Cicatrices- Marks That Remain

The Ceiling Fan

Harry left the Weasley burrow for his own flat in Diagon Alley. It would be his first night in his own place in about a month. Dinner had been exhausting, and he felt a bit like rubbish about it all, really. He had hoped that some time with the people he cared about most would be just what he needed, but it got all mucked up, didn't it? George... it sent a shiver down Harry's spine just thinking about it.

On the bright side, Harry thought, if there even was one to look towards, was that he saw Teddy.

Andromeda was kind enough to send him updates every few weeks, and a picture or two alongside it, but it wasn't the same. Harry felt like an absolute failure of a godfather, not being there for Teddy at all... if Harry were to bet money on it, he would bet that Teddy doesn't even recognize him, from how little he visits.

But... I'm an auror. I have a murderer to catch. I've been busy, he told himself.

"I'll do better," he mumbled under his breath as he entered the building to his flat. "I'll see him more. I promise."

Harry stumbled into his flat, the lights turning themselves on at the flat's awareness of his presence.

The place was horrid.

The first thing Harry was made aware of was a roach running frantically to hide as the lights went up. Gross. Harry looked up, examining his environment. The air in the room had long gone stagnant and stale. It smelt like rot. The white walls had a yellow tinge to them, as they were caked with layers of dirt and grime.

Harry looked to the side, where his minimal kitchen was, and saw a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, forks, plates, and cups caked with old food. The trash was overflowing as well, stuffed with what Harry knew to be old takeout boxes and some old papers. When Harry paid attention, he could hear and see the flies and gnats that had entered his home.

It was ghastly.

Draco wouldn't ever let his flat get this way.

The thought hit Harry like a brick. It was true. Draco would probably have an aneurysm at the sight of his place. Harry's mind drifted to him and what it was like to be there.

Certainly cleaner, he told himself.

He wondered how Draco was fairing with the new Auror. Dawlish was fairly good- very by the book, unlike Harry. He imagined that Dawlish would just be standing around like a soldier, keeping contact to a minimum.

The infernal buzz of an insect flying right past Harry's ear snapped him out of his thoughts. In an instant, he took out his wand and cast all of the cleaning and freshening charms he knew.

The flat at least seemed alright now. But the magic wasn't enough to get rid of the atmosphere of decay that was so everpresent. Harry sighed.

I don't want to be here.

And to think, for an entire month living with Malfoy, the whole time I only thought about wanting to be back here.

And now that he was finally at his own place, alone, he remembered how easy it was previously to throw himself into work and drink his troubles away whenever he wasn't at work.

Some deadwood like me doesn't get to have anything easy, anyway.

Harry went to his bedroom, noting how the sheets were half-done and the room felt dusty and drabby. Well, it's what I've got. Harry cast whatever freshening charm she could muster, toed off his shoes, and flopped into his uncomfortably warm and slightly itchy bed.

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The next day was spent hunched over notes regarding the murders. The last murder was of Theodore Nott, Sr. - had associations with blood supremacy, attended Hogwarts as a Slytherin, and had ties to Death Eaters.