The Bulletin Board

Harry Potter sat cross-legged on his bed, with the tatty old sleeping bag for a comforter, and stared. That’s all. Just stared.

    He had grown accustomed to pure sunrises, with white, unstained light seeping into his dorm, gilding his hair, shining on his face. That was how it had been at Hogwarts.

    Had been, he thought, as insipid rays of yellow penetrated the dusty windowpanes. There was a sullen, tainted feel to this new sunlight, as though Harry had felt it once, long ago. It was like an old friend that Harry had had as a young boy, whose face was long forgotten but his name on the tip of Harry’s tongue.

    This flaxen light illuminated the pits around Harry’s window, where so many years ago Uncle Vernon had caged him inside this very room. So many years ago.

    At last, at long last, his eyes fell onto it.

    The old bulletin board, the one that had collected everything of Harry’s since he had been very young, and had originally moved into his first real bedroom. It was not exceptionally large, a mere 24” X 36” frame; small for eight years of one boy’s life. The plastic frame, which had at one point resembled wood, was cracked all along the top and left edge. The bottom right-hand corner was split off, from where, so many years ago, it had fallen from the wall when Uncle Vernon slammed Harry’s door too hard.

    “You still up there, boy?” shouted this same Vernon.

    Harry sighed. Some things never change. But in a way, he didn’t want them to.

    If you had peeled back the layers of Harry’s life on that board, all the way back to the summer before his first year at Hogwarts, you would have found a few drawings and photos. And this, this peeling back of the years, was precisely what Harry intended to do. He pulled the cardboard box closer to himself.

    The most recent tidbits from Harry’s life went face-down into the box first; a photograph of Ginny, her hair a mass of tiger lilies surrounding her face. Another of Ron and Hermione, arm in arm and positively in love. The results of his N.E.W.T.s (all Outstandings save one Divination grade). The still unfilled-out admission form to Auror Training. The letter from Dumbledore requesting Harry take over Hogwarts when Albus died; the reason the Auror Training admission form was still unfilled-out.

    Harry sighed as he came to the next object, a crudely drawn sketch of Sirius. Sirius as a teenager, his hair in his storm-cloud grey eyes. Harry’s fingers closed around the corner, and for a moment he strongly considered balling it up.

    But he didn’t. No; today was a day of new beginnings, not old endings. He dropped the page face-down in the box. Broomstick advertisements, cut from magazines and newspapers. An article on wandless magic from the Daily Prophet; the wrinkly Ministry-administered Guide to Self Protection. A crossword puzzle of all the known Death Eaters. Harry had to laugh at Fudge’s ideas, sometimes.

    Four birthday cards and another photograph, this time of himself and Ginny. Ginevra’s ruby curls were spreading across his face, and they were both laughing, arm in arm. Every few minutes they would kiss. The picture made Harry blush ever so slightly. A photo of Sirius, James, Peter, and Remus from their school days, which Harry had found one day at Grimmauld Place. More letters.

    The note Sirius had left Harry with his two-way mirror at the end of his fifth year. The corners were slightly faded, but only a little, and anyway, Sirius had faded quite a bit as well. The enchanted paper the DA had signed. A note from Ginny; one of Luna’s fliers with pleas for the return of her belongings. A thank-you note from the twins for the 1000 galleons; a letter in a scratchy hand from Amos Diggory.

    Harry sighed. He had almost forgotten, but not quite. Now the memories were as fresh as red blood on his hands.

    A picture of the veelas, and a shamrock from the world cup. Pictures of the tents, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins. A news article on the dark events that followed the cup. The first letter Harry had ever received from Sirius Black.

    Notes passed between the Trio during class. Numerous photos of Harry and Colin. A note from Hagrid.

    A photo of the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team, one of Wood holding the cup. More notes between classes. A 5X8 of himself, Ron, and Hermione, all laughing, their faces pink in the warmth of late May. Birthday cards, again, the first ones ever. A newspaper article of the Weasleys in Egypt. The end was near.

    A rather small picture of Lily and James. Another note from Hagrid. Inexplicably, a six-inch essay on goblins in Ron’s writing. His Hogwarts letter.

    And at the very bottom, somewhat faded but still whole, the supply list to rising Stonewall High students.

    He closed the box after this last paper and picked up the board and box.

    Ginny Apparated to his side and slid an arm around him. “Rough times, then?”

    He nodded slowly, the words,

    “All rising high schoolers will require:

        pens and pencils

        five binders

        a back pack

        lined loose leaf paper”

    still fresh in his mind. No wand, ink, quills, parchment paper, dragonhide gloves. He sighed into Ginny’s silken scarlet curls.

    “C’mon, Harry,” she said, hugging him tightly. “Let’s go home.”