# **STORYBROOKE BEACH – 7:15 PM**
The beach is empty—a stretch of sand and rocks that glows golden in the setting sun. Waves lap gently at the shore, and the air smells like salt and possibility.
Harry leads Emma to a spot where the sand meets smooth stones, and with a subtle wave of his hand, a blanket spreads itself perfectly flat. The picnic basket settles in the center with the kind of precision that suggests magic was definitely involved.
"Show off," Emma says, but she's smiling.
"I've been alone for fifty years. Let me have my dramatic flair." Harry starts unpacking—sandwiches that look suspiciously gourmet, fruit that's perfectly ripe, wine that definitely didn't come from the local grocery store. "Ruby assured me these are appropriate date foods. If she's wrong, blame her."
Emma sits, tucking her legs under her. "This is... really nice, Harry. You didn't have to go to this much trouble."
"I wanted to." Harry settles beside her, close but not crowding. "I wanted to do something normal. Something that doesn't involve curses or wraiths or dimensional rifts. Just—" he gestures at the beach, the sunset, the space between them, "—this."
"Just this," Emma echoes softly.
They eat in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that doesn't need filling. Emma discovers the sandwiches are actually incredible—some kind of chicken with herbs she can't identify but taste amazing.
"Ruby made these," Harry admits when she asks. "I offered to help. She banned me from the kitchen after I tried to use magic to speed up the cooking process."
"What happened?"
"The chicken briefly achieved sentience and tried to escape." Harry's expression is completely serious. "It was very awkward. Ruby had to have a conversation with it about the food chain."
Emma chokes on her wine. "You're making that up."
"I'm absolutely not. Ask Ruby. She documented it." Harry's smile is crooked. "Turns out magic and modern cooking don't always mix well. Who knew?"
"Everyone," Emma says, still laughing. "Everyone knew that."
"Well, I didn't. I spent decades eating magically conjured food that didn't actually exist. My culinary skills atrophied." Harry takes a sip of wine. "Along with most of my other practical skills. Social interaction. Fashion sense. Understanding of appropriate conversation topics."
"You're doing fine with conversation topics."
"Am I? Because I was about to start discussing the existential implications of surviving the end of the world and I'm fairly certain that's too heavy for a first date."
Emma considers this. "Maybe save that for date three."
"Noted." Harry's eyes are warm. "What's appropriate for date one?"
"I don't know. I'm terrible at this too." Emma draws patterns in the sand with one finger. "Usually on first dates, people ask about jobs and hobbies and where you grew up. But we kind of skipped all that."
"We did," Harry agrees. "You know I'm centuries old, immortal, and fell through a dimensional portal. I know you're the Savior, a sheriff, and Henry's birth mother who grew up in foster care." He pauses. "We've covered the major points."
"The major traumatic points."
"Is there any other kind?"
Emma laughs despite herself. "Okay. Let's do this properly. What did you do? Before everything ended?"
Harry leans back on his hands, looking at the ocean. "I was a teacher. At a school for young wizards. Taught Defense Against the Dark Arts—basically how to protect yourself from magical threats." His voice is soft with memory. "I was good at it. The kids liked me. It felt like I was actually doing something useful after years of just... surviving."
"How long did you teach?"
"Thirty years, give or take. Until the school closed because there weren't enough students left. The magical population was declining even before the war." Harry's smile is sad. "The last class I taught had seven students. They were so eager to learn. So convinced they'd grow up and change the world."
"Did they?"
"They died," Harry says quietly. "In the first nuclear strike. London. They were visiting family in the city." He's silent for a moment. "I tried to save them. Apparated—teleported—into the blast zone. But I was too late. By the time I got there, there was nothing left to save."
Emma's hand finds his. "Harry—"
"It's okay." Harry turns his hand over, lacing their fingers together. "It was eighty years ago. I've had time to process." He looks at her. "But that's what I was. A teacher who couldn't save his students. A survivor who couldn't save anyone."
"That's not all you were," Emma says firmly. "You're also the person who talked a wraith out of existence. Who helped Regina find her magic. Who fixed a curse that was trapping an entire town. You *do* save people."
