The afterglow of the setting sun spilled across every street in the city, while white doves, symbols of hope and peace, circled above the clock tower of this ancient city.
By the shimmering river, young people fresh off work walked in twos and threes, smiling as they discussed amusing things that had happened during the day now drawing to a close.
The Muggles had no idea that the city they lived in had stood on the brink of destruction today.
Harry opened his eyes and stared blankly at the irregular halos cast by crimson sunlight scattering across the clean glass.
Only after quite a while did he realize that he was in Grimmauld Place, in the bedroom he shared with Ron.
But shouldn't he have been at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries?
They should have sent him to St Mungo's, shouldn't they? He had collapsed on the battlefield. Logically, they should have taken him there for an examination.
Unless—
The tightly tucked blankets made Harry feel stifled. He shifted his body, laboriously pulled his stiff hand out from beneath the covers, and used it to prop himself up into a sitting position.
The house was very quiet. There was no one else in the bedroom besides him.
Ron and the others should still be at St Mungo's with Mr. Weasley. After all, his injuries had been so severe.
Harry did not rush to get out of bed.
Having faced the cruelty of war and stepped onto the battlefield himself, he found this peaceful, tranquil world before his eyes especially precious.
When his gaze fell upon the wand resting on the bedside table, Harry strangely drew back his shoulders.
But after hesitating, he slowly reached out and picked up the wand, warmed slightly by the sun, which had