There'd been something about the house on the hill that had drawn Harry to it since the day he had arrived. London, England in general had become too complicated now it was all over with Voldemort. He'd tried to explain that he felt as though he'd had a whole life in just a few short years, that his life had taken on a narrative of its own, he'd needed to get away and live his life according to his own rules but he wasn't sure they'd understood him. In the end he'd bought the ticket to Rome and hoped they would understand.

And now, after four weeks of feeling this place pulling at him he was peering through a dusty window, expecting to see abandoned furniture and cobwebbed rooms. To his surprise there was neither of these. Instead the room he looked into seemed to be well kept, neat and clean. Far too clean to make sense with the dirty windows and the jungle garden which gave the place its abandoned air. Through the small hole he had cleared with spit and his jacket cuff he could make out what looked like an expensive stereo system, a computer and a small suitcase. There were no chairs or other furniture in the room. The whole place looked like a very tidy, minimalist office.

Leaving the window Harry walked around the side of the house towards the back door. Vines and brambles grew in his path and he muttered a charm under his breath to clear his path. Obediently the leggy tendrils snaked their way, avoiding his feet and revealing cracked and broken tiles in beautiful saffron and ochre shades. The back of the house looked even more deserted than the front. With no one to see his actions Harry prised his fingers against the door. The sense of pulling even more insistent now he was attempting access. The tug pulled at him, into his mind and heart, like a song you half hear or a face nearly remembered. The rotting wood gave with a groan and Harry stood inside the house.