Chapter Text
Expectations never fit Harry properly. It wasn’t that he wanted to defy them, though the thought of doing so sometimes brought him a small, guilty sort of satisfaction. A smidgen of undeserved joy. No. It was simpler than that. The expectations placed on him had always felt misaligned, as if they had been built for someone else entirely. They were shaped around a version of him that the public preferred. A symbol. A story. They didn’t know him, and their expectations proved that more than anything else.
The public saw him not as a person, but as a figurehead. A living, breathing statue to be molded in their perfect image.
They expected him to be the people's icon. The golden savior brought out at certain times to be paraded out on demand. Commanded to attend the ceremonies and press conferences with a smile. Perfect and steady. Instead, he retreated. He spent more and more time inside Grimmauld Place, growing increasingly distant from civilization. Allowing Wiccan society to move forward without him. The less he appeared in the public’s view, the louder the whispers that followed.
They expected him to become an Auror. To continue saving the world, just in a uniform this time. To have nothing truly change. He gave up his childhood for this, and now they were prepared for him to give up his adulthood as well. To stand on the front lines so everyone else could sleep peacefully at night. Save the world and fight evil. He was meant to protect every last one of them.
But Harry chose his own path.
Something quieter, much simpler. Softer. One that actually brought him joy.
He enchanted toys for children. Small stuffed dragons that fluttered clumsily through the air. Silly little cats that purred when hugged. It was delicate work. Careful work. And for the first time in his life, it felt like creating, rather than merely surviving. A calling to build something meaningful, in direct opposition to his earlier call to kill and destroy. This new path felt, nice. It felt right.
It brought him happiness.
That, more than anything, seemed to disappoint people.
There had even been expectations about his personal life. Because nothing about his life was off limits to them, after all, they didn’t see him as a person. He was meant to marry Ginny. The war hero and his school sweetheart. A perfect narrative. They would have a large, joyous family. Red hair and green eyes. Holiday photos in the Prophet. A perfect couple turned perfect family.
Instead, he was alone. No family in sight. Not because he didn’t want a family. The desire for one still lived quietly inside him, stubborn and resistant to any part of reality. It was one of his greatest wishes, one of the biggest ones that might never come true.
It just wasn’t the right time.
And he hadn’t found the right person yet either.
Still, that didn’t stop the stares. Even now, months after the war, there were whispers when he stepped outside. Some were genuinely curious. Some disappointed. Some more angry than anything, as though his life belonged to them. His choices. Theirs. As if they owned him and his actions. Owed them a continuation of the story they loved to see. To direct, like a play.
No place outside was safe.
So, he stayed home more often than not.
After everything, Harry had moved in with Sirius, hoping perhaps naively that they might build something resembling a family together. Just the two of them. He just wanted to enjoy the company of his godfather.
But sometimes it felt like two strangers occupying the same house.
Two people living in the same space, just orbiting around each other, never truly meeting or touching. The distance was careful. Polite. There were days when Harry wouldn’t see Sirius at all. He didn’t know if Sirius was just in his room or out of the house entirely. He wouldn’t see anyone for days. Grimmauld Place was large enough for silence to settle between them. The opposite of what Harry craved.
Today, at least, luckily, Sirius was home.
Harry had woken early. Earlier than necessary. He had stood in the kitchen longer than needed, surviving glares from Kreacher at every step of the way. Staring at the cupboards, trying to decide what to make. What would make Sirius happy when he finally woke?
Food was something he understood.
It was a tangible thing. Something he was trained to do by those he called his family. If he made breakfast well enough, warm enough, perhaps it would make up for the space he seemed to take up in Sirius’s life.
Pancakes sizzled softly in the pan. The scent of butter filled the room. A wave of calm contentment filled the air. This is where Harry felt more at home.
When Sirius finally shuffled into the kitchen, he looked half asleep and already irritated with the day. Maybe this would brighten his day if only for a little bit.
“Hey, Sirius,” Harry said gently as his godfather dropped into a chair. “How did you sleep?”
He flipped another pancake, trying to keep his tone light. Casual. Normal.
Sirius didn’t answer immediately. He rubbed a hand down his face and muttered something incoherent. He looked up at Harry, clearly annoyed by the question and the noise. He slumped further into the chair before summoning the coffee pot with a sharp flick of magic.
The mug flew neatly into his waiting hand. Harry noticed the way Sirius flinched at the sound of the spatula scraping the pan. Annoyed.
His heart tightened. Harry couldn’t help but berate himself; of course, Sirius wouldn’t want to talk to him. The Dursleys never did. They had hated the noise in the mornings, too.
Why wouldn’t anyone else?
Harry tried to push that thought away. It wasn’t fair to compare the two. Sirius wasn’t them. It was simply early. Anyone would be irritated before caffeine. It didn’t matter that it was eleven in the morning; it was still the time that Sirius had woken up.
