Archive of Our Own ^beta

It hurt to be alive when Sirius was dead.

Harry sat at the top of the Astronomy Tower, gazing out over the Hogwarts grounds. A gentle breeze caressed his skin. The tower was so very high up; it was almost ridiculously easy to slip off the ledge and fall to the earth below.

At least, Harry let himself think like that, since there were protective spells woven into the tower to prevent any falls of intentional inclinations.

Not that Harry was seriously considering anything.

Not really.

It just hurt—everything, from his chest to his bones, everything ached and ached with no end in sight. The pain could never go away. Nothing could bring back his godfather. Nothing could bring back the last of his family.

That dream had died.

“Harry?”

His head turned; Hermione stood at the top of the stairs, her hand clutching the map to her chest. She smiled, stiff, but relieved.

“Hi,” said Harry.

“Sorry, uh… You missed Transfiguration. We were worried,” said Hermione quietly. She folded the map and put it away in her bag; she sat down at his side, putting a hand on his knee. “I-I have something for you.”

“I’m fine, Hermione,” whispered Harry. “You don’t—”

“No, don’t do that—you’re not okay and that’s okay. You’re not supposed to be okay after what happened to…” Hermione trailed off. She dug inside her bag, pulling out a metal hook. “I wanted to give you this—it’s a crochet hook.”

Harry took it and twirled it between his fingers, noting the coolness of it. “What’s this for?” he asked in a low voice.

“You know how I was knitting all those clothes for the house elves?” asked Hermione. She gestured at the hook. “Well, I tried crochet first, but I never could get the hang of it. See, Mum is a knitter and I learned from her, so I had this extra hook I wasn’t using. I thought…” Hermione ducked her head and her tone dropped. “I thought maybe you could learn? Just to take your mind off things. Sometimes, it’s nice to have something to do with your hands.”

Harry swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Hermione,” he said, voice hoarse. “I appreciate it.”

“I’d give you some yarn, but I’m all out.”

“It’s okay. I can find some.”

Hermione sniffled; she threw her arms around his shoulders. Harry couldn’t bring himself to return the hug, but he rested his chin on her shoulder and let her hold him.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Hermione.

“Yeah,” whispered Harry. “Me, too.”

And the tears fell.

The Order had his best interest at heart when they threatened Harry’s relatives, but they let the secret slip. Once inside the pristine house of Number Four, Privet Drive, after Harry’s trunk had been shoved into the cupboard under the stairs, Vernon turned to Harry with a calculating look.

“What’d they mean by that—your godfather has died?”

“He died,” said Harry, tone hollow, emotion clogging his throat.

Vernon narrowed his eyes. “The insane one? The mass murderer one?”

Harry nodded.

Crack.

Harry slammed against the wall, temple catching the corner of one of the photographs of a happy family which didn’t include him. He collapsed to his knees, dazed. He put a hand to his mouth, tasting blood; his lips throbbed and his temple stung. Vernon towered over him, fists clenching at his sides.

“There will be no funny business,” hissed Vernon. “Or you’ll wish you were dead like your godfather.”

“Y-Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

Harry fled.

He didn’t leave his room, only taking bathroom breaks and the rare shower when he could barely take the scent of himself anymore. Of the paltry amount of food shoved through the flap in his door, he ate little of it.

Days were spent staring into space; nights were his only solace.

In a pleasant little cottage, Harry dreamt of a sitting room with oversized plush armchairs, ones which were so soft and comfy, he sank deep into the cushions. A coffee table with a crocheted lace doily sat between two of the armchairs, a steaming kettle, two teacups, and a platter of biscuits on its surface. 

Bookshelves adorned the entirety of one wall; books filled the shelves with many more piled on top. One bookshelf held countless kinds of different yarn. Knickknacks—some cheap looking, some high quality, and some homemade—decorated what little space there was on the shelves. A large brick fireplace took up the majority of another wall, keeping the room warm with its flickering light.

A crocheted doll with black yarn for hair lay on one of the cushions; a couple of other crocheted plushies were strewn about the floor. Crocheted throws lay over a few of the armchairs.

The room was cluttered, yet cozy. It felt like home. Harry spent his dream nights settled in one of the armchairs, drinking tea—which wasn’t very good, unfortunately—and munching on biscuits.

A shadowed figure joined him.

It was a man, one much taller than him, but there were no defining features besides his height and the silhouette of his figure. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of him, but the silence was a bit too much to bear.

“The tea is shit here in these dreams,” said Harry, lifting the cup slightly. “But the biscuits are the best I’ve had.”

The figure stiffened; he turned towards Harry.

“Oh, you really can hear me.”

The man inclined his head.

“Ah, well. Guess that’s how my dreams go, then. Probably a bit touched in the head now—at least it feels like it after… after…” Pain lanced through his heart. Harry took a sip of his tea and grimaced. “Gah, nasty stuff.”

He drank it anyways. The figure didn’t move, watching him from the shadows. Harry’s tongue loosened.

“I’m tired,” whispered Harry. “I’m so very tired. When I wake up, it’s like I haven’t slept. My eyes hurt, but crying only makes it worse. I don’t know what to do anymore. It’s like… nothing will ever get better. I’m just counting the days until I die by Voldemort’s hand.”

Harry glanced over at the fire, watching the dancing flames as the void in his chest grew. The figure stood frozen, unmoving.

“Or maybe I already have,” murmured Harry.

He sipped his tea again; it was still bitter.

“I think I ought to give crocheting a try tomorrow.”

Harry snuck out of the house with a handful of pounds he nicked from Petunia’s purse. Risky, he knew, but there was spitefulness within every throb in his cheek where Vernon had backhanded him again.

He hopped onto a bus and got off at a stop at the nearest shopping center. He’d never been at one of these places before, Petunia always leaving him at home when she went shopping. Harry had little idea where to find yarn.

He wandered, peeking inside different shops. After an hour, Harry found the perfect place, a craft shop with a plethora of supplies. He walked inside and glanced though the aisles, finding fabrics, beads, and so much more—until he found the motherlode.

“Wow,” murmured Harry.

There were six aisles dedicated solely to yarn. The selection was vast, from thin yarn, chunky yarn, colorful yarn, and even funky looking yarn with strange textures woven through it. As Harry strolled down the aisles, he grew overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the selection. He spent twenty minutes touching different yarns, trying to find something he liked, but the longer he browsed, the more overwhelmed he became.

Maybe this was a stupid idea.

“Need a little help, dearie?” Harry turned to see an old woman with short white hair. She smiled through her wrinkles and said, “You look a little lost, son.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Just a bit.”

