Chapter Text
They stood on the ruins of Hogwarts, weary and exhausted. The rays of the pre-dawn sun gently brushed their faces, etched with the agony of relief at their victory. Harry gripped Hermione and Ron’s hands tightly, unable to believe the three of them had managed to survive until the very end. When he had walked into the Forbidden Forest to meet his certain death, the last thing he’d dared hope for was that they might ever stand like this again, side by side, almost careless in the aftermath of war. They squeezed his hands in return, and at the sensation, tears welled in Harry’s eyes. They were here. They were alive. Against all odds.
If not for the suspicious rustle of grass, Harry might have stayed like that all day.
He spun around instantly, the Elder Wand drawn. Just moments earlier, his thoughts had drifted absently to how he would return the wand to Dumbledore’s tomb — but clearly, that would have to wait. A primal fury surged through him as Bellatrix Lestrange materialized before them, her battle-scarred, deranged form as unhinged as ever. No one had seen the damned witch since Voldemort’s death. Molly had mentioned dueling her, but others assumed she’d fled with the remaining Death Eaters. Harry cursed his own stupidity. Why hadn’t he pursued the Death Eaters immediately? Why hadn’t he joined the squads led by Kingsley? But would he really have dragged Ron and Hermione into it, especially after Fred’s death?
The chaotic spiral of thoughts lasted barely a second, but it was enough for Ron and Hermione to shift into fighting stances, Ron already halfway shielding them with his body.
Harry immediately cast Sectumsempra, but the Death Eater didn’t even try to dodge. With grim satisfaction, Harry watched her dominant hand — still clutching her wand — thud to the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Only then did he notice that Bellatrix had been muttering incoherently under her breath since her arrival, her deranged eyes fixed on him—eyes he’d so desperately wanted to gouge out. She was so intensely focused that she seemed oblivious to having lost her entire arm. Harry flinched slightly as blood gushed from the severed stump.
Hermione flicked her wand, and heavy chains clamped around Bellatrix, no doubt biting painfully into her skin. The witch didn’t resist, still whispering rapidly, her gaze unbroken from Harry.
“Bitch,” Ron spat, kicking Bellatrix in the stomach. She choked momentarily, and the word she dragged out in a long, half-strangled exhale grated unnervingly through the air — as if interrupting her ritual for even a second was worse than losing an arm or facing death.
“Where has she been hiding?” Hermione asked quietly, unnerved by the possessed stare — even if it wasn’t directed at her.
“Doesn’t matter,” Ron fought the obvious urge to kick the Death Eater at his feet into oblivion. “We’ll hand her over to the Aurors. Let them sort it out. She’s clearly gone even more mad after Voldemort’s death.”
The spoken name nearly silenced Bellatrix, as if she’d been struck in the gut again. Instead, she shifted her hateful glare to Ron and resumed whispering, now with barely restrained fury, her words barely intelligible.
“What’s she saying?” Harry finally asked, tormented by the question from the start. “Some kind of spell?”
“Yeah. Trying to resurrect her precious boyfriend,” Ron sneered maliciously, refusing to glance at Lestrange. “Must be rough, rotting in Azkaban knowing he’s finally dead for good.”
Just to be safe, Harry magically sealed Bellatrix’s mouth, battling his own revulsion and hatred. This monster had taken Sirius from him. She had no right to look at Ron like that. No right to torture Hermione.
“Crucio!” Harry hissed, and the force of the curse flung her limp body several meters before it crashed beside the severed hand. The chains clanged loudly, but Harry ignored them, a twisted thrill coursing through him as she writhed soundlessly, the spell stifling her screams. He briefly considered blinding and deafening her — just to watch her suffer, trapped in a world where pain would be her only sensation.
He lifted the curse — only to kick her squarely in the face, the crunch beneath his worn sneaker disgustingly satisfying.
Neither Hermione nor Ron stopped him.
“I’ll make sure you get a fate far worse than Azkaban,” Harry vowed, and red sparks resembling the Cruciatus curse erupted from the Elder Wand.
Tension still coiled in his chest as he turned to his friends. Hermione hugged him, her fragile arms holding him tightly. Ron enveloped both of them with his own, as if shielding them from the world with his large frame.
And finally, Harry felt the weight lift from his cursed soul.
