Twenty-three minutes later—after Harry's enhanced hearing had been subjected to what could only be described as the most comprehensive debate on sock appropriateness in recorded history—the four of them finally stood outside Andromeda Tonks's cottage.
"Right," Harry said, pausing at the garden gate with the air of a general surveying a particularly volatile battlefield. "I feel obligated to point out that I've just spent the better part of half an hour listening to you lot argue about whether Ron's left sock constitutes a crime against fashion or merely a misdemeanor against basic human decency."
Ron's ears went predictably scarlet. "There's nothing wrong with my socks!"
"Ron," Harry replied with devastating calm, "your left sock has a hole so large I could post a letter through it. Your right sock appears to be held together by hope, desperation, and what I'm fairly certain is a very confused Permanent Sticking Charm."
"They're comfortable!" Ron protested.
"So is being naked," Harry shot back smoothly, "but we don't generally recommend it for formal social visits."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose with the long-suffering expression of someone who had once believed her friends might eventually mature. "Could we possibly focus on the matter at hand?"
"Which is?" Harry asked, tilting his head with mock innocence.
"Meeting your godson without traumatizing anyone!"
"Ah," Harry nodded sagely. "Yes, well, speaking of traumatizing people..." He gestured toward the cottage, which sat before them looking tidy but fragile—like grief had polished all the sharp edges until they gleamed with brittle brightness. "My enhanced senses are currently cataloguing approximately seventeen different varieties of emotional residue clinging to this place. Sorrow, exhaustion, hope so fragile it's practically crystalline, and what I can only describe as 'the specific despair that comes from changing nappies at three in the morning while questioning every life choice that led to this moment.'"
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "That's... very specific."
"I'm very gifted," Harry replied with a grin that was equal parts charm and insufferable smugness. "Also, I can hear Teddy's heartbeat from here, and it's doing this fascinating thing where it speeds up every time someone walks past his room. Which suggests either he's got separation anxiety, or he's plotting something."
"He's six months old, Harry," Hermione said patiently.
"Hermione, love, I was defeating Dark Lords at eleven. Age is no guarantee of innocence." Harry's expression turned thoughtful. "Besides, he's half-Tonks, which means mischief is probably encoded in his DNA. And half-Lupin, which means he's got the strategic planning to make that mischief truly spectacular."
Ron shifted uncomfortably. "Should we be worried?"
"Ron," Harry said with the air of someone delivering profound wisdom, "we should always be worried. Worry keeps us sharp. Panic, however, is optional." He paused, considering. "Though given that I'm about to meet my godson while radiating enough cosmic energy to power a small city, panic might not be entirely unreasonable."
"You're not radiating that much energy," Ginny said loyally.
Harry shot her a look. "Ginny, three birds just spontaneously changed direction to avoid flying over me. A passing cat took one look in my direction and decided it had urgent business elsewhere. And I'm fairly certain that rosebush just grew two inches in the time we've been standing here."
"The rosebush was already growing," Hermione said, though she glanced at it uncertainly.
"Was it growing in patterns that spell out 'welcome home' in ancient Kryptonian?" Harry asked mildly.
They all turned to look at the rosebush. The flowers had indeed arranged themselves into what could generously be described as alien script.
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered.
"Language, Ronald," Harry said primly. "There are plants present."
"You're taking the piss."
"I'm always taking the piss, Ron. It's one of my more endearing qualities." Harry straightened his shoulders, a movement that somehow managed to suggest he was prepared to arm-wrestle the concept of grief itself into submission. "Right, ground rules before we venture into the emotional minefield that is 'family visit with cosmic-powered godfather and reality-responsive infant.'"
"Rules?" Ginny asked, amused despite herself.
"Rule one," Harry began, ticking off on his fingers with the precision of someone who had clearly given this considerable thought, "my enhanced senses mean I'll be picking up everything. Every spike of anxiety, every flutter of hope, every moment when someone's pulse does something interesting because Ron's decided to comment on the weather. I will do my absolute best not to react like a nosy git with superhuman perception, but if I start looking twitchy, assume it's because someone's cardiovascular system is having opinions about the conversation."
"My cardiovascular system doesn't have opinions!" Ron protested.
"Ron, your cardiovascular system has more opinions than a Daily Prophet editorial board. Right now it's having very firm thoughts about whether you should have worn the blue jumper instead."
Ron looked down at his red jumper. "How could you possibly—"
"Enhanced hearing, mate. Your heart rate just did this fascinating little skip-stutter thing. Classic 'fashion regret' pattern."
Hermione closed her eyes and counted to ten in what sounded like ancient Greek. "Harry."
"Yes, my intellectually superior friend?"
"Rule two?"
"Rule two," Harry continued cheerfully, "we are not, under any circumstances, going to mention the cape."
"What cape?" Ron asked, looking around.