“What’re you looking for?” asked the woman.

Harry shrugged. “Not sure. I have a crochet hook and… well, I’ve never done this before, but…” He inhaled. “I think I’d like to learn how to crochet.”

The woman motioned to the nearest yarn selection. “The cheapest yarn is usually good for beginners, but I find it unpleasant to work with because it can strip the oils from your hands.” She picked up a skein of dark green yarn and offered it to Harry; the yarn was soft to the touch. “This’ll work up nicely for your first try—plus, it matches your eyes.”

“Thank you,” whispered Harry.

“Oh, you might want this, too,” said the woman, grabbing a small book from the end of the aisle and handing it to Harry. “A beginner’s guide to learning crochet.”

“Thank you.”

Her sad smile was tender; the woman nodded. “Of course, dearie.”

The pounds only covered a single skein of yarn and the book, which came with a hook, a fabric needle, and a row marker. Harry clutched his purchases to his chest, taking the bus home. He shoved the yarn and book beneath his jumper and snuck back inside unnoticed. When Harry slipped into the bathroom, he looked at his reflection.

A wicked bruise lay stark on his cheek and around his right eye.

He sat on his bed, legs crossed, book open in his lap, with his crochet hook and yarn in hand. The telly blared through the house. It took Harry three tries before he managed to work a slip knot onto his hook. At a slow, painstaking pace, Harry worked the hook with the yarn. His starting chain came out lopsided and wonky, but after an hour of work, he’d gotten the hang of chaining.

“Mm…” murmured Harry, tongue sticking out between his teeth, brow pinched as he reread the instructions. “What’s next… Wait, second row? How am I supposed to do that?”

The fireplace flickered merrily, its low light reflecting warmth throughout the sitting room. A basket of yarn sat at Harry’s feet. With each dream every night, the room changed slightly, as if people lived here during the day. Books had been moved; toys had been scattered to new places; new crochet projects had been started.

Harry sat curled up in the armchair closest to the fire with a blanket over his lap. His hands expertly worked the shimmering red yarn, his movements deft with age old experience. The soft yarn was exquisite to work with, the color almost magical, as if the woven threads were made from feathers of a phoenix.

“If only I could crochet like this when I wake up,” said Harry, chuckling.

“Potter.”

Harry’s head whipped up, heart racing. The figure solidified before his eyes, color flooding through the shadows; clad in a muggle suit, looking far too human, stood Voldemort; his red eyes narrowed.

“Ah, fuck, no—not you!” snapped Harry. “Get the hell out of my dream!”

“Your dream?” drawled Voldemort. “This is my dream. You have been intruding upon my sleep for a week now.”

“Fuck you. Leave me alone.”

Don’t ruin this for me. These dreams are all I got.

Harry dropped his chin, pointedly ignoring the man and going back to his project. Instinctively, he knew it would become a cardigan. 

Voldemort raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Are you… knitting?”

“It’s crocheting, you uncultured fuck!” snapped Harry, affronted.

“Says the boy spewing obscenities.”

“Ugh, just fuck off already.”

“I am not here because I want to be,” hissed Voldemort, striding closer, the fire dancing light across his countenance. He gestured to Harry’s project. “Do you not think I have anything better to do than watch you mindlessly weave every night?”

Harry glared at him. “And how’s that my problem, huh? Aren’t you supposed to be an all powerful dark lord? Can’t even control your own dreams?”

Irritation flashed in Voldemort’s eyes; nostrils flaring, his chest heaved. But he froze, staring at Harry. He took another step closer. Harry tensed. Voldemort leaned down and gripped Harry by the chin, finger and thumb pinching his cheeks slightly.

Harry tried to jerk away. “What’re you—”

“Where did you get this?” demanded Voldemort.

“Get the fuck off me!”

“Where did you get this?” hissed Voldemort; he gestured to Harry’s eye with his other hand. “This bruise. What happened?”

Harry stilled. His mouth went dry; he swallowed. He met Voldemort’s gaze, the firelight illuminating the man’s face. Voldemort’s brow pinched in his fury, eyes blazing red. Discoloration drew Harry’s attention.

An identical bruise to the one Harry had seen in the mirror on his own face adorned the flesh around Voldemort’s right eye.

Panic rushed through Harry. “Get out!” he screamed.

And the dream ended.

Each night, Harry dreamed of the quaint cottage, of the bitter tea and delicious biscuits while seated cozy beside the fire, expertly crocheting his luxurious red cardigan when he still struggled to start his second row in the waking world—and each night, Voldemort remained his unwanted visitor.

And in Voldemort like fashion, the silly Dark Lord pitched a tantrum.

Harry crocheted through them all, ignoring the man.

By the third night, Voldemort took to sulking in the corner.

By the fifth night, Voldemort silently perused the books and on the sixth night, he tried some of the tea, only to grimace at the taste of it.

“Yeah,” said Harry softly. “The tea sucks here for some reason.”

Voldemort’s puzzled stare was pensive.

Vernon found out about the nicked pounds.

Harry lay on his stomach, back smarting from a whipping, neck throbbing from nearly being strangled. His hands shook; he couldn’t crochet. He rested his cheek on his flattened pillow and closed his eyes, wishing for nothing more than the world of his dreams.

When he opened his eyes, Harry found himself at peace in his usual armchair. A turtle neck jumper conveniently hid the bruises. The beautiful yarn rested in his hands; Harry marveled how well he managed to crochet here, how easy it came to him. There was no hesitation.

“I wish I could remember how I’m doing this,” whispered Harry.

Movement shifted in the corner of his eye. Voldemort took a seat in the armchair closest to Harry. He pulled out a bag of tea leaves and prepared them in the kettle on the coffee table. With a heaping spoonful of honey dipped into his tea, Voldemort sat back in his seat with his cup, crossing his long legs and regarding Harry over his cup with a measured gaze.

“Potter, where did you get that bruise?” asked Voldemort.

Harry pursed his lips together.

“You have the marks of hands strangling your neck, do you not? Who tried to kill you?”

He… He wasn’t trying to kill me.

Even though he was sure Vernon would be thrilled if he were dead.

Sometimes, Harry felt the same.

“None of your business,” whispered Harry.

“It is my business,” said Voldemort, setting his cup down. He gestured to his own neck, revealing identical bruises.

What the hell?

“Why are you so hungry?”

W-What?

“I-I’m not—”

“Who whipped you?”

“N-No one!” cried Harry, panic thrumming in his chest. “Stop asking me these questions. You’re ruining what little peace I get to have!”

