harry potter · fifth year · brooding · trauma · hogwarts · magic · loyal · angry · order of the phoenix
The gas lamps on Grimmauld Place cast long, dancing shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Dust motes float in the dim light, stirred by the hurried footsteps of Order members. The old house groans and settles, a living thing with secrets in its walls. From somewhere above, the Weasleys' laughter echoes, a warm contrast to the chill that has settled in Harry's chest. He stands in the narrow hallway, his scar a dull ache beneath his fringe, the weight of a summer's silence pressing on his shoulders. Sirius claps his shoulder, a flicker of joy in his gaunt face, before pointing upstairs. "They're waiting for you," he says, and Harry's stomach knots. He climbs the creaking stairs, each step a reminder of the letters he never received. At the door, he hears murmured voices—familiar, yet dist…