Chapter Twenty One - A Mother's Love
Chapter Twenty One - A Mother's Love
“Where have you been?” she asked softly, her attention lingering on the lamp post outside, its warm glow illuminating the evening, casting shadows across the darkening sky.
Albus stopped in his tracks and looked over at her, watching the way her hands encircled a steaming cup of tea, fingers tightening, as though seeking comfort in its warmth.
“I just went for a walk,” Albus replied, keeping his tone flat as he took in his mother’s tired form.
“A long walk.” she replied simply. Yet there was something there, in her tone.
“I lost track of time.” His words came out like a reluctant confession, his eyes dropping from hers to the edges of the table, where his mother’s hands had tightened around her cup. It wasn't a lie; yet it wasn't the truth either.
She looked at him finally, a small, warm smile on her face. “You must be cold; come and have some tea with me. It’s a new Christmas blend.”
He quietly moved into their dinner room, and sat down in the seat before his mother—She flicked her wand, and another cup appeared, the kettle pouring steaming tea into the cup before him. The fragrant blend filled the room, laced with the faint aroma of spices.
“Thanks,” he said. She gave him a soft smile, and silence fell between them, her gaze once more found the window. No questions came, a silence not unusual, they had shared many moments just like this before—A break from the chaos around them, and once he had found these times special, one where he felt seen, understood. His mother never had acted like his silence had been an issue, his need for the quiet, like she understood it on some part; like she also found the silence sometimes needed. and in that silence, where only their breath and the old sounds of the quaking house could be heard, Their unspoken language had been something special, a space where he felt he belonged, loved, and truly seen.
His gaze flickered towards the teacup, its warmth warming his cold fingers and its aroma creating a comforting feeling.
“I just wanted to get away for a bit,” he murmured, his voice small, quiet, as if the very words might unravel something inside him.
His mother met him with a smile, warm and tender, the kind that seemed to envelop him in a soft cocoon of love. Her pupils widened, the dark abyss of them pulling him in, and for a moment, he felt as though he were lost in the depths of her gaze, drowning in the affection he once could always count on.
“I understand that,” she said, her voice gentle, more a suggestion than a command. “Just tell me next time?”
He nodded, the gesture automatic, as though that small action could return him to the simplicity of their connection. Her smile deepened, a quiet kind of contentment. She turned her gaze back to the window, lifting her cup to her lips with the delicate elegance that had always marked her movements.
And so they sat there, side by side, cocooned in an unspoken bond, the silence stretching between them like an old, familiar blanket. There was no need for words, no need to fill the air with incessant chatter. It was enough, this comfortable quiet, this shared solitude. Albus leaned back in his chair, the weight of it sinking into him, and for a fleeting moment, he felt himself breathe again. The air tasted sweeter here, unburdened, as though he could finally exhale.
But then, like a slow creeping fog, something unpleasant began to settle in—a gnawing unease that he couldn't shake. Guilt, sharp and cold, mingled with a quiet ache of loss, a grief that pressed against his chest, suffocating in its subtlety. It was the kind of grief that had no name, no clear face, only the realization that something precious had slipped through his fingers—Of change.
Just a few months had passed, and yet it felt like a lifetime had carved its mark on him. The moments that had once been his, that had always been freeing, grounding. One of the few moments that was only theirs, that had been special. He had been robbed of them, not by time, but by something within himself, something that had shifted so quietly, so irrevocably. He couldn’t pinpoint the cause—What had done it, what had changed it, could he blame the things that he had been through since he started Hogwarts—Or was he himself to blame?
For the distance. For the resentment. For the tension that grew between them, thick and unyielding. For destroying this moment—For ruining it, distorting it, letting it slip away. Emotions, raw and jarring, clawed at him from all directions, one voice screaming louder than the rest, telling him that he wasn’t to blame, that the fury he felt was justified. It was their fault—his parents, the bullies, his father. Especially his father—For shaping him into someone who felt this way, who burned with a fury he could neither name nor extinguish. A fury that had held no name, a fire that raged inside him, untamed and uncontrollable, consuming him. A fury that threatened to devour him whole, to ignite everything it touched. But there was something else; a flicker, small, insistent, fragile yet uncompromising, like a matchstick lit in a snowstorm—a flicker of fire that even the harsh cold winter winds could extinguish, the flicker fighting against a force much bigger, much greater—A flicker of reason, of understanding—that whispered truths he didn’t want to hear, truths he wasn’t ready to face, of things he had buried deep within, to afraid to face.
