The morning Harry decided to officially move out of the Burrow was clearer than the days before—crisp blue sky, pale sunlight warming the fields, and the familiar smell of Mrs. Weasley's cooking drifting through the crooked hallways. It should've made him feel comforted.
Instead, as he shrunk the last of his belongings into a single travel trunk, he felt heavy.
Not sad exactly—just aware. Aware that the war was over, life was beginning again, and beginnings came with endings tucked inside them.
He zipped the trunk shut and carried it downstairs.
Mrs. Weasley spotted him first. "Harry, dear, are you sure you're ready? You can stay as long as you need."
Her voice trembled on the last word. Harry smiled gently.
"I know. And thank you. But I… need to try living on my own. Just to see if I can."
Mrs. Weasley pulled him into a hug so tight he couldn't breathe. And yet he didn't mind. She smelled like flour and lavender and home.
When she finally let go, her eyes shimmered. "At least let us visit."
"Of course," he said softly. "Whenever you want."
Ron was waiting by the front door, hands shoved in his pockets. "You sure you don't want us to come help settle things?"
"You already helped yesterday," Harry reminded him.
Ron shrugged. "Yeah, well… could help again."
Harry laughed. "I'll be fine."
Hermione hugged him too. "If the house gives you any trouble—call. I've been reading a book about post-legacy properties and their magical stabilization—"
"Hermione," Ron muttered. "Let him breathe."
Harry grinned. "I'll be fine."
But the one conversation he dreaded hadn't happened yet.
Ginny stood outside in the garden, staring out at the tall grass swaying in the light wind. She turned slightly when he approached but didn't smile. Not at first.
"Moving out, then," she said.
"Yeah."
"Feels strange."
"Yeah."
A silence fell—not awkward, just full. The kind of silence between two people who had said nothing definite but thought too many things.
Ginny's fingers brushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "So… us."
Harry swallowed. "Yeah. I was thinking about that too."
She didn't fidget like she used to when she was younger. She met him directly—clear-eyed, steady, so very much like the person she'd become.
"I know everything's different now," she said. "We never really… talked. Properly. After the battle."
Harry nodded slowly. "I didn't know how. I didn't want to assume anything." He paused. "And I didn't want to drag you into a mess while I'm still figuring out what normal even looks like."
Ginny crossed her arms—not defensively, just thoughtfully. "Do you want us to be together?"
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. "I do." He didn't have to think about it. "But I want to be fair to you. I've got… a lot going on. And I don't know who I am yet after all of this."
Ginny stepped closer. "Harry, I don't expect you to be perfect. Or whole. Or ready. I'm not asking for everything. I just want to know if I'm someone you want in your life."
He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "You are. Absolutely."
A small, relieved smile curved her lips. "Good."
"But…" Harry added carefully, "I think we should take it slow. Not break up. Not pretend nothing's there. Just… give it time. Let things settle naturally."
Ginny nodded, surprisingly at peace with that. "Slow is fine. I'm not going anywhere."
Harry reached for her hand. She squeezed his back—warm, grounding—and then let go.
"Write to me," she said.
"I will."
When he walked toward the Burrow's boundary to Apparate, he looked back once. Ginny stood in the garden still, watching him, not sad exactly—just steady. Waiting. Hoping. Understanding.
It made leaving easier and harder at the same time.
When Harry arrived at Grimmauld Place, the front door creaked open as if in greeting—or warning. He stepped in with his shrunken trunk, took a deep breath, and exhaled.
It smelled cleaner now. Less cold. And with the windows open, sunlight had begun to seep through dust-coated glass panels.
He dragged his trunk upstairs when a familiar crack of apparition echoed behind him.
"Kreacher?"
The house-elf bowed low, his large eyes darting nervously. He was wearing the Hogwarts cleaning towel he'd been using in the castle.
"Master called Kreacher back?" the elf croaked, voice hopeful but cautious.
Harry blinked. "I… didn't call you yet. Did McGonagall send you?"
"No, Master." Kreacher wrung his hands. "Kreacher felt the house stir. Old magic of the Blacks… the magic that binds Kreacher… it called him. House knows when Master returns."
Harry's stomach pulled tight. He had forgotten the depth of house-elf bonds.
"Kreacher didn't want to disturb Master's peace," the elf continued. "But Kreacher must know… if he is still Master's elf."
Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and inhaled slowly. Kreacher looked older than Harry remembered, his skin drooping, his posture bent—not with bitterness, but with wear. Wear from helping in Hogwarts kitchens, perhaps. Wear from war.
He was loyal—not because of servitude, but because of Sirius's locket. Harry had given him compassion once, and Kreacher had answered it with unwavering dedication.
But the fact remained: a house-elf's bond was life-sustaining. Breaking it too sharply could harm them.
