Voldemort's Strongest Weakness

Viopathartic

Okay…I wrote this story because I was having a writer's block on my other story, Happiness. I'm not sure if I'm going to continue it…but please if you want it to continue, send the review. I need some motivation!

This story portrays a lot of Harry's feelings, how he has matured into a young man and how he has been affected by Albus Dumbledore's death. It's a bit angsty and there's a bit of bad language in it so once again, my story is rated T.

This is a Harry and Hermione story.

Now isn't this note much, much shorter than in my other story? Yes?

Chapter 1:

Harry stared out of his window at the midnight sky, mysterious and dark like a black panther. He was lost in his thoughts, ideas about his next move, where he'll go…and how he should kill Voldemort.

That mindless son of a bitch! Harry clenched his fist and moved away, turning to look at his room. Homework was scattered across his bed. Books were laid on his desk beside empty bottles of butter beer and a single half-bitten sandwich on its plate. He's staying up late for the past weeks, getting no sleep whatsoever. It had clearly taken a toll on Harry. His eyes, once brilliant green, held sadness and signs of a person who had seen too much. Harry's complexion now mirrored a vampire--gray and deathlike.

In the corner of his room was a pile of letters from Ginny. Her mail was coming in almost everyday. To Harry, Ginny sounded desperate for his attention, but he was really getting sick of it. So he started to ignore the continuous letters of how she missed him and how she loved him and blah, blah, blah. Harry didn't have time for her right at the moment, and he thought she would understand. He did, after all, break up with her at the end of term. And even more surprising, he found himself fancying her less and even to a degree had started to refer to her as merely his best friend's sister. Maybe he'll like Ginny again when war was over again. When he won't be worrying about his imminent death.

Everything was so messed up…Harry felt as if he was spiraling out of control. How can he be "Chosen One", a wizard and a regular seventeen year old young man at the same time? Well, he can't. Being a regular seventeen year old was already of the question perhaps because of the fact that he is a wizard and the Chosen One and there's no way to turn everything around.

And to not lighten the load, Harry realized that no one can help him in both the wizardry and muggle world. Yes, he has Remus Lupin and the whole Order of Phoenix and he has his two best friends in the whole world, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger...but what's he kidding! What he really wanted and needed was Dumbledore….Sirius…and his parents. Dumbledore's gone, Harry realized, never to come back. He was in a vulnerable position against Voldemort and there was(at this point) no way to defeat him. Dumbledore had told him that love was Voldemort's weakness, but what will he do? Love him to death?

Fat chance…it's like Ron finally asking Hermione out.

Harry stopped and pondered. What is going on between his friends? They either like each other or not. Why can't they make up their minds? It was obvious that they liked each other…but Harry already knew that they didn't belong together. He was dumbfounded about why they liked each other…Hermione was a brilliant, skeptic young woman with a growing heart and Ron was…the exact opposite. But Ron has to grow up and finally realize his feelings. Harry will just talk to Ron and try to knock some sense into him--literally.

Harry wished he could talk to Sirius again, feel his reassurance. Harry flung himself onto his bed and looked up at the shadowy ceiling.

Harry rarely went out of his room, only making short trips to the bathroom and to the kitchen at night.

He turned his head towards the corner of the room, his eye catching the pile of mail. Not one of them was from Hermione…only Ginny's. He found himself missing Hermione's words of worries and encouragement. I wonder what they're doing over there. He ached for the Burrow and the smell of…home. Harry tilted his head backwards and heard the sound of crackling. He reached above his head and felt bunched up pieces of parchment. It was the Daily Prophet. Harry had received it this morning, but just pushed it aside, probably thinking it was Ginny's mail.

He opened it slowly and saw in big bold letters:

Twenty-three Aurors killed in battle against You-Know-Who's deatheathers

His hands trembled as they gripped the thin sheet of material. Twenty-three...that's nearly a fourth of the Auror's team in--

He felt sick, utterly nauseous as if. Then rage. The Aurors weren't ready...never were. That was why they died. If someone weren't to act soon, it'll all mean...

Harry let out a yell and ripped the paper in half.

"NO NO NO NO NO NO! Merlin, can't they do anything right?"He needn't worry about all the sound he was making because he had already soundproofed his room. Harry ran across the room and violently pushed everything on his bed onto the floor. Parchments and books collided in one clump as they made contact with the cold, wooden floor of his room. He delirously paced the room, his hands nearly tearing the hair from his head. He leant his forehead against the wall, for a moment letting the anxiety escape, but it was no use. He pounded his fists against the wall until they bled and finally, exhausted, he slumped to the floor.

Everything is so wrong….why does it have to happen to me….

Soon enough, Harry fell asleep. Hedwig perched in her cage, her yellow eyes glowing in the beclouded room. The faithful owl watched her owner snooze, and hooting occasionally at the sight of his face that still held traces of anger.

Hey! I know it says I've updated, but not really. I decided to do a little grammar checking since an anonyomous reader told me I needed alittle work with grammar.

Also if happen to notice some errors in my story, please notify me. I can't stand to think that my stories are being read grammatically incorrect.

Thanks, VIOPATHARTIC