Disclaimer- Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R. I only own the story and all original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic.
Summary- He had been there when it had happened. He saw her die, and could do nothing… except bury her afterwards. Now, years later he sees the very girl he saw die walking past a corner pub. Is it really her? If so, how did she escape her death and not come find him? Or is it just his lonely, hardened mind creating yet another mirage of his greatest desire? He's determined to get to the bottom of it all, and find out just what exactly happened that fateful day in Antarctica.
A/N—Probably has been done before, but hey… every story is a little bit different.
Ghost of the Past
Chapter One
He stared at the ceiling, half-lidded eyes glazed with anguish. The sickness and headache associated with alcohol washed through him. He stared without seeing, felt without feeling.
And he didn't care.
He hadn't for a long time.
He sighed, rolled over. Sitting up on the messy bed, he swung her legs over the side, sat there with his head hanging down. The crumpled sheets felt sticky against his bare legs, only increasing his feeling of uncleanness, having omitted to forgo showering the previous night. He let a weary sigh escape past his lips, rubbed the back of his neck with his large, calloused hand; it was rough even to himself. He forced himself up; almost winced at the pain from the deep scratch along his bare chest he had partially reopened last night, but hadn't bothered cleaning up. If he got an infection and died, then at least he might be fortunate enough to be with her—
He forced himself to stop thinking along that line of thought, focused solely on the pain from the wound on his upper chest, sore muscles, and pounding head. He wouldn't do or apply anything that would decrease the pain, lessen it. He welcomed the physical pain, could identify with it. He didn't mind it. It kept him from thinking on matters he wished to forget… yet he didn't want to forget. It was a contradiction he fought and wrestled with many a time, never getting anywhere. He popped his neck, rolled his shoulders. He needed a shower; a hot one or a cold one, it was still undecided.
He could see the dim light from the early morning around the edges of the dark, heavy curtains over the French windows in his messy and disorderly room. Walking across the room to the dark wooden door to his bathroom he stepped on something—he wasn't sure what—and once again ignored the discomfort and twinge it brought. He opened the bathroom door, stepped in. It was big, tiled like a back and white checkerboard. A large bath, black with small white veins, which could easily fit four people or more, dominated one corner, with a separate shower, just a little smaller than the bath, taking up one wall. Male toiletries (razor, shaving cream, cologne, etc…) littered the white and black marble sink. Despite the chaotic condition his room was in, his bathroom was, oddly enough, in a fairly organized state.
For a minute, he grappled for the light switch, finding it and flipping it on. Immediately, he shielded his eyes from the bright, glaring radiance. Several seconds went by. He blinked, adjusted to the light, and started walking to his shower where he slid the glass doors opened, turned the knobs; hot water gushed out of the faucet. He slipped out of his boxer shorts, stepped into the shower, hissed when the water hit his healing cut, but quickly went about washing his body and shampooing his dark hair. All the while, the water did nothing to warm his cold body. He didn't feeling the almost scolding touch of it against his nicely tanned skin, or take notice to the red blotches starting to appear.
He was always cold.
He hated it.
In record time he was finished. After drying off, he wrapped the towel around his trim waist. Entered his bedroom again. If he wished to be at work on time, he had to hurry. Throwing on a pair of black trousers with a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he tossed on a black robe. His look was completed. He hadn't bothered to run a comb through his hair; even when he combed his unruly black locks, they looked as if they had never seen a comb. A run through with his fingers was enough. He hadn't bothered to shave the light stubble he wore either. Anyone who had a problem with it… He often exercised his two favorite words: 'Fuck' and 'You'.
He cursed… He was late. He found if he concentrated hard enough, though, he just didn't care. Not now.
Besides, he was the most elite Auror the British Ministry of Magic had in commission; they wouldn't sack him. In a time of war, they needed him too much to care about his being a few minutes late. He knew it. They knew it.
He apparated.
888
Death Eater reports. Paper work. Death Eater reports. Paperwork.
Death Eater attacks. More Voldemort supporters. Increasing numbers of muggle massacres.
He rubbed his face with his hands, the stubble on his chin and cheeks scratchy against his palm. Reclining back in his chair and letting his arms drop to the armrest, he stared dispassionately at the reports on his cluttered desk. Death Eaters had been attacking more often. Their raids increasing tenfold in the last two months, the number of captured Death Eaters never rising and never lowering. It was frustrating, but kept the Aurors unbelievably busy, many not even seeing home days at a time, taking quick naps at the Ministry incase another alarm arose.
