Work Text:
1.
“Have you had any thoughts about what you would like to do after you leave Hogwarts?” Professor McGonagall asked him, and Harry blinked and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.
He knew there were dozens of reasons it would be a bad idea to say teach, even if it was one of the things that had made him most happy this year. The top three were these: one, because he would want to teach Defense, two, because Defense was a jinxed job and Harry didn’t much fancy dying, and three, because Umbridge was sitting in the corner with her fluffy pink quill and he didn’t want her to so much as suspect that he was teaching other students Defense behind her back. Even if he was good at it. Even if he thought he could make a career out of it, which was what Career Advice, supposedly, was about.
“Er,” he said instead, and McGonagall looked over her glasses at him.
“Yes?” she said, patiently, and he wondered what would happen if he did say it, after all. I want to stay at Hogwarts and teach here.
He could say it, he thought. It would be easy.
But when he opened his mouth, what sheepishly came out was “Well, I thought of, maybe, being an Auror,” because being an Auror meant fighting dark magic, and Harry had always supposed that being an Auror was what people expected of The Boy Who Lived. Even if Harry himself couldn’t think of anything in the world he would like to do less than be an Auror and have to keep on fighting the same fight he’d been fighting since he was a year old for the rest of his life.
It had never really been about what he’d wanted, though. It had always just been about what people wanted from him. So he told McGonagall he wanted to be an Auror, and tried to sound enthusiastic about it, even if he wasn’t.
McGonagall, however, didn’t know any of this, and part of him felt horribly guilty sitting there and listening to her stick up for him against Umbridge. Part of him was just flattered that she believed in him enough to stick up for him in the first place.
Most of him, though, was more concerned with talking to Sirius later, and his complicated feelings on being an Auror soon slipped from his mind, replaced with even more complicated feelings about his father; he didn’t think about all of it again for two years.
2.
It took a while to clean up when it was all over. Harry had somehow never expected that; he always assumed that someone, somewhere, would wave their wand, conjure coffins and graves, and get rid of the rubble. But it took time, to get Hogwarts looking like Hogwarts again.
Harry had always been utter shit at cleaning spells, because Ron was absolutely brilliant at them and so none of the others in their dormitory ever bothered to learn any, but he tried to help out as best he could with other things—keeping watch over children as their parents worked, talking to survivors, casting reparo after reparo on the suits of armor. He didn’t want to stop working, because then he was going to have to think about everything, and thinking about everything meant thinking about Tom Riddle’s shriveled body and Fred and Tonks and Remus and—
He supposed he should be glad he had his wand back, at least.
“Hey,” Neville said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Harry.”
“Er,” Harry said, startled out of his thoughts. “Neville. Hi.”
Neville looked at the suits of armor strewn around him and huffed a laugh. “I can take over for a while. McGonagall wanted to see you about something.”
“Me?” Harry said, stupidly, and then realized for perhaps the millionth time that, right, he had killed an incredibly powerful dark wizard, which made him a leader. Or something. “Right. Um. Thanks, Neville.”
“No problem,” Neville said, and Harry pushed his hair out of his eyes. It’d gotten far too long, these past couple of months; as long as Sirius’s had been. Harry swallowed the hurt that had come with that thought and tucked a tie around his hair to keep it back.
McGonagall. Right.
He set off to find her. He passed Dean and Seamus along the way, who were sitting on the ground and looking half-asleep, holding hands.
“All right, Harry?” Dean yawned, and Seamus waved sleepily with the hand that wasn’t gripping Dean’s.
“All right,” Harry said, “you?”
“Tired,” Seamus said. “Wish they’d fix the dormitories so we can sleep there. You know they magically expand to make enough room for everyone? Or they did, anyway, before. Hermione told us.”
“I’ll ask McGonagall, if you like,” Harry offered. “I’ve got to talk to her.”
“You know Neville’s staying?” Seamus said, sounding sad. “Funny, I always thought he’d go off and actually study new plants, but he says McGonagall has already offered him Herbology Professor, seeing as Sprout wants to retire, and he’s accepted. Mad, that is. Trouble hits this school every year, I’d never stay.”
“Think the trouble was mostly my fault,” Harry said. “Sorry.”
Dean shrugged. “It wasn’t your fault. It was all—prophecies, and people going mad. Still didn’t make for much of an academic environment, but.”
“What are you going to do?” Seamus asked. “Now that it’s all over, I mean.”
