Chapter Text
Hogsmeade felt different in December.
From the cheerful lull of conversation, to gift preparations, to the laughter of children leaping into snow, Hogsmeade felt lively in a way only the changing seasons could manage.
With a slow exhale, Harry felt the puff of his breath brush against his face before it relented to the unforgivable chill. He shivered violently as air licked at exposed skin like a slow drag of ice and sighed when his body finally settled. Usually Harry would have stilled to ponder the temperature, then wonder how long he should remain outside, and then determine whether or not hot cocoa was appropriate to drink for a third time that day. But December has a way of stalking him—much like a restless shadow—as it constantly reminds him of his objective: attain a familiar. Since he’s come to navigate the world without the one essential thing that most have annoyingly taken for granted, such an accommodation has become a growing necessity.
Sight.
Harry had grown familiar with the world in its naturally blurred state, and he had grown fond of the clear lines and decisive colours his glasses granted.
But now he had nothing.
It was no sudden development. Harry didn’t wake up one morning in his dusty bed with his eyes open and unseeing. It was a quiet deterioration, one that crept in from behind and lingered like a leech. Harry kept it all private. He never mentioned how the blurriness never left despite his glasses, or how colours began to mix and melt together, or how his difficulty navigating the darker halls of Grimmauld stemmed from his lack of perception in dim light. That was dismissable. Easy to ignore. He had fought a war for Merlin’s sake; needing a new glasses prescription was the last thing on his mind.
And then the black spots appeared.
He stopped ignoring it then.
It doesn’t matter, he ended up here anyways. Like this. With nothing.
He continued down the snow-dusted path, his steps firm as his legs worked by memory. Every now and then a stone throws his balance, adding threads of uncertainty to his gait stitch by stitch. It’s the small, terribly inconvenient things that remind him of everything he has taken for granted regarding his sight.
A flare of irritation sparked and died when his shoe caught a raised stone yet again. His wand functioned much like a sensor, mapping out topography and distance with a faint red light at the tip of his wand—or at least, he was told it looked like a faint red light. This spell, easy to cast and barely exhaustive, would be a wonderful navigation device if only it were more precise. The stupid thing seems incapable of catching the finer details, causing him to occasionally stumble about like a fawn on new legs.
A child whizzed by on quick feet, straight out of the shop Harry was standing in front of, her fleeting steps audible against stone as she laughed alongside furry companions and friends. His mouth twitched as years of snow and mischief spent with Hermione and Ron resurfaced and lingered. He missed the early years dearly, the years where consequences hadn’t caught up yet, where school days were spent worrying about grades and tests before the next adventure took them for a wild ride, where magic and mystery saturated the air and enveloped Harry in a world he never felt more at home in. He longed to return to a simpler time, one where his name was more of a childhood wonder instead of a hero’s title, and he felt the knot in his stomach twist unpleasantly.
He presses a hand to his face, dragging it down in an attempt to forcefully drag the memories out of his mind. Instead, he lets himself recall what the silvery scarring along his face must look like. He remembers the grimaces, the open stares, and the way gazes lingered on the side of his face, similar to how they would openly gawk at his lightning scar. He didn’t understand it then—not like he had immediate access to a mirror after reviving then killing Voldemort.
A finger traces the tangled lines of scar tissue that begin right where the infamous lightning scar once did, only now it spreads down his face like a vine with open branches, reaching greedily for space to invade.
With a huff and a sigh, he presses the door open to a place that reeks of animal musk. It reminds him of his horrid family’s visit to the zoo all those years ago, and a smile slips onto his face as Dudley's terrified face trapped behind glass flashes in his mind.
Harry shakes that memory from his mind too. Merlin, he needs to focus. Harry was here for one thing and one thing only—a familiar.
“Welcome to Brood and Peck!” A young woman called from behind the counter while tending to what Harry guessed was a misbehaving puffskein. “I hope you find our products and creatures—Oh my! Harry Potter?”
