Ghosts of Love.
The halls of Hogwarts had not changed. Not truly.
Students bustled past, books clutched to their chests, laughter spilling into the air like echoes of a past he could no longer touch. Candles flickered overhead, the soft glow of magic casting long shadows against the stone walls.
Harry walked, unseen, unnoticed.
And then he saw them.
A boy and a girl pressed close in the dim light of an alcove, their foreheads touching, a private world existing between them. She whispered something, and he smiled, tilting her chin up before pressing a kiss to her lips. A simple, human moment.
Harry stopped.
Love. Affection. Human connection. What was the point of it?
He had tried once. Eons and eons ago. Back in the mother universe—the one where he had belonged, or at least, where he was meant to.
Ginny.
They had tried. After the war, after the blood had dried and the echoes of screaming had begun to fade. She was fire and strength, and he had wanted to love her the way she deserved. But there had been too much. Too many ghosts between them. Too many wounds that never healed, only scarred over, aching when the weather turned.
It hadn’t lasted.
It couldn’t.
His thoughts drifted.
Ron and Hermione.
They had made it work.
Hermione had become Minister for Magic—of course she had. Her name was written into the bones of the world, an inevitability shaped by will and intelligence. Ron, ever the balance, the grounding force, had taken a quieter joy. A Quidditch supply shop. Something simple. Something real.
They had married.
And when Harry had one day simply turned invisible—when he had slipped between the folds of existence, becoming a relic even time had forgotten—he had watched.
Watched them grow, watched them live, watched them bring children into a world that no longer knew his name.
So many children.
And yet, even then, Harry had felt nothing. No longing, no regret, no jealousy. Just a distant, quiet knowing that whatever it was they had—whatever it was that made people crave love, crave companionship—had long since slipped from his grasp.
Now, in this world, he was a shadow. A name written in ink that had long since faded.
The couple in the alcove giggled, lost in each other, lost in the moment.
Harry turned away.
It didn’t matter.
It never did.