Chapter Text
Prologue
Harry Potter first suspected he was screwed in sixth year, when Slughorn presented his NEWT-level Potions class with Amortentia. Naturally, Hermione recognized it straight away, remarking that it smelled like freshly mowed grass, new parchment, and spearmint toothpaste to her, but that it would smell differently to everyone based on what they find to be most attractive. Even from the back of the classroom, Harry smelled spearmint toothpaste as well, though that would be coming from his best friend sitting next to him, Ron Weasley. If Harry noticed Hermione’s furious blush as she returned to her seat, he was gracious enough not to say anything.
Slughorn invited each student up in turn to smell it for themselves. The Ravenclaws went up, then Ernie Macmillan, the sole Hufflepuff, who smelled chocolate and violets. The Slytherins were next, and Harry pretended not to care when Draco described his Amortentia: worn books, rain, and clean sheets. Ron was then called, and he stepped up bashfully, face burning already. Harry tried not to smile, already thinking of ways to rib him about this later.
Slughorn nodded encouragingly to Ron, who bent over the cauldron and inhaled deeply. “It, erm. Well, I guess it smells like… bacon sandwiches. And roses. And… the library?” Harry watched Ron’s eyes widen slowly, and then as he quickly stood straight up and backed away from the cauldron, knocking into a desk as he went. Harry didn’t have to think very hard to understand who exactly Ron was smelling. A very interesting development, though hardly a surprise to Harry, even if it did cause an unexpected pang of jealousy. Harry figured this would be how it played out, but Harry rued the thought of being officially the third wheel for the rest of their, hopefully, lifelong friendship. As Ron slumped down in his seat, he muttered in Harry’s direction, “Stupid bloody potion. Slughorn probably brewed it incorrectly, anyway. The library? I hate the library.”
Harry raised his eyebrows and smirked in response. “Sure, mate.”
“Very well done, my boy. Excellent work. And, finally, we have our classroom’s very own celebrity, Mr. Potter,” Slughorn grinned and clapped his hands together, looking a bit too excited for Harry’s liking. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and stepped over to the cauldron, walking past rows of desks. As he stood in front of the cauldron, Harry watched the steam spiral into the air from the white, pearly potion. Harry closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, feeling the vapors warm his face. The first scent that hit him was spearmint, almost like toothpaste. Then freshly mowed grass, which reminded him of the Burrow, maybe, like when he and Ron would practice Quidditch in the backyard. The smell continued to wash over him, morphing into a florally perfume smell, like roses, and then old, dusty books, like the Hogwarts library, reminding Harry of study sessions and bushy dark hair, and—
Harry realized that he somehow managed to steal both Hermione and Ron’s Amortentia experiences. And then he realized that “what he found most attractive” weren’t characteristics of one person. He was smelling two. Two extremely familiar people.
And Harry decided quickly that he was not ready to deal with any implications of such things. So, when prompted by Slughorn, Harry told a quick lie. “It smells like broomstick polish and treacle tarts. Makes sense to me.” That sounded nice enough, and could’ve easily been true. Ron and Hermione looked too busy with their own revelations and introspections anyhow—neither noticed the way that Harry was purposefully avoiding their gazes for the rest of the week, stammering excuses for why he needed to turn in early or avoid study sessions in the library. He needed to plan for Quidditch tryouts, anyway. And if Ron managed to earn his place as the Gryffindor Keeper, well, who would doubt that any favoritism for Harry’s best friend was only platonic in nature?
