Legendary // H.S

22.

Eventually, I step inside the room, the cold floorboards creaking under my feet. It's cold in here, and clearly not used much. Over most of the furniture are pieces of cloth covering them, but a few cabinets and seats remain exposed gathering dust. It seems odd for someone to live in such a large house on their own, especially when rooms like this go to waste. Harry is rarely here though, always at the office.

I walk over to the first hidden piece, slowly pulling the cover off to reveal a piano. A beautiful mahogany design, small etchings carved into the roof. The keys have little marks on them, including little letters drawn on to signify what each is. On the far left of it, there looks to be a small fingerprint in black ink. However, some dust has pooled around the feet. It probably hasn't been touched in years.

My fingers graze over the keys, pressing lightly on them to hear a sweet melody. I used to play when I was younger, dad always had an affinity for it. I stopped after a couple of years, though. Too much effort for my small hands. Always getting cramp when trying to reach the right cord. Dad didn't care much, just made me move on to the next hobby until I found one I liked. It was always jewellery that I'd circle back to, watching him in his element when he worked away at night or in the shop when he allowed me to come with him. I even had those little kits for kids to make their own bracelets. He still wears one I made back then.

Grabbing the cloth, I cover the piano back up, moving on to the next item. Underneath stands a small cabinet, much like the one that holds the copy of Les Mis in Harry's office. Inside sits a small pendant. It doesn't seem expensive, though, not like the other pieces of jewellery that rest in his house. I'd price it only at £30 maximum. It is simple, but sweet. A gold plated chain with a small charm hanging on it. A lily. Like the one tattooed on Harry's arm. It's delicate and dainty, but so pretty. I want to open the door to try and hold it in my hands, but it's locked. Whatever keys are needed to open it could be anywhere. Potentially in this room, but likely hidden away in another private area of the house.

I move on, covering the case as I did the piano, continuing my inspection of the room. There's not much to find, just books and trinkets, nothing as intriguing as the first two items I found I take that as my queue to leave and explore some more.

For the most part, the rooms downstairs are bare, empty like the first I entered. I uncover a few pieces of interest, works of art that capture my attention or items that were clearly stolen through the years. Some I instantly recognise, others I do not. One room near the office has a few photographs tucked away in a drawer, but they reveal little about the man I'm trying to understand. They're all of him and the team, minus George. Harry looks much younger in them, his hair slightly longer. In one, his smile is so bright, so unbothered. It's such a difference from the hardness I've grown accustomed to from him. Every now and again he'll crack a smile or laugh, but usually at my expense. No, this is genuine.

His eyes sparkle in a way, so bright that they could blind someone. The expression on his face so pure, as Zayn wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders and Babz is hoisted onto Louis' back. A family. I inspect every detail of the scene, from the lights of the background to the setting they find themselves in. It looks to be somewhere in the city, maybe a beer garden. I always focus back on Harry, though. Pure happiness radiates from him.

It feels wrong to be looking at it now, so I place it down where I found it and exit the way I came in. The office seems like the best place to search, considering all I saw last night, so without hesitation I make my way back into the room, seeing the same glasses and bloody clothes left from the night before. The light of day reveals more to me, allowing me to pick up on a few more things that I had previously not noticed. Books, mainly. More early or original copies, but these are not stored in the same way as Victor Hugo's novel. There's some by the Brontës, Dickens, Austen, even more recent ones of the past 60 years. Perhaps he's a collector.