The thick fog, which had been hanging over the city for months, was only slowly disappearing, but with every minute that passed it seemed as if time was running faster, the city was changing so much. Few people could be seen on the streets, the lights in most households went out. After all, it was way past midnight. But the light was still on in the room of a house that was invisible to almost everyone. A young man sat on the windowsill and looked out into the pitch-black night. He could have been mistaken for a statue if his chest wasn't moving steadily up and down. His gaze, out of the green eyes, was fixed on the square in front of the house, as if he were waiting for someone invisible to appear.

But in reality he saw nothing and he wasn't waiting for anyone. He was startled when a street lamp suddenly went out in front of the house. He quickly adjusted his glasses and pressed his face against the dirty glass. His right hand went quickly into his pocket and pulled out a long stick. With one swift movement of his hand, the room darkened. His watchful eyes darted through the night, in the sky of which no dawn was expected for a long time. The only light now came from other windows with drawn curtains and from the crescent moon in the firmament. Could it be? Could it be that they were coming? His heart, which had just been beating calmly, was now pounding violently in his chest. He was tense, every fiber of his body ready to act if necessary. Come on now! It's pointless. Spoke it in his head. You can't be here. Spoke his mind. And yet, something inside refused to simply turn away from the window.

But the light no more lantern was extinguished and no figure stepped out of the darkness. The extinguished street lamp flickered on again and Harry hit the pane with his fist.He turned away from the window, which was fogged up with his breath, sank to the floor and ran his fingers to his temples. Why was he so eager to see her? He had wanted to be alone. Why else would he be in this hideous house, with the battered door, filthy walls and greasy windows? In the house that, as always, reminded him of a dying man, where the wallpaper peeled off the walls, with crooked portraits blackened with age. Well, it was his house after all, for better or worse his home. The very thought of it disgusted him. To live here alone, without another human soul. Here in the house where Sirius was more present than anywhere else. Even though he hated the house. Everything reminded Harry of him and the family that had lived here. Immediately after his arrival, he had thrown out every piece of furniture that was oozing with black magic, without paying attention to Kreacher's barely audible whining. It was a pleasure.

He had spent a full day, though, trying to remove the portrait of Mrs. Black, Sirius' mother. Without any real success. After trying all sorts of curses and spells he knew and still refusing to detach the portrait from the wall, he gave up. He had the feeling that his eardrum was going to burst, his voice almost failed him because he had to yell at the terrible, deafening screams that made the blood freeze in your veins. Harry was content to put a gag in the mouth of the old drool witch that would hopefully keep her from screeching for a while. He had turned the curtains in front of the picture into shutters and fitted them with a lock, happy at the thought of at least some time with the, dirt! Scum! Gossenkind! Mutant, freak! Dirty half-blood!To be spared screams. He hadn't been able to buy new furniture yet, on the one hand he had hardly any Muggle money, pocket money hadn't been considered necessary by the Dursleys, on the other hand he couldn't change anything in Gringotts because there was still pure chaos there (which he wasn't entirely innocent of) . So he lived for two weeks now, in an almost empty house, with a few pieces of furniture, pictures that were pinned to the wall with permanent stickers and a very old house-elf who took every word he said seriously and served him a feast every day , in that damn house. Kreacher made every possible effort to get the house in good condition, as if he wanted to make up for all the years in which he had neglected it. But whenever he finished with one room and started the next, the first cobwebs appeared again in the corners. Harry had come to terms with it, but Kreacher hadn't come to terms with the fact that Grimmauldplatz number 12 would always remain the "old and even venerable house of the Blacks". But as much as he hated this house, he'd chosen it as a retreat, he'd preferred the company of an old house-elf, to everyone else. He didn't even really like the elf. He felt uncomfortable when Kreacher toddled him, but this was attributed to the fact that the elf had hated him abysmally a year ago. And not the fact that he is B.Elfe's secretary. R. had been. The Elven Rights Association that Hermione had started in her fourth year. Harry had turned down Kingsley Shacklebolt's offer to rebuild his parents' house in Godric's Hollow, and Mrs. Weasley had smacked when she wanted to invite him to the Burrow. And even if he had wanted to, he could not have returned to Privet Drive, for the Dursley's house had been completely destroyed in the Death Eater attack. And absolutely no one in the entire neighborhood could remember the house and its former occupants.The war had made many sacrifices, wizards and muggles, he knew few names. But even the few were too many. So many dead people all over the country and he was to blame. Every man celebrated him, "the man who conquered him", glasses were raised everywhere and dull voices said, "To Harry Potter!" He had fought and won, but his victory had cost victims. He had led them all to their death. His presence at the Burrow, he believed, would be a strain on the family. Fred's death lay on his soul and no one had been able to take this burden off him. As when Sirius died, the loss of the second sanctuary had burned a hole in the pit of his stomach. When he was with people he wanted to be alone and when he was alone he wanted company. A huge party all over the country and he was the only one who wasn't part of the party.

