Harry stared at the knife in his hand with dull, empty eyes.
He flicked it open.
Closed it.
Open again.
Closed.
The metal clicked softly each time, steady, controlled. It was the only thing he could seem to focus on.
He sat against the base of a tree just outside the camp, one knee pulled up to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him. The ground was cold, but he barely felt it anymore.
The tears on his face had dried. They left tight streaks on his skin.
Around him, the camp was alive.
Lanterns swayed from ropes tied between trees. Shadows moved across tents as people went in and out. Low conversations filled the air, mixed with the occasional nervous laugh that never lasted long.
It felt wrong.
Too normal.
Like nothing had happened.
Like his dad hadn't just—
Harry shut his eyes.
A few meters away, voices carried through the night.
"What do you think happened out there?"
