Chapter Text
Harry wakes up in the spare bedroom in the Potter house, his mind foggy but gradually clearing as he takes in his surroundings. Hermione is in the bed beside his, a hastily conjured extra bed squeezed into the small space. Magic made it possible, just like so many other things he’s taken for granted. He feels a wave of gratitude crash over him—for the wonders of magic, for the impossible miracle of having Hermione here, alive.
Sirius is draped over Harry’s bed, his head resting on Harry’s chest, snoring softly. The sight of him, so close and so vulnerable, brings a lump to Harry’s throat. Remus is similarly slumped over Hermione’s bed, his hand loosely gripping hers, as if even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go. Hermione is awake, her eyes tender as they meet Harry’s, her fingers gently stroking Remus’ hand. She offers Harry a tired smile, and in that small expression, Harry sees the weight of everything they’ve been through.
Harry’s gaze shifts, finding James sprawled out in an armchair in the corner, his glasses askew, his head twisted at an uncomfortable angle. The image of his father—his father—sleeping in such a state sends a pang through Harry’s chest. He searches for Lily and can’t see her, but then she appears, carrying a tray laden with two bowls of soup, the smell of warmth and comfort filling the room.
“Oh,” she says softly, noticing that both Harry and Hermione are awake. Her eyes, though red-rimmed, are filled with a relief so intense it makes something clench in Harry’s chest.
“Lily,” Harry whispers, his voice rough with emotion, and the simple utterance of her name nearly breaks him.
“I brought you some soup, if you’re hungry,” she says, her voice trembling slightly as she sets the tray down on the nightstand between the beds. “You should probably eat. You’ve been asleep for almost a day.”
Harry glances towards the window, but it’s dark outside. He has no sense of time, no idea how long they were in that cursed cave or how long he spent…with Death. The memories are still too raw, too surreal.
He turns back to Lily, noticing for the first time how her hands are trembling. Without thinking, he reaches out, placing his hand over hers. She flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away, her lower lip quivering as she tries to hold back tears.
“We thought you were dead,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
“I’m sorry,” Harry replies, his voice thick with guilt.
Sirius stirs then, mumbling something unintelligible as he shifts, his head still resting against Harry’s chest. Lily gives Harry a watery smile before quickly leaving the room, her composure barely holding.
“‘ry?” Sirius mumbles, his voice groggy, and Harry’s heart clenches as he watches Sirius struggle to wake up.
“Sirius,” Harry answers softly, his hand moving to run through Sirius’ hair.
“You’re awake,” Sirius says, his voice filled with a mixture of relief and exhaustion.
“Yeah, sorry I was asleep for so long.”
“‘s okay. You’re alive.”
Harry swallows hard, the enormity of those words hitting him. Alive. He is alive. They are alive.
“Yeah, I am,” Harry replies, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sirius hums, nuzzling his nose against Harry’s throat. The gesture is so intimate, so vulnerable, that it nearly undoes Harry completely. “You came for me,” Harry says, his voice catching.
“We were having a discussion,” Sirius explains, his voice still thick with sleep but laced with a stubborn determination that makes Harry’s chest ache.
Harry huffs, but there’s no humour in it. “I think I ended that quite efficiently.”
“Nah, I’m stubborn,” Sirius says, his voice growing clearer, more awake. “It’s what you love about me,” he adds, shifting back slightly. But the loss of his warmth makes Harry’s heart race in panic. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
Harry almost doesn’t dare meet his eyes, but Sirius’ gaze is insistent, his grey eyes—almost silver in the dim light—searching Harry’s face.
“What happened, Harry?”
Harry’s chin wobbles, and he feels the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sirius,” he whispers, his voice breaking.
“Yeah, pretty shit move to hex your boyfriend,” Sirius agrees, trying for levity, but his smile falters when Harry’s breath hitches.
“Yeah?” Harry asks, the desperation in his voice palpable.
Sirius’ brows twist down, and he bites his lower lip. “Harry,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly as he cups Harry’s cheek, his thumb brushing gently over his cheekbone. “I almost lost you—” Harry tries to speak, but Sirius continues, his voice cracking with emotion. “—because of your stupid secrets and stubbornness bordering on suicidal.”
