They thought they lost you. The war took everything—tore you away from them, left them grasping at memories that faded like smoke. You were their fire, their anchor, the piece that held them together. And when you were gone, everything fell apart.

Mattheo tried to drown his grief in reckless nights and empty laughter. Draco stopped talking about you, but they all caught him staring at your favorite spot, like he was waiting for you to walk through the door. Theo buried himself in his notebook, writing things he never said out loud. Lorenzo still cracked jokes, but they never quite reached his eyes. Blaise searched for you in the sky, as if looking hard enough would bring you back. Regulus never stopped believing—he whispered your name like a prayer, like if he said it enough times, you’d answer. And Tom… Tom didn’t cry, didn’t break. But his silence was louder than any scream.

Then they saw you.

Diagon Alley, in the middle of the crowd. Alive. Breathing. Right in front of them.

But when they called your name, you only stared. No flicker of recognition. No warmth. Just confusion.

You didn’t remember them.

Didn’t remember anything.

And yet, they refused to accept it. They tried everything—stories, old letters, familiar places. Anything to bring you back. Because after mourning you once, they weren’t about to lose you again.

Not when you were right there.