Number four, Privet Drive. Little Whinging, Surrey. Harry Potter, an extrordinary boy, but, nonetheless, a changing boy. I've seen the changes, at times minute and physical; later, more emotional and not all for the better. For almost sixteen years, he has lived inside the shelter I provide, my walls protecting him as best they can; and, for sixteen years I have watched him grow into the boy he is today.
At first, I was wary, not knowing if this strange boy who had arrived on my doorstep the night before would be like the others that I house. I learned, however, that he was different. Almost at once, he proved himself to be a noble boy, soon to be a noble man. I remember my bitter joy, knowing he would leave me bereft of his presence, but find a wonderful home elsewhere for the time being.
The first thing I noticed when he returned was a certain straightness in his back. He walked as if he knew he was loved. That look of joy on his face failed to fade, even when the others were horrid to him. The look of hope and excitement on his face as he counted down the days until the new term saddened me, but I took comfort that he would not be alone in his new world.
When he next returned, he looked a little more worn and frightened. I longed to take the boy into my embrace and tell him that everything would be alright. Alas, I couldn't. That summer I watched him as his confusion and despair deepened. Then he left, suddenly and abruptly. I think along the way he took something I wasn't even aware of possessing- my love.
The feelings he had felt the year before were almost diminished when I saw him. Unfettered happiness shown through the sorrow I know he felt sometimes. Once again he left my company early. Eagerly, I counted down the days until his return, as he had done so two years past, but when he arrived at last, he was changed.
Guilt riddled his eyes with pain. I could sense his inner turmoil. All summer he was jumpy, as if expecting someone to jump out at him from behind. Then, he left me alone...again. I was confused. What had happened to the boy that had caused such a harsh change? Later I was soon to discover that that change was nothing compared to what would come later.
He was half empty. At least, that is how he seemed. He would not talk much, and he was forever reading newspapers. Again, he took his leave, and I was more concerned than ever.
Finally, he's back. He is here with me now, but, as always, something has changed. His eyes have grown cold and his face bleak. He walks now, not with an uprightness, but as if the worries of the world weigh him down. I fear he has become this world's Atlas. I do not know why he has been chosen for this task. His eyes are haunted by past horrors and sorrows. He's in his room, packing. He finishes and looks around the room. He murmurs to his owl before picking up her cage and his belongings. He steps into the cool night air and looks back, once. I feel my heart rip in two, knowing this is the last time I will see the boy for a long time.
It has been years and years since I have seen the boy. I am no longer whole, and the family that used to reside here has moved on. I am the only thing that can be seen for miles. Sometimes, I wish that I had never known the boy, and that I could not care. The truth of the matter is, that I long to see him again, just a glance to know he is alive. I'm so lost in my thoughts that I do not hear the crunch of shoes stepping on the ash around me until a warm hand rests on my crumbling wall. I am afraid to look, knowing that if it is not him I shall die, and if it is him, then I shall die when he takes his leave as he has done so many times before.
Finally, I look. It is him. He says nothing, but slowly opens the door hanging off its hinges. He glances around at the half burnt house, noticing the holes in the second floor and the missing roof. I have taken my fair share of hits, but have survived, all in the hope that this day would come.
He is worn, so much that he looks as if a small breeze could push him over. His world-weariness can be seen as he climbs the stairs to what used to be his room. I watch as he opens the door and takes in the small bit of ground left. When they attacked, his room was the first to go. I tried hanging on to what little I could, but was largely unsuccessful.
He stares with glassy eyes at the gray sky and pale sun before sliding down against my wall. Gentle sobs rack his body. I keep my silence, being able to do nothing else. Slowly, he cries himself into a restful sleep. His breathing becomes regular and soft, and then stops all together. I realize what has happened, but feel no sorrow, knowing that wherever he is, he came back and I was able to see the boy that had lived with me for so very long hadn't completely changed in his time spent away. He was still the boy I had come to love. He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.