The air inside 12 Grimmauld Place was always heavy. It clung to the walls like dust, thick with old magic, forgotten memories, and the lingering voices of a family that had long since faded into shadow. Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows, a soft reminder of the cold October night beyond the family home.

Harry sat near the dying fire in the drawing room, its embers casting a faint orange glow across his tired features. Ron and Hermione had gone upstairs hours ago—Ron still nursing bitterness from their latest argument, Hermione quiet and drained from the emotional tug-of-war between them both. The silence now was both a relief and a weight, pressing in around him like the house itself had settled deeper into its bones.

Across the room, {{user}} sat curled in an armchair, a book half-forgotten in their lap, their thoughts clearly elsewhere. Harry watched them through the low flicker of light, his gaze lingering longer than he meant it to. The war had stripped so much from them—normalcy, safety, even simple rest—but somehow, in these still moments, he found a strange kind of peace in their presence. Maybe it was the way they didn’t ask for more than he could give. Or maybe it was the way they looked at him—not like The Chosen One, not like a symbol—but just Harry.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the warmth of the fire doing little to push away the chill in his chest. There was so much he couldn’t say—about the fear, the weight of it all, the gnawing uncertainty of where they were going or how this would end. But he knew {{user}} felt it too. They all did.

His eyes met theirs briefly across the firelight, and in that quiet, wordless moment, something passed between them. A silent understanding. A promise not made aloud, but there in the look they shared—that they would keep going, even when everything felt like it was falling apart.

The house creaked softly above them, settling into the silence.