Shoulders heavy, Harry dragged himself back to his house, his mother's disappointed face etched sharply in his memory. That look—full of quiet hurt—hung over him like a storm cloud. It wasn't just guilt; it felt like a weight he couldn't shrug off, pressing down harder with every step.
Inside, the silence swallowed him whole. Regret clung to the walls, thick and unmoving. "Brilliant, Potter," he muttered under his breath. "Really outdid yourself this time." He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the sagging couch. It welcomed him like an old friend but somehow felt accusatory, like even it was tired of his mistakes.
He stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the gnawing voice in his head. Ron and Hermione's words floated back to him—not real ones, just echoes of past warnings, reminders that choices always came with consequences. And he'd made the wrong one.
His eyes shut tightly, as if darkness could protect him from the truth. But the guilt didn't go anywhere. If anything, it grew—thicker, heavier, as if it had roots now, anchoring him in place.
Then—hoot! A sudden, sharp sound pierced the silence. Harry blinked, jolted upright. An owl zipped in through the open window, flapping wildly around the room before landing clumsily on the arm of the couch. Pigwidgeon. Of course.
The tiny owl looked far too pleased with himself, wings still twitching like he hadn't quite run out of excitement. A rolled-up letter was tied to his leg.
Harry untied it quickly.
Harry,
I need your help—now. Come to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley as soon as you can. Fred and George roped me into "helping" sort products in exchange for galleons. I'm beginning to think the payment part was a lie. I'm stuck here until you come rescue me.
I used Pig instead of Hedwig this time—he flew off before I could even attach the letter properly. That ridiculous owl. Hopefully he still makes it to you.
See you soon, I hope.
—Ron
Harry couldn't help it. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The thought of Ron—red-faced, flustered, probably chasing Pigwidgeon through the shop while dodging joke wands and rogue fireworks—made a laugh bubble in his chest.
The image was absurd, ridiculous, and exactly what he needed. For the first time that day, the heaviness in his chest lifted just a little.
He placed the letter on the table with a soft thud and stood. Maybe this was the universe's way of telling him to get out of his own head for a while. Ron had begged him to visit the shop for ages. Maybe it was time.
Harry walked to the bathroom, peeling off the day like old clothes. He'd change. Clean up. Head to Diagon Alley. Maybe he couldn't fix everything, not right away—but he could start by showing up.
And maybe, just maybe, laughter would be enough for now.
Lily rubbed her eyes, smearing the exhaustion deeper into her skin. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, and the flickering lamp made her paperwork look like it was breathing—mocking her with each rustle and flutter. She blinked hard, trying to focus, but it was no use. The report she'd bled herself into now felt like a cruel joke, torn apart not by criticism but by Harry. Always Harry.
One interruption. One mistake. And just like that, everything unravelled.
She sucked in a breath, hoping to steady herself, but the air in the office was thick and bitter, heavy with disappointment. It clung to her like dust in a forgotten attic. She reached for the report with trembling fingers, then crushed it slowly—page by page—and shoved the remains deep into her drawer like a body she never wanted to unearth.
The door creaked open with a dramatic flair, and Arthur stepped in, grinning like he didn't know the world was crumbling.
"Did you get the approval?" he asked, voice too bright for the dimness of the room.
"Almost." Her words were clipped and cold. "Harry made sure of that."
Arthur tilted his head. "Harry? He came here?"
Lily's jaw tightened. "To the meeting. Spent the entire morning moaning about my 'absence' or whatever personal crisis he cooked up this time. I don't even know what he wanted. I just know I lost everything I worked for because he couldn't wait one bloody day."
She rubbed her temple, where a dull throb was starting to build. "I'm so tired, Arthur. I can't keep untangling myself from him."
Arthur stepped closer, concern replacing the cheer in his eyes. "What exactly happened?"
"Why are you here?" She cut in, voice sharper than she meant. "You didn't come just to ask about my cursed meeting."
He hesitated, then offered a gentler smile. "No. I came to see how you were holding up. You've looked like death lately—more than usual, I mean."
A flicker of warmth brushed her chest. "Thanks," she muttered. "I appreciate it."
"But also," he said, eyes glinting, "I've got something to tell you. About the silver dagger we looked into yesterday."
That pulled her up short. "What about it?"
