Memories of the Heart || Harry Potter x Reader

Y7 ~ Shell Cottage

A golden ray of sunlight crept through the modest windowpane, casting soft warmth over the weathered walls and the small, tidy room where Y/N lay curled beneath a woolen blanket. The dawn light slipped across the rumpled bed, catching in the strands of her hair and dancing on the freckles dotting her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, reluctant to face the waking world.

The events of the night before lingered like a shadow—grief wrapped tight around her ribs. Beside her, Harry slept deeply, his features soft in a way they rarely were anymore. His brow, usually furrowed with worry, was now smooth, unburdened for a few stolen hours. One arm lay across her waist, heavy and warm, fingers brushing against the hem of her shirt like he needed the contact even in dreams.

Y/N watched him for a moment, the silent rise and fall of his chest grounding her, then slowly—carefully—slipped out from beneath his arm. The sudden exposure to the cool air made her shiver as her bare feet met the chilled wooden floor. She stood in cotton shorts and a faded spaghetti-strap top, her skin goose-pimpled from the cold.

Without thinking, she reached for the black jumper slung over the back of the nearby chair—the one Harry had worn almost constantly for the past few weeks. She pulled it over her head, the sleeves nearly swallowing her hands, the faint scent of him enfolding her like a memory. She didn't bother zipping it up, just wrapped it tightly around herself, as if trying to hold on to something solid.

The house was hushed. That kind of silence that follows the aftermath of something too big for words. Floorboards creaked softly as she padded past the closed doors of sleeping friends, past the corner where Bill had left his boots, past Fleur's shawl draped neatly over the bannister. Even the air held stillness, heavy with mourning.

She opened the door quietly, wincing slightly at the soft groan of the hinges, and stepped out into the cool morning.

The sky was painted in soft pinks and golds, streaks of lavender stretching above the sea like the remnants of a dream. The ocean rolled gently toward the shore, waves unfurling in a steady rhythm over the pale, untrodden sand. The wind was sharp but clean, threading through her hair and tugging at the hem of the oversized sweater.

Off in the distance, at the crest of the hill, stood the freshly turned grave. The earth still dark and damp. A mound of raw grief etched into the landscape.

Y/N's breath caught at the sight of it. Her arms folded tighter across her chest as she walked toward the water, the damp sand clinging to her feet. Each step was slow, careful—like moving too fast might break her open.

She stopped just short of the tide line, where the sea kissed the shore and then pulled away again, over and over. She stared out across the horizon, eyes fixed on where the sun met the water, a fire bleeding into blue. The warmth hadn't reached her yet, not fully. But it was trying.

And wasn't that something?

Her jaw trembled. She didn't cry. She hadn't since they buried Dobby.

Instead, she just sat, with her legs crossed. The wind whispered through the folds of her jumper, through the strands of her hair. The sea and sky stretched endless before her, and for the first time in days, she didn't feel entirely trapped.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Then—

The soft crunch of footsteps in sand behind her.

She didn't turn. She didn't have to.

Harry came into view slowly, his silhouette cast against the climbing sun. His hair was a mess of curls and sleep, his expression unreadable, shadowed in quiet thought. In one hand he carried a small bottle of dittany; in the other, fresh bandages, slightly crumpled from being held too tightly.