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Why, dear boy, we don't send wizards to Azkaban just for blowing up their aunts. - Cornelius Fudge
Chapter 3 - Reconnection
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5 MONTHS AGO
The raven-haired man walks slowly, each step heavy with the weight of sorrow, away from the towering silhouette of the castle that has been his sanctuary, his battleground, and his home for the past seven years. Hogwarts looms behind him like a crumbling monument to everything he has loved—and lost.
His shoulders sag beneath an invisible burden, his head bowed so low it almost seems like he is trying to disappear into himself. The once-bright green eyes that have seen too much are now dull and vacant, glossed over with tears that spill silently down his cheeks. They carve wet trails through the dirt and ash smeared across his face, but he doesn't bother to wipe them away.
The battle is over, but his soul is far from at peace.
Grief clings to him like a second skin, cold and suffocating. Every name, every face he couldn't save haunts him—echoes of laughter that will never be heard again, smiles lost to time. The sounds of spells clashing, screams ringing out, and the thunder of collapsing stone still reverberate in his ears like a cruel symphony of guilt.
He has tried. Merlin, he has tried.
But it hasn't been enough.
Not for Remus or Tonks. Not for Fred. Not for Colin, Lavender, or the countless others who now lie in cold stillness upon the stone floors of the Great Hall. The image of their lifeless bodies is etched into his mind, a permanent reminder that even the Chosen One can fail.
And he has. When they have needed him most.
His fists clench at his sides as he keeps walking, broken glass crunching beneath his shoes. The wind picks up slightly, brushing his tattered robes around his legs like the ghost of a farewell.
He doesn't look back.
Because what is there left to see?
Only ruins.
Only the faces of the fallen.
Only the remnants of a war that has cost too much.
He moves across the stone bridge at a slow, aimless pace, the soles of his shoes scraping softly against the weather-worn surface. His eyes scan the world around him—the castle standing noble and wounded behind him, the Black Lake glinting in the sunlight like nothing has happened, and the Forbidden Forest standing tall and silent in the distance. Birds chirp in the trees as if the screams and cries of war haven't echoed through these lands only an hour ago.
The air is still, unnaturally calm, and it only makes his heart ache deeper. It feels wrong for the world to be so quiet after so much chaos. The scent of spring flowers drifts in from the grounds, blending uneasily with the lingering sharpness of blood and smoke that clings faintly to his clothes. The battle is over, yes—but the pain has only just begun.
His steps slow to a stop as he nears the edge of the bridge. He turns his head slightly, letting his eyes drift back to the castle behind him. Its tall towers stand proud despite the scars—cracked windows, blasted walls, scorched stone. Even so, Hogwarts remains.
But it isn't the same.
His gaze lowers to the great oak doors, left wide open to the front steps. Through them, he can see into the Great Hall, now dimly lit with flickering candles and flooded with people. He can just make out their movements—students, professors, grieving family members—all clustered around rows of makeshift beds and white-covered bodies. The muffled sounds of weeping still reach his ears, soft but ever-present, like a heartbreaking lullaby.
He stands there, unmoving, as the breeze lifts his messy hair and the sun warms his skin. His heart clenches as he takes in the scene one last time—the aftermath of all they've sacrificed, all they've lost.
Then, as if pushed by the weight of it all, he turns sharply on the spot. A soft crack echoes through the air, and just like that, he vanishes.
With a faint crack, the young wizard apparates onto a quiet cobbled lane nestled within a sleepy Muggle village on the edge of London. The early evening air is cool, carrying the distant scent of blooming jasmine and the soft rustle of trees swaying in the nearby park. Everything around him feels too normal, too peaceful, like the world has chosen to forget the war that has just ended.
He trudges toward a worn wooden bench near the outskirts of a small park, his feet dragging as though burdened by the weight of every life lost. The village children's laughter echoes faintly from deeper within the park, piercing through him like glass. It doesn't feel right. That joy. That normalcy. Not after everything.
Reaching the bench, he sits down heavily, the old wood creaking beneath his weight. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. The tears he has tried to hold back finally break free, streaming hot down his cheeks. There, in the quiet of that Muggle park, he allows himself to unravel.
Images flood his mind—Fred's lifeless face, Remus and Tonks lying side by side, Colin Creevey's too-young body. The look in Lupin's eyes when he says goodbye. The sound of Molly's scream when she finds her son. The smell of smoke. The taste of blood in the air. He sees the Great Hall again, filled with the broken, the mourning, and the dead. Each face etched permanently into his memory.
