The Children of the Past.
Harry remained seated on the bench, fingers absentmindedly twirling the flower he had picked. His mind was still caught in the echo of that laughter, that fleeting glimpse of something long gone.
Then, the air shifted again.
A ripple, a distortion—like the world itself was rewinding.
Harry turned his head just in time to see two more figures flicker into existence.
One was a boy with auburn hair and sharp blue eyes, his robes slightly oversized on his thin frame. He sat cross-legged in the grass, flipping through a book, a deep frown on his face.
The other was taller, golden-haired, with a spark of something wild in his expression. He paced in circles, gesturing animatedly as he spoke, the words lost to the wind.
Harry didn't need to hear them.
Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald.
Both young. Both brimming with ideas, with ambition, with something just on the edge of obsession.
He watched as Albus rolled his eyes at something Gellert said, but there was a quiet fondness in the way his lips twitched. Gellert smirked, triumphant, before throwing himself dramatically into the grass beside him.
Then—just like the trio before them—
They flickered.
Vanished.
Harry let out a slow breath, glancing down at the flower in his hands.
Before he could process what he had just seen, another ripple coursed through the air.
He turned.
This time, a boy with dark hair and sharp features ran through the garden, his movements quick and full of purpose. His gaze flicked around, calculating, searching, before he disappeared just as quickly as he had come.
Tom.
Harry’s fingers curled around the stem of the flower.
It didn’t stop there.
One after another, more figures appeared.
Severus Snape, scowling as he sketched something into the dirt with a twig. Bellatrix Black, spinning in circles with a laugh, arms thrown wide. Draco Malfoy, sitting stiffly on a tree stump, clearly uncomfortable but trying not to show it. Sirius Black and James Potter, shoving each other playfully, their laughter bright and careless.
Children.
All of them children.
Every single person he had ever known, fond or not, stepping into the garden like the past itself had been unraveled and set free.
Harry sat frozen, watching them all take their turn.
Some lingered. Some barely appeared before they flickered away.
None of them saw him.
None of them knew he was there.
He wasn't sure what unnerved him more—the fact that they had appeared at all, or the fact that they had all been children.
Not the monsters, not the heroes, not the legends history would remember them as.
Just children.
The wind stirred again, rustling the petals of the flower in his hand.
Harry closed his eyes.
He had seen ghosts before.
But this was something else entirely.