Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Over the years, different authors have described magic in different ways.

Some may say that it is something innate or false, they will say that it is something of gods or supernatural themes; but the truth is that, regardless of its origin, magic is usually described as a universal force that exists above natural laws and is capable of manipulating reality or the flow of time. A power that allows its users to perform extraordinary feats, such as manipulating the elements, changing the form of matter, healing impossible wounds or summoning fantastic creatures.

Magic is often a symbol of human fantasy used to give meaning to the unknown, to what not everyone understands. What they cannot do. It has been relegated to tales and myths, a vestige of ancient times where the inexplicable coexists with the everyday.

But there are those who say that those who once wielded it now live in secret communities, protected by spells that erase their existence from the human eye, or they chose to camouflage themselves among the normals, adapting to their customs while keeping their magic a whisper in the dark. There are rumors, of course, whispers of magic circles that meet in clandestine bookstores, of living libraries that contain more knowledge than any mind could bear, or of streets that only appear under the light of the full moon.

Some legends say that there is a veil that separates the world from where magic is breathed in every corner, where words have power and spells are tools as practical as a mobile phone. There are those who still believe in it; those who can see it manifest in the murmur of the wind before a storm, in the energy felt when walking in a forest or under a starry sky.

What if I told you it was true?

That magic never disappeared, that it exists, but like everything, it has a price and there are invisible rules that should never be broken, secrets that should not be revealed and a balance that must be maintained.

In ancient times, when humans and nature lived in closer balance, magic was as common as fire or water. Shamans, druids, alchemists, and sorcerers walked among mortals, using their gifts to heal, protect, or create; all the while ruling unopposed, teaching their secrets to those they deemed worthy and ensuring that knowledge was passed on in a controlled manner.

However, as time went on, the Guardians, Sages, and Protectors began to notice something: the new generations were displaying talent beyond their own. They knew that magic is a reflection of the human spirit, and that with every advance in thought, the magical art evolves as well. New ideas, new approaches, even new ways of conjuring and manipulating power began to emerge.

Then fear set in. The thought of being surpassed or replaced consumed them completely. They disguised their fear as wisdom and caution, because they wanted to stop progress; an insatiable desire for control. They wanted to freeze time to make sure no one could surpass them.

“Magic is dangerous in inexperienced hands” they declared.

“It must be preserved, contained, protected from the whims of those who do not understand it.”

They created strict rules, sealed grimoires, destroyed records of ancient knowledge, and limited the art of magic to an ever-smaller circle. Only the chosen few could access the deepest secrets, while future generations grew up believing that magic was limited and fragile, that its use should be restricted.

Not all wizards accepted this pact, of course. There were those who did not forget, who defied the pact and could not accept living in hiding. Those who know that magic, in its purest form, is neither good nor evil, that it is like fire: it illuminates and destroys with equal intensity. There were those who knew that magic is not made to remain dormant. Those who wanted to bring magic back to the world, no matter the price.

Some did it out of pride, others out of desperation, but only a few truly believed that magic was a right for all, not a secret.

Because magic, in its essence, is free. And like the river that seeks the sea, it will always find a way to flow.

Chapter Text

A couple of years ago, when Harry was eleven and living in a wardrobe, the idea of becoming a wizard was something very special. Back then, that spark meant many things: first, his freedom, knowing that there was a world where there was no Dudley, where there were no See Us or Aunt Petunias made him happy, knowing that there was a world for him made him feel relieved and purposeful. Then, when that feeling had subsided, Harry knew that magic was real and that all those fantasy stories were reality and that he was part of it.

And when Harry first went to Hogwarts, he thought his life was going to get better.

Oh poor Harry, if only he had known everything that was going to happen…

Today is the last day at Hogwarts, it's graduation day and that means that tomorrow morning they will take the train back "home". Most people are excited, those who were born into this world are impatient to take a break, to return to their ancestral homes and live their life outside the castle; those who are just starting out and discovering all this are even more excited, they are dying to go home, see their family. They want to go back to the world, spend the summer and come back to discover once again that this fantasy is real, that magic exists and that they can use it.

By now, everyone is gathered for dinner and celebration, listening to the teachers' speeches and congratulatory news. As always, since Harry arrived, the end-of-year announcements have a bittersweet taste. This year, an old legend had emerged; a promise and, as it begins to make sense, the term involved.

A week ago, the events of Chamber of Secrets came to a close. A week ago, Harry found himself involved in a battle against a giant basilisk that had awakened to follow the orders of a cursed spirit that had been locked away in a cursed book for decades.

Clearly Harry had to face it, a lot had happened already, including him being accused of causing the disaster, the attacks, the deaths. He wasn't the one, that was clear at least to his friends, but then they were also involved and since the adults in that place seem to exist only to disapprove, he had to act himself. To say that that fight was scary is an understatement, Harry feared for his life and for everyone else's.

People said he now seems distracted, slow to pay attention or loses track easily; they said he doesn't seem to care much about what anyone has to talk about.

It's all true.

Harry's been thinking about other things lately, about how if it weren't for the phoenix he wouldn't have been able to get out of that place, and although most of his time he feels relieved that his direct involvement hasn't come to light and that the reactions of the people in that school are divided between the adoration of the "power" and "bravery" of the boy who lived (Gryffindor) and the sarcastic comments (Slytherin) about how he wants to get everyone's attention (Draco), Harry feels that no one he knows seems to care.

Sure, Hermione congratulated him for solving it and he hugged her because she's alive. Ginny walked out of that place and the Weasleys thanked him for saving her, but nobody asked him if he was okay, the teachers just scolded him for his stupidity and Dumbledore spoke innuendos of his "greatness" in front of the whole school in the speech before the end-of-year banquet making the lion house win; ignoring the effort of others, ignoring that he could have died and ignoring that he doesn't care about recognition.

As his classmates receive the cup, as they congratulate him and everyone around him, the ones who are clever enough to put the threads together, looks at him with suspicion and vengeance, Harry decides that he is tired, tired of risking his life, of the flattery, the thanks, the expectations; of everything. Harry is happy that his friend and the others have woken up, he is also relieved that Ginny did not die, but he no longer wants to know about wizards living on the backs of teachers' heads or mortal creatures that only he can understand. He can't say that he doesn't want to know about the magical world because he likes it, he enjoys the wonders it offers and that the Dursleys have no power there, but was this how his life was always going to be?

For the first time, the sound of the train is welcome, the view of the forest from the window is not boring, and the feeling of pain from moving away from magic is not so strong. Harry thinks about what's next. Everyone is returning home, with their families to spend a fun summer and go to many places, everyone except Harry. He has to go back to Drivet.

Why did I have to put up with that?

The behavior of the magical world was no different than that of the non-magical world, they look down on him for coming from outside and there are people who only want to be his friends for a non-existent fame and luxury. Nobody seemed interested in Harry, not Harry Potter, just Harry.

As he thinks about all this and the sky spins, there's nothing stopping him from knowing that his life is about to come down to spending the summer as the Dursleys' servant, putting up with Dudley's nagging, Vernon's yelling, and Aunt Petunia's nagging so that in September he can board that same train that would take him to a castle called "the safest place in the world" to see his life in mortal danger once again.

"Hogwarts will always provide help to those who need it"

Nonsense

—Harry, can we talk for a second? — Hermione's voice breaks his train of thought.

He nods, awkward, stunned by being torn from his mind and only by pure instinct is he able to follow the brunette out of the car, barely catching the glances of his red-headed friends.

"You're telling me that Voldemort would never have been able to get the stone."

"Yes, but it was important for you to know this lesson."

They reach the end of the hallway before the girl turns to face him with a serious expression.

— Is everything okay, Her? —

— That's what I want you to tell me, are you okay, Harry? —

The dark-haired boy is surprised, it's not a question he didn't expect, yes, it was one he longed for but that since the train left he had already stopped following. He stops to think. Is he okay? He doesn't like his own answer, he doesn't like what it produces in him and neither what it makes him think; but it's not his friend's fault, he reminds himself. It's not Hermione's fault, her stupid luck, her fucked up life, it's not his friend's fault that no matter where she goes it seems that life takes care of reminding her of who she is. It's not his fault and Harry knows it, but he still wants someone to blame, a face, a name. He wants to know who he should be angry with because if he doesn't, then he'll be angry with himself. And that, he knows, won't lead to anything good.

— Why wouldn't I be? — If he was abrupt, Hermione didn't notice, and if she did, then she didn't say anything, but she stares at him, she looks at him with that energy that only he has, the one that forces you to stay in place hoping that he doesn't manage to pierce your soul.

Because Hermione has that, a pair of eyes that she swears can read your heart.

— Maybe because you could have died a week ago. — She says, all stoic and with a tone that screams “really?” and he understands that she was the one who started it, but he thinks she has no reason to be sarcastic.

Harry was once told that he would make a good Slytherin, that the house of snakes would suit him. At the time he believed it and perhaps was tempted, but the fear of being rejected once again consumes him. However, it is not the possibility of speaking to snakes that makes him think - not for the first time - that perhaps he should have considered his answer a little more.

— Are you here to tell me that you are interested? —

— Of course I do, you idiot! You're my friend — she sighed before continuing — I didn't say anything because I understood that you would be overwhelmed and a little because I still felt bad, but Harry, the things you went through surely leave consequences. Besides, you've distanced yourself from everyone and you've been staring off into who knows where for hours, making faces. — She finishes. Her cheeks are red from emotion and her curly hair fluffs up just from anger. She breathes, he doesn't stop looking at her, his heart heavy; for both of them. — Harry, you can talk to me. —

Hearing Hermione hit a nerve and the anger that had suddenly risen so quickly vanished just as quickly as it had arrived. The emotion hits him like a truck, it settles in his chest and out of nowhere he thinks it's suddenly becoming difficult to breathe.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut to stop the tears from welling up in the corners of his eyes and as a last attempt to get some air, he lets himself fall back against one of the walls of the train before sliding down it. When he reaches the ground, he realizes that it didn't work and that it's even worse, there's a burning coldness in his chest and the sensation of sinking. He lets out a sigh, one that comes out more like a shaky gasp, a perfect way to describe what he's feeling.

When he finally dares to look up, his friend has a look of pain and sorrow on her face, and he gestures for her to sit next to him, and she does so quickly. Once they are both seated, she takes his hand and Harry feels that he loves her just for that.

They both take a few minutes in silence before they can even think about speaking and once they find their voices again, they decide it's time to do so.

— I'm tired — He says.

Hermione squeezes his hand, a sign of acknowledgement, comfort, and that she may or may not continue.

— I don't want to be living this, Her. I don't want to spend my school life (and maybe the rest of it) going from one hell to another. I don't want to have to worry about things trying to kill me just because of something I "did" when I was a baby. I want to worry about not falling asleep in history class, about getting the potion Snape left me right; I want to worry about normal things for people our age. However, everything seems to be lining up so that doesn't happen. In the first year I risked my life and yours for a stupid, unreachable stone and this year... I decided to expose myself to danger myself before asking for help. I'm not really complaining about the latter, I acted faster and that kept Ginny alive and got you here with me, but... is it always going to be like this? What will await me next year? Monsters of the darkness, a magical assassin maybe.

— Harry...

— I don't want to leave the magical world, but I don't think I can go on like this. I don't want to live with them, but I don't want every second of my life to be surrounded by shit either. — A silence surrounds us, so fragile but heavy that it forces them not to move. They both know that he hasn't finished speaking. — I envy you, you know? Even in our mess, you can take the time to read, study and learn.

— What does it have to do with it?

— I don't know, I just envy that you can worry about that.

— I thought you weren't interested...

— I don't even know if I do. I haven't been able to try! — A wave of energy takes over him, so big and strong that if he doesn't release it he thinks it will make him explode. — I spend my time solving puzzles that no adult sees because they seem to be too blind for it or too calm to care until it's too late, and when I do have free time, I'm tired, with my mind too saturated to think about what I have to study. Still, I want to learn, which is also interrupted by running up and down all over the castle. —

A few helpless tears roll down his cheeks, his heart feeling heavy and he doesn't know what he should do next. Thankfully Hermione decides for him and pulls him by the neck into the hollow of her shoulders to comfort him. Harry manages to wrap his arms around her before letting go and crying. He tries to keep his volume down, he doesn't want to make a fuss and Hermione's clothes help with that.

In the end, he doesn't know how long he spends crying, he barely remembers the things Hermione said to comfort him, but when the tears stop, he doesn't walk away and she doesn't do anything about it. It's only minutes before footsteps are heard, announcing the presence of someone Harry didn't want to see.

Because he knew who he was before he spoke.

— I understand that a Mudblood doesn't know about decorum, but I expected more from you, Potter — before the usual shit-eating tone broke his head, Harry could only feel disappointment for the boy.

—Shut up Malfoy — Hermione tries, a valiant attempt to give him a few more seconds in his self-pity.

— I'm not talking to you. — is what he receives.

As tired as ever and with no desire to fight the blond boy, Harry emerges from the small hiding place that Hermione offered and gives his best steady look.

— Not now, Draco. —

That had to do the trick because the guy looks surprised, doesn't say anything, but his eyes go wide and his eyebrows rise and his lips part a little like he wants to say something.

To anyone's eyes, it seems that the sanctimonious expression he always had is gone, and he just stares at Harry in bewilderment, but Harry manages to see more and notices the slight spasms in the boy's hands. It's obvious that he wants to do something, but instead, he turns his gaze to Hermione; he does this a couple of times, looking from one to the other as if assessing the situation and thinking about what he should do. Before he has an answer, the three of them hear Pansy's voice, who was nowhere in sight, but not too far from them.

— Did you find him, Dray? — she had asked, with a sweet and “flirty” tone that she always used to address Draco, but that does not hide how little involved she is with what seems to be “a search”

The blond is slow to answer, his gaze still fixed on the people in front of him. He only manages to react when the sound of footsteps starts again and they are heard closer.

— No, it's not here — he says before turning around and leaving the way he came.

Harry and Hermione looked confused at what just happened, both coming to a silent agreement that they don't want to be involved in that.

- What are you up to? -

— Nothing — that was the most certain — I don't think I can.

— I can ask my parents to talk to your uncles so you can spend the summer at my house.

— That's very kind, but they won't let me. They take great pleasure in making me miserable and they like to keep up appearances, they won't want me causing trouble in another house. Until they have to look after me, they won't leave me alone. —

An hour later, when Harry's crying is no longer noticeable, they return to the carriage with Ron and Ginny. The boys were talking to their brothers and as soon as they see them they want to approach them, but Hermione kindly rejects them and instead, she accompanies him to the window where he can rest.

Hours later, as the starry sky envelops the landscape, Harry thinks about what he said. He wouldn't be free until he stopped living with the Dursleys... What if he didn't stay with them anymore?

He could go on his own, he knows how to take care of himself and how to keep a house, he could stay in a hotel or get a temporary inn until he had to return to Hogwarts; his parents left a lot of money, he saw it and if the things Draco said about the Potter fortune were true, then he wouldn't have to worry in the near future about how to pay for things, he could afford it.

If he couldn't escape the fucking danger, Harry could have his summer quiet, a real time to rest and clear his head before returning, time to mentally "prepare" himself for the coming dangers.

They arrive in London around 10:00 pm, the station is clear and everyone is glad to be home. Outside the station, he meets the rest of the Weasley family who thank him again for saving Ginny's life. Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping back; they soon left and that left Harry with the Grangers. They had offered to reunite him with his family, as they were also muggles and could make the interaction less awkward.

He knows Hermione noticed the change, his silence, but she didn't say anything and Harry adored her for it.

It takes about five minutes to find Vernon waiting in the car, Hermione's parents try to talk to him but he quickly dismisses them while ordering Harry to get in the car, he doesn't, instead he waits for the Granger family or someone who knows them to come into sight before confronting his uncle.

— You can leave me here —

- What do you mean?

— You don't have to take care of me anymore, you can let me take care of myself. I don't even have to pick up things from your house, I don't have anything that interests me and you can throw away whatever you want.

— Stop talking nonsense and get in the car.

— Look at it this way, leave me here and I won't bother you ever again. — That seemed to hook Vernon who looked at him trying to think of his answer, maybe even debating if it was morally correct. — Let "my" people take care of any problems I cause, your family won't have to put up with me again.

—How do I know this isn't a trap?

— Because no one is around to witness this — I turn to the side to emphasize my words. She saw him come to a conclusion — But if you want to be sure, don't leave me here exactly, take me to where I'll be staying, it's not too far away. —

Vernon hesitates in his answer, but it wasn't too much because he already knew what he wanted.

They both get in the car and don't say anything the whole way beyond how to get there; Vernon never asked about their plans because he knew they didn't matter to him and Harry didn't feel bad about it. Ten minutes later, the entrance to the leaky cauldron comes into view and the trip is over. Harry gets out of the car with his things and doesn't look back, not even when the car's engine announces that it's driving away.

To be honest, Harry was a little scared, there were a lot of things that could go wrong the second he stepped foot in that place, but unlike everyone else, this risk was worth it so Harry grabbed the doorknob and entered the establishment, ready to try for a better life.

Chapter Text

Fear, at its core, is an anticipatory emotion. It's not always based on what's real, but on what we think could be. When we avoid a fear, we don't eliminate it; we let it grow like a long shadow that follows us everywhere. The unknown amplifies that shadow, turning something manageable into something seemingly insurmountable. However, many times, what we imagine is far more terrifying than reality itself.

There is a silent fear, one that doesn't scream or terrify at night, but that whispers constantly during the day. It is not reflected in mirrors or measured in words; it is felt in the emptiness left by forgotten dreams. It is the fear of losing oneself. Of waking up one day and discovering that, among so many decisions, sacrifices and expectations, we live someone else's life.

The fear of losing ourselves is deeply linked to the fear of losing what we already have. Often, we keep our hands closed, clinging tightly to what we feel defines us.

But what happens when the struggle to hold it all together robs us of the opportunity to question who we really are? Facing this fear requires no more strength than we used to bear it, we just need to remember that we are more than expectations, more than what we possess or pretend to be. That our life is worth living from the inside out, not as a reflection of what others wish to see.

Facing it may be painful. It may involve letting go, risking something breaking. But in the end, facing this fear not only frees us from losing ourselves. It gives us the chance to find ourselves, to feel that we are alive, not because of others, but because of ourselves.

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For the first time in years, Harry knows what it's like to wake up on your own, without screams, bangs, whiny children or a blaring alarm. He knows what it's like to take time and reflect on the fact that we've woken up again, that we have a new day and with that, a new opportunity.

The knock on the door is the only warning before Madeline enters.

She moves closer to open the curtains of the room, the sunlight flooding the walls and illuminating the place. Harry stays in the middle of the bed, sitting between the blankets while he allows himself to listen to a little of the already normal morning hustle and bustle in the alley.

—Did you sleep well? — he asks from the window.

Previously, you would have felt uncomfortable with the question, forced to say “okay” because that’s what people want to hear, because if you tell them the truth they don’t usually take it so well, they don’t know how to react to inconveniences. They don’t know what to do if someone answers “badly.”

— Not very well, actually — With her, he is not afraid to answer — I still believe this is a dream.

— Why? — That's her favorite question. She enjoys asking it, questioning herself and, in turn, questioning Harry.

The first few days he felt nothing but repulsion for her, a simple question for which he has never had an answer.

why do you always have to be in danger?

why are you always the center of attention?

why are you always involved in this?

why can't you stay still?

why do we have to take care of you?

why are you still here?

I. Don't. Know

That's his answer to each of those questions. To his entire life.

— Everything is too good

—And that's bad?

— I feel like I'll wake up at any moment

— You didn't answer my question —

She looks at him, waiting for him to continue. Harry doesn't feel like it.

It's not the first time they've had this conversation, it's not the first time she's questioned him, she always does and Harry doesn't understand what he's getting out of it. Is she bored? Maybe that's the case and that's the most interesting thing. Although he knows it's not true. She's helping, trying. She's trying to help him.

— I don't know — she sighs. A truth that hurts, that is difficult to say. To admit.

— I don't think so — she answers. This time she approaches him, slides gracefully across the cold wood and pretends to sit next to him — why would it be bad if you were happy? —

That damn question again. Why, why, why, why. There's always a "why" that Harry doesn't have an answer to. And that's unfortunate, if you ask him. What's the problem? What's his answer?

— I had to escape to be one, why did I need to do that? —

That's something that's always on his mind, the regret that comes from fear. The anxiety that someone will walk through those doors and drag him back into a cage, put on a collar and have to wait for the next command to follow. The reason why, after two weeks, he's still there; not coming out or talking to anyone. Hiding. Like a criminal.

— From my point of view, you are scared and that is normal — there is no mockery or sarcasm in her words, nor a cheap attempt at consolation. It is the beginning of another speech, one that might make him feel better — According to what you have told me, none of the people who were supposed to take care of you did so. Some openly harmed you and others threw you into danger without believing that you would return alive. Did you have to escape? Well, you did what you had to in order to survive. Happiness should not be a privilege

— What if everything goes wrong?

— You will have to decide

- That?

— If you will try again —

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Two weeks ago, after Vernon left, the adrenaline had threatened to consume Harry's entire system and with so little hope and a terrible plan, the boy set off down that narrow street where he had been learning to walk. Needless to say, it was dark, in a society where electricity is not a great friend of wizards and lighting depends almost entirely on candles and oil lamps, the amount of things that are usually seen during the night is not usually the best. .

Harry walked around for a while, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now. Were there hotels for wizards? The only thing like that were those rented rooms located in the Leaky Cauldron, they weren't bad, but they weren't safe either. If there was one thing Harry had been sure of when he'd gone into the dive, it was that for the first few weeks, he couldn't set foot in places that were common or where he was known. The chances of someone recognizing him were high and if they did, it would be a matter of hours before some adult found him. And that wouldn't go well.

So what Harry did was to go as far as he could - and safely - into Diagon in search of an establishment that would let him stay the night for a not-so-high fee. His salvation ends up hidden between two large shops, with a structure similar to the English houses in the muggle world; from the outside it seems narrow, but upon entering the house is deep.

— It's too late to be alone, don't you think? —

The voice echoed through the walls, a directionless echo that surrounded him completely. A shiver ran down Harry's spine and he shrugged off the fear and caution in his body. He tightened his grip on his suitcase and opened Hedwig's cage as discreetly as he could, just in case she needed it.

— I need a place to stay for the night — He said to nowhere, which clearly didn't respond.

The only sound was her increasingly pounding heart, her heavy breathing, and the soft ticking of the large clock on the wall behind the counter.

— I can help you with that —

A white mist swirled around the entrance, blinding for a minute before revealing an old woman; a ghost. She was dressed in the casual clothes of any witch, a long skirt with a white ruffled shirt and a coat to protect her from the cold. Her hair could be seen brown with a large trace of gray, she didn't have many wrinkles, but her skin was not young. Her curious eyes, covered behind a pair of glasses looked at him expectantly, up and down in an analysis of what was happening.

— Who are you hiding from? — I asked — Why are you running away? —

Harry froze in place, for a moment there was nothing around him, his heart pounded and he could hear a current of electricity somewhere, growing and coming closer; echoing in his ears. He tried to breathe, but it hurt, burning between his ribs, fire eating away at his lungs, from his own breathing. His hands tingled, throbbing to do something, he had to do something.

— Calm down — they told him. The ghost witch was with him in seconds, trying to hug him and restrain him. Harry felt himself breathing a little easier — I don't plan on doing anything to you.

— How? — he said.

— Your gaze — she said — is tired, too much so. The last time I saw a look like that was on the wizards who returned from the last war. You look too young to have lived through it — Was it that obvious? Could the others see it? — What are you afraid of? —

≫ ──── ≪ •◦ ❈ ◦• ≫ ──── ≪ 

Madeline's Inn, against all odds, was still operating.

It's been around for nearly a hundred years and has been run as a ghost for twenty years. According to her story, they've wanted to tear the place down and sell it, but since her spirit has held on, no law allows it. There are hardly any guests, just the occasional foreign wizard who finds the leaky cauldron full, and well, Harry now. It seems that ghost houses are unattractive to today's wizards, though it doesn't feel bad, it's relaxing to be able to just live and help the few who show up.

Since there is never anyone to look after him, Madeline does everything. Early in the morning, she enters Harry's room when she thinks the boy is awake and opens the curtains next to the window of his balcony, letting the life of the street flood into the house and motivate the boy to get out of his bed.

The first few days, Madeline prepared breakfast; an hour after Harry woke up, he was in the witch's old dining room enjoying what she had prepared for him. However, after a few days, Harry began to have slight episodes of anxiety that ended up being balanced by the boy doing small household chores.

Back in the present, after his shower and dressed in clean clothes, Harry headed straight down to the kitchen only to be stopped by the imposing figure of his new friend.

— Grand-meré — She said. A request from the witch when she “took in” Harry — Is everything okay? —

The lady was, in a fascinating way, drinking tea. A set of tableware as translucent as she was and that seemed to be real. She looked at him making some signs for him to join her and when Harry sat where he was indicated, a tray full of tea appeared with a click of the ghost.

— It's time for you to leave — She tells him before sipping her cup. A clear order from Mom that Harry is just getting used to — It's not good for you to be here.

- Can't

— You don't want to — he corrects — I thought we talked about this this morning, you have the right to be happy. You must do it.

- But-

— Harry — the sound of the ghostly porcelain hitting the table sounds real, enough to be believed. Madeline now looks at him seriously, she is not angry but it is clear that she will not back down from her decision. — You did not escape from confinement to isolate yourself somewhere else. What good is all that fear if you are not going to face it? You have to get out

— Grand-meré… — Harry insists, he has to do it.

There is a silence of minutes in which she looks at him while he looks at his cup, the green liquid reflects her eyes and from there Harry can see his own fear. He looks away and tries to even out his feelings by taking a few deep breaths. In front of him, he can feel the hint of a ghostly hand caressing his head in a loving gesture.

— Let's do this — she suggests — Let's start with simple things, errands that need to be done or a to-do list that you have. These will be simple, short trips that will help you gain confidence.

— You don't want me here anymore — Harry interrupts.

— Of course not, but going from one cage to another is not good. Even if you have chosen your cage. You can't spend your life hiding, dear. You have to go out and face your world. —

Harry knows it, he objectively knows it, but it's difficult. It's scary. The consequences and everything he might face on his way, but above all he's afraid of his own freedom. Ironic, isn't it? Your greatest desire becomes your greatest fear. What a joke of his life. But what's more frightening than free will, the freedom to do what you want and how you want. There are many people who don't know, not the limits, but the rationality of it and end up doing horrible things; Harry doesn't want to be one of them. Logically he knows he won't do it, but in a world like the one he got into, that's what everyone says.

— Let's start with something simple, shall we? — Madeline says — A couple of blocks down is a friend's little tea house, go there, have some breakfast and then come back. It's small and discreet, nowadays everyone prefers the cauldron and unfortunately it barely has enough customers to keep the place going. Let's help with a couple more sales, do you like it? —

Harry nods, but doesn't answer. He doesn't like the plan, but he doesn't like a lot of other things in his life either and he's had to do them. It's nothing new. And the truth is, it's not a bad plan, it's not overwhelming and it's even exciting, he just wishes he didn't have to do it alone.

