They Don't Like Him
The cries of an awoken baby echoed louder than the weeping rain, going a rough pitter-patter on the wooden doorstep. His sound was shrill and loud, banging its fat fingers on the doors of every house that was nearby, hoping and hoping that someone or anyone would come. He could soon feel the cold air gnawing on his chubby neck, and all the water leaving his throat- a cough starting to build up and up and up, strangling his cries into nothingness. It never happened before, never ever.
For the first time in the child's life, he cried silently. No sound could be heard from him, not even the soft thumping of his wailing heart caged inside his hollow chest, not even the almost silent and too hurried puffs of breath forced from his mouth. Tears leaked from the corners of his small eyes, making his face wetter than it already was in the rain. He felt cold, both inside and out- and it was consuming him entirely. He could feel the cold holding onto his fingers, waving it around in the air like a sign for desperate desperate help. He could feel the cold's bone of arm slide under the blanket, shaking him from side to side as if calming him down like his mother did. He could feel the cold whisper in his tiny ears, the words an unintelligible murmur. The cold gave more warmth to him than what the others did, and he felt himself slide into its embrace.
The cold was all he had and all he would ever have.
For Harry Potter, who was loved by all, was truly loved by none.
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"We can't keep him."
Fingers slid over his blanket, the tips splattered with rough callouses. They had warmth in them, warmth that shooed away the only company of the cold who stayed with him. The voice was barely a whisper, a tone that said the words repeatedly as if the speaker were stuck in some sort of dream that they did not wish to be in. The words were almost, if not more rough than the woman's fingers. Her voice was a bit too much like his mother, yet they were harsh like glass with broken edges that sunk sharply into the skin.
The fire cackled greatly at his predicament, its burning hands falling on and on over the logs of charcoal black wood as if slapping its surface in good humor. It was the only noise in the house, save the thundering of the woman's heart beats and the soft cooing of another child far far away from him. The child was tucked away upstairs, in a blanket of softer silk that matched the color of his rosy cheeks, in a nursery that was hand-painted and adorned specially by his doting parents.
Once, long long ago, he too had it.
"He's of the same kind as your sister. It'll only bring us trouble."
A man's voice whispered, not in the same tone as the woman's- rather more, silent. Almost as if he was afraid that someone was sitting right there on the couch, listening to each and every word that was spoken and unspoken in the conversation. His words were muffled by the large brown mustache that covered his non-existent lips, ones that were now coated with glistening sweat that came not from the fire. In the man's hands was a ball tinier than the baby, a letter of some sorts with a handwriting that smelled like his mother's lily perfume. It was the only thing now that reminded him that his mother ever lived on the earth, the only thing that kept his mother still along with him.
"The letter says he was supposed to go to a... Sirius Black."
"A criminal, like the lot of them. He's over the news, and in jail now- where they all should have been."
Her fingers now sunk into his skin, her uncut nails digging into soft flesh leaving half-moons scattered all around his arm. He had won, not one, but many scars that day- and none of them truly faded, even after years and years. The memories behind them might have left him a long time ago, but the agony behind them follows him like the bright sun- always there, even if he forgets to see it.
Since that day, he'd always hated the warmth.