You think you know someone

The infirmary smelled the same as it always did, potion-soaked bandages, antiseptic spells, and the faint traces of burnt toast from whatever food Pomphrey had rushed here in an attempt to coax Harry into eating something. He was exhausted but restless, his body aching with the kind of weariness that ran deeper than mere fatigue.

 He was alive.

 Tom Riddle was gone.

 And now, Sirius was here.

 Harry didn’t quite believe it until he saw him, stepping through the door, his presence filling the room like something out of a half-forgotten dream.

 Sirius had dashed toward the bed and bent to pull Harry into a fierce embrace. He held him as though afraid he was but a figment that could disappear the second he would let go of him.

 For a moment, Harry couldn’t move. His mind was sluggish, trying to process the impossible. Sirius, who had been presumed dead the whole time until that miraculous message from the dog Patroni, was now here. It took several seconds before Harry lifted his arms and, though gingerly, began clinging to the family he had thought lost.

 That was when Harry saw Albus hovering at the doorway, looking hesitant and unsure. His green eyes, similar to Harry’s, darted between them before finally settling on Harry’s face. Harry understood that he was giving him a choice. Did he want Albus to stay, or did he need a moment alone?

 He didn’t have to say a word. Albus gave him a small, knowing nod before slipping out of the room, leaving Harry alone with Sirius. Sirius!

 Am I dreaming?

 What a stupid question, he thought. Out of all the crazy and most absurd things that had occurred in the span of weeks—from being completely possessed by Tom the same instance that Voldemort dies, and contemplating his own death, and then actually executing it! Only to have somehow managed surviving to find that the other Harry had actually been his dimensional traveling son all along! Yet, somehow, having Sirius back felt the most surreal.

 Maybe because Harry was always used to the disappointment that came after having set his hopes up. But this time, Sirius really pulled through. He came back.

 The promise he had made years ago of the two of them becoming a proper family was no longer a fantasy, for it had finally been realized!

 Harry let out a strangled laugh than was more akin to a sob. And Sirius buried a hand into the messy hair on the back of Harry’s head as he held him closely.

 No, Harry was not dreaming. Sirius had truly found his way back to him. And for the first time, in a long, long time, Harry allowed himself to rest.

He must have dozed off at some point, because the next time he opened his eyes, the world around him was still. The soft morning light streaming through the infirmary windows casting long shadows on the walls. Harry’s body ached, but it was a dull, distant sensation compared to what he had endured before. His limbs felt heavier than usual, and when he turned his head, he noticed the tray of untouched food on the bedside table, a clear sign that someone had been tending to him.

 Madam Pomfrey bustled in before he could even process much else, and with a sharp, appraising look, she set to work checking his vitals with the usual no-nonsense efficiency.

 "You've been asleep for nearly three days, Mr. Potter," she informed him briskly, as if daring him to argue with her about it, "which was much needed, to be frank. You're lucky your body didn't give out entirely after what you put it through."

 Three days.

 The weight of it settled over him. He had missed three whole days. Had. . . had Albus checked in on him? Had Sirius stayed by his side? Had the world kept turning as if he hadn’t nearly died?

 Before Harry could dwell too much on that however, loud voices from outside the infirmary doors caught his attention.

 "It’s been days, Madam Pomfrey, just let us in—"

 "He's awake, isn't he? We only need a minute—"

 "Please, we won’t disturb him!"

 Harry recognized the voices instantly.

 Madam Pomfrey let out an exasperated sigh before shaking her head and waving her wand. The doors swung open, and in an instant, the three of them burst through, looking both relieved and furious.

 The Weasleys came in first—Molly fussing over him, followed by a graying Arthur giving a small relieved smile as a form of reassurance, and the others hovering nearby, their relief palpable. Hermione and Ron followed after, both looking equally relieved and exasperated.

 Harry attempted a weak smirk, but guilt gnawed at him. They didn’t say it outright, but he could see the worry written all over their faces. He had scared them. Again.

 "I’m fine," he said hoarsely, though none of them looked convinced.

 Ron and Hermione sat down on the chairs beside his bed, their initial exasperation fading as they took in his tired expression.

 “What happened out there, mate?” Ron finally asked.

 Harry hesitated. How could he explain? How could he put into words what had transpired in the mindscape? How he had fought Tom Riddle within himself. How he had chosen to end it all in hopes of destroying the part of himself that had been intertwined with Voldemort for so long. He did not know what to say, and thankfully, he did not have to, for Madam Pomfrey had stepped in.

