December
By Phoebe Halliwell
Sorry I haven't updated in a while but I promise that over the summer I'm going to work on my stories and update them.
The harsh temperatures of the December night had descended upon Hogwarts castle, the stone walls were doing nothing to keep the cold out. It was way past curfew for the students and the castle was completely silent, not even the professor's had ventured out to patrol the castle on the bitter icy evening.
Wrapped up against the cold twenty-five year old Professor Potter struggled down the marble staircase, his cloak drawn tightly around him. In five minutes it would be eight years to the day that the war had ended.
Harry Potter the hero of that night walked out into the frosty grounds and stood before the memorial for those who had lost their lives in battle. It stood proud and tall in the exact spot that Voldemort himself had fallen. Encased in a magically sealed glass box was his broken wand, there for all to see.
A gust of wind sent shivers down his spine, it was far too cold to be outside tonight, but Harry felt as if he had to pay his respects. His friends had died here eight years ago, good friends whom he had swore that he would protect and he had failed.
He scanned down the list of names that had been etched into the solid white marble memorial.
Ginny Weasley
Rubeus Hagrid
Albus Dumbledore
Arthur Weasley
Percy Weasley
Fred Weasley
Lavender Brown
Remus Lupin
Severus Snape
Cho Chang
The list was endless, the names of all the people that he had cared for, even loved as a child. Ron and Hermione were thankfully still alive but they never spoke any more, at least not to him. They had their own lives now; they didn't have time for him. They had married shortly after the war had ended and they now had three children.
Harry admired them for the life that they had created for themselves; he envied them for the same reason. He had always wanted that perfect family life but he couldn't even show his horribly scarred face in public any more. He had been unable to create a decent life for himself.
That was why he paid his respects to those he loved in the dead of night when no one would see him, He had never stopped wearing black in their memory and he doubted he ever would. His own mutilated face was the thing that haunted his nightmares, not the scenes of war that he had witnessed or the deaths, he was once a handsome hero but now he was now a disfigured monster.
The right side of his face had been badly burnt in the battle by a fire breathing dragon, his reflexes had not been quick enough to save his features, his right eye was now completely useless. The left eye still shone a brilliant emerald green and the same old wire spectacles still sat on his now crooked nose after it had been broken three times in as many days.
Most of his body was in tact and as it should, apart from a few less noticeable battle scars as he had charmed his robes to protect him to some degree. He still had the tattoo that he had got done when he had turned sixteen. Written on the small of his back were the words Death becomes me. He didn't know why he had wanted that permanently written on to his body but he had like it at the time and its meaning was clear even now.
Not that anyone saw it nowadays … only one man had ever been with him and seen the tattoo. It was possibly the only man that understood what it meant as well. He was the only person that Harry had ever let get close to him.
Draco Malfoy.
His name was absent from the memorial but that was who Harry truly mourned when he stood in the freezing temperatures, tears falling from the one good eye that he had left.
But Draco Malfoy was not dead. The night before the battle had commenced he had gone to Harry, feeling terrified and alone, Harry had comforted him long into the night and they had kissed. It had then gone further until they had ended up in bed together. They had been young, hormonal and on the eve of a life or death battle, a mistake, one Draco had regretted.
When Harry had woken up Draco was gone and he had had to fight a battle. Draco had not ever made eye contact with him and when it was all over he had left the castle without a word of goodbye. Harry had woken up in St Mungo's two months later with no one sitting beside his bed watching over him … he had been alone.
And that was exactly how he had stayed for the past eight years of his life, alone and miserable. He had been given the job at Hogwarts, teaching first years how to fly, out of pity. Once a great and powerful hero he was now a pathetic has been who had been forgotten about.
He had nothing to show for his life of death defying bravery, no husband to love, no children to raise, he had money and he had a large house in which he planned to retire in to once this year was over, but nothing more.
He has sacrificed everything for a world that had disregarded him now that he was of no further use to them. When they were young and foolish about the ways of the world Ron, Hermione and Harry had day dreamed about what the world would say about them when the war was over, they had thought that their names would go down in history, that their stories would be told for generations but back then the idea of war was a glorious thing.
It had soon turned sour when the reality of what was to happen overcame them all and dragged them down.
The war was now a distant memory to everyone, no one ever spoke of it any more and those that had survived pretended like nothing had happened. They were not the brave warriors and survivors; they were ashamed of what they had done to keep the wizarding world protected for future generations.
Many had just gone on as if no one had died, as if nothing had changed and they had just graduated. But Harry could not do that, he had failed to protect the people closest to his heart, he had failed to tell the one person he believed that he felt love for how he felt and as a result he had lost him forever.
For two hours he stood staring at the cold white marble. Every year he would come here, stand in the knee deep snow for hours on end in tears and wish for death to take him, to end it all so he would no longer had to live his miserable and pathetic life.
How many times had he wished that something would happen, something magical? Too many times … he was still living with the pretend that everything would work itself out in the end. Even after eight years it hadn't sunk in that this was it, this was as good as it was ever going to get for him.
When he had learnt to read he had become fascinated with fairy tales and had his favourite learnt off by heart by the time he was ten. The ever romantic and idealistic images had stuck with him through the horror and pain of war, death and destruction.
He was still waiting for prince charming to sweep him off his feet and take him away to his happily ever after. He was beginning to see that it would never happen; he was a monster who had no one and never would.
He closed his eyes and imagined standing there with Draco by his side, as beautiful and as graceful as he remembered him to be. In his imagination they were holding hands, a comforting reassurance to Harry that his partner was there for him. It was here, in the deepest regains of his mind that everything was perfect.
He was no longer disfigured and scarred, he had Draco and they were happy, he had found his happiness. Draco was his happily ever after.
Each time that Harry retreated to this wonderful place buried in the deepest and darkest corners of his mind it got harder and harder to come back to the real world and face the reality of truth.
He had to leave his happiness and his fairy tale ending behind in his dream world, where everything was perfect. The question often floated through his mind, why not stay there, stay and be happy.
As Harry stood before the war memorial, his thick robes soaking up the snow and the cold setting in, he took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Why not retreat and never come back?
By the next evening they were adding another name to the memorial stone. The name of a warrior who was killed by the great war eight years to the day since it had ended.
A hero killed by heart break, a hero that had strayed from the path and was too lost to find his way back. Death had become him.