Arthur lowered his voice, as if the shadows were listening. "It's not a relic. Not really. It's a weapon. Cursed. Deadly. One cut, even a scratch, and no spell or potion will save you. It's like it… drinks the magic from inside you."
Lily felt a chill slither down her spine. Images flashed—she and Arthur bent over books, dust motes dancing like spirits in the air. Back then, the dagger had been curious. Now it felt like a secret that should've stayed buried.
Arthur pulled out a scrap of parchment and a quill, scribbling furiously. "I think I know where we can find more about it—hold on—"
The ink bottle wobbled, then tipped. Thick, black liquid spilt like spilt blood across the parchment and desk.
"Merlin's arse!" Arthur cursed, backing away as the stain spread, dark and creeping.
Lily stared at the ink blot like it had a mind of its own. Then, against her better judgement, she laughed. Just once. Dry and low. "And that's why I stick to self-inking quills."
She reached for her wand, the weight of it grounding her. "Hold still," she murmured. With a flick and a whispered spell, shimmering light swept across the table, swallowing the mess like a gentle tide.
Arthur let out a breath. "You make that look easy."
Lily offered a ghost of a smile, but her thoughts drifted back to the failed report, to Harry's interruption, and to the dagger. She was tired of things falling apart. But maybe—just maybe—this wasn't all pointless.
"Arthur," she said slowly, her heart caught between doubt and something like hope, "what if we followed this lead together? Found out the truth behind the dagger?"
His eyes lit up like stars winking awake. "You mean it?"
"I do," she said, and for the first time all day, she meant it. "Let's dig deeper. See where this twisted thing leads."
Arthur grinned, the ink-stained parchment forgotten between them. "I know just the place to start."
Harry stepped into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and immediately forgot every single depressing thing that had ever happened to him—which, frankly, was a long list. The shop was a living explosion of colour, noise, and questionable safety standards. Shelves sagged under the weight of ridiculous inventions, something behind the counter was actively shrieking, and a cloud of glitter drifted by like it had somewhere urgent to be.
Ron practically sprinted ahead, knocking into a stand of tap-dancing teacups. "Harry! Over here! Look!" he yelled, holding up something that looked like a furry rope.
Harry ducked under a sign reading "Laughs Guaranteed or Your Money Back! (We're Not Giving You Your Money Back)" and joined him. "What's that?" he asked, already grinning.
"Extendable Ears," Ron said proudly, holding them up like he'd discovered gold. "You put one end in, and the other goes around corners. You can eavesdrop on anyone. Anyone!"
Harry took one. "It's furry. Why is it furry?"
"Why not?" Ron said with a shrug. "Fred says it improves audio quality."
Harry wasn't sure that made sense, but honestly, nothing in here did, and he kind of loved it. He imagined using them on Snape and immediately pictured the poor ear catching fire from sheer bitterness.
They wandered farther into the madness, past a pyramid of Canary Creams (with a live canary perched proudly on top), a box labelled "Decoy Detonators: May Contain Unexplained Explosions," and a sign that read: "Try Our Nosebleed Nougat—Now With Extra Bleed!"
Harry's eyes landed on Fred and George behind the counter, looking like chaos incarnate in matching dragon-skin waistcoats that were either a fashion choice or a dare gone too far. They handed out products, jokes, and the occasional explosion like it was all perfectly normal.
Harry felt something warm stir in his chest. Pride? Jealousy? Maybe just gas from that sketchy snack Ron gave him earlier. But really, the twins had done it. They'd taken jokes and turned them into an empire. It made his chest ache, in the good way.
"Oi, you two!" Fred called. "You're not here to loiter. You're honorary staff now!"
"We pay in glory and leftover sweets," George added.
"Mostly the leftover sweets," Fred whispered conspiratorially.
Ron grabbed a stack of Skiving Snackboxes like it was the most important mission of his life. "Let's do this, Harry. Shelf duty!"
Harry tried to look serious. "I trained my whole life for this."
They got to work, lining up boxes designed to make you vomit convincingly, faint on cue, or develop a sudden nosebleed. "These should be in hospitals," Harry muttered, placing a box labelled 'Fever Fudge' next to something called 'Puking Pastilles'.