He doesn't know how long he sits there—time has lost meaning. It could be minutes. Hours.
Then, a gentle pressure lands on his shoulder. The touch is light but grounded, pulling him from the flood of pain like a rope tossed into dark water.
Startled, he jolts upright and looks up with reddened eyes. Blinking through the tears, he freezes.
Standing in front of him, hand still resting on his shoulder, is someone he hasn't expected to see here—someone he thought might've been lost to the chaos, or simply wouldn't seek him out.
Their eyes meet.
And in that silent moment, the world around him stills.
"D-Dudley? W-what are you doing here?" Harry's voice trembles with disbelief, his green eyes wide and rimmed with unshed tears. He blinks rapidly, trying to determine if grief has made him hallucinate.
The boy standing in front of him is unmistakably Dudley Dursley, though he looks different—leaner, less bulky, his face no longer round and blotchy but sharper, more mature. The Dudley of Privet Drive is gone, replaced by someone calmer, quieter… more grounded. Without waiting for an invitation, Dudley sits down beside his cousin, the bench groaning softly beneath the added weight.
He leans forward, mimicking Harry's posture, resting his forearms on his knees and turning his head slightly so they are eye to eye.
"I could ask you the same thing," Dudley says softly, his voice lacking the jeering tone it once always carried. "Why aren't you with your friends? At school?"
The question hangs heavily in the air, brushing against the raw grief Harry tries so desperately to keep buried. His eyes flicker away, staring blankly down at the gravel path beneath his feet. His throat works silently, as if trying to form words, but none come. Instead, a deep sadness settles over his face, like a storm cloud slowly blanketing the sun.
Dudley watches him, a quiet understanding dawning in his eyes. It's in the set of Harry's shoulders, in the hollowness behind those famous green eyes, and in the way his hands tremble slightly—something terrible has happened. Something that has shattered him in ways Dudley doesn't yet understand.
Not wanting to press too hard, Dudley shifts gears. His voice turns more casual, though still gentle. "You know… I'm just walking through the park, headed home from a mate's flat. Been visiting for a few days. Saw you from across the street and… well, I'm not sure it's you at first."
He offers a small, uncertain smile. "Didn't expect to find you sitting on a park bench in the middle of nowhere, looking like the end of the world just came and went."
When Harry still doesn't respond, Dudley turns his gaze forward, watching a dog chase a stick across the grass, letting the silence stretch comfortably. He doesn't need to fill it—not right now. He just needs to be there.
Dudley glances sideways at Harry, his brows furrowing slightly as he takes in the broken posture of the boy who once slept in the cupboard under the stairs.
"Look," he says after a moment, his voice low but firm, "do you have a place to stay right now?"
Harry doesn't move, doesn't even flinch at the question.
Dudley shifts, turning to face him more fully. "Because if not... I've got a spare bedroom. You can use it until you figure things out. Get back on your feet." He hesitates, then adds with surprising sincerity, "It's the least I can do… after everything. After you saved my life."
Harry's breath catches in his chest.
Those words—you saved my life—echo in his mind like the tolling of a bell in a fog. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he lifts his head, eyes locking onto Dudley's face with bewilderment. Did he actually just say that? Dudley Dursley, the same boy who has tormented him for most of his childhood, now offering him a roof over his head and acknowledging a debt of gratitude?
For a few long moments, Harry can only stare, caught somewhere between confusion and awe. The emotional weight of the past few hours—and months—presses in on him from all sides, and this unexpected moment of grace feels like a tiny light breaking through the haze.
Finally, he gives a small nod, his voice hoarse when he speaks. "Okay. Thank you… Dudley."
Dudley doesn't smile or make a show of it. He simply nods once in return, a tight, almost business-like gesture, before standing up and dusting off his jeans. Without another word, he turns and begins walking toward the edge of the park, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.
Harry sits frozen for a heartbeat longer, watching him go, still stunned by the turn his evening has taken. Then, slowly, he pushes himself to his feet and begins following, his steps hesitant at first but growing steadier with each one.
He doesn't know what tomorrow will bring. He doesn't even know what tonight will bring.
But, at least for now, he isn't walking alone.