Harry listens as the shopkeep straightens with a rustle. He stared in her general direction—or at least where he sensed she was standing. This is exactly why he wants a familiar.
“Hello, erm..." Harry’s lips worked around nonexistent words, suddenly unsure how to ask about a magical service animal.
The woman must have assumed it was him asking for her name, and she immediately straightened up as she introduced herself. “Tari. I’m an intern here at Brood and Peck.”
Harry nods, the younger voice now matching a more accurate mental image. “Right. Well, I’m here to see if you have trained familiars, or at least ones that are easy to train."
Tari hesitated a bit at that, audibly thinking to herself. “Well, certainly it’s just… Is this for your… condition?”
‘Condition’ is what people have taken to calling Harry’s sudden blindness, parroting whatever vocabulary the Daily Prophet coins. After all, everyone and their mother reads the prophet—except for Harry, which is ironic, considering half the time he’s the main subject.
“Yeah, sure.” Harry deflated.
Harry is a little disturbed by the way people soften around him like he is something fragile. Even more so when people assume Harry is suddenly incapable of managing the world—which also isn’t true. But the prophet made sure everyone had their hearts and minds convinced Harry Potter needed pity after sacrificing so much already.
At the very least, he felt grateful the Prophet spread the news for him. It was probably the first and last time he would ever feel grateful for the unsolicited publicity. Especially since it saved him the hassle of explaining why his wand was constantly glowing, or why his gaze never quite focused on anyone, or why he gripped the stair rail just a little tighter than usual.
“Then I think I may have just the one.”
After Tari insisted he sit tight and get comfortable while she fetched the creature, Harry heard the soft sound of returning footsteps and a gentle purr.
“Her name’s Lyra. A well-trained half-kneazle, she’d be excellent as a guide—you know how intelligent these little beasties are.” Lyra, as the shopkeep so kindly introduced, landed in Harry’s lap with light steps. Her weight evened out in an instant as she got comfortable, her fur brushing his idle hand. Harry can imagine she looks as graceful as she moves.
“Oh, why, hello.” Harry’s hand lingers awkwardly in the air, unsure where to pet. But then Lyra leans against his hand, her nose and whiskers brushing skin, guiding Harry’s hand down her spine.
Her coat is soft. Extremely soft. With a slightly denser undercoat to complement it. Harry imagines she’s orange, warm colored for her warm personality, despite the lack of visual evidence to suggest it.
“I actually wasn’t really expecting a Kneazle." Harry commented as he fumbled to pet her again.
“Most underestimate them.” Tari began, "They may act like any other cat, but I assure you, their intelligence shines in the moments you need them most.”
Harry huffed as Lyra purred, then she suddenly leapt off his lap with purpose.
“Ah, she probably heard her feeding charm go off.”
"Pity," Harry chuckled before hearing Tari’s footsteps shuffle once again.
“Well, since Lyra’s busy, may I show you other potential familiars?”
Harry nodded, which sent Tari straight to the back to pick out another creature for Harry’s predicament.
The next familiar was an owl, small and cheery based on the excited, shrill whinny’s. Harry felt a brush of air as it landed on his already outstretched wand arm.
“This is Tawny. He’s a smaller species—a screech owl, known for their exceptional awareness and convenience since, well, he’s so small.”
Harry’s ears strained during times like these, times where sight would have been useful to understand the silent language of bodily expressions in animals. But alas, he’s a bloody lost cause, and owls are a naturally quiet species—except for this one, apparently.
Tawny chirruped happily as Harry reached a hand out, attempting to offer a few scratches on the head. Based on how light he feels and how small the owl’s head is, Harry guesses Tawny’s about the size of a large butterbeer.
“He’s quite vocal,” Harry points out with a small smile.
He would have continued, but the chime of the front door swinging open caught his attention, and the cold breeze that slipped in caused Tawny to puff up indignantly.
“Harry?” Hermione called; her voice was instantly recognisable despite the surrounding animal chatter.