Personally, he couldn't care less if he was always working or on a mission. Preferred to be working and hunting Death Eaters to being at home. Home held nothing for him. Nothing except mocking memories of what was and what could have been. Haunting remembrance of a past he cared a great deal to escape and forget, but wouldn't let go. Home was cold and desolate. Empty and barren. A place where he would always fall back into his anguished thoughts, memories. A place where… that he hated. A place that reminded him of her. At work he focused on nothing but the task at hand. If he didn't, any preoccupied thoughts could very well lead to his death. A cynical twist of his lips was his only expression.
Would death really be all that horrible?
All expression wiped from his face, his head whipped around when the door to his office was suddenly thrown open, barely missing slamming against the wall. He looked at the man in his late thirties, an Auror. The man wore an expression of determination, concern, and slight fear behind masked eyes. No words needed to be exchanged. He stood up and quickly threw on his robe, grabbed his wand. The alarm had been made. He had a mission.
888
He walked into his room, made work at unbuttoning his shirt after shrugging off his black robe with one hand. The other held a bottle of firewhiskey. The mission had been a success. They had captured almost all of the Death Eaters, only two escaped. One by death (by his own hand), and one by apparating. He considered the one escaping to be a failure. It was only a success if all the Death Eaters were dealt justice, either by imprisonment, death, or the kiss. He had no quarrels about any of three. The only matter that bothered him about the whole affair was that he didn't give a damn about murdering the sons of bitches, taking another human life, or even supporting taking the very thing that made them human—their souls. He would have, years past. Not now, however. Not anymore.
He remembered when he had such grand beliefs of right and wrong, had such values. Now, however, it was blurred. Blurred by hate, and vengeance. He could kill, and he could torture, and he could stand by and watched as a screaming Death Eater or follower of Voldemort had their soul sucked out. He often wondered what separated himself from Voldemort now. He was doing the same thing he was, wasn't he? He just played for a different team. Had different logic and reasoning behind his actions. His was personal. A personal loathing. His own personal vendetta. His own little war. At the beginning, it had been about doing what was right, and helping those in need. To stop the bad guys at his own expense, selfless devotion to helping mankind. Not any more, though. His quest for Voldemort's demise was driven by the insane need of revenge. It had been since he had lost the most important thing to him… the most important person to him… her.
He just didn't give a fuck about being selfless, or about what was right and wrong. He wanted them to suffer. Suffer like he was suffering. Like she had suffered. He wanted them to feel what he was feeling. The absolute feeling of helplessness. The torrents of pain he could never seem to escape. The drowning loneliness and despair. The bitterness of life. He wanted them to feel the loss of the most important thing they held dear. Saving mankind… A cynical smile crossed his features. He didn't care about mankind anymore. Had given up and turned his back on it a long time ago.
'Mankind is screwed anyways…'
He took a large swing from the bottle. The burning sensation as the strong liquid slid down his throat more than welcomed. It was a routine of his: get up in the morning with a pounding headache, do all the usual morning activities, spend hours on end buried in his work, go home, drink himself into a fine stupor, and then wake up in the morning and do it all again. Occasionally, he would venture out of his routine and spend time with his friends or in some pub. Rarely, though—always too busy with work and trying to drown his sorrow. His routine kept him on track, allowed him to focus on the task at hand… It was automatic. No one would notice just how far he had actually fallen, not with his routine. It made him appear alive enough not to worry, but aloof enough to have looks of pity.
He hated it all.
He fell back on his bed, didn't bother to remove his trousers or shoes, only his shirt. He poured more liquid down his throat, stared at the far wall without really seeing it. How many years had it been? How many years had it been since the room had seen a smile? Had seen her? Four? Five? He didn't know. Seconds merged with minutes, minutes with hours, hours with days, days with weeks, and weeks merged with years. Everyday was the same. Everyday he was always reminded of her. How alone he was. How he hadn't been there. Hadn't been enough to save her.
He grabbed the alarm clock on his nightstand, hurled it across the room. It shattered when it collided off the far wall. He covered his mouth with his palm. Would it never end? Would she always torment him? Would he never be able to let go? Did he want to let go?
He fell back into misery. An ever-lasting numbness spread throughout his being, chilling him from warmth. He poured more of the whiskey down his throat, waiting for sweet oblivion to take him over. Waited until the dreams would begin, and he would once again relive his hell. Laughter bubbled out of his throat. Wasn't everyday hell? He shook his head. His hell on earth…
He took another large gulp of firewhiskey, felt the fingers of drunken unconsciousness start to pull at him. He closed his eyes, leaned back against the headboard. He took another large gulp. Slowly slipping. He distantly heard the shatter of glass, somewhere in the back of his mind knew he had dropped the bottle of firewhiskey. He was nearly there…
A flash of red hair, vivid emerald eyes… He succumbed to sleep, his nightmarish heaven.
A/N—Edited a bit. Obviously, this is AU. Don't like that, then don't read. I'm not sure how true I'll stay to the books as far as canon goes. So…
SatiricalPhilosophy