FicWad

The sky was just beginning to shift, a dull wash of grey creeping over the tail end of the night. The air was cool, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth as my boots landed softly on the pavement. We’d Apparated in with barely a sound—a faint crack, gone as quick as it came. Overhead, the streetlamps buzzed faintly, casting an amber shimmer over the quiet lane. Dawn was nudging at the edges of the dark, but the world still felt like it was holding its breath.

We hadn’t planned to be noticed. No flashing spells. No loud entrances. Just two figures in cloaks, arriving in a Muggle village before the sun could catch us. That was the idea, anyway.

Of course, nothing ever goes to plan, does it?

I spotted her just as my eyes adjusted—a girl, maybe fifteen, crouched in a garden across the street. We must’ve startled her. She was kneeling in the soil, half-hidden by the thick heads of marigolds and petunias, hands wrapped round a little garden spade. She looked like she belonged there. Mud on her knees, hair tied back, cheeks flushed from the cold.

For a moment, it felt… still. Like we hadn’t shattered anything yet.

Then a dog barked—loud, sudden. She jumped.

Her eyes locked onto mine.

I didn’t move. Neither did Remus. But we didn’t need to. She saw us. Two strangers in dark robes, just standing there like ghosts out of a dream. Her face went pale in an instant. I could see her brain trying to catch up, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. She clutched the spade tighter, like it might do something—then let it fall and scrambled backwards. Mud smeared across her hands. Her trainers slipped on the wet stone.

She didn’t scream. Not properly. Just a broken little gasp that caught in her throat—half-panic, half-surprise. Then the slam of a door. She was gone.

Brilliant.

I closed my eyes for a second, jaw clenched. I could picture it already—her crashing into the kitchen, breathless, trying to explain what she’d seen. Her mum rubbing her eyes, telling her it must’ve been a dream. Her dad muttering about imagination and bedtime. But the way she’d looked at me… I wasn’t sure she’d forget it that easily.

Next to me, Remus sighed. “We probably should’ve Apparated further up the lane.”

“Probably,” I said, a half-smile twitching at my mouth before I could stop it. “Still, a bit of flair. Makes an impression.”

He shot me a look. Dry. Disapproving. The usual. But he didn’t argue.

We walked on in silence. The village was starting to stir. Thin curtains twitched in windows. A baby cried from somewhere nearby. The wind tugged gently at shirts pegged to a line, left out overnight. It felt… grounded, somehow. Like this place didn’t know anything about war or grief or prophecy. Like it had stayed exactly as it was, quietly existing while the rest of us tore ourselves apart.

For a moment, I let myself breathe it in. The damp leaves. The smell of woodsmoke. The cold morning air brushing against my face. It felt real. More real than most things had lately.

Then we reached the hill.

At the top, I saw it. Lupin, carved into a weathered copper plaque at the gate. Simple. Honest.

The house itself wasn’t much—two floors, stone walls, ivy creeping up like it was trying to give the place a hug. A small garden wrapped round it, full of flowers I didn’t know the names of, but someone clearly cared for them. There was something soft about it. Not fragile—just… quiet. Like it had been built by someone who wanted to believe peace was still possible.

I stared at it longer than I meant to. I’d half-expected something colder. More haunted. But this… this felt like it belonged to someone who had fought for calm. Who kept trying, even when everything fell apart.

Remus stepped forward and whispered, “Alohomora.” The door gave a reluctant creak and swung open like it had been asleep.

We stepped inside. It smelt like old parchment and damp timber. Not musty—just lived-in. Familiar, in a way that made my chest ache.

I stood there for a moment, taking it in. Letting the silence settle. And in the stillness, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time.

Hope. Quiet and cautious, but there.

Maybe this was what a beginning looked like.

Again.

Light. That was the first thing I noticed.

The house breathed it in—bright and open, the white ceiling arching above like the smooth inside of a shell, catching the sunlight and folding it softly across every wall. Nothing felt boxed in. Rooms flowed into each other without fuss, no closed doors, no sharp edges—just quiet spaces, gently connected. Like the house didn’t mind being looked at.

To the right, the living room waited—worn, warm, and real. An old Persian rug stretched across the floor, the colours faded like stories left out in the sun. No two armchairs matched, but they sat close, like they’d grown used to each other over the years. A grandfather clock stood in the corner, its hands stilled. No ticking. Just silence. But not empty. Not cold. The kind of silence that feels like it remembers things.

I stepped further in, fingers brushing the fabric of the nearest chair. The air smelled faintly of tea leaves and old wood. This wasn’t just a house someone had passed through. People had lived here. Left behind bits of themselves. Not in photographs or messes—just… echoes. Soft ones.

