She paused by the shelf of divining shells. They didn't move. Didn't dare. A gust of pressure rolled through the store and every candle flickered.
Harry stood up. Slowly. Not out of fear — out of recognition.
"You're not local," he said.
She didn't answer. Just moved with ghostlike certainty, past every cursed object, every artifact that would have snarled at anyone else.
She walked straight to the regret mirror.
"That's not for casual viewing," he said.
She didn't look at him. Her voice was quiet, but clear. "You've been hiding."
Harry's brow furrowed. The wards didn't react to her presence. They didn't know how.
"You're wasting time," she said, tilting her head toward the glass. "You act like the world's over. It isn't. You're still here. That means something."
He exhaled slowly. "And what exactly do you think I should be doing?"
She looked at him then — truly looked. Not through him, not past him — into him.
And Harry — Harry remembered.
A battlefield of flame. A boy screaming into storm light. A girl with red hair turning away in silence. The throb of a wand broken in his hand. A graveyard. Another graveyard. A thousand graveyards.