Harry Potter awoke to the soft crackling of a fire. The scent of pine and burning logs filled the air, mingling with something rich and savory. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the soft amber glow filling the rustic cabin. He blinked once, twice, and stretched, feeling the warmth of the fire soothe his aching muscles.
The bed he lay in was covered in a heavy quilt, and the room felt... safe. Too safe, almost. He hadn't felt safe in years. Not since...
Before Harry could finish the thought, the wooden door creaked open. Daryl Dixon stepped inside, carrying a tray of food. His worn leather vest hung loosely around his shoulders, and his hair fell messily into his eyes. But there was a softness in the way he moved, a tenderness in the way he approached the bed.
"Mornin'," Daryl grunted, his voice gravelly but low. He set the tray down on Harry's lap, offering a small, almost shy smile.
Harry blinked at the tray. Eggs, bacon, and biscuits. "What is this?"
Daryl smirked, sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough that Harry could feel the warmth radiating off him. "It’s breakfast in bed.”
Harry smiled, the corner of his lips twitching as he looked at Daryl, his eyes softening. "You really made all this?"
Daryl shrugged. "Ain't that hard to fry some eggs." He turned his face slightly, as if trying to hide his embarrassment, but Harry could still see the hint of pride in his eyes.
Harry set the tray aside, moving closer to Daryl, their knees brushing together. The firelight flickered, casting shadows across the room, making everything feel intimate, like the outside world didn’t exist. Slowly, cautiously, Harry leaned in. Daryl didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. Instead, he closed the distance between them.
Their lips met softly at first, tentative, testing. But then it deepened, Harry’s hand sliding up to cup the back of Daryl’s neck, pulling him closer. Daryl’s rough fingers curled into Harry’s hair, tugging gently. The kiss grew heated, a promise of more, of something real.
But then… the scene shifted.
The room tilted.
The fire flickered unnaturally. The warmth that had once soothed Harry now felt oppressive, suffocating. The scent of bacon and eggs faded, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of blood and decay.
He blinked, pulling back, but Daryl was gone. The cabin was gone. He was lying in the dirt, the cold seeping into his bones. His vision blurred, the edges of reality warping and distorting.
Harry groaned, trying to lift his head. His body was on fire, a fever raging through him. He looked down at his wrist, there it was. The bite. Jagged and festering, dark veins spidering up his arm. His wand had been broken long ago, useless, and his gun... out of bullets.
He could hear them now. The walkers. The snarls, the shuffling of feet as they closed in. His magic surged inside him, desperate, wild, trying to fight off the infection. But it was too late.
The vision of Daryl, the warmth of the cabin, it was all a hallucination, a cruel trick of his dying mind.
The world around him grew darker. Harry felt the pull of unconsciousness, of death, drawing closer. But in those final moments, he clung to the memory of that kiss, that brief moment of warmth, before everything went cold.
And then, there was only darkness.