Beyond the living room, a study opened out into a stone courtyard. Rain had started to fall. That thin, silvery sort that didn’t seem in any hurry to stop. The flowers outside—wild ones, climbing over each other like they couldn’t be told where to grow—shimmered with it. Red, violet, blue. All trembling gently under the drizzle, like even they had their own quiet breath.

The kitchen was small but light-filled. A den sat just off it, all soft corners and calm—big cushions, old blankets in clashing patterns, and a kettle on the stove, waiting. I could picture it easily: a mug in my hands, warmth seeping through my fingers, watching the rain slide down the glass. Not thinking. Not worrying. Just… being.

Upstairs, two bedrooms. Nothing fancy. Clean. Still. The kind of stillness that made you speak softer without knowing why. The bathroom had cracked tiles and a little window that looked out across the hill we’d arrived from. I stood there a moment, staring out at the road and the rooftops beyond. Wondering if the girl from the garden was still peeking through her curtains.

The floor creaked under my feet as I moved back to the landing. Not in a scolding way. More like it was letting me know it was still here. Like it was saying, you’re not alone.

Then I heard him.

“How do you like it, Harry?”

Remus’s voice drifted up from behind me, quiet. Careful. There was something in it—hope, maybe—but small. Like he didn’t want to risk it too much.

I didn’t turn around. Just gave a shrug. That same shrug I’d been using for years now, whenever someone asked how I was. It came too easily.

“It’s okay… for now.”

The words sat there between us, hollow. I wanted to believe them. I really did. Because this place felt different. It wasn’t shouting safe, but it wasn’t trying to be something it wasn’t. It didn’t feel like it would vanish the moment I stopped looking at it.

It felt like it might stay.

I wanted to say that. Wanted to tell him, It feels like somewhere I could stop running. But I didn’t. Because hope is tricky. It creeps in when you’re not watching and makes promises the world can’t keep.

So I kept quiet.

Let the silence stretch.

And listened to the rain.

The weeks slipped by without fuss.

Ottery St. Catchpole kept its own rhythm—slow, steady, stubbornly ordinary. Like it had decided long ago that the world could throw what it liked; it wouldn’t rush for anyone. There were no alarms here. No war councils or coded messages. Just the quiet swish of wind through long grass and the soft smoke of chimneys curling into the dusk.

I started walking more. Not to get anywhere. Just to move. To let the quiet soak in. Sometimes I imagined it pressing into my skin, smoothing out the edges I hadn’t realised were still sharp.

Evenings were the best. When the sun dipped low and the whole sky bled into purples and greys, soft as charcoal smudges. Everything felt slower then—gentler.

One night, Remus and I wandered farther than usual. No plan. Just the pull of open space. We left the hills behind and followed a worn track down into a low valley. That’s where we found the river.

It threaded through the land like a strip of silver cloth, catching the last light and carrying it gently downstream. The air was cool. Damp. You could hear the soft clink of water over stone.

And that’s when I saw her.

She was sitting on the bank, legs stretched out in front of her, bare feet dipped into the water like it belonged to her. Her jeans were rolled to the knee. She wore this loose grey jumper that looked too big for her shoulders, like it had been borrowed—or left behind by someone else. Her hair was long. Red—deeper, like autumn leaves just before they fall. It moved with the breeze, catching the light every time she turned her head.

She wasn’t doing anything. Just sitting there, still as stone, like she’d grown out of the riverbank itself. And for some reason, the world felt quieter around her. Like everything had paused to let her be.

I stopped. Without thinking. Remus did too.

There was a hum of something in my chest—unease, maybe, but not fear. More like the feeling you get when thunder’s on its way. The air holding its breath.

Before we could turn back, she looked up.

Slow, calm. Not surprised. Her eyes found us as if she’d been waiting for someone—not us, specifically. Just… someone.

“Hi,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. No edge. No caution. Just birdsong.

Then she smiled. Not big. Just soft. Warm. Easy.

“Nice night for a walk.”

I swallowed. “Yeah… it is.”

It should’ve felt awkward. But it didn’t. Maybe it was the way she looked at me—not like she recognised me or expected something, but just… saw me. That was all.

“You’re not cold?” I asked, nodding to her feet in the water.

She glanced down, like she’d honestly forgotten. “No,” she said with a small shrug. “I come here to feel calm. Want to try?”

Her eyes held mine. Brown. Deep. Like they might be ordinary until you really looked—and then you weren’t sure what you were seeing. There was something there. Quiet and knowing.

I thought about it. Just sitting down. Dipping my feet in beside hers. Letting the river take the weight for a bit. Letting go of Harry Potter, The Boy Who—Whatever… and just being some bloke watching the water.

