The Scars of Two Lives

Present - 2001

Harry Potter remembered the war.

It’s been almost three years and he still remembered it so well. He still had nightmares of it, he still had the scars etched on his skin and he still had the memories of the dead clung to his bones. He defeated Voldemort and saved the wizarding world free from his grasp, he had done his job for the betterment of the world. He fulfilled his fate. However, as the days blurred into each other, he wasn’t sure if he’d made the world better for everyone—or everyone but him. He won this war to free the world, but on the other hand, he felt like he was still trapped in that war. So, on nights like these, he sought out distractions in another dingy muggle pub.

And with that Harry downed another whiskey, letting the burn settle in his throat. He liked being in these types of places, the kind of place where no one knew him, where he wasn’t the Boy Who Lived. Where he wasn’t the poster boy for Heroism. Where he was just a normal young man. Just Harry.

His break-up with Ginny is painful but expected. After the war, Harry tried to fix his relationship with the red hair. Godric, they tried . He remembered those nights, holding each other tight, crying together in the dark, finding comfort with each other. But as the dust settled, and as life slowly returned to normal, the cracks had begun to show. 

Before, Ginny was still in school, and Harry was consumed by the Auror Academy training helping out in rounding up the remaining Death Eaters. Both were busy, but they both knew that the distance ran deeper than their schedules—Harry felt himself slipping into a darkness, while Ginny stayed strong, determined to move on and live her life after everything she’d been through. Eventually, they both agreed that they had to let each other go. There were no harsh words, no fights. Just a quiet, shared understanding that they were no longer what the other needed. Ginny had been brave and strong about it, of course. She was Ginny Weasley for fucks sake.

Now, Harry sat alone, painfully aware of how alone he was.

Harry was about to get another drink when a woman with blonde hair sat on his left and it caught his attention. There was something about her that made Harry drawn to her. The blonde woman noticed Harry staring, her sharp grey eyes locking onto his, and she smiled at him. Maybe this was a mistake but Harry used that as an invitation to talk to her.

“Buy you a drink?” Harry asked, slipping into an easy charm he learned from the Weasley twins. It was a well-practiced routine now, a mask he wore in places and times like this. 

“Sure, why not?” The blonde woman looked at him, her lips curling into a playful grin, which sent a jolt of attraction through him.

“I am Harry, what’s your name?” He introduced himself as he gave her a glass of whiskey. Harry can see the attraction through her eyes. She’s interested in him.

Since the war, a lot has changed in his physical attributes. Between Auror training and the strict nutrient potions Professor McGonagall insisted on, his body had transformed, his frame filled out, his face sharpened, his cheekbones became more defined, and he’d grown taller. And according to the Witch Weekly , he had now become the new ‘Most Eligible Bachelor of the Wizarding World’ which Harry found incredibly absurd. But another change started when Charlie Weasley introduced him to a small Muggle tattoo shop. Harry would never forget the first time he sat through his first tattoo, a Lily on his chest. He could remember the pain from the needle pressing into his skin that made him oddly comforted despite the sting—so, he went back for another—and another—and another.

A lily on his chest for his mother, a dragon on his lower abdomen, a stag antlers on his back for his father. On his left arm, a large black dog stood for Sirius, and beside it, a set of moons for Remus. The Marauders’ footprints circled up his forearm as well. On his right arm, was an owl—Hedwig, then a golden snitch, a hippogriff, multiple hats stacked onto each other that reminded him of Dobby, and a small camera to remember Colin. Really, just a few tattoos to cover the scar on his body that remind him of the war. Though, his new look resulted in many witches stealing glances at him whenever he visited Diagon Alley or the Ministry—although, not everyone approved especially Mrs. Weasley who reprimanded her son after learning that he was the one who introduced Harry to a tattoo artist.

“I am Cassandra,” she answered, tilting her head slightly. Tracing her hand on the tattoos on his arm. “Cass for short.”

Cass , Harry thought, saying the name in his head.

“So, Harry,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “What do you do?”

Harry paused for a second. “I’m a policeman,” he lied. He couldn’t exactly say that he was an Auror—technically, though, it was a bit the same. But Harry wouldn’t tell her that he was a ‘Wizard Policeman’.

“A policeman?” she echoed her eyebrows raised a bit, “you look a bit young for one though, bet that sounds exciting for you then?”