"Now," Harry says. "But for fifty years, I didn't save anyone because there was no one left to save. That's a long time to be powerless." He squeezes her hand. "You understand that, don't you? Powerlessness?"
Emma's throat tightens. "Yeah. I do."
"Tell me," Harry says gently. "If you want. If not, we can talk about something else. But I'd like to know."
Emma takes a breath. The sun is sinking lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that feel too beautiful for the conversation they're having.
"I grew up in the system," she says finally. "Foster care. Bounced around between families who either didn't want me or couldn't handle me. I learned early that people leave. That attachment is dangerous. That the only person you can really count on is yourself."
"How old were you when you learned that?"
"Three? Four?" Emma stares at their joined hands. "My first clear memory is being told I was going to a new home and that this family would be different. They weren't. None of them were."
"I'm sorry," Harry says quietly.
"Don't be. It made me good at my job. Bail bonds, finding people who don't want to be found—you can't do that if you're not comfortable being alone. If you haven't learned to trust yourself more than anyone else." Emma's smile is bitter. "Then Henry showed up. This kid I gave up for adoption ten years ago. He tells me I'm the Savior, that I'm supposed to break a curse, that his whole town needs me."
"That must have been terrifying."
"It was insane. I didn't believe him. I brought him back to Storybrooke planning to leave immediately." Emma looks at Harry. "But then I stayed. Because he needed me. Because for the first time in my life, someone was choosing me. Not as a temporary placement or a convenient option. He *chose* me to be his mom."
"And now you're learning how to be chosen," Harry says softly. "How to let people stay. How to believe that good things can last."
"Yeah." Emma's voice cracks slightly. "It's hard. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For everyone to realize I'm not actually the Savior, just a woman who grew up alone and doesn't know how to do any of this properly."
"Emma." Harry shifts, turning to face her fully. "You broke a true love's curse. You're raising a son with your former enemy. You're building something with multiple people that requires more trust and vulnerability than most people manage with one person. That's not 'not doing it properly.' That's extraordinary."
"Or it's crazy."
"Can't it be both?"
Emma laughs—wet and surprised. "You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." Harry reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture is gentle, careful, like he's handling something precious. "I like you, Emma Swan. You're brave and damaged and trying so hard to be better than your fear. That's—that's remarkable."
Emma's breath catches. "I like you too. Even though you're centuries old and probably shouldn't be interested in someone who's barely thirty."
"Age is just a number when you've been alive long enough to lose count." Harry's smile is crooked. "Besides, you're the first person in eighty years who's looked at me and seen Harry instead of the Master of Death. That's worth more than any age difference."
"What about Regina?" Emma asks. "And Ruby? Do they see Harry too?"
"I think so." Harry's voice is thoughtful. "Regina sees someone who understands what it's like to be trapped by your own power. Ruby sees someone who's been alone and survived it. You see—" he pauses, "—what do you see?"
Emma considers this carefully. "I see someone who's been hurt but stayed kind. Someone powerful who chooses gentleness. Someone lonely who's trying to figure out how to be with people again." She meets his eyes. "I see someone like me. Just with better magic and worse fashion sense."
Harry laughs—bright and genuine. "Worse fashion sense? I'm wearing the shirt your father picked out."
"That explains why it actually matches." Emma grins. "He cornered you, didn't he? Gave you the father talk?"
"He did. It was surprisingly gentle. Very focused on honesty and communication rather than threats."
"That's David. He's aggressively reasonable." Emma's expression softens. "What about you? Are you okay with this? The whole polyamory thing? It's a lot to take on."
"Honestly?" Harry looks at the ocean, the waves catching the last light. "I spent fifty years talking to ghosts and memories. The idea of having multiple people who actually care about me, who I care about—it's overwhelming. But also wonderful. I'm trying not to overthink it."
"Good luck with that. I overthink everything."
"Then we'll overthink together." Harry turns back to her. "Emma. I don't know how this is supposed to work. I don't know if I'll be good at being someone's—what? Boyfriend? Partner? Complicated situationship participant?"
"I vote for 'complicated situationship participant,'" Emma says. "It's accurate."
"It's wordy."
"It's honest."
"Fair." Harry shifts closer, and suddenly the space between them is very small. "Can I kiss you? Properly this time? Not in a sheriff's station with flowers and work stress, but here. Just us."
