Nineteen

The wind cut through the worn walls of the house with a cold whisper that brought with it the bitter taste of sea salt and the pungent smell of old mold. Everything there seemed abandoned for centuries, forgotten.

The creaking of the wood was the only answer to the heavy footsteps of the Auror as he walked down the narrow corridor. With each step, the echo of his boots reverberated off the crumbling walls, and the empty sleeve of his right arm swung lifelessly, a silent symbol of the scars of a war that had never left him.

It was as if the very weight of what he had lost still accompanied him, shaking with each movement. Ahead, the dim light entered through the broken windows of the house, revealing layers of accumulated dust and dirt, spread across the floor like a blanket. But there was something else, something recent. Marks on the floor, perhaps footprints, half-erased by the dust, thought the Auror without an arm. With long dark hair, he stopped for a moment, looking at the two men behind him.

"Stay here." — His voice cut through the silence, low and hoarse.

The gray-haired Auror who was the last to follow him hesitated, his eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth but said nothing.

"Sir…" said the third, younger one, his voice trembling.

"Let's wait outside," the gray-haired Auror cut in, pulling the younger one by the sleeve.

The one-armed Auror entered the house, closed the door, but remained silent for a moment, just listening.

The noises were his companions. He knew this kind of place. He remembered many like it. Houses where lives had been destroyed, places permeated by darkness.

He advanced in short steps, his eyes moving slowly from corner to corner, while his feet scanned the floor. The air around him seemed dense, almost suffocating, as if time had stopped inside. But something in this place was still alive... hiding.

His left hand slid to the wand attached to his belt, feeling the touch of the wood. He left her there for now. His face had discreet scars on his nose that made him itch. Then he walked along the old windowsill of a broken window. It was close, an old and cruel feeling, guiding him.

He took three more steps until he reached the edge of an old table, and there a small impression in the dust caught his attention. Something had been moved recently. Maybe a box, maybe a sheet. He could see it from the outlines left in the dirt, a fragmented trail that led in a direction.

A faint smell of smoke permeated the air, maybe recent, maybe someone trying to disguise their presence. The auror leaned forward, analyzing the details of the corridor, his eyebrows furrowed. Fear and silence seemed to envelop that place, but he did not rush. His instinct told him that fear of what might be lurking was a powerful weapon, something he had learned to master over the years.

He continued forward and reached the room. His breathing grew heavier as his boots moved over the uneven floor, leaving marks on the dirt.

There was a light in the room. His fingers tightened around his wand, but he didn't raise it yet.

He knew who was there. There was no doubt anymore.

The Auror walked through the half-open door. A slight creak in the old floorboards gave away his presence, but he didn't hesitate. The tension in the air was palpable, like a thread about to snap. He knew that the man inside was already feeling the same weight of inevitability that he did.

It was then that he closed the door. It was a dark, empty room, with only the remains of an old fireplace and a dusty armchair; it seemed harmless at first glance. But he knew better. His eyes scanned the room, searching for signs, any clue as to what was really hiding there. He saw nothing, but that didn't change anything either. He was there. He knew he was there.

"This is the last hiding place you have," the Auror said, and his voice broke the silence, heavy.

He took another step, his eyes half-closed, as if speaking directly to the shadows. He didn't expect an answer, not yet, but he knew he was being heard.

"I found the other one two years ago," he continued, his voice low and grave. "A cellar with a tunnel. It was all in ruins, like this place here. I think you fell out, was it a fight for leadership?" He paused for a moment, the sound of the wind outside mingling with the soft rustling of something in the darkness, like breathing. "Ever since he left, you've been fighting among yourselves, haven't you?" the Auror asked, tilting his head, but his eyes remained blank. "Half of you thought he would come back, that he couldn't be destroyed. The other half… the other half thought he could take over, be the new Dark Lord." He took another breath, walking towards the fireplace, where the smell of soot and recent smoke seemed to linger. "But you couldn't, could you?" he murmured, his fingers touching the charred bricks. "You couldn't because he was more than just a leader, to you brainless people. He was a symbol, and you all knew deep down that you couldn't replace a legend. But he wasn't a legend. Just a fool." The silence that followed was thick, oppressive, as if the entire house were holding its breath. The Auror turned slowly, his eyes boring into the darkest part of the room. "I've spent a long time looking for you." The intensity in his voice grew as he took a step closer to the void. "And there are a few things I've learned along the way." He paused, his wand still at his belt. The air was thick with the sense that something inevitable was about to happen.

