Chapter Text
The dome around him crumbled into fragments of magic, allowing Harry to breathe normally again. After a long battle, it was finally over. Voldemort’s body collapsed under the green light of the Avada Kedavra.
Harry’s hands trembled as the Killing Curse struck Voldemort’s chest. Still, the curse didn’t stray from its target.
The Dark Lord was dead. His body fell onto the dais in the middle of the Ministry. The only ones who survived inside the dome were Harry and Bellatrix.
Harry turned away from that repulsive scene. His legs shook uncontrollably—and like Pettigrew’s rat, they betrayed him, buckling beneath him, unable to hold him upright. Hermione and Ron rushed to his side to steady him.
Bellatrix’s screams were a symphony of rage and grief. She begged her Master to rise.
“He’s dead, you mad bitch,” Harry said flatly.
Bellatrix stood, eyes blazing with fury. Her wand rose, pointing at Harry, her expression wild.
“You filthy half-blood scum. You’ll regret this. Avada Ke—”
Her words died before the curse could reach its target. Bellatrix’s body fell onto Voldemort’s in a poor imitation of Romeo and Juliet’s sacrifice.
Harry searched for the person who had killed her. Stunned, his eyes landed on Remus—standing tall, wand firm, tears streaming down his cheeks, his expression exhausted and filled with sorrow.
Harry saw no visible injuries on the werewolf. He sighed in relief—at least Remus wasn’t physically harmed. Emotionally? The man was devastated.
Remus ran to him, examining his body just as Harry had done for him.
“I’m not hurt… not like that,” Harry said, leaning against Ron.
“Your hands…” Remus choked back a cry. His face darkened as he saw the tremor in Harry’s limbs refused to leave him.
Hermione let out a sob, wrapping her arms around Harry’s shoulders as if she needed to make sure he wouldn’t vanish.
“Cruciatus.” No further explanation was needed. That single word said more than a thousand others.
Their other friends and members of the Order of the Phoenix gathered around them. Kingsley walked toward Dumbledore’s body—he had fallen under Voldemort’s wand, leaving Harry alone in the final fight.
Fireplaces flared to life, and Fudge emerged alongside other Ministry officials—including Percy, who shot Harry a worried glance.
“Oh, Merlin!” Fudge cried at the sight of Voldemort’s and Bellatrix’s corpses. A worker snapped a photo of the bodies, then shouted:
“Sir, Dumbledore is dead too!” Another camera click echoed.
Chaos erupted inside the Ministry—Dumbledore’s death was mourned, more photos were taken of the corpses, calls rose to remove Fudge for discrediting Harry and Dumbledore, and reporters swarmed Harry for his version of events.
Remus pushed away those harassing Harry for answers. Kingsley took charge, explaining everything he could—their arrival at the Ministry, the battle against the Death Eaters, and Harry’s fight with Voldemort.
Tonks and Remus escorted all the students back to Hogwarts, while Aurors hauled away the Death Eaters captured by the Order.
When they reached Dumbledore’s office, Harry couldn’t hold it in any longer and vomited his dinner onto the floor. Hermione rubbed his back, Ron vanished the mess, and Remus conjured a glass of water. His other friends stood nearby, faces troubled. They said nothing—unable to find words—but never left his side.
Remus led them all to the hospital wing, checking everyone’s gait and every small wound he spotted on their bodies.
Madame Pomfrey made sure to treat them all. She healed their injuries, gave them calming potions and dreamless sleep. When it was Harry’s turn, the woman looked as if she might faint.
“Harry… this will be hard to process, but I need you to understand your condition.”
The boy nodded, barely aware of what was happening. His mind drifted through fractured memories—Dumbledore collapsing under the Killing Curse, the burning pain as the Cruciatus tore through his body, Voldemort’s lifeless form at his feet.
“You have severe nerve damage, dear. The Cruciatus Curse has caused great harm to your body. Professor Snape can brew potions for your nerves, but given the severity of your condition, I can’t guarantee full recovery.”
Nerve damage. Severe condition. No full recovery.
These were disjointed phrases swirling in his mind. The torture had been so extreme it had left him disabled. He didn’t know what hurt more—his shattered nerves or the certainty of an unlikely recovery.
At least, he thought bitterly, he wouldn’t end up like the Longbottoms.
“Thank you, Madame Pomfrey,” Harry said, turning away heavily to avoid the healer’s gaze.
Harry was grateful Madame Pomfrey understood he needed time alone to grieve—not just for Sirius and Dumbledore, but for the loss of his quality of life.
