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Albus wakes at half past seven in the morning every day.It's a habit he finds hard to break, even when he no longer has a schedule to keep.
Habit has him ambling out from the bathroom, straight into the wardrobe, and then to the Great Hall.Except, he stops at the door to stare at the little memo in orange paper, pulling it out curiously.Breakfast in the kitchen, it says. Elves on vacation.
How odd. Albus has never heard of the house elves taking a day off, let alone a vacation- not even in the summer holidays. Of course, he's made sure their needs are seen to, and they're always happy to take care of the young witches and wizards in return.Albus ignores the other memo pointing out the directions to the kitchen, and steps out of his quarters, only to realise his office looks... off.It's smaller, rectangular, more... cluttered.It's certainly not on a tower. The windows open into a herb garden, and he catches a glimpse of a river.Not Hogwarts, then.Even so, the landscape is oddly familiar.
There's another memo on the office door. With the directions to the kitchen. Again.A smile creeps under his moustache, and he pockets the note, just in case. Whoever has been leaving these notes clearly knows him very well.
It couldn’t possibly be Aberforth; and Minerva, while dear to him, had always been kept at a distance. Albus cannot think of anyone else who would do this for him.He wonders why he isn't at Hogwarts, spotting the red and yellow leaves strewn across the yard. The office has opened into a well-lit hallway, to the left of which lies the kitchen, according to the directions in his pocket.
Albus does make it to the kitchen, and he's a little baffled at the sight of various little gadgets that he can't make head or tail of. Most of them are Muggle appliances; and he fears his magic will set it off.Fresh eggs on the counter, a bottle of milk on the table, and shelves of spice-plants.Well, it seems the elves have stocked up the pantry quite nicely.
Another memo- on a proper noticeboard, this time, next to the stove- tells him not to have pancakes for the day.It's disappointing; Albus rather enjoys eating syrupy pancakes in the morning, and he hasn’t had them in a while.Of course Albus ignores the memo. He's fairly proficient with cooking spells, and begins to make breakfast. It's calming to cook without much magic, and Albus cracks a few eggs onto a bowl and begins to mix it with powdered sugar and dough.
He's barely whipped the batter when the backyard door opens, and a bespectacled man in a sweatsuit walks in."G'morning, Albus!"
Albus blinks at him. He has faint recollections of teaching a boy who looks like that."Charlus Potter?"
The man's smile doesn't change."No, Albus. I'm Harry. Charlus' grand-nephew. And... you're making pancakes."
Albus fumbles with the batter. It seems this man, Harry, is the one who's been leaving notes around the house. He watches Harry wash his face at the sink, and suddenly feels very, very old.Charlus Potter's grand-nephew... is a middle-aged man.How old was Albus?Is that why he's no longer at Hogwarts? Has he stepped down?
It's funny, Albus always imagined dying as the Headmaster, at a gracious age, and being buried there."How- how are we acquainted, if I may ask?"Harry throws him an easy, sideways glance that speaks of having held these conversations so very often- and begins to fry eggs. "You were headmaster during my time at Hogwarts. We sort of became friends afterwards."
In the end, breakfast is simple: pancakes, scrambled eggs.Before Albus can summon syrup, Harry piles Albus' plate with peeled fruit and nuts, much to the former's chagrin, although he doesn't say no to the tall glass of fresh orange juice.
And then the other wizard uncorks a vial of potion from the cupboards and hands it to the old man.
Albus automatically begins to cast spells on it- not that he doesn't trust Harry- the other man feels comfortable, and doesn't set off his hackles the way a stranger ought to have- but again, it's always better to be safe.
"What is it?" He asks, when the potion turns out to be harmless."It aids your insulin production." Harry replies. "You're risking diabetes, Albus." His gaze falls pointedly on the last two pancakes in Albus' plate, which the former has allowed to be drenched in golden syrup.Oh.He'd always assumed wizards wouldn't catch Muggle diseases- but apparently not. Thankfully, in the modern world, it isn't fatal anymore.
Albus refuses to drink it- it smells revolting- but then Harry sighs, and sits beside him, patiently coaxing the potion down his throat in a way that sends an echo of horror in the back of his mind. Thankfully, the potion doesn't taste as bad as it smelled, and he washes it down with the orange juice, nearly spitting it out when Harry ducks into the bathroom and comes out shirtless, and inadvertently treats Albus to the view of chisel-cut muscles on an admittedly scarred back. It makes something within his heart flutter.
The man glances at the clock and curses, and begins rummaging in the cupboards- and Albus remembers he pocketed a yellow memo listing the supplies he needs to buy."Soap. We're out of soap."
Albus takes the memo out, and Harry pins it to the cupboard again."You don't need to buy those, I'll get them on the way home." But there's no soap in the downstairs bathroom, and Albus offers to let Harry use his bathroom instead.Harry looks at him with an unreadable expression, and Albus wishes he had used Legilimency. But then the man has gone, and he's left confused.
There's another set of colourful notes on the hallway to the front door.'Gardening supplies: shed in the yard. Library, left door. Kitchen, second door to the right.'Albus smiles at the map of the house Harry has left pinned to the wall.
