Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

The first thing Harry registered was the soft rustling of linen and the faint scent of healing potions. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but they fluttered open against the sterile glow of the infirmary lanterns.

The hospital wing.

His head ached — not the sharp, fiery stab of his scar, but a dull, pounding reminder of everything that had happened. He tried to sit up, wincing as the pain in his limbs protested.

A familiar voice broke through the haze. "Easy, son. Don't push yourself."

Harry turned his head. Sitting beside his bed, looking disheveled but very much present, was James Potter. His father's eyes — the same shape and shade as Lyra's — were clouded with exhaustion, but relief filled his features when Harry stirred.

"Dad…" Harry croaked, voice raw.

James leaned forward, offering him a glass of water, which Harry gratefully sipped. "You had us worried, kid," James said softly. "You've been out for nearly a full day."

Memories came flooding back like a storm — the Mirror… Quirrell's ashes… Voldemort's voice whispering venomous lies. Harry's chest tightened.

"Dad…" His voice faltered for a moment. He clenched the sheets in his fists, forcing the words out. "When I was down there… with him… Voldemort… he told me things."

James's expression hardened instantly, but he let Harry speak.

"He… he said…" Harry's throat bobbed as his voice cracked, the weight of the words nearly unbearable. "He said Mum… she… begged him. Said she was crying… pleading for her life. That she even—" his breath hitched, shame and confusion brimming in his eyes, "—that she offered me to him… just to save herself. That… that she kissed his feet to stay alive."

The words tumbled out in a broken mess as Harry's face crumpled. His vision blurred, but this time not from pain — from the hot, stinging tears threatening to spill. "I… I didn't want to believe him. But it sounded so… real. And I—"

"Harry." James's voice cut through the spiral of doubt like a sharp blade.

Harry looked up, blinking rapidly as tears slipped down his cheeks.

James's jaw was clenched, his eyes dark with restrained emotion — anger, sadness, protectiveness all tangled together. He reached out, resting a steady hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Don't you ever," James said firmly, voice low but unwavering, "ever believe a word that bastard says."

Harry opened his mouth, but James continued, tone growing fiercer — but not at his son, never at his son.

"Your mother was the bravest witch I've ever known." His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. "She died for you, Harry. She made the ultimate choice — stood her ground knowing it would cost her life — because your life mattered more to her than anything. She didn't beg. She didn't kneel. She didn't offer you up. She fought."

Harry's tears rolled freely now, the knot of shame in his chest slowly unraveling as James's words filled the room like a shield.

"If your mother cared only about saving herself," James continued, "she wouldn't have married me — Merlin knows I wasn't exactly a safe bet." He forced a weak smile, eyes misty with emotion. "She wouldn't have fought with us — with the Order of the Phoenix. She would've stayed with her Muggle family, away from the war, away from danger… but that wasn't who she was."

James leaned in, squeezing Harry's shoulder gently. "She stood beside us. She fought the Death Eaters. She fought him. And in the end, she gave everything to protect you."

Harry's chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing. "I'm sorry… I just… for a second, I thought…"

"It's what he does," James interrupted softly. "He twists the truth. Plays with your mind — your fears. He wants you to doubt yourself… and the people who love you."

There was silence for a moment. James's expression softened. "You're a lot like her, you know," he added. "Same stubbornness. Same fire. Same ridiculous habit of trying to face the world alone."

Harry gave a weak laugh through his tears, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hospital gown. "Guess I get that from both of you, then."

James chuckled, the sound strained but genuine. "Fair point."

They sat there for a moment in comfortable quiet, the tension slowly easing from Harry's shoulders.

"Dad…" Harry began after a pause. "When Voldemort… when he ran… does that mean he's really gone?"

James's expression darkened. "Not yet. But he's weak — more than he wants to admit. He'll stay hidden until he figures out how to come back properly." His eyes met Harry's. "But when he does, we'll be ready. All of us."

Harry nodded, a determined glint forming beneath the weariness.

James ruffled his messy hair. "You did good, kid. You stood your ground. Your mum would've been proud."

"Thanks, Dad."

James stood, stretching his stiff limbs. "I'll let Madam Pomfrey know you're awake. But get some rest — you've earned it."

As James headed toward the door, Harry called softly, "Hey, Dad?"

James turned, eyebrows raised.

"Tell me more about Mum… about when you guys fought together."

A smile tugged at James's lips, pride and sadness flickering in his eyes. "Of course," he said quietly. "When you're feeling better, I'll tell you everything."

With that, he slipped out, leaving Harry with a fragile but growing sense of peace — and a clearer picture of the mother he never got to know.