Chapter Text
The decision is made in a quiet room, not a battlefield. There is no wand in her hand, no curse on her tongue—only the weight of Teddy’s soft breathing against her shoulder and the steadiness of a grandmother’s gaze across the table.
Andromeda’s flat still smells faintly of books and lavender polish. The curtains sway in the late September breeze.
Teddy gurgles in Harri’s arms, his hair flickering turquoise, then settling into a shade that looks heartbreakingly like Remus’s. For a moment, silence feels like another person in the room, pressing at the edges, waiting.
“And you’re certain?” Andromeda says at last. Her voice is not unkind, but it is iron-bound. “You would take him across the ocean, away from everything he’s ever known?”
Harri tightens her hold on the child, her throat working. “He won’t remember Britain,” she says softly.
“Not the ruins, not the funerals. What he remembers will be what we give him. And—” She falters, then pushes through. “I’ve found him. My soulmate.”
The words land like stones. Andromeda’s mouth tightens, her brows pulling low.
“Niklaus Mikaelson.” She says the name as if tasting ash. “A stranger. A dangerous stranger. And you would trust him with Teddy?”
“I don’t trust easily.” Harri’s voice is sharper than she means it to be, but she doesn’t retract it. “I know danger when I see it. I know cruelty. He isn’t—” She stops, exhales, and starts again, steadier this time. “He isn’t gentle, no. But he’s constant. He was there when Tom was in my head, when I thought I’d drown in it. He steadied me. I can’t explain it. I only know that when everything else was gone, he remained.”
Andromeda’s eyes glisten, though her mouth stays stern. She looks down at Teddy, brushing one finger along the baby’s soft cheek.
“He’s all I have left,” she whispers. “Nymphadora gone. Remus gone. My husband buried years before them. Teddy is my breath now.”
Harri swallows hard. “I know. And I’m not trying to take him from you. I just… I need to go. And I can’t leave him behind. He’s all I have left too.”
The silence between them stretches, heavy but not hostile. Teddy sneezes, startling them both into small, rueful smiles.
Finally Andromeda nods, once. “Then a compromise,” she says, her voice firm though it shakes at the edges.
“You take him, because I cannot cage you. But you write to me. Letters every week, more if you can. You send him back in summers, when he is older. You let him know me, not as a photograph, not as a story, but as flesh and blood.”
Relief floods Harri so quickly her knees almost buckle. She nods, fiercely. “I promise. I swear it.”
Andromeda’s hand trembles as she reaches out, brushing Teddy’s small hand with her thumb.“Then may life be gentler to him than it ever was to us.”
She looks back at Harri, something soft breaking through her grief-worn eyes. “And may your soulmate be worth what you are giving up.”
Harri doesn’t say it aloud, but in her bones she feels Nik’s laughter curl, sharp and low: I’ll make sure of it, little one.
The farewell dinner is set at the Burrow, though it feels more like a wake disguised with lanterns and stew. Molly insists on cooking a mountain of food as if she can stave off departure with shepherd’s pie.
Arthur tells stories that trail into affectionate tangles about plugs and ports. The house is full—Ginny perched on the stairs, Hermione pressed close to Ron, Neville clutching a wrapped bundle that Harri suspects is a plant.
She sits at the long table with Teddy in her lap, listening to the laughter that strains to stay bright. For once she lets herself simply look at them: her family, not by blood but by bond.
Their hair, their smiles, the way grief has stitched them together with threads she does not quite belong to. She will remember this, she decides, not the funerals or the battles, but this—warmth straining against loss.
“So you’re really going,” Ron says, breaking the quiet lull of spoons against bowls. His tone is blunt, but his eyes are softer. “All the way to America.”
Harri nods, brushing Teddy’s hair back from his brow. “I have to. It’s… it’s not just a voice in my head anymore. It’s a tether. If I stay, I’ll always feel half here, half gone.”
Hermione reaches across the table, taking Harri’s free hand. “We understand. Soulmates—” her voice falters, a blush flickering across her face, “they aren’t something you can ignore. But promise us you’ll write.”
