tradition

01

Harry Potter sat in a quaint Muggle café, the ambiance a stark contrast to the wizarding world he was accustomed to. The café was small but cozy, with wooden tables and chairs that seemed to have a history of their own. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint aroma of pastries, creating a comforting atmosphere. Harry cradled a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and warming his fingers. He glanced down at the piece of parchment he held, which was none other than the Daily Prophet. The headlines were filled with the latest news of the wizarding world, but Harry's attention was caught by an article about recent developments.

The café was relatively quiet, save for the soft hum of conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery. Harry's eyes moved quickly over the words, his brow furrowing as he absorbed the information. The café's large windows framed the outside world, where passersby moved about their daily lives, oblivious to the troubles brewing in the magical realm. As Harry continued to read, a young waitress with curly black hair—hair reminiscent of Briar's—approached his table. She wore a friendly, if somewhat curious, expression on her face.

"Harry Potter? Who's Harry Potter?" she asked, peering at the newspaper in Harry's hand with a mix of interest and skepticism. Her voice was light and cheerful, betraying none of the anxiety that Harry felt.

"Oh, no one. Bit of a tosser," Harry replied with a sheepish smile, trying to downplay his fame. His attempt at modesty seemed to amuse the waitress. She chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Funny, that paper of yours," she said, her tone conspiratorial. "A couple of nights ago, I could've sworn I saw a picture move." She laughed, a bright, melodious sound that lifted Harry's spirits, albeit momentarily. He forced a nervous laugh, folding the parchment back up and slipping it into his bag.

"Thought I was going around the twist," she continued with a playful wink. Harry nodded, grateful for the distraction from the weighty matters at hand. He watched as she walked away, her light footsteps barely making a sound against the wooden floor.

As she departed, Harry turned to look outside the window, the light from the streetlamps casting a warm glow over the café's interior. He noticed a large train speeding by, its headlights cutting through the night. Harry's attention was caught by a figure standing at the train station, barely visible in the dim light. His heart skipped a beat as he recognized the familiar figure of Albus Dumbledore.

With a sense of urgency, Harry quickly left the café, pushing through the door with a sense of purpose. The cool night air hit him with a refreshing chill as he stepped outside, his breath forming small clouds in the cold air. The streets were deserted, the only sounds being the distant hum of the train and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Harry walked briskly towards the train station, his eyes locked on Dumbledore's figure.

Dumbledore stood by the edge of the platform, the light from the station casting long shadows that danced around him. The night sky was a deep shade of indigo, dotted with stars that twinkled faintly. Dumbledore's presence was both commanding and serene, his robes billowing slightly in the gentle breeze. Harry approached him, his footsteps echoing softly on the deserted platform.

"Harry," Dumbledore said, turning to face him with a twinkle in his eye and a slight, knowing smile on his lips. "You've been reckless this summer." His tone was light, but there was an underlying seriousness to his words.

Harry, taken aback, shrugged and replied, "I like riding around on trains. Takes my mind off things." He gave a nonchalant shrug, trying to downplay his recklessness. Dumbledore's eyes, behind his half-moon spectacles, sparkled with a mix of amusement and concern.

"It's an unpleasant thing to behold, isn't it?" Dumbledore said, his voice taking on a contemplative tone. "The tale is thrilling if I say so myself. But now is not the time to tell it." He pulled up his robe sleeve, revealing a hand that looked darker than usual, frail despite the strength and power that Dumbledore embodied.