He debates between doing some reading, to catch up on anything he might have forgotten, or heading to the Owlery outside to see whom he could send a letter to, when Harry runs down the stairs, Auror robes billowing in his frenzy.The latter's clearly in a hurry, but his steps are soft so as to not startle Albus, and the wizened man feels a swell of affection he cannot place. He wonders why a promising young man like Harry would spend his time caring for an old headmaster- he would have noticed something if the younger man was his grandson- and is answered when Harry casually drops a kiss on Albus' forehead in the distraction of packing his bag.
"I'll be back at five- six at the most. Molly might drop by for lunch, is that alright?" He squeezes Albus' palm once.Albus blinks back, feeling confused again. He does not know a Molly, but it seems Harry does, and since Harry's taking care of him-"Don't worry too much." Harry offers him a little lopsided smile, and with the sudden crack of Apparition, he's gone.Albus thinks he'll ask this Molly about his mysterious caregiver when she comes around for lunch.***
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After the defeat of Voldemort, Harry is reluctant to come back to Hogwarts.He spends the vacation with the Weasleys, and fills out the Auror Training Programme application with Ron. Hermione throw both the boys disapproving looks, but they're adults. They have the right to do whatever they please.
Dumbledore comes by to visit, on Harry's eighteenth birthday. It's a subdued event, the battle and Fred's passing still raw in their hearts, but Molly makes a delicious feast anyway, and the Headmaster supplants it with a cake the Elves had sent with him.Harry doesn't know what wish to make- at this point, he hasn't got a clue what he wants, and blows emptily on the candle. In the evening, Hermione pops by Ron's room, and Harry climbs downstairs to give them some space.He's not particularly craving cake, but there's about a quarter of it left over, and he makes his way into the kitchen to find Dumbledore has polished off a fair amount of it.The Headmaster wipes his beard guiltily, and offers the last two slices to Harry.
Harry can't help it. The sight just so ridiculous.He laughs like he hasn't in days, and slumps onto the chair beside the old wizard."I assumed the cake had been abandoned." Dumbledore confesses.
Harry shakes his head, and offers the second slice to the Headmaster, who takes it without further commentary.
The silence after that is unbearable. It's not like they can't meet each other's eye anymore, but the weight of their last conversation hangs heavily in the air.It had been worse than the night at the Department of Mysteries; Harry had flinched away from Dumbledore's arm when the old wizard had moved to comfort him.He had done nothing more than to ask three words. 'Did you know?'The old man's silence was enough for him to shake his head and walk off, closing up like a tortoise in its shell.
"Harry-""It's alright."Dumbledore looks as pained as he had that night."Please. I-" He hesitates. "I'm glad you made it through."
"Well, I'm not. You sent me off to die." Harry accused softly. "You wouldn't even tell me yourself. I had to find out from Snape.""I... loved you far too much; and it made me a coward.""You made me a murderer."
The Headmaster does not reply. He spreads his arms a little, and hopes Harry will fight, and try to hurt him- let it all out; but instead, Harry curls up on the chair and rocks back and forth."You could have easily taken care of Voldemort."
Again, silence."I know. That destiny was mine, not yours. You've told me that enough." And then Harry shoots up and glares at him. "What now, Dumbledore? What use am I of, now that I've fulfilled my destiny?"
He wonders why the old man doesn't get it. What is he meant to do, now that he's outlived his purpose?When Dumbledore still chooses to remain silent, Harry walks out of the kitchen."I wasn't meant to survive." He whispers. "I could have taken the train. Anyone could have done the rest."
Dumbledore freezes him on the spot. He's never used his immense magical abilities to bend others to his will; and Harry wonders why he's doing it now. He feels Dumbledore's presence right behind him, and makes no move to acknowledge it.The body-bind falls.
"Come back to Hogwarts." The old man pleads.Harry walks off.But he doesn't send the Auror programme application. Instead, Kingsley writes him that he's welcome to apply the next year as well.~
The eighth years get a career guidance session, similar to the one they had in their OWLs Year. Harry idly ticks on the Auror option, and gives nothing else; McGonagall throws him a worried look and offers him another biscuit.
"It would be wiser to keep a second option. And a third."Harry shrugs. "I passed the written test for the DMLE."The witch purses her lips in disapproval. "Of course, you have a good chance of making it through the practicals, with your Defence scores-" Her voice falls in hesitation. "But is this what you truly want to pursue?"
Harry shakes his head. "I don't know, Professor."It's been almost an entire year, and he still doesn't know what he wants.
It almost feels like a defeat, when Harry finds his legs carrying him towards Dumbledore's office. The gargoyle lets him through even though it's well past midnight, and Harry has to wait in the circular office only for a few minutes before the Headmaster arrives.Harry can't look at him, really.But he remembers an old offer, from what seems like a lifetime ago, made to a person that he no longer was.
"Help me."Dumbledore's mask cracks, and he comes forward, arms hesitating until Harry leans forward himself, burying his anguished face into the silvery beard.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."Dumbledore transfigures the chair into a sofa, and settles Harry by his side."Live." He tells earnestly, squeezing his hands. "Do everything you've ever wanted to do. Everything you've found even the smallest joy in."
Harry feels very small."I... don't want to be an Auror."