Was he not the one to blame?
Fawley’s words, so clear and forceful, resonated in his mind like a commandment. They had become his mantra, his guiding principle—a rule he turned to as a lifeline, as gospel, a compass, a god; “ We can’t control what’s done to us—but we can control how we react to it.”
“Don’t you like the tea blend?”
His mother’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, soft yet perceptive, her gaze lingering on his still-full cup. It was only then he realized the tea had grown cold, untouched.
He blinked. He had not realized how much time had slipped—His mind had wandered, much like it used to when he was younger. His gaze found hers, and for a moment, they seemed to think the same thing. A genuine smile crept onto his lips, mirroring hers.
He had been told—and he knew—that he shared his mother’s smile, her lips. But that smile, so familiar once, had become a stranger to him lately. Its sudden appearance felt almost too vulnerable—a crack in the carefully constructed walls he had built around himself.
“I’ve missed that smile,” she said, her gaze holding a soft, maternal warmth that seemed to cut through his defenses, exposing him. He knew the meaning of her words, words that almost felt cruel in their sincerity. His eyes dropped, and with that, the smile faded.
She was stripping him bare, peeling back the layers he had worked so desperately to maintain—and yet, in the depths of his heart, he craved it. The flicker within him seemed to roam freely now, melting the snow, the ice, the cold that had settled so deeply within his bones. It was as if the touch of her words, her gaze, could undo everything he had built.
“Do you think I’ve changed?” he asked, his voice nearly a whisper, vulnerable against his will, betraying a desperate need for her approval, for her love. His gaze remained fixed on the now-cold tea, the cup a poor reflection of his feelings—forgotten, abandoned. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.
Her voice, soft and melodic, seemed to carry a grace that enveloped him, though it was tinged with something bittersweet. “Yes and no.” He could feel her, shifting slightly, the way the words lingered between them. There was a warmth in her smile, a tenderness that made him feel both cherished and fragile. She continued, her tone more reassuring now, yet still carrying that undercurrent of something deeper. “Change is sometimes needed. It’s natural. But no matter how much you change, no matter how you change... you will always be my child. I will always love you. I will always see you as my little boy—the one who would hug me so tightly, the boy—” She placed her hand gently over his, and the warmth of her touch spread across his cold fingers, a comfort he welcomed, even as it stirred something painful inside him. “My boy, who clung to my skirt with tiny fists, hiding behind me, as though I could shield him from everything. I can still see that boy, the one who would bury his face into my chest whenever the world became too much. That small boy who felt like mine, like an extension of me... like everything good.”
Her eyes met his, and he felt himself choking on something raw, something that seemed to lodge itself deep in his throat. His vision blurred, and tears welled in his eyes, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from hers. There was something in her eyes too—something that flickered, that burned with a kind of fire he didn’t fully understand, but so deeply longed to believe in.
His voice cracked, his hand shaking faintly beneath hers—beneath the warmth, he felt an overwhelming ache. There was a part of him that wanted to give in, to let himself be held, to once more be embraced by his mother, to retreat into her embrace once more, to hide from the world.
“Then why—” He began to speak his voice with such vulnerability the air almost seemed to crack, as his defenses crumbled, beneath the suffocating, freeing flood of his mother’s love. Laughter echoed from the hallway—bright, forceful, brutal in its intrusion. It shattered the fragile warmth, Instinctively, he pulled his hand back, feeling a sudden chill. an ache settling deep within crying for the loss of her touch, her warmth. Yet a warmth he knew; he couldn't afford. His arms quickly wiped his eyes, wiping away the wetness, the vulnerability.
Through the connected Hallway, his brother, father and Teddy strolled, their voices loudly filling the space brutally, taking everything with it as if the silence never stood a chance. Albus stood abruptly, his gaze fixed on anything but his mother, he turned and ran up the stairs, before the others made it into the dinner room.
His mother stood, her voice a gentle call to him, yet she did not follow. Instead, she sank back down, as though defeated, the weight of his departure pressing heavily on her. Her heart pounded in her chest, a flicker of grief visible in her eyes, a grief that could be seen by anyone who dared to look closely into those pretty brown eyes. The moment had shattered, the air changed—shifted to something colder, more distant. The quiet intimacy they had shared, so fragile, slipped through her fingers, leaving only a strained silence between them.
