Charlie Hawthorne blinked in his surroundings, his eyes stinging with exhaustion; he hadn't slept in weeks. His deceased grandfather's half-moon spectacles were perched upon his nose, his eyes perusing the various newspaper clippings that were scattered on the table in front of him.
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It had been nearly a month and a half since the end of term, and Charlie couldn't bring himself to set foot inside Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The grief was too overwhelming to bare for long, and so, he often found refuge on the rustic, old couch in Hagrid's Hut, sharing the space with the two lazy canines; Ludo and Fang.
Despite Hagrid's persistent efforts, Charlie hadn't reached out to his friends all summer, not even bothering to respond to Hermione's anxious letters regarding his whereabouts. When he said goodbye over a month ago, Charlie hadn't planned to succumb himself to isolation, but couldn't help but feel unwilling to share his burdens with everything going on. His grandfather's death had destroyed him more than he cared to admit, leaving him to fall victim to the depression of grief.
Dumbledore's death had been his fault, at least that's what Charlie had told himself, constantly and without hesitation. Now, he found it almost hypocritical to allow himself the satisfaction of living his life to its fullest potential. He felt unworthy, and his happiness felt unprecedented.
And so, he sat alone in the darkness of Hagrid's living room before dawn, illuminating the table in front him with his wand. Laid cautiously in front of him was the gold locket inside which a note signed R.A.B. had been hidden. It was sprawled upon the fragment of that morning's Daily Prophet, which lay unread, for it stemmed a sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs of regret, and the headache of longing discovery.
The locket was accorded this place of importance not because it was valuable — in all usual senses it was worthless — but because of what it had cost to attain it. Around it, there was a a sizeable stack of newspapers sitting on the table, each with certain lines highlighted or underlined. While sifting through them, looking for a particular issue that he knew had arrived shortly after summer began, Charlie oddly remembered that there had been a small mention on the front about the resignation of Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts.
At last he found it.
Turning to page ten, he sank into the leather sofa and reread the article he had been looking for:
