Upon the close of the first great wizarding war, he sought no glory, nor sought he vengeance. Rather, he took to the hills, to the quietude of green pastures and wild hedgerows.

A modest cottage stood upon the edge of a sloping field, its stones weathered, its hearth warm. Smoke rose gently from the chimney, a signal of peace reclaimed.

He woke with the roosters, soft and gray, and fed the hens before the morning mist had fully risen. The soil clung to his boots as though it, too, remembered him.

The wind, ever patient, combed through the wheat. He mended fences. He gathered apples. He spoke little, but thought often.

There were sheep—fat, docile things—who trusted him more than most men had ever dared. He sheared them in spring, humming softly.

The nights were cold, yet calm. He read by candlelight, and sometimes by the fire, where silence became a friend, not a weight.

He did not speak of war, nor howl at the moon as once he had. Those days, he let lie buried.

Beside him, always, a quiet presence—gentle hands, wiser than most.

The world moved on. He did not chase it. Peace, at last, had come.