The cafe was tucked away in a quiet, cobbled street of old London, its weathered brick exterior blending seamlessly into the line of historic buildings that had stood for centuries. The large, bay windows allowed the soft, diffused light of a cloudy day to seep through, casting the interior in a warm, golden hue. Inside, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint aroma of baked pastries, while the gentle murmur of hushed conversations filled the air.

The café itself was modest, with wooden tables worn smooth by years of use, their dark surfaces gleaming faintly under the soft glow of vintage pendant lights that hung from the low ceiling. The walls were lined with framed black-and-white photographs of London’s past—bustling markets, horse-drawn carriages, and fog-covered streets. A narrow counter, behind which sat an assortment of pastries and cakes, stood near the entrance. It was the kind of place that felt timeless, a quiet refuge from the ever-rushing world outside.

At one of the smaller tables near the back, an elderly woman sat alone. Her hands, gnarled with age, rested on the table, fingers idly tracing the edge of the tea saucer in front of her. Her grey hair, neatly pinned into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, framed a face marked with deep lines that told of long years and many stories. She wore round spectacles, perched low on her nose, through which her sharp, pale blue eyes continuously darted towards the door, her gaze filled with a quiet anxiety. Every few minutes, she would glance up, checking the entrance with a growing anticipation that was impossible to miss.

She wore a thick, woolen coat, dark in color and slightly frayed at the edges, the sort of garment that had seen many winters. Despite the warmth of the café, she seemed to pull it closer to herself, a subtle gesture of comfort. Her delicate fingers tapped lightly on the table, betraying her impatience as she waited, alone but clearly expecting someone important.

A young waiter, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, approached her table with an easy grace. His blonde hair was neatly combed, and his striking blue eyes held a hint of warmth behind their professional demeanor. His black uniform was crisp and well-fitted, his shoes polished to a gleam as he moved with the smooth efficiency of someone who had worked in the café for years. He paused just a step from the table, his voice gentle but polite as he addressed the elderly woman.

“What would you like to have, madam?” he asked, his tone respectful and soft, his gaze meeting hers briefly before lowering in deference.

The woman’s eyes flickered away from the door for a moment, locking onto the young man with a faint, distracted smile.The cafes gentle murmur faded into a silence of recognition as the elderly woman spoke. “Well, hello to you too, Harry.” Her lips curled into a smirk, revealing a hint of nostalgia and amusement. The young waiter, who had been poised and professional just moments before, suddenly began to transform before her eyes. The change was subtle at first but quickly became dramatic.

His blonde hair, once short and neatly styled, began to lengthen, cascading down to his shoulders in a rich, jet-black wave. The transformation extended to his facial features; his youthful face shifted to reveal a more defined, angular structure. His blue eyes, which had been soft and warm, now glowed with an intense emerald light. A faint, lightning-bolt-shaped scar appeared on his forehead, completing the striking transformation.

The man, now unmistakably Harry Potter in a new guise, grinned at the elderly woman with a knowing smile. “How did you find out? How did you catch me, Hermione?” he asked, his voice tinged with both surprise and amusement.

Hermione, who had been patiently watching the transformation unfold, responded with a knowing smile of her own. “You know, it’s not the first time I’ve seen you, Harry. I know you.” Her voice carried a blend of warmth and reproach, as though she were speaking to an old friend she had seen only yesterday, despite the years that had passed.

With a casual wave of her hand, a shimmering shield of light enveloped the table and the two of them, creating a private, secure bubble within the bustling cafe. The shield glimmered with hues of gold and silver, casting a soft, ethereal glow around them and ensuring their conversation remained uninterrupted by the outside world.

Harry looked around, seemingly satisfied with the protective barrier. “How have you been, Hermione? You look older than the last time I saw you,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he offered a gentle smile.

Hermione’s eyes, though tired, sparkled with fondness. “You know, the last time I saw you, it was almost ten years ago. And you looked the same, just like I remembered from many, many last times,” she replied with a chuckle, her voice filled with a blend of affection and sorrow.

Harry laughed softly, shaking his head. “Don’t complain, Hermione. For my good looks. You must not be too bad yourself, because no one would believe me if I said that the old hag sitting in front of me is 180 years old. They’d put me in an asylum.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said with a wistful smile, her gaze drifting towards the window as if lost in memories. “I have lived a long time, and I know that my life is not going to last much longer. The only regret I have about dying is that I am leaving you alone in this world.” Her voice carried a heavy sadness, though her smile remained gentle.

Harry’s expression softened with concern. “What do you mean I am alone? I have made lots of friends,” he said, trying to offer reassurance.

Hermione shook her head slightly, her smile tinged with melancholy. “You know, this metamorphic ability, it’s quite handy. You can live a normal life among people and make it seem like I’m growing old with them. But you are not growing old with them, Harry. You are in your prime, with all the strength of a 25-year-old wizard and more.”

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment, his brow furrowing. “I think you should move on from the death of our friends. There’s no reason to dwell on the loss of our classmates, because they all lived long lives, happy lives. They all believed that you also grew with them. They never knew what happened to you when you became the Master of Death.”

Hermione’s eyes met his with a profound sadness but also a trace of pride. “It’s true,” she said softly. “They lived their lives, and they would have been proud of you, Harry. But living forever is a burden as well as a gift, and it’s one I wish you didn’t have to bear alone.”

