The boy who lived - An Alternative Ending

Nineteen

The wind cut through the worn walls of the house with a cold whisper that brought with it the bitter taste of sea salt and the pungent smell of old mold. Everything there seemed abandoned for centuries, forgotten.

The creaking of the wood was the only answer to the heavy footsteps of the Auror as he walked down the narrow corridor. With each step, the echo of his boots reverberated off the crumbling walls, and the empty sleeve of his right arm swung lifelessly, a silent symbol of the scars of a war that had never left him.

It was as if the very weight of what he had lost still accompanied him, shaking with each movement. Ahead, the dim light entered through the broken windows of the house, revealing layers of accumulated dust and dirt, spread across the floor like a blanket. But there was something else, something recent. Marks on the floor, perhaps footprints, half-erased by the dust, thought the Auror without an arm. With long dark hair, he stopped for a moment, looking at the two men behind him.

"Stay here." — His voice cut through the silence, low and hoarse.

The gray-haired Auror who was the last to follow him hesitated, his eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth but said nothing.

"Sir..." said the third, younger one, his voice trembling.

"Let's wait outside," the gray-haired Auror cut in, pulling the younger one by the sleeve.

The one-armed Auror entered the house, closed the door, but remained silent for a moment, just listening.

The noises were his companions. He knew this kind of place. He remembered many like it. Houses where lives had been destroyed, places permeated by darkness.

He advanced in short steps, his eyes moving slowly from corner to corner, while his feet scanned the floor. The air around him seemed dense, almost suffocating, as if time had stopped inside. But something in this place was still alive... hiding.

His left hand slid to the wand attached to his belt, feeling the touch of the wood. He left her there for now. His face had discreet scars on his nose that made him itch. Then he walked along the old windowsill of a broken window. It was close, an old and cruel feeling, guiding him.

He took three more steps until he reached the edge of an old table, and there a small impression in the dust caught his attention. Something had been moved recently. Maybe a box, maybe a sheet. He could see it from the outlines left in the dirt, a fragmented trail that led in a direction.

A faint smell of smoke permeated the air, maybe recent, maybe someone trying to disguise their presence. The auror leaned forward, analyzing the details of the corridor, his eyebrows furrowed. Fear and silence seemed to envelop that place, but he did not rush. His instinct told him that fear of what might be lurking was a powerful weapon, something he had learned to master over the years.

He continued forward and reached the room. His breathing grew heavier as his boots moved over the uneven floor, leaving marks on the dirt.

There was a light in the room. His fingers tightened around his wand, but he didn't raise it yet.

He knew who was there. There was no doubt anymore.

The Auror walked through the half-open door. A slight creak in the old floorboards gave away his presence, but he didn't hesitate. The tension in the air was palpable, like a thread about to snap. He knew that the man inside was already feeling the same weight of inevitability that he did.

It was then that he closed the door. It was a dark, empty room, with only the remains of an old fireplace and a dusty armchair; it seemed harmless at first glance. But he knew better. His eyes scanned the room, searching for signs, any clue as to what was really hiding there. He saw nothing, but that didn't change anything either. He was there. He knew he was there.