Harry knew he shouldn’t be in that room. The one room in the house that seemed untouched by time, where not a speck of dust could be found, where neglect hadn’t yet reached, and which he believed to be exactly as it had been when his godfather was a child. There was something that drew him there, like a fish being pulled from the water. At that moment, he sat there, out of his comfort zone, yet inexplicably drawn to stay. There was something about that room that had lingered in Harry’s thoughts ever since he’d discovered it.
The room was shrouded by heavy dark green curtains, making it gloomier than the rest of the house and giving it a sense of importance—as if it had once been the heart of the house.
All around him were portraits of the Black family, from its founder, Astrophel Black, to his godfather, Sirius. There was something oddly familiar about the faces—those silvery eyes, aristocratic cheekbones, and dark curls that matched the crows in the family crest. To Harry, they almost seemed like the very embodiment of a starry night, as if God had chosen them to be the earthly reflections of the stars above. It was a bitter thought. Like shooting stars that shine brightly in the sky before falling to earth, their brilliance was snuffed out by the weight of expectations, leaving them to crash with the full force of their own pressure. He looked at them and wondered: Would the society he knew have changed if they continued to live? Had it become worse or better, or was it simply unchanged?
Without realizing it, Harry had stepped closer to the wall, his fingers tracing the names and faces—each one unique yet similar. He started with Sirius, then moved to his brother Regulus, then to his parents, Walburga and Orion Black, who, curiously, were cousins as well as both Black at birth, before continuing to his grandparents and so on. It was fascinating to see so many people who were complete strangers to him but whose blood ran in the veins of some of his classmates. Hell, even Draco Malfoy’s mother had been born a Black!
Then, suddenly, a name caught his eye. He blinked and read it again, just to be sure, until he was certain his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. Only then did he let himself look at the accompanying portrait. He stared at it so intently he could almost memorize her face, could almost draw it from memory. She was beautiful. Her hair was dark and curled, just like his, and her grey eyes glinted like molten silver, all typical traits of her family. But something about her stood out among the others. Her name was Dorea, meaning "gift of God," and Harry couldn’t help but think that no name could suit her more perfectly.
Next to her name, connected by a delicate branch, was the name Charlus. From their union had come none other than James Potter. Harry’s father.
He thought back to all the times he’d dreamed of a family who would rescue him from the muggle relatives living in Little Whinging.
How many times had he imagined someone who could, even slightly, remind him of himself, especially when Aunt Petunia—his mother’s sister—was so different from his mother Lily in every way? How many times had he longed to see someone with emerald green eyes or black curly hair, like his own, instead of the pale, blue-eyed, blonde family he’d been stuck with? In some ways, he realised, he was more like Draco Malfoy than he was like the Dursleys—his aristocratic features matched those of his classmate more than they did his aunt and cousin’s.
In that moment, Harry realized that he did have a family—his true family—but they were no longer around to guide him through life because they had all died. But in some way, this thought comforted him. They hadn’t been absent because they had rejected him; they had never been there because they had simply never lived long enough to be. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a confirmation, and somehow, that made it a little easier to bear it.