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Chapter Text

i. The Price of Peace

"Peace demands the most heroic labor and the most difficult sacrifice. It demands greater heroism than war. It demands greater fidelity to the truth and a much more perfect purity of conscience."

- Thomas Merton

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Harry made his way towards the Whomping Willow. His feet worked where his mind wouldn’t, leading him down the now familiar path. A light breeze kissed his nose and brought reprieve to the heat trapped in the thick, dark curls atop his head. The air was crisp, carrying upon it the lingering scent of burnt wood. High in the cloudless sky the sun shone, warming his skin and providing a clear view of the destruction that the final battle wrought. 

Green eyes flicked around, observing but not really seeing as his ears trained onto the distant whispering of leaves. The sound merged with the twitter of wildlife to sing a tune of melancholy. Rubble littered the ground where strong stone structures once stood, and there were still deep gouges in the dirt where stray spells had hit weeks before.

Harry took his time, using all of his senses to mindlessly catalog the consequences of decisions decidedly too large yet still accredited to him. Decisions he had no recollection of making. In fact, Harry distinctly remembered being excluded in the making of any plans except the Horcrux hunt, and even that was last minute and filled with improvisation. Nonetheless, he still felt the weight of responsibility.

A leader, a general, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, the Man-Who-Conquered— these were just some of the many titles pinned onto him, but each one fit Harry like one of Dudley’s old trousers. All he had tried to do was survive; to experience one more day and the gifts it could bring. When even that seemed impossible, Harry just did what he could to protect those he cared about. The universe had demanded his life as payment and he had been prepared to pay it. Harry had made peace with the certainty of his death. Now that it was no longer a certainty, he didn’t know what to do. 

Harry James Potter was supposed to have died May 2nd, 1998. In some ways, he supposed he did. Something integral had been taken from him that day. He didn’t know what it was, but Harry knew for certain he was incomplete. A few parts short of making up ‘Harry Potter’.

It wasn’t a physical ailment; Madam Pomfrey had treated him diligently for weeks. Harry had finally been released on a clean bill of health— it was why he was allowed to be outside, walking around. Clean diagnostic reports or no, he still didn’t feel quite right. Regardless of his feelings though, life moved on. In all the ways that truly mattered, Harry was considered part of ‘life’, so he was expected to move on as well.

It felt weird trying to move on without Ron and Hermione at his side. That was the thing though, they were Ron and Hermione now. Harry would always be their closest friend— logically he knew that, but once again, things just didn’t feel quite right.

It was no longer Harry, Ron, and Hermione— not like it used to be. They would be each other’s first priority now. They would do things and share secrets that Harry had no business being privy to. Not that Harry wanted to know those things— Merlin no— but still, he mourned the loss of them. Of missing parts of their lives. Of no longer being a necessary part of theirs like they were of his. His little makeshift family was now split into two.

“‘You have no family! Your parents are dead.’”

The words had cut deeper than Harry expected. They dug in and hit an insecurity he hadn’t known about before it was spoken into existence. He knew that Ron hadn’t meant to hurt him— not entirely anyways. That vindictive behaviour had been mostly fueled by him wearing the locket as well as the stress of being away from the action, too far away to help if anything went wrong.

Harry understood. It was that same sentiment that had tortured him all of fifth year and then got Sirius killed. So he didn’t fault Ron, but Harry knew there was some honesty behind the statement. 

Now more than ever, he sorely felt the truth of those words. Ron was right; Harry didn’t have any family. No matter how much the Weasleys tried to show him otherwise, Harry would always feel somewhat out of place. A slightly misshapen piece that belonged to another puzzle but fit well enough in this one. At first glance the puzzle would seem complete. It wasn’t. There would always be that gap between it and the other pieces. There would always be that corner that had been deformed from forcing itself to fit into place. It would always be a futile endeavour because, no matter how much pushing and shoving he would do to try and make the piece fit, it didn’t belong. Harry would always be a stray piece whose puzzle was long gone.

It was just one of the many things that made Harry feel not quite right. He hoped today’s objective would fix it, fix him— put everything back right. There was one final debt that needed collecting before Harry could confidently say that the war was over, and he knew exactly which spell would be perfect for the job.

“‘You have to mean it.’”

The words rang clear throughout the stuffiness of his cotton-filled head. He couldn’t remember who had told him that, but Harry knew, right at this moment, he really did mean it. Harry longed for that bright green light to flood his vision and then all too soon it would recede and take this dreadful person with it. 

There weren’t many blokes that Harry wished were dead. Usually, there was another route to take besides killing someone. Harry would do it if the situation required him to, but it wasn’t like he would feel anything remotely positive about the action itself. That was what had to happen now in order for him to ‘mean it’. It was the only true requirement for magic to occur. Intention.

If he’d tried it on the Dursleys it would’ve never worked. Whether it was the reformed Dudley or the ever hateful Vernon and Petunia, it didn’t matter. Despite the bruises he had received daily and the broken bones that never did properly heal. Despite all the poison they spat out that polluted his soul for years. Despite the evidence of their abuse carrying onto his adulthood in the form of a stunted height and a weary heart. Despite all of it, Harry knew the spell would’ve failed to cast had he tried. 

For all that he disliked the dour Potions Master, the spell wouldn’t have worked on Snape either. Even after he murdered Dumbledore and had everyone convinced he was a traitor, Harry couldn’t bring himself to say those two words.

His hatred for Snape had burned heavily while he chased him down from the Astronomy tower to Hagrid’s. Witnessing that green light again had sparked a roaring flame that had threatened to brand Harry from the inside out. It’d marked Snape as his enemy and consumed his every thought. Even then all he had wanted was for Snape to hurt— to feel the pain Harry felt witnessing the death of yet another he cared about.

He couldn’t have cast it then, and despite the antagonistic way Snape had treated him, he certainly wouldn’t have been able to cast it now. Harry knew now that the individual known as Severus Tobias Snape had never stopped hurting. From his birth until his death, Snape was shackled and in pain, never knowing freedom and the love of living. 

Harry didn’t think it would have even worked on Voldemort. He hated the megalomaniac— despised his actions and the losses incurred from it. Harry didn’t regret Voldemort’s death one bit, but that wasn’t all he felt about the Dark Lord. There was a complicated sort of…leniency towards him. Harry found it was much easier to be sympathetic of others' circumstances and subsequent shortcomings than it was to be of his own.

Living with a fragment of Voldemort’s soul entangled with his own had bestowed reluctant understanding of certain thoughts and emotions. He had no choice in the matter; he’d experienced those same thoughts and feelings as his own, and not all of them stemmed from the Horcrux connection. Dumbledore hadn’t made it much easier for him to separate their two existences either while showing him all those memories of Tom in the pensieve. Harry had been empathetic of the young boy’s plight.

Though, just because he understood where the sentiments came from didn’t mean he agreed with them.

Harry knew now, for better or for worse, all about Voldemort. He knew that somewhere deep down, past all the insanity and bloodlust, existed Tom Riddle— a poor orphan who was just terrified of dying without anyone to remember who he was. A boy not much different from himself. Someone who sought refuge and guidance yet received nothing but misplaced expectations. Therefore, Harry couldn’t wish that Voldemort had never been born. If he did, what would that mean for him?

Shaking the encroaching insecurity away, Harry centered his thoughts once more— occluding. His thoughts always seemed to run rampant, twisting and forming into monsters waiting to swallow him whole. It was why he tried to keep busy all the time. Harry lingered about the castle, helping wherever he could once he was released from the Infirmary, trying to exhaust his mind and magic with rebuilding the one place he called home. Mundane actions, such as the walk he was currently on, didn’t keep him distracted enough— his thoughts were too used to the weight of the world. Occlumency had quickly become a necessity for his peace of mind. 

It turned out to be remarkably easy to learn when there wasn’t a piece of the dark lord leaving the doors of his mind wide open for any bloke wanting to enter. The fucking tosser. Harry couldn’t very well defend and maneuver the direction of his thoughts when there was another person also in control now could he? His mind hadn’t been solely his own in a long time.

It was funny, in that hysterical sort of way, that he’d finally learned how to occlude after Snape’s death. Because of Snape’s death. The man spent precious hours trying to teach it to Harry when all he had to do was die. It was an observation that always made Harry’s jaw lock up and his throat scratchy with thorns of bitterness.

Well, if there was one thing he learned from a living Snape, it was how to be a miserable old git to himself. The sneer he wore when he caught himself in the mirror would’ve given the surly man a run for his money.

Harry spotted the massive tree as he crested the hill. He avoided the whipping branches and jammed a rock into the knot at the base of it. Once the Whomping Willow completely stopped moving he slumped against the trunk, catching his breath.

Snape…

The man was a contradiction in both his life and death. So, in typical Harry Potter fashion, Harry had ventured on a quest to solve the mystery.

Harry had spent the weeks after the battle exploring Snape’s old quarters in the castle. After Madam Pomfrey would finish her night rounds, tending to everyone who needed a prolonged stay, he would sneak off to the dungeons. He didn’t think for one second that he’d managed to get out without her scrutiny, but she never showed that she noticed him leaving night after night. For that, Harry was immensely grateful. Sitting in the hospital wing always did grate on his nerves, but lately it had messed with his mind beyond just reckless boredom. The revolving door of people visiting him during the day had kept him from helping the rebuilding efforts sooner, but it'd also been a distraction; the quiet and sometimes not-so-quiet sleep of his fellow bedridden patients had never been enough.

At first the area brought a semblance of normalcy and grounded Harry— the dungeons had managed to remain relatively untouched by the ravages of war. Too soon it'd turned from comfort to torture. It was like poking at a bruise: it hurt, yet Harry couldn’t help but mess with it.

The sound of his footsteps had echoed across the stone flooring as he had slowly made his way down with measured movement. The air was still dank and the scarce amount of sconces cast the space in gloomy lighting. Where it once would’ve raised goosebumps across Harry’s skin, the darkness had instead blanketed him in sympathetic comfort. 

It hadn’t been like his after curfew adventure sessions of his younger years. There had been none of the vibrating excitement that accompanied his worries about getting caught and in turn losing house points or receiving detention. No one was around to care about such childish frivolities anymore. Harry hadn’t tried to be stealthy— he made as much noise as possible just to fill in the deafening silence.

Some small part of him had still expected a figure of black to morph out of the shadows just to sneer at him and insult his intelligence in a myriad of ways. It would’ve made Harry puff up in indignation, but at least it would’ve denied what was his current reality. In all honesty, Harry had felt a little lost. 