Emma's heart does something complicated. "Yes."
Harry cups her face with both hands—gentle, reverent, like she's something precious he's afraid of breaking. Then he kisses her.
It's different from the brief kiss in the station. This is slow and deep and *intentional*. This is Harry telling her without words that she matters, that he sees her, that he's choosing her just as much as she's choosing him.
Emma melts into it, her hands finding his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palms. He's solid and warm and *real*—not a ghost or a memory or something too good to be true.
When they pull apart, both breathing hard, Harry rests his forehead against hers.
"That was—" he starts.
"Yeah," Emma breathes. "It really was."
They stay like that for a moment—close and connected and happy in a way that feels almost fragile.
The sun has set fully now, stars beginning to appear overhead. The ocean whispers against the shore, and somewhere in the distance, Storybrooke goes about its evening routines.
"Tell me something," Emma says softly. "Something you haven't told anyone else."
Harry is quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm terrified this won't last. That I'll wake up and you'll be gone. That this is just another dream I'm having in the ruins of my dead world and eventually I'll wake up alone again."
Emma's chest tightens. "Harry—"
"I know it's not logical," he continues. "I know I'm here, that this is real. But fifty years of solitude does things to your head. Makes you doubt what's real. Makes you afraid to trust good things."
"I get that," Emma says. "I do. I spent my whole life waiting for people to leave. For the good things to end. It's exhausting."
"It is." Harry pulls back enough to look at her. "But I'm trying. To trust this. To believe that maybe I get to have something good for once."
"Me too." Emma takes his face in her hands, mirroring his earlier gesture. "So let's make a deal. We both try. We both trust that this is real. And when we get scared—because we will get scared—we tell each other instead of running."
"That sounds healthy and mature."
"I know. I'm surprising myself." Emma's smile is soft. "Deal?"
"Deal." Harry kisses her again—brief and sweet and full of promise.
They settle back on the blanket, Emma tucked against Harry's side, his arm around her shoulders. It's comfortable in a way that shouldn't be possible on a first date, but somehow is.
"Tell me about your friends," Emma says. "From before. The people you lost."
So Harry does.
He tells her about Ron and Hermione—his best friends who stayed with him through everything until the end. About Ginny, who he married and loved and lost to radiation sickness after twenty years. About Teddy, his godson, who died too young in a war that had no winners.
He tells her about Hogwarts—the castle that became his home, the magic that filled every stone, the students who looked at him like he could teach them how to survive anything.
He tells her about the small things he misses: the sound of laughter in the Great Hall, the way the castle's ghosts would gossip, the feeling of flying on a broomstick with wind in his hair and nothing but sky above.
Emma listens, occasionally asking questions, her hand finding his and holding tight when the stories get too painful.
Then she tells him about her life. About the families that didn't work out and the one foster mother who was kind for three months before the money ran out. About Neal, who she loved and who betrayed her, who got her arrested and left her pregnant and alone.
About Henry—bright, believing Henry who showed up one day and changed everything.
About learning to be a mother when she never had a blueprint. About working with Regina, who she hated and now maybe is falling for. About Mary Margaret and David, who she's learning to call Mom and Dad even though it feels strange in her mouth.
They talk until the stars are bright overhead and the temperature drops enough that Emma shivers despite her jacket.
Harry notices immediately. "Cold?"
"A little."
He shifts, and suddenly warmth surrounds them—not oppressively, just a gentle heat that feels like standing near a fireplace.
"Magic?" Emma asks.
"Very subtle magic. Heating charms. I can stop if—"
"Don't stop. It's perfect." Emma burrows closer. "This whole thing is perfect. You, the beach, the conversation. I don't want it to end."
"It doesn't have to," Harry says. "Not yet. We can stay as long as you want."
So they do.
They lie on the blanket watching stars, occasionally talking, mostly just existing in the same space. Harry points out constellations that don't exist anymore in his world, and Emma tells him about cases she worked as a bail bondsperson.
It's easy and comfortable and *real*.
"Harry?" Emma says eventually.
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For this. For seeing me. For being patient with my walls and my fear."
"Thank you," Harry echoes, "for giving me a reason to keep existing instead of just surviving."