“Hermione?” He asked, standing to face her general direction, only to have his hand captured to correct the direction he faced. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Ron—where is he?”
Hermione let go of Harry with a sigh. “He’s with the others; I stopped by to pick up treats for Crookshanks. Never mind that—you didn’t tell us you’d be at Hogsmeade today.”
She glanced at Tawny, who had clung to Harry’s shoulder the entire time. “Nor did you tell us you were thinking of getting a companion.”
“Yeah, well... It’s a little difficult navigating with just my wand. Let alone tiring.” He shuffled a bit, a bit uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
Hermione reached over to scratch at Tawny’s head. His feathers settled almost immediately, satisfied with the attention.
“He’s adorable! Is this who you’re settling on?"
Harry hesitated. “Not sure. I wish you could’ve met Lyra, a half-kneazle, but she ran off.”
Hermione shrugged, a smile evident in her voice. "Pity, then. Would’ve been a great friend for Crookshanks.”
Harry hesitated, debated asking this question, then before he could think better of it— “How’s… you know, Hogwarts and all?”
Harry could tell Hermione’s face fell when she let out a slow exhale, one that carried more than Harry knew she would discuss. “Well, it’s a devastating sight. Seeing so much torn down, changed, reduced to nothing but rubble. It really gets to you after a while.”
Hermione paused, and Harry tried to think of something to fill the silence, but Hermione continued before Harry made a fool of himself.
“The castle’s internal and magical structure is mostly intact and has only gotten stronger with McGonagall’s reinforcements. When the restoration project began, the castle was divided evenly among the staff, with each professor responsible for their assigned areas. Meanwhile, students help with repairs under professional supervision. So, progress has been… incremental."
After the war, Hogwarts still suffered monumental damage. The place itself, in and out, had become ruinous in the face of victory. Many rooms and halls remained untouched, but those that suffered vandalism, destruction, or possible curse exposure had to be dealt with thoroughly to make sure the castle was completely safe for the upcoming year.
Wandering down those ruined halls right after their victory left Harry and many other students painfully silent. Many used the time as a chance to scavenge for lost or broken items, searching for a glimmer of hope, while others spent the time grieving those they had lost.
There were fifty recorded deaths.
Fifty-one by technicality. But Harry didn’t stay dead long enough to count.
Hermione’s thumb ran along his knuckles, bringing him back before his thoughts could plummet any deeper.
Allowing older students to volunteer was her idea, actually. Harry remembers the morning he woke in Grimmauld, not to the perpetual ache of hunger gnawing at his stomach angrily from blatant neglect, but to an owl tapping on his window. Ron and Hermione sent him a letter regarding the school's closure sometime during a hot summer afternoon and extended the idea of volunteering to Harry in hopes he would join.
By then, Harry was already blinking at empty space. Navigating by wand. Reading by spell.
He had to confess. He had to admit it. He had to tell them he was blind. Completely and uselessly blind.
They visited moments after the owl was sent. And Hermione ran her thumb along his knuckles in comfort as Harry grieved the loss of his sight. Just like she is now as Harry falls silent.
— ⚯ ͛—
“Harry?” Ron questioned as he saw Harry pop out of Brood and Peck alongside Hermione.
“Is that—“
Hermione interrupted Ron with a grin. “Harry got an owl! The little one’s name is Tawny.”
“Tawny?”
“Tawny,” Harry confirms.
“Blimey, I didn’t even think about a guide pet…” Ron ponders the ins and outs of an owl as a service animal, watching while Tawny leans into the neck scratches.
“So how does it work?”
Harry huffs a laugh unexpectedly. "Well, he has to be trained, that’s for sure.”
“You know how to do that?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Right.” Ron deadpanned, the faithless git doubtful of Harry’s capabilities.
Hermione chimes in from where she was talking to Luna, “Well, I’m sure with the right research, Harry could figure it out.”
“See?” Harry’s lip quirks as he turns back to Ron’s general direction. "She agrees.
Ron blew out a sigh, "Sure, mate. Whatever you say.”