Along with reading every book on Snape’s bookshelves, Harry made frequent visits to the man’s pensieve. He went through the experiences over and over again hoping for…something— he hadn’t really known. All those memories, not his own, were too painful to watch– to remember– now that their subject was gone. Harry didn’t know why he had kept doing it anyway. He didn’t really want to think about the memories or the feelings they invoked, but he couldn’t stop. 

Harry inhaled sharply then barked a pale, biting imitation of a laugh— his head lightly thudding against the Whomping Willow. Lately, he would catch himself making the sound right before pushing the rough pads of his fingers under his glasses and then dragging them forcefully down his face.

“It’s not a bloody bruise. You’ve done poked and prodded ‘til you’ve got a hemorrhage— you dim-less half-wit.”

And boy was he bleeding out. Thinking about Snape tended to make everything spill out. His hatred, guilt, gratitude, curiosity, bitterness, confusion, pride, disappointment, anger, sadness— it was a torrent of emotions threatening to sweep him away.

“‘I told you to empty yourself of emotion!’”

Empty his feelings, lock them away with that venomous drawl that haunted his every waking moment. It didn’t matter that he was drowning and those acerbic words were his only lifeline— the only thing keeping him afloat. In the end it didn’t matter because they were also what kept dragging him under. 

Harry would shut it all out if that’s what it took. It wasn’t like he needed to do much floating or drowning after this. Harry could do this. It would be different. This time the spell would work without a doubt. Harry knew, with this person, he would mean it. Using the trunk of the tree to prop himself up, he staggered back to his feet.

The Whomping Willow seemed more imposing than Harry last remembered. Maybe it had something to do with the nature of events that always seemed to occur around it. The first time Harry had come across the tree, he’d crashed into it with Mr. Weasley’s flying Ford Anglia and had been thrashed around. The second time, he’d tracked down a mass murderer and almost died from a werewolf. The third time, someone did die— right in his arms. Harry had felt the life bleed out of Snape and hadn’t been able to do anything to stop it. Historically, the tree never led to any pleasant experiences. Today would be no different.

The thought made him numb. All feeling was gone— just as it should be. The only sensation left behind was the incessant murmuring under his skin. His head was fuzzy and all Harry could hear was the sound of static. Everything seemed all at once so close yet far away. He couldn’t tell if he was on fire or freezing; either way it was inconsequential. 

The pathway under the tree leading to the Shrieking Shack was as dirty and cramped as ever. The actual building was no different: thick dust layered every surface, boards covered where windows would otherwise be, and no matter where Harry looked, he couldn’t find an exit out of the shack. At some point, someone tried to spruce up the place and had brought in an assembly of furniture, curtains, and a massive rug. Disintegrating tapestries hung off the walls and the remains of various hobbies littered the ground. Contrary to the original intention, each item’s decay seemed to just add to the dreary atmosphere. 

It was as if the shack was a prison, confining its visitors and saturating the wood with their pain. With each step, the planks under Harry groaned in protest— warning him of the suffering he would surely experience if he stayed.

Harry knew what he was going to find— he kept walking regardless. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. One foot forward, then the next. Creak. In, hold. One foot forward, creak, then the next. Out. Harry matched his breathing to the cacophony of noises his footfall caused. His stride was even and composed despite his limbs feeling like lead.

It was rhythmic, lulling his consciousness into the safe-house of his fledgling mind palace. Harry needed to make sure the part of him that experienced emotions was secured inside of the deepest room. He would knock that Harry out if he had to. The feelings that would inevitably spill out otherwise were far beyond what he could handle.

After a blink, Harry arrived at his destination. Looking around, he could clearly visualize one of the lowest points of his life. He’d once hidden behind one of the many towers of discarded odds and ends laid about the room. Harry had sat behind them and watched as a man he’d sworn to stop murdered another that he hated. He had let someone die. 

Harry hadn’t even thought to try and save Snape; he’d been content to let the man bleed out just because of their differences. That willingness, that complicity in the extinguishing of another’s existence left a mark on his soul. It wrapped around his heart, crawled up his throat, and choked the life out of him in retaliation. An equal exchange of misery. 

His worn out face was impassive as green eyes darted to the soiled floor. A large dark area of wood sat not far from his feet. Harry crouched down, brushing the tips of his fingers over the stain. As they ghosted against the grain, splinters teased his callouses. Had they breached the surface they would definitely smart, yet Harry didn’t stop. He dragged his hand back and forth, just like he’d done every other time he’d visited. The only difference this time was the lack of a rag in his grasp. 

He'd learned that, even with magic, blood was difficult to completely clean. Tergeo and Scourgify had failed. Yet Harry still tried. For days he had resolved to trek down to the shack with muggle cleaners and an old dirty rag, just to scrub at the spot until his hands were raw. Even as his own blood had seeped into the cloth and chemicals had burned him from the inside out, the stain never got any lighter.

The memories left in the dirty, dilapidated wood shrieked for atonement, and Harry was determined to grant it.

He took a final glance around the Shack, finding it a fitting backdrop. His eyes trained onto that damned bloodstain as a scarred hand held up his wand. Distantly, Harry knew this would be his final spell. After this, the war would finally be over— there would be peace. Maybe this time, with ‘The Chosen One’ casting it and no one around to sacrifice themselves for him, it would work.

With a resolve he hadn’t possessed since the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry slowly closed his eyes and pointed at himself.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Chapter Text

ii. A Conversation with Death

“I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.”

— Franz Kafka

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When Harry opened his eyes, two thoughts came to him. One: he was able to open his eyes even though he was supposed to be dead. Two: it was too fucking bright.

Harry groaned and threw an arm over his face— partly to shield himself from the assault on his vision, but mostly as a motion of resignation. He must’ve failed. The killing curse must not have worked, again, and now he must be in the blasted hospital wing, again.

Tears pricked at the corners of Harry’s eyes— though, whether it was from the burning of his retinas or the realization, he didn't know.

Fuck.

Harry’s bones ached from the inexplicable anger gnawing at them. Anger at the magic failing. Anger at himself for always messing things up when it mattered, at Voldemort for always trying to kill him, at Snape for always trying to save him, and anything else he could turn blame of his miserable life to. He was angry at the world for never allowing things to just be simple for him. It drove Harry to shut his eyes harder than necessary. He squeezed them until colourful spots danced behind his lids and his ears felt stuffed. He didn’t want to deal with this— the aftermath.

His lips curled into a snarl, a halfway aborted sob lying underneath. Harry would not cry. Despite everything he would not fall apart now, not when there was no real reason to. This was his decision, and he would not hide from it. Harry knew what he would be getting into when he’d gone to the Shack— the possibilities and consequences.

He tightened his hand into a fist, fingernails digging in until he could feel blood tracing the lines of his palm, trying to hold onto his magic as firmly as he did his tears. A choked gasp escaped him anyways.

There wasn't supposed to be any consequences. The killing curse was chosen specifically so there wouldn’t be any aftermath for him to deal with. He was supposed to know right away if the curse had successfully cast. Not wake in the blasted hospital wing with Merlin knows who knowing where he had been and what he had done.

Death by Avada Kadavra was instantaneous and painless. Typically, it also either worked or it didn’t; there was no risk of a messy half-life like most methods of death. No risk of the process starting yet the job never finishing. Typically, there was also no evidence left behind in a failed attempt of the killing curse. Harry chose it so he would be the only one to know of what had occurred— what he had tried to do— if it failed. But things were never typical for Harry Potter were they?

The typical rules don’t apply to golden boy ‘Harry Potter’, sneered a sarcastic voice that sounded eerily reminiscent of Snape’s.

Of course. Even in the afterlife, the man just had to kick Harry while he was down. Snape was dead now, so why couldn’t he just leave Harry alone?

Because you left him to die you ungrateful brat. Harry grimaced. That…that one was all him. It’d been too loud these last few days for him not to recognize it. In fact, that voice was the main instigator for most of his panic attacks.

Harry could really do without hearing either voice at the moment. Right now he felt too raw— exposed.

There’s a possibility you didn’t gain control over your panic attack in the Shack, thus hyperventilating and passing out before you even cast the spell. And that one sounded like Hermione. He didn’t want to hear her voice either. In fact, at the moment, Harry dreaded hearing her voice even more than Snape’s.

Hearing Hermione’s voice meant facing a reality where her and Ron knew. Logically, Harry understood that even if they did find out about his…attempt, it would take them some time to make it back to Hogwarts. But emotions never did tend to be logical.

The two of them had gone off to Australia to find Hermione’s parents. She had found a promising method in restoring the memories she had obliviated. Harry knew that even if it didn’t work, Hermione was determined to fix it and that’s all that truly mattered when she tried to achieve something. It would sort out eventually.

They could come back swiftly by apparation, but the Australian and British Ministry would both have a fit. While Hermione had grown more flexible during the war, Harry didn’t see her likely to cause an international dispute when he wasn’t in any imminent danger.

Floo and standard portkeys could only take them so far in one trip. It would take multiple instances and they would have to take time in between to rest from wizarding travel or risk falling ill. Harry didn’t feel as if he had been unconscious long, so he knew the two of them couldn’t have arrived yet. Still, he was dreading even the possibility that they were currently there, with him, in the hospital wing.

What he did— tried to do— would devastate Ron and Hermione. Even if he sat them down for hours to explain it, they wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t understand how he didn’t regret it, not enough for it to matter. They wouldn't understand that he wasn’t…that he wasn’t bloody suicidal. They would try to placate him by listening to what he had to say, but in the end, they would think he was in denial— that he needed help.

Hermione would get upset at him, throwing a few choice words his way. Hot tears would burn her eyes just as much as her anger did. Harry wouldn’t feel hurt by it; he would know that she was grieving on his behalf. She would then handle him with the kiddy gloves, acting as if he was delicate glass that would shatter into a million pieces and never be put back together again. Or maybe he was a live wire just waiting for a spark to catch so he’d blow up in all of their faces.

Ron would sit there, behind her, with that slight frown tugging at his lips and a furrow between his brows when he thought Harry wasn't looking. He’d agree with whatever Hermione would say and then try to crack a joke about the situation whenever she left. When he realized that Harry wasn’t laughing, he’d get all serious and in that quiet but firm voice he would ask Harry if he was okay.

Ron would know that he wasn’t, not by a long shot.

All three of them were messed up from the war, the horcrux hunt especially, but Hermione dealt with it better than the two of them. She approached her trauma with the same practicality she did her schoolwork: with comprehensive notes on every aspect of it, causes and solutions and colour coded timetables.

