American Royalty III

Part 11: Kreacher Knows

Harry woke slowly, blinking against the soft light that filtered through the tall windows. The room around him felt strangely cozy, yet unsettling, as if the dust-coated furniture and faded wallpaper were hiding secrets. He shifted, propping himself up on one arm and surveying the room. Hermione was curled up on the couch, her head resting on the armrest, her hand dangerously close to Ron, who was sprawled out on the floor in an undignified heap. Percy and Annabeth lay tangled together, their limbs a messy knot. Connor, snoring softly, sat in a nearby chair, his unruly hair falling over his face. Jason and Piper were sprawled across another couch, quietly close, but not enough to touch. Valerie, on the other hand, was huddled in the far corner, wrapped in a blanket, her face hidden beneath her arms.

The steady rhythm of everyone's breathing filled the silence, but Harry couldn't shake the sense of wakefulness that gripped him. The quiet was too thick, too heavy—like the house itself was holding its breath.

Rubbing his eyes, Harry exhaled quietly, pushing himself to his feet. His eyes wandered to the faint glow of the fireplace across the room. He didn't feel tired anymore. Something else tugged at him, a strange discomfort, a sensation that something wasn't right.

He reached for his wand on the coffee table.
"Lumos." The tip of his wand flickered to life, casting long shadows across the room. His heart sped up, but he couldn't pinpoint why. With one last glance at the sleeping group, he stepped cautiously toward the door.

As soon as he crossed the threshold into the hallway, the quiet intensified. The faint light from his wand barely touched the edges of the corridor, and Harry felt a tightness in his chest. No sounds. No movement. He paused at the top of the stairs, listening. His pulse quickened.

A door down the hall caught his attention. Slightly ajar. He moved toward it, pushing it open with a careful hand. Inside, the room was in disarray—furniture overturned, drawers emptied, sheets tossed carelessly across the floor. It looked as though someone had been searching—or had been interrupted.

An unease crawled up Harry's spine. The room felt cold, oddly lifeless. The silence seemed to press against him as he stepped deeper, his wand light illuminating the edges of the room. His eyes flicked to a book lying discarded on the floor. He bent down to pick it up, its cover worn and the pages ragged from years of use. He turned it over in his hands.

It was A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot. The name on the cover caught him off guard—Lily Potter. His mother. A tight knot formed in his chest as he flipped it open. The pages inside weren't just filled with historical records. They were a personal letter.

Harry's breath caught as he read the familiar handwriting.

"Thank you for Harry's birthday present. You'd think he'd been born on a broom... James says he's got the look of a Seeker, but then James would. We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who dotes on Harry..."

The words hit Harry like a wave, a bitter reminder of all that he had lost. The script on the pages was a memory—a glimpse into a life he would never experience. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, as the letter wrapped around him, pulling him into the past.

Before he could read further, a voice broke through the quiet.

"Harry! Harry!"

Hermione's call echoed up the stairs, sharp with concern. Harry quickly tucked the letter into his pocket, forcing himself to snap out of the trance it had put him in. He hurried down the stairs, wand in hand, the beam of light cutting through the darkened house. He found Hermione waiting anxiously at the bottom, her eyes scanning him as though she'd just pulled him out of a deep fog.