Chapter Text
The hospital wing was a whirlwind of activity, an ever-moving blur of students rushing in and out, their footsteps soft but hurried, as if each moment mattered. The air was thick with a hum of hushed voices, the occasional clink of a potion bottle, and the gentle rustle of linen as patients shifted in their beds. The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, sharp and clinical, but it was softened by the delicate, almost calming notes of lavender from Madam Pomfrey’s potions, creating an oddly serene backdrop to the constant bustle. It was an atmosphere that seemed to hum with urgency and comfort all at once.
Harry had quickly discovered that Madam Pomfrey’s no-nonsense demeanor was born from experience and necessity. After only a week of assisting in the hospital wing, he found himself constantly alert, always on his toes, never quite able to relax. The constant parade of magical mishaps and injuries was staggering. He had long suspected that Hogwarts students were accident-prone, but the sheer frequency of incidents was mind-boggling. It felt like the hospital wing might as well have had a revolving door, a never-ending cycle of students coming in, needing care, and then leaving to be replaced by others in equally desperate need.
Wednesday had been an especially chaotic day—no less than fifteen students had been brought in, each one with boils on their skin that burst open with a faint pop, releasing bubbles of soap-like foam into the air. Apparently, a potion class had gone disastrously wrong, turning simple boils into a magical mess. Thursday had been no better, with an influx of students sporting newly sprouted animal snouts and cursed vocal cords, all thanks to the Marauders’ latest prank. Their mischief seemed to know no bounds, and Harry was learning quickly that no one was immune to their antics.
Then there was Friday. Professor Kettleburn’s introduction to billywigs had left an entire sixth-year class under observation for the afternoon. These tiny, airborne creatures were notorious for their venom, which caused uncontrollable floating and a mild euphoria.
By Saturday, some of the students were still suffering the effects. Harry had to tether them to the ground with careful charms, lest they float up into the rafters and disappear from sight. He marveled at the fact that such seemingly harmless creatures could cause so much disruption, but here in the hospital wing, it was a regular occurrence.
The ebb and flow of students with injuries both absurd and serious was a constant reminder that at Hogwarts, chaos was as much a part of life as magic itself. And Harry, ever the observer, couldn’t help but feel that he was at the center of it all, both participant and witness to the spectacle that unfolded day after day in the heart of the school.
One such student who needed to be tethered down was a Ravenclaw named Pandora Trelawney. The moment Harry heard her name, he did a double take. She was an oddity in every sense. Her skin was so pale it bordered on translucent, almost ghostly, her hair a cloud of white that cascaded down her back, and her eyes—pink eyes—seemed impossibly large, as though she was perpetually startled. The effect was otherworldly, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a flash of unease. He half-expected her to suddenly burst into a cryptic prophecy, much like his old professor. Her gaze was distant, unfocused, as though she were looking at something beyond the present moment. The impression was so strong that Harry found himself wondering if she might start speaking in riddles at any given second.
Unlike the professor, however, Pandora didn’t wear glasses, and though her expression was dazed, there was a quiet calm about her. Her eyes held an almost dreamlike quality, wide and glassy, reminding Harry of Luna Lovegood in a way he couldn’t quite place. He remembered her mentioning, in passing, that her mother had passed away when she was young. He hadn’t caught her name back then, but Harry would have bet anything that it was Pandora.
"Sorry, Miss Trelawney," Harry said, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he recast the tethering charm on her. "Looks like you're still a bit... lost in the woods."
Pandora returned his smile, her voice light but sincere. "It's alright," she said, her words airy as though they were drifting on a breeze. "Actually, it’s quite a pleasant feeling." She tilted her head slightly, as if considering the sensation. "Xeno always says I have a way of floating through life."
Harry chuckled, shaking his head at her lightheartedness. It was a stark contrast to her almost eerie appearance.
