The Simple Things In Life

By Ael L. Bolt

Rating: PG

Genre: Angst/Mystery

Spoilers: SS/PS, PoA, OoTP

Timeframe: Sometime around the end of fifth year

Summary: One of Harry's friends writes a letter describing Harry's behavior over the years. Which friend is it? You decide!

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Dear Harry,

I know it seems kind of stupid to write you a letter that I don't want you to read, especially when we're in the same castle. I just don't want to burden you with more to stew over than you already have.

Don't play games with me, I know you're not Mr. Sunshine that you're pretending for everyone else's benefit. I look into your eyes, and there's a spark missing that always managed to resemble your very soul. Oh, Harry, your godfather's death has really torn you up, hasn't it?

I know you don't sleep well at night, either. Sometimes I sneak out of bed just to make sure you're still breathing and intact. It sounds irrational, I know, to think that you might die in your sleep without making a fuss, but I've seen you in the grips of yet another vision. I know your scar hurts you terribly, perhaps worse than the Cruciatus curse. I'm not brave enough to ask you which one's worse; I know you've felt them both at varying degrees. But then, you never did have the greatest sleeping habits, did you?

I've watched you since you arrived here. You were so small and innocent, with a wide-eyed expression that suggested you were trying to take in everything at once. You couldn't seem to believe that it was all real, even your magical belongings. But I saw the signs; I saw you flinch away from a teacher's touch, a loud noise, a sudden movement. You were always underweight to the point of near-emaciation, and you didn't eat much when you had the chance.

The nights were more horrific, in a way. Do you know how you slept, Harry? Do you know that every night for the first few months, you slept completely immobile in a fetal position, as if crammed into a tiny space and unable to move without hurting yourself? Sometimes you whimpered in your nightmares, but they were always quickly choked back and you never so much as twitched. I know now that you were used to sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs, and that knowledge has made it even more horrific. By the end of the year, you'd begun to stretch out a bit in your slumber, but you didn't quite venture fully until midway through your second year. You cherished the things we all took for granted: a bed to sleep in, enough food to eat, clothes that fit you, people who acknowledge your existance. I thought you'd been making progress.

But now it's all back; the flinching from a comforting touch, any type of loud noise, and even flashes of light now, especially if it's green. You've even begun to seek the center of the bed as your sanctuary again, staying on top of the covers while clutching your wand in your hand. The nightmares plague you, and as you fight against crying out I likewise have to fight the urge to throw my arms around you and promise to protect you from your personal demons. Don't take this the wrong way, but I love you. Not in a romantic sense, but more of an older sibling; someone to watch out for you and drive away the monsters in the closet.

I wish you didn't have to hurt so much.

I wish the world's weight was not on your shoulders.

I wish you could be happy.