The wind howled against the thick stone walls of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, carrying with it the sharp bite of the sea. Inside, Harry Potter sat at the kitchen table, his fingers tracing the chipped edges of a mug filled with lukewarm tea. He wasn't really drinking it—just holding it, absorbing the warmth while his thoughts gnawed at him.
Harry had grown into his fame. Not that it was by choice. The Boy Who Lived had become the Man Who Saved. Headlines printed his name in bold letters every week, and witches and wizards still stared with wide-eyed admiration whenever he walked down Diagon Alley. It was exhausting. Every handshake, every photograph, felt like a layer of himself peeled away, leaving only what people wanted to see: the hero, the savior, the legend. But beneath it all, Harry was still just Harry. He wasn't a legend. He was a man. And, if he was being honest, still a little embarrassed by all the attention.
He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the clock. Kingsley would be expecting an answer soon, but he still hadn't made up his mind. Azkaban. The word itself was like a lead weight, heavy and grim. And Snape—Snape was there, warden of that hellish place. Harry hadn't seen him in years, not since the end of the war, when Snape had survived Nagini's bite and vanished from public life. Most people thought he'd died, but Harry knew better. He always knew better when it came to Severus Snape.
Snape had every right to want to disappear. Harry had made sure of that, hadn't he? In that one desperate move, sharing the man's memories with the world to prove he was no traitor, Harry had stripped Snape of his last shred of privacy. The whole wizarding world knew about his love for Lily now. Knew about his sacrifices. And, somehow, knowing only made the public more confused. They painted Snape as a tragic hero, a romantic martyr—but Harry knew better. Snape wasn't a hero. He wasn't a martyr. He was a bitter man who wanted nothing more than to be left alone. And that, Harry thought, was something he couldn't blame him for.
The Auror's office had whispered about Snape's retreat into isolation. How he'd taken over Azkaban, of all places. The fortress on the sea, where Dementors still prowled the perimeter. He'd gone from being a reluctant war hero to the warden of the wizarding world's most notorious prison. It seemed fitting, in a twisted sort of way. If anyone could handle Azkaban's bleakness, it was Severus Snape.
Harry leaned back in his chair, staring up at the darkened ceiling. His fame hadn't faded, not even in these quieter years. He still couldn't go anywhere without someone recognizing the scar or thanking him for saving the world. It was as if the world had frozen him in amber, trapped in the same moment forever: a moment of victory that felt farther away every day.
And yet, Snape had managed to vanish. Or, at least, he'd tried.
The Ministry had started asking questions. They weren't sure what was happening inside Azkaban, but prisoners were dying—more than usual, in any case. Dark whispers suggested the possibility of something, or someone, manipulating the prisoners, and Kingsley had come to him, Harry Potter, to investigate. He was reluctant, though. Not because of the mission itself—he'd faced worse than some haunted prison—but because of Snape. The idea of facing him again made Harry's stomach twist. What could he even say to him after all these years?
He sighed, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. They'd never truly been friends, not in any real sense. They'd barely tolerated each other, even at the end. But Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he owed Snape something—maybe more than anyone else. And now the Ministry was handing him a reason to visit the man, whether either of them liked it or not.
Harry sat in silence for a moment longer, listening to the soft creak of the house settling around him, the occasional crackle from the fireplace in the other room. Grimmauld Place had never felt more empty than it did in moments like these. Hermione and Ron had moved on with their lives, and the house—despite being filled with memories—felt hollow. He let out a slow breath, his fingers still absentmindedly tracing the mug's rim, the warmth fading fast.
The tap of footsteps echoed from the hallway, and Harry turned, seeing the ghostly figure of Kreacher hovering in the doorway. The old house-elf's wide eyes gleamed in the dim light, his usual grim expression softened by age.
"Master has a visitor," came a raspy voice from the doorway. Kreacher stood there, his large eyes gleaming in the dim light of the kitchen, his wrinkled hands clutching the edge of the doorframe. "Minister Shacklebolt awaits in the parlor."
Harry blinked, drawn out of his reverie. He hadn't expected Kingsley to arrive so quickly. "Thanks, Kreacher," he muttered, pushing himself up from the chair, the wood scraping against the floor with a low groan. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the already untidy strands, and made his way through the dimly lit hallway toward the parlor.
Grimmauld Place had always been a house full of shadows. Even now, with so many of its darker artifacts gone and the air cleared of the stench of dark magic, it still felt oppressive, like the weight of history clung to every inch of its walls. Harry had done his best to make it livable, but there was no escaping the ghosts of the past that lived within its walls.
Kingsley was standing by the hearth when Harry entered the parlor, his tall frame silhouetted against the flickering firelight. He turned at the sound of Harry's footsteps, his broad face breaking into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. The Minister of Magic had always carried himself with an air of calm, but tonight there was something heavier about him—something that told Harry this visit wasn't just about catching up.
"Harry," Kingsley greeted, his deep voice rumbling through the room as he extended a hand.
Harry shook it, offering a small smile. "Kingsley. I didn't expect you to come by in person."
Kingsley gave a soft chuckle. "Some things are better discussed face-to-face." He gestured to the chair opposite the fire. "Sit, if you've got a moment."
Harry nodded, taking a seat. His eyes flickered to the fire, watching the flames dance and crackle. "I've been thinking about Azkaban," he said, getting straight to the point. The word felt heavy on his tongue, like lead. "About... Snape."
Kingsley's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. "And?"
Harry hesitated, his fingers curling around the arms of the chair. "I'll go. I'll take the assignment." He exhaled slowly. "But not because I want to."
