Amaryllis

32

By the time they reach the edge of the forest, the sky is just starting to turn orange. They take a break to get their breath back before they go in, bent over at the waist and winded from the long run.

They don't shift when they go in, too tired to race each other like they probably would normally, and instead they walk and watch the forest coming to life after winter. The walk up is one of Harry's favourite parts of coming to stay at the house, and he points out badger dens and clusters of wild strawberries already in bloom. Louis's hand is warm in his; he looks a little like an awed child, like he's seeing everything for the first time.

It's tranquil and gorgeous, the forest floor criss-crossed with rays of sun, and Harry thinks they should sit on the back porch with some hot chocolate once they get home.

Except then they reach the crest of the hill. The clearing opens up in front of them, gorgeous and golden-green as always, but the house—

The house is a ruin.

It's a mess of broken red bricks, the outer coat of paint almost stripped off; one side of it is gaping empty, the walls around it crooked and charred like something's exploded in them, and the windows are broken into sharp shards. The inside looks burnt to a crisp, ashen.

Zayn stops a few steps behind them, completely silent, and Louis makes a desperate little noise of shock. Harry's breath is gone, but he immediately raises his nose to sniff the air. He's going to find whoever did this, he's going to—

"Shit! Shit shit shit, fuck, you're here already!" is how Niall greets them, running, panicked, from the back of the house with Loki on his heels. He's a little harried, with windswept hair and red cheeks, but he doesn't look much different from the Niall that Harry knows; not like someone who's just lost a second home.

"Ni, what…" Louis starts softly, but doesn't finish. The rest of his sentence gets swallowed along with a desperate gulp of air.

"I'm sorry, shit, I'm sorry. It's not—I was going to—I mean. It's not what it looks like."

All of Harry's exhaustion slowly trickles back into his bones, chasing away the feeling of walking on air. He watches dispassionately as Niall walks closer, looking them over with big, earnest eyes.

"What do you mean?" Zayn is the one to ask. He sounds shaky and congested and awful, and he's pinching the bridge of his nose with his claws out.

"Fuck," Niall swears. "I. Okay. I'm really sorry you had to see this, lads, I didn't mean to—anyway." He takes a deep breath, raises his hand, and—snaps his fingers.

Right in front of them, clear as day and too unbelievable to be a trick of the light, a shower of golden sparks appears on the beaten-down roof. They start flying downwards slowly, a little like snow, and in their wake they leave the house looking like Harry knows it – a little worse for wear, but sturdy and whole.

The sparks slide down the windowpanes, leaving behind smooth, thick glass, and spill down over the garden, turning the blackened grass green again. The banister on the porch is whole, and the front door back in the hinges; the paint on the walls loses all its burn marks and chips and cracks, and the hole in the side just disappears.

They turn to Niall almost simultaneously. While Harry does feel relieved and bewildered, mostly, Louis is actually grinning.

"No way!" he exclaims. Niall, who has mostly been looking at the ground, uncharacteristically shy, looks at him and smiles, but it's a little too weak to hold up for long.

"Um. Surprise?" he says, fingers twisted together tight. Harry is still looking between him and the house, blinking.

"You're magic," Liam breathes out with a breathless grin, and he, too, looks suddenly happy.