Harry looked at Teddy instead, at the sticky fingers and the way the boy leaned instinctively toward him without fear.
"Finished eating," Harry said gently. "Then we'll go out. Go shopping for clothes, get ice cream, and I'll even show you where the park is."
Teddy nodded solemnly, then grinned. "Okay."
Behind him, George exhaled, long and shaky, like someone who'd been holding their breath for years. Harry picked up the unopened letter and set it aside, face down. Let the wizarding world shout. Let it threaten, posture, and demand. Here, in this small rental room with its humming wards and plates and chosen family, the future had already begun. And this time, Harry would not let it be taken. Harry gathered plates with a flick of his wand, stacking them neatly in the sink. Teddy watched, fascinated, then held up his own sticky hands for inspection.
"Magic later," Harry said, amused. "First- wash."
Teddy made a face but complied, standing on tiptoe at the sink while Harry guided his wrists under the tap. The water warmed at a thought. Teddy hummed tunelessly, hair shifting through shades of pink and green as the sugar wore off. George leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching like he was afraid the scene might vanish if he blinked. Daryl finished folding the parchment and slipped it into a slim leather case, already mentally three steps ahead and pretending not to notice the way the room had subtly reordered itself around a child-size gravity well.
"All right," Harry said when Teddy's hands were clean and mostly dry. "Shoes."
Teddy scampered off, reappearing with mismatched trainers that had definitely seen better decades. Harry crouched to help tie them, fingers steady, movements practiced in a way that surprised even him. He'd learned quickly. Some instincts, it turned out, were just waiting for permission.
George cleared his throat. "I, uh. I can come too. If that's-"
Harry looked up. "I was counting on it."
Something flickered across George's face- relief, gratitude, fear-all colliding and settling into resolve. He nodded once. "Right. Shopping. Ice cream. Normal."
"Strategic normal," Daryl corrected mildly, already reaching for his coat.
They layered wards before stepping out-nothing flashy, just careful, considerate magic that bent attention away without erasing them entirely. Daryl locked the door, Teddy's small hand slipping into his with unquestioning ease. The contact grounded him in a way nothing else quite managed. The street outside was brisk and loud, alive with buses and early shoppers and the hum of a city that didn't care who Harry Potter was. Teddy's eyes went wide, tracking everything at once.
"That's a dog," he announced, pointing.
"Yes, it is."
"And that's a pigeon."
"Also correct."
Teddy nodded, satisfied, as if the world had passed inspection. They started with clothes. The shop was cramped and chaotic, racks packed too tightly, mirrors that made everyone look slightly distorted. Teddy wrinkled his nose at itchy jumpers and gravitated immediately toward anything soft. Harry let him choose. George hovered, offering commentary that was half-joke, half-aching sincerity.
"Those are brilliant," George said, holding up a jumper with dancing dragons. "Very intimidating."
"They're smiling," Teddy pointed out.
"Psychological warfare," George replied solemnly.
Harry caught Daryl watching them, expression unreadable but intent. "You're thinking about exit routes," Harry said quietly.
"Always," Daryl replied. Then after a beat, "But I'm also thinking this is going to complicate their narrative."
Harry smiled thinly. "Good."
Ice cream came next. Teddy got chocolate, predictably. George got a mint chocolate chip and claimed it was a statement of principle. Harry didn't argue. They sat on a low wall near the park while Teddy talked with his mouth half-full, crumbs and confidence everywhere, pointing out ducks and inventing elaborate backstories for strangers passing by.
"Harry," Teddy said suddenly, solemn again. "This is my home now, yeah?"
Harry didn't hesitate. "Yes."
Teddy considered that, then leaned fully into Harry's side, content. "Good."
Somewhere, wards hummed. Somewhere, owls would be landing on desks, and tempers would be flaring. But in the weak winter sun, with sugar on his fingers and laughter in the air, Harry felt it settle into place-not fragile, not borrowed.
This wasn't a pause between battles. It was a line held. They didn't go back to the rental right away. The park had done its work-burned off sugar, steadied Teddy's magic, softened something sharp in all of them-but as they stood to leave, Harry felt it again. That prickle at the base of his skull.
Not danger.
Memory.
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, rose unbidden in his mind: the narrow facade pressed between buildings like it resented existing at all, the iron railings, the way the door had always felt like it was watching you. He hadn't thought of it as home in years. Maybe ever. But it was still his. He stopped walking. George took another step before realizing Harry wasn't beside him. He turned.
"What's up?"
Harry looked down at Teddy first, at the way the boy's grip tightened automatically when Harry stilled. "There's another place," he said slowly. "Safer. Older. Wrapped in magic most people can't even touch."
Daryl's eyes sharpened. "Define 'can't'."
"Fidelius," Harry said. "Still intact. I'm the Secret-Keeper."
George let out a low whistle. "You mean-"
"Grimmauld Place," Harry confirmed.
Silence, thick and immediate.
George's expression twisted. "That house is a nightmare."
"Yes," Harry said evenly. "But it's a controlled one. Layered protections, ancestral wards, and no public records tying Teddy to it. And most importantly, " He met George's eyes. "We can decide who's allowed inside."
Daryl was already nodding, mind racing ahead. "If the Fidelius hasn't been compromised, we can rekey access permissions. Hard lock."
"Hard," Harry agreed.
George hesitated. "The Order-"
"-doesn't get automatic access anymore," Harry finished.
That landed harder.
They walked the rest of the way in thoughtful quiet, the city's sounds dull and distant, as if London itself were holding its breath. Instead of turning back toward the rental, Harry slowed and guided them down a narrow, unremarkable stretch of street where the buildings leaned together like tired old men. He stopped between two identical townhouses and leaned in, whispering first to Daryl, then to Teddy, his voice barely more than a breath.
"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place."
The air seemed to shudder. Brick groaned against brick as the space between numbers eleven and thirteen stretched and warped. With a sound like something exhaling after years of restraint, a tall, grim house pressed itself into existence, as though it had merely been waiting to be noticed. Teddy's mouth fell open, eyes wide and shining. Daryl just gave a low grunt, arms crossing as he took it in, unimpressed but alert. Number Twelve loomed over them-its windows dark and watchful, paint peeling, iron railings curled like claws around the steps. The place looked deeply unhappy to be seen, a house that remembered too much and welcomed no one. The portico sagged above the door, heavy with shadow, as if it were listening, judging, daring them to come closer.
Harry felt the familiar chill settle in his chest. Grimmauld Place hadn't changed. It was still secretive, still sour, still radiating the sense that whatever lived inside did not forgive easily. He reached for the door anyway. The door creaked open at Harry's touch, protesting as though it resented the idea of being used. Inside, the hallway swallowed them whole. The air was thick with dust and something older-resentment, maybe, like the house itself had opinions and none of them were kind. The door shut behind them with a decisive thud. Teddy flinched. Daryl glanced back once, then forward again, jaw set.