Emma lifts her head, looking at him in the starlight. "Is that what I am? A reason?"
"You're several reasons," Harry says seriously. "You and Regina and Henry and this strange wonderful town. All of it. For the first time in decades, I have things to care about. People to protect. A future that might actually be worth living."
"That's a lot of pressure," Emma says, but her smile is soft.
"You can handle it. You're the Savior." Harry grins. "Also, I'm distributing the pressure across multiple people. That's healthy relationship management."
"Is it though?"
"I have no idea. I'm making it up as I go."
Emma laughs and kisses him—quick and joyful and perfect.
When they finally pack up to leave, it's nearly eleven. They walk back toward town hand-in-hand, the picnic basket floating along behind them because Harry's feeling whimsical.
At the door to Mary Margaret's apartment, Emma hesitates.
"This was really good," she says. "Like, genuinely one of the best dates I've ever had."
"How many dates have you had for comparison?"
"Enough to know that philosophical conversations on beaches with immortal wizards are significantly better than dinner and a movie."
Harry's smile is warm. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should." Emma reaches up, pulling him down for one more kiss. "Tomorrow we leave to find Gold's son. Things are going to get complicated."
"They already are complicated," Harry points out.
"More complicated."
"Then tonight was a good baseline." Harry touches her face gently. "Emma Swan. Thank you for taking a chance on a broken dimensional refugee with questionable social skills."
"Thank you for taking a chance on an emotionally constipated bail bondsperson with trust issues."
"We're quite a pair."
"We really are."
Emma slips inside, and Harry stands in the hallway for a moment, just processing.
He went on a date.
A real date.
With someone who sees him and likes him anyway.
"You're smiling like an idiot," Ruby observes from her doorway down the hall.
"I am," Harry agrees. "It was a good night."
"I can tell." Ruby's grin is knowing. "One date down. Regina's tomorrow?"
"The day after. Tomorrow we're tracking down Gold's son."
"Ah yes. The quest. Very romantic." Ruby's expression turns more serious. "Harry? I'm glad you're happy. You deserve it."
"Thank you," Harry says quietly. "That means a lot."
He heads to his room, and for the first time in fifty years, Harry Potter falls asleep thinking about the future instead of the past.
Inside the apartment, Mary Margaret finds Emma standing in the middle of the living room with a dazed smile.
"Good date?" she asks.
"Really good date," Emma confirms. "Like, concerningly good. I might actually be falling for him."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's terrifying." But Emma's still smiling. "Also wonderful. Can it be both?"
"It absolutely can," Mary Margaret says, hugging her daughter. "Welcome to being in love. It's the best worst thing ever."
"Great," Emma mutters. "Can't wait."
But she's already thinking about tomorrow—about the quest, about spending more time with Harry, about seeing how they all work together outside Storybrooke.
It's going to be complicated.
It's going to be wonderful.
It's going to be *perfect*.
—
# **STORYBROOKE – TOWN LINE – DAWN**
The Mercedes idles at the boundary like a sleek black cat waiting to pounce. Regina sits behind the wheel, hands at ten and two, looking composed despite the early hour. Her travel bag is in the trunk—leather, expensive, probably containing more clothing than necessary for what should be a quick trip.
Emma leans against the passenger door, coffee in hand, watching the sun paint the sky in shades of gold and pink. She's wearing her standard uniform: jeans, boots, leather jacket. The armor that makes her feel capable.
Harry emerges from Granny's carrying a single backpack that looks suspiciously light for someone preparing to leave town for an indeterminate period.
"That's all you're bringing?" Emma asks.
"Magic," Harry says simply, tapping the bag. "Extension charm. I could fit a small library in here if needed. Very useful for long journeys."
"Of course you can." Emma shakes her head fondly. "Normal people use suitcases."
"I'm not normal people." Harry moves to stand beside her, close enough that their shoulders brush. "Morning."
"Morning." Emma's smile is soft, private. "Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in decades." Harry's voice is warm. "Turns out having good things to think about improves sleep quality. Who knew?"
"Scientists, probably."
"Well, I never asked them."
Regina clears her throat from inside the car. "Are we having a moment? Because Gold will be here any minute and I'd prefer not to explain why we're being adorable at dawn."