"Exactly!" Harry beamed. "There is no cape. There has never been a cape. The cape is a vicious rumor started by jealous superheroes who lack my natural panache."
"You don't actually have a cape," Ginny pointed out.
"Details," Harry waved dismissively. "The point is, we're not discussing imaginary capes in front of my godson's grandmother, because explaining why I might theoretically need a cape involves conversations about cosmic responsibility that I'm not prepared to have before noon."
"It's nearly two o'clock," Hermione said.
"Fine, before I've had proper tea."
"You had tea twenty minutes ago."
"That was crisis tea, Hermione. I'm talking about civilized, sit-down, discuss-the-universe tea. Completely different beverage category." Harry's grin turned wicked. "Rule three: Ron is not allowed to comment on anyone's appearance, magical abilities, or life choices until he's successfully gone twenty-four hours without his socks attempting to achieve independent sentience."
"My socks are fine!"
"Ron, your left sock just winked at me."
Ron looked down in alarm. His sock was, indeed, exhibiting what could only be described as suspicious animation.
"That's just... the elastic," he said weakly.
"The elastic has developed a sense of humor," Harry observed. "How delightfully terrifying."
"Moving on," Hermione said firmly, "before Ron's clothing achieves full consciousness and demands voting rights."
"Rule four," Harry continued, undaunted, "if Teddy does anything magical, reality-bending, or generally impossible, we react with calm acceptance and absolutely do not use phrases like 'bloody hell,' 'how is that even possible,' or 'should babies be able to do that?'"
"What should we say?" Ginny asked.
"Try 'how lovely, dear,' or 'what a clever boy,' or my personal favorite, 'perfectly normal Tuesday afternoon behavior.'"
"What if it's not normal?" Ron asked nervously.
Harry's grin could have powered the cottage's lighting for a week. "Ron, my friend, I'm a cosmic-powered alien hybrid who spent last month learning to fly and shoot energy beams from my eyes. Teddy is a reality-responsive metamorphmagus with the combined magical heritage of the Black family, the Lupin family, and whatever delightfully chaotic genetics Tonks contributed to the mix. 'Normal' sailed out the window, waved goodbye, and relocated to a different universe entirely."
"So we're just... accepting chaos?" Hermione asked.
"We're embracing chaos," Harry corrected. "There's a difference. Accepting suggests we're reluctant participants. Embracing suggests we're enjoying the ride."
The front door opened before they'd taken three steps up the path, revealing Andromeda Tonks in all her complicated glory.
Harry's enhanced senses immediately catalogued everything: the way grief had carved new lines around her eyes but left her posture unbroken, how exhaustion clung to her like a second skin that she wore with Black family pride, the faint tremor in her hands that spoke of too many nights spent pacing with a crying infant, and underneath it all, the steel-bright determination of someone who had decided that losing her daughter was tragedy enough—losing her grandson was simply not an option.
"Harry," she said, and her voice carried warmth wrapped in careful control. "Ginny warned me you'd... changed."
Harry offered his most disarming smile, the one that managed to be charming and self-deprecating while somehow making his frankly ridiculous shoulders look like an afterthought. "Changed for the better, I hope? As opposed to changed in a 'now requires special containment facilities and a team of dedicated handlers' sort of way?"
The corner of Andromeda's mouth twitched—a ghost of her daughter's irrepressible humor. "Definitely for the better. You look... substantial. Like you've finally grown into yourself."
"Well, I did add about two stone of muscle and the ability to benchpress a dragon," Harry replied conversationally, "so 'substantial' is probably accurate. Though I prefer 'imposingly heroic' or 'devastatingly capable.' 'Substantial' makes me sound like a particularly impressive bookshelf."
"You could probably double as a bookshelf," Ron muttered.
"Ron, if I wanted career advice from someone whose socks are plotting revolution, I'd ask." Harry turned back to Andromeda with theatrical solemnity. "Please excuse my associates. They're still adjusting to my newfound magnificence."
"Your newfound what now?" Ginny asked, poking him in the ribs.
"Magnificence," Harry repeated serenely. "It's a technical term. Comes with the cosmic upgrade package."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose again. "Harry, could you possibly save the superhero ego for after we've been properly introduced?"
"Hermione, the superhero ego is part of the package. It's like... cosmic confidence. Comes with the enhanced everything else." Harry's expression softened as he looked back at Andromeda. "But in all seriousness, Mrs. Tonks, I should have come sooner. Should have been here when you needed help, not off having an identity crisis with alien genetics and power management issues."
Andromeda's carefully maintained composure wavered for just a moment. "Harry, you don't owe me apologies. You've been through enough—"
"I've been through exactly what I needed to go through to become someone worthy of being Teddy's godfather," Harry interrupted gently. "But that doesn't excuse leaving you to handle everything alone. Family doesn't abandon family, even when family is figuring out how to exist without accidentally reshaping reality."