Ron and Harry were a united front on their reluctance to follow Hermione’s method. Their way of dealing with it, or lack thereof, was similar. It wasn’t a refusal of the fact that something had changed within them, not exactly, just a belief that it wasn’t significant enough to do anything about. On that, Ron could understand.

Ron could only understand so much though. He wouldn’t be able to fathom why Harry would try casting such a curse on himself. Harry couldn’t blame him for it, after all he still had Hermione, still had George, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Charlie, Bill, and Ginny. Even Percy had come crawling back after removing the stick from his arse. No, Ron wouldn’t be able to understand, and it wasn’t solely because he had people to live for.

Frankly, Harry was scared. He was scared of what his continued existence would mean— both for himself and the Wizarding World as a whole. There wasn’t a place for ‘just Harry’ in the current world. He didn't want to live in the space that had been carved out for him. Every moment would carry the pretense of what he’d done during the war— a war that’d started before he was even born.

Harry would have to go through life watching over his shoulder for enemies— would-be assassins and well-meaning admirers alike. Attempting to find a proper occupation for himself would have him surrounded by sycophants and sceptics. He would have to constantly doubt the intentions of people, spending every second that he interacted with others picking apart their words and actions. And when the truth only reestablished that Harry would never escape the titles appointed to him, he would have to tamp down his disappointment. What else was Harry expecting when he saved the wizarding world?

Maybe a life of bloody peace and quiet. Maybe, just maybe, allowing me to actually live instead of just surviving.

Harry’s celebrity status would be in full swing now. He had killed the dark lord. There was nothing mystical about the tale this time, no mysteries on how it had happened. He was no longer just the Boy-Who-Lived, he was the Man-Who-Conquered. So many people had witnessed his capabilities, and Harry’s magic had only grown since then. Alarmingly so.

Once everyone found out what he was truly capable of, he’d be met with expectations. At the moment the populace was too busy with recovering from the war. They were so filled with relief and celebration that the thought wouldn’t occur to them at first, but Harry knew better. He knew it wouldn’t occupy them for too long.

People always had one of two reactions to overwhelming strength: they feared it or they worshipped it. Either option would have him recognized as a new pillar of power in the Wizarding World. People would expect him to do something with his power, but he didn’t want to. Harry didn’t want to be another Dumbledore, and he certainly didn’t plan on becoming another Voldemort.

Regardless of what he wanted though, no one would believe that Harry planned to be a regular person after everything. If he didn’t choose one or the other, the public would automatically place him as a budding dark lord; he had too much of a mixed reputation and history to ever automatically fall on the side of the good guys. Although the people close to him wouldn't easily give in to such irrational fear, they would still subconsciously expect ‘great’ things of him.

Harry’s greatest desire was just to settle down with a family: coming home everyday to people he loved, doing things he actually enjoyed, and experiencing life at his own pace.

Not even twenty and I already want to live a life of retirement.

Harry snorted.

“Not to interrupt your maudlin thoughts old friend, but how long do you plan on lying there? Surely it can't be comfortable.”

Harry startled something violent and removed the arm that was covering his eyes. Standing over him was a person of indeterminate gender. If Harry had to describe them in one word, he would say ‘dark’. A pitch black robe draped over their shoulders, swaying gently like shadows and making the details of their silhouette vague. When Harry met their gaze, the air in his lungs was stolen and his heart stuttered. They had the haunting beauty that poets described when they wrote about being bewitched and losing their souls. Two unreadable eyes peered down at him. They drug him into memories of another pair so similar and the moment he had last saw them.

‘“Look at me.”’

For a split second Harry was thrown back to that reoccurring nightmare. The smell of metal clogging his nose and throat, warm blood making his hands slippery as he clung to ripped and torn flesh, the deep drawl of a voice so uncharacteristically gentle. The reminder of it all was making it difficult for Harry to disobey his mistaken reality— to look away and catch his breath again. But he wasn’t there. It was reality, not just a nightmare— no matter how much he wished otherwise, but it was one he had walked away from. Nothing he should be concerned about. This stranger, however, was. Harry diverted his gaze to the bridge of a slender but strong nose, and took in a much needed lungful of air.

He didn’t recognize this person, and Harry recognized everyone that currently had access to Hogwarts and thus the hospital wing. Someone new helping rebuild the castle? If not, maybe an acquaintance of someone he did recognize? Neither option seemed right. This stranger had just addressed him with a familiarity Harry knew to be unwarranted. He tensed, preparing to dodge or tackle depending on what the situation required of him.

It wouldn’t do for Harry to reach for his wand if the person turned out to have malicious intentions; the action would alert his foe before he could do anything. He was currently in a disadvantageous position, lying flat on his back. Plus there was no telling the state of his body and magic after trying to cast Avada Kadavra on himself. Sure, Harry believed that the spell hadn’t even fired, but there was also the possibility that it did and he’d just survived the blasted curse, again. So, it’d probably be best he didn’t risk dying before he took out the threat to everyone else just because he’d tried to use his wand. It wasn’t like he knew where Madam Pomfrey had placed the bloody thing anyways. The mediwitch had taken to confiscating it when he came to the wing unconscious— one too many errant spells when he would first wake.

She’d probably appreciate his constant vigilance now.

Well, he couldn’t and wouldn’t begin chucking spells at a stranger, not without knowing their purpose, so he’d test the waters first— with a joke. At least that’s what he’d tell himself later instead of admitting to using dry humour to cover up his nervousness.

“The hospital wing’s beds certainly aren’t the most comfortable things, but if I got out of it before Madam Pomfrey gave me the rundown of my condition? I’m going to wish that Voldemort had managed to kill me.” He laughed slightly towards the end of the punchline. Joking about the repeated attempts of his demise seemed to always distract people, and Harry laughing along with it was even better for them.

“Surely that’s counterproductive care for mental instability?” The stranger tilted their head slightly and those dark eyes minutely widened in question, as if appalled at such a thought.

Harry would’ve been offended by the manner in which his actions were labeled, thinking he was being mocked, but they didn’t seem to hold any underlying meaning; as if experiencing an existential crisis was a normal occurrence. It was comforting in a weird sort of way. Harry relaxed somewhat before remembering why he was so unsettled in the first place: his instincts were screaming that he was missing something. Something was so very wrong.

It was the voice. The one that was still talking and saying frankly confusing things. Madam Pomfrey wasn’t here? Neither was anyone else for that matter? Harry wasn’t in the hospital wing? Maybe they needed to be admitted instead of Harry. Despite the puzzling conversation, the strangeness of the voice was what took precedence in Harry’s mind.

Harry could hear a multitude of voices overlapping each other, saying the same thing at the same time. There was barely any discernible deviation to the tone unless he focused really hard. Once he did though, Harry could make out different cadences, accents, and pitches. Each one drifted into his ears and gently caressed his mind, sending shivers all throughout his body. While Harry didn’t particularly mind the sound, and wasn’t that a surprising realization, he also instinctively knew it wasn’t a result of magic. Not any wielded by humans anyways.

“What in the bloody hell are you?” Harry blurted then immediately winced.

Curse him for always speaking before thinking. He’d curbed the habit somewhat in the past few years, but he’d always default to talking out of his arse when he got overwhelmed. More often than not it’d throw him into a worse situation than what he’d been in before opening his mouth. Pissing off whoever had power over you apparently wasn’t a solid strategy. Neither was revealing your ignorance. And Harry had probably just done both with his rude question. Luckily whoever— whatever— didn’t seem to care.

They straightened up, no longer leaning over Harry and trapping him. Harry took the action and accompanied pointed look for the invitation it was and got to his feet as well, belatedly realising he was laying on the floor and not in a bed. Point in favour for the stranger at least; this was not the Infirmary after all. Harry couldn't even identify where this even was. And yet Harry didn't feel panic at the idea of being in an unknown place with a stranger, which was suspicious on its own. Harry resolved to keep his wits about him until he either understood what was going on or found an avenue of escape. Seemingly satisfied, the stranger continued.

“Death.”

Harry wished he had stayed sitting.

“Death,” he deadpanned. “As in the literal fucking personification of Death? Like that one children’s story about the Deathly Hallows?” It was hard to fathom, but it settled as a legitimate answer to Harry’s honed instincts despite his incredulity. And possibly answered where he was if his suspicions proved true.

“Yes, quite. Though those stories contain some ridiculous inaccuracies even for Gaia’s children. Becoming the master of Death simply by gathering three objects? A completely ludicrous notion.” It was all stated matter of factly with no inflection of emotion. Clinical almost. It made Harry believe the words as established truth.

Harry felt something warm worming its way into his chest and burning throughout his veins. He was suddenly nauseous and lightheaded. When he tried to speak, his throat just clicked and no sound came out. Harry swallowed harshly and took a deep breath.

“So, I’m dead? It worked? The spell worked?” His voice had gotten airy and quiet, and his words rushed to escape him. Harry looked at the being in front of him with trepidation, waiting for a confirmation or brutal denial of his hope.

“Dead. I do believe there is a saying that ‘the third time’s the charm’. As you probably know, three is a very powerful number, my friend. So is the spell you used— one that I gifted to wixen myself. I would be more surprised if the circumstances hadn’t brought you to my domain.”

Harry was in disbelief. It felt too good to be true. Which meant it probably was. He felt the hope that had sparked in him swiftly die out. Harry narrowed his eyes and fixed Death with a glare full of suspicion.

“If I’m actually dead and this is some kind of…afterlife, then how do I feel things— pain?” Harry held up his still bleeding hand to make a point, waving it back and forth sharply with a incredulous look on his face as the thin rivulets traveled down his arm. Red outlined raised scars— some poorly healed and gnarled— and caught in dark hair, settling to eventually dry there.

Death’s face lacked any indication of what they were thinking. They could’ve been angry at his audacity to question them or amused, but Harry wasn’t able to tell. All he noticed was the heavy, all-consuming stare of Death. Dark eyes followed the motion of his hand before drifting away and roving over Harry. He could feel the pinprick of attention across his skin and somewhere even deeper. Harry felt truly exposed under that gaze, laid bare and seen.

The embarrassment of it all stoked flames in his stomach and warmed his face red. He puffed out hot air and glared straight back at the intimidating being. Ignoring the still drying blood on his arm, Harry crossed them both over his chest and tapped his foot blatantly. He could’ve waited longer, he wasn’t that impatient no matter how much he craved the information, but Harry felt aggrieved somehow. With a flick of his hand, he motioned for Death to continue. It was all over-exaggerated and obviously for show, yet the being indulged Harry anyways.