 There was some grumbling, but eventually, they all relented, filing out one by one, with promises to return.

 “Later.” He mouthed reassuringly only for Ron and Hermione to see.

 Just as the door swung shut behind them, Pomphrey allowed only one figure to remain. One whose presence Harry had not noticed until the bustle in the infirmary had dissipated.

 Sirius.

 Harry immediately straightened, his chest tightening. It was one thing to see Sirius in the haze of exhaustion, but now—now that the weight of everything had settled, now that he was fully awake—this moment felt far too real.

 Sirius gave him a small grin, but there was a hesitance in his step, an uncertainty that had never been there before.

 Harry’s smile, though tired, was genuine.

 “I trust you’re well rested by now?” Sirius started breezily. Though he sounded nonchalant at best, Harry could see the worry in the man’s eyes. There were some things that could not be concealed no matter what tone one tried to mask it with.

 “I should be.” He did feel a little overwhelmed still. But he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel bounds and leaps better than he did before.

 Sirius’ smile briefly faltered before he stepped closer, dragging a chair beside Harry’s bed before sitting down with a dramatic sigh. “Well, kid,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s been a hell of a year.”

 Well, Harry thought that much was true. Though he his own life past these months had been a hell of a roller-coaster, he could not imagine what Sirius’ life had been like, finding himself in a foreign dimension in a possibly different timeline.

 Harry swallowed. Silence weighed heavily onto them.

 If Sirius had truly been in the dimension where Albus—his son—had come from, did that mean that he had seen Harry’s older self?

 As if reading his thoughts, Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and studied him. “You look so much like him.”

 Harry blinked. “Like who?” He had a feeling that, for once, Sirius did not mean James Potter.

 Sirius exhaled sharply, like this was a conversation he had been bracing himself for. “Just you, I suppose,” he said. “Albus’ father.”

 Harry felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room.

 He knows.

 Although of course Sirius did. It would make sense after all. But Harry could not help but feel stupid. How had he not figured it out sooner himself? How could he have spent the better part of the year harboring unreasonably resented feelings toward his own son?

 He still struggled to comprehend that revelation. Him. A father. That would insinuate that he had lived long enough to start a family of his own. Which was now a true possibility, considering that Voldemort had been defeated, and Harry had ensured that every last piece of his scattered soul was gone.

 Only, it wasn’t Harry who had seen personally to Voldemort’s demise, was it?

 Sirius saw the way he tensed, and his expression softened. “I wish I could’ve been here for you. . . not just the past year, but through all your life. I. . .”

 “I know, Sirius.” Harry said. He did not blame Sirius for his absence, not really. It was beyond either of their control. All that mattered now was that they were together at last. A proper family. . . speaking of family, Harry’s mouth was dry. “Al—Albus?”

 It was suddenly difficult to breathe.

 “He’s my son,” Harry whispered. Saying it out loud made it real.

 Sirius nodded. “And his father—your counterpart—he came here, Harry.”

 Harry felt his stomach drop. “What.”

 “He came here with me,” Sirius continued, his voice thick with something unreadable. “To bring Albus back home. To help you. To help us.”

 Harry’s fingers shook. “He’s here?”

 “He’s not alive anymore,” Sirius finished quietly.

 Harry’s heart stuttered. For a moment, confusion consumed him before his eyes widened in realization. His voice was barely above a whisper when he said. “The man who defeated Voldemort.”

 Dread creeped into Harry as Sirius nodded.

 “But he’s dead.”

 “I know,” Sirius muttered, but Harry could’ve sworn he heard his godfather’s voice break. Sirius took a deep breath before he said evenly. “He died saving us all. He died killing Voldemort.”

 A sharp, breathless noise escaped Harry’s throat, and he turned his head away, staring at the ceiling as his vision blurred.

 His real counterpart.

 Albus’ father.

 Had come to this world.

 Had fought Voldemort for him.

 Had died because of him.

 Harry’s mind reeled, his thoughts spinning out of control. He felt like he was underwater, drowning in emotions he didn’t know how to name.

 He had spent months resenting Albus, pushing him away, refusing to acknowledge the boy as anything but a stranger.

 But he wasn’t. He never had been.

 He was his son.

And the father Albus had known—the man who had raised him, loved him, fought for him—was gone.

 Gone, because he had come here to save him.

 Sirius said nothing as Harry sat there, shaking, his hands clenched into fists. There was no judgment in his expression, no expectations. Just quiet understanding.