The distance that had grown so painfully familiar in their household was now more pronounced, thicker, like an invisible wall she could not reach. Albus had retreated, and with him, the space between them had expanded. She let her gaze fall from his back to his untouched cup of tea, its once comforting warmth now forgotten. Her eyes closed briefly, surrendering to the exhaustion that she had tried so hard to hide, to mask.
Before her other child, her husband, and Teddy entered the room, she allowed herself to feel it—the weariness, the ache, the sense of being so near yet so impossibly far from her son. She had reached out, tried to hold him, but he had slipped away, taking a piece of her heart with him.
A soft, sad smile tugged at her lips, bittersweet, filled with something tender yet mournful.
And yet, even as the household around her swelled with its usual noise, its laughter, its chaos, she clung to a fragile hope—a thought that refused to fade, even in the face of her pain. Albus had heard her. Somewhere deep within him, she knew he had heard the truth of her words, even if he hadn’t acknowledged them. Despite the ache that gnawed at her chest, she held onto the certainty that no matter how far he strayed, no matter the distance between them, Albus would always be her little boy.
++++
Harry’s hand felt strained beneath the quill. He had been reading and signing documents for hours now, and the worst part was that he was doing it at home. afterall, work didn’t wait as crime never seemed to take holidays. Reports of a new, supposed terrorist group had been increasingly frequent, with whispers that it might have ties to the New Traditionalist Party. They seemed to be planning something, fueling an atmosphere of tension and piling onto an already overworked department. Resources were stretched thin as they increased patrols in popular wizarding areas, with the threat level raised for potential holiday attacks. Suspicious reports and unusual movements were pouring in from all over the country, and coupled with a surge in disappearances over the past two years—Not to mention the Zabini’s suspected relation to the new traditional party, it felt like the calm before a storm. Harry hoped—nearly begged—that it was just paranoia born from his, Ron’ and Hermione’ wartime instincts, but the signs were too glaring to ignore. So, for now, they put in the extra hours, keeping their concerns within the Ministry, with the public blissfully unaware–Well except the Zabini debacle, which they couldn't keep out from the paper, the outrage and howlers he had gotten for that from pureblood families was simply outrageous–He was just doing his job.
Then there was the other issue: Albus. Daily Prophet reports had hinted at troubling rumours, and though Harry had long since learned to distrust the press, he knew how much the wizarding public seemed to trust it. He needed to get to the bottom of it, straighten the facts from the rumours, there was little change that there had been some actual dark magic in use, not only would Mcgonagall not let that happened, but his department hadn't even been requested, it was surely simply a prank gone wrong, or a bully dealing with a nasty—Though not illegal—Curse, otherwise an report would have been filed. He had decided to waiting, hoping that talking at home would be more comfortable than talking on a visit or through a letter.
A creeping dread gnawed at Harry. He and Ginny had been so preoccupied over the summer that there had been little time to focus on Albus. He’d noticed his son withdrawing more than usual, slipping into what he suspected was a depressive episode. It wasn’t entirely unusual—Albus had always been more introverted than his siblings, and Harry had told himself that was alright—Usually, it was alright.
But now, everything about Albus felt... off. Coupled with the unease in the wizarding world lately, Harry’s concern had begun to fester. Seeing Albus on the platform had only made it worse—Harry had felt his stomach drop.
Albus looked ill. His once golden tan had faded to a pale, almost sickly complexion. His face, once full of youthful roundness, had thinned alarmingly, making him look older than his years. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, a sight that painfully reminded Harry of himself at Albus’s age—though Albus carried it in a sharper, more polished way, a far cry from Harry’s ragged appearance back then. Still, it was like staring into a reflection of his own past or an old photograph came to life.
The weight loss struck Harry the hardest. Albus looked even worse than he had over the summer, and yet... there’d been no sign of this in his letters. No mention of struggles or stress, nothing from his siblings either. Lily and James had said nothing to suggest something was wrong. It didn’t sit right with Harry, not one bit.
They might not have noticed. It wasn’t uncommon for changes like these to go unnoticed when they happened gradually. After all, James and Lily had been with Albus all term; they might not have seen the subtle shifts in his appearance.