“Where—”

The dream ended abruptly. Harry jolted awake. He twisted in bed, wincing at the dull, throbbing pain in his back. He sat up, heart racing, listening frantically for any signs of life from the Dursleys. It was dark outside; the house remained still in sleep. He slowly relaxed.

Harry put a hand to his throat.

Why did Voldemort have the same bruises as me?

Shaken, Harry turned his lamp on. He settled on the bed in the least painful position he could and pulled out his project. He studied the instructions and tried again; it took him three times before it finally clicked. Soon, his hands fell into a rhythm, one reminiscent of his dream self.

The sun rose. The rest of the household woke. Harry finished his second row as the morning sunlight streamed through the window. He held up the short project, admiring it.

His lips twitched upwards slightly.

The Dursleys left him alone for the day. Harry snuck out of the room only to use the bathroom; he munched on leftover saltines he’d gotten with his canned soup from the night before. Late midday, Harry finished his first project: a woolly hat. He wasn’t quite sure why it’d gotten a bit slanted midway through, but it’d go unnoticed once he sewed it together.

His stitches were wonky, inexperienced, but good enough. The woolly hat was rectangular in shape with the sides poking outwards, making it look like cat ears.

But he did it. He made a hat—he made it himself.

Harry stood in front of the mirror with the green woolly hat on his head and smiled for the first time since Sirius’ death.

The dreams continued.

Harry crocheted and Voldemort sat nearby in silence, his long legs crossed, slender fingers turning the pages of a book he’d selected from one of the bookshelves.

It was… oddly easy to grow used to the man’s presence.

One evening, Voldemort poured two cups of tea, dipped a generous amount of honey in both, and proffered one to him. Harry stared at the cup, at the way the man’s fingers were curled around the handle of it; his gaze flicked upwards, meeting those unwavering red eyes. Slowly, Harry set his crocheting down in his lap and tentatively accepted the tea.

“Wow,” murmured Harry. “That’s really good.”

Voldemort hummed. “Who has lain hands on you?” he asked softly.

Harry sipped his tea and didn’t answer.

By the time Dumbledore came to fetch him end of July, two days before Harry’s sixteenth birthday, Harry had used up the last of the yarn and was now in possession of two woolly hats. The second one was much better than the first and he’d managed not to miss any stitches like before, which had caused it to slant.

As Dumbledore engaged with the elusive Slughorn, it became quickly clear to Harry that he was being used to lure Slughorn to Hogwarts.

He didn’t really begrudge Dumbledore for it, though. It meant being free of the Dursleys—and thus being free from further whippings—for the rest of the summer holidays. He remained quiet for the most part during the meeting, his thoughts occupied with ideas for new crochet projects.

But he’d need more yarn.

“Professor?” asked Harry, as they left Slughorn’s house. “Before you drop me off at Grimmauld… could we stop by a shop? There’s something I need.”

“Ah, sorry, my boy, but I must be off as soon as possible.” Dumbledore chuckled. “Thus are the duties of the Headmaster, I’m afraid.”

Disappointed, Harry nodded. “Of course, sir,” he whispered.

On the doorstep of Grimmauld Place, Harry waved Dumbledore off. Trunk at his side, Hedwig on his shoulder, Harry closed the door and turned, staring down the hallway. His chest twisted; his eyes burned. Echoes haunted him, familiar barking laughter all but a mere memory now.

It was quiet here. Remus was off on a mission with the werewolves. The Weasleys had returned to their own home at the Burrow. The old manor was empty now, silent without life, much different than the constant murmur of the telly the Dursleys left on all day.

“Kreacher?” whispered Harry.

With a crack, the old elf appeared in front of him. Kreacher glared. “What does new master want with Kreacher?” he demanded.

Harry opened his mouth; he clipped it shut. He rubbed a hand over his face and tears streamed down his cheeks. He sniffled.

“I command you to never betray me or hurt me or do anything that would endanger me,” whispered Harry. “In return, I promise to never hurt you. You’re not allowed to punish yourself.”

“Yes, young master,” said Kreacher, lips curling, nose wrinkling.

Harry wiped the tears from his cheeks. “I know you fought to preserve things here because they’re the Black family legacy. I want to honor that, too. I’m not going to make you throw things out. Just… if there’s anything cursed with dark magic, you have to get rid of it—but everything else that’s safe, you can keep. And you can decorate however you like.”

Kreacher’s big eyes went wide. “You wish to honor the Black family?”

“Yes.”

For Sirius’ sake. I know he hated this place, but… it’s all I have left of him.

“Mm.” Kreacher eyed him appraisingly. “Perhaps, young master is good for the Black family home. Kreacher will be pleased to serve you.”

“Thank you,” murmured Harry. His gut twisted with the deep ache of hunger. He put a hand on his stomach. “Could you… make me something easy to eat? Like porridge?”

“Yes, young master. You do be looking unwell.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, his voice low. “That’s what happens when your relatives stop giving you food.”

It was probably foolish to take Sirius’ old room for his own, but Harry couldn’t bear the idea of it gathering dust. He didn’t change anything about it. He didn’t take down the provocative posters of women he personally held no interest for from the walls. He didn’t remove old clothes from the wardrobe; he shoved them aside and used the little space for his few belongings. He swept away the remnants of Buckbeak’s living space, removing the old bones, dried excrement, and bits of straw.

There was bittersweetness in sleeping here.

Harry slept, tears soaking into the pillow that still smelled of Sirius.

The dream cottage filled with crocheted items and the strange, quiet companionship of Voldemort couldn’t ease the grief this night.

He explored.

With no yarn to keep his hands occupied, wandering the house kept him sane.

In the midst of exploring, Harry fell upon a room filled to the brim with stuff. Towers of random trinkets, books, vials, and other magical objects lined the walls, making it precarious to enter the room without knocking into something.

Harry stood at the entrance. “What room is this?” he asked. “Is it safe?”

Kreacher nodded. “I removed all objects cursed with dark magic at your request,” he said with a sniff. “Only the master of the Ancient House of Black and his servant may enter this room. This is where I hid heirlooms they wanted to throw out. I disobeyed orders to save them.”

“Good work,” whispered Harry.

Enthralled, he stepped into the room, slipping around a tower of books; it swayed slightly. 

A glitter caught his eye. He maneuvered around more towers and found an old sofa where a bunch of old musty throws were piled together. Laying in the corner, halfway stuffed between the cushions, was a single skein of the most beautiful red yarn Harry had ever seen. It glittered brightly, shimmering as if alive. Harry ran his fingers over the exquisitely soft material.