Hermione leaned back in her chair, a curious glimmer in her eye as she asked, “So, what have you been doing lately? The last time you wrote to me, you mentioned being in Mexico, learning the ways of the shamans and unraveling the mysterious alien technology that had built the Mayan civilization. And then... nothing. No updates.”

Harry’s smile grew nostalgic as he replied, “Ah, I’d almost forgotten about that. It was such a remarkable experience. I traveled across the world, delving into ancient magics and unraveling mysteries that had fascinated me for ages. The complexity and depth of the magical systems I encountered were astounding, far beyond anything I’d seen before.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze distant as he recalled his adventures. “I spent the last 150 years immersed in learning and exploration. I worked as a Muggle worker—a chef, leather worker, and even a blacksmith. I delved into the goblin way of metal crafting and learned various trades, absorbing knowledge from every corner of the globe.”

Hermione listened intently, her expression reflecting a mix of admiration and curiosity. “And how was it? Living a life so different from the magical world?”

Harry chuckled softly. “It was exhilarating and humbling. I experienced life from many perspectives, always seeking knowledge and understanding. I embraced every role and every skill with enthusiasm, always searching for the next piece of the puzzle.”

He then looked at Hermione with a thoughtful expression. “You know, it’s ironic. I lived a life full of academic pursuits, a life of exploration and constant learning—everything you might have wished for. And you, Hermione, lived a life I could only dream of—a life with family, children, and the stability of normalcy.”

Hermione’s eyes softened as she nodded. “Yes, and I’ve cherished every moment of it. I always admired your dedication to knowledge, and though my life was more conventional, I found joy and fulfillment in it.”

Harry smiled warmly. “And I admire the life you’ve built. We’ve both lived our dreams in different ways, and perhaps that’s the beauty of it. We’ve managed to fulfill the paths we chose, even if they diverged from each other’s expectations.”

Hermione’s gaze grew contemplative. “Yes, it seems we’ve both found our own versions of happiness. Despite everything, I think it’s remarkable how we’ve managed to live such rich and varied lives.”

Harry’s expression turned more serious, though his smile remained. “Indeed. And now, as we sit here, it’s comforting to know that despite the changes and challenges, we still have these moments of connection.”

Hermione nodded, her eyes reflecting a deep sense of contentment and nostalgia. “Yes, Harry. These moments are precious, and I’m grateful for them. Even if our lives have taken different paths, it’s nice to share this time with you.”

As Harry and Hermione sipped their tea, a somber silence settled between them, punctuated only by the occasional clink of china. Hermione’s eyes carried the weight of her many losses. She had outlived all three of her children, a toll that had deepened the lines on her face and dimmed the sparkle in her eyes. The death of her first two grandchildren ten years ago had been a particularly harsh blow. Her husband, Ron Weasley, had passed away at just 110 years old, leaving her to navigate the final years of her life with a heavy heart. Death, for Hermione, had become an unwelcome but familiar companion.

Harry, sensing the weight of her grief, sought to lift her spirits. He knew that keeping busy and feeling useful had always been important to Hermione. “I’ve been working on a project,” he said gently, his voice carrying a note of encouragement. “I was hoping you might help me with it. I thought it might be just like the old times—solving mysteries together.”

Hermione’s eyes brightened slightly at the prospect. “What sort of project?” she asked, her curiosity piqued despite the weariness in her voice.

Harry leaned forward, his expression becoming more earnest. “Do you remember when I told you about the alien technology? The stuff I encountered in Mexico? Well, it turns out that this technology is more complex than we thought. It seems they had their own form of advanced science and magic. They are the ones who built the Veil of Death.”

Hermione’s eyebrows knitted together in thought. “Yes, I recall. But what does that have to do with our current mystery?”

Harry took a deep breath, his gaze steady. “The Veil of Death—it’s not just a portal to the underworld as we believed. I think it might be a gateway to the aliens' home planet or something similar. Despite all the tinkering by wizards over the centuries, no one truly understands what it does. And I want to find out.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in realization. “So, you’re saying that the Veil might not be what we’ve always assumed?”

“Exactly,” Harry confirmed. “If I’m right, then the Veil could be hiding something extraordinary. Something far beyond our current understanding. And when you die, I plan to enter the Veil myself to uncover its secrets. If anyone has a chance of surviving what’s on the other side, it’s likely to be me.”

Hermione’s face softened with concern, but she nodded slowly. She knew that once Harry had made a decision, it was nearly impossible to change his mind. Her own experiences had taught her the futility of arguing with him once he was set on a course.

“Alright, Harry,” she said with a resigned smile. “I’ll help you. It’s been a long time since I’ve worked on something like this, and it sounds like we’ve got quite a puzzle on our hands.”

Harry’s expression brightened with relief and gratitude. “Thank you, Hermione. I knew you’d understand. I want to make sure we get this right, and having your expertise will make all the difference.”

Hermione leaned back, her mind already beginning to sift through the details of the project. “So, where do we start?”

Harry reached into his bag and pulled out a collection of notes and diagrams he had compiled. “I have some information about the Veil’s construction and the alien technology. We’ll need to review these and see if we can find any clues about its true purpose.”

Hermione took the papers from him, her fingers deftly flipping through the pages. “Let’s get to work then. It seems we have a lot of mysteries to unravel.”