Harry considered that.
“I don’t know,” he said. “This has all been my whole life. There hasn’t been much time for anything else.”
They both looked at him.
“Hermione wants to go back and finish her seventh year,” Harry added. “Ron says he wouldn’t go back to school right now if you paid him. She wants to be an Auror, I think. And write history books, like Bathilda Bagshot. Ron says he reckons she’ll get bored with all that, and run for Minister just for the hell of it.” Dean snorted with laughter, and Harry grinned. “I think she could do a lot of good, personally. Ron—Ron’s going to help George, for a while. Until he gets back on his feet. And then he wants to train to be a Healer.”
“A Healer?” Dean said, skeptically. “Ron?”
“He’s good at that,” Harry said, and shrugged. “Helping people. Stitching them up.”
“I want to settle down, myself,” Seamus said. “Dean ‘n I might get a flat somewhere. And just live.”
Harry nodded, and squished down an uncomfortable, desperate feeling of longing at the idea of doing that himself; taking the time to just live. “That sounds nice.”
Seamus smiled. “What about Ginny?”
“She’s still got a year,” Harry said. “But she’s talking about going for pro Quidditch.” He smiled fondly. “She’d be good, wouldn’t she?”
“Good,” Dean scoffed. “She’ll blow them all out of the water.”
Harry thought of how Ginny looked when she was flying, fierce and determined, red and gold.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “S’pose she will.”
“You wanted to see me?” Harry said, tapping on the side of the wall to announce his presence. McGonagall looked up, and nodded at him, her mouth twitching up slightly in a very stressed version of one of her smiles.
“Sit down, Potter,” she said, and then, her mouth up twitching a little further, “I would offer you a biscuit, but I don’t have any at the moment.”
Harry laughed. “You getting along okay, Professor?”
“Perfectly,” she said, raising her eyebrows, and he sat down. “I think you should be more concerned for yourself.”
Harry’s first instinct had always been to not be concerned about himself, but he decided against mentioning this. “I’m all right. Or I will be, anyway.”
“I was sorry to hear about Remus,” McGonagall said, quietly, but didn’t push it; she just moved on as Harry nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Of course, I didn’t call you here for that. I wanted to discuss something with you.”
“Of course,” Harry said. “What is it?”
“Your schooling,” she said.
He didn’t know why, but it struck him as the funniest thing in the world. Suddenly he was hunched over in his chair, laughing harder than he had in what felt like a year. McGonagall just watched him, her hands clasped together, her eyebrows raised.
“Surely,” she added, “you haven’t forgotten that you missed your seventh year completely?”
“I’m sorry,” Harry gasped, attempting to cover up his slightly hysterical giggles. “I didn’t—I didn’t expect that, is all.”
“Hmm,” McGonagall said, and shook her head. “In any case, I’m sure you know that the school has made the decision to give an honorary graduation to any seventh year who fought in the battle, which includes you, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger, even if you were not technically enrolled. I have already spoken to Miss Granger, who wishes to return, and Mr. Weasley, who does not. What are your plans?”
Harry was quiet for a long moment.
What do you want to do? Seamus had asked, and Harry hadn’t known, because the world expected him to go on and be an Auror and keep fighting day after day after day, not knowing if he would come home.
Maybe it was being in the same room he’d gone to for career advice two years ago, or maybe it was how much he’d laughed a moment ago, or maybe it was thinking of Neville and how Seamus and Dean had thought he would go away, and he’d done the opposite, but Harry decided to be honest.
“Remember what I told you,” he said, slowly, “when I came in for career advice?”
“You’ll be a good Auror,” McGonagall said, peering over her glasses at him, “if that is what you want.”
“See,” Harry said. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? I don’t want it. I didn’t even want it then.”
McGonagall looked briefly unimpressed. “So you lied to me?”
“Umbridge was there,” Harry said. “I knew whatever I said, she wouldn’t like, even if I said I wanted to break my wand and live as a Muggle, so I said the first thing that came to mind.”
McGonagall didn’t answer him that time, which just left him scrambling to fill the silence, to explain further.
“Being an Auror is what people expect. Or what they expected, then, I don’t know, Professor, but I—I’m tired,” and wasn’t that the truth. “I don’t want to keep getting up in the morning wondering if I’m going to make it to the end of the day.”
“I see,” McGonagall said, and Harry thought that perhaps she really did. “Then what do you want to do, Potter?”
