examined Chippy, listened to his heartbeat and played around with him– watching in amazement as Chippy seemed to take to Dr. Hewett just as easily as he had to Hermione, his questions about feeing him, taking him out to relieve himself and everything else seeming benign as she nods. 

“All sounds good,” she says as she puts her stethoscope up, “we should get test results from his blood in the next few days but from what I can tell you, you have a very happy puppy.”

“He is a puppy?” Harry asks, Dr. Hewett nodding as her fingers trill in front of Chippy– Harry watching as Chippy begins to try and pounce on them. 

“Just under six months, I’d guess. A little malnourished but that’s to be expected since you say you got him off the street?”

Harry nods, Dr. Hewett smiling reassuringly as she continues to play with Chippy. 

“I think you found him just in time, but don’t worry, we’ll run the tests and be in touch with you soon if there’s anything we need to look out for.”

“Okay,” Harry says, hearing how tense he sounds as Dr. Hewett smiles again.

“First time?”

“Huh?”

“Your first dog?”

“Oh erm, yeah,” Harry says with a huff, nerves rolling through him as she smiles. 

“It’s quite alright, you’re doing great. Bringing him to see me? Excellent idea,” she says, Harry having the wherewithal not to say that it had been his friend’s suggestion to do so rather than his own. 

She gives him more guided instructions on what to feed him and when, Harry realizing that he might have actually contributed to the frequency of the accidents because of his lackadaisical attitude before. 

“Puppies need structure,” Dr. Hewett says kindly, Harry pressing his lips together and wondering how long he’ll be able to keep himself from admitting to Hermione that she was right. “You give him a schedule and he might fuss at first, but over time and with some patience, he’ll learn. Remember, he’s learning what it’s like to live with you just as much as you’re learning how to live with him.”

“Think he might wish someone else had found him,” Harry says without thinking, clamping his lips together as Dr. Hewett shakes her head.

“I believe that pets find us right when we need them. You’re doing great,” she affirms, Harry nodding in acceptance. 

He’s not sure he is but he’s keen to accept it from Dr. Hewett– a Muggle who had no reason to lie to him. 

It’s far more comforting than he’s willing to admit.

The next few weeks of Harry’s life find a new routine. 

He follows Dr. Hewett’s– and Hermione’s– advice, keeping Chippy on a schedule that helps give both he and Harry some sense of what’s to come. If Kreacher has issues with the new addition to Grimmuald Place, he doesn’t say– though Harry does find that he’s far more alert now that Harry is moving up and around the house without prodding.

The weather is still bitterly cold but Chippy– now with some intentional sleep and more regular meals– seems to take it well enough, he and Harry going out on walks twice a day. Harry had originally tried to go out only once, finding that Chippy was far more of a terror when he did.

Harry for his part, struggled through the routine at first– trying to put Chippy at the forefront of what it is that he’s doing but finding some days that it got difficult, to get out of bed or to muster the energy to take a walk.

Out of bed and walk he still did, if only because he refused to think that in any way that he could be anything like the Dursley’s, human child or not. 

Chippy was going to be well taken care of, no matter what Harry had to do to get there— the monotony of the routine giving him a newfound purpose. His world now revolved around a tiny puppy pen— still sleeping on the sofa more times than not no matter what the advice book told him. When Chippy was asleep, Harry ventured off to a Muggle bookstore and found more books— easily able to exchange and pay for what he needed after a brief exchange with Bill.

“Alright, Harry?” Bill asks, looking around the porch of Grimmauld Place. 

“Yeah, just— I’m sure Ron’s told you.”

“You’re having a torrid affair with Gwenog Jones?”

Harry stops, blinking at him in confusion as Bill grins. 

“Ease up there, mate. Just a joke. Good to know you’re keeping off the Prophet , then.”

Harry doesn’t even want to bother asking what drivel they’re writing about him now if that’s any indication, shaking his head as he says, “no. I’m— no that’s not—“

“Kidding, kidding. No, Ron is unwaveringly loyal, to a fault. Imagine being able to keep a secret from me,” he says, Harry letting him in as Bill chatters on.