Kingsley raised an eyebrow, his voice steady. "Why, then?"
"Because someone has to," Harry admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor. "And if it's as bad as you're saying, I can't just ignore it."
There was a long pause, the crackling fire the only sound between them. Kingsley leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes searching Harry's face. "You know Snape's still the warden."
"Yeah," Harry muttered, running a hand through his hair again. "I know."
"You two haven't spoken since...?"
"Since the war," Harry finished for him. He leaned back in the chair, his gaze distant. "Not a word. Not that I blame him. After everything that happened, everything I—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "I wouldn't want to see me either."
Kingsley let out a low sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's kept himself isolated for years now. You'll be the first visitor he's had since taking over the prison."
Harry gave a small, humorless laugh. "Bet he's looking forward to that."
Kingsley chuckled, though there was no real amusement behind it. "I wouldn't count on a warm welcome. You know Snape. He's never been one for... social calls."
"No," Harry said quietly, his eyes flicking back to the fire. "He hasn't."
There was a heavy silence, thick with the weight of things unsaid. Harry's mind drifted back to the moment when he had stood in front of the Pensieve, revealing Snape's memories to the world. The memories of Lily, of his sacrifices, of every hidden corner of Snape's life. He hadn't thought about it then, not in the rush of everything that was happening. He'd just wanted to prove Snape wasn't a traitor, that he had been fighting for them all along. But now... now it felt like a betrayal of a different sort.
"He's still angry, isn't he?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Wouldn't you be?" Kingsley replied, his voice low but not unkind. "The man had his entire life turned inside out, his secrets laid bare for the world to see. And now he's... well, he's not the same man he was before."
Harry nodded, though the tightness in his chest didn't ease. "I didn't mean for things to happen the way they did."
"I know," Kingsley said softly. "And maybe, deep down, Snape knows too. But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt him. The war hurt all of us in different ways."
Harry sighed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "I'll go to Azkaban. I'll check out the situation. But... I'm not just doing it because of the Ministry's request. I need to see him. I need to know if he's okay."
Kingsley studied him for a moment before nodding slowly. "I thought as much."
Kingsley's eyes softened, but he kept his voice steady. "You've always had a way of carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, Harry. Even when the war ended, you didn't stop fighting. Sometimes you can't save everyone, though. Not even Severus Snape."
Harry didn't respond right away. He let Kingsley's words sink in, but they didn't offer the comfort they were meant to. Instead, they stirred that familiar, restless feeling in his gut. He was tired of being seen as the savior, but it seemed like that role had become as much a part of him as his scar. Maybe Kingsley was right—maybe Snape didn't need saving. But Harry still needed to know.
"Maybe," Harry said, his voice quiet. "But I still owe him."
Kingsley nodded, standing up from the chair with a soft groan. "You do what you think is right. You always have." He clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "I'll arrange for a Portkey to Azkaban. Tomorrow morning, you'll be on your way. If you find anything out of the ordinary—anything at all—send word."
Harry stood too, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I will."
Kingsley turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing back. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Harry. Not everything is your responsibility to fix."
"Yeah," Harry muttered, watching as Kingsley disappeared into the hallway. "Tell that to the rest of the world."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Harry alone once again. The fire flickered in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls. He stood there for a moment, listening to the crackle of the flames, letting the quiet of the house seep back into the air.
Azkaban. Snape. The thought of stepping into that place, knowing Snape would be waiting on the other side of its cold, unyielding walls, made Harry's stomach churn. It wasn't fear. It was something else—something more complicated. He didn't know what kind of reception to expect, but he was sure of one thing: it wouldn't be pleasant.
His mind flickered back to the last time he'd seen Snape—lying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, pale and still, blood pooling beneath him. Harry had been certain he was going to die that night. But Snape had survived, pulled from the brink of death by a last-minute intervention. And now, years later, he was alive and locked away in Azkaban, far from the world that once hated him—and now, perversely, admired him. But only because Harry had forced them to see the truth.
The truth. Harry winced, his grip tightening on the back of the chair. That's what it had all been about, hadn't it? Telling the truth. Exposing Snape's hidden life, his secrets, his pain. At the time, it had seemed like the only way to honor him, to make sure the world knew what kind of man he really was. But in doing so, Harry had also laid bare the most private parts of Snape's soul.
He hadn't thought about the consequences. Not until it was too late.
Harry exhaled sharply, pushing away from the chair and pacing toward the window. The night was thick with clouds, the moon barely visible through the dense mist that clung to the streets outside. He rested a hand on the cold glass, staring out into the darkness.
Snape had chosen Azkaban. He'd chosen isolation. It was no surprise, really—Snape had always been a man who thrived in the shadows, keeping everyone at arm's length. But now Harry was being sent to pull him back into the light, whether he wanted to be dragged out or not.
There was no doubt in Harry's mind that Snape would be furious to see him. He could already imagine the sharp, biting words that would come from the man's lips, the dark scowl that seemed permanently etched into his features. Snape had never been an easy man to deal with, and now, after everything Harry had revealed to the world, it was likely he'd be even more difficult.
But this wasn't about making amends. Not entirely. The mission was real—there were whispers of dark magic, of prisoners dying in strange ways. And if anyone could handle a mystery like that, it was Harry. But deep down, he knew this trip was about more than just the investigation. It was about Snape. About confronting the man who had shaped so much of who he was, even if neither of them wanted to admit it.
Harry let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. Tomorrow, he'd face Snape. Tomorrow, he'd step into Azkaban, a place filled with ghosts of the past and memories that clung to the air like mist.
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