Training had drained the marrow from his bones. He hung his right arm over the opposite shoulder, hoping to pull the joint so hard that it would either wrench a shriek from his lungs or finally pop back into place. Either would have been a welcome relief. There were sores long embedded in his body. It was somehow joyful to prod one; to feel the nerves protest with a fiery burn.

He sat on his smooth, velvety quilt. It seemed ironic that he should sleep in such luxury, when he spent the rest of his day with the dirt and grime of the world. Spells, curses, hexes and charms flowed from his wand now, as rain. Determinately, they spit out from all- to all- directions. The manipulation of postures and poses was like the martial arts videos he’d loved in his former life. Oh, his former life. Had he really died?

A creak in the cartilage that had thinned over the years shot a grimace to his jaw and a crease in his brow. There was nothing to do about it. There were more important matters at hand, as they say. Removing his trainers had proven to be a task. His fingers were slick with a lubricating combination of bodily sweat and coagulated blood. His socks emitted the smell of fungus and unwashed, flaking skin. It rivaled the smell of ammonia.

There was something pleasing about looking at his own muscles, he noted. He’d removed a yellowed T-shirt, soaked through the armpits. There was something to be said for being fit, even if it meant you lost blood, or in some cases, your meal. Muscles bulged, but did not yield. They were hard; the most basic and literal meaning for the word ‘power.’ He could be nothing but. His mind had resigned to this fact long ago. His thick, cotton pants fell to the floor, as did his shorts.

He stood, interlocked his fingers, and stretched upward. It’s a shame that I should be stuck in a home with a ceiling. It so limits the possibilities. His body rocked upward, onto his toes. He stared up, willing to see through the glass he saw there. There are no options for life when everyone watches; expecting for you to fulfill their dreams for them. It was a bitter thought, but the edge had long since worn away.

A breeze swam in through the cracked glass panes. A falsely cheery sky stared at him like an unattainable mirage. The childish urge to say “shut up,” filtered through his mind, and got caught before it hit the outgoing post. He’d spent the day becoming increasingly parched; beads of liquid streaking, drying and staining his skin. Outside was evil. For now, the shower could be his god.

The water squeaked on. Wrenched from its happy slumber, it poured forth myriad tears. It was one of the greatest inventions Muggles had bothered with and he was grateful for it. For a moment, he wondered how far back in the pipe the water waited. If he never had need of it, would it be stuck, hiding just behind the bend of the shower head? Would it, too, be stuck for all eternity?

The water warmed and sprays of steam wet the curtain, or escaped through the clouded window. He tested the waters with one brave leg. It was a soldier on the front lines. The leg didn’t say that the hot fluid relaxed the tightened muscles. Finding the environment to be adequate, he slipped stealthily inside and pulled the curtain closed beside him.

He let it wash over him, like misery and angst had so many years back. He felt inhuman every waking moment. He harbored no solid, tangible memories of ever touching another person. Have I ever been so physically present? The useless musing distracted him momentarily, but his mind was not kind enough to forget. He didn’t feel human, because humans remembered what it was like to touch someone. They remembered what soft skin felt like. They remembered caring about anyone else. To him, there were only two people in the universe; him and Darkness.

He leaned forward to let the current careen into his face. Lately, he’d become a part of the darkness. At the forefront of his frontal lobe, was one thought only: he must die. It had made him into a monster he never used to believe in. He was a far cry from the older version of himself he’d idolized without remorse. Then, as he stood there, vulnerable to all, a striking thought peaked its head from a long-closed door in his mind.

Why don’t I just quit?

It was a dangerous thought. It would turn the world upside down. But why does it have to be that way? He’d never been able to simply leave. It wasn’t a difficult concept, just foreign. How do I leave? This is all I’ve known.

Just leave, repeated the child-like voice within. Those feet. They move.

He looked through his dripping coif. There they were, scarred and malformed as they had become. He’d given his life, his body, his soul, and his hope to this cause. Who would he be without battle? Would he continue to exist? Where would he go?

Anywhere. Anywhere I’ve ever thought of.

Visions of an isle drifted before his sight as if he were in a Muggle theater. There were lush green grasses of variety. Plunging cliffs and mighty stones shaped by artists of baser origins made up for lack of trees. Cobbled fences lined property- put up hundreds of years past. The land had no master, as none had yet tamed it. The people there reached a truce with the forces of Mother Nature. She would allow them to exist in a land shrouded in mists, so long as they served only her. Generations of servants continued to live up to the ancient vow.

Go.

His head rested against the decorated tiles. It was so simple, his desperation refused to recognize any complications. He could walk. He would put one foot in front of the other, and somehow, he would end up on the lovely isle. But what would I work for? What would I hope for? Why would I continue to live days on end?

I wouldn’t.

He was stopped cold in his thoughts. Suddenly, the ceramic and the tile were too frigid to the touch. He took one breath in. It didn’t come out right away. Instead, it lingered, filling every tiny cavity in his sensory organs. It was so much like the hope he thought he’d lost. Just a little. It holds on. It doesn’t die as we plead it to do, when our souls are weak, and our minds shut down in revolt. When the air burned within his lungs, he released it.

He imagined he could see the tiny bits of magic that so long resided in his cells; drifting with the steam out the window. Through the opening, he saw a bit of blue sky, smirking at him from its throne. Perhaps it hovers there, with such a pleasant smile, to force us to climb however we can. Only so that we might punch it in the face.

Harry winked at the stray, seeping rays of sunlight.