He needed to talk to James, see what his eldest could report. Was it something to do with Draco’s kid? Or the Slytherins? Harry’s jaw tightened. He knew the parents of those children weren’t particularly fond of him. The idea that Albus might have been the target of their ill will—some twisted form of revenge against him—made his blood boil.
His thoughts spiraled and for a fleeting moment, he imagined rounding up all those pureblood parents, tossing them into Azkaban, and throwing away the key. Better yet, let the Dementors have a feast. Harry snorted quietly at the absurdity of the image; Dementors in chairs hunched over a table, plates piled high with those self-important bigots bound and writhing, their outrage over the lack of etiquette greater than the terror of being served as the main course.
The fleeting humor did little to quench the anger simmering in his chest, an anger he couldn’t quite rationalize. Maybe it wasn’t even anything so dramatic. Maybe it was just Albus being his usual troubled self. Or puberty—was it that? When did that happen? James had been a bit of a late bloomer, come to think of it. Harry grimaced, recalling his own second year; At least Albus—no. Nobody had to deal with that. Not anymore. They had won the war. No child should have to face what they had.
Harry shook his head, trying to steer his thoughts away from the downward spiral. He felt the weight of his exhaustion pressing down on him, a deep, familiar ache. He sighed, not noticing the faint tremor in the objects on his desk as his magic rippled—an unconscious expression of the turmoil within. His magic had always had a mind of its own, and by now, he had mostly learned to accept it.
Closing his eyes, he tried to find a semblance of calm in the storm raging inside. But it wasn’t easy. How could it be?
The image of Ginny at the platform flickered in his mind like a ghostly echo. He had seen the silent alarm in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around Albus, the protective way she held him as if he were something delicate, fragile, something on the verge of breaking. Her gaze had found his in a flash, the unspoken concern passing between them. He hadn’t needed the eye contact to understand. It was in the faint change in her breathing, the subtle tension in her movements—that spoke that something was amiss.
A knock on the door broke through his thoughts, grounding him back in the present. Right.
Harry had summoned Albus to his study at eight o’clock—
He allowed himself a brief moment to release his exhaustion, a deep sigh slipping out before he pulled the mask back on. He needed to be steady, dependable, the kind of father his son could trust, depend on, an anchor in a storm, a patronus in a swarm of dementors.
But with Albus, it always felt like walking on eggshells. His son had an uncanny ability to say exactly the right thing—or perhaps the wrong thing—to derail him, to stir up old memories best left buried, to reopen wounds that had long since scarred over. Harry didn’t know how to handle it. He didn’t understand what had caused this shift in Albus: the guarded demeanor, the sharp words, the ever-present shadow of something darker.
Albus was loved. They had given him everything he could need, some might even say spoiled their children. Food, money, warmth—none of it had ever been an issue. Not like it had been for Harry growing up. And yet...
“Come on in,” Harry called out, his voice warm despite the turmoil beneath. He smiled as Albus stepped into the room, though the sight of him only deepened the ache in Harry’s chest, he wanted to hug him, hold him close, protect him from whatever troubles that seemed to drain him worse than any dementor.
“How have you been, Al?” Harry asked, his voice calm as he observed his son.
Albus moved with a practiced grace, one that seemed to have developed since starting at Hogwarts. There was something deliberate in his posture, something too composed for a boy his age. It reminded Harry uncomfortably of the purebloods who carried themselves with a quiet, almost imperious confidence. Harry couldn’t help but notice how his son kept his gaze averted, focusing on his upper chest or shoulders, never meeting his eyes directly. Another subtle habit he’d picked up from the Slytherins, no doubt.
“I’ve been well,” Albus replied evenly, his tone devoid of warmth but equally free of anything overtly negative. It was neutral—perfectly so—a response that offered no insight and left no room for probing.
Harry nodded, though his chest tightened at the sound of it. This tone had become his son’s default, even with family. Polite, detached, almost businesslike. It wasn’t what Harry wanted to hear, but he told himself it was fine. Ginny had reminded him time and time again that Albus was simply different—maybe even a little like Percy had been at that age.
And that was alright, wasn’t it?
Harry tried to give Albus a warm smile, though it felt a little forced even to himself. He hesitated, unsure how to start or how his son might react. Should he ease into this with small talk, or would that only make Albus retreat further?
“No need to stand! Come on, sit,” Harry said, his voice tinged with a small, hopeful laugh.
