Serpentine Hearts

1-Harry

It was raining. It tapped persistently against the glass of my window, a gentle percussion that orchestrated a melancholy melody. The atmosphere outside carried a weight of introspection as if the heavens themselves were engaged in silent contemplation. Not surprising for the highlands of Scotland.

"Harry?" he could hear the call of his name as he sat in the hidden alcove of the Gryffindor tower.

"Harry?" it persisted.

"I am here Hermione," says Harry in a quiet call. You can't hide forever he supposes.

Hide. That is all he has wanted since the end of the war. The boy or man now, never felt a sense of peace, his mind always feels foggy. It feels as though a leaden shroud has draped itself over his shoulders, casting a somber hue over Hogwarts, the place that used to be the young wizards' only escape. It's described as a sensation that starts as a subtle ache, nestled deep within the recesses of his chest, gradually unfurling its tendrils to wrap around every beat of his heart. It's a quiet weight.

The war had created that weight for the savior. The savior, what a cliche.

Harry had to will his body to move from behind his place of solace.

He appears from behind the alcove and links arms with Hermione as they walk the halls to dinner. It is always a quiet walk with Hermione, she always knows what Harry needs at the right time. Never someone to push, she gives him the freedom to be himself. Even if that means the walks they have are only silent.

As the pair approach the Great Hall Harry can feel the anxiety beginning to build in his chest. Harry's palms dampen as a subtle tremor takes hold, an involuntary response to the rising tide of apprehension. The room, filled with faces both familiar and unknown, transforms into a stage where his every move seems subject to scrutiny. It's as if a harsh and unyielding spotlight has been trained upon the boy, highlighting every perceived flaw and magnifying the intensity of self-consciousness. Harry felt like crying.

This was the new normal. Since being a child his whole life has been a legend to others and the expectations that weigh on his shoulders begin to manifest themselves into a creeping form of anxiety. Hermione grasps his hand and squeezes it. She always knows.

The duo both make their way to the new eighth-year's table. Harry only sees familiar faces, if only those who had decided to return. Harry's heartaches, he misses Ron. The man had decided to become an Auror. Harry was happy for him but the selfish part of him wished to hear his laugh among them, like old times. We all want what we can't have right?

Harry sits down at the table next to Luna—the only person other than Hermione who might have some semblance of what he may be feeling.

"Oh, Harry... your head is full of Wrackspurts again," her soft voice says. That seems to describe him more often than not these days

"Yes, Luna. I..." Harry begins to trail off as the doors of the Great Hall open.

Standing there is Malfoy. He is different, the time after the war changed him. He looks haunted. His blonde hair not styled to perfection falls softly onto his forehead, his clothing simple and not exuding the extravagance that the heir once walked in. But his eyes. Oh, his eyes. They are still the chilling silvery blue that Harry remembers but behind them is a tiredness, the dark circles can still be seen. He looks toward Harry then, and he can feel the blush that rushes to his cheeks. His eyes pierce and it looks as though he almost smiles at Harry, but the mask comes back to his face, it hurts. Harry watches as he makes his way to Pansy and Blaise.

Harry gets lost in his head as he listens to Luna. Time passes fast when you can only seem to find solace in the depth of your mind.

"Harry," He is brought back to reality and focuses back on Luna, she smiles at him. "silence can be as eloquent as words Harry" He looks at her silently hoping it isn't that obvious.