The sound of nothing
It had been days since he had returned. Or perhaps weeks. He wasn’t sure.
Time had ceased to mean anything the moment Sirius fell. From that point, everything had become dull. Not gray—which is still a color. No… dull. Lifeless. As if someone had taken everything inside him and immersed it in silence.
Privet Drive hadn’t changed. The doormat was still frayed in the corner, the door still creaked, and the Dursleys were still… Dursleys. Only this time, he didn’t even have the strength to answer their insults. Not even a spark to retort.
Uncle Vernon was still yelling. Aunt Petunia cast glances as sharp as knives. Dudley avoided his gaze, more out of fear than disdain. They didn’t speak to him, and when they did, it was to remind him that he was a burden. A mistake.
Harry let them be.
He didn’t eat much. Just a few leftovers here and there, just enough to keep from fainting. He spent hours in his room, lying on his bed, his eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling. Sometimes he clutched his wand for hours, doing nothing. Other times, he let it drop to the floor and wondered why he still held onto it.
He didn’t sleep. He didn’t dream. When he finally collapsed, sleep was like a precipitous drop, filled with screams and shattered mirrors, with hands falling beyond a veil he would never be able to cross.
Sirius was dead.
The truth didn’t strike him like a lightning bolt, but rather like a drop. A slow, constant drop that chipped away at him. Every morning he woke up and remembered again. Every night, the same scene repeated itself: the laughter, the surprised look, and then the void.
He had written only one letter, the night after he returned. Three words: “It’s all my fault.” Then he burned it.
Hermione had written. Ron, too. Letters full of concern, of gentle phrases, of promises that sounded like desperate attempts. He no longer opened them. He piled them in a corner, all sealed. Just looking at them was too much.
Dumbledore had not made himself known. And for that, in a corner of his heart, Harry was grateful.
Silence was all he had. All he deserved.
That evening, the sun was slowly setting behind the grimy curtains. The room was immersed in a dense, bluish shadow. Harry sat on the floor, his back against the wall, his knees drawn to his chest, his hands in his hair.
He wanted to scream. To break something. But even that required a strength he no longer possessed.
He was empty. And he was used to it.