And if Harry continued to live in denial for the next two years, who could blame him? He was a little busy, after all, fighting for the lives of all of Wizard-kind and taking down the darkest wizard of all time. His time hunting Horcruxes with Ron and Hermione was so dangerous and terrifying that it was easy to distract himself from the way his heart tugged whenever Hermione leaned her head on his shoulder, seeking his comfort, or the way he was inconsolably heartbroken when Ron left. And if he still got choked up at the memory of Ron showing up, saving his life and finding the sword in one fell swoop, that was none of anyone’s business. Seeing Ron’s worst nightmare that the Horcrux brought to life, like some twisted antithesis of the Mirror of Erised, and watching Ron’s face crumble as Riddle-Harry and Riddle-Hermione kissed in front of him—well, that served to solidify Harry’s determination to forget any frivolous romantic notions. “She’s like my sister, Ron. I love her like a sister, and I reckon she feels the same way about me. It’s always been like that, I thought you knew.” The words tasted like poison, but the relief in Ron’s eyes, his Ron, back in his life again, was addicting. Ron and Hermione were all he knew. It was always the three of them. Harry would do anything to keep it that way, in whatever form they’d give it to him. He’d accept the barest minimum, if he got to keep them in his life.
It wasn’t as if Harry hadn’t tried to deal with his problem, in his own way. He kissed Ginny Weasley a few times, after all, in a half-hearted attempt to find love elsewhere. Harry cut that off shortly after the war, however, as it only served to remind him of another Weasley. He sincerely doubted Ginny would appreciate the knowledge that Harry was imagining her brother when he was kissing her. Some thoughts are much, much better left unsaid. Ginny wasn’t too bothered by the breakup, a fact for which Harry was extremely grateful. Harry couldn’t imagine much worse than being banned from Weasley family gatherings, and that was coming from a formerly neglected orphan who had been used as an instrument of war. Even such cases had their personal priorities. These priorities (namely, Sunday dinners at the Burrow with Hermione and the Weasleys) kept any wayward potential feelings for his two best friends firmly bottled up, locked away in the furthest recesses of Harry’s mind, held in similar contempt as that time he had briefly died, and that time he watched his godfather get murdered. Harry felt this was appropriate, and that he was dealing with his emotions in a rational way.
After the war and their kiss in the Chamber of Secrets, Ron and Hermione quickly coupled up, ceremoniously announcing their union as boyfriend and girlfriend one Sunday in July of 1998, a few months after the Battle of Hogwarts. Molly and Ginny ooed and awed appropriately, and Harry plastered on a smile, ready to be the supportive best friend for the rest of his life. He could be that. He’d have to be able to be that.
“Oh, you dears. I always hoped we’d have Hermione in the family officially,” Molly said effusively. “And of course, Harry, we’ve always considered you a son. This is the best news I could’ve hoped for after… well. After everything we’ve been through.” Everyone sobered up at the noticeably empty chair.
Ron, as he so often did, broke the tension in the room. “Jesus, mum, it’s not like we’re engaged to be married yet! One thing at a time!”
Molly reached over to pat his hand. “Of course, no rush on that, sweetie. Though, I’m certainly not too young for grandkids…”
Hermione let out a loud squawk and Ron buried his face in his arms on the table, though Harry could see the tips of his ears were bright red. Their reactions were enough for Harry’s smile to turn genuine, a laugh escaping at their expense. Even George met his grin across the table, a rare sight as of late, and Ginny lightly swatted her mother’s arm, shouting “Do NOT start on this!” The light from the fire bathed the room in a gentle orange warmth, pairing nicely with the warm chicken and vegetable soup in their bellies. He could do this, Harry thought. This could be enough.
Everyone agreed that it was natural for Harry to take over Grimmauld Place, as Sirius had left it in his will. Technically not a Black, he wasn’t sure he could make any magical ownership claims, but the wards opened to him easily. It only took a few suitcases to be fully moved in. One finds that a year on the run leaves you with shockingly few possessions.
Ron and Hermione came over every day, at first, to help him clear all the rubbish. Harry had very little sentimentality towards the dark and dreary objects, most of which were branded with the House of Black insignia. He hardly needed any reminders of the dark magic he had spent his entire childhood fighting. Everything could go, for all Harry cared.
