Poorly lit. Musty. Cramped. Claustrophobic.
The cupboard under the stairs that's served as Harry's bedroom for the ten years that he's spent with the Dursley doesn't really have a lot going for it, Harry thinks. His head bumps against the wall as he leans back on his lumpy mattress. The pillow under his head is basically just a worn pillowcase stuffed with rags. A particularly large spider as it tracks its way nonchalantly across the ceiling, going about its day, doing whatever it is that spiders do.
There's really not a lot of room in here to do anything other than watching spiders and waiting to fall asleep. It's not supposed to be a room at all, let alone a bedroom. It's supposed to be a cupboard under the stairs. It's supposed to be small and unobtrusive, to use up the space that would have gone unused otherwise.
It's the kind of space where you stash things like old shoes, or newspapers, or bits of junk – the kind of things that you don't have much use for and don't want cluttering up your living areas.
It's the kind of place where you stash unwanted things.
Harry doesn't have any particular attachment to this place. It's a place to sleep at night, nothing more.
It's not and never has been home.
Dusty. Full of Junk. Faded grimy walls that had never been repainted.
Harry's second bedroom at the Dursley's place is a step up from the old one only in the fact that there's a lot more space to move around and a proper bed this time, although the mattress on this one is no less lumpy than the one in the cupboard under the stairs.
Like everything else Harry has, this room is also a hand me down from Dudley, filled with his broken toys and all the other knick knacks that won't fit into Dudley's bedroom.
It's a room that the Dursley's were forced to shift him to because he no longer fit in the cupboard under the stairs. It's a room that was briefly a prison cell, and has never really lost the feeling of it since.
But at least it has that conveniently loose floorboard, and the space beneath it that he's used as a hiding place for things that he wanted to keep hidden from the Dursleys. That floorboard and the space under it are the only part of the entire house that feel like they're his. They're his space and his secret.
It's not really his room, of course. It's the room that the Dursley's, grudgingly, put him up in when he's back from Hogwarts, to spend the obligatory month or so, as he impatiently counts down the days before he can leave for The Burrow, or Hogwarts.
On his last night at Privet Drive, Harry lies awake in his bed as he tries to sort out his feelings about leaving the house, never to return. He's surprised to find that his only feelings are those of relief.
There are no memories of this place that he wants to keep. Nothing of it that he will take with him when he leaves for the last time.
It was always just a rest stop between school years. He's never been home here.
A house out in the countryside, with open spaces. Someplace where you can see the sky.
It wasn't exactly a dream, more of a dream of a dream. A home of his own, with an adult who cared about him. For a brief moment he'd allowed himself that small hope.
But then it was gone, cruelly snatched from him when Wormtail escaped and Sirius had to go on the run again.
And as Harry watches Sirius flee on Buckbeak, growing smaller and smaller in the night sky, he feels the dream slipping away from him, leaving him with the agonizing reality of returning to the Dursleys again.
Ancient stone walls. Flickering candles in the brazier. A four poster bed and silk sheets.
A cheerful fire in the fireplace. Rugs scattered on the floor. Tables, chairs and sofas scattered about in random arrangements.
Harry's dormitory that he shares with four others, and the Gryffindor Common Room that he shares with a couple hundred others, are both large and spacious, with magic emanating from the very stones they were comprised of.
Hogwarts is the only place where Harry's ever truly felt happy, the only place where's he's felt like he belongs. It's a sanctuary, a safe place for him to be with others like himself.
But it's not really home. Because it's not actually his.
Harry doesn't own the castle. He shares it with several hundred other people. There is no space within the castle that he has all to himself, to arrange as he would like. Even the four poster bed that he sleeps in isn't really his. There were others who lived in that dormitory and slept in that bed before him, and there will be others after.
Hogwarts is the place where he's felt most at home. But it's not really his home.
His last night at Hogwarts is spent lying awake watching shadows from the flickering candlelight dance across the top of his four poster bed. If he'd been more aware of his surroundings, he would have realized that the absence of usual snoring means that he's not the only one lying awake.
Harry's has spent six years at Hogwarts – the six best years of his life, but there are changes coming. Things are unravelling in the wizarding world, and Harry's life is reaching a tipping point.
Technically Harry still has another year to go at Hogwarts, if he chooses to return for his seventh year. But there's an air of finality about his upcoming departure. Harry knows that there's a good chance that he will not be returning.
If Hogwarts had been home to him, that time is in the past now.
Weathered wooden floor. Chudley Cannons posters on every single inch of available wall space. A moaning ghoul in the attic above. Gnomes in the garden. Occasional explosions from Gred and Forge's room below.
The room that Harry shares with Ron when he's staying over at The Burrow is actually smaller than the one that he has at Privet Drive. Add to the fact that there's two of them there, with two beds and two sets of belongings, it's a fair bit more cramped.