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The first couple of weeks living under Dudley's roof pass in a quiet blur for Harry. Though his cousin gives him space and never pries, the weight in Harry's chest never lifts—it only shifts. Each morning, Harry rises early, dresses in the same worn-out hoodie and jeans, and slips out of the house before the world around them fully wakes.
He wanders through the Muggle and magical places alike, retracing the steps of memories that cling stubbornly to his bones. He sits on the edge of the fountain in the Ministry courtyard where they once stood in disguise. He walks past the old café near the Leaky Cauldron, where they stop for lunch during one of their quieter missions. He even lingers in the shadows near Hogsmeade on more than one occasion, watching the village from a distance as if afraid the air itself might call out his name.
Everywhere he goes, he finds the echoes of laughter that no longer exist—Ron's teasing smirk, Hermione's exasperated sighs that always give way to fond smiles, and his own happiness that had once felt invincible. But now, those memories only pierce deeper into the hollow space inside him. He's failed them. Failed everyone.
Each time he feels Hermione drawing near—because somehow, she always does, her presence like a whisper in his bones—he vanishes. Whether it's the faint crack of Apparition in the alleyway behind him or the soft hum of magic brushing against his wards, he always knows when she's close. But he can't face her. Not after the weight of what he's done—what he hasn't done.
He isn't ready to look into her eyes and see the pain he's caused reflected back at him.
So he stops going.
No more Diagon Alley. No more secret benches or hidden magical corners. He cuts himself off from the Wizarding World entirely. The idea of Hermione catching sight of him and calling out his name—his real name, not the one shouted by reporters or whispered in awe by strangers—terrifies him more than facing another battle.
At Dudley's house, no one expects anything from him. No one asks him to lead, or save, or heal.
So he stays.
Tucked away in a spare bedroom with creaky floorboards and a view of the neighbor's overgrown hedge, Harry lets the world keep turning without him. Maybe, just maybe, it will forget about him too.
A couple of months pass, and the sharp sting of grief has dulled into something quieter—a slow, persistent ache that Harry carries with him like a second skin. Life with Dudley has become, to Harry's surprise, something close to normal. The spare bedroom has transformed into something more lived-in, with books stacked unevenly on the floor and a worn jacket draped over the back of a chair. The silence that once stretched between them has softened too, replaced with quiet familiarity and the occasional banter during shared dinners or lazy weekend mornings.
Harry has found a job at the small café just a few blocks down—The Morning Nook. It isn't glamorous, but it gives him purpose. He pours coffee, busses tables, and exchanges polite smiles with regulars who have no idea they're being served by Harry Potter. Here, he isn't a hero. He's just Harry, the quiet bloke with tired eyes and a polite nod. It's the first time in his life that he feels like he can simply be.
He and Dudley have even begun splitting the rent on the small house they now share. At first, Dudley waves off the idea with a grunt and a roll of his eyes, but Harry insists—needs to contribute. The act grounds him.
They spend evenings sometimes on the small back porch, sipping tea or watching the telly together in companionable silence. As the weeks drift by, Dudley—now stockier in build but clearly more mature—starts opening up about his life, and Harry, slowly and cautiously, begins doing the same.
It's one of those cool spring evenings, the smell of rain still lingering in the air, when Harry finally breaks the silence.
"I didn't know where else to go," he says, staring out at the garden beyond the railing. "That day… when you found me on the bench… I thought if I sat still long enough, I'd disappear."
Dudley doesn't speak right away. He just lets the words hang between them, the weight of them sinking deep.
"I watched people die," Harry continues, his voice low. "I couldn't stop it. I was supposed to. I was meant to. But it just… kept happening. And when it was over, and we'd won… it didn't feel like winning. It felt like… like I lost everyone."
Dudley shifts slightly in his chair. "I figured something bad happened," he says carefully. "Didn't expect you to ever end up needing someone like me, though."
Harry manages a small, sad smile. "Neither did I."
There's a beat of quiet before Dudley clears his throat and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"I moved out not long after Mum and Dad settle in that new place. Can't take the way they keep pretending none of it ever happened. Like they don't owe anyone anything. Like you didn't save our bloody lives. I want something different. To live without all that... noise."
Harry looks at him with a quiet kind of surprise, the version of Dudley he'd grown up with barely recognizable in the man sitting beside him now.
"I've just been… working. Got a job at the bar nearby. Took night classes for a bit. Nothing major. But it's my life now. Not theirs."
