Author's Note: Written for The Houses Competition year 3.
I don't own Harry Potter. It solely belongs to J.K. Rowling!
LOST
Harry starts with the task at hand as he carefully repaints the flower pots, not letting the Falu-Red paint drop on the freshly mowed grass.
He vividly remembers the day it all started. He and Dudley had just gotten home from their first day of primary school when his dear cousin threw a royal fit. He had cried and wailed and thrashed like a banshee until Harry's aunt and uncle had given up and finally bought Dudley a set of brand new water paint and brushes. Harry wanted to paint too for all the colours looked so bright and beautiful. He wanted to paint too because it looked like so much fun when Dudley did it. Harry wanted to colour too because Aunt Petunia looked so happy when Dudley painted her a flower. So he asked Uncle Vernon politely, as he was taught, only to become ecstatic when his uncle agreed.
He was even more ecstatic when he was given a brush bigger than Dudley's and falu coloured paint. Harry was asked to paint the pots really nice for, if he did what was asked, he could have some chocolate ice-cream that Dudley had left.
But Harry didn't want to eat ice-cream. He just wanted to paint because it looked like fun. The dull Falu he got didn't matter in comparison to the bright yellows, blues, and greens which Dudley got. He didn't mind because he wanted to show Aunt Petunia how well he could paint too. Didn't mind because he loves to take care of the sunny flowers and the green grass.
He didn't mind at all. Not until the painting of pots gradually became weeding the garden, and then mowing the grass, and then cleaning the dishes and then cleaning the house. It didn't matter to him until he realized that he would never be able to paint unicorns or sharks or dinosaurs or creatures this galaxy had never seen. Harry did not mind a bit, until he lost interest in painting altogether.
But to 18-year-old Harry, the thought of painting reminded him of the harsh sun rays on his back, of the sweat dripping from his brow, of how dry his throat became because of working too hard. To 18-year-old Harry, the deep Falu-Red only reminded him of the dried blood seeping through his already dirty shirt and the beatings he got because could not finish his chores for the day. It reminded him of the lonely child who could only wish to play at the swings but could not because he was a freak. To an old Harry, it reminded him how he would look at the stars and pray to god for the simplest things. To Harry, a boy who was now 18 years old, Falu reminded him of the childhood he lost as soon as he was left at the doorstep of No. 4 Privet Drive on that unfortunate night.
Harry focussed on the task at hand, paying no mind to his surroundings. It's almost been two months since the war was won, yet Harry had not felt victorious. Instead, all he felt was numb. Numb from all the pain and torture he had endured, he was numb from the roller coaster of emotions twisting inside of him. He was numb from all the self-hate and blame that was creeping up on him whenever images of innocent dead bodies came flashing in front of his eyes.
He had not shed even a single tear when everything was finally over. He was always providing a shoulder to lean on, and he became the person everyone went to when they wanted to talk, or cry, or just sit quietly with. He was numb from mourning for everyone else. From mourning for everyone except himself. His friends were concerned. In fact, Ron and Hermione were terrified that they were losing him.
Molly would hug him often, asking if he was all right. Ron would engage him in a game of wizarding chess or some muggle cards. Hermione would explain in detail about the new book she was reading or take him and Ron to muggle places that she thought they would love. Ginny gave him space. But the only person who actually understood Harry was George. For he, like Harry was also someone who lost everything. Just like Harry, George was also trying to find a purpose in what was left behind. And it was George who reminded Harry that it was okay, not to feel okay.
"Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it." George had said. No more words were exchanged between them after that. The silenced which dragged on eventually made Harry realise that sometimes it is okay to be selfish, that it's okay to take your time and heal.
So when Harry made the decision to spend some time alone at Grimmauld Place everyone was reluctant; everyone except George, who had given Harry a bittersweet smile.
That was the reason he was here, the reason he was doing the one thing he hated the most. Harry Potter was repainting the flower pots, careful not to let Falu-Red paint drop on the freshly mowed grass. The warm sunny day outside was in total contrast to the deep, gloomy thoughts that invaded his mind lately. Only this time, Harry did nothing to put up a facade and hide his pain.
He did not wipe the tears streaming down his cheeks because he didn't feel ashamed for showing any kind of weakness. All his life he was taught that he was not worthy, like his life held no importance; the Dursley's taught Harry to sacrifice things. The life at Privet Drive taught him to put Dudley, Petunia and Vernon before himself. Harry's regard to his own life degraded to point where he put everyone before him; not caring about his own life once.
That habit of self-blaming escalated higher after hearing the contents of the prophecy. He blamed himself for the death of his parents and godfathers, and for putting everyone's lives in danger. He hated himself, for how much he had put Ron and Hermione through, and how young Teddy will never get to meet his parents. He blamed himself whenever he saw Molly hastily wiping her tears away, or Arthur sitting alone in the deafening silence.
But most of all. He blamed Voldemort, for destroying everything Harry held dear. He blamed the Dursley's for making him believe that he wasn't worthy.
So for the first time in his life, Harry Potter cried for himself. Cried and did nothing to hide his pain. He cried for the toys he didn't get, and the chocolate that Dudley always snatched away. He sobbed for the days he was mercilessly bullied, and the sleepless nights in the cupboard under the stairs. He sobbed for the kisses and hugs he missed from his father and for the soft lullaby of his mother. He wept for everything he had lost and could never have.
Harry Potter cried for the child who was sacrificed in the name of a prophecy.