"Think of all the excuses we never needed to do homework," Ron said wistfully. "What a waste of youth."
George strolled over juggling a rubber chicken with wings, a squeaky gnome, and what appeared to be a haunted kazoo. "Cheers for the help, lads. We're swimming in orders. Honestly, I'm not sure if we're geniuses or a public hazard."
"Bit of both, probably," Harry said.
George gave an approving nod and dropped the haunted kazoo, which promptly let out a long, mournful moan. Fred, nearby, shot him a look. "If that thing starts singing again, I'm hexing it into next week."
Harry turned to them, genuinely impressed. "This is seriously brilliant, though. You two have outdone yourselves."
Fred puffed out his chest. "We aim to delight and mildly terrify."
George grinned. "Also, explode. That's important."
They disappeared into the crowd, still cracking jokes, and Harry felt lighter than he had in weeks. For once, the world wasn't all doom and bad wizards. It was just jokes, flying sweets, and the feeling that maybe things could be okay for a while.
Even if a rogue Nosebleed Nougat did explode in someone's pocket on the way out.
Harry paused, resting his hand on a box of Fanged Frisbees, watching Fred and George weave through the crowd. Laughter burst from every corner of the shop, but it wasn't overwhelming. It was warm. Alive. It reminded him of something he couldn't name—something he missed.
There was comfort. This shop, loud and silly as it was, had a pulse. It felt like a place where things made sense. Where you could breathe.
He turned back to the shelf, lining up the boxes, trying to keep his hands busy. But just as he reached for the next one, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.
He turned.
Ron stood there, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet, his whole face lit up like he'd swallowed a sparkler.
"Harry," he whispered urgently, nodding toward the window, "I think that's your mum."
Harry blinked. "What?"
Ron pointed, arm trembling with barely contained excitement. "Out there. Look."
Harry stepped closer to the glass, squinting. At first, the street was just a blur of colour and movement. But then—his heart stopped.
There she was.
Lily stood just across the street, sunlight catching in her hair, setting it ablaze like copper. She moved gracefully, her robes swaying as she paused outside Quality Quidditch Supplies. She leaned closer to the glass, peering in, her lips curling into a soft, familiar smile.
Harry's breath caught. "It… it really is her."
She looked so calm. So normal. As if she belonged here among the crowd. As if she hadn't just completely disarmed him by existing.
"What's she doing here?" Harry asked softly, pressing his fingers to the window.
Ron grinned. "Isn't it obvious? Birthday gift."
Harry turned to look at him. "You think?"
"Come on, mate," Ron said, practically glowing. "She's outside a Quidditch shop. You're only the best flier in our year. It all adds up."
Harry wanted to believe it. He really did. His heart swelled at the thought—his mum noticing him play, remembering his birthday, picking something out just for him. It was everything he'd ever wanted.
But…
"She's never really said anything," Harry murmured.
Ron blinked. "Said what?"
"That she's proud. Or… that I'm good at flying. Or anything, really. I mean, she's nice, but…"
He trailed off, chewing the inside of his cheek. It felt wrong, voicing it. Like admitting something that was supposed to stay buried.
"She is proud," Ron said quickly. "She has to be. Look at you."
Harry didn't answer. He turned back to the window, watching as Lily shifted her bag to one arm and stepped into the shop. Something about the way she moved made his chest ache.
"I dunno," he said quietly. "Sometimes it feels like I'm still trying to earn it."
Ron frowned. "Earn what?"
"Her approval. Her attention. I know it's stupid." He gave a shaky laugh. "I just… I always feel like I'm waiting for her to really see me. Like, really see me."
Ron didn't reply right away. He just stood beside Harry, watching the door across the street.
"I think she sees more than you think," Ron finally said. "She's your mum."
Harry nodded, but his stomach was still tight.
Then, the door to the Quidditch shop swung open.
Lily stepped out, her cheeks flushed, her hair a little windblown. She clutched a bag to her chest, and something inside bulged awkwardly. She looked pleased—like she'd found exactly what she was looking for.
Harry's breath hitched.
Ron leaned in. "That's definitely for you."
"What if it's not?" Harry said quickly, too quickly. "What if it's for someone else? Or a friend? Or—"
"Harry," Ron interrupted, "come on. Look at her face."
