The funeral bells had stopped ringing weeks ago, but in Harry Potter's mind, they still echoed—softly, hauntingly, like a melody of sorrow that refused to fade.
He stood in a modest graveyard tucked into the edges of Devon, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark robes, eyes shadowed under the brim of a black hat. Another funeral. Another mourner lost to the war that had supposedly ended.
The freshly turned soil held no magic, no closure. Just another name etched in stone. Harry didn't even know the man personally—he had fought on the side of the Order, some distant cousin of Ernie Macmillan—but he was here because Hermione insisted. Because Ron said it was expected. Because Harry Potter was supposed to be everywhere.
He didn't cry. He hadn't for a while now.
The crowd slowly dispersed, quiet conversations drifting like low fog through the graveyard. Harry turned and walked back toward the trees without waiting for anyone.
"You're leaving already?" Hermione asked, catching up to him. Her voice was soft, cautious.
"I've had enough," he said, not looking at her. "Of all of this."
"You didn't even say goodbye to Mrs. Macmillan," she whispered.
Harry stopped. His shoulders tensed. He turned to face her, his jaw set. "She looked at me like I murdered her son."
"She's grieving, Harry."
"So am I!" he snapped, startling a flock of crows into flight. His breath came hard. Hermione flinched but didn't reply. Ron, who had followed a few steps behind, shoved his hands into his coat pockets and looked away.
There was a long pause, filled only by the rustle of trees in the wind.
"I can't do this anymore," Harry said finally. "Not like this."
The only thing that gave him any peace these days was Teddy.
Little Teddy Lupin, with his tuft of ever-changing hair and chubby fists that grasped at the world without fear or judgment. Harry would often visit Andromeda Tonks just to hold him. The boy never cried when Harry was near—just smiled and gurgled and tugged at his glasses. In Teddy's innocent eyes, Harry was just Harry. Not the Boy Who Lived. Not the Savior of the Wizarding World. Just a face to smile at.
Andromeda had said once, with tears in her tired eyes, "If I didn't have Teddy, I'd have followed Ted and Dora." Harry never forgot those words. He knew that kind of grief.
Back at Grimmauld Place, Hermione made tea and tried to act normal, but Harry noticed how her eyes kept darting toward him. Waiting. She wanted to talk. She always did.
"So," she said finally, setting her mug down. "What do you plan to do now that the war is over?"
Harry stared into the fireplace for a moment, watching the flames dance. "I don't know."
"I'm going back to Hogwarts," Hermione said. "To finish my N.E.W.T.s."
Ron snorted. "Absolutely mental, that one," he muttered. "Who wants to go back to school after everything?"
"I do," Hermione said primly.
Ron waved her off and turned to Harry. "Kingsley came by yesterday. He's offered both of us a spot in the Auror Office. Said we could start training whenever we're ready. No N.E.W.T.s needed, just jump right in."
There was pride in Ron's voice. Certainty. Like the matter was already settled.
Harry frowned.
"We?" he asked quietly.
"Well, yeah," Ron said, shrugging. "Of course we're going to be Aurors. I mean, it's what we've been training for since fifth year, right?"
Harry looked at him, really looked at him. And for the first time, he realized how often others had decided things for him. Dumbledore, the Order, the Ministry, even his friends. He had never really lived for himself.
Now… there was no prophecy. No war. No expectations, unless he allowed them.
"I'm not doing it," Harry said.
Ron blinked. "Not doing what?"
"I'm not going to be an Auror."
The silence that followed was sharp and immediate.
"I'm not going back to Hogwarts either," Harry added, glancing at Hermione.
Hermione sat upright, confused. "Then… what are you going to do?"
Harry stood and walked to the window. Outside, the city lights twinkled, far off and unaware. The Muggle world was quiet. Blissfully unaware of the pain that had scorched the magical one.
"I'm going to finish Muggle high school."
"What?" Ron said, incredulous. "Why would you want to do that?"
"It's been years since you were in any Muggle school," Hermione added, concerned. "You really think—?"
Harry turned to them both, calm now.
"I'm not doing it to get a job," he said. "I'm not doing it for a career or to make money. I've got enough gold to last ten lifetimes. I just want…" He paused, searching for the words. "I want to know what it feels like. A normal life. Sitting in class. Taking exams. Going to school without worrying about being hunted or saving the world."
Ron looked completely baffled. "You want to… go to school for fun?"