Billywig venom, while not particularly dangerous unless one was allergic, had a unique effect: giddiness and uncontrollable floating. The more stings a person received, the longer the effects could last. Harry hadn’t caught the full story, but apparently, during Friday afternoon’s Care of Magical Creatures class, a particularly angry swarm of billywigs had attacked, and Pandora had been unlucky enough to be stung multiple times. Now, a day later, she was still tethered to the floor, hovering a few inches off the ground, a result of the venom’s lingering effects.
"How are you feeling now?" Harry asked, leaning in slightly, his tone concerned. "Still giddy?"
Pandora hummed in thought, her head tilting as if she were weighing her own emotions. "I’m not sure," she replied, her voice light but measured, grounded despite her airy demeanor. "I feel... euphoric, I think. But it’s probably because of your aura." She gave him a gentle smile, her pink eyes softening. "It’s very welcoming. Bright, even."
Harry blinked in surprise at her words. He’d never been the sort to believe in such things, but something about her serene smile made him pause. He couldn’t explain it, but there was something calming in her presence.
"Well," Harry said, a little amused, "you’re no longer giggling like a lunatic, so that’s a good sign. And you’ve come down by about thirty centimeters, so I’d say the venom’s almost out of your system." He jotted a few notes down in his notebook, his pen scratching across the paper. "If you feel any changes, let me know."
Pandora nodded, the soft movement of her head a fluid, almost dreamlike gesture. Harry made a note of her improvement before turning to move on to the next patient.
The air in the hospital wing seemed to hum with the soft sounds of muffled giggles.
His gaze landed on a Gryffindor boy lying in a nearby bed, his face still twitching with occasional bursts of laughter, though his floating had stopped hours ago. The aftereffects of the billywig venom were still evident in his shaky chuckles, but his laughter was less frantic now, a more subdued version of the manic giggles that had been heard earlier.
The boy was surrounded by a small group of his friends, who, to Harry’s dismay, weren’t exactly helping on the laughter front. They teased him, joking and laughing along, their voices rising in an easy camaraderie that only fueled his laughter. The whole scene felt a little out of place in the hospital wing, where the sounds of healing should have been more subdued.
One of the visitors was a Hufflepuff Harry didn’t know the name of, but the other two were instantly recognizable.
He’d seen them around school in the last week—brief encounters in the library, quick glances in the corridors, and shared moments at mealtimes. They were always surrounded by others, their faces familiar from the photographs he had seen. Frank Longbottom stood out to Harry in a way that stirred something painfully nostalgic.
He reminded him strongly of Cedric Diggory—same easy charm, same unshakable confidence. But it was a strange kind of mental dissonance. Harry had been expecting someone like Neville: a shy, uncertain boy with untapped potential. But what he saw before him was a handsome, confident young man with a magnetic presence. He wore his silver prefect badge with pride, its gleam reflecting his neatly pressed uniform, not in an arrogant way, but in a manner that suggested self-respect and a commitment to order.
Frank’s smile was calm, his demeanor almost effortlessly composed, always at ease, always a little reassuring. Neville must have gotten his looks from his mother, but Frank’s hazel eyes held a warm light, and Harry couldn’t help but see the tiniest spark of Neville there—the only visible link to the son Frank would never truly know. Seeing Frank in person, Harry felt the weight of a loss that had never been fully understood. A future that could have been, if things had turned out differently.
Alice Fortescue—Harry had been startled when he realized that Neville’s mother was related to the kind man who owned the ice cream shop in Diagon Alley—was a whirlwind of energy. The contrast between her and Frank was striking. Her round face, dotted with freckles, was constantly alight with mischievous smiles. She almost always had a piece of pink bubblegum in her mouth, her habit of popping it every few moments becoming almost as much a trademark as her laugh. She bounced when she walked, her movements a blur of perpetual motion, the opposite of Frank’s calm stillness. The glint in her bright eyes was nothing short of mirthful, a glimmer of life and joy that seemed to infuse everything she did. Harry was struck by the vitality she exuded, and it took him a moment to push aside the painful recognition of the woman she would someday become—the mother who would never grow old with her son, the woman whose legacy would remain just a shadow of who she could have been.