"I do believe that the last time you were in this space, someone had told you that just because something was happening in your head, it didn’t make it any less real.” Harry’s foot stilled, and he frowned at the reminder. He felt all the heat drain out of him as he sobered, falling into solemn thought.

Dumbledore…

Harry’s emotions towards his former headmaster were complicated to say the least. Despite everything though, he still thought of the man as a mentor— an old friend. Knowing what he did now about the truth of Dumbledore’s death didn’t make Harry any less mournful.

Death seemed to know of Harry’s thoughts, but continued onwards with their explanation regardless.

“Your propensity for self-flagellation is remarkable my friend. Especially considering how vengeful of an individual you are.” A small smile slowly split across Death’s solid mask, the first show of emotion since they’d showed up. It was somehow both sad and pleased. The next words were spoken so softly that Harry held his breath for fear of being too loud.

“Or maybe it’s because of it.” A beat of companionable quiet passed before Death offered out their arm to Harry.

“Walk with me? I’m sure you have many questions and it’s been too terribly long since we've had the chance to speak. Your absence has been dearly missed.”

Harry was silent as he wrapped rough fingers around the vaguely familiar fabric of flowing robe sleeves. His mind was still wrestling with all of the answers and implications Death had already granted him. The being had repeatedly spoken very familiarly with Harry— almost fondly about him— even though Harry never displayed the same level of recognition. Death referred to him as ‘my friend’.

“You keep calling me your friend. I’m sorry, have we met? I…I don’t remember if we have.” Harry felt terrible about that for some reason. Like something precious had been torn out of his very being. Guilt and sadness warred with his confusion.

Death briefly glanced down at Harry, their head barely moving, before once more looking towards the direction the two of them were headed.

“Don’t be sad, my friend. This was all by our design. A mutual agreement between the both of us. Harry Potter had yet to truly die in his lifetime, and so…we have never met.”

Harry frowned. “I don't understand.”

Death chuckled lightly. “That is to be expected. You only remember being Harry Potter, but I have known you for eons. Or rather, your soul.”

“My soul,” Harry deadpanned. After the whole debacle over Voldemort splitting his, Harry could admit to there being some truth to the notion of souls existing. But the idea that Death knew him before he'd even died? It was terrifying. Cold crept under Harry’s skin, and his heart dropped to his stomach.

“I wasn't aware you paid attention to anyone still alive. Or was it the horcrux that drew your gaze? You know, with the whole two souls in one body thing. It’s unnatural, right?” Harry kept his tone light, curious, but the thought still made him sick. Housing another soul within himself felt far too much an act of trust for someone he hated the guts of; he almost felt violated.

“Neither and yet both my friend. Some souls call to me more than others, but I rarely pay much attention to them outside of my realm. And while the vile act of soul splitting infuriates me,” and whoa there's the terror one would expect in Death's presence, there and gone just as quickly, “there is little I can do to directly interfere with them. It goes against the order of the universe, and yet due to silly little rules, I can do nothing about their creation.”

Death stopped walking and turned to fully stand in front of Harry. Swirls of black searched his own green. The violent storm within them had calmed into remorse. One abnormally pale hand brushed Harry’s fringe away from his face and feathered down to cup the side of his face.

“To have such a thing done to you, my friend, saddens me to an unimaginable extent, but it is not the horcrux that made me know you before now.”

A cold thumb stroked monotonously across Harry’s cheek. The unprompted touch didn’t bother him as much as he would have expected. Maybe there was substance to what Death was saying after all: Harry knew Death. They were familiar enough for minor acts of intimacy like this. Although his mind didn’t remember, his soul seemed to.

That same small smile from before made another appearance on Death's face.

“No, I know you because this is only one of many meetings between us. If you decide to spend enough time here you may begin to remember the previous times, though it hasn’t happened often. Surprisingly, no matter the circumstances of the life you end up experiencing, you’ve made your decision rather quickly after each one. And even aside from your time in my realm, I will always watch over you.”

Harry broke free from Death’s grip and took a small step back as goosebumps broke out across his skin. Death dropped their hand to their side without hesitation. No hurt or disappointment at the reflexive rejection, just silent acceptance. It was almost as if they had expected Harry’s reaction. The resignation in Death’s imposing frame only rattled him more.

“Why?” Harry questioned, short and clipped. He was concerned as to why Death felt the need to keep an eye on him and why they'd met so many times. He certainly didn't remember enough near death experiences to explain the hinted number of encounters, even if his ‘Potter Luck’ has led to more than anyone else close to his age. And that's only if near death experiences even counted in the first place. And what was this decision he kept making? The continued lack of knowledge over things he was supposedly a part of rankled Harry.

Death was thankfully patient with him. “Because for all that the silly little tale of the three brothers is wrong, the existence of the Master of Death is real. And the Master of Death has always been and will always be you.”

Harry’s tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth. A boulder settled in his stomach just as heavy and unpleasant as the realization. He never got rid of the elder wand. In fact, Harry had used that powerful wand to cast the Avada Kadavra— for maximizing the probability of his death. The invisibility cloak had been a reliable accomplice since his first year at Hogwarts, and he had used the resurrection stone to speak with his family before going to his “death" in that clearing within the Forbidden Forest. Harry had collected all three of the Deathly Hallows, just like the tale, but it couldn't be…right? Death said it themselves: it was a ludicrous notion.

Harry let out a nervous laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

Death frowned, their brows furrowing in concern. “I most certainly am not.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “But you said that collecting three items wasn’t enough to make someone the Master of Death. You told me it was bloody stupid to think otherwise. I can’t…I’m not the Master of Death. There’s been a mistake.”

Death had to be mistaken. ‘Master of Death’ sounded way more grand than any other title he had ever received, second only to Harry’s title of ‘The Chosen One’. That moniker had required him to kill a dark wizard set on destroying the world. It took away seventeen years of his life. He had to sacrifice people that he loved, that cared for him as well. What would be expected of him with this one?

Harry swallowed back the tears straining his throat and practically pleaded, so small, it would’ve been difficult to hear if Death wasn’t just as quiet, “I don’t want to.”

He was dead now. Harry was supposed to have escaped titles and their expectations, their consequences. He was supposed to be free. Why couldn’t he just be free?

“Don’t be nervous, my friend. There’s no caveats attached to it. Being the Master of Death is not a job, it’s simply just what you are. It's a part of you just as much as your vengefulness or your kindness. It’s not something you can just choose not to be.

“It is also not because of your simple acquisition of the three Hallows that make you my Master. That position belonged to you before Time had even been born.”

“Everything has a price,” Harry choked out sullenly. Whether it was good or bad, something he wanted or not, it didn’t matter. Harry would have to pay for it one way or another— he always did.

Death’s eyes crinkled fondly, and they reached for Harry. The motion was slow and deliberate so he could move away if he wanted to, but Harry remained still as two hands cradled his face once more. A thumb swiped away a stray tear he hadn’t known had escaped. “My chosen one, master of my existence, do not be afraid.”

Dark eyes bore into him, imploring Harry to understand the depth of sincerity hidden within. “I do not say things I do not mean. And I will never lie to you. If there’s only one thing you wish to accept as truth, please believe that.”

With their close proximity, Harry expected warm breath mingling with his own, but the sensation was nowhere to be found. The discovery was more welcomed than he expected. Harry was being tethered to the present with the firm weight of care without any of the cloying warmth he was used to— he was being allowed to breathe. Harry didn’t feel smothered in Death’s presence.

“All that’s required of you is to be as you have been and as you always will be. As long as you simply exist, the benefits will remain yours to utilize however and whenever you please. The title was created solely for your sake, my friend.”

Coming to a decision, Harry steadied his quivering lip and leveled Death with a determined stare. Though he hadn’t felt brave lately, he was still a Gryffindor for Godric’s sake. All this puddifooting and whinging reminded him of Malfoy. While Harry had gotten rid of his hate for the blonde by the end of the war, Harry didn’t want to be anything like him. He wouldn’t be suspicious of anything and everything coming his way. That was the exact thing Harry was trying to avoid. He’ll take the leap and trust what he was being told. “What benefits?”

Harry could see the relief his soul felt at his mind’s agreement mirrored on Death’s face. The tightness lining their eyes and lips smoothed out into an easy smile. Death was so obviously pleased with gaining Harry’s trust, they were practically preening. Heat rose to his cheeks as he brushed off the comforting pressure against them. Harry averted his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He mentally scoffed. Death didn’t have to seem so bloody happy, it wasn’t that much of an achievement.

“So? Are you going to tell me or not?” Harry bit out.

Death smiled contritely, “Sorry my friend. It’s just— no matter how many times we’ve gone through this, the worry I experience never gets any better. In turn, the relief I feel when you finally choose to believe in me is immeasurable. It is my greatest pleasure to be granted your trust.”

Harry eased the anger directed towards the being. It wasn’t their fault that he was embarrassed. In fact, Harry was the one who should be apologetic. Death had been nothing but patient and kind to him and yet all Harry had done was be an arse to them.

Harry deflated visibly, all fight leaving him. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Continue.”

Death smiled again but heeded the change of topic. “The most notable benefit of being Master of Death is the fact that you will never die. It is not the same immortality shared amongst certain groups of Gaia’s children. You are no longer confined to the simple planes of life, you can exist even in death. Even while you live, you will never die unless you truly wish to my friend. Then and only then will we meet again in this space.”

“But in the forest, that day, I had wanted to die— I had prepared for it. I never met you afterwards; I mean not that I remember. Right?”

Death’s face scrunched into a slight grimace, their lips pressed tightly into a frown. “Ah, you can thank your dearest headmaster for that. The old coot can be very convincing at times. He proposed a deal. One that was difficult to refute despite my desire to meet you again.”

The headmaster?

Harry had the impression that Death didn’t like Dumbledore very much. He didn’t understand though. Harry knew the headmaster to be powerful, and oftentimes he even seemed omniscient, but Dumbledore was still human in the end. What could be so appealing that it could entice a being like Death to agree to a deal with him? Especially when they so clearly disliked him.

Harry communicated as much when he looked at the being utterly bewildered. For once, Death seemed reluctant to share information with Harry.

“You didn’t meet me when you died May 2, 1998 because you didn’t decide to stay dead. Albus convinced me to let him speak with you, and it seems he managed to persuade you to return to the land of the living. In exchange, I was provided with the chance to deal with the soul that had taken root in you. The opportunity to rid you of that parasite was simply too good to pass.”