Harry smiled slightly. "No. I want to live. Just live. Even if it's only for a little while."
Hermione's eyes softened, but Ron was still shaking his head.
"You're mad."
"Maybe," Harry said, grabbing his coat. "But I'm finally doing something for me."
At first, it was just Ron and Hermione. They thought he was joking. A bad joke, maybe, something born from war trauma or exhaustion. But when they realized Harry was serious, Hermione tried reasoning with him, and Ron just started yelling.
Then came the rest.
Minerva McGonagall sent him a formal letter, penned in her sharp, stern handwriting, gently encouraging him to return to Hogwarts, reminding him that the school would always be his home and that he had a "duty" to his generation. "Your presence will inspire students, Harry. You are a symbol of hope."
Kingsley Shacklebolt sent word through the Floo network, asking to meet in person. When Harry declined, Kingsley visited anyway, appearing one morning in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place with a mug of tea in one hand and a folder full of "Auror Fast-Track" documents in the other. He spoke kindly, his deep voice smooth and measured. "You're what they need, Harry. Stability. Leadership. Trust."
Even Molly Weasley dropped by, her arms full of baked goods and her voice soft but persuasive. "You don't need to disappear, dear. Everyone needs you now more than ever. Just… think about it, won't you?"
Everyone wanted him somewhere.
Teaching at Hogwarts. Leading the Aurors. Running some memorial initiative. Giving speeches. Cutting ribbons. Smiling for the press. "Lead us, Harry," their eyes said. "Tell us where to go next."
Harry sat through all of it with a tight jaw and a clenched fist.
The truth burned inside him like wildfire: the Wizarding World didn't want Harry Potter. They wanted a shepherd. Someone to follow, yes—but more importantly, someone to blame when things went wrong again. Because it always went wrong, didn't it? Dark Lords didn't stay dead, peace didn't last, and fear was a resilient weed that grew back stronger every time.
They want a hero until it hurts, Harry thought bitterly. Then they want someone to blame.
He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't let himself be tied to a world that had cheered him one day and scorned him the next. He wasn't a mascot. He wasn't a monument.
He was a person.
The only person who didn't try to talk him out of his decision was Andromeda Tonks.
She came to see him late one evening, Teddy nestled in her arms, already asleep, a small knitted blanket tucked around him. She stepped into Grimmauld Place like she belonged there—head high, silver-streaked hair pinned back, wand in hand.
"I heard," she said, not wasting a second. "About your decision."
Harry braced himself, already rehearsing the same defenses he'd used a dozen times in the past week.
But Andromeda only looked at him, her eyes tired but gentle.
"I think it's the best bloody idea I've heard in years."
Harry blinked.
"I—what?"
Andromeda shifted Teddy in her arms and sat on the couch, patting the space beside her. Harry hesitated, then sat down.
"Everyone wants to keep you here," she said, "because they're scared. And because you're familiar. But what they don't understand is that healing doesn't come from clinging to ruins. It comes from walking away from the ashes."
She looked down at Teddy's sleeping face. Her voice turned softer.
"My daughter is gone. My husband is gone. Do you think I want to sit in that house, in that neighborhood, with those memories clinging to the curtains and floorboards?" She shook her head. "No. I stay because of Teddy. But if you're going… I think it's time we leave too."
Harry stared at her, stunned.
"You're saying… you'd come with me?"
Andromeda looked up. Her eyes met his.
"Wherever you go, Harry," she said, "Teddy and I will follow."
It was as if a warm wind had blown through the frozen chambers of his heart. He hadn't realized how heavy the doubt had been until it was gone. The idea of stepping into the Muggle world again felt less like an escape and more like a real choice now—one made not in grief, but in hope.
"I don't know where exactly I'm going," Harry admitted. "I haven't even figured out how to enroll in a Muggle school."
"We'll figure it out," Andromeda said. "You're not alone."
Teddy stirred, one tiny hand flopping out from his blanket and brushing against Harry's arm. Harry smiled down at him.
No, he wasn't alone. For the first time in his life, he was making a choice for himself—and someone was not just respecting it, but walking beside him.
The Wizarding World could wait.
Harry Potter was going to find something he'd never really had before.
A life of his own.
The word Muggle rolled around in Harry's mind long after he'd spoken it aloud to Hermione and Ron.
