Meeting Again

Chapter 1

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.