“I’m sorry—” Harry begins, but Sirius shakes his head, cutting him off.
“I want to just say ‘screw it’ and kiss you and forget this ever happened, but I can’t, Harry, I can’t.”
Harry’s chest tightens painfully, and for a moment, he can’t breathe. “Sirius, I promise—”
“I know it’s for a reason,” Sirius interrupts, his voice filled with a mixture of frustration and resignation. “Not sure it’s a good one, not sure it’s good enough, but I know that I can’t keep up like this.”
No. No, no, no. No. This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything. The thought of losing Sirius, not to death but to this, was unbearable.
“I got to you in time, me and James, but it was—close doesn’t begin to cover it. There was Fiendfyre, Harry. I have no idea how you and Hermione survived.”
Harry places a trembling hand on Sirius’ chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat, grounding himself in that rhythm. He tries to speak, but his voice fails him. The thought of losing Sirius because of his own actions, his own decisions, is too much.
Sirius looks at him, and in those mercury eyes, Harry sees the depth of Sirius’ fear, his pain, his love.
“All I know is that I can’t do that again. Not almost losing you because you didn’t tell me where you were or that you needed help. Merlin’s beard, Harry, what were you even doing in that cave?”
The memory of the cave, of the horrors they faced there, slams into Harry like a tidal wave. But something else nags at him—a detail, a question he needs answered.
“How did you know where we were?” he asks, his voice shaky.
“After you hexed us,” Sirius begins slowly, ignoring Harry’s wince, “we didn’t know where you’d gone, so we went to your place. Imagine our surprise when we found Reggie there of all people. He told us everything.”
“Everything?” Harry asks, the lump in his throat growing painful.
“Well, he told us where you were, that you’d gone there to destroy You-Know-Who…” Sirius pauses, clearly waiting for Harry to jump in, refute the statement.
Hermione stirs in the bed next to Harry’s, and they both turn to look at her. She’s turned towards them, her eyes wide and fearful.
“Harry,” she says, her voice trembling, “Did you—?”
The memories flood back— the unbearable heat, the crushing weight of Voldemort’s power, the feel of Hermione’s body crumbling in his arms as the Fiendfyre consumed her. The darkness. The endless void. Death.
Harry’s lips tremble as he forces a smile, tears spilling over. “I got him,” he whispers. “It’s over. Voldemort is dead.”
Hermione’s relief is immediate, tears welling up in her eyes before rolling down over her nose and into her hair and pillow. But Harry barely has time to register her reaction before a noise from the doorway draws his attention. Lily stands there, shell-shocked, a small washbasin forgotten in her hands as it clatters to the floor. James, too, has woken, his eyes wide and disbelieving as they lock onto Harry.
“It’s over,” Harry repeats, his voice gaining strength as he sees the hope, the disbelief, and the overwhelming relief in their faces. “It’s done.”
~o~o~o~o~
Naturally, this is not enough as explanations go. Not enough to explain what Harry and Hermione have done or what it all means.
Remus stirs, blinking awake, and immediately his attention snaps to Hermione, his expression a mixture of concern and relief. He sits up, his hands shaking as he touches her face, as if needing the tangible proof that she is indeed alive. His words tumble out in a mixture of sweet endearments and threats to never scare him like that again. It’s all so raw, so earnest, that it makes everyone in the room shift uncomfortably, the intimacy too much to witness.
Then, with their hands tightly clasped together, Harry and Hermione begin their story.
They finally explain everything. About the Horcruxes, about Voldemort being really truly gone, about Dumbledore dying. Each revelation lands like a physical blow, and the room grows quieter and more tense as they continue.
Lily listens with wide eyes, her hands clutching her stomach protectively. The reality of the horror her son had faced sinks in, her fingers trembling as she squeezes James’ hand for comfort. Remus, usually so composed, stares at the wall, his expression reflecting the deep internal conflict he’s battling—pride for his friends, sorrow for what they endured, and fear for everything that could’ve gone wrong.
When the story reaches present times, James and Sirius fill in what they know.