He stops, seeing Chippy in the living room— closing the door behind him.

“Ah.”

“I got a dog,” Harry says lamely, Bill valiantly holding back the urge to make some kind of smart remark.

“I can see that,” he settles on, eyeing Harry carefully. “And you’re sure this is… a dog?”

Harry rolls his eyes, motioning toward Chippy. “You’re welcome to check if you’d like. Honestly, you and Ron—“

“Are rightfully paranoid, all things considered,” he says, a shift in his tone that's more serious. Harry understands and waits as Bill does his own checks, seeing the moment he’s satisfied when puts his wand away. “Now then, how can I help?”

“I’d like to exchange some funds, into pounds— er, Muggle money,” he says, Bill raising his eyebrows as Harry presses on. “I can’t seem to find any information or things on caring for them with our lot and even if I could, it’s not like I’d want to, you know. With all the whatever is going on with the Prophet and what have you. I’ve ended up spending a fair bit of time in London, and since Chippy— that’s his name— has a vet and all, I was just wondering—“

“Oi, Harry,” Bill says with a laugh, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to explain.”

Harry stops, breathing out a sigh. “Really?”

Bill smiles then, a bit more genuinely. 

“It’s your money, mate. No one can tell you what to do with it.”

“Right,” Harry replies, knowing that to be true and yet being reminded of it feeling new all the same. He hasn’t touched much of his fortune in the last few years which now feels just as irresponsible as staying in bed for all hours of the day, a thought occurring to him as he remembers and says, “which, also. Could you please add some funds to Hermione’s account, presuming she has one?”

“I can,” Bill says with a nod, Harry pursing his lips together. 

“And maybe… ask her if she knows of any charities or maybe, something else she’d like to give to. You know, just to ask.”

“Sure,” Bill says, sounding amused. “Any particular reason you can’t ask her this yourself?”

Harry makes a face, waffling between the knowledge that Hermione would leap at the chance of helping someone if she could while also push back at the idea of using Harry’s money to do so. Bill seems to take it in stride regardless, waving a hand. 

“Don’t hurt yourself, I got it handled.”

“Thanks, Bill,” Harry replies, relieved as Bill grins, nodding towards the pen.

“So. Chippy, eh?”

Harry smiles, Bill motioning towards the pen as if in question to which he just nods. 

It occurs to him, as Bill kneels down and Chippy begins to wake that he’s the first one that wasn’t Ron or Hermione to know of this new part of his life. He trusts that Bill— joking aside—isn’t keen on exploiting his personal life but he appreciates Bill’s promise to keep it quiet all the same. 

“You might wanna tell my mum though,” Bill says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Doubt I’ll be able to keep this from her for long.”

“What happened to keeping a secret?”

“ From , not with,” Bill says with a laugh as he walks down the steps of Grimmauld and leaves for home— Harry hearing the tell tale crack as he disappears from view.

Harry does end up beating Bill to the punch, but only just— sending off an owl to let Mrs. Weasley know of this new dog and to apologize for missing so many dinners. 

Mrs. Weasley predictably doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, sending an owl right back to ask when Harry would be bringing him over and that she expects him to do so by end of week. Only Mrs. Weasley could get away with both a request and a demand in the same sentence but Harry doesn’t mind— looking over to Chippy who wags his tail and barks.

“Sounds like we got dinner plans,” he says, Chippy panting in reply. 

Harry decides to travel by Floo, rather than to risk splinching himself or Chippy—  coming with far too many items and thanking Hermione again for enchanting his bags to be weightless and limitless as he does. 

Mrs. Weasley predictably dotes on and then fusses over him before turning her attention to Chippy, the latter being more and more excited at the possibility of meeting new people. Harry’s claims that Chippy was barely potty trained go unanswered, finally settling down next to Mr. Weasley as he sighs. 

“Parenthood,” he says, Harry turning over to him. “Takes a lot out of you.”

Harry huffs out a laugh, not wanting to argue this point with someone who has raised as many kids as he had but feeling as if taking care of Chippy hardly qualifies. Arthur seems to sense that’s the case anyway, nodding towards him, “I mean it, Harry. You’re doing a good thing but it’s alright if it’s getting a bit much.”