In his first days in London he had even tried to talk to Phineas Nigellus, whose picture Hermione had given him back before she left. But without any real success, because the portrait clearly didn't seem ready to talk to him. A Gryffindor was probably below his dignity or he wasn't in the mood again. Harry would have gone to the Burrow if Ron and Hermione had been there too. They would have left him alone if he wanted to. But the two were on their way to Australia to refresh Hermione's parents' memories. He had received an owl from them last week. He couldn't send poor Pigwidgeon back with an answer until that evening. The little owl had literally fallen into the house and almost scared Harry, who was about to go to sleep, to death. Pig had crashed through the roof and hit the ground right in front of his feet. The letter had come from Moscow and promised that Ron was getting on Hermione's nerves. Harry remembered the night Hermione discussed the itinerary. Ron had looked astonished when she said they would probably make about 12 or more stops on the way.It was as if she had felt his gaze, she sighed and emerged from the mountain of maps. "It would do you good to open a book now and then. Apparating long distances is not recommended. We don't feel like carrying Ron around in my pocket in case something goes wrong and we split up." With these words he was pale and immediately assured her how brilliant the idea was and that of course he fully agreed with her on all points.

Harry missed them terribly because their and Ginny's sole presence made him feel like himself. However, sometimes it is better not to be yourself. Which was also the reason for his stay here. But he would see Ron, Hermione and Ginny again very soon, because it had been decided that after the venerable Hogwarts Castle had been almost restored to its original state by tremendous efforts, the entire wizarding world, from this summer onwards, to make up for the last, practically lost school year. The thought of his return to Hogwarts bothered him. But it wasn't bad, because he didn't sleep very well anyway. Harry dreamed of the fight in the Great Hall and experienced every second a second time. Or he suddenly drove out of his dreams with the feeling that he had heard someone call his name. The night hours became a real torment. Sleep was also out of the question that evening. He heard a faint shuffling in the hallway in front of his bedroom, a moment later Kreacher came around the corner and was amazed to see that his Master was awake. "Master awake? Kreacher can make breakfast!" "Yes, Kreacher, I was woken up ... but I still have no room in my stomach for breakfast. Why are you awake, couldn't you sleep?" Kreacher shook his head wildly. "Yes, yes! Kreacher tidied up and washed Master's socks and cleaned things!Kreacher figured that Master Potter might have a visit ... maybe the red-haired girl and the boy and the muggle-born girl ... "The old house-elf's eyes shone." Kreacher likes the three very much and would be happy some time to see again. "Harry got up and approached Kreacher." Who are you telling this Kreacher! "And as he passed him he patted the elf on the head." I miss them all too, but I need my time alone after the last few months. "He had just reached the landing, he had decided, since he could no longer sleep anyway, to make himself another coffee, when suddenly there was a loud bang." What the ...! "Harry tumbled down the spiral staircase, slid to a stop in the parlor and looked for the source of the noise. For a moment he thought Sirius' mother had got rid of her gag. But then his gaze fell, in the weak, from just a single, old gas lamp illuminated room, on the outlines of a huge, misshapen figure. Four eyes stared at him through