Harry did. Lily was smiling softly to herself, the kind of smile you only made when thinking of someone you loved.
His heart clenched.
"I want to go out there," he whispered. "I want to ask her what it is. Just… see her up close."
"So let's go!" Ron urged, nudging him.
But Harry didn't move.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "If I ask, it'll ruin it. I want her to give it to me because she wants to. Not because I caught her."
Ron considered that, then nodded. "Yeah. Makes sense."
They stood there for another minute, watching as Lily disappeared into the crowd. The bag in her hand bounced lightly with each step.
Harry's eyes stayed on that bag until it vanished completely. His chest was still tight, but it was a different kind of tight now. Hopeful. Scared. Alive.
Maybe she had seen him. Maybe this time, he wouldn't have to wonder.
Lily glanced at the clock above the Auror Headquarters reception desk. Six o'clock. The ticking echoed in the stillness around her, sharp against the silence that had replaced the usual hum of voices and shuffling papers. Everyone else had gone. The office, once filled with purpose and motion, now felt hollow. She stood there for a moment longer, not quite ready to leave.
The windows glowed with the soft light of early evening, and for some reason, that made it harder. The day had slipped by unnoticed—another one lost to reports, briefings, and the quiet desperation to prove herself. She moved toward the lift, her heels clicking faintly on the floor.
Inside the lift, a man was waiting. Older, dressed in a frayed black suit, with a fedora that sat crooked on his head. His eyes lit up when he saw her, and he smiled—genuine, unbothered by formality. His face was lined but not hardened. There was a softness in him, something she couldn't quite name.
Lily offered a polite smile back and stepped inside. The doors closed, sealing them into the small space. The lift groaned softly as it began its slow descent.
She could feel the weight of the day pressing down again—thoughts piling up like folders on her desk. Reports still unfinished. Raids not made. Promises to herself that she hadn't kept.
"You look like you've been carrying something heavy," the man said, his voice low and warm, like it belonged to a different time.
The observation startled her. "Do I?" she replied, keeping her tone even, though her pulse jumped.
He didn't push. Just smiled, a little wistful. "People wear their worries. Yours are sitting right on your shoulders."
Lily crossed her arms loosely, unsure why she didn't just dismiss him outright. He was a stranger. But his words had settled in her chest. She looked down at the floor.
"I don't talk about personal things with strangers," she said, trying to sound distant. In truth, she wasn't sure she could talk about it with anyone.
He nodded, as if he understood. "That's fair. But sometimes it's easier with someone who doesn't know you."
The silence returned, but it was different now. Less empty. A space opening, inviting something out.
She sighed. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke. "I have a son. Harry. He's a teenager, and he's… trying. He wants time with me. He's asked for it. But I keep pushing it back. Telling myself I'm too busy. That work matters too."
The man listened, saying nothing.
"I love him," she added quickly. "I do. It's just—hard. Showing it. Especially when everything else keeps getting louder."
Her throat tightened. The words felt strange, like they'd waited too long to be said.
"Do you think he knows?" the man asked, his gaze gentle.
"I don't know," Lily admitted, the thought twisting something inside her. "I hope so. But hope doesn't always make it true. He's going away tomorrow for his birthday, too," I added as an afterthought.
He tilted his head slightly. "He's leaving tomorrow?"
She blinked. "Yes. For a trip. Just a couple of days. He wants me to go with him. I told him I'd think about it."
"And have you?"
She hesitated. "I've thought about all the things that would fall apart at work if I left."
He smiled faintly. "And what if you didn't go—and something fell apart at home instead?"
Lily's chest tightened. Her breath caught. The thought of losing Harry—not just physically, but emotionally, slowly, in small ways she might not even notice—frightened her more than anything.
"What if," the man said gently, "you said goodbye to him one day, and that was the last chance you ever had?"
Her heart lurched. "That's a terrible thing to say."
"It's a terrible thing to happen," he replied. "But it does."
She thought of James. Of the silence he left behind. How quickly a moment could become a memory.
"No," she whispered, blinking fast. "I couldn't take that. I couldn't survive it."
"Then go," the man said simply. "Not for guilt. Not out of fear. Go because you still have the chance."
She turned toward him, something raw rising in her chest. "What if it's not enough? What if I've already failed him?"