“Dumbledore’s Army, in fifth year,” Harry said, “I’ve never liked doing anything as much as I liked doing that. Teaching the others how to do the spells.” He looked down at his hands. “Now that Snape is gone, I s’pose—well—you might need someone. To teach Defense.”
When he looked up, McGonagall was smiling; a rare, true smile.
“Mr. Potter,” she said. “I think we might.”
“Harry!” Hermione said, waving him over to the table. Her hair was tucked up into a bun, the cut on her cheek healing admirably, and Ginny was sitting next to her, digging ravenously into some chicken. “We were just about to send someone to look for you.”
“I told her twice you were talking to McGonagall,” Neville informed Harry, “but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
Harry smiled. “I’m fine, Hermione.”
She scowled at him. “You died, I’m allowed to be worried!” He watched her take a bite of her dinner, looking mutinous, before looking back up at him. “Well, what did Professor McGonagall want?”
Harry smiled again, wider, sitting down and starting to fix himself a plate. “Career advice.”
Hermione clapped her hands together. “Ooh, yes, I’d almost forgotten to tell you,” she said happily. “Kingsley wanted to talk to you, apparently you’ve already got a place waiting as an Auror—”
“Hermione,” Harry said, alarmed, trying to stop her, but there was really no stopping Hermione when she got going.
“—and it’s all taken care of! Of course, you’ll have to go through training, but it ought to be easy, and I’ve still got my last year of classes but I’ll join after that, and—”
“Hermione.”
“—really it’ll work out very well, and—”
“Hermione!” Harry shouted, and she froze, blinking at him. “I don’t want to be an Auror.”
“I—but—yes, you do,” Hermione sputtered. “Ever since fifth year, you have! You told Ron and I about your career advice session!”
“I lied,” Harry said, helping himself angrily to some potatoes. “All right? I never wanted to be an Auror, Hermione.”
Everyone at the table was looking at him—Neville, the Weasleys, Dean, Seamus, Luna—
“What, then?” Neville asked, sensibly. Neville and Luna seemed to be the only ones who weren’t entirely shocked. “If you don’t want to be an Auror, you must want to do something.”
Harry fetched some chicken for himself. He had wondered if it would be difficult to come right out and say it; in the end it was extraordinarily easy. “I’m going to teach Defense.”
Blank stares surrounded him, except for Luna, who clapped her hands together.
“That’s lovely!” she said. “You and Neville will be working together!”
“But—but—” Hermione stumbled, then seemed to gather herself. “But when have you—when have you ever wanted to be a teacher?”
“Hermione,” Harry said, feeling weary, “I know you were preoccupied fifth year with how much you hated Umbridge, but do you really not remember the DA?”
He took a bite of his chicken, and Neville, Luna, and Ginny exchanged glances.
“Of course I remember the DA,” Hermione said, “but—"
“I was good at it,” Harry said, quietly. “And I liked it, and—is it too much to ask, to want a job where I won’t have to wake up and worry if I’ll die? ”
“Defense is jinxed, though,” Seamus put in, sounding like he thought Harry had gone off his rocker. “You’d die anyway.”
Dean frowned. “I don’t know,” he said. “It was cursed by Voldemort, Seamus, and he’s dead now, so the curse probably is too.”
“Probably,” Hermione said, shrilly, “is not the same thing as—”
“Harry, dear,” and it was Mrs. Weasley, this time, who had been (until now) listening carefully. “Are you sure this is what you want? No harm in taking time to figure it out.”
“I loved teaching the DA,” Harry said, looking at his plate. “Remember the day we did Patronuses, and everyone managed it, and all of the Patronuses were floating around the room and everything was so—that could be a Patronus, for me, that’s how happy I was that day.” He looked up again, to see Ginny’s eyes fixed on him, compassionate and sure. “And—I’m sick of fighting. I don’t want to do it anymore. It's over for everyone else, isn't it? Can't it be over for me too?”
“What’s everyone looking so shocked for?” Ron said, sitting down next to Hermione and picking some chicken off her plate.
“Harry wants to teach Defense,” Hermione said, and Harry glared at her.
“You don’t have to make it sound like I—”
“Good for you, mate,” Ron interrupted. “I knew you were gonna realize you didn’t want to be an Auror at some point.”
Everyone was suddenly staring at Ron, instead, which Harry appreciated.
“What?” Ron said self-consciously, noticing the stares. “Come off it, you all didn’t think he would be happy doing that, did you?”