There was a rhythm between Alice and Frank that was almost too beautiful to witness. They were always close, always connected, whether it was holding hands, brushing shoulders, or leaning into each other with an ease that spoke of deep affection. It was a chemistry Harry couldn’t help but admire, and it made his chest tighten as he realized what Neville had missed out on. The love between them, so evident in every gesture, would never be something Neville could experience. Frank and Alice had lost themselves when Neville was only four years old—gone before they could see their son grow, before they could raise him, love him, and share this simple, joyful connection.
Alice was talking animatedly to the Gryffindor boy, whose giggles still hung in the air like echoes of the billywig that had stung him earlier. She egged him on, her playful voice adding to the infectious atmosphere of lighthearted chaos in the room. Harry couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Alice reminded him so much of the Weasley twins—the way she lightened every moment, no matter how absurd.
"You're lucky Madam Pomfrey’s on her lunch break," Harry called over with a grin as he approached. "Or else she’d be kicking you all out for the racket."
Alice turned toward him, her smile widening, but the others in the group had enough sense to look at least a little abashed.
"Whoops. Sorry, sir," Frank said with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. His usual calmness had a note of apology, and his gaze flicked to the still-giggling boy, as if silently reminding him to tone it down. "We got a bit carried away. Won’t happen again."
Harry raised an eyebrow and glanced at the hufflepuff boy. "You aren’t planning on causing any more trouble, are you?" he asked, his tone playful but firm. "Madam Pomfrey might be gone, but I’m still in charge."
The boy, whose name Harry still didn’t know, looked nervously at Harry. "You’re not gonna kick us out, right?" he asked, his voice a little unsure.
Harry gave a wry smile. "That depends," he said, turning his gaze back to the patient. "What did Madam Pomfrey say about controlling your laughter, Mr. Padgett?" he asked, only half-sternly.
Marcus Padgett, the Gryffindor boy, crossed his arms, his face scrunching in exaggerated annoyance. "I feel fine," he grumbled. "I’m not gonna float away again. I haven’t in hours."
Harry shook his head, not entirely convinced. "Yet to be seen, kid," he said. "You took five stingers to the face. That’s a lot of venom."
Alice raised an eyebrow, her expression one of mild shock. "Five?" she whistled. "Damn, Marcus. I thought Prang was exaggerating."
"Five," Marcus nodded, clearly embarrassed. "And two to the hand." He sounded like a child who had just been caught doing something embarrassing but was still trying to act tough about it.
Harry’s gaze turned pointedly toward him. "Exactly. So, how about we keep the conversation nice and calm for the rest of the afternoon?" he said, a playful note to his voice. "And I won’t have to kick your friends out of here."
Marcus pouted. "Fine," he muttered. "We’ll be quiet."
Alice gave a mock salute, her bright smile never faltering. "You got it, boss man." She shot Harry a wink as if the entire interaction had been a game to her.
"We’ll keep it calm," agreed the Hufflepuff, looking at Harry with a nervous but earnest smile.
Frank nodded from his spot beside Alice, looking up at Harry with that steady, reassuring presence of his. "I’ll keep an eye on them," he said in his usual calm tone.
Harry watched the group for a moment, his chest tight with the overwhelming weight of the situation. There was something jarring about seeing these people—the parents Neville would never know, the warmth he would never experience. A knot formed in Harry’s stomach. It wasn’t his life he was living. It should have been Neville here, joking with Frank and Alice. It should have been Luna sitting with Pandora. Not him.
He was living a life that wasn’t his. A life that belonged to someone else.
Hermione had once called it a twisted form of survivor’s guilt, but Harry hadn’t truly grasped what she meant.