"We're not being adorable," Emma protests, but she's blushing.
"You absolutely are," Regina says. "It's very sweet. Also nauseating before coffee."
Harry laughs and moves to the back door, tossing his bag in. "Fair point. Where is Gold, anyway?"
As if summoned, a Cadillac pulls up—black, pristine, driven with the careful precision of someone who treats their vehicle like a weapon. Gold emerges, leaning on his cane, carrying a small leather satchel.
"Sheriff Swan. Your Majesty. Mr. Potter." His gaze sweeps over them assessingly. "Ready for our expedition?"
"Ready as we'll ever be," Emma says. "You have the tracking spell?"
Gold pats the satchel. "Everything we need. The spell, Baelfire's blanket, supplementary materials in case the magic requires recalibration." He looks at the Mercedes. "We're taking Regina's vehicle?"
"Emma's Bug can't fit four people comfortably," Regina says. "And I refuse to be cramped for what could be hours of driving."
"Practical." Gold approaches the passenger door. "I'll sit up front. Navigation will be easier."
"Actually—" Emma exchanges a glance with Harry and Regina. "Harry should sit up front. You can navigate from the back. He's got longer legs."
It's a transparent excuse, but Gold doesn't argue. He's too focused on the satchel in his hands, the weight of thirty years of searching finally coming to fruition.
They arrange themselves: Regina driving, Harry passenger seat, Emma and Gold in back. It's slightly awkward—the Evil Queen, the Dark One, the Savior, and the dimensional refugee embarking on a road trip to find a lost son.
"This is either going to be a great bonding experience or a complete disaster," Harry observes as Regina starts the engine.
"Can't it be both?" Emma asks from behind him.
"It absolutely can," Regina and Harry say simultaneously.
Gold makes a sound that might be amusement. "Shall we begin? The spell needs to be activated at the boundary."
Regina pulls forward slowly, stopping with the hood just touching the invisible line. Gold produces the vial from his satchel—the one Emma saw yesterday, glowing faintly with contained magic.
"This is a tracking spell," Gold explains, his voice taking on the cadence of a teacher. "Blood magic, anchored to an object Baelfire touched as an infant. The spell will point toward him, regardless of distance or obstruction."
"How accurate?" Harry asks, twisting in his seat to watch.
"Within a few miles, if we're lucky. Within a city block if the magic is strong." Gold unscrews the vial carefully. The liquid inside is luminescent—silver and gold mixed together, swirling like captured starlight. "Everyone ready?"
Three nods.
Gold speaks a word in a language that tastes like copper and old promises. He pours the liquid onto the baby blanket, which he's spread across his lap.
The effect is immediate.
The blanket *glows*—bright enough that Emma has to look away. The light coalesces into a single point, then extends outward like a compass needle made of pure magic.
It points southeast.
"New York," Gold breathes. "He's in New York."
Regina's hands tighten on the wheel. "That's... that's nine hours of driving. Minimum."
"Or," Harry says thoughtfully, "we could fly."
Three pairs of eyes turn to him.
"Fly," Emma repeats. "As in, on a plane. As in, requiring tickets and ID and TSA checkpoints."
"Yes." Harry pulls out his phone—the one Ruby helped him acquire two days ago and that he's still figuring out. "I can book tickets. There's a flight from Boston at noon. We could make it if we leave now."
"Harry," Regina says carefully. "Do you have identification? Passport? Any kind of documentation that would allow you to board a plane?"
Harry blinks. "Oh. Right. The paperwork thing." He frowns. "That's a problem."
"A significant problem," Gold agrees. "Airlines require government-issued identification. Which you, having fallen through a dimensional portal three days ago, presumably lack."
"Can you magic it?" Emma asks.
"Magic fake documents to pass TSA?" Harry's expression is thoughtful. "Probably. I'd need to understand the system first—what they're looking for, what registers as authentic versus fabricated."
Gold's smile is sharp. "I can help with that."
Everyone looks at him.
"I've been creating false documentation for decades," Gold says matter-of-factly. "Identities, backgrounds, paper trails. It's a necessary skill when you're immortal and need to maintain the appearance of aging and dying at appropriate intervals." He looks at Harry. "I can guide the magic. You provide the power. Between us, we can create something that will pass inspection."
