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London was always dreary this time of year.
Rain.
Wind.
Cold.
Lysander hated the cold. He hated it more than being called ‘Lys.’
Which was saying a lot.
The tendrils of his hair stuck to his forehead, creating a faux hat as he waved down a cab on the busy road.
Vehicles honked and swerved in and out of traffic. Pedestrians neglected the walkways, hurrying to cross the street. Clouds continued to form, and thunder cracked above him.
It was no use.
No one would stop for him this afternoon—wizardkind nor Muggle. Not on today, of all days.
He hadn’t been to London in weeks. The buzz of the city used to be a comfort, the constant motion in stark contrast to the quiet of his days at home. But now, it all felt like too much. The people, the noise, the cold, the constant drizzle—it wore on him.
His life felt like it had ground to a halt, a slow, unrelenting march forward that no amount of speed could outrun.
Lysander shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat and turned toward the alleyway, hoping to find some solitude amidst the hustle. The wet pavement beneath his shoes seemed to offer no reprieve from the chill.
It felt like the city had been cursed, the weight of its history and sorrow hanging in the air.
May 2nd, 1998
"Get down!"
Luna turned around at the voice from behind her just as a column collapsed directly in front of her. A haze of smoke and debris filled her lungs as she squinted, trying to locate the owner of the voice.
Grey eyes peeked out from the fog, followed by the telltale mane of hair that could only belong to one of her dear friends.
"Go. I'll find you," the Gryffindor whispered sharply. After a brief pause, Luna heard footsteps running down the side corridor and out of sight.
When the fog finally settled, she saw her. Hermione Granger.
She looked tired. Her eyes were sunken and recessed from what Luna assumed had been months of no sleep and poor nutrition. Her body was pale, a stark contrast to the healthy glow Luna had once seen. Even her freckles had faded into mere ghosts of their former selves. This Hermione was not the same girl Luna had known just months prior. But then again, none of them were.
Luna tilted her head to the side and gave Hermione a sly smirk—one almost reminiscent of her estranged cousin. Hermione still had a fight in her.
She was Hermione Granger.
Of course, she did.
Lysander shoved his hands into his pockets, the cold biting at his fingertips as he moved through the crowded streets of London. The city was bustling with its usual frenzy—people huddled under umbrellas, rushing from one place to the next, each person as determined as the last to escape the relentless downpour. He dodged puddles and sidestepped tourists with the practiced ease of someone who had long since learned to blend into the noise of the city.
He was nearly there.
In a tucked-away corner of Mayfair stood a humble flat. No one would suspect a war hero resided there.
Lysander exhaled as he walked to the flat and unlocked the door with a key given to him years ago. This was family. This was home.
The familiar scent of old wood and the faint trace of incense greeted him as he stepped inside. It felt like a lifetime since he had last crossed this threshold.
As soon as he entered, his niece and nephew, Perrin and Remus, tackled him to the ground.
"Pa Pa! Uncle Lysander is here!" Remus yelled.
"Oh?" He heard the old man ask from somewhere deeper in the flat.
Lysander smiled a small smile. The old man was not the man he used to be. His hair, once a vibrant shade of silver, had lost much of its luster, and his face had grown worn with the years. He had seen too many battles—both magical and personal—and it had left its mark.
"Uncle Lysander!" Perrin squealed. "We want a story!"
Lysander chuckled softly as he tried to extricate himself from the pile of kids, still laughing despite the exhaustion in his bones.
Lysander leaned back in the worn armchair, a book left forgotten on the table next to him as he looked around at the mess. Toys were strewn about, some half-hidden under the heavy curtains that the old man had neglected to draw shut. The little ones were running around, shrieking with laughter, their energy endless as they tumbled over each other—oblivious to the weariness hanging over the house like a dull cloud.
"I swear you’re worse than these little monsters," Lysander called out with a playful grin, tossing a cushion into the air. It hit the nearest child, who promptly giggled and tackled him. He was only half-joking.
Draco Malfoy, now nearing fifty, sat by the window, his hands folded over his cane. His usually pristine features were lined with age, and his once platinum blond hair had faded to silver. But there was still something about him—the sharp eyes, the lean build—that reminded Lysander of a time long ago, back when Lysander was but a lad.
Draco muttered something under his breath, the words too soft to make out.
Lysander glanced over his shoulder. “What was that?”
“I said... she always used to love it when they roamed free.” Draco’s voice was distant, as though he was lost in thought. His eyes stared into the empty space ahead of him. “Your Aunt Hermione, I mean. She…” He trailed off, his gaze clouding with something Lysander couldn’t quite name—sadness, perhaps, or longing.
Lysander was quiet for a moment, wondering how far Draco had fallen into this memory. He wasn’t sure what exactly was going through the man’s mind, but there was an unmistakable melancholy in his tone. It reminded him of the way Draco used to speak of her all those years ago—always with something like admiration, bordering on reverence.
The children continued to play, oblivious to their grandfather’s faraway look. Lysander, already aware of the loss Draco had suffered over the years, reached over and scooped up one of the smaller kids—a girl no older than six. “Alright, kiddo,” Lysander said, lifting her up and spinning her in a circle. "Let’s give the old man some time to think about lions."
One of the other children, a boy, peeked up from the pile of toys on the floor. "Lions?"
Lysander smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, the old man was dreaming about the lions.”
The room fell quiet, save for the faint laughter from the children. The gentle hum of the rain outside was a soft comfort as Lysander allowed his mind to wander. There were still too many memories—too many ghosts—clinging to the old walls of the flat. He could almost hear her voice in the distance, calling him to join her for tea, her eyes bright with that same determination that had kept her going through every trial.
But that was before.
The years had changed them all, the ones who fought in the war. Lysander couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever find a way to lay his own ghosts to rest.
For now, though, he would focus on the present. The children. Draco. Family. The things that still kept him grounded.
As the laughter of the kids echoed in the background, Lysander let himself believe, just for a moment, that perhaps he wasn’t so alone after all.