For the first time in a long while, Harry feels something stir in his chest. Not happiness, exactly. But something close. A glimmer of connection. Of healing.
They sit in silence for a while longer, the night air cool against their skin.
For the first time in five long months, Harry doesn't feel like he's floating through someone else's life.
He feels... present. And maybe that's enough for now.
Over the weeks and months that follow, the two cousins settle into an easy, almost comforting rhythm. Each morning begins with the scent of coffee drifting from the kitchen as one of them stirs before the other. They part ways for work—Harry to the cozy corner café with its mismatched chairs and friendly regulars, and Dudley to the nearby bar, where the clink of glasses and steady hum of conversation have become part of his daily soundtrack. By evening, they return to the small house, the warm glow of the porch light greeting them both like a silent reminder that they aren't alone anymore.
Dinner becomes their quiet ritual. Most nights, they cook together—Dudley's dishes are hearty and surprisingly edible, while Harry leans on recipes he remembers from his time at the Burrow. They eat side by side, trading stories about rude customers, awkward patrons, or absurd moments from the day. Laughter is no longer foreign between them. It flows more freely now, tentative but real.
On the rare days they both have off, their routine shifts. They grab lunch at a pub or a small café in town, talking about football or local gossip, avoiding the heavier topics that still linger beneath the surface. Afterward, they walk through the village, ambling down quiet streets or cutting across the edge of the park, the silence between them companionable.
But even in the quiet and simplicity of this new life, Harry's nights are rarely peaceful.
The nightmares still come. Twisted images of the war haunt his sleep—flashes of green light, the echo of last breaths, the hollow silence that always follows. He wakes in the dark, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat of guilt.
And always, in the stillness that follows, his thoughts drift to Ron and Hermione.
He wonders constantly where they are, what they are doing, if they are safe. He imagines Hermione pouring over books, her brow furrowed in concentration, Ron pacing impatiently nearby, grumbling about being hungry. He misses them more than he can say. But Hermione—her memory lingers like a shadow at the edge of his mind. Her voice, her touch on his arm when she is worried, the fierce way she defends him—all of it stays with him.
It tears at him, not seeing her. Not knowing if she is okay. But no matter how much he wants to go to her, to explain, to let her know he is alive and well… something holds him back. He is convinced they are better off without him, that his presence will only stir more pain in already healing wounds.
So he stays. In the quiet of Dudley's house, among the muggles who have no idea of the war that has torn his world apart, Harry chooses silence and distance over facing the truth.
Until one day… something changes.
Something unexpected.
Something that alters everything Harry thought he had decided.
The sun has already begun to dip below the rooftops when Harry unlocks the front door and steps inside, the quiet click of the latch echoing faintly through the modest house. He slips off his shoes by the door and shrugs off his jacket, the weight of a long shift still hanging heavily on his shoulders. The soft aroma of something savory lingers faintly in the air, but the kitchen is quiet—too quiet.
As he enters the room, he pauses.
Dudley is already there, seated at the small table tucked into the far corner of the kitchen. The table is usually cluttered with empty mugs or mismatched salt shakers, but tonight, it holds only one thing: a folded copy of the Daily Prophet. The edges are crinkled from handling, but the headline is still bold and unmistakable.
Dudley looks up as Harry approaches. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between concern and hesitation. He doesn't say anything at first, just watches as Harry crosses the room and stares down at the paper in his cousin's hands.
Harry's breath hitches.
The familiar swirling script, the moving photo below the headline, the way the parchment shimmers faintly in the kitchen light—it all pulls him back in an instant. He hasn't seen one in months. Hasn't let himself look. But here it is, dropped like a stone in the middle of the fragile new life he is trying to build.
Dudley clears his throat. "I... wasn't planning to bring it home," he says gruffly, his voice low. "One of your people—well, I think he was—came into the bar today. Sat at the far end. Kept to himself. But he had that tucked under his arm."
He gestures to the paper.
"Few drinks in, he stumbles out and leaves it behind on the counter. I was going to toss it—didn't want anyone else seeing it. But then I saw the headline…"
His voice trails off.
Harry's eyes drop to the front page.
The photograph moves. A group of people standing in front of what looks like a memorial wall. A few are crying. One woman is lighting a candle with her wand. His stomach twists.
The headline blares across the top in bold letters that make his knees weak:
BREAKING NEWS! FAMOUS WAR HERO DEAD!