Kreacher and Hermione put up a fight, the former more so than the latter. Every piece of china became an argument of historical significance, of ancestral ties to his godfather. Harry was at least able to shut Hermione up with a quick reminder of what these ‘ancestral ties’ were fighting for in the war. She pursed her lips and threw the teacup and saucer in the bin. When they came across some clearly expensive ancient jewelry, encrusted with diamonds and precious gems, Harry and Ron cast many rounds of detection spells, trying to discover any curses or traces or dark magic. When the spells came back clear, Harry pocketed most of it, much to the interest of his two best friends. Secretly, he sent half of it to Andromeda and half of it to Narcissa. If Andromeda wanted to sell her share for Teddy, all the better, as he wrote in a quick note attached to the jewels. Narcissa was harder for Harry to explain to himself—he supposed it was an attempt to thank her for saving his life and risking everything she loved, or perhaps an attempt to connect with one of his godfathers’ last blood relatives. An attempt to keep the Black name from dying with him, for better or for worse.
Regardless, he never heard back from Narcissa, and Andromeda insisted on thanking him in person, which Harry promised he would agree to, soon. If Harry wasn’t ready to meet his godson for the first time after Remus had died… Well, that, too, wasn’t anyone’s business.
Renovations were all going well and good. That is, until, one night, when Harry bravely entered Sirius’s room for the first time since the war. He remembered the photos of his parents and letters, and was terrified that he would find more if he attempted to clear the room out. Worse, he was terrified that he wouldn’t find anything more, and there was nothing new to learn about his parents and their closest friends. Curiosity got the better of him. So, Harry entered.
The Gryffindor banners and Muggle pin-up posters were as he remembered, if covered in an even more impressive level of dust. Harry sat on the crimson quilt on the four poster bed and looked around, an immediate apple forming in his throat from being surrounded by so much of his godfather. He collapsed backwards onto the bed, and felt a sudden painful thud against his head.
“What the hell?” he muttered under his breath, reaching behind his head to rub at the newly sore spot. With his other hand, he reached under the covers and found a leather bound, worn journal. Harry’s pulse quickened, fully traumatized by other such diaries, and quickly cast his familiar dark magic detection spells, finding nothing suspicious. Harry felt a pit in his stomach, but nevertheless opened the cover and read the inscription on the inside cover.
Property of: Sirius Black
If found, return to: Moony, or Mr. Harry James Potter
Harry swallowed thickly. Seeing as Moony was no longer in the land of the living, he supposed that the journal had found its way into the correct hands. Whether or not those hands were ready for what was written inside, well, that was a question for someone far less impulsive than Harry. He turned the page to the first entry.
August 2, 1993
If you are reading this journal, then presumably I have been taken back to Azkaban, or I am dead. Bloody bummer, that. I don’t know how many opportunities I’ll have to sit down to write, so I am going to get to the important bits right away.
Remus, I love you. I have always loved you. The thought of you kept me from losing my fucking mind in Azkaban (sorry for the language, Harry). I would never betray James. I hope that in your heart, you know that. Nothing in my life has ever mattered more than the two of you, and Lily. We switched to Wormtail at the last minute, I was so fucked up that I thought it would be for the best, and that fucker betrayed them, betrayed Harry, too, and then framed me. It’s my worst regret, even if it was a mistake I’d never knowingly make. I’ll never forgive myself. But you have to know it wasn’t me.
Harry, I am so sorry that I didn’t have the chance to know you, but I was made your godfather when you were born, and I remain so still. Harry, when the dust settles, nothing would mean more to me than to properly know you and care for you, I have a house we could live in—
Harry couldn’t read further, even though he desperately wanted to, because the tears were flowing so fast that his vision blurred, and his chest felt as though it would burst from the sobs, and he could hardly get any air into his lungs, though he panted as hard as he could to try. Harry had these attacks frequently enough to know that there wasn’t much to be done except ride it through to the end, so Harry fell to the ground in the fetal position and tried very hard not to die.