"You can reshape reality?" Andromeda asked, one elegant eyebrow arching in the precisely controlled way that only someone with Black family training could achieve.
"Theoretically," Harry said. "I try not to practice without proper supervision. Amazing how quickly 'minor reality adjustment' turns into 'international incident requiring diplomatic intervention.'"
"How quickly?" Ron asked nervously.
"About thirty-seven seconds, according to my last test run."
"You've been testing your reality-altering abilities?" Hermione demanded.
"In controlled environments!" Harry protested. "With proper safety protocols and everything. Well, mostly proper. There may have been some improvisation."
"What kind of improvisation?" Ginny asked, though she was grinning.
"The kind that resulted in a small Welsh village temporarily existing in three dimensions simultaneously," Harry admitted. "But I fixed it! Eventually. With minimal long-term dimensional scarring."
"Dimensional scarring?" Andromeda repeated faintly.
"Nothing serious," Harry assured her. "Just a few lingering temporal echoes and a pub that serves tomorrow's special today. Actually improved the local economy, if I'm being honest."
Andromeda stared at him for a long moment, then stepped back from the doorway. "Right. Well. I suppose compared to dimensional manipulation, babysitting a reality-responsive metamorphmagus should be relatively straightforward."
"That's the spirit!" Harry beamed. "Though I should probably mention that Teddy might react... interestingly... to my presence. Enhanced magical signature and all that."
"Interestingly how?"
"Hard to say. Could be anything from accelerated magical development to spontaneous levitation. Possibly both. Almost certainly both, actually, given his parentage."
They stepped into the cottage, which immediately wrapped them in warmth that had been carefully cultivated over generations. Harry's enhanced senses picked up layers of magic woven into the very foundations—protective charms, comfort spells, and the kind of deep-rooted enchantments that spoke of a family that had weathered storms and emerged stronger.
"Cozy," he commented, then paused. "Also heavily warded. Excellent work, Mrs. Tonks. I count at least fifteen different protective configurations, plus what appears to be a rather sophisticated early warning system."
"You can see the wards?" Andromeda asked, impressed despite herself.
"See them, hear them, feel them," Harry confirmed. "They're practically humming. Very well-crafted. Though I notice you've left a few gaps that could use reinforcement."
"Such as?"
"Dimensional stability anchors, for one. Reality-responsive individuals can sometimes create... fluctuations... that standard protective wards don't account for. Also, you might want to consider adding some energy dampening fields, just in case Teddy develops any interesting projection abilities."
"Energy projection abilities?" Andromeda's voice climbed slightly.
"Oh, it's probably nothing," Harry said airily. "Just that I can already sense his magical signature from here, and it's doing this fascinating resonance thing with mine. Could be perfectly harmless. Could also result in spontaneous light shows and minor telekinetic episodes."
"Minor?" Ron squeaked.
"Relatively minor," Harry amended. "I mean, what's the worst that could happen? He's only six months old."
"Famous last words," Hermione muttered.
"Hermione, my dear paranoid friend, 'famous last words' would be something like 'how hard could it be to teach a cosmic-powered godfather and a reality-responsive baby to coexist without breaking the laws of physics?'"
A soft cooing sound drifted from deeper in the cottage, followed by what sounded distinctly like tiny, delighted laughter.
Harry's entire demeanor shifted, cosmic confidence giving way to something softer and infinitely more vulnerable. "Is that...?"
"That's Teddy," Andromeda said, her own voice warming. "He's been awake for about an hour. Usually takes a nap around this time, but today he seems... restless. Almost like he's been waiting for something."
"Waiting for someone," Harry corrected quietly, and for the first time since they'd arrived, he looked genuinely nervous. "Mrs. Tonks, what if I'm too much? What if my enhanced everything overwhelms him? What if—"
"Harry," Ginny interrupted, slipping her hand into his, "breathe."
"I am breathing. I'm breathing very efficiently. Enhanced lung capacity and everything."
"You're spiraling."
"I don't spiral. I engage in rapid-fire contingency planning."
"You're spiraling," Ron confirmed. "It's the same face you made before facing the Hungarian Horntail."
"This is more terrifying than the Hungarian Horntail," Harry admitted. "Dragons just want to eat you. Babies... babies judge you. With their tiny, all-seeing eyes and their perfect little faces that make you want to be better than you actually are."
"You're going to be fine," Hermione said firmly. "You're Harry Potter. You've faced down Dark Lords, survived impossible odds, and apparently gained cosmic superpowers. You can handle one six-month-old baby."
"Can I, though? What if he takes one look at me and decides I'm completely inadequate as godfather material? What if my cosmic energy signature gives him nightmares? What if—"
A particularly enthusiastic gurgle echoed from the nursery, followed by the sound of something magical happening—the air seemed to shimmer slightly, as though reality had just hiccupped.
"Right," Harry said, straightening his shoulders and summoning his trademark grin. "Let's go meet my godson before he accidentally redesigns the nursery."