“You didn’t?” Hermione said.
“Of course not,” Ron said. “I could make you a list on why it’s a bad idea.”
“You could?”
“Sure,” Ron shrugged, beginning to tick things off on his fingers. “He hates being in the papers; Aurors get articles written about them all the time when they catch someone. He doesn't like being famous, and if you're a good Auror you always get famous, and you have to do interviews and shows and that kind of thing. He doesn’t even like fighting or dueling or any of that sh—stuff, sorry Mum.
“It’s all he ever does, but he doesn’t like it. Harry likes—I dunno. Peace and quiet. And he likes Hogwarts, and he’s the best in Gryffindor at Defense anyhow, and—” Ron scrunched up his nose. “Well, actually, I’ve no idea if you like kids, but you don’t hate them, yeah? And eleven isn’t too young. Either way, it’d probably be nice to be Professor Potter who accidentally spilled pumpkin juice on his robes than Famous Harry Potter Who Killed The Dark Lord. ”
“Oi,” Harry said. “The pumpkin juice was one time.”
Everyone at the table blinked at him, at a loss for words.
“Did you all really not know this?” Ron demanded. “Hermione? Ginny? Really? ”
Harry laughed, leaning back at the table and placing his hands over his face, ignoring their slight shaking, because of course, of course Ron understood. Of course Ron had known all along.
“Guess you’re more perceptive than we gave you credit for, mate,” he said, after getting his breath back.
Ron snorted. “You were the one who told me I ought to be a Healer, I’m just returning the favor—”
“A Healer!” Mrs. Weasley shrieked, seeming for a moment to forget Harry entirely as she beamed at her son. “Oh, Ron, that’s wonderful!”
“Well—not yet,” Ron said, a slight blush on his ears. “I s’posed I’d help out with things at home for a year or two, wait until Hermione and Ginny’ve finished school, and then I've got to go to school and train, but—yeah.”
Harry thought of the discussion that had led to him telling Ron he should be a Healer, how Ron’s hands had been so steady when he hugged him, after everything was over, after Harry had died and come back and taken the time to fall completely apart about it. Hermione had cried, but Ron’s hands had been on his back as Harry shook, panic coursing through him without need or reason. Holding him still. And then at the end—Ron's face swimming back into his vision, the way he helped guide Harry through one breath and the next.
Harry had said: you ought to be a Healer, mate. Ron had smiled, like he’d known it meant thank you.
“Well,” Luna said, “I’m going to be a naturalist, I think, and perhaps write a book. I don’t know what I’ll call it. Ginny said I could call it Creatures You Have Quite Certainly Never Heard Of, but I think that’s rather wordy…”
“Am I the only one going back to school?” Hermione said, looking dismayed. “And with Harry and Neville as my teachers as well!”
“Relax,” Neville said. “You aren’t supposed to teach until you’re twenty, you’re meant to get experience in the field first, according to McGonagall. Though Harry’s probably got all he needs—”
“Oh, even better!” Hermione snapped. “I’ll be completely alone.”
“Oi,” Ginny said. “You’ll have Luna and me. I know you’ll be devastated without my brother to boss around—” And here Ron laughed, throwing his head back. “—but you’ll live.”
“Hey,” Hermione said, looking injured. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“I know,” Ginny said, knocking their shoulders together and smiling. “We’ll all send owls to each other. It’ll be okay.”
She glanced across the table at Harry, her smile twitching into something smaller and softer, her eyes warm.
“We’ll all be okay,” she said, and Harry smiled back.
3.
The morning that Harry turned twenty, he woke up to Crookshanks snoring from the end of his bed, and an insistent tapping at his window.
“What are you doing in here,” he mumbled, glaring at the lump of fur covering his quilt. “Have they kicked you out again?”
Crookshanks did not respond, only curled closer in on himself.
“Oi,” Harry yelled, banging on the wall which separated Ron’s room from his, “control your cat.”
He received no answer, but then again, he hadn’t really expected one—Ron was a heavy sleeper—so he went to see what all the tapping was about.
Three owls, two brown and one white and speckled, were perched on his windowsill, one of which was tapping quickly and almost irritably, like it had better places to be. Harry yawned, tucked his hair behind his ears, and opened the window.
“Come on in, then,” he said, and gestured towards his desk, which was at the moment mostly covered in books Hermione had recommended him. The owls settled themselves on it, the impatient one hooting and holding out its leg.
