Echoes of the Past

Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Smoke and Ashes

Harry Potter sat alone on the cold stone bench just outside the castle, the autumn wind whipping through his unruly hair. The grounds of Hogwarts were quiet at this hour, with most students either in their common rooms or asleep. The faint glow of the moon cast long shadows across the lawn, and the only sound was the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.

A cigarette burned between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily upward before dissipating into the night. He took a long drag, feeling the familiar burn in his throat and chest, a sensation that had become both a comfort and a crutch over the past few months. The smoke filled his lungs, numbing the gnawing ache inside him, if only for a moment.

Harry exhaled slowly, watching as the cloud of smoke drifted away, carried off by the wind. He wished his thoughts could do the same—disappear into the night, leaving him with nothing but the cold and the silence. But no matter how many cigarettes he smoked, no matter how much he tried to drown his thoughts in nicotine and ash, they always came back, clawing at him with a relentless ferocity.

She's not my sister anymore, he told himself, staring out at the darkened grounds. She made her choice. They all did.

But the words felt hollow, even in the privacy of his own mind. Aphrodite was his sister, no matter how much he tried to deny it, no matter how much he wanted to sever that bond. And the truth was, he didn't hate her as much as he wished he did. What he felt was something far more complicated—an entangled mess of anger, betrayal, guilt, and, somewhere deep down, a lingering love he couldn't quite extinguish.

And then there was Lyra.

His relationship with Lyra was even more convoluted, more tangled up in the messy web of emotions he couldn't fully understand, let alone untangle. They had always had a volatile dynamic, their arguments sharp and cutting, their words designed to wound rather than heal. It was as if they were trapped in an endless cycle of pushing each other away, only to be drawn back together by something neither of them could name.

He flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching it fall to the ground like the remnants of something broken. Just like us, he thought bitterly. His relationship with Aphrodite had been strained for years, but now it felt beyond repair. The distance between them had grown too wide, the wounds too deep. And with Lyra... the distance was there, too, but it was different—more like a chasm they both pretended didn't exist, even as they teetered on the edge of it.

And it wasn't just Aphrodite or Lyra. His friendship with Ron and Hermione, the two people he had always relied on, was fraying at the seams. The anger he had felt when he discovered they had been in contact with Aphrodite behind his back was still fresh, like a cut that refused to heal. He had trusted them, and they had betrayed that trust—gone against his wishes, spoken to her when he had made it clear he didn't want anything to do with her.

Why couldn't they just listen? he wondered, taking another drag from his cigarette. Why did they have to make everything so bloody complicated?

He knew the answer, of course. Ron and Hermione had always tried to be the voice of reason, the mediators in the endless conflict between him, Aphrodite, and Lyra. But what they didn't understand—what they would never understand—was that this wasn't something they could fix. Some things were too broken to be mended, no matter how much you wanted them to be.

I'm better off alone, he thought, though even as the words crossed his mind, he didn't fully believe them. He was tired of the arguments, tired of the endless cycle of anger and regret. But he was even more tired of the loneliness that came with pushing everyone away.

The cigarette burned down to the filter, and Harry stubbed it out on the stone bench, grinding it into the surface until it was nothing but a smear of ash. He felt a hollow satisfaction in the act, as if by destroying it, he could destroy the feelings inside him as well. But the emptiness remained, a void that no amount of smoke could fill.

He leaned back against the bench, closing his eyes and letting the cool night air wash over him. Memories of his childhood with Aphrodite flickered in his mind—moments of laughter and shared secrets, before everything had gone wrong. He could still see the little girl she had been, with her bright eyes and mischievous grin, before the world had turned them both into something else.

But that was a long time ago. They weren't children anymore, and whatever bond they had shared had been shattered by years of resentment and misunderstanding. He had tried to reach out to her, tried to bridge the gap, but every time, it ended in anger and harsh words neither of them could take back.

And Lyra... Lyra had always been there, just on the periphery, challenging him, pushing his buttons, making him question everything. Their relationship was a storm—chaotic, unpredictable, and exhausting. They fought like enemies, but there were moments, brief and fleeting, where it felt like they were the only two people in the world who truly understood each other. Those moments were rare, though, and more often than not, they ended up hurting each other in ways that felt impossible to heal from.

It's over, he told himself again, but the ache in his chest told him otherwise. He wanted to move on, to forget the sister who had become a stranger and the girl who had become... something else. But the memories clung to him like smoke, impossible to shake.

He thought of the last argument he'd had with Aphrodite, the one where she had stormed out of the room, her eyes blazing with fury. He had meant every word he said in that moment, but now, sitting alone in the dark, he wasn't so sure. The look on her face when he told her he'd make the same decision had made haunted him ever since, a ghost that refused to rest.

Why couldn't things have been different? he wondered, but he knew there was no answer to that question. Life had dealt them all a difficult hand, and they had played it as best they could. But the game had taken its toll, and now all that was left were the ashes of what could have been.

Harry opened his eyes and looked up at the stars, the cold pinpricks of light that seemed so distant, so untouchable. He felt a kinship with them in that moment—isolated, suspended in the vastness of space, burning with a fire that would one day fade.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his wand. The first drag brought a familiar sense of calm, the smoke filling the emptiness inside him, if only for a little while. But even as he smoked, he knew it was a temporary reprieve. The pain, the anger, the loneliness—they would all come back, just as they always did.

But for now, he would sit here, alone in the darkness, and let the smoke carry his thoughts away. He would think of Aphrodite, of Lyra, of Ron and Hermione, of the family and friends he had lost and the ones he was losing now. He would mourn the relationships that had slipped through his fingers, the connections that had been severed by pride and hurt.

And in the morning, when the sun rose and the world woke up, he would bury it all again, deep inside where no one could see. He would put on his mask, play the role that was expected of him, and keep the darkness at bay for another day.

But for now, he would let the shadows linger, let the smoke swirl around him like a shroud, and try to forget—if only for a little while.