Chapter Text
Harry sat by the lake, watching the last golden rays of sunlight shimmer across the water before slipping behind the mountains. Another ending, he thought.
A chorus of croaks echoed softly from the reeds. He reached out, parting the stalks with calloused fingers—faint scars on his hand from Umbridge’s quill nearly vanished with time and wrinkled skin. A toad sat nestled in the mud, its dark eyes blinking up at him.
"Hello, little one," Harry murmured.
A small croak.
"You one of Trevor’s grand-toads?"
Another croak, then a hop.
Harry smiled. "Yeah, definitely one of Trevor’s."
It was a nice reminder that endings also brought beginnings. Life carried on, even when death carved its wounds deep, even when grief made him want to sink into the earth and let the weight of mud and stone press him into silence.
"You know," he continued, speaking to the toad that had already disappeared into the reeds, "Trevor was a terrible pet. Never stayed in one place, caused poor old Neville no end of stress. Ginny had a good pet, though, back at school. Arnold had it all—riding on her shoulder, burying himself in her hair."
Harry exhaled, shaking his head with a small, wistful laugh. "If I could be anyone in the world," he said to the reeds, "I think I’d want to be Arnold the pygmy puff."
"Grandpa?"
Harry turned to see a tall, lanky figure approaching—the wind catching the edges of his teaching robes. Artie’s glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose, the familiar gaze of vivid green eyes behind them.
"Hello, Professor," Harry said with a smile.
"I promised Dad I’d get you home," Artie replied, stopping beside him. The breeze ruffled his hair.
Harry groaned softly. "I’m too old for a babysitter."
"Yeah, well… either you come with me, or Dad’s going to storm the castle himself."
Harry chuckled, pushing himself upright with a grunt. "I’m sure he would."
He reached for his cane, steadying himself. Without a word, Artie offered his arm. Harry took it, and together, they walked toward the gates of Hogwarts, side by side, their steps slow but steady, heading for the apparition point.
With the familiar pull and twist of Apparition, the world blurred—mountains, lake, and castle dissolving—then reformed with the cry of distant seagulls and the sharp, briny scent of the Welsh coast.
Home.
Well… sort of.
It wasn’t the house where he and Ginny had raised their children. After months of relentless pleading, Harry had finally given in to James’s constant fretting about him living alone. He’d moved into a small cottage— the shed , as Harry liked to call it—in the back garden of James and Ellie’s home.
It was a comfortable arrangement. He saw James often, and Ellie let him cook and potter about in the garden. Albus and Lily stopped by when they could.
But it could never quite be home .
Not without Ginny.
“I’ve got it from here, Artie. No need to walk me all the way to the door. Go on back to the castle,” Harry said, giving his grandson’s arm a light pat.
Artie just smiled and pushed open the garden gate. “It’s fine. Mum’s making cottage pie tonight.”
Harry let out a quiet huff of laughter.
It still caught him off guard sometimes—watching his grandchildren go about their lives as fully grown adults. With real jobs, strong opinions, and taxes. Grandkids were supposed to be sticky-fingered toddlers, wide-eyed, obsessed with Chocolate Frog cards, and delighted by the smallest puff of magical smoke.
They weren’t supposed to be Defence Against the Dark Arts professors. They definitely weren’t supposed to have fiancés. Or babies on the way.
Which meant—somehow, impossibly—Harry was about to become a great-grandfather.
A great-grandfather.
That felt a bit too old, if anyone bothered to ask. No one really did, though.
At dinner, James and Ellie heaped too much food onto his plate. His appetite wasn’t what it used to be, but eating anything less than a portion fit for a teenage Weasley always earned him an earful and a second helping he didn’t want.
“Good day at the castle, Dad?” James asked, topping off Harry’s barely touched glass of pumpkin juice.
Harry gave a noncommittal grunt and nudged his potatoes around the plate.
“Oh, come on,” James said. “Don’t do the silent, grumpy dinner thing again. Talk to us.”
“You going to ground me and send me to my room?”
“Don’t start—”
Ellie reached across the table and rested a hand on James’s wrist, still clutching his fork. “James. Breathe. Remember your blood pressure. If your dad doesn’t want to talk, that’s fine. He’s never been much of a talker anyway.”
“And his hearing’s not nearly as bad as his eyesight, you know,” Harry muttered, spearing a potato and taking a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, then said, “Needs more salt.”
“The healer says you need to cut down on sodium,” James replied.
