A Developmental Approach

An Interruption

"Sure you don't need anything?" he asks in gentle dismissal as he cracks it open to the bookmark.

"Yeah, just checking on you. See you later."

Downstairs, James and Sirius sit in the kitchen, playing a game involving flicking dry cereal across the table.

"I'm not cleaning that up," Harry tells Sirius as he flops into one of the open chairs. "And I'm not explaining to his nursery where he learned to throw food."

Sirius doesn't answer. He doesn't have to, because James responds first, launching two handfuls of cereal directly at Harry. Most of them bounce off his cheeks and chin, but a few land in his hair, caught neatly by his curls.

Sirius leaves soon after, spelling the kitchen clean with a cheeky grin aimed Harry's way. Harry outfits James in wellies and a raincoat to counter the chilly rains of early spring and then Harry casts impervius over him for good measure. After Tom assures Harry he would rather take a confringo to the face than go outside, Harry and James tramp out to the garden, where James busies himself splashing in water and mud puddles alike. He's a tiny, bright star against the dreary backdrop of English weather.

The morning and lunch and nap routine pass as always, and eventually, thankfully, James is asleep. Harry's alone in the sitting room casting warming charms on his hands and feet when Severus arrives.

"You've got it," Harry says, rushing out into the entry hall to gawk at the diadem clutched in Severus's hand.

"You don't have to sound so surprised." Severus holds it out, and Harry hopes he's imagining the slight resistance he feels when he goes to take it.

"I'm not surprised. I'm relieved. Well done. Did Dumbledore offer you the job?"

"No, though he didn't turn me down either. He said he'd be in touch." Severus watches Harry cross to the cupboard under the stairs, completing their collection of intact horcruxes: the locket, the cup, and now the diadem. The broken ring and the burnt diary are there, too. Despite their current uselessness, Harry doesn't feel prepared to toss them.

He's just finished spelling the cupboard locked up again when there's a knock on the front door. He's so close, it takes the slightest of turns to grab the doorknob.

"Think it's Maxine?" Harry asks over his shoulder.

"Wait—"

Harry opens the door, and wishes he'd heard Severus sooner. He wishes for a lot of things: that he'd thought to check the spyhole, or cast a spell, or that he'd at least answered the door with his wand drawn, no matter how doomed such a duel would be.

Albus Dumbledore stands on their doorstep, in paisley robes, his hands joined over his middle. At least they're empty, but that gives Harry little comfort. His mind leaps to both of the boys upstairs, the ones he never wanted Dumbledore to discover. Now such discovery seems inevitable. Dumbledore must know something—must have known something before, to bother showing up, and must be learning something now, seeing James Potter's adult son before him.

"Good afternoon," Dumbledore says. He wears a vaguely polite smile, the kind Harry often saw on his face when he approached people he didn't much like, such as Umbridge or the Dursleys. "I'm hoping to speak to Severus, is he available?"

"Is he expecting you?" Harry shoots back. He avoids Dumbledore's gaze, mostly to avoid any Legilimency but also because the last time he saw Albus Dumbledore, the man was cursed and dying before being tossed from the Astronomy tower. It's jarring to see him fifteen years younger and looking at Harry without an ounce of friendly recognition.

"I don't believe so, no, but he should be interested in what I have to say."

Harry thinks for a moment, and then shuts the door in Dumbledore's face.