Sirius tells them how they found Regulus, that he explained how Harry and Hermione had talked to him the year before and how he’d waited for the Dark Lord to borrow Kreacher, and how he’d gone to confront Harry and Hermione when it came to pass. After hearing everything from Regulus, they went back to the Blacks’ ancestral home to look for Kreacher, but couldn’t find him. Regulus called for him and Kreacher appeared, and after some coaxing from Regulus, told the others where the cave was located and took them there. They arrived just in time to see the cave implode on itself.
They have to take a break, the story is so convoluted. After some fussing, they end up in the sitting room with soup made from a recipe Remus shared with them. James, usually one to inhale his food, is stirring his bowl with a faraway expression. Lily has a spoonful brought halfway to her mouth, seemingly having forgotten what she is doing.
Sirius has chosen to sit down next to Harry and seems more intent on looking at Harry than eating. Harry has trouble meeting his gaze, but he feels a tremendous comfort from having him close. The story is not finished, and there is so much left to tell, to confess, things that might change the way Sirius looks at him forever, but maybe, Harry thinks, pressing his leg against Sirius’, they might get through it together.
Once the bowls are empty and the dishes put away, Harry and Hermione continue the story. Finally, when it feels like they’re coming to an end, and Sirius’ grip on Harry’s hand has reached critical levels, Remus asks the killer question, “How did you know about all this?”
“We sort of—lived it already, kind of,” Harry says.
“What, like a time-loop?” James asks, a worried frown appearing. “Is it broken now? How many times have you lived out this day already?”
“No, no, not like that,” Hermione says, waving her hands in a calming fashion. Harry’s not sure how calming the actual truth will be.
“No, more like, we’re from the future, and a lot of the things that happened these past few years didn’t happen until our time, so we orchestrated them to happen sooner.”
There is absolute silence for a moment after Harry’s much too rushed explanation. Then chaos, as everyone begins talking at the same time, interrupting each other, gesturing violently, protesting, asking for clarification.
“All right, stop!” James eventually calls, and everyone settles down, albeit reluctantly. “Harry, Hermione, you have to explain.”
Harry nods and looks at Hermione. She smiles, a bit nervously, but nods in return. They’re doing this. They’re really pulling out all the stops and telling them the whole story, no holds barred.
“There was a war, one that abruptly ended without really ending anything, when Voldemort disappeared, supposedly at the hand of a baby.”
Harry begins the story, and everyone listens quietly, but for the occasional interruption of a question, an exclamation, or a sound of disbelief. Harry gets a horrible sense of déjà vu as he explains the prophecy, the Horcruxes, the time travel. Hermione takes his hand and helps him when he sometimes falters.
When Harry finally reveals the blood magic that protected him, the silence in the room is suffocating. Lily takes James’ hand, squeezing it even as tears stream down her face; she may have heard parts of it before, but as she listens to the story this time, when nothing is held back, she hears the hardships, the struggles and the pain in a different way. Now when she is more prepared to understand it, now when the shock has settled. It aches in her heart. James doesn’t understand everything yet, doesn’t know, but he will.
Sirius, gripping Harry’s hand as if afraid to let go, wears a haunted look. As the truth unfolds, his grip tightens, his knuckles white, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The pain and guilt of everything Harry reveals—the prophecy that marked him, the expectations, the betrayals—settle in his chest like a heavy stone. His mind races with thoughts of what could have been, what should have been, and the devastating fact that he wasn’t there to protect Harry from it all.
As Harry comes to an end, he looks straight at James, throat so tight it feels as if no sound will ever breach his lips again. He manages to get out: “I’m your son.”
~o~o~o~o~
Just as when Harry told Lily, it is as if something falls away, some mask, indefinable and impossible to grasp. Harry’s green eyes, so like Lily’s, his wild hair, just like James’. His chin, forehead, nose, glasses, cheekbones. Once pointed out, it is impossible to mistake him for anyone else. They don’t understand how they could have missed it.
~o~o~o~o~
James’ disbelief is palpable. The more Harry explains, the more his world crumbles. The final nail in the coffin is the revelation of Harry being his son. The son he never knew he had, living a life of danger, facing death at every turn. The war that should have ended with Voldemort’s first defeat, only for Harry to be thrust into it again. His disbelief isn’t just in the facts, but in the unbearable truth that he couldn’t be there for Harry, that he and Lily weren’t there to shield him from the world’s cruelty.
The room erupts into chaos, voices overlapping in confusion, disbelief, and shock.