“It’s…” Harry begins, the casual lies and deflection that he usually so freely gives when it comes to how he’s doing falling flat now. It’s not just him that he has to take care of but Chippy, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at the question of whether or not he was mucking all this up. 

“Hard,” he finally settles on, making a face as he continues, “you’d think things would be easier, after everything.”

Arthur hums, Harry not needing to clarify what he means— not to Arthur Weasley of all people. Harry’s eyes drift over the clock, the ever present grief still present in this home and to Fred’s position on the clock now forever on traveling. 

If only that were true. 

“I’ve found,” Arthur begins, Harry turning his attention back to him. “That life is not built up into fine lines. Something that was perceived difficult in one sense doesn’t make the rest of it any easier. It’s like those bicycles Muggles have—“ Harry bites the inside of his cheek at Arthur pronouncing it as bye-cycle as he presses on, “they learn to ride them when they’re quite young, I’ve read.”

Harry shrugs, nodding for him to continue. Dudley might have had seven different bicycles growing up but Harry hadn’t had the chance to ride any of them. 

“I’ve also read that Muggles use them for more than just transport,” he says, gauging Harry’s reaction for confirmation. “Hobbies and the like.”

Harry nods, though he’s grateful again that Arthur doesn’t ask if he’s ever participated as he continues on. 

“In these hobbies, they tend to sometimes go on different terrain. Mountains, hills, all sorts of landscape.”

Harry waits, getting the sense that there’s some kind of lesson there that he can’t quite connect as Arthur gently smiles.

“The act of the bicycle, of riding it, all stays the same but it’s the experience of it that changes, you see. Different setting, different ability, even different weather, all can change how these Muggles are able to enjoy their time out there.”

It clicks, as Arthur must clearly expect it would as Harry gives him a long and searching look, Arthur’s gaze softening as he leans forward– pressing a hand to Harry’s arm. 

“You’ve been through quite a bit, yeah? It’s alright, if the terrain feels harder this go around.”

Harry wisely says nothing, mostly so that he doesn’t give in to the lump in his throat doesn’t win as Arthur gently squeezes.

“We’re all here for you, son. Remember that.”

Harry nods.

He’s trying to. 

The weeks leading up to the holidays continue to try on Harry’s patience.

For every two steps forward when it comes to teaching Chippy to go outside or to stop whining in his crate at night, Harry feels as if they take ten leaps back– the back and forth feeling like a constant battle that he doesn’t see an end to.

Mrs. Weasley makes it a point of saying that he is expected at Christmas dinner and despite her encouragement to bring Chippy, Harry is worried– unsure if that amount of attention would be good for him or would just in fact, set off another round of misbehavior and clean ups that he’d be embarrassed to catch up after.

“Socialization is good for dogs,” Hermione not so helpfully pointed out in front of Mrs. Weasley during a Sunday dinner, Harry shooting her a look as Mrs. Weasley beams.

“See? All settled then,” she’d said and that had been that as far as he was concerned, unwilling and more unable to see a way that he could argue to the alternative. 

In truth, Harry’s concern for bringing Chippy was compounded with the reminder that this would be the first time that he’s seeing Ginny again after the last time. Whatever her family seems to know or not of their relationship, they do seem to be aware that she and Harry are not together – something that in all honesty, Harry’s not had the time or space to think too much about in the months since.

He’s thinking about it now, Chippy fast asleep in a playpen in the Weasley’s living room– trying and failing not to look like he’s waiting around for Ginny to arrive with casual looks to their fireplace.

He’s surprised when the front door opens and Ginny waltzes in, cheeks flushed from the cold and hair just barely brushing at her shoulders as she begins to undress her outer layers. 

“Hi Harry,” Ginny says brightly, Harry thanking every star in the universe that no one was around to witness this moment as he grins. 

“Hi Gin.”

“And hello to you , little Chippy,” she whispers, putting up her coat and then quietly walking over to where the playpen is– the smile on her face causing a pull in the pit of Harry’s stomach as she kneels down. “He’s so tiny.”

