Closed Letters
The rain beat against the windows, thin and persistent. Harry watched it slide down the glass with the same attention he would have given to a Quidditch match, once upon a time. But that time had passed. It had gone away with him.
The letters piled up on the nightstand.
One arrived almost every day. Sometimes two. Different owls, different handwriting. Some with smeared ink, others with margins filled with shaky drawings—those were from Ron. One even had Molly Weasley’s seal, and its mere presence made Harry’s fingers tremble.
He didn’t open them.
He couldn’t.
What would he have to read? “We’re sorry”? “It’s not your fault”?
Lies.
It had always been his fault. Everyone who tried to love him ended up dying. Or disappearing. Or looking at him with eyes full of pain, as though they saw a ghost instead of a boy.
He had become good at avoiding mirrors. He couldn’t bear the reflection. Those green eyes—so similar to his mother’s, they always told him—now seemed to belong to someone else. A survivor, yes. But surviving at what cost?
One day he had taken one of the letters. Just one. The one with Hermione’s neat, small handwriting. He opened it slowly, as if the parchment could explode in his hands.
He read the first two lines. Then he ripped it up.
He couldn’t bear that tone. Kindness had become poison. Every word, a knife wrapped in ribbons. Everyone wanted to help him. But no one understood.
Not even them.
Night came again. The curtains were not closed. Harry stayed awake, listening to the rain. The sound was the only thing that didn’t try to convince him that he was okay. It was real, honest. Cold, like him.
Uncle Vernon knocked once. Then entered, without waiting for a reply.
“That damn owl has ruined my carpet,” he growled. “Keep those bloody birds out of my house.”
Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at him.
Vernon stared at the boy sitting on the floor, pale face, dark circles under his eyes. Something in his gaze shifted for a moment. A flicker of unease. Maybe even… fear.
“Start cleaning up that mess. Tomorrow, I’m throwing it all away, letters included.”
He left, slamming the door. But Harry didn’t move.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
Only the rain.