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The mug in his hands was warm, the tea within cooling as it sat ignored. The lights of thousands of homes clustered together like flowers in a meadow beneath him. Up on the roof, he could feel the wind flowing past him, making him grateful for the warm jacket he’d wrapped around his shoulders. In front of him, the distance loomed. The relative silence of the city – a low hum at the quietest of times – was broken by a fire engine racing through the streets beneath him. Harry sighed.
He could almost feel the warmth radiating from the homes below him, where happy parents cuddled on sofas and teenagers were laughing awkwardly with crushes they’d forget about in ten years. He sipped his tea, feeling bone-deep loneliness creep in. God, he missed Hermione. She’d absconded to America for university and could only floo back every so often. Leaving him alone in his slightly moldy flat with the flickering bathroom light. He and Ron had grown apart, he was so busy it was hard to find any time to see each other.
Even the warmth of his jacket, charmed by Hermione herself, couldn’t combat the chill. He stood up and casting one last look over the cityscape, apparated back into his flat, spilling lukewarm tea over his jacket.
“Fuck.” He charmed it away quickly but stood there in his dark kitchen clutching his mug. The empty silence echoed. He flicked on the living room lights and stared at the photos on his wall. His parents danced silently in the autumn leaves. He, Hermione, and Ron laughed inaudibly at a joke he couldn’t remember, Hogwarts in the background. The Weasley jostled each other on Christmas day, each wearing their personalised jumper. The cool light of the LED flickered and Harry scowled, not this bloody light as well.
He turned away from the wall of silent memories, shoulders hunched. With a flick of his wand, the wireless began to croon out the latest wizarding hits but they didn’t seem to fill the silence within the room. The sound of drunk laughter wafted in through the open window. All of a sudden Harry couldn’t bear the empty lounge and the spaces left by friends too far away. He deposited his mug on the nearest flat surface and retreated to his tiny bedroom.
He still owned Grimmauld Place but the resounding loneliness he felt was worse there. Haunted by ghosts of memories and reminders of the war, he couldn’t bring himself to spend more than a few hours there. If only Hermione was here, she’d know how to make things better. She’d drag him out for take-out and pull the newest muggle hit out of her endless bag and plug it into the DVD player she’d bought.
He could hear the wireless he’d forgot to turn off still playing in the kitchen, the sound finding its way through the thin walls into his room. It reminded him of every post-war party where he’d retreat to quiet rooms away from the too-loud music and rabid crowds. He tried to picture Hermione’s face but kept coming up short on details. What shade were her eyes? How long was her hair now? Had she cut it since she moved? He couldn’t remember.
Determined to not roll around in misery he sat up and hauled himself out of bed. He dressed himself in his pajamas, slowly, as if pulled down by weights on every limb. In the bathroom, he stared lifelessly into the mirror as he brushed his teeth in the flickering light. He’d get past this. Tomorrow he would owl Ginny, or Luna, or Ron, or Neville. Someone. Anyone. And have lunch with them. He spat out his toothpaste. Tomorrow would be better. Tonight he just needed to sleep.
Tomorrow will be better.