The glow of the theatre's enchanted marquee spilled across Diagon Alley like warm honey, turning the cobbles gold and the shopfront windows into mirrors of light.
It had started as curiosity.
A whisper.
Then a rumor that grew legs and learned how to sprint.
Harry Potter is there.
Not a headline. Not a moving photograph. This was real. A living boy—no, not a boy anymore, people said—standing behind the counter, adjusting runic stabilizers, checking the projector wards, walking the aisles with the calm focus of a craftsman.
And the wizarding world, which loved legends more than it loved sense, came running.
They lined up for tickets they didn't even care about, then drifted out into the lobby as though the film on the screen had become irrelevant compared to the boy in the building. They asked for directions and pretended it was normal conversation. They bought popcorn, then didn't eat it. They lingered near the velvet ropes and watched Harry the way you watched an aurora—beautiful, distant, and dangerous to stare at too long.
Harry felt every gaze like weight on his shoulders.
Not because he was afraid.
Because he was tired.
Still, he came.
Because the theatre mattered.
Because Hermione and Draco's dream had finally stepped out of sketches and arguments and late-night experiments and become brick and velvet and light. Because Remus had kept the business steady, and Sirius had poured his restless energy into making it work. Because the wizarding world needed something that wasn't fear.
And because, secretly, Harry liked the way magic looked when it wasn't used to hurt anyone.
That evening had been a good one.
When the credits rolled, a ripple of applause had filled the hall like a spell of its own.
Harry had stayed behind after the crowd thinned, walking the theatre's edge, checking runes and listening to the faint hum of stabilized charms. His wand rested warm in his palm like it had been waiting patiently to be useful again.
Remus met him near the side door, coat already on, sleeves rolled down, expression careful in that way Remus had when he was trying not to show worry.
"You did well today," Remus said.
"It was the runes," Harry replied, glancing up at the ceiling where the projector charm-lines threaded like silver veins. "They behaved."
Remus snorted softly. "Everything behaves when you're here."
Harry didn't answer. He didn't like what that implied.
Remus watched him for a long moment. "You're pale."
"I'm fine."
"You're pale," Remus repeated, as though saying it twice would make Harry stop trying to out-stubborn the world. "And you've been on your feet all day."
Harry tucked his wand away, adjusting his dragonhide jacket automatically. It was a good jacket—real dragonhide, properly treated. Not fashion. Armor, disguised as clothing.
"I'll go home after I lock the wards," Harry said.
Remus's eyes narrowed. "I can do it."
"I want to," Harry said. "It's… calming."
Remus hesitated, then nodded. He knew what Harry meant. Calming was precious.
"All right," Remus said. "But don't linger outside. Diagon Alley's been… loud, lately."
Harry's mouth curved faintly. "You mean people."
"I mean some people," Remus corrected. "The kind who don't clap at the end of a film."
Harry's expression sharpened.
Remus lowered his voice. "I've seen a few faces I don't like. Men who look around too much. Women who keep their hoods up even indoors. I told Sirius."
Harry exhaled slowly. "Sirius is probably trying to pick a fight with them."
Remus's mouth twitched. "That's what I'm afraid of."
They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the theatre settle, the building sighing as enchantments shifted from performance-mode to resting wards. Outside, Diagon Alley still buzzed with late-night movement—shops closing, lanterns swaying, owls flitting between rooftops.
Harry finished the final check, pressed his palm to the main ward-stone near the entrance, and felt the familiar pulse of protection hum up through his skin. Not Asgardian wards. Not Odin's brutal, unyielding craft. This was wizarding work—layered, clever, quiet.
He liked it.
Then he stepped into the alley.
The air was cool and damp, that particular London chill that crept into bones. Diagon Alley's lights painted everything in warm amber, but shadows still gathered in corners, thick and patient.
Harry walked with his hands in his jacket pockets, not rushed, not careless. His senses weren't Asgardian-sharp tonight the way they used to be but he was still Harry. Still trained. Still aware.