— What is the name of the place? —

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

As he walks in, Harry notices families and friends quietly eating whatever they've chosen from the menu, and a few groups of adults are chatting energetically, perhaps catching up on the latest society gossip, which he's noticed happens a lot.

Harry doesn't like that very much, they meet and talk for hours about spicy things that could have happened in the previous days, repeating the same information with different perspectives and creating different stories about what happened.

Being surrounded by gossip can lead to being involved in one.

Why would that happen to him?

He takes a few steps into the store, its decor is very nice, he has to admit, with beige and green tones and lots of plants around. He likes that. And with a little more confidence and conviction, he approaches the line in the middle of the store and begins to read the large sign announcing the menu.

— Hello, Harry! — someone says behind him.

Startled, he spins around on his heels, feeling dizzy at the thought of turning to the person who discovered him. The source turns out to be a girl a few years older. Her skin is healthily white, adorned with cute round features and eyes of a mind-blowing blue color. However, Harry is surprised by other things: first, this girl's hair is an alarming bright pink; and second, he has no idea who she is.

— Good morning — he nods with a smile to the girl and the woman accompanying him, who he supposes could be his mother; they return the smile — Excuse me, do I know you? I'm sorry if that's the case, I've been distracted these days.

— Oh, don't worry. You don't really know me, but we have met before, when you entered Hogwarts I was in my last year, Hufflepuff. My name is Tonks, well actually it's Nymphadora, Nymphadora Tonks, but I don't like Nymphadora so I would appreciate it if you didn't call me that, instead you can call me Tonks, okay? —

When she finishes speaking, Harry is a little dizzy, she spoke too fast that he could barely understand her, but he extends his hand with a smile and nods.

— Nice to meet you, Tonks. I know you know me, but I'd like to introduce myself properly. I'm Harry and although I imagine you know my last name, I'd appreciate it if you'd forget about it, just Harry —

It's not the kindest introduction he's ever made, in fact he's firm in his final words, but he feels it's necessary. Besides, Tonks had asked for things, she had the right to do the same.

They both nod in cordial understanding and then the brown-haired lady speaks to her.

— Nice to meet you, son. I'm Andromeda Tonks, Niffy's mom, but you can call me Andy —

Chapter Text

Hope is one of the most powerful and complex concepts in the human experience. It is not mere optimism. It is not denying problems or painting a difficult reality in bright colors. It is the belief that, despite adversity, there is a possibility for something good, something different, something more. A resilience in the face of uncertainty, a defiance against emptiness, suffering, or hopelessness. It arises when, even in the darkness, people choose to imagine the light.

But it can also become a trap, an illusion that leads to disappointment. Blind hope, which is not accompanied by action or awareness, can leave a person passively waiting for a change that will never come. It becomes a burden, a source of frustration and pain.

It is a risk that must be taken, because without it there is no possibility of change, of finding something beyond fear. Because if hope is used well, even those who live in fear can find the courage to face it, step by step. But if it is lost, the fall can be more devastating than any fear that has to be faced.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

The weekend arrives very quickly and with it, July officially begins.

He can't believe it's been so long. Last month, Harry was facing the young spirit of a deranged wizard who had somehow managed to insert his will into a book, control a giant snake, and get into the mind of a little girl; something that gets murkier and murkier when he thinks about it. But now, Harry is facing two years of delayed studies.

He found the list of homework that Hermione wrote a few days before, he wasn't very interested at first but when he read it and saw that she had no idea what she was supposed to hand in when she returned to school, reality hit him.

Since he became a wizard he didn't have much time to learn how to be one, from the beginning he ran up and down the castle chasing unnecessary dangers without worrying much about the load of homework and work, not counting those teachers like Snape who rather than helping their students are the first to set traps to make them fall and then gloat over the failure of wizards much younger than him.

Remembering all of this makes him feel heavy, anger and resentment bubbling up from deep within reminding him that they are there and that he is not free from them, not that he cares. At many points in his days, when his conscience threatens to sink him into guilt and remorse, he uses these memories to remember what happened. Madeline helps too, of course, but these silent feelings were the ones who got in the way of the ghost witch.

After trying to study for a few hours, she gives up and asks Madeline for advice. Madeline accepts, but after a few attempts, they get nowhere. Madeline had been to school for many years, and education was different in her time. Madeline comments that in her time, the magical world was different, the last generation to attend Hogwarts before the entire world changed. It was hard for her to resign herself to leaving behind years of study and practice just to align herself with the new guidelines.

They don't talk much more about it, as she is an old ghost and tends to forget many things about her life. In her words, it's like living twice, because when you die and you hold on, you're still not alive, you're not completely yourself anymore and you have to learn to live with that again.

— I'm so sorry I can't help you, Harry — she says dejectedly. Her mood is manifested in the opacity of her being. When she's dejected, her spirit becomes more transparent in an attempt to make herself go unnoticed.

He shakes his head dismissively. Although he still doesn't learn from his books, he's still learning about magic.

— I think I can get you some books that might help you, but I'm not sure if they'll be related to your studies — she offers. She really cares about him.

And they may not have had the friendliest encounter, but Harry is glad he met her.

—No need, Gran-mere — he answers — I still have my books from previous years, I think that should be enough, after all, it is what I should already know. —

She feels confused, but doesn't say any more on the subject and leaves him to give him privacy.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

At midday on Monday, the front door of the inn is flung open. Without much ceremony, Tonks walks through the door wearing a fashionable Muggle outfit, with bright pink hair and completely black sunglasses.

—How is my favorite Gryffindor today? — he exclaims as a greeting.

Harry smiles when the shock of the suddenness passes, Madeline also appears at the sound and when she sees the excited half-breed she just shakes her head in amusement.

— Good morning, Miss Tonks — He greets her.

When Harry first met, after sharing a lively breakfast and spending some time with both women, Harry felt very comfortable in the company, soon Nymphadora declared herself his friend and Harry did not correct her.

Later, when Harry returned to the inn, escorted by the witches, he told Madeline about his encounter. She questioned him about his well-being and how the interaction made him feel, and they spent the rest of the day talking about it. In the end, Madeline encouraged him to keep in touch with the witches, saying not only did they seem like nice people, but that a presence like Tonks in his life would be a good influence on his personal discovery.

That's how Harry was encouraged to share a letter with her where he wrote more about his interest in continuing to meet with them. Which brought them to the present day, with Tonks entering the inn of an old ghost witch in complete confidence.

— What are you doing, little lion? — I asked after sitting next to him in the main dining room of the house. His hair changed color, combining with purple hues that show his curiosity but keeping the original color.

Harry wanted to ask about her hair, but he didn't know how to broach the subject without seeming rude or disrespectful. So he left it for another day, instead pushing a few books towards the girl for her to see.

— I'm studying. I have to catch up on all my subjects before I go back to school. In addition to writing my application essays —

Tonks doesn't say much, but Harry knows she's listening by the color of her hair, which now has golden highlights, drawing her attention. She reads the books calmly, stopping at Harry's notes and anything he's highlighted as important.

She looks interested, her eyes shining and moving at an incredible speed. She murmurs quietly as if having a conversation with herself while making gestures and grimaces as necessary.

—Do you need help? — she asks without looking at him, switching books to repeat the observation process.

Harry thinks about it for a moment. It's clear that he needs her, but it's summer and he doesn't think Tonks wants to spend it studying. She's only recently graduated, so she probably has a lot more to do or is interested in.

— Doesn't it bother you?

— Not really — she answers. Her hair returns to its natural brown, lightly adorned with bright colors. — I was going to ask you out on the town, but this is fun too.

— We can go. I can study later — he interrupts.

Nymphadora shakes her head.

— I may not look like it, but I love studying. — Her hair bounces to a dark blue. — Even though I went to muggle school, my mother spent time educating me about magic from a young age; just like they did in her family. She instilled many things in me, made me love reading and when my letter arrived I was really excited. My hair looked like a rainbow. I spent every school term learning everything I could, I signed up for all the elective classes and completed my final exams. I am one of the few wizards who have managed to pass all the O.W.L.'s. —

Harry was amazed. He'd heard about it, Hermione spent a lot of time worrying about her studies, excited about electives, reading advanced volumes just so she wouldn't "start with a blank slate." She kept repeating the importance of OWLs and other exams, according to her only the most extraordinary wizards could pass them. And Tonks was one of them.

He felt his cheeks heat up with excitement. This girl was amazing.

As far as Harry knew, the girl not only had extraordinary social skills, but could balance her ancestry in harmony and take perfect pride in each one. She also had a complex personality that made you want to know more. For all he knew, she might know even more than what books could offer.

— Would you really do it? — I ask, my voice choked with emotion.

— No problem —

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

The rest of the day and the following week goes as follows.

In the morning, Harry follows his daily routine of waking up, taking a bath, and getting ready for the day. He helps Madeline with the chores around the inn, she has decided to give it some publicity and needs to get it ready before receiving more people. Then they have breakfast and talk about the plans they have, sometimes Tonks arrives on time for it, but most of the time she arrives at noon.

They spend the rest of the afternoon studying and Harry basically takes lessons from the younger witch.

She has a very comprehensive teaching style. Her knowledge of the subjects is extensive and she has the patience to explain every doubt to Harry, using charts and examples of how to do things. Many times, when the technicalities are too complex to understand, she explains them with examples and comparisons between the muggle world. In this way, Harry learns in a simpler and more complete way.

— They may use complex words because of their age, but most of the subjects are quite simple. —

Harry had asked how she was able to understand everything. Tonks seemed to understand everything like she understood colours, she had a natural ability for magic and one day she told Harry the great secret of her hair.

She is a metamorphmagus, one of the rarest abilities of wizards. Like Veelas or Parseltongue, this is a natural ability, and with it she can change her appearance at will without the need for potions or spells. For her, these characteristics are physically shown in the color of her hair, although she can extend it to other facial and bodily features. She is also subject to emotional changes, which was a frustrating experience for her parents. Another reason why Andromeda introduced her to magic from a very young age, since it required a lot of concentration and precision to control it. It was also the reason why she was so interested in studying, she was intrigued by this type of natural magic and wanted to know more about how many others existed.

He only discovered that they were too few, family heirlooms too closely guarded from outsiders.

— For example, Charms. Professor Flitwick will always try to make his classes full of poetry because he likes it and so you can practice rhyming, but the subject is really about all those spells that wizards use in their daily lives: cleaning, finding things, even changing. It's focused on language and basically, connecting with your magic.

DADA classes, not to mention that they've been changing teachers every year. It focuses on teaching you which creatures to avoid and how to protect yourself in case of danger. They teach you basic defense and counterattack spells. It's a Gryffindor favorite," he adds with a wink.

Harry laughs at that and why for many of his friends she is the favorite.

— Professor Minerva's Transfiguration class is very interesting, but it is difficult and since it requires a lot of concentration and precision, most people stick to theory. To avoid accidents.

Potions with Professor Snape is quite a challenge. The guy is extremely strict and a cheater with those students he doesn't like, but if you can avoid that it's like cooking or baking, to be specific. He teaches you how to prepare different things with magical raw materials, the difficult part might be the precision, if you're not careful they tend to explode.

Astrology and History of Magic are the easiest. One relates the cosmos and its influence on magic and the other goes over magical occurrences with the phrase “that’s bad, don’t do it.” Herbology is taught by my head of house, it’s basically growing and caring for magical plants while learning about them. We donate most of the crops to the potions supply.

With these explanations and Tonks' help in understanding the subjects, Harry's studies become much easier and more interesting. The way she explains things to him has the same effect as Andy's on Tonks, making him love learning. Soon, Harry finds himself reading texts from Madeline's library in his spare time, trying to relate each thing to what he knows in the muggle world and being intrigued by how similar and different they are to each other.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

In the second week of school, Harry is very close to his expected educational level. There is still a lot he needs to know and wants to learn, but he will soon be ready to catch up on activities and complete his schoolwork.

In his routine, he frees up enough time to wander around Diagon. Tonks takes him to a thousand different shops, treats him to sweets from cute establishments, and they also browse the fashion stores. They stop by the shop that sells Quidditch supplies, visit the pet shop, and many more. Sometimes they go out to London, tour part of the muggle world, and Tonks guides him to public places and shops where he usually spends his time in the summer.

She tells him that she doesn't have many friends to hang out with, she left the map very young and over the years her normal friends drifted away, she doesn't resent them because sometimes she meets them on the street or in the neighborhood but they are not so close anymore, most of the things she knows about them are the gossip that her parents receive. On the other hand, her magical friends tend to be more afraid or disinterested, most of them go out with their parents and prefer to spend time with them, but those who stay in the area prefer not to socialize. That hurts her, but she accepts it.

They sometimes meet up with Andromeda or her husband Edward, Ted as she asked Harry to call him. They invite him on regular outings, shopping or to the movies. These days, for Harry, are usually filled with anxiety, not because he is uncomfortable being with them, but because it is still difficult for him to recover from the Durleys' abuse. He spends so much time being treated like a burden that when Tonks tries to joke around with him, Harry can't help but shudder; in public, he stays away from the family trying not to "ruin" their image and otherwise stays quiet. They all understand him, after Harry starts talking about many of these things so they don't pressure him, but they still try hard to include him and respect his space.

Harry adores them more and more and privately, he begins to wonder if this is what it feels like to have a family.

The weekend, when the calendar marks mid-June, Andromeda and Tonks meet Harry for lunch and a day out.

Madeline and Andromeda chat while the boys finish their study session. Right now, they are in the introductory topics for the third year.

According to the program, at least two subjects will be added to his current required course load, these subjects will be studied for the rest of school and will be on his O.W.L. list, but before that, Harry has to write application essays for those subjects he wants to get into.

Their list of requirements mentions that each essay must be made up of three parts. The first is an introductory essay on the subject, this to assess whether you have a minimum level of understanding of the subject or in other words: if you know what you are getting into. The second part requires a summary of Harry's expectations for the subject, he must write what he hopes to learn and how it could relate to his current life and possible future. This part is intended to motivate or make students who are not convinced by the subject drop out, and it also gives teachers an idea of the type of students they will have. The last part of the essay is a brief research paper on the relationship of the practice of the subject in the magical community, they have to research the professions that require this knowledge and how they contribute to society. This is to promote the importance of the subject and provide possible careers for wizards.

Tonks is kind enough to tell him about her experience, as is Andromeda; Harry discovers that she and her husband are both doctors. Andy is a pediatric mediwitch at St Mungo's Hospital while Ted is a trauma and emergency doctor at a muggle hospital; it seems that Ted always had the dream of sharing a bit of magic with the world, since although magic flowed through his veins, it still came from normal humans and he never forgot his origins. In this way, he tried to merge their worlds by bringing some magical remedies to humans.

— In most cases, the school expects students to finish the subjects they choose from the third year onwards, but if it happens that someone is interested in dropping out or joining, they have to go through certain admission or withdrawal guidelines. If you want to enter, you have to present your essay in addition to certain assignments that are prescribed to you and pass an exam, this to show that you are at the same level as your classmates and will be able to keep up with the subject. Usually this period is reduced to the first trimester and is allowed every year until the fifth year, which is when the O.W.L.s are applied. —

Andromeda's voice explaining this is mesmerizing. Harry now understands why Tonks turned out to be too good, Andy has a natural attraction and can capture the attention of anyone in the room. His way of speaking is somewhat formal, but understandable. Tonks says this is due to his upbringing.

During their little lecture, Andy has Harry and Madeline completely enthralled, hanging on his words and absorbing all the information. Harry thinks they look like snakes when he talks and is amused by it, especially since she seemed embarrassed but used to it and because Tonks is totally proud of her mother's effect.

— Now, the subjects that are available. — It's Tonks' turn to speak, her hair squealing pink showing her excitement. From somewhere, the young witch takes out a muggle notebook along with a pen to show Harry illustrated notes that accompany her explanation. — There are five in total that are available, which means that if you enter all of them you will have 12 subjects, many people think it's very hard because the classes are back to back, but you can do it.

Now then, we have the divination class. This subject is usually taught by Professor Trelawney, she is a somewhat well-known psychic witch; she usually seems to be out of her mind and out of touch with reality, but that is because of her power. Divination is a magical art that predicts the future and magical signs, for most witches this is stupid, but that is because not all of us can learn it. There are simple techniques that can be saved with theory, but divination is reserved for wizards who have “the gift”, which is rare. Most choose it because it is easy. —

By the time he finishes speaking, Harry notices that the illustrated page devoted to the subject is covered in scratches that follow the flow of their conversation. Tonks doesn't seem to mind so he doesn't comment on it, instead trying to understand the subject and whether he would like to take it. It sounds interesting, but he is put off by the possibility that he doesn't have any abilities.

— Next up is Ancient Runes. This class is taught by Professor Bethesda, and focuses on studying ancient writings and magical symbols used in the wizarding world. Since it's an "ancient" type of magic, most people tend to get bored because you're just reading and trying to translate the texts. In class, there's not much practice with runes and they're usually difficult if you don't know how to translate them, but they're great. It's like the old version of enchantments. —

In his notes, Harry notices clusters of symbols, most likely runes. Most have some sort of meaning written on the side, but before he can read it, Tonks flips to the next page.

— Arithmancy, a class taught by Professor Vector. It works like astronomy, but with mathematics. It studies its relationship and influence on magical events.

Discarded, it doesn't interest Harry much, but one thought makes him smile: he can see Hermione excited with her curly hair fluffy with excitement or stress of the subject.

— Lastly, Muggle Studies. This is a stupid subject, its purpose is to relate muggle culture to wizards, but most people ignore it or make fun of it. Not to mention that every single thing they bring to “study” is stuff donated by the ministry and therefore they have no idea what they are actually doing. If you are a half-blood or muggle-born, your classmates might make stupid comments or ask you to explain everything to them. I don’t recommend it —

Tonks's hair turns cherry red, frustrated by the memory. Behind her, Andy looks somewhere between resigned and empathetic; it may not be the best way to promote a subject, but she understands her daughter's feelings. She doesn't say anything, but Harry can see Madeline with her eyes round like a curious cat.

— There's another subject on your friend's list: Care of Magical Creatures. — Andy reads with the scroll in hand. — This is a subject that isn't taught every year due to the shortage of teachers who know about the subject. In my generation, it was Newt Scamander who taught it for a few years. A completely beautiful subject, Newt had a divine way of talking about his animals, not to mention that he had thousands; every time we learned about a new creature he would address us with a tone full of adoration and emotion. It was a popular subject back then and not just because he was handsome — she laughs with her cheeks blushing at the memory. Harry suspects that she was also in love with him — This subject teaches you about the biology, behavior and care of magical creatures. Its objective is to learn to respect them and how to deal with them if you come across one. Nowadays it is very rare for someone to be interested in it, when Professor Scamander retired the ministry regulated the practice because they didn't want more accidents like the ones that happened with the professor. Still, I think there are a couple of private academies dedicated to this. —

Harry didn't write his essays that day. With all the information he was given, he decided to stop and think seriously about them, perhaps sending a letter to Hermione so they could talk about them and do more research.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

On Saturday morning, Harry has been invited to go out for a walk with Andy and Tonks, Tedd had a double shift at the hospital and couldn't join them.

Early in the morning, Harry is faced with a few problems. The first is that he no longer has many clothes to match, and some of the clothes are starting to get too small due to the growth stagnation he is experiencing due to age and that he is eating healthily, which is not a problem. However, this leads him to the second problem, he is running out of money.

Madeline has been kind enough to waive the inn rent, letting him pay for his chores and basically adopting him. Still, with all the outings Harry has had over the course of a summer month, his limited reserves of money left over from leaving Hogwarts are close to zero. He'll have to go to the bank soon, but he doesn't have anyone to go with him. In his first year, Hagrid helped him withdraw money while introducing him to the wizarding world and getting the stone out of another vault. Secondly, it was Mrs. Weasley who escorted him.

Now, Harry has neither. Telling Hagrid is like setting himself up on a silver platter to be taken back to the castle or to the Dursleys, skipping the scolding and questioning about his escape. Something he's not ready to face, at least not this year. Also, he hasn't heard from the Weasleys so far, at first he was grateful because they were still trying to adjust to Madeline and life in Diagon, but weeks later the lack of letters or notes makes his heart sting with sadness.

— You can always tell the girls, you know? —

Madeline accompanies him as he chooses his outfit and tells him about her concerns. She has also grown fond of the young witches and is pleased that Harry is associating with them as they have a lot to offer him, both personally and in other areas.

The ghost is relieved about this new relationship, since the first day he met them Harry has improved a lot in his attitude. He has adapted and relaxed in the same period of time that she managed to get him to leave the inn. And she knows that this whole matter is a delicate subject Harry wants to reveal only to those he trusts and who know how to respect his situation, she understands the boy's hesitation to share information but she trusts both witches. They will be great pillars for Harry when he needs it.

— They won't just support you. Andromeda can help you manage yourself. — she argues, finishing convincing the boy in front of her.

— That's not what I'm worried about, I thought about that too when I realized the situation — Harry answers, choosing between two different shirts — I just don't want to bother them, we're supposed to go out and have fun. Don't you think that would be too much to ask? I was the one who left without a plan, and they're already helping me with school. I don't want to take advantage of them.

— Harry — she calls him — First of all, you have nothing to lose by asking. I already told you, they will understand and will definitely support you. I suspect that Andy knows what it means to be in your situation, even if he doesn’t know your story. Secondly, you must remember that a good friendship and relationship is not conditional. Sure, you should appreciate and treasure what they do for you, but what you do for the people you love is for that reason, because you love them. Love should not be conditional. —

That's probably one of the hardest things for Madeline, breaking every "teaching" that Harry has received or learned in 12 years of life.

Trying to destroy the stigmas he grew up with.

Harry deserves to have people to lean on and she won't always be able to be by his side. He doesn't want people to take advantage of him or use him for their own ends. Harry is a very intelligent and tenacious person when it comes to those who earn his affection, but he's young and too hungry for affection to be careful. She doesn't doubt that there are already people around him who are manipulating his affection.

He trusts Andromeda and Nymphadora, both women, along with their husband, have shown to have the right foundation of values to relate to Harry. Tonks is like Harry, a misunderstood half-blood in both worlds who has been underestimated and stereotyped based on what they let on. On the other hand, Andromeda is a pureblood, he deduced it from her manners and education; if she managed to make a happy life with her family it is because she had to make difficult decisions and learn not to regret them, she has been through the same before. And she may not know Ted, but from what his wife says about him, the man never felt totally comfortable with magical society, he learned about its beauty and living with it as part of him, but it does not seem that he made peace with its meaning. Just like Harry and his muggle family.

In the 150 years that Madeline has lived and the 20 years that she has been a ghost, she has been able to discover many things. She has lived through many important moments in the magical world and although she has had the privilege of seeing time pass by, something that will never change is the great complexity of emotions and interactions in human beings.

Such interesting beings that never stop adapting, they always learn and grow; they evolve. There is no black and white, nor shades of grey with which to differentiate. Human beings are full of colours that mix and intertwine according to their experiences, you never finish knowing a person and you never know their whole story.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Summer nights are usually short and during the day, most people spend their time relaxing and enjoying the weather. They play in the water, hang out with friends and generally live. Most people forget about danger, not because it goes away but because they are too busy relaxing that they forget not to let your guard down completely.

In the middle of the night, with orange lights adorning the roads, the establishments setting the mood in the city, the shadows surround each other among the dangers they hide.

At some point, the air on Andromeda Road changes. A smell of earth and despair permeates the place, and even though she remains in the middle of the street, with the fresh air rushing around her, that smell evolves until it is perceived too close, announcing danger.

She barely has time to defend herself from the attack, she can feel the crushing weight of her attacker against her. A spark of magic screaming in rage threatens her, but she is used to violence, she knows how to fight it; how to overcome it.

He manages to throw his opponent to a safe distance, where he can ensure his well-being without relying on his adversary's safety. He concentrates on magic, on the electrifying sensation of unleashed emotions. He is a strong magician, someone with vast knowledge in the art but who has not practiced it for some time. His magic is thick, a clear sign of the time he has spent without using it, but at the same time he is tired, he has used up a lot in a short time. It is clear that he is becoming familiar with his power again.

Which puts her at a disadvantage.

The magic contained is dangerous, if it gets out of control it is not only dangerous for the body of the magician who possesses it, the damaging effects that an explosion in the core can cause can be devastating for those around him. She breathes again, trying to perceive something else. She concentrates, stays calm and searches through her past until she finds a way to face it, only she doesn't expect that answer.

— If you don't want things to get ugly, answer — his voice is hoarse, torn by disuse, tinged with madness and protection. She hasn't heard it in years but it's still as velvety as the last time she heard from him — Why the fuck is a Black scum getting involved with my godson?

— Sirius?! —

Chapter Text

October 31, 1981

In the midst of the darkness, a scarlet light illuminates the street they are on.

From his wand, a great energy shoots forward. On the other side of the attack, he looks perplexed. His eyes are filled with fear and wonder, a look of false innocence that hides the hungry sadism of more. More chaos, more suffering, more deaths.

But the memory is perfect, pupils dilated with bloody pleasure, madness distorting his expression and widening his stupid smile of mockery and self—sufficiency. Anger rises from the bottom of his stomach, burning his insides and filling each of his limbs with adrenaline.

— Crucio —

The word feels disgusting and heavy on her tongue, many years ago she had sworn that she would never resort to that, but he had sworn that he would not die, they had sworn that they would never separate.

So yeah, to hell with promises.

When the spell hits its target, it's clear that it doesn't work. Peter doesn't writhe on the ground or scream for mercy, he doesn't beg for forgiveness for the unforgivable. No, there's only a gasp after the impact of having flown a few feet before returning to his place on the ground.

Why?

He had experienced the burning in his blood, the electricity burning inside him; he had begged for it to stop for hours. It was years of experience. Why didn't it work? He wanted to hurt her, he needed to hurt her, to make her pay for what she just did, what should never have happened.

He felt the heavy air surrounding him, filled with his own magic that screamed to be released. He wanted to do it, to listen to it and unleash the disaster he could feel coming. It was tempting, a gentle seduction that was hard to refuse. It would be so easy, to just end it all in the most extreme way, to tear her body apart at once and watch it scatter everywhere. To reduce that traitorous body to nothing, to make it just like it is now.

"Casting this spell is not an easy thing, you must want it. Enjoy your victim's pain as much as you can, otherwise it won't work."

—Crucio —

Fail again.

"Why?" he asks again.

Why did he do it?

Why did he allow it?

Why was he your friend in the first place?

Why didn't he arrive on time?

Sirius doesn't have answers to any of his questions, nor will they come, but at this point he doesn't care. The minutes he spent trying to explain himself were what led him to this state. It felt like eternal years to give a thousand and one excuses for what happened, and none of them were enough.

The only important thing is to make him pay, he needs to do it.

With his vision barely clear but fixed on the person lying in front of him, he takes a moment to remember the years when his mother tried to teach him the unforgivable things, especially the one she tried to "correct" him with. His favorite.

Cruciatus.

The curse of torture.

The one they had tried on their bodies a thousand times.

"To cast a Cruciatus, it's not enough to have anger, Sirius. That won't get you anywhere, because this isn't what it's about. The punishment isn't for revenge, it's for pleasure. Have fun."

