"Seasons of Love"

Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see
I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy
Because I'm easy come, easy go
A little high, little low
Anyway the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me, to me

~Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen

It was a silent, still night at Privet Drive, Surrey. Darkness enfolded the scene in velvety black, peppered with the familiar warmth of street lights. Cars sat silently in driveways so clean and spotless they could have been from a picture. The night had wrapped the homes and their occupants in sleep, unmindful of anything or anyone. All slept, that is, except one.

The clock on the stand was ticking in its annoying way, softly but still sharply, and Harry Potter's tired eyes watched its hands climb slowly in its automatic circle, wondering idly if he should follow his urge to simply destroy the stupid thing. His hands were itching to simply pick up the bloody clock and completely and utterly dismember it. Normally, its quiet ticking didn't bother him, but this night was different somehow. It was such a tiny noise, something one might not even notice, but he noticed it, and it was driving him mad.

It should have worried him that all he was feeling was this silent, utterly illogical rage, but he cared about very little these days. Nothing mattered. Nothing at all. Since when did the world care what you were feeling? Harry had discovered over the years that it didn't care a damn for what tragedies had occurred in a life, even if you were left shattered and weeping on the floor. That was fine with him. He didn't give a damn about life, either. The facts still stood before him, plain and simple. Lord Voldemort was out there, wanting his blood. His Death eaters were out looking for the famous Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Harry himself was stuck in his aunt and uncle's house for his own protection, cut off from the magical world. And every morning, he woke up into a world without Sirius Black.

The knowledge of his godfather's death still struck him even now, four weeks after it actually happened. Still it would seize him in a vice-like grip and squeeze his chest until there were times where he thought he couldn't breathe. Still he waited desperately to wake up from this nightmare, unable to believe that his godfather had actually died.

He can't have died. He can't have left me, too.

At times he felt crushing fury directed at his godfather, screaming at Sirius, asking him why he had to die. Why he left Harry alone, why he abandoned him to a world that had lost its mind completely. Just as quickly, however, he would remember that it was his fault that Sirius had died. It had been Harry himself who had fallen for Voldemort's false vision, and led his godfather to the Ministry of Magic, where he had fallen through the veil.

There hadn't even been a body afterwards.

It was in those moments that left Harry sometimes simply curled up on the floor of his room, unable to breathe, feeling himself suffocating beneath all the absolute self-loathing and mad hatred that was directed at himself.

And that stupid clock wouldn't stop ticking!

Driven by a sudden blast of fury, he finally allowed his need to get out and his hands knocked the clock from its stand, where it clattered on the floor loudly. Driven on, he heard the ticking even from where he was and leapt up from the mattress and continued to do whatever he could to utterly destroy the stupid thing. He kicked it and smashed it until nothing was left except a pile of shattered glass and broken metal parts. Looking down at it, he felt a rush of vindictive pleasure, feeling like he had finally gotten control of something, even if it was something as trivial as a ticking machine.

If only he had known better.

00000000000

The next afternoon, he left the house for a walk, unable to sit still. He wanted fresh air, even if it was a walk through the town he had grown to despise. He despised all the order Privet Drive had. Nothing was messed up, everything was trimmed and washed and perfect. Maintained and upheld. He had grown used to the chaos of the wizarding world, and he rather preferred it better, if not for the media. He really hated being the Boy Who Lived, famous for the first downfall of Voldemort. For him, it was the night his parents were murdered. The night in which he had lost everything.

Who wanted to be famous for that?

But here he was, the most famous wizard in Britain, and he was currently walking along the streets of a muggle town, mourning the loss of a man no one else had seemed to care about. It didn't seem right that Sirius had died a fugitive, hunted by the law for a crime he had not committed.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost didn't hear something approaching him until it was too late. At the very last instant, though, he heard a hissing breath behind him, almost a sound of triumph, and it sent a shiver down his spine. That was not the Order guard that was watching him like they always did—this was hostile.

Death Eaters!

He gripped his wand and even as he heard that hissing breath coming closer, he spun on his heel and looked around. Even as he moved, however, he heard something else, something on his left, move away, and his heart started to pound. They were boxing him in. Reining him somewhere where they could grab him! Even as he realized that, his stalkers seemed to realize that their prey was no longer ignorant of their presence and pounced. Harry heard feet on the cement, and he turned and ran, his senses flying, trying to find out where they were. He heard someone snarl a curse, and a jet of red light shot past him.

Definitely Death Eaters.

"Going somewhere, Potter?" a familiar voice sneered, close to his right, and Harry, acting on instinct, sent a Stunner that direction. The person there deflected it, but for an instant the Disillusionment spell on them lifted, and Harry caught sight of the pale grey eyes and white-blonde hair of Lucius Malfoy.

Shit.

Author's Note: Like it? Hate it? Interesting enough? Too weird? This is something I came up with when listening to Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. Look for the update whenever. We've only just begun!

And I hope Harry's thoughts weren't too dark. I always thought he would be really depressed after Sirius's death, just with feeling generally abandoned and all that. I personally think he wasn't sad enough in the actual book. And no, you're not going to be seeing any emo, cutting-wrists Harry—you can be really depressed without ever maiming yourself. Trust me, I know. Next chap we'll see if Harry escapes the Death Eaters!