Harry doesn't realise Dumbledore's not wearing his glasses until he looks up and sees bright blue eyes- not piercing, not twinkling, but exhausted. He supposes he'll mirror the look if he removed his own glasses.The sensation echoes bone-deep within him.He's spent so long fighting, running, and fearing.Harry's tired, and he doesn't want to keep doing that anymore.
"I think... I'd like a break?"Dumbledore smiles. "Yes. You very much deserve a break, Harry."
His breath feels lighter after that. So he tries again."I'm not mad at you for keeping the, uh," He gestures to the scar, "little detail about the Horcrux away from me."The Headmaster narrows his eyebrows."Well, I was mad, but I suppose I've gotten over it? Staying angry doesn't really change anything. I would have let him kill me just the same."
He sinks his head into the beard once more. "I didn't want to die. I wish I hadn't needed to do that."He's sure he's crying, but Dumbledore holds him close and lets him reopen old wounds against his breast, spilling grievances Harry has not let himself think about for years.It's cathartic, and with each word, he feels less and less heavy, and Harry sleeps without any dreams or nightmares.
The boy wakes with a stiff spine and numb limbs, to find he has all by fallen asleep on the snoozing Headmaster. Harry tries to jump off- it's highly inappropriate, and he had forgotten about the former Headmasters in their portraits, but Dumbledore, apparently, had spelled them empty or something, and it was just the two of them in the office.And Fawkes.
The phoenix pays them no mind, and lets his master wake up to an aching neck all by himself, which Dumbledore does, stifling a sleepy groan. He blinks blearily at Harry, and then straightens himself awkwardly.Harry wonders if he had just been too thick to notice the profound pride and affection with which Dumbledore looks at him.
"I'll hold you to your promise." Harry mumbles, and slips down the circular staircase, making his way back to the Gryffindor Dormitories. He really shouldn't be trusting the old wizard, not after all that manipulation, the lying and the backstabbing- but he's so desperate to be loved and cared for, and Dumbledore seems so wholeheartedly willing to love him.~
Dumbledore retires at the end of that year, and they move into a cottage in the south of Norwich, and then they move again, to Nantes, and then Gibraltar and Tiébélé and Phucket, drifting away from the Isles in an eternal vacation.The old wizard seems determined to explore everything they've missed in their lives.
Stranded on a makeshift raft in the Amazon, Dumbledore tells Harry he's always wanted to tour the world."I know." Harry replies.The old wizard winces. Harry wonders why he hadn't sued Rita Skeeter."Well, as you said. It's good to air the dirty laundry sometimes."It's Harry's turn to wince. "Er... yeah. Something of that sort."
They spend longer and longer at a place before moving, and Harry begins to think of settling down at one of the wild and picturesque places they've been to.Travel has begun to get exhausting- it's fun, of course, but Albus' joints aren't quite what they used to be.
He's packing up to move out of Tuvalu when he digs in through one of their old boxes, and stumbles across stacks of his old school stuff: parchments, potions notes, a Defence textbook cracked on the spine. And a few leaves of an old application form.Harry smiles.Maybe he doesn't mind being an Auror anymore.***
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The mud-bamboo structure Albus magicks along a rural hillside in the Malabar coast is as out of place as it would have been in a Tudor neighbourhood. It was on a whim that they moved here, after a stint in Iquique, when Harry complained of wanting to see something tropical or rural for a change.The local carpenter pays the site a visit, grimacing at the flat adobe roof. “At least, add some eaves.” He tells them pityingly, and goes on his way.Albus blinks.First, there was a Muggle to be Obliviated; but what was wrong with his house?It looks right at home on the laterite rocks. They’ve got plenty of heat and light- in fact, Harry had almost been dehydrated that afternoon, it’s that hot- and the flat roof would be ideal to use all that sun to dry grains and hang the laundry.He has even left a few holes above each room to let in the natural light.Albus inwardly praises his genius. He’s modified the little concrete box-houses of their neighbours and replicated it in mud. He knows the insides will be cooler with mud- it was a wisdom passed down during their stay with the Burkinabé.Another one of the locals shakes her head. “Idiot foreigner.”They do ask around for the flooring, and one of the elderly women show them how to plaster cow-dung and polish it. Albus is appalled at the thought and tries to buy vinyl sheets, but Harry insists that they need to honour tradition, and the younger man wins that argument.
April slips into May, taking along with it, a series of heat waves.Their mud house works wonders. Most of the time, they don’t even need artificial lighting. Albus adds a verandah after realising how useful it is. He spends his mornings reclining on the half-wall seats to read, Harry’s head on his lap.Harry volunteers at one of the local elementary schools- he started out as an English tutor, and now helps out with practically everything at the village. They get more than a few rude stares- same-sex relationships have only just been decriminalised in India- after the first time, Albus keeps a Memory charm at the tip of his wand when telling people they’re married.But mostly, the adults leave them alone, and pretend not to acknowledge it.The children, however, are very affectionate, and more often than not, there would be a few of the neighbours’ children running about their yard, poking their heads into Albus’ herb garden or his writing desk.