"You haven't," he said, without hesitation. "You're still here. And you still have time."
The lift slowed. The doors began to open.
He looked at her one last time, his eyes kind. "Don't waste it."
And then he stepped out, disappearing down the corridor.
Lily stood there, frozen, the quiet stretching around her like a breath held too long. Something in her had shifted—subtle, but real.
Maybe it wasn't too late.
As night deepened, Hogwarts held its silence like a secret. The torches lining the corridor flickered, casting long shadows across the stone, but their glow couldn't warm the cold knot curling in Harry's stomach.
He stood among the Gryffindors in the Entrance Hall, surrounded by chatter and excitement, adjusting his red and gold tie more out of habit than pride. Laughter bounced off the walls, students buzzing with energy—but Harry felt like he was underwater, everything muted, distorted. Distant.
His mother might be coming. Maybe. The uncertainty gnawed at him.
It was only this morning that both of them had their conversation—tense, clipped, unfinished. Since then, silence. A silence filled with everything they hadn't said. Guilt. Hurt. Distance.
She hadn't said anything.
And now, tonight of all nights, she was supposed to show up?
"Oi, Harry! You alright?" Ron's voice broke through the noise. He sidled up beside him, hands jammed deep into his pockets, brow furrowed.
Harry blinked, then forced a shrug. "Yeah. Just… wondering."
"About your mum?"
He hesitated. "What if she doesn't come?"
Ron looked away, then gave a half-hearted shrug. "Might be late. Mums always say they'll be on time, but mine once missed a whole Quidditch match 'cause she got stuck talking to Mrs. Abbott about soup."
Harry didn't laugh. The heaviness pressed harder. "Yeah, but what if she's not late? What if she just decided not to come?"
Ron opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"She's still your mum, Harry," he said finally. "Even if it's hard. Sometimes people need space."
"Or they just stop trying," Harry muttered. The words slipped out before he could stop them. He hated how bitter he sounded.
Ron sighed. "You're not the only one dreading family tonight. Snape nearly skinned me in Potions last week. Mum's going to hear all about it. I've been avoiding her since we got here."
Harry glanced at him, grateful for the attempt. "I thought you were doing better."
"So did I," Ron groaned. "But apparently, mixing up lionfish spines with porcupine quills causes minor explosions. Who knew?"
Harry gave a small chuckle, but it felt thin. Forced. His mind kept drifting back to the doors. Still closed. Still no sign of her.
The crowd started moving toward the Great Hall.
Ron nodded. "Come on. Let's go in before Hermione's parents start worrying we've been cursed."
Harry moved with him, but every step toward the hall felt like it pulled him further from hope. Inside, the lights glowed soft and golden. The hum of laughter and clapping surrounded him, but it all blurred. He scanned the crowd. Again. And again. Faces flashed past—Hermione's parents, smiling. Professors. Students.
No sign of her.
His heart was pounding now, loud in his ears. Maybe she really wasn't coming.
"Harry!" Hermione's voice rang out. She reached him quickly, her parents waving warmly behind her.
She looked at him, concern softening her features. "You haven't seen her yet?"
He shook his head.
Hermione hesitated. "Maybe she's just late. Or nervous. Give it a little more time."
But that was the problem. He had given it time. Weeks. Months. Years. Always waiting. Always wondering if he'd somehow already messed it up beyond repair.
"She should've been here by now," he said quietly, his voice tight. "If she really wanted to come—wouldn't she already be here?"
Hermione didn't answer. She just gave his arm a gentle squeeze before drifting back to her parents.
The ceremony began. Applause rose. Students stepped up and received awards. Ron clapped beside him. Hermione cheered. Harry barely heard anything. He didn't even know what award was being given. He stared at the entrance, barely blinking.
Still nothing.
The ache in his chest had hardened now—like a cold, heavy stone. Each minute that passed without her felt like proof. Proof that whatever chance he thought they had left… maybe it was already gone.
Then—at the very edge of the ceremony, long after the first speeches had finished—the doors creaked open.
A hush didn't fall. No one noticed. No one but Harry.
He turned slowly, heart thudding.
And there she was.
His mother. Standing in the threshold, unsure. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. Her expression unreadable—half guilt, half doubt. Not warmth. Not relief.
She didn't move. Didn't smile.