The nursery was a masterpiece of grandmother's devotion translated into practical magic. Soft blues and greens shifted gently across the walls like living watercolors, while overhead, delicate enchanted mobiles danced in patterns that seemed to respond to the emotional temperature of the room. Protective charms layered the space so thickly that Harry could see them shimmering in the air like golden silk threads.
And there, sitting in the center of it all like a tiny emperor surveying his domain, was Edward Remus Lupin.
Harry's breath caught somewhere in his chest and forgot how to escape.
Six months old, cheeks that could have inspired poetry, and eyes that held the kind of cosmic curiosity that made philosophers weep. But his hair—his magnificent, impossible hair—was cycling through shades of turquoise and teal like a living aurora had decided to take up residence on his head.
The moment Teddy's gaze fixed on Harry, everything else seemed to fade to background noise. Those impossibly bright eyes widened with recognition, his hair shifted to a deep, cosmic midnight that caught light in ways that defied several laws of physics, and he let out a sound of pure, delighted recognition.
"Oh," Harry breathed, taking a careful step closer to the crib. "Oh, you absolute marvel. Look at you."
Teddy responded by reaching up with both tiny hands, making urgent grabbing motions that clearly translated to 'pick me up right now, cosmic godfather person.'
"He likes you," Andromeda said softly. "His hair only shifts that quickly for people he feels completely safe with. Usually just me, occasionally Mrs. Weasley when she visits."
"He's perfect," Harry said, voice thick with something that might have been awe or terror or love so fierce it threatened to remake the universe. "Absolutely, completely perfect."
"Are you going to pick him up, or just stand there cataloguing his perfection?" Ginny asked, though her voice was warm with understanding.
"I'm..." Harry paused, looking suddenly vulnerable in a way that made him seem younger despite his enhanced everything. "What if I hurt him? What if I'm too strong, or too much, or—"
"Harry James Potter," Andromeda interrupted, her tone carrying all the authority of someone who had survived the Black family, raised a daughter like Nymphadora, and was currently managing to keep a reality-responsive baby alive and thriving, "that child has been waiting six months to meet his godfather. Pick him up."
Harry reached into the crib with movements so careful they would have made a bomb disposal expert proud, scooping Teddy up like he was made of spun glass and starlight. The moment Teddy settled against his chest, the baby's hair exploded into a cascade of gold so bright it actually illuminated the room.
"Bloody hell," Ron whispered, then caught himself. "I mean, how lovely, dear."
"Natural born diplomat, our Ron," Harry murmured, but his attention was entirely focused on the tiny human currently examining his face with the intensity of a scholar studying ancient texts. "Hello, Teddy. I'm Harry. I'm your godfather, and I'm very sorry it took me so long to come meet you."
Teddy responded by grabbing Harry's nose with one determined fist and letting out a gurgle that sounded distinctly approving.
"I think that's forgiveness," Hermione said softly.
"Or he's planning to redesign my face," Harry replied, but he was grinning so widely it threatened to split his head in two. "Either way, I'm impressed with his grip strength. Definitely takes after his mother."
Teddy's hair shifted again, this time settling into a perfect match for Harry's own cosmic-enhanced color—that impossible shade of midnight that seemed to hold entire galaxies.
"Now that," Andromeda said, wonder creeping into her voice, "is new. He's never mirrored anyone's appearance that precisely before."
"It's not just mirroring," Hermione said, leaning closer to study the phenomenon with academic fascination. "Look at his eyes—they're shifting too. And there's this sort of... resonance... happening."
She was right. Teddy's eyes, which had been the warm brown of his mother's, were gradually shifting toward the same cosmic green as Harry's enhanced gaze.
"He's not just changing to look like you," Ginny observed. "He's synchronizing with your magical signature."
"Is that... normal?" Ron asked nervously.
"Ron, we established twenty minutes ago that nothing about this situation qualifies as normal," Harry replied, rocking Teddy gently as the baby continued his fascinated examination of cosmic godfather features. "But it feels... right. Like he's recognizing something familiar."
"Magical resonance," Andromeda said thoughtfully. "Remus mentioned once that metamorphmagi sometimes form sympathetic connections with people they trust completely. But I've never seen it happen this young, or this dramatically."
"Maybe it's because Harry's not exactly normal people," Ginny suggested.
"I prefer 'exceptionally enhanced people,'" Harry corrected. "It sounds more official."
Teddy chose that moment to pat Harry's cheek with one tiny palm, and the touch sent a small ripple of golden light across both their skin.
"Did you see that?" Hermione demanded excitedly.
"Hard to miss," Ron said faintly. "They're both glowing."
"It's magical resonance made visible," Andromeda breathed. "He's not just changing to look like you, Harry. He's forming a genuine sympathetic bond. Family recognition at the deepest possible level."
