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Albus Severus Potter stood upright in the middle of the Grimmauld Place living room, his hands trembling slightly from the cold that slowly crept along his spine as if a hand were roughly stroking down his back, sending chills through him. The atmosphere around the house was slightly tense because of the argument taking place. The old inherited Black house that had become a temporary refuge for the Potter family was beginning to look even gloomier, a house full of dusty history and wounds that had not healed. The fireplace burned low, casting long shadows on the walls. The portraits of the Black ancestors watched with cold eyes, old paintings that perhaps struggled to accept the presence of a newcomer stared thinly and coldly at the argument unfolding. Curse or not, the old house had always been a place that attracted anger; the family that lived in it seemed cursed with unstable emotions.
Harry Potter stood before him, the celebrated hero, the chosen child, the legend of the wizarding war. Potter. Harry Potter. Only his father who stood as the center of hope for the wizarding world, and Albus wondered what all those titles and greatness were for if even the person standing before him now could not communicate properly like a parent to his child. Not once had the man ever tried to speak to him without the prejudice he deserved.
“I just hoped,” Harry’s voice trembled with faint doubt but remained firm, as though confused about the rest of his sentence. His eyes shifted to the pair of green eyes identical to his own.
“You could-I don’t know… be nicer. I mean, you know… try to be nice to me, your father.”
Albus swallowed. His hands clenched unconsciously.
What did he mean by being nice? Had everything he had done so far been wrong? Since the day he was accepted into Hogwarts and sorted into Slytherin House, it had been as if he already knew what his fate would look like. Albus had already been able to guess how the current of his life would flow in the future. But Albus had never expected it to end up like this. Would prejudice always be placed on him simply because he might be a little different from his siblings?
“What do you mean by being nice…” Albus whispered, green eyes looking back with emotions churning inside him, not knowing where this conversation was going.
“And according to you, what is good and bad now?” His voice was soft but sharp. “Am I?”
Harry let out a frustrated breath. “Why is it so difficult, why is talking to you so difficult… what do you want me to be like? Why is it so hard to talk to you as a father?”
“No!” Albus shouted in disbelief.
What did he mean by speaking as a parent? Harry Potter, the hero everyone glorified, had never spoken to him without prejudice. What kind of parent communicated with their child with an interrogating stare as if blaming him for something he had not even done?.
If only Albus had not been born with the name Potter.
If only Albus had not gone to Hogwarts.
If only Albus had never lived this unfair life.
If only just if only. Those damned thoughts only fueled his anger toward the fate he had been given. There had already been too many bad things that frightened him. The expectations from others, the way they looked at him only as the hero’s failed son, one of those slimy snakes with no talent, the failed Potter, and many other things that made him curse this miserable fate. Just a little only a littletears wanted to escape, strengthening his resolve. Those green eyes glimmered, and his voice grew hoarse from holding back the tears that threatened to spill.
“I… I just wish you weren’t my father.”
The words slipped out just like that, like something that had been locked away for a long time and finally found a crack. Even Albus himself was surprised by his own courage. He lifted his eyes to look forward, afraid of the reaction.
Harry’s face changed.
Red.
Tense.
And before he could think, his mouth spoke first.
“There are times,” Harry said, “when I also wish you weren’t my son.”
The air stopped. The fireplace crackled softly, as if aware that something bigger than fire had just begun to grow, and the tension thickened, The two people speaking were only five steps apart, yet it felt as though there was an invisible line separating them, as distant as two people who did not know each other at all.
There had never been a single day in Albus Severus Potter’s life when he truly felt “chosen.”
Even as a baby, the stories about him always began with things far greater than himself. About the war. About the name Potter placed upon him. About dead people whose names were inherited by his small body.
He grew up surrounded by love, that was true.
He never lacked anything because the people around him were famous figures who had emerged as heroes of the war. Yet the love he received did not always mean acceptance of who he truly was.
As expected, this was the peak.
Albus did not shout. Did not cry. Did not argue. He simply nodded, accepting the statement. Slowly. As though acknowledging a verdict he had long suspected would eventually be delivered.
He stepped back slightly, flinching because of the weak footing on the black carpet beneath his feet, creating space between himself and Harry… his father, or perhaps not anymore. Giving his heart and mind the chance to accept those few devastating sentences.
Only silence before one of them stirred.
Harry blinked, as if only now realizing what had come out of his mouth.
“No… I didn’t mean-”
“Yes,” Albus interrupted.
“You did.” His tone was calm, and that was the most frightening part.
Harry’s eyes widened in regret as he heard Albus continue.
“You were serious, Dad. And honestly… I don’t blame you.”
There was a terrible pause between them.
“You should probably leave me alone now.”
Albus turned before anything could stop him. His footsteps climbing the stairs sounded light, almost unreal, his steps calm as he walked along the second-floor corridor of Grimmauld Place toward his room at the very end of the hall.
.......
Since he was little, Albus had been a quiet child. He was sensitive to the atmosphere around him. He knew when to remain silent, when to express an opinion, and when to speak. He knew when the laughter at the dinner table was too loud to interrupt, He knew that James always received the cheers first because of his cheerful and energetic nature that could influence the mood. Albus knew that his younger sister Lily always received attention without asking because she was the youngest and the most protected.
Albus learned early that his presence was never the center of the room. So he made himself smaller, knowing that his quiet and calm nature did not belong in this house of lions. Because of that, Albus carried himself away from the boundaries. Sitting slightly to the side. Speaking a little more softly. Keeping questions that were too complicated for a family that preferred quick answers. This house always wanted something simple, not like the questions inside his head.
Albus had known for a long time that he would not become a Gryffindor.
