Harry missed the birds. He missed their calls. Now all he had was the memory of them. A memory to remind him of the old days, the better days, the halcyon days. So much he had once had was reduced to memory. The life he had thought he would lead was gone, a distant dream lost in the fog of life.
He worked long and hard in the fields. He didn't speak to Ginny about what happened the night he didn't return home. He didn't speak to her much at all. She scowled at their neighbors but Harry never looked at Cho and nor did she look at him. The nights were hot and insufferable than ever, and often punctuated with yells, flashes of magic and the tinkling smashes of glass. The Muggles tended to leave them alone now. Perhaps they regarded Hogsmede as a lost wizard community, clinging desperately to its past as it slipped inevitably away from them. And perhaps this was true.
Harry went to drink with Krum. More often now days they drunk in silence, but Harry enjoyed his company. He knew that behind the heavy brow of the Bulgarian was a lost man, who missed the comfort of the sport that made him famous, of the land of his birth, of the girl who eluded him. Harry didn't speak to Krum about seeing Hermione in the future.
He worked long and hard and eventually the days began to pass more gently. When he awoke he was indifferent, rather than disappointed that he had woken in this time. His hands dominated his mind and as he worked his inner demons were silenced. His thoughts were empty. He was empty.
It was a dark night. Harry drunk in the bar. It was poorly lit, grimy and dusty. The alcohol was strong. The bar was noisy, the shouts of wizards slicing through the air like gunshots. The bang of wood on wood. Sitting next to Krum, Harry smelt the thick air. It smelt of human, of breath, of men. A brawl had broken out. Wizards clawing at each other's faces, throwing each other across tables. One man gingerly raised his hand to his face, shakily inspecting his bloody fingertips. Bloodshot eyes and an eternity of secrets to avenge. They left the bar and fought in the streets. Wands brandished, flashes of light, red and green.
It was crowded and Harry was drawn into the melee. He stumbled blindly. Screams pierced the night. Women huddled over children, ushering them away from the violence, hands covering their wide eyes. Women watching their husbands fearfully from windows. Women in heels and dirty dresses, lingering on street corners, their artificial faces crude under the artifical lights.
Slowly, the brawlers scattered, leaving the bodies behind. Harry walked down the dark street, a paper fluttering in the warm night air. It was quiet now, and still. The energy was gone. Tomorrow the village would wake to what it had done, to its consequences, whether they liked it or not. Tonight had been bad. People would leave, go elsewhere, and probably starve. Harry walked slowly. The alcohol had left his veins now, left him feeling as empty as he had before. The wailing wheels of a train echoed out. Wailing, lamenting, a sad song for the dead. Still Harry walked.
He passed a body and peered into their face, hoping that it would not be familiar. He passed another and another. Then he saw him. He lay outside the library. His stocky body now a feeble rag on the street. Harry fell to his knees beside him. He could not cry. He was too empty, the night had drained his emotions. He stared forlornly into the vacant eyes of Viktor Krum, curling himself into a ball as he lay, like a child, on the street beside him.