“Yeah, I suppose you could say that.” Harry let out a small laugh.

Well, in reality, it wasn't fun. It was a long hours of tracking down and fighting remaining death eaters and dark wizards—raids in the dead of night, dark spells fired in alleys, and ambushes on different places. But he wasn’t about to unload that on her. This wasn’t a therapy session, and she wasn’t here to listen to his problems.

“Oh, is this what you do when you're off duty then, Officer?” she leaned in closer.

"Something like that," he laughed as he replied, “So, what about you? What do you do?”

Cass gave a small, almost lazy shrug. “Accounting,” she said, her eyes flicking up at him from over her glass. “Nothing as fun as being a policeman.”

“Accounting,” Harry repeated, raising an eyebrow with a teasing grin. “I’m sure that's not true. I bet you get to have loads of fun, right?”

Cass chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh yeah, fun . You wouldn’t believe the excitement I have whenever I see numbers.”

Harry laughed, leaning in slightly to look like he was really interested in her. However, he didn’t really care much about the specifics of her boring job. This wasn’t about getting to know each other, it was about letting the night slip away for Harry.

They continued their small talk about her job and Harry’s “policeman” cover story and it went on easily until at some point she leaned in closer, her shoulder brushing against his. And with that, the conversation had stopped mattering entirely, but neither of them seemed to mind. And honestly, a chit-chat wasn't what either of them was here for.

The next moment they are in the bathroom stall of the pub. Harry can taste the whiskey as their lips meet in a heated kiss, their hands exploring with hunger. Her fingers were in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responded with equal passion, his own hands sliding down her back, gripping her arse.

Then the blonde was on her knees in front of him, her hands sliding over his thighs as she took him in her mouth. Harry grabbed her hair, a moan escaping his lips. For a moment, all he could focus on was the sensation, the way her tongue played with his tip before sucking him off. Harry looked down at her noting her features as he obligingly take his cock onto her mouth.

He took note of her soft porcelain skin, flushed pink lips, and the way they wrapped around him—then the girl lifted her gaze at him, and her piercing gray eyes met his. He groans, he is close.

“Thought I’d see you here,” 

Annoyance rushed through Harry as his gaze shot toward the door of the stall . His first instinct was to tell the tossers off, maybe curse them, or maybe even obliviate them on the spot. But the words caught in his throat the moment he saw who it was.

Draco fucking Malfoy. 

Malfoy looked down on the girl at first and seconds later his grey eyes landed on Harry. Then that familiar smirk— that fucking smirk —the one that had annoyed Harry for years, plastered on his face. Why the hell is he here?

Harry couldn’t think properly. The girl hadn’t stopped and seems like he didn’t know there was another person in the room with them. Her movements were faster and deliberate, but all Harry could focus on was Malfoy—on the way, he was arrogantly leaning on the door frame, even the way his lips formed into a smirk, and how beautiful his stupid grey eyes looked under the low dim light. Harry was sure that there was something playful, about the way Malfoy smirked at him right now. And Harry couldn’t stop his mind from suddenly flashing an image where those lips are the ones wrapped around his cock while those eyes look up at him all watery— What is this?

Harry’s eyes not leaving the blonde—he reached down and grabbed at the woman’s hair— what was her name again? Cameron? Cammile? Carla? Fuck it. He figured he didn't care. Harry could feel the vibration from her muffled moans as he grabbed her hair—he came into her mouth. Malfoy's mouth gaped and his eyes were wide but did not leave Harry. 

Harry didn't even know what he was doing if it was even because of the alcohol or he just finally went mental. His eyes still looking at Malfoy, his chest heaving heavily, and slowly his lips formed into a grin. Malfoy's eyes darkened and a flush of red tinted his cheeks.

“You next?” Harry jibe. The girl whipped her head around and almost screamed. “Give me at least a minute and I can make it back up again for you, “

“Finish this up,” Malfoy said smoothly, ignoring Harry’s taunting. “Granger and the Weasel are waiting for you outside.”

Malfoy left and Harry sighed, frustratingly rubbing his hand over his face. He was supposed to be having fun, what the fuck is Draco Malfoy doing in here?

“Sorry, Carol—”

“Cass,”

“ —I need to go,”

Harry fixed his trousers and quickly left the bathroom. He could hear Cass curse him out as he went but he ignored her. Malfoy was waiting for him outside the bathroom. 

“Out to bed the entire population before sunrise again?” Malfoy’s voice was lazy, and Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes at him as they both walked.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry muttered, pulling a box of cigarettes from his jeans and lighting it as he put it into his mouth. He blew up a smoke and then said, “If I don’t know any better I’d say you were jealous.”

Harry saw Malfoy falter for a moment before raising his eyebrow, “Jealous? Of what exactly? Your inability to go a night without screwing up your life even more?” 

“I am not screwing my life—I am getting a blow job,” he grinned at Malfoy. The blonde sneered at him and he snorted. His mind is still a bit fuzzy from the alcohol.

“Merlin, you’re so obnoxious, I’d be more concerned if you were actually capable of sustaining a meaningful relationship instead of your endless parade of distractions.”

“This is not a distraction, and besides—when did you become such an expert on meaningful relationships?” Harry shot back with a sarcastic tone. “When did you become the role model of relationship stability?”

“Fuck you, Potter.”

“I know I am irresistible, but—” Harry said, his lips forming into a teasing grin before blowing up another smoke in the blonde’s face. “No, thanks, Malfoy.”

“You know, for someone who’s apparently so irresistible, you seem awfully miserable.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a war hero.” Harry says with a slight shrug, the cigarette between his fingers. “And I am That-Bastard-Who-Just-Won't-Fucking-Die, I can do whatever the fuck I want. I can be miserable if I want.”

“Oh, Please, of course, you would use that so you can act like a bitch—” Malfoy scoffed, “Just so you know, you were also Undesirable Number 1 not long ago.”

“I became Desirable Number 1 on my 18th birthday though,” Harry shot back, flashing Malfoy a cocky smirk once again. Malfoy rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest “What? I told you, I am fine, Malfoy—”

“Harry!” A familiar female voice called for him. Harry didn’t even realize that they were already outside the pub. Hermione and Ron were standing in front of them, and Harry could notice the worry on their faces when they saw what was between his fingers—and that made Harry quickly stubbed out the cigarette against the wall. The last thing he needed was another intervention from Hermione telling him to take care of his lungs.

“Hermione? Ron?” Harry’s voice came out rougher than he intended “Is there a problem?”

“No, but we need your help,” Hermione said quickly, her voice urgent. She glanced around. “Can we go to Grimmauld to discuss this?”

Harry nodded and seconds later he apparated in Grimmauld Place. The familiar scent of old wood and the faint chill of the air wrapped around him as he landed in the musty old house. Instinctively, Harry moved to the couch, his usual spot after long nights of moping. He sank into it heavily, his body slumping with exhaustion.

Harry grabbed his wand and re-adjusted the wards for Hermione, Ron, and Malfoy so they could apparate directly. He had adjusted the wards after the war making it impossible for other people to apparate inside its wall aside from him. Thus well making them more secure so that the reporters of the Prophet won't reach him. Only owls from selected people can reach him and his floo network is only for the Weasly, his Auror Office, and Hogwarts for Minerva.

He felt the alcohol in his veins, dulling the edges of his thoughts. Maybe he could sneak another drink after they left.

“What the fuck, Potter! You could’ve splinch yourself!” Malfoy snapped at him the moment he appeared in the house. “You’re drunk!” His gray eyes were wide with a mixture of anger and— was that concern? But Harry ignored that, he rolled his eyes at him.

“It’s fine, I always do it.” He said, sounding a bit bored. 

“It’s fine?!”  

“Draco,” Hermione interjected. “I told you Harry’s got a strong magical core. He can be really drunk and still be able to do wandless or wordless magic.” She pointed out as if she and Malfoy talked about that before. Harry only raised his eyebrows at them.

“So… why are we here?” Harry asked, leaning back and crossing his arms. His eyes shifted toward Hermione, who was now slipping out of her coat and sitting across from him. Ron and Malfoy followed her.

“First, I want to say that this research isn’t part of my responsibilities as an Unspeakable…” Hermione began. “And, well, what I uncovered is technically illegal—so you can’t tell anyone.” 

“Alright, this sounds dangerous” Harry stares at Hermione. "What is it?”

