Chapter Text
"The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit." James Joyce (Ulysses)
*
"Dear Harry." As all good things usually were, the letter delivered by an owl on the evening of Harry's thirty-third birthday began simply with a scribble of his name. Harry squinted at it and kept on reading.
The parchment carried a faint scent of sugary vanilla peppered with scone crumbs. A giant inky thumbprint decorated the bottom instead of a signature. Even without the signature, Hagrid's unmistakably earnest penmanship, not to mention the size of the thumbprint, an inky halo spiralling around Harry's own finger as he pressed his thumb to the centre (out of the sense of belonging more than out of the need to compare), was hard to mistake for anyone else's greeting.
"If you're reading this, then you must be in dire need of a change. Long ago, this happened to me too. Once I'd lost sight of what mattered: good people and the simple comfort of nature. So when Dumbledore asked for my help, I dropped everything and moved to the place that I truly belonged. I never once regretted it."
Great man, Dumbledore, rang out in Harry's frazzled mind in Hagrid's reverent tones: an unforgettable testament to one legendary wizard. The next sentence informed Harry of Hagrid's long-overdue retirement, followed by a truly remarkable, unexpected request. In fact, it wasn't so much a request as...
What is this anyway? Has to be his way of saying happy birthday, given the date. But what is it all about?
A second chance? So much more...
Harry rubbed his bristling chin and loosened his tie. He hated wearing ties, but as prior birthday celebrations had taught him, getting caught on camera by an odd paparazzi without one spelled doom in the morning, from Witch Weekly to the Prophet. They were all alike, a vulture pack. Even with the knot to the silky fabric loosened and his collar undone, it was suddenly hard to breathe deeply, thinking about the articles that had followed his and Ginny's breakup.
Hagrid's words right there, plain as day, grounded him, like a faceful of summer rain, like a rustle of grass on the hill leading up to Hagrid's cabin. It was a reminder of simpler days when current troubles were not yet haunting his dreams and the towers of Hogwarts castle stretched far into the sky over Harry's head. They had overshadowed his childhood, pointing the way toward the sunlit, endless clouds.
Truth was, at that moment, he didn't quite know what Hagrid's thoughtful note truly meant for him but he felt it anyway, in his bones and in his heart: Harry Bloody Potter, newly single, alone and adrift at thirty-three, knew right there and then that it was the best news he'd received in a very long time. Like Hagrid's first birthday cake for him, on a day when he expected no presents at all, especially from a total stranger, any message from Hagrid had kindled the anticipation of a remarkable adventure ahead. Regardless of where Harry found himself in life, Hagrid always had a knack for surprising him, ever since that day, even today after all these years, be it with a cake or eight simple words in a carefully handwritten sentence.
"My hut is yours, should you want it."
The sentiment was so simple and yet so heartfelt. It had been a tough winter, a tough couple years to be honest, and for the first time in what felt like forever Harry sensed wet warmth welling up in his eyes. He had to stop reading for a second to lift his glasses up over his scar and rub his eyes dry.
Oh, Hagrid! One sentence that had the power to turn Harry's life completely upside down. It sunk deep into his tired mind and took all breath out of him. An offer as generous as it had been unexpected, like all Hagrid's gifts, be it of baked goods or the sacrifice of his life for the ones he loved, should it be needed, ended as simply as it had begun.
"Happy birthday, Harry."
It was just as well that the width and the height of Hagrid's letters were, on average, three times larger than any handwritten letter Harry was used to reading. They were blurry and soft as he stared at the fated line without his glasses on. Then lifted his hand to swipe at his watering eyes, lowered it to his mouth, standing still in the centre of Grimmauld Place sitting room, with only his owl and a softly snoring painting of an 18th century kneazle for company.
Bloody hell. What am I going to do?
Harry stared at the stack of letters on the table: a pile of Howlers suspended under the stasis charm, a care package from Mrs Weasley, requests for interviews, Robards' note inviting him back to the M.L.E. should he be ready to resume his duties, an offer by the finest of the Daily Prophet's contributors to pen the autobiography series of The Boy Who Lived, a postcard from France that still held Ginny's floral perfume. (She was happy there, at least, with someone named Maru who, Harry was sure by now, had been a younger woman, judging by just how much Ginny had tried to avoid mentioning Maru's gender or age in her letters to Mr and Mrs Weasley.)
How can I turn this one down? What can I possibly say to that?
And then, to the soft rustle of a post owl's wings stirring centuries' worth of dust around the bookshelves, to the crackle of the fireplace burning bright, Harry realised one simple truth. I don't want to say no to this.
I need this. I want to see it through.
I can't not take this chance.
I need to do this.
*
Harry's sleep did not come easy that evening. For all the cathartic relief that the spontaneous decision over Hagrid's letter had brought him, his mind wouldn't stop questioning whether this was the right thing to do. He curled up in his bed, in his nest of blankets: alone, as he had been for most of the year.
