Disclaimer: I do not own any characters mentioned here or in any subsequent chapters. JK Rowling does. But I can't help if she created some wonderful characters…

The Hermit

Sometimes the pain was overwhelming and he could no longer concentrate on even the most mundane things.

Sometimes the voices were so loud he could almost believe they were real.

Sometimes he was too afraid to sleep – afraid of the horrors he would find lurking in his dreams.

Sometimes, when he did sleep, he would wake to find himself on the balcony, staring down at the street below.

Sometimes he was strong, and he would get himself a large measure of firewhiskey to calm his nerves.

Sometimes he would drink all the firewhiskey and collapse into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

Sometimes he didn't drink, but would huddle on the balcony shivering, tears rolling down his cheeks – tormented by memories.

Sometimes the sun was shining, but he could no longer feel its gentle warmth on his face.

Sometimes he could no longer see the colours around him and everything appeared faded like an old photograph.

Sometimes he could no longer stand his own apathy and he would leave his apartment for Knockturn Alley.

Sometimes the girls he found there could lift his spirits, help him to forget, and he would be happy for a while.

But not really happy, and that was only sometimes.

Sometimes he wished he hadn't distanced himself from the world and wished he still had his old courage.

Often he would wonder where his so-called bravery had gone- the bravado that had saved the world.

Often he would sit in the dark silence, brooding, without even a pet for company. His owl had died a few months ago, from neglect he thought.

Sometimes he would sit on his balcony, shrouded by his cloak, just watching people go by.

Sometimes he would feel his brow gently, to find it smooth. His most distinguishing feature had waned after his victory.

Sometimes he missed it, despite all the long hours of pain and strife it had caused him.

Sometimes he would wonder why nobody knew he was living there. Not even the girls he visited knew who he was.

Sometimes he was puzzled by the lack of interest in his withdrawal from public life.

Sometimes he would wonder where his old comrades and classmates were and what they were doing.

Often he would wonder where she was and why he never saw her pass along his street.

Now he smiled wryly in the darkness and whispered hoarsely, "The prophecy was wrong."

Please review, It's the first piece of it's kind that I've written...I'm very curious to hear what anyone who read it thinks.

Cheers, Wol