That Which Makes Us Mortal

They didn’t think he was immortal, no, the wounds and scars that marked his body was a proof of that. But then again, they didn’t expect him to die either.

He did though, long lost of any childish innocence, long lost of any carefree behavior, and long lost of everything that made him a child and instead made him jaded by the heavy burdens placed upon him. 

And so when he died he was happy. Happy to no longer be apart of this war, happy to no longer be apart of this world…

He was happy to no longer be.

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From his cupboard under the stairway, Harry Potter looked through the slit of the door and at the people that walked about. Dressed as golfers, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon invited their friends over for a Halloween party.

Dudley had left with his friends to ransack the neighborhood asking for candy.

He had been told to stay quiet in his makeshift room.

One day I’ll be able to experience Halloween, he told himself, with much optimism. And when I do… I’m going to dress up as a wizard!

He amused himself with that thought for the rest of the night.

True Art

When he was four, his parents presented him with a camera and sent him off into the world, telling him to find true art. 

And so he went and searched for it, through the fields of birds in flight, in between the sunbeams from the sky, and beyond the cooing of his little brother.

He was unable to capture art.

When he was eleven he went to Hogwarts, his camera in his hands as he searched with wonder and longing before finding it, throwing him into breathlessness.

True art stared at him with green eyes, blinking at him in bewilderment.