He knew this yarn: it was the yarn from his dreams.

“Kreacher, may I have anything in here?” whispered Harry. He pulled the skein out of the sofa, holding it reverently in his hands. “Anything at all?”

“Of course, young master owns it all.”

“So, I can have this yarn?” asked Harry, clutching the yarn to his chest. “It’s mine?”

“Yes, young master.”

Harry smiled.

A cardigan… I think I’d like to make a cardigan.

It probably wasn’t enough to make a full cardigan, but he at least had some yarn to try.

He left the room. He shut the door behind himself. He settled in the sitting room, in the plushest armchair, with a tray of biscuits and tea provided by Kreacher, and began his next project.

Harry crocheted in the waking world; he crocheted in the dream world.

And the peace he’d solely had in his dreams bled into his waking life.

The progress of the cardigan in his dreams now reflected the waking world. But in both worlds, Harry’s skill had become well practiced. The thin yarn shimmered against the hook, the metal glittering with its light.

“This is new, is it not?” asked Voldemort, breaking the silence. “What are you working on?”

“A cardigan. I found some at Gr—uh, I found some spare yarn. Started it the other day.”

“You have been moved.”

Harry swallowed. He glanced down at his hands; his grip tightened over the metal hook, yarn glimmering brightly.

“I doubt Albus put you with the Weasleys. You are at the Black ancestral family home, are you not?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“Your bruises and wounds have healed. You are no longer hungry.”

Harry’s hands tightened reflexively. “Stop,” he whispered.

“You lived with your relatives, yes?”

Stop. Please, just stop.

Voldemort poured two cups of tea, long, pale fingers wrapping around the delicate china. Voldemort lifted the cup towards him and Harry accepted it, his mouth going dry.

“Potter,” said Voldemort, his voice low and deep, and its gentleness undid something inside of Harry’s chest. “Who laid hands on you?”

He licked his lips. Harry sipped the tea; it was too hot, but it didn’t burn his tongue. “My uncle,” he whispered.

Voldemort nursed his drink without response, crimson eyes clouding over.

Harry woke with bloodied and bruised knuckles on his left hand, but he couldn’t remember where he could’ve gotten them.

They disappeared, healing before his eyes.

The weeks passed.

And though Harry relished in the peaceful waking days, he grew to long for the night of dreams with the enigma that was Voldemort. Grimmauld Place and Kreacher reminded Harry of Sirius, of the loss of his family. Only in his dreams could the ache be dulled.

Voldemort stopped asking about the Dursleys. Instead, some nights, he spoke of whatever he happened to be reading and Harry listened as he crocheted, his skein of yarn never running out, his stitches growing more sure with every row.

The outside world lay forgotten.

There was no war between them. There were no Death Eaters, no Dark Lord. There was no talk of torture or death. There was no Lord Voldemort versus The Boy Who Lived.

There was only gentle peace.

Voldemort read of philosophy, of magical theory, his features at ease with every word; Harry listened and learned, a secret, wishful seed planting in his heart of something that could never be.

The cottage changed with the seasons. Though this place felt like home, there was a strange feeling pulsing through Harry, as if something or someone were missing, as if he were intruding on this place, this home—yet, everything was just right, decorated perfectly, as if he’d been its designer.

The collection of crocheted items grew in the basket, a couple of adult sized jumpers, woolly hats, fluffy scarves, and small frocks.

And, all the while, Harry continued to share tea and nights with Voldemort.

The first of September came a bit too quickly.

Harry sat alone in a train compartment. He’d managed to get through two thirds of one half of the cardigan. Once finished, he’d sew in the ends and start the other half. The rhythm of the train lulled Harry as he worked.

The door slid open; Ron and Hermione peeked inside.

“There he is!” said Ron happily, plopping onto the seat beside Harry. “Been looking for you, mate.”

Hermione sat across, staring at his work with wonder in her eyes. “You learned how to crochet,” she said, smiling, reaching over and brushing her hand over the stitches. “Wow, this is beautiful, Harry.”

“Thanks,” said Harry. He pulled out the two woolly hats and handed one to each of them. “It’s because of you. Thanks for getting me started.” He ducked his chin, giving her a smile. “It helped.”

Ron pulled the hat onto his head, grinning. “This is nice,” he said. He nudged Harry in the side. “You making a cardigan?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Mum crochets like that, so I recognize it. But she’s never used stuff like this—that’s some really nice yarn, isn’t it? Where’d you get it?”

Harry’s fingers flexed over the yarn. He shrugged. “Nowhere special.”

Classes at Hogwarts fell into their usual routine. Snape becoming the DADA professor was the only disappointing event. Harry’s crocheting lay forgotten at the side of his pillow, homework swamping his precious free time while his evenings were taken by Dumbledore.

Harry thought, perhaps, the evenings would be spent preparing him for the duel that was sure to happen between himself and Voldemort due to the prophecy.

But, instead, Dumbledore showed him memories of Tom Riddle and didn’t explain his reasoning.

Tom Riddle and Harry Potter… They were not unlike each other.

It left Harry conflicted.

The waking world grew stressful, though the grief had dulled.

Yet again, his dreams were his solace.

“How are your studies coming along, Potter?”

Harry stilled. He frowned, glancing over at the man. Voldemort sat in his usual plush armchair, sipped at his tea, and lifted a delicate, questioning eyebrow.

“They’re fine.”

Voldemort snorted. “Come now. It is your sixth year. You are most assuredly not fine. I went to Hogwarts once; I remember the work load of sixth year.”

“Well… I suppose it is stressful.” Harry gestured to the crochet project in his lap. “I haven’t had much time for crocheting because of all the homework and other lessons. I miss it.”

“Other lessons?”

Harry nibbled on his bottom lip, deliberating with himself. “Dumbledore has been taking a lot of my time with… well, he’s showing me memories…” He met the man’s eyes. “Memories of you.”

“He is not training you?”

“Right?” cried Harry, frustrated. “Even you get it! You’d think he’d give me lessons on how to defeat you, but he’s just showing me your childhood.”

“Whatever for?” asked Voldemort, perplexed. 

Harry threw his hands into the air. “Hell if I know!” he snapped. “If he’s trying to make me feel empathy for you and get me to like you, it’s sure as hell working.”

Voldemort’s eyes went wide. Heat flooded into Harry’s cheeks.

Harry forced the dream’s end. In the early morning, he rolled his burning face into his pillow with a silent groan.

