The morning sunlight crept through the windows of 12 Grimmauld Place, casting a warm glow across the master bedroom where Harry Potter lay awake, his emerald eyes fixed upon the ornate ceiling above. The house had changed dramatically since he'd inherited it years ago. Earlier, it was the perfect example of dark pureblood supremacy but it had been transformed into a cozy home that reflected none of its dark history.
The heads of house-elves and the screaming portrait of Walburga Black were left forgotten in the distant past, replaced instead with a massive chandelier and photographs of friends both living and lost, and artifacts that spoke of a profession he had found his love in. The décor had also been transformed, no longer reflecting shades of the old Black townhouse but instead looking distinctly muggle.
Harry had taken adequate care to ensure the house was a perfect reflection of who he was as a person and he was confident that the Blacks must be rolling in their graves at the state of their house, while Sirius must be dancing a jig. The thought always amused Harry to no end.
As he lay awake, his fingers absently traced the faint lightning bolt scar on his forehead, a habit he'd never quite abandoned even though it hadn't pained him since that final confrontation with Voldemort. Five years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, yet the memories remained as vivid as ever—not just of the battle itself, but of everything that followed in its wake.
At twenty-five, Harry had found himself walking a road not many would have predicted for him.
The decision to join the Department of Mysteries had surprised almost everyone who knew him, but perhaps no one was more surprised than he himself was. Everyone had expected him to join the Auror Corps, to continue being the hero, the savior of the Wizarding World. However, the war had changed him in ways that took him years to fully understand. The mysteries he'd encountered throughout his journey—the Veil of Death, the prophecy that tied him to Voldemort, the ancient magic of love, and even time—it had all awakened something in him that couldn't be satisfied by only chasing dark wizards. Even though he had taken down many Death Eaters after Voldemort's death, he'd soon found that he wanted more out of his life.
Rolling onto his side, Harry's gaze fell upon the empty space beside him. Not for the first time, he sighed.
Relationships had proven... complicated since the war ended. His brief reconciliation with Ginny after the war had fizzled out naturally, and both of them recognized that they'd grown in different directions during that terrible year. It did not have as adverse an effect on his relationship with the Weasley family as he'd first thought, but with Ginny getting married a couple of years ago, he felt as though he was intruding into the family and the bond they should form with their son-in-law, and he had slowly drifted away from them. The Weasleys were not happy with his excuses to avoid family gatherings, none more so than Ron and Hermione, but there was not much they could really do about it.
The Prophet and the Witch Weekly still occasionally ran speculations about his love life, but the truth was far less sensational than their theories. He'd dated, yes, and there had been more than one flings slash one-night stands with women both magical and muggle, but he'd soon found that even though it was fun and exciting, casual sex was not for him, and very few could truly understand the burden he carried, the questions that consumed him, or the dedication that his work required.
The work itself though... Harry allowed himself a small smile as he thought about it. Fighting dark wizards was fun, he could not deny that, but it did not truly compare to his job as an Unspeakable.
The Department of Mysteries had revealed itself to be everything he'd hoped for and more. Each day came with new discoveries and new questions about the fundamental nature of magic itself. His current project, studying the intersection between sacrificial magic and soul bonds, felt particularly personal. Understanding the magic that had saved him as a baby, that had protected others during the final battle—it wasn't just academic curiosity, but a way of honoring those who'd given everything to protect the ones they loved.
It had given him new perspectives on the link that he had once shared with Voldemort, on the nature of souls and their division, on prophecy and choice and the thin lines between them. Sometimes he wondered if his entire life had been leading him to this path, to understanding the deeper currents of magic that flowed beneath the surface of reality.
Harry let out a yawn as he stretched. He finally pulled himself from the bed, making his way over to the bathroom as he padded across the wooden floors that no longer creaked with age, thanks to careful restoration work. The house had truly become his own.
As he stood before the mirror, running a futile hand through his eternally unruly hair and failing to fix it, Harry studied his reflection. He looked more like his father than ever, though his eyes—his mother's eyes—shone with experiences that none of them had lived long enough to know. The lightning bolt scar had faded to a thin silver line, barely visible unless you knew to look for it. He rather preferred it that way.
Fifteen minutes later, he was out, his hair dripping wet and a towel wrapped around his waist. He quickly put on a t-shirt and shorts, casting a cold drying charm on his hair, before making his way downstairs.
The scent of tea and bacon reached him before he entered the kitchen, and his lips curled into a small smile. Only one person would let themselves in at this hour, and only one person would attempt to cook breakfast in his kitchen with what sounded like considerable hassle.
As he stepped into the kitchen, he found her by the stove, her hair a cheerful color of turquoise that morning that she had left flowing behind her. She had a black tank top and denim shorts on, and for a moment, Harry simply took in the vision that she was. Her curvaceous figure was on full display, her slim waist exposed and her thick buttocks looking particularly delicious framed by those denims that looked as if they were painted on her curves.
She was humming to herself as she managed to simultaneously cook bacon and knock over a stack of clean plates with her elbow. Her quick wandwork caught them before they could shatter, and as he made himself known, she turned to him with a grin that hadn't changed since he'd first met her.
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