“—my son!”
“—how anyone could’ve missed—”
“—even his name—”
“—at his bloody eyes—”
“—obviously a Potter—”
Harry watches it all unfold, his heart aching as he sees the range of emotions flashing across their faces. But one face holds his attention the most—Sirius. His godfather looks at him with a mixture of horror, confusion, and regret, emotions warring for dominance in his expressive eyes. The shock of the revelation is palpable, as if the ground beneath Sirius has shifted and left him unsteady.
“Geez, I probably like—like—raised you, right? This is fucked up!” Sirius exclaims, his voice thick with disbelief and something darker, a tremor of unease running through it.
Harry feels panic rising in his chest like a tidal wave. This was the part he dreaded the most—the inevitable confrontation with the truth that could twist everything between them. “No!” Harry quickly reassures him, his voice almost frantic, desperate to put Sirius at ease. “You didn’t raise me!”
Sirius’ eyes dart to Lily, searching for confirmation, his expression pleading for something to make sense in this chaos. Lily steps forward, her voice calm but firm, her gaze steady on Sirius. “It’s true, Sirius. You didn’t raise him,” she says softly, trying to soothe the storm of emotions she sees brewing in him. “You weren’t the one who looked after Harry.”
Sirius sways slightly on his feet, the weight of the implications almost too much to bear. “But… I would have, wouldn’t I?” he murmurs, his voice shaking with the sudden, bitter realization. “In that other timeline… I would have been the one to take care of him. I would have been… his father figure.” His voice catches on the last words, the thought twisting like a knife in his chest.
James, who has been quiet until now, finally finds his voice, though it’s tinged with something close to dread. The idea of his best mate being a father figure to his son, only to end up romantically involved with him, sends a shiver down his spine. “Padfoot…” he begins, but he can’t find the right words, his mind still reeling from the revelation.
Sirius shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge the unsettling thoughts. “This is messed up, Harry. Why did you let me…? Why did you—?” His voice falters, the conflict between his past role in Harry’s life and their current relationship overwhelming him.
Harry’s heart sinks as he watches Sirius struggle, the man who has always been his anchor now adrift in a sea of emotions. He reaches out, his hand trembling as it lands on Sirius’ arm. His heart plummets like a stone in his check when Sirius flinches away from him. “It wasn’t like that,” Harry whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “Sirius, please.”
Lily, sensing the tension reaching a breaking point, steps in once more. “Sirius,” she says gently, “Listen to what he’s saying. You didn’t raise him.” She looks at Harry, nodding for him to continue, to share the truth that has been waiting in the wings.
Sirius, still shaken but now holding onto the lifeline Lily has offered, turns his attention back to Harry, his expression a mixture of fear and desperate hope. He needs to understand, to know who it was that took his place in Harry’s life.
“So, like, Remus did? Peter? Why the hell didn’t I raise you? I’m your godfather! Right?” Sirius’ voice cracks as he turns to James for support, the reality of what he missed out on hitting him like a freight train. Lily nods reassuringly, but James is still staring hollow-eyed into space. "See, your godfather!"
“Well, yes,” Harry admits, his voice small. “But I didn’t meet you until I was thirteen.”
The room falls into a stunned silence as the weight of Harry’s words sinks in. The air feels heavy with unspoken grief and lost opportunities.
“What?” James says, finally returning to the present, his voice hoarse.
“What?” Remus echoes, his voice thick with confusion.
“What do you mean you didn’t meet him?” Lily asks, her voice trembling. She looks between Sirius and Harry, as if trying to piece together the missing parts of a puzzle. "Where was he?"
Harry’s gaze drops to the floor, the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. Hermione moves to sit beside him, taking his hand in hers, offering silent support. With her encouragement, Harry forces the words out, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Prison," Harry finally admits.
There’s a beat of silence as everyone processes the word, the implications of it sinking in like a knife to the gut.
"But there's only one prison, and if I didn’t get out for, what, thirteen years…?" Remus begins, but his voice falters, unable to complete the thought. The horror of what he’s implying is too much.
"Was it Azka—" Remus chokes on the word, the realisation dawning on his face.
Harry doesn’t need to confirm it. The truth hangs in the air, a heavy, oppressive weight that none of them can ignore.