“It's about the Deathly Hallows…” Hermione replied, her voice dropping to a whisper, “...and rewriting the universe,”

“It is dangerous,” Ron pointed out.

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed at the mention of the Hallows. Even in his drunken state, he couldn’t stop as the memories flooded back as his heart raced against his chest—the weight of the Resurrection Stone—the chilling power of the Elder Wand—the Invisibility Cloak and its comforting cloth-like embrace as if the hug itself was passed down by his ancestors. While he still has the cloak—he already left the stone in the Forbidden Forest and destroyed the Wand before putting it on Dumbledore's grave. What do they need the Hallows for? Rewriting the what?

“I’ve seen it,” Hermione continued. “In the forbidden part of the Department of Mysteries archives—I found a ritual and a spell about going into the past and changing realities that only need powerful sources—I was not sure what it could be before, and considering I cannot ask other Unspeakable I researched on my own. Ron then mentioned that The Hallows might be powerful enough to be used—"

“That’s risky,” Harry muttered.

“Risky is an understatement,” Malfoy replied, shaking his head.

“You think messing with the past is a good idea? What if we end up making things worse?” Harry ignored the blonde.

“Or what if we end up saving lives?” Hermione replied. “You know what we’ve lost, Harry. This could give us a chance to change everything.”

“And what if something goes wrong?” Harry asked his voice firm and sharp. “What if by trying to fix things, we make them worse? You know the risk of Time-Turners, don’t you? Messing with time and realities always has consequences—you’re the one who told me that, Hermione.”

“We are not using Time-Turners, though—far from it,” Ron said as he put his hands into his pocket. “Hermione found enough to suggest it’s possible, but we need to be careful. It’s risky, Mate, I know—but it could change everything.”

“Yeah, and how would you do that? I throw away the Stone, and the Elder Wand is broken lying with Dumbledore. The only Hallows we have is my Cloak—doubt that will be powerful enough,” Harry said as he crossed his arms. His head hurts already, and he needs a drink.

“The centaurs help me find the Resurrection Stone buried deep in the Forbidden Forest. The Elder Wand—well I did all the dirty work. Please don’t ask me how.” Hermione countered her cheeks flush. Did she do something illegal? Harry doesn’t want to know.

“You know what we’ve lost, Harry. This could give us a chance to change everything. Where all of us don’t wake up every night—where none of us have the trauma from the bloody war...” Ron said, his voice gentle. But Harry could see his legs moving up and down—he was nervous. “This ritual could change everything.”

“No.” His voice sharper. “Using the Deathly Hallows is dangerous, Hermione, and besides they're dead… they’re gone, Ron. You can’t play God with this.”

“Harry—”

“No! You can’t bring them back!”

His voice rose, and suddenly, a sharp crack split the air. A nearby vase shattered, the fragments scattering across the floor. Harry’s chest heaved, his breath uneven, eyes burning. The lights flickered above them, and the air grew heavy, saturated with magic—his magic—radiating from his fingertips. No one dared to talk at first until it was Ron who broke the silence.

“We’re not talking about bringing back the dead, Mate. We’re talking about rewriting the timeline—creating a world where people we lost never had to die, where everything we went through can be rewritten—like all the traumas gone. Imagine a world where you're not drinking away your pain, where you don’t use sex to forget, where your parents never died, where Sirius is alive… where—” Ron faltered, he swallowed before continuing, ”Where Fred is still here...” 

Harry stared at his best friend. Of course… Fred.

To be honest, Harry would lie if the allure of the Hallows hadn’t crossed his mind before—a potential to bring back the dead. And as the Master of Death, he would certainly have the power right? He can bring back Snape, Dumbledore, Dobby, Tonks, Sirius, Remus, and his Parents—everyone who died because of the war, and maybe just then he could heal his empty heart. And now, to rewrite their tragedies, to reverse the pain of loss and suffering has the same allure to the raven-haired boy. But as he stood with his friends, his mind wrestled with a bitter reminder. You can’t control death, and you certainly can't control fate.

“Gathering and using the three Hallows only makes you a Master of Death,” Harry finally said after a long pause, his voice hoarse “Not a Master of Fate,”

What followed was another deafening silence. No one dared to talk. That made Harry then think about his life and whether he could rewrite it. What would he be like? What would his parents be like if they didn’t die? Who will be his friends? There are so many questions running through his mind. And with this emotional stability right now, he could use a break from this reality.