Still, doubt crept in.
Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to talk. Maybe he should have stayed quiet. Maybe the pancakes were just stupid. Stepping over the invisible lines, Harry didn’t know were there.
He told himself that once Sirius woke up properly, he might be hungry. Maybe the pancakes wouldn’t go to waste. Despite everything, he still had to try. He had to earn his keep by putting in the effort in the ways he knew how.
Harry plated the pancakes carefully, stacking them evenly. Syrup set off to the side so it wouldn’t get soggy, without another word.
Then he stepped back. Giving space, trying as always to earn his place, to not be a nuisance. Harry retreated to his little studio.
It had once been a nursery, with pale walls and a small space, but an entire wall was made up of windows, enchanting it to look like a forest. To give more space so it didn’t feel so closed in, but not too open to be vulnerable to attacks.
It was just enough.
The sunlight warmed the space. And with Kreacher’s reluctance, they moved old furniture from around the house. A large cabinet for supplies and a slightly rickety desk were the main pieces he used to work.
It was small.
But it was his, and that was what was most important.
The wall of windows made all the difference. Grimmauld Place could feel suffocating; its dark corridors were heavy with old magic and older traditions. Here, though, it was a spot of retreat, a break from the darkness. Harry, for once, didn’t feel trapped.
Harry crossed to his desk and picked up the half-finished kneazle he had been working on. Its plush fur was chosen with care. A mix of grays and brown, impossibly soft. He had taken special care when painting its eyes. They replicated the intelligence that real kneazles possessed. When tilted, they almost seemed to assess their surroundings. That look was a comfort to Harry, as if the stuffie would protect its child when it finally came time to let it go.
He smiled faintly. Then began his work.
Time slipped away as he worked. As it always did when he was focusing on enchantments. The process required patience, layering multiple charms, that did not always get along. It had to be a precise sequence, or the magic wouldn’t settle correctly. If rushed or in the wrong order, the toy could and most likely would malfunction. Instead of warmth, it could produce heat harmful to children. It always took longer than one would expect.
This enchantment was one that he had never attempted before. The kneazle was something entirely new, not only enchantments he knew how to do, but to layer it together with a detection spell.
Adding too many spells could just be as disastrous as a single spell gone wrong. That was part of the challenge. For this one, he so wanted it to go right. It had an embedded gentle warming charm, not strong enough to burn even the most sensitive skin. Another favorite being added was a heartbeat, the exact one of the child’s mother. The last one was the new one, the one Harry was most nervous about, the detection spell. It would alert a caregiver if the child holding it developed a fever or any common illness.
The newness is what made it satisfying. It wasn’t something he had ever attempted before, but that intrigued him all the more. Creating something that protected instead of destroyed felt right.
By the time he leaned back in his chair, flexing stiffness from his fingers. The light outside had shifted towards late afternoon. He hadn’t heard from Sirius or heard him pass his studio once.
Not that he should expect to.
He was sitting for too long; Harry could feel his body protesting the stretch as he got up and moved back towards the kitchen.
Kreacher was there at the stove, making something in a pot, grumbling darkly to himself as he stirred.
“Mudbloods and their ungrateful little twirps in my mistress's house.”
Harry sighed quietly but didn’t engage; he just needed to brush him off. He had long since learned that arguing only made the tirade worse. Kreacher would never like him, but as long as he wasn’t in the way, Kreacher wouldn’t poison him. At least not yet. And despite Harry only being a half-blood, he was still being treated better than Sirius by the surly elf.
“Kreacher,” Harry said, trying not to enrage the elderly house elf. “Is there anything I can eat, without disrupting dinner?”
“Stupid little boy, playing with dolls,” Kreacher bit back. “Ungrateful little thing here.”
Kreacher shoved a bowl of soup in his hands. Harry tried to stabilize it before it tipped over. Harry turned around and saw it there, a stack of cold, hard pancakes. Exactly where he left it. Untouched.
Beside it sat an empty coffee mug. Kreacher had clearly left it for Harry to find. Harry swallowed and stepped forward to gather the plate. They truly hadn’t been moved, and now they had gone to waste.
He just threw it away and ate his soup. He really needed to try to stop expecting anything else. Harry had to stop trying so hard. To just stay out of Sirius’s way. At least the soup, despite everything, was really good. If he and Kreacher were on any better ground, maybe he would have found the courage to ask him how he made it. Maybe if Harry made soup, it would calm him down.
This is how Harry spent the rest of his week. It became the norm. He might see Sirius for little snippets here and there. The only change was that Harry started to feel unwell. There were just a few moments here and there when a sharp pain seemed to take over his body.