“You traded my death for Voldemort’s soul piece?” Harry asked shrilly. For some reason he felt miffed at the idea.

“Absolutely not,” Death appeared outraged at the mere thought, “I wouldn’t trade such a momentous event for anything. No, I traded the demise of that vile thing for Albus to have the freedom to converse with you, without me present, on this one occasion. I cannot directly involve myself with the realm of the living; it has to be done through proxy or death. Your headmaster organized an avenue for me to take. Evidently he outplayed me. The old coot knew more about your status than I had anticipated.”

Death swiped at their lips with one slender finger, murmuring, “I also hadn’t expected you to actually agree with him. Very rarely have you regretted dying once you’ve made up your mind.”

“I didn’t regret it,” Harry quickly breathed out, “there was just something I still had to do.” He pursed his lips and spoke flatly, “I still had to kill Voldemort.”

Death hummed noncommittedly. “And I wonder who gave you that belief?”

The silence was damning. They both knew who did. While Death’s stance on the matter was obvious, Harry didn’t know what to feel. He knew that someone else could’ve technically killed Voldemort, Dumbledore told him as much, but it’d felt like Harry’s responsibility to see the ordeal through. It had always felt like his cross to bear. No matter how much Harry thought on it, he couldn’t find it in himself to be upset like Death appeared to be over the situation.

“So, if I had decided to die for real, I would’ve came here and spoke with you instead? Like now? Then what?” Death allowed the obvious change of subject. It didn’t seem like they were expecting Harry’s agreement anyhow.

Death’s face hardened and they responded blasély, avoiding Harry’s gaze, “I regain your trust again, explain to you your status and benefits as my chosen, and then you decide how you wish to move on.” Despite the attempt to hide their emotions, Harry could still see the gaping sorrow hidden underneath the stony mask.

He was speechless. Harry hadn’t thought about how painful this all must be for Death, if what they were telling him was true. What baffled him even more than the being’s seemingly unconditional loyalty was the fact that they had never given up on Harry. Every time, without fail, they would patiently explain to a suspicious Harry that they knew each other, that they cared for each other. And from the looks of things, Death’s feelings towards Harry had never turned bitter, even after he apparently chose to leave every time. He could clearly visualize it, the promise of loneliness, and it made his heart clench painfully.

“You can choose how you wish to live your next life: with the memories of your previous one or not. As for the life itself, you have many options. It can be a repeat of your last one or something completely different. You are beloved by many entities, my friend,” at this Death’s face softened once more and they looked directly at Harry. “Although they do not share the same relationship with you that I do, they still enjoy making allowances for you.” Death took Harry’s hands into their own and held them firmly.

Death spoke to him lowly, impressing on him the seriousness of their next offer, “I can make it to where you can try it all over again if that’s what you wish for.”

Letting go, they took a step back and raised their voice slightly. “So what will it be, my friend? What is your greatest desire for life?”

Harry swallowed. He’d never thought of a reality where he could live— not in depth anyways. All Harry knew was what was missing from his current life. He had lost so much by the end of the war. There had been nothing truly left for him after it all. All Harry had wanted was to die. Now Death was giving him an opportunity to live— to want something with life.

“I miss them all. My friends, schoolmates, the professors. Life at Hogwarts was so magical,” he sighed wistfully before his face fell. “I had looked forward to a place I could call home. Then bloody fucking Voldemort showed up again, and—” Harry gritted his teeth. Hot, furious tears had begun to burn in his eyes. “And so many of them died. They had so much to learn still. And I failed them, all of them.”

“Sirius,” Harry choked on a sob. “We were supposed to be a family. He promised me when it was all over we’d be a family. Just me and him.” He had looked forward to that most of all. It was the rope he clung to in his darkest times. Harry had so desperately wanted a family of his own.

Harry smiled bitterly, “And then I went and ruined it all,” a watery laugh ripped free with the rise of his voice. “I was just so angry all of the time. I wanted to be involved so bloody much and I still didn’t do any of it right.”

“I killed him,” Harry whispered. It broke loudly through the silence left behind in his outburst. He drug a hand up his face, wiping away the steady stream of tears before planting a painful grip in his scalp. Tugging harshly at the dark locks, he continued on.

“And then there was Remus and Tonks…Merlin, they— there were papers, they’d wanted to adopt me.” Harry curled in on himself, forcing a shaky hand to his mouth. He pressed it there as the other let go of his hair and snaked around his middle. He was trying so hard to hold himself together. “Even after everything, they still wanted me.”

The emotions were out of control now; nothing he did could hold them back. It was too late to even try occlumency— he wasn’t nearly proficient enough to try reigning in the torrent with it. Pain lined every corner of Harry’s face. His cheeks were splotchy and wet after he gave up wiping them dry.

Harry sunk to his knees and looked up at Death, pleading, “You asked what I want— what I desire. I just want to do it right, to not bungle everything up for once. I want to be good enough just by being me, not whatever titles people have tacked on me. I want to be loved, to live a long life with everyone I care for. Tell me Death is…is that so wrong?”

Harry could see the exact moment Death broke inside. Tears began to stream down their cheeks silently, yet the being spoke as if they weren’t crying. “Oh, my friend, never. You deserve all that and more. Whatever your heart desires, I shall grant it.”

Death swiftly fell to the ground, joining Harry, and gathered him up into their arms. They tucked Harry under their chin, cradling him there and laying a hand against his heaving back. Soft lips kissed the crown of his head. Harry could feel the movement of them as they murmured loving reassurances.

“Rest now, my friend. We can converse more later. This will not be the last we see of each other. I am always at your service, you only need to know where to look.” The weight of large hands rubbing his back and massaging his angry scalp lulled Harry into a shaky calm. His sobs gradually eased into spluttering hiccups and tears only beaded the tips of his lashes. Exhaustion weighed down his eyes as sleep took him under.

The next time Harry woke, his eyes were spared from bright white by the dark shadow of the lap his head rested on. He gained consciousness lazily, prompted only by the feel of fingers on his scalp. The weight burdening him the last time he had awoke was nowhere to be found. His eyes, which were still swollen from crying, were soothed by the coolness of the fabric that his face pressed against. Harry nuzzled deeper, not fully committed to leaving his place of comfort.

“You never asked why I did it,” Harry murmured through his relaxed daze.

Death hummed. “Why you did what, my friend?”

Harry opened his eyes and twisted to face up at Death from where he laid, forcing them to pause the gentle raking through his hair.

“Killed myself. You never asked.”

Harry had waited their entire conversation for the question to be brought up— for him to have to defend himself, but it never did. It bothered him as much as it relieved him.

“I simply didn't see a reason to. I already know. While we might’ve never spoken to each other in that lifetime, I was always with you— I witnessed all of you.” Where the declaration once made icy worry shoot through Harry’s veins, the idea was now reassuring. What was he to fear with Death by his side?

Death looked down at Harry and smiled, and Harry laughed mentally at the absurdity of it all: to be smiled upon by Death and find it a comfort. “Besides, it's not my place to ask. It’s your life. Who am I to question what you do with it?”

Harry returned the smile, bright and cheeky, the first genuine one since that fateful day in the Forbidden Forest, the day he was prophesized to die— since the day he had survived instead. Death was right. It was his life. Not Voldemort’s, not Dumbledore’s, not the Ministry's, not his friends’, and most certainly not the Wizarding World’s. It was Harry’s life, and he would decide how he wanted to live and die. Not even Death would intervene.

Chapter Text

iii. With All My Love

“Lullaby and goodnight, with roses bestride.

With lilies bedecked, ‘neath baby's sweet bed.

May thou sleep, may thou rest. May thy slumber be blessed.

May thou sleep, may thou rest. May thy slumber be blessed.

Lullaby and goodnight, thy mother's delight.

Bright angels around, my darling, shall guard.

They will guide thee from harm. Thou art safe in my arms.

They will guide thee from harm. Thou art safe in my arms.”

- Brahms’ Lullaby

═══════⊹⊱≼◈≽⊰⊹═══════

“Twins!?” James exclaimed, a delighted exhale of disbelief punctuating it. He looked at Lily with a wide, goofy grin and ran to hug her. He scooped her up and squeezed tightly, pressing his lips to the side of her head with the force of his excitement. A quick peck to the corner of her eye, the soft bridge of her nose, and finally on her lips.

With the remnants of laughter filling her voice she replied, “Yes James—” said man kept peppering kisses down her face and she couldn’t help the exasperated chuckle that escaped her at his antics, “twins: a girl and a boy.”

James abruptly let go of her, holding her at arms length with a firm grip on her shoulders. For a drawn-out second Lily was worried. Could James be having doubts about the news? After all, the pregnancy hadn't been planned and the two of them were actively participating in a war. It wasn’t an all out one where both sides met on a large open field and battled to the death like what was shown on television, but a war nonetheless. Was he upset about the possibility of multiple children at a time like this? However, one look at his face— crinkled with mirth— immediately dispelled her fear.

Soft green eyes flicked about, taking in the demeanour of the man she loved and comforting herself with what she found there. The brown of his eyes thawed the cold that tried to take root in her veins. He gazed at Lily as if she was the only thing he could see. James’ mouth was moving a mile a minute, that dopey smile never leaving the form of his lips.

James was happy about this as much as she was. Despite the circumstances of their situation, he was happy. Of course he was— she’d known he would be. He was ecstatic when they first found out about the pregnancy. Why would it matter that they were having twins? Lily quietly let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding as sound reached her ears once more.

“We have to tell the boys! Sirius is going to be so thrilled. He's been a little miffed I stopped pulling jokes on people, says it’s no fun without me. Now that he's got two little ones to indoctrinate?” James let out a loud guffaw, “We’re going to have to keep an eye on all of them, or they might take over the world before old Moldyshorts even gets a real crack at it. Although they won’t nearly be as rambunctious as Sirius, Remus and Peter are sure to be excited too. Oh and the headmaster and Minnie! Can you imagine the look on her face when she finds out two mini mes are going to be running around?”

Lily laughed lightly at the mischievous glint in her husband’s eyes. Despite maturing past the age of reckless adventurism and pranks, James would always carry the desire to work up their stoic former head of house.

“You do realize a formal announcement is going to be made now that I’m past the first trimester, right? That they'll all find out when they read the papers in the morning?” Amusement wrinkled the corners of her eyes at her husband gaping like a fish.