"Family," Harry repeated quietly, looking down at Teddy with an expression of such profound tenderness that everyone in the room felt their hearts do something complicated. "Yeah. That's exactly what this is."
Teddy gurgled again and waved one hand. Several of the enchanted mobiles overhead responded by spinning into new, more complex patterns, while the protective charms around the nursery hummed with renewed strength.
"Okay," Ron said, backing toward the door, "that's definitely not normal baby behavior."
"Ron," Harry said patiently, "Teddy is the son of a metamorphmagus and a werewolf, raised by a woman who survived being disowned by the Black family and is now being visited by his cosmic-powered godfather. 'Normal baby behavior' was never really on the table."
"But should babies be able to control enchanted mobiles with vague hand gestures?"
"Should godfathers be able to fly and shoot energy beams from their eyes?" Harry countered. "We're well beyond the realm of 'should' here, mate."
Teddy seemed to find this conversation amusing, because he let out a delighted laugh and clapped his hands. The clap produced a small shower of sparkling lights that danced around the nursery like miniature fireworks.
"Merlin's beard," Hermione breathed, "he's not just reality-responsive—he's actively manipulating ambient magic."
"Is that good or bad?" Ginny asked.
"It's remarkable," Andromeda said, though she was watching the light show with the expression of someone mentally recalculating every childproofing measure in the cottage. "And potentially... challenging."
"Challenging how?" Harry asked, though he was still grinning as Teddy created more sparkly light displays.
"How do you teach a six-month-old magical restraint?" Andromeda asked helplessly. "How do you explain 'indoor voice' to someone who can apparently make reality sparkle on command?"
"You don't," Harry said simply. "You teach him control by showing him love, boundaries, and what healthy power looks like in practice. You let him know he's safe to experiment and make mistakes, and you make sure he always has someone to catch him if things go wonky."
"Wonky?" Ron repeated. "Harry, he just made the air sparkle. What happens when he gets older? What happens when he's having a tantrum and accidentally warps local spacetime?"
"Then we deal with it," Harry replied with unshakeable calm. "Together. As a family."
"But what if—"
"Ron," Harry interrupted gently, "what if he grows up feeling loved, supported, and confident in his abilities? What if he becomes someone who uses his power to protect people instead of hurt them? What if we stop borrowing trouble from a future we can't predict and focus on giving him the best possible foundation right now?"
Teddy, as though sensing the emotional weight of the conversation, reached up and patted Harry's cheek again. This time, the golden light that passed between them spread to encompass the entire room, washing everyone in warm, gentle radiance that felt like the magical equivalent of a hug.
"I think," Andromeda said softly, "that's the first time this room has felt completely peaceful since Remus and Nymphadora died."
"He's a powerful little thing," Harry observed, pressing a gentle kiss to Teddy's forehead. "But power in the service of love? That's not something to fear. That's something to celebrate."
"Spoken like someone who's recently figured out how to manage cosmic-level abilities without destroying everything," Ginny said, though her tone was fond.
"Exactly!" Harry beamed. "I'm uniquely qualified to help a magical baby navigate the complexities of reality-responsive power management. It's like the universe specifically designed me for this job."
"The universe has a twisted sense of humor," Hermione muttered.
"The universe has excellent taste in cosmic guardians," Harry corrected. "Though I admit the training program was a bit unconventional."
Teddy babbled something that sounded remarkably like agreement, then grabbed a handful of Harry's shirt and held on with the determination of someone who had no intention of being put down anytime soon.
"I think you've been claimed," Andromeda observed, and for the first time since they'd arrived, she looked genuinely relaxed.
"Good thing I cleared my schedule," Harry replied. "Though we should probably discuss logistics. Custody arrangements, travel plans, educational considerations for a reality-responsive metamorphmagus..."
"Travel plans?" Andromeda asked.
"I'm heading to America next week," Harry explained. "Consulting work. Something about cosmic responsibilities and international relations. I was hoping... that is, if you're comfortable with it... Teddy could come with me."
"You want to take a six-month-old baby on an international consulting mission?" Ron asked incredulously.
"I want to take my godson on a family trip that happens to involve some professional obligations," Harry corrected. "There's a difference."
"What kind of professional obligations?" Andromeda asked carefully.
Harry's grin turned wicked. "The kind that involve teaching American farmers about cosmic agriculture, demonstrating advanced energy projection techniques, and possibly preventing an international incident involving overzealous government officials and alien technology."
"And you think bringing a reality-responsive baby to this will help how, exactly?" Hermione demanded.
"Babies are excellent diplomatic accessories," Harry replied serenely. "Universally disarming, naturally charming, and absolutely no one expects cosmic negotiations to involve nappy changes and feeding schedules."
"That's..." Andromeda paused, considering. "Actually rather brilliant."