"But why?" Lily’s voice is laced with desperation, as if she’s pleading for a different answer, one that doesn’t involve the unimaginable.
"It must have been a mistake, right?" James asks the room at large, his voice trembling with the need to believe anything but what Harry is telling them.
Harry meets Sirius’ eyes, and in that moment, he sees the truth dawn on him—the bitter realisation that he’d gone after the wrong person, that his actions had led to a fate worse than death.
"I went after the one who killed you," Sirius says, understanding before the others. His voice is calm, but laced with a deep, aching regret.
Harry doesn’t refute it. James looks between Harry and Sirius, his mind struggling to reconcile the man he knows with the reality of what Sirius is admitting.
"He couldn’t have killed someone!" James insists, his voice desperate.
"If it was someone who killed you, then yes, I could’ve," Sirius replies, his voice firm, yet filled with sorrow. "Easily."
"Pads…" James whispers, his voice breaking.
"Come on, Prongs. You’re my brother. In a heartbeat, without a second's hesitation, I would’ve."
James breaks eye contact with Sirius, turning away as if the truth is too painful to face. He looks to Harry, his eyes pleading for a different explanation, something that could make sense of this nightmare.
"What could he possibly do?" James asks Harry, his voice filled with despair. "What could possibly be so bad as to send him to Azkaban for thirteen years...!"
"Twelve,” Harry corrects, even as it tastes vile on his tongue. What difference did one year make? “He went after the one who betrayed you," he explains, his voice heavy with the weight of the truth.
"But it was a Death Eater! It’s war!" James protests, grasping for any justification that could make this right.
"It's different when it's premeditated,” Harry says, his voice trembling. “But he didn’t do it!" he adds quickly, trying to ease the blow.
James clings to that hope, but then his face falls as another realisation hits him. "But then… why didn’t Dumbledore get him out? Or anyone?"
Harry shrugs, the weight of the question pressing down on him. He wishes more than anything that he didn’t have to be part of this conversation.
"They all thought he was guilty. They thought he was the one who betrayed you."
"Everyone?" Remus asks, a strange quality to his voice.
Harry looks at him, his eyes filled with sympathy, but it only seems to deepen Remus’ hurt. He turns away, swallowing audibly, his shoulders shaking as he tries to process the enormity of what’s been revealed.
Sirius looks around the room, a haunted look on his face, his mind racing with everything he’s lost—his best friends, his freedom, twelve years of his life—all because of a lie.
"I'm sorry," Harry says, his voice trembling as he meets Sirius’ eyes. He wishes he could take away the pain, the guilt, the loss, but he knows he can’t.
Sirius grimaces, trying to brush it off with a dismissive shrug, but his voice betrays him. "Nah, it doesn’t matter. It's fine, whatever."
"You have to understand, it was a horrible time. Everyone mistrusting everyone…" Harry tries to explain, but Sirius shakes his head, cutting him off.
"No, you don’t have to— It’s fine."
But it’s not fine, and they all know it. Harry can see it in their faces—the disbelief, the hurt, the anger. No matter how bad things were, how could they have thought that of Sirius? It’s inconceivable. And the worst part is, Harry has no words to make it better.
James, sensing that Sirius is on the brink of breaking, changes the subject, though his voice is still tinged with disbelief.
"No one is asking the important question, though." Everyone turns to look at him, their confusion mirrored in his expression. "If Sirius didn’t raise you, who the hell did?"
The small glimmer of hope that this might all be over is crushed by those words.
"Er," Harry stammers, looking to Hermione for help.
"It was obviously Remus, right?" James says, his voice filled with a desperate need for something to make sense. His smile is bright, but strained, a mask for the turmoil underneath.
Remus, feeling the weight of their gazes, shifts uncomfortably.
"I'm not sure I’d be a—"
Harry takes a moment to imagine what life might have been like if Remus Lupin had been his guardian. He pictures a small, cozy home filled with books and warmth, where he’d have learned about the wizarding world from the moment he could read. He’d have known about his parents, would have grown up with stories of their bravery, their love, and their sacrifices. They would have been poor, he knows that. He can see it now, what he once thought of as shabbiness was really the result of just scraping by, struggling to make ends meet. But there would have been warmth, love, and understanding—things he never had with the Dursleys.
