Disclaimer
All names, places and concepts related to
Harry Potter are the property of JK Rowling.
This applies to the entire work.
I have given a rating of PG.
This rating may be increased for later chapters.
Tick, tick
The clock wound by through each new hour.
Tick, tick
Everything was silent and empty but for that clock.
Tick, tick
What would happen if that clock stopped?
Tick, tick
Would I die?
He sat at the window. It wasn't a particularly interesting window. It opened and shut and would only close halfway on cold mornings. It was white with a silver lock that scrapped at the thick layered paint every time the latch was turned. It was square like most in the street. It had four streaky panes intersected by a cross. How ironic.
Today it was open, not that it ever closed. But now it was open all the way. Open so far that there didn't even seem to be a window at all. He would sit and look at the window without taking it in. But if someone asked he could tell you every splinter of its make right down to the one loose screw that had fallen out four days ago now.
He was anything but a window. If you asked people they would say sturdy as the frame and as see-through as the glass. He knew better. Maybe he was a window to others. But no, that couldn't be right. A window is a window whatever the make. Some smaller then others, or coloured, or frosted, but always what they were meant to be. What was he meant to be?
No, no, he was much more like the outside. Complicated. He couldn't describe what he was, not that he was even sure he could bring himself to. He would have to show people. But what would he show them? What could he show them?
Was he the tree? Was he the grass or even Mrs McGovern's old grey umbrella with its six holes that let the rain in and its button that never seemed to catch?
If you asked him he couldn't tell you. He could only show you. Show you what he saw from that window. He was the colours that melted. He brought fire that never lasts. He scattered sand. He was what never changes, no matter what was done to it. No illusion of light or hand could change what was underneath yet always above. He couldn't deny or explain the inescapable, everlasting black. He could only show you.
Did anything ever change? The tree had lost another nine leaves today. It had lost nine the day before, and the day before that too. Did anything ever change?
He knew things changed. The clock changed time. It changed but always came back to the beginning, back to what it was before. Maybe he could hand the clock to people and say here, this is me. No, that would be too simple.
A bird flew past. That was nothing; He was a bird all the time. It was what he wasn't that was difficult.
Could he leave the chair? No, the chair was by the window and the window was his home.
Would his eyes stop watching? No, he could never get away from himself.
Was that the sound?
Could he move at all? No, it wasn't time yet. He wasn't the clock.
The fire was coming. It was harsh. He didn't like the fire even though it helped him. The fire was the tree, the grass, the umbrella, the window, the clock. The fire was constant like him; He brought it and took it away. Would it take him with it?
Was that the sound?
No, that was the other sound. The one he was looking for would come soon. The sound he knew came with touch and smell and taste. He could see and hear but only what he was. The others were given to him. If they weren't given he wouldn't know them.
Tick, tick
It was close.
Tick, tick
He was by the window.
Tick, tick
It always came now.
He felt it first. He could feel the sound. It didn't used to hurt him but now it did. Or did it always hurt and he couldn't remember? Did he not want to remember?
The sound came with skin, but always quietly. The sound was never loud. Only he could hear it. There was the hand. It came next. He never saw the hand. He only saw himself.
It would be here soon.
He heard the lips but that wasn't the sound. He heard them but didn't feel them. There was a fly on the window.
There was the voice. He didn't know it, he never knew it. The voice was quiet but it wasn't the sound. It asked him something.
The voice was gone.
Tick, tick
It was like the clock. The sound always came around again.
Tick, tick
He could feel the sound now.
Tick, tick
"Sure."
That was the sound. He hated that sound. But who made it? It didn't matter. He could leave the chair now. The window was closed. But it would open again. He was the sky. It always turns black.