Honestly, it was a wonder sometimes which one of them had lived their entire life in the Wizarding World. How James remembered every aspect of quidditch down to the scores of every match for his favourite team, yet constantly forgot the customs he grew up with as a pureblood, she didn’t know. The stupidity in her husband’s genius would never cease to amaze her.

James recovered from his bafflement and opened his mouth to speak, but Lily cut ahead of him, already knowing what he planned to say. “But yes, we should tell them first. And everyone in the Order. They’ll all be overjoyed, and Frank and Alice know already anyways.”

At her husband's confusion she continued to explain, “I saw the two of them when I went to St. Mungo’s. Apparently, Alice had also been feeling a little off as of late. Since Frank didn’t have a mission he took her to the hospital, but Alice told me she was just as ready to go by herself. It was time for a checkup anyways, so she wasn't terribly concerned about it.” She added the slight reassurance at the end upon seeing the kicked expression on James face.

He’d been upset that he wasn’t able to go with her due to his work with both the Order and as an Auror. Lily hadn’t blamed him and she still didn’t, the raids were important in their fight against Wizard Hitler and it wasn’t a responsibility to shirk, but she knew James still felt guilty. It was there in the slightest droop of his mouth and eyes. His shoulders sagged as if a heavy weight were placed on him, and his grip on her shoulders loosened. It was all minuscule, but Lily could instantly tell it still affected him.

She reached up, brushing her fingers fleetingly across his jaw. They traveled downwards to the rough hands that had begun to release her. Before James could completely drop them to his sides, Lily took one into her own and firmly laced their fingers together so he wouldn’t be able to pull away from her. She twisted her body slightly so her eyes could meet his own avoidant ones as she idly stroked the back of his hand with her thumb.

“Alice is pregnant as well; a boy. I think we might end up sharing a due date. Both of us are about the same amount of time along,” she informed him conversationally.

Lily wouldn’t try to convince him against his emotions. No matter what she said right now, James would still harbour the feeling that he’d let her down. All she could do at the moment was show him that it didn’t matter to her— that she understood and wasn’t upset about his momentary absence. And the best way to do that was to continue with their conversation without bringing the fact that she knew about his guilt to attention. It would only make James feel worse.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our children could grow up together? They could have each other's back. Just like you and the boys.” She’d just stated it offhandedly to distract James, but now that the idea was spoken out loud, it sounded nice.

Those three kids could be thick as thieves, just like she used to be with Tuney— just like she used to be with Sev. Sev used to have her back and she his. They'd get into all sorts of predicaments searching for and testing out new kinds of magic, but they were in it together. It was fun. It was…simpler times. Things used to be simple with Tuney too. Well, before they both had decided Lily no longer fit their ideals.

It didn’t matter anyhow. Lily shook her head imperceptibly, physically ridding herself of the sombre memories. She had other people now. They accepted the fact that she was magical and talented at it. They communicated with her and didn’t try to hurt her feelings just to push her away. They didn’t think her to be too outspoken, too stubborn, too caring, too much. They loved Lily for who she was, faults and all. She had a family: a devoted husband, loyal friends, and two more additions on the way. Yes, that’s right: her own babies. And twins at that! A little girl and boy to raise and care for and love.

Lily was honestly surprised at how much magic could do. She was only 16 weeks in, but the doctors at St. Mungo’s were able to tell her the gender of her children already. While it was possible for a muggle ultrasound to tell a baby’s gender as early as 14 weeks, it wasn’t the norm nor was it very accurate. Muggles normally had to wait anywhere between 18-22 weeks for that knowledge to be somewhat reliable. Magic had allowed Lily to know for certain sooner.

It had allowed Lily to feel her babies. There was a connection between herself and them that wouldn't have been possible without the blessing of Mother Magic. She could feel the cores of the two joys growing inside her as if they were her own. They reached out to each other, intertwining and flourishing under the tender nurture of her magic— becoming one with Lily until they could thrive on their own.

The strong signs of life brought a soft, affectionate smile to her face as she looked down and smoothed a hand over the slight bump of her stomach. There wasn’t a single gift brought upon by Mother Magic that Lily didn’t find amazing— each one was received with endless gratitude. This one was no different.

Lily adored magic, and she loved her children. With her entire existence she loved them and she would do whatever it took for them to grow up and have the opportunity to love magic just like her.

She raised her head to find James no longer in the grips of guilt. Instead he was staring dumbly at her, completely mesmerized by the sight of her. She didn’t understand why he was so beholden to the sight. There was nothing special currently happening.

Noticing that Lily was now staring back at him, James furrowed his brows in confusion. “What? What’s that look for? You’re making that face where I did something stupid. What did I do?” Laughing at his ridiculousness, she shook her head and cupped a hand to his lightly stubbled cheek. The mock fear in his tone was completely negated with him melting like putty under her touch.

James gave every indication that he had no clue what was happening— Lily could’ve been angry with him, yet he still laid his hand over hers just in case she decided to withdraw her touch. It didn’t matter if the house around them were to catch alight, he seemed content to endure whatever came his way just as long as he could still feel her.

“Why are you staring at me so intently? There’s nothing different about me— you can’t even tell I’m pregnant unless you’re searching for it. I look the same as I do everyday.” There was honestly no telling with her husband. For such a straightforward man he could have the most outrageous reasoning sometimes.

“I was just thinking how much I love you.” Her husband was such a sap, she thought fondly. “You're such a force of nature. Our children haven’t even been born yet and you just looked at them like they were everything good in the world. And then you got that really determined look on your face too.”

Now this is new.

“What look?” James always had many things to say about her looks, but she’d never heard him mention this so-called specific ‘determined look’ before.

“The one that made me fall for you. The one that promises fiery retribution. The one that makes me believe that you can accomplish anything.” It may have taken him years to convince her that he was genuine with every word of praise coming out of his mouth as opposed to mere pick up lines, but she couldn't doubt him now, not with that look on his face.

“You’re being silly,” she replied fondly, shaking her head and switching the subject away from corny declarations of adoration before he really got going. Sometimes Lily wondered if James just enjoyed speaking— he could go on for hours. It was a good thing she loved listening to him just as much as he loved talking. “Come on, help me get the manor ready. Sirius is already coming by later after the Order meeting to give me something I had asked him for, so we can invite everyone else too and tell them then.”

James hummed, clearly not comprehending what she’d said but agreeing with whatever it was anyways. Then the words seemed to finally process in his brain. He blinked once, twice and then jerked away from her, immediately straightening and regaining the bones that he had lost under her ministrations.

“Wait, Padfoot’s coming by? At your request? I thought the two of you didn’t get along.” Apparently the thought of Sirius and Lily being amicable was more of a threat than the house catching fire. She had to stifle a laugh. Biting her lip she schooled her face to one of joyful indifference and coughed lightly.

“Well, he was getting a little antsy without anything to get up to. You did say he was a little miffed with you. I just had something planned that seemed interesting to him. You know he can’t turn down a good session of scheming.” At that ominous non answer, Lily began to walk away.

“Scheming?! Lily wait! You guys aren’t conspiring against me, right?! Whatever I did, I’m sorry! This is about the missing snacks, isn’t it? I’m sorry I ate them and then hid the box! You weren’t going crazy, they had been delivered.”

She just laughed loudly and continued her exit, never once pausing to look back at him. The plan had nothing to do with her husband. In fact, it was nothing nefarious at all. However, she couldn’t help but tease him in revenge for flustering her.

Lily already knew that he’d ate those snacks. When she’d kissed him after getting home the afternoon they were scheduled to arrive, she was able to taste the sweet treat on his lips. She’d known not even a full day after the crime was perpetrated. Lily was just letting the information stew, to use it at the opportune moment.

“Wait! Honey! Please!” At the full blown whine from her husband she couldn’t help but let out another chuckle— he sounded like he was on the verge of tears. For some reason the sound only served to make James squeak and plead even more, only, he finally realized he could in fact use his legs to physically chase after her as well.

Sirius didn’t know what he was doing currently. He swore he would never come back to this god forsaken place, yet here he was, sneaking in through the window of his old room. It was just…after listening to Lily’s ‘request’, the first place that came to mind was the Black library. It was filled with all kinds of information: ancient to modern, legal to illegal. The knowledge was nondiscriminatory— completely unlike its owners. So now Sirius was sneaking into the place while the residents were off at some uppity gathering.

Probably sucking up to that ‘Lord’ of theirs— planning which poor muggles would be ‘purged’ next. At the thought, his lips curled into a snarl and a low sounding growl rumbled out of his chest. Taking in a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth, he tried to dispel his wandering thoughts.

Focus Sirius. You have to be done before the meeting tonight.

The only thing he needed to avoid was Kreacher, the family house elf. Thankfully, the creature’s disdain for Sirius as of late made him avoid his bedroom all together. No sour faced elf was in sight when he opened the door leading out of his room. If Sirius was lucky enough, that cantankerous thing would be off tending to dear ol’ mummy’s flowers ever so diligently just to please her when she arrived back home. With him outside so focused on the garden, there would be no worries about running into him.

One could only hope.

Walking down the stairs, Sirius paused at the landing as he got farther from his corner of the house. A shiver racked through him. Merlin, he hated this place. The dark interior matched the energy he felt radiating from the ornate wallpaper, through the ebony furniture, and down to the polished wooden floors. It was oppressive, disgusting, and had always, frankly, made him uncomfortable.

Thankfully, the same magic that unnerved him still welcomed Sirius as part of its own. The ancient wards and curses that would normally go off if someone unwanted had intruded on the ancestral property were fortunately undisturbed.

Sirius mentally stuck the finger to the shocked visage of an elegant yet dour faced woman as a derisive laugh escaped him.

So much for disowning me you old hag. In the end, even you can’t change the mind of magic.

Despite everyone’s desperate wishes, Sirius would always be recognized by Mother Magic as part of the noble and most ancient house of Black. Regardless of all the violent disagreements, the disappointed whispers, and even the burning of his name off the tapestry containing the family tree. Regardless of the fact that everyone involved no longer felt as if Sirius belonged to the Black family, magic decreed otherwise. He would never escape the dark blood flowing through his veins. As much as he hated the feeling every other day, it served his purpose today.

