Disclaimer: It isn't mine, but I once had dream that all the Hogwarts students were bunking in my living room in their squishy sleeping bags from Prisoner of Azkaban.
Of Potters
Harry sat in a crudely constructed hammock in the garden on Grimmauld Place, a mixed look of sadness and wonder, with a little bit of regret, painted onto his features.
It was his birthday this sunny, blue-skied day and he considered that, perhaps, he should be happy and celebrating with his friends, but currently he was sitting alone, in a blue and white striped hammock that was strung between the house and a pole which he'd magicked to stay in place.
The reason was melancholy, and he hadn't wanted company on this particular day, preferring instead to delay the celebrations until the weekend. The rather morbid thought that Harry was contemplating brought out diverse sentiments within the Boy Saviour. His trouble was thus:
Today, Harry James Potter turned twenty-two years old.
At the time of his death, James Charlus Potter was twenty one years, seven months, and four days old.
Harry was officially older than either of his parents ever had the chance to be, and he didn't quite know how to feel about that knowledge.
A part of him was filled with anguish and a desire to cry out to the world about how unfair it was that two good people had to die so young; had to leave their only child behind.
Another part of him was in slight awe of this fact; having known that particular fact was entirely different to understanding it. He'd mentally aged his parents to match that of his friends' mothers and fathers, and Sirius had also been instrumental in the way he'd perceived his parents.
The final emotion that was in conflict was regret. He didn't want to reach this age for two reasons. The first was that he no longer felt like a child to these two people who had lived for less years than he had, and the second being that they had never had the opportunity to be real parents. One year hardly constituted as such in Harry's mind; they had never heard him string a sentence together, never taken him to get on the Hogwarts Express, never seen any of his Quidditch games and never had him tell them he loved them.
Walburga Black began to scream, slicing through his silence with her derogatory screeches about dirty blood and then another bout of quiet as she was suddenly cut off, presumably by whoever had entered the house.
Harry sighed; Hermione must have arrived back from the Diagon Alley where she'd gone with Ron to ensure that the dark haired, bespectacled boy had some space. She was always very perceptive in regards to the way he was feeling, and he was grateful for that.
He smiled, resigned to the fact that he was now older than his parents ever got, and stood to go inside and greet the muggleborn witch and part-time housemate.
~End~
Just a random thought I had one timeā¦
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