Not because he was a coward. But because the Gryffindor version of bravery was too loud for him, He did not like being praised in public, Did not like cheers. Did not like expectations staring at him like the eyes of hundreds of people in the Great Hall- not like James who clearly enjoyed being looked at, not like Lily who was always graceful enough to be admired. Albus was more comfortable observing, arranging, understanding before acting.
And he knew somehow he knew that his family’s world never had much space for that.
When the Sorting Hat placed him in “Slytherin,” just as he had once suspected it would, a message from his father crossed his mind.
“albus severus you were named after the two greatest headmasters of Hogwarts and one of them was a slytherin and he was the bravest man I knew”
When Albus removed the hat and walked slowly toward his house table, there were no cheers. Not even applause. There were only murmurs and expressions of shock that he saw from the students who had placed expectations upon him. Their shock was too real, too quickly hidden.
And the forced smile from his brother James Potter from across the table, along with the stunned face of his cousin Rose Weasley, was clear proof that every conversation with his father before the train departed had not been true.
Albus’s wound was not a great wound. It was a small wound repeated over and over again.
When he returned from his painful first year at Hogwarts, Albus was immediately faced with Ron’s jokes his uncle about the “cunning snake,” and other things that Rose Weasley had probably written about to her father.
Rose’s gaze that judged too harshly, too long, when Scorpius stood beside him as they passed each other in the classroom corridor. And the prejudice from his extended family was what made Albus begin to reconsider what good and bad truly meant in this world.
Scorpius Malfoy, the first friend Albus ever had, was someone with the same fate, carrying the burden of a great name after the war.
Harry’s careful tone when asking about his house, whether it bothered him, and the repeated offers about transferring houses if the one Albus was in made him uncomfortable. The way his parents behaved and advised him to find other friends or simply socialize with other houses because they were worried about his friendship. No one forbade him from being friends with Scorpius. And that was exactly the problem. If James’s friendships with everyone in his house pleased both of their parents, then why was his friendship with a Malfoy observed as a troubling concern?
Albus learned to read that language very well. The language of “we’re worried,” which actually meant we disapprove. The language of “be careful,” which meant don’t become like them. And slowly, he began to feel like a guest in his own family. Allowed to sit, but never fully belong. Once again, Albus felt out of place within his own family.
......
The small popping sound beside his bed startled Albus slightly from his dark thoughts. Standing beside him, the honored house-elf of the Black family, Kreacher, carried a tray with a cup of tea and late-night snacks in his hands. Albus’s brows furrowed in irritation at how the elf had suddenly appeared in his room.
“Kreacher heard the argument between Master Albus and Master Harry. Kreacher brought food and drink in case Master Albus is hungry,” the elf said uncertainly. There was a hint of concern on his face mixed with a complicated expression, as if he was unsure whether bringing the drinks and snacks had been the right thing to do.
Albus did not answer. His eyes moved briefly to the tray and then back to the ceiling as he lay on the bed that was too hard and too old, its springs creaking whenever he moved. This room was not comfortable. The walls were dark, the window small, and there was a faint smell of something that had not been opened for a long time. But since the first time the Potter family stayed at Grimmauld Place, this had always been his room. Not because he could choose it, but because the other rooms had been filled first and he did not care enough to protest.
Grimmauld Place had always been a mystery to him.
The way this house constantly emitted a strong magical aura something powerful said to be family magic was remarkable. So powerful that the names on the family tree in the living room wall formed golden branches on blackened fabric, names partly burned until they were no longer readable, erased like shameful mistakes. Sirius Black was there, his father’s godfather or more precisely, former godfather scorched away, removed by an angry hand. That was what family magic could do.
“Young Master Albus reminds Kreacher a little of Master Regulus Black,” Kreacher suddenly said after placing the tray on the bedside table. His voice was hoarse, careful, like someone saying something for the first time that he had kept for a long time.
Albus turned his head slowly.
This was not the first time he had heard that name in this house. And Albus remembered another name beside Sirius Black on the family tree Regulus Black. Still there. Whole. His name remained quietly among the others that had already darkened. But this was the first time Kreacher had mentioned him directly to him, with that tone, with those wide eyes looking at him as if matching something.
“What do you mean?”
Albus looked at Kreacher. He chose to sit on the side of the bed with his head leaning against the headboard, his gaze fully on the house-elf.
Kreacher bowed slightly, his hands twisting the edge of his clothing a habit Albus had seen often whenever the elf mentioned something related to the people of this old house.
“Young Master Albus… is very calm,” Kreacher muttered hoarsely.
His large eyes looked at Albus with a light that was difficult to explain, something between sorrow and reverence. “Young Master is not loud like Master Harry. Master Harry only knows how to shout and ruin the dignity of this noble house with unnecessary emotions, just like several blood traitors who occasionally visit.”
Albus did not respond to that last part.
“This room,” Kreacher continued slowly, his eyes scanning the room in a way that could not quite be described, “is Master Regulus’s room. Kreacher does not allow anyone to change it. Kreacher keeps Master Regulus’s belongings safe.”
The elf paused for a moment, then almost whispered, “Stored below. In a safe place. Kreacher does not allow Master Regulus’s traces to disappear.”
A hidden room. Albus did not know exactly where, but he was not surprised. This house was full of things hidden behind other things.
He looked at the floor for a moment, then back at Kreacher’s face, who was still waiting patiently.
“Young Master Albus reminds Kreacher of how the Blacks behave,” Kreacher continued, bowing very low.
“The Black family is about elegance that thinks. Mistress Walburga would surely be proud to see a Potter who resembles our ancestors more than his own father.”
Albus did not answer.
There was no need to. And perhaps his silence was the end of the small elf’s nostalgia when the small popping sound marked Kreacher’s departure, leaving him alone with the silence of the room.