***
Hermione, Ron, and Harry gathered in Grimmauld Place. What had begun as an evening of comfort had turned into a spontaneous wake. Harry couldn’t stop talking about the brief time he’d spent with Sirius, all the stories his godfather had shared.
For the first time ever, Harry saw Hermione this drunk, and for the first time since the battle, they allowed themselves to laugh freely — even as tears still streamed down their faces.
They mourned Fred, and Ron sobbed the loudest. Immediately after, Harry fully felt the ache in his heart, how deeply he’d missed Sirius all this time, and his body shook with ugly, heaving cries. Hermione wasn’t faring any better, and Harry briefly wondered how horribly their heads would ache in the morning from all the endless tears.
Late into the night, Harry staggered as he ushered his friends to bed before stumbling after them into Sirius’s room. Lately, he’d preferred sleeping there, though he dreaded the day his godfather’s scent would finally fade. He suspected Kreacher had cast some preservation charm — how else could it linger so long?
His forehead thumped against the doorframe as the world blurred around him. Kreacher, muttering disapprovingly, guided Harry to the bed, steering him firmly to prevent collateral damage. Harry just hoped he’d remembered to thank the elf before consciousness slipped away entirely.
***
Harry woke with the hellish hangover he’d expected. His head throbbed as if split open — painfully reminiscent of those awful days when Voldemort had torn through his mind, rifling through it like his own. The memory alone made Harry clench his fists, but then he noticed the neatly arranged potions on the dresser. Without hesitation, he downed them, mentally elevating Kreacher to godlike status.
A few minutes later, once he’d regained some semblance of humanity, Harry shuffled out of the room — and froze in the doorway at the sight of Hermione and Ron already seated at the kitchen table.
“Morning,” Harry smiled, searing this moment into his memory — exactly as he wanted to remember it forever. “Sleep well?”
“Morning, Harry,” Hermione smiled back, nibbling toast. “Well… decently,” she admitted, running a hand through her hair, which was tied in a messy bun. Harry easily recognized the same puffy-eyed torment in his friends that had plagued him. “But alive, as you see.”
“And not half bad,” Ron added cheerfully, stuffing his mouth with a pie that Mrs. Weasley had clearly packed for him yesterday. “Thanks to Kreacher.”
“Good job, Kreacher,” Harry nodded approvingly, slumping into a chair between his friends.
Suddenly, Kreacher appeared in the kitchen, his lips twisted into a sly smirk.
“Kreacher would not let drunken mudb—,” the elf began, but Harry shot him a warning look, “with dirty hands defile the noble and most ancient House of Black…”
“Right,” Harry muttered flatly, cutting himself a slice of pie. “Still, good job.”
Kreacher bared his teeth — perhaps his version of a smile. Or maybe he was imagining Harry Potter meeting an inglorious end, after which the elf would finally barricade himself in Grimmauld and cherish the memory of the mad Black lineage until the end of time.
“Master Harry should know… something has happened to the house,” the elf suddenly croaked.
Harry grunted in reply, savoring Mrs. Weasley’s pie. Hermione merely rolled her eyes.
“What happened, Kreacher?” she asked as politely as she could, her brown eyes boring into the house-elf’s very soul. She still hadn’t abandoned her S.P.E.W. agenda.
Kreacher visibly hesitated whether to answer her at all. His prejudice against Muggle-borns hadn’t faded, and Harry harbored no illusions that the old elf would ever change.
“Kreacher feels… the house has moved,” the elf declared, stunning everyone.
Harry turned to the window and squinted skeptically — the view outside remained unchanged. The distant outline of the Muggle park still loomed, and the familiar tree branches hung over Grimmauld just as they had yesterday.
“With all due respect,” Harry began sarcastically, earning a disapproving glare from Hermione and an amused smirk from Ron, “as far as I can see—” He emphasized the word, eyebrows playfully raised under Kreacher’s impassive stare, “—nothing’s different.”
He jerked his chin toward the window, but the elf didn’t even glance in that direction.
“Kreacher saw that too,” the elf retorted with biting sarcasm, “but Kreacher has served this house many, many years, Master Harry, and knows when something is wrong. And something is wrong.”
Harry shrugged.
“Is it dangerous?”
“Kreacher thinks not.”
