i'm in an angsty mood and i read a Cedric fic that made me think about things from Cedric's side of view and that of his parents and even though i never really like him i felt that i'd been ignoring how important he was to the story. and that's where this came from. even though it's from Harry's point of view. i wrote this while listening to The Bends by Radiohead and after finishing Fool's Errand by Robin Hobb. this has not been beta-ed (it hasn't even been read-over) so if there are mistakes feel free to point them out.
disclaimer: i write ffic ... what in heck do you think i own?

kaythanksbye.

The Reason for Determination

He wanders the empty halls of his beloved school, wand in hand and disheveled robes hanging off one shoulder. He feels more than sees the emptiness of the halls. It's been six years since he first arrived here, frightened but filled with the hope of possibility. He was young then, despite all that had happened, young as he no longer is.

He has little hope left, but he does not require hope. He hasn't eaten in days, can't sleep and spends more time than he should in front of the portrait of Dumbledore in the headmaster's office. He knows when May ends, he'll return to his relatives, one last time, before going on to fulfill prophecy.

He has come to accept that death extends towards him; he finds himself no longer afraid of the inevitable. It has stricken him more times in his life than can be counted on one hand. He isn't depressed, he hasn't given up; he's just allowing himself the time to mourn, the time to grieve all that he never could.

Because so many people have died for him.

And he's feeling touched by destiny, wandering ancient stone halls, echoing with the ghost footsteps of those no longer living, wondering about the what-ifs and what-might-have-beens. So many people have walked these halls. The majestic himself, Godric Gryffindor, his mother, his father, Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore, Cedric Diggory… too many who died for him.

And even though he knows that it is selfish, cruel and cowardly, he can't help but imagine what a normal life would be like, can't help but wish that perhaps Neville could have been the Chosen One. That he could be surrounded by his parents, to have never known or seen death, to be able to ignore prophecy and to be able to love and be loved by the generation that bore him. He wants simple things, but it is not always the simple things that are granted, even to the most worthy.

He sits, slowly, on the front steps outside the Great Hall. He pockets his wand and vibrant green eyes watch the landscape before him, even as he pictures faces long gone from the world around him.

As always, his mother is first. Her face is never clear, because she was never a face to him, just warmth and comfort and laughter. She was safe arms around him and the brilliance that he now associates with joy and the beautiful things he never really tries to understand just enjoys. Like the first time he rode a broomstick, or the giddy feeling in the middle of his spine he felt his first night away from the Dursleys at the castle he came to call home the way everyone he ever loved had also done. She is quiet pride and bravery; she is intelligence and gentle ferocity. And when he misses her, it isn't red hair or the green eyes he sees in the mirror that he misses, but feeling safe and well cared for.

His father's face always follows quickly after the vision of his mother. Messy black hair and the long straight nose they share, he sees his father in the mirror every day but until he was almost twelve he never knew it. His father's pride was louder and more boisterous than his mother; he's seen it in others' memories and gleaned it from others' stories. And his father also is not hazel eyes or a wiry frame, but humor and mischief, fun and swiftness. He is confidence and courage, danger and chance, and everything done simply for the sake of doing it.

He realizes with soft dark humor, that he pictures his parents as teenagers more often than adults since most of his memories actually come from those who knew them when they were young. He would be friends with his father; he knows this without doubt. His mother and Hermione would probably get along well and for a split second he is struck yet again by the cruelty of fate. He taps a long finger slowly against his thigh as other faces are recalled from the depths of memory through the apathy that has covered him for the past week. The pain is welcome.

There's Albus Dumbledore, white beard flowing and kindly smile with intelligence glinting in his eyes. The clearest memories he has of the headmaster involve his placidity and his wit; his humor and his realism and the way that Dumbledore saw him as more than just a tool to be used and discarded at will. He recalls with blurry vision the scene of almost a year ago, when he stood in Dumbledore's office and hated the headmaster for loving him too much, hated him for his self-control, his humanity, his compassion, hated the delicate truths that rolled off his tongue and tumbled to the floor to shatter the boy-man along with everything that had been thrown in that office. He thought he hated Dumbledore for everything that he loved that wizard, his second father, for. The words 'Nitwit', 'Oddment', 'Blubber' and 'Tweak' spring to mind, bringing with them a bitter smile and sticky tears that slide down his cheeks. The greatest wizard the world had ever known, stolen from those who loved him by those he fought against. He never thought he'd have to miss Dumbledore too.

And again, the vision fades only to be replaced by another. A smiling handsome boy with golden coloring, about the same age as he is now wavers in front of him. Cedric Diggory. Nobility and honesty, courage and modesty, Cedric was too perfect to die, and yet here it was, almost two years later and his friends had more important people to mourn. He was a stranger to the dark-haired young man curled on the steps, but they'd been united in victory and looked each other in the eyes with a shared brotherhood neither of them had ever experienced before. He was the better man and yet he was not the one left when the world fell to ruins. He was good and he was pure in a way only the righteous can be but the only one left who can avenge his death is driven by hate and anger as much by love and goodness. His death was unfair in every respect and stills brings nightmares of green light on bronze skin and the silvery echo begging a stranger to do what should not have to be done. Dirty fingernails dig into palms and even though he knows it's not his fault, he can't help but feel frayed by guilt, because he suggested the action that led Cedric to his death. He knows he couldn't have, but still feels that somehow he should have saved Cedric. This guilt is heavy and suffocating for there is no one to share it with. He alone, of those who saw Cedric die, cared. He alone saw the echo of that perfect boy and he alone suffers that reverberation of his final words in his head, night after night."Bring my body back to my parents Harry. …back to my parents…" He failed Cedric, even though he didn't know him. He'll probably never be okay with it.

But the death that pains him most, that hurts when he thinks about it and even when he doesn't. The death that sneaks up on him at night when he thinks he has no more tears to cry.

Sirius.

The man who was almost his father, who was his friend and left before they truly got to know each other. The man who was his closest link to his father, the man his father loved like a brother and who watched over his godson in any way he could, even risking his own life to be a part of the young wizard's life, filling the role of father and sharing pain of a man lost forever to them both. He was the man who brought Harry the greatest joy in his life, only to bring out the greatest rage less than two years later. To have lost, yet again, a parent; someone who loved him unconditionally and took joy in his happiness, it tore his heart out of his chest and pumped pure agony through his veins.

And it was his entire fault, for playing the hero and wanting to do more than he could, no matter what anyone said, there was a stain of guilt that just could not be scrubbed off.

Sirius.

He missed him the most, but Dumbledore's loss cut almost as keenly.

So much death in his life, so much pain brought to the ones he loved, so many tears and cold fingers, so much death and cold and blackness.

Somewhere on the grounds a breeze blew through the trees and the young man lifted his head hearing faintly on the edge of his mind, where memory and reality blend, the phoenix song. And as he listened he felt a stirring within him. The heart he had let sleep until the pain became bearable quivered in his chest. And he thought of the battle that he knew must come and wondered if he could die as well, so he could finally meet his parents after fulfilling his duty to the wizarding world.

And he smiled, because it was a happy thought.