The morning Ginny left Grimmauld Place, she took everything.
The rug, the food, the pillows. The linens, the shower curtain, the photos. All planned for, selected, purchased, and arranged by Ginny. She was, effectively, the landlord, and Harry the sullen, withdrawn tenant, discarding dirty mugs and bundled socks wherever he went. He'd come to realise bits of this about himself in all the months he spent caring for James, but it doesn't fully hit him until their home in Ottery St Catchpole.
It's only then that Harry understands Ginny took exactly what was hers.
If Severus or Sirius were to depart and take all their belongings, it would cause emotional upheaval, but the contents of the house would not change in a fundamental way. There would still be the console table by the door, which he bought at the charity shop in Little Whinging, and the brown rug across the centre of the sitting room, which covers a stain in the carpet that won't be scrubbed or magicked out. The bedsheets, the bath towels, the pots and pans. Harry bought it all, using the (rapidly dwindling) gold he pulled from his vault those months ago when he first sent the Dursleys from Privet Drive.
Harry's thinking of all the objects that make up a home when he stands in Tom's doorway, gazing without focus into the unoccupied bedroom. It's been improved since Harry first noticed its drab interior. The other day, he took Tom to the village shops, where they picked up a few bits of artwork for the wall—a set of scientific diagrams in plain, solid frames. Tom said he likes his plaid sheets, though he was happy to purchase a more comfortable pillow and a long, wide shelf for all his books.
When Tom goes, he'll take his things with him. By then, he'll have even more, Portuguese textbooks and cauldrons filled with potions ingredients, a pet and a broom and a wand and sets of tailored robes. They'll all be piled in this room, and then—like his slight frame and dark eyes and that mischievous, charming smile of his—they'll be gone.
It's months away. James will be two before that happens. Harry should be focusing on that first, because that's a milestone with its own growing pains. But Tom leaving is so much harder, perhaps because of the uncertainty. James will still be home. He'll be picking up words, rejecting foods, playing, laughing, clamouring for hugs and kisses, running around the garden. He'll be bigger and stronger and smarter in a way that forces Harry to lament the passing of time, but he'll be there for breakfast and dinner and all throughout the weekends. He'll sleep upstairs, and if he has a nightmare, he'll yell for Harry, and Harry will go to him, sleepily but without resentment.
Not so with Tom. He'll take the Portkey with Severus, and poof. No more evidence that an older boy ever lived within their house.
This is parenting, Harry tells himself as he wrestles with these thoughts. This is letting go. This is moving on. This is life.
Still, it hurts, and it knots dread inside his chest that doesn't ease even when Tom comes scooting past him. He's just finished breakfast, and though he's a fastidious eater, there's a single crumb clinging to the tip of his nose. If it was James, Harry would thumb it away, casually. James would probably giggle about it. But it's Tom, who would be mortified, so Harry doesn't even point it out.
"Looking for something?" Tom asks, flopping down onto his bed. "Finally ready to prove you know how to read?"
"I don't know how to read," Harry says. "I got through Hogwarts off lying and cheating alone."
"I know." Tom's smile is teasingly wicked enough that Harry feels a little swing of guilt.
"No, I'm joking. Kind of. Don't lie and cheat at Castelobruxo, please."
"As if Severus would let me."
Tom looks, already, bored by the conversation as he reaches out to his nightstand to pick up his current book.
"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.
It's an act of stupid desperation, but at least it forces Dumbledore to make his intentions plain. Without a pause of consideration, he opens the door and steps inside. The smile has fallen from his face, and his wand is in hand.
"Who are you?" Dumbledore asks quietly—dangerously.
"Harry Potter," Harry says, because even with his mind spinning, he can't think of a single alternate route to take other than the truth.
Dumbledore begins to respond, but his words are covered by a loud crack from upstairs. Harry recognises the sound of Disapparation, and so does Dumbledore. Harry barely beats him up the stairs and throws the door to James' room open, heart pounding.
But no. James is sleeping in his cot—or was, until the door slammed into the wall, waking him with a start. He stands instantly, sniffling and whining, the noises of disturbed rest. Harry ignores Dumbledore as he crosses the room to pick him up and press him against his chest. He doesn't know what else to do.
Dumbledore stares at them, his eyes going from Harry's face to James' and back again, and then he spins on his foot and heads down the hall, moving his lank body with swift purpose. Harry's not at all surprised when Dumbledore starts opening doors, casting spells, peering into each corner of every room.
Tom.
But Harry already knows what's happened.
