Harry didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just walked back to the shop.
The broom bristled slightly in his hand.
He set it by the door.
Looked up.
And paused.
In the far distance, on a rooftop four blocks away, someone watched through a scope.
Not a gun.
A camera.
The lens adjusted. Zoomed.
And clicked.
The shop welcomed him back like a held breath exhaled. The wards shivered — not in alarm, but recognition. Something old had stirred and settled again.
Harry set the broom behind the counter. It was cracked now — fine splits running down the shaft, bristles slightly scorched from where the enhanced man's body had radiated heat it shouldn't have.
He didn't fix it. He just left it leaning, like a soldier returned from a useless war.
The pocket watch was still on the floor where the girl had left it. But now — now it ticked.
Slow. Steady.
He crouched beside it. Watched the second hand. It pulsed forward like a heartbeat.
"Not possible," he muttered.
He didn't touch it. Instead, he turned away and walked to the back room.
A kettle boiled without fire. A tea cup poured itself. He sat in the corner armchair, shadows hugging the edges of the room.
The mirror on the far wall flickered — once — and showed not his reflection, but a field. Empty. Waiting.