“Do you think we should paint it?” Harry asks abruptly, lying back on the cot and gesturing at the walls.Albus pecks the corner of his lips. He knows his husband had wanted to decorate their house back in Tiébélé; they had lived in the outskirts, but it was still strange to be the only unpainted mud house in the vicinity. But that had been a communal activity- for the Gurunsi women- and it was only respectful to not barge in or copy their traditions half-way.
Harry asks around for what he might paint on his walls.He makes the mistake of asking it in the school.The very next day, his students come running with an assortment of paints- watercolours, pencils, crayons, fabric paints- and they tell Harry to draw an ogre on the façade.Albus stares at the red-faced, bearded abomination above their door.Harry grins sheepishly. “It’s a good luck charm, I guess?”
In the afternoon, mothers come by and drag their unruly offspring back by their ears, and leaves Harry to paint the rest of the walls by himself. The children have done a terrific job- covering the lower half of the entire house with doodles.Harry’s drawing geometric patterns are interlaced with protection runes. Albus squats down beside him, and picks up the brush, and promptly sketches a crocodile on the wall, toothy smile and all.“More good luck to throw about.”
The younger man laughs, and flops against him. “My legs hurt.”Albus looks around- the local culture doesn’t accept public displays of affection- before stealing a kiss under the guise of wiping a smidgen of paint on his husband’s cheek. “I’ll massage them for you later.” There’s a wicked glint in his blue eyes, and Harry shivers.“I don’t think I can draw any more.” Not after that offer. “Bedroom, now.”They forget the painting supplies in the verandah, and Albus spares a prayer that it will not get stolen by the morning.Harry takes a leave from work the next day, complaining of sore legs and back, and the news spreads; Albus feels almost as smug as the local graffiti artists do.
The painted house stands proudly for a week- exactly until the second week of June, and then Albus realises the true weight of his errors.Monsoons.India had monsoons.And the Malabar Coast was one of the rainiest places in the country.The first rain soaks through the entirety of their mud house, and Albus has to run back from the grocer, balancing precariously over paddy field bunds and coconut bridges, and cast an overpowered Impervious Charm over it. He spends the afternoon drying it out meticulously, without damaging Harry’s murals.
“Told you.” The carpenter rolls his eyes as he cycles past their house. “You need a proper roof. The vastu’s all wrong anyway.”Before the second rain, Harry and Albus pay the man a visit, and he tells them of the bare minimum they should do before the rains and floods wipe out their mud-house.The monsoon season brings typical South Asian climate, and Albus conjures large timber beams and purlins, and they set about to building a sloped roof. The structure’s not quite what they are used to, the slopes all different and the carpenter tells them the loft cannot be used as rooms.True to his penchant for the dramatic, Albus curves and projects the eaves out at acute angles, and raises the entire house by the bedrock by a good few feet. The roof is held up entirely by magic.It’s beautiful, and the neighbourhood comes to stare at the house, but what’s more startling is that none of them finds it too strange. Magic is a subtle part of their lives; even if it isn’t a Wizarding town, there are local shamans under their patronage.Albus wishes the same coexistence could be introduced in the British Isles, but then, these people haven’t had a bloodthirsty history of witch-hunting.
The roof leaks, and Harry fixes it regularly. They’re almost out of the returning Monsoon when Harry joins the school on a trip to the Western Ghats and comes back with an immense desire to live in a coffee estate.Harry gets attached to places though. So Albus is left to handle the sale, and he finds a couple looking for a holiday retreat. They move out in October, and Albus waits until Harry stops accidentally Apparating back to whitewash over the children’s handiwork on the walls.***
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Harry sleeps soundly until Albus’ shriek startles him awake. He darts for his wand, and under Auror-honed impulses, he trains his ears for any intruders or alarms.There’s none, only Albus, who has his own wand in hand, pointing at Harry with wide, wild eyes.
“What is it?” The younger man asks, hesitant to pocket his wand until he has made sure of their safety.Albus is perched at the edge of the bed, and falls down when he attempts to move. Immediately, Harry reaches out to catch him, and gets his arms seared by the older wizard’s infamous flaming whips.
“Who are you?” Albus snarls, absolutely no recognition in his terrified eyes. “This is not my quarters. Where am I?”Harry drops his wand, and steps out of the bed himself. He had known this day was coming, ever since Albus began to show little signs of forgetfulness.He approaches the older wizard as one would a Hippogriff- non-threatening, submissive and peaceable. “I’m Harry. Your Harry.”Albus narrows his eyes, considering that piece of information. “Harry Potter? But it couldn’t be-”Harry’s face crumples in relief. “Oh good, you remember me.”The older man pins Harry against the wardrobe in two quick strides, and brushes the hair off his fringe, tracing the long-dead scar with a bony finger.“No dark magic here.” He hesitates. “What year is it?”
Twenty-forty five, Harry tells him. “You’ve missed a lot.”Albus remembers the Dark Lord’s resurrection, and the two years of Horcrux hunting, but nothing after that.“Harry Potter would have died.” Albus states. “The scar-”“-was a Horcrux, I know.” Harry grimaces. It’s been years, and Albus has pushed him through his years of self-doubt and survivor’s guilt, but something hurts deep within to hear him say that. “I survived the Killing Curse again, Albus. I came back.”Albus' face crumples in grief. His touch is incredibly gentle as he cups Harry's cheek and runs his thumb across his forehead.
