Letters
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
- Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles -
Tonight.
Harry sighed, then returned to staring at the window. Maybe he was waiting for something. Or one would think he was feeling sorrow. But if you look closely you can see the empty eyes. Empty eyes, emotionless green. Not that there's anyone to look into his eyes, though. Since when hasn't anyone done that? The last time was at least a few months ago, Harry thought. He remembers it clearly. The ghost of Cedric emerging from Voldemort's wand with tired grey eyes was the last. Or maybe it's just that Harry couldn't look into other people's eyes since then? He doesn't remember.
Because Harry was just empty now.
After getting out of the graveyard and surviving the last attempts of fake-Moody, he felt his heart break. Everything that was happening was weighing on him. He couldn't process what had happened, and just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, the universe showed him he was wrong. He cried, and cried, and he just kept crying all night until he got a sleeping potion from Pompfey.
When he woke up he was surprised that everyone seemed to have moved on. Sure, a lot of people were crying, Cedric's friends, but Harry somehow felt like they didn't understand. He couldn't understand how seconds could go by without someone thinking of the dead hufflepuff. Because every time Harry closed his eyes, all he saw was Cedric's dead body. That made him angry. Then he went home to his aunt’s and his anger doubled towards everything. He tried to contact the outside world by letters, but nothing useful. At first, he mistakenly thought they were trying to communicate through some secret means. He couldn't use magic, so he tried to solve it the muggle way. Maybe invisible writing that needs to be held up to the fire? Should something have been made out of letters? He tried for a while, but in the end, everything was in vain. It had to dawn on him that there’s nothing more to it. At this point he wished Voldemort would come for him. Anything but silence.
Later on, the anger turned to quiet depression as the hungry and quiet days passed. It was better when Aunt Petunia treated him like a house-elf. Now she would just push him out of the house in the morning and not let him back in until the evening. So, Harry had plenty of time to explore the area for himself. Not that it helped anything. The minutes just went slower and slower. Sometimes he questioned how he was still alive. Why he was still alive. But he always went back to the house in the evening.
He didn't know the last time he had felt something. He was no longer sad. He didn't want to die, but he didn't want to live like this. He just... wanted to get out of this vicious cycle. Anything that could get him out. He thought it would be a letter.
Tonight. Tonight's midnight was the deadline he had set.
They have until tonight to reply to the letters.
I mean, a normal answer. He did get a letter sometimes, but never one that explained the situation. Sometimes, when Uncle Vernon was not looking and Aunt Petunia left the window open, he had the opportunity to listen to the news. They didn't say anything either.
In early summer, letters were more frequent and more substantial. Now he received only the same two sentences a week, like an old woman with nothing better to do than wait for a letter or two from her remaining family, hoping they hadn't replaced her, hadn't forgotten her. "Easy Harry, don't do anything stupid" and "We'll talk when we meet, I can't say anything". That's it. Perhaps the only difference between the old imaginary lady and Harry was that she was still interested. Harry, not so much.
He tried to get more out of them. At first he was happy to write about his problems, but there was never a good answer. Then he wrote in anger. He threatened them. Finally, he begged for something in his letters. Especially to Hermione and Sirius, because he'd never felt a real friendship with Ron since the beginning of fourth year, but they were still good friends. The joke is that no matter who the letter was from, these two sentences were word for word the same. He wondered if a pre-recorded robot was writing them, while his friends were long dead.
So he sat in front of the window and waited, listening to his watch ticking softly. It was a muggle watch, small for Dudley's wrist, so he got it. Uncle Vernon would have been happy to sell it if Dudley hadn't broken the already old watch. And since he couldn't use magic thanks to the laws, it was good as well.
It's weird how even though he doesn't care and doesn't hope, he's sitting here. How is it now then?
Maybe Harry was hoping after all. Only today. Just for tonight. See if someone, either Sirius, his best friends, any Weasley or acquaintances, or even Voldemort himself, can write, as long as they are not the same sentence.
It was his birthday.
Maybe someone will take pity on him, at least today, by dropping a little piece of information. If they didn't Harry wouldn't know what he would do. He kept telling himself that this was the deadline, but he never really thought about what he would do if nothing happened. He just needed something to look forward to.
But Harry knew one thing. He had to make a change. If he kept on like this, Voldemort wouldn't have to bother, because silence would get him killed. Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. But it will.
