His Life
One-shot, darkish, rambling.
The air in the room was hot and heavy, and the thin sheet stuck to Harry's body as he stared at the ceiling. The ceiling was gray in the dark, and empty, and Harry knew that he could get up and open the window if he could just bring himself to care. But he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't even get up to open a window! He couldn't do anything. Not save Sirius, or Cedric, or even pass Potions. How could he ever defeat Voldemort if he couldn't even pass Potions?
He just had to accept it. He, Harry, was useless. Useless, and stupid, and unreliable. How did his friends still trust him? Why would they even look at him after…after the Ministry? He didn't deserve them. If it wasn't for them…if it wasn't for them he'd have…have given up. He'd have given up and just thrown himself off of the astronomy tower or something.
But he couldn't.
Because that would hurt them.
Because that would hurt them, and he couldn't do that to these people who he loved so dearly. (And maybe sometimes, somewhere deep, deep, down, he still liked himself a little.) Even if some days he felt he would explode. Even if the human body couldn't explode, really. Maybe he'd just fall down, break down, curl up in a ball and sob for the rest of his life. Because he couldn't face it. He wasn't good enough; he wasn't strong enough; he wasn't what everyone thought that he was. He was just Harry, and he wasn't enough to face the rest of his life.
He lived by habit, by routine. Get up, force himself through the motions; brush his teeth, brush his hair, and care. He couldn't bring himself to care. Sometimes he cared too much. And he couldn't do anything. So he just kept going…and going, and going, and looking for those tiny, brilliantly bright, moments of happiness. Of freedom. Of forgetfulness.
Those times with the people who were as good as family. He lived for those moments: those forgotten conversations in front of the fire, those small laughs at something that wasn't even funny, those times that they were just together, doing something special or not.
He would keep going, keep trying, keep caring. He had to. It was his life.
a/n: Sorry for this. I'm sure it does wonders for your mood...but sometimes I just have to write…things like this. Everyone has exceedingly negative moments, right? I…hope that I'm not the only one.