A Wistful Farewell: Oneshot
Disclaimer: Bother, don't I wish I had myself a Harry Potter. 'Scuse me, I must indulge in self-mourning.
Important Note: This scene takes place after the Dursleys in the Deathly Hallows, before Mad-eye and the crew join in.
Watching his departing aunt, Harry wondered why he didn't feel a sense of relief or ecstasy. After all, neither his aunt nor uncle had expressed the slightest niceties towards him. They had always neglects him, disregarded his very presence, so why did he feel – was it possible? – empty?
Perhaps the feeling rooted as a result of the stripped house, he theorized. Indeed, as he allowed his eyes to flicker about the living room, he affirmed the notion. Sighing, he sought a distraction, something to occupy him from murky thoughts. Lifting Hedwig's cage, intending to set her in the living room by the entrance, he halted abruptly when his eyes beheld a place he had always intended to avoid. However, now, as he studied the small door, he found he felt nothing towards it. Not even bitter.
Absentminded, Harry set Hedwig down and clicked the familiar lock. Hesitating, for a split moment, in which Hedwig caught astutely, Harry slid the door open, slowly, as if a demeanor lingered behind it. Breathing deeply at the sight of his childhood room, he ducked his head and entered.
He felt nothing.
Everything was untouched, as if he had never left the vacant place. Clicking open the light, he attentively sat on the bunk bed, wary. When it didn't collapse, Harry, feeling a strange wistfulness overcome him, ran his hand across the bed sheets, leaned back, and laid on the bed with his hands cushioning his head. He had to tuck his legs; the bunk had shrunk overtime. As he studied the banal ceiling, he muddled about his current position in life. Strange, how he had spent hours, days, weeks, months, here. He remembered, quite clearly, that he had nearly lost his sanity if he hadn't received that letter; if he hadn't met Hagrid, or Ron, or Hermione.
And now, how strange, life had formed for him. Now he was famous, had faithful friends and supporters, experienced what a family felt like, and was engraved with a task no soon-to-be seventeen year old boy should ever be entrusted. Strange, how balanced his life was. Faith would promise him with a friends, and possibly even a family, but on account that he would rid the world of lingering evil.
And Harry, inadvertently, had compromised.
Snorting at the irony, he encountered a stray thought in midst of the dismal ones. Sitting up, he peered under his bunk, his eyes widening when he encountered a peculiar object: a box. Drawing the box towards him, he marveled at its existence. Despite it being archaic and worn, he peeled open the cover regardless. Studying the contents, he gingerly reached for one, and snorted softly.
They had always remarked about his hands-on ability.
Indeed, he had stored a collection, back then when he felt the world was moving too slowly, of clay-formed characters which had fascinated him once. Running his thumb across one of them, he could see own fingerprints on the texture, his once small fingers, which had molded the earth into something insignificant.
But now, he found himself intrigued that no one had discovered his private secret. He had always promised himself that no one would discover this; not a single soul. With that promise firmly in mind, Harry tucked the lid back in place and slid the box in its previous place.
No one would know, and he reckoned no one would care, either.
Sighing first, he then stretched and yawned widely, and as he did, he blinked as his eyes beheld a small fold in the wall. Crinkling his eyes in an attempt to recall what it was, he reached for the fold, and queerly, he found his hand slid right through it. Curious, he adjusted his glasses and leaned to inspect the hole in the wall. As he did, however, memories came flooding back and comprehension dawned his features.
Smiling, he slid his hand through the fold and drew one of his prized items: an album. Sinking to a more comfortable position on the bed, he opened the book and flickered through it.
Just another one of his collections.
Adjusting his glasses, he watched his younger self, framed by Ron and Hermione, smiling, albeit timidly, in midst of confident grins. He remembered distinctly, it had only been First year. First year at Hogwarts, first year with friends, and first year of happiness. Surfing through every picture, and studying them quite thoroughly, Harry finally reached the final pages, to where, despite them being his personal favorite, were the ones he dreaded the most.
Indeed, as he reached the final chapters of the album, he encountered his parents' wedding pictures and stopped. Each time, he would always stop and study the people who were too happy to be his parents, too surreal, that Harry could hardly fathom that these creatures were his parents. Perhaps the only evidence he could present that they were, was James's uncanny resemblance to his son, and Lily's almond-shaped green eyes. And despite his dubious thoughts, the picture seemed to always draw a smile from their son as they waved merrily at the picture.
Before Harry could sink any deeper into his despair, he startled slightly, nearly dropping the book, when a slight flutter greeted him. Blinking, he peered towards the light burden on his shoulder and smiled exasperatedly. It was only Hedwig; she had sensed her master's dismay, and with a hoot, she attempted to reassure him. Rolling his eyes, Harry reverted his attention to the book and forced himself to think positive about his parents. With that in mind, he refocused his attention on details he had missed before, like how tall his father was, or how young Sirius looked in his parents' wedding picture, or how his mother glowed with elegance.
And after he had reached the conclusion, he shut the book, laid it aside, and rubbed his forehead (out of habit).
Merlin, life wasn't fair.
Detached at the moment, Harry studied the ceiling, his mind void. How different his life could have been if they had lived. He would have had a mother greeting him early, a father guiding him with his life's goals, and maybe a brother or sister to spend the fleeting days with. He knew for certain that, had they lived, he wouldn't be here, doubting if he would survive to see the rising sun the next day.
Hedwig, sensing her master's distress, hooted once again, in which he startled under her talons. Blinking, he wondered if his aunt or uncle had placed a curse on the cupboard, for every time he entered it, he felt his thoughts stacking, with no conclusions.
Sighing, he sat up while prodding Hedwig to his arm; wincing when she eyed him with a stern look, he stated to his ever-faithful companion.
"Sorry, Hedwig."
Hedwig, satisfied, hooted as she fluttered back to her cage.
Sighing, Harry peered from the rim of his glasses towards the room. Sensing that this was the last time he would stumble across this room again, he reached his hand towards the side wall and hesitated. Apprehensive, he wiped the dust off with his hand, and his breath caught.
The picture, as ever, was as clear as the day he had drew it. It depicted a scene –a happy scene– of a family of three, although one would have to squint to comprehend it. Indeed, the hair, the eyes, and height had been crossed out countless times. He had been struggling to infer what his parents looked, and the finished product was finally drawn right next to the countless rough drafts. Chuckling slightly, he studied the picture for a moment before standing up, drawing in a deep breath.
Choosing to take the album, he left his other items behind. Anyhow, if anyone stumbled across the lot (which he doubted they would) they would never know that Harry Potter had once resided there unless they could distinguish the picture clearly.
Scanning the room once more, he waited for a second more to flip the lights off. Then, he ducked his head as he exited the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and Harry, startled, moved to answer the door. He didn't know that he had inadvertently moved to start a new beginning in his life.
And faith wouldn't wish him well.
After all, it only played fair.
A/N: Erm, so, yeah, I'm got a bit emotional after this part. I don't know why, but I felt a piece of Harry was left there, like his childhood self, and all the fun and jokes that he usually indulged in, despite the cupboard being sort of bittersweet. And, don't judge, I feel very sentimental when a young character finally matures, and I think this part (and Dobby's death) really signified the end of Harry's childhood. -sniff-
Anyway, y'all know how much I wove Harry, so I wrote this in response.
Side Note: I know this scene is not wholly accurate, but just, leave me to my imagination, 'Kay? Kay.
Review. (If I got Harry's character right).