Succor

05 | Long Nights, Crystal Skies

❝How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.❞

- Winnie The Pooh

⚫⚫⚫

Home. It was a word that meant very little and yet everything to Harry.

Once, he had had a home before being anointed with the title of a fighter, his journey marred by the specter of death that had mercilessly claimed his parents and snatched away all who dared stand by his side.

Fragments of recollection teased his consciousness—vibrant green eyes, mirrors of his own, brimming with laughter and tender affection; a voice, a lullaby whispered against his forehead and into his ears; fleeting warmth, ephemeral kisses upon his cheeks and temple, echoes of love now but distant memories.

Home had been the curls that had framed his father's face, it had been the joyous peals of laughter that had elicited his own. Home had been a place where his family had resided, a place of warmth and comfort. Home had been a safe spot, a spot he could only merely remember.

A presence reduced to that of drunken apparitions.

That home had been shattered, it's fragments scattered across the vast expanse of his life. Had been broken the moment he had been abruptly cast into a broken cradle, his mother's lifeless form an anguished companion beside his newly etched scar. Sirius's sorrow had permeated the air, tangible and raw.

Home had become nothing but fragments of a past shrouded in mist and nights plagued by maniacal laughter and iridescent green light, for it was the only stable thing in his life. After all, homes were consistent, were they not?

When Harry had been younger, and ever so naive, his concept of a home was painted with innocence and naivety. He had dreamt of a cozy and loving place, a haven, where laughter echoed through the halls and warm embraces welcomed him at every turn. In those fleeting moments, he believed that home was the four walls that enclosed him, where he, Dudley, Petunia, and Vernon would form a tight-knit family.

How, naive he had been, how sickeningly innocent.

Because as the years had worn on, the truth began to unfurl its dark tendrils. He had come to understand reality for the bitch that it was and realized that his situation was anything but the idyllic utopian home he had imagined. The cold, damp walls seemed to close in on him, suffocating his dreams of warmth and affection. Each night, he would clutch the thin blanket closer, seeking solace in the only embrace he could find.

The idea of a home was elusive, like a distant, hazy memory of a childhood dream.

But as he feels the warmth that they radiate, like a crackling fireplace on a chilly winter's night, he thinks, perhaps it wasn't that unattainable after all.

He feels it in Mrs. Weasley's rib-cracking hugs, sweet and comforting. Feels it in the way they all bicker with each other, chaotic and endearing. They're like pieces of a puzzle, each one unique but fitting perfectly together.

He feels it in the way he's drawn to the laughter like flies to honey as if he had found a long-lost piece of himself that had been missing for years. he Burrow, with its mismatched chairs and crooked stairs, fills the void better than any butterbeer ever could.

He feels it in the way they gather around the table for dinner, looking absolutely warm under the shades of orange and pink that were splashed across the sky. In the Weasley house, everyone has a place on the table, no one was left out. It was a simple gesture, but it struck a chord within him.

Even as the evening wore on, they played games and shared stories, the feeling of warmth never went away, if anything, it grew. He found himself laughing and smiling more than he had in a long time. They had a way of making him feel at ease like he could be himself without fear of judgment.