Harry pushed it down and continued on his way. Pain was his usual; it was just nice for it to only be for short, tiny bits. Maybe it was just his body’s way of dealing with the fact that he was no longer in harm’s way. No longer physically abused.
So instead of worrying, he continued his work. It wasn’t until the week’s end that he finally finished the kneazle that had been causing problems. The charms kept fighting each other over many things on such a small object, but he got it settled. For each spell to find contentment with each other. Harry was so excited that he wanted to show Sirius and have him be proud of the work.
Harry knocked on the library door. Sirius was sitting there reading a book.
“Sirius,” Harry said, nervous that Sirius wouldn’t care, but too excited not to show someone. “I wanted to show you something I was working on. Isn’t it cool?” Harry handed his godfather the stuffie. Sirius looked at him and took the stuffed animal from Harry’s hands. He turned it this way and that.
“You know, Harry,” Sirius began casually, not looking at him, “your day was an Auror by the time he was your age.”
Harry’s hands stilled. Paused. Waiting. He knew this was coming; he should have expected it. They have had this conversation before. Sirius leaned back in his chair, passing back Harry’s work with indifference.
“He and I were already in the thick of it. Making a difference. Putting away dark wizards and keeping people safe.”
He always made it clear that Harry was wasting his time with his silly little hobby. It didn’t matter that it made Harry so happy. That the work made him feel peaceful in a way that fighting had never made him feel. It didn’t matter that the thought of becoming an Auror filled me with a panicked, bone-deep dread.
No, Harry was just wasting both of their time.
“Right,” Harry said softly.
Sirius continued talking about legacy and potential. About not hiding from responsibility. The words blurred together.
Harry just nodded and slowly backed out of the room. It would never matter how many amazing things that Harry felt he accomplished; it would never stack up against the accomplishments of his parents.
As the days went by, Harry felt worse and worse. The loneliness may have been consuming him, but it felt more than that, as if everything was spiraling out of control.
He tried reaching out more, without being annoying. Harry felt more at home when he learned to keep his hands busy. Instead of taking down bad guys, he was doing something he loved. It started out just something little that he wanted to do for Hermione’s first child. He crafted a stuffed monkey by hand, stitching unevenly but earnestly, embedding a small warming charm. Just gentle and comforting.
Hermione had cried when she saw it. That feeling of creating something, to bring joy, had rooted itself inside him.
So, he made another one.
Not for anyone in particular. Maybe if he was honest with himself, it was for himself, for the child hidden away in the cupboard who never had anything. Not a single toy to claim as his own. For the boy who had learned too early that comfort wasn’t something meant for him.
From there, it grew.
Harry made more. He made kneazles and dragons. Unicorns and enchanted teddy bears. A lot of soft stuffed animals, both from the magical and the muggle world. His stitching improved. His enchantments become more and more ambitious. Some had small dancing charms or lullabies, warming spells, or the ones that emitted a small light to scare away the darkness. Others even hummed when held close.
His favorites would most likely would always be the heartbeats.
There were more complicated spells, but there was something about embedding the mother’s heartbeat so a part of them would always be with their child that got to him every time.
He had yet to find a way to make some of the more powerful ones charmed to last longer than six months without starting to fade, but even temporarily, they were powerful. He would recharm them for free for the next few years if they brought them back to make up for that fact.
St. Mungo’s pediatric ward ordered them regularly. So, when the child had to remain in the hospital alone, they could have a small piece of their mother with them as they healed, even when they physically could not be there. Feeling something familiar seemed to allow them to heal more quickly. It was steady and safe.
It was good to help, to bring people a sense of calm. It mattered. To bring peace instead of pain.
It gave his days meaning.
And when he focused hard enough, when he threaded a needle through fabric or layered magic with painstaking precision, the crawling beneath his skin quieted.
Almost.
Sometimes it worked; Harry felt more stable. More reliant on himself. He still couldn’t gain enough courage to talk to Sirius about the flashes of pain. Part of him was too used to hiding things, and his friends didn’t see him enough to know something was off.
Still, with him feeling better mentally, he reached out to Sirius once again. To help with the loneliness. There were evenings when they laughed over dinner. When Sirius told stories about James that made Harry feel warm instead of hollow. In those brief moments, it almost felt like family. Like maybe they were learning how to exist together.
But just as often, the house swallowed them into separate corners. And Harry found himself alone. Though maybe now Sirius would hear him. Maybe he could turn to his family.
Later that evening, Harry stood outside the library again. He knocked gently before entering.
Harry stepped inside. “Hey. I, um, don’t feel well.”
Sirius glanced up from his book. “What do you mean?”
“I’m honestly unsure,” Harry admitted. “It’s been a few days. I feel off. Tired. My hands ache. I feel random sharp pains out of nowhere. It’s just…” Harry hesitated. “It feels like it’s getting worse.”