He would have preferred it over the Dursleys in a heartbeat. Without a second’s hesitation, he would have absolutely preferred it.
The others are watching him now, their eyes filled with hope, expectation, fear. Especially Remus, who looks at Harry with a mix of longing and apprehension, as if daring to believe that maybe, just maybe, he had been able to give Harry the life he deserved.
But Harry can’t meet their eyes. Not when the truth is so much crueller.
“No,” he says quietly, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I was raised by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.”
The room falls into a stunned silence, the weight of Harry’s words pressing down on them all. Remus looks nonplussed, his hopeful expression collapsing into one of shock and disbelief.
Lily’s face goes through a rapid progression of emotions—denial, horror, pity—before finally settling on a simmering fury.
“My sister?!” she exclaims, her voice shrill with disbelief. The sound of it startles Harry, reminding him too much of Petunia. He winces. “Tuni?”
“But—why?” James asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “We would have made Alice your godmother, and her husband Frank, they would have taken you in. Remus? Even Pete… There are so many people who should have gone before Petunia.”
Harry shrugs, the bitterness he’s tried to suppress bubbling up. He doesn’t want to tell them about the Longbottoms’ fate, about Peter’s betrayal. It would only hurt them more.
“I suspect Dumbledore knew of the blood magic that would protect me and had enough wits and foresight to understand I would need it,” Harry explains, trying to keep the resentment out of his voice. “He orchestrated it.”
“Dumbledore…” Lily’s voice is faint, as if she’s struggling to reconcile the image of the wise, kind headmaster with the man who left her son to be raised by her sister.
They all take a moment to consider the brilliant man who’ll never be able to answer for his choices, who played a game so complex and dangerous that even in victory, the cost was unimaginable.
“But you trusted him,” James says, his voice tinged with confusion and anger. “Even knowing he left you with those—” he pauses, his gaze flicking to Lily, whose expression is still murderous, before finishing, “cows! How could you trust him after that?”
Harry shrugs again, the heaviness of the truth weighing on him.
“He made difficult choices in an impossible situation. He was a good man,” Harry says, his voice quiet as he looks at Remus, seeing the conflicted expression on his face. “But he was human. He made mistakes.” This time, his gaze shifts to Sirius, who is staring into the fireplace, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know that I would have made better choices,” Harry admits. “I can barely wrap my head around everything he did, everything he predicted, let alone make choices based on it all.”
When he glances at Hermione, her head is bowed, her jaw clenched—a clear sign she’s holding back things she wants to say. But now isn’t the time, and she knows it.
“But—” James starts, his voice raw with the pain of understanding, “he just left Sirius in Azkaban? For over a decade? The damage that would’ve done to anyone’s mind… it’s not…”
Harry grits his teeth, trying to banish the image of the broken man Sirius became after years in Azkaban—sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, a manic, haunted look. But it’s not true, not anymore. It will never come to pass.
“He thought Sirius betrayed you,” Harry says, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with the weight of the truth. “The Black name was enough to create doubt…”
“He’s my brother!” James insists, his voice cracking as he grips Sirius’ shoulder, as if holding onto him could somehow change the past, erase the pain and the loss. “How could they think—?”
“He was mad with grief, acted rashly, behaved guilty from the moment of the murder to the time he was incarcerated,” Harry says, his voice trembling with the effort to keep his emotions in check. “War changed to peacetime, and everyone wanted to forget.”
Harry’s explanation hangs in the air, but it feels inadequate, like a flimsy shield against the raw wounds they’re all bearing. He wasn’t there. Even as he tries to explain, he can’t fully understand the choices that were made, the sacrifices that were deemed necessary.
Lily, her hands resting over her belly, looks out the window, her expression steely, as if trying to process the enormity of what’s been revealed.
“When did we—when did I—?” Remus starts, his voice hesitant, as if unsure he has the right to ask.
“In my third year at Hogwarts, you became my professor in Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Harry tells him, grateful for the chance to share something good, something that might ease the pain. “Everyone’s favourite teacher by a mile. You taught me the Patronus charm.”
Remus’ eyes widen in shock, his expression a mixture of pride and sadness. James, who had been squeezing the life out of Sirius’ shoulder, finally looks up, his face softening as he smiles at Remus.