"I have my moments," Harry said modestly, then looked down at Teddy, who was now making the air around them shimmer with contentment. "Besides, he's already demonstrating remarkable magical control for someone who's barely mastered sitting up. A little international travel might be exactly what he needs to develop his abilities in a safe, controlled environment."
"Controlled environment?" Ron squeaked. "Harry, you just described your mission as 'possibly preventing an international incident involving alien technology!'"
"Details," Harry waved dismissively. "The important thing is that Teddy would be with family, learning about his heritage, and getting proper magical guidance during a critical developmental period."
"And if something goes wrong?" Andromeda asked.
Harry's expression turned serious, cosmic power flickering behind his eyes like distant stars. "Then he'll be with someone who can fly faster than any threat, project enough energy to level a city block, and who would literally remake reality before letting anything happen to him."
The room fell silent except for Teddy's happy babbling and the soft hum of protective charms settling into new configurations around them.
"Right," Andromeda said finally. "When do we leave?"
—
Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt was having what could charitably be described as "one of those days," though if he were being completely honest—which his position rarely allowed—it was more accurately "one of those months that made him question every life choice that had led to him accepting the most politically suicidal job in the wizarding world."
The stack of parchment on his desk had achieved architectural significance. Reports from seventeen different departments, each somehow managing to contradict the others while simultaneously demanding immediate ministerial attention for problems that ranged from "mildly concerning" to "potentially apocalyptic." The Post-War Reconstruction Committee wanted funding for dragon-proof infrastructure. The Department of Mysteries was requesting permission to investigate "temporal anomalies" (which Kingsley suspected was their euphemism for "things we broke and are hoping nobody notices"). The Goblin Liaison Office was demanding hazard pay after what they termed "the Incident with the Cursed Tea Set," and the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had submitted a formal complaint about garden gnomes developing political consciousness and forming what appeared to be agricultural unions.
"Wonderful," Kingsley muttered, reviewing the gnome report with the expression of a man watching his sanity pack its bags and emigrate to somewhere more hospitable to mental health. "Revolutionary garden ornaments. That's exactly what we needed to complete our post-war recovery experience."
His personal assistant—a competent witch named Patricia who possessed the organizational skills of a general and the diplomatic instincts of a seasoned ambassador—appeared in his doorway with the expression that meant either "good news" or "news so catastrophically bad that it's achieved a sort of transcendent horror."
Given his recent luck, Kingsley suspected the latter.
"Minister," Patricia said with the careful tone of someone delivering information that might cause its recipient to question the fundamental nature of reality, "we've received reports from the Auror patrol units."
"Routine reports, I hope?" Kingsley asked with the optimism of a man who had learned that hope was usually disappointed but couldn't quite manage to abandon it entirely.
"Not exactly routine, sir."
"Extraordinary reports, then. The sort that involve forms in triplicate and strongly worded memoranda to various department heads?"
"The sort that involve Harry Potter, sir."
Kingsley's quill froze halfway through signing a requisition for dragon-proof filing cabinets. He looked up slowly, with the expression of someone who had just heard the words that guaranteed his afternoon was about to become significantly more complicated.
"Harry Potter," he repeated carefully. "Our Harry Potter? The Harry Potter who vanished in a flash of mysterious light twenty-eight days ago and hasn't been seen since, despite intensive searching by half the Auror department and approximately seventeen different international magical law enforcement agencies?"
"That would be the one, sir."
"And what exactly are these reports telling me about our missing Boy Who Lived?"
Patricia consulted her notes with the thoroughness of someone who understood that accuracy was crucial when delivering news that would probably cause the Minister to need very strong tea and possibly several shots of Ogden's Finest.
"Well, sir, according to multiple independent witness accounts from the village near Ottery St. Catchpole, someone matching Harry Potter's description was observed arriving at the Burrow yesterday afternoon."
"Someone matching his description," Kingsley repeated slowly. "I take it there's more to this story?"
"Quite a bit more, sir. The witnesses describe someone who looked like Harry Potter if Harry Potter had been... enhanced."
"Enhanced how?"
Patricia cleared her throat delicately. "Taller, sir. Significantly taller. Also considerably more muscular, apparently capable of flight without visible magical assistance, and according to Mrs. Pemberton from the village post office, 'devastatingly handsome in a way that made her forget her own name and possibly her marriage vows.'"
Kingsley stared at his assistant with the expression of someone trying to process information that didn't fit any known categories of normal occurrence. "Mrs. Pemberton said that?"
"She was quite... detailed in her description, sir. I have it all documented if you'd like to review her statement, though I should warn you that parts of it venture into territory that could charitably be described as 'personal interest' rather than 'witness testimony.'"
"I think I'll pass on the detailed review for now," Kingsley said hastily. "What else do we know?"
"The subject was observed spending approximately three hours at the Burrow, during which time residents reported unusual atmospheric phenomena—golden light displays, temporary enhancement of local magical signatures, and what one witness described as 'the feeling that gravity was more of a suggestion than a law.'"
