Title: They'll Never Listen
Author: suprockstar
Characters: Harry Potter.
Rating: T or M, I guess. Only for mild language.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and JKR is God.
Summary: Maybe if you tell them, they'll be so disgusted at you, think that you are weak, but that isn't the case, but you'd let them believe whatever they want to, as long as you are free. [During the War]
They'll Never Listen
You cradle your wand in your palm, and you feel how brittle, how cracked the wood has gotten, and you think that maybe even the slightest pressure would cause it to snap, and break forever. You let out a scornful laugh, humorless, and you wonder how you could've gotten this bitter at the world and everything around you. And as your wonder this, something in itching inside of you, and you can't quite place it, and your mind is all out of sorts, but that is nothing new of course. It's been like that ever since you were born. Too much information to fit inside of a child, inside of a teenager, inside of the man you are becoming. Either way, it doesn't fit, and that makes it extremely hard to comprehend.
Your mind is still on your wand, and you can't help but feel the comparison between your wand and yourself, and momentarily, you hope that you are not going crazy, because who had the time to make up similes and metaphors, whichever it was again, at this time. But you think it anyway, because it's hard to listen to yourself when another part of you is arguing for your attention.
That terrible side of you prevails, and you wonder that, if like your wand, even a little bit of pressure (even more than you are already under), you will snap and break. You ponder this for a while, and you smile mirthlessly (the expressions of your emotions are never truly correct anymore), because wouldn't that be just wonderful? To die, to die to die. To never have to worry, and bear the world of your shoulders, that you have to live, because you are the Boy Who Lived, and the Boy Who Lived, isn't supposed to die. You are pretty sure that the Boy Who Lived, isn't even allowed to die.
You are not allowed.
You carry the hopes of every living thing still fighting on the battle field, and you are surprised that the weight, the pressure has not gotten to you. You let out another laugh, because who are you kidding. You are acting this fucking way, because all the shit has pent up in you, and you are just ready to fucking explode. You pause, or your mind does rather, and you realize how fucking angry you are.
Not at just at Voldemort, but at the whole world for placing this weight, this burden on you, because since when did you deserve this shit?! You grow angrier and angrier, as your thoughts erupt in flames, and you feel the fire taking hold of your being, and you let it, because the Boy Who Lived is never allowed to act irrationally, and it's nice to break the rules from time to time. You think about what would happen if you died, how the world would react. Wouldn't that be a slap in the face for them, to having the fucking Boy Who Lived, not live anymore?
Ha. So funny. You laugh at this. Except you aren't really laughing, for no sound comes out, and you know that it wasn't that funny anyway. You don't want to do any of this shit anymore. To fight, to kill. You are sick and tired, and you are carrying everyone else's feelings of sick and tired, though it wasn't like they ever showed it. You knew that they hid it from you, because they feel so fucking sorry for you. Maybe they felt wrong, showing any kind of frustration of the situation, because they never had the obligation to live.
You are the lucky one stuck with this job, and the benefits are oddly depressing, and the health settlements are atrocious, and you think maybe if you hand in your resignation letter today, they won't be as angry at you, because you're giving them notice aren't you? Then, they can find someone else to live for a living, and maybe they'll be better at it than you, and all is well, right? Too bad no one else is up for the job, because living by responsibility took all the fun out of life all together. But it's not like the Boy Who Lived was allowed to have fun anyway.
You know that everyone expects you to be a machine, to give orders, to fight, to lead every living thing of the light side, to victory. But your parts just don't align right, and you are in need of repair, and you laugh again, but not really laugh, because you are comparing yourself to a machine, and how fucking insane has Harry Potter gone?
You are mad. You must be. Maybe if you tell that to everyone, and convince them that you aren't right for the job, because you are a bad, bad, addition to the Order, they will fire you. Maybe if you tell them, they'll be so disgusted at you, think that you are weak, but that isn't the case, but you'd let them believe whatever they want to, as long as you are free. You will tell them.
But you know they'll never listen.
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