“Of course he was,” James says, his voice filled with pride. “Best teacher you could ask for!”
“Professor Moony,” Sirius adds with a teasing grin, though there’s a tension in his voice that betrays his emotions. “Did he give you detention for sneaking out?”
“He gave me the Marauders’ Map, actually,” Harry says, his grin returning at the memory. “It saved my life and many others’ more than once.”
The Marauders’ expressions shift so quickly that Harry almost misses it—from delighted to confusion and anger.
“Saved lives…” James mutters, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“It was supposed to be a fun way of pulling off tricks. You’re using it wrong, Harry,” Sirius says, shaking his head.
Harry isn’t sure how to tell them that his time at Hogwarts wasn’t filled with jokes and pranks, but with mystery, mayhem, and an endless struggle to stay alive through multiple attempts on his life.
“I did use it once to smuggle a dragon out of school,” he offers, a weak smile tugging at his lips.
“That’s my boy!” James exclaims, though his expression wobbles as he’s reminded of the literal truth of his words.
“About the map,” Sirius begins slowly. “Your name, it’s got to be Harry Potter, though, right? Not Harry Jameson?” He waits for Harry to nod. “How come that didn’t show up on the map?”
James chokes on a gasp, and Lily pats his back consolingly. Remus hums thoughtfully. Hermione shrugs when Harry looks at her.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t actually admitted at the school, so maybe that’s why?” Harry suggests, not sure himself, but Hermione is shaking her head.
“That doesn’t make sense. I wasn’t admitted either and the map, I’m assuming, caught my name just fine?” she says, looking to the wizards for confirmation.
“Your name is really Hermione Granger, then?” James asks.
Remus makes an odd noise. When Hermione nods, he puffs out a breath of air and squeezes her hand. Harry is glad they seem to be doing all right.
“It doesn’t make sense either way,” Sirius complains. “The map doesn’t make mistakes. It should have caught your name no matter if you were admitted or not, no matter if you lied.”
Harry shrugs; he has nothing else to offer. He checks to see if Hermione has any ideas, and she is sucking on her lip thoughtfully which means she has an idea but she’s not sure enough to share with the others. He’ll have to remember to ask her about it later.
“So, a professor, huh?” James asks, punching Remus lightly in the arm, though his voice is strained. “How respectable.”
Remus, still reeling from the revelations, tries to muster a smile but ends up with a worried frown instead.
“Harry, you said I taught you the Patronus charm?” Remus starts hesitantly, his voice carefully moderated.
“Uh, yeah?” Harry replies, a sense of dread growing in his gut, knowing where this is leading.
“But I became you teacher in your third year?” Remus asks, his voice tinged with confusion.
“Practically a genius, my kid!” James yells, trying to inject some lightness back into the room. He kisses Lily on the cheek, his pride evident.
“Did I stay on?” Remus asks, but it’s not really a question. They all know the curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. James, Sirius, and Lily seem to catch on, their amused expressions quickly morphing back into worry. Harry swallows hard, the guilt churning in his gut from putting them through this.
“No,” Harry admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “The school was teeming with Dementors that year, and I—well, they sort of affected me worse than the others, so I asked you to teach me a way to repel them.” Shame curls in his stomach as he remembers how he fainted every time a Dementor came near him. “Good thing, too. It saved our lives, or our souls anyway, more times than I can count.”
Remus meets his gaze, his expression grim, understanding dawning in his eyes. Lily’s eyes fill with tears, her chin trembling as she struggles to hold them back. James looks nauseous, his face paling as the implications hit him.
“What the hell were Dementors doing at Hogwarts?!” Sirius demands, his voice filled with outrage.
Harry wishes he could take it all back, that he didn’t have to tell them this. He looks down at his knees, feeling Hermione shift closer to him, her presence grounding him.
“You—” Hermione begins, glancing quickly at Harry, “Sirius, you escaped from Azkaban that summer, and everyone thought you were coming to Hogwarts to finish what you started.”
“Finish what I—” Sirius starts, confusion lacing his voice.
“Killing our son,” James finishes, his voice filled with a cold fury as he finally understands. “Just like they all thought you’d gotten us killed, they must have thought you were coming to finish the job.”