“He is, yeah,” Harry says, scratching at the back of his neck as Ginny watches him, going to reach out her hand to pet him before stopping. 

“Can I…?”

“Yeah, yeah, when he’s out like that he won’t wake up unless it’s for food,” Harry says with a laugh, bringing a hand down as Ginny smiles.

“Sounds like Ron.”

Harry snorts, shoving his hands in his pockets for want of having something to do with them. He watches as Ginny gently brushes her fingers against his head, unable to hold back the smile on his face from the way that Chippy settles further in– giving off a big sigh as Ginny quietly laughs. 

“He’s wonderful, Harry,” she whispers before going to sit up, Harry making space for her. “Though I wish you’d told me about him.”

Harry feels his cheeks warm, wincing as he says, “Yeah, I’m– yeah, sorry. It’s just been–”

“It’s alright, I’m just messing with you,” she says, though Harry knows her well enough that there’s some truth to it. “You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, I’ve– I’d say you have been to but I’ll be honest, been a bit out of the loop with everything.”

“I’m sure,” she replies, pointedly looking down over at Chippy. It’s quiet for a beat, Ginny looking as if she’s going to change the subject when instinct takes over.

“I’d like to, you know. Hear what’s going on,” Harry says, Ginny’s mouth opening then closing as she smirks at him. “If you want to tell me.”

She studies him for a beat, searching for something that Harry’s not sure he wants to know what it is. There were many good reasons for their break up, this time around– the distance and the time all being things that he didn’t want to place an undue burden on her. He wanted Ginny to live , to enjoy the life that she had built for herself without constantly feeling as if she was being tethered back to the past, to him, to all the ways that their lives had been irrevocably changed because of the War.

Harry might not be able to escape the shadow of what it had cost them but Ginny could, as much as she was able to at least in her own professional and personal life.

It’s what Harry wanted for her, anyway.

“I would, yeah,” she replies, the smile on her face genuine as Harry stands up straighter. “Let me tell mum I’m back and then…”

“I’ll wait here,” he says, smiling back at her as she beams– holding his gaze for a beat before turning back around to the kitchen. 

He watches her walk away, just long enough to realize that he’s doing it– looking back over to Chippy to see that he’s still fast asleep.

Harry laughs under his breath, moving so that he can sit down on the sofa and takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly and feeling himself relax to the soft metronome of Chippy’s breathing. 

The holiday passes and ushers in a new year, Harry lying awake in his bed in the early hours of the morning. 

He’d gone out with Neville, Dean and the rest for a drink but only for an hour, passing off the chorus of staying out with the excuse of needing to get back home to Chippy— only to find when he did that he was fast asleep, completely unbothered by the noise and merriment outside. 

He’s sleeping better in his pen, enough that Harry wonders if he could finally begin to have him sleep in his bed— the thought of waking up in piss or worse being the only thing stopping him. 

The new year brings with it the reminder that it would now be four years since the end— or the beginning, in a sense. Four years since Colin Creevey, Fred Weasley and so many others had died. Four years since he learned the truth of Snape’s actions and Dumbledore’s lack thereof. Four years since Harry earned the moniker of being the Boy Who Lived twice over, stomach twisting itself into knots at the headlines and think pieces that he can already read now. 

He’s uninterested in the spotlight more than ever, sick to his stomach of the endless commentary that will surround him even more so at being so many months without a job— at the Ministry or elsewhere. The questions of what he should be doing and why haven’t left, only smothered— so consumed in making sure that Chippy was alive and well that it was easy, in a way, to forget. 

He remembers now— flashes of old nightmares and good old memories of Sirius and of Remus, of Lavender Brown and of Tom’s maniacal laugh.

Harry rushes to the toilet and throws up as another fireworks goes off. 

Four years really was no time at all.

“Come on, Chippy,” Harry says, patience now wearing thin as he grips the leash tighter. Chippy wasn’t very keen on running off from him, favoring being closer to Harry than anything else but he had become temperamental when it came to being outside and taking a wee in public. This wasn’t the first time that he’s taken Chippy to the dog park but it’s the first time that the park has been active – Muggles and their dogs all around him as Chippy looked around in earnest.