Remus arrived an hour later with a nerve-calming potion. There were no pitying words, no overflowing sorrow—just quiet help to drink the potion and a comforting presence. A support that soothed his heart.
Early the next morning, multiple copies of the Daily Prophet were delivered to students and staff.
WHO-YOU-KNOW IS DEAD
Last night, Minister Fudge and several Ministry workers were informed that the Ministry was under attack.
Our sources confirm that upon arrival, they found the body of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named alongside the notorious Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange.
The Prophet, and our readers, deeply regret the campaign to discredit Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter—because yes, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did return in June of last year.
Head Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt provided a full report of the attack. He states that Harry Potter was manipulated into going to the Ministry.
Harry Potter and other Hogwarts students went to the Ministry to confront the Death Eaters; we do not know the primary reasons that drove these students to the scene.
Aurors and civilians were alerted to the attack and joined the battle. Notably, the infamous Sirius Black was also present—and astonishingly, fought alongside Harry Potter.
According to reports, Sirius Black was falsely accused of the Potters’ murder. Since escaping Azkaban, he has been fighting against the Death Eaters. Tragically, Sirius Black was killed by Bellatrix Lestrange.
It was also reported that Harry Potter was trapped under a dome by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself, where he was tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange.
Dumbledore appeared mid-battle and engaged He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, giving Harry Potter time to recover.
In that encounter, Dumbledore perished—and shortly after, Harry Potter defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, ending what could have become another bloody war.
At the end of the article is a list of captured Death Eaters.
“Don’t read it, mate,” Neville said, pulling the newspaper from Harry’s trembling hands.
“I want to know what the Prophet says. I need to make sure they’re not calling me crazy this time.”
The sound of footsteps silenced the Great Hall’s murmur. Draco Malfoy approached the Gryffindor table, flanked by Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott.
Harry turned and stood from his seat. Hermione and Ron followed. Slytherins and Gryffindors locked eyes intensely. The rest of the students watched, curious about what would happen.
“My father was arrested because of you,” Draco drawled in his usual manner. “He got what he deserved.”
Draco smiled—a wide, open smile that stunned the students. What could have been a fight turned into a flurry of hugs between Slytherins and Gryffindors.
“You did it, Harry. Thank you.”
They pulled apart, sharing smiles.
If not for Draco and his friends’ help, they wouldn’t have made it to the Ministry. Their friendship had been invaluable all year. Realizing not all Slytherins wanted to follow their parents’ path had been eye-opening.
Draco became his friend, and Harry made sure Draco was also kept safe from Voldemort.
“Thank you,” Theo and Pansy said at the same time, giving a small bow.
“Theo, Pansy, you know that’s not necessary,” Harry said, blushing.
“It’s heir etiquette. Old habits are hard to ignore,” Theo said, winking.
Ron laughed and gave the boy a light shove.
“I still can’t get used to it,” Harry grumbled. “I also want to thank you—if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have made it to the Ministry.” Harry bowed slightly, just as they had, suppressing the spasms wracking his body. “Heirs Nott, Parkinson, Malfoy—I’ll never forget what you did for us.”
It was a relief to stop hiding their friendship.
After that emotional moment, everyone returned to their respective seats. Professor McGonagall gave a speech about Dumbledore’s contributions to the war. Tributes were paid to the man, and it was announced that the headmaster’s funeral would be held after breakfast.
The funeral went smoothly. Sadness hung in the air, music accompanied the students’ tears and sobs, and lilies released a scent that tried to fill the void Dumbledore had left behind.
Harry felt a deep emptiness in his heart during the farewell. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel.
Dumbledore had been, for a time, like a kind grandfather who helped him enter the magical world. But he was also the one who left him with the Dursleys—and who had been shaping him into a weapon to fight Voldemort.
He’d only been a kid, and Dumbledore had stolen his chance at a normal life. Was the headmaster truly a good person? Was the greater good enough to justify his suffering?
═══⊹⊱✫⊰⊹═══
The trip to Grimmauld Place was tense. Hermione and Ron tiptoed around Harry, unsure how to act around his foul mood.
He felt bad for taking his anger out on his friends—but what else did he have besides his emotional and physical pain? He had no strength left to try to be better or seek a solution to his condition.
When they reached London, Harry said goodbye and took the Knight Bus to Grimmauld Place.
Time passed between pain and the suffocating concern of his friends and the Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley, in particular, had become a nuisance to Harry. The woman overwhelmed him with gentle care and carefully chosen words.
