Isolation || Harry Potter

Chapter 1

Harry lay with his cheek pressed tightly against the cool glass window that illuminated a strange glow throughout his tiny square bed room where books and clothes lay stacked and draped around pieces of furniture. Most of the furniture which dominated his room where old nick a brick pieces from his cousin, Dudley, who wasted them away to Harry after inevitably break a chair or bed under his enormous weight.

As a result, Harrys bed had multiple springs snapped and various bits of metal creaking and threatening to crack at any sudden pressure. Along with this he had his terrible old chair in which he currently sat, the cousin sunken so low into it that one had to be careful not to fall straight into it and the left leg hanging on by some nails Harry snagged from his uncle earlier this summer.

Harry glanced intently at the small revolving picture placed firmly just towards the wall side of his desk – which was littered with multiple editions of the Daily Prophet. The picture was nothing special, just three children waving their hands at the viewer, but to Harry, it meant the world. He had spent countless days watching this picture – so much so that he had memorised every inch of it – and had often found himself talking to the young inhabitants of it. What did he say to it? Well, all sorts of things really; just last Thursdays he caught himself rambling on about England's dismal excuses for summers as the sunny days suddenly dispersed into rumbling, humid clouds which erupted his Aunt into a fit of excessive cleaning and bossing around.

The child on the left – nearest to a bright green set of tall benches stretching along a field pitch – was a boy with fiery red hair which flapped madly about. He had the smallest fleck of dust and freckles upon his long nose, and he easily stood a couple centimetres above his friends as he too waved excitedly at the camera. He wore robes of black and scarlet which bellowed around his feet like gushing water trying to pull him away, his arm draped loosely around the middle boys shoulders. Under his feet were the words, Ron.

On the right – near a set of tall red benches – was a girl with hair so bushy it almost obscured her entire face if not for her hand which swept it back irritably. Her hair added at least a foot in high and made her quite the feature within the picture as she stood grinned back at the camera and waved excitedly as freckles dusted her cheeks. She too wore scarlet and black robes, though hers where less wild and unkept, as she draped both her arms over the middle boy momentarily before shoving her hair away. She continued this loop of slapping her hair away and hugging the middle boy all the while a bright grin plastered her face. Under her were the words Hermione. 

Now, the boy in the middle looked to be the happiest person alive as his entire face consisted of one bright happy smile that seemed to reach each of his eyes. Unlike the other two, he had a set of bright red robes on with little brown arm pieces set for a match of some kind, the sudden change in red making him stand out even more. In one hand he clasped a broom tightly, just hovering it above the ground, while in the other he held up a golden ball of some kind, lifting it higher as the picture progressed. His unruly hair bounced up into an almost straight line as the wind whipped at it, causing his broken glasses to teeter further down his nose. Under him were the words, Harry.

Well done on your first match Harry! – Ron

The words were simple and poorly written, but to Harry, it made him realise that someone once cared for him. Even if that care was now gone.

"I have the house to myself toady,' Harry croaked, his throat stilled from lack of use and that odd sensation of suffocation whenever he looked at this picture. "what do you reckon I should do?"

A deafening echo followed his question.

"I was thinking of sitting in the lounge since Petunia never lets me." Harry responded to himself, slowly pulling his cheek from the window with far more effort than needed – he was always so tired. "D'you remember the time you fell through the fireplace, Ron?"

Silence.

"That was funny." Harry laughed lightly, tugging his sweater closer and grabbing the picture before clambering downstairs. "You should've seen Vernon's face Hermione." Harry reminisced, turning into the lounge air which was usually off limits to Harry. 

Silence.

Harry clutched the picture as if he were holding someone's hand, the own warmth of the summer evening and his hand upon the portrait frame creaking a mock warmth which he mistook for someone else. Although he had spent so many months apart from Ron and Hermione, he could still hear their laughs when he joked with the picture, he could still imagine and construct their responses and even arguments to what he said. He could still see them beyond the photograph.

Harry fell back onto the largest sofa, placing the picture just atop the pristinely cleaned coffee table centred exactly in the middle of the room, making them face him with gay faces. For a minute or two, Harry twiddled his thumbs and dragged his sleepless eyes along the room he was always forbidden to be in before captivating a conversation starter.

"We could play a board game." Harry prompted, glancing at the neatly packed boardgame cupboard which hadn't been touched since Harry was nine.

He could almost hear Hermione pipe up at this, squealing in delight with what games she longed to play whilst Ron groaned and simply stayed quiet so as to avoid any arguments. Pulling himself up from the sofa, Harry shifted through the boardgames before opting for a simple game of chess.

"I don't think we got around to teaching you Hermione," Harry placed the game down on the coffee table and shifted the picture around. "So, you can switch teams between us if you'd like."

Silence.

"Remember when we played chess in our first year over Christmas, Ron? I think that was one of my happiest Christmas'." Harry grinned, pulling out the board and smoothing it along the table.

He swiftly set up the pieces, explaining the rules to Hermione hurriedly and as efficiently as he could, dibbing the white set before Ron could. For how long or how many rounds Harry placed by himself, he knew not but by the time the sun had comfortably set, and all the curtains needed to be drawn, the delight of the photographs company began to falter as reality set in.

This had happened continuously through the summer holidays, the sudden gash of reality reigning down on him like knifes and slicing his happiness away with a sudden and lethal blow, resulting in a pit of self-loathing. Harry hated himself. He had caused for his friendship to break, he had caused Cedric's death, he had caused his parents death, he had killed a man by his own hands. The screams and terrified face of Quirrell flashing momentarily behind his eyes.

"Fuck." Harry swore, tossing the picture on the opposite couch and resting his now burning head in his hands.

Had he truly wasted yet another day on this stupid picture when he could be looking for Voldemort?

When would he move on?