Title: Freedom.
Author: Taisha.
Rating: PG.
Summary: Heroes are the people admired for their good deeds. But sometimes heroes are the people who have the strength and ability to walk away from everything they know. This is the story about such a heroine, whose thoughts tell us more than her words ever could.
Disclaimer: The characters shall be familiar to everyone, even though they are not named in this fic. They belong to Joanne Kathleen Rowling and everyone else who put a claim on them. The plotline is mine, just like certain events that have taken place in Harry's fifth and sixth year. The lyrics in the beginning are mine as well.
Pairings: There are only hints of Harry/Hermione with a touch of Tom/Ginny.
Author Note: This is a FanFiction.Net EXCLUSIVE. It cannot be found at The Dark Arts or any other FanFiction sites. Please respect this decision.
Praises For This Story:
"Mission accomplished." – Venom.
"This is probably the most powerful POV seen in years. Taisha has done a marvellous job this time and gives you enough to think about when you have finished reading. It is amazing to see what kind of effect a war and losing people has on somebody. I know that this fic is probably the most personal one Taisha will ever write, and I hope you all like it enough to review." – LoneWolf.
~*~
There's no use in dreaming
When you're right awakeOpen your eyes
- Open Your Eyes.
~*~
I watch him as he laughs with his friends. I watch him when he plays his favorite sport. I watch him when he is in the common room. I have always watched him.
I guess that he is nothing out of the ordinary when you see him. But somewhere deep inside you know that he is someone you can trust. In this world, a harsh place filled with hate and deceit, he was a light in my darkness. The only light that was left for me to turn to.
But what would happen when another person dims the light? When the light flickers and then almost goes out? My light in the darkness of this world does not shine as brightly as it once did.
This boy, the boy who I am watching, has killed. Everyone keeps telling me it was for a good cause. And yet, when you permit somebody to judge another person's right to live... Isn't that exactly the same thing as giving a pyromaniac a matchbox?
The person who was killed was somebody I knew. It was somebody I loved and trusted. In the beginning he was perfect. In the end, he was a lying snake. I cannot help myself sometimes, and I start to cry when I think about him. He was a light as well, shining brighter than the boy who has killed him. That light went out when it was consumed with anger and hatred towards the one person who defeated him: the boy who lived when others died.
I am watching this boy now, and wonder what people see in him. He is just a boy, seventeen years old, with jet-black hair and brilliant green eyes mirrored with glasses. The scar on his forehead is the only reminder of the battle fought by him and everyone else on the good side. The battle destroyed so many lives and yet gave us the thing we had been fighting for in the first place.
The victory was bitter. So many people had been lost that night that we did not feel like celebrating. I am watching the hero who came out of that battle unharmed, giving hope to those who had none. But I do not feel anything but anger.
My temper is something I inherited from my mother. When I am angry everyone gets out of my way, afraid to get hurt. A person hated by everyone in my family once told me that I was beautiful when I got angry. Right now I am angry at the whole world.
How can they be so blind? This boy is not a hero; he is a murderer. He committed a crime that nobody imprisons or judges him for. He murdered the one person who I considered a friend. I am the jury and I have reached the verdict.
He should learn to live with the knowledge that he killed someone. This will be his prison; this will be his punishment. Nobody but me knows that he cries himself to sleep at night. He cries for all the lives lost. Maybe he even spills a few tears for the person I loved. I have seen him crying on his parents' grave. And when I see him I am caught up in conflict.
I am angry with him; I might even feel a bit of hatred. Nobody deserves death when a higher force like a god does not give it to him. He took the life of the person I once loved, but despised with all my heart at the same time. I loved that person because nobody else seemed to love him.
I also feel a bit of pity for the one I am watching now. He had to bear the whole world on his shoulders during the war. Made a hero by everyone who met him, even me. The last thing I feel for him is love. It might seem weird, but I have the ability to love and hate a person at the same time. I feel love for him because he is worth loving.
My love for him is there in my heart. It is not the kind of love that makes people marry one another. It is more of a protective love, like a mother to a son or a sister to a brother. He needs to be loved, because he is human like everybody else.
I watch him as he laughs with my brother about a silly joke. I watch him as he wraps an arm around his girlfriend, the bushy-haired bookworm. Their laughter carries around the whole room, right into my sheltered corner. I wince as I hear them, the forced laughs coming from persons who actually have nothing left to laugh about.
I have seen the lives of so many people being destroyed by the person I once called my friend. I feel a wave of pity come over me as I think back to the times when he was still with me. I recall the smile on his handsome face, his long fingers touching my hands, showing me that love can be said without words.
I wonder if there is a place for me in this sick and twisted world of pretend. I am just a girl with wounds that don't seem to heal. We had a dream; we had hope and a future. If I want to survive I have to keep my dream alive. It is easier said than done.
And as he turns to me, the one who I have been watching all this time, and waves for me to come sit with their little group... I shake my head and walk out of the room.
Watching somebody can be fun. But sometimes you are pulled into somebody's life, even if you didn't ask for it. With judging him I have judged myself, for my thoughts are my prison and my heart is nothing but a cold place now.
I suppose that it is never too late to change.
There is nothing left for me here as I watch others continue their lives. As I walk away from the people I love and shared my life with I feel something I have never felt before. It is the gift that was given to us when we paid the price for it.
Freedom.
~*~
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