Harry leaned back in his wide, cushioned seat, the soft hum of the aircraft's engines a distant lull beneath the polished calm of first class. Warm lighting overhead, white linen tablecloths, glasses of sparkling water at every armrest—it was a far cry from the rattling Hogwarts Express or even the Knight Bus. He glanced sideways and smiled.
Andromeda Tonks sat beside him, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses and a slightly stunned expression as she eyed the built-in television screen in front of her. She jabbed at the small remote in her hand and jumped slightly as the screen changed from a nature documentary to a children's cartoon with bright singing animals.
"I still can't believe this is non-magical," she muttered, adjusting the headset with mild suspicion. "Are you sure there's no charm involved in this glass screen? No runes?"
Harry chuckled. "Positive. Muggles have figured out quite a few things while wizards were too busy polishing wands and hoarding secrets."
Andromeda huffed, clearly unimpressed but equally intrigued. "If they can make moving pictures without magic, why are we still using parchment and quills?"
"Tradition," Harry said, smirking. "Which is a fancy word for stubborn."
Teddy gurgled softly in the seat between them, nestled in a specially padded bassinet that the airline provided after Harry tipped the staff generously. The baby was utterly fascinated by the silk seat lining and the mini reading lamp. His hair, as always, was reacting to his emotions—currently a sleek, dark black that matched Harry's, paired with curious emerald-green eyes.
"He's a quiet little thing," one of the flight attendants had remarked earlier with a smile. "Most babies cry the whole way."
"He's having the time of his life," Harry replied, reaching out to stroke Teddy's tiny hand. "First-class living suits him."
Andromeda snorted softly. "Don't spoil him."
"I'm trying," Harry said, "but I think he's already winning."
They didn't bring much—just one modest carry-on bag filled with Teddy's essentials: nappies, bottles, a change of clothes, and a few trinkets from Dora's old things. Everything else—robes, magical items, clothes laced with old blood or sweat—they left behind. Harry knew how easily wizards could trace objects through ancient rituals. He wasn't about to give anyone that chance.
"I want to start over," he'd told Andromeda the night before they left. "Really start over."
She had nodded silently, understanding better than anyone. Sometimes, even the strongest magic wasn't enough to keep the ghosts of war at bay.
When the plane finally landed at JFK Airport, Harry found himself holding his breath as they descended the jet bridge and stepped into the hum and bustle of the terminal.
New York smelled of coffee, concrete, and electricity. Voices in dozens of accents echoed around them, and LED signs blinked above busy lines of travelers. Harry had never felt so anonymous. And never so free.
As they exited through the arrivals gate into the cool air of the pickup area, Harry scanned the crowd.
"Do you think he's—"
"Harry!" came a familiar shout.
Harry turned just in time to see Dudley Dursley, taller and broader than ever, pushing past a group of confused tourists and waving both arms like a windmill. He was wearing a red hoodie that looked about two sizes too tight and had grown some sort of scraggly attempt at facial hair.
He caught Harry in a bear hug.
"Blimey, you're really here!" Dudley laughed, patting Harry's back as though trying to make sure he was real. "I wasn't sure if you'd actually do it."
"Neither did I," Harry said, pulling back with a grin. "Good to see you, Big D."
"You too, mate. You look… well, you look better than the last time I saw you. Less haunted, y'know?"
Harry smiled. "Trying to work on that."
Dudley glanced at Andromeda, who offered him a polite nod, and then his eyes landed on Teddy—still in the pram, blinking up with wide green eyes and a mop of untamed black hair.
Dudley crouched down, staring at the baby.
His eyes darted back up to Harry.
"Er… Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"I didn't know you had a kid."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"I mean… he's yours, right? The hair, the eyes—he's like a tiny you!"
Harry let out a short laugh. "Teddy's not mine. He's my godson."
"Really?" Dudley raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer. "You sure?"
"Teddy's a Metamorphmagus," Andromeda supplied dryly, stepping up beside them. "He changes his appearance based on emotion or people around him. He adores Harry, so… well."
Dudley looked bewildered. "Meta-what-now?"
"It's magic," Harry said. "Complicated magic."
Dudley gave a helpless shrug. "Figures."
But then he looked at the baby again—Teddy now giggling and trying to grab Dudley's hoodie string—and smiled despite himself. "Well, he's a cute little bloke. You're lucky."
Harry looked at Teddy, who had started babbling nonsense sounds.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I am."
They headed to Dudley's car—a battered old blue pickup with a duct-taped bumper and half a boxing gym's worth of gear piled in the back. It was nothing fancy, but it purred to life with a roar.