“I don’t need a nurse,” Harry said, reaching for the salt shaker despite the medical advice.
"Grandpa was great," Artie said as he helped himself to another serving of chicken. "The kids loved his stories. It’s nice that there are still people alive who remember Voldemort and can share their experiences with the students. I’ve never seen them so attentive."
"Yes, well," James said with a smile, "your grandfather does have that effect on people. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, everyone listens."
"I thought the kids were nosy and too inquisitive," Harry muttered.
"They’re students," Artie replied. "They’re supposed to ask questions."
"Asking me how I felt when Cedric died isn’t important defense history. It’s personal."
"Well, Grandpa," Artie said with a shrug, "you personally are Defense Against the Dark Arts history."
James laughed—perhaps a little too hard for Harry’s taste.
Still, it was nice. Harry had always loved the sound of his family’s laughter. And James's laughter always had a distinctly Ginny quality to it.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Artie said goodnight, but not before his mother handed him a small stack of baby books—despite his insistence that he didn’t need them, given that his fiancée was the Hogwarts nurse.
"Taking care of newborns is a world away from taking care of teenagers, Arthur," Ellie said, stuffing the books into his work bag before he could argue. "I’m sure you and Joan will find them useful."
She pushed him gently toward the fireplace, and with a swirl of green flame, he was gone—off to his cottage in Hogsmeade.
Harry eventually made his way to the Shed behind James and Ellie’s house—a small, one-room space he and Ellie had worked on together to make warm and inviting. The walls were lined with family photos, filled with smiling, familiar faces that waved cheerfully as he stepped inside and got ready for bed. A tiny kitchenette stood in the corner, though it rarely saw use—Harry still preferred cooking in the main house.
From the window beside his bed, framed by the floral curtains Lily had sewn years ago, he could just make out the silhouettes of James and Ellie in their bedroom across the yard, moving through their quiet nightly routine. A moment later, their light flickered off, and the stillness that followed told him they had settled in for the night.
When Harry woke, he didn’t see the handmade floral curtains, the crooked green stove, or the clutter of family photos on the walls.
Instead, he was met with the rich, familiar crimson velvet of four-poster bed curtains—the ones from the Gryffindor dormitory. Which was odd, considering he hadn’t set foot in a Hogwarts dorm since his own kids were students, years ago.
Stranger still was the angle. He was looking up at the bed, as though the whole world had suddenly stretched several feet taller. Everything around him loomed—oversized, unfamiliar.
And then he hopped.
Actually hopped .
Which was, frankly, alarming.
Harry froze. Breathed. Focused. The instincts of a retired Auror flickered to life, guiding him into calm, deliberate observation.
To his left was a chunk of wood grain, far too big for a floorboard, and beside it sat a pink alarm clock and a sun-faded photograph of the Weasley siblings grinning in Egypt, so young it made his heart ache.
Harry reached to adjust his glasses—except… he couldn’t.
Because he had no arms.
Or legs.
Just… fluff.
He stared at the reflection in a nearby window, heart sinking with surreal disbelief.
He was a small, round, limbless ball of fuzzy pink.
He hopped again.
He was Arnold.
If Harry could have spoken, he would have cursed. Loudly.
Of all the magical mishaps he’d survived—Polyjuice gone wrong, time-turners, accidental portkeys— this had to be the strangest. Never, in all his years, had he imagined he’d end up transformed into his late wife’s childhood pet.
His wife.
Ginny.
A pang shot through him at the thought. But then, he looked around again. The Gryffindor dormitory. The crimson-curtained bed. If he was Arnold, and this was Hogwarts… then that bed— that bed—must belong to Ginny.
A thrill of something strange and electric—hope, maybe?—buzzed through his tiny, fuzzy body.
Without thinking, he began hopping in excited circles on the nightstand, spinning so fast he nearly toppled over.
Ginny was alive.
And she was right there , just beside him.
"Aren’t you worried a hawk will swoop down and carry Arnold off?" Harry asked, watching the pink puffball bounce enthusiastically around the base of a tree stump.
Ginny looked up from her book, completely unfazed. "I’m sure he can take care of himself. He is a Gryffindor, after all."
She turned a page, then added absently, "Besides, he’d probably bite the hawk and make a run for it."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Do Pygmy Puffs even have teeth?"
Ginny didn’t look up. "Only when it matters."
Harry glanced back at the bobbing pink ball. “We could put Arnold’s self-preservation skills to the test. I could call Hedwig down and let her swoop him up.”