His mother's voice echoes in his head, that delicately unhinged tone tickling the edges of his ears, as if she were hovering over his shoulder the same way she had for so many years. He swears he can feel the soft breath on his ear after she says the words, the minty scent so characteristic of the woman reaching his nose, flooding his nose, his mind; his heart. Suddenly, the anger he felt for Peter could not compare to what he feels now, the hard, old resentment towards ghosts that will never leave him alone.

Sirius is completely shattered, but surprisingly calm. His shattered mind is so confused, yet so clear. It only takes a second for the noise around him to cease.

There are no screams or smashing, no dead family just a few feet behind him; there is no rage – if there is any – and no sadness either – it is actually consuming him; there is nothing in his heart, only a strong and eerie euphoria rising from within.

— Crucio —  

This time he doesn't miss and if the red light soaking into his skin wasn't enough, the screams of pain were. He casts it again and the effect is the same. Peter screams and writhes in fury, his broken voice heartbreaking and he loves it. Sirius does it again and then does it again. Over and over he casts the curse, remembering his mother's words as he understands them, channels that fury and turns it into vigor. He loves the results over and over, how the blond screams every time the spell hits his body, how he seems to break with each blow, how his life fades away with each second.

He loses track of how much time passes like this. His muscles burn, his breathing is erratic, but the moon remains a witness to his actions.

He doesn't notice that his cheeks hurt from the almost manic smile on his face or that his eyes are almost bulging from hyper—fixation on his target, on his prey. He feels his most primitive instincts take over and he loves it, because they have done what is in front of him.

Peter has long since stopped moving, he no longer screams or begs, but he is still alive and that is all he needs to continue.

He enjoys the magic still penetrating his body making him writhe like a shock, he loves the sight of his wet pants like the rest of his ajandrose clothes that are in tatters, totally covered in dirt and soot. He can see his "friend's" face swollen to the point of deformation, his veins marked in a black tone making him look dead, but Sirius knows it better than anyone, he knows that he is breathing and although it is almost imperceptible, he can hear it. He does not deserve that, he does not deserve to live after what he did.

It has to end and even though it was too quick for her broken heart, it doesn't deserve pity.

— Avada... —

— Expeliarmus —

The spell takes him by surprise and his wand flies away before landing in the leather—covered hands of a not—so—unknown wizard, an Auror.

From this point on things get worse, everything overwhelms him and although Sirius understands what is happening, he does not understand how they are there, he never called them.

Sirius watches them surround him with dark looks and wands pointed in his direction. His mind is floating in a limbo of stability strained by the reality of the thin line between being just like everyone in his family; and even though it's on the verge of breaking, Sirius knows he won't take the last step.

But it's late, he can't do anything to change things, because he knows they're not here for Peter, because he understands they're here for him.

— Sirius Orion Black — the head auror, his boss, shouts — You are under arrest for the use of unforgivable, for betraying the law and the wizarding world. In addition, for the murder of James Potter, Lili Evans—Potter and Peter Pettigrew. —

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In the three years that Harry has been a wizard, he has only had the opportunity to visit the great bank of Gringotts twice. The first time, Hagrid took him there. It was back when he knew nothing about the world, and he was amazed and excited at the idea that such a life existed for him and that none of the hateful members of his muggle family could harm him.

This time, Harry didn't pay much attention to what was in the vault. The knowledge that it all belonged to him was overshadowed by the gnarled feeling of his parents' legacy, what they left for him. They made sure that when the time came, he would want for nothing, and with that all the bad stories they had ever told him were shattered by the knowledge that they had loved him.

The second time he visited, it was Molly Weasley who went in with him. He wanted to go alone, but the red—headed mother had been rather insistent about everything happening in Harry's life. So yes, she acted like a mother hen and they both entered the vault.

It didn't take long either, not only because there was a whole family waiting anxiously outside the bank to walk down the alley, but because when they entered, Harry didn't miss the expression on Molly's face. Molly's first impression of her parents' legacy was a surprised face, which was subsequently crumpled into a frown; it was quite clear that the woman felt uncomfortable at the sight and Harry didn't miss it.

That time, he had rushed to take a lot of money blindly before running back.

The awkward couple of hours between them won't be something Harry will forget, at least for a while.

But now, a year after that and two years after his first visit, Harry has one more chance to visit the vault. This time accompanied by two witches, Andy and Tonks.

Harry had decided to follow Madeline's advice and after his walk the day before, he asked them for help and company to get into the vault. The two gladly accepted, being overly friendly and excited (Tonks) about it. So the next day, after having breakfast in the cafeteria where they met, the three of them headed towards Gringotts.

The vault is as big as he remembers, a large cylindrical space that rises several meters above their heads until it ends in a dome—shaped ceiling. It is made of smooth white marble material that is mystically illuminated by magical blue rocks. The walls are made up of huge shelves full of books, strange boxes, sculptures and beautiful decoration without reaching the exotic. In the middle of the room, there are piles of coins; gold, silver and bronze that cover the floor and reach more than half of the place.

— This place looks like a museum — Nymphadora says as she walks inside and heads to one of the bookshelves and begins to look through the books.

Harry blushes, alarmed at the fear of provoking an uncomfortable reaction from his new friends, however, this changes when he discovers the excitement of the young witch and the curious look of the older one.

— Can I borrow some?

— Sure, although I have no idea what they're about — there's an innocent embarrassment in his response.

But it's true, and it's only when he says it out loud that he recovers enough to know that he has no idea what's in there. He never cared about it, and the few times he did, he didn't have much time.

Andy interrupts her thoughts by placing a hand on her shoulder, when he looks at her she has a knowing smile on her face, he smiles back and with firmer confidence begins to investigate on his own what she is keeping.

— Maybe you could ask for a report — Andy says — It would help you know exactly what is here and if any income is being kept. I can help you with any financial help you need.

— Really? —

The witch nods and then they call one of the teeth to ask for the document.

While they wait, Harry takes the money he will need, takes for the rest of his summer, to buy new clothes that fit him. In a month his letters from school should arrive with the list of supplies, the general schedule and extra instructions, he decides he can visit the bank again later to get money and maybe take his usual walk with Hermione before leaving on the train.

Later that day, the three wizards meet at the inn, after having received a large accounting book with all the bank records, Andy suggested to return with Madeline to be able to review the book while the boys finished their homework, to which they gladly accepted, under the promise of going to muggle London for shopping the next day.

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— Well, I think I've finished reading it completely —

It's late afternoon, the sun is just beginning to set and its rays illuminate the room in a warm gold. There are a couple of hours left until dinner, Harry and Nymphadora finished their study subjects an hour ago and have been keeping themselves entertained with an old chess set from the inn; Andy has been at the dining table reading the book while drinking a cup of tea.

And when she announces her journey, all the activities that fill the silence of the building stop to focus on her. She has a curious, wild look in her eyes like a cat playing before the hunt, her smile is pleased and she waves her hand to the pair of teenagers to come closer. Madeline joins in as well, appearing another pair of cups for the boys and refilling the teapot as a ghost version of one appears for herself.

Once everyone is gathered and the silence stretches for a long time, Andy leaves the book on the table before addressing his viewers.

— Well, as you know, the Potter family is one of the leading houses in Britain. — she begins. She is calm and that is projected on Harry who feels that electrifying tingle around him, the same one he has been experiencing since he left the chamber. — It is normal for you to have a great fortune, even if your branch is the smallest. So, in short, if you wanted to you could retire and live quietly until you die and still have quite a lot of wealth —

She smiles at him after saying that, Harry on the other hand feels like time around him has stopped. There's a tightness in his stomach, it's not all bad but it's annoying enough that it can go unnoticed. He always knew he had money, he hadn't just seen it, many people in the wizarding world had boasted about the Potters' great wealth in his name. Even when they first met, Draco had tried to relate to him not only because of the fame behind the name, but because he had enough status to be "worthy" of the relationships his parents allowed. In theory, he knew it. But the weight of reality is always overwhelming, no matter how much weight you've carried before.

— The contents of the vault could be divided into three parts — Andy continues. She is not oblivious to Harry's reaction, but she knows that it is better to finish with it once and for all — The first one basically makes up half of the content and is divided between the inheritance from your father, James, after he came of age and the one he received after the death of his parents. The first one he received five years after their death, the second one a year before the same. —

At this point, Madeline holds his hand. Harry can feel her flow of magic flowing through the ghost's spectre, like a current conductor lightening the load on the main source. It makes him feel less tense, releases some of the pressure and makes it easier for him to reconnect with his senses: he can feel his heartbeat again, he can see better around him, his ears no longer feel blocked, he can smell the floral scent of the witches around him and he gets a taste for them. Tonks holds him too, the weight of her arm comforting on his shoulders and the presence of her sides making him feel safe, Andy takes his time before continuing to speak, carefully calculated when it is opportune, when Harry does not feel like he is about to suffocate.

— This half has books provided from your grandparents' library and what appears to be your father's interests when he was young, it also has a few unmovable family portraits, a couple of heirlooms belonging to your grandparents and the deeds to the house they lived in, the same one your father grew up in. Also, half of the money in the vault is from here. —

A heat flares up deep inside Harry, starting somewhere in his back and spreading across his chest, choking him in the middle of his throat. His legs feel heavy and fragile at the same time, he knows he won't be able to move and if he does, he won't be able to hold himself up.

In the twelve — almost thirteen — years that Harry has lived, this is the first time he has heard of his grandparents. His knowledge of them is much more scant than that of his parents, of whom he only knows lies told by Vernon and Petunia; and the cloying exploits of the wizarding world. For the first time, he can see the beginnings of a family connection even with the memory of what he never had. Many say it is hard to miss something you never knew, but longing is even more painful than loss. It is grieving for something that never existed, feeding it with your heart and breaking it into a thousand pieces again and again when reality catches up with your mind. It is a losing fight against yourself. And yet you are still standing, lifting me up and asking “what else?” “what else could happen?” “what could have happened?”

He presses himself closer to Tonks's side, hugging her around the waist and trying to hide his face in her shoulder, never taking his eyes off Andy. He clings to what he has, to what's real. To the silent magic of Madeline's presence, the firm touch Tonks returns, and Andy's kind, reassuring voice. They're here, they're real. They're with him.

He knows Andy is watching him struggle to compose himself, she doesn't push him, she waits patiently and Harry feels a slight joy at sensing the witch's own longing to comfort him. Harry wants to too, but he needs to get this over with. He nods imperceptibly and she continues:

— The other half of the vault is also divided, this time into three parts: James' legacy, Lily's legacy, and a curious monthly income that remains active to this day —

Everyone in the room knows that it is “a moment” that comes out of Andy’s lips and that it will mark a before and after in Harry’s life. The three women cling to him in some way, enveloping and protecting him from the past, and he is grateful to each of them.

— First, James’ legacy. — Andy is nervous too, Harry notes. He starts to notice the tension in the witch’s magic, he wonders if she feels a bit like him. If she feels his magic too or the others. — There is money he saves as an auror for the ministry, working for three years before having to stay home after the pregnancy announcement until a year after your birth. There are some books and mementos of him: albums and photographs plus some other things like muggle records and players. There are some Quidditch stuff from his school days and the power of the second house his family had. Located somewhere outside of London. —

All he can focus on are his father's belongings, photographs, memories. Evidence of his existence and glimpses of his life. He wants to see it immediately, he wants to know what his father was like over the years, to know if he's as much like people say, if there's any memory of his life at Hogwarts, his friends, or what he did. Harry wants to know if there are any photos of his family, any memories of all three of them. He wants desperately to go back. But he still has to listen.

— The next part is from Lily —

It is not a foreign name, thanks to Petunia it is too familiar to him and even though it is based on horrible lies driven by his aunt's contempt for his world, Harry still feels his heart skip a beat.

Memories come flooding back, the times I cried and missed a mother I didn't know. The school festivals where everyone gathers their mothers, the sight of his classmates running towards the long skirts with pretty designs and colors of ladies happy to see their sons after school. The ecstatic, smiling look of Petunia at every breath her son takes.

Tears come out without his permission, the flow of magic with Madeline grows stronger and he can feel her magic trying to reach the other two witches. There is a tension in his stomach that connects with some point in his chest just as vital as his heart, he tries to breathe and calm it, it takes him longer than it should but he continues his process of connection and after several minutes, he succeeds. Tonks has begun to massage his back and side, she has wrapped him more in her arms and Harry wants to go to sleep.

— She left money too, a substantial salary from the Ministry where she worked for three years before having to retire like your father. However, what she left behind most of all were books. There are muggle books, magical ones, and many that are not registered. It seems that many of them have a rather complicated access seal. The goblins were unable to check them. Finally, it seems that she left the deeds to a flat in muggle London, which according to the address is not too far from my own house, about ten minutes by tube perhaps. We could go there next time —

Feeling like your life is draining away with every breath you take can be torturous. Desperation grows and envelops every limb you take, making you feel like you're going to explode. You need air, you need to breathe, or else it's all over. Everything around you stops making sense, but at the same time it makes sense so crystal clear. Nothing is blurry, but nothing is clear either; all you can hold on to is the feeling of your body consuming with every breath lost.

The hustle and bustle of Diagon had ceased to exist hours ago, the people vanished with the setting sun and only the silence of the inn remained. The walls creaked, the wooden furniture expanded in the summer heat, I could hear the wallpaper peeling from places that had not been inspected in the distance, the kitchen echoed with Madeline's magic and no one as they prepared dinner.

Closer, Harry believes it is almost possible to feel the ghost witch's tangible sensation, their magics are still "united", he feels how the older one channels her power and then releases it freely into the environment, helps him release it and not leave it trapped in himself. Harry can feel it, he lets her do it, lets his magic run in the direction he is told in a desperate attempt to breathe again. Nymphadora doesn't let go of him, she hugs him and Harry thinks he can hear his own tears running silently down her porcelain skin. Andy finally reaches him, she envelops them both, warming them with her magic in a desperate attempt to protect them, an old and vaguely familiar feeling for Harry. Had she done it before? Had someone held him like that in the past?

I may never know.

And when he opens his eyes, Harry realizes that he never stopped breathing, he was never in danger of drowning. It was all in his head, his heart. It was all trying to get out. Harry doesn't think he should.

Back to reality, an hour after this event and when things have calmed down enough, everyone sits down to dinner. They gather together and eat as much as they can, filling the void with warm food that tastes like love, like home. Family. And the pain Harry feels feels stronger, only not terrible anymore.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Andy finishes telling him about the vault. He says there's a monthly income from a percentage of the royalties he got from his great—grandfather. By the way, Harry's messed up hair is a Potter heirloom and his grandfather had done something about it by producing a special hairspray that ended up being a hit on the market, but it hardly helped his family. Victory and Victory, Harry thinks.

— Harry — his name is Andromeda.

Everyone is spread out in the common room. Madeline pretends to take a seat on a large single sofa. Andromeda is on a double sofa with the book beside her, completely closed since she finished reading it. Harry and Nymphadora are on the floor, both lying back watching the eldest flutter orbs of warm light.

It's almost 10:00 at night, they were supposed to have returned home an hour ago, but Harry doesn't complain. He can trade a little worry for the comfort he feels from her presence.

— Hmm — he admits, still looking at the light above his head.

— You grew up with muggles, right? — she asks him, what he feels without thinking. It's her truth — Did you ever know why? —

That is a question he is often asked, and one he himself frequently questions.

— I don't know, they said it was for the best. Something about protection — she answers. The words she heard echo in her memories along with the constant reminders of her aunt proclaiming what a burden she was to her family — I think they were the only ones I could stay with, I think it worked because they were family.

— How is that?

— I think that when my mom died, somehow I think her water clung to me, that's what saved me — he says, pointing at his scar. It doesn't hurt, but it tingles every time it feels too strong — Since my grandparents were dead and dad was an only child, the only ones who could take care of me were my mom's sister's family. But they hate magic, it wasn't the most pleasant stay.

— Did they scold you? — Nymphadora says. Her hair grew to the middle of her back in the time they comforted her and remained a dark shade. You can't see the exact color, but it looks fairly common. Harry thinks she looks odd.

— I lived in a cupboard under the stairs — he confesses. He thinks it's what he has to do, he doesn't really want to question himself — it was originally a cupboard, but then it became my room. I had a piece of sponge as a mattress and an old blanket, in addition to the one I wrapped myself in when I was drinking. I moved in when I was three, first it was because of punishments that were too long and when I turned five it became permanent.

I had to help with the housework: sweeping, dusting, and taking out the trash. I couldn't eat until I was allowed to, and I usually had to eat leftovers locked in the cupboard. When I was big enough to reach the stove, I had to help my aunt with every meal, then when I knew enough, it was my duty to prepare breakfast in time for Uncle Vernon.

He was aware of the witches' stares on him, yet he was used to it. He knew it was hell, but he had to admit — even if it was just to himself — that there was a certain satisfaction in the expressions of fear and pain at his stories. It was worth the shame of speaking and the repulsive guilt with which they treated him afterwards.

— They used to hit me, too. I think the lady across the street treated her dog better than the Dursleys treated me. And that dog… ran away. Just like me — he scoffs. A genuine joke for him, although he knows the others don’t take it that way.

— How did they let you stay there? — Madeline screams.

— Protection, something about a family bond and how I was the only one left...well, it was what I could do if I didn't want to end up on the street. I learned to get over it over time.

— You didn't have to do it.

— I know, that's why I'm here. I had enough with Hogwarts, I didn't want to go back to a stupid protection where they hurt me.

— Harry — Andromeda's voice is serious, hard with a bubbling anger that Harry can feel in her magic. It's something new, fascinating and disturbing. Is it normal? To feel the magic of others.

He responds with a curious sound. Task as a sign of continuity.

— There is no protection that works through “blood ties” —

“What?” he wants to ask. For the first time in minutes he looks at her, she is angry, quite angry and a part of Harry is glad that her anger is for him and not at him.

— Magic is magic. If the last thing your mother managed to do was to cling on, it was because she loved you, and she will respond to the same feeling. It's not like muggle laws, blood doesn't matter for this magic, if someone loves you will work. Only someone who shows the same love as your mother will reinforce the protection. It could have been anyone.

— Mother…

— What they did, what they did to you is horrible.

— I know — said Harry.

Anger revisits him, whispering in his ears. The hum of magic grows a little clearer, he thinks he can feel the magic of the house itself. In his body, Harry feels something like boiling water, bubbles burning from the inside out and screaming to get out. There are sparks at the tips of his limbs, something electrifying in his hair, a static around him. There is a nervous energy that rolls off of him and envelops him, the scar itches and burns along his body.

A whirring sound breaks the atmosphere of the room and cuts off Harry's magic. It's Andromeda's wand, glowing brightly at the tip and clinking urgently. She looks at it cautiously but takes it.

As she inspects his message, Harry looks at the other witches. Nymphadora looks at him sympathetically but doesn't seem to have noticed what happened to Harry seconds before and when he looks at Madeline it's clear that she's noticed. She has a look of apprehension about her, she's not angry but he can clearly see the wariness with which she treats him. For the first time in a month of knowing her, Harry feels angry at her.

— Shit, it's the hospital. I have to go back, an emergency.

— It's okay, you should have been back a long time ago. Sorry for the wait and thank you for everything.

— Niffy can stay

— No, I need time —

They all want to argue with him, but Harry doesn't let them. He gets up and after a slight bow to the witches, he goes up the stairs straight to his room. He doesn't realize what's happening until he hears the front door close and Andy and Tonks' signatures fade away.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

— I don't think I should let you go —

It's the first time they've fought, they've argued before but never really fought. Madeline is in front of Harry, her color so solid that it's hard to tell she's a ghost except for the levitating blue aura that surrounds her.

— You can't stop it, I have to do it — he bellows.

He can't take it anymore, it's all too much. He wants to leave, to escape, he has to get out of there.  

— Why? —

“I need to know that they were the only option”

— I need to confirm it

— That? —

“That nothing was in vain”

“It was worth it”

— That they loved me

— They did it —

“And where are they now?”  

— Please, Harry. What do you want to find? —

“Anything”

— A proof  

— You can go tomorrow, when the girls arrive. They will accompany you.

— It's not their family

— But they're yours —

Chapter Text

— It's not your family

— But they are yours —

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Blood spurted everywhere.

They were his features, but they weren't him, that reflection that was no longer his.Dark, empty eyes fixed on himself as the torn mirror magnified the scene from a thousand directions.

With a second blow, the shards splatter and land on his skin, cutting lines down his arms. His body burns from the wounds as he falls to the ground, covered in blood—his own blood. Frustrated, filled with anxiety and anger, Harry brings his hands to his face. He feels like he's burning, but he continues. He attacks everything that hurts, tears at everything that disgusts him. When he feels satiated, when his breathing is heavy and steady, Harry falls asleep.

There is something called "agonizing dream state," which is caused by overstepping your boundaries.

It's a curious state, a strange one to experience. Broadly speaking, it's a state between consciousness and unconsciousness, different from a dissociative disorder, but it's probably a good example. It's a kind of limbo between wakefulness and fainting, weakened but still conscious.

Harry feels funny, like a jelly, like his body turned into water, but at the same time they were soheavywho doesn't believe he's capable of getting up. Perhaps because he can't. His bones are made of lead, welded to the floor, tying him in place.

Harry struggles to breathe; air isn't getting into his lungs properly, and what little he manages to inhale feels tight in his chest. There's an uncomfortable pressure on his ribs; he'd like to stop, but breathing distracts him. Even if it comes in ragged gasps.

The light in the room is harsh, bright, and penetrates her eyes even when she tries to close them. She can feel the pulse in her head, each one so clear that, if she wanted, she could count the beats.

His body burns in places like his hands, specifically his knuckles; his neck and collarbones hurt. His arms are burning too, each surge of blood stinging, but it doesn't "bother" him as much as he thought it would. He doesn't scream or writhe in pain like he knows he should. Harry laughs at this, hoarse and unfunny, but he laughs.

His delirious state is interrupted by a distant sound. Where's it coming from? Harry looks around, trying to figure it out, but his confusion only grows. There's nothing there that could have made that noise, nor anyone who could have. He's alone, the cold of the ceramic being his only companion. He's probably going crazy; perhaps it's just an illusion of alertness his brain sends out to keep him from falling asleep. He's so sleepy...

The sound is there again, louder and more violent now. Can't they just leave him alone? He's trying to sleep. Whatever it is, he doesn't hear it; he only gets angrier. He gets to a point where he gets angry, irritable, and won't shut up. That causes him to regain some consciousness, not enough to move, but enough to remember how he got there.

— Out! —he roars. As low and hoarse as his bruised throat allows. It has tired him out, but he believes it worked. A few minutes pass, and he thinks he's succeeded.

Everything falls apart whenlistenthe lock. It's being forced.

From his position, he grabs the first thing within reach. It's a glass bottle. When t he door bursts open, he  throws the bottle.

His mind weary, Harry iwatches as it explodes against the wall and shatters

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

When the otter disappears after delivering Ted's message, the house falls completely silent. The sound of the clock ticking each of its heartbeats and breaths is the only thing keeping them going.

Now, Sirius doesn't consider himself a stranger to pain; he was raised with it. And not just physical pain, the kind that comes with beatings or torture, but the kind that feels like it. The kind that's born of love and concern and manifests as physical agony.

The time they both spend assimilating the news is a blur in their consciousness; they can't distinguish whether it was just minutes or hours in which disbelief froze them in the middle of the kitchen, but when they manage to gather a bit of their consciousness, the tea is already cold.

Her journey to the hospital is uncertain, a sporadic memory that only confirms that they acted. There are vague memories of a fight, a discussion about the risks of her presence there, and her response as a conscience to a mother's concern.

As soon as they arrive at the building, the smell of death torments their noses. It's not the strange, bittersweet, repulsive aroma of decomposition, nor the sickness and infection that also travel through the air, but the hopelessness, worry, and agony that plagues the emergency room.

Sirius never visited many hospitals before prison, never had reason to, and when he did, he felt very uncomfortable with the gloom of the place. But it doesn't take much to decide he doesn't like it. In the back of his mind, he says a prayer for those who must.

— Edward —

It doesn't take long for the doctor in question to notice her presence; the nervousness in Andy's voice is almost tangible, and after all these years of marriage, she believes he's capable of sensing it.

Ted quickly delegates his duties to a group of doctors accompanying him and without much ceremony heads toward them to comfort his wife, while giving her a signal to follow them.

In the small office they enter, Sirius recognizes the smell of burnt magic, like a wildfire that's burned through an entire forest. And he doesn't know much about his brother-in-law's patients, but he doesn't like that smell.

— What happened? — they both asked.

For a second, the other man pauses to look him up and down, assessing his condition. Sirius notices this and tries to exude all the confidence he can muster. He only started the treatment both doctors gave him a few days ago, but he thinks he can feel the change. Finally, Ted shakes his head as if trying to concentrate, and, holding Andromeda, leads them all to a couch at the back of the room.

He takes a moment to consider his words, summoning all the medical professionalism he possesses to tell the story.

— The two of them fell here suddenly, Nymphy appeared to them both before fainting — they feel the witch between them tense with the news, her husband makes a gesture to comfort her but she manages to feign composure allowing him to continue — She's fine, still unconscious, but she's out of danger — that earns a sigh of relief from both of them — She exhausted her magic, but there's no damage anywhere, it will be enough for her to rest for a couple of days —

Neither of them could help but slump in their seats. Nympa is now not only the daughter of his closest relative, but after the two came to an agreement following the small altercation that came with the stay, the two were able to get to know each other a little and very soon they began to get along. The witch was terribly intelligent and funny; having her around was a blast from the past for Sirius. She was very similar to his friends, and although he thought she would hurt him, it actually worked as part of his grieving process.

As his reassurance for the girl wore off, he remembered a detail—or lack thereof—that he had overlooked.

— And where is Harry? —

Ted's reaction strained the silence once again. The man looked down at his lap, his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched.

— He… — His difficulty answering summons the worst-case scenario — When he arrived, he had no pulse and barely a spark of magic. We were lucky that it wasn't long before we were able to revive him right away. We still don't know what damage he did from the lack of oxygen, but he's already on a ventilator. I had to induce a coma and put a pump on him… I've never seen anything like that before, it wasn't even a fracture, he's shattered. I don't know how he survived that. —

Sirius has heard of it. An urban legend that was recorded among the earliest wizards.

Sometimes a magician would lose control of his magic, emanating it until he was unable to bear it and breaking down.

According to the stories, the magic attacked him with a savage force that destroyed everything from within. And when the effect ended, the magician simply fell unconscious, mostly never to wake up.

—He's in intensive care right now— Ted interrupted the silence— I have no way of knowing when he'll wake up— he said the last bit in a whisper—

—Will there be any after-effects? —Andromeda asks.

— I don't know, we'll have to wait — he replies. — But if there are, I just hope it's not that bad — The scar on his forehead now covers half his face.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

The sounds that disturb the silence of the room are never many, but each one seems to occupy the entire space. The main one is the beep of the monitor, a soundmetricalmost hypnotic, resonating like proof that his heart is still working. The mechanical whisper of the respirator, deep and artificial like the echo of a trapped wind, reminds him that he's still breathing.

