There is a museum where his house used to be.
Harry never thought of it as anything impacting—how could he? It wasn't like it affected him any way or the other when it was erected a year ago, but now, standing in front of the little cottage, all he can taste is metal and his lungs are impeccably dry.
(Maybe there's a part of him that's screaming. There's always a part of him that's eternally shrieking, but he's only discovered it recently. He's done well so far, muffling them with the depths of himself, but his bones are going deaf.)
There is no tiny plaque placed outside anymore. Now there is a bigger one—extravagant. Suddenly, the Potter home where James and Lily Potter sacrificed themselves for the sake of their son became the Great Harry Potter's Old Home. Praises and pretty words fills the new board standing awkwardly in front of the house.
No one is sight-seeing now. Empty, bland. There was a family leaving the house when he arrived—a young woman and her husband, and a small child in a blood red cloak skipping after them.
"Mommy," He had whined. "It's really cold here."
And his mother gathered him up in her arms and pulled him closer to her chest. The father, smiling, led them sweetly away and with a swift pop! left the town of Godric's Hollow.
Harry watched them with a heavy, burning sensation in his throat.
He is eighteen years old, and so, so very cold.
It's been a long while since he felt this kind of vulnerability—as if every doubt in his mind is being fleshed out in front of him as his eyes scans the closed door. It's a thrilling feeling.
(Thrill is the only constant that Harry doesn't mind.)
His hand acts on its own accord, and feels the roughness of the knob. He can't turn it now, he can't turn back now.
Harry's head snaps up when he hears something rummaging behind the door, and then—
And then—
It's when the door opens that he knows everything is right again.