Harry took the small package and letter off, dug around in his desk drawer for an owl treat, and sent it on its way, sinking into his chair to read the letter, which, he noted with excitement, was on official Hogwarts stationery.
Dear Mr. Potter, it read.
I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted for the role of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As you will certainly remember, you applied three years ago after the Battle of Hogwarts, Enclosed is a list of everything you will need to bring with you and what you should prepare for the first month of classes. I assure you that teaching is a difficult but incredibly rewarding task, and I am confident you will do well. Also enclosed are several pages of notes from one Remus J. Lupin, which detail what he planned on teaching for each level of classes, and what subjects he believed appropriate for first years, second years, ect. While you have no obligation to follow these notes to the letter, I found them a few years ago when cleaning out the Headmistress’ Office, and held onto them, believing you would find them useful.
And, finally, a very happy birthday to you.
Best,
Minerva McGonagall,
Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Harry tilted back in his chair and grinned up at the ceiling.
It was shaping up to be a very happy birthday, indeed.
The second owl was from Ginny, containing a three-page letter which told him, in detail, all about her Harpies practices and her teammates and how they were winning more and more games lately and about Luna and her naturalist work and how well they were doing living there together, and ended with:
Of course, this isn’t all to say that I don’t miss you and Hermione and and Neville and my family. But I feel as though I’m doing something I was meant to do, here, which seems—well, it seems fucking stupid when I write it down, but it makes sense in practice. This wasn’t what I meant to end with! I wanted to say how much I missed you all! And Mum’s cooking, you and her roast chicken are tied, actually. But—I wish I could be there on your birthday, to celebrate and all. Since I can’t, have a present, and have my love, all the way from Holyhead.
Happy birthday, Harry.
Ginny
There was another letter too, from Luna, a shorter one written in familiar loopy and hard-to-read script.
Welsh beasts are fascinating! I’ve discovered so much here. And Ginny is doing well too of course. She’s insisting we come home after the season is over so that she can see her family, and as much as I don’t want to see Father, I know I’ll come too. I wish we could be home for your birthday, and I know she wishes the same, but I also know that you understand why we can’t. Even if we’re not there, know how much we love you, how glad we are to know you, and that we hope you do well your first year teaching!
Love from Luna
Their gift was a set of new quills—for grading papers, suggested a note inside the package—made of feathers from local Welsh birds, as well as some drawings and notes on the new beasts Luna was researching, apparently meant to decorate his office with, and a box of candy from Holyhead that Ginny instructed him to not give to Ron. Harry smiled at it all and set it aside.
The third package was from Hagrid, and the letter, as all of Hagrid’s letters were, was short.
Happy birthday Harry! Part one’s in the box. Ought to help you with decorating your office and such. Check the owl’s other leg for the second part of your gift.
I heard from Professor McGonagall that you and Neville are coming back. Me and Fang will be real happy to see you again.
If you have time your first week, come by. I’ll make rock cakes.
Hagrid
Harry ripped open the package, feeling quite suddenly like he was fourteen again, opening gifts in the silence of the Dursley’s house, hiding them under the loose floorboard.
Inside the box was a veritable avalanche of things: pictures of people who had died during the war, people who had meant a lot to Harry; and people who were still alive, like Ron, Hermione, and inexplicably a picture of Fang rather than one of Hagrid himself. There were several small-scale models of dragons, like the ones the school champions had been presented with during the first task in the Triwizard Tournament, and a Sneakoscope, and a few books: one on curses, one on Dark creatures, and one, again inexplicably, of recipes.
Harry had to laugh, passing a hand over his face, at the glorious mess of it all, and then reached out to the owl’s other leg to take a look at whatever Hagrid was calling ‘part two’.
The note was, again, very short, and simply read.
Figured I’d better keep up with tradition. Dunno what to name him, but I’m sure you’ll think of something. Anyway, you can’t keep borrowing Ron’s owl when you want to send letters.
With a lump in his throat, Harry looked up at the owl, which was considering him with an intelligent look in its gold eyes. Since Hedwig, he’d never thought to get another owl—he and Ron had lived together, after all, first at the Burrow while Hermione was finishing seventh year and then here, in this apartment. Most letters Harry had needed to send had been sent just as well with Pigwigeon. And Hedwig had been such a constant in his life, for so long—replacing her had felt unfair.