He could feel the looks.
Some were excited.
Some were curious.
Some were… hungry.
"Harry!" someone called.
He turned his head slightly and saw a witch—middle-aged, flushed-cheeked—nudging her friend as though she'd spotted a rare creature.
"That's him," she whispered too loudly. "That's Harry Potter."
Harry kept walking.
Another voice, younger, breathless: "Do you think he'll sign something?"
He didn't stop.
A group of teenage witches giggled behind him, whispering about his height, his hair, his eyes—like he was a story that had grown into a person. Harry ignored it, focusing on the steady rhythm of his steps.
He was halfway down the street when his instincts prickled.
A wrongness.
Harry's head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.
He didn't see the attacker.
He felt the intent a heartbeat before it hit.
A curse lanced through the air from behind him—silent, fast, vicious. Not a flashy spell meant for duels. Not a dramatic hex meant to scare.
A killing strike… tempered into something crueler.
Harry spun, wand half-out—
—but the curse struck before he could fully turn.
He threw up a shield on reflex. A translucent flare of magic sparked into existence in front of him—
—and immediately screamed under pressure.
The curse didn't break against it.
It cut.
Like a blade sliding through thin cloth.
Harry's eyes widened as his shield split, the magic collapsing into shards of light.
The curse slammed into his chest.
For a fraction of a second, he felt nothing.
Then the dragonhide jacket flared hot, runes sewn into its lining igniting as they absorbed the brunt of the impact. The leather stiffened like armor.
The curse still bit through.
Pain erupted across his chest—white, sharp, immediate. Harry staggered back, breath punching out of him as though the air had been ripped away. He looked down and saw the fabric parting.
A dark, spreading stain.
A cut, deep and clean, as if an invisible sword had carved him open.
The world tilted.
Harry clamped a hand over the wound instinctively, fingers coming away slick with blood.
A scream tore through the alley.
"HE'S BEEN HIT!"
"MERLIN—HARRY POTTER—"
The crowd surged, panic spreading like fire. Witches and wizards backed away, tripping over each other, eyes wild. Some tried to draw wands. Some froze. Some stared at Harry with horrified fascination, as if they'd just watched the legend become mortal.
Harry forced himself upright, teeth gritted.
He turned his head, trying to locate the source.
All he saw were shadows, movement, people scattering.
Someone wanted chaos.
Someone wanted the crowd to hide them.
Harry lifted his wand and tried to steady his breathing.
Not because he feared dying.
Because he feared what happened if he lost focus.
His mind flickered, a dangerous thought pushing forward—If I still had the Aether, if I still had—
He crushed it instantly.
Not now.
Not here.
Not with people.
A pair of hands grabbed him—careful, firm.
"Harry!" Remus's voice cut through the noise, sharp with fear and fury. "Harry, look at me!"
Remus must have been closer than Harry realized. He must have followed. Or perhaps his instincts had screamed the same warning.
Harry blinked, struggling to focus.
Remus's face was pale, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.
"Who?" Remus demanded.
Harry shook his head once, breath shaky. "Didn't see."
Remus swore viciously.
Another voice joined—older, frantic. "Get him out of here! Get him to St Mungo's!"
A witch pushed through the crowd, wand out, eyes scanning. "Everyone back! BACK—"
Harry's knees threatened to fold. He hated that. Hated weakness. Hated the way his body suddenly felt too small for the danger around him.
Remus wrapped an arm around his shoulders, shifting Harry's weight.
"You're bleeding," Remus said harshly, like Harry might have missed that detail.
Harry huffed a short breath that might have been a laugh. "I noticed."
"Don't be clever."
"I'm not being clever."
Remus's voice dropped, tight and deadly. "If you pass out, I will personally haunt you."
Harry's vision blurred at the edges. "That's reassuring."
A wand pressed near Harry's chest, careful not to touch the wound. A soft glow spread.
A healer's voice: "Hold still—"
Harry flinched as pain spiked.