For one awful second, Harry stayed frozen. His stomach twisted. He couldn't breathe.
Did she come for him? Or had she come out of obligation?
She looked across the room, and their eyes finally met.
Harry's breath caught. Her eyes—green, just like his—held a hundred things he couldn't name. But there was no instant flood of comfort. No miracle reunion.
Just distance. Worn, heavy silence. A thousand unsaid words standing between them.
He didn't move. Neither did she.
"Mum," he said, barely audible.
She blinked, like she wasn't sure she'd heard him.
Still, she didn't move.
He stepped forward once—then stopped. His legs refused to carry him further. His hand twitched at his side.
Her lips parted. "Harry…"
It was quiet. Fragile. Like it might shatter if she said anything more.
The moment stretched—sharp and raw and uncertain.
She didn't close the space between them.
And Harry didn't either.
They stood, frozen in the glow of the Great Hall, not quite reaching, not quite ready.
But she came.
They were just about to sit when the headmaster called his name—top student. The applause came fast, loud, and automatic. It filled the hall like thunder, but to Harry, it rang hollow. It wasn't joy he felt. It was pressure. The weight of being who his mum thought he should be.
Hermione beamed. "That's incredible, Harry," she said, her eyes bright with genuine pride.
Ron smiled too, but his posture was stiff, and his face tinged red as he stole awkward glances at his parents. His grin wobbled, caught somewhere between pride and discomfort.
Harry barely heard them. His eyes searched for one face. His mum stood beside him, expression unreadable. She smiled—barely. A flicker of approval, maybe. Or just habit.
"Congratulations," she said, like it was a formal duty.
"Thank you, Mum," Harry said, the words catching in his throat. He wanted more. Something warmer. Something real. But that was all she gave him.
And just like that, it was over.
She had only just arrived, and already it was ending. No hugs. No time. Just the echo of clapping still fading into silence.
"Are you ready to leave?" Lily's voice broke through the chatter in the Great Hall. Her eyes scanned the crowd, always watching. Always ahead of him.
Harry hesitated. The ceremony, his friends, the hall—it all clung to him like mist he didn't want to shake off. "Uh… yeah. Just—just one moment."
He turned toward Ron and Hermione, his feet refusing to move just yet. Something in him ached, stretched taut between the people he loved and the person he was expected to become. Leaving felt like tearing a page from a book before you'd finished the chapter.
Back at his mother's side, her voice came again, clipped. "Ready now?"
He nodded slowly, but it wasn't real consent. Just surrender.
They began walking down the staircase when Hermione's voice caught up with them. "Harry! Congratulations again!" She and Ron hurried to join them.
"Yeah—brilliant job, mate," Ron added. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, pride shining in his eyes.
"Good evening, Mrs. Potter," Hermione said politely but then quickly added, "My parents were wondering if you and Harry might join us for dinner tonight."
Harry stopped. His heart stuttered. For a moment, the future cracked open—one more night of laughter, safety, and comfort. One more night where he could breathe.
He turned to his mum. Please, just one night. Just this.
Hermione caught the pause. "Mr. and Mrs. Weasley will be there too," she added gently, her gaze flicking toward Lily. "It would really mean a lot."
Ron nodded, stepping closer. "Please. It's just dinner. Just… a normal evening."
Harry looked back and forth between them—his mother and his friends. One world pulling him in with duty and expectation, the other offering a fleeting moment of peace. The child in him screamed for the second. The son in him froze under the first.
But Lily's voice cut through the hope.
"No. We won't be attending," she said, firm and final. Her hand gripped his arm, tighter this time. "It's time to go."
A chill crawled up Harry's spine. Something inside him deflated, quietly, like a breath he'd been holding for years. He looked at Ron, whose face had fallen. Hermione's lips parted like she wanted to argue, but she didn't. No one did.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. His voice barely reached them. Maybe it wasn't meant to.
Lily turned, pulling him gently but insistently. "Let's go."
Harry followed.
Each step felt heavier than the last, like he was walking away from the only part of himself that still felt real. He didn't look back. Couldn't. If he did, he might run. And if he ran, he didn't know if he'd ever stop.
As the castle doors closed behind him, something cracked deep inside.
Home was behind him.
And ahead was something else entirely.