42. Devastation
After that day, things had been solemnly quiet at Hogwarts. Harry couldn't truly bring himself to do anything but pity the man. He would only wish such a fate on his worst enemy, Voldemort. In a moment of deep reflection, the teen decided to let his fury go.
Long had Harry seen the downfall that came with such obsession, it was morbidly fascinating. The Dursleys had their success and normalness. Petunia changed her behavior so often and so quickly that he was sure that she would get whiplash. It was unknown if she had a genuine friend. Vernon bathe in his self-deceit. He acted as if all of his actions went according to some grand plan. Dudley was nothing without his pride and bullying.
Even his friend Hermione had such an obsession. Hers was school. Since that day, her appearance grew more restless and disheveled. At the moment, he chose to leave it be. If she grew any worse the next school year, he would confront her.
On a further sour note, Professor Lupin had resigned as the teacher for the Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Apparently werewolves were appreciated in Hogwarts. Harry wasn't surprised to find such blatant discrimination from witches and wizards. The thought saddened him, though.
The Hogwarts Express came to a stop, signifying another year that he succeeded in surviving the chaos of the school. With promises to owl each other during the break, the trio of friends went their separate ways. Unlike his friends, he was not welcomed by the loving arms of family.
It was nothing new. What was once heartache no longer even registered as a disappointment. Carrying his luggage, he was mildly surprised to find the Raggedy Man working on another portrait.
Slowly walking beside the man, he took a peek at the artwork. It depicted an iceberg. Above the surface, it was a simple collection of ice piercing the surface. Below was another story. The iceberg morphed into a horrid creature of slime, pus, and unending amount of mouths. Water around it was defiled by its mere existence. The material in which the Raggedy Man painted on seemed to weep as it held the thing's image.
For a moment, Harry knew misery and that thusly warped into apathy. Eyes losing focus, he couldn't help but marvel at the sight. He looked the man in the eyes and smiled brightly, "What a powerful piece, I see you haven't lost your touch."
A faint smile appeared on the man's face at the compliment.
As the final stroke was finished, Harry couldn't help but be amazed. It was so lifelike as though he held the power of creation within the brush. After looking over the man's appearance, he asked, "Hungry?"
…
Later, the pair were in a private booth at a diner. The picture rested beside Harry. It had the power to seemingly cause people to avert their eyes. Their waiter couldn't get their order fast enough.
"Why?" The Raggedy Man questioned. When he saw the confused look on the teen, he elaborated, "Why do you hold interest in my art? It's abhorrent."
Harry took another look at the powerful piece and ran a single finger over the image. The waters almost appeared to patter as the creature went through light spasms that were poor imitations of squirming. "I can relate to them. This one looks like a struggle between nature and nurture. It's very much not an iceberg, but it's trying to be. No matter how poor of job it's doing, it is trying. I'm not too different", Harry admitted as he rested on his opened palm and gazed at the image. His eyes glowed an unnatural inhuman hue of green. Light itself seemed to be barely able to depict the shade.
"For so long I tried to be what I'm obviously not. First it was 'normal' then it was a hero. The first by choice the latter by others. Sometimes I think I'm that frightened child underneath the stairs that just wants to be recognized. Your pictures brings that back, all those bitter memories and experiences. I can't pretend that I've really figured myself out. I don't even know if I will like what I find beneath the surface. But, I want that so badly. That's why I enjoy your paintings. It speaks of recognition and beauty of those that don't belong." Harry looked at the man in sincerity.
In turn, the Raggedy Man appeared torn, no doubt lost in his own memories. "I suppose that is a nice way to look at it. Perhaps that's all I was trying to say." He paused then shook his head, "No it wasn't. I lack that insight. Sometimes I don't think I even know what I want. Thank you Harry Potter. Your words have been insightful."
Harry nodded in return. Pulling the painting to the front, he asked politely, "May I have your autograph? I don't if I'll see you again."
"Of course", he took the painting and traced his finger over the lower right corner. The Raggedy Man then returned it to his only fan. All the while, he wore the biggest smile Harry had ever seen.
Harry looked at the signature. It read 'Destruction'. A name that reverberated with his very being. Somehow for some reason, he knew that it wasn't a pseudonym. Harry rose his head to find just what he expected.
Nothing.
The Raggedy, no, Destruction had left him alone in the booth. Such a strange being, but a powerful one. As he paid the check and left the diner, he couldn't help but connect a few people in his head.
The Pale Lady, Pinched Man, and Destruction gave off similar feels. What were they? After a moment of thought, he released such concerns. There was no need to become obsessed.