That was how Ron and Hermione found him about an hour later. The worst of it had passed, but he was so bloody tired—a full body tiredness that reached his bones. He had heard them enter through the floo and call his name, but he was far too exhausted to respond. He knew them well enough to know they’d search everywhere until they found him, and he felt peace with that.
“Ron! He’s here! Oh, Harry, are you okay? What happened?” He felt her cold hands brush the sweat-drenched hair from his forehead.
“Bloody hell, mate, you scared the shit out of us. Wait, Hermione, is he alright?” Ron’s voice sounded sharp and panicky, a disconcerting sound from someone normally so sure and steady. He blinked his eyes open and saw the familiar bright red of Ron’s hair.
“‘m fine,” he coughed out, and his voice sounded gravelly. “Jus’ fell, is all,” he lied, unconvincing even to his own ears.
“Ron, help me get him to his bed,” Hermione ordered, and Ron would do just about anything Hermione asked him to do. Harry felt strong arms underneath him, and then felt himself being lifted into the air. He would try to remind himself later to be embarrassed about this. For now, he let his head rest against Ron’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar Amortentia smell of him. “You’re gonna be alright, Harry. We’ll get you to bed, alright?,” Harry heard Ron speaking softly to him. Why was it that his friends always had to take care of him? A bloody burden, he was. Ron must’ve set him down on the bed, because Hermione was taking his glasses off and fussing with his pillow until he grumbled and waved her off. The next thing he knew, he was drifting off into fitful sleep.
The next morning, the sunlight filtering through the curtains slowly roused Harry. He slowly stretched his arms out and reached blindly for his glasses. It took a moment to get his bearings, then remembered how he had gotten into bed last night. Fuck. It was going to take a lot of crisis management to reassure Ron and Hermione that he was perfectly fine and coping well. He got up and pulled on a pair of worn jeans (had someone taken off his pants last night before tucking him in? Merlin, another bloody humiliation to deal with). He left his bedroom and started to get his stories straight before he would floo to Hermione and Ron’s apartment a few blocks over. He was halfway down the Grimmauld staircase when he heard movement in the kitchen, and the smell of bacon hit his nose. That was about the same time that he processed the piles of suitcases and bags in the front hallway.
“Hello?,” he called, not exactly alarmed, but certainly confused.
“We’re in here, mate!,” he heard Ron’s familiar deep voice calling from the kitchen.
Harry wandered in and took in the sight in front of him. Ron was at the stove, magically frying bacon and eggs on a skillet. He had bed worn hair and was still in his pajamas—a Chudley Cannons tee-shirt and fuzzy hippogriff pajama pants. Hermione was sitting at the kitchen table, a Muggle crossword in front of her and a pen in her hand. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun at the back of her head and she was wearing a Weasley jumper. They looked perfectly themselves, both of them. Harry felt his heart go soft, looking at his two favorite people in the world.
“What are you two still doing here? I must’ve just passed out from exhaustion, you know how hard I’ve been working on fixing this place up. I’m fine, really, you didn’t have to stay the night. And what’s with all the luggage?”
Hermione met Ron’s eye nervously. “Well, Harry. If it’s alright with you… Um, after last night, and, I mean we’ve been considering it for a while but never knew when to bring it up, well…,” she trailed off, looking at Ron meaningfully for help.
“We’re moving in,” he announced, matter of factly. “Well, if that’s alright with you.”
How could he ever say no to that? It was exactly what he had always pictured for his life after school, all he had ever thought to hope for. And yet, he’d be living with the two people he loved most in this world, wanted most in this world, and would be the third wheel in every instance on their private journey to everlasting love. Nothing could sound worse. Nothing could sound better.
Harry was undeniably, irrevocably, uncontrollably, heart achingly, immensely, most certainly screwed.
“I suppose that’s alright, yeah.”