 And maybe that was worse.

 Because Sirius had known.

 Sirius had known everything.

 And now, Harry did too. He swallowed the lump in his throat. It was his fault. My fault. Albus had every reason to hate him now.

 So why didn’t he?

 “Sirius,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse.

 That was all it took. Sirius inhaled sharply, like he had been holding his breath this entire time, and in the next second, he was at Harry’s bedside, gripping him by the shoulders, really looking at him.

 “It’s my fault.” Sirius said defeatedly.

 Huh?

 Harry just started at him in bafflement.

 “I can’t help but feel like I’m the one who pushed him into this.” Sirius explained “I just didn’t want you to go through all he did, sacrificing yourself and the like. . . but I truly hoped that Voldemort could be defeated without having it cost the life of either one of you. And I was an idiot for thinking it’d be that easy.” Sirius’ grip on Harry tightened to the point near to bruising. “After he was gone, taking Voldemort with him, I kept telling myself that it’d been worth it at least. The threat was gone, and you were safe. But even that wasn’t true.”

 Harry had to pry his godfather’s hands off him otherwise Sirius’ would seriously hurt him.

 “You stupid, reckless—idiot,” Sirius growled, his voice thick with emotion. “Do you have any idea what you put me through?”

 Harry blinked. He was not used to seeing Sirius being this mad toward him. “I—”

 “You died!” Sirius shook him once, not hard, but enough to make his point. “Or at least, I thought you did!” When Harry saw the tears welling in his eyes, he understood that Sirius wasn’t angry at him. Or rather, not angry at him the way Uncle Vernon would be. This kind of anger reminded Harry of the times he’d see Mrs. Weasley scold her children. This was the kind of anger that was born out of pure concern and fear for the other that only a parent could muster.

 So that’s what it’s like then. Harry knew he should probably be defensive now, just like how he’d seen Dudley be when he was being rebuked by Aunt Petunia, or when Ron would bicker with his mother—hell, or even jest about it like the Weasley twins would do with their father to get out of trouble. Harry really should be defending himself. It wasn’t like he had asked to harbor a piece of Voldemort’s soul, thank you very much.

 “Forfuckssake, I know about the horcruxes. I knew that you. . . that you were one. When Albus’ father killed Voldemort, the last piece of soul that bastard had must’ve took over you. I thought I’d lost you, just like—” He cut himself off with a sharp breath, fingers tightening on Harry’s arms as if anchoring himself.

 “And then I find out you’ve been walking around possessed by Voldemort?! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

 Harry let out a short, breathless laugh, despite himself. “A lot, by the looks of it.”

 Sirius swore under his breath and, in the next second, pulled him into a crushing hug. It was fierce, desperate, the kind of hug that felt like it was holding him together as much as it was holding him in place.

 He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against Sirius’ shoulder, and let himself be held. The warmth, the scent of leather and smoke, the unmistakable presence of family—it was grounding in a way nothing else had been in a long time.

 “You’re here,” Harry whispered, barely audible.

Sirius huffed out a laugh, ruffling Harry’s already untamable hair. “Yeah, kid. I’m here.”

They stayed like that for a moment, neither willing to be the first to pull away.

 Eventually, though, Sirius did, though he kept one hand on Harry’s arm like he was afraid he’d disappear if he let go.

“Alright,” he said, voice steadier now. “Tell me what happened.”

 Harry hesitated. Where did he even begin? How did he explain any of it?

 “The short version?” he said, rubbing at the scar on his forehead—only it wasn’t a scar anymore, was it? Just a faded reminder of what once was. “I let him in. I let Tom in—it hurt less to resist him—then I cut him out.”

 Sirius’ brow furrowed. “You what?”

 “I fought him. Inside my head.” Harry was vaguely aware how insane that sounded, but given his life, he thought this should be a given. “He’s been there my whole life. And the only way to get rid of him was to destroy what kept him alive. I should’ve died. . . but I didn’t.”

 Sirius’ face darkened, and Harry could see the way his jaw clenched at the thought of what he must have gone through. “You did that alone?”

 Harry almost laughed at how offended Sirius sounded. “Well, I wasn’t exactly in a position to ask for help.”

 Sirius muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like that damn Dumbledore and his secrecy, but before he could launch into a rant, Harry cut in.

 “It’s over,” he said simply. “I won.”

 Sirius exhaled sharply, studying him for a long moment. “And you’re sure? There’s nothing left of him?”