He wanted to play or at the very least, explore but Harry’s tolerance for crowds– Muggle or not– felt less like he was being invisible and more like a target, the paranoia that he thought he had so meticulously shoved aside threatening to come up and drag him down.

Winter had just barely turned into spring and already, the Prophet had a countdown for all the different ways that Hogwarts would commemorate the 2nd of May. There was talk of a new statue or statute , Harry wasn’t sure and quite frankly, didn’t care. Four years and it was hitting him harder this time around, his own grip on reality just as tenuous as the one he has on Chippy’s leash. 

The others, he knew, felt similarly in different ways– while he was grateful that she had found her purpose, it didn’t escape him how much distance Luna continued to put between herself and where they were. Hannah had surreptitiously planned to be on holiday around the same time, Dean and Seamus saying they were unsure if they would make it. Even Ron and Hermione had a silent conversation in Harry’s midst when it was brought up, seemingly just as conflicted on whether their continued attendance to the ceremony was cathartic or just chaotic. 

He’s safe, relatively speaking– far and away from any chance of a wizard or a witch finding themselves in this Muggle dog park some ways away from his home but he still felt the pinch in his chest, a shiver down his spine and his lungs feeling as if they were breathing through a straw as he willed for Chippy to hurry up and do his business without outwardly screaming at him.

No matter what he did, Harry had promised himself that he would never raise his voice– not if he could help it.

“Annoying, eh?” 

Harry turns, startled that he hadn’t realized someone was standing right next to him. She was tall, a little taller than him and with a bright smile– hair pulled back into a simple bun as she smiles. “The way they turn like that.”

Harry looks from her to Chippy and the way he’s still circling, letting out a huff as he nods. 

“I wonder, what they’re looking for sometimes,” he says, looking over to the dog that she has on her own leash– a golden retriever that was panting heavily. 

“She’s about ready to go but here I am, still trying to get her to move,” the woman says, making a face at Harry as he smiles. “She’s gotten too big for me to carry away now.”

“Not a problem for me,” Harry says, motioning towards Chippy who had now decided to sniff the woman’s retriever– the two of them tentatively checking each other out. “Though I do run the risk of him deciding to relieve himself on me.”

“They tend to do that,” she says amiably, Harry nodding as a natural lull in the conversation falling between them. It was polite conversation, but Harry could see– out of the corner of his eye– how she was looking at him. Ginny might be the one that he still thinks about at night when he can’t sleep but she hasn’t been the only– he knows what it’s like now in a way he hadn’t in his Hogwarts days, what it was like when someone was approaching a conversation with far more than friendly intent. 

Harry knows that Ginny isn’t waiting for him and that he wouldn’t expect her to– that he has just as much free reign to go on about with anyone else that he’d like to. He finds, however, that he doesn’t– more certain of this even with a pretty woman with a beautiful dog standing next to him– thanking the stars that Chippy takes that moment to finally wee.

“There you go, good boy,” he says, Chippy finishing up and then smiling as he pants up at him. He nods to the woman who looks vaguely disappointed, Harry turning and walking in the direction of his home as Chippy walks alongside him.

“Good boy, that,” he says, Chippy looking at him as if he understands.

Harry knows it’s not possible and yet, sometimes, he wonders if Chippy understands more than he thinks. 

Harry survives another 2nd of May with little fanfare and passage– making an appearance at Hogwarts for the sake of Professor McGonagall. He doesn’t go on stage nor does he sit in the place of so called “honor” that the Ministry had insisted on, the Order of Merlin that he’d been given that first year still sitting on some shelf back home collecting dust– metaphorically, since Kreacher refused to let anything go into disarray. 

He comes in towards the back when the ceremony has already started and has already left before the end, making sure that Professor McGonagall knew that he was there at the very least. 

He survives the 2nd of May and even the 3rd without a nightmare– surprisingly, only for it all to come crashing down a few days later. 

