❛ASTERIA EDWARDS was your average, typical eleven-year-old child stuck in a pandemic with her mother Isabella Diggory until she found out where she truly came from.. and where she truly belonged...❜
[extended summary inside]
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harry potte...
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Harry Potter continued to stare at the ceiling of his room, blinking once in a while to try to readjust his thoughts and soothe his drying eyes. He wondered.. how was it that he felt so restless yet blank at the same time?
He tipped his gaze sideways, past the lone piece of parchment and quill, and towards the clock on his desk.
5:47 in the evening..
He looked up again, aimlessly, his legs rested on and pushing against the bed so the chair he sat on balanced on its hind-legs.
That was how most of Harry Potter's summer vacation had gone by in the house of Dursley; emphasis on the 'summer' since it was rather chilly than hot, quite the opposite case if compared to last year.
He could only do so many things, really, with the world being attacked by dark forces; with terror filling everyone because of Voldemort's return..
With nightmares creeping up every night, showing Isabella's sunken face and making his body tremble with cold sweat as he woke up.
There was only so much he could do.
He couldn't go out. He didn't want to spend his time with Dursleys. Only thing he did, without fail, was spend time with Hedwig and write to his friends and Sirius.
But that wasn't enough to keep him occupied, of course.
He could do his homework. Or some other study. Or think about things that were important.
Without any thought to it, his hand raised up to rest on his chest, feeling the outline of the metal pick that rested right against his heart.
..or he could let go of his grudge and finally write to Asteria.. instead of keeping that parchment on his desk blank again, for the ninth day in a row.
The ceiling of his room reminded him of the blank hospital wall when he had burst in from the door to talk to her, around a month ago.
And sometimes when he took the metal pick locket out of his t-shirt, the light from the window reflected from it and fell on the ceiling, like the fiery feather that had floated down on the bed.
The memory would make him thoughtlessly put the locket back inside his t-shirt, but never take it off.
She probably hasn't written to anyone else either. He had concluded before he even got the word from his friends and his godfather.
So, it shouldn't matter if I write to her. She won't open it anyway.
It was his only reason, obviously, keeping aside the undeniable amount of hurt he'd felt.
But still he always thought and kept thinking..
Her nights must be worse than before. Her nightmares too..