"Kreacher," Harry said carefully, "I don't want to force you into anything. You helped Hogwarts. You helped me. You earned freedom, if you want it."
Kreacher's eyes widened in alarm. "No! Kreacher does not want freedom!" He looked terrified—genuinely so. "Kreacher wants a place to belong. Hogwarts was good, but Kreacher is a Black family elf. Kreacher must belong somewhere."
Harry felt something twist in his chest.
"You won't be mistreated here," he said softly.
Kreacher bowed so low his forehead touched the floor. "Master is kind. Kreacher will serve and keep house safe."
"…Alright," Harry finally said. "If you want to stay, you can stay. I won't break the bond."
Kreacher let out a shaky exhale—half relief, half devotion. "Kreacher will clean. Kreacher will repair. Kreacher will protect Master Harry."
Harry crouched a bit to meet his eyes. "No calling me Master. Just Harry."
Kreacher's ears twitched. "If… Harry insists."
He smiled. "I do."
And with that, the elf straightened—proud. Purposeful. Older, but steadier.
"Harry's home will shine," Kreacher declared, snapping his fingers. Chandeliers lit. Dust vanished in gusts. Floorboards polished themselves. Velvet curtains unfurled and cleaned.
The house didn't just brighten; it breathed. For the first time, Grimmauld Place looked less like Grimmauld Place and more like a place someone could live.
Someone new.
Someone free.
Harry felt something ease inside him.
Days passed in a quiet rhythm. He unpacked. He cleaned with Kreacher. He replaced the musty old wallpaper with charming enchanted ones that shimmered like candlelight. Light filled rooms where only shadows had lingered.
Kreacher cooked simple meals—soups, bread, roasted vegetables. It felt strange eating at a table that once hosted Order meetings. Sometimes Harry paused mid-bite, expecting Sirius to crack a joke or Mad-Eye to bark instructions.
The ghosts weren't gone—they were softer now, no longer suffocating.
At night, Harry wrote letters to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. He didn't always send them. Some he folded and kept in a drawer, not ready to be read but too honest to throw away.
Between cleaning, Harry received occasional owls from the Ministry—not demanding, but curious. Kingsley asked twice if Harry would be willing to sit for a discussion about the state of the post-war world, nothing formal yet. Harry gave vague answers. Kingsley didn't push.
The world was healing slowly. Some newspapers praised him too loudly; others tried to decipher the silence around him. A few wondered whether he would soon speak publicly.
But Harry wasn't ready.
He needed space. A foundation. A place he could breathe.
Three weeks after moving in, Grimmauld Place finally felt comfortable.
Still old, still creaky—but not haunted.
One evening, as Harry finished organizing a study room, Kreacher appeared with a sharp crack.
"Harry has received a letter," the elf announced, extending a thick, pale envelope sealed with dark green wax.
Harry raised a brow. "From who?"
Kreacher hesitated. "From the goblins."
Harry froze slightly. "Gringotts?"
"Yes. It bears the seal of the Account Managers."
Harry took the envelope slowly. It was surprisingly heavy.
"Thank you, Kreacher."
When the elf disappeared again, Harry sat at his newly cleaned desk, tracing the embossed crest: crossed axes, stylized runes, and a coiled dragon.
He broke the seal.
Inside were multiple parchments, but the first letter was short and direct:
Mr. Harry James Potter,
This notice is to inform you of your pending review regarding the Potter family vault holdings and the inheritance bequeathed to you through your godfather, Sirius Black.
As the last living heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Black—given Sirius Black was not disowned by his grandfather Arcturus Black—you are entitled to the associated vaults, properties, and titles therein.
Harry's heart thudded.
Another page listed:
— Potter Vault: dormant, to be reopened to the Heir
— Black Family Vault: sealed for decades, awaiting claimant
— Investments, properties, artifacts requiring verification
— Mandatory appointment with a Gringotts Account Manager within the next month
A third page bore a final line:
Please respond promptly.
— Gornuk, Senior Account Director
Harry sat back.
He had expected something—maybe a checkup, a confirmation of identity. But this? It was overwhelming.
Him. The heir to two ancient families.
It felt absurd.
He had never wanted fortunes or titles. He wanted peace. A quiet life. Safety for the people he loved. The idea of vaults and properties and ancient bloodlines pressed on him like too-heavy armor.
He placed the letter down and closed his eyes.
His parents' legacy.
Sirius's legacy.
Whether he liked it or not, this too was part of his beginning.
He opened his eyes again and looked around the room—his room, in his house, rebuilt and warmed and lived in.
He would face whatever came next.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he needed to breathe.
He folded the letter carefully and slipped it into a drawer—next to the letters he hadn't sent.
Then he stood, stretched, and let the house settle around him—old, stubborn, and finally, quietly alive.
Grimmauld Place wasn't perfect.
Neither was he.