“Harry, I know that but it’s a risk we're willing to take,” Hermione’s voice was soft, her eyes met his and Harry could see a mix of pleading and courage swimming in it.  “Malfoy… he agreed. Believe it or not, we actually need him for this.” She said as she looked at the blonde to her left, who looked at Harry smugly, “And now we need your help, too.”

Harry’s mouth opened, then closed again, and decided to wait for Hermione to continue. “This ritual requires two people with a strong magical core, people capable of withstanding the strain of a journey back in time. Ron and I couldn’t do it ourselves—we would if we could and besides we also need two people to facilitate the ritual.”

She paused before looking intensely at Harry, her eyes pleading. “We’ve thought this through, Harry. We can’t do this without you.”

“I need to think,” Harry mutters more to himself than to them.

“Mate, we don’t have much time—we need your answer now,” Says Ron his voice eager.

“I need to think,” Harry said and the words came out sharper than he intended. He glanced at Hermione, “I am so drunk right now, do you honestly want my answer while I’m drunk, Hermione?” 

“N-no…” Hermione stammered, just like before she still doesn’t handle his anger well. However, she’s not Hermione if she backs down without fighting. “But Harry, we need your answer as much as possible… We need the Blood Moon for it to work and that’s three days from now and we can’t miss it because the Elder wand is weakening by the day.”

“Tomorrow,” Harry said. “I’ll give you my answer. I need to sleep—sorry,” 

Without waiting for a response, Harry turned on his heel, his footsteps heavy as he made his way toward the stairs. His hands were trembling, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. Merlin, he need a drink . He needs something—anything to distract him right now.

Just as he reached the bottom step, a voice stopped him.

“You’re still carrying all of it, aren’t you?” 

Harry froze. 

“Everything from the war. The losses, the guilt, the lives of people you couldn’t save. You think it’s all your responsibility. All your fault.”

After a few deep breaths, Harry turned, meeting Malfoy’s gaze. He didn’t say anything though, he just looked at him. 

“It will never stop, Harry.” Ron’s voice broke through next, soft, muffled—almost like he was talking to himself. Harry turned to him and saw his best friend sitting there, his face buried in his hands, while Hermione was on his side trembling slightly holding his shoulder. Harry felt a pang of guilt. His friends were right here and they were still hurting—and he was too numbed to try and comfort them.

“What?” Harry asked, barely above a whisper.

“The pain will never stop, Potter.” It was Malfoy who answered for his best friend. “Sure, some people have moved on…but look at you—you’re stuck. Stuck with the pain.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, Harry couldn’t find a word. Malfoy’s gaze was fierce and there was something about the way he was looking at Harry—as though he was seeing right through him, seeing every crack, every flaw.

Harry knew it was true. The pain will never stop.

It had taken Harry a long time before he finally accepted the fact that he was still broken. For whatever reason, nobody seemed to notice it. Maybe they just didn’t want to . After all, it was easier to believe that their hero was fine, that the Boy Who Lived had come out of it all, resilient and strong as always. 

However, just like when he was 8 years old trapped in his cupboard—now he’s trapped in the aftermath of the war being swallowed by the shadows. His own healing had been paused, as he helped the other to grieve. He had been there for the Weasleys, helping them cope with Fred’s death. He had stood by Andromeda’s side as she grieved for her husband and daughter, taking in Teddy and doing his best to help raise the boy despite barely being able to manage himself. He was also there to help Headmistress Mcgonagall with the rebuilding of Hogwarts. He had helped Hermione in her search for her parents, restoring their memories—giving her back her family. Even becoming an Auror and helping the Ministry deal with the remaining Death Eaters.

Everyone needed him, and he was there, constantly, because how could he not be? They were his remaining family. And so, he pushed aside his own pain, his own need to grieve, and became the crying shoulder for everyone who needed it.

Almost two years passed before he realized just how much of himself he had lost in the process. But by then, it felt too late to reach out. Everyone was so used to the image of him being strong, being the hero who had it all together. How could he tell them now that he wasn’t okay? That he had never really been okay . That the pain will never truly stop.

But Harry would never admit that, especially to Draco Malfoy.

“Good night,” he finally said, before turning his back walking away.