It’s late in the Gryffındor common room, and most of the students have gone to bed, but you and Harry remain awake with an old parchment spread between you—your family tree. You both came back to the castle after the war. Him, for his unprecedented 8th year, and you, for your 7th year.

Your fingers trace the inked lines, names stretching back generations.

"It’s strange, isn’t it?" you murmur.

Harry lifts his gaze from the parchment to you. "What is?"

"Being the last ones."

He runs a hand through his untidy hair—a habit you both share. "Yeah."

Neither of you says anything for a long moment.

"Do you ever feel it?" you ask quietly.

"Feel what?"

"The weight of it all." You gesture to the parchment. "The family name. The expectations."

"All the time," he admits.

He sighs, his gaze shifting back to the names on the family tree. James and LiIy Euphemia and FIeamont. Ignotus PevereII.

"I think about them a lot," Harry says. "I wonder if they ever felt like this, like they had no choice but to carry the weight of the name."

You nod, understanding all too well.

"We weren’t given the luxury of just being ourselves," you say softly.

Harry scoffs lightly. "Tell me about it. My entire childhood was dictated by a prophecy. I didn’t even get to be a normal kid."

You let out a small, bitter chuckle. "Maybe normality was never meant for us."

"Maybe not."

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then Harry’s voice cuts through the silence.

"But you know what? We’re still here. VoIdemort’s gone. The war’s over. And we made it. We survived." His lips quirk slightly. "Maybe we don’t have to be what everyone expects us to be."

You study him, really look at him. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. And yet, more than all of that, he’s your brother.

Your mouth curves into a small smile. "So what are you saying, then? That we just… let it all go?"

Harry shrugs. "I’m saying we stop living for dead men and start living for ourselves, yeah?"