Tired of not getting any free time to crochet, Harry took to carrying his project with him everywhere. Early to class? He pulled it out and got a row or two done. Progress dragged at a snail’s pace, but at least there was some progress. He was so close to finishing the first half, he could taste it.

On the eve of winter holidays, Harry sat in Dumbledore’s office, waiting. He pulled his project out of his bag and began to finish the last couple of rows.

“Ah, my boy, sorry I’m late,” said Dumbledore, entering the room. He paused, looking down at Harry’s work. He drew closer, eyes widening, and touched the edge with awe in his expression. “Harry,” he breathed. “Wherever did you get this?”

“I found it. Why?”

Dumbledore chuckled, breathless. “Of course. How fitting it would find you…”

Harry frowned.

“This…” murmured Dumbledore. “This is the Red String of Fate. I never imagined I’d ever get to see such a beautiful thing in my life.”

“What?” said Harry. “What’re you talking about?”

“Many cultures believe in fated ones or soulmates, but the true magic of soulmates is very rare—such as here, this is the Red String of Fate. It only appears to someone with a soulmate. The fact you’re able to knit with it—”

Harry grimaced. It’s crochet.

“—then it means you have a soulmate, Harry. Whatever you make with that yarn, it will only fit your intended soulmate and no one else.”

A soulmate… wait, does that mean there’s someone out there for me?

I can have a family again?

“How do I find them?” asked Harry. 

“You dream of them.”

Harry’s breath caught.

“Ah, but the true sign of soulmates is shared pain. There are tales of one stubbing their toe and their soulmate feeling the same pain.”

He couldn’t breathe—couldn’t breathe. The bruises, the hunger of which Voldemort bore, too—bloodied knuckles Harry hadn’t experienced.

What, wait, wait, whatwhatwhat—

“It would seem fate favors you, my boy,” said Dumbledore cheerfully.

No. No, it didn’t. Fate liked fucking with him. There was no favor here. This—this couldn’t be—no, this had to be a joke. This was too cruel. To dangle hope so briefly before his face, only to snatch it away…

Voldemort—

Black stars popped in Harry’s vision. Still couldn’t breathe—lungs wouldn’t expand. Tears burned his eyes; a lump grew in his throat, pain twisting in his chest. Harry shoved his project into his bag and stood.

“Harry?”

“Sorry,” said Harry with a watery, raspy gasp. “Feeling sick. Need the loo.”

He bolted.

All the way back to the tower, he ran, rushing through the Gryffindor common room, ignoring Ron and Hermione’s questions, and darted to his dorm. Harry slammed the door behind himself and let out a bellowing scream. He collapsed against the door, sliding to the floor, and wept. He let out another scream of despair and doubled over into his knees, sobbing.

The door opened from behind. He ignored it. He ignored the pair of arms from two supportive friends as they wrapped around him and pressed him close against their bodies. They rocked him gently, voices a soothing murmur.

But all Harry could do was cry and mourn what could never be.

He felt like an interloper in the cottage now.

Harry shoved the glittering soulmate yarn out of his lap and let out a scream of rage. The kettle mocked him. He leapt up, grabbing it and slamming it over the mantle of the fireplace, glass shattering and coating the carpet. Flames in the hearth flickered gentle light over little dolls in pretty crocheted dresses.

“Potter, what on earth—”

Harry’s head whipped around. He rushed at Voldemort, slamming his fists against the man’s chest. Voldemort gripped Harry by the waist, steadying him. Harry didn’t stop; he beat at any part of the man he could get his hands on.

“I hate you!” screamed Harry. “I fucking hate you for this! Why d’you have to take everything from me?”

“What has happened?” demanded Voldemort. He shook Harry slightly. “What has put you in this state?”

“Why can’t I have something for myself?” cried Harry, exhaustion taking its toll. His strikes became weak; his fists pounded Voldemort’s chest, but the man didn’t stop him. “Fuck, it’s not like I expected to live after the war, but I’d thought—I’d hoped I could have someone who’d love me—I can never have a family now—I have nothing! And it’s always because of you!”

“Potter, cease this babbling of yours. Of course, you will survive—you always do. What are you talking about?”

“I know why we’re sharing dreams and the shared pain—the marks—” Harry hiccuped, sucking a loud, watery breath. “It all means something.”

“What?” demanded Voldemort. “What does it mean?”

“Dumbledore—he—” 

Harry’s voice broke; he couldn’t control these tears. The despair threatened to destroy him. His safe haven, this special cottage, the crocheting, the act of creating—why did the dream have to be tainted?

“What has that decrepit old man told you?”

Harry shook his head.

“Potter, tell me!”

He shook his head again, more frantically this time. Hands gripped his upper arms. Harry ducked his face, burying it against the man’s chest, too tired to care anymore, and sobbed pitifully.

“Harry.” Voldemort’s voice softened, dropped low, and grew uncharacteristically gentle. “Harry, what does it mean?”

These dreams taunted him with what he couldn’t have.

“Soulmates,” breathed Harry. His hands twisted into the fabric of the man’s suit. He lifted his head, vision blurred with tears, and looked Voldemort in the eyes. “The dreams, the shared pain, the red yarn I’ve been crocheting with all this time—it’s connected to the Red String of Fate. We’re soulmates.”

Voldemort stared at him, frozen, shock rippling through his features.

The dream ripped away. Harry startled awake, still sandwiched between Ron and Hermione. He sobbed out brokenly and they jerked awake, curling around him with their comforting hugs again.

It isn’t fair. Why me?

And why him?

But… Harry didn’t hate Voldemort.

He wished he did.

They never pressured him for information.

Winter holidays were loud and bright at the Burrow, but words were hard. Harry tried, he really did, but something had died inside of his heart and he didn’t know how to get it back. He could only offer placating, forced smiles.

He knew of the exchanged glances between the Weasleys, worry in their countenances.

On Christmas day, he opened his presents and whispered his thanks.

An unmarked present was last, small, delicately wrapped and tied with a green ribbon. The Weasleys were preoccupied with the rest of their family, still exchanging gifts with one another. Harry clutched the gift to his chest and slipped away from the group, settling himself into a hidden corner. He slowly pulled the ribbon apart and gently unwrapped the paper, revealing a little black box. Harry lifted the lid.

A silver brooch, no bigger than sickle, sat in the center, pillowed by white batting. A stunning emerald gemstone reflected the light, silver snakes curling around it and holding it in place.

“Oh,” whispered Harry.

It weighed heavy in his hand. He removed the batting and paused; in familiar elegant script at the bottom of the box, it read: Happy Christmas. 