Sometimes he's able to distinguish the sharp click of the bomb, camouflaged by the silence and his heightened senses. It's like the sound of a river running peacefully through the rocks in the stream. It's not pleasant to remember why it exists in the first place, but over time, it becomes a comfort to hear.

The most sinister is the dripping of the serum, another almost imperceptible sound, but present if you concentrate hard enough. He hates it because each drop is the kind of sound one learns to notice when everything else no longer works.

— Here, I brought you your tea —

The witch's sudden appearance is welcome. Sirius watches her enter with a full tray, which she places on the small table beside him before handing him one of the cups. The warmth radiating from the porcelain feels good in his hands, counteracting the climate control and comforting him. The taste of the drink isn't bad either; after a month of drinking it, he's learned to enjoy the velvety sensation, but with a spicy touch that tickles his throat. When it settles in his stomach, he feels calmer.

— How are you? How are you feeling? —

Androma's voice is always comforting, her honey-like melodious tone as sweet as eating chocolate. Her presence is also soothing, a sense of comfort and security that only comes from a mother to whom he shamefully clung.

— Confused — he answers obediently. Talking to her is still a comfort, a safe space. Even if her words are follow-up or part of the usual check-in in their new dynamic, Sirius doesn't feel attacked or overwhelmed. He feels nothing but gratitude for the woman — Your meperforasteears when I was 15? —

It's one of her most recent memories. Blurry fragments that are nothing more than a collection of feelings and sensations that feel strange when she thinks about them. Remnants of teasing and challenges visit her mind, along with the vague impression of a mild ache that lasted for several months.

The day her hair was done came when she looked in her bathroom mirror appreciating her new look and saw two scar-like dots on each bare lobe.

— Hmph, after what you saw in a Muggle magazine — She always answers his questions, at least the ones she has a concrete answer for — But you were 16 then — she adds in the most subtle way.

Both have been very careful about what they say, taking each word with a grain of salt to avoid confusing or hurting him.

— True, he was a year older than them — the fact comes with a sweet happiness that makes him smile briefly before another fact joins the first — I'm late because Mom went overboard with the punishment, right? So much so that I couldn't heal in time —

She told him it's a process, that it will take time before he can feel normal, and that there's a good chance he never will. She warned him it won't be easy, that there will be more setbacks than steps before he starts to really move forward, and that he'd be a liar if he said he wasn't afraid, that he wasn't scared of falling, but he believed in her, so he tried.

— I'm sorry, it was all my fault — she hears him say — If I hadn't escaped-

— Then he wouldn't have done it either, — he declares vehemently. A truth that even without hell he wouldn't have difficulty saying. — Don't worry, he would have found the perfect excuse to do it, he loved using that spell. —

She doesn't laugh, but he doesn't mind much. His relationship with his mother was nothing if not complicated for him. Even after her confinement and subsequent death, Sirius's memory of her remains muddled. He no longer has a definitive opinion about her; his feelings have become so mixed that he doesn't know how to distinguish them. She was his mother, and he was her son. No matter how hard he tries, he'll never be able to change that.

It's good that it's no longer horrible to admit it.

— What did Ted say? —

The change of subject cheers her up a little more, and she answers, looking at the boy in the bed in front of them.

— He says his core is almost complete. It's a miracle he's okay; almost no one survives that.

— He's a strong kid, I know. He feels just like his parents. —

She doesn't correct him by agreeing with him.

Throughout the entire time, she's been keeping him up to date on the situation, telling him everything Harry confided in her since they met. She confessed that she doesn't know the whole story and that with what she's learned from him, she no longer knows it's true, but it hasn't been easy.

She told him how their lives had come together and how, in such a short time, she had won his heart. Knowing this was a comfort to him; he had been saddened by the similarity it bore to his own life and how terrible it had been. Harry didn't deserve that; no one did, and knowing that his hopes in Azkaban had been worthless affected him greatly.

Sirius was pleased to know that she was braver than him.

— But I'm worried — Andy continues — Ted says he'll be weak for a while, his magic... it won't be the same — they both notice the scar that ends at the corner of his lips. A side effect of the accident, the first consequence of whatever caused it — I don't know how he'll take that, he'll need all our support.

— We'll give it to him. We won't leave him alone again — He promises.

—How did we allow this to happen? Why didn't we notice it in time?

He's wondered about it too, for years, for the same sin and many others. Sirius has despised himself for so long because of others, for bearing the consequences of other people's actions that hurt him. How could he not have noticed before? Why didn't he do something about it?

— Because we didn't want to do it — they both answered. Something he's been working on to make peace with — In Azkaban I sometimes saw my mom, she said that my determination to prove I was different made me the same. I was so determined to go against everything she taught me that evenignorethe good things —

The memory of his mother lingers in his mind, the last time he saw her. He can agree with her now, recognize that her words aren't meant to hurt him or condemn him in his misery, but rather to give him the strength to do the right thing.

— And he took advantage of that. — she hisses, in a way that makes her wonder if her family would be proud. — He took in as many desperate children as he could, showed them a magnificent place, and then made it conditional. He toyed with us, turned our gratitude into a debt, and collected it with "loyalty" no one could have contradicted even if they deserved it.

Remus had once told him, the pressure he felt to live up to her expectations not just to prove himself, but because she gave him the chance to. Sirius didn't understand it at the time, blinded by his false freedom, afraid to stop and discover he could never escape. Yet he sees it now, the rope he had tied around their necks. The water that tempted a thirsty man.

—But why? Why would anyone do all this?

— I don't think it matters much to know it, just learn from it —

That's what his mother tried to teach him, to tell him. That's what she raised him to do, what he must do now.

— Poor Harry, he'll be devastated — Andy's whisper is lost, uncertain. It's almost strange to know her like this.

— You'll have us — he assures her. Because he's done it before, and this time he'll be by her side.

— But you… — he alludes.

It's something he's thought about since day one. Something he dreamed about a thousand times over the course of twelve years, hoping that if he pushed himself too hard, maybe it would come true.

— I have to find Peter. Everyone thinks he's dead and that thedeathBut if I can prove that it's not true, you'll have to listen to me.

—How do you think you can do it?

— I don't know, his signature wasn't the same anymore, I have no way to follow it —

His confession brings with it a frustrated silence. How do you track down a ghost that still lives? How do you find something lost? Sirius punishes himself, writhing in guilt for his stupidity, for his need to hurt him and not do what any other Black would have done.

— Then we have to put together a trial — Andromeda's voice is firm, fire ignited in her eyes that warm her inner self with confidence — If we can't hand him over, we can claim your right. You were the only one they didn't allow to defend themselves, the only one they locked up without a trial, they owe you.

— It won't be enough — he reminds her — As soon as I set foot they'll take me back, they'll kill me right there.

— But no one knows yet that you are out

—It's only a matter of time before they do. They want to fix this without alerting anyone, that's why they've delayed it. The moment they find out I've escaped, they'll know Azkaban isn't invincible. That they aren't. I have until then. —

Saying it out loud feels like a bad omen.  He knows he's walking on thin ice and that if he takes it too lightly, he'll sink into the icy waters.

Nymphadora has been very kind in keeping them informed, inquiring within the ministry and warning them if necessary. Although it's not necessary, the advantage of being a dog is that the training sticks. She knows it's no coincidence, that her silence is a facade, and as soon as they can disguise it, they won't be afraid to unleash the world on her.

— I'll help you, we'll do it —

And even though it shouldn't, it really is a comfort.

If he didn't have them, perhaps he would have done things wrong. If he hadn't insisted on reaching Harry, or if he hadn't been brave, things would have been different. Perhaps in another world, Sirius let himself be carried away, still consumed by pain and urgency, still thirsty for revenge that will keep him blindfolded, running carelessly down the minefield. In another life, he had risked too much, unconcerned about who might recognize him and betray him, forgotten his purpose, and allowed everything to fall apart.

— He regretted having gotten them into this.

— It was a disaster to find out how we did it — He complainsexasperated, a smile on her lips that betrays her skepticism — but there's no turning back — she procycles, so sure and confident that Sirius feels infected — The only thing that matters is that Harry is fine, he has a very dark time ahead of him and when he wakes up he's going to need all of us. Including his godfather.

— In that case I can't fail —

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

SoHo - Londres

When he wakes up, his body is shattered, muscles tense, and bones atrophied. His body forces its way into the wolf's, and the poisoned rage coursing through his blood dissipates as he transforms. The sensation of fragile chains contending tells him it's all over, until the next one.

His tired head makes the world spin and his sense of direction, if it ever existed, goes down the drain. He tries to sit up, but all he manages is to burn his throat with bile. He doesn't spend long vomiting; his stomach is recovering from the horrible experience of completely mutating twice in a few hours, and all it has to come back is gastric juices, but those couple of minutes are enough to leave him worse than he was.

Remus faints from the accumulation of symptoms.

The next time he regains consciousness, it's late and not much better than the first time. He can't even see clearly; there's a feeling of levitation that uses his head as an anchor, and his stomach is still heavy with vomit. The sweat is cold, sticky, acidic. His skin burns. He feels like everything in his body is misplaced. There are places that hurt for no reason, spasms he doesn't remember causing, and the old, thick nausea, rising with bile, threatens to make him vomit again.

His eyes can't tolerate light. Not even the faintest. He feels like his skull is burning. His eyelids weigh tons, but not enough to protect him from the bright burst that sneaks through every crack.

Remus struggles to get out of bed, crawls blindly into the darkness like a wounded animal, but the noise… even the slightest one is a hammer: The rustling of the sheets and the creaking of the old mattress he's using; his own bones as he moves. Everything sounds too much like the world has lost its natural volume and is now shouting at him, even in whispers.

He doesn't process whether it takes years or minutes until he's able to get up, but he's grateful it's the weekend so he can lament with gusto. After taking a bath, his muscles are a little softer from the scalding water he immersed them in. His tiredness turns to drowsiness, and he covers himself with the softest clothes he owns before facing the kitchen and eating.

As always, he retains no memories of what happens while he is transformed and luckily there are no new scars to give him an idea, but it is the second full moon that does not end in such a chaotic way as the previous ones, Remus remembers vague emotions and sensations from what the wolf experienced: Restlessness, curiosity, longing, anxiety, the recognition of something... someone, a comforting sense of familiarity, joy, alertness, caution, and distrust born of uncertainty.

He's afraid of what it means. It's not the first time something like this has happened to him, but last time he lost everything he had because of it. He shakes his head. He needs to stop thinking about it; about him. He shouldn't remember him, cling to his memory and keep looking for his scent in the corners of the apartment.

Around him, in the darkness, the place seems dead, as cold and lonely as that night he returned to have his heart pierced, the decorations he never had the courage to remove mocking him in his face.

The rest of the week isn't any better. Night after night, his mind torments him through dreams. Memories of words whispered at night, warm caresses guarded by the moon, and dark corners where they could have privacy, promises whispered in his ear, and the hope of eternity. It's never the same dream, but his character always appears, as beautiful and ethereal as he remembers, only to become the monster of his nightmares.

No endBecause it happens, but he doesn't want it to end. Every day, Remus wakes up in the middle of the night with her name on his tongue or exclaiming at the silence of his loneliness. A vicious cycle of hatred and longing: he can't let go, and he doesn't want to.

Then you get your answer

THE TIMES

London, 1993 

Dangerous Killer Escapes from High Security Prison

A national alert was issued following the unexpected escape of Sirius Black, a dangerous criminal who had escaped from a high-security prison. The Home Office and police forces have already launched a nationwide search operation, but so far no trace of the fugitive has been found.

How did he escape? An absolute mystery.

The exact circumstances of his escape remain unexplained. Authorities have described the incident as "unprecedented," given that the prison from which he escaped is known for its tight security and impeccable record: until now, no one has managed to escape alive.

"It's as if he vanished into thin air," said a senior official who wished to remain anonymous. "There's no sign of outside help or an elaborate escape plan. He just vanished."

Dangerous and highly unstable

Sirius Black, 33, was convicted of murdering 13 people more than a decade ago. He is described as extremely unstable and dangerous.

Authorities urge the public not to approach him under any circumstances; any information about his whereabouts should be reported immediately to local police.

Chapter Text

The only memories Harry has of his parents are those of everyone who knew them.

Since he was a child, he grew up with other people's memories, stories, and what people believed about them. At Privet, his Aunt Petunia almost never told him good memories. She raised him to believe that his parents had been unfortunate civilians who had neglected him and that the cause of their deaths was caused by poor youthful decisions they couldn't take back in time. His Uncle Vernon was no better; he said that the only thing he knew about them was through a letter his mother had received on their wedding day, but his wife had a clear opinion of them: ungrateful, insufferable people who were a relief to be rid of. So he repeated it, they cursed him with the same fate and kept reminding him that he was only a misfortune, a penance, and an inconvenience.

The rest of the neighborhood and the people he was forced to live with were no better, sometimes whispering quietly about the gossip his own family had been responsible for spreading. This allowed Harry to grow up with pirate tales about those he could have called family in another universe.

When he turned eleven and a flock of owls stalked his "home" to deliver a letter welcoming him to a new world, Harry discovered that in that world, his parents weren't pirates; they were heroes, and that their unfortunate separation was due to their brave sacrifice that would end a horrible war, with them defending the most unfortunate and discriminated against in that world.

It was with this new information that Harry was able to forgive them a little. With it, he could imagine a different version of them, kind and respectful people who would have loved him. He held onto all those good memories of people, the compliments and coos they projected onto him: whether he looked just like his father, or whether his mother would be proud of his manners, even if they were the product of abuse trauma.

Harry told himself it was okay, that he would be happy if he held onto that beautiful hope about his parents and how great they must have been to be remembered with such devotion and affection. He convinced himself it was worth it, that it wasn't so bad; that his own war was the life he had afterward, and that just as they were able to win it, he could one day.

But the thing is, the world counts wars in terms of fallen soldiers, destroyed buildings, or lost years; they don't count the awkward silences and empty seats at tables, the names they learn not to mention, and the dates they don't want to remember.

No one explains to you that dates become scars. That birthdays, anniversaries, holidays… cease to be celebrations and become cruel reminders. As if the calendar itself conspires torestregardwhat you no longer have.

No one tells you that growing up without a mother isn't just about losing someone to turn to when you have bad dreams or hurt yourself playing, but rather, not learning what unconditional love feels like. That not having a father isn't just about not learning to ride a bike or fly your first broomstick, but about living with the constant fear of not being enough, of being a disappointment; of not filling the space and discovering that something inside you is broken.

And if all you received was yelling, punishment, and contempt... at some point you start to think that maybe they left you voluntarily, that maybe they didn't love you, that maybe you were too little to stay.

Harry grew up believing he hated them.

Even after learning the truth, even after knowing it wasn't true, he found himself thinking, wishing; he repeated to himself silently like a twisted prayer: if only they hadn't been part of that damned war... if only they hadn't gotten involved... maybe he would have had a different life. He wouldn't have had to learn about the weight that came with his last name. No one would have told him he was a burden, an uncomfortable inheritance, a walking reminder of what he'd missed. No one would have raised him with blows and evasive glances.

So yes, I blame them more often than they deserve. For not being there. For choosing to fight.

Every time someone mentioned his middle name or how much he looked like him, every time someone compared him or praised him, every time someone pitied him, every time he looked in the mirror.

But he found that damn box.

That stupid, dusty box, still covered in debris and desperate ghosts that reminded him of how selfish they'd been. Part of him wished he hadn't taken it and brought it back to the boarding house with him; part of him regretted opening it and seeing what was inside. If he hadn't, he might still be angry, hurt; he might still beblaming themand convincing themselves that it's okay, that it doesn't matter.there would bemissed them. I wouldn't have loved them.

Inside was proof, memories; evidence of them: Him, in his mother's arms. Smiling, alive, beautiful. Hisfather holding him as and heldsomething sacred.

Photographs from before, frozen moments from a time that saw them grow, change, and mature; meet friends, start a family. And letters… written clumsily and lovingly, which they never sent, but which described their first words, their first steps, the fears they had for the world they were growing up in.

And he understood.

It wasn't a burden, it was their joy. Their hope. Their reason. The war didn't take them away. It killed them too, though their bodies will take a little longer to fall.

Dolia. 

Not just for what he'd lost, but for what he'd refused to look at. He'd taken away their right to be good in his memory. Convincing himself that they weren't worth it. That it would be better if they weren't his parents, if he'd never been born.

Now she won't be able to forget that every birthday without cake, every silent celebration, every hug that never came... wasn't because they didn't want to give it, but because they were no longer there to give it. Not by choice. But because of the war. They weren't martyrs, nor heroes. They were people. Parents. Lovers. Dreamers. People who wove a future until violence slashed it apart.

How many more did the war steal, not only bodies but cities? How many stories were torn apart? How many children, like him, grew up hating ghosts who only wanted to love them?

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

When he wakes up, the steady pressure on his joints is welcome, and he drops his head back onto the pillow.

Someone is knocking at the door, the wood sounds hollow, a testament to the time she's spent sheltering the people under her wing. The sound lingers as a message of company, and she waits patiently for him to accept it. She has no choice.

When he opens the door, Andromeda is on the other side of her guardian.

— May I come in? —

Harry hesitates.

Can you? Obviously, it's your house.

Ought?... 

He steps aside to let her pass.

He walks to the window and opens it to let in the fresh air for the first time this week, just like Madeline taught him a whole month ago, but he doesn't like it; all the accompanying sounds of the world waking up make his stomach knot.

When light floods the room, it suddenly doesn't feel so empty, and when life floods those walls, the only thing that doesn't fit is the room itself. Although that's no surprise.

He lets out a sigh, he doesn't want to cry.

He returns to the woman, and she calmly offers him a plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea. He doesn't miss the fact that there are two of them, a pair of everything to share; the revelation makes him feel odd and strange. On the one hand, he can't help the stupid longing in his heart, the growing hope that it's worth it. Yet the stronger part of him reminds him that she has a family, and now she's here, without her family to eat breakfast by her side.

What other things will it ruin?

— You didn't have to do that — he explains, still not taking anything from the plate, but looking adoringly at the reminder that this isn't the first time he's shared food with this woman.

— I know — she replies, because that's what she always says when he repeats his explanation. It's the fifth day in a row this has happened, but she never pays attention to it, and he keeps trying to get her to.

In the end he takes the food, because he always does, she smiles at him triumphantly and they both sit down quietly to eat.

With his last bite, Harry knows what's coming next, he grabs another sandwich just to buy himself time.

— Your friend Hermione answered us last night — he says casually. A mere topic of conversation.

It's different, he doesn't like it. He was happy following his routine.

—He said he'd like to see you—he continues eating a second sandwich.

They both sit on the mattress, the tray table between them, staring out the window. Harry doesn't have much to offer; he's no longer interested in venturing out and seeing what this world has to offer. He's already ruined one place and doesn't want to drag his shit onto innocent people. When he turns to his side and looks at Andromeda's face, he notices her eyes sparkle with curiosity when she sees something interesting on the streets.

—Should I tell him to come? — She finally looks him in the eyes.

He likes her eyes; they're somewhere between blue and gray, beautiful. A cold color, like ice or wet snow, that radiates as much warmth as the rays of the sun at sunset. He's repulsed by the feeling they produce. He doesn't deserve that affection; it's not for him, never for him.

He breaks eye contact. He looks away and tries to find what it was about the streets that interested him so much, but he finds nothing special, just people walking and children on their way to the park.

It's still summer, and people are still enjoying their last month of vacation. They're happy living without too many worries except for not getting too tanned. He insists on finding something interesting, seeing the point of allowing visitors.

Will it be appropriate?

He hadn't spoken to her since the train. He'd intended to send her a letter when he settled at the inn. Madeline had allowed him to receive it there, but when he left, he met Andromeda and Nymphadora, and during those two weeks at her side, he'd forgotten a little about everything. He wanted to hold on to something he believed was his, a knowledge he had of people he'd acquired himself in his life; he had no intention of leaving any of his friends behind.

Both witches would get along well with their friend, Hermione and Nymphadora would surely understand each other quickly with all the knowledge she has to share and he is sure that the idea of ​​a female figure in his friend's life would be good for her, she no longer had problems with the other girls in her house and had even seen her talk to other girls of her generation, but she still spent most of her time with him and Ron.

That's not a problem in itself, but Harry believes he's not as naive as he used to be. He knows how important it is to connect with people who understand you, and although he does so in many ways, Harry can't replace the support a girl can give him.

He shrugs. He doesn't want to say anything, but he'll be damned if he doesn't miss her.

The movement of a shadow among the bushes in the park in front of the house catches his attention. He searches for its source, aware that there may be fantasy in its reality, and he looks closely until he finds it: the sky reflected in large, piercing eyes.

That look freezes him, doesn't let him move away. She's not scary, but there's something about her...

— Harry? — That startles him, he looks at Andromeda who is standing next to him pretending to look for what he was looking at, but when he tries to find it himself. There is nothing. — So, will you receive Hermione? —

Nod this time.

The brunette smiles at him and wraps her arms around him, the scent of her perfume falling all over him, and he likes it. Because that's what the whole family smells like, and as long as he can catch a whiff of that fragrance, he can pretend he belongs to it too.

— Perfect, I'll call her to let her know — as they separate, Harry can still feel her scent clinging to his body — Maybe she'll be here for lunch, you two should go out somewhere. I think Nymphy should also be home by then, so you all go out together or eat here. I'll be at the hospital until 6:00, I'll come and make dinner. Will you join us? —

He hesitates for a moment.

— Does Tonks have any plans? — he decides to ask.

- I don't think so 

- Good

- So… -

Since he was released at the beginning of the month and the Tonks insisted on looking after him while he recovers, Harry hasn't spent as much time with them as he did before the "accident," as they called it. He doesn't feel he has the right to do so; his carelessness put the metamorphmagus in grave danger, and the memory of what happened prevents him from looking her in the eye. Everyone has insisted he's fine, that the important thing is that he was okay, but Harry doesn't believe it.

He can't forget what he saw and how it made him feel. The month he spent in a coma didn't help much, and since he woke up, it's as if he's aware of everything all the time, and his magic feels strange and fragile. He had the same feeling as when Andy told him about his parents—he could feel it everywhere—but Harry isn't curious about it anymore; he just feels scared.

— See you at dinner —

Maybe time is a piece of shit, a hopeless race where you just wait for the moment you crawl into its jaws. Maybe it's inevitable, maybe you can do nothing to escape it; but maybe, just maybe, that's what this is all about, maybe this is what life is about. Not about running, not about lamenting the time we have left. Just enjoying what we have.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Harry hears the knock on the front door as he finishes getting ready.

His arms are currently bandaged, from his wrist to his elbow. His injuries were caused by the minor altercation he had before leaving the hospital. The broken mirror glass had injured him internally, causing several veins to pop. It was a mess to stabilize, and even with regular interventions by two doctors with magical knowledge, the horrible bruises have taken forever to disappear.

His neck was also bandaged; he'd scratched and bled trying to remove all the tubes and wires when he woke up. The last bandages were on his face, gauze and bandages covering wounds he'd caused himself.

Ignoring that part, he dares to look at himself. His hair is longer now, brushing his jaw with swirls framing his cheekbones. One of them has a familiar mark that runs from the roots of his curls to his lip. It's not grotesque, but it's large and perfectly visible. Harry struggled the first few days he saw it, repulsed by his reflection and the gaunt skin that possessed it, a sickening contrast between their surface tones.

Andromeda began applying creams and ointments in an attempt to control the damage. She said a scar can't be magically cured, but she never gave up trying to make it fade. Eventually, with treatment and constant nourishment, her vision improved. It's a shade lighter than her natural olive skin tone and is still as visible as the first day, but she no longer feels like picking it off when she looks at it in the mirror.

Deciding he'll never get smarter, he takes a deep breath and heads out to meet the two girls.

As she reaches the bottom of the stairs, Hermione looks curiously at the house's decor and the blend of cultures they've managed to make work, while Nymphadora scurries around, making sure she doesn't forget anything when she leaves.

— ¿ Her ? — 

When she sees him, the expression of encouragement and recognition turns into surprise and fear, she covers her lips with her hands, stifling the great gasp she lets out, and she doesn't know how to move.

In an attempt to help her and lighten the mood, he steps forward with one hand in his never-moving hair, gathering all the humor he doesn't feel.

—That bad, huh? I guess I'll have to master glamours before starting school. —

Neither of the girls responds, and Harry uses this time to process the reunion with his friend. It's been almost two months since he's seen her, and it's clear she's changed, but it's only when she clings to his body and tries to control her sobs that Harry remembers he loves this girl.

She's taller than she remembers, the base of her curly hair reaching down to her nose, but it's no longer a tangle of fluffy knots blocking her almond eyes. Now, she has a beautiful tribal hairstyle that holds half of her hair in a braided updo and lets the other half fall freely like a defined, healthy waterfall.

— Hey, it's okay, it's almost healed now — her whisper against his tamed hair brings back memories of the last time they were in that position with her comforting herself back then.

She recovers quickly, sniffing at her tears and moving away, trying to wipe them away. Harry feels the urge to do it himself, but restrains himself, stepping away to give her the time he needs.

With shock in hand, he goes in search of the largest witch, who is looking at them apprehensively from the hallway. Harry tries to smile, and she returns his disheveled expression in the process.

— Are you sure you're okay? —

He nods, more to please her than to tell the truth. Nymphadora looks at him with the tenderness of an older sister, and Harry wishes she were one.

When they return to Hermione, she leaves calmer. She gave them an apologetic look, which they both ignored.

— Hi, babe. How are you? —

Nymphadora's voice is as cheerful as ever, but it still has its slightly purple hue. She's worried.

Hermione also doesn't miss the change in her hair but she is reluctant to ask, but not before making a note in her mind to do so when she thinks it's convenient.

He nods in her direction with slight embarrassment.

— Thank you very much for having me, Miss Nymphadora

— You’re welcome, little one — Her hair squeals cherry before fading to a desaturated pink. — And call me ‘Tonks’ or ‘Nymph,’ okay? No need for formality 

—What would your last name be if it were more casual?

— She hates her name, but she loves nicknames. It's her way of saying she likes you. — Her intervention doesn't offer the answers the brunette wants, but she refrains from probing further. — So what are we going to do?

— I've been thinking about it for a bit and I suggest going shopping. We said a while back that we'd go get things, remember? —

He does so; it's what they promised each other as a reward when they finished their pending studies. That's why Nymphadora managed to find him in time. Without answering the girl, he turns to look at his friend, and she feels satisfied.

They spend most of the afternoon wandering around a mall, being dragged by Nymhpafora to each of the stores that the eldest finds attractive. Once inside, a routine is established: she would grab things seemingly at random and, after a while, send them to change, forcing them to show her each of the outfits she suggested.

At first, both Harry and Hermione feel uncomfortable with the dynamic; neither is used to normal teenage activities, but by the fourth store, the two begin to warm up to the point of taking the initiative to choose clothes themselves.

Overall, the day is pleasant, it feels like walking inside a dream: everything is slower, denser, more alive… and more distant at the same time.

Every gesture becomes meaningful. Every word, an echo. Every smile he receives is a gentle blow to the chest. Harry tries to record it all:

The tingle in Nymph's magic that arises when she gets excited

The golden look Hermione gave her an hour after meeting her and knowing how awesome she is.

