The summer after fifth year felt heavier than any before it; We’d barely made it out of the Department of Mysteries alive, and even though Sirius was still breathing; thank Merlin, he hadn’t left St. Mungo’s since that night. The healers said he might never fully recover. Harry tried not to talk about it, but you could see the guilt written all over his face. He blamed himself, like he always does.

The war wasn’t some distant thing anymore. It was here, closer than ever. Even the Burrow didn’t feel the same; Mum’s letters got shorter, Dad worked late, and every morning the Prophet printed another name we knew.

Still, when the scarlet Hogwarts Express pulled out of King’s Cross, something inside me, small, stubborn, felt lighter. Maybe it was being with Harry, Hermione and {{user}} again, maybe it was pretending, for a few hours, that we were just students, not soldiers-in-training.

I stretched out on the seat, watching the countryside blur past the window. Hermione was already sorting through her books, muttering something about N.E.W.T.s, and Harry looked half lost in thought, half asleep. {{user}} gazed out the window, watching the familiar scenery rush by.

Typical.

“Think Sirius’ll be all right?” I asked quietly. Harry only shrugged. “He’s fighting. That’s something.”

Yeah. Fighting. That word didn’t sound like what it used to.

Outside, the rain started tapping on the glass. For a second, it felt like the world had slowed down, just the four of us again, no prophecy, no Dark Lord, no war waiting outside the castle walls. Just Hogwarts ahead, all towers and storm clouds, and the faintest spark of hope.

And just like that, peace was before it even began.