“I will.” Harri squeezes her hand back. “Every week.”
Neville clears his throat, then slides the bundle toward her. “It’s a cutting,” he says awkwardly. “From the Mimbulus. It’ll grow anywhere, even somewhere as strange as America. Thought maybe… you’d like something alive from home.”
Harri presses the gift to her chest, warmth threading through her. “Thank you, Neville. That means more than you know.”
Ginny doesn’t speak until the plates are cleared, when the chatter dips into silence. Then she crosses the room in a rush and throws her arms around Harri, clinging tightly. “I hate that you’re leaving,” she mutters into Harri’s shoulder, “but I’d hate it more if you stayed miserable. So go. Just… don’t forget us.”
“I couldn’t,” Harri whispers back, her throat aching. “Not ever.”
The night winds down with promises repeated—letters, visits, owl-post that will cross oceans. Molly fusses over Teddy, dabbing at her eyes. Arthur presses a hand to Harri’s shoulder, murmuring about bravery taking many forms.
When at last Harri steps into the night air, cool and sharp, she feels as if she has left pieces of herself scattered among them.
But the tether in her bones hums steady, waiting.
That night, Grimmauld Place feels heavier than usual. Shadows cling to corners, the walls holding onto Sirius’s ghost. Teddy sleeps soundly in the crib Kreacher had grudgingly repaired.
Harri sits by the window, the moon spilling pale across the floorboards. Her hands tremble, though with anticipation more than fear.
You’re restless, the voice hums through her, sardonic and amused.
She swallows. “You can hear that?”
I’ve always heard it. Tonight it sings louder. Leaving them frightens you more than any war did.
Her throat tightens. “They’re all I’ve ever had. And now I’m choosing to walk away.”
Choosing me. The words curl, not boastful but certain. You think I do not know what that costs you?
Harri presses her forehead to her knees, laughter shaking out of her in a rush. “You don’t sound cruel tonight.”
Cruelty has its place. But tonight— a pause, softer than she expects —tonight I would rather hope.
She lifts her head, heart hammering. “Then tell me something true.”
The voice—Nik—chuckles low. I paint when I cannot sleep. My brother mocks me for it. My sister says it’s the only time I look gentle. Both are wrong. It isn’t gentleness. It’s survival. Without it I’d have torn the city down long ago.
Harri smiles into the dark, a spark of warmth breaking through. “I sing. Only to Teddy. He doesn’t care if I’m out of tune.”
Perhaps I’ll be the judge of that one day.
Her breath catches. “One day. Soon.”
The bond hums, sharper, almost tender. Soon, little one. I’ll be waiting.
The morning she leaves Britain dawns pale and cool, mist curling low across the rooftops. Grimmauld Place smells of dust and polish, of rooms too long held in silence. Harri moves quietly through it, Teddy balanced on her hip, her other hand trailing over bannisters and doorframes as though memorising the texture of goodbye.
She has packed lightly. A trunk of clothes. Sirius’s cloak, folded last. Neville’s plant, swaddled in cloth.
A handful of photographs that feel more like antiques than memories. The rest she leaves—because if she carries everything, she would never go.
Andromeda waits in the doorway, eyes red from a sleepless night. She does not speak as Harri sets the trunk down, but when Teddy reaches for her, she gathers him close, pressing her face into his hair. Her silence is heavy but not damning; it is a silence full of love restrained.
“I’ll write,” Harri says softly. “Every week.”
Andromeda nods, still holding the child. When she looks up, her voice is rough but steady. “Go, then. Before I lose my nerve.”
Harri hugs her tightly, whispering into her ear, “Thank you.” Then she takes Teddy back, and with one last look at the crooked house that was once a sanctuary, she steps into the street where a portkey waits to carry them across the sea.
The crossing is a blur of ocean and sky. The portkey leaves her dizzy, landing them at a magical way-station in Lisbon before another jump takes them to a transatlantic vessel warded for wizardkind.