The warmth that both witches give you with their company

Like for the first time, he feels normal, like a thirteen-year-old boy without the weight of death on his shoulders, whose only concern is choosing among the seasonal flavors offered by grocery stores and not the imminent loss of those he cares about in such a short time. He learns to swallow the constant lump in his throat without letting his voice betray him. He learns to pretend he's not looking at every clock they pass, that he's not counting the minutes, looking for excuses to stay a little longer.

There's a kind of sadness that doesn't make a sound, one that doesn't announce itself with tears, sobs, or dramatic goodbyes. It's a sadness that burrows beneath the skin and settles there silently, like the cold that enters through the cracks of a poorly sealed house. It doesn't hit you head-on. It doesn't demand attention. It just exists. Motionless, constant, inevitable.

Back in her room, the light is dim: the street lamps and the moon shining through the window are all she can see; and her only companion is the sound of the curtains fluttering in the breeze that blows in. Even the shadows rest in the corners as if they know they shouldn't disturb her.

He's not sad. Or at least that's what he tells himself, that what's in his chest isn't grief, but something denser, sharper. Something that scrapes when he breathes. Something that squeezes him from within.

He looks around at a room that isn't his but to which he feels he belongs. He scolds himself for thinking this way; none of it is his, none of it belongs to him. They aren't his things, he forces himself to remind himself. From his position in bed, he watches the envelopes on the desk mock him.

Maybe if it had been different or less complicated, basically less of him, then everything would have happened differently. If only he hadn't opened that damn box.

He growls silently and clenches his fists to keep from screaming. This isn't the first time this has happened, he should be used to it by now. He thought he had learned to ration that sadness anddisguise herof anger. It's easier to be upset with yourself than to acknowledge that you're hurting. Easier to feel frustrated than vulnerable.

Because he loves them.

And that's why he has to leave

It took time to understand, to listen to what the universe has insisted on saying and accept its truth. That presence contaminates, what it touches fractures. No matter how many times they embrace it or seek it out, its existence always contradicts it.

Do them a favor.

Make it easy.

From the hallway comes a faint sound: the echo of cutlery, a plate being placed, and Andromeda's voice calling him to eat.

This isn't running away. It's letting go. It's protecting. It's silencing the chaos before they notice. Before it hurts more. He stands up. Stretches his neck, shakes out his hands, takes a deep breath. One last time.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Harry had experience eating with others, and although it didn't happen often at Privet, the times it did, he remembers the grotesque sound of Dudley and Vernon gorging themselves on food so quickly and carelessly. He remembers the serene and meticulous contrast of his aunt's against theirs, a calm sound that could be distinguished through the deafening din, even through the door.

Harry always knew why they did it; it wasn't just due to his poor command of social etiquette at mealtimes; it was part of one of their torture strategies. When they left him hungry, he would even remember that he lived in the house, and if they didn't feed him, they would have more problems than the fact that he would be there.

A drama in the futile. A means to an end: to exaggerate and diligently state all the things they could enjoy that he couldn't. His aunt always refused to play along. He'd once heard her mutter that it was far more embarrassing than letting him eat too, but even though she thought that, she didn't act on it. The furthest she went was pretending not to notice all the snacks and things Harry stuffed in his pockets while they both prepared the meal before locking him in the cupboard.

Things were different at the castle; he quickly grew accustomed to the chorus of silverware and its squeaky melodies conjured by thousands of cutlery in action. The sound was just as bad, and he often had to remind himself that he could eat too, but the conversations were an excellent distraction.

He'd been surprised by the replenishable amount he had at his disposal. He marveled at knowing that no one would judge him for a double helping or for finishing the treacle tarts. He no longer had to steal anything, he wouldn't have to hide things in his pockets because he needed to eat, and if he got hungry, the elves who showed up at his room one night during his first year always had desserts and hot drinks for him.

The only times he ate in "silence" were in the alleyway. Madelina's ghost dishes weren't exactly silent, but their sounds didn't sound "real" either; they were like an echo or a product of your imagination. As if the sound didn't exist, but the obviousness of one made it possible.

It was strange, but not unpleasant. Harry had discovered the pleasure of serenity and good company. With her, he learned not to pretend, not to force conversation, he learned to feel comfortable with himself. She never judged him, she listened and supported him, she pushed him when she needed to, and she let him uncover himself for the rest of his time. He missed her.

Now, the sound of the table, the cutlery, the radio playing in the house... they weren't pleasant.

They didn't resonate with greed or sing of the chaos of the crowd, but he hated them.

The scraping of chairs against the floor sounds louder than usual, as if every movement is amplified. It's a rough drag, like nails on a dry surface. Cutlery is placed with mechanical precision on the plates. The clack of metal hitting ceramic is repeated insistently. It doesn't hurt the ears, but it's constant, like a metronome marking the passage of time.

Every gesture becomes an effort. Every sound, a threat of breaking.

A glass slides across the tablecloth with a tense whisper. The scrape of glass against the fabric sounds like a suppressed sigh. The water falls into the glass with a fluid murmur. The final drip is sharp, precise.

Counting the seconds, as if with each drop you have less time left.

A murmur of harmless phrases, trivial comments, empty words bouncing like balls in a closed room. Soft, contained laughter.

He can't stand it anymore.

— Harry? —

The use of his name brings him back to the dinner. He realizes he hasn't eaten much since sitting down, his portions jumbled from fiddling with them while lost in thought.

Looking up and facing the witch in front of him, he realizes it wasn't just Andy who sounded confused. Everyone at the table looks at him strangely.

— Excuse me — he offers, the feeling of being watched making him squirm in his chair. — I wasn't listening, were you saying? —

The peripheral glance Andy gives Ted and the change in Nymphadora's hair don't go unnoticed. Harry is aware of her every movement as if it's happening in slow motion. The tingling in his hands isn't a good sign.

— Oh, don't worry. I was just wondering how you felt after the walk.”

A puff of air cuts through his response. He doesn't know how to respond, doesn't know if he wants to, but sooner or later he has to tell them, and if he doesn't, he does it soon...

— It was nice, thanks, Nymph. —

— A pleasure. It's nice to meet your friend. She's a very nice girl. I hope we can hang out again —

The statement makes his stomach knot.

She's known Hermione is just his friend since the first time he mentioned her during their study sessions. She knows there's no romantic possibility between them, and she's been perfectly fine with that. Still, a feeling of possessiveness invades him like acid from the gut. He just doesn't know for whom.

— I'm sure she'll love it. —

It crushes him to know it's true.

— And what about the bandages? Didn't they bother you? —

When Ted mentions them, Harry remembers their existence and, looking at them, realizes he'd been playing with them. It's not new; she's done it with the fabric of her clothing, feathers, and basically anything else within reach. He scratches them distractedly as a nervous gesture or when he needs to anchor his mind on some point. However, something about the constant presence of the bandages and the sense of "sustainability" they provide has caused them to fall victim to her behavior until all that's left is an irritating, swollen feeling from the rubbing.

Checking to make sure she doesn't ruin it, patting the painful area to soothe the burn, she replies, — I'm still not used to the pressure and the overall sensation, but it doesn't bother me. Nymph was kind enough to cover it with a spell while we were on the street —

— It's a relief — Ted comments, as serene as ever. — I'm afraid you'll have to keep it on for a couple more weeks, just to be safe — I promise you'll be able to go to school without them.

— Thank you very much. I'm sure Madeline wouldn't mind helping me change them. She was talking about practicing her tangible magic —

The name comes out of his mouth without permission, and when he notices it, he shuts up in seconds. His mouth aches from the force with which he's closed it, tension building at the edges of his jaw from how hard he's starting to clench his teeth.

The rest of the table falls into an expectant silence. They look at him confused by their own reaction with no idea what caused it.

— Madeline? —he hears Andy say in a whisper.

There's no specific tone to the way she says it, no accusations or judgment at the mention of the ghost: it slips through her lips as if she wants to taste it herself.

He doesn't respond immediately, the surprise at his carelessness still unresolved. As best he can, he takes a deep breath that he holds for as long as he can, and lets it out without feeling any better. As his heart starts to beat faster, Harry clenches both fists in his lap, trying to ignore the tingling and tenderness around him. It takes a while, but he manages to calm down enough to fake it, a deja vu less concussive than the last night he saw Vernon.

— Yes, it was very kind of you to welcome me into your home and look after me while I was in the hospital, but I’m fine now — With the relief of hearing his own steady, calm voice, Harry gathers what courage he still has and slides one of his hands inside the pouch of his hoodie until he feels the paper envelope. — I’m not entirely sure how much of that was, but you can tell me if necessary, and if it was too much, keep it, it’s the least I can do — Sliding it across the table somehow feels dirty, including himself. Everyone stares at the way it stands out among all the other objects on it.

The pale yellow is suddenly not so plain; it clashes against the dark hue of the tabletop, and the sheer thickness feels obscene. As if to make it better, Harry slides the other envelope next to the first, it's of the same material, less thick but just as full.

— I'd also like to leave you a little more as a thank you for your stay. Take the rates from my Grand-mere as a reference. I hope it's fair. — At this point, explaining is more of a defense, a clumsy distraction born of how horrible the silence suddenly is. — I'm so glad to meet you. You helped me get through the summer and catch up on my studies. I'm sorry for any inconvenience I've caused you. —

The only truth he speaks during the night. A respite from all the lies he's told himself.

During the thirteen years Harry has been alive, he has never faced lightning, having the good fortune of a place to take shelter during storms; but he has read about it: One of his books stated that even if the phenomenon seems to occur without warning, the reality is that the victims could sense it before seeing it, hearing it, and inevitably, feeling it.

Many of the survivors reported a strange silence or an unsettling calm just before impact. Accounts emphasize that the sudden silence or unusual calm did not include the reassurance of safety, but rather a sense of painful resignation about the imminent danger. A feeling like death itself: you don't know where it will come from, only that it will, and in a matter of seconds, you have to accept it.

On the physical side, some are said to feel a tingling sensation on their skin, especially on the head, arms, or legs. Their hair literally stands on end. Not because of fear, but because of static electricity in the air.

It's an extremely dangerous sign.

A strong odor, similar to chlorine or metal. Ozone generated by the ionization of the air.

Blue flashes on metallic objects or in the environment called St. Elmo's Fire, a luminous electrical discharge that occurs when the electric field is extremely high.

— I see you've thought about it quite a bit —

Prayer freezes him where he is.

Unable to move, all he can do is look at her.

In front of him, the warm maternal figure of comfort to whom he had grown so attached ceases to exist. In her place, albeit with the same face, a completely different person stared back at him stonily. The icy sky he adored became a towering metallic wall that somehow managed to open it. A view that seemed like emptiness pierced his soul.

Harry felt exposed, more vulnerable than the times he'd been on the brink of death, at the woman's complete mercy. And that triggered something inside him.

The fear disappeared; the tension and the urge to bare his neck vanished as if they didn't exist, as if he'd never felt them. An instinct of defiance invaded him, a courage in the face of imminent danger fueled by rage that arose as unexpectedly as the situation. He forgot everything he felt for the witch. All his love and gratitude drowned in betrayal and a stupid determination to prove himself worthy. To show her he wouldn't give in.

The two hardened, a silent war of empty stares that deep down begged for a compromise.

Harry felt the atmosphere calm, that he was in control. The tingling in his body and the concentration in his fingertips subsided. He stopped hearing anything other than the flow of the river coming from somewhere. The only thing keeping him conscious was the physical ability to feel his heart pounding in his chest like a painful alarm.

— Very well, I will take you to the hospital myself early tomorrow so I can tell you about the care and recommendations — She was the first to look away. The pretentious tone unraveled in the memories that remain — Don't worry about the money, we don't need it — He says before returning to his plate.

It was as if nothing had happened, as if all the support and affection he had built up never existed. As if they were nothing to each other.

And that breaks the spell. The lightning bolt finally strikes.

Not knowing what to do next, the beginning of an argument dies when she interrupts her tirade.

— I think you've made a decision. I'd like you to respect mine — She doesn't look at him when she says it, her voice dead and toneless, forced out. Talk to him. And when he doesn't respond, she seems to get an answer — Okay, then it's done. Finish your dinner, if you want, take it to your room.

— Andy — Try.

A plea comes out of his mouth without permission

— You probably want to pack your things.

Let me know if you need help or a suitcase. I can give you one and pick it up when you're unpacked. —

Unable to do anything but obey, just as if it were a spell.

Harry leaves the kitchen and does as he is told. He doesn't look at anyone while he does it.

— Mom…

— Please clear the table, I need a minute —

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Although the calendar indicates that it is still summer, the following morning lacks the brightness it promises.

The sky dawns gray, cold, and as if everything is gloomy. Harry laughs sarcastically, knowing he's not the only one who feels this way.

He doesn't say goodbye to anyone, there are no more apologies or explanations that no one believes or wants to hear. Nymphadora helps him pack, Ted unloads his suitcase, and leaves them both in the doorway.

Andromeda decides they shouldn't prolong the trip, tells him what to do, and with a click of a button, they both appear in front of the Diagon Alley. She silently guides them to the inn in what seems to be a sense of unprecedented tranquility. The calm with which she has addressed him since he woke up has kept him puzzled the entire time. Harry is used to explosive emotions: yelling, hitting, scolding. Teasing and tantrums. Not this. Not calm, not indifference. Find out is worse.

When they both enter the house, everything feels real. Anguish surges forward, floating on the surface of the catatonic lake in which he feels submerged.

Madeline appears less dramatic than the first time he met her. But her spirits and relief fade when she sees the expressions on both witches' faces.

Again, Harry doesn't say goodbye; he can't bring himself to do so. He crosses the room and goes up the stairs to his bedroom, where he collapses as soon as he steps inside. Everything hits him, the realization of what he did wells up in thick tears that interrupt his breathing in ragged gasps. What did he just do?

Madeline enters seconds after Andromeda's signature leaves the house and disappears among the others. She looks at him apprehensively; she knows she's angry with him, and he's angry too, so she's too compassionate to say anything.

When her reaches, Harry throws himself into her ghostly arms, which somehow manage to hold him. He feels her touch as if it were real, and although the chill of her specter still emanates from her, Harry feels nothing but warmth and comfort as he breaks down in tears, apologizing for everything.

— Oh, tresor — she coos while stroking his head—You can't run away forever —

Chapter Text

Sometimes a gesture, a word, or a silence is enough to change the course, and when the echo of our actions reaches us, when we hurt, lose, or are disappointed, we seek solace in a simple idea: that we acted for the good, that we did it because it was the right thing to do. We cling to labels. This was good. This was bad. This was the only way. As if naming the fire will put it out.

But not.

No decision is completely clean. No act is completely pure.
There's fear hidden in courage. There's ego beneath generosity. There are shadows in every light we project. And we know it. Even if we deny it. Because accepting it requires facing something unbearable: that even our best decisions could hurt someone. That even our worst versions were born of pain. That right and wrong aren't always on opposite sides.

Because there's no single truth that explains everything. There are many. And they all push against each other. Because they're all a little right... and a little wrong.

The butterfly effect isn't just external. It also happens within us. Every choice we make—every "yes," every "no," every "I don't know"—stirs something up inside us. Sometimes it builds. Sometimes it breaks. Sometimes it does both at the same time.

Because at its core, living isn't about being flawless. It's about having the courage to look at the wings we flap, the colors we pretend are white, the cracks we deny, and still say: this is me too.

≫ ──── ≪ •◦ ❈ ◦• ≫ ──── ≪

As a boy, Harry used to dream of the day he could leave the Durleys, imagining what it would be like to live without the abuse and the yelling; he consoled himself with the thought of what his life would be like when he was free. Two months after doing so, Harry has no regrets, but it has proved harder than he thought, and as he watches Hedwig drift away among the white summer clouds in early August, he can only pray that things will soon start to get better.

— Good morning, dear — He hears Madeline even before going down the last step, coming from the dining room — I just saw Hedwig come out the window. Are we expecting visitors?

— Oh, no — he replied without looking at her, his back to her as he served his own breakfast — I just sent in my admissions essays —

He tries to sound as casual as possible, but fails instantly. His voice catches on the answer, and suddenly there's an elephant in the room.

- I see… -

It's still early, and the alleyway remains lazily silent, a characteristic of summer mornings. In two hours, people will begin arriving, and for the next few weeks, it will welcome those returning from abroad, welcoming all the magicians returning home and those entering the community before seeing many off on the train.

Meanwhile, silence spreads through the boarding house, interrupted by the occasional clink of cutlery on the china set and the ghostly echo of the witch's magical crockery.

It's been a week since Harry left the Tonks family, and he only managed to leave his room a couple of days ago. He cried a lot the first two days, feeling like a heartbroken toddler who'd just gotten lost and desperately longing for his mother's comfort.

Madeline had been with him only the first day, when Harry could barely distinguish between the blur of tears and tried to cling to his ghost. He'd told her what had happened and how much the decision had hurt him. He'd repeated a thousand times that it was for the best, all the while fiddling with his bandages.dividedbetween throwing them away or keeping them. After that, Harry asked for space.

— You still don't want to talk to them? — she ventured. Harry shuddered before swallowing his bite, not answering. Madeline felt the nervous surge of her magic spread like a ripple.  — I'm pretty sure they understand — she tried. — You just have to talk to them —

— I don't want to be a burden anymore —

The hardest part for the ghost is having to stay out of it all. Knowing how this affects everyone involved and not being able to do anything about it. On one hand, there's the pain of a mother watching her son do the same thing she did a lifetime ago, understanding the origins of the decision. And on the other, there's a child frightened by life's changes and the world that has betrayed him time and time again, desperate for a place to belong as he tries to learn what it means to have a home.

— Supposedly the reason for not returning to Privet, besides... well you know, was that I didn't want to continue depending on people who shouldn't have to deal with me —

This is a conversation they've had before, one that only comes up when Harry needs to remind himself why he did it. To convince himself it was the right thing to do. They've looked at the situation from every possible angle, and yet they always find a new way to make everything worse.

— I'm not going to justify the things they did to me. Locking me in that cupboard, even for weeks on end, barely able to sustain myself, and starving me even before that isn't something I'm going to forgive anytime soon — it's a statement, one he owes to himself, — but... I think I can spare them a little consideration —

This is the first time something like this has been said. Every time they talk about this, a new layer of complexity peels away from the previous one, and things never get better. This kid has been through a lot. And it's just the beginning, but this is new.

Well, at first, Harry downplayed a lot of what happened because it was all he knew: the yelling, hitting, punishments, confinement… he grew up believing it was normal, that this was his home. I tell him about all the times he was scolded for asking questions and the times he was almost beaten for asking them about his parents. How the Dursleys barely acknowledged his existence even inside the house. What it was like growing up with a cousin who loves to bully and how he made sure he couldn't make friends.

— From their perspective, they were forced to care for a child who survived the delusions of a self-important genocidal madman who had just killed his parents that very night. No one asked them; they had no choice; they just left me there, and we all suffered the consequences. —

Because that is also a truth of history.

That of a family condemned to survive the eccentricity of a world to which they have no access, forced to be the refuge of a person who is not only living proof of all the potential harm and cruelty that can exist in said world, but also the target of a war that wasn't theirs.

The irony of a daughter, a sister, who spent half her life longing to belong to the same world and the rest hating her existence, only to be heard when the symbol of her grief could no longer overshadow it.

— But if what Andy said is true, I would have served with anyone who considered me family. As long as I considered them my home. Because that's what my parents did, find a family outside of the place that bound them by blood.

—And you don't think they can be that for you?

— I don't want to break into a home that isn't mine again —

Because that's what he was taught about himself. The image of an obstacle in the life of whoever stood in his way. That of someone whose closest he'll ever get to having something to call his own will be the margin of someone who pities him enough to let him pretend.

— Maybe you should let them choose about that. — It sounds harsh, it sounds bad, but it's true. — I think I understand what you're saying. Sometimes duty compels us to be loyal for things we don't want, and that's a very dangerous bond. —

Like when a sister puts her family in danger after the guilt of knowing she has lost everything when a child wakes up at her door with a letter explaining that she will never have the chance to fix things.

— It could cause us to lose ourselves to other people —

Like when a man ignores what he was taught and decides to believe the one who “took him in” even though his instincts tell him otherwise.

— Unfortunately, we can't control who will try to do that. —

Because that's what loyalty is: constancy despite change. And when it's born of duty or an emotional or moral debt, it becomes one of the most powerful and most dangerous.

It ceases to be a virtue and becomes a chain. We can try to dress it up with honor, commitment, or nobility, but deep down, it can become a silent trap: a cursed promise that compels us to stay even when everything inside screams to flee.

In the wrong hands, loyalty doesn't unite, it subdues. And the most dangerous thing isn't the obedience it elicits, but how it convinces us that betraying ourselves is a just, necessary, even heroic act. Because it shouldn't be that way. Because no true loyalty demands the silence of conscience or the sacrifice of one's will.

—There will still be people who try to hurt you or who already do, even if it is not their intention, what you must learn is how you react to that—

Because it can make us remain silent when we should shout, stay when we should leave, justify the unjustifiable just because we feel we owe something. Little by little, we could erase ourselves: stop thinking about what we want, what we believe, what we need. Because we all surrender to duty, to promise, to the fear of failing.

— The most important thing in relationships is to give your best and hope that those who receive it will treasure it —

Because when someone gets used to you always being there, to you never saying no, they stop seeing you as a person and start seeing you as a tool. And the most painful thing is that often that bond isn't broken from the outside, but from within, when you finally understand that you were loyal to everything but yourself.

— And they have, Harry. Just like you did to them. — When he finishes speaking, he knows his work is done. — I won't tell you what you should do, but I can see how much what happened affects you. You shouldn't limit yourself only by what happened in your past, take it as a way to try one more time. — Just one look at him is enough to know he's understood, even if he isn't quite there yet. — Although maybe you should make a decision before the end of the month. Nobody knows if you'll have another chance after the train has departed. —

≫ ──── ≪ •◦ ❈ ◦• ≫ ──── ≪

— So... these are your parents, at Hogwarts? —

Hermione's voice sounds strange coming from the floor where she has been collapsed for the last hour since she arrived.

It was she who had the idea of ​​spending the whole day in her room inside the boarding house.

After his talk with Madeline the day he sent his letter to Hogwarts, Hermione visited him in the afternoon on the verge of a breakdown because she believed his essays were not good enough and thewould rejectof all theoptionalthat he chose. Which were all available. So Harry spent the rest of the day explaining why everything went so well.

And in the following days, things continued pretty much the same.

From the day they left with Nymphadora, and even before the holidays, on their return trip on the train, their friendship had grown much closer. The young witch quickly discovered what Harry had planned when they said goodbye that time on the platform, and although she continued to consider everything that could have gone wrong with that reckless decision, witnessing the beneficial change it made in her friend's life was enough to reassure her.

Meeting Madeline was another memorable experience. After living at Hogwarts surrounded by ghosts in a castle where magic is real, you'd think there were few things that could surprise you, but the ghost managed to do just that. Hermione mentioned that the witch's magical ability, awareness, and control skills were rare and far beyond anything she'd read about ghosts, but unfortunately, they couldn't find any answers for that.

A couple of days after that, almost a week after the first visit, they were both lounging around Harry's room trying to survive a boring day on vacation.

— Hmph, interesting right? —

At some point in the morning, her brunette friend had found the Pandora's box that Harry thought he had lost in the accident.

— Yeah, but how did you get it? I thought the only photos that existed were the ones in the album Hagrid gave you. —

A very valid question, if you ask him.

The scrapbook Hagrid had given him last year was still in his satchel next to the picture of the fountain, but now that Harry had his box, that book felt...empty. There was something about those moving pictures that didn't seem quite right; looking at them again, Harry believed most of them had been those group photos where the immortalization of the moment was more of a commemorative formality than a moving intention.

After seeing what their real smiles looked like, he realized the ones in the album looked forced, practiced. He didn't believe they were fake, but he didn't believe they were real either. It was as if those photos held memories of the Potter family, the tragic war heroes who died protecting their son. And Harry wanted to meet Lily and James, the humans who had found magic within a world filled with it.

He was still shaken by what he saw; the grief was still there, but it hurt a little less. Now he could look in the mirror.

Gathering all the instax frames, Harry replied to his friend:

— I found them in my vault at the beginning of the summer, we discovered a million interesting things —

He tells her the whole story. From how the idea of ​​going came about, to the day Andy read that book.

—My parents were confined to that tiny space for almost their entire lives: my dad's magazines, my mom's cassettes, both of our vinyl records, books; it's incredible, Her. For a moment, I could see what it would have been like to live with them.

The time I returned to the vault alone, I'd taken a moment to look at everything other than money. I'd gone through much of the shelves and mantles, discovering the belongings of people I'd never met. I'd familiarized myself with fragments of a life I'd never been a part of, imagining the history of each thing I touched, imagining how I would have known them if I'd had the chance.

—Oh, Harry...— she heard her friend whisper. She had no idea how she should react to that.

— I know — he replied, sharing the feeling.

They both fell silent after that. Holding some of the photos like a fragile relic that could disappear at any moment,touching themwithout looking at them completely.

The flash that came from one of them managed to shake off the feeling and, laughing a little as he recognized its contents, he prepared to show it to Hermione.

— Anyway, look at this, he says as he joins her, standing shoulder to shoulder, both leaning against the wooden edge of her bed frame. Both still on the floor, — Miss Prefect in 1975, something tells me you two would have gotten along well.

The photo in question was of a young Lily at 15 years old. She was dressed neatly in her uniform, with her red Gryffindor hair fused. She looked rather embarrassed, though also proud and a little boastful, as she stood in the station corridors sporting her shiny badge on the left side of her robes.

There wasn't much else to it, the image contained a looping motion of her trying not to laugh in front of the camera while blushing, all to end with her bursting into laughter trying to reach whoever was on the other side of the camera.

When he first saw her, after discovering that his mother had been extremely pretty, his next thought was how much she looked like his friend. Even in the photo, she had that responsible, smart-alecky energy characteristic of the brunette at his side. Though her smile was everything to him,

— Wow, I think I finally understand why everyone says you look like your dad — she says, holding out another of the photos for him to look at — You're a carbon copy. He even has the same troubled look —

According to the photo his friend was holding, it was taken when his father was in the same year as him, at the end of the summer. It was the image of a young James holding up a full set of Quidditch flying gear, looking rather smug about it. He hadn't liked it at first; Harry thought his look had something of the same superiority that most Slytherins and some other purebloods display when they, or another half-blood or Muggle-born, are too "Muggle" to be pointed out. For a moment, he believed he might be a bore.

But Hermione was right, they did look exactly the same. Which made it worse. Could he have turned out to be like that? It was something he was grateful they hadn't found out.

By the end of the photo, James was losing everything, his expression replaced by surprise, embarrassment, and then laughter. Hermione was right about that, too. That look promised trouble.

—What are all these?— he said, holding a crumpled pile.

They were the most damaged, most had scratches or burns that made it difficult to see their contents.

— Oh, photos that didn't survive that night's fire —

She said without much care, looking for other things to look at while her friend examined the photos.

— ¿How the hell did he get it?your father have a dog at Hogwarts? —

"Padfoot, Wormtail and James. 1975" read the caption.

