Title: The Show Must Go On
Author: Cherry Blood (whatever ff.net may say, I'm still plain Cherry Blood, not Cherry Blood1)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: *holds up a picture of herself* Do I look like Rowling? I didn't think so. I'm also not a part of Queen, who own the song The Show Must Go On. I'm just a simple teenager with angsty thoughts. Go me.
Summary: After hearing the prophecy and watching his godfather die, Harry muses over how he should go about the rest of his life. OotP spoilers. Duh.
*~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~*
They hadn't wanted to disturb him. No one was stupid enough to. Either they knew that, or they did not know how to approach him. What would they say? "Sorry about the loss, Harry"? What idiot would think that was a good idea?
So it happened that Harry Potter sat in an empty room that once belonged to his godfather – who ironically was more of the combination of a father and a brother – on the wooden-planked floor, back against an old dusty bed that hadn't been used in days. He stared across the room at the wall. The wall was another thing that evidenced the poor upkeep of the house. The paper was peeling away, revealing sunken and rotting plaster. Strange – that's what his life was like: quickly sinking away and deteriorating.
Who the hell thought up prophecies? As if his life wasn't hard enough just pushing his way through swamps of schoolwork, someone had decided that he should do it as a target and icon with no family.
Empty spaces – what are we living for?
Abandoned places – I guess we know the score.
On and on.
Does anybody know what we are looking for?
The worst Sirius had ever done was an accidental-attempted-murder on Snape. Who would blame him if they had met the oily man? And yet, Harry's godfather had most likely suffered more than any other man on earth. He was blamed for the murder of his best friend, framed and punished for a crime he did not commit, sent to a prison that was supposed to draw the very soul out of you, if you ever had one to begin with.
Harry could always see the mask that Sirius put forth, showing the world a man who was recovering with remarkable rapidness from ten years of a draining pain. Everyone else knew he was changed, of course, from before, but Harry didn't think that anyone but Remus and he could actually see the intricate, deceptive shield that covered a wounded heart and spirit.
And Harry understood better than any that sometimes you had to push yourself to keep going.
Another hero, another mindless crime
Behind the curtain in the pantomime.
Hold the line.
Does anybody want to take it anymore?
Harry pushed up from the floor, splinters digging into his hands and drawing little prickles of pain to accompany tiny droplets of blood. He could see himself in the mirror now. His usually brilliant eyes looked dull, hollow. How was it that he could look so lifeless and be aching so much?
Kill or be killed. That was the deal, the deal that was either his salvation or his damnation. But it wasn't going to happen yet.
Harry squared his shoulders and blinked rapidly, pulling spark back into his eyes and livening his face. With one corner of his mouth turned up in the smallest of smirks, he walked to the doors of Sirius's old bedroom and placed his hand on the doorknob.
He wouldn't let them get him yet. And no one would know until then that this had any effect on him. Taking a deep breath, Harry turned the doorknob and opened the door, stepping out of the room with a confidence only seen in those who have cheated death.
The show must go on.
The show must go on.
Inside my heart is breaking.
My make-up may be flaking.
But my smile still stays on.
In Quidditch he was reckless. He hexed without hesitation, taking punishment and reprimands in stride. And yet, in it all, there was a cold indifference. He did not care anymore. Caring brought pain.
He still led the trio of friends, naturally. Ron and Hermione were too shocked by his sudden change in personages to do anything but follow faithfully. Whether he was studying curses and enchantments for hours on end in the library or arbitrarily taking a stroll in the Forbidden Forest, they were there for him. Silently he thanked them for that, and he thought that they knew.
Seeing Professor Dumbledore only ever caused a reminder of a deep, open wound where his love for his godfather and his respect for his perfect headmaster used to belong.
He saw Cho sometimes. It didn't really matter. Her beauty remained unchanged, and yet it did not stand out as it used to do. It did not glow around her. It was simply there.
The days went by rapidly, but he never seemed to notice them passing. It was as if he were a rock: not living, not dying… just existing.
Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance.
Another heartache, another failed romance.
On and on.
Does anybody know what we are living for?
He thought he was ready. He felt ready. Feeling prepared had a temporarily healing effect, it seemed. His friends occasionally caught an actual smile touching his lips, pushing the confident, uncaring smirk out of his eyes.
His heart still ached terribly. But it was more of a background noise than it had been at first. Fondness crept back into memories of his godfather, instead of the awful stabbing pain. His resentfulness towards Dumbledore wore thin, and, ever so slowly, he was learning to look past the fact that the professor made mistakes just as any other person might do: he was, after all, human.
But he could feel it coming. It was like a spider that sensed you creeping up behind him before you got within an arm's reach. Soon he knew he would face that crescendo in his life… the point in which he could either continue on forte, or diminish into the finale.
Harry wished he could simply go back to the beginning of first year, when everything had been innocent. He could still sense that spirit within himself, pushing to be let out, to show the world something sweet and beautiful and unmarred by life.
The end was coming all too soon.
I guess I'm learning.
I must be warmer now.
I'll soon be turning round the corner now.
Outside the dawn is breaking.
But inside in the dark I'm aching to be free.
Kill or be killed. Salvation or damnation. Death or freedom.
Or was it death and freedom?
He didn't know anymore. He simply stood erect, hiding away all suffering under a mask of hard determination.
The show must go on.
The show must go on – yeah.
Ooh inside my heart is breaking.
My make-up may be flaking.
But my smile still stays on.
Yeah, oh, oh, oh.
He figured his past had created his soul. His deeds, his thoughts, his emotions had all built into one wonderfully elaborate and delicate thing that people call a soul.
Would anyone remember what had made his soul when he was gone? Would they recall Ron and Hermione, and their adventures… Quirrell, Riddle, Pettigrew, Lestrange, Malfoy, Voldemort… the opposite sex?
When he thought about every obstacle that they had conquered together, he felt strong. Free. Weightless. Invincible. Because when he thought about what they'd gone through… he remembered that there were two people in that world that would be by his side not matter what.
My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies.
Fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die.
I can fly – my friends.
Kill or be killed. Salvation or damnation. Strength or weakness.
All choices that he had. All decisions he did not what to have to make.
Kill. Salvation. Strength. For the sake of his friends, he would not fail.
He knew the pain of watching failure. Of being failure. Of blaming himself for others' weaknesses.
He would go on. If he could think of no other reason, he could think of Hermione's eyes that matched chocolate, and Ron's hair that resembled the ink in an orange marker.
The show must go on – yeah.
The show must go on.
I'll face it with a grin.
I'm never giving in.
On with the show.
He will not win. He will not destroy my friends' lives, their worlds. I'll do whatever it takes. But he will not win.
I won't let him.
I'll top the bill.
I'll overkill.
I have to find the will to carry on.
On with the
On with the show.
Harry rolled his wand loosely in his hand, evaluating the situation in his peripheral vision, eyes focused on his adversary. The enemy pulled clever tricks. Harry could see his parents, Sirius, friends, relatives, strangers who had died at the hands of this man and his followers standing all around them. But Harry ignored them. They were not important. Not at the moment. Once, they were important. But their time was over now. This time, it was Harry's turn.
Kill or be killed. Salvation or damnation. Death or freedom. Strength or weakness.
The show must go on.
*~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~^~*
Well, what do you think? This is the first thing I've ever written. Hopefully it fits the bill. I'd love reviews so that I know if I should keep writing (in general… this piece is done) or not.
Thanks to Rowling and Queen for letting me (however unknowingly) borrow their property.