— Like, for example, the fact that Death Eaters are all cowards. And there is no honor among cowards.

A dead silence hung in the air, deeper than before, as if the walls around him had absorbed the shock of the revelation. The Auror smiled, a cold, almost imperceptible smile.

"And now, here you are, alone, Malfoy."

He waited, knowing that soon something would move, that the silence would be broken, but this time, not by him.

"I was there, Malfoy." The Auror's voice broke the silence, sharp. His eyes seemed lost in the gloom, reliving the moment. "I saw Draco, desperate, clinging to Goyle, perched on a tower of broken desks. Crabbe… Crabbe lost control. Fiendfyre consumed everything. And I… I hesitated.

The wind howled outside, but it could not compete with the force of Harry's words. He paced the room as he continued to speak, memories taking him back to that day.

"I turned around with my broom, I went to save Draco and Goyle... but—" The Auror paused. "I was afraid. Afraid to risk everything. To risk my friends to save that little shit. When I saw Narcissa, I had to lie. I didn't want to tell a mother that her son had died because of me." He brushed his hair back from his face, revealing the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

"I left him there to die in the fire. If I could go back in time I would have—" Harry muttered, when suddenly a disheveled man jumped out of the shadows at him.

The attack was quick.

The man was savage and managed to land two punches on Harry's face before he reacted, knocking the attacker back with a kick to the chest. Standing upright again, Harry raised his wand with his remaining arm and shouted,

"Expelliarmus!" But the man had no wand. He was the last Death Eater, and he was beyond magic, driven only by hatred.

The man kept advancing, his fists clenched, when Harry pointed his wand again. "Diffindo."

The blade of light sliced ​​through the air, severing the Death Eater's right leg. A roar of pain filled the room, and soon the two Aurors waiting outside rushed over, but Harry waved them away with a brusque gesture.

"I'm not done here yet." He approached the man on the ground as the other Aurors backed away. Harry's eyes remained fixed on the face that was contorted in pain, clutching the wound. Harry crouched beside him, pulling an old, worn wand from his pocket. "It's hawthorn," Harry sealed the wound on the Death Eater's leg. "It's always been faithful to me, even though I still miss my first one. That was your son's wand."

The man on the ground finally looked up at him, his face ravaged by time and guilt. Lucius Malfoy. His skin was pale and wrinkled, his once cold eyes now filled with hatred.

"I never liked your son, Lucius," Harry continued, his voice low but sharp. "But he shouldn't have died there. And that's a burden I'll carry for the rest of my life. I'll never forget his mother's eyes looking at me."

"He's dead because of you!" Lucius hissed, his voice shaking, his eyes brimming with hatred and despair. "I'll never forgive you for this. Never."

Harry stared at him silently, letting the weight of Lucius's words sink in. Then, with a slight movement of his shoulders, he looked away, his wand still clutched tightly in his hand.

"It doesn't matter." His voice was as cold as the air around him. "I've carried greater guilt. Your forgiveness would mean nothing to me." He raised his wand once more, pointing it at Lucius.

