Fanciful
By Artichokie

This place is dull. There is no more excitement residing within these aged walls. I want to break free, run with the wind and be as careless as the wild birds flying in the sky outside. But I can't; I'm chained within these grounds like a thief in a penitentiary.

Eight more months, I keep telling myself. Eight more elongated months I must spend within this castle learning about things that I feel no urgings to know. My urgings tell me to flee and to not ever look back. My heart pushes me to the doors; my feet follow.

Even the echoes of my steps in the abandoned hallway are monotonous. I've heard them before. They've broken the silence of my unease many, many times in the past. No doubt, they'll continue to do so in the future. I wish they had a new sound. A new sound would make them interesting; I'd listen to them again. But the sound will never change. I'm forced to endure it forevermore.

Even the grains on the huge main entrance doors, the intricate patterns they create, are boring. No one ever really pays attention to them, not really. Unconsciously, I must have for now, when I finally take a good, conscious look at them for the first time, I find them unexciting. They're only good for one purpose: marking my way to freedom.

I push them wide open, flinging them against the onslaught of pelting rain falling from the sky driven by a fierce wind that blows right into my face. The cool liquid wastes no time in soaking my face, covering the lenses of my glasses in droplets and obscuring the surrounding land. There's no hope for it; I swiftly rub the loose water off with my fingers just enough for me to make out the path leading from the castle.

I have no idea where I'm heading. I need to escape; I need to be free. When my clothes start sticking to my skin, allowing the sharp wind to burn my body with bursts of cold, I realize that this wasn't a good idea. I realize it, but I don't care. My mind already feels comforted, yet envious. The weather is free, wild, and I'm not. I could be, if only I could escape.

I make my way along the grounds until I reach the lake. The normally glassy black surface is now contorted with angry waves. They lap hungrily at the shore, as if they were aching to rise high enough to cover the land and make the somewhat distant Hogwarts castle an island of its own. In some ways, the castle is its own island. It's distanced away from most civilization, surrounded by thick forests full of unimaginable creatures both of magical and Muggle sorts. One could easily get lost within its maze; one could easily escape and never be found within the trees.

I sigh.

Even the surrounding land is lackluster. I've seen it all before, from both ends of the spectrum. I've been within the forests, I've been outside. I've seen the dangers and the beauty that lie within the trees and underneath the black waters of the lake. I've experienced all that one needs to experience and more. What's left?

It's what lies on the other side of the walls of trees that excites me. Civilization, normalcy, freedom. Ah, yes, that wonderful word. I don't understand why, exactly, I'm forced to stay here. Hogwarts is no longer safer than the rest of the world. If people wanted to kill me, they could do so quite easily—especially right now. What am I doing other than standing out in the open like a sitting duck waiting for my foes to come get me? Wouldn't that be exciting? It'd at least put some spice in all that Hogwarts has become for me.

People might find my thoughts callous if they could read my mind. But what about your friends? they would ask; Don't they mean something? Of course they do! They are a part of what is keeping me sane within this sink-pit of bore. Not as they once did, however. No, everything has changed. Every living being has one thing on their mind: war.

Somewhere beyond the trees, a war is taking place. That is where I long to be, right in the middle of it. Revenge fills my blood; anger fills my heart. What am I doing here, hiding like some coward? But I'm not really hiding, am I? I'm a prisoner who is forbidden to do what he most desires.

The rain-clouded shadow of the distant trees disappears as my imagination takes over. I can see very clearly just what would happen if I was free. I wouldn't have to look for the fight; the fight would always come to me. That's how it has always happened; that's how it'll always be . . .

I can see myself walking along a London street, a smile on my face. The sun is out, creating an uplifting environment perfect for wandering about. I'd be minding my own business, perhaps even trying to avoid the war for once. I'm running an errand for a friend of mine, something common and simple.

I turn a corner, nearing to the place where I need to be. The street is deserted, which I immediately find odd. My hackles come up as I quickly become aware of a presence other than my own. I reach for my wand, which is sitting in the side pocket of my worn jeans, and grasp it with my right hand. I don't pull it out, but I'm ready to do so at a moment's notice.

