On His Window
They say the eyes are windows to the soul. At the centre of the eye all there is, is blackness, emptiness. So what exactly does that tell us about our souls?
This window Harry had looked at so many times over the last few years it would be impossible to count. But he had never really looked at it. He had looked through it. That, he supposed, was the same with souls. It was between his and Ron's beds, halfway up the elderly grey stone walls and in an elegant arch. The frame was wooden. Harry guessed that once - when the castle was first built, or perhaps later – the wood had been an orange- brown. But now, as time had left it's mark, it was a milk chocolate colour, and was not smooth as it once had been, but was marked by the events and people it had seen. Notches where people, bored and staring absently through it had picked. Scratches where objects had been caught or even thrown straight at it.
A picture is worth a thousand words. This window could tell a thousand years.
The glass in it was old too, but Harry thought it was unlikely to have been there since the castle was built. They didn't have glass in their windows then, did they? It was probably added later when such windows were standard. It was only a thin sheet of glass, not double- glazing or anything fancy; it probably wouldn't take much to smash it.
Harry moved to turn away, aware of the fact that it was extremely strange for a sixteen-year-old boy to be so fascinated by his window. But as he turned, Harry noticed something he had never seen before. Or perhaps he had, but it had been such a long time ago, in his first and second, maybe even third year at Hogwarts, that those words and initials held no significance. He wondered if Ron had ever noticed them, and he did wonder why he, Harry, hadn't. But they were small and in the corners where they would only be noticed if one was looking for them, or really looking at the window, as Harry was.
They had been scratched in, possibly with a charm, though Harry thought that it wasn't neat enough for that. If it were Harry he would have used the point of a set of compasses or something similar, but he doubted this method had been used. He didn't even know if wizards had compasses.
In the right hand point of the arch were the markings that interested Harry most.
JP+LE. GRYFFIE4EVA.
They were so small but so perfectly formed that Harry was sure the letters must have been formed by his mother's hand. That meant that they had to have marked those words there together, so many years ago. The bed Harry had called his own may once have been his father's, and those around him could have belonged to Sirius, to Lupin, and though the thought made Harry sick to the stomach, to Wormtail.
Harry turned to the markings in the left hand point of the arch:
SB+HJ.
Who was HJ? Harry had never heard Sirius or anyone close to him mention a girlfriend he'd liked enough to inscribe their names upon the dormitory window. Underneath his godfather's markings were some more: Harry didn't need to guess to know they were made by Lupin.
WOLFIE. RL2U.
Harry didn't like to brood on Lupin's loneliness so he turned his attention to the highest point of the arch. The writing was even small here than any of the other markings, but Harry could read it clearly, and he smiled as the familiar words registered.
I solemnly swear I am up to no good.
Finally, along the bottom of the window in a line were names.
Remus. Peter. Sirius. James.
Harry ran his index finger across them, pains of sadness overcoming him. He closed his eyes and was somewhat comforted by the jagged touch of his family's words.
He pulled himself away eventually and opened his schoolbag. He soon found what he was looking for, his pencil case, and dug out the set of unused compasses.
Harry paused above the names; worried that adding more would curse them somehow. Remembering the complexity of divination, and the uselessness of speculation, he began to scratch in new additions to the window.
Half an hour later a new line had been added along the bottom, above the names of Harry's father and his best friends were those of importance to him.
Ron. Hermione. Neville. Luna. Ginny. Harry.
He half wondered how long it would be before these inscriptions were noticed. More than anything, he hoped that he would be alive to hear of it.
They say the eyes are windows to the soul. At the centre of the eye all there is, is blackness, emptiness. So what exactly does that tell us about our souls?
This window Harry had looked at so many times over the last few years it would be impossible to count. But he had never really looked at it. He had looked through it. That, he supposed, was the same with souls. It was between his and Ron's beds, halfway up the elderly grey stone walls and in an elegant arch. The frame was wooden. Harry guessed that once - when the castle was first built, or perhaps later – the wood had been an orange- brown. But now, as time had left it's mark, it was a milk chocolate colour, and was not smooth as it once had been, but was marked by the events and people it had seen. Notches where people, bored and staring absently through it had picked. Scratches where objects had been caught or even thrown straight at it.
A picture is worth a thousand words. This window could tell a thousand years.
The glass in it was old too, but Harry thought it was unlikely to have been there since the castle was built. They didn't have glass in their windows then, did they? It was probably added later when such windows were standard. It was only a thin sheet of glass, not double- glazing or anything fancy; it probably wouldn't take much to smash it.
Harry moved to turn away, aware of the fact that it was extremely strange for a sixteen-year-old boy to be so fascinated by his window. But as he turned, Harry noticed something he had never seen before. Or perhaps he had, but it had been such a long time ago, in his first and second, maybe even third year at Hogwarts, that those words and initials held no significance. He wondered if Ron had ever noticed them, and he did wonder why he, Harry, hadn't. But they were small and in the corners where they would only be noticed if one was looking for them, or really looking at the window, as Harry was.
They had been scratched in, possibly with a charm, though Harry thought that it wasn't neat enough for that. If it were Harry he would have used the point of a set of compasses or something similar, but he doubted this method had been used. He didn't even know if wizards had compasses.
In the right hand point of the arch were the markings that interested Harry most.
JP+LE. GRYFFIE4EVA.
They were so small but so perfectly formed that Harry was sure the letters must have been formed by his mother's hand. That meant that they had to have marked those words there together, so many years ago. The bed Harry had called his own may once have been his father's, and those around him could have belonged to Sirius, to Lupin, and though the thought made Harry sick to the stomach, to Wormtail.
Harry turned to the markings in the left hand point of the arch:
SB+HJ.
Who was HJ? Harry had never heard Sirius or anyone close to him mention a girlfriend he'd liked enough to inscribe their names upon the dormitory window. Underneath his godfather's markings were some more: Harry didn't need to guess to know they were made by Lupin.
WOLFIE. RL2U.
Harry didn't like to brood on Lupin's loneliness so he turned his attention to the highest point of the arch. The writing was even small here than any of the other markings, but Harry could read it clearly, and he smiled as the familiar words registered.
I solemnly swear I am up to no good.
Finally, along the bottom of the window in a line were names.
Remus. Peter. Sirius. James.
Harry ran his index finger across them, pains of sadness overcoming him. He closed his eyes and was somewhat comforted by the jagged touch of his family's words.
He pulled himself away eventually and opened his schoolbag. He soon found what he was looking for, his pencil case, and dug out the set of unused compasses.
Harry paused above the names; worried that adding more would curse them somehow. Remembering the complexity of divination, and the uselessness of speculation, he began to scratch in new additions to the window.
Half an hour later a new line had been added along the bottom, above the names of Harry's father and his best friends were those of importance to him.
Ron. Hermione. Neville. Luna. Ginny. Harry.
He half wondered how long it would be before these inscriptions were noticed. More than anything, he hoped that he would be alive to hear of it.