Author's Note- Well, this one is a strange one, and it has come to me in an awkward little dream-like trance. Yes, I have those. It seems to be part of my mindset, and, for some reason, I've just accepted whatever goes on in my mind. You should to. Sometimes, amazing things happen. But I digress.
Dawn had yet to settle over Hogwarts before the overwhelming sense of fear latched itself onto Harry James Potter, trickling down his spine with aching breaths and unspoken words. It had been a long, horrid day, and as the young man stared at the disgusting remains of Hogwarts, each trickle became something more, threatening to force him into tears. Death. There had been so much death, so much decay, and as the tipping mounds of earth tilted towards the discarded bodies, the heavy weight only seemed to grow larger.
Fred, Colin, Tonks, Remus, Snape... And more, though he refused to count, nor acknowledge. Not yet. Not ever, truly, but did the famous 'Chosen One' gather up a choice to his happy ending? No. Ginny and Ron were gathered around the body of their brother, and Hermione lurked awkwardly beside the latter, their hands finally touching.
How sweet.
But all Harry could feel was the emptiness stretching about his face, the scar giving meaning no longer. All it had become was a mark, a reminder that he would never become an average wizard. Never. Even Kingsley had verified the fact, his words soon after the battle stinging.
"You don't have to return to school to become an Auror for me, Harry."
Did they not realize that he might have wished to go back to Hogwarts, where he felt like home? Must they always presume that he was like his father, like Sirius? Harry loved school, and though he felt no need to study endlessly like Hermione, he was a bit hurt that he had achieved something by simply existing. It made him no better than Severus Snape had said.
The class celebrity.
That was all he was. The child who had nothing, yet prospered, simply because none had given him anything. Ron hadn't been much of a friend- they fought more than anything. And Hermione, though Harry loved her more than anything, she had chosen Ron, hadn't she? Apart from that, they had little in common save for the lack of knowledge upon entrance to the Wizarding World.
But the witch had attempted to learn everything, while Harry simply was himself. He could do nothing to compare with anyone, and almost blankly, he wondered why he wasn't friends with Malfoy. Draco seemed to have more in common with him than anything.
And then, he was alone, the tips of his lashes covering the grief-stricken eyes, simply so he could observe the sudden silence. They expected him to speak. They wanted his words. But his thoughts could not form coherent sentences, and all left in disappointment.
Simply because they held him in high thoughts. And the man, no longer a boy, stared blankly at the dead, lost within his own thoughts.
It was horrible, that each and every body was simply abandoned, the families choosing instead to rebuild, rather than bury. Someone suggested a group burial- but Harry could not face such a thing. Each person was an individual. Why bury Colin Creevey with Professor Vector? Padma Patil with Pansy Parkinson? They did not deserve it.
"But did I deserve to die, Harry?"
He jerked upward, eyes falling upon the body of Colin, eyes widening in surprise. A talking corpse, of course, was not something he would have expected, yet after such a long day, nothing could really be unexpected. And, with that in mind, words slipped gently from beneath his lips, tongue working for apologies.
"No. No, Colin, you didn't. I'm... I'm so sorry."
The body seemed to rise above him, traipsing endlessly in a dance.
"An apology won't do so good anymore. Did you know I loved someone? That I liked a girl, and we were going together? That you never looked towards me, but complained about being alone?"
The man shook his head, and attempted to hide behind his brilliant eyes, the ones so much like his mother.
"Did you ever find my brother to tell him, Harry? That I hopelessly looked up to you, while you wished for family. Did you know I wanted a family? That my father died two years ago? My mum didn't want me?"
No. He had never thought to ask, being more wrapped up within his life. Guiltily, the familiar motion was viewed, just as another body wafted into the sky.
"Potter." Snape, with his angry face, swarmed around him. "Why are you sitting around, Potter? Still hating your least favorite teacher? Detesting me more?"
Colin spoke again, prodding forth with horrid words, "That's all he does, sir. Hate on those he would enjoy the most. Being friends with useless people with no love."
They were jabbing, screaming, and the poor wizard could do nothing, instead allowing the abuse to tickle at his chest, until strange sobs caressed his features. "I'm sorry," he was crying repeatedly. "I'm sorry."
"But you aren't." It was an array of voices that gently scraped his unshaven cheek, waltzing through his mind. It was the dangerous pattern of hatred that pressed against his sore body, attempting to shove him into the ground, drill in the horrible way that he had treated so many, convinced it was correct. All Harry wanted to do was fix it. Fix it all.
He wanted to go back to the day he was set upon the doorstep of his aunt and uncle, and simply scream at Dumbledore, perhaps cling to the man's beard and refuse to let go. What if, when he went to Hogwarts, he simply befriended Draco Malfoy, and became familiar with the Dark Lord? What if he was not the 'Chosen One'?
The chances of him staying acquainted with Ron would have dwindled immediately, and the connections with Hermione would have likely grown. He would have known of the others sooner, and understood the reasons of why they 'ticked'. Perhaps he could have turned out different, better. Sirius... Sirius could be alive, Tonks could be alive...
The root of all problems had started with him.
Midnight sent Harry towards the Ministry of Magic, with terror and empty wishes pounding at his temples. He needed out, he needed to be free. The dead had spoken, and he would obey. All problems needed to end here, end with him, end with the horrid face of reality.
Nobody would be able to stop him.
Ginny could not, though their paths seemed to have mixed as the man strode from the Great Hall, his chapped lips bleeding from incessant picking and prodding. Her words were sweet and innocent, tear-ridden eyes darting dangerously around his face.
"Harry," she had said, and lifted a hand to his face. "Harry, are you-"
He remembered pressing a kiss to her forehead, and shoving away the digits, murmuring, "No. No, I'm not."
The departure had been speedy, and although sweet words were traded, they were empty and uncaring, for after the day forced upon each of them was enough to strike a lack of emotion. They had emoted enough. So, trembling, they swept themselves away, eyes cast towards the ground. And, with a turn of his heel, the male arrived to the political place, shoving his wand out. Somehow, the great Atrium had been removed of the scum, sent into the lovely colors it had been ages before.
Sighs were traded from his suddenly separate bodies. The first was simply his past, the shaking man that had been through many, and the exhale was embedded with relief. All was safe. However, his new half, the second half, was interlaced with anger and rage.
"The door. Where is the door?"
If any were there, they would have been terror-stricken, yet the guard simply waved him through, without a pass. Anything for the lovely 'Chosen One'. Anything for 'The Boy Who Lived'. It was disgusting. It was unnerving. And, with that much to dwell upon, he did not realize that his feet had already passed the threshold of the elevator, pressing the button to hear the clear, cool voice.
She was collected.
He was not.
And, due to this, Harry James Potter found himself dwelling on the past, unaware that the tiny part of his past was dictating him towards the familiar veil.
The Veil.
Sirius had fallen behind the Veil, had been swept into death. What more honorable way to go than the way his godfather went? What better way to traverse death than in the same pathway that the ones who loved him traveled? Harry, who was now standing directly in front of the billowing object, extended a palm, touching the shimmering material.
The Chosen One.
The Boy Who Lived.
The class celebrity.
Harry Potter, wizard, child, friend passed through the whispering words, his body arching pleasantly, crinkling his nose with the thoughts to come. Death beckoned him forth, and he came forth. And, to everyone else in the Underworld, was simply an average wizard, welcomed happily within the masses.
Surnote: I hope you enjoyed my glimpse of the aftermath. Please review!