Author's Note: This is my very first fanfiction, so I'm sorry if this doesn't live up to expectations, no matter how low.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, even though I desperately wish I do.
Chapter 1.
Avada Kadavra!
A blinding flash of jet green light filled Harry's mind before he awoke with a sudden jolt. Just like a routine, he leaned against his sweat-drenched pillow, blinked the weariness out of his eyes, and tried to calm his shallow erratic breathing. It then took him a minute to realize that he was at the Burrow.
He slowly got up, careful not to disturb the sleeping ginger in the bed across the room, and walked out. But as he was making his way across the kitchen, his eyes caught the Weasley's unique clock. Harry tried to tear his eyes away from the heart-wrenching sight and he succeeded in doing so, but not before he saw the name of one Weasley.
Fred Weasley.
The teenage boy with wild dark hair standing in the middle of the room felt a feeling in his gut similar to being kicked, as he remembered what that specific hand was pointing to.
Lost.
His stomach was caught in his throat and his heart felt as if it was made of lead. A burning feeling trickled in the back of his eyes with a promise of fresh tears waiting to spill out. But even though he wanted nothing more than to break down and cry until he could feel nothing again, he bit down on the inside of his cheeks to stop the tears and kept walking outside onto the vast front lawn of the Burrow.
As he looked out onto the silvery field, he felt chilled despite the warm summer weather. He could distinctly remember how in this very same place, he had turned into "Barney Weasley" for Bill and Fleur's wedding, how Ron and Hermione danced, how Great-Aunt Muriel described Dumbledore's past, and how Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Delacour had cried tears of happiness for their children.
Though he very rarely saw Mrs. Weasley with bright red puffy eyes and a handkerchief on her person before, it now became a regular thing at the Burrow but the reason for it now was sadness. And Harry rued that with all his heart.
It's all my fault, he thought bitterly as looked up onto the silver half-moon. If I had just died when I was a baby, I could've prevented this. I could have stopped all these families getting torn up. I could've stopped another Teddy Lupin happening.
Even as he thought this however, he knew that he was wrong. If he had died when he was a baby, Voldemort would've still been at large and done worse damage than he'd done now. Without the love of Lily Potter protecting Harry and helping him survive, he knew that the world would constantly be living off of fear, worry, and darkness. But even though he tried to reason with himself, he still couldn't stop feeling as much a murderer as Voldemort. He couldn't shake off the feeling of the blood on his hands, the lives that were taken in order to protect him. He disgusted himself.
He closed his eyes, and like a movie playing on the screen, he could see the wall blasting out, and hear the hoarse shouts as Fred Weasley breathed his very last laugh. Then the scene changed into the Great Hall, where the Weasley family had gathered around the limp lifeless body. He remembered George, kneeling there, next to his brother, his other half who stared back at him with unseeing eyes.
George. In sudden clarity, Harry remembered how George's usually bright brown eyes wore no expression. It became blank as if the reality hasn't set in for him yet. There were no mischievous glint in both of the twins' eyes that everyone was so used to seeing, no color, no feeling, just blank.
Sickened with himself, Harry Potter turned around to slowly drag himself into the house. While he was about to go up the stairs, a muffled sob coming from the living room caught his attention. He unconsciously drifted toward the source of the crying to find Molly Weasley sitting on an old couch with an open family album in her lap.
Harry couldn't bear the sight of his mother figure in such state of heartbreak. As he was about to turn to go to his room, however, Molly's sobs got more intense to the point where he found himself moving closer to the red-haired woman.
"Oh, Ha-Harry," She sniffed, "Wh-What are you doing u-up?"
"Sorry, Mrs. Weasley. I just needed fresh air," Harry muttered.
When Mrs. Weasley opened her mouth to say something, Harry quickly whispered, "I'm sorry."
It took a couple seconds for the woman to catch what he had said and then looked up to look at the boy standing in front of her and gave him a puzzled expression.
"It was my fault that Fred died. If I hadn't-"
"No, no, no. F-Fred knew what he w-was getting into when h-he went into the w-war, Harry. It isn't y-your fault and you m-mustn't blame yourself, d-dear. He... d-died... protecting you and his f-family. I'm s-sure he wouldn't h-have gone any o-other way." Mrs. Weasley then broke into tears by the last sentence and dabbed her wet eyes with a semi-dry handkerchief.
"But-" Harry started.
"No, I'm n-not going to h-hear this from y-you. Now off t-to bed, sweetie."
With a sad expression, he then quickly hugged his best friend's mom and muttered, "Goodnight, Mrs. Weasley." and crept up the stairs.
He laid in bed, knowing he wouldn't get any sleep. He hadn't been able to sleep well ever since the war. Even with Voldemort gone, the new nightmares haunted him every time Harry attempted to close his eyes. Every bad thing that had happened in Harry's life was played back in high-definition. Sometimes he could actually see his mother's beautiful face contorted in sadness as the emerald green stream of magic hit her squarely in her back. Every time he awoke from anything close to sleeping, he woke up feeling more tired and guilty than he had when he had fallen asleep. So wide awake, he thought about tomorrow. Tomorrow being the memorial for those who have fallen.