It was fitting, he thought, reaching out to stroke down the head of the owl with one finger, that Hagrid should have gotten Hedwig for him, and now he had gotten his next owl, as well.
“Hello there,” Harry said, softly. “I dunno what I’ll call you, yet. But I promise I’ll figure it out.”
The owl gave a soft hoot, and pushed back against his hand, and he grinned, rising to go up and bang on Ron’s door.
“Wake up! It’s my birthday!”
He heard two groans from inside, and then Hermione’s voice, saying, “You know, I think I liked him better when he didn’t make a fuss about all this,” though it was tinged with amusement, and happiness, and from behind him, the owl hooted loudly.
“Merlin’s fucking pants,” Ron said. “You’ve—what the hell was that?”
“Are you decent?” Harry asked, then shook his head. “Never mind, I’m coming in.”
Ron gave a squawk of protest and attempted to pull the blankets up over his bare chest as Harry came in. Hermione only laughed.
“He’s seen you in much less, Ron, honestly.”
“It was an owl,” Harry said. “Hagrid sent him. It was my birthday gift.”
“What have you named him?” Hermione said eagerly, tugging on a pair of sweatpants and leaving to see. “Oh, he’s gorgeous! And Crookshanks seems to like him.”
“Does he?” Harry asked.
“Yes, they’re sitting together on the windowsill,” Hermione said. “Oh, this really is lovely. We can write proper letters to each other now, while you’re away.”
“Don’t act like you’ll miss me that much,” Harry said. “You and Ron will be able to shag in peace—”
“Oi,” Ron said, his voice muffled, due to how he’d stuffed his head underneath some of his pillows.
Hermione only laughed, leaning back in the door. “Come on, then. Breakfast.”
Harry looked at her, Ron’s old Cannons jersey hanging off her shoulders, and her wide white smile and messy hair. Then he looked back at Ron, glaring at them half-heartedly from the bed, his freckles more prominent than usual from the summer sun.
He grinned.
Ron, rolling his eyes, grinned back.
“We’ll miss you, mate,” he said, “really.”
Harry felt a sudden lump in his throat. The three of them had hardly been apart since Hermione finished school, getting this apartment together as soon as they could and settling into their lives in London. Ron had worked at the shop for a while, helping George, and Harry had devoted his time to therapy and helping re-stock the shelves at night, and Hermione had taken the Ministry by storm with a gleam in her eye. And now they were going to be apart again.
“I’ll miss you too,” he said.
“Hey,” Hermione said. “No sense getting sad on your birthday. We’re going to Florean’s for breakfast.”
“You have the best ideas,” Ron said, shooting her a tired thumbs up. “Let me get dressed.”
“Here, I have our presents, too,” Hermione said, walking to the closet and digging in the back among the coats for the packages that Harry had pretended not to see for the past few weeks.
Harry smiled.
They’d be okay.
Ron elbowed him cheerfully on the way out. “Gotten up the courage to talk to that guy you liked from the Three Broomsticks yet?”
Harry groaned theatrically, Hermione said “Ron,” and Ron laughed and went to start the coffee.
4.
He woke up to Andros hooting obnoxiously in his ear, and snow on the windowsill, and groaned loudly.
“You’re worse than an alarm clock,” he snapped, getting up and digging for a hair tie from his bedside table, scratching his chin through the beard he’d grown. Andros hooted again, softer, and Harry sighed and gave him a pat on the head.
“All right, all right, I take it back,” he said, and the owl clicked his beak and stretched out his neck, to better receive the attention.
Greeting the owl over with, he set about dressing, running his finger absentmindedly over the notes Remus had written and left, which were now covered with Harry’s own spiky handwriting as well. Little notes, like 1st yrs scared by kappas maybe wait til 2nd yr and unforgiv. curses shldnt be introduced until 6th at the EARLIEST and when teaching boggarts dont get too near it unless abs necessary. They were cramped and messy, but they were helpful when planning lessons.
There were also masses of photographs on the desk, one of Ginny and Luna’s wedding last year, when Harry had stood next to Luna as one of the many best men and cried his eyes out.
(They’d had half a dozen people in the wedding party, simply because Ginny had flat-out refused to pick any of her brothers over the others, and Luna had wanted Harry, Hermione, and Neville, so they’d all just fought over who got to hold the rings, which was the most important job anyway.)
