Portrait of the Man in Solitude
By Chyna Rose
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R.
Harry Potter spends his days at a desk writing letters. He lives alone in a small cottage far away from the rest of the world. It is a tidy place, and not at all Muggle even if it's not very magical.
Harry Potter occasionally makes trips into town. He speaks to the butcher and young Jenny at the chemist. The townsmen respect his need for peace and say nothing when he doesn't engage in idle chatter or stop in at the local tavern. It is ok to be quiet.
Harry Potter's cottage is warded tight. Only owls can find it, and even they don't get as far as his front door except for Hedwig. His friends may not understand his need for isolation, but they leave him to it just the same.
Harry Potter is surprisingly up to date with the Wizarding World for all that he's abandoned it. Not a week goes by that the Daily Prophet doesn't run a letter from Harry over this Ministry policy or that. His letter are largely discounted out of hand, despite who he is.
Harry Potter is covered in scars. Some are curse borne through the war. Some were from Before. The rest are a motley collection collected from a life of healing himself. He never really was any good at healing spells or potions.
Harry Potter doesn't mind being alone. He doesn't really know how to relate to people. Thanks to his aunt and uncle, he never learned ho to love. Oh, he can get attached to a person and go through the motions of it. But there is something vital yet indescribable missing. And having never really known it, he doesn't really miss it. Sometimes he wonders if he's even capable of ever really loving another person. But since he doesn't want to hurt someone else, he's never tried.
Harry Potter thinks that he's happy. He's free to live his life the way he wants without the fate of a whole world sitting on his shoulders. He's earned it by sacrificing his life for them before with Voldermort. No longer will the Wizarding World use him as a night light when all he wants to do is putter in his garden.
Harry Potter doesn't really smile much. And he doesn't wonder why. He doesn't want for money or material goods. And his friends would be there for him the nanosecond he asked. He survived the war and beat the Big Bad. He's got medals and titles and even a bloody monument erected in his name. Yet day after day he sits at a battered desk hunched over page after page of parchment with fingers perpetually stained black with ink writing letters to prove that he exists.