It was a picture at the foot of the black lake at Hogwarts. James seemed to be struggling to hold a large black dog, which in turn was holding a small rat on its head. The three of them seemed to be smiling at the camera, freezing the moment just before nightfall.

This was a normal photograph. It didn't move like many of the others, but it actually seemed to be the common format of the ones I had.

— I don't know, as far as I know it was because of them that they banned them —

They both laugh at his answer.

Sometimes when McGonagall scolds him for something reckless he did in the castle, he grumbles under his breath about how much he resembles his father, even yelling at him by name a couple of times, all when he was involved in some Quidditch.

—They're cute pet names, kind of silly but sweet. — Hermione says, trying to stop herself from giggling. — And what's this other one? "The first snowfall of the year. 1976" —

This photo was also frozen. It showed three figures in a blanket of white snow, two of them seemingly in the middle of a heated snow fight, with their father losing the battle. Near them, but not taking sides in the war, was the third person lying on the ground. It was unclear whether he was doing something or had already been defeated.

—I guess it was nice weather to play outside,— Harry concludes, still considering the outcome of that confrontation.

At his response, Hermione looks at him strangely. A genuine combination of the unknown and her normal exasperation with everything she considers barbaric.

—But it's winter, Harry— he mentions— It's cold— he points out as if it wasn't obvious

— And we were born in London, it's not that hot here.

— Yes, but snow? — she squeals in confusion — We were almost snow last winter

— Because we didn't know about warming spells, — he reminds her, still feeling how invincible they thought they were when they could walk without feeling like they were going to die. — Come on, Her, don't be so serious. Have you never had a snow fight?

- And you?

— Not where it wasn't the target — he answered without looking at her, avoiding her playful and unimpressed expression — I guess it would be more fun if I could throw balls too — he finishes his sentence — Anyway, look —

"Moony and Lily. 1977. Graduation Party"

— Wow, he's really tall... and handsome —

In the photo, her mother was seen with a brunette boy in the middle of a party. She smiled at the camera while holding a bottle, and her friend posed in a cool, casual way. He was tall. Even in the photo, "Moony," who she concluded was actually the man, he was clearly hunched over to fit into the frame, yet he still towered over her mother by a full head.

They looked so young…

—Do you think they were really good friends? — says the brunette.

— He has a nickname and appears in more photos, so…

— I mean... do you think he's still alive? I know a lot of people died during the war and all, but... do you think so? —

The question hangs in the air.bullofrom the street impregnating the walls.

Harry has thought about it before, the possibility of people out there he might have met if he hadn't been given to the Durleys, people who could have cared for him; loved him. He's thought about it spontaneously ever since he realized his parents had a life before the war.

But he doesn't have an answer.

Taking a deep breath that catches in her chest, enclosing a sigh, she takes one of the last photos in the pile.

It's shattered, barely a fragment of what it once was. In it, he can make out the figure of his mother holding him in her arms, reaching for a person who has been erased by a hole in the paper. In the background, other figures loom over the first three: Moony and his father.

Happy New Year. 1980

Even before meeting him on the first day of the train, Hermione already knew everything the wizarding world knew about the Boy Who Lived.

She knew the story of the extraordinary infant who ended the war by sacrificing his parents in the process. Some books said it was just luck, others that it was destiny. A conspiracy said it was all prophesied, that the art of divination had predicted how it would end. And she believed it. After knowing that magic exists and flows within you, it's normal to see the sky as the limit.

But then he learned the truth: he was never a hero, nor a legend. There was no glory in the sacrifice, nor happiness in the loss. Harry Potter grew up with a pleasant life, but from birth his life was marked with a painful future, a destiny foreseen filled with pain and sorrow that, at least so far, has not disappointed: The loss of his parents before he could remember them; a childhood filled with abuse before he knew where he belonged; a fame he didn't ask for, that he doesn't want; and the constant adoration for something he didn't do that forces him to maintain a role.

Since starting school, there hasn't been a year when his life hasn't been in danger, and Hermione knows her friend feels bad for dragging his friends into it. It torments him that they always end up in danger, that his life hangs in the balance because of whatever villain is on duty. All for something he never asked for. Something he never wanted to be.

And as if mortal danger wasn't enough for the fabulous Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter suffered severely from not knowing human emotions, especially his own emotions.

He told him what happened after arriving at the Tonkses' house the day they left, the unnecessarily harsh attitude he had toward the entire family, and his much-needed talk with Madeline the week before. Somehow, Harry came to the conclusion that he was flawed, that he didn't function well as a support for his friends.

They've been trying to help Harry with that, after he asked them to in the midst of despair over the weight of his actions; but since none of them knew the best way to teach a person how to feel, the only thing they could come up with was to handle it the only way she'd ever known. They began to read the chemical functioning and manifestation of emotions from a clinical and statistical perspective, which Harry would have to search for in his memories. Then they would talk and analyze what emotion it was.

It wasn't conventional, but it worked somewhat. They uncovered the issues the dark-skinned man was unwittingly facing: low self-esteem, not due to appearance or physique per se, but rather a personality and integrity issue brought on by the psychological abuse in the home where he grew up.

Harry didn't always realize his behavior because he grew up believing those feelings were penance for his unwanted existence. But the damage was there, and when they knew what to look for, they found it was quite severe.

To this day, he doesn't know if it's something he should talk to an adult about. After everything he's been through and everything he's learned, he knows that casually mentioning it in front of Madeline or calling Andromeda about what's happening will only harass Harry and fuel his anxiety about not worrying others, about always appearing happy and content.

So try to guide him by regulating his emotions and releasing the tension from his intrusive thoughts, with different activities that require concentration without having to force a point. Just to distract him.

—Are you feeling better?— he asks, as casually as his voice allows.

After the last photo, things hadn't gone so well. Harry had been on the verge of tears, and the feeling had angered him. Hermione tried to talk him into letting her, but she couldn't get him to accept it. She thought it best to go for a walk, and after telling Madeline she was leaving, they began walking around the city. They ended up wandering around the gardens of a Muggle park near their own house.

—I created it.— Her tone wasn't very convincing, but it wasn't a judgment either. Hermione encouraged him to continue, giving him time to do so when he felt ready. —Do you think I should talk to them?—

- Sorry?

— I know I was wrong to act that way. I knew it the moment I started, but I couldn't stop myself. I was so afraid of ruining it and losing them that I ended up doing exactly that. And even though I know now it's just attachment issues, I'm still not sure if I should try to fix things. Part of me still thinks they're better off this way.

His brow furrowed, his eyes flashing with frustration. Hermione could see Harry's point, but she had to stop him. He was starting to get all riled up about everything.

— I think it's very considerate to think about their safety. I also think your point is good, but why don't you send them a letter? Explain the situation and your concerns. Try to figure out a way to resolve everything.

Harry didn't respond, contemplating his friend's proposal and processing how it could work.

In hindsight, Harry knows he shouldn't have been suspicious of Hermione's plans; she's proven to be an excellent strategist, and above all, her ideas have kept him alive. Besides, she was right; he could ask and hope for the best.

—Would you help me write them? I've never written one before, I've never had anyone to practice with—

She nods

That's why he loves taking her on his adventures, because he can trust her to keep him safe.

≫ ──── ≪ •◦ ❈ ◦• ≫ ──── ≪

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WIZARD?

Sirius Black escapes from Azkaban!

After twelve years in prison, facility authorities report the absence of notorious war criminal Sirius Orion Black III. How did he do it? Are we safe?

For those who don't remember or are too young to know, the former and gallant heir to the House of Black was condemned after his betrayal of our noble community by serving He Who Must Not Be Named, in addition to being responsible for the graphic deaths of many important wizards and being involved in the deaths of Lili and James Potter, heroes of the community.

Is there any chance he wants to finish the job? Is our hero Harry Potter in danger? Should we be worried? Let's hope not. (More information page 19)

If you encounter him, be careful not to try to confront him and contact the Auror department as soon as possible and Merlin is on our side.

They had to act quickly

Andromeda stared at the newspaper in her hands. It was the exclusive printed on the front page with a picture of Sirius screaming. He looked noticeably younger, his skin as beautiful and smooth as ever, but his eyes were a bit too tired despite the persistent hysteria in his actions.

It was only a matter of time before Harry read the note, and there was so much to say about the situation, because he probably doesn't know about it, and it's very likely that some people will start acting badly in the name of his safety, or he'll hear things he shouldn't, information that is none of anyone's business to deal with.

It's time to make your move.

≫ ──── ≪ •◦ ❈ ◦• ≫ ──── ≪

To be honest, Harry knew something bad was going to happen as soon as he set foot inside the place.

Ever since he woke up after the accident, he noticed something had changed inside him. He didn't quite understand what it was or what it meant, but he felt it, a strange lightness in his body that radiated caution rather than relief. Like the fire of a large bonfire in the middle of the forest.

Somehow, he'd become quite sensitive to sources of magic; he could hear it all around him, like the aesthetics of an electric current that vibrates and clicks until it becomes a practically undetectable hum. He saw it floating in the alley like a Fata Morgana during the summer and felt himself inside the boarding house.

Madeline's magic was connected to every wall of the building, affecting it based on her mood and any other circumstances. She knew this the moment Andy read the report and confirmed it upon her return.

When he entered the house, it seemed dark. Despite the lights and candles on each wall, the shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally, as if trying to envelop and hide everything in their path. The cold draft didn't provide relief from the heat on the sidewalk; it seeped into his bones like a wall of ice in winter. She looked lonelier than when he'd first met her.

Harry walked through the corridors until he reached the kitchen, which was where the fountain was located. When he entered, he saw Madeline sitting at the room's private table, accompanied by a ghost dinnerware set and what looked like a copy of The Daily Prophet. She was staring blankly out the window with a serious expression, as if she were trying to decide something.

— I'm back — he says to announce his presence.

The witch looks at him in surprise, the whole house jumping with her.

When he realizes it's just something in her eyes, he relaxes, but at the same time, he hardens. Harry can see the tension in her jaw despite the sweet smile she gives him.

— How did it go? —

The question feels too strange, even though it's something he tells her constantly, it's the first time he radiates distrust.

He doesn't say anything, sits across the table from her and tries to improve the situation.

There's nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. The kitchen maintains its rustic decor, the herbs hanging over the counter add ambiance, the stovetops are off, and the only noise is outside. Madeline doesn't seem any different either; she's wearing her usual clothes, and her tea doesn't seem to be very cold. The only thing noticeable is the newspaper on the table. She's tucked under her arms, pretending to be normal, when it's clear she's trying to hide it, but failing.

Harry looks at her for answers, but she mirrors him, looking for the same.

— Dear Andromeda was here a moment ago — she confesses out of nowhere, the name feeling like a sentence — She arrived almost an hour after you left, said something had happened and she'd like to talk to you in person, but she couldn't stay long —

The revelation of the scoop doesn't improve the scene at all. The way it comes out of his mouth, the tone in which it resonates in his ears, the implication of the words. Everything. Is. Wrong.

—What happened?— he says before I can grasp it.

The house responds to her call, the same channeling connection as the first time, the sense of guidance and intangible calm that keeps her stable enough to think.

— I think it's better if you read it yourself —

With regret and care, he slid the form in front of the young wizard, who held it with hesitant hands before beginning to read what it said. It took only a few minutes, no more than five, for him to finish reading, but the weight of the atmosphere had been greatly strengthened.

Harry let out a long sigh before throwing the newspaper on the table and letting it melt into the seat.

—I guess I'll be taking care of my life this year too, right? — I said with a crude tone of irony. —It's my fault. —He took a deep gulp of his own saliva before continuing. —I should have known things wouldn't be resolved that easily. I was a fool.

—You're not a fool, Harry,— she was quick to clarify. —I don't think your life is really in danger either.— That statement made Harry look at her as quickly as a whip, ready with that glint in his eyes that was both curious and suspicious.

Maybe he shouldn't have said that.

— I... — "I guess there was no turning back now" — Look, Andromeda didn't tell me much, she had to talk to you not only because she wanted to give you the little thing herself, it seemed like she had something more to say about it.

— Do you think she…?

— I don't know. I don't remember much from that time either. I wasn't a ghost for many years, and in the chaos of the war and its ravages in the alley, I barely had time to stabilize. It was around that time that people started leaving, and as I went on, the things I knew became less.

What I do know is that when Voldemort fell, most of his followers surrendered at the news and the few who fought were either arrested or died in battle, but then rumors spread that they weren't the only ones to die that night. Perhaps it was a little cruel to put things in such a crude way, but Harry had to understand. At least enough until the time came. The whole thing was strange, most of the old families were being caught for aiding the dark lord and many were locked up for it, but the problem with the wizarding world is that there's always a benefit of the doubt, no matter what happens or what you do, you'll always be judged. Except for him, he was the only wizard who didn't have a trial.

The conversation was interrupted to defer the information. The two wizards looked at each other, trying to debate what they would do.

—After the war, the Ministry goes through a period of trial after trial: suspects, guilty, innocent, spies; everything. Every wizard involved in a crime, with or without proof, with or without evidence, had a trial. Even people who were seen murdering others had a trial, all except Sirius. I remember thinking that was strange. Why was he different? Many said it was because of the level of his actions, but even the inner circle had their chance.

The official story was that he'd lost his mind, that he was in psychotic shock; but there were ways, you know, ways to get inside his head and see what happened. There were many ways to uncover the truth, but none of them were ever carried out. They just locked him up. Taking the period in his hands, he held it up so that it was within Harry's view. —The only thing there was was a note reporting what happened. It included the same photograph as now, but tell me, Harry, what do you see here?—

To say what he saw was beautiful was a lie, just as it was to say he saw something disgusting. Because what Harry saw was a disturbed young man. Sirius's face was blank, his silenced screams heartbreaking. You could see his own loss, the pain he carried.

—Why are you showing me this? —he whispered an unanswered question.

— Because I think there's more to it than we know. Your parents were supposedly hiding, Harry, protected from the danger you were in. How do you think they found you?

— A snitch

—A traitor,— he corrected. A flat tone that sought to reveal the universe's answers in two words. —But a close one, someone who wanted to get rid of them.—

Harry pondered the words for a moment. They distracted him from his deep dive into breakfast. It didn't even have any flavor at the moment, more of a distraction while he thought about it.

Madeline was right, the case was unusual; he'd read about the Ministry's trials himself, and they stipulated a trial for any crime. If that was a rule, then why didn't this guy have one?

— As I said, there are many strange things about this case — the conversation turns serious. An important topic treated as such — But the strangest thing is the record of those involved. Officially, it's Sirius, your parents, and Voldemort; but there's one more known to have supposedly died at the hands of Sirius, a wizard who was also part of your parents' inner circle. Peter Pettigrew —

The culmination of the statement feels like a dam about to break. The news isn't pleasant at all, neither the first nor the second; both deal with a possible culprit in their story. The person who took everything from them. But also the possibility that it was someone else.

If Harry has learned anything over the past few years, it's that the Ministry is broken. No one cares much about what's going on. If they had, they wouldn't have deliberately let him be in danger in the castle, nor would they have lived the life they did. Ron once mentioned that Draco's father worked there, and they knew he was no good—a man who prioritized his well-being over that of others. His appearance at the expense of everyone else. Why would anyone else be any different?

Furthermore, the news came from The Prophet, the most popular outlet in the community. Basically the direct line for every bit of gossip out there. While it was a great source for everything, Hermione didn't believe it was reliable. The mainstream media never is, and there was no reason to believe it would be any different.

— So… I just ignore it, right?

— Look, Harry — she says with a sigh — This is very delicate, it's not news that we should ignore just because of simple conjecture, and saying that you're not in danger is very different from reality, there may still be people out there who want to hurt you.

—They always want to hurt me —he objects.

She hates being right.

— Just be careful, okay? —

The look she gives him is nothing but annoyance. He challenges her in a powerful silence: an ancient forest against the wild sea; two of their imposing forces colliding dangerously. Harry is the first to retreat, his eyes defeated, staring at his lap, his arms crossed, clearly trembling.

Madeline lets out a muffled breath, resting her head, clearing her mind.

— I'm not going to control yourself, you know I'll never do that to you — One last attempt to fix this — Just be careful —

Right and wrong rarely exist in pure form: they are the sum of contexts, perspectives, and dilemmas. Morality is not an immutable beacon, but a prism that breaks down every action into invisible nuances. It is a spectrum where contradiction, doubt, and the understanding that judging is often simplifying what cannot be simplified.

Chapter Text

Growing up, we're taught that cages are punishments, that they're cold, cramped, and dark places; that those inside dream of escape, and that those who impose them are executioners. But that's only part of the truth. Sometimes, cages don't have bars, locks, or metal grilles; some don't need a lock because they're made of something stronger: fear. Of feelings disguised as love, guilt wrapped in affection; of a duty that transforms into unquestioning obedience.

And those are the hardest to recognize.

Because these cages take the form of a voice that says, "I'm doing it for your own good," of hands that get in the way before you can do it yourself, of rules that claim to protect you but only serve to remind you that they don't trust you. They are invisible spaces that ask you to shrink your world to fit theirs. That punish disagreement. That decide for you without asking what you want.

They teach you to doubt your judgment. To justify silence. To think that if someone loves you, then everything they do must be right. That freedom is dangerous. Independence, ingratitude. And the trap isn't the closed door, but the failure to look for the way out. Because these cages don't feel like punishment, but like shelter. They disguise themselves as a home. They make you grateful for what oppresses you, and fear what might set you free.

Love, when it becomes a place where you can't speak, choose, make mistakes, or leave, is no longer love: it's a cell with soft walls. And those who live there too long learn to keep quiet out of habit. To accept out of fear. To smile as it fades away.

And no one teaches you how to break a cage that is made with tenderness.

≫ ──── ≪ •◦ ❈ ◦• ≫ ──── ≪

— Just to be sure, when did you say you'll have time? —

Hermione's smirk as she rolled her eyes made Harry smile happily. It was something they'd been playing with since they left the inn.

—For your information, I am a person with a lot of time— He answered sarcastically, humming falsely— don't you believe me? —

— Hermione, I've known you for two years, we've lived together more than half of that time and all I know is that you spend your time from class to class, and that when you're not in class, you're in the library studying for the next classes —

With two weeks off before returning to Scotland, Hermione had sent him a letter on Monday asking if he could and would like to accompany her. She hadn't given many details, claiming she wanted to be a surprise. But he knew her answer.

That morning, the brunette joined him and Madeline for breakfast, where she told them her plans. The witch was intrigued as always, but Harry had only had time to see how bad an idea it was. Not because he underestimated his friend's potential, but because he himself understood the enormous responsibility; and with his lifestyle and the change in school routine that awaited them, he was worried that one day he would find his friend under a ditch after a stress induced collapse.

—Some studies stipulate that living with animals during children's development and growth is good for them,— he repeated for the third time that same day. She was still trying to convince herself of her great idea. —It helps stimulate and teach children about compassion, patience, affection, and responsibility. As long as they're not allergic and have the best facilities, it's advisable for families to have at least one pet. Don't worry about the time, I'll find one.—

He reminded him.

Since they'd seen each other again that summer, Hermione hadn't used that haughty, knowledgeable tone she used during her lectures during study sessions. Outside of academic life, she seemed more relaxed, more open to playing and enjoying her youth. When he mentioned this to her, she replied that she'd always been that way, but it was he who didn't want to see beyond all Hermione. After thinking about it, he realized she was right.

But now, after being a victim of the inexhaustible source of information that is his friend, Harry no longer feels so self conscious or frustrated about that aspect; he feels a warmth in his chest.

—Now what?— she hears him say, fully prepared to put him in his place.

Maybe I can play a little.

— Nothing, I'm trying to imagine you as a little girl convincing your parents with that speech about keeping the animal you just picked up from the yard. I can't decide if it was a dog or a cat —

The image of a young Hermione is very difficult for him to unravel. In his mind, there is only a little girl wrapped in tousled curls and earth colored wool.

— It wasn't any, I've never had a pet before.

— That?

— When I was a kid, long before my magic manifested, I was basically allergic to existence, — she comments as if she were the weather, peering behind shop windows, slipping through the crowd in the alleyway, — I couldn't do a lot of things and I had to stay inside. My parents bought me a lot of things to distract me, including books, hence my love for them. — Harry doesn't miss the fact that she's avoiding looking at him as she tells him these things, observes the subtle nervous stimulation she maintains in her hands. — Then, when I had my first magical signs, we were more worried about that than anything else. In the end, I asked my parents again if I could try it and they said yes. —

In the midst of the silence that preceded the conversation, Harry noticed something very important:

How much do you really know about your friend?

Even though he's spent a lot of time in her company, it's as if he doesn't know her. She's always been risking her life to keep him alive, and Harry never cared about anything else. And even if it weren't for this summer's big development, he wonders if she would have ever found out about this. He bets she wouldn't.

And it's not just about her life before or outside of Hogwarts. Had Hermione always exhibited these nervous behaviors? Sure, he's seen her hair turn into a fluffy halo as her stress spreads, and he's also seen her scamper around in the midst of exam chaos. But this? The avoidance of eye contact, the slight tension in her walk, the wiggling of her fingers. What else can she possibly learn?

— …I’m sorry, I had no idea — he manages to say.

—No need to worry, I never told anyone—

The silence continues, although it's less tense than before. They both sink into their own minds.

Fortunately it's not too hot, without being able to use magic to regulate his temperature, Harry had had to stay inside the building for a few days to avoid heat stroke when he still had thesales. He removed them the same day the news about Sirius Black came out and he still hadn't gotten used to the feeling of free skin. He didn't have any marks like the scar on his face, but he felt the effect inside his body: a constant tingling running from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers.

When he mentioned this to Madeline, she said that similar sensations were normal for people who had broken or injured a limb the constant itching and phantom sensation of the material remaining for a while after it was removed but Harry knew deep down it was something more.

—And you?— The resumption of conversation startles him a little. They're already more than halfway there, and the magic pet shop is almost across the street from Madeline's boarding house. —Have you... well, have you lived with animals before?—

She looks guilty for blurting out her question, Harry appreciates the thought.

She takes a moment to consider her answer; even though she's clear about it, it's a delay to cover up her friend's slip. After a few seconds, she makes a sound of anticipation before beginning to speak:

— Animals are somewhat allergic to Dudley so we never had any at home, although if we had they wouldn't have let me pet him. — At home they had tried, small animals that always ended up running away or abandoned because his cousin was as mean to them as he was to him. — The closest was Aunt Marge's dog, a little bastard that they trained to annoy me. Once they let him bark and try to bite me for hours while I took refuge in a tree. Even last year they found that funny.

— That's horrible —

Harry doesn't remember how old he was when this happened, but he remembers falling asleep in that tree hoping the dog would get tired or lose interest, but it seemed the laughter of his onlookers only motivated him more. He only managed to get down when Aunt Petunia scolded him for staying there after Aunt Marge and her dog left. Harry was very scared. That night, his aunt had allowed him to eat something solid.

—I did have a pet, though,— he says happily. His friend's look of surprise and excitement cheers him up. —It wasn't exactly a pet, and it wasn't exactly mine. It was a kitten that lived on the street. Sometimes I'd come up to it and play with it a little. I'd try to feed it, but it didn't have much to offer.—

He was a tiny toddler when he met her, barely able to stand. Just before he got his glasses, Harry always tried to save a bit of his food to share with her, just as he did with Hedwig. Sadly, just like with his owl, he couldn't always fight his own hunger. Harry cried every time, the slight relief in his stomach distressing him to think that not only would he be hungry again before long, but his little friend would be too.

— She was very nice to me. I think that's the only thing I miss about the neighborhood. I hope she's okay. She was a gray tabby cat, with marbled spots on her face, and a pair of them looked like round glasses like mine. Her name was Miss Spots. I obviously don't know if that's her real name or if she even had one.

Between unfair punishments and his ever increasing chore load as he grew older, he couldn't always see his kitten, and the time he could escape from his family became scarcer with each year. Yet she was always there when he managed to escape: for a few seconds during vacations and days off, on his birthday mornings, or on Christmas Eve. She never left him alone. She was the one who kept his hope alive before the castle.

— I'm sure it's okay —

He hopes so.

When they finally arrive at the pet store, the noise and limited space to walk are the first things you notice. The shop isn't very large and is covered from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling, with cages.

Among the cages, the animal display is a visual and mental spectacle. For his essay, Harry had read "Fantastic Beasts," a recommendation from Andromeda written by his former professor, Newt. The magizoologist had dedicated his entire writing to a manual on the characterization of some creatures found in the wizarding world. Inside the shop, Harry managed to recognize some thanks to the extensive descriptions Newt had written. He was excited to bring the pages to life, although something held him back.

— Hermione… — Somehow, the whisper manages to reach the brunette. She looks at him, her eyes shining, but Harry is starting to worry. — You said it's your first pet. — She nods. — Why did you decide on a magical one? Wouldn't it be easier to start with a regular one? —

Once she expresses her doubts, Hermione's expression changes. Her excitement fades in slow motion, replaced by a sudden realization.

— My parents said the same thing, but I think it's for the best. He spent most of his time in the castle. I don't know if a regular pet could keep up with all the animals there.

—And a magician isn't dangerous in the human world? —

The memory of some public scandals with the professor before becoming one runs through his mind.

— Yes, but it would take less time — He argues in his favor. — Anyway, I don't want a magic-magic one, you know? — They continue inspecting the creatures, reading each of the cards and labels the seller has placed there. — I read that wizards have what they consider "kindred animals," Muggle pets with magical abilities born from the crossbreeding of both worlds. Remember Neville's toad and the ones from the castle? They're different, but also the same. Trevor is descended from the others. Ron's pet? It's said that these pets can strengthen the wizard and that their own magic flows according to the compatible bond of its owner. —

One day he'll have to ask Hermione about all the degrees he's consumed. The revelation of this information blows his mind. Magic and the natural human world have always been intertwined, coexisting in silence and harmony; it seemed that the only ones who couldn't reach an agreement were humans.

And the magic between wizard and animal? He thinks he can distinguish it. Harry always felt Hedwig was more than just a pet, as if something floated between them, allowing a communication and understanding beyond words. Knowing she's a product of the wonders of the wizarding world is a little bittersweet. It's good to know it's thanks to a bond they've created, but it's sad to think it's not innate between them.

— It's like wands — he remembers at the last moment.

As if he can hear her, the wood in his pocket becomes slightly heavy. Harry feels a little uncomfortable with it, the itch on his skin growing.

—Yes, do you remember that they all have some component of animal origin? — he nods — It's because that's how the bond is formed.

— That's quite interesting.

— And —

It wasn't something he'd considered before, but with the letter on the table, Harry became interested in the fact. Hermione had once told him that wizards who shared certain components in their wands could still exchange tools and still function, albeit with side effects such as spell failure or weakening. Ollivander had told him that the wand chooses the wizard, but if that's so, then how do they work?

The sight of a small niffler trying to escape manages to distract him from his thoughts. The animal also looked at him, inspecting the condition of his glasses and whether it was worth the effort. Harry was eager to take care of one, if it didn't mean ending up in a police report accusing him of being a thief.

— Hermione, can I ask you a question —

She's on the other side of the tent, which translates to having her back to him. She moves her head slightly to show she's heard him before squatting down to look at one of the cages.

