untitled: pg, gen

Harry’s alone in the office, save for a cold cup of coffee that attempts to turn the same shade of drab grey as its surroundings. It doesn’t succeed – it hasn’t yet quite acquired the limp defeat of the rest of the objects in the room. The desk (once Sirius’) has begun to sag under the weight of countless papers and the endless stream of Aurors who beg to sit on it, rub it a little, for a touch of Harry’s luck. It never works, he wants to tell them, he can list the number of people who have touched it and gone to their deaths; there are more than he can count on his fingers, his toes even. But they never listen anyway, and he takes comfort that at least he sends them to their death with the joy of touching a piece of Saint Potter.