Albus nodded wordlessly, his movements deliberate yet reluctant as he sank into the chair opposite Harry. There was an air of detachment about him, a shield that seemed to grow thicker every time they spoke. Harry sighed, feeling the weight of the invisible wall between them.
“Al, is there something—” he began, trying to sound casual, though his own concern seeped into his voice.
“No. I’m fine. Just tired,” Albus interrupted, his tone flat, almost mechanical. It was an answer Harry had heard too many times before, so polished it felt rehearsed. And just like before, he knew it wasn’t the truth.
Harry leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. “I didn’t call you here to lecture you, Al—” he began again, carefully choosing his words, hoping to dispel the tension in the room.
“Then why am I here?” Albus replied curtly, his voice sharp and unfeeling, his expression blank.
"Al, I just wanted—" Harry began, then faltered, a familiar headache creeping up as frustration simmered beneath the surface. He stopped, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose in an effort to ground himself. "Sorry," he laughed tiredly, the sound hollow, an attempt to dissolve the tension that hung heavy in the room. "Work has been—" He hesitated, unsure whether to finish the thought or pivot. Instead, he said softly, "You know you can talk to me, right?"
For a fleeting moment, something flickered in Albus's expression—hurt, perhaps, or something more elusive. But it disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a practised, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
The sight sent a chill down Harry's spine, a deep and instinctive unease at how detached his son seemed.
Harry returned the smile, though his was genuine, tinged with an almost desperate yearning to bridge the growing chasm between them. “I missed you, you know,” he said, injecting as much warmth into his voice as he could muster.
This time, a flicker of something else crossed Albus's face—uncertainty, hesitation, or maybe even guilt. But just like before, he smothered it swiftly, leaving behind a mask of composure that felt eerily out of place on someone so young.
Harry’s stomach twisted. That flicker, however brief, told him everything he didn’t want to admit aloud. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
“I missed you too,” Albus said, the words precise but hollow, devoid of the warmth Harry had been hoping for. His tone was flat, transactional, and Harry couldn’t help but feel the sting of its emptiness.
He forced himself to accept it, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. Maybe his son just wasn’t expressive. Maybe that was simply who Albus was.
That was fine. It had to be fine.
But as Albus sat there, his posture poised yet distant, Harry couldn’t shake the vague, gnawing dread that something was slipping out of his reach—and he was powerless to stop it.
“I called you here to talk about the article,” Harry said, his voice steady but with a note of weariness he couldn’t quite hide.
“Article?” Albus repeated, his tone light with confusion, but the slight tightening of his posture betrayed him.
“Al, come on—” Harry started, trying to keep his patience, but the strain of the day let irritation slip into his voice.
“I genuinely don’t know which one you’re talking about,” Albus interrupted, his words clipped and detached, as if the entire conversation was already beneath him.
Harry took a steadying breath, forcing himself to stay calm. With a flick of his wand, he summoned a newspaper from the cabinet behind him. The paper floated through the air and dropped into Albus’s lap.
Albus unfolded it slowly, scanning the front page. The tightening of his jaw was the only reaction Harry could see, his irritation barely concealed.
“Tell me what happened,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly, his voice firm but measured.
“You think it was me?” Albus replied, his tone defensive yet still detached, as if the accusation didn’t really bother him–As if the offense was simply an act.
Harry’s patience faltered. He wanted his son to care, to react, to be something other than this impenetrable wall. “Al, you’ve told us they call you a Squib—”
“Oh, so now you remember that?” Albus cut him off sharply, a flicker of bitterness flashing in his voice. His face remained calm, his expression blank.
Harry groaned softly, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No—I… Albus, it’s fine—” he began, forcing his tone to soften, attempting to de-escalate.
“What’s fine?” Albus cut him off sharply, his voice low and challenging. “So you do think it was me?” Disbelief underpinned his words, but there was an edge that bordered on mockery.
“Who else—” Harry started, but stopped himself, realising too late that he was losing control of the conversation.
“Clearly some Muggle-born?” Albus said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Have you not kept up with the story?” The way he spoke—too sharp, too polished—reminded Harry of the purebloods who treated others as though they were dim-witted, beneath them.
Harry narrowed his eyes, immediately catching the deflection. “Albus, we both know that—” He paused, gathering himself, then leaned forward. His voice softened, though his frustration simmered beneath the surface. “Stop it, Albus. Just tell me what happened.”
