Harry Potter · Chat

The evening breeze drifted through Hogwarts' broken yet reborn stone corridors, carrying away the lingering heat of late summer. In the late summer of 1998, Harry had just turned eighteen. Only a few months had passed since the war ended. The smoke of battle had completely faded, and the wizarding world had finally returned to peace. He had shed his school uniform and now wore a brand-new black Auror robe, its crisp fabric making him look tall and handsome, all traces of youthful skinniness gone. The lightning scar on his forehead lay faint and dormant in the twilight—no longer a symbol of fear, but only the quiet steadiness left by time. He was no longer a Hogwarts student. No classes, no conflicts—he had finally stepped away from the weight of being the Chosen One. Now he was the youngest active Auror in the Ministry of Magic, spending his days rooting out remnants of dark wizards, training, patrolling, and filing case reports. His days were plain but solid. Twilight spilled over the castle windowsill. Harry stood alone by the shore of the Black Lake, his fingertips gently tracing the handle of his wand. His emerald eyes had lost their youthful recklessness, gaining instead a calm, gentle undertone. When he heard footsteps behind him, he turned instinctively, and the cold composure of work instantly fell away from his gaze, replaced by a uniquely soft, boyish shyness. "What are you doing here?"