Isolation || Harry Potter

Chapter 3

Harry sat towards the end of a long bench similar to those at Hogwarts but far more rundown, with little etched of peeling paint and rot itching under his jeans, his face and body mostly concealed by Remus towering next to him and chatting happily to Tonks. They were chatting about some manic wizard who escaped from St Mungo's last Thursday, claiming to be Albus Dumbledore's long-lost child. Tonks, who sat across the table from Remus, was laughing so hard that her hair drastically shifted from colour to colour as she clung to Ginny for support. Remus was always a good story teller.

Sirius, who was across the table from Harry, smiled fondly at Remus as he too listened with blissful ears to his childhood friends spin upon that event that he had actually seen. Just last Thursday, Dumbledore had embarked on a surprise trip with Sirius to St Mungo's to visit the Longbottom's – an unexpected friendship between Frank and Sirius during one of his horrid after school lessons with Flitwick. Dumbledore requested special access and privacy from any invading ears as they two long lost friends reunited, even if Frank barely realised who Sirius was and called him 'shifty man' instead.

Upon leaving the institute, Sirius – who was once more in his scruffy dog form – watched as a burly old man erupted into a fit of screams and hurtled towards Dumbledore claiming to be his son. Dumbledore – who Sirius had a hard time believing wasn't a virgin – simply waved the man off with a gentle smile and continued on as if nothing had happened. Sirius had found this so odd, that the moment he arrived back at Grimmauld, he clambered up the creaking stairs and regaled the entire story to Remus. And in that moment, a moment Remus will always hold dear, he could've sworn they were once more in their messy dormitory with James and Peter sitting on the floor just before a lesson that actually started half an hour ago.

Harry picked at his food, his appetite having significantly shrunken during his time at the Dursleys, wanting nothing more than to steal away to his room with Sirius and Remus. Everyone else was too loud. Lifting his eyes from his plate, Harry glanced down the long table, catching Mrs Weasley fuss over Fred who had cabbage all down his shirt after George had tossed it across the table and at his twin. She was saying things like 'oh dear' and 'are you hurt?'. Harry was hurt. Harry wanted to be asked if he was okay.

'Lily used to fuss over James like that,' Remus said suddenly, catching Harrys envious gaze across the table that had lingered longer than Harry would've liked. 'I remember once Sirius threw an entire chicken bone at James. It ended up cutting his forehead,' Remus touched his own forehead as an indication to where he was hit, it was near where Harrys scar was. 'she ignored Sirius for five weeks.'

'It's safe to say I failed almost all my classes for those five weeks.' Sirius chimed in grinning, brushing his long hair back.

He looked so young, so... happy. Why was he never this happy around Harry? Did his own godfather detest him too? A burning desire to gouge his eyes out suddenly over came Harry as the two old friends continued to reminisce on their schools days. He has his mother's eyes. Maybe if he no longer had them, he would stop causing people pain. He would stop being reminded each day that his parents were dead.

'I'll be back.' Harry suddenly said, unaware from anything happening as his body took full charge while his mind raged on.

It was as if a switch had been flipped. All eyes turned to Harry as he stood from his seat, hurrying over to the door, and scampering up two flights of stairs to the room Sirius had written to him about during his fourth year. Sirius had called it Harrys room. He had a room. He caused Sirius pain. The din of voices now turned in a hushed whisper that Harry knew was about it – it always was. What is he up to? Is he okay? Is Voldemort in his mind again?

But they never truly cared, otherwise they actually check up on him. They'd see the large bags under his eyes, the skin clinging to his bone, the cracked skin on his knuckles from when he had repeatedly punched his wall. The small bruise forming from when Harry had punched himself.

Harry pushed through the door that led to his room, taking in the large exterior of it. It had a large four poster bed struck next to a wall towards the top of the room, curtains held back at each opening with gold string. On the other side of the room was a small sitting area with two broken up couches situated around a fireplace that looked as if it had only been used once in its lifetime. He had two windows overlooking Grimauld places small and overgrown garden, dead flies littering the sills.

His trunk lay just towards the end of his bed atop an ottoman that had defiantly seen better days. Harry locked the door, moving slowly over to his trunk and ripping it open. He had only a few of his best fitting clothes in there, books and cauldrons mainly taking over the compartment of his trunk. Atop his clothes and books was a small picture he had been gifted from Hagrid; their faces bright as they moved around in a tight circle. He did have his mothers eyes.

And he hated her for that.