His heart fluttered. He… He couldn’t have…

They were just dreams; they couldn’t be real. Voldemort couldn’t be the same man as he was there. One day, their clash would inevitably come and Harry didn’t know if he had the heart for it anymore.

Harry didn’t think he could kill Voldemort.

He put the brooch in its box, pocketed it, and vanished the rubbish. Harry returned to the festivities with the others none the wiser.

The winter holidays ended and the stressful routine returned. He began the second half of the cardigan, taking it everywhere. Any moment he had to spare, Harry crocheted.

But he never showed his work to Dumbledore again.

Voldemort stood at the mantle, hands clasped behind his back. He turned slightly, uncertainty bleeding through his stiff posture. He cleared his throat. “Did you… appreciate the brooch?” he asked.

Harry sipped their shared tea. “I did. Thank you. There isn’t a curse on it or something?”

“No,” said Voldemort softly. “It is entirely ordinary.”

“No, it’s not,” whispered Harry. “It’s beautiful.”

Voldemort hummed beneath his breath, lips tugging pleased, and sat in his usual armchair, crossing his legs and reaching for a book. They fell into amiable silence, the kind Harry had grown so accustomed to—the kind he’d give everything to always have.

In another life, he’d sit across from his soulmate, crocheting all sorts of things for their family to wear and to play with, and he’d never have to worry about silly little things like opposing morals and sides and ideals and whatever the hell they were in the waking world.

What sweet idealism.

And still, he dreamed, he hoped, even if the end would be painful.

“Have you studied for your upcoming exams?”

“As much as I can,” said Harry, shrugging. “Dumbledore is still taking up my evenings with memories of your life.”

A hint of displeasure flickered through Voldemort’s features. “I see.”

“Hey…” whispered Harry. “Voldemort?”

“Mm?”

“Are you like this in the real world?” asked Harry.

Voldemort frowned, book lowering from his face slightly. “Pardon? Whatever do you mean?”

“Are you… you know, normal. Sane. Just a man who enjoys a good cup of tea while reading a book.”

And while sitting across from your soulmate.

Voldemort stared at him, blinked; a small smile graced the edges of his lips. “Yes, Harry,” he whispered. “I am like this in the real world.”

Harry smiled.

But he didn’t believe him.

“I passed my exams.”

Voldemort gave him a proud nod. “Well done.”

A new crocheted doll with a couple of dresses sat with her companions.

As Harry stepped out on the grounds, on his way to the train for summer holidays, Dumbledore called him back.

“Sir?”

“Just a moment,” said Dumbledore, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ve been thinking on the matter of soulmates a lot since I saw you with that yarn. You’ll be pleased to know I learned a few more things.”

Harry clenched his fists; a lump built in his throat. “Oh?”

“Soulmates must mutually accept one another in the waking world. If your soulmate accepts your handmade garment and puts it on willingly, then your union will be blessed.” Dumbledore chuckled and winked. “It’s also said their union is rather fertile. You’ll have a large family with her should you find her.”

Hope died in Harry’s breast. He smiled at Dumbledore; the hollow emptiness in his chest rested on hallowed ground.

Perhaps, the prophecy would be best fulfilled if Harry were the one to die.

“Thank you, Professor,” whispered Harry. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Privet Drive was no home.

Six weeks before his seventeenth birthday. Six weeks before he was an adult. Six weeks before he can leave this godforsaken place.

Six weeks left to endure.

Bruises adorned his body, food withheld. Harry ached. Heart, mind, body, and soul, Harry felt only agony.

But he kept crocheting.

Voldemort knelt beside his armchair. “You are back with your uncle,” he said, thin, pale fingers brushing the bottom of Harry’s chin and gently tilting his face. In tenderness, Voldemort observed the damage to his cheek.

Harry nodded; his vision blurred slightly, eyes burning.

Stop being so soft with me.

“He has lain hands on you again,” murmured Voldemort. His thumb brushed beneath Harry’s bottom lip. “Your hunger… it is palpable.”

“It’s the last summer,” whispered Harry. “I leave on my birthday.”

Voldemort’s chest expanded. “I shall be there,” he said quietly and withdrew his touch.

Don’t say that. Is that a threat or is that false hope?

To die, perhaps, that would be the great next adventure.

Neither can live while the other survives… Harry wished he could stop merely surviving this life, but living—truly living—seemed like nothing but an unobtainable dream.

Locked in his room with unlimited time and few interruptions, Harry made rapid progress on the other half of the cardigan and finished it. 

On the eve of July 30th, as the hour stuck midnight on his birthday, he finished sewing the two pieces together. Harry jumped from his bed, ignoring the ravaging pain in his back, and lifted the cardigan in the air, admiring his work. He twisted around and slid his arms into the sleeves, lifting it over his shoulders. He folded the front together and twirled before the mirror, his smiling lips painted in bloodied bruises.

It was too big for his body.

It belonged to another.

Harry slowly slipped it off, folding it. The skein had finally run out, leaving behind zero scraps. Harry smiled through the tears and sat on his bed. 

Tomorrow, he’d go to Grimmauld.

And he dreamed one last time.

Standing beside the fireplace, Voldemort regarded him. “Happy birthday.”

Harry held up the cardigan and displayed it for him. “I finished it,” he said brightly. “It took all year, but I finally finished it and I… I’d like you to have it.”

“What?” breathed Voldemort.

“It’s for you. It’s yours.”

Try it on. Please, try it on.

Voldemort stalled, but with slow, careful movements, he drew closer and reached for it.

But the shimmering red cardigan vanished. 

Harry sucked in his breath. Empty handed, he dropped to his knees. He ducked his head, a sob breaking through his composure. I see… I can’t give it to him in dreams. I have to give it to him in person—in the real world.

Fuck.

Fate really did like their little jokes, didn’t they?

Gentle hands pressed against his upper arms, drawing Harry to his feet. He looked up into Voldemort’s face; the man bore the same marks, the same bruises. With gentle ministration, Voldemort’s hand hovered over each welt on his back; magic pulsed and the pain disappeared.

“What’re you doing?” whispered Harry, halfway cradled in his embrace.

“Healing you.”

Why?

Voldemort pressed a hand to Harry’s cheek, his thumb brushing against dried blood, against broken lips. It healed, flesh knitting together, the bruises fading away. Tears flooded into Harry’s eyes. Voldemort was so close, too close—Harry could count the few lines in his features, the hidden freckles on pale cheeks.

“Why?”

Why did the man look at him like this?

“I… don’t know,” whispered Voldemort.

“It’s not fair,” whispered Harry against lips, his chest expanding against another chest, the warmth of the man’s breath ghosting against his skin. His space invaded, he didn’t resist. “It’s not fair. Why’d it have to be this way?”