Ginny’s head snapped up. “Why are you so set on torturing Arnold? He’s innocent!”
“I’m preparing him for enemies,” Harry replied, adopting a mock-serious tone. “It’s actually quite sensible of me.”
“No need,” Ginny said coolly. “Arnold already has a safety plan.”
“Which is?”
“He hides in my hair.”
Harry frowned. “That’s not exactly foolproof. You’re pretty small too—some bird might just swoop down and grab both of you.”
Without missing a beat, Ginny hurled her book at him.
Harry ducked with a laugh, the book thudding harmlessly into the grass. He rolled toward her, still grinning, and before she could scramble away, he pinned her gently beneath him.
“I can take care of myself, Potter,” she said, defiant even with a smile tugging at her lips.
“I know you can,” he said honestly.
For a moment, he simply looked at her. The June air was thick with the scent of grass and wildflowers. A breeze stirred the edges of Ginny’s hair, and Harry reached up without thinking, brushing a few strands from her face, letting his fingers linger in the softness.
Then he leaned down and kissed her—slow, sun-warmed, and unhurried. His hand slid further into her hair, and he felt her shift beneath him, her body curling instinctively closer. For a brief moment, there was no war, no expectations, no headlines. Just the press of her mouth against his, the rustle of the grass, and the impossible lightness in his chest.
From his perch on the nightstand, Harry took in the surreal sight of a teenage Ginny fast asleep, her hair fanned across the pillow like a red-gold halo.
He wasn’t entirely sure how far a Pygmy Puff could jump. Would he make it onto the pillow beside her head? Or would he misjudge the distance, bounce off the mattress, and end up flattened on the floor—or worse, at the mercy of one of her dormmates’ cats?
Best not to risk it. He settled himself more firmly on the polished wood of the nightstand and decided to wait. Ginny would wake eventually. Hopefully.
But then what?
What exactly was he going to do—squeak out “Hello, I’m your future husband trapped in the body of your Pygmy Puff. Can you help me get back to the future—and preferably my own body?”
He sighed—a very tiny, squeaky sigh—and resisted the urge to throw himself off the nightstand in sheer frustration. That was a lot to dump on anyone, even Ginny. And she was only fifteen.
Just then, Ginny stirred beneath her blankets.
Startled, Harry leapt to his feet—well, as much as a puffball could leap—and in the process, knocked over a nearby photo frame of the Weasley family. It clattered against the wood, the sound surprisingly loud in the early morning quiet.
“Hey, Arnold, calm down,” Ginny mumbled, bleary-eyed. She picked up the frame, setting it carefully back in place, then scooped Harry up with one hand and perched him on her shoulder. “Time to get ready for the day.”
She yawned as she padded into the bathroom, feet bare against the cool floor.
Harry clung to her shoulder, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of her shampoo and skin—clean, floral, and unmistakably Ginny. The warmth of her neck, the rhythm of her movements, the effortless intimacy of being this close again—it was all too much and not enough. A strange, aching peace settled over him, the kind he hadn’t felt in far too long. He leaned in and nuzzled her neck before he could stop himself, the soft fuzz of his ridiculous body brushing her skin.
Unfazed, teenage Ginny absently reached up and gave his fuzzy body a gentle pat as she brushed her teeth, humming under her breath. It was automatic, unthinking affection—and it nearly undid him.
Merlin, he missed her.
Staying balanced on her shoulder wasn’t nearly as difficult as Harry had feared, even with teenage Ginny’s habit of bouncing through corridors like she was made of pure kinetic energy. Apparently, Pygmy Puffs had an excellent center of gravity—an evolutionary miracle, considering their spherical shape and lack of discernible limbs.
Ginny chatted cheerfully as they made their way to the Great Hall, and when Harry glanced over, he realized she was talking to Dean.
Dean.
Not that grown-up Harry—or even sixteen-year-old Harry, really—had anything against him. Dean was a good guy. Loyal, funny, talented.
But watching sixteen-year-old Dean smile at Ginny like that as they walked side by side to breakfast made Harry wish he had a pygmy-sized knife.
He rolled his tiny eyes. Absolutely ridiculous. There was no reason to be jealous. None at all. And yet…
Maybe, in addition to their superb balance, Pygmy Puffs had a built-in limit on the number of emotions they could process at once—and Harry’s one allowed emotion was currently jealousy, crammed tightly into every fiber of his absurdly fuzzy body.
