Returning To The Church.
The moment Harry exited 9¾, the weight in his chest grew heavier. He clutched the strap of his bag, eyes scanning the station for a familiar figure. It didn’t take long.
Sister Maria stood near the edge of the platform, her hands clasped in front of her, robes neatly pressed. When her eyes met his, they softened.
"Harry," she said gently.
A lump formed in his throat. He gave a small nod and walked toward her.
She reached out, briefly placing a hand on his shoulder, the warmth of it grounding him. "Welcome home."
Home.
Harry forced himself to nod again. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
The ride back to the church was quiet. Sister Maria asked him how school had been, and he gave vague, careful answers. It was fine. Yes, he liked it. No, there weren’t any problems.
She didn’t pry.
She never did.
When they arrived, the large stone church loomed in front of him, its silhouette stark against the setting sun. It wasn’t ominous in itself, not like Hogwarts’ Forbidden Forest or the depths of the castle’s dungeons.
But she was here.
Waiting.
The moment he stepped through the heavy wooden doors, he was met with warmth. The soft glow of candlelight flickered in the halls, and the scent of aged paper and incense filled the air. The other nuns were there, smiling, welcoming him back with kind words.
“Harry, dear, you’ve grown!”
“It’s good to see you again.”
“You must be exhausted—come, let’s get you settled.”
It was almost enough to distract him. Almost.
Harry gave small smiles, murmured polite responses, and let them fuss over him, but inside, his nerves twisted tighter with every step he took deeper into the church.
Because the warmth of their greetings, the safety of the flickering candles, the gentle hum of whispered prayers—it wouldn’t last.
Not when night fell.
Not when he was alone.
The visions had been bad enough. The dreams—if they were dreams—had haunted him at Hogwarts, but there, she had been distant, separated from him by miles of enchanted stone.
Now, there was nothing between them.
The walls of the church would do nothing to keep her away.
Harry barely registered being led to his old room, barely noticed the way Sister Maria lingered at the door, as if debating whether to say something more.
He only nodded, muttered a thank you, and shut the door behind him.
The room was exactly as he had left it. Small, with a modest bed, a wooden dresser, and a tiny cross hanging on the wall.
Harry set his bag down and sat on the bed, his fingers absently reaching into his pocket.
The rosary beads.
They were ice-cold.
He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily.
Night was coming.
And so was she.