And that's all I get.

Without warning, four people dressed in black cloaks jump out from behind a wall. Each of their faces are concealed by white masks. I cannot identify them individually, but I know who they are as a group: death eaters.

I pull out my wand and shout out a spell just as a jet of light speeds by my head. I duck and move quickly to the right, spitting out spells left and right. They're as agile as I am.

The odds are against me. My mind is telling me to flee. But to flee would be a show of cowardice, and I am no coward. Besides, to do so would leave me vulnerable. If there's one thing I hate above the dark world of magic, it would be the feeling of vulnerability. No, I must stay and fight. I must hold my own.

Without warning, another black-cloaked figure jumps out at me from the left, catching me off-guard. They knock me to the ground, straddling my hips as I lay on my side. I never let go of my wand; I never cease spitting out spells. I try to lift my wand and point it at the person on top of me, but another steps forward.

They quickly stomp their foot on my wrist, pinning my hand to the ground. Pain shoots up my arm as they press harder on my wrist. The blood trying to circulate into my pulsing limb is soon cut off. I can feel my grasp on my wand loosening. I'm panting now, almost panicking. Without my wand I am helpless.

My grip is tenacious; I refuse to give up without a fight. Even though the blood in my hand is now reduced considerably, I refuse to give up my wand. I know others will be coming, others from my side of the war. I'm never left to my own whimsical ideas. Someone is always watching me, even though I dislike it. For once I am grateful.

But they're taking a bloody long time in getting here!

The person standing on my wrist leans down and grabs the wand from my fingers. I try to grab after it, lifting my upper body off of the ground, but it is useless. My arm is still pinned to the ground, and any distance I did manage to get away from the ground disappears as I am roughly shoved back down.

They lift their foot off of my wrist, but I am unable to move it. The person who remains sitting atop of me restrains me from moving it. I watch in horror as the person grasping my wand brings it sharply down across their lower thigh, breaking it in half. The death eaters laugh callously as my destroyed wand is thrown on the ground haphazardly next my powerless body. The dreaded sense of vulnerability enters my brain.

"Now we got you, Potter!" the one who demolished my wand says. They are female, her voice high-pitched and shrill. Her excitement is evident; she knows she has won.

They wouldn't kill me, that I know for sure. Or, at least I think I do. Voldemort wants—needs—to kill me personally, doesn't he? Either way, without my wand I remain helpless.

As I look up at the masked faces crowding the vision above me, the sour taste of defeat flirts with my tongue. I know this is the end, but they are toying with me first. I don't mind. If they linger in their game, then that would give time for the others to come find me, to help me.

Bloody he.ll! Where is my backup? They are coming! They have to be. They have to be . . .

A drop of rain falls into my open eye, stinging the sensitive orb. I flinch in response, closing my eyes tight and rubbing until the pain disappears. At the same time, a crash of thunder erupts above me, shaking the ground below my feet. Opening my eyes again, I observe the surrounding area once more.

Maybe a scene like that wouldn't be too appreciated, but it's the excitement that comes with it that I crave. No fight would be the same; no day would be the same. Everything would be unique, not dull. Just beyond that forest is where it all lies. It wouldn't be easy to escape, but easy enough. If only I—

"Harry!" I hear my name called in a familiar voice. I turn around. Not ten feet behind me stands one of the greatest people I'll ever know. The wind blows his rain-soaked, fiery red hair in his face as water streaks down his skin. His clothes are in much the same shape as mine—water-logged and sticking to his skin. Ron's facial features are contorted into concern; he and Hermione had been diligent about looking after me since the start of the year. Half of me is grateful for that. I can't even count the number of stupid ideas I've come up with just so I could escape. However, the other half of me is annoyed for that same very reason. Who can say the ideas were all that stupid when I never got a chance to try them out?

"What are you doing?" Ron asks. I shrug and sigh. There's no hope for it. I wouldn't have been able to escape in this storm even if I had wanted to.

"Nothing," I respond, making my way towards him. "Let's get back up to the castle before we drown." There's always tomorrow.

-Fin-

Please R/R.