He can't last another week. If he doesn't get an answer he will-
He will find the news himself.
His watch reached midnight with a slightly louder click.
At that moment, with clockwork precision, an owl landed in front of his window. Harry stood up to let it in. He didn't recognize the owl, but it didn't matter. It was a medium-sized owl, perhaps a bit smaller than Hedwig. It had a worn brown color, although he couldn't recognize its type. There were three letters tied to its leg, and Harry didn't need to be clever to figure out who they belonged to.
The first one he opened was from Sirius. While he was reading, the owl waited quietly, and they hooted softly with Hedwig.
Harry,
We wish you a happy birthday. Your parents would be proud of you.
I'm sorry to have to disappoint you, but I don't have any new news to share with you. I can't say it enough that we'll talk when we meet.
Please stop sending such letters. You're unnecessarily stressing out your friends.I know you're upset, but don't take it out on us.
You will know everything in due time, so take it easy Harry, don't do anything stupid.
Sirius
Well, that was... terrible. Nothing! Not even a "Dear Harry" or "I hope you had a good birthday, considering that me and everyone close to you are spending time together somewhere else without you!" was there! He quickly opened Ron and Hermione's letter as well, hoping that his friends would have a better chance.
Dear Harry,
I wish you a very happy birthday!
I made a small gift, but they said it wouldn't be safe to send a package, so you'll get it later. I hope you will like it though.
Unfortunately, I can't say anything. We'll talk when we meet, I promise.
With love,
Hermione
Hey mate,
Happy birthday!
I hope you're doing well, aside from your letters. They paint quite a frightening picture of your mental state. No offense mate!
I think Sirius and Hermione have said everything. I could only quote my previous letters as well.
Don't worry, we'll meet soon!
Ron
In his anger, Harry tore the letters apart and threw them away. The owls flapped their wings scaredly, and the brunette flew out of his open window as if nothing had happened. Hah. Even the owl left him.
At least he felt something other than emptiness.
He latched onto that feeling. As if this is his last hope. Maybe it was. After all, the deadline has passed, and he had no more left. He had to go. He wanted to leave. He wanted to breathe.
They would understand. He didn't doubt it. Or, at least he strongly hoped so. Not that he will be missing long. Only until the school year starts at Hogwarts. Until then, he could send a couple of letters. He doesn't send a lot, one a week would be enough, to not to making them worry, right?
He just wanted to leave. He was desperate to regain control over his life. And if that's what it took, he'd happily do it.
Think of it like going on vacation.
The truth is, if he met Voldemort on the way, he would invite him to tea, and then he would die happy. He doesn't really care anymore. He has nothing. Harry did his job; warned everyone. It was his fault that Voldemort is here again anyway.
He doesn't care what happens if he can spend some time breathing again. He hadn't been able to breathe since Cedric. Every moment he felt like he is drowning. But if he was in control of what happens to him again, maybe it would be better. Harry would die according to his choice. He doesn't wait for him to catch him during some sick school event, he would go before him. Honestly, it would save him a lot of time. And if he doesn't die, he can still go back to school. It's a win-win situation, isn't it?
Harry made up his mind.
He packed his school stuff first. He packed his notebooks one by one. He's already done his homework, so there's no need to stress about it. Not that he cares about his homework. He could die at any moment, so there's not much point. Harry sighed. He had collected quite a lot of stuff over the years. He wasn't sure how he would carry them. He'd figure it out.
He could take the Knight Bus.
He had money, but not very much. It would be enough for a few days but that's it. But it's good that he had money in the bank. So he'll have to visit the Gringotts.
He thought it would be easier to go to the bank without all the stuff.
Well, he could still pack his bags.
And that's exactly what Harry did. It was towards dawn when he finished. He packed everything, from his old clothes to the rest of his belongings. The only thing he didn't dare do was the blanket, lest Aunt Petunia should be angry.
Actually, the best thing would be to tell her. He didn't want the police after him. Although there was a little voice inside him questioning if she really cared if Harry disappeared. Probably not.
Harry groaned to himself. He was tired.
Tomorrow, after Aunt Petunia kicks him out of the house in the morning, he'll visit the bank. The Bus is also good for this. He gets money, go shopping for essentials, then come back for his stuff. Then he'll talk to Aunt Petunia.
Sounds like a plan.