Voldemort kissed him.

And Harry let him.

These dreams, they’d been nothing but broken faith in a picturesque setting. Soulmates were the stuff of hopes and dreams; they weren’t meant for Harry, The Boy Who Lived, or for the man, the Dark Lord Voldemort, who killed his parents and who waged war against an entire people.

Dreams weren’t that complicated.

The waking world held too many intricate issues, too many moral questions and debates. He’d be a disgrace to his dead parents, a disappointment to his friends. The entire world would hate him.

But here? It didn’t matter. These kisses were just hope prettily wrapped in wishful love; this healing, it would fade. When he’d wake, he’d still be bruised, still be bloodied, still be hungry, still be hurting. There’d be no Tom Riddle to kiss the pain away. 

None of this was real.

And the brooch meant nothing.

Voldemort peppered kisses to his throat; Harry let out a little gasp, tears slipping down his cheeks. He arched his neck, baring his throat, and the man trailed down, his touch searing pleasant sensations on his skin. Jumper shoved to the side, lips suckled at his collarbone.

Just a dream.

So, let me have this. Just this once. Let me taste what it could be like.

Harry pulled away from the man’s lips and grabbed him by the wrist, dragging him out of the sitting room, down an unknown, yet familiar hallway and into the shared bedroom. He stumbled backwards onto the elaborate four poster bed meant for two, the back of his knees hitting the mattress, hand gripping Voldemort’s suit collar, and jerked the man on top. Voldemort loomed over him, his knees caging Harry’s thighs.

The face of Tom Riddle, aged by the years, gazed down at him with wide crimson eyes, a flurry of unknown emotions whirling there. His hands weighed into the mattress beside Harry’s ears.

Harry lowered his arms and gripped the bottom of his jumper. He pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. Voldemort’s gaze dropped. He slid a hand over Harry’s bare chest; Harry shivered again, breath caught.

He fumbled with his belt, hands trembling, shaking, as he tried to unlatch the buckle. Warmth covered his hand.

“Harry,” whispered Voldemort, voice low, raspy. “You needn’t go this far.”

“Please,” said Harry. “Just… please.”

He didn’t know how to ask. He could only plea, could only hope it’d be beautiful, that it’d be everything he’d ever hoped for in a love such as theirs.

“Please,” whispered Harry.

The uncertainty in his hands disappeared. The belt unbuckled. His trousers parted, revealing pants beneath. Harry shoved his trousers from off his legs, kicking them off the bed. Voldemort still caged him from above, fully clothed, while Harry lay nearly bare below him.

I would like to be loved.

Voldemort breathed out a low huff. “Foolish man,” he whispered in parseltongue. “So very foolish.”

As he kissed him, Harry wrapped his arms around Voldemort’s neck and pulled him down, closer, closer, until the weight of Voldemort bore down on him. He kissed, and kissed, and kissed until breath eluded him; he pushed Voldemort’s suit jacket from off his shoulders and aided in the unbuttoning. His hand pressed against warm pale skin, fingers dancing along protruding bone, and parted a white dress shirt. As Harry unbuckled the man’s dress trousers, Voldemort carded a hand against his cheek, caressing him.

“You should not want this,” whispered Voldemort, the hissing of parseltongue shivery sweet to Harry’s ears. “Be very sure you want this, Harry Potter, because once you give yourself to me, you will always be mine.”

Is that a promise?

“I want this.”

Harry slipped his pants off, the final barrier, and curled his legs around Voldemort’s hips, beckoning him within.

Voldemort took his time with him. Breaths heated and intermingled as one, limbs entangled, hot skin against slick skin, Harry experienced his hope of love, his dream of love, its tenderness, its gentleness, its highest pleasure—and, all the while, bitter tears slipped down his temples, his emotions haywire, little reminders of one cruel fact.

It was only a dream.

The morning brought bittersweet victory.

Harry wiped the dried blood from his lips, but he’d have to wait until he got to Grimmauld Place to properly heal the bruises and welts. Harry packed his things; he gutted the room of all traces of his presence. He pulled out his wand and tapped his trunk, casting a featherlight charm over it. 

Bag slung over his shoulders and Hedwig’s empty cage in one hand, he dragged his trunk down the stairs.

“What is that racket, boy?” demanded Vernon. He marched from his room and stood at the top of the stairs. Petunia wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, looking down her nose at him. “What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing?”

“I’m leaving now,” said Harry. “I’m seventeen. I’m an adult in the wizarding world now, which means if you try anything, I can and will retaliate.”

He glanced back, staring up at them with an unflinching gaze.

“Never darken our doorstep again,” snapped Petunia.

“I don’t intend to,” said Harry.

He pulled his trunk through the house; he opened the front door and stepped outside. He froze, blinking at the figure standing at the edge of the wards. Dressed in a well tailored suit, Voldemort held himself with his usual quiet, steady air. Dark brown curls framed his face, a summer breeze fluttering through his hair. He bore the face of Tom Riddle and not Lord Voldemort.

You actually came…

Is this where I die?

He had one last act, though, a final wish.

Harry closed the door. He set Hedwig’s cage down on top of his trunk and rested his bag beside it, rummaging inside. He pulled out the completed cardigan and draped it over his arm. Voldemort met his gaze.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” whispered Voldemort.

Harry’s mouth went dry. He strolled down the sidewalk and purposely left the safety of the wards. He drew close to Voldemort, stopping less than a foot in front of him. He lifted the cardigan and proffered it to him.

“It’s yours,” whispered Harry.

For a long, unbearable moment, Voldemort stared at the handmade garment. He turned slightly; Harry’s breath caught. Voldemort slowly worked his suit jacket off and tossed it onto the ground.

He held his arms back, waiting.

Harry blinked, stunned, breath stolen yet again. He stumbled forward and slid the cardigan onto Voldemort’s arms, over his shoulders. He brushed out the wrinkles down his back. Voldemort turned, facing him, hands curling at the edges of the cardigan and pulling it closed. A content, pleased smile lifted the edges of Voldemort’s lips.

A glow filled Harry’s heart.

“It fits.”

Epilogue: Eight Years Later

A little girl in a yellow crocheted frock with large pockets ran unattended down the aisles in a local craft shop. A yellow ribbon, also crocheted, tied her long, thick black curls back in a low ponytail with a pretty bow. Her green eyes were bright with glee and delight.

“Oh, my, slow down, dearie,” said the woman, much older now. She reached out and gently grabbed the girl by the hand. “Now, where are you off to in such a hurry? What’s your name, love?”