Yes, he was alive. Yes, he had a life. But it didn’t feel like his. It felt borrowed, as though he were occupying someone else’s story, someone else’s place in the world.
There were moments, though, where the weight of that dissonance lightened—when Harry, Ron, and Hermione found time to simply be. Those quiet, unhurried moments had been scarce during the war, overshadowed by the endless struggle for survival. There had been no room for idle conversation, for sharing thoughts untethered by fear. But now, with the battles behind them, those moments had started to reappear, like sunlight filtering through storm clouds.
On slower days, when their schedules aligned, the three of them would gather to talk—about nothing, about everything. It was comforting. A fragile kind of normalcy that felt like a treasure unearthed. In the summer, their conversations had been filled with awe and trepidation about their new lives: the strange freedom of living without the shadow of Voldemort, the challenge of adjusting to jobs and responsibilities in a world that had once been so consumed by chaos. It was liberating, and yet, at times, terrifying.
Now, as the school year unfolded, their discussions turned toward the peculiarities of their shared experience. They were surrounded by people who had been long gone in their original timeline—or, in some cases, people who might never have existed at all if events had taken a darker turn. Each encounter carried a poignant weight, especially for Harry, who seemed to be crossing paths with ghosts brought back to life.
Hermione, spending most of her time buried in the library, had become something of an observer of the studious Hogwarts crowd. She often mentioned seeing Lily and Snape—always together, always absorbed in one another. “They’re like two sides of the same coin,” she’d said once. “It’s fascinating, really.”
Harry had known, of course, that his mother and Snape had been friends. But Hermione’s descriptions hinted at a closeness that went beyond what Harry had ever imagined. According to her, they were inseparable, sharing books, exchanging hushed words over their lunches, and often joined by one or two others from their year. Yet, no matter who surrounded them, Lily and Snape seemed to operate in their own orbit, as if the rest of the world faded when they were together.
For now, neither Lily nor Snape had needed to visit the hospital wing, so Harry hadn’t interacted with them directly. But when he joined Hermione in the library to study for his T.O.A.D, he’d feel their presence. He’d catch glimpses of them at a nearby table, their heads bent together in quiet conversation, their voices too low to make out. There was something in the way they glanced his way when they thought he wasn’t looking, the subtle shifts in their demeanor when he came into view. It left Harry uneasy, as if he were standing on the edge of a memory that refused to fully form—a past he could sense but couldn’t touch.
From his seat, he could sometimes hear Lily talking to her friends. Her laugh, when it broke through the quiet, was breathy and soft, with a warmth that tugged at something deep within Harry. It surprised him how much it reminded him of Aunt Petunia—not the harsh, brittle cackle he’d known growing up, but the real laugh he’d only caught rare glimpses of in his childhood. There was a gentleness to Lily’s voice, too—a smooth alto, in contrast to Petunia’s sharper tones. It was soothing, almost hypnotic, and there were moments Harry found himself lost in the sound of it.
“Harry!” Hermione would sometimes hiss, jolting him out of his reverie. She’d shoot him a pointed look, her quill poised over her notes. “We have work to do.”
He’d mutter an apology, tearing his attention away, but the unease lingered. Being near Lily felt like standing too close to a fragile, irreplaceable artifact—something precious and irrefutably out of reach. It wasn’t just her laugh or her presence, but the shadow of what she represented: a life he could never fully know. Every glance, every smile, every quiet word exchanged between Lily and Snape reminded him of how much history he’d missed, how much he’d lost, and how the echoes of that loss still shaped his every step.
And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from looking, from listening. It wasn’t his life. It wasn’t his story. But he was here, and he couldn’t help but feel drawn to the pieces of it, even if they weren’t meant for him.