Keeping his ears perked and eyes peeled, Sirius hurried down the rest of the stairs. Unfortunately for him, the library was on the ground floor— as far as possible from his starting point. By the time he arrived at the large, imposing wooden doors he was exhausted from the constant vigilance. As much as he believed that nothing dire would happen to him were he discovered, he also didn’t want to tempt fate at the moment. His family prioritized the will of someone else these days; Sirius and his friends didn’t really make it to the amicable side of that list.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to being on extended alert— he was one of the best when it came to stakeouts, but something about being in this house made him more easily exhausted. It was as if he'd lost the endurance and resistance that had built as he grew older. Sirius felt like a powerless child again.

He ground his teeth together as a familiar anger bubbled up.

A loud bang startled Sirius out of his thoughts and his eyes flew open. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Feeling the blood drain from his face, he quickly whipped his head around only to find nothing in the vicinity that could’ve made the noise.

What the fuck was that?

Slowly, as time ebbed by and no one came barrelling around the corner to hex him, the tension eased from his frame. Only then did he notice the throbbing that was radiating from the side of his hand. Looking down, Sirius finally found the culprit behind the sudden loud noise and couldn’t help but let out an incredulous laugh.

"I’m a bloody idiot.”

What greeted him was a partially transformed hand. It’d been a while since Sirius had lost control of his animagus. Not to toot his own horn— okay, maybe just a slight ego stroke was needed after scaring himself shitless— but he was a genius when he put his mind to something. Sirius had assimilated with his animagus the fastest out of the three marauders. It’d become an extension of his own self, no harder to control than his own limbs. Which apparently were not in his control as much as he thought. At least not right now.

It seems Sirius wasn’t able to hold in his anger and ended up taking it out on the library door without realizing. There was now a slight crack in the dark wood memorializing his embarrassment. It was such a ridiculous sequence of events he didn’t know whether to be angry or to laugh.

He wasn’t too worried about the new addition to the door. There were only two people who visited the library and would notice such a minuscule detail. One…was no longer around and the other, Kreacher, would attribute it to one of the many weird antics of the manor. That didn’t mean Sirius could start slacking now though. Although the magic of the house was in his favour, he couldn’t afford to slip up again. He needed to be vigilant now that he was in the library even more than before. The things stored in there could permanently damage him or worse.

Sirius couldn’t even remember when the last time he'd been inside a library of his own volition let alone the Black’s. While he wasn’t stupid by any means, studying also wasn’t one of his strong suits. Going through Hogwarts, Sirius just never felt the need to have to study outside of class. He got decent enough grades just haphazardly paying attention to the professor.

There were few things for which he went above and beyond to learn. And once he did latch onto those specific topics, whatever he learned stuck with him.

All in all, he didn’t have much reason to spend time in dark, musty rooms with nothing but books for company— especially not after his falling out with Regulus.

Bloody traitorous bastard.

That’s why, although he had a general confidence that the best shot to find what Lily was seeking would be in this library, he also didn’t have a clue where to look. Sirius was utterly overwhelmed by the rows of books when he opened the heavy wooden door.

Now…Lily said I’d probably find it under the Ancient Ritualistic Magic category. She said that after all of her research, this book was her best shot at finding something.

As long as that blasted house elf didn’t change the organization of the books, Sirius had an inkling of where that section was located. The image was fuzzy, but still existed nonetheless.

After a cursory look over, he was able to confirm that things were indeed sorted how he last remembered. Now the only challenge was to find the right book without losing a limb or getting turned into tomorrow’s next pureblood hunt. The other issue was that Lily didn’t really have a specific book for him to grab— she just had a direction for an answer. It was all up to Sirius’ genius to come to play.

That woman! Why couldn’t she just have come herself? If anyone could outwit this stupid house it'd be her, not that I'd ever tell her that.

Not for the first time Sirius wondered if it was worth it to associate with Lily Evans. Honestly, if it wasn’t for his best mate being absolutely smitten with her, she would’ve never had the opportunity to grow on him.

Yeah, like stinky, rotten fungus.

He’d never be caught admitting it, but he didn’t hate Lily too much. At least not nearly as much as their constant bickering would lead someone to believe. Otherwise he wouldn’t be in this current predicament. The woman had spunk; Sirius could respect that. She stood up for what was right and had the capability to back it all up. Despite all his griping, Sirius couldn’t be more happy for James. They were perfect for each other.

Even if Sirius wasn’t the fondest of Lily, he still probably would’ve listened to her request. He was just too curious as to what she was researching and why.

War had been a part of his life long enough that it had become almost mundane, at least up until the moment he would inevitably get slapped in the face with the death of another fallen comrade or an innocent they had been too late to save. There wasn’t a lot even happening on that front at the current moment anyways, so Sirius was bored out of his mind. He was too used to always doing something. Putting aside his state of being, Lily’s research had always ended up being interesting— even during their school days.

Despite what most of his old professors might think, Sirius had a strong interest in all things magic. It just took someone competent at teaching it, and Lily Evans was nothing if not competent. That’s how she roped Sirius into this farce of a request. Bloody scheming woman knew Sirius wouldn’t be able to say no to the possibility of trying some new ancient magic. She was way too observant for his own good— for anybody’s own good really. And James was married to that scary thing. Sirius couldn’t help but shake his head in mourning for his friend.

The section of library he needed to go to was one he was most familiar with thankfully. Sirius recognized a lot of the tomes on his way there. Each one invoked a fond memory of painstakingly learning a charm, hex, or curse and then teaching it to an excited James. Though his knowledge of spells was used more practically nowadays, Sirius could vividly call up moments when he’d use it for more trivial things.

The memory of simpler times instantly lifted Sirius’ mood to the point he almost forgot he was in the god forsaken Black manor. He was able to set aside the dark thoughts that had begun to drag him back into a less enthusiastic past.

It was no surprise that Sirius found himself in the Ancient Ritualistic Magic section before long. Even if he hadn’t been preoccupied reminiscing, the journey there wasn’t a particularly long one. The thing that would take him the longest would to be finding a book or tome that matched Lily’s specifications. So far Sirius hadn’t heard any indications that he needed to speed up his search yet.

Imagining the look on his mother’s face in the event she found out about the excursion that happened right under her nose motivated Sirius more than anything.

She’s going to be pissed.

Still, motivated or not, Sirius was having a hard time finding the right book. Not a single one he’d looked through thus far detailed a way to transfer damage from one object to another— at least not preemptively and sustained. Most of the tomes showcased ways to accomplish the transfer but under too many constraints. There would be too many variables that needed to be taken into account before the ritual or spell could be attempted to begin with, and they didn't even provide long lasting results.

Something was missing to enable the parameters that he was searching for— a medium of some sorts that could connect the two otherwise irrelevant objects and sustain said connection. But, Sirius just couldn’t figure out what it was even though he felt like the answer was on the tip of his tongue.

Sirius teased at the wound he’d made whilst chewing on his lip. It was a bad habit he found himself indulging when he couldn’t figure something out. Spit entering the opening stung but it helped him focus— to stay present. He sucked in his bottom lip, catching the slightly dry skin there with his teeth and peeling it back. As the time ticked by, sweat began to trickle down his back and the chewing became more frequent; Sirius’ hands became more frantic with each book that didn’t match his specifications.

No. No. NO! Not this one…not this one either. Come on…come on, come on!

A jolt of magic shocked Sirius out of his feverish searching, and he bit down harshly on his lip from the surprise. That was the timer he set up before he’d even entered the manor. Heaving, he leaned back onto his hands and titled his head towards the ceiling, absently counting the embossed tiles.

He’d run out of time.

The disappointment he felt at his failure hurt almost as much as the salty sweat dripping from his face into the fresh wound on his lip. It was bleeding profusely, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about it. Sitting up he looked at his pile that contained the possible candidates. It was a measly two— one a more modern book and the other a tome written in ancient runes. Despite the two being the most likely options they still weren’t perfect. Both still lacked a solution to sustained damage transfer.

From the little bit Sirius could read, the author of the tome was the closest to figuring out a ritual that allowed the transfer to stay without having to do another ritual after each instance of damage. Unfortunately, that author had perished during a witch hunt before they could solve it. He recognized the name from a journal that had made its way into his possession a few years back when he’d went all gung-ho into ancient runes. He’d gifted that same journal to Lily as a present for her and James’ wedding.

Well at least it might give Lily some sort of idea on what to do once she combines the journal and tome.

Sirius tried to console himself with that weak hope as he gathered up the two references and put the rest back into place. As he tried to get up, his legs began to give out and he staggered, dropping the two items back onto the floor. Bending down to grab them seemed a more monumental task than when he stood up with them and he sat there for a moment, head leaned against one of the lower shelves. The failure seemed to be affecting Sirius more than he thought. He felt drained and empty.

“Just for a second. I just need one second to catch my breath then I’ll be good as new. I’m just a little exhausted—” his voice cracked slightly in the quiet of the large room.

At his frustration, Sirius softly bit down on his lip once more, opening up the barely congealed blood from prior. He could feel the crimson liquid drip dangerously down his lip and closer to the books held in his hand. Before it could land Sirius ran his tongue across the area, lapping up the blood with swift precision.

The sharp taste of iron slowly spread across his tongue along with realization.

Maybe it was due to his strong association of it with people like his family, like Voldemort, that made him forget. Or maybe it was due to being in his childhood home and his senses thus dulling. Either way, once Sirius did remember he shot up with renewed vigour. There was one thing he was taught most growing up when it came to magic. Although the meaning of the statement became warped as time went by, it didn’t mean that the initial one was wrong. It was an important principle that Sirius should’ve never forgotten regardless of his stance towards his family.

“Blood is power.”

Dark, pureblood supremacist families weren’t the only ones that Sirius had heard the statement from. He could now recall the same words coming from James’ mother, Euphemia.

Euphemia Potter was a mysterious woman. She ran a successful potions business with her husband Fleamont Potter. Although they weren’t loud with their wealth like most purebloods, Sirius could easily tell that James hadn’t grown up wanting. She was kind, stern, and scarily smart. She was almost like a second mother to Sirius. The night that Walburga Black had disowned him and he showed up at the Potter doorstep with a flaming hand-print across his cheek, drenched as a sewer rat, and more mum than a first year Hufflepuff being interrogated, she asked no questions and just ushered Sirius to a warm bath. She was also the one who taught him the majority of the ancient magic he knew. Yet, despite how often he would ask her, Euphemia never told him how she knew all that she did.

After James’ wedding, Fleamont and Euphemia caught dragon pox. Sirius didn’t even get to see her before she passed away. Undoubtedly his grief had locked away memories of her without him even realizing. Were she here, she would’ve scolded Sirius for forgetting such an important facet of magic.

The good thing, though, was that he remembered. He now had the answer to sustained damage transfer: blood magic.