He lets the former Headmaster fuss over his scar and the Hallows and how everyone’s been settling back after the war, and makes them both hot chocolate before returning to bed. Whereupon Albus points out that they’re sharing a bed.Harry hesitates.How is he to tell the man that they’ve been married for the better part of four decades?
Instead, he reveals that Albus had been diagnosed with dementia a few years ago, and that Harry was staying with him to take care of him.The absolutely brilliant man whittles the truth out of his vagueness anyway.“I love you.” Albus tells him sincerely, cuddling Harry against his chest. “I do not remember having said these words before, Harry, and I would like you to know how much you are loved.”He lets Harry kiss him, and blushes at the realisation that they’ve probably been doing this for ages, and promptly pulls Harry into his beard in embarrassment.“Likewise, Albus.” Harry replies, lacing their fingers together.
He wakes up before the old wizard, and extricates himself from the tangle of limbs, heading to the downstairs bathroom to shave.Albus doesn’t wake up frightened, in bed with a stranger, and Harry supposes he’ll ease his husband into their modern lives at the latter’s own pace.***
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When Mr and Mrs Pendleton move into the farmhouse in Ottery St. Catchpole, they do not expect the plethora of curious animals that pop their heads in to sniff at the new neighbours.Several owls drop on the crab-apple tree in their yard to stare unblinkingly as Mr Pendleton carries his potted plants out of the movers van, some with tilted heads and low hoots- almost as if judging him.Then comes a goat, peering in through their backyard fence, and a border collie wagging its tail to sniff cautiously at Mrs Pendleton’s hand before accepting her offer of dog biscuits. The latter seems to become instant friends with their own dog- a golden retriever with a sunny disposition and a penchant for getting into scrapes.It’s these two that has dragged in The Bird.
Mr Pendleton regards their newest guest with distinct unease. It is a very large bird of prey, its feathery brown head frazzled and darting around the room in panic. He fears the two dogs had done a number on the bird, and when he frees its legs from the collie’s jowls, the bird spreads its wings in a very dramatic gesture and hops away to the corner of the room.It looks rather spooked.The Pendletons themselves are terribly worried; they haven’t a clue about the laws regarding such birds- moreover, Ottery St. Catchpole is a village full of livestock and poultry, all attractive prey to a creature such as this. They’ve only just moved in; they don’t want to be accused of the neighbours’ missing chickens.
In the end, Mrs Pendleton hesitantly tosses slices of the morning bacon at the Bird, which it pokes at just as nervously before accepting the offering. Their guest remains on the perch in the corner throughout the day- and none of the Pendleton budgies are harmed.Sometime in the evening, as Mr Pendleton pokes around the firewood to light their hearth, a large bird flies out from the chimney stack, dive-bombing their living room and heading straight to the raptor in the corner. The Pendletons panic for a moment because the second bird seems to be literally on fire- but then the flames die away mid-flight and it lands on the perch unharmed.He hopes the new bird and the Bird are unlikely friends- because the the raptor seems to lose its flighty, spooked demeanour at the arrival, and it leans forward to allow itself to be groomed by the new bird.This latter bird had to be the most exotic creature the Pendletons had ever seen. The iridescent red bird nudges its brown counterpart towards the kitchen, hopping onto the counter to pick through Mrs’ Pendleton’s bowl of candy. It offers a bright yellow piece to the raptor, who hesitantly picks at the sweet before eating it.And another.And another.Mr Pendleton is certain that jellybeans were not even safe for a raptor’s diet. He doesn’t want to be responsible for the death of the creature, so he grabs the broom and hastily approaches the kitchen windows.“Shoo.” Using the end of the broomstick, he throws the shutters open.The two birds regard him curiously while munching on the jelly beans.Instead, a crow shoots past him into the kitchen, snuggling under the raptor’s wings- and in this manner, the two intruding birds carry the raptor out of the Pendleton home. No trace is left behind save for the diminished pile inside the candy bowl.
But the next day the red bird is back, sitting imperiously on the counter and popping more of the jellybeans into its beak before taking off.It has left a basket on the counter- a thank-you note in untidy handwriting- ‘for taking care of Albus; he gets disorientated often- we’re very sorry for the trouble!’ -and a freshly baked berry pie that smells heavenly.***
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When they move to Santorini, Albus comes to the realisation that their new house is quite... small. It’s an immensely pleasant place, but it has no space to keep the whole of Albus’ knick-knacks, which span several rooms worth of old journals, alchemy notes, several outdated editions of Transfigurations Today, half-made artefacts and more handwritten manuscripts than Albus can count.He has always kept his odd possessions in an expanded Wizardspace, a labyrinthine room he put together with runes and wards- and if he discounts the fact that these odd objects tended to slip out every now and then, and throw themselves about the house- they were doing just fine.No, the problem was Harry.Not that his darling boy complains about the clutter, no- the problem lay in the fact that Harry obsessively cleans every inch of their house every week- Albus’ wizardspace included.He spends hours dusting every bookshelf, cabinet and rack; polishing his tinkering failures along with the silverware; vacuuming the entire labyrinth of clutter- and it worries Albus. Harry’s cleanliness is a leftover habit from his upbringing- his own room is rather untidy, but every other place in their home is spotless.
