A Broken Quill
Sprawled over a desk littered with dense tomes, scattered letters, and ink-filled parchment, an old woman rubbed her eyes and contemplated her work. The cabin's window displayed a picturesque landscape of snowy pines and mountains enveloped by an orange glow; she had been at it all day and the sun had finally set. The woman squared her shoulders, picked up her quill, dipped it in ink, and set it on the parchment, ready to conclude her work.
Her scribbles broke through the sounds of the crackling fire, a fire which reminded her of the many days she had spent in the Gryffindor Common Room scribbling over her friend's paper, deciphering his cryptic handwriting, and scratching out his most egregious errors. He would express his gratitude after she handed back his paper and she'd huff in displeasure, but only to hide her smile lest he witness her contentment. He'd ruffle his black hair - how she loved that nervous tic - and offer her some sugar quills, before easing into a neighboring armchair and starting up a conversation over the most unimportant of things, things which she'd love to revisit just so that she could recover lost time.
Night had taken over so the old woman reached into her robes, withdrew a wand, and waved it at the candles, lighting up a room decorated with photos most of which showed the same three people moving within their frames, smiling and in some cases laughing at a joke no one could hear.
The old woman returned to her work. She searched through her notes with efficiency, as if there was an order within that chaos that only she could see. A few seconds later she found it: a journal entry describing her first visit to Godric's Hollow. Reading it felt like she was reliving a memory from another life. She returned to her writing, still contemplating what she had read. It had been a winter much like this one. The quaint village was blanketed in snow and the townsfolk had left their cozy cottages in order to go to church; it was Christmas. They had explored the graveyard until they found his parents' grave. She had conjured some flowers and hoped they were enough. He hid his face and she understood, later hugging his side and glad that he felt comfortable enough to place his arm around her, sharing this moment with her, a moment that needed no words, a moment of comfort and relaxation.
The quill broke. The woman stared at it with chocolate eyes and she let out a silent sob and succumbed to tears, tears that she had held back in hope that it was all untrue until she could deny it no more and, in order to cope, she had pushed herself into thinking of every memory she could pull even if the memories blurred or had been added onto by the imaginative mind, whatever she could put to paper in hopes of capturing the person, the friend, her best friend – Harry Potter.