"I got you a hotel nearby," Dudley said as they drove through the highway into Queens. "I figured you'd want a few days before school stuff starts. The school's not posh or anything, but like I said—headmaster's all about donations. You've got gold, I've got connections. Between us, you'll be enrolled before the week ends."
Harry nodded, staring out the window as the skyline of New York loomed ahead.
Everything was different.
No wands. No Ministry. No eyes watching him from shadows.
Just possibilities.
Getting into the high school was laughably easy.
With Dudley's help, Harry arranged a meeting with the headmaster of Harrison Wells Memorial High School, a balding man with watery eyes and a suspiciously cheerful grin who greeted Harry like an old friend—once he saw the donation check.
"Mr. Potter," Headmaster Langdon had said, folding the check and tucking it into his drawer with the speed of a practiced hand, "we are honored to have such a… promising young man join our senior class. Very rare to see a transfer this late in the year—but of course, education is a lifelong journey, eh?"
Harry smiled tightly. "Right. Journey."
Paperwork was waived. Transcripts were "handled." The school librarian even called personally to thank Harry for the "extraordinary contribution to academic enlightenment."
Dudley, who had witnessed the entire exchange, laughed the moment they stepped outside.
"I told you," he said, clapping Harry on the back. "Corrupt as they come. But hey, you're in. Welcome to American education."
The next few days were something Harry never imagined: blissfully mundane.
He, Andromeda, and baby Teddy went on a spree across the sprawling streets of New York City, venturing from Fifth Avenue to SoHo, with strollers, shopping bags, and looks of wide-eyed wonder.
Andromeda, in particular, was flabbergasted.
"I had no idea Muggles had so many types of trousers," she muttered as she walked through the aisles of a clothing store. "Why do jeans come in—what did the tag say—'distressed skinny'? Are they distressed because of the fit?"
Harry burst out laughing. "You'll get used to it."
"I rather doubt it," she sniffed, holding up a sparkly tank top like it was cursed.
But despite her protests, she quickly got into the spirit of it. She tried on leather jackets and flowy scarves, bought sunglasses that could rival Rita Skeeter's, and even picked out a couple of floral sundresses that Teddy seemed to love grabbing.
As for Harry, he'd never owned so many clothes in his life.
Jeans, hoodies, shirts of all colors and brands, sneakers, boots, even cologne—it was like peeling away layers of himself with each bag he carried. Gone was the uniformed schoolboy in ill-fitting Hogwarts robes. He was just a young man shopping in the city, trying to find who he really was.
They bought everything they needed: furniture, kitchenware, electronics, and baby supplies by the cartful. Teddy's favorite part was, without a doubt, riding in the car.
Every time they buckled him in, he would wiggle and giggle and bounce in excitement, his hair turning sky-blue with joy.
"We may never get him out of the car seat," Andromeda joked one day.
"We may never get me out of it," Harry added. "I didn't know Muggle shopping was this fun."
Andromeda grinned, arms full of bags. "Don't get used to it. Or do. You've earned it."
Harry didn't want an apartment.
It didn't feel free enough. After years of sharing dorm rooms, hiding in tents, and living under other people's roofs, he wanted space. He wanted light. He wanted Teddy to run barefoot through green grass and climb trees in the backyard.
So he found a real estate agent and bought a mansion.
Not just any house—a stone-faced estate nestled just outside the city limits, surrounded by lush gardens, tall hedges, and a small private road leading through an iron gate. The house had eight bedrooms, five bathrooms, a sprawling library, and a backyard so vast it might as well have been its own park. There were even two vintage cars parked in the garage that came with the property.
And Harry—Harry James Potter, Chosen One, Wizarding World's Savior—spent his first night there falling asleep on a king-sized bed beside Teddy's crib with a baby monitor blinking gently on the nightstand.
He didn't miss Grimmauld Place. Not even for a moment.
"Alright, clutch, brake, gas," Dudley repeated as he tapped each pedal with his foot. "Now try it again."
Harry squinted at the dashboard of the silver Mercedes. "This is harder than a broom."
"Yeah, but you don't get bugs in your teeth."
They were in a quiet part of the mansion's private drive, practicing in circles. Dudley had insisted on teaching him how to drive personally. Harry had taken to it faster than expected—once he stopped trying to guide the car like a broomstick.
"You'll get the hang of it," Dudley said. "This thing practically drives itself. But watch the mirrors. I don't care how rich you are—you ding that paint, and I'll make you polish it by hand."
"I could just use magic."
Dudley pointed at him. "No magic while I'm teaching, Potter."
Harry grinned. "Yes, sir."
Later that evening, Dudley brought over his things from the school hostel and officially moved into the mansion. He was practically giddy.