It was Harry’s fault, at least that’s what he tells himself– having gotten a little more loose with the range where Chippy could go in the house and where, not having had an accident in the house in months and feeling far more lenient about the way that he followed after him. 

In one second Harry is looking at Chippy play with a ball and in the next he’s gone, frantically sitting up from the sofa and looking around.

“Kreacher?”

Kreacher appears with a pop , looking on drolly.

“Yes, Master?”

“Where’s Chippy?” he asks, already standing up and looking around– feeling his heart rate rise as Kreacher looks on. 

“I wouldn’t know, Master. He stays with you,” Kreacher replies, Harry feeling a flash of irritation wash through him.

“I know that,” he snaps, cutting himself off. “He’s– help me look. Please .”

Kreacher nods but doesn’t say a word, disapparating again as Harry begins to call out for him. He runs up and down the stairs, frantic in a way that borders on panic– already imagining all the different things Chippy could get himself into in the house that could him harm, or worse. Harry’s imagination gets the better of him, running about until he comes to the back door in the alley and sees the door open– any semblance of sense washing away as sheer panic takes over.

“CHIPPY!” Harry calls out, his voice already having gone hoarse as he steps out– then stops, heart stuttering as he sees Chippy lapping at a puddle of rainwater outside. Harry expels out a breath, sharp yet uneven as Chippy’s tail wags– turning around and giving a panting smile as Harry sinks down to his knees.

“Chippy, come,” he says, voice cracking as Chippy does what he’s told– a barely stifled sob coming out of him as he reaches his arms out for him.

Chippy launches himself into Harry and Harry immediately takes hold, feeling his heart pounding against his chest as he holds Chippy tight.

He squirms but Harry doesn’t care, taking heaving gasps of breath as the tears form– vision blurring as he holds him tight and sits down more flatly against the floor. He has just enough coherence to make sure that he sits inside, closing the door and then putting his back to it before he breaks down– clutching onto Chippy who seems to understand something is wrong as Harry’s sobs begin to overtake him.

Chippy was almost gone and yet it’s not just him that he cries for, something unlocking inside of him that now released he can barely contain– snot and tears intermixing as he holds Chippy close, willing his dog to ground him like he had so many times before. 

Four years but also, a lifetime – of all the things that he’s lost and all the things he’ll never be, all the people and the places and the responsibility that Harry’s never been able to run away from.

Harry cries in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, four years and a few days after the end of everything– wondering when it would ever start to feel like a beginning. 

“Shouldn’t you be out?” 

Ron and Hermione stop in mid-conversation, looking over to Harry. While he hadn’t told either of them knew about his embarrassing break down in the middle of his kitchen, he had a suspicion that they knew anyway– the how of it mattering less to him than the now of them being here, yet another Friday night spent hanging out with him at Grimmauld rather than out and about with each other. 

They didn’t spend every evening or weekend with him, Harry was glad that the two of them had found enough time to enjoy their lives– at a much better pace then himself, he thinks but in the weeks since the anniversary, they’d spent more time with him than what was usual, suspicion flooding through him for the first time as Ron makes a face.

“Out?” Hermione asks, taking a sip of her drink.

“Like on a date, or something,” Harry says, a pull in his gut that he can’t explain that’s only exacerbated by the look that the two of them share– frowning as his eyes track between them. They spent so much time with him, as far as he could tell yet were decidedly not touching each other. Harry wasn’t keen on walking in on anything but it strikes him now, in a way it hadn’t before, how little he’s seen the two of them together or any mention of an outing like they had in the months right after they’d gotten together. 

“You don’t wanna hear about all that, mate,” Ron says casually, a little too casually from the way that Hermione is now avoiding his eyes and taking too long of a drink. “I’d rather hear about you and that Muggle in the park. You ever catch her name?”

Harry doesn’t take the bait, certain now that something was going on between the two of them– eyes flicking between them.

“What’s wrong?”

They share a look, all the confirmation that he needs before Ron sighs, shoulders sagging as he says, “nothing’s wrong, we just–”

“We broke up,” Hermione says, direct as is her way– Ron tiredly sighing as he looks over to her.