He made a mental note: at some point, he really ought to look into the biology of Pygmy Puffs. Now that he was one, after all, it seemed only sensible to learn more about his current... species.
As they reached the Gryffindor table, Ginny plucked him off her shoulder and set him down next to her plate.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to feed Pygmy Puffs bacon,” Ron said, eyeing Arnold suspiciously.
“What would you know?” Ginny shot back. “What are they supposed to eat, then? If you know all about animals”
Ron shrugged in the most teenage Ron-like way imaginable. “Unicorn piss?”
“You’re disgusting,” Ginny said disparagingly
“Whatever.” ROn went back to eating his eggs. “It’s a useless pet anyway, right? Like—what does Erwin even do ?”
Harry— Arnold —hopped around a glass of pumpkin juice to get a better view of the conversation. His heart sank as he spotted the kids sitting next to Ron, who hadn’t spoken yet: a moody, sleep-deprived teenage himself , slumped at the table with dark circles under his eyes and a perpetual scowl. Brilliant. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept—or smiled—in about a month.
“Your sister’s puffy thing is called Arnold.” teenage Harry muttered.
“And he is a Pygmy Puff, ” Ginny said firmly, reaching over to flick a bit of toast crust at him.
“Right. Apologies,” younger Harry said with a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “Anyway, I’m sure Arnold here would be better in a fight than Pig.”
Ron gasped, scandalized. “ How dare you! ”
“I don’t know why you’re acting so offended,” Ginny said, arms crossed as she looked at Ron. “You’re the one who said Pig knocks himself out flying into windows.”
“Yeah, but he’s got spirit ! Arnold just sits there shedding fluff on everything I eat.”
“Alright, lads,” Seamus cut in, “Gryffindor Pet Fight Club. Who wins the ultimate prize?”
“Easy,” Ron said without hesitation. “Crookshanks.”
Lavender gasped, scandalized. “ Excuse me? ”
Ron blinked. “What? Am I wrong?”
“You didn’t even consider Binky!”
“…What the hell is a Binky?”
“My pet rabbit!”
Harry frowned. “Didn’t your rabbit die in our third year?”
“That’s not the point ,” Lavender snapped.
“Well, unless Binky came back as a ghost bunny, I don’t think he qualifies,” Harry said, shrugging. “We said pet fight club, not pet séance.”
Seamus held up both hands. “Alright, alright. Living pets only. That gives us Crookshanks, Hedwig, Pigwidgeon, and Arnold."
“And Trevor!” Ginny added quickly.
Neville groaned as he poured a cup of tea, “Please leave him out of this. He’d get flattened in round one.”
Dean leaned forward with a quill and parchment. “Right. This calls for a bracket. Let’s see… Trevor vs. Arnold, Pig vs. Crookshanks, and Hedwig gets a bye to round two, I guess.”
Ron, with his mouth half-full, added, “You forgot Lavender’s ghost bunny.”
“ Ron! ” Hermione said sharply, giving him a glare. “That’s rude.”
“She’s the one who brought Blinky up!”
“It’s Binky ,” Lavender said through gritted teeth as she stood and started gathering her things. “And if you walk me to Charms, Ron-Ron, I might forgive you for being a completely insensitive wart.”
“Wait, hold on!” Ron scrambled off the bench with his hands out in an attempt to pacify Lavender. “Just let me place my bet before I go!”
Lavender gave him a look of pure exasperation before sweeping out of the hall.
Harry watched her go, then turned back to hop across the table toward Ginny, who was peering over Dean’s shoulder, trying to get a better look at the bracket. She was tapping a quill against her cheek, brow furrowed in thought. She scrunched her nose in the familiar way she always did when trying to think. James had inherited that trait from her as well.
“I think it’ll come down to Hedwig and Crookshanks in the final,” she said thoughtfully. “But I can’t decide who’d win. They both have such stubborn attitudes.”
“I am offended on behalf of Hedwig,” teenage Harry declared. “She is not stubborn.”
“She bit you last week,” Ginny pointed out.
“Only because I wouldn’t let her steal my toast.”
Laughter circled the table as the hypothetical pet tournament discussion raged on, complete with increasingly absurd arguments about kneazle reflexes versus owl aerial combat tactics. Harry hopped around in a circle, trying to seem engaged—but his mind was elsewhere.
As much as he loved seeing Ginny like this again—bright-eyed, laughing, alive—he really needed to get to the library. Somehow. Preferably before another day passed with him stuck inside this overly fuzzy, infuriatingly bouncy pygmy puff body.