 Harry nodded. “Nothing.”

 Sirius watched him carefully, then—finally—nodded in return.

 “Good riddance,” he said. “If I found out you were planning on pulling some noble self-sacrificing nonsense again, I’d have to kill you myself.”

 Harry rolled his eyes. “Please. I think I’ve reached my death quota for the year.”

 Sirius barked out a laugh. “That’s not funny.” But he was grinning anyway, because that was Sirius—always balancing somewhere between exasperation and amusement where Harry was concerned.

 But then, something shifted. Sirius’ expression grew more solemn, and he glanced toward the door as though considering something.

 “What is it?” Harry asked, suddenly uneasy.

 Sirius hesitated, then looked back at him, his grey eyes unreadable. “I’ll be right back.”

 Harry frowned. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not bad,” Sirius assured him, though he looked like he was bracing for impact. “Just. . . Albus is still in the castle, you know. He wouldn’t let me take him back to his home dimension. Not yet.”

 Harry stiffened. “He’s still here?”

 Sirius noticed the reaction. “Do you not want me to call him?”

 Harry’s stomach turned. His son. His son. And he’d spent months—months—treating him like an outsider. Like a burden. Like someone to be tolerated. A flood of memories slammed into him at once. Albus, looking up at him, always searching for something—acceptance, approval, maybe even love. The resentment in his voice when they argued. The way he’d looked at him, after everything, and still saw him as his Dad.

 “I—” Harry swallowed thickly, the weight of it crashing down on him. “I messed up.”

 Sirius didn’t argue.

 Harry buried his face in his hands. “He must hate me.”

 “He doesn’t,” Sirius said firmly. “But you do need to talk to him. Properly, this time.”

 Harry exhaled shakily, nodding.

 He wasn’t sure how to be a father to someone who already had one. Who had lost one. But if Albus was still willing to let him try, then Harry would do everything in his power to make things right.

 Sirius did not leave until Hary told him he was ready, which was nice, he supposed, if not a little strange. Harry was not used to having adults seek his approval on things rather than assume what’s best for him. He supposed he could get used to that.

 It did not take long for Albus to walk through the infirmary door. He seemed almost shy as he approached him, and Harry found himself to be just as nervous.

 “Hi,” Albus said without looking at him.

 “Hey,” Harry replied timidly.

 “Erm, how are you feeling?”

 “Better.”

 “That’s. . . that’s good. Good to hear.”

 “Mhmm.”

 Why was everything so awkward all of a sudden?

 After what felt like an excruciatingly long wait, though it could not have been more than a few seconds at best, Harry started. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

 Was that too blunt? Why did that sound too blunt? Harry wanted to be anywhere but here.

 “It’s okay.” Albus said automatically. “Actually it’s not. It sucks. But it’s not your fault.”

 Harry looked away. He wasn’t sure that Albus was not just saying that for the sake of being tact. If felt like he was the one to blame for what happened, even if Albus chose not to acknowledge it.

 “I understand that he’s wanted to. . .” Harry hesitated. “. . . take the burden of taking out Voldemort from me.”

 Albus’ eyes flashed, and he let out a bitter smile. “I don’t hold you accountable for that. And if I’d hold someone accountable, it’d be him anyway—but since he’s you and you’re him, I can see how that can be confusing.”

 Harry’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Okay. . .”

 Albus sighed. “He’s never held much value to his own life, my poor father. I hate that I was too late to realize that. Had I only known him better sooner, maybe so much of our problems wouldn’t have occurred.” He looked at Harry imploringly. “I can only hope you wouldn’t be the same. But that ship has sailed long ago when you decided to end your life in the forest.”

 Before Harry could get defensive, Albus waved him off.

 “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you had to do what you thought was right. I get it. But even before that, you’ve always wanted to handle things on your own. I used to think you did that because you trusted no one but yourself to get things done, like you’re better than the rest because you’re this hero that didn’t need anyone.” Albus had a sad look on his face, but there was also a flicker of something akin to fondness there. “I realize now how wrong I had been in that assumption. And it’s not your fault either that you are the way you are. I understand now that you are what your circumstances has shaped you to be.”

 Harry thought that this was starting to sound like something said in those therapy sessions, but he’s never been to therapy, so he wouldn’t know.

 “I mean, I can’t even begin to imagine what your life’s been like. Being raised by people who resented your very existence and punished you for things you could not control. All the abuse you’ve underwent and—”

 Stop.