When the silence settled and the night came, he regretted absolutely everything in his life so far. The brief on-again, off-again affair with Ginny over the years. Either's reluctance to commit, to take the next step. Harry's reluctance to share with her just how much human presence hurt him so often and so unexpectedly, when it should have been a joyful experience, that a mere touch or an unexpected hug had startled him into a fight-or-flight response. It started after the war, he reckoned, since none of them came through that last battle of Hogwarts unchanged. This was just the way the past healed and scarred up. A body keeping score. He had to believe that with time it would hurt less, but he wasn't sure of anything. Not alone in the dark. Not in the empty bedroom. Not with the countless husks of dry houseplants sitting in their sad little pots, their remains daring him to try better next time.
One breath at a time. One step. First, sleep. Let's hope there won't be any dreams this time around. I need to rest, then I'll figure all of it out in the morning. I can talk to Ron and Hermione and sort it out.
*
"Harry, are you quite mad?" Hermione questioned, tapping her lips and scrutinising him over the rims of her new reading glasses. "Let us look at your situation with a rational mind. You have extensive experience as a deputy head of the Auror Department anytime you decide to return, an offer to teach Defence of Dark Arts at Beauxbatons, or a stellar career as a Quidditch player should you choose to explore that route. And you want my help with... an application as a Hogwarts gamekeeper? Do you even know what the job entails?"
Walking. Lots and lots of walking outside. I can do that. I'm rather good at it by now.
Harry stopped himself from pushing up his fringe in an expectation of a well-deserved lecture. He's been told it was a nervous tick that gave away his uncertainty.
"Right," he said instead. "Um, I just need a year of peace and quiet, maybe two..."
"You've got all the quiet you ever want? Right here in London! Ron and I hardly see you these days! Harry, think about it..."
"I did, Hermione. I do. This is what I need." Harry faced his old friend across the small room serving as her home office. Outside, Ron chased Rose and Hugo around the table in the living room with muted shouts of exhilaration. "Besides..." he pressed his lips together and tried his best to say what came next in the most deadpan manner possible: "How else am I ever going to find the time to write my autobiography?" There's not a day the papers don't call me out on it. Bloody nuisance!
"How about starting small, a letter now and then?" Hermione's mouth widened, and she grew quiet for a second as she stared at the open flames of her crackling fireplace. The green flames Harry had used to come here had died down and only the ordinary orange remained. "Harry," she sighed. "Are you certain you want to do this? You're throwing a bright chance at a Ministry career away on a whim, and I can't watch you do this without at least a warning. Look, regardless of how much Hagrid means to you, even you must see this is mad. Absolutely mad! It's a hut, by the edge of the Forbidden Forest. At Hogwarts!"
"At Hogwarts, precisely!" Harry echoed and gave her a winning smile. It was the kind that worked on Robards, Ron and even on Ginny. "What better place to start, no? Besides, if I am still there in a few years' time, I'll keep an eye on Rose for you. Someone has to! You know she'll need all the eyes on her once she's out of your sight, or she'll blow the castle to bits during her first term!"
Hermione arched an eyebrow at him and then glanced through the doorway at the rowdy family gathering of Granger-Weasleys, cheered on and led by Ron. In a different world, perhaps, Ginny and Harry would have had children of their own. If it wasn't for... well, the less that was said about his reluctance to be touched, to be intimate, the better. He'd never feel comfortable to voice it in front of his friends, in any case. Maybe I am a freak. Freaks like me don't have any hope of changing, and that's all there is to it.
"Oh, Merlin. Fine, very well. You'll need to learn things the hard way sometimes." Hermione's squinting gaze was wary, just as much as tired from reading the fine newsprint. (Every Department of Mysteries worker seemed perpetually overworked to Harry and Hermione was no exception.) She set her quill down and raised her hand to his shoulder. "I fully expect this to be temporary, you hear? If you're still hiding away in that hut by the time Hugo starts school, Hecate help me, I am marching onto the Hogwarts grounds myself and rescuing you from the life of tending to giant spiders!"
"Deal!" Harry snorted. "You know me better than that. I won't be responsible for any of the giant spiders, promise." He paused for a second, considering the possibilities, and they all looked rather... quaint and uplifting. Downright idyllic. He blamed the fire, and the brandy he’d sampled just before coming to see Hermione and Ron. "The only thing that will stay overgrown is Hagrid's pumpkin patch."
This could actually work out well, Harry thought. Between the pumpkin patch and the rest of Hagrid's garden, surely I'll find plenty of things to do to keep my hands busy.
Mindless tasks. Early mornings. Poppy Pomfrey within walking distance whenever I need a Sleeping Draught or two. No reporters. None of the London traffic. Just a patch of tilled soil right outside and miles of magical forest right next to my door. A whole castle within walking distance if I feel the need for a hot meal and a hot bath. Fresh air. Lakeside views.
Simple, honest work.
Besides, if I tire myself out throughout the daytime, maybe then the nightmares won't be as frequent.
Yeah, I bet this would all work out better than I ever expected.
Let's do this. I'm ready to try.