Harry turns in his bed, now facing me. His face is not as pained as I have seen it before, and he does not seem to be in distress. I expect an involuntary sigh to issue from my lips, as a symbol of relief. I wait for it to come. It does not.
I find I am relatively panicked now. Why am I not showing any sign of pleasure at my best friend's lack of usual pain? I am appalled at myself. My heart is beating too fast for my liking, and I realize it is my own feelings that frighten me. I force my eyes closed, taking settling breaths. I reemerge my eyelids, and a calmer blue peeks through tired slits.
I am again looking at Harry. His face is unsettling to me, and I try to pinpoint the reason. His features are not tranquil. He is no picture of peace. And yet, I expect to feel relief that he is in no obvious agony. That alone is disquieting. Pain should not be expected in any sixteen-year-old boy's life. But Harry doesn't have a choice.
He has lost everyone. I am for the first time apprehending that he hasn't a family. I have always taken for granted, it seems, the fact that there is always someone waiting for me when I subtly walk through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. No matter how annoying I find them, or they find me, there are people who love me. People I call my family.
Harry doesn't have that. From what I know of his home life, he can anticipate no happiness upon returning there for summers. In fact, he dreads it at the end of each year. He spent ten years of his life with people who despise his existence.
It is then that I wonder if Harry has ever known love. Of course not from his relatives, but does he know he is loved here? Does he know he's not completely on his own? He always chooses to act alone. I assume it's because he wished to protect others, but also because that is all he knows. He knows how to take care of himself while stranded.
No one should be so used to such isolation. No one should be used to standing alone. No one should assume he is not loved, could never be loved. No one. Especially not a sixteen-year-old boy. Especially not a five-year-old boy. I'm sure his life was no better before I knew him. Though, he didn't have You-Know-Who to worry about at the time. Now, that he has escaped that life, he is thrown without option into a battle he is expected to lead. And he will likely die. And he accepts that. And that disturbs me.
My light eyelashes pull the heavy lids as they meet my pale skin. Darkness pursues me.