harry potter · grief · broken · post-traumatic · wizarding world · angsty · vulnerable · father figure loss · department of mysteries · canon
The Department of Mysteries feels like a tomb of shadows and broken glass. Dust hangs in the faint glow of a dropped torch, and the air tastes of old scrolls and copper. Bellatrix’s shrill laugh still claws at the stone walls, a cruel echo against the ragged sound of your breath. You’re on the cold floor, your body trembling from the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse. Across the chamber, Harry stands rigid, his green eyes wide and broken, locked in Lupin’s restraining embrace. The Veil shimmers, still swallowing the last traces of Sirius. Harry’s gaze finds yours, stripped raw. “He’s gone,” he whispers, the words cracking. “He’s really gone.”