The warm golden light of late afternoon filtered through the high windows of the hospital wing, casting long shadows across the floor as Harry finished updating the day’s logs. The scratch of his quill against parchment was steady, almost meditative, until he finally set it down with a sigh, flexing his sore hand. His fingers ached from hours of careful note-taking—recording everything from potion dosages to the progress of a particularly stubborn case of sneezwort, a cold-like illness that made the patient sneeze out coloured steam.
Madam Pomfrey, ever brisk and efficient, bustled past him on her way to check on a lingering patient. She paused briefly, her sharp eyes scanning his work before offering him a quick, approving nod. “Good. You’re getting the hang of it,” she said, her tone clipped but not unkind. “Go on, then. You’ve earned the rest of your evening.”
“Thanks,” Harry replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. It was rare to get a compliment from Madam Pomfrey, and he wasn’t about to let it go unnoticed. Straightening his robes, he gathered his things, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to him as he stepped out of the wing. The door creaked softly as it swung shut behind him, leaving him in the quiet corridor.
The stone walls of the castle were bathed in the amber hues of late afternoon, the light streaming through narrow windows creating patterns on the flagstone floor. Harry’s footsteps echoed faintly as he walked, his pace unhurried. The weight of the day’s work still lingered in his muscles, but there was a satisfaction in knowing he’d helped—healing cuts, soothing fevers, and offering comfort to students who missed home.
It still surprised him, sometimes, that this was the path he’d chosen. As a boy, he’d never once imagined himself as a healer. He’d dreamed of becoming an Auror, chasing dark wizards, living a life filled with action and danger. And for a time, he’d done just that. But after years of fighting for his life—and for the lives of others—he’d found himself yearning for something quieter. Something that didn’t demand constant vigilance or the sacrifice of more pieces of himself.
There was something deeply fulfilling about it—about seeing a frightened child relax when you told them everything would be fine, about easing someone’s pain with a spell or a potion. It wasn’t just the magic of it, though that helped. It was the human connection, the trust, the hope. For so long, Harry had been defined by the battles he’d fought, the lives he’d taken, and the losses he’d endured. In healing, he found something gentler. Something whole.
As he walked toward the staff room, he passed a group of third-years huddled together, their heads bent conspiratorially over what looked like a Filibuster Firework. Harry arched an eyebrow but didn’t intervene. Mischief was a part of Hogwarts’ charm, after all, and he wasn’t in the mood to play disciplinarian.
Further along, he paused at a window, drawn by the view outside. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the Forbidden Forest in shades of gold and deep green. Smoke curled lazily from Hagrid’s hut, and Harry could just make out the silhouette of lounging on a stump in the grass nearby. For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing in the stillness and letting the peaceful scene settle over him.
It wasn’t lost on him that this quiet, this calm, was something he hadn’t always been able to appreciate. There had been a time when he couldn’t sit still without feeling like he was wasting precious time, when he couldn’t see a sunset without wondering what darkness might be lurking behind it. Healing had taught him otherwise. It had shown him the value of stillness, of care, of rebuilding instead of tearing down.
The spell was broken when Peeves zipped past, cackling gleefully as he dropped a bucket of soapy water onto an unsuspecting prefect below. Harry shook his head with a laugh, grateful to have escaped the poltergeist’s mischief for once. He continued on his way, the faint chatter of students and the hum of castle life growing quieter as he approached the staff wing.
The oak door of the staff room came into view, and Harry’s thoughts drifted to the small comforts waiting on the other side—a warm cup of tea and a bit of time to unwind with his colleagues. Tucked away on the third floor, the staff room was a cozy retreat: mismatched furniture arranged in a welcoming sprawl, bookshelves bursting with volumes, and a tea station that never seemed to run dry.
Stepping inside, Harry was greeted by the gentle hum of quiet conversation and the familiar warmth of his closest friends. Hermione sat in an armchair by the window, her hair catching the amber glow of the late afternoon light. Cradled in her arms, little Teddy Lupin lay fast asleep, his tiny chest rising and falling in a steady, peaceful rhythm.