The other photographs were of Ron, bent over Healing books with a look of despair, Hermione, laughing between George and Ron on a bench near Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, which, despite not having two owners, was booming. There was one of Neville in his back garden, wearing earmuffs and casting a hasty silencing spell on a mandrake. There was one of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, laughing in the Burrow’s kitchen. And several of Teddy, who was growing like a weed, and had different colored hair in every picture that Harry received.
“Okay,” he muttered, to his wall mirror. “First years and fourth years this morning — no, it’s Friday, only the fourth years. Then Neville wanted to meet Hagrid for lunch, that should be nice — ”
“Shouldn’t you shave, dear?” his mirror asked him pointedly.
“Stop asking me that,” he said. “I like this beard.”
His hair was long enough to tuck up and out of the way, which on some days made him think of Sirius and on some days made him feel handsome. The beard was an accident, at first; he’d been too busy to worry about shaving it. But now he actually did think it looked rather nice, now that it had grown past being patchy. He also fancied that it made him look less like a slightly lighter-skinned copy of his father and more like himself. Whatever it was about the beard that appealed to him, though, he wasn’t going to shave it.
His mirror, through with his nonsense, sighed.
Harry tugged on his robes, straightened his shoulders, and smiled.
He had a lot to do today.
“Professor Potter! Professor Longbottom!”
“Hello, Miss Harris,” Neville said cheerfully, dusting dirt from his hands. They were in the greenhouses, since Neville had absolutely had to plant something before they went to Hagrid’s for lunch. Harry was sitting on one of the benches meant for students and watching as Neville’s brown hands turned steadily browner from the dirt, feeling calm, despite the two of them being mid-way into the term and slowly drowning under work that they had to do.
Despite his feeling of peace, Jacqueline Harris (second year, Hufflepuff, one of Neville's most prized Herbology students) was a welcome distraction. One could only watch Neville hum to his plants for so long before it got boring.
“Hello,” Harry said, and she bounced up and down on her feet and beamed.
“Sir, is it true you—”
Internally, Harry winced, but the question he was expecting never came.
“—you were a Seeker when you were only a first year? And you were Captain of the team? I wanted to ask you because I want to be Seeker, and I wanted to know how you did it!”
Harry sat forward, interested, and slightly incredulous that the question had been so simple. Usually when students ran up with an ‘is it true you—’ they would ask something about the war.
A quick glance with Neville confirmed he hadn’t been alone in expecting the worst.
“I’ll be a minute,” Neville said, casually. “If you want to talk to Miss Harris about Seeking.”
“I don’t want to get in the way,” Jacqueline said, seeming suddenly guilty.
“Nonsense,” Harry said, “he’s not exactly much of a conversationalist when he’s planting things. What did you want to know?”
A very cheerful fifteen minutes passed as Harry explained some of the necessities for Seeking, and some of the necessities for Quidditch itself, and Neville hummed at the plants. Jacqueline soaked up every bit of information she was presented with, very enthusiastic about the whole thing, and darted off with a quick wave and a determined smile, and Harry was reminded all over again how much he liked his job.
Neville commented on his smile when they were walking away.
“Leave me be,” Harry said, loftily. “I’m just basking in being the greatest Gryffindor Seeker of all time.”
Neville snorted. “She did not say that. I was listening.”
“She may as well have,” Harry said, still joking, then sighed. “No, mate, it’s just—nice. I’d rather be a good Seeker than—”
“Than anything else,” Neville agreed. Neville tended to deal with the same uncomfortable questions Harry did. “I understand. That’s why I wanted to teach, too,” he added. “Kingsley said I would make a great Auror. He said I could work with you—that’s when they all thought that’s what you wanted. I said no. I said—”
He broke off, and stared up at the castle.
“I said I knew where I was meant to go,” he added, after they’d walked a few more steps. “I always have.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, smiling up at the towers and the snow. “Sounds about right.”
“Did it feel like home to you, too?” Neville asked, his voice soft.
“Better,” Harry said, honestly. “It felt safe.”
Neville smiled, and Harry glanced back up once more before walking up onto Hagrid’s porch.
Safe, he thought, as Hagrid opened the door and laughed at their snow-covered cloaks and ushered them in for tea. Safe, as Fang drooled on his shoes. Safe, as he caught a glimpse of himself in Hagrid’s mirror, long hair and beard and looking like his father and his mother but mostly just like himself, painless scar stretching over his forehead.
He was safe, and all was well.
-
i think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love.
we are good people, and we’ve suffered enough.