Harry had been at the centre for many months. He couldn’t remember exactly when or how he got there, but that was true of most things that happened to him and everything else these days. The other residents were moving around, shuffling past long clouds of tobacco smoke and into the routine of hushed morning conversations. Harry did not smoke and did not generally talk. He did stand and watch the white ducks.
For anyone not accustomed to the practice of watching these pure creatures, the act itself could appear to be the definition of eternal boredom. Regardless of their fine, white plumage, the ducks were merely ducks. They waddled and quacked and searched the ground for things to nibble on or to sip. Their days were filled with nothing or import nor meaning, yet Harry Potter could not take his mind off them. The other residents ignored both the…
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