Severus had a choice. His attachment to James could've been the strongest. He could've rescued James, kept him safe in secret, and left Harry and Tom to figure out Dumbledore, whatever that looked like.
Instead, he took Tom. The one in greater danger, the one Dumbledore would recognise and mistrust instantly. The one in the most need of protection.
Whatever Dumbledore plans for James, he won't hurt him. He's an innocent toddler. Dumbledore probably wouldn't have hurt Tom, either, but now...hopefully, Harry never needs to find out.
Harry thinks all this while Dumbledore sweeps the house. He also sets James back in his cot, snuggled up with his blanket, and draws his wand.
"I'm not going to attack you," Dumbledore says when he returns, his gaze falling straight to Harry's extended arm. "I must admit, Harry, that I'm quite out of my depth here. This is not what I expected to find here."
"What did you expect?" Harry demands, not lowering his wand. "Why did you follow Severus?"
"A Death Eater interviewing for a job he clearly does not want...of course this raises my suspicions. I received a series of anonymous letters when Sirius Black was arrested, and I always suspected Severus to be the author. I thought...perhaps I've grown too...ah, but look what I've discovered!" Dumbledore, being much taller, is able to easily look over Harry's shoulder and down into the cot. "It seems I've stumbled into something I'm better off not knowing."
"Exactly," Harry says. "I'm taking care of this. Of everything. I promise. You have enough going on with Hogwarts. Relax, for once. You deserve it."
"Oh." Dumbledore's mouth opens in genuine shock, his empty hand coming up to rest against his chin. He stares at Harry so long that Harry starts feeling embarrassed.
"What?" he asks uncomfortably, pressing his back firmer against the cot bars, steadying himself.
"That was a very kind thing you said. Does that mean...? No, don't say anything else. I don't want more information than I already have. Simply...thank you, Harry Potter. For what you said, and for handling everything. I...will leave you in peace. Here's my only request. Come to me when Harry is eleven. We'll work out his attendance at Hogwarts then. He must attend school, surely you agree?"
Harry looks at Dumbledore's beard, still avoiding eye contact, and thinks of Hogwarts. Of three-headed dogs, of dragons, of basilisks, of murdered and petrified and cursed students, all of which occurred under this headmaster's watch.
And Harry thinks of Tom. However understanding Dumbledore might appear, if he ever learns about Tom, that will change.
"I don't know," Harry says honestly. His voice is hoarse from the turmoil of the past fifteen minutes. His heart has not pounded this rapidly since he faced down Voldemort and certain death in the Forbidden Forest. "I have to do what's best for Harry."
"Yes. Yes, Of course." Dumbledore looks back to the cot again and then says, quietly, "I shouldn't ask, but...the scars...?"
"You shouldn't ask," Harry agrees. "Now, I'd like you to get out of my house."
Harry steels himself for a doomed fight, and is pleasantly surprised when Dumbledore nods and leaves without complaint. His last act is craning his head over his shoulder, examining the toddler Harry in his cot for a final time. A moment later, Harry watches through James' bedroom window as Dumbledore crosses the garden. He does not Disapparate—Muggle neighbours, perhaps—but keeps walking until he meanders over a hill and fades into a speck against the horizon.
Pleasantly surprised might be too generous. Harry's shaky and angry and scared and overwhelmed, but beneath that, he feels a pinprick of relief.
"Tree," James says, voice soft from sleep. "Big tree."
"That man?" Harry asks, turning. James puts his arms out, and Harry lifts him up. He wants to cuddle James, to hold him and take some deep breaths and relax, but James is not in the mood. He squirms his way down to the floor and then runs in a circle around his room.
"Tree," James says, now with loud enthusiasm. "Big tree. Bad tree. Tree!"
After such a tumultuous half-hour, Harry doesn't have the mental stability to play with James. He turns on the telly and lays on the floor, allowing James to crawl over and on him as he watches cartoons, wondering where exactly Severus and Tom have gone and when they'll return.
That's exactly how Sirius finds them when he arrives home, carrying bags of takeout.
"This was about my whole day's pay," Sirius calls through the propped-open kitchen door. The rustle of plastic and paper tells that he's arranging the food on the table. "But it's final horcrux day, that deserves a splurge, doesn't it?"
Sirius's head pops through the arch to the sitting room just in time to watch James bodyslam Harry's belly. Harry barely reacts, besides a forced heavy exhale.
"Harry? Is everything okay? Where's Tom and Severus?"
Harry doesn't have the energy to sit up. He lays on the carpet, beneath James' energetic play, as he recounts the day.