Kick.
Harry Potter was impatient.
Kick.
He was somewhere nice already – somewhere warm and safe and comforting. He should have been content.
Kick.
But despite all that, he was sure that there was something more. That he could spend his life somewhere outside of this bubble he seemed to be trapped in.
Kick.
He was impatient. He wanted out.
Kick, Kick.
Sometimes, the woman outside would pat at him and sigh, and say, “You’re going to be just like your father, aren’t you?”
Kick.
Sometimes he’d hear the man, laughing and pleading and teasing and loving.
Kick.
Now he didn’t hear the man’s voice much anymore. He missed it. He missed the feeling of his cold hand above him; he missed knowing that somehow he made the woman happy.
Kick.
Sometimes, the woman cried, and he could feel it, he understood that she was sad and worried and frightened. He wished that the man would come back.
Kick.
He was starting to forget what the cold hand felt like.
Kick.
Kick.
Kick.