"But that's not the only reason I followed you here." He took a step forward, and the sound of the wind seemed to fade, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

"For the first ten years, I worked without a day off. Then they made me take a vacation. All my vacation time, almost a year. I didn't know what to do, I just wanted to hunt you down, to end this. I went to many places, saw many people. I tried to understand everything that had happened, there were many things to unravel. Among them was one that always kept me awake at night. How Fred and George never found out about Wormtail. I saw his name on the map, how could they not see it. I looked for a dozen people smarter than me, each one had an idea, but no answer. And then I returned to the castle. Ten years later. There was no one there, only ruins. No one except one. A cat. Filtch had died a few months ago, but his cat was still there. I never looked at her twice, I felt sorry for her when the basilisk took her, but that was it. Then something clicked in my mind. Peter's name didn't appear on the map, but hers did. Mrs. Noris. I was already there, what harm would it do, I thought, and then I said Finite Incantatem. You should have seen my face when I saw that cat turning into an old lady. She was also startled. She was an Animagus all this time. She was Filtch's widow. All these years she lived around us, a cat during the day, only returning to human form in the safety of Filtch's room. Since so many geniuses couldn't help me, I took the opportunity to ask her what she thought about Peter and the Marauder's map. She was honest, saying that the map was a simple magic, it recognized you by name and showed you on the papyrus. The fact that Peter hadn't been noticed by Fred and George only reinforced her idea. Peter didn't appear because the map no longer considered him human. He tried to be a rat and ended up becoming one. Just like you, Lucius. You're just like Wormtail. Just another rat hiding, praying that the footsteps he hears will pass him by. But you found something. Something I didn't find. Something that isn't worth much. At least, not to you.

With a flick of his wand, Harry's wand caused the floorboards to lift and fly away, revealing makeshift hiding places. In one of them, a dusty portrait of Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco. Between the holes were maps, Death Eater symbols, and other remnants of a past scattered in the corners.

Among them, the remains of Lord Voldemort's wand along with two mummified fingers, kept in a small dusty box.

But what Harry sought was in a small, unlocked box. He opened it carefully, and inside he found crushed golden discs, some broken, others missing pieces. Among them, among the shards, was a small hourglass, so tiny that it fit on the tip of his finger. He smiled, a deep smile, and put the hourglass in his coat pocket.

Then he looked one last time at Lucius. The man on the floor was panting, surrounded by blood.

"You don't need to hide anymore, Lucius. — Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper, before he raised his wand, pointing it at him.

The beam of green light briefly illuminated the room, and Lucius Malfoy's body fell to the floor, limp.

Harry stared at the body for a long moment. He lowered his wand and tucked it into his belt, then turned toward the door.

The two Aurors were waiting outside, exchanging glances but saying nothing.

"Take everything," Harry ordered, his voice cold. They both nodded, but their eyes didn't dare meet his. There was something more here than simple respect for a superior, Harry thought. It was fear.

Harry left the house, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

He didn't look back. When he reached the abandoned garden, he breathed in the salty smell of the sea for a brief moment before Disapparating with a dry crack.

Harry reappeared at the entrance to the Ministry of Magic.

The atrium was filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the flickering of the torches on the walls. Their light danced, reflected in the still waters of the fountain in the center, while the air carried the thick smell of ancient magic and exhaustion.

Harry's eyes roamed over the faces staring at him, but the feeling was different, it was over. Just a little more. Harry walked toward the stairs, ignoring the stares that followed him through the corridors. The staff, wizards and witches of all ages, glanced briefly, trying to hide it. It wasn't just the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead that they were looking at now, and Harry knew it. He could feel their gazes lingering on the empty sleeve of his missing arm. The burn on his neck, the result of a curse that had nearly killed him. The part of his ear that was missing, a battle he barely remembered.

The looks filled with curiosity, fear and reverence no longer bothered him. The weight of the legend he carried had become nothing more than a burden. routine. Harry walked on, indifferent. After all, he had long since ceased to be a hero in his own eyes. He took the stairs and went up to the Auror floor, passing through the long corridor lined with portraits of old wizards, whose eyes always followed him, even after so long. Dumbledore was one of them.

The silence in the department was broken only by the rhythmic sound of his boots on the polished stone floor. Someone was waiting in front of his door.

Harry stopped before he walked to the desk of his assistant, Teddy Lupin. He looked at the boy's face but didn't smile.

"Take this to my house. Hand deliver it to Kreacher," Harry said, taking the small hourglass from his pocket and handing it to Teddy. "Number 4, Privet Drive. Now."

