"I'm Harry Potter," he said, his face grimacing at hearing his own pathetic words. Seriously, what difference does a total idiot have from the savior of the bloody Wizarding world? It feels very close to nil.

Things started to change after the war. Suddenly, everything was sullen and duller and everyone was in need of encouragement. No one could tell how the writing in the wall came to be. Just that, every morning when the castle wakes, they would see a different set of words, and someone would feel like they were meant for them.

How high was it? Fifty feet? Seventy? A hundred? And yet he took a step closer to the edge. Just another half-step and he'll fall. She could call him, scream and make her presence known. Or, maybe she could make some weird sounds to scare him off. It could be fun. She could do that, only she would hate to miss out on seeing what he came here. (Warning: This is a non-wizard story)