“Can you find out what exactly?” Harry arched a brow, pouring himself tea. “And then let us know?”
Kreacher fell silent briefly — then vanished with a sharp crack of Apparition.
“Harry,” Hermione chided, giving him a reproachful look. “Be gentler with him. He’s already having a hard time.”
“Give it a rest,” Ron waved a hand dismissively. “Honestly, I don’t think he cares how Harry treats him. Most arrogant house-elf I’ve ever met.”
“I can’t believe—” Hermione began, ready to launch into an indignant tirade, but Ron cut her off.
“Plus, poor guy probably spent all night inhaling potion fumes while brewing us hangover antidotes. At his age, no wonder he’s seeing things.”
Eager to avoid another argument, Harry suggested getting some fresh air and visiting nearby Muggle shops. It would be a good excuse to pick up trinkets for Mr. Weasley. Soon, the trio stepped outside — and were immediately hit by an unexpectedly warm wave of air. Harry promptly unzipped the jacket he’d thrown on haphazardly.
“Didn’t think the weather would shift this much,” Ron remarked, taking off his jumper and tying it loosely around his waist. Hermione hesitated, leaving her blue jacket zipped as she squinted at their surroundings.
“Hm.” Hermione studied the trees intently, and Harry couldn’t shake the growing sense that something was genuinely off.
“What? Something wrong?” Ron tensed, instinctively scanning for threats.
“Not sure yet,” Hermione admitted, finally unzipping her jacket but, unlike Ron, not bothering to tie it around her waist.
Harry noticed some of the graffiti on nearby walls had vanished — though it was likely just the Muggle authorities cleaning up overnight.
“Alright,” Harry sighed, defusing the tension. “Shall we go?”
But before they could take a step, Kreacher materialized in front of Harry, thrusting a fresh newspaper into his hands. At that moment, an image of Bellatrix flashed through Harry’s mind. She was currently rotting in Azkaban, but her trial would soon begin in the Wizengamot, where Harry, alongside Neville and Augusta, planned to serve as key prosecutors. He’d already strong-armed the Malfoys into securing several votes in his favor — though he was certain no one in the Ministry would dare openly oppose him. Still, Harry had no intention of leaving such a delicate matter to chance. Plus, the look on Narcissa Malfoy’s face when he’d forced her family to effectively betray their own blood had been particularly satisfying. Bellatrix would be handed over to the Department of Mysteries for experiments — procedures Harry had meticulously outlined in a letter he’d deliver immediately after sentencing.
Harry took the paper and instantly noticed it wasn’t The Daily Prophet. His eyes locked onto the headline, printed in bold font with two painfully familiar names side by side like fated rivals — two constants of Harry’s life, etched into his destiny forever.
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE AND TOM RIDDLE...
Harry jerked the blasphemous pages away from his face, fighting the urge to trample them into the dirt. Who? Who dared to use Voldemort’s real name? Who dared to place that bastard on the same level as Albus Dumbledore?
“Mate, you look like you’ve just read You-Know-Who’s resurrection notice,” Ron muttered, his face ashen — clearly entertaining the possibility, given he hadn’t even risked saying “Voldemort” aloud.
"What does it say?!" Hermione snapped, snatching the newspaper from Harry's hands, her eyes scanning the morning headlines at breakneck speed. "WHAT?!"
Harry still didn't know the contents—he'd been too enraged by the mere sight of Riddle's name to read further — so Hermione's reaction sent real fear shooting through him.
"What is it?!" Ron shrieked in panic, bending double to peer over Hermione's shoulder at the paper. "What the actual fuck?! Harry, is this a joke? Kreacher!"
"Kreacher, what is it?!" Harry tensed, his heart hammering against his ribs as if ready to burst from terror. This couldn't be happening. It was impossible. A lie — all of it had to be a lie.
Harry didn’t even fully know what he was so desperately denying yet, but whatever was written there — he begged for it to be false.
Now Kreacher yanked the paper from Hermione’s grasp, looking fifty years older — if that was even possible for an elf who already resembled an ancient relic.
"Kreacher told you," Kreacher hissed through clenched teeth, smoothing out the paper with trembling hands before reading aloud the news that had shaken Ron and Hermione so deeply. "Albus Dumbledore and Tom Riddle: Will Headmaster Dippet’s Unprecedented Decision Lead to House Division and Inter-House War?"