And so, Albus crouches in front of his shelves of junk, pulling out stacks of yellowed monthlies and tying them into neatly sorted bundles. He supposes he’ll have to toss them with the garbage- which is a pity, because there are publications from the 1890s in his collection.But it’s been decades since he last opened something from these shelves.Done with the Transfigurations journals, Albus rounds up the Alchemy journals, the stacks of old, outdated textbooks he had used in school, and the ones he had used as a teacher, the Hogwarts rulebooks, Headmaster Black’s handwritten Codex that detailed out corporal punishment in gleeful detail- Merlin, why had he even kept these?- the staff rosters of over sixty years- yes, perhaps he would keep his notes on the Hogwarts Ward structure; that was too dangerous to be slipping out of the dump...Albus turns a fetching shade of red when he opens a drawer to rediscover his secret stash of gay porn magazines from the 1920s. They’re practically ancient, crumbling at the edges and falling apart by the leaves...Yes, he’d better dispose of those before Harry catches wind of them.
Another thing that Albus supposes he ought to dispose of discreetly: his manuscripts on dark magic. Albus Dumbledore couldn’t be found dabbling in necromancy and sacrificial magic...Albus hardly expects to find pastel blue lingerie inside his book on sacrificial earthworks.“Are you throwing these away?! Let’s open a bookstore-” It’s Harry, having returned from the baker’s- he’s holding up the stacks of Transfiguration Today, and he falters at seeing Albus.It’s very chaste-looking pair of cotton briefs- with pink bows. He had seen a billboard advert several years ago and marvelled at the coy allure of the model. He knew someone else who was innocently seductive without even trying-
Ridiculous.
What had he been thinking? The right thing, considering how he had baulked in horror at the impulse-buy, shoved it into the deepest recesses of his labyrinth and promptly forgot all about it.
“Are you throwing that away?” Harry asks, his voice oddly hoarse as bright green eyes land on the matching bra.A flat brassiere, evidently designed for a girl with little endowments. Or a man.Albus turns hot red and banishes the offending objects.The younger wizard promptly summons them back, bringing the cloth to his lips. “Musty old- and yet, brand new.” A devilish gleam dances in his eyes. “I wonder why, Albus.”“They’re not mine!” Albus chokes out, kicking the crate of dark arts manuals back into the shelves.Harry’s eyes darken. “Ah. They’re for me, then? How very lucky.”The beat that he misses before spitting out his denial tells Harry the truth. Albus finds himself shoved into his bean-bag, the young wizard straddling his lap. He’s so very embarrassed, and Harry pries his hands off his face, breaking his playful stare to look down.Inadvertently, Albus follows his gaze, something inside him fluttering at the sight of his boy dressed in pastel blues, the pink bows on his waistband and shoulder straps stark against his sun-kissed skin.Harry tut-tuts chidingly, lifting Albus’ chin to peck at his lips. “Next time you have a gift for me, Professor, don’t wait a decade. Or keep it stewing in a book on Muggle mass-sacrifices.”Blue eyes widen, a little frightened.Harry laughs, cupping the old wizard’s cheek. “Do I look like I care about what you did at seventeen, Albus?”The former headmaster slumps back into his bean-bag. “Even Miss Skeeter has her uses, I suppose. Will you forgive an old man for his past errors?”Harry thumbs a pastel blue elastic strap with intense, unblinking eyes. It slides slowly off his shoulders. “It’s high time we discarded what’s... unnecessary, don’t you think?”***
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It has been over eighteen years, but when their Boy-Saviour, back in Britain again, asks for a job in the Ministry, the department head caves.Ron is Head Auror.He looks complainingly at Harry’s application and stamps his seal of approval. “Welcome to the force, Mr Potter.”They put him at a desk job. At thirty six, Harry is the oldest of the new recruits, and most of his colleagues are not pleased. There’s little he can do in active duty, they assume, and Harry does not correct them- he doesn’t mind the regular work hours and being able to get back home to Albus every day.Besides, the Auror departments too need some staff to handle the paperwork.
Harry appreciates the early hours. He leaves for work at eight and returns at half past five. His afternoons are spent with Albus, getting used to the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley after years of living in quiet, odd places around the world.Well, that’s not entirely true.He misses the thrill of climbing vertical rock faces in the Cordilleras Orientale and digging through moss and overgrown vegetation to study the weather-magic carved onto the stone walls. He misses the allure of parseltongue echoing through the walls of cave temples in the Indian Peninsula, the call of Voldemort’s magic lingering hauntingly in the beech forests of Albania...It’s this siren’s call of adventure and challenge that takes Harry into the recesses of Knockturn Alley. The alley itself is much larger and organised than its more famous counterpart, Diagon; Harry and Albus meanders downhill into the side-alley where Knockturns’ guilds and employment exchanges set up their businesses. Odin’s Odd Jobs is the brokerage Albus has spoken of.The older wizard himself had taken up work in the place for an extra Sickle during the immediate days after his graduation. It’s the place one went to for off-the-record cursebreaking, enchanting- and disenchanting- objects, unregistered warding and... problem handling.Harry finds himself being solicited for the latter almost immediately.He has that build, he supposes. Three years of Auror Training- even for a desk job- has sculpted him in ways that stand out in these areas.Today, they’ve agreed to accompany a pair of hooded wizards to transport a crate- something that points Harry immediately in the direction of the black market beast trading- and they’re coming from Moore’s Wizarding shipyard in Southampton with a steel-panelled crate barely holding itself together under the heavy-duty wards and binding spells etched into the metal.