The ship is old but sturdy, sails snapping with enchanted wind. Teddy marvels at the gulls swooping alongside, his hair flashing silver as though echoing their wings. Harri holds him close against the chill, her heart caught between awe and ache.
Nights at sea are the hardest. The waves beat steady against the hull, and Teddy stirs often, waking with soft cries. Harri soothes him with songs, her voice low and unsteady, but enough.
When at last he sleeps again, she lies awake staring at the low ceiling, feeling the bond hum in her bones.
You’re closer, Nik’s voice threads through her, rough-edged and certain. I can feel it.
She smiles into the dark. “Is that relief I hear?”
A challenge, he corrects, amusement curling at the edges. If you are half as stubborn in person as you are in my head, New Orleans will never recover.
Harri laughs softly, careful not to wake the child. “I thought soulmates were supposed to be tender. Sweet. You sound more like a storm warning.”
Storms clear the air. Sweetness rots the teeth. You should thank me for honesty.
“Maybe I will,” she teases. “When I see you.”
A pause, then lower, steadier: You will see me soon. And then you’ll know whether hope was worth it.
Days stretch long. She watches the horizon shift from endless grey into streaks of gold. Teddy learns to toddle along the narrow deck, sailors laughing as his hair flashes with each mood—green at their applause, indigo when he stumbles, gold when he giggles.
He is a constant reminder of why she must keep moving forward: not just for herself, but for him.
At night, she and Nik talk more. Sometimes sharp, sometimes soft. He tells her about painting, about a city built on bones and music, about siblings who are both wound and salve.
She tells him about Sirius, about Quidditch in the sun, about the ruins of Hogwarts being stitched back together stone by stone.
“One day,” she admits, voice hushed, “I wandered the halls while they rebuilt. I found the Mirror again, covered in dust. I thought it would show me my parents like before. Instead, it showed a stranger standing in sunlight I didn’t recognize, sunshine hair, and dimpled smile. I hoped, still hope, that it was is you.”
A pause, the bond thrumming. That was me, Nik murmurs, low and certain. Not when you were a child. Not when Tom’s shadow still clung to you. But after, when the war was done. You saw me because by then, the thread had nothing left to fight through.
Her breath hitches. “So it wasn’t madness.”
No, he says, softer. It was me. Only me.
The words feel like a hand pressed gently against the hollow in her chest. She falls asleep smiling, the waves rocking her into dreams that for once are not nightmares.
Land rises on the horizon one morning like a promise: New Orleans, the port bustling with masts and banners, gulls shrieking as if heralding her arrival.
The air is warmer, spiced with salt and sugar, the sun heavy on her shoulders. Teddy wriggles in her arms, his hair flashing gold as though he senses the change.
Harri’s heart races. Every step down the gangplank feels like walking into a story she has half-dreamed her whole life. The bond thrums in her bones, sharp and sure, pulling her toward the crowd that gathers at the dock.
And there he is.
Niklaus Mikaelson stands at the edge of the throng, the city sprawling behind him like a kingdom he both owns and defies. Sunlight spills over him, catching in hair that gleams like molten bronze, shadowing the curve of his mouth. His eyes find hers at once—as though they have always known where to look.
For a heartbeat, everything stills. The noise of the dock, the creak of ropes, the gulls overhead—all fade until there is only this: him, and her, and the tether that sings between them.
His smile breaks slow, dimples carving deep. Hope and danger, both at once. He steps forward, his voice low and inevitable.
“Hello, love.”
Harri exhales, the weight of years loosening all at once. Teddy presses his small hand against her collarbone, as if sealing the moment. And for the first time since the war ended, she feels not haunted, but found.
New Orleans drips with jazz and chaos, and Nik has never been made for waiting.
And yet, as he stands on the port of New Orleans, he waits. He waits like the beggar children in the alleys and yearns like the mothers who cannot feed their own.
He waits for a woman who is no phantom, no dream, though she has been both to him for longer than he cares to admit.
