Chapter Text
Harry had, somewhat naively, hoped that he’d never have to return to London again. Excluding day trips, of course – they were rather common. But long enough to stay the night? He’d thought for sure that one of them would perish first, and whether it were him, or the city, he didn’t truly mind.
The tea sat on his windowsill, probably already stone-cold. He didn’t care to check, staring fixated at the thick, golden sun filtering through the glass, catching on rays of dust falling like feathers through the air, only half-covering his mug, the rest devolved into shadow. He very decidedly did not look back down at the letter in his hands. He’d already read it three times. He would not be reading it again.
It crinkled under his fingers, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the taste of salt in the air. Shutting himself off from the rest of wizarding England had been a wonderful tactic so far, he’d thought. Worked out brilliantly. Of course, there were still those he kept in touch with, those he made an effort to visit at least twice a week, or came to see him. Hermione and Ron, mainly, who would stumble from their shared flat every few days with takeout from that nice Chinese place down their street. The Weasleys. He’d never missed a Christmas with them. Neville, sometimes. Luna, too.
Andromeda. Teddy.
Sighing, he forced himself to stand, carefully folded the letter, and tucked it away neatly into the inner pocket of Sirius's old jacket. No, he had hoped never to return to London again. Not for any length of time. Still, he had been wrong about many things. This was just another on a steadily-growing list.
He vanished his mug with a flick of his hand, pushing away from the rickety old wooden table, stepping through into the glass sun-room. He made a beeline for the desk, floorboards warm under his feet; the day bright and welcoming. Despite the hot, mid-June sun beating down hard on the back of his neck, an undeniable heaviness settled deep in his stomach. He’d expected this. He’d been expecting it. Nothing could last forever. And still.
After fumbling around with the drawers for a minute, he tugged them open, cursing as the second one down jarred momentarily. Again. He’d already had a stern word with the thing last week, and he was half-convinced it was borderline sentient, and borderline stubborn.
But he didn’t have time to deal with that right now. Forcing it open, he grabbed a crumpled quill, almost tearing the roll of parchment he took with it as his hands shook, settling down at the desk.
He hadn’t thought he would return to London again.
But now?
Now, he had a letter to write.