At first, the image it brought was warm—Hermione's parents. The Grangers, with their kind smiles and soft voices. He remembered their homey dental clinic, the scent of peppermint, the way Mr. Granger had nervously shaken his hand when they first met, and how Mrs. Granger had always offered him tea, even when he'd barely spoken.
But that comforting memory didn't linger long.
Inevitably, the second face surfaced—Vernon Dursley's thick, mustached scowl, followed by Petunia's pinched mouth and the ever-sneering Dudley. Years of cupboards and cold dinners, of taunts and punishments, came flooding back.
Harry almost dismissed the thought—almost.
But then came another memory, quieter and fresher. The last time he saw Dudley, just before the Dursleys were whisked away under magical protection, something had changed. Dudley had extended his hand, awkward and uncertain, and said: "I don't think you're a waste of space."
And Harry, battered from war and heartbreak, had managed a nod in return.
After the war, once the dust had settled and the ceremonies were over, Harry had asked arround in Private Drive, If anyone had any way of contacting Dudley Dursley. Pier, Dudley's old friend had smiled and handed him a number written on a slip of paper, complete with the country code.
"America?" Harry asked.
"Yup."
Now, with his heart set on leaving the Wizarding World, that number seemed to glow from where he had it tucked in his wallet.
He dialed it from a Muggle phone booth near Grimmauld Place, one cold afternoon.
The phone rang twice.
"Hello?" A gruff voice answered.
"Er—Dudley?" Harry asked.
Silence.
Then, a surprised cough. "Harry?"
"Yeah. It's me."
"Bloody hell," Dudley breathed. "I thought I'd never hear from you again."
Harry chuckled. "Me neither."
There was a pause, not uncomfortable, just heavy with years unsaid.
"I—" Dudley began, then hesitated. "Look, I was a right git back then. Mum and Dad were awful to you. I was worse. I didn't know better, but that's not an excuse. I'm sorry. Really."
Harry didn't know what to say. The words settled into something warm inside him.
"I appreciate that," he said. "Thanks."
They talked for nearly an hour.
Dudley explained that his parents had moved to Florida, where Vernon spent most of his time playing golf and loudly complaining about American food. Petunia had joined a local garden club. Dudley himself was in New York, attending a private high school on a boxing scholarship. He'd changed. There was still a trace of the old Dudley in the way he grumbled about cafeteria food, but his voice was steadier, more grounded.
"So, you really want to finish Muggle school?" Dudley asked.
"Yeah," Harry said. "I want to live like everyone else. Or at least try."
"Well," Dudley said, "our school's headmaster's a real crook. Takes donations, looks the other way on everything from grades to absences. You show up with cash, he'll give you a seat—no questions asked. You'll fit right in."
Harry couldn't help but laugh. "Sounds perfect."
"I'll talk to him," Dudley said. "And don't worry about hiding magic or anything. Half the kids here think I'm insane already."
It wasn't long before Harry went to Gringotts for the last time. He walked through the towering stone halls, past the snarling gargoyles and armored goblin guards. This time, he didn't request to see his vaults or inquire about inheritance documents.
He asked for everything—everything—to be transferred to the American branch in New York.
The goblin banker squinted at him. "That will take time."
"I don't care," Harry said. "Make it happen."
And they did.
No goodbyes. No letters. No drawn-out explanations.
Hermione would be heartbroken, Ron would be confused and angry, but Harry couldn't face another conversation where someone tried to keep him in a life that never felt like his.
Instead, on a cloudy Thursday morning, he stood at Heathrow Airport wearing jeans, a hoodie, and a baseball cap, waiting beside Andromeda Tonks, who pushed a pram with Teddy bundled inside.
They had no portkeys. No magical trunks. Just plain suitcases and Muggle passports, courtesy of a few favors from goblins and some convincing paperwork from Knockturn Alley before Harry had burned that bridge.
Harry had never flown in a Muggle airplane before. The experience was oddly thrilling. Strapped into a seat beside the window, watching clouds drift by from above, he felt something he hadn't in a long time.
Freedom.
No one recognized him. No one called him the Chosen One. He was just another boy on a flight, eyes pressed to the glass, the weight of destiny slowly lifting from his shoulders.
As the plane descended over New York City, its towers gleaming in the evening sun, Harry felt a strange pulse in his chest.
A new world was waiting.
And deep down, far beyond anything he could name, something ancient stirred.
Not magic.
Something older.
Something enchanted.
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