"Sorry," the healer murmured. "It's deep. The jacket saved you, but the curse was meant to slice."
Harry's head snapped up. "Slice?"
The healer's eyes met his. "Like a severing charm. Modified. Whoever cast it knew what they were doing."
Remus's grip tightened.
"Portkey!" someone shouted. "We need a Portkey!"
"No, too many people—Apparition is blocked—"
"Floo to St Mungo's!"
A wizard shoved his way through, face red and sweating. "Clear the path! Clear it!"
Harry tried to look behind the crowd again, to catch a glimpse of whoever did it.
But the attacker had vanished.
The Floo Network in the Leaky Cauldron roared like a living thing, green flames licking up the hearth as the innkeeper shouted for space. The room was chaos—aurors arriving late, Ministry workers shouting questions, people trying to follow, trying to see.
Harry barely registered the transition.
One moment Diagon Alley's lanterns swayed above him.
The next, green fire swallowed him whole.
Remus's voice stayed close, anchored.
"Hold on."
Harry clung to consciousness out of stubbornness alone.
St Mungo's smelled like antiseptic potions and old stone.
The moment they stumbled out of the Floo, healers swarmed like hawks.
"Who is it?"
"Merlin—move—"
"It's HIM—"
"Get him behind the curtain, now!"
Harry was lifted, guided, half-carried into a private healing bay. Curtains snapped shut around them, muffling the hospital's noise into a distant roar.
A healer with stern eyes and silver hair pushed Remus back.
"Step away."
"He's my—" Remus began.
"Step away," she repeated, voice leaving no room for argument.
Remus's hands trembled with restrained violence as he backed up, eyes never leaving Harry's pale face.
Harry tried to speak, but the healer pressed a calming charm to his forehead.
"Don't move," she said. "Don't talk. Breathe."
Harry's lips twitched. "That's… a lot of instructions."
The healer didn't smile. "If you want to keep your lungs inside your body, you'll follow them."
That got his attention.
She cut away the jacket carefully. Dragonhide resisted the blade until she muttered a counter-charm. When the leather finally peeled back, the wound was visible—an ugly, clean gash across his chest, dangerously close to where a heart would have been if the curse had angled differently.
Remus inhaled sharply behind her.
Harry watched the healer's expression tighten.
"Lucky," she muttered.
Harry's eyes narrowed. "Lucky is not a plan."
"Quiet," she snapped automatically, then softened slightly. "This would have been fatal without that jacket. Whoever made it did good work."
Harry didn't answer.
He was thinking about the spell.
The healer pressed a potion vial to his lips. "Drink."
Harry obeyed. The potion burned down his throat like liquid fire.
"Now," the healer said, drawing her wand. "This will hurt."
"Of course it will," Harry muttered.
The healer began stitching the wound with magic—threading flesh back together in glowing lines, sealing blood vessels, knitting skin like fabric. Harry clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. His fingers dug into the mattress. His eyes watered despite himself.
Remus stood frozen, fists clenched, face white with fury.
When it was done, the healer stepped back, breathing out slowly.
"He'll live," she said.
Remus's shoulders sagged slightly, relief hitting him like a wave.
Harry stared at the ceiling, chest throbbing, anger simmering beneath the pain.
"I want to know who did it," Harry said hoarsely.
The healer glanced at him. "And you will. Later. Right now, you'll rest."
Harry's eyes flashed. "I'm not—"
The healer's wand tip lifted a fraction. "Celebrity or not, you're in my ward. Lie down."
Remus, to Harry's irritation, actually looked grateful for the healer's authority.
Harry exhaled hard through his nose and let his head fall back.
Outside the curtain, voices were rising—aurors demanding statements, Ministry officials demanding explanations.
Remus leaned close, voice low and fierce.
"I'll find them," Remus promised. "Whoever did this… I'll find them."
Harry turned his head slightly, eyes burning with a cold promise of his own.
"No," Harry said softly. "We will."
Author's Note:
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