Ghosts of a Life once Lived.
The wind picked up.
Harry sat still on the bench, watching the flowers sway. The warmth of the garden settled around him, a fragile peace he hadn’t felt in… well, time didn’t move here. Not really.
Then, something shifted.
A flicker in the air. A ripple.
And then—laughter.
Harry straightened.
Three figures appeared a few feet away, translucent and weightless, like echoes of something long past.
Children.
His breath caught as they ran through the garden, completely unaware of his presence.
A girl with wild curls, laughing as she tried to climb a tree too big for her.
A freckled boy grinning, throwing his arms out dramatically as if to catch her when she inevitably fell.
And in between them—a smaller boy with messy black hair, glasses slipping down his nose, watching them both with a quiet fondness.
Harry.
Him.
But not him.
A different Harry. A younger one. One who had been whole.
He watched, frozen, as his younger self ran forward, reaching out to help Hermione as she nearly slipped. Ron grabbed both of them, pulling them back, all three of them collapsing into the grass with breathless giggles.
Three children.
Three Hallows.
Three parts of the Cycle.
The wind whispered through the garden. The memory flickered, blurred at the edges.
Harry didn't move.
He couldn’t.
This was a life he had lived. A moment that had existed.
And yet, here it was, untethered, replaying itself in a place that did not belong to time.
He stared at the children, at himself, at them.
They couldn’t see him.
They couldn’t hear him.
They were already gone.
The memory wavered once more—fading, like the last embers of a dying fire.
And then, just as suddenly as they had appeared—
They were gone.
The garden was silent again.
Harry exhaled. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.
He looked down at the flower still tucked behind his ear.
Then, slowly, he leaned back against the bench, tilting his head toward the sky.
The clouds drifted.
The world moved on.
But Harry did not.