Harry doesn't mind. He'd rather be here at the Burrow than stuck with the Dursleys any day. Smaller and more cramped though Ron's room might be, Harry vastly prefers staying someplace where he's actually wanted.
But it's not quite home.
It's not that he isn't grateful. He is. He appreciates Ron opening his home for him. He appreciates all of the Weasleys making space for him in their family. He appreciates Molly's sincere efforts to mother him, as if determined to compensate for all that Harry missed in a decade spent with the Dursleys.
But that only goes so far.
No matter how much effort the Weasleys make to include him in their family, to make him feel welcome, the fact remains that The Burrow is the Weasley family home.
And at the end of the day, Harry is not a Weasley. He is a Potter.
And Arthur and Molly are Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They aren't Dad and Mum. That distance will always be there, and no number of welcoming gestures on the Weasleys' part can close it. There's a limit to how much Harry will allow himself to impose on their generosity.
Harry's awake before dawn on the morning of Bill and Fleur's wedding. The whole house is quiet. Even the ghoul in the attic is silent. Outside the birds are starting to pick up. Their twittering sounds like a million tiny voices, peppering him about his life and what's to come. What to do, if by chance he survives what's coming, how to spend his life, where to spend it and who to spend it with.
The Burrow is the Weasley family home. It's a place where Harry has open invitation to drop by at any time.
But it is Ron's home, not Harry's home.
Dark. Gloomy. Stale air. A whiff of Doxy droppings. Rows of decapitated House Elf heads hanging on the wall. The oppressive weight of Dark Magic heavy in the air. A legacy of wizarding supremacy in the family name.
The house that Harry's inherited from Sirius brought its own set of problems with it – namely the history behind it.
Harry has no fondness for this place. The memory of Sirius haunts the house. Trapped first in Azkaban, and then trapped later in the house that he hated.
Even with the best of cleanup efforts, there's a limit to how much one could dispel the general air of gloominess in the house. This isn't a place of laughter and camaraderie. This isn't a place that has raised happy well adjusted families. This is a place whose residents believed that they were better than others simply by the virtue of their bloodlines.
This is a place which belonged to people who would have considered Hermione to be beneath them, unworthy of being considered one of them, let alone respected for her talents and hard work. And they have left their mark on it. From the rows of decapitated house elf heads, to the screaming spiteful erstwhile resident whose presence lives on in the house, through her portrait, bound there by magic that nobody has figured out how to undo. It seems that the house will never be free of the shadow of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Bill tells Harry that everything that was possible to do to scrub out the lingering magical traces of the Black family had already been done. For what was left, it was probably best to just wait out for the magic to fade. When Kreacher dies, not long after the battle at Hogwarts, the decision to abandon the house becomes easier.
It's Harry's house. But he has no desire to make it into a home.
A house on the lake. Redbrick and wood interiors. On the edge of the woods. Peaceful. Secluded. Fortified.
Inside there is an entire room with bookshelves lining the walls for Hermione's growing collection of books, neatly categorized by subject and author.
Outside there's a practice yard for Harry, a separate shed for both of their broomsticks and a miniature Quidditch pitch by the lake for old times sake, when Harry's former Gryffindor team mates drop by to visit and reminisce. Illusion spells placed around the house by Hermione serve to disguise its more obviously magical aspects from their Muggle neighbors, should they come over to visit.
This is the house that he and Hermione had purchased together, remodeled together, rebuilt it with magic to make it their own.
Harry lies stretched out on the couch, his head resting on Hermione's lap, one hand dangling off the side to pet Crookshanks who had settled at the base of the couch. A thunderstorm roars outside. Inside, a fire crackles cheerfully in the fireplace, the smell of wood smoke mingling pleasantly with the scent of cinnamon and hot chocolate from Hermione's mug.
Hermione herself is engrossed in a book that's floating in mid air in front of her. One of her hands is occupied with holding her mug. The other one is busy combing through Harry's hair, her fingers absently brushing across his scalp in a manner that makes him shiver.
While Hermione is busy studying the book, Harry busies himself with studying Hermione. He takes in every single detail of her face. Every single contour, every single line and crease. As it turns out, Hermione-watching is one of his favorite pastimes.
As if sensing his attention, Hermione suddenly turns away from the book to find Harry staring at her. She raises an eyebrow in askance, to which Harry's only response is a shrug and a dopey grin. Hermione rolls her eyes but then impulsively bends down to give Harry a lingering kiss before going back to her book, this time with slightly reddened cheeks and a smile on her lips, as her fingers continue to rake through Harry's hair.
Harry meanwhile thinks back to the sequence of events that led him here, to this point in time, to this house he's built, the life he's built and the girl he's built it with, who's given more of herself to him than he had any right to ask of her and who's been at his side every step of the way.
And he's finally home.