The young wizard looked at the hourglass, surprised, but didn't ask any questions. He just nodded and left. He turned to his office and walked there with light steps. Harry took a deep breath before looking at the woman waiting for him.

Ginny.

She was standing there, silent, with an expression he didn't understand at first. Her red hair shone in the torchlight, a contrast to the darkness that hung over his office. Even so long later, she was still as beautiful as the day he met her.

— Harry... — She began, her voice soft, but full of emotions. Her eyes, always so lively, were now more serious, as if she could see beyond the physical scars and see what he had truly become. — Today you turned nineteen. — She said and her eyes dropped to the floor for a moment. — They held a ceremony there. But you didn't go.

Harry tried to smile, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes. He took a step towards her, feeling the familiarity and comfort that Ginny always brought, but he couldn't. The distance that seemed to have formed over the years now revealed itself as a barrier.

"I found the last Death Eater." — Harry said without embellishment. There was no need for details, Ginny would understand. She always did.

"You should have gone…" — She said, her eyes shining.

Harry didn't answer right away. He looked at the living room window, seeing his own reflection. Then, he turned to her, meeting her gaze.

"I'm sorry." — He said.

Ginny came closer, touching Harry's arm lightly, and he felt the warmth of her touch. For a moment, all the scars disappeared. But only for a moment. Ginny looked away, fiddling with the sleeve of her coat as if to straighten it.

"Ron and Hermione..." Ginny murmured, as if testing the words. "They're growing up too fast. Dean thinks Ron will end up in Quidditch, like him. Hermione... well, she's the calm in the middle of chaos, loves books, like I used to be." She smiled and Harry just watched, saying nothing.

"They ask about you," she continued, looking away again. "They're curious to meet you. They ask when you'll be over. Dean and the kids would love to see you. They talk about you all the time. Ron is convinced you're a hero, and Hermione has read all the books about the war. She keeps saying you need to tell your side of the story." She said and tried to smile again.

"They seem like good kids," Harry said, his voice low. He tried to smile, but it died before it reached his eyes.

Ginny continued to talk, her gaze focused on the floor, avoiding his for longer than usual.

"And you, Harry?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "When are you going to start a family? When are you going to have children?" Harry tried to look at her but couldn't. His lips murmured something, but nothing came out that could be heard. "You weren't the only one who lost Harry. They're still with us in a way, but it's time to move on. It's time to move on. Have you moved on, Harry?"

Harry felt the weight of the question. He avoided her gaze, turning to the nearest window, where the pale light of the late afternoon penetrated softly into the room. "I… I tried," he answered, after a long pause. "But…" He hesitated. "I don't think I can…" "You have to,"

Ginny said. "You have to move on. For them." For my brother. For Hermione. Imagine if they could see you now. I don't even recognize you anymore. Where is that boy who ran to the store to see the new broom that just arrived? Where is that friend who wrote every month? Where is Harry Potter? You don't look like him. You look like Snape. Always cold. Closed off. Is there still something left inside you? — Ginny said and her eyes filled with tears. — They're gone, but you're still here! I'm still here… — She said and tears began to roll down her freckles. — Goodbye, Harry. — She said before leaving through the ministry corridor.

Harry watched Ginny's silhouette disappear, her footsteps echoing through the halls, and the emptiness she left felt heavier than before. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to feel the pain for a moment.

He looked at the window, where the darkness of the night seemed to reflect the emptiness inside him. Without hurrying, Harry stood up, his footsteps echoing on the cold floor. He knew, as he walked through the door, that he would never return to that room.

He left the Ministry without using magic, feeling the cold night wind on his face. The streets of London were almost deserted, but he took his time. There was something comforting about the solitude of the night.

The darkness of London enveloped everything with a soft melancholy, and he walked along feeling the weight of the silence around him. The streets were wet with rain he had not seen falling, reflecting the light of the streetlamps like extinguished stars.

