Hogwarts wasn’t the same.
Not after the war.
Not after the screaming had stopped.

The stone walls still stood, but they whispered now — not Latin spells, but names. Names that echoed down the halls like the ghosts who carried them. Names of those who never left. Not really.

She walked between the ruins, seventeen and hollowed out, wearing a robe that didn't quite feel like hers anymore. Her fingers gripped a book like it was a shield. Not because it offered answers, but because it was the only thing that hadn’t fallen apart.

Some nights, she swore she could see him.
Not Harry.
Not the Boy Who Lived.
The one who never should’ve come back.

A shadow with red eyes in the distance.
Faded.
But watching.

The war had ended.
But not for her.
Not for Hogwarts.
Not for the story that was never supposed to be told.