While he’d found an answer to what medium should be used, that didn’t mean he’d gotten the whole process figured out. There were still many possible complications that would have to be worked out with the ancient ritual— after all it was incomplete. That wasn’t even including the possible malfunctions that could occur once blood was added.

Sirius began to hum a tune, a bounce to his steps as he made his way out of the Black manor and off the grounds.

Oh well, not my problem. That’s for Lily to struggle over and me to enjoy the results of.

Hitching the bag containing his spoils over his shoulder, Sirius spread a mild healing salve over his lip and made his way towards the Potter manor. It was time for him to gloat over Lily. Not only had he completed her request, he also managed to progress her research— all in the span of one night and just casually reading. She would have no choice to admit his superiority this time. Feeling giddy at the thought, Sirius quickened his pace, eager to see the reaction of his rival.

However, by the time he arrived at the manor, the moon had long since risen above the clouds.

When Sirius crashed through the front door of the warm house the first thing he noticed was the lack of noise. Casting a quick Tempus informed him that he was more than just fashionably late— the meeting was long over and it was past time for company to still be around. For a moment, Sirius was worried that Lily and James had already already gone to bed, but his concerns were swiftly laid to rest.

“Padfoot? Is that you? We’re in the sitting room,” he could hear James shout across the space.

At the sound of his best mate’s voice, the muscles throughout Sirius’ body all at once relaxed. He stood at the door for a beat, feeling the heat of the house at his front and the cold of the outside at his back. During his journey to the manor Sirius had been pumped on adrenaline. The wind had blown through his black curls and cooled the sweat on his skin. His energy was at an all time high, and he’d been grinning like a loon. Sirius had thought he was having the time of his life. It wasn’t until he arrived at the doorsteps of the Potter manor and felt all the warmth it had to offer that he realized how exhausted he still was; he felt it deep in his soul. Sirius yearned to sprawl across his best mate and just sleep. He yearned to sit next to the fire, distant laughter and voices in the background. With that thought powering him, he drug one foot in front of the other and followed the sound of soft conversation.

Quietly pushing open the door to the sitting room granted Sirius the sight of Lily and James next to the fireplace. Lily sat in the rocking chair, a hand knitted blanket he’d never seen before over her lap. James was across from her in the love seat with his back to Sirius. The two of them were conversing, however it was mostly just James prattling at her and Lily indulgently listening. The floors were carpeted and covered with even more rugs than he last remembered. The fire covered the room in a soft golden glow. Thyme and other herbs permeated the air with their scent; they mixed with the slight smoky spice of burning wood and enveloped Sirius like a hug. He stood there, bathing in the atmosphere of home.

Although there technically wasn’t any progress in the war one way or the other, that hadn’t meant he was free of assignments. They were just standard responsibilities that came with being an auror, but they’d kept him from seeing his friends without time breathing down his neck. Everyone’s schedules had been too different lately. It’d been too long since he was able to visit James; even Lily’s request had been conveyed through an owled letter. Today’s meeting had marked the end of those assignments, so Sirius allowed himself this moment of respite— of just watching the scene in front of him silently.

Lily noticed him first. Granting Sirius a kind smile, she motioned at him to James with her eyes. James turned around, obviously confused about what Lily could be interrupting him over. It seemed he didn’t expect Sirius to come in quietly after the ruckus he made at the front door. When he noticed him, however, those brown eyes lit up and a wide smile spread across his face. At the sight of it Sirius couldn’t help but return his own.

“Why would you ask if it’s me when I’m the only one who could possibly let themselves in at this hour,” Sirius asked with a boisterous chuckle.

Lily laughed at James’ indignant expression and chimed in as he begun to speak, “It’s because he doesn’t think before he opens his mouth.”

James’ jaws snapped shut and he flopped back around, purposely facing away from both Lily and Sirius. He dramatically sprawled across the entirety of the loveseat as if he was exhausted from the weight of the world. His mumbling could barely be made out through the muffling of the throw pillows.

“I thought the two of you weren’t conspiring against me.”

“We’re not! You walked right into that one James.” Lily instantly dismissed James scepticism and motioned Sirius over— heedless of his hesitation.

Sirius wanted ask what they were talking about or to even deny the notion of ever working with Lily of his own volition, but one look at her face had his jaw snapping shut just as hard as James’ had earlier. Under any other circumstance he wouldn’t have had a second thought about challenging her, but Lily seemed different tonight somehow. It was difficult for him to bring himself to talk back to her.

Sirius slowly made his way inside the sitting room, around the loveseat, and towards where Lily sat next to the fireplace. His senses were dulled once again, but this time it didn’t feel unpleasant. There was none of the dread that he would forget something important. There was no worry that he wouldn’t be safe if he wasn’t alert.

As he passed by James, he watched the expression of pure happiness take over his best mate’s face— even despite all the teasing that he was currently receiving from said source of joy. Sirius glanced at the direction he was currently walking towards just in time to witness Lily’s eyes scrunch shut, her head thrown back from the force of her laughter as she covered her mouth with a hand. He could hear their bickering and laughter through the light cotton in his head and felt a warmth build up from deep inside him. It blossomed from his stomach and flowed outwards to his limbs, melting away any lingering exhaustion.

It was all so weird. The way he was feeling, his quietness, his reluctance to argue with Lily and tease James, his contentedness with just existing. It was a phenomenon he couldn’t remember experiencing and thus it was weird. Sirius found he didn’t mind though. He let the atmosphere take him— following the flow of the conversation just enough to interject here and there to ask about how the meeting went. It was then, after Sirius reached Lily and begun to hand her the bag containing the two references, that James’ loud mouth came to bite him in the arse once more.

“-And that’s when we told them that Lils is pregnant with twins! Can you imagine the look on Minnie’s face? She spluttered into her teacup! Have you ever seen that?”

All of the sudden the room went quiet. The only thing that cut through the sound of James’ receding laughter and the crackling flames was a loud thud. Sirius froze as the bag he was delivering to Lily slipped from his hand. A low exhale resounded next to him and he looked over to find Lily shaking her head in exasperation. She lowered her head into one hand before pinching the bridge of her nose as if to prepare herself for something.

“James…” she began in a reprimanding tone.

At the sound of such seriousness in her voice, James looked up confused, finally noticing that everyone else had stopped completely. “What? What did I do?”

Sirius’ mind was blank as he looked back and forth between the two intermittently. He was trying so hard to form a thought, but his mind felt like a sieve trying to hold onto sand. Lily shot him an apologetic look once she could catch his flickering gaze.

“Sorry Sirius, we meant to tell you tonight with everyone else but then you were late. I figured you would still be stopping by and we could give you the news then but…James! There are better ways to tell your best mate such big news.” She reached over to smack a very contrite James on the shoulder— it seemed he finally realized what he’d done wrong. At the sudden action, the knitted blanket that laid across her slipped low. Sirius finally saw it, peeking above the edge, just barely there: a baby bump.

“You’re…pregnant. I didn’t know you were pregnant.” He tore his widening eyes from Lily’s stomach to meet soft green ones watching him.

“We didn’t get a chance to tell you when we initially found out with everything happening lately. Since I'm past the first trimester and learned the genders earlier today we made the announcement. I’m 16 weeks along.” She turned that gentle smile away from Sirius and downwards to where she was now petting her stomach. He followed the movement, still in a daze. “They’re twins: a boy and a girl.”

Sirius was struck speechless.

That would explain why she couldn’t sneak into the Black library herself….

Thankfully, whether it was James having tact for once or not, Sirius was spared from having to fill the silence. “We can do the official paper work later but the both of us were wondering…well we figured we’d ask you first. Will you be their godfather?”

It was most definitely not because James had all of a sudden learned tact. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have dropped another bombshell on Sirius before he could even process the previous one. Gathering up a reply, Sirius closed his gaping mouth and wet his lips. He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. Surely when he spoke his voice would crack, but it would have to do. Despite thinking he was sufficiently prepared, all that came out was one, singular word.

“What?”

Sirius felt so dizzy. He couldn’t make out the details of things in front of him.

“JAMES!” A high-pitched voice bellowed, but Sirius couldn’t comprehend who it’d come from. His brain had no power to spare, it was overworking on other fronts. Something smooth and warm guided him to sit down.

Twins…Lily and James were having a boy and a girl.

“…a boy and a girl,” he mumbled slowly before the realization hit. “Kids! By Merlin, you’re having kids!” Sirius jumped to his feet ecstatic.

Two pairs of eyes that were waiting for him patiently were now filled with amusement. Lily was barely concealing a smile and James was grinning from ear to ear. When Sirius sprung out of his seat he’d nearly knocked teeth with them; they’d been standing close, almost as if they were monitoring his reactions. Thinking about it, they most likely were. If he’d been in their shoes he would’ve been spiralling in a panic.

What a lame friend I’ve been.

Partially hoping to reassure them but mostly because he couldn’t help himself, Sirius threw his arms around Lily and James, pulling them into a tight hug. He was laughing, he was hooting, and he was hollering. Elation filled him so much that any normal pretences were out the window. At this moment, Sirius wasn’t thinking about his rivalry with Lily. He wasn’t worried about the war or the consequences of his earlier adventure into the Black library. He wasn’t even feeling the exhaustion from coming straight off back to back missions to the Potter manor. Children. There would be Potter children running around, full of laughter and youthful mischievous. And he got to watch over them.

Sirius kissed both of their faces and practically howled in excitement. “Godfather! Haha! I’m gonna be a godfather!” At his display, Lily and James joined in not long after— the three of them a pile of giggles and smiles.

“I guess that’ll be a yes,” James remarked, amusement still saturated in his voice. It seems he was waiting for the moment they had all begun to catch their breaths, knowing it would rile Sirius up once more. Lily shot him a look of exasperated amusement showcasing she knew as such.

Sirius drew back, offended.

“Yes? Of course that’ll be a yes! A godfather! To your children!” And the riot started up once more.

The rest of the night delved into passionate discussion on names, the setup of the baby room, and anything else pertaining to the two little joys. James and Sirius kept arguing on which name would be better and Lily simply observed, knowing the final choice would reveal itself in due time.

Life had a funny way of doing that. Just like how earlier that day, when he’d gotten off assignment completely exhausted just to go straight to his childhood home to steal from it, Sirius had no way of knowing his night would end up the way it did— with such happiness. And like how Sirius wouldn’t realize the true value of the forgotten references on the floor until many months later, when the merry family would receive news of a prophecy.