It was midsummer, Harold had been at Hogwarts a few days - long enough to find his classroom, his quarters, settle in enough to unpack, and walk the halls of the castle to remind himself of having been here in his youth. Simpler times.
One of the things he'd never done as a student was to walk the grounds by the lake, at least not for the sake of actually admiring the lake itself. In his youth there were always more important things to be doing than taking the time to simply appreciate what was around him. Recent events at the Ministry, and of course with Sylvia, had put things in a whole new light for him.
And so it was, with the sun still riding in the sky, but waning, just slowly beginning to dip over the top of the tallest trees in the Forest, Harold found himself alone on the edge of the lake, just quietly stood there, contemplating. The wind was more than a light breeze, furling the surface of the water up with a little energy, though not enough to be called fervently, as the sun left a warm hue over it.
Harold cast his mind back; to meeting Sylvia, watching her face light up with a smile not because of something outrageously funny, but simply when she was amused by something innocuous he'd done, or where they'd had a debate and both learned something from it. And her laugh, well, Harold thought of many expressions, but inwardly thought peals of angelic bells was perhaps too extravagant an expression.
He missed her. She would have loved this; if only he'd taken this posting sooner, she would have come with him, he was sure of it. They'd be walking the lakeside together, she would have insisted on it. He was sure she would have insisted on it.
The wind, while not cold, asserted its presence again with a little more force, and Harold found his gently wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. Of course, it was the breeze - everyone knows the breeze on a lakeside is more energetic than, say, amongst a forest, and everyone knows that the breeze on a midsummer's night was apt to provoke a recollection or two. Maybe a dream of things forgotten or lost. But who could say, everyone would have misty eyes on a windy day, at a lakeside.
Harold headed back towards the castle, breathing a little more heavily and his shoulders moving a little more tightly. The path back up was seemingly uneventful, at least to start with.