Harry’s brain needed a full minute to process those words — and even then, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard correctly.
"Keep reading!" Hermione urged Kreacher, her face suddenly both green and pale at the same time. For the first time, she didn’t even attempt politeness with the elf, and for some inexplicable reason, that only amplified Harry’s panic.
Kreacher cleared his throat with exaggerated importance and continued, though he himself looked like he might collapse at any moment.
"For the first time in Hogwart's centuries-long history, Headmaster Armando Dippet has appointed two Head Boys simultaneously. Albus Dumbledore, the brilliant Gryffindor student, and Tom Riddle, the mysterious and ambitious Slytherin representative, now share the highest position in student government. This decision, intended to 'balance house influence,' has already sparked outrage among students and faculty..."
"Wait, WHAT?!" Now it was Harry's turn to shout. The three of them stared at each other with wide eyes, gasping for air as if trying not to lose their minds over the absurdity printed in the paper. "What kind of rubbish is this?! Who wrote this? Whose article? Who approved this? What kind of sick bastard dared to do THIS? And right after the Battle of Hogwarts! Two weeks later! Who in their right mind—?!"
Harry was beside himself with rage. He couldn’t believe someone would actually stoop to such a cruel, vile mockery. Nothing less than a desecration of Albus’s memory, just like Skeeter with her trashy book...
"Is it Skeeter?" Harry said with icy clarity, his voice dangerously quiet. "I’ll kill her."
"Harry, wait—" Hermione grabbed his forearm, holding him back before he could storm off — whether to the Ministry or across magical and Muggle London in pursuit of the vile journalist. "Look further down."
Harry had to take a deep, shuddering breath to regain even half his composure. He gave a sharp nod, noticing Ron still staring blankly at the pavement as if it might collapse beneath his feet at any second.
Unable to bear another word in Kreacher’s grating voice — especially while reading such disturbing text — Harry snatched the paper from the disgruntled elf’s hands.
"Let us remind our readers: just a year ago, Albus Dumbledore and Tom Riddle were merely house prefects. Yet this past July, they stunned the international magical community at the Cairo conference, where their presentations on 'new frontiers of magical theory' delighted even the most skeptical wizards..."
"Hermione, I don't understand why I should be reading this nonsense!"
"Look at the year, Harry!" Hermione shouted back, and Harry, startled by the force in her voice, snapped his gaze back to the paper, frantically searching for a familiar date — only to find something far more ludicrous instead.
A hysterical laugh burst from Harry's throat.
August 16, 1976
Whoever wrote this drivel was clearly asking for a proper beating.
"Kreacher! Where did you get this trash?"
"Master Harry, Kreacher bought the paper from a vendor in Diagon Alley."
"Who would risk their business like that?" Ron muttered with a humorless chuckle, speaking for the first time in what felt like ages. "What kind of lunatic? They'll be torn to shreds."
"And I'll be first in line," Harry agreed, his expression promising violence.
"Well, guess no Muggle trinkets today," Ron sighed tiredly, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.
"Guys, if you don't want to—"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Hermione cut in, offended by the very idea. "However shortsighted this fool may be, we're definitely coming with you. Besides," she added pointedly, "you're hardly legally equipped to handle this alone."
"Yeah, mate," Ron smirked crookedly, still in a daze, "Let's go kick that bastard's arse. Might even make it to Mum's for lunch — she'll be glad to see us."
"Right, let's do that," Harry sighed in relief, glad he wouldn't have to cause a scene alone in streets still recovering from war. People had only just begun emerging from hiding, reopening shops, relearning how to live — he really didn't want to shatter their fragile peace. Better to drag this so-called journalist back to whatever hole he'd crawled from and interrogate him there.
"By the way, what even is this rag?" Harry flipped the page, his eyebrow twitching at the headline. "'Overheard at Hogwarts'? Never heard of it."
He glanced questioningly at Hermione and Ron, but their faces showed no recognition either.
"I'd know," Ron snorted.
"Fine. Kreacher, Apparate us."
"As Master Harry commands."
"That wasn't an order," Harry muttered stubbornly, mostly to spare Hermione unnecessary distress.
"As you say, Master."
