Blame

The 28th of June, 1997. A date forever engraved in History books.

Day of triumph, respected by everyone born a few time after. Loathed by everyone who were there, all witnesses and wounded.

The country would have to be put to fire and sword in order to start again on new bases.

The eyes bright with tears would have to be wiped in order to keep walking. To stand up after having fallen to your knees. For future generations. Forget what or who you have lost...

Because no one can survice in a battlefield. Neither the thief, nor the crook, nor the most generous man ever. Note even the one who would have deserved to live fully, surrounded by his family.

War cut down everyone, one by one, without any distinction or pity.

Indeed, reality is much worse than our nightmares... Mankind is himself the cause of his own loss.

Has he understood the lesson once fallen? Nothing is less sure.

The same shema is repeated over the centuries, the vice is tightened and the ground grows hollow.

A child found himself trapped and lost in a war which was not his war.

Who is responsible for that ? Men call it fate. But fate is just an invention, a word among so many others made up to cover their cowardice.

And this very child, that we pushed in the first line for being able to hide behim him, that we deprived of life for being able to live ours... this child has fallen and has never got up again.

"Harry Potter is dead !" claims the media. But the Dark Lord has died with him.

Then it's like an effervescence. People clink glasses, bunches of flowers are sent, laughters can be heard again. But the shoulders of the close friends of the Boy-Who-Lives-No-More are heavy, and the tears run down their faces. Their heart is burdened, their throat aching bitterly, and their mind filled with horrors and regrets. Each stone of the building they had made every endeavour to maintain during so many years has now collapsed.

Then hunderds of people come to his funeral, every lips mronounce his name... But when the liles are thrown on his jail made of wood, the knees give way under the unthinkable weight and the chest is racked with greats sobs, unexpected shivers running through the spine.

It is the ghost of an uncommon friendship and fraternity which will haunt his host family. The only choice he has made alone in his entire life.

And of those who whiper his name in such a repented way, of these joined hands and dropped heads, who cares about the dank house, the shuttered and hollow bedroom ha has left behind him ? Who is the one thinking about his extrordinary emerald eyes which will never open again, about his lips, always with the ghost of a smile in spite of the atrocity of his fate, the awfulness of what he has seen and was about to face ? No one. Pretend sympathy, useless words, friendly gestures which mean nothing at all.

Nevertheless, this day of June had started like the others...

Harry and I had joined our efforts to wake a reticent Ron at 8 in the morning... by using pillows.

The green-eyed young man was at last starting to have faith in life again. The dead were numerous, but anger had replaced guilt in his state of mind.

And when you are persuaded you will die... the only thing left is to live at all costs.

An unforgetable fight had begun between us, and it was good to hear Harry's laughter. A short while after, we had made our entry in the Great Hall, still giggling and joyful. But we had been welcomed by an odd atmosphere. No noises of forks and spoons, nor of the usual mischevious and happy conversations.

All tne students' faces were pallid, their eyes full of fear towards Dumbledore, who had stoop up. He had never looked as old as he did now. He was looking at his students as if he would like to unfold them all into his arms and tell them it was going to be okay...

When he had seen this scene, Harry's laughter has died in his throat. He has stopped walking and I had taken his hand, interlacing our fingers.

Dumbledore had glanced at Harry, and until the very end he had never lowered his eyes.

For the first time, he was openly and clearly afraid.

This is at this precise moment that my world had turned upside-down.

The memories I have from those moments are blurry, scrumbled and oddly disconnected.

I remember havinf fallen. I remember having begged Dumbledore to let Harry alone one more day. I couldn't bear the idea of Harry being pulled away from me and all those years spent together.

I remember having mowned, yelled, groaned.

I remember Harry's resigned face and his splendid, haunted eyes lowered on his shaking hands.

I remember his handshake with Malfoy. His long, fraternal hug with Ron. The words whispered in each other's ears. His salted and bitter tears, as I was holding him tight in my arms, begging me not to cry.

I remember having taken their faces in my hands, and it was face to face, hand in glove, gazing into each other's eyes that we said goodbye to him.

I remember Hagrid, taers running in his fluffy bear, ruffling Harry's hair. The kiss Remus has affixed in his forehead, touching lightly his cursed scar.

I remember the look in Harry's face, as he was burying it into Dumbledore's robes, while this one hugged him with a sort of despair. His nod exchanegd with Snape.

But above all, I remember that this time, his face was not hidden by a mask of bravery. There wasn't an ounce of false self-confidence in his eyes. He was terrified... He was about to walk into the death corridor, he knew it, and has not as much strengh as needed to hide it. He didn't stop touching his parents' engagement ring, as if to remind hinself what he was fighting for. He seemed to be younger than before. But in some other way, also much more older. He was leaving, and would never come back. But he was ready. I realized he was ready long before we were able to see it.

You all know what happened the night after. The story belongs to History from now on. We survived, and the last Potter was gone while giving us the most beatiful gift we could dream of.

Who is to blame for this sacrifice ? Summer was his favourite season. He liked feeling the warm air on his skin, to lie down on the grass and fall asleep in a dream of nothingness. Who is to blame for all those summers he will never see again ? For all these moments where he played chessgames with Ron which will never happen again ? For this hand that he will never pass through his hair when he's uncomfortable or nervous ? For this broom he loved so dearly, on which he will never rise again, forgetting all his problems once he was in the air ? Who to blame ? Men one by one or the whole earth ? I accuse cruelty. I accuse selfishness as a real madness and mental disease. I accuse those adults who have enchained a child against his will and, by doing so, have broken his life. I accuse this stupid text written in black and white which has killed Harry's hopes. I want them to be comdemned, I want their heart to be cut out, like they did for mine. I point an accusing finger at them, and I don't care about the consequences.

Because Harry, my best friend, my brother, has stoop up until the very end. I has fought because he believed in certains values. He gave up his life so that nobody would have to live what he has lived. He could have fled, he could have run. He did not have any childhood. His adolescence was stolen from him. And finally, he gave us his life.

From now on, sometimes, when I see a white owl or a person with dishevelled hair, I think of him and my heart makes a jump in my chest. I keep hoping that one day, I will see him again and he will smile to me in that awkward and shy way I love so much.

Because deep in my heart, he remains The-Boy-Who-Lived.

THE END... !

So... What do you think about it ? I'm terribly sorry if I made mistakes, but as I'm not english, I don't speak it really well. Please be honest, and click on the little button with "submit review" written on it. I beg ya !

Thanks for reading, have a nice day, and I hope i'll see you soon!

Bye for now... Sassy. xxx