“What happened to softening the blow ?”

“Well, he already knows that something is–”

“What?” Harry interrupts, shaking his head. “You– why didn’t you– when?”

They frustratingly share another look, this time Ron looking a little more guilty as he finally says, “about six months ago.”

Harry blinks, staring at the two of them in confusion. 

“ What ?”

“We meant to tell you, promise,” Hermione says, pleading her case as if it was any of Harry’s business– his confusion taking up far more of his mind than anything else as she continues, “it’s just– it was a little over a month after you got Chippy and–”

“We didn’t want to distract you, you know. With everything else going on–”

“And really, we’re fine. I mean, obviously I love him–”

“Course you do–”

Hermione gives him a look. 

“I love you too, you know that!” Ron exclaims, Hermione playfully rolling her eyes before continuing.

“It just– it ran its course,” she says, Harry feeling dumbfounded and stupidly– betrayed. It wasn’t as if what the two of them did or didn’t do was something that he was owed but such a silly lie felt much bigger than what it was– a flare of anger washing over him at the idea that the two of them thought that he couldn’t handle news that was important to them. 

He wants to lash out, to get angry or make a fuss only to stop when Chippy walks in, tail wagging and looking between the three of them. Hermione, predictably, is immediately distracted– giving Chippy instant affection with a scratch on the head and talking to him in that voice that only ever seems to come out for him. 

It’s enough of a reminder to stop and take a breath, exhaling out and looking over to Ron as if to ask if everything’s okay.

Ron just smiles, nodding once before looking over to Chippy who had now moved on to him for affection. 

It’s not till they’re gone, Chippy going out for his last trip outside for the night that Harry begins to settle with the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. If the two of them were happy with their decision, as they clearly were, then Harry had no place to have an opinion on it. It was more discomforting, he thinks, that the two of them had mutually decided not to share this with him– for a reason that neither of them had to really explain. 

Harry was a mess, in more ways than one– something that he knew and yet felt a bit miserable at what felt like a slap in the face reminder of that. 

That in and of itself was something he was unsure of but what got to him more, as he takes Chippy back in and gets ready for bed himself, is the question rooting around in the back of his mind of Ron and Hermione.

Clearly, the two of them had decided that whatever was between them wasn’t enough and yet, their friendship had seemingly made it out the other end– solid and together without being together in a way that Harry could only describe as envy.

Chippy might consume every part of his life but there was still an ache deep in his chest at missing Ginny, the realization hitting him as he puts his head to his pillow of what exactly he missed the most.

Friendship, at the very least– the silence between them feeling far less like a comfortable distance and more like a gulf that he realizes, was his own making. 

Whatever their relationship was or wasn’t, Harry misses her more than he misses his pride– the anger that he feels about Ron and Hermione willfully refusing to tell him something for fear of upsetting him, conflicting with his own hypocrisy at breaking up with Ginny for much of the same. 

He flinched at the implication that he was too fragile to handle news that didn’t even affect his life in this way, kicking himself now for how that could’ve been the same for Ginny.

His thoughts swirl around for another few minutes before he makes another decision, getting out of bed and seeing Chippy’s head lift up from his bed on the floor. 

“Alright,” he says, getting a quill from his desk and some ink, the words already forming in his mind as he does. 

He might not be able to change the past but Harry, for once, is tired of continuing to live in it. 

Harry knows he has a habit of making foolish mistakes and even worse assumptions.

He intends not to make the same ones twice.

“So,” Ginny says, walking beside him. “What’s this that you wanted to show me?”

Harry smiles, hands shoved into his pocket as he nods to the left. “This way.”

Ginny follows, a smile on her face and the silence between them feeling comfortable– Muggles all milling about. 

There’s far more of them, likely due to the summer holidays as June bleeds into July. In a few weeks time, Harry will be twenty-one– the same age his parents were when they died and a lifetime lived in the time since. 

Twenty-one felt significant in a way he hadn’t fully wrapped his head around but it was also in the future, still a time that he couldn’t fully live in– neither the past nor what was to come being a place he could truly exist in. 