 Oh how he detested the term abuse. It made it sound worse than how it really went. Aunt Petunia never liked that word passed around where Harry was concerned. Because it sent the wrong message, she said. She preferred discipline. Because it was Harry who’s in the wrong.

 And it was horrible. Harry was not going to lie to himself and say that it wasn’t. . . but it just wasn’t thatbad.

 “And even the shit you had to deal with after you got to Hogwarts. Things there should’ve been better, but you were only met with more problems. Even if you weren’t one to admit it.” Albus looked at him with a look of pity that was just too much. “I know people turning on you every now and then didn’t help, and having no choice but to return to an abusive home every summer must’ve made things worse, especially after the shitty years you’ve had.”

 There it was again.

 Abusive home.

 He was not abused. Harry was not some helpless victim. He had his fair share of talking back and standing up for himself , especially in later years. Passive victims don’t just do that.

 He might have had beatings from time to time, but that didn’t make him abused. Neglected, sure, but never abused.

 “Stop.” Harry hissed.

 Alright, that might have come out a little harsher, and more defensive than he would’ve preferred. Albus had wanted to continue but stopped at Harry’s tone. Yet that same pitying look was still on his face and Harry hated it.

 “Sorry, it’s just. . . I’m fine now. I will be.” Harry wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. “If you’re trying to justify my horrible behavior toward you—”

 “I’m not—”

 “Let me speak.” Harry had to make his point come across. “There is no excuse, nor should there be any. I am responsible for my actions, and in a way, I hold a responsibility toward you. You are my son, no matter how strange it is, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are mine. So I think that I can speak to my counterpart when I tell you that if there ever have been shortcomings in his role as a father to you, then you ought to hold him accountable for it. Don’t just choose to forgive because of what you learned about me.”

 Harry watched as the other’s face became unreadable, absorbing Harry’s words in.

 Finally, Albus gave out a bitter laugh.

 “Trust me, I’ve held him accountable plenty enough. And for a long while, too—longer than I should have, I suppose. You’re right, I shouldn’t try to justify his—well, your—actions toward me. And I wasn’t, by the way.”

 “Oh.” Harry felt his face flush.

 “But I also can’t ignore the truth now that I now of it.” Albus said earnestly. “My dad has always shielded me and my siblings from the nasty parts of his life—be it his past or just things he struggles with at work or with himself—and I feel like I haven’t known him as I ought to have known him. I mean, he’s my dad! I’ve known him my whole life, and somehow, I didn’t. Er, does that make sense?”

 Harry shrugged.

 “Right. Don’t ask an orphan about that.” Albus grimaced as though he expected Harry to burst into indignation.

 But Harry laughed. Not a snarky one, but a genuine bright sound that eased Albus’ worried expression.

 “So, I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I hope you’ll stop that habit of thinking your life to be worthless, because it’s not. And I know that now since Voldemort is out of the picture, you don’t have to worry about risking your life, but if you decide to become an auror like you did in my dimension, then you had better put in a better fight for your life.”

 “I don’t think I want to become an auror anymore.”

 “All the better, then. My dad used to talk about wanting to become a quidditch couch, so just think about that.”

 I’d like that a lot actually.

 Perhaps he could even aim to become a quidditch player at first. If he succeeded in that then maybe he’d retire really young and spend the rest of his career life as a couch. He had had a brief experience in that both as a founder of Dumbledor’s Army and as Gryffindor’s Captain.

 Silence stretched on between them. But for once it wasn’t tense, but a tranquil sort of quiet that Harry felt comfortable basking in. Father and son, spending borrowed time together. Alas, nothing was meant to last forever.

 “I’m sorry.” Harry said again. It felt important to do so. He wasn’t just offering condolences for Albus or apologizing on other-him’s behalf or even just apologizing for the strained relationship he had with his son. He was apologizing for all of that on top of having to express his sorrow of having missed on the months they could’ve had together had he known the truth sooner.

 Harry did not need to elaborate on that, for it seemed that his son had the same thoughts as well.

 “I’ll miss you.” Albus’ voice was small. His posture unsure. Harry had this overwhelming need to comfort the boy before him, and he briefly wondered if he ever looked as small as Albus did in that moment to Sirius.

 For the first time, Harry pulled his own son to a tight embrace. Albus returned the hug almost instantly, allowing Harry to offer whatever warmth he could, no matter how limited it was bound to be.

 But for now, it was enough.