— Yes

—When we first met, you said you'd read everything about the magical world, including what was said about me.

— And... 

— What do you know about Sirius Black? —

The mention of a fugitive magician unsettles the girl and makes her fall; and as if all the animals in the shop were also afraid, silence reigns for the first time since they entered.

It's not something she's talked to anyone about since she found out and spoke to Madeline about it. The news was hard to swallow and the doubt of whether it's true even harder. She tried to find out about him on her own, but when sheinsideIn the bookstore the ad was still too fresh, wherever he went people recognized him and couldn't take their eyes off him. Somelimitedto look at them with pity, as if they were an animal sentenced to death; the most brazen ones didn't wait for their backs to turn before they started whispering.

In the end I hadn't found anything, but that need continues to beat.

—Listen, I got into too much trouble by acting before I knew what I was up against. I wasted a lot of time dealing with things I shouldn't have. I don't want to fight in vain again.— It wasn't an exact lie; his recklessness had put him up against unnecessary obstacles. And if it weren't for the memory of the hat that sorted him, he could blame it all on being Gryffindor.

The brunette didn't buy his explanation entirely, looking at him with the same suspicion as in previous years. He didn't back down; for the first time, this was something that truly involved him, and he believed it was only fair to know. After a few minutes, Hermione let out a sigh.

— Sirius Black. Full name, Sirius Orion Black III was the firstborn heir of the first wizarding family to settle in Great Britain: the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He was born in 1959, but did not attend school until he was 12, in 1971. When he arrived at Hogwarts, he was sorted into Gryffindor, a scandal at the time; his entire family had been in Slytherin, even his brother, who arrived a year later. His parents, Walburga and Orion Black, were powerful political figures, elitist purebloods who specialized in the dark arts —

The latter wasn't exactly a surprise. The great and ancient wizarding families, especially those obsessed with "pureblood" status, had a tendency toward such magic. Last year had made that clear 

The duality of the house was what had caught his attention. Harry knew his parents had been in the same house as him, and that all the Weasleys had been too. He knew the pride and expectation he saw in continuing that tradition; knowing that Harry might have shared a trait with Sirius if his answer had been different…

—His family has connections to all the other clans of the sacred 28, including yours and the Weasleys—

He says the following fact with a hint of guilt, as if its existence were a sentence or an olive branch. He doesn't believe it's either of those things. It's never been important to him, just another fact. He believes it's something he's grateful for in his life, never having any idea of ​​the weight that comes with a lineage of that stature.

— I read that after being sorted into another house, things in your family began to unravel. It seems you never got along with your parents, and that only drove them further apart. According to sources, Sirius was banished or abandoned to the Black name when he was 16, in 1975, passing the legacy to his younger brother, Regulus Arcturus Black, who died in 1979 during the Wizarding War. —

While he's grateful for the information, knowing things like this puts things in perspective. Harry didn't grow up in a pureblood family, and from what he knows, the Potters were important allies of Muggles and their role in the wizarding world. But he's experienced firsthand what it's like to be out of step with a family, the desperation that forces you to escape.

— Some books said his entire family belonged to the Death Eater ranks and that they were the most loyal and lethal followers he had. That's why no one hesitated when what happened happened. Banished members of their bloodlines are common among the community, but it's even more common for them to be willing to do anything to return. And at the end of the war, perhaps he regretted it, or perhaps he always did and saw his opportunity—

Something tells him he didn't do it. Possibly it's his own need to remember what was for the best whenever he feels a bit homesick for the Dursleys. Harry doesn't think a decision like that is easy to take back.

—He was arrested on the night of October 31st, 1981, after murdering almost an entire village, another magician, and, well, your parents.

— You know who the other magician was —

That had been mentioned in the newspaper and Madeline had confirmed it.

— I think his name was Peter…something. There wasn't much information on him; he was also in Gryffindor during Sirius's generation. His family was pureblood, but there were no records of his party during the war. The only thing I could find out about him was that he was in the same town where your parents died that night. I'm sorry, Harry. —

Hermione's apology after offering more information than anyone else makes him feel guilty.

—It's okay,— he assures her.

With the sudden urge to move, Harry gets up from the floor where they were and continues exploring the shop without really looking at anyone. The knowledge he now has is quite important; it's important information about the fugitive, which only fuels that doubt.

It's no wonder pureblood wizards skilled in the dark arts sided with Voldemort in the war. Harry knew that, just as he knew that many got away with their actions. A name brings prestige, and prestige brings power. Harry knows that.

Given that most of those surnames are part of the current Wizengamot, the idea that they would use their name to protect themselves and break free from Azkaban is increasingly possible. So why not Sirius? If you understood what Hermione mentioned, the family's age and reach in the wizarding world places them at the top of the strange parliament that is the 28th Indent. A name with that weight would have guaranteed him impunity, but it didn't.

Could it be because of the exile? Did they turn their backs on him?

He knows that sometimes, cages aren't built with bars but with certainties. With stories repeated so many times that no one dares to doubt them. With names crossed out in the margins of books, half truths that sound like dogma. The strongest cage is the one accepted without question, because it's made of what everyone takes for granted. And within it, every doubt feels like a betrayal. But asking if the story is true... can also be the key.

— Are you OK? —

Hermione is right behind him, cautiously touching his arm. He smiles at her.

— Uhm. It's just that... I feel like something really weird is going to happen this year. — She doesn't tell him about her informal investigation; she doesn't think she'll do it anytime soon. There's something about Sirius that makes her feel off every time she thinks about him, she just can't quite figure out how. — Although I don't know why I'm surprised, it's not the first time, — she says to lighten the mood.

— Everything will be fine.

— I hope so — 

Do you know that feeling of being watched? That tension that builds in the center of your back, travels down, and settles in your belly, while you and your mind repeat, "Don't look."

Well, it turns out it's not a product of your imagination.

If you consult science, you'll find it's due to evolution. After millennia of existence on Earth, humans have been able to develop a hypersensitivity to detect the attention of others, especially if that attention could be a threat. Sensing that a predator or enemy was watching us could mean the difference between life or death. Therefore, our brains evolved to be highly alert to subtle signs of vigilance, even without clear evidence.

But if your mind is open to more than just biology, you'll learn what some call "theory of mind," an ability that allows us to imagine or deduce the thoughts, emotions, and intentions of others. This also includes sensing whether someone is paying attention to us, even if they don't express it clearly.

In other words, we don't just see the act of looking, we also feel its intention, because what we feel is an emotional or symbolic charge.

Back in the tent, the squawks, meows, and chirps of animals and other creatures were suddenly drowned out as a chill ran down her neck. Its source wasn't a noise, nor a light. It was a stare. Direct. Penetrating. Human.

Lying on a high ledge, in a corner dimly lit by a floating lamp, was what he thought was a cat. But not just any cat. Its fur was a tangle of dull fire, a mixture of dark oranges, reds, and ochres that seemed to move with the light, like sleeping embers. Its face was slightly flattened, almost leonine, with thick, unruly whiskers that looked more like feathers than hair.

And he stared at them

Magic rippling through its deep, yellow sockets; an intelligence that was anything but feline and everything else. Harry felt watched, scanned, as if the being were leafing through the pages of his soul.

The cat, unfazed, rose with the grace of an ancient shadow and walked straight toward them. First, it stopped in front of Harry, sniffed him, and then touched him with its tail; as if blessing him. It was as if it recognized him, and Harry, for some reason, felt the same. As if they had been waiting for this moment.

—Hermione…— he said softly, still looking.

Before he could answer, his breath caught in his throat.

Before her, she found a creature straight out of a dusty book of magical beasts. Its legs were large, disproportionate, as if made to walk in more dimensions than our own, and its tail moved with a slow, solemn rhythm, like a pendulum measuring time between two worlds.

But it was the eyes that stopped the world.

Pure amber. Not the color, but the very essence of amber: ancient resin trapping ancient lights, unfading glances, secrets waiting to be told. They didn't look at the observer, they evaluated him As if he knew, at that exact moment, whether the person in front of him was worthy of knowing his loyalty… or his mysteries.

— Looks like he's chosen you, girl — the store clerk's sudden voice makes both teenagers stick jump, as if they were caught doing something they shouldn't.

When they looked at her, she didn't seem angry but rather pleased, as if she knew things they didn't, but was happy with the way everything turned out. She picked up the cat with ease, looking at it with pride and nostalgic affection.

— This cat isn't normal, he's half Kneazle. I took him on a West Country holiday over 10 years ago. I thought he'd die here, but he seems to like you.

—Me?— Her friend's lips escaped. Surprise permeated her being.

— They have great judgment with people, miss —

Then the cat leaped toward her, swift as a portent, silent as a thought. Once in its arms, Hermione felt something she had never felt with any other being: recognition It wasn't just a gesture of affection. It was a tacit agreement.

—How much do you want for it? — I question without really asking.

— Take it, you're doing me a big favor with it —

≫ ──── ≪ •◦ ❈ ◦• ≫ ──── ≪

Officially, it's been three months since the only time Vernon showed him a bit of compassion and agreed to take him to the alley door, trusting his word for the last time that they would never see each other again.

It's still a little hard for him to believe that and everything else that happened during the holidays, but the sound of life stirring along the street along with the hints of spices coming from the kitchen manage to convince him a little.

On the last weekend before the end of summer, Diagon Alley was packed with people. Wizards of all classes returning from around the world, Muggles and half-bloods visiting the street for the first time, and children running from shop to shop while the older ones looked on fondly from the more modest establishments for their age.

All gathered for the same reason: On Sunday they will have to return to Hogwarts.

The previous week, the Prophet had run a special section to report that Mr. Weasley had won a major prize and that the whole family had taken advantage of the opportunity to take a trip to Egypt. Ron once mentioned that one of his brothers lived there; he couldn't remember its name or what exactly it was, but he did remember that it was a collaboration with the Goblin Bank. He presumes they went to visit him, if the addition of an unknown redhead in the newspaper picture tells him anything.

When I mentioned this to Hermione, she didn't seem surprised; she apparently knew about it from her correspondence with Ginny, who told her they all arrived just in time to leave. Which happened to be Wednesday.

Ron had sent him a letter basically apologizing for not sending him anything sooner. He said that after what had happened the previous year with Dobby, he didn't know if it was appropriate to take the risk. He also told him his version of the trip and many other things that had happened. His letter had been three full sheets of parchment, written on both sides. It was the longest he'd ever seen his friend write.

Harry had no problem accepting her apology, but he admits he didn't take the initiative to start the correspondence either, despite having had plenty of opportunities to do so. He didn't say anything, though. He only shared simple things about his summer being the most peaceful of his life and that he'd like to repeat the experience of last year, when they'd get together to do their shopping and say goodbye on the train the next day.

The meeting was set for Friday night. After talking with Madeline and Hermione, who had gotten her parents' permission to stay with them for the last week after acquiring Crookshanks, a welcome back dinner would be organized for the family. Not only was it the perfect opportunity to meet before leaving, but Harry could tell them the truth without suffering, for too long, from what he knew would be a severe scolding from Mrs. Weasley.

If he's honest, that was the main reason he never sent a letter about it. At first, Harry was a little resentful of them; even though he adores them, he'd never been more aware that he didn't belong with them than at the end of his second year. And by the time he got Vernon to let go, things felt so fragile that the very idea of ​​saying it out loud seemed to carry the bad omen of being taken away. Then he met the Tonks girls, his parents' past, and the rest is history.

But telling the Weasley family, telling Molly about his reckless decision not to return to Privet, always had a clear path. He knew she wouldn't approve, that she'd try to take him to the Burrow, that she'd tell Dumbledore, and then he'd be passed from one cage to another. And that's what scared him.

He couldn't put a name to this feeling until it settled inside him, but Harry needed to find himself. He needed to know who he was outside the house that only saw him as a curse, away from those who considered him a hero, and hidden from the one who turned him into a soldier.

Because now he knows there are cages that aren't noticeable until you try to grow within them. They don't respond to love, but to autonomy. Because growing up is moving, but moving within a cage is pushing the boundaries others have set.

— Harry, dear —

As always, Madeline knocks on the door beforecross itSomething you'll always be grateful for.

She was just finishing changing. With people arriving and the inevitable shortage of rooms in the cauldron, Madeline finally decided to reopen her doors, so they spent the whole morning cleaning and tidying the boarding house, while the old witch cooked the feast.

They were supposed to use Harry as a trusted advertisement, showing his preference for the building; that was Hermione's idea, one of the many "privileges" of her fame.

— Your friends just arrived — he announced from the bed frame — They're waiting for you downstairs

≫ ──── ≪ •◦ ❈ ◦• ≫ ──── ≪

Harry watched from the top of the stairs, partially hidden by the shadow of the landing, the warm light from the lamps bathing the cluster of overstuffed sofas arranged in a circle ready for a conversation that had yet to begin.

The Weasleys accommodated the usual bustle: Ron was talking quickly, using his hands; Fred and George had already found something to inspect among the antique glass cabinets; and Mrs. Weasley... well, her voice was distinguishable even from the second floor, warm and steady as a hearth spell.

Hermione was already with them. She'd come down just a few minutes earlier, leaving Harry behind. He'd said he needed a second longer. He hadn't explained why.

He had waited for them, yes. And he loved them, much more than he allowed himself to say. But something inside himretreatedA part of his body tensed as if anticipating something. It wasn't fear, exactly, but it wasn't comfort either.

A tiny, barely perceptible current ran down his spine like a gust before a spell. He could feel his magic stirring, subtly, as if he didn't know what to do with the mixture of affection and alertness coursing through him.

It seemed to vibrate with a silent restlessness and I didn't understand why.

He loved the Weasleys, but something in him had moved.

He knew what would happen as soon as he set foot on the main floor: Molly would hug him as soon as she saw him. She would shower him with affection and concern. And she would love him. So much so that she would accidentally try to return him to a barred cage of good wishes and hot soup.

He sighed and took a step down. Then another. The wood creaked beneath his feet, announcing itself without words. The voices stopped for a second. Molly was the first to reach him.

—Harry, darling!— she exclaimed, crossing the room with her arms open as if the simple act of wrapping him could mend anything broken in him.

Harry didn't have time to react. The hug was warm, tight, familiar. But the touch was also a little overwhelming, as if instead of comforting would push back all the progress Harry had made on his own that summer.

Molly moved back just a few inches to get a better look at him, and her expression changed in an instant. Her eyes widened in horror, and her hand trembled as it touched half his face.

—Merlin... Harry. What happened?— she said in a dismayed whisper that quickly grew. —That looks awful. Those... Muggles. How can Dumbledore keep allowing this?—

Harry didn't answer. The skin beneath the scar tightened instinctively, as if trying to hide. He pressed his lips together. He knew. He knew the scar would attract attention, but even so, a childish part of him had hoped that no one would say anything. That he would just accept it, as he was still trying to do.

Mr. Weasley intervened with a soft exclamation, but Molly had already taken another breath.

—I already told him that a boy like Harry shouldn't be living with barbarians like them! Did he hear me? Of course not. Look at him now, with a deformity on his face!—

The room fell silent for a moment. Hermione, watching him from a corner, frowned slightly. She said nothing, but Harry saw the glimmer of understanding in her eyes. As if she'd noticed the same thing he had: that the ground beneath their feet was no longer the same. Harry smiled at her, trying hard to calm her, but inside something was moving slowly, uncomfortably, like a string tangling in his stomach. It wasn't pain. It was something else. A pang of vulnerability. Of discomfort with his own body. A desire to hide, to disappear for a while into the room he'd made his own at the inn.

—You must be Molly Weasley,— the enveloping velvet resonated subtly between the walls, like a fog that hides more than it reveals and that Harry now calls home.

With a display similar to the one she put on the day he met her, Grandma's ghostly silhouette appeared in the middle of the room, just behind Harry. A sign of protection.

— Madeline Dupont — she introduced herself with her hand extended towards the redheaded mother — I run this place. Nice to meet you.

At the apparition, the entire family focused their attention on the witch. They looked at her with various facial reactions as she evaluated them in return, still holding her hand out in a gesture of kindness.

—A ghost running a house?— was what slipped from the older woman's lips.

The first to react was Arthur, always a mediator despite the nervous energy that constantly surrounded him.

— You must excuse my wife, she's still agitated from the trip — He says, accepting the handshake with curiosity before being surprised when his hand doesn't pass through the plasma.

— …of course, — she offers with the tenderness of a winter blanket. — Would you like me to show you to your room on the second floor? I'm sure you'd like to get some sleep before eating?

— Oh, no. I couldn't.

— Consider it as grateful one, Harry has told me a lot about you, how you have supported him since he entered Hogwarts

— We didn't want to be a nuisance

— Not at all — he exclaims with a singsong intonation that doesn't quite match his expression — This way, please —

As Molly's arms slowly fell from his shoulders and her presence vanished dazedly down the stairs, Mr. Weasley and Madeline leading the way, Harry felt the air rush back into his lungs. The room had fallen silent; he couldn't see the expressions on his friends' faces behind him, but he didn't want to.

The bars had not disappeared.

Rationally, he knows that he didn't mean to be cruel, that the last thing he was trying to say was anything more than what he himself thought the first time he saw her.

It was just a reaction brought on by surprise, one of those times when your tongue acts before your brain can keep up. He knows. He really does. But it's not enough. The damage was done.

Like a snowflake starting an avalanche, the sentence rolled through her until she couldn't stop it. The shame was immediate. Her heated skin turned red, her entire body becoming all too evident.

It was like a spotlight had come on right over his head.

Everything that was once natural now felt wrong to me. His body no longer belonged to him. They probably weren't even looking at him, probably just lingering over the place, but the gazes were still there, fixed on him; on the scar. On the flaw. A shower of judgments falling on his shoulders.

That's when the gears started grinding. Was he supposed to answer? Or was he supposed to pretend he didn't hear her? That it didn't matter? His mind was blank, his tongue tied in knots. The comment was stuck in a loop, echoes of his past floating around him.

The air became strange, thick. Magic seeped from his chest to the rest of his body like water through cracks: slow, but relentless. He could feel it emanating slowly, like the heat from asphalt on a hot day. It was as if an interference were about to short out, and everything around him was going to explode. Again, he couldn't breathe.

In a second, he felt like he no longer belonged; the place he'd thought was his no longer belonged to him. It had been taken away. He closed his eyes in fear, and all he saw was himself back in the closet. No one cared again. But what had he done wrong this time? Could he still fix it?

He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He couldn't.

On the outside, everything remained the same, normal, like every time he felt ill.

And he felt it, the ball kept rolling, gaining weight, strength. It dragged along with it parts of himself he didn't want to think about, didn't want to acknowledge, and they forced him to ask himself: How much more could he hold?

A warm touch gently brought him back. Over her shoulder, his friend looked at him with compassion; she knew. She saw him. She offered him a hand hidden in her clothes, which he clung to between their bodies.

They stared at each other for a long time that felt insufficient, a silent conversation where neither understood what the other was saying. Hermione wanted to support him, but Harry had no idea how to break out of his shell.

She didn't push, just a sigh.

— Fred, George, please behave yourselves. We are guests and we must behave as such. —

The sound of the command ended the moment. In the middle of the main hall, the red haired twins began to fiddle with the structure. They didn't have their wands at hand, but they had long since learned that they didn't need them.

The eldest of the five was behind them, with his correct posture and political countenance trying to get his younger brothers to maintain the decorum.

— Thanks, Percy —

In the past he didn't always understand the boy, although physically similar, his attitude was quite different from the rest of the Weasley children, but he knew what it felt like to be different and didn't judge him.

With a last discreet nod in his direction, Harry turned his attention to the other two. They'd grown over the summer, their hair slightly longer, and even from a distance, he could glimpse the changes age had made on their faces. They had the same relaxed posture and mischievous energy, but their smile was different, more subdued. A silent danger that could explode at any moment.

 — Hi guys 

— Hello Harry — they answered in unison.

The scream that echoed around the shared room caught the attention of everyone present. Ron was scared, trying to push something away from himself, sounding worried. Without the power to use their wands outside the castle, they had to rely on their own strength and abilities, and it seemed Ron didn't have much faith in them.

As they approached to check on him, a flurry of red fur with claws sticking out provided all the explanation they needed. Hermione ran toward the cat attacking the third member of their small group. The animal let it go, but it didn't take its eyes off the redhead or stop its warning growl.

—What the hell is that thing?— Ron exhaled, his voice cracking with fright.

—His name is Crookshanks —Hermione responded indignantly at her friend's tone and reference —And he's not a thing, he's my cat.

— What happened? — Harry intervened

— I don't know, I was looking for Scabbers and that thing jumped on me —

The mention of the rat calmed the situation two-thirds. Harry just let out a sigh that contained much of his frustration. —I guess we didn't think that part through.—

—Are you okay?— Ron nodded, still shocked and suspicious. —And Scabbers?—

— I don't know, it jumped out of my hands

— Very well — he nodded, resigned to the knowledge that this problem would take longer than he would like — Hermione, why don't you take Crookshanks and Ginny to your room? I'll take the boys.

— But

— I'm sorry, but this house is big, Ron. It'll take us a while to find it. I'll tell my Grand-meré that you're lost, maybe he can help us —

It wasn't until he finished speaking that he noticed the tone of his expression. He'd treated it almost as an inconvenience; the thought of a disastrous -adventure- over a silly rat and his dispute with the magic cat had vexed his already anguished mind just by appearing in his head. Still, the abruptness took him by surprise. As if mere interest were a commitment he detested.

He doesn't know if anyone else noticed besides Hermione, because of course she did, but he took her word for it the same way he did with the summer.

— All right. This way. —

He commented as innocently as possible. Perhaps too innocently.

But no one said anything about it. Silently, they all began to climb the stairs, the fluttering chaos that used to be the five siblings reduced to the hum of silence, the creaking and squeaking of the wooden planks on the staircase. Harry could feel them, his magic rippling with different emotions.

The idea of ​​being the one who caused it made him nauseous, as if every step he took was on a boat adrift in the sea, condemned to the mercy of the tide and the hope of reaching land safely.

—I hope you don't mind Ginny staying with Her,— she tried to make conversation as they walked down the corridor that would lead to their rooms. Right across the wing from the one they'd designated as the "parents' area," Fred and George will share a room, and Percy and Ron will have their own.

— That? —

They chanted in unison, the four men divided by disbelief and what seemed like indignation.

—Well, we thought Percy might appreciate a bit of space, and twins always share everything,— Hermione interrupted. Everyone fell silent when she broke it. A serene presence who, although she'd like to go unnoticed, shone like crystal beneath the perfect beam of sunlight. —Ginny and Ron could share a room, sure, but maybe you'd like to stay with a girl. That empty bed in my room is starting to look a bit spooky,— she said, winking at the redhead.

— Wait, since when are you staying here? —

At the question, five pairs of eyes rest on them, moving from one face to the other while, as the seconds pass, his own face contorts with different reactions.

The twins smiled knowingly, somewhat shocked by a plot twist that had no context.

Percy seemed to be sizing them up, as if he knew there was much more to the story and wasn't going to get even half of it. At least for now.

Ginny was the most conflicted, her expressiveness punctuated by the excitement of blossoming young love, but discouraged by not being a part of it.

And Ron. Ron didn't seem to have any reaction. He was studying them, yes, but unlike everything else in his life, this time he didn't show what he felt. As if he didn't even know.

On the other side of the show things were no better.

As happens, Hermione was blushing, her face hot with embarrassment, her magic sparking with nervousness. Harry wanted to take her hand, to calm her down as she had done to him only minutes before, but he hesitated. He might not understand the accuracy of each Weasley sibling's judgment, but he did understand that he wouldn't get away with it. So he held her hand, fought the urge to protect her while fighting the feeling that it was theirs he wanted to do it to.

— ...I arrived on Wednesday — He ended up lying in the middle of stuttering

It wasn't the right thing to do.

— So they've been living in the same house, alone, for 3 days — Percy pointed out

— Interesting 

— Very interesting —they sowed discordthe twins with mischief.

The unfolding events slowly infuriated Harry, though he didn't notice. He felt uncomfortable, but the nature of his emotions seemed unreal at the moment. Of course, he'd experienced this before, with them. He was no stranger or unaware of the frustration and helplessness of this kind of treatment, but how could they? They're his friends, his family. They represent support, not unfounded judgment, even if they try to disguise it with innocence.

—We're not alone,— he says, his jaw clenched. —Madeline lives here too.—

— Yes, but it's a ghost — refutes the eldest — They are not trustworthy —

Her breathing quickens and her throat tightens. It's not anger, it's restraint. Disappointment. For the first time in three years, she wishes they weren't there.

With no one to comment further, the guide continued.

Percy was the first to enter his assigned room, a simple space that wasn't very large, but that would allow him to sleep a couple of nights completely alone.

After him came the girls, a large room furnished with twin beds and a large window. Madeline said that this room had been hers growing up and that, just like her in life, she would like it to be a home for the girl.

Ginny was thrilled when she walked in. Although it had only been there a week, it already had clear signs of being lived in: a modest decor covered in a jumble of books and wool sweaters, with a vanity table bursting at the seams with hair styling tools. Hermione really embraced the new look.

—Really, mate?— I hear Ron say just a second after the girls left. —Hermione? What the hell?—

—It's not what you think,— he repeated sharply.

Before disappearing, Hermione had cautiously approached him to confirm that he was okay. He nodded, secretly confused by the tangled emotions.

It seems he wasn't as discreet as he wanted.

— I don't know, what do you say Fred? — I prompt — A boy and a girl

— Only in the same house —

Something inside him began to gradually close, his entire body vibrating with a silent pressure, the magic swirling like embers beneath a simmering cauldron. The words wouldn't come out. All he could do was grit his teeth.

Without continuing his jokes he let them mock andthey plotteda story all they wanted; it wasn't true. As much asit seemednot caring.

He inhaled deeply, trying to gather the feeling and calm his stomach. When he exhaled, the tension in his muscles disappeared. The emotions disconnected one by one, like windows closing to stifle a fire. There was no more urgency, no more anger, not even sadness. Only a lukewarm acceptance, like when a machine emits its last hum before silence. There was no peace. Only absence.

— ...these are your rooms, I'll leave you to settle in— was the last thing he said to them before running to his own room at the end of the hall.

When the lock clicked, announcing her safety, it was like opening a sealed floodgate. Her shoulders relaxed, leaving behind all the heaviness she hadn't noticed.

It was like breathing again after spending hours underwater. No noise. No shocks. Just functional silence. A free space to breathe.

Everything he'd been holding back came out in a long, quiet breath. It was like a fan on full blast that slowed down to a soft, almost pleasurable hum. Then his mindreturnover and over again to the same point, like a machine caught in an error loop. Every time he tried to move forward, something dragged him back to the beginning, repeating the same memory fragment with excruciating precision: the moment he walked down that staircase.

— Oh, honey, are you okay? —

And it's like turning on the light at the end of the tunnel.

I've been hearing about this for a long time, about how a voice can have the effect of a soothing balm in the face of sorrow.

He dreamed of what his mother would be like: cheerful? kind?

How do you find comfort in someone who didn't live long enough to learn how to do it? Then they lost hope.when I cryfor her, when she never arrived.

He had to understand that no one would come to rescue him, that he had to do it himself, but he always had hope.

