He has a single lily in and empty potions' bottle by his bed, creamy petals curving towards the wood of the bedside table. He always changed it before it died, because one dead lily was enough for a lifetime. A marble carving of a doe sits next to the flower, weighting down the scrap of worn parchment bearing her love.

The bed is unmade, black sheets still rumpled from the previous night; a dent in the pillow where his head lain. A large wardrobe in one corner is full of black robes, broken only by the occasional white shirt. The lily has dropped a waxy petal onto the floor, partially trampled by a footprint that pressed it into a niche in the stone floor.

A heavy stack of potions books is in one corner, various bits of parchment tucked between the yellowing pages to mark certain passages that caught the reader's attention. A picture of Lily is on the small oak table next to an armchair. The armchair has an emerald green throw the colour of her eyes draped over one plush ebony arm.

Harry stands in the middle of the room, eyes taking in the small details; like the dust that coated the wooden surfaces showed that the inhabitant didn't really care about the up keeping of the room, and the faded Slytherin banner that hangs over the wardrobe, one dusty end trailing down the wall.

He replaces the flower with a fresh one, tucks the piece of Lily's letter into his pocket, and closes the door respectfully. The lily smells sweet, he notes, locking the door.