Again the disclaimer: the song 'Blind' and its lyrics belong to the band Lifehouse, and Harry Potter plot and characters belong to J.K Rowling, and I am certainly neither J.K. Rowling nor Lifehouse.

Two.

He stood in the now empty sitting room that used to be filled with sofas and a television set and other bits of furniture, and stared at the now empty house that used to be the Dursleys'. He did not know exactly how to describe his feelings at that point in time. Hermione may have pegged Ron as in possession of the emotional range of a teaspoon, but he was no better than Ron, surely, when it came to expressing his feelings.

He could not distinguish between the days that had passed since he left King's Cross Station. All that he could remember was a phantasmagoria of sound, colours, all dull and dreary, making up a confusing collage of the mundane, every day life. The only thing that was real, a solid memory to him, was packing. He remembered the bold scarlet and gold of his Quidditch robes, and as he lay it down on the 'rubbish' pile, he thought back on happier days. He remembered his team, their victories and triumphs, along with the setbacks and disappointments. He remembered his first time donning those robes for his virgin Quidditch match, a blur of scarlet and silver-green and gold amidst a backdrop of clear blue sky. With the wind whipping his robes and -inherited, mind you, he couldn't do anything about it!- unkempt hair, he remembered never having felt as alive, important and as sure of his role and his place in the grand scheme of things as before. He closed his eyes for a while, and he could hear in the distant echoes of his memory, the sounds of the crowd, majority of them rooting for the Gryffindor team. He heard the feminine shouts of the Chasers calling to one another, the dull thud of the twins' bats beating the Bludgers, Oliver Wood shouting out plays and instructions to the team, the faint whirring of the wings of the Snitch as he closed in on that tiny, golden orb...

The brilliant majesty slowly seeped out of his memory and the scarlet and gold robe, bearing his name, lay on the floor, muted.

He felt the seconds ticking by, the emptiness of the house increasingly stifling. He used to love the solitude, and looked forward to being left alone in this very same house when the Dursleys embarked on their trips without him. It was liberating, to have the whole place to himself, with free reign of the fridge, the food, the television, the computer, the ability to do anything he pleased without fear of punishments or mockery. His best memories of this place were of all the times he spent in it Dursley-free. Yet despite his disdain for the former occupants of Number 4 Privet Drive, he could not help but notice their gaping absence, the familiarity of the house slipping away with every mile that Uncle Vernon's car drove.

The dizzy happiness with which he associated this day, this day which he had anticipated for as long as he could remember, did not enter like how the Dursleys had exited.

He made his way to the kitchen and stared at the empty cupboards devoid of their usual contents. He noted the empty space which used to house the second television, a necessity as Dudley had complained of the strenuous effort he needed to exert in walking to the kitchen from the television in the living room. Dudley. The first peer he had known, their very first meeting marked the beginning of nearly seventeen years of continuous torment and mutual dislike. Who could have been a comrade-in-arms, a partner-in-crime, his brother, turned out to be his worse tormentor, the fist to his human punching bag. No matter how vehemently Ron swore he detested Percy, or get annoyed with Fred and George, and resent Bill and Charlie for their unmatchable achievements, he knew that Ron had never felt the loathing or apathy that he harboured towards Dudley. Despite the unusual display of gratitude that Dudley showed before their awkward departure, they all knew, it was too little and seventeen years too late. That when their car literally disappeared into the sunset, so did Dudley and the Dursleys from his life.

The pathetic illusion of having a family to call his own was gone. The Dursleys were the last of his blood relations, of his ties to his primary family. They were his first experience of what a family was. From the onset, his alienation from this nucleus gave him his first introduction to the concept of Mother, Father and Child. No matter how closely related you were, or how much you love and care for someone, nothing can replace this Holy Trinity of Mother, Father and Child..or Children, he hastily added. It was at once both selfish and selfless. At the end of the day, a child only had one mother and father, and a father and mother, only their own children. He knew this. He saw it every day with the Dursleys, and no matter how much like a mother Mrs. Weasley was to him, and how Sirius was the only father-figure in his life, it can only be left at that. Like and-figure. Not his to claim for his own, nor his to feel his own.

The Dursleys were selfish in their love, selective, reserving it only for each other where their blood flowed as freely as their love. He had to turn to others, others who wanted him as part of a larger family. Like the Weasleys, confident enough in their love for each other that they had enough to spare for him. And Sirius, who had so much love for his deceased friends that he unquestioningly loved their child too. He first knew of Sirius' existence in this very spot, one morning during breakfast. He was still Sirius Black the Highly Dangerous Escaped Murderer back then, not the playful, restless, formerly-handsome and concerned godfather that Harry chose to remember him to be. He felt his anger rise to his throat, as he thought about his late godfather, who spent a large part of his life in prison for a crime he did not commit. What would Sirius have been like, had he not wasted away in Azkaban? Would he still be as handsome? As careless and nonchalantly mischievous? Would he have still been a confident and callous man? Would he still be the caring and concerned godfather that he was, or would he left Harry on the outskirts, having married and have a family of his own? No, he chided himself. It was pointless to think of the what-ifs and the what-could-have-beens. He had long gotten over that stage, and had accepted, had he not, whatever that's happened in the past. Dreams of what could have been had long abandoned his sleep. Yet even so, his most recent memories had been of him lying in bed, trying to assuage his growing despair by willing those elusive bittersweet visions to come, if only for a night.

He turned his gaze towards the kitchen window. He could make out rippling movements in the scenery outside, and one by one, his guard appeared out of the view of the street afforded by his window. He recognised the posse, many of whom must have loved him in whatever ways left that they could, as a friend, or as a hero, a figure of hope, to risk their lives for his protection. Harry Potter, the orphaned, Chosen one.

Darkness slowly engulfed Privet Drive, and the faint lights from the windows of his neighbours' identical houses glowed steadily ever brighter.

Only in darkness can we see the light.

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Chapter based on this part of the song by Lifehouse.

I would fall asleep

Only in hopes of dreaming

That everything would be like it was before

But nights like this it seems are slowly fleeting

They disappear as reality is crashing to the floor