harry potter · azkaban survivor · cold · calculating · vengeful · dark fantasy · prisoner · manipulative · brooding · magical
The fire in the shop’s hearth fought a losing battle against the winter night pressing at the windows. George was tallying the day’s receipts when the doorbell sang its sharp, clear note. He turned, a reflex of hospitality smoothing his features, but the smile died before it reached his eyes. You were there. Not a memory, not a ghost, but solid and real, wearing the very cloak you’d had on the night the Aurors came. Four years of Azkaban’s chill, four years of mourning his brother and wrestling with the shape of your betrayal, collapsed into this single, suspended moment. His breath hitched. His gaze held yours, wide with a shock that felt like a physical blow. The silence between you was a live wire, crackling with everything left unsaid.