Next Time Around

The biting wind whipped across the small beach near Shell Cottage, rain lashing down and mixing with the salty spray. Harry sat hunched, the icy water streaming down his neck, a huff escaping him that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

Only days before, the world had fractured. Hermione's desperate shouts echoed in his memory: 'Harry, Harry run! Leave them!' He'd tried to save everyone, tugging wounded bodies towards the portkey amidst a maelstrom of curses and the deafening clang of battle. Tears had stung his eyes, his legs throbbed, but he hadn't stopped. Missing the portkey meant certain death for them all.

He remembered the jarring sensation of being torn through space, collapsing onto the sand, the sudden quiet a stark contrast to the cacophony he'd left behind. Birds sang, waves crashed, and the wind sighed – a mockery of peace, broken only by hushed sobs and distant yells. A relieved sigh had caught in his throat, turning into a sob of its own.

Hundreds, maybe a thousand lives, lost in the last two days. Fred, George, Hannah, Remus, Dean, Neville, Luna… so many close to him. He’d clenched his fists, choking back a rage-filled cry. Now, sitting on this desolate beach, the numbness was a welcome shield, though he knew the grief would come. It always did.