Maybe once Ginny falls asleep? How long would it take to hop from Gryffindor Tower to the library? Could a pygmy puff take the stairs?
But before he could finish plotting his escape, a voice echoed in his head.
You are not Arnold.
What?
You are not Mister Arnold Weasley, the pygmy puff. You are an imposter.
Harry spun in a frantic circle, trying to find the source of the voice in his head—until he smacked directly into a squat green face, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Trevor? Harry heard himself squeak instead of speaking real words.
The toad stared back, unmoving. Why are you impersonating Mister Arnold Weasley? Who are you?
You can talk? Animals can talk to each other?
Of course, we can. Are you not an animal? Trevor's voice was slow and measured, like someone used to being underestimated. You are no Animagus—you lack the scent of wizards who pretend to be animals like us. You are… something else.
I’m Harry. Harry Potter.
Do not insult me, imposter. Trevor’s eyes narrowed further. Mister Harry Potter is an honest boy. A good boy. He sits beside Miss Ginevra—one of my closest companions. You sir, are not Mister Potter.
Harry groaned internally. I really don’t know how to explain this to a toad, but I am Harry Potter. Just… not the one you know. I’m from the future. Something went wrong, and now I’m stuck like this. I need help getting back to my time—and my body.
A quest! Trevor exclaimed, puffing up with pride. A noble task for the Protector of House Longbottom! I accept the challenge, Mister Potter. I am at your service.
Er… yeah. Thanks.
Trevor nodded solemnly. Mister Neville, my most loyal charge, will not notice my absence during daylight hours. He rarely watches me—though I watch him always. But Miss Ginevra is keenly attuned to Mister Arnold. She will notice your departure. We must wait until she is tucked into slumber.
And then what? Where will we go?
To the beginning, Trevor said, his eyes shining with purpose. To the place I go at the start of all my most difficult journeys. We must seek the wisdom of Master Fawkes—the Great Phoenix.
Harry spent a surprisingly enjoyable day—despite being stuck in the absurdly fluffy body of a Pygmy Puff—nestled in Ginny’s hair atop her shoulder. From his perch, he saw Hogwarts from an entirely new perspective: not just physically lower to the ground, but filtered through Ginny’s world. A side of school he rarely had access to—one without constant reminders of war, prophecy, or danger lurking behind every door.
It made him happy, truly happy, to see that despite the trials Ginny had endured, despite also being thrown into the middle of a war that she did not ask to be involved with, she still managed to carve out moments of normalcy, laughter, and light. She deserved that. More than anyone, she deserved peace.
By the time the day ended and Ginny gently set him back on her bedside table, Harry wasn’t so sure he wanted to return to his present time—or his real body—at all.
Because what did that future offer him, really?
The war was behind him, but so was Ginny. He missed her sharp wit and her soft tenderness. The girl who made his world feel full.
Would it be so wrong to stay here, just like this? To live out the rest of his days—not that he had all that many left, if he was being honest—as a tiny pink puffball curled into the warm, sweet scent of Ginny’s hair? To be surrounded by her free laugh and her humming while brushing her teeth, who carried his round body through the corridors without thinking twice. It didn’t seem like such a terrible way to live at all.
As the girls in the dorm drifted off to sleep, the door creaked open, drawing Harry out of his melancholy.
A sliver of hallway light spilled across the floor as an unmistakable shape padded into the room: Crookshanks, with his enormous orange fur and squashed face, looking supremely unbothered. Riding atop his back—legs planted like a seasoned cavalryman—was none other than Trevor the toad.
Salutations, Mr. Harry the Pygmy Puff, Trevor said solemnly. We must make haste. Our quest to see Fawkes cannot be delayed.
Harry rolled himself to the edge of the nightstand, peering down. It was a long drop for something so round.
Just jump , Crookshanks said in a gravelly voice. I’ll catch you.
With your mouth? Will you eat me? Harry asked warily.
He could’ve sworn Crookshanks rolled his eyes.
With no better option and a mild sense of doom, Harry launched himself off the table. True to his word, Crookshanks caught him cleanly on his back, barely jostling Trevor in the process.
Good sport, Trevor said approvingly. Now hold tight. Crookshanks will lead us bravely through the shadowed corridors to the Headmaster’s office.
Harry felt like he should cling to a patch of fur as Crookshanks started to move down the stairs but the lack of hands prevented the action from becoming reality. Do all the students’ pets go on secret missions while we’re asleep, or are you lot just... different?