"I have a room with a view!" he exclaimed, stretching out on the guest bed. "And a bathroom bigger than my dorm!"
"You're welcome," Harry said dryly.
"No seriously," Dudley said, sobering for a moment. "Thanks. This place is amazing. And honestly… it's good to be with family."
Harry smiled. That word—family—no longer felt heavy.
"But," Dudley added, sitting up, "you have to promise me one thing."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I have to promise you something?"
"Yup. You can't tell Mum and Dad I'm living in a mansion with you. If they find out you're loaded, Mum'll die of spite and Dad'll ask you for money."
Harry snorted. "Fair deal. But only if you don't tell them I'm here."
Dudley offered his hand. "Deal."
They shook on it, sealing the agreement like brothers rather than bitter cousins.
As dusk fell and the lights of the mansion lit the rooms in gold, Harry stood on the balcony overlooking the garden. Teddy was asleep. Andromeda was in the library, reading a Muggle novel. Dudley was in the kitchen, raiding the fridge.
For the first time in his life, Harry felt like he belonged somewhere not because the world needed him…
…but because he chose it.
Aphrodite was a goddess of love and beauty—no, she was beauty. Not just in her curves or her eyes, but in her smile, her walk, the tilt of her head. Beauty dripped from her words like honey, curled in her perfume, whispered in the silk of her voice.
Men had written songs for her. Painted her face onto ceilings. Built temples, carved statues, launched wars. The strongest mortals—athletes, kings, warriors, poets—had once dropped to their knees to offer her anything she desired. Not because she compelled them. No, she seldom needed to use her power. Men offered everything they had for the chance to please her.
And why wouldn't they? She was Aphrodite.
She currently lounged beside George Cooper, one of her newest passing fancies. He was perfect on the surface—an all-American quarterback with chiseled abs, a trust fund, and just enough cockiness to make him fun for a week or two. They were strolling through the shopping district in Manhattan, arms looped loosely, the air thick with the perfume of high fashion and late summer.
"Babe, I think I'm gonna get those sneakers," George said, pointing through a shop window.
"You do that," Aphrodite purred with a smile. She didn't care. George was just pleasant noise.
Her attention had wandered, drifting to the shimmer of a handbag displayed in the boutique window next door. It was exquisite—stitched with emerald thread and subtle golden charms, glittering under the warm lights like a thing made for her. It called to her. And without another word to George, she slipped from his arm and walked toward the shop entrance.
And then she saw him.
A boy—no, a young man. Ordinary by every standard. His black hair was untidy, not styled. His clothes were new but far from fashionable, the kind someone bought for comfort rather than show. He wasn't tall, wasn't built like an athlete, and wore round glasses that did little to flatter his face.
But there was something oddly magnetic about him.
He had just stepped out of the boutique—her boutique—with her purse in hand. The exact one she had marked in her mind just seconds ago. And as the realization hit, so did a strange flicker of offense.
That purse was hers.
She walked up to him, hips swaying gently, her lips curved into the perfect balance of warmth and allure. Men had written entire poems about what she was doing with her smile right now.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice as smooth as rose petals brushing skin, "I was just about to buy that purse."
He stopped.
He looked at her.
And then—nothing. Not a blink, not a twitch of interest. His expression was calm. Polite. Indifferent.
"I've already bought it," he said, his voice even.
Aphrodite blinked. No fluster. No nervous laugh. No attempt to impress her.
She tried again. "Well, maybe I could give you the money for it," she said, stepping just a little closer, "and you give it to me instead. Seems fair, don't you think?"
He looked down at the purse, then back at her.
"No thanks," he said. "I bought it for someone special. I'm not selling it."
He turned slightly, like he might walk away.
Aphrodite stared.
Her mouth parted ever so slightly, confused. She had not miscalculated. She never miscalculated.
She wasn't angry—no, that would be beneath her. But something had twisted in her chest. Something curious. No one—no mortal man—had ever looked at her like that and said no. Not without hesitation. Not with such conviction.
She watched as the young man adjusted the bag under his arm and walked away down the sidewalk. He didn't look back.
His hair bounced slightly in the breeze. The curve of his jaw caught the light. And though his clothes were simple, his movements were self-assured, quiet, but purposeful.
Aphrodite tilted her head.
George came back moments later, holding a box of overpriced sneakers. "Did you get anything, babe?"
She didn't respond.
Her eyes remained fixed on the retreating figure.
"I think," she said slowly, "I just found something I wasn't looking for."
George blinked. "What?"
Aphrodite's lips curved into a smile—but this time, not the kind she used to ensnare.
"I need to find out who he is."
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