They bring the crate into a side-alley that’s more notorious for illegal trading of controlled substances. The two wizards nod thankfully at the two, passing on a bag of coins clinking merrily- the job had been for almost thirty Galleons- and then they disappear into the narrow building.Albus nods, his fingertips glittering with the now-active Trace. “Three of them,” murmurs the man, slipping his free hand around Harry’s neck, kissing him lightly and pondering thoughtfully. “I’ll be heading home now; what would you like for dinner?”Harry glances at the three Trace threads that have been passed onto his hand. “I’m craving lobster.” He pecks his husband’s cheek. “Should I get some on the way back?”The older wizard swats him playfully on the arse. “You would not have the time for it, darling. Now run along; Auror Weasley will be thrilled to hear of this discovery, I believe.”
It’s a Tsuchigumo- a class XXXXX beast from the Wizarding Japan, being harvested for its spleen extracts- although from what Harry understands, the extract procedure does not need the creature to die. Kimberly Macnair- just like her father- has a strange obsession with large monsters and had won the bid to the creature.As a pet, she screams when the Hit-Wizards rescue her from the rubble of London’s foremost establishment in beast-auctioning. The Tsuchigumo lays waste to half the alley, having ripped through the walls of the auction room and let loose a plethora of unlisted magical creatures into the ant-hill of untraceable, undocumented alleys that is Knockturn.When the Aurors arrive, several ruins are covered in spidersilk, people dangling on the webs with their heads chewed off. Harry conjures rings of fire, burning away every strand and raising a shield of molten stone around the advancing party as he leads them in the direction of the Trace.The Tsuchigumo roars upon being cornered and scuttles up three storeys, ready to pounce- but there are two Hit-Wizard tasks forces and a party of elite Aurors firing ceaselessly upon it while the Law-Enforcement Squad attempts to settle the panicked inhabitants of the vicinity.Two swings of its front legs- like pincers- decimate the shields of the Hit-Wizard force like a flimsy soap-bubble; the vanguards flee, and Harry is left at the forefront to take the brunt of its hits with a specially cast defence ward. He pushes back, cracking lightning on the Tsuchigumo’s unarmoured feline body- if it is anything like a tiger in there, he knows its vulnerabilities.The size difference works to their advantage. The beast’s belly is exposed. “Aim for the underside,” he tells his team, “and only fire spells that can deal piercing damage.”Harry barely avoids two more of the legs. He ducks under a broken garbage chute and uses a special carving spell that he has only used a handful of times- it has worked against inferi before, and it chops off the Tsuchigumo’s spider limbs, leaving it to roll down the webs in futility.After that, things get easier. They bind the beast’s maws after learning the hard way that the bite-force of demons do rival that of crocodiles; the remaining stumps of the limbs too- and then the creature is back in a steel-reinforced crate to be shipped off to the Scamanders’ care facility until they can arrange its transport back to Kyoto.(The specialist team from Japan isn’t pleased. Harry can’t understand why- it’s not like the dismemberment is permanent, is it?)
When they come out of battle, the main streets of Knockturn are in shambles; the Law Enforcement attempts to thoroughly check the establishments that have lost their wards, much to the displeasure of the inhabitants- and Harry stops the squad, citing that it is unlawful to inspect places that have nothing to do with the incident without a warrant.He becomes a bit of a hero in and out of the department after that. Ron comes over, looking tired and wryly delighted.“You’ve still got your touch, mate.” He beams as he slides the new assignment across his desk. Harry isn’t going to be working desk jobs anymore when he has proven himself so very capable.He grouses, of course- he would rather go back home to Albus and snuggle over a cup of hot cocoa and the latest episode of Muggle Mysteries- but something inside his belly still flutters at the thought of being in on the action. And it’s a specific case of illegal beast trading in Lorn.
Albus twinkles knowingly at him when he comes back home with the case files. He’s on the couch, knitting a new jumper for Harry since the Tsuchigumo ripped his last one to shreds. On the mantelpiece, four gigantic polished, resin-preserved exoskeletons gleam orange. There’s four more under stasis charms in the kitchen- nobody else had wanted them, not even Molly. Or Ron. Especially Ron.Dinner smells terrific, as usual, and as Albus takes the stew out into a crystal bowl, Harry combs his husband’s soft, silvery tresses to the side to nip on the loose skin down his nape.“I’m still craving lobster.” Harry complains playfully. “Spider simply isn’t the same flavour.”Albus hums. “Well then, a friend of mine runs an excellent establishment in Oban; perhaps I’ll just have to take you out tomorrow, won’t I?”***
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Albus can’t bear to throw away any of his accumulated books or trinkets. They end up opening a library instead.