"Gravity was a suggestion," Kingsley repeated flatly.
"According to Mr. Diggory from the adjoining property, sir. He also mentioned that his prize roses experienced 'unprecedented growth patterns' and his garden gnomes became 'suspiciously well-behaved' for the remainder of the afternoon."
Kingsley pinched the bridge of his nose with the gesture of a man who felt a headache approaching at roughly the speed of a Hungarian Horntail with territorial issues. "Patricia, please tell me this story gets more reasonable as it continues."
"I'm afraid not, sir. If anything, it becomes more... extraordinary."
"Of course it does. Continue."
"The subject was then observed departing the Burrow in the company of Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Ginevra Weasley. They proceeded to the residence of Andromeda Tonks, where they remained for approximately two hours."
"Why Andromeda Tonks?"
"She's been caring for her grandson, sir. Edward Lupin. Harry Potter's godson."
"Right, of course. The logical explanation for our mysteriously enhanced missing person visiting with his godson after a month-long absence." Kingsley's voice carried the particular tone of someone who had given up on logical explanations and was now simply trying to catalog the impossible. "And what happened at Mrs. Tonks's residence?"
"According to the Auror observation team, sir, there were several incidents of unexplained magical phenomena. Spontaneous light displays visible through the windows, temporary alterations to local weather patterns, and what Auror Jenkins described as 'reality looking slightly unstable around the edges.'"
"Reality looked unstable around the edges?"
"Auror Jenkins has a degree in theoretical magical physics, sir. When he says reality looks unstable, we generally take his professional opinion seriously."
"Fair enough," Kingsley conceded. "Though I have to ask—why are we just hearing about this now? If Harry Potter has returned after nearly a month missing, shouldn't that have been considered urgent enough for immediate reporting?"
Patricia's expression shifted to something that suggested the answer to this question was going to explain several things while simultaneously raising numerous additional questions.
"Well, sir, that's where the situation becomes... politically complicated."
"More complicated than 'our missing national hero has apparently returned from wherever he's been with physical enhancements, reality-altering abilities, and a tendency to make gravity behave like a polite suggestion'?"
"The observation team wasn't entirely certain it was actually Harry Potter, sir."
Kingsley blinked. "Come again?"
"The physical description matches, but enhanced to a degree that made positive identification... challenging. According to the reports, the subject appears to be at least six feet tall, possesses what Auror Martinez described as 'a physique that suggests intimate familiarity with heavy lifting and possibly divine intervention,' and demonstrates capabilities that exceed known limits of human magical ability."
"So our missing Boy Who Lived has returned as some sort of... magically enhanced supersoldier?"
"That would be a reasonable interpretation of the available evidence, sir."
Kingsley was quiet for a long moment, staring at the reports on his desk with the expression of someone trying to decide whether he was dealing with a national security issue, a medical emergency, or simply the latest chapter in Harry Potter's documented tendency to make the impossible look like a normal Tuesday afternoon.
"Patricia," he said finally, "I want you to set up a meeting. Discreet, unofficial, somewhere neutral. I need to speak with Harry Potter—or whoever this enhanced individual claims to be—before word of this reaches the Prophet or the International Confederation of Wizards."
"Of course, sir. Any particular venue in mind?"
"The Leaky Cauldron should work. Public enough to avoid accusations of secretive government manipulation, private enough for actual conversation. And Patricia?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Send word to the Weasley family that I'd like to discuss recent developments involving their houseguest. Make it clear that this is a friendly inquiry, not an official investigation. The last thing we need is for them to think we're treating Harry Potter like a potential threat."
"Even if he might actually be a potential threat, sir?"
Kingsley considered this question with the gravity it deserved. Harry Potter with normal magical abilities had managed to defeat the most dangerous dark wizard in recent history. Harry Potter with enhanced physical capabilities and reality-altering powers could theoretically... well, the possibilities were both inspiring and terrifying.
"Patricia," he said slowly, "Harry Potter has spent his entire life being treated like either a weapon to be used or a threat to be controlled. If he's gained additional power, the last thing we want to do is give him reason to think the Ministry considers him an enemy."
"So we're approaching this as..."
"As concerned friends checking on someone who's been missing for nearly a month and appears to have undergone some sort of... life-changing experience. Diplomatic, supportive, and absolutely no mention of containment protocols or threat assessment procedures."
"Understood, sir. Though I should mention that the Auror observation team did note one additional detail that might be relevant."
"Which is?"
"When the subject departed Mrs. Tonks's residence, he was carrying what appeared to be an infant. Edward Lupin, presumably. The reports suggest he was handling the child with extreme care and demonstrated what Auror Chen described as 'obviously practiced competence with baby care, which was somehow more terrifying than any display of supernatural abilities.'"
Kingsley stared at her. "Harry Potter's supernatural parenting skills are what the Aurors found terrifying?"