Hermione’s free hand held a book, and she was absently flipping through its pages while rocking Teddy gently.
Ron was sprawled on the couch, still in his Quidditch robes, his hair a windswept mess. A faint smudge of dirt streaked his cheek, and his face was split in a proud grin. A plate of biscuits balanced precariously on his knee as he reached for his third—or was it fourth?—one.
“Finally!” Ron said when he noticed Harry. “Thought you were going to be stuck in the hospital wing all night.”
“Almost felt like it,” Harry admitted, collapsing into a chair. He leaned back with a groan, stretching his legs out. “How’s Teddy?”
“Out like a light,” Hermione said softly, smiling down at the sleeping toddler. Teddy’s hair had shifted from a soft brown to a pale lavender, matching the color of the blanket wrapped snugly around him. “He’s been good today. Played for hours with one of the house elves, Clinner, before finally conking out.”
“He’s going to wake up with even more energy,” Ron warned, smirking. “Better brace yourself for round two.”
Harry chuckled. “I’ll take it. He’s still less trouble than some of the students I dealt with today.”
“Oh?” Hermione looked up, curiosity sparking in her brown eyes. “What happened?”
“Where do I start?” Harry said, running a hand through his hair. “Still managing the billywig stings—thank you, Professor Kettleburn. Marcus Padgett still refuses to believe he needs to keep calm to work the venom out of his system.”
“Marcus Padgett,” Ron repeated, his forehead wrinkling as he tried to place the name. “Gryffindor, right? Always wears his tie crooked?”
“That’s the one,” Harry confirmed. “He’s convinced he’s fine, but Madam Pomfrey isn’t taking any chances.”
Ron snorted. “Sounds about right. First-years were just as bad today. You’d think teaching them how to get on a broomstick was alchemy. One of them tried to kick off without holding on. Nearly broke her nose.”
“Ron!” Hermione said, looking aghast.
“She’s fine!” Ron said quickly, holding up his hands. “I said nearly. I caught her in time.” He grinned sheepishly. “Anyway, by the end of the lesson, most of them were managing a proper hover. Not bad for day one.”
“Sounds like you’ve already got the makings of a great flying instructor,” Harry said, smirking.
Ron puffed out his chest theatrically, earning an eye-roll from Hermione. “What can I say? Natural talent.”
“And a naturally big head,” Hermione muttered, but there was affection in her tone.
“What about you, Hermione?” Harry asked. “How was the library?”
Hermione shifted Teddy slightly, careful not to wake him. “Busy,” she said. “The students are really making use of it this year, which is wonderful. Lily and Snape were there most of the day. They’ve been working together on some advanced Potions research. They’re...very close,” she added, her expression thoughtful.
Harry tensed slightly, but said nothing, letting Hermione continue.
“And there’s a first-year Gryffindor who keeps borrowing books well beyond her level,” Hermione said with a smile. “I’m trying to guide her without discouraging her. Reminds me a bit of me when I was that age.”
“Poor kid,” Ron quipped, earning a swat on the arm from Hermione.
As they laughed, Teddy stirred slightly, letting out a small sigh before settling back into sleep. Harry watched his friends, the warmth of the room and the gentle rhythm of their voices grounding him. For a moment, he let himself simply be, the burdens of the past and the uncertainties of the future melting away. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.
Harry glanced at the clock on the mantel, then at Teddy, who had started to stir slightly but still slept soundly in Hermione’s arms. An idea sparked in his mind, a way to end the day on a lighter note.
“What do you say,” he began, his tone casual but inviting, “we settle Teddy into bed and take a walk through Hogsmeade? It’s been ages since we’ve had a proper night out.”
Hermione hesitated, glancing down at Teddy’s peaceful face. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “What if he wakes up and needs us?”
“I’ll ask one of the house-elves to keep an eye on him,” Harry suggested. “And we can raise a few protective charms around the room, just in case. He’ll be safe.”