"That's..." Emma starts.
"Illegal?" Regina supplies. "Absolutely. But also practical given our situation."
"I was going to say 'concerning that you're both so casual about identity fraud,'" Emma finishes. "But sure, practical works too."
Harry is already pulling magic around himself—visible as faint shimmer in the early morning light. "What do I need? Driver's license? Passport?"
"Driver's license will suffice for domestic flights," Gold says. "But make it thorough. Create a background that can withstand cursory investigation. Name, birthdate, address."
"Address," Harry mutters. "Right. Can I use Granny's?"
"That's your actual current address," Regina points out. "Use it."
Gold produces a blank card from his satchel—somehow he came prepared for this. "Use this as the base. I'll walk you through the enchantment."
What follows is ten minutes of the strangest magical collaboration Emma has ever witnessed.
Gold speaks in low, precise tones—explaining how government databases work, what information needs to cross-reference, how security features are designed. Harry listens with absolute focus, magic dancing between his fingers as he shapes reality.
The blank card begins to change.
Text appears: *Harry James Potter. DOB: July 31, 1990.* An address in Storybrooke. A photo that looks professionally taken despite having been conjured thirty seconds ago.
"The magnetic strip," Gold instructs. "It needs to contain encoded data that matches the visual information."
Harry's eyes go distant—that look he gets when he's reading magic rather than seeing reality. The card shimmers, and something *sets* inside it.
"There," Harry says, handing it to Gold. "How's that?"
Gold examines it with the critical eye of someone who's forged hundreds of documents. He runs his finger along the edge, holds it up to the light, even tries to bend it slightly.
"Perfect," he says finally. "This would pass any standard verification. Possibly even enhanced verification." He looks at Harry with something approaching respect. "You're very good at this."
"I spent years breaking into magically protected locations," Harry says. "Creating false documentation is comparatively simple."
"Concerning," Emma mutters. "Everyone in this car has concerning skill sets."
"We're very talented criminals," Regina says cheerfully. "Now can we please get moving? If we're catching a noon flight from Boston, we need to leave immediately."
She crosses the town line without hesitation.
For a moment, Emma tenses—muscle memory from watching Sneezy forget everything. But Regina's expression doesn't change. Her hands stay steady on the wheel. She remembers.
"Everyone okay?" Emma asks.
"Still me," Regina confirms. "Still remember everything, including all the reasons this is a terrible idea."
"Excellent." Gold settles back in his seat, the glowing blanket carefully folded beside him. "Onward to Boston, then. And from there—" his voice softens with desperate hope, "—to my son."
---
## **I-95 SOUTH – 7:30 AM**
The Mercedes eats up highway miles with the smooth efficiency of German engineering. Regina drives with the focused precision of someone who treats every activity like a challenge to be mastered.
Emma has claimed the middle backseat, which gives her equal view of both Regina and Harry. She's supposedly reading something on her phone, but mostly she's just watching them.
Harry has discovered the radio and is cycling through stations with the delight of someone encountering modern music for the first time.
"—and that was Taylor Swift with—"
Click.
"—breaking news, the stock market—"
Click.
"—Jesus loves you and wants you to donate—"
Click.
"Harry," Regina says patiently. "Pick a station."
"They're all so *different*," Harry marvels. "In my world, we had the Wizarding Wireless Network. One station. Two if you count the underground resistance broadcast." He pauses on a station playing classic rock. "This is nice. What is this?"
"Led Zeppelin," Emma says. "Stairway to Heaven."
"Appropriate." Harry settles back, listening. "There's something about pre-apocalypse music. It's so... hopeful. Like people believed the future would be better."
The car goes quiet.
Gold breaks the silence. "Your world. You mentioned nuclear war. How did it start?"
Emma shoots him a look—*really? We're doing this?*—but Harry doesn't seem bothered.
"Stupid reasons," Harry says. "A Muggle politician made a decision. A wizard tried to stop it magically. The spell backfired, killed the politician's family. Retaliation escalated. Within six hours, missiles were flying." His voice is matter-of-fact. "The magical community tried to shield ourselves. Didn't work. Radiation doesn't care about blood wards."
