Work Text:
The neon sign buzzed, casting a sickly green glow over Harry’s cold chips. Reminded him of a curse. He pushed the plate away, hunger dying instantly. Every bell chime at the diner door echoed like the final footfalls of lost friends. The smell of cheap grease warped into the sharp stench of burning wood at Hogwarts. He wiped a hand over his face. He survived, yes. But sitting alone under the harsh fluorescent lights, the ghosts of war still ate at him, hungrier than he could ever be.