Stop All the Clocks (This Is the Last Time I'm Leaving Without You)

chapter 29

It took five years to really get his feet under him, but Harry feels like it’s finally happened.

He didn’t expect to love Pittsburgh nearly as much as he does. In the bitter aftermath of that first long and lonely year, he’d sleepwalked to the Portkey Station and picked it out from the short list of upcoming Portkeys. There’d been a list of exciting destinations, every one of them brimming with the promise of a new adventure, the lure of fresh chapters of a story yet untold: Tokyo, Toronto, Krakow, Reykjavik, Berlin, St Petersburg, Seattle, San Francisco, Buenos Aires, and then there, at the very end, Pittsburgh. Standing alone in the terminal with nothing but the clothes on his back and a Voucher for the contents of his Gringotts Vault tucked safely into one pocket, Harry said it aloud to himself and liked the way it sounded. Like a pebble. Like a seed. Like something smooth and hard and round he could spit out: Pittsburgh.

So he took it, and here he is five years later. And in that time he’s come to love it, in its own way. He’s settled here. He’s got his job and his routines, and he’s happy enough. He came here to make a fresh start but this city has enough of a history to sink into, enough that he could put down roots if he wanted, the same sort of history Harry feels steeped into every cobblestone of Diagon Alley, so heavy it’s almost tangible. It feels like he can reach out and touch it, the same way he can swipe a fingertip through the fine black grit that accumulates inside his windowscreens, the last legacy of a steel town, a fine black dusting of history delivered right to his windowsill along with his owl post.

But for all its industrial history and reputation, Pittsburgh is surprisingly green. There are sprawling parks tucked between the city streets, tree-covered hillsides overlooking blocks crammed with empty warehouses, and Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the deer and wild turkeys that mingle with civilization. He’s grown used to the rest of it, though, to the long cold grey winters, to driving on the right, to their odd dialect, jagger and yinz and gumband and n’at. He no longer feels like he’s accidentally wandered into the Hufflepuff section of the Quidditch stands during game days here when the whole city clothes itself in black and yellow. He hasn’t had a cup of tea since he left England. These days, he exclusively drinks coffee.

And the best coffee comes from a small shop shaded by trees, hidden just beside an apartment building in Highland Park. It doesn’t look like much at first glance, with its plate glass windows papered with homemade flyers and its dull tile floor and shabby chairs and scuffed tables. But the green glass lights and dark exposed beams and paintings from local artists lining the walls give it a comfortable, cozy feel. Harry has spent altogether too much time here, picking idly at a scone and drinking coffee from a plain white china cup at the small table tucked into the shallow alcove by the front window, first by himself, and now more recently with William even though the table’s not really large enough for two people. Their feet bump each other, and William always says sorry and tucks his legs back underneath his own chair.

But Harry’s alone today, and the cool autumn air that drew him out of his house now lures him out of Tazza D’Oro. He doesn’t feel like going home just yet, so he steps outside, paper cup warming his palm, and turns left instead of right and climbs up the slight hill to the park that gives this neighbourhood its name. He passes through the grand entryway, walks past empty benches and dormant flowerbeds and climbs up the steep set of stairs to the reservoir. The leaves have turned, and the slight breeze makes them speak, gently hushed as they chatter to each other in shades of orange and gold. Harry loves it up here. It’s quiet and isolated in the best sort of way. Harry likes to pace along the asphalt walkway that runs the perimeter of the reservoir. He always walks anti-clockwise, water on his left, trees on his right, the sky spanning above him like an upturned bowl, stretched endless blue or soft grey or pinpricked black above the sprawling reservoir. The water gently laps its sharply banked confines, and he can hear it murmuring softly to itself if he listens hard enough. Sometimes, there are ducks.

Today, Harry only walks around twice, and by the time he reaches the stairs again he’s finished his coffee. He Vanishes the empty cup and jogs down them, passing by sleeping flowerbeds and abandoned benches and then through the entryway and back down the hill. The houses in this neighbourhood are enormous, and Harry gazes across the neat front lawns as he passes by, idly imagining what it would be like to live in each one. It’d be too big, he thinks, and can’t quite imagine rattling around in one of them all by himself.

He thinks longingly of his cosy flat on Clyde Street, with its gleaming parquet floors and small bookshelves built right into the walls. There was an enclosed balcony there that he’d especially loved, and Harry had spent hours out there during that first interminable winter, staring out the wide windows, perched on a battered wood chair he’d rescued from the skip down in the garage, his feet pulled safely away from the chill of the concrete floor. The balcony faced northwest, the same direction the snow always blew in from, and he can’t count how many afternoons he wasted there, idly watching soft puffs of snow commit soundless suicide against his windowpanes.

He’d only taken that flat because it was near the University where he’d accepted a teaching position in Dark Arts Repellence Theory and Strategy. The Americans are somewhat more progressive in their schooling than the British, offering University-level courses instead of the more traditional apprenticeships or training programs, though apparently a love of acronyms is universal.

Harry turns onto his block, where the houses are still too large but in slightly worse repair. He lives in one of them, but it’s been split into three flats of dubious legality. He and William share the one that takes up the top floor, and though he’s been there for three months it still doesn’t feel like home. He climbs up the long flights of stairs and turns his key in the lock. It smells odd here, old and a little musty, and Harry does his best to ignore it. A few minutes and he won’t notice it anymore.

He thinks on that as he strips off his coat and gloves and hat and scarf and hangs them neatly on their hooks near the door. It’s sort of amazing what people can get used to, if they’re just around it long enough.