I once dueled an owl belonging to Ernest Macmillan, Trevor replied matter-of-factly.
Right, Harry said, because really—what else was there to say?
The very strange trio—one grumpy cat, one regal toad, and one former Chosen One trapped in a ball of fuzz—made their way through the darkened castle.
Harry had seen Hogwarts at night before, countless times under the cover of his Invisibility Cloak. He had seen it in chaos, scarred by battle, broken and burning. But he had never seen it quite like this—through the eyes of something so small, so low to the ground, that even familiar corridors felt enormous and unfamiliar.
The portraits loomed like towering monuments, their gilded frames stretching high above him until their tops vanished into the shadows. The torchlight flickered far overhead, casting only the faintest glow on the floor below, leaving Harry swaddled in gloom—like walking through the depths of the ocean.
Mice scurried past, bold and swift in the quiet. Now and then, Harry glimpsed the faint outline of a house-elf darting into a side passage, eyes glowing briefly like stars before disappearing.
Then, without warning, Trevor lifted a webbed foot and sharply commanded, Halt, Crookshanks.
Crookshanks stopped at once, his ears flicking forward.
Harry tensed. What’s going on?
My nemesis , Trevor declared gravely, is up and about tonight.
Harry followed the direction of Trevor’s hard, unblinking stare and saw a black-heeled boot emerging from the shadows. His gaze traveled upward—past the sweeping black robes, the pale, skeletal frame—and landed on the unmistakable face of Severus Snape.
Trevor's throat puffed out with righteous fury. The Dungeon Dweller dares to show his face to me. The horrid creature who tried to murder me in front of Neville. He plays with students’ pets as if we are mere toys to be broken—not sentient beings with thoughts, emotions, and the capacity to feel pain! He must suffer. I must have my revenge, or I’ll bring shame upon the noble house of Longbottom.
Calm down, Trevor, Crookshanks said with a warning growl. We can’t get distracted.
I will stab him with my deadly sword.
Harry blinked. That sword’s no deadlier than a toothpick.
Trevor huffed indignantly. Fine. I will not abandon my duty to escort Mr. Harry to the Headmaster’s office. But mark my words—I will have my revenge.
I’m sure you will, Harry said with a dry squeak.
Crookshanks started moving again, tail flicking like a metronome of feline disdain, and the mission continued—one seething toad, one unimpressed cat, and one bewildered Pygmy Puff clinging to the last threads of his sanity.
They wound their way through shadowed halls and finally stopped before a familiar stone gargoyle, unmoving and silent as ever. It loomed before them, its wings curled tight, claws resting on the floor as if mid-pounce. It hadn’t changed. Not one crack, not one smudge. Harry knew every line of it.
His breath caught.
They were here.
Dumbledore’s office.
The place where so much had happened—where truths had been revealed and lies uncovered. Where he’d been handed grief like a sealed letter: about Sirius, about his fate, about Snape. It had been the epicenter of so much pain and yet so much clarity, all wrapped in the scent of lemon drops and candle wax.
A thousand memories hit him at once: the Pensieve shimmering in the corner, Fawkes watching with solemn eyes, the paintings of former headmasters shifting in their sleep. And Dumbledore himself—complicated, frustrating, quietly kind. A man who had loved Harry more than he knew how to admit, and yet had placed him, over and over again, into the fire.
In the years immediately after Dumbledore’s death, Harry had dreamed—literally—of being able to speak to him again. To ask the questions he’d never dared. That need had dulled over time, buried beneath new battles and old griefs.
But now, standing—or wobbling—at the threshold once more, the longing returned. Sharp. Familiar. Impossible.
The gargoyle slid aside without a word.
Crookshanks padded ahead into the spiral stairwell. Harry followed, his breath tight in his chest.
Then the door opened—and the office was exactly as he remembered.
Starlight spilled through the tall windows, casting a soft glow across the room. The silver instruments clicked and whirred quietly to themselves, just as they always had. Fawkes’ perch stood near the desk—empty now, but polished, cared for. The portraits along the walls dozed in their frames, snoring gently, oblivious to the visitors.
Then the window creaked open, and in a sudden flash of heat and color, Fawkes swooped in—flaming red and orange, bright as memory.
Hello, Harry Potter, the phoenix said, his voice ringing not in the room, but somewhere deep inside Harry’s mind. I see you've made yourself another little trio. A useful trait of yours.
He settled on the perch and tilted his head.
Shall we discuss why you've come?