It helped, with Chippy– to live in the day to day but as Chippy got older, so did Harry’s penchant for falling into old habits– clinging to his sense of self some days and finding that he doesn’t have to, in others. 

Which is what brought him here, today, spending the day with Ginny– an invitation that she had easily accepted much to his barely contained surprise. 

She was back home, the season done and some time before training started up again. Harry got his fill of news of Quidditch and marveled at the way she explained her game, paying attention this time around to what she said and what she didn’t– of the way that she came alive when she talked about the thing she seemed to love most.

Almost, at least, when he caught her staring at him as he took care of Chippy before they walked out– smirking as he asked her, “what?”

“Nothing,” she says, the smile on her face contradicting that point. “You just, you look happy.”

He hadn’t responded but he thinks that maybe, if Ginny could see it, that he might be– happy as he ever could be, in the life that he now lives. 

He told her, in his hastily sent of 2am letter, of how he felt and how much he missed her– her friendship, their connection, missed her in every way as Chippy had watched him frantically write. 

Her acceptance to visit and spend the day hadn’t been with any kind of promises or intentions, other than the acknowledgement that the two of them were here – together but not, in a way that felt distinctly different than Ron and Hermione. 

He knows it now, in a way he hadn’t until she came back, that there had been a reason that the two of them couldn’t just be friends– his feelings for her just as intense and as powerful as they had been the day she left, feelings that he knew he couldn’t continue to shove aside or pretend they didn’t exist. 

It’s as if now that he’s coming up for air, finally able to breathe in a way that he hadn’t before– even if he was still so unsure of what to say, of how to say it, if he even could .

Instead, Harry takes her to the National Gallery and up to his favorite painting– stepping in front of him as Ginny quietly takes it in. 

Harry doesn’t even pretend to look at the painting, choosing instead to look at her– eyes flitting over her smattering of freckles and her hair pulled back, longer now than it had been during Christmas but just as beautiful as ever. She was beautiful, in the way she admired things and the quiet reflection she had– a soft smile on her face before turning to him. 

“I can see why you like it.”

“Really?” He asks, Ginny nodding as he finally turns to look over to it again.

“I mean, it’s a bit obvious,” she says jokingly, Harry smirking only for her to continue, “but it makes sense.”

“I wish it didn’t,” he admits, feeling Ginny’s eyes on him. 

He feels her fingers gently reach for him, looking over to her as their fingers intertwine.

She says nothing, but Harry finds that she doesn’t have to– searching her face and seeing the way she’s looking at him. Not as an experiment or on display, but seeing him as she always does– just as the way he sees her for all the different things she is and hides. The only daughter of the Weasley’s, the youngest Quidditch player in a decade and one of the Hogwarts heroes, the foolishness Harry feels for thinking that he has ever really been singular in his own experience flowing through him as she holds his gaze. 

Her eyes move down to his lips, Harry’s breath getting short before her eyes meet his again– a smile that makes him feel as if he could fly lighting up her face. 

“Thank you for showing this to me,” she says, Harry nodding once.

“Of course.”

They stand there, two people in a sea of hundreds yet feeling as if they were the only ones in the room– Ginny finally breaking the spell when she smiles, squeezing his hand.

“I think I’ve had my fill, haven’t you?” She says, something mischievous in her eyes that makes him laugh. “You about ready to head home?”

Harry grins, nodding as he gently squeezes her hand back– looking up at the painting one more time. 

He stares, feeling everything and nothing, feeling just on the brink of all the things that he’s lost and all the things he’s gained– to see the caged bird just on the brink of death and the scientist forever paused in mid-sentence– and feels far more alive now than he’s ever felt before. 

“Chippy’s probably ready for us,” Harry says, turning away from the painting and looking at Ginny– the grin on her face overwhelming. 

“Well,” she says, Harry taking a step forward with her. “Best be off then.”

Harry smiles back, hand in hand with her as they walk together– for the day, for forever– he’s not quite sure. 

In the end, Harry knows, the future is not for him to know, not when he had the present—Ginny by his side and Chippy waiting for him at home

In that, Harry thinks, that just might be enough.