He walked on, each step echoing a little louder. As he walked, his eyes followed the people who appeared near the square. A couple held hands, laughing at something. Further ahead, a child tugged on his mother's sleeve, eager to point to a shop window. Families walked everywhere.

The lights of the city flickered around him, but Harry walked without getting involved, like a shadow passing through memories of a world he no longer understood. Nothing seemed real, not the laughter, not the happy families. Everything was a distant blur, an echo of a life he had lost. Harry stared, but saw nothing. Everything seemed a blur, but within each image he found a shadow.

As he turned a corner, he saw a group of young people sitting in a café, laughing loudly. The sound of laughter pierced Harry like an arrow, and for a second his mind made him believe it was them: Ron and Hermione, still young, with the carefree, twinkling eyes that only youth brought. He could almost feel their warmth.

But the vision disappeared as quickly as it had come. Harry kept walking, passing parks, where children played in the evening, shouting with joy while their parents watched from afar. The sound of their children's voices seemed like a distant echo of the childhood that Harry never really had.

When he finally reached Privet Drive, the weight of his memories crushed him. That door, which had once represented a prison, was now his only connection to a past he could not escape. The world around him seemed to have moved on, but Harry... he was still standing in the same place.

Harry saw a set dinner table, a family sitting, talking as they ate. He looked away, his heart heavy.

The absence weighed more heavily now, as he remained trapped somewhere between the past and the present.

When he reached the door of the house where he had grown up, he stopped, staring at the entrance. The same door he knew so well, but which now followed him into a new life. A life he did not know how to follow. He clenched his fist and repeated the question Ginny had asked him.

"Move on..."

Harry entered the house in silence, the dark hallway welcoming him like an old friend.

He took off his shoes and sank onto the sofa with a sigh, his eyes scanning the walls.

— How could I go on?

The vision of those who had gone before surrounded him, their expressions frozen in a past that Harry could no longer reach. Sirius's gaze through the portrait was fixed on him, a smile on his face. Beside him, Dumbledore watched, with a comforting expression, as if saying everything while saying nothing. Around them were several plants transmuted into other objects. Bottles with leaves. Lines with petals.

On the wall to the right, Fred and George stood together in an oval portrait, their hands raised in a funny gesture. Below, Arthur Weasley's gaze seemed sad as he stared at Harry. Beside him was the portrait of Bill and Fleur smiling as they danced, as well as James and Lily.

Across the room, Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks stood together. Next to them, Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas. Below was the portrait of the twins, Padma and Parvati, with bright eyes and colorful clothes.

On the other wall was Horace Slughorn, looking proud, and beside him was Filius Flitwick, smiling briefly. In the same portrait was Pomona Sprout, with her affectionate expression. Beside them were two more teachers: Minerva and Severus. In front of Harry was a portrait of Neville holding hands with Luna. Beside him was Hedwig, with her feathers as white as the moon. Harry felt a lump in his throat as he walked to the last portraits. There was Dobby, smiling and with his hat on his head. Hagrid, next to Grawp.

Harry's eyes grew misty. And then Harry looked at them. Ron and Hermione. Sitting in the snow. Smiling back at him. He tried to hold himself together, but when he saw their frozen smiles, something snapped.

His hands were shaking, his chest tight, and before he could stop himself, Harry collapsed onto the sofa, the tears finally escaping after years of holding them back. Each sob brought back the pain of all the losses, the longing for everything that could never be restored. He broke down completely, crying like he hadn't done in years.

Covered by his own arms, Harry felt the weight of everything he had kept inside for so long finally crush him. There, surrounded by the faces of those he would never see again, he let all the pain, regret and longing flow. Alone, he cried for all those who were gone. For Ron and Hermione. He cried for himself, for the boy who had grown up too fast, and for the man who still didn't know how to move on.

Harry left the room and went to the bathroom. There was a pensieve there. He picked up a bottle in his hand, but first he looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were sunken, his beard unshaven. Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

In the silence of that house, Harry Potter, the boy who lived, felt more alone than ever.

"There's still something left, Ginny. There's still something left..."