His hands tremble as he reaches for the paper.
Dudley watches him quietly, shoulders tense.
"I thought you'd want to see it," he says softly. "Didn't seem right to just throw it away."
Harry doesn't answer. He sinks slowly into the chair opposite his cousin, eyes scanning the text as his heart pounds in his chest.
The words on the page blur before his eyes, the letters smudging and shifting as Harry's vision fills with tears. He can't—he can't believe what he's reading. The paper trembles in his hands, as if it might slip from his fingers altogether.
Please don't say that this is real. This can't be real!
His mind screams, but his heart sinks deeper with every word he forces himself to read again. Ron. His best friend for seven years. The one who stood by him through every challenge, every danger, every battle. Gone.
It doesn't make sense. It can't make sense. Not Ron. Not the boy who once risked everything to help him, even when the world seemed like it was falling apart. The one who'd gone from being a clown to a hero in his own right. The boy who stood with him in every dark moment and who had laughed in the face of everything that tried to tear them apart.
Harry presses the back of his hand to his mouth, willing himself not to break completely. But his breath hitches, catching painfully in his throat. His chest tightens, suffocating him, and the world around him feels like it's slipping away.
Dudley doesn't say anything. He just sits there, across from Harry at the small kitchen table, his broad shoulders tense, but silent. He doesn't speak the words Harry knows he must be thinking. What do you say to someone in this moment? The world feels so heavy, the quiet between them deafening.
Harry can barely feel the time pass, the minutes stretching into what feels like hours. His tears come in waves—sudden, violent, unpredictable. Each sob feels like a piece of him shattering into something unrecognizable. But he doesn't know how to stop it. He doesn't want to. He needs to mourn. To feel the depth of the loss.
He needs to remember Ron.
Finally, the tears slow, though the ache in his chest never relents. Harry wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to steady himself, to gather the shattered pieces of his composure. The sting of grief lingers, gnawing at him like a constant weight.
The silence in the room is almost unbearable, but Harry forces himself to look up. His face is raw, his eyes red and swollen from the endless flow of tears, but when his gaze meets Dudley's, he sees only quiet understanding. Dudley doesn't look away, but he doesn't speak either.
He doesn't need to.
Harry takes in a shaky breath, trying to piece together his thoughts. He still can't quite wrap his mind around it. He tries to find the words, but they seem to fail him, slipping away like water through his fingers. Finally, he breaks the silence in a voice barely more than a whisper.
"I... I don't know what to do anymore. He was... he was my best friend. And now he's gone."
The weight of those words feels suffocating, and Harry has to force himself to say them out loud, even though they don't feel real. Even though he wants nothing more than to scream into the night that it's all some cruel mistake, some horrible trick.
But it isn't. Ron's gone.
And Harry is left here, in the quiet, with nothing but the memory of his laughter and his loyalty, and the pain of a loss he can't begin to process.
Dudley watches him, still silent, but his face softens just a little, his eyes reflecting something Harry can't quite place. There's no judgment. No awkwardness. Just an understanding of the grief that hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating.
After a long moment, Dudley finally speaks, his voice low and almost hesitant. "You don't have to go through this alone, you know. I'm here... if you need to talk, or not talk. Whatever you need."
Harry nods slowly, wiping his eyes again, grateful for the offer. The words don't quite fill the emptiness, but it's something.
"I'm going to have to return," Harry says, his voice thick with emotion, the words heavy on his tongue. "After all this time, I need to at least send off my best friend." His chest aches as he says it, the finality of those words pressing down on him. "I never got to make things right with him when I left, and now that he's gone... I can't. But I can at least go visit him. I need to apologize."
The words are a knot in his throat, the weight of them suffocating. His mind races with a thousand thoughts, none of them good, none of them helping to ease the overwhelming grief that has taken root in his chest. He swallows hard, fighting back the tears that are threatening to rise again. The loss of Ron, the sharp sting of regret, it all claws at him, and it feels like it might break him all over again.
Dudley is silent, but his eyes are soft, understanding. There's no judgment, just a quiet acknowledgment of the pain Harry is carrying. He nods slowly, as if he knows the weight of what Harry is about to do, the gravity of returning to the place he's tried so hard to avoid.
Without another word, Harry stands from the table, the scrape of the chair against the floor louder than usual in the silence. He turns toward the stairs, feeling the familiar weight of his decision settle on his shoulders. It feels like a long time since he's made any choice that didn't feel like it was dragging him back into old wounds, but this—this is something he needs to do.