But Remus shifted beside me. And everything tilted.

“Come away now, Harry.”

His voice was low and gentle—but solid. Final. Not a suggestion.

I felt something tug inside me. Like I’d stepped too close to something I wasn’t meant to touch, and now the world was pulling me back. Not violently. Just firmly.

The girl didn’t move. But her smile slipped a little. Only a flicker. And in that moment, I saw it—the same thing I felt. Recognition. Not of who I was. But what had just passed between us. A possibility, already fading.

“Maybe next time,” she said.

And her voice was like the mist off the river—barely there, but it stayed with me.

Even after we turned away.

Even now.

As we walked away, I looked back. Just once.

She hadn’t moved. Still by the water, still and quiet, her gaze lost in the ripples like nothing had happened.

But something had. I knew it. Felt it, deep and certain. Something had shifted in me, like a fault line I didn’t know was there had cracked just slightly. Enough to let something in—or out.

The river whispered behind us, soft and steady, like it was trying to soothe the sting it had helped cause. But it couldn’t. That ache had already begun to bloom in my chest—slow at first, then sharper, sharper still.

It wasn’t just Remus’s voice that pulled me away from her. It was everything. The life I carried like armour. The invisible rules. The way even the smallest peace had to be earned, guarded, and usually lost before I could hold onto it. I wasn’t allowed to drift. Wasn’t allowed to just feel something without someone watching.

And that girl… that stillness she had, the ease of her smile, the way she looked at me without flinching or fawning—it was a glimpse. A brief, painful glimpse of the life I might’ve had if things had gone differently.

I stopped. The frustration surged before I could shove it back.

“What’s wrong with you?”

The words weren’t loud, but they landed sharp between us—cutting, pointed. They sounded too grown-up coming out of me, too bitter.

Remus turned, his face unreadable. For a second. Then our eyes met, and I saw it—that sorrow that never really left him. It sat just behind the surface, worn and permanent. The kind of grief that wasn’t just his own. The kind he carried for others too.

But even with that sadness, he stood firm. Always did. Not just a friend anymore. Not just someone who looked out for me. He was the line between me and everything I wasn’t allowed to reach.

I let out a breath. Tried to soften. My next words came lower, rougher.

“You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t even give me a minute. It was just a conversation.”

“She was a stranger,” Remus said, calm as ever. But calm didn’t mean kind. His voice pressed—firm, unmoved. “And we can’t afford to take chances. Not with you.”

I turned from him. Couldn’t look. Looked back instead—toward the river, toward the girl.

She was still there. Still small in the distance. But something had changed in the way she sat—shoulders drawn in slightly, her head tilted like she was thinking harder than before. Not cold. Not closed off. Just… quieter.

Maybe she knew I’d wanted to stay. Maybe she’d seen it in my eyes, the pull of it. The weight I couldn’t seem to drop.

Her smile stayed with me—not because it was pretty, but because it had been real. Like she’d seen something in me and decided it was enough.

And that… that broke something in me. Something I’d been keeping together for too long.

“Why can’t I just be normal?” I whispered. I don’t even know if I meant for Remus to hear it. Maybe I just needed the wind to take it from me.

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Just a wish. A quiet sort of scream that didn’t have the strength to be loud.

Remus stepped closer. I felt his hand settle on my shoulder, steady and warm. Not heavy. Just there. Like he was reminding me I was still here.

“Because normal wouldn’t be you, Harry,” he said, gentle now.

I shut my eyes. The words landed harder than I expected. They weren’t meant cruelly, but they still stung.

“You’ve been marked,” he said. “You know what that means. You can’t let your guard down. Not here. Not anywhere.”

I wanted to shout at him. Tell him I knew. I always knew. Every moment of every day I carried it—the scar, the prophecy, the constant edge of danger that never really went away.

But I didn’t say any of that. Because he was right. And that made it worse.

His voice was softer now, but steady as ever. “There are still people out there who want you dead. Death Eaters who’d kill you without blinking.”

“I know,” I muttered. The words were bitter in my mouth, like stones I’d swallowed long ago.

“The night’s not safe,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

Home.

The word sat between us like a question that didn’t quite have an answer.

I thought of the cottage—the warmth of the den, the smell of rain and woodsmoke, the way the light moved through the rooms. It felt like a home. Looked like one. But it didn’t promise anything. Just another stop on the way to whatever was next. Another maybe.

I turned for one last look at the river.

She was still there.

She didn’t know who I was. Not the papers, not the scars, not the battles. She hadn’t flinched when she saw me. Hadn’t leaned in like I was some kind of story come to life.

For a moment, I hadn’t been Harry Potter to her.

And that moment—that fleeting, fragile bit of freedom—felt like everything.