Albus raised an eyebrow, his expression almost smug. “Jenkins got what he had coming,” he said, his tone casual.
Harry’s chest tightened, a flicker of hope sparking—until Albus added, “At least, that’s what the rumors say. Some Muggle-born took revenge.”
Harry exhaled sharply, the flicker extinguished. His eyes narrowed further as he leaned forward. “Don’t lie to me, Albus. I just want your side of the story; you’re not in any trouble,” he said, his voice calm but strained, trying desperately to hold onto the last threads of his patience.
Albus’s expression hardened, a wall slamming down behind his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, the words clipped, his tone defensive but resolute. “It wasn’t me.”
The silence that followed felt suffocating. It hung between them, heavy and unresolved, like a storm waiting to break. Harry watched his son, searching for some crack in his armour, but Albus gave him nothing—no regret, no vulnerability, not even a flicker of honesty.
Harry exhaled slowly, the futility of pressing further settling heavily over him. He could see it—the barriers going up, the quiet withdrawal. Pushing harder now would only solidify them.
Frustration coiled within him, rolling through his veins like a restless Bludger. He tightened his grip on the leather arms of his desk chair, willing himself to stay calm, though the magic simmering under his skin felt anything but.
“I believe you,” he said, managing a forced, tight smile. “You can leave if you—”
Albus nodded sharply, the smallest flicker of relief crossing his face as he quickly slipped out of the room, as if the very air had become too heavy to breathe. He was gone before Harry could even finish his sentence.
The moment the latch of the door clicked shut, Harry’s smile dropped, replaced by a barely-contained storm of emotion. His magic, wild and untethered, ripped through the room in a sudden surge, latching onto everything it touched. Objects rattled, papers flew, a framed photo shattered, glass scattering across the desk.
His hands found his hair, gripping it tightly as he fought to rein in the inferno within. His chest ached with a mix of exhaustion and helplessness, the same swirling emotions he could never seem to shake when it came to Albus. Why was it always like this? Why couldn’t he get through to him?
Slowly, his breathing evened out, and the magic calmed. Glancing around at the destruction, Harry took a steadying breath. Wordlessly, wandless, he repaired the room, restoring each broken piece with a familiar, practiced motion.
Once the room was as it had been, Harry let out a tired, bitter laugh, the sound echoing faintly in the now-pristine silence. He wiped a hand over his face, trying to push down the anger, the frustration, the pain that kept resurfacing with every interaction with his son. The bond they used to share, the trust that once came so easily—it had slipped away, and Harry had no idea how to repair it.
++++
Albus kept to his room, as if the walls could shield him from the chaos of his family. Their noise grated on him—loud, obnoxious, a constant buzzing in his skull, matching the tension simmering beneath his skin.
Since the confrontation in his father’s office over the article, things had only worsened. The quiet suspicion in their presence felt heavier, more suffocating, like a storm about to break. His father’s gaze lingered on him at every opportunity—stern, questioning, and unrelenting. It filled Albus with a dread that was sharp and personal, like a blade cutting closer to the bone.
His father knew. Albus was certain of it. The weight of his father’s piercing gaze was unbearable, a silent accusation. Worse was the magic. His father’s presence carried an oppressive power, a force that felt as though it could tear the truth from him. It had been suffocating during their last confrontation, almost breaking through his mental shields. Albus had to summon every ounce of focus to resist, to keep the truth buried beneath the surface. The compulsion to submit, to confess, had been overwhelming.
The fear that his defenses might not hold was enough to keep him away. Whenever his father tried to speak to him, Albus made excuses. He avoided dinners and only left his room when he was certain his father was elsewhere—preferably in his study.
Yet the calm at home was deceptive, a false lull that unsettled him further. His body and senses betrayed him, longing for the relaxation he had denied himself at Hogwarts. The constant fight-or-flight mode he had lived in during term had left him brittle, frayed at the edges, and now, as if with a will of its own, his body began to unravel—mentally and physically.
Exhaustion seeped into his bones, and his appetite turned ravenous. Yet, when he tried to eat, his body rebelled. Meat made him gag, his stomach rejecting it as though it were poison. Hogwarts had been a battlefield, but here—beneath the fragile safety of his childhood room—he felt the unraveling deep within, a force he could no longer hold back.
It felt like revenge, like a last-ditch rebellion from within.