Sirius waved a hand dismissively. “You’re fine. Probably just run down. You’ve just been too cooped up in that little workshop of yours.”
Harry shifted his weight. “It doesn’t feel like that.”
“Prongs and I got sick all the time at your age,” Sirius replied. “You just need to sleep it off. Toughen up a bit.”
“I… I guess.” Harry said hesitantly. His words landed heavier than they should have.
“There you go,” Sirius said, already returning his attention to his book. “You’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”
Harry stood there for a moment longer. Waiting for something. He wasn’t quite sure what that was. Concern, maybe.
Instead, there was nothing.
He nodded once, though Sirius wasn’t looking at him, and left the room.
It wasn’t better.
Not even close.
As he walked back down the dim hallway, a dull ache pulsed beneath his skin deeper than the illness, sharper than simple fatigue. Something restless and new. Something wrong.
Harry didn’t know why he thought it would be better now that he was living with his godfather.
That he would be cared for, but he should have expected this. For very little to change.
The war was over. He was no longer alone in the world. He had a family now. But somehow the loneliness had followed him anyway. It no longer mattered that he had someone just a few doors away. Harry felt alone, like he was facing whatever was happening inside him single-handedly.
At least here in Grimmauld Place, he could choose how to spend his time. That was something. And it was good. But freedom during the day did little to quiet his thoughts at night.
Lying in bed, staring at the dark canopy above him, Harry felt them creep back in, the doubts, the expectations, the unease that had been settling in his bones for days. It consumed him.
Tonight, it was worse. The sick feeling returned, worse than ever before. It wasn’t like a stomach bug or the flu. There was no nausea, no fever, no congestion. It was something deeper. Stranger.
It felt like his skin was crawling.
As if tiny insects were burrowing beneath the surface, skittering along his nerves. Buzzing in his skull. Itching from the inside out.
He sucked in a breath and raised his arm into the thin beam of moonlight cutting through the curtains. He turned it slowly, inspecting his skin for bumps or swelling, something visible. As if there could actually be bugs under there. something explainable.
And then. His fingers shifted. Lengthened, sharpened. Black claws gleamed where his nails should have been. Claws, real claws.
For a split second, he couldn’t breathe. It seemed almost a trick of the light. They curved slightly, wicked and unnatural in the silver light. Panic crashed into him all at once. This wasn’t possible. His hands weren’t normal; this had never happened before. No one he knew just talked about magical claws. Wizards just didn’t grow talons.
His heart hammered against his ribs. How was he going to hide this? He could barely keep people from staring at him as is. The boy who lived, the savior, the person who had eyes on him at all times, this deformity would be so obvious.
Harry would have to hide away, retreat even further into Grimmauld Place. Disappear entirely. His breath grew shallow as he flexed his hand. And just like that, the claws retracted.
Harry blinked rapidly and turned his hand this way and that in the dim light. No matter which angle he looked at his hand, it was back to normal. The skin was smooth, human, with no trace of the black talons.
The sharp black claws were just lies. A figment of his overacting brain. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe exhaustion was playing dangerous tricks on him. He let out a shaky laugh that didn’t sound real even to his own ears.
Yes, that had to be it. It was just some stress. He needed to stay busy. Keep his mind occupied. That would fix it. After all his friends were busy rebuilding their lives. They didn’t need him spiraling over imagined claws. The war was over, he had taken enough from them already, enough time, enough energy.
He rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut.
Tomorrow would be better.
The next morning, he tried to bring it up casually as if he wasn’t panicking the entire time.
“Sirius,” Harry asked, leaning against the doorway of the sitting room again, forcing his voice to stay light and even. “Have you ever heard of a wizard…growing claws? Or something like that?”
Sirius looked up from the newspaper with mild confusion. “Claws?”
“Hypothetically,” Harry added quickly.
Sirius snorted, “Of course not. Wizards don’t grow claws, Harry. We’re not magical beasts.”
There was a long pause.
“You should know that,” Sirius added, a dismissive tone clear in his voice.
Harry forced himself to nod. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
That settled it then. It had to be in his head. But as the days passed, Harry didn’t feel any better. He felt worse. There were times when he could have sworn that the claws returned, but when he looked back down, they were once again gone.
The crawling sensation came and went, sometimes faint, sometimes so intense he had to clench his hands into fists to stop himself from scratching at his own skin. His bones didn’t feel right; everything ached. Even his stuffed animals, his pride and joys, were not enough. The sunshine was not enough. Nothing was a big enough distraction from the pain and discomfort that followed him every day.
Harry was out of sorts, a pressure beneath the surface. It was clear he was on his own. So, he did the only thing that made sense to him in the moment: he went back to his studio. Keeping his hands busy.