***
They landed in a place both familiar and alien. Harry spotted the yarn shop Mrs. Weasley frequented, but the other storefronts were unrecognizable. Perhaps many had fled Britain during the war, their spaces taken over by others — though the speed of change was staggering. He stared dumbfounded at the clean, bustling alley. Despite the early hour, witches and wizards crowded newly opened shops, their faces glowing with that particular satisfaction of successful shopping — utterly free of fear.
Harry's mouth fell slightly open as he watched them — no one was glancing around for ambushes, no one was gripping their wands. They were just... laughing. Strolling. Living.
"I thought the mourning period would last a bit longer," Ron smirked with something like wounded pride, crossing his arms.
"Well," Hermione shook her head as if expecting the scene before them to crumble at any moment, "On the other hand, it's good they've recovered so quickly..."
"Screw them," Ron snapped, kicking the nearest pebble. It hit an passing wizard in the ankle, and when the man turned with indignation, Ron politely told him to piss off — earning an offended huff and a dramatic swish of robes in return.
"Ron," Hermione gave him a tired look, but without real anger.
"We were dying out there," Ron's face twisted with rage, "stacking our dead in rows, practically on top of each other because there wasn't enough room in the Great Hall! And they, you say, recovered so quickly? Hiding in their holes, cowards, waiting for Harry to finish off Voldemort!" Ron shouted down the street, oblivious to the odd looks they were now drawing, "And here they are, pleased with themselves and life, strolling around like nothing happened! FRED DIED! Colin! Lavender! Remus and Tonks! So much blood spilled for them, and they don’t even care?!"
Harry agreed wholeheartedly with his friend, feeling that if none of them were here, he’d just run back to Grimmauld and drown this merciless sense of injustice in firewhisky. He knew it was wrong, knew it was stupid, but deep down, Harry couldn’t help but resent these people who could breathe freely without a care in the world. Resent them — and envy them.
"SCREW ALL OF YOU!" Ron shouted into the crowd, and someone began muttering about calling the Aurors. "Aurors? AURORS? They've got better things to do than your pathetic—"
Spotting the dangerous glint in Ron's eyes, Harry and Hermione grabbed him by the elbows and dragged him away from the gawking crowd — Kreacher scurrying after them with dramatic lamentations.
"Foolish Master Harry and his foolish friends..."
Harry didn't even snap at him, too busy scanning for anyone attempting to take compromising photos.
"Kreacher, where's that publishing house?"
"Kreacher brought you right to its doorstep..."
They froze, and Harry suddenly felt like an idiot. He wanted to smack himself, but Ron beat him to it, slamming his own back against the alley wall they'd pulled him into.
"What an idiot I am," Ron groaned, sliding down to sit with his knees pulled to his chest. Exchanging a glance, Harry and Hermione silently sat on either side of him, offering quiet support.
They stayed like that for several minutes — until Ron finally smiled for real.
"You're not even going to comfort me with 'No, Ron, you're not an idiot, it's just emotions'?"
"Ron, you're an idiot. It's just emotions," Hermione said with a completely deadpan expression.
A pause — then all three burst into laughter, leaning against each other like the world's most battered tripod.
"Alright, think I've calmed down," Ron exhaled, and Harry ruffled his ginger hair.
"And you won't lunge at anyone?" Harry asked with a sly grin, smiling wider when Ron elbowed him in the ribs.
"Fine, I’ll leave that honor to you."
"Boys," Hermione rolled her eyes affectionately.
They were just about to get up when Kreacher appeared before them, clutching a stack of fresh newspapers.
"Kreacher advises reading these sitting down."
"For Merlin’s sake," Harry blurted, reluctantly taking one of the papers. "What fresh hell has the press cooked up today?"
***
As it turned out, the fresh hell hadn’t been cooked up by the press at all.
They returned to Grimmauld — none of them were in a clear enough state of mind to function properly. By silent agreement, they dispersed to their rooms, leaving the doors unlocked in case anyone needed to talk. Even Kreacher.
Harry wrapped himself in Sirius’s old blanket, breathing in its comforting scent. For a moment, he could pretend nothing had changed. They were still grieving their fallen comrades, still carrying the weight of anger and sorrow.
Inside them, nothing had changed.
The whole damn world had.