He knows more of her life than any stranger should. Wars reached him in fragments — headlines snatched from crumpled papers, whispers traded across oceans, the shiver of her voice when grief cracked through her mind into his.
The world called her savior, martyr, miracle. He called her little one, half in mockery, half in something else he dares not name.
What a strange courtship it has been. No stolen glances across candlelight, no perfumed letters sealed with wax. Only her voice pressed raw into his skull, laughter spilling at odd hours, defiance sharper than steel.
Only the hush of confessions shared in the hollows of thought where no one else could trespass. A bond built not in parlors or taverns but in marrow and shadow. Intimate in ways that turn intimacy into a poor imitation.
And so he waits.
If Kol knew, he’d never be spared. Niklaus Mikaelson, brought low by a slip of a girl in school robes, Kol would croon, wicked grin wide enough to cut.
Rebekah would be worse — eyes shining, already weaving gowns and fantasies the girl would have no interest in.
Elijah would not speak at all, which is worse still. Silence is the sharpest blade.
Nik almost laughs at himself. He should be above this — pacing a dock like a jilted lover, restless as a hound on a leash. And yet here he stands, expectant, foolish, his chest tighter than it has been in a century.
A gull shrieks overhead, slicing the thought clean. His gaze fixes on the horizon, where sails gleam white against the sun, where a ship lists heavy toward port.
The tether in his bones hums sharper, more insistent.
Soon.
Soon the girl who has haunted his shadows and steadied his storms will set foot in his city, within his reach. And if the world has any sense of irony — and it always does — she will hate him at first sight.
The thought curls his mouth into a grin, dimples cutting deep.
The gangplank groans, lowering to the dock. Passengers spill like ants, weary and sunburnt, their chatter swallowed by the clamor of gulls and vendors hawking wares. He scarcely sees them. The bond tugs too sharply, narrowing his vision until there is only her.
A small figure, dark hair whipping in the river wind, a child balanced steady on her hip. Eyes that are too green, scanning the crowd as if she has always known where to look.
And then she does look.
Straight at him.
The noise of the port dies, as if the city itself knows better than to intrude. For the first time in a long time, Nik feels the stillness of recognition sink into his bones.
She is younger than he expected, older than she should be. Fragile and unbreakable all at once. And she is his — not by conquest, not by blood, but by a thread that has never once snapped, no matter how cruelly it pulled.
Her mouth parts, breath catching. The child in her arms presses a hand against her collarbone, as though sealing something sacred.
Nik’s grin softens into something dangerous.
“Hello, love.”
The words leave him smoother than he expected, soft where he thought they might bite. For once, his voice carries no mockery — only the kind of inevitability that tastes like iron on the tongue.
She does not answer at once. Green eyes pin him as if trying to peel him apart bone by bone. He almost laughs at the audacity — she has looked at kings, monsters, tyrants, and still she looks at him like this.
And then, he turns to the child.
Small, quiet, balanced easily on her hip as though he belongs there, though the weight of him is too heavy for someone so young to bear.
The boy’s hair shifts faintly in the sunlight — a ripple of colour, quick as a bird’s wing, and his eyes flash that of amber. A little wolf child he is.
His smile turns razor sharp.
Nik tilts his head, lips quirking. “You bring company,” he murmurs, tone sardonic but low, as if they stand alone and not in the chaos of a port. “How very considerate of you. I was beginning to think introductions might be dull.”
Her grip tightens around the child, but her chin lifts, her gaze slicing into him with quiet steel. And then she says it — voice steady, threaded with dry humor.
“I thought you’d enjoy being a family man.”
The words puncture the air, sharper than he expects, and for a moment he almost startles. Family man. Of all the things he has been called, never that. The irony should sting. Instead, it curls warm in his chest, unwelcome but undeniable.
A laugh slips from him, low and rough, edged with surprise. “Careful, love. Say it like that and I might start believing you mean it.”
Something in her eyes softens then — not surrender, not sweetness, but recognition. The bond hums steady between them, no longer a storm, but a quieter current pulling them closer.
For the first time in years, Nik does not feel like he is waiting.