Harry was tired of her worry. It didn’t matter how much attention he received when his nerves screamed every day—when tremors and spasms left him unable to get out of bed.
He couldn’t even attend Sirius’s funeral because of his body’s suffering. He was physically incapable of leaving his room. All he could do was mourn from his bed and honor Sirius by telling stories of his life.
He hoped to feel Sirius’s presence in each tale—but there was nothing: no breeze hinting at a ghostly visit, no familiar scent to comfort him. Only a painful emptiness weighed on his heart.
He reached his breaking point. Harry no longer wanted anything.
He sealed off Grimmauld Place. No one could access the Floo network or cross the wards. It had become an impenetrable fortress, cutting him off from everyone.
He knew—Merlin knew he was aware—that the Order was worried about him. They were trying to find a way past the shields surrounding the house to reach him. Every day, he felt their efforts crash uselessly against the barriers.
Each day grew worse. His muscles stayed tense from constant spasms. He could barely hold his potions due to hand tremors. More than once, he’d had to slowly change his own sheets after being unable to make it to the bathroom in time.
His shame grew with his condition. He felt weak and hopeless. His body was an empty shell, slowly rotting in despair.
On one particularly bad day, he believed his body would finally give out under the weight of the pain. The only comfort left was the thought that he’d soon reunite with his parents and godfather.
There would be no more pain. No more regret.
Just as he thought he’d finally die, the wards were breached—by one person: Remus Lupin. Standing in the doorway of his room, the man froze at the sight of Harry.
The teenager knew he looked terrible—too thin, dark circles like bruises under his eyes, his body shaking uncontrollably. He was the living image of torture’s aftermath.
Remus rushed to his side. Without hesitation, he grabbed a potion and helped Harry drink it. The bitter taste burned his palate—it was horribly foul. The pain lessened by 30%; not much, but enough to let him breathe normally again.
“Harry, this isn’t healthy. You can’t shut everyone out,” Remus said, eyes brimming with tears. “Please, let me take care of you. Let me be the figure Sirius can no longer be.”
The werewolf’s words broke through Harry’s mental walls—because that was exactly what he needed. He longed for a father figure to comfort him. He desperately wished Sirius were here to help him through this cruel trial.
The warmth in Remus’s voice struck him deeply. There was only love and concern in his words—the very thing Harry thought he’d lost forever.
Harry accepted. He didn’t want to be alone anymore. He opened his heart solely to Remus. He didn’t want the Weasleys’ noise—only the man’s comforting presence and warmth.
═══⊹⊱✫⊰⊹═══
Days continued in cycles of agony and relief. The potions were adjusted to soothe his nerves. Now they reduced his pain by up to 85%—a significant improvement.
Remus devoted himself entirely to Harry’s care. He helped him to the bathroom when his legs failed, kept him fed even when his appetite vanished. He was the support Sirius could never be again.
Remus poured his magic around Harry, projecting the warmth a werewolf’s magic could easily generate. He made it clear he considered Harry part of his pack—and even taught the kid how to do it himself. Harry rarely used it—it exhausted him—but somehow, it brought relief when sleep refused to come.
Time flowed unpredictably. Sometimes it raced; other times, a single minute felt like an hour. Usually, the latter happened when stress clouded his mind and body. Yet on one especially difficult day, a new opportunity arrived—in the form of a letter.
Remus seemed nervous as he offered Harry his daily potion. His hands fidgeted anxiously.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, curious.
“We need to talk.”
Alarm bells rang in Harry’s mind, looping with fear. Had Professor Snape given up on his recovery? Or was Remus finally surrendering—leaving him to his fate?
“It’s not bad news,” Remus hurried to say. “It’s just… I discovered something.” He sighed and sat on the edge of Harry’s bed. “Sirius and I used to write letters to each other—meant to be opened only if one of us died. With the war about to erupt, we thought it would bring comfort.”
Harry held his breath. Sirius and Remus had created a system to protect their hearts in case of death. He found it deeply romantic—and necessary in times of crisis. He wished he’d done the same. Maybe then he’d find solace in his godfather’s words.
“I hadn’t opened the letters because I refused to admit I’d lost him—but Harry, I had to accept it. Not just for my own sanity, but for yours.” Remus squeezed his hands. “In one of his letters, he revealed something I never expected. Harry… James isn’t your biological father.”
Remus’s words were hard to process—they sounded absurd, improbable at best.