"According to Auror Chen, sir, anyone capable of managing reality-altering magical phenomena while simultaneously ensuring proper infant care represents a level of multitasking ability that suggests either extensive training or natural talent that exceeds normal human limitations."
"So we're dealing with an enhanced Harry Potter who's also apparently become competent at childcare."
"That appears to be an accurate assessment, sir."
"Right." Kingsley stood up, straightening his robes with the decisive gesture of someone who had just made a decision that would either solve all their problems or create entirely new categories of crisis. "Set up that meeting, Patricia. And send a message to Arthur Weasley—personal message, not official correspondence. Let him know that I'd like to have a friendly chat with Harry about his recent travels and see if there's anything the Ministry can do to help with his... readjustment to normal life."
"Even though his life doesn't appear to be normal anymore, sir?"
"Patricia, Harry Potter's life has never been normal. The best we can hope for is that his new version of abnormal remains compatible with our ongoing efforts to maintain some semblance of order in the wizarding world."
"And if it isn't compatible, sir?"
Kingsley paused at the window of his office, looking out over the bustling chaos of magical London—witches and wizards hurrying about their daily business, completely unaware that their reality might be subject to alteration by a cosmically enhanced young man with a documented history of heroic decision-making and a pronounced tendency to prioritize doing what was right over doing what was officially sanctioned.
"Then we adapt, Patricia. We adapt, we support him however we can, and we hope that Harry Potter with cosmic-level abilities maintains the same fundamental decency that Harry Potter with normal magical powers demonstrated throughout the war."
"And if he doesn't, sir?"
Kingsley's smile was grim but not without warmth. "Then we're probably all doomed anyway, so there's no point worrying about it. Besides, have you ever known Harry Potter to abuse power for personal gain?"
"No, sir. If anything, his track record suggests an almost pathological dedication to self-sacrifice for the greater good."
"Exactly. Which means that Harry Potter with enhanced abilities is either going to be the best thing that's happened to the wizarding world since the invention of Floo powder, or he's going to give himself a nervous breakdown trying to save everyone from problems they don't even know they have."
"Those seem like very different outcomes, sir."
"Patricia, we're talking about Harry Potter. When has anything involving Harry Potter ever resulted in simple, straightforward outcomes?"
"Never, sir."
"Precisely. Now, set up that meeting, draft a memo to department heads about 'recent developments in post-war recovery efforts,' and make sure our Auror teams understand that any additional surveillance of Harry Potter or the Weasley family should be conducted with maximum discretion and minimum official documentation."
"Understood, sir. Anything else?"
Kingsley returned to his desk, settling into his chair with the expression of a man preparing for what was either going to be a very interesting conversation or a complete disaster, and possibly both simultaneously.
"Yes," he said with a slight smile. "Make sure Tom at the Leaky Cauldron has his best private room available, and warn him that he might want to reinforce his glassware. If Harry Potter really has developed reality-altering abilities, I'd rather not be responsible for explaining to the insurance adjusters why the meeting room underwent spontaneous renovation during a friendly chat with a national hero."
"I'll make sure Tom is properly prepared, sir."
"Good. And Patricia?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Cancel my appointments for the rest of the week. I have a feeling that whatever happens at this meeting is going to require extensive follow-up meetings, emergency consultations, and quite possibly a complete revision of our protocols for managing individuals with cosmic-level magical abilities."
"I'll clear your schedule, sir."
As Patricia departed to make the necessary arrangements, Kingsley Shacklebolt sat alone in his office, contemplating a stack of reports that detailed the return of Harry Potter as some sort of enhanced superhuman with reality-altering abilities, excellent childcare skills, and a documented tendency to make gravity behave like a polite suggestion.
"Thirty years as an Auror," he muttered to himself, "fifteen years fighting dark wizards, five years dealing with post-war reconstruction, and now I get to have a diplomatic meeting with a cosmic-powered version of the Boy Who Lived who's apparently become competent at both saving the world and changing nappies."
He reached for his emergency bottle of Firewhisky, then paused, reconsidering.
"On second thought," he said to the empty office, "if I'm going to discuss interdimensional travel and supernatural parenting with Harry Potter, I should probably be completely sober. Merlin knows what kind of revelations are waiting for me."
But even as he pushed the bottle aside and returned to his reports, Kingsley couldn't suppress a slight smile. Whatever else Harry Potter's cosmic enhancement meant for the wizarding world, at least things were never going to be boring.
And after nearly a month of wondering whether their hero was dead, captured, or simply lost somewhere in the vast complications of post-war reality, boring was a small price to pay for knowing that Harry Potter—enhanced, mysterious, apparently capable of casual flight and supernatural childcare—was alive, well, and still making the impossible look like just another day at the office.
"Right then, Harry," Kingsley said to the morning light streaming through his office windows, "let's see what sort of adventure you've brought back for us this time."
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