"And you survived because of the Hallows," Gold says. It's not a question.
"Yes." Harry touches his chest absently. "The Resurrection Stone, the Elder Wand, the Invisibility Cloak. Together they make you Master of Death. Which apparently means Death can't collect you even when you're asking nicely."
Regina glances at him in the rearview mirror. "That sounds lonely."
"It was," Harry says simply. "For fifty years, I was the only living thing in Britain. Possibly the world—I never checked. Just me and the ruins and the memories."
"Why didn't you leave?" Emma asks. "Go somewhere else? See if anyone else survived?"
"I tried. Around year ten." Harry's gaze is distant. "Apparated to New York, Paris, Tokyo. All dead. After that, I stopped looking. Seemed cruel to keep hoping."
The music plays—*and she's buying a stairway to heaven*—and nobody speaks.
Finally, Gold: "You said you were trying to die. When you went through the Veil."
"I was trying to move on," Harry corrects. "There's a difference. I wasn't suicidal. I just... I was done. Ready for whatever comes after. But the universe had other ideas." He looks at Emma through the rearview mirror, and his smile is soft. "Better ideas, as it turns out."
Emma's cheeks flush.
Regina's lips twitch. "Smooth."
"I'm learning," Harry says.
Gold makes a sound that might be approval. "Mr. Potter. When we find Baelfire—and we will find him—I may need assistance. Convincing him to... to give me a chance to explain."
"You want me to talk him into listening to you," Harry says.
"If necessary, yes." Gold's voice is tight. "I abandoned him. Centuries ago. Chose power over my son. He has every reason to hate me."
"Then don't make excuses," Harry says. "When you see him, tell the truth. All of it. Don't try to justify or minimize. Just—be honest about what you did and why. Let him decide if that's enough."
"And if it's not?"
"Then you accept it and try to be better going forward." Harry's gaze is steady. "That's all any of us can do. Be better than we were."
Regina's hands tighten on the wheel.
Emma reaches forward, touching her shoulder briefly. A small gesture. Grounding.
"We're all trying," Emma says quietly. "That's what this is. All of us—broken people trying to be better than our mistakes."
"Speak for yourself," Gold mutters. "Some of us are still actively making mistakes."
"Then try making different mistakes," Harry suggests. "More interesting ones."
Despite everything, Gold laughs.
They drive in companionable silence for a while, the highway stretching ahead, Boston growing closer with every mile.
Emma's phone buzzes. Text from Mary Margaret: *Safe travels. Call when you land. Love you.*
She types back quickly: *Will do. Love you too.*
It still feels strange, typing those words. Meaning them.
But good strange.
Perfect strange.
Regina catches her eye in the mirror. "Your parents?"
"Yeah. Being parental." Emma's smile is soft. "It's nice. Weird, but nice."
"They're good people," Regina says. "I hated them for a very long time, but they're good people."
"They forgave you," Harry observes.
"They did." Regina's voice is wondering. "I don't know why."
"Because people are more than their worst moments," Emma says. "You taught me that. Well—you and Harry between you."
"We're very educational," Harry agrees.
Gold is watching this exchange with sharp eyes, calculating something. "The three of you. This—arrangement. It's genuine?"
"Yes," all three say simultaneously.
"Interesting." Gold settles back. "I wouldn't have thought it possible. But then, I wouldn't have thought many things about this situation were possible."
"Like what?" Emma challenges.
"Like the Evil Queen and the Savior co-parenting successfully. Like a dimensional refugee integrating into Storybrooke within three days. Like me sitting in a car with three people who have every reason to hate me, trusting them to help me find my son." Gold's smile is slight. "The world is full of surprises."
"It really is," Harry says, and there's warmth in his voice. "That's what makes it worth living in."
The highway sign says: *Boston - 42 miles.*
Regina accelerates slightly, and the Mercedes surges forward.
Toward the airport.
Toward New York.
Toward whatever comes next.
Behind them, Storybrooke grows smaller in the rearview mirror—a town full of fairy tales and second chances and people learning how to be more than their pasts.
Ahead of them, the future waits.
Unknown.
Terrifying.
*Perfect*.
---
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