Visionary Watch
I don't own Harry and co and make not money with this fic.
Drama/Angst, maybe…
Harry has a difficult position, watching all sides of the war. It's his curse that he understands each aching burst of light.
The visionary lies to himself, the liar only to others.
-Friedrich Nietzsche
He was born at the end of July to a secret war zone filled with bright colors and the putrid stench of blood. (Born as the seventh month dies). His parents were fighters, true people who did not lax in the onslaught the darkness pushed onto them. (Born to those who have thrice defied him). To some, he was a hero. To some, he was a bain. To some, he was nothing extraordinary.
He would give it all up if he could, if he even ever had a chance at something else.
Harry James Potter was born into a world of strife and expectations (The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches) and he has never before hated anything else. He misses his cupboard under the stairs more than he'll ever care to admit.
Albus Dumbledore sits in his office, a king over his court, and sucks on lemon drops while pretending that the outcome is not to be. Minister Cornelius Fudge lies back in his high chair in the ministry like a count numbering his chickens. He is a frightened man. He is not a man. Tom Riddle now known as Lord Voldemort is postured on a throne of dark ivory in a slum of a once-great House. He is a dark creature now, no longer human.
One man who never really got the chance to live (Avada Kedavra! And a body floats down to the floor) looks up to these three leaders with only disdain and knows the truth of what will come. Fudge will soon be ousted. Good riddance. Dumbledore will remain outstanding in the eyes of the public as no one suspects that his own soul rots among their own. Riddle may die by his hand or kill him with his own.
Harry hates that he understands, almost wishes he could be among the innocent and the unknowing followers. He is cursed with the knowledge that Fudge is just the public's choice of a good leader and that while the people follow Albus around by the nose, they have all created the new Dark ruler. Voldemort is just of a culmination of hate and prejudice and reaction.
Every Avada and drop of blood on the battlefield that is the world reaches back to him, whether from his scar, or the paper or that little tingle in the back of his neck. He knows more than he should and almost wishes he didn't. But Harry Potter never got to be the innocent, never got to be the helped.
Harry wants Tom Riddle dead. That's true and everyone knows it. But do they know the truth?
A young boy walks up to a hat when his name is called. He has short hair and large clothes hiding an epic of scars. He unconsciously rubs the side of his nose with his left hand while hiding his wand-holding hand in his new robe. He isn't comfortable. People stare. He shows nothing of what he thinks. They will think of him how they will. He has no choice. Anything he does will be judged. But he will make his own way. This, he knows. A raggedy hat over one thousand years old is placed on his head and a decision is made.
But is it Harry Potter or Tom Riddle? Either way, one man of benevolence watches from a table and does not hold his hand out to help?
He sits off of the edge of the Astronomy Tower, his only friend beside him. White Hedwig has no real idea of war. She only knows him. When he falls off of the tower she follows him and swoops down as if to catch him. Harry Potter wonders, Will I even hit the floor? The choice is taken.
He curses the Wizarding World. He curses Tom and Albus. He curses with the air the swirls around them and wonders, When can I just be free? Albus has one thing coming if he thinks the war can be fixed. He is a visionary and Harry Potter has to ask himself, Did Albus really kill Grindewald. And then he wonders, What was it that Grindewald had done? His class had never read anything about it in books except for those praising the now-Headmaster.
Hedwig answers him only when they've both fallen to the floor. I can fly you home, she whispers softly with her wings. Nothing else matters to her but making him as happy as she is when he scratches her in that spot between her neck and her pale feathery head. The heavens open with light and leave behind those not-so-innocent. In the end the one man they had all pushed high finished climbing without following their words.
Harry Potter is no longer cursed with the understanding of the world. Cursed now, is the world that condemns little children to dirty their hands in the putrid stench of rich crimson blood.
End.