Ron grinned. “A walk through Hogsmeade? Count me in. Could do with a pint of butterbeer, too.”
Hermione considered for a moment before nodding. “Alright. But only if we make sure all the protections are set.”
With the plan decided, they made their way to their quarters. Hermione carefully laid Teddy down in his small bed, tucking him in snugly beneath the soft lavender blanket. She lingered for a moment, brushing a stray curl from his peaceful face, her eyes soft with affection.
Harry and Ron, meanwhile, moved around the room methodically, raising a series of protective charms. Their wands moved in precise arcs as they layered each spell with care, ensuring the room would be a fortress of safety while they were away.
As they finished, a faint pop broke the quiet, and a wizened house-elf appeared, her hunched back bowed under an invisible weight. Her large, earnest eyes shone as she stepped forward, wringing her hands. “May Trissel be helping?” she asked, her voice high and tremulous.
“Hello, Trissel,” Harry greeted warmly, lowering his wand. Though his tone was kind, there was a quiet authority in his demeanor, a natural ease in taking command. “Would you mind keeping an eye on Teddy for us tonight? We’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”
Trissel’s ears waggled, and she gave a deep bow. “Trissel will watch over the young Teddy with utmost care,” she promised solemnly. “No harm shall come while Trissel is here. Trissel will be keeping hims happy and warm for the Hogwarts healer.”
Hermione knelt down to Trissel’s level, her expression tender as she addressed the elf. “Thank you, Trissel. I know he’ll be in the best hands. If you need anything at all, you only have to call for us.”
The house-elf’s face lit up, her wrinkled features stretching into a proud smile. “Miss is too kind. Trissel will not let you down.”
Harry nodded appreciatively, his firm gaze softening. “We trust you, Trissel. Thank you.”
With Teddy settled and safely guarded, they left the room, Harry pausing at the door for one last glance at the sleeping boy.
Hogwarts felt quieter now, cloaked in the hushed stillness of early evening. Their footsteps echoed softly as they walked, the castle alive with faint murmurs of distant activity.
They passed a few staff members along the way. Professor McGonagall acknowledged them with a brisk nod, her sharp eyes lingering on them just long enough to convey approval. Professor Kettleburn crossed their path next, laughing heartily at a joke Harry cracked about the billywig swarm. Finally, they encountered Professor Sinistra, who gave Ron a sly wink as she swept past, leaving him red-faced and sputtering, much to Hermione’s amusement.
When they finally reached the fireplace, the warm glow of the flames beckoned them. Harry grabbed a pinch of Floo Powder from the jar on the mantle, holding it out for the others. “Ready?”
Hermione stepped forward first, tossing the powder into the fire and stepping into the emerald flames. “The Hog’s Head Inn,” she said clearly, vanishing in a swirl of green. Ron followed suit, leaving Harry to take one last glance down the hall before stepping into the flames himself.
The familiar spinning sensation of Floo travel ended as Harry stumbled slightly into the dimly lit interior of the Hog’s Head. The air smelled of wood smoke and aged whiskey, and a low murmur of conversation filled the space. Aberforth Dumbledore was behind the bar, wiping down glasses with his usual gruff expression. He nodded to them in recognition as they entered.
“Evening,” Aberforth greeted, setting the glass down. “Long day?”
“You could say that,” Harry replied with a grin.
The trio found a table near the corner of the room, away from the bustle. As they settled in, a sense of ease washed over Harry. The weight of responsibility, the lingering shadows of the past, all seemed to fade just a little in the cozy atmosphere of the inn.
Hermione leaned back in her chair, a rare look of contentment on her face. “It’s nice to get out of the castle for a bit,” she admitted.
“Too right,” Ron agreed, raising a butterbeer. “To long days, and even better nights.”
Harry raised his own glass, smiling. “To us.”
And as their glasses clinked together, the chapter came to a close—not with the weight of the past, but with the quiet promise of the present.