Risen- Drarry COMPLETE

Chapter 34

Disclaimer: this is my most graphic chapter thus far, and features detailed imagery and descriptions of self harm, self hate, and blood loss. I will put a warning where the exceptionally graphic things begin. Please read at your own risk. Stay safe, y'all.

—Harry POV—

Particles of dust had more than happily claimed this room as their home, and I couldn't help but feel it was my fault. A wave of something indescribable hit my chest. It might have been grief, or maybe guilt.

The floorboards creaked, the jarring noise making me cringe, my shoulders stiffening. The tall window, with its old curtains open and draped to the side, untouched for the last decade and a half, probably more, allowed the sun to heat the room, and I wondered if he liked having the hottest room in Grimmauld place.

Images of him laying across his bed, reading one of the Muggle Pop magazines that were sprawled about it now, came into my mind, and I smiled briefly. Gryffindor banners and flags were pasted at odd angles all across the walls, along with posters of famous or popular men and women alike, and photos- both enchanted and Muggle- of him with Remus, my parents, and Peter Pettigrew. I traipsed through the room slowly, being careful not to trip over anything on the floor, as though if I weren't careful, I would disturb his spirit.

Scanning his dresser, I noticed two things: at least six tall stacks of Muggle CD's, and a Muggle radio with a built in disc player. It was amusing to think he had so many Muggle things in a house like the Black house. Maybe if I'd just been able to get to know him...

My hand brushed the top of the radio, making three streaks where dust was picked up. I rubbed the tips of my fingers together to get rid of the grey stuff that now coated them. My hand shook slightly, and I blinked several times, deciding to open the drawer right below it. Lots of folded bits of parchment were in that drawer, along with an assortment of quills, ink, pens, and pencils. The parchment on the top was one that I had never seen before, with his name in elegant cursive writing:

Dear Padfoot,

Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his favourite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself, I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there).

I let out a rueful chuckle reading my mother's words. It seems even at one year old I enjoyed riding brooms. I wanted to find the picture she mentioned, but opted to finish reading first.

Of course, James thought it was funny, says he's going to be a great Quidditch player, but we've had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don't take our eyes off him when he gets going.

We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who has always been sweet to us, and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn't come, but the Order's got to come first, and Harry's not old enough to know it's his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell-

I didn't continue to read, finding myself itching to see a picture of me with my parents. With trembling hands, I rummaged through the drawer before finding the photo I wanted. However, it only showed me and my father. I furrowed my brows, refusing to cry. The missing piece must be somewhere.

I swiped the magazines on Sirius' bed aside, emptying the drawer full of parchments over the cleared area, searching. I found letters from my father, mother, and Pettigrew, as well as an overwhelming amount of letters from Remus, but no piece of photo. The notebooks were filled with writings and scribbling, from class notes to personal notes, and even randomly placed, out-of-order diary entries, but no photo. My haste grew with every failed attempt to find it, and I continued to search. I opened all of the drawer, cabinets and closets, my breathing picking up and shallowing as I searched in corners, under clothing, inside the pockets of so, so many leather jackets, and even under the mattress of his bed, picking up clouds of dust when I dropped it back onto its frame.