Plot Bunny that I couldn't get out of my head, but also couldn't finish. If anyone wants to take this idea, you are more than welcome to.
After Voldemort fell, the wizarding world was all too eager to crown Harry Potter its golden savior. Statues rose, tales grew louder with each retelling, and wherever he walked, reverent whispers followed. But to Harry, it never felt like triumph. It felt like being sealed in glass, a war relic too revered to challenge and too fragile to risk.
He was showcased endlessly, used as a political symbol, and treated like a porcelain doll, admired but never trusted to act freely. His victories became propaganda, and his life was no longer his own. His friends had changed, too. The bond they once shared had frayed under the weight of fame. Ron basked in the attention, Hermione buried herself in her career, and when Harry tried to speak with them about how hollow it all felt, they dismissed him. Told him he was being overdramatic. That he should accept it.
So, at twenty-five, Harry made a choice.
One quiet evening, he packed only what he needed. No letters. No farewells. He vanished without a sound, erasing every magical tether that could trace him, ensuring no one would ever find him unless he allowed it.
He slipped into the broader magical world, far from the shadows of Britain. In Nepal, he studied the silent disciplines of the monk-clans. In Japan, he finally unlocked the Animagus form he had struggled with for years, becoming a massive black dire wolf named Grimm, a name chosen to honor Sirius. In India, he met witches who sang their magic into life, and in the Amazon, he learned that not every creature hiding in the dark was a monster. Some were just surviving.
In Russia, seeking anonymity and durability, he had his wand reforged by a secretive enchanter. It was melted down and remade into a ring of blackened silver, harder to lose, harder to break, and far easier to conceal.
But everything shifted in Berlin.
A street-side skirmish turned savage. A serpent-eyed man with scaled skin lunged at a woman wielding a silver machete. Just before the creature's body reverted to its human form, it hissed a single word: Grimm.
The name struck Harry like a curse he'd heard before but never understood.
Curiosity turned to obsession. He traced stories, scraps of lore, and eventually returned to the one place he never thought he'd see again: Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Behind a decaying tapestry, hidden in a sealed sub-basement, he uncovered a truth long buried by time and fear. The Black family, reviled for their cruelty and Muggle hatred, had concealed a different secret.
They were Grimms.
Hunters. Guardians. A separate magical bloodline born with the ability to see Wesen, creatures cloaked in illusion, living hidden among the rest of the world. The Black family didn't torture Muggles for fun. They hunted Wesen, interrogated them for information, and executed those deemed too dangerous to let roam free. They didn't care for Muggles, but they weren't the senseless sadists the world believed; they were silent sentinels, protecting their secrets at all costs.
They told no one. Not even their own.
Through his great-grandmother, Dorea Black, Harry discovered his own lineage. He was part Grimm.
By thirty-one, he had become an expert in things the Ministry didn't even classify. He pulled a Grimm key from the body of a fallen hunter, one who'd been slaughtered by a Hexenbiest in what could only be called a magical execution. He decoded old texts, followed bloodlines, and uncovered forgotten protocols. But he never interfered; he observed and watched.
Then he found Portland.
A new Grimm had surfaced, Nick Burkhardt, a cop of all things. Six generations removed from the Black line, but family nonetheless.
Now, Harry lives quietly in the Pacific Northwest, working at a modest hunting and tactical supply store. To the locals, he's just a quiet man who sells knives, survival kits, rifles, and wilderness gear; a great cover for watching over the newly awakened Grimm.
He's not there as a Grimm.
He's there because of one.
But he has no intention of interfering. Not unless he's forced to.
Instead, he watches. Observes. Measures Nick's choices from afar. Perhaps one day he'll nudge fate with a carefully placed Grimm journal in a dusty attic, or an old map slipped into the right hands. Maybe. But for now, Harry remains on the sidelines, watching the next Grimm awaken, grow, and choose his own path.
And if something ever stirs in the dark, something Nick can't face alone, well, Harry's already there.
Waiting.