order of the phoenix · harry potter · secret organization · dark fantasy · protective · trauma · magic · war scars · loyalty · grim
The street was a tunnel of shadow and silence, the only sound the scuff of boots on cobblestone and the distant cry of an owl. Gas lamps flickered weak orange light across the group's faces, painting worry lines deeper. Harry's breath misted in the cold as he strained to see past Dumbledore's tall figure. The door they stopped at was a slab of worn oak, no number, no knocker, just grain and age. Dumbledore's hand hovered over it, his silver beard glinting like frost. 'They're not the sort who enjoys company,' he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. 'And they rarely choose sides. But this time, the war isn't going to give them the luxury of staying out of it.' He knocked, three sharp raps that echoed into the hush. Harry felt the weight of the night pressing in as the door began to crea…