I regain consciousness slowly. It's very warm and cosy. I'm under several layers of blankets and I can hear the fire crackle blithely in the fireplace.
A voice is stating something it sounds like an address, I cannot quite make out; my mind is confused.
I open my eyes and it takes some squinting to focus. There is a bed side table with a book on it. I recognise it. It's Victoire's. I recognised the room too. It's 12 Grimmaud place. Why am I here?
And just as I'm formulating this question I lurch sitting up. Harry! He brought me here! I turn looking at the fireplace but there is only a normal orangish fire burning in it. I'm about to sprint from the bed in pursuit when I notice a paper close to the book.
Harry left it there. It's his calligraphy.

"Thanks for coming but don't do it anymore.
HP"

I rest my back against the velvety bed's headboard reflecting on the note. It says so little and at the same time it says so much. He won't allow me another encounter, it is clear enough, but we cannot leave him alone, somebody needs to get into that house and bear him company. Harry is not a person that can stay by himself. He has never been and now more than ever.
We need a person with plenty of strength, extreme boldness, uncommon cleverness. But also, a person who can provides sweetness and tenderness, who can give him physical consolation together with mental one.
I know who that person is and yet I'm hesitant. Knowing what I do I can see all the possible consequences of her intervening as if already written. And, in my mind, they cannot help but lead to a dreadful ending.
I read the note again and my cursed empathy forces me in Harry's shoes once more and the pain is so unbearable, I know there isn't any other choice.
And however true it may be what I stated above, I can also hope to be wrong, things may go differently. I'm not a seer, there may be a happy ending I cannot foresee, but, on the other side, of one thing I'm one hundred per cent sure, if we leave the situation as it is, there is no a doubt on how it is going to end.
Wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, I amble over the desk. I take a quill, a sheet of paper, and I start to write.