“What? No… that can’t be. My mum would never cheat on my dad.” His voice faded with each word, afraid of what Remus might say next.
“No, Harry, calm down. Lily never cheated on James.” Remus pressed his lips together, searching for the right words. “But well—it was 1995, and the war was at its peak. We were all… reckless. We went to Muggle bars to pass the time, and that’s where they met your biological father.” Remus cleared his throat, uneasy. “We became friends quickly. But Tony… he became obsessed with your parents. They hung out all the time, drank together, and, well… uh… got intimate.” Remus’s cheeks flushed deep red.
Harry stared at him in disbelief.
“Are you saying that… the three of them… slept together?”
Remus nodded uncomfortably.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. He wasn’t particularly prudish—but the idea that his parents had been in a threesome with a stranger still left him stunned.
“And what happened to him? Why have I never heard of him?”
“They never told him. Tony’s a Muggle, and they thought bringing him too close would put him in danger.” Remus rubbed his hands nervously—a gesture Harry had learned to recognize. “They kept it a secret. Only Sirius knew. If not for his letter, I wouldn’t have known the truth either.”
Harry stayed silent. He couldn’t blame this Tony for not caring for him when the man had no idea he existed. But he wondered—what if he had known? Would he have taken care of him? Would Harry have had a different life?
A flutter of hope stirred in his chest. Having another father opened new possibilities.
Remus watched him cautiously.
“If you want, I could help you find him.”
Harry swallowed. Meeting his biological father… what would that be like?
His hands clenched in painful spasms that stole the breath from his lungs. He let out a pitiful whimper.
Remus took his hands and gently massaged his fingers.
“I don’t think he’ll want me. I’m broken, Remus.”
Harry dropped his head onto the man’s chest. The werewolf wrapped his arms around him, stroking his hair in comfort.
“You’re not…”
“I can’t even hold a cup steady for long. These tremors, the pain—I’m broken, Remus. He won’t want someone damaged.”
Remus’s face twisted with pain. He pulled Harry back slightly and placed his hands on his shoulders.
“You’re not broken, Harry. You survived a war.” Remus’s gaze grew fiercer. “The war marked everyone—especially you. And believe me… no father would stop loving you because of what you’ve been through, or because of the scars it left behind.”
Harry turned Remus’s words over in his mind. What if he was right?
“Yes.”
“Yes…?”
“Yes—I want to meet my biological father.”
The smile that lit up Remus’s face was so warm that Harry couldn’t help but smile too. Though for just a brief moment, he noticed a flicker of sadness—gone too quickly to catch.
Oh.
No way. Not a chance. He knew exactly what Remus was thinking—and he’d squash that idea right now.
“I’m not letting you go,” Harry said firmly.
“What do you mean?”
“I see it in your eyes, Remus. I might have a biological father—but you’re my dad too. I won’t let you go, and you won’t pull away, okay? You’re not abandoning me.”
Remus smiled, and all fear and sorrow vanished from his eyes.
“I won’t abandon you. I love you, pup.”
They pressed their foreheads together. They wouldn’t be parted again.
“You know? Whether Sirius were alive or not, I’d still be part of your life.” Remus, with a shy expression, looked Harry straight in the eyes. “Haven’t you wondered how I managed to cross the house’s wards?”
Honestly, Harry hadn’t thought about it. He’d been so consumed by his misery he’d never questioned how Remus had gotten through.
“To be honest, no.”
“I could do it because my magical signature is tied to the house. I… well, Sirius and I got married last summer.”
Harry gaped at him. His godfather had never hinted at his relationship with Remus. But now that he thought about it, there had been moments—silent conversations, shy touches that could’ve been mistaken for accidents.
Harry was an idiot. He was far too oblivious to be a war hero.
“Why didn’t you tell me anything?”
“We were going to this summer. We’d even spoken with Albus about having you stay with us.”
Harry felt a slight sting of betrayal from Sirius. He wondered why his godfather hadn’t told him about their marriage. He didn’t even know Sirius was gay.
Harry was heartbroken—he’d never get to have that conversation about sexuality with Sirius now. He’d longed so much to hear his opinion, to have him help and support him in understanding his bisexuality.
“I’m sorry, Harry. We should’ve told you sooner…”
“It’s okay, Remus. I forgive you.” Because what else could he do? He couldn’t change the past.
“Thank you, pup. I promise I won’t hide anything from you again.”
Remus pressed his forehead to Harry’s. Magic pulsed around them, marking each other as true pack.