“Delphi!”

“Where’s your mummy?”

“With yarn!”

The woman smiled, easily charmed by the little girl’s small, high voice. Delphi wrinkled her button nose and beamed up at the old woman with a sweet smile.

“Mama makes my clothes,” said Delphi proudly. She pointed to her dress. “Mama made Delphi this and this—” She pointed at the bow in her hair. “Mama loves to make Delphi all sorts of things.”

“Delphini!”

A very tall, rather stern looking man with curly dark brown hair, striking crimson eyes, dressed in black slacks and a beautiful red cardigan rounded the corner, harried and exasperated. He leaned back on his heels, body relaxing in a hidden sigh of relief.

“There you are.”

“Papa!” chirped Delphi.

The man bent the knee. He lightly gripped her by the chin, looking her in the eyes. “Delphini, that was very naughty of you,” the man said in a gentle, scolding tone. He scooped her up into his arms, settling her onto his hip. “You cannot run off like that.”

“Why not?”

“You will get lost.”

“But you found me.”

The man pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Your daughter is very cute,” said the woman with a chuckle.

He grimaced at her, shifting, visibly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and nodded. “Thank you. She takes after her… her mother. Precocious, too.” A softness eased the edges of the man’s lips. “Just like her mother.”

“Papa,” said Delphi, leaning forward in his arms and grabbing at one of the skeins of yarn on the shelf. “I want this color. This color is pretty.”

“Tom? Del? Where’d you run off to?”

Delphi wiggled in her father’s arms excitedly; the man barely could keep ahold of her without dropping her. “Mama!” she cried. “Mama, I found color!”

A younger man with matching black hair and green eyes wearing a crocheted jumper with a brooch pinned to his chest turned the corner. He brightened at the sight of them. He pushed a cart forward, which was filled to the brim with skeins of yarn in various types and colors. He lifted on tiptoes and kissed his husband on the cheek.

It was the same poor boy who’d come into her shop all those years ago—yet, unlike before, he now glowed to life with joy.

“Hello, darling.”

“Harry, she ran off—just as she has before and—”

“Did she now?” said Harry, smiling at his daughter. “Del, love, what’d you find?”

“You mustn’t encourage this behavior.”

“I know, I’m not, but she’s three, Tom. She doesn’t know better.”

“I found this!” chirped Delphi, plopping her skein of yarn onto Harry’s chest. “I want this, Mama!”

Harry accepted it, looking it over. “Oh, this is such a lovely green. My first project was in a green like this. Look, it matches our eyes.”

“Yeah!”

“Delphi, do you think you ought to run off alone again?” asked Harry, placing the skein into his cart. “I know you’re excited for yarn shopping, but Mama and Papa get really worried if we don’t know where you’ve gone off to.”

“Oh.” Delphi tilted her head, her face scrunching up in concentration. “I’m sorry. Won’t make Mama and Papa worry no more.”

“That’s Mama’s little girl,” said Harry. “What would you like me to make for you?”

Delphi thought for a moment. “A dress!” she chirped, chubby legs wiggling in the air. “And a dress for dollie—and another dollie!”

“You want me to make you another doll with a dress and a matching frock for yourself?”

“Uh huh!”

“Well, I might not have enough yarn for all that.”

“Then, what is all of that?” hissed Tom, gesturing to the cart.

Harry glanced at the piles of yarn. “My cart.”

“Just how much yarn do you need?” demanded Tom.

Harry cocked an eyebrow. He leaned over to Delphi and said, “How many dresses would you like, love?”

“Lots and lots!”

Harry straightened and smiled at Tom. “There you have it, darling. Lots and lots.” He laughed at the displeased look on Tom’s face. He took the little girl from Tom’s arms and set her down, taking her by the hand. “Come on, love,” he said. “We’re keeping the others waiting.”

Harry pushed the cart to the check out. Tom stood at his side, rigid, holding Delphi’s hand as the muggle cashier rang their items. As the last item was bagged, Delphi twisted out of Tom’s hand and darted off.

“Delphini Riddle!” snapped Tom, exasperated.

But Delphi didn’t listen, rushing at the door where two people stood guard. She collided against black trousers, patting them incessantly. “Up!” she demanded.

“That child will be the death of me,” muttered Tom.

Harry chuckled.

“Rus, I said UP!” cried Delphi.

Severus lifted an eyebrow. He bent down and picked her up, giving into her demands without a word. He held her close with practiced ease, the light in his eyes the only indication of his utter adoration for the child. Delphi eyed the other adult, a woman, and leaned over to Severus’ ear. 

“Rus, why is Bell Bell stinky?”

Bellatrix huffed, throwing her a half hearted glare. Severus pursed his lips together.

“Mama says I gotta have baths to stay pretty even though I don’t like them. Mione says that’s a rubbish thing of Mama to say. But I think Mama is right. Is that why Bell Bell isn’t pretty?”

Severus coughed.

Harry grinned mischievously, two enormous bags of yarn heavy on his arms. He retrieved the little girl from Severus’ hold. As the group walked away from the busy muggle areas and into a secluded out cove, Harry pressed his nose to Delphi’s. “Are you being silly, Del? Are you being Mama’s silly little girl?” he asked, cooing at her.

Delphi giggled.

Tom threw a hand towards Severus and Bellatrix, barking out their dismissal. Delphi and Harry waved goodbye as the two of them bowed and apparated away.

“Mama! I found something!”

“Oh, what’d you find?”

Delphi dug into one of her pockets and pulled out a tiny skein of shimmering red yarn. Harry sucked in his breath, eyes widening. 

Tom stilled. “Is that…”

Harry nodded. “It’s the same,” he whispered.

“Mama, I wanna learn to crochet,” said Delphi, wiggling excitedly. “Teach me, please? I wanna make something from this.”

Tears pressed at Harry’s eyes. “Of course, love,” he whispered. “I’d love to teach you and this—” He took the Red String of Fate from her small hand. “—we’ll save this, yeah? You can use this when you’re older, all right?”

“Yay!”

Delphi chirped out a little song of her own making, swinging her legs back and forth, wiggling contentedly in Harry’s hold. Tom wrapped his arm around Harry’s waist and gently drew him flush against him, leaning close to his ear. Breath ghosted against Harry’s skin.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” whispered Harry. “More than all right.” He pressed a kissed to Tom’s cheek. “I’ll set out the tea and biscuits when we get home.”

And, with a quiet crack of apparition, the little family returned to the cottage where impossible dreams became sacred reality.