𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 | 𝐡. 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝟏𝟒𝟏 - 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙠𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙊𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙩, she turned her face away from the sun cracking through the thick curtains where it now created a bright light across her nose and cheeks, he smiled to himself as he gathered her once again in his arms -- she looked radiant when she was at peace -- he glanced around the rest of the room and spotted Ron and Hermione, Hermione was laying on the couch opposite them while Ron slept on the floor with their fingers a couple inches apart -- he couldn't help but be under the impression that they had fallen asleep holding hands.

He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he had been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It seemed a lifetime away. What was going to happen now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the Horcruxes, of the daunting, complex mission Dumbledore had left him . . . Dumbledore . . .

The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore's death felt different now. The accusations he had heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he been like Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and hidden?

Harry thought of Godric's Hollow, of graves Dumbledore had never mentioned there; he thought of mysterious objects left without explanation in Dumbledore's will, and resentment swelled in the darkness. Why hadn't Dumbledore told him? Why hadn't he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared about Harry at all? Or had Harry been nothing more than a tool to be polished and honed, but not trusted, never confided in?

Ophelia's words seemed to gleam in the darkness, "Trust me Harry, if Dumbledore wanted to he would've -- him knowing about Draco explains why he's so quick to shut you down, last year he ignored you when he knew Voldemort was trying to manipulate you but don't you see he's doing the same thing! He's using you-!"

His eyebrows furrowed once again, had she known this whole time? Was she on the same page as Muriel about Dumbledore? He knew as much that Ophelia didn't trust Dumbledore, that much was plainly clear by her duelling him that night in the cave -- he'd forgotten to ask her about it, how had he forgotten to ask her? It was one of the many things plaguing his mind all summer.

Looking at her now, he could never imagine her wanting to kill anyone but he knew she could, and he knew better than to underestimate what she was capable of — many had done so and had been completely ruined for it.

Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something to do, for distraction, not wanting to disturb Ophelia he gently manovured her free from himself before slipping off of the couch, he picked up his wand, and crept out of the room. On the landing he whispered, "Lumos," and started to climb the stairs by wandlight.

On the second landing was the bedroom in which he and Ron had slept last time they had been here; he glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs. Somebody had searched the house since the Order had left. Snape? Or perhaps Mundungus, who had pilfered plenty from this house both before and after Ophelia died? Harry's gaze wandered to the portrait that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius's great-great-grandfather, but it was empty, showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. Phineas Nigellus was evidently spending the night in the headmaster's study at Hogwarts.

Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the topmost landing, where there were only two doors. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading SIRIUS. Harry had never entered his godfather's bedroom before, even when he was technically living here -- didn't feel right to go into his room without asking even when he was curious. He pushed open the door, holding his wand high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was spacious and must once have been handsome. There was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a tall window obscured by long velvet curtains, and a chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle stubs still resting in its sockets, solid wax hanging in frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covered the pictures on the walls and the bed's headboard; a spider's web stretched between the chandelier and the top of the large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved deeper into the room, he heard a scurrying of disturbed mice.