Upstairs in his room, the familiar, cluttered space feels like another lifetime. His fingers hover over his things, each item a reminder of the life he's tried to leave behind. The wand. The cloak. The journals filled with memories, both painful and precious. He packs them quickly, not thinking too much about it, just trying to gather what he might need for the journey.
It doesn't take long before he's ready. His suitcase is packed, the weight of it a metaphor for the emotional baggage he's carrying. It's everything he thinks he might need, and it's heavy.
Harry descends the stairs again, his footsteps slow and deliberate. When he enters the kitchen, Dudley is still sitting at the table, unchanged, waiting. The sight of his cousin's calm demeanor, despite the situation, is oddly comforting.
"I'm packed," Harry says quietly as he sits back down at the table, his words heavier than they should be. "I'm not sure how long I'll be gone for, but I will come back. I'm not leaving for good." He looks at Dudley, offering him a tired, but sincere smile. The words are meant to reassure both of them, though the uncertainty lingers in the back of Harry's mind.
Dudley doesn't respond immediately, just watches him with a steady gaze, his face softening. Then, without a word, Dudley leans forward and places a large, calloused hand on Harry's shoulder. The gesture is simple, but it speaks volumes. It says more than words ever could—an unspoken promise that Harry isn't alone, that he has someone in his corner, even if it doesn't feel like it sometimes.
"Go take care of your friend," Dudley says softly, his voice low and understanding. "I'll still be here when you're done."
Harry's heart tightens at the sincerity in his cousin's voice. It's strange, this bond that's formed between them over the months. They've never been close before, but something in this moment feels different, more solid, more real. Dudley's words, quiet and unwavering, make Harry feel like it's okay to go—to face what he's been avoiding. And maybe, just maybe, to find some semblance of peace.
Harry offers him a small smile, more genuine than any he's managed in a long while. It's a smile that says thank you, that says he'll be back, that says he's not giving up. He stands up, feeling the weight of his decision one last time.
And with a single movement, Harry turns on the spot, disappearing into the air, the world around him shifting in a swirl of motion. In an instant, he's gone, leaving behind the quiet house, the safe space Dudley's offered, and the uncertain journey ahead.
But as he disappears, something in his chest eases, just a little.
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Harry materializes in front of a building that feels like a distant memory—a place filled with both warmth and haunting echoes of the past. 12 Grimmauld Place stands just as it always has, looming in the quiet street, its blackened façade as imposing and unchanged as it was at the beginning of the war. Time seems to stop in this moment, the house frozen in time, just as it was when they left it behind.
For a brief, aching second, Harry's mind floods with images of the past. He can see himself, Hermione, and Ron walking together up the front steps, laughing, the familiar creak of the door as they slip inside, safe, whole, and full of hope. The memory flickers in his mind like a fragile candle's flame, and he reaches out, almost as if to touch it. But as quickly as it appears, it vanishes, leaving behind a dull ache in his chest.
A lone tear slips down his cheek, unnoticed at first, as his gaze lingers on the door. The world feels heavy, and the loss of everything, especially Ron, weighs down on him in a way he can't shake. Harry wipes the tear away with a quick swipe of his hand, taking a deep breath, steadying himself. The air is thick with both grief and the weight of unfinished business.
His heart pounds, but he steels himself as he steps forward, each footfall heavy with the weight of his resolve. He reaches the door, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he rests it on the cool metal of the doorknob. With a deep breath, he pushes the door open, stepping inside.
The familiar scent of dust, old wood, and faint remnants of magic fills the air, grounding him. He glances around the dim hallway, the shadows of the house enveloping him like a shroud. Every corner seems to hold memories—whispers of a time before everything went wrong. He exhales, closing the door behind him with a soft, almost inaudible click.
Silence.
For a moment, Harry stands still, allowing himself to take it all in—the stillness of the house, the echoes of days long past, the ghosts of conversations shared in these rooms. His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag, but before he can fully compose himself, a sound cuts through the silence.
A voice.
His heart skips a beat. It's a voice he hasn't heard in what feels like an eternity, but one he's longed to hear again. The voice is familiar, yet it strikes him with a shock of unexpected emotion, making his breath catch in his throat.
"Hermione!"
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Until next time,
HL