It’s a little ways off from their beach-facing house in Megalochori, deeper into one of the magical neighbourhoods.Leaning against the painted blue grills of their balcony, Albus looks surreal. His long, snowy-white hair and beard dance in the wind, his eyes darkened to the same hue of Aegean blue under the shade of his straw hat. Harry thinks he’s never been more in love.Albus offers him a forkful of salad when he approaches.“I’ve just finalised the deal with Mr Angelopoulos. He says we’re free to start the renovations tomorrow.”Harry beams. This unexpected turn of events means they’ll be staying in Santorini for a bit longer than they originally planned. Perhaps by a year or two. Yannis has them curse-breaking in the crypts under Imerovigli, but it won’t be long until they find his family tomb and its annex chambers- and thereon, the work would almost entirely shift to Albus to go through the tomes Yannis expects to find there.And Harry- oh, he would be free to frolick through the streets and (finally!) explore the Wizarding settlements in Fira.He wipes a bit of the feta from the edge of his lover’s moustache and then licks his thumb clean, stealing a sip of wine from the glass floating beside Albus. “What sort of interiors do you have in mind?”
The Wizarding district isn’t very well defined. They have fun going down the streets along the ward periphery to spot Wizarding houses from the Muggle ones, and almost half the time, Harry gets his guesses wrong.At the centre, it’s a loose collection of houses and storefronts, a mixed church in the corner where the Muggleborn families hold their prayers and a tiny private garden squeezed between high, whitewashed walls. Albus ignores Harry’s scandalised exclamations and pokes his head in through the gate. “Yassou!”The old witch snipping away at a pot of orchids looks up, blinking. She’s dressed in gardening overalls, a cloud of white hair tucked into a baby-blue sunhat. “Albus?”Albus smiles in delight. He drags Harry in, introducing the lady as Agariste Georgiou, renowned herbologist. They’re quite good friends, apparently, but it is Harry (introduced as Albus’ significant other- the thought gives him butterflies) who hits it off with Madam Georgiou, using his little grasp of Greek to chat about her magical garden- and the vineyard she has been attempting to raise in Wizardspace.The latter is not very good for agriculture, laments the witch; plants need nature- and magical plants need magic to thrive. But her hometown has so little space to grow a full-sized garden, and her research would prove extremely valuable for the wizarding community here.Harry gets a grape vine and several cuttings of bougainvillea from Madam Georgiou- “For the library,” she says with a wink; “-been dying to get into Albus’ collections for a while now!”
An entire afternoon of wandering ends with the turn into the winding street where they secured their new property.It’s the building near Philippos' bakery; an old cave-house carved into the cliff walls that fit Albus’ vision of a grand Wizarding library. Harry has used up a good portion of his earnings to purchase the building, intending to keep it under their joint ownership indefinitely. The library, however, would have to be managed by someone after they move on, and Harry considers looking for a shop assistant right away. It would also help to have an extra pair of hands for the renovation.“What do you think?” Harry leans against the glass windows and faces the cavernous space inside. Albus has already set up the expansion charms, several brooms and feather-dusters flying about the rooms.“I think we should keep the limestone walls.” Albus decides, and with a wave of the Elder wand, the old plaster is peeling off, whirled into the dustpan. “We’ll paint it white, just like the outsides.”“And the furniture?”“Wooden. Unpainted.” Albus blows the termite-infested shelves to dust. “There ought to be some antique stores around here. Tomorrow, perhaps.”Harry frowns. He vaguely recalls that Madam Georgiou has told them to make their purchases on the mainland where it’s cheaper.They need another round with the cleaning charms before the rooms are empty and ready to be worked on. “Tomorrow.” Harry agrees.
Harry plants the bougainvillea by the whitewashed, blue-painted gateway just as the sun sets; Philippos’ daughter- a spirited twelve year-old- brings him a mug of water for the plants. She offers him poppy seeds from her own gardens. Harry thanks her with a promise of returning the next day to start renovations and then slips out of the street with Albus. They’re far too exhausted to walk back, and Harry pulls him into the nearest blind spot and Apparates straight into their couch.
They think they almost get into trouble with the Greek government for breaking the International Statute of Secrecy. Albus levitates the skeleton of a thing he calls a ‘basilosaurus’ into the expanded roof of the library, inextinguishable balls of flames hung onto its ribs and vertebrae for use as a chandelier.It’s certainly Albus’ style- outrageous, flashy and flamboyant- but it is also not the sort of thing the neighbour’s daughter expects to see when she brings them freshly baked buns.She gapes, her eyes flitting from Albus to the chandelier, and then she squeals in glee. “You’re Albus Dumbledore!”The older wizard has the modesty to blush, climbing down the ladder to approach the girl, the Elder wand slipping discreetly out of his sleeves.“You’re in our books!” The girl tells him animatedly; “You saved us from Grindelwald!”The redness on his face intensifies. From the counter, Harry chokes into his palm. Muggleborn, he mouths at Albus. The other wizard nods once, and then offers his hand earnestly to the girl. “How would you like a summer job?”They do need an assistant for when they’re out curse-breaking, after all.***