Street Spirit (Fade Out….)
By No Name Face
June 2003
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everyone involves belongs solely to their creator and all those people. Not me. Though if other characters pop in that I make up, they belong to me! So please, don't sue me! Oh also, this is my own original idea, but if someone else has used it, please tell me!
Prologue
He was dead.
Not in the literal sense of course, although on a lot of occasions he wished he were. A few years ago, when he had just been a heroic boy studying at school, he would have been embarrassed as strangers approached him, appreciation bright in their eyes and thanked him countless times for saving them, but now, as a young man, he felt nothing. His blank eyes just stared back at them, a fake smile upon his face. He no longer cared for their thanks. He didn't deserve their thanks.
It was because of him that ten new graveyards had been put up.
It was because of him that now hundreds of men, women and children lay silently beneath the Earth, their stories of terror never to be heard again.
It was because of him that his best friend was going to lie for eternity in an expensive coffin.
It was because of him, that his best friend had been murdered.
It was because of him that so many lives had been destroyed.
He once gave hope to people, being the boy that lived, but now, even if the people didn't realise it, he was the cause of all the terror. Lord Voldemort was going to rise again, people had guessed that much, but because Harry Potter was fighting back, they thought they had a chance, they believed Voldemort could be killed once and for all. That was a hard thing to live up to, to be such a hero was so very hard for a boy of only sixteen. It was tough enough trying just to live each day, but with this huge burden hanging over his head, sometimes he wasn't sure just how he got by each day. And then of course, there was the day that Voldemort unleashed his cruelty onto the wizarding world.
He remembered that day so clearly; it was all too vivid in his mind. It was a Thursday, and he had woken up at about three in the morning, his scar hurting like nothing he had ever felt before. Unable to think of anything but the intense pain, he had staggered down the stairs and into the common room, and then out into the corridor where he ran straight into Professor McGonnegal, who was as white as the sheet on he had on his bed up in his room. She had barely noticed his existence, and concerned for her, he had followed her to Dumbledore's office where he had found out what was wrong. Voldemort was back. But that wasn't the most shocking part; the most surprising thing was that he already knew. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had known this would be the day Voldemort rose again, he had known for quite some time. When Dumbledore had realised he was there, he hadn't even tried to hide his surprise. He hadn't known in the slightest. Hogwarts was unprepared. Except for him. As long as they had the famous Harry Potter they would be okay. Harry always seemed to come up on top. You could see their trust in him in their eyes. Perhaps Dumbledore knew that Harry felt burdened by everyone's trust in him, but Dumbledore often just kept his thoughts to himself, as if he knew some secret no one else did. But no one could have predicted the outcome. Harry himself could never have even imagined the war that would be coming up in the following week. All it took was one week, one terrifying week for hundreds of lives to be lost.
Harry couldn't remember it all – there was just too much death and destruction to be sure exactly what happened when. All he knew was that for the next four hours the teachers had worked at a frantic pace to prepare Hogwarts for the inevitable, and Harry had been pushed out of the way. Then, the next morning, all the eighth year students apparated home, and the first years were sent immediately on a small train. The cruel thing was, Voldemort had been expecting that action from the school, and the train was blown up. Everyone was so stunned; the whole situation was momentarily forgotten. Not for long though, because the death eaters then arrived. Everyone tried to help, and for a while it worked. But not for long, no, that was just a part of the game plan. Soon death and terror reigned over the wizarding world again, much like it had in the years his parents were alive. Harry had fought on bravely, using all the skills he had acquired in all his seven years being a Hogwarts student. But it just wasn't enough, no. Voldemort had had him corner, and Harry was so sure he was going to die. He was even ready for it. Imagine being ready for death, it was terrifying. But Ron just had to be all brave and try and save him. Harry cursed his best friend for trying to save him. How he hated Ron for saving him. He should have died, not his friend! No, Harry didn't really hate Ron for saving him; he hated himself for letting his best friend die. He would never be able to look Ron's family in the face ever again.
He was a failure.
He may have been able to help in the fight between 'good' and 'evil', but by letting his best friend be killed, Harry reckoned he was somewhere in the middle of the two.
'Good' had somehow come up on top in the end, again, not with the destruction of Voldemort, but they had stopped his evil plans, which was a great achievement in the people's eyes. And Harry was a hero.
He scoffed at this, how exactly was he a hero? People had died.
No, he was no hero. In his eyes he was about as low as Voldemort.
And so he had done the only thing he could think of at the time.
He had left.