Sirius swears loudly, turning away from the group, his anger and frustration palpable.
“You were actually coming to finish taking revenge on the betrayer. Apart from scaring the pants off me a couple of times, showing up in dog-form all around me like a Grim, we finally got to meet, officially,” Harry says, a smile building on his face at the memory. “You were going to take me away to live with you. Best moment of my life, understanding who you were.”
Sirius looks touched and sad at the same time, his expression a mixture of disbelief and heartbreak. “You must have had a pretty shit life to consider that the best moment,” he says quietly, his voice filled with regret.
Harry shakes his head, a gentle smile growing on his lips. “No. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I probably didn’t have what you’d consider a normal life, but I was so happy.” He glances around the room, noticing the scepticism on their faces, and continues with a rush of words. “On my eleventh birthday, a giant knocked down my front door and told me I was a wizard and that I could do magic.”
James, Sirius, and Remus exchange bewildered glances, still struggling to wrap their heads around everything. But Lily, understanding the impact of those words, offers Harry a small, empathetic smile. She turns to the others, trying to help them understand.
“You don’t understand what it’s like not knowing about magic and then having a door opened to this enchanted world where the laws of physics mean nothing, and literal magic exists,” she explains, her voice nostalgic. “Magic,” she adds, eyes glittering.
James hums thoughtfully, startled at this new perspective. The idea of living without magic, of never knowing the world he takes for granted, seems almost unimaginable.
Harry nods, his gaze far away as he remembers. “Yeah, Hagrid took me to Diagon Alley, got me an owl and my wand. I got to go to this magic school where the stairs moved, and brooms could fly. A place where I found friends who’d follow me to hell and back. So what if I had to battle a Dementor every once in a while? I was home.”
Hermione shifts closer, gripping his hand tightly, and Harry squeezes back, grateful for her steady presence. When he dares to look up at his parents and friends, he finds their faces twisted with grief and understanding, each of them grappling with the enormity of what he’s told them.
“So you see, I didn’t have a shite life. I had a magical life,” Harry continues, his voice thick with emotion. “But when everything was over and done with, after the war, all the lives lost, families wrecked, friendships destroyed, and I looked back on a broken world… I realized it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough that he was dead. Voldemort took too much from me, and I wanted something back.”
Harry looks at Sirius as he says this, his gaze intense, filled with all the love and pain he’s carried for so long. Sirius meets his eyes, his own filled with love, regret, and something unspoken, something that tugs at the edges of Harry’s heart.
The room falls silent, the weight of Harry’s words settling over them all. The revelations have shaken them to their core, but there is also a sense of closure, of something final and undeniable in the air. Harry glances at the people around him—his parents, his godfather, his mentor, his best friend—and feels something inside him settle. The road they’ve travelled has been long and arduous, filled with loss and pain, but it has also brought them here, to this moment.
Lily, her eyes brimming with tears, stands and moves to Harry’s side, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce, protective hug. “You’re home now,” she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion.
James stands too, moving to place a hand on Harry’s shoulder, his expression a mixture of pride and sorrow. “I’m sorry for everything we put you through these past few,” he hesitates and grimaces, “well, years. I’m sorry for doubting you. And,” he falters as his eyes roam over Harry’s face, recognizing features there he should have seen before, “I’m so proud of you.”
Harry meets James’ hazel eyes and can see the sincerity. He can do nothing to stop the tears from welling over, rolling down his cheeks. He stands up and envelops James in a hug, one which is returned in equal strength.
Remus, still seated, nods, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “What you’ve done is incredible,” he says, gaze going between Harry and Hermione.
Sirius, wrestling with his own emotions, finally speaks, his voice rough and tinged with vulnerability. “I’m so glad you came back to me.” He carefully places his hand on Harry’s, who tenderly lifts it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it while holding Sirius’ gaze. In those stormy grey eyes, Harry sees a flood of emotions—acceptance, awe, and a love so deep it nearly overwhelms him.
Harry closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the love and support surrounding him. It’s more than he ever dared hope for, more than he ever thought he deserved. When he opens his eyes again, he sees Hermione smiling at him, her own eyes wet with tears, and he knows, deep in his heart, that they’ve finally found their way home.
~o~o~o~o~