Harry pushed back the mop of hair across his scar. It hadn’t burnt in an age, but the memory, the shadow of the pain was still there. It always would be.

He saw Molly’s pristine apron and head maid pin, right above her heart. How she managed to look so neat and polished without magic, he’d never know. Not a speck of dust remained in the room, it was in a state of perfection.

Molly looked at this young man and wondered, why, with the help of magic, was he still so scruffy? Hours of dusting, washing, folding and ironing could be done with the flick of a wand. But no, the creases in his shirt remained and the room was filled with piles of paper and open spell books, haphazardly cast aside.