— You know there's no need to pretend with me, right? —

He's not sad. Or at least that's what he tells himself. What he holds in his chest isn't really sorrow, but something denser, sharper. Something that scrapes with every breath that enters his lungs. Something that squeezes him from the inside.

—Does it really look that bad?— he finally asks.

And it feels like a lie. Maybe because it is.

He knows his answer; he receives it every day when he passes by a mirror, every time he looks at his reflection. It's not what he meant to say, but it's the only thing he can. Luckily, he understands.

— I think it's actually different. It's been a big change since the day I met you. Does it bother you?

Honesty isn't something I'm used to, at least not the brutal part. The gentleness of spoken comfort that doesn't lie for your own good but finds a way not to hurt you.

— I don't know why I'm making a big deal out of it, I know what it looks like. And Andy said it won't disappear: a mark can't be magically cured —

It is remembered.

— I don't know, I think that pair of ointments he gave you are something, you know, magical —

First, there was the tickling in her nose, as if a bubble had floated from her stomach to her throat without asking. Then, the snort escaped her lips. It wasn't a laugh. It was something worse: that half laugh that betrays you're losing the battle.

The joke wasn't good. It didn't even have a structure. It was just a silly line delivered with a straight face. But there was something about it. It slipped right through that crack: the crack of tiredness, the crack of pent up tension, the crack of unspoken words and overly heavy thoughts.

And suddenly, something gave way.

Her shoulders lowered slightly, her stomach eased its squeezing, and her lungs filled more fully. This wasn't a joke. It was permission. To not be okay for a second. To laugh, even if it wasn't appropriate. To let go of some of the weight without anyone noticing. It didn't erase anything, but it allowed her to continue.

— Is it really so bad that I'm different? —

The question made the colors seem to have lost their motivation to shine. Everything moved more slowly, as if the emotional system was running on a low battery and every step was part of an automated routine.

—This may be visible, but it's far from the only change you've undergone this summer. You're not the same person you were when you arrived at the inn, nor the same person who spent time with the Tonkses. You're not even the same person you were yesterday. We change every day because we live. Is that really a bad thing?

He didn't answer

— Tell me something, Harry. Do you hate who you are now? The person you're becoming? — He shook his head. — Then don't let anyone force you to do it. —

He looks around at the only room he can call his own. From there, the world seemed to have gone silent. Sounds came through filtered, muffled, as if behind a thick wall of foam.

Before it hurts any more. He stands up. Stretches his neck, shakes out his hands, and takes a deep breath.

≫ ──── ≪ •◦ ❈ ◦• ≫ ──── ≪

Some cages aren't broken: they're abandoned. Because arguing with those who don't want to listen is like continuing to live inside. They don't have to yell at you for it to hurt. All they have to do is deny who you are.

Breaking out of those cages isn't always a heroic escape. Sometimes it's just taking a step back and saying, "No more." Understanding that you can't keep waiting for those who love you to do the right thing. Because love can hurt, too. And that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt when you leave.

The smell of warm bread, Butterbeer, and peppermint perfume permeated the inn's rooms. Fred and George's laughter filled the air, and Ron had begun to tell -for the third time- how a giant beetle had crawled into his shoe during a trip to the pyramids.

Harry just listened with a tight smile, digging his fork into the meatloaf without actually touching it.

Her emotions hadn't disappeared; but she felt as if they had frozen, arranged with surgical precision in some deep corner of her, like files no one was supposed to open.

But around him, the world seemed to continue as normal, although the air didn't taste like air, and inside him, something creaked very slowly, like ice under the weight of a body that has forgotten how to fall.

— Harry showed me your newspaper story, your photo in Egypt. How did that go? —

Madeline's sudden voice froze everyone in the dining room.

Since the awkward first impression between the two families, things continued to be strange about her.

While Mr. Weasley and the twins, naturally curious people, were the most willing to interact with her, none of them seemed to take her seriously. It felt like back in the castle, when ghosts try to coexist with the new generations of their houses and everyone seems to take their side of the conversation, letting them wander while pretending to listen to the babble of a bored living memory.

And knowing that bothers him. With them and with himself. The hypocrisy of their indignation made his stomach churn and made him lose his appetite.

— Oh... fine, — Mrs. Weasley says hesitantly as she sets her cutlery down on the table and addresses the plasma witch. — We're visiting my eldest son, he lives there. He's a Gringotts curse breaker. — She doesn't look at her when she answers, busy searching for any clue as to how to continue in the six pairs of eyes that accompanied her.

And as she always does when the situation is unfavorable for her, Madeline says nothing. She presses her lips together and forces a polite smile. Harry takes her hand under the table, the magic resonating at the touch, sending comfort both ways.

Beside him, Hermione casts an uncomfortable, guilty look, unsure of how she should act. She still hadn't fully recovered from the taunts in the hallway, a victim of her own embarrassment that prevented her from getting closer.

Although no one else seems to notice.

—And you, Miss Dupont. Do you have, well, have you had children?

Molly asks candidly, her eyes shining with something that had no name coming from her.

Harry didn't understand why she did it, but it encouraged him to raise his alarm. He knew the lady could be reckless, asking invasive questions, some of them not always innocent.

The rest of his family seemed unfazed, except for Arthur, who managed to almost perfectly conceal the prayer that passed through his eyes before hiding it in the plate in front of him.

— I never had the chance — the ghost answers as if it were the weather — My father died before I could marry and without him to take care of the inn it was me who had to run the place, in the end when I realized it was too late — he emphasizes with his body.

Harry lets out a stifled groan, the revelation fighting against the joke, making him feel guilty.

— Don't worry, dear. If I didn't like being here, I wouldn't have become a ghost, — she reassured him.

— So she didn't have a husband either —

The question hits like a stone in a still lake. A courtesy so false it only intensified the insult; and it gave him the answer he needed.

He'd seen that behavior before, with Petunia. The way she exalted about her upbringing in Dudley and the constant chatter she muttered in the kitchen about other mothers.

Because that was common, motherhood turned into a competition of pride.

And if there was one thing Molly Weasley prides herself on, it was being a mother.

Maybe sometimes a little too much.

— Not for lack of prospects, I dare say — Madeline responds politely to the provocation — My fiancé died in the first magical war and after that I didn't have much interest in trying again.

— Grand-meré — I whisper.

Compassion and struggle laden with kinship. She had never spoken about it, even when she saw the photographs, she never asked about him.

The only time the subject came up, Madeline had seemed remarkably sad, a grief so profound that only silence could approach its magnitude.

Yet here he was. Facing his past, when he didn't owe any of those explanations.

—That's the second time you've called her that,— Ginny said, oblivious to the tension between the two women. —What does it mean?—

— Grandma in French — Percy answered

— So…

— Oh no, no — he says quickly — she... my maternal grandmother was a Muggle, remember? And Euphemia died before she even met me.

— I asked him to call me that. When I met him, I felt the same way I did about my own grandmother. And after two weeks, I thought it was a little strange that he kept calling me by my name.

The seconds it takes them to understand the answer are not something that goes unnoticed.

For Percy, the explanation seems to come as a door of possibilities, a different perspective that fills him with excitement. It's what he needed to take a step forward.

Ginny and the twins seem more encouraged than confused, as if the idea of ​​being adopted by some random “cool” guy has just become a to-do list item.

And Ron doesn't seem to be focused on the feast anymore, lightly inspecting how Madeline has an exact replica of his dish and not a putrid version like Nearly Headless Nick's.

Harry smiles embarrassedly. Three months into his life, the nickname is as natural as breathing.

A big turn that gave him a small decision.

— But I thought they had arrived a couple of days ago like us —

The signaling of time is a cold shower for everyone. The discovery of a secret that wasn't ready to be revealed. And the return of a misguided milestone.

— Didn't you hear, woman? — playful malice laced every word George said.

—Dear Hermione and little Harry have been together all week, can you believe it? — His brother finished for him.

You know that “I’m just kidding” thing?

That justification thing we do when we say something hurtful or "joking" and it doesn't come out the way we intended. When we hurt someone with our words and instead of taking responsibility, we rush in with a "What? Am I joking?" forcing our victim to accept it so we can get away with our mistake, believing that because it's a joke, our comment is less hurtful.

Well, Harry remembered what it was like to be on the wrong side of that issue.

At some point, his rivalry with Slytherin and his personal quarrels with the members of the house had made him forget that the rest of the year he was the one receiving such treatment.Normalizedso much that language that I forget what it is like to be a victim of it.

Yes, sometimes we say things without thinking much about it, and it's more normal than we think. Jokes, quick comments, little jokes we think are harmless, come out of our mouths even before we understand them, and we think they're funny, but... when does a joke stop being funny and start hurting?

Humor isn't supposed to hurt. Jokes aren't supposed to make you uncomfortable.

So why do we hide behind humor to hide words we perhaps never should have said?

— …I don’t know why you’re angry — Fred accused

Molly looked seriously scandalized, like Petunia when someone dared to gossip about a minor biblical sin she herself had committed, but she needed to pretend she wasn't.

— It's not what you think, I'm allowed to be here — Hermione explained hastily, embarrassed as if the insinuations were true.

—It's true,— Madeline agreed without hesitation. —Lucas and Anne know everything. We had an informal dinner last Friday. Naturally, they were worried about the boys, but they calmed down by the end of the evening. Harry and Hermione are very well behaved children; looking after them is a gift.—

— You see, dear. Don't be so harsh. The children are fine, and I'm sure Miss Dupont is trying hard.

—Harry, you never told us how you met. Weren't there rooms in the cauldron?

— Well... about that. I think there's something you should know —

Harry nodded, preparing himself, with a grimace that tried to imitate a smile. But his whole body spoke differently: his shoulders slightly hunched, his back straight only from effort, his hands closed under the table as ifheldsomething that could break.

Inside… it was gray.

The walls seemed to close in, not because of their size, but because of the way the voices bounced off them. Too polished, too empty.

The air tasted of old dust and forced perfume.

The heat in her cheeks didn't come from affection, but from a suppressed anxiety.

Then, a bell.

He felt them like a spotlight turning on in the fog, the light changing. Not literally, of course. But his chest loosened.as if yes yesThere was a different kind of silence. Not one of discomfort, but one of breath held before relief.

Her spine straightened without her realizing it, her knuckles eased their pressure, and for the first time during dinner… she breathed.

When I turned around, there they were. Standing in the doorway. Not dressed elegantly or making grand speeches. Just clear-eyed. With the kind of expression that didn't expect anything from him, except for him to exist.

The room was still the same, but to him it was different.

The table was still covered with the same dishes, but they no longer weighed on her stomach.

The people beside him were still there, but they no longer occupied the center of his chest.

I didn't understand the lump in my throat that wasn't sadness or fear.

It was that other thing… that thing that had no word, but that was very similar to being safe.

As the new arrivals hung up their coats and they greetedWith smiles that didn't seek approval, something inside him trembled.

He didn't think. His body did it for him.

He stood up clumsily, pushing the chair without realizing it. And he, like a frightened child who sees his mother in a crowd, ran. Not with strength, but with desperation. His arms reached out before him. The stares didn't matter, nor the murmurs of surprise. Only them mattered. His home.

The hug was immediate, enveloping. Firm arms, one hand on her neck, the other on her back. There were no words, just a whisper in her ear that said, “I have you.”

Resting his forehead on a warm shoulder, he didn't respond. He couldn't. He just breathed deeply, as if he'd finally allowed himself to do so. As if the air in that part of the room were different, purer, safer.

Her body, rigid and confused throughout dinner, now loosened. Her shoulders were no longer shields, her hands no longer clenched in her lap. For a second, she forgot the rest.

That's when the tears came, silently. Not out of sadness. Out of relief.

His chest, which had been a knot, finally breathed.

— Harry, is everything okay? —

Like the sweet rays of the sun that dazzle at their highest point. What should have brought calm instead brought a storm. The dream was over.

Harry stepped back, still clinging to the figure holding him, and looked around.

Once again, everyone's attention was on him, filled with confusion and discomfort, just like at a fancy party where you have no idea what to do, but everyone expects you to. The joy and pride emanating from his ladies hindered the popular reaction.

— Oh sorry—

Se I apologizeImmediately. Her lips opened reflexively, like an app trying to unstick itself, her throat feeling heavy and dry despite the saliva that flooded it. And like a secret that would crumble if revealed, or a spell blocking words, their names couldn't be spoken.

— Hey, guys! Hey Percy!

— Hola, Tonks —

The unexpected interaction was enough to drown out, for the moment, the multitude of thoughts that had suddenly struck him.

Nymphadora had already left her family group to approach the trio of young magicians who greeted her with the excitement of a star. Behind her, both parents looked cheerful, accustomed to their daughter's social standing. However, the other couple seemed to be going through something similar.

—Do you know each other?— Hermione was curious, shocked. The only one strong enough to question what more than half of them thought.

The four wizards stopped dead in their tracks, aware that they weren't the only ones in the room, but they did have all the information. Then Aurora laughed in embarrassment, her hair swirling between the blonde and the streaks that matched her flushed cheeks.

— Something like that, — she answers nervously. A hand on her hand ruffling the dawn—colored waves, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. — I was a senior when you came in, remember? — He nods. — Well, I was with them longer, I was in third grade when Percy came in and then fifth grade when the twins came in. — She finishes explaining.

Facing her, on the other side of the table, the aforementioned attended calmly.

— It was also with my older brothers, — added Ginny.

— William and Charles, right?

— Do you know Charlie?! —

The only time he'd seen the aforementioned was the night Norbert was taken from the castle. It wasn't for more than ten minutes due to the nature of the "mission," but it was enough to realize how incredible it was. Caring for a baby dragon had been difficult, but dedicating himself to it with the enormous beasts day after day...

—Not really—the Auror replied—He's a year older so we don't share classes, we only saw each other a couple of times in Quidditch—

— He's in Romania now — offered the oldest of the brothers present — He's a Dragon Magizoologist

—Dragons, huh?— she said in a sing—song voice, her hair mingling with pinks and yellows with each syllable. —That makes sense, his favorite subject was Care of Creatures. He spent a lot of time with Hagrid, always chasing things around in the forest. Romania is kind of surprising, though. I knew he was planning on moving after graduation. I never thought it would be that far.— She said with a distant look and a soft smile, as if the distant memory was still fresh in her mind.

Harry felt happy for her. He wasn't very experienced, and his understanding of vulnerability was still limited, but he could find hope in the older woman. A sweet promise, waiting for its moment to return to their lives.

And it seemed he wasn't the only one. The brothers who met her exchanged knowing glances, with that mischievousness that promised promises. However, it was Ron who spoke:

— I thought you didn't really know him —

The sentence silenced those involved, and their gazes focused on the witch. She didn't say anything immediately, but as the seconds passed without a response to the almost—question, her once curly hair, with its natural teenage highlights, changed to the sound of her stuttering.

— Hermione! I didn't see you, I'm sorry babe, how have you been? —

The escape was a complete failure; the pink in his hair betrayed his facade; each strand fell in a soft disarray, as if he himself were unsure of what shape to take.

While they were laughing, a tap behind them caught their attention.

— Hey! How are you? —

Harry was unable to respond.

Andromeda sat beside him, looking at him with a beautiful, gentle smile that momentarily froze his brain. In his mind, the last memories flickered together.

— Listen, calm down — I assure him sweetly, a whisper just for the two of them — I understand, really. I understand you —he said as if it were more than just a consolation.

He nodded with sadness and hope, grateful for another chance.

Harry was aware that this was something they should talk about later, ignoring the situation doesn't make it go away, but even though it shone brightly between them it really wasn't bothersome.

—How's your scar doing? Did the bandages heal well?

On the other side of Andromeda, Edward was the one asking the questions. His concern was genuine, but thanks to his years of medical experience and being Nymphadora's father, his questions weren't pushy or judgmental. They managed to keep Harry from feeling embarrassed, and he was very grateful for that.

— Everything's fine — He answered while taking off his jacket and showing them his forearm, which miraculously remained intact — Sometimes I have phantom pains, but Grand—meré says it's normal and the scar doesn't hurt, although—

—Did you know about that? — The suspicion permeated by the interruption affected the entire table.

What moments before had been a place of coexistence, with just one sentence had obtained the silence of a tomb.

—You asked about his scar, didn't you?— he insisted, his smile enthusiastic and trying to hide the curious and resentful edge. —Those Muggles Dumbledore insists he must live with are horrible, barbarians who have no idea how to take care of a creature like Harry. Do you know how it happened? I mean, I'm not surprised they did that to him, but 

— They didn't do it —

The forcefulness with which he cut short his speech surprised him considerably. He didn't quite understand what had driven him to do it, but he didn't regret it. It wasn't the first time such feelings had overcome him, but it was the first time they had done so against someone he cared about. It wasn't Snape being a pain in the ass, it wasn't Draco being a jerk, and it wasn't Dudley with his sheepish friends; but the satisfaction was the same.

— It's what I wanted to tell you before — I fill the silence — The Dursleys, they had nothing to do with what happened to me. The night we said goodbye on the platform, I asked Vernon to drop me off at the entrance to the alley. And he did. I'm not going back to Privet —

He may never fully understand what that family meant in his life, but something inside him had driven him to “defend” them.justifiedAnd she forgave even less, but for better or worse, she had spent her entire life with them, much against anyone's wishes. No one who endures a situation like that deserves to be referred to the way Molly did, even if they are annoying trolls like her family.

—Why didn't you tell us?— Molly exclaimed half a tone louder, so alarmed she turned the question into a scolding.

— At first, I was afraid — his answer was sincere — Then… I didn't want to do it —

He confessed out loud for the first time.

Silence fell like a weight on the dining room. His words hung in the air, uncomfortably for everyone present. Too large to fit in the teacups or the smoke from the fireplace.

But Molly stared at him.

His mouth opened in a gesture of genuine surprise, unable to believe what he'd just heard. However, a pang of betrayal shot through his eyes like lightning, the barely contained shadow burning and fading so quickly it seemed like a mirage.

—Please don't be mad at him. It was hard not to say anything. He values ​​you very much,— the brunette mother pleaded for him. An apology Harry didn't think he deserved—or felt—

—And they just agreed— He replied with a higher—pitched voice than he intended, as if each word would be difficult to pronounce without bursting into shouts.

— I would be lying if I said yes — granted the medic witch— but then, and even now, I still have no say in Harry's decisions. I have no right to tell him what he can or can't do; all I can do is support him and guide him in what is prudent.

— How can you say that? He's a child! He has no idea what he's doing — Bewilderment was etched on her brow, but the confusion didn't quite erase the bitter spark that had appeared in her eyes — I don't know what kind of home Miss Tonks was raised in, but that kind of freedom isn't fit for a young man of his age. Abandoning his family like that, even when they're Muggles like those, is unacceptable. Who will teach him what's right if no one rebukes such attitudes? — She finished with her hand on her chest, as if seeking to affirm the role of mother that she defended so much.

— Believe me, I understand your point, Mrs. Weasley. Guidance is paramount to a person's development, but I grew up in a place where even breathing had rules, and I know that taking it to the extreme doesn't guarantee anything.

—You're a pureblood, aren't you?— he spat, as if more than half the people in the room weren't.

— I think the term you were looking for is: Native — Andromeda corrected. A term she had taught them over the summer — And yes, I am, but I don't understand the point of bringing something like that up.

— Don't worry, dear, I'm not trying to say anything bad — she justified with a sweet, almost smiling voice — but it's just that people of your class don't usually connect with their family. They let their children be raised by servants or elves. So I don't blame her for thinking things like that, seeing that her daughter is a friend of mine, I think she has managed to get ahead despite its origin —he said while leaning slightly as if trying to look casual.

— ...my origins? — Andy repeated, not fully understanding her reaction, caught in surprise and offense. — I'm sorry to discern, Mrs. Weasley, but I'm not ashamed of where I come from. Although it was difficult living there and going out even more so, it made me who I am and I'm proud of that. I know things between the Wizengamot and your family are entirely amicable, but you're both natives too. I don't understand why you seem to pretend you don't.

—We are not like them,— he warned in a tense voice.

—I still don't think it's a benchmark for judging us. Native, mixed—race, or younger generations, the "quality" of our blood doesn't define our worth, does it?

≫ ──── ≪ •◦ ❈ ◦• ≫ ──── ≪

An hour later, the table was beginning to empty.

Molly cleared plates with tense, polished movements, as if she wanted to avoid saying something she couldn't hold back. Arthur approached Harry, who was still conversing quietly with Hermione and Tonks. Andromeda had remained on the sidelines for the past few minutes, watching with the strategic calm of someone who knew when to intervene.

—Harry,— said Mr. Weasley, —can I talk to you for a moment?—

He nodded, though he didn't stand up.

Arthur lowered his voice a little, as if what he was going to say had to be veiled with care.

— You may not have seen yet, but there is some disturbing news… A prisoner from Azkaban has escaped.

—Sirius, right?— Harry asked.

Arthur blinked.

—How did you know?

— Andy brought me a copy the day the news was published, I saw him with Madeline that same morning

— Although the article was more sensational than informative, —Hermione intervened, in a calm but firm tone.

—The Prophet has a flair for showmanship,— Andromeda confirmed, gently placing her cup on its saucer. —Not much, to be honest.—

Arthur frowned, visibly uncomfortable.

— Well, but the magical authorities think he's looking for Harry.

—Because he was the one who betrayed my parents?— Harry finished, expressionless. —Yeah, we saw that too. The headlines aren't that subtle.—

Molly then came over.

—But it's true! That man betrayed your parents! You can't take it lightly! —

Andromeda looked at her, her expression calm.

— I don't know, the official story, in many cases, is nothing more than the version that won the right to tell. Especially when there was no trial and no evidence that anyone had seen it, — Andromeda replied. — Sirius Black was convicted without defense. Without truths. Without witnesses. In a time of terror.

—But he was a Death Eater! He was in their circle! He appeared in the photos!

—Half of London was in the photos when Voldemort fell. Doesn't mean everyone is guilty,— Tonks shrugged. —And sadly Azkaban doesn't discriminate between culprits and scapegoats when the Ministry needs someone to blame.—

Harry then spoke, calmly but firmly:

— I'm not saying he's innocent. But I'm not going to automatically believe he is just because an article says so. I read it, but we still don't know the truth.

Hermione looked at him with silent pride.

Arthur stared at him for a long time, his expression indefinable. Then he murmured:

— Just promise me you'll be careful, Harry. That... if he shows up, you won't be facing anything alone. —

Harry nodded. But in his eyes, things were different.

—Anyway, it's the same every year. A danger lurks, it acted and ended up worse —

Molly pressed her lips together, her gaze fixed on Andromeda.

—And they told you this? —

Harry hesitated for a moment.

— They told me the times I was close to dying why no one warned me what was happening —

Andromeda intervened in a low tone, but firm as steel veiled in velvet:

— Don't worry, Molly, he's just taking in the scenery before taking the photo —

Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest, her jaw tense.

—I don't know what they've put in your head, Harry, but this isn't you. Not like this—

The air was thick, as if the previous conversation had left invisible residue floating. Tonks and Andromeda exchanged discreet glances, ready to intervene if necessary.

Harry stood his ground, not backing down.

—Don't look at me like that. All I'm trying to do is protect you! —she burst out— Merlin knows no one else does!

— What are you trying to say?

—You should be a little grateful!— Molly raised her voice. —After all we've done for you!—

Harry laughed, humorlessly.

— If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even know about this world, Harry, — Ron interrupted with a snort — You'd be alone. Or worse, with Draco Malfoy.

—Ron!— Hermione jumped in. —That was low!—

—Come on, Hermione! He said it himself. He was almost a Slytherin. And now he's hanging around with purebloods who treat him like he's special?—

At first, he thought he was misinterpreting him. That they were words spoken wearily, that Molly was looking at him that way because she was worried, not upset. That Ron didn't mean what he said. But it was getting harder and harder to justify it.

The Weasleys were supposed to be his home. They'd told him that so many times. They hugged him at Christmas, made a place for him at their table, looked after him when no one else would.

So why did there now seem to be conditions that no one mentioned out loud? What I should feel, who I should want. How grateful I should be.

And comparing him to Malfoy, to Draco, as if he were betraying something sacred... Is that what they feared? That if they didn't keep him around, he'd become someone “just like them?” Didn't they know him well enough to know he wouldn't? Or did they never actually bother?

The probability hurt more than any curse. It hadn't just been an accusation thrown out the window. It was the crack in an illusion they'd held on to for too long.

An illusion I had wanted to believe in.

He thought the Weasleys were different. That, with them, he had finally found something resembling a home. But now he wasn't so sure. Because if a piece of news, a suspicion, or a figure like Sirius was enough to make them doubt him, what did that say about what they truly believed?

Did they really think I'd be capable of helping a murderer? Of putting them in danger?

After everything they'd been through together? After facing the basilisk... Voldemort himself? After nearly losing his mind trying to save one of them? They'd seen him scream in pain. Bleed. Sacrifice himself.

But, apparently, they hadn't seen it.
At least not for real.

Because if they knew him, if they really knew him, then they would know that betrayal wasn't in his nature. That, if there was one constant in his life, it was his almost desperate need to protect those he loves.

What more did he have to do to gain their trust? How many more times did he have to prove his loyalty to avoid being dismissed as a ticking time bomb?
Will they never stop seeing him as a silent threat, an “other” guy they would tolerate out of compassion?

He felt naked in the face of that prospect. As if all the warmth he'd once thought he'd found in the Burrow had been borrowed. Conditional.

A place where he was welcome… as long as he knew his place. As long as he stayed on script. As long as he didn't dare be anything more than the grateful child.

His confusion turned to anger, and his anger turned to unrelenting sadness. A disappointment he didn't know how to bear.

Because it hurt.

It hurt more than losing a battle. More than a new scar.

It hurt like it hurts to understand that maybe the love you thought you had… was never really yours.

And that, for someone like him, was devastating.

— As if it were the first time someone wanted to kill me — The silence was immediate. — Oh please. Where were all those worried faces when Quirell had Voldemort stuck to the back of his neck, when I was eleven? When the basilisk was hunting me through the corridors atthe sweet? —

Nobody spoke.

—This isn't the first time my life has been in danger. Why do you pretend to care this time? What's different?

Ginny opened her mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out.

—Don't say that. We care about you! We love you!— Molly tried to maintain her composure, but her voice trembled.

—They love me when I fit in, —Harry punctuated— When I'm grateful. When I'm silent.
But apparently that ends when I choose something you don't understand.

Arthur tried to intervene.

—Harry, this is getting too far, please…

— Then maybe you don't deserve what you were given, — Molly interrupted, hurt.

Harry didn't respond immediately. His silence was sharper than any shout.

Andromeda took a step toward him, not to comfort him, but to hold him with her presence. She was there. And that was enough.

— I don't need to be treated like a favor anymore. I'm not a charitable cause —

And with that, he left.

Ginny stared at the floor, Ron was breathing heavily as if he'd just been in a fistfight. Molly remained standing, unmoving. And Arthur slumped into a chair, his face buried in his hands.

Andromeda followed him without a word. But before leaving, she turned briefly to Molly.

— I know it's not so easy to push away those who think differently, but Harry is growing up. And it won't be the first time he's chosen things that won't be comfortable for you, but that will be better for him. Please remember that —