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It’s probably just a little bit concerning that Harry’s going through this little shack now. He has no reason to, really. He was just here to pick up some weird mushroom subtype Rose wanted for her birthday, when he saw it—a small, crumbling thing tucked away at the edge of the meadow, half-swallowed by the forest.
It's abandoned, clearly. No sign of life. The roof, which might have once been red, has faded to a dull, washed-out pink, and the wooden boarding is corroded, peeling away in long, curling strips. The porch steps sag under the weight of time. A single black light pole stands by the entrance, its base carved with stars, silver paint chipping away.
That’s what gets him near the door in the first place.
And the door—it's pretty . Not something he’d expect here, in a forgotten place like this. There’s a small mural painted on it, delicate but weathered: a black dog standing in a field of pale flowers. Lilies, Harry thinks. He isn’t sure. He isn’t much of a florist.
He pushes the door open. The house sighs. The wood shifts, groaning under the weight of years untouched. And the air—
Harry reaches out. Feels it.
Static. It’s a stasis spell.
Something is holding this place still. The entire shack is wrapped in a stasis spell, an old one. The magic presses against his skin, not hostile, not welcoming—just waiting. And very, very old.
Now, Harry is really interested.
He steps inside. There are four rooms, as far as he can tell—a bedroom, a kitchen, a small living area, and a space that might have once been a study. Books are everywhere, spilling from shelves onto the floor, stacked in piles on every available surface. The rugs are mismatched but bright, bringing warmth to the dim room.
And the chairs—Harry stares at them. They almost make him laugh.
One is short and stout, covered in worn red-and-gold canvas, clearly well-loved. The other is tall, elegant, a deep chocolate brown. Two wildly different styles, shoved together like they belonged.
A book is open on the red chair, a Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook. There’s handwriting in the margins—thick, bold strokes of ink arguing with the printed text.
—
"Whatcha reading?"
"Alchemy in the Modern World," another voice responds, absentmindedly.
"Is it interesting?"
"Rather."
"More interesting than me?"
A soft laugh.
—
Harry blinks. The air is still. The voices are gone.
They might be effects of the stasis spell. After all, Harry has never known the effects of a prolonged stasis.
The kitchen is no better. It’s a nightmare of clashing colors—pink elephants on the wallpaper, a mural of some kind of wolf or dog painted messily in the center of the wall, framed by yellow tile counters.
The spice rack catches his eye—rows of carefully labeled glass jars, the contents inside preserved unnaturally fresh. Two different styles of writing mark the labels: one in messy scrawl, barely legible, and the other in neat, looping cursive.
There are books here, too. Mostly cookbooks.
—
"This is ridiculous. We can’t afford cinnamon."
"You’ll thank me when you’re eating apple tarts instead of that burnt rubbish you call breakfast."
"I’ll end up making them, anyway, you git."
"Shut up, you love me."
—
Harry exhales. His hands tighten around the counter’s edge.
Something is off.
The air hums with something almost alive, something lingering. The spell has been here for too long.
He is almost afraid to check the bedroom.
But he does.
The bed is unmade, the sheets tangled as if someone had only just left them. There’s a woolen blanket folded neatly at the foot of it, frayed at the edges but still holding its shape. The walls are bare except for one thing:
A single, old Gryffindor scarf, draped over the headboard, and a leather jacket.
Harry steps forward and reaches for the bedside drawer, which is made of red-colored wood.
It sticks. He pulls harder, and it slides open with a reluctant groan. Inside, there’s not much—just a few loose pieces of parchment, some with the same scrawly handwriting and some with the neat cursive. A broken quill. A deck of cards. Some cigarettes. A box.
Harry picks it up, opening it.
Inside is a plain gold ring, a small moon carving etched into its surface.
He snaps the box shut.
Just as he’s about to close the drawer and forget about this house, two small photos catch his eye, just below the ring box.
The first is of four boys, grinning, arms thrown around each other. It’s a magical photo, moving with the smiles of the four boys, but their faces are blurred. Perhaps the effect of the stasis spell, warping things over time.
The second is a polaroid, framed in white. It doesn’t move.
His fingers hover over the polaroid, just for a second. Then, carefully, he picks it up. His breath catches.
A much younger Sirius, shoulder-length hair glistening under the sun, a leather jacket thrown over his frame. He’s leaning against the black light pole outside, one hand tangled in Remus’s hair, the other curled tight in his sweater. Remus is laughing into the kiss, caught between affection and amusement, frozen in time.
The stasis spell hasn’t touched it.
Harry stares. He doesn’t move. His fingers press against the edge of the photo, as if grounding himself.
The house exhales.
The spell—old, aching—flickers. The air shifts, and for the first time, Harry feels it—how empty the place really is. How long it has been waiting.
—
"Sirius, we have to go! Dumbledore called us for the raid!"
Remus is moving too fast, shoving scarves and wands and spell books into bags.
"Remus… we’re not going to come back here, are we?"
Remus stills. Sirius is sitting in his chair, flipping through a cookbook, shoulders hunched.
"We’re never going to be back in this shack, Remus. We’re leaving this—this blissful thing behind. For a war."
Sirius looks up, eyes glistening. "Is it awful of me that I don’t want to?"
Remus touches his cheek. "We’ll come back, Sirius. Believe it."
Sirius swallows. "But we won’t."
Remus smiles. Sirius knows that smile. He’s seen it a hundred times before—knows what it means.
"Alright, you stupid little git," Remus laughs, picking up his wand. "Statisse."
The air around them flashes blue.
Everything stops. The curtains freeze mid-sway. The lights stop flickering. The pages hold their breath.
Remus kisses Sirius once.
"When we come back, it’ll be exactly the same."
—
Harry leaves the house. But he takes the photo with him.
Draco finds it, once. He doesn’t tell Harry.
Teddy finds it years later. He holds it up, bright-eyed, curious. "Who are these men?"
Harry doesn’t answer. He just tells Teddy that he’s going to take him out for ice cream.
—
Harry visits the shack once, many years later. It looks even more abandoned now, the roof is almost crumbling. He will have to be careful when he goes inside.
The stasis spell has held up remarkably, but it is slowly withering away. He notices the frayed edges of the books, and the spices have become nothing but dust now – the cinnamon is missing. He ignores how the chairs look slightly askew, like someone has just left, how the curtains are billowing gently in the wind. He enters the bedroom quickly, picking up the now frayed leather jacket and the scarf, and opens the drawer.
The ring box is not there. Harry leaves.
When he reaches home, he meets Teddy in the foyer.
Teddy’s practically glowing, breathless with excitement. "Uncle Harry, Victoire proposed." He lifts his hand, grinning. "I said yes." A smiling Victoire stands beside him.
Harry lets out a quiet breath. His eyes flicker to Teddy’s hand.
The gold ring gleams softly—small, plain, with a moon carved into its surface. He looks at Victoire’s ring finger and sees a gold one with a star. He smells a cinnamon apple tart in the kitchen.
He smiles, and shakes his head.