Author's Note: This was originally going to be part of a longer story, but I lost inspiration for it. Instead, I am posting it again as a one-shot. Please let me know what you think!
Grief and Guilt
By: ChoCedric
"Come on, you can do better than that!"
No, no, no, not again, thought Harry in despair as the veil room in the Department of Mysteries came into focus for the millionth time that night. Sirius's wasted visage loomed before him, along with Bellatrix's cackling laughter as the two dueled.
Harry tried to close his eyes, but it seemed as though an invisible force was keeping them open. He saw Bellatrix's next curse hit Sirius straight in the chest, and he cried out in anguish as he saw his godfather, the only true family he'd ever known, fall gracefully through the veil, never to return.
"SIRIUS!" Harry screamed, bolting up from bed, suddenly wide awake. He grabbed for his glasses on the bedside table and put them on, and in doing so, he failed to realize that there were tears streaming down his face. Angrily, he wiped them away. Why couldn't he stop crying like a baby? He thought viciously.
As he looked around his room, he reflected miserably on how many times he'd had the dream that night. He figured out, after moments of thought, that it equaled five times. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many deep breathing techniques he performed, he simply could not get Sirius's death out of his mind, and the fact was, it was all his bloody fault.
It still didn't feel real to him. Cedric's death had seemed much more real, because there was actually a body to prove it. But Sirius ... Sirius had just disappeared, never to be seen again. Harry could still remember the disbelief, fury, and sadness like it was just yesterday. And now, the feelings still lingered with him.
The truth was, Harry had totally scared himself. When he'd gone running after Bellatrix, when he'd pointed his wand at her and incanted the Cruciatus Curse, he'd felt so much hatred and rage. He had previously had no idea that anyone could feel that much hate. After he'd performed the curse, he had immediately regretted it, but there had been times since then when he had felt that feeling of wanting to hurt Bellatrix come back in full force. The curse hadn't worked, but Harry was more than sure that if another of his loved ones died at her hand or at the hand of any other Death Eater or Voldemort, he'd be able to cast it successfully. And that scared him more than anything in the world.
All his life, Harry had been told that he was no good, a burden, and a freak. He'd tried so hard to prove himself, to prove he was a good person and not like the Dursleys said. The last thing he wanted to do was end up like Voldemort, because he hated everything the dark wizard represented.
As Harry wiped away the last of his tears, he continued to reflect with a heavy heart. He had been so angry at Dumbledore, so angry that he'd kept him in the dark. A part of him viciously wanted to blame the man for Sirius's death, but he knew that would be extremely unfair. For the blame mostly lay with Harry himself, and he knew that with an undying certainty. But why had Dumbledore not told him anything about what was going on? He thought to himself.
Every time he thought along these lines, a heavy weight seemed to land upon Harry's shoulders. Albus Dumbledore had told him a piece of information, right after Sirius's death, that had shocked him to his very core. He, and only he, could defeat Voldemort. If he failed, the whole wizarding world would go to ruin. And he was positive that if Voldemort were to duel him right now, he would die. Voldemort had so many dark spells in his arsenal, and Harry was only a mediocre wizard at best.
Why does it have to be me? He thought bitterly. Why did it fall to him to defeat Voldemort? He wanted to be a normal boy, worrying about girls and Quidditch and grades, not bad wizards and death and his friends being in danger because of him. For he knew that that was definitely the case: anyone he associated with was in danger, because Voldemort wanted him dead.
He thought back on Cedric Diggory, and his wasted life. He'd only been seventeen, and he'd been cruelly taken from the world only because Voldemort wanted Harry. He could still remember Cedric's lifeless eyes staring, staring, staring at nothing, the look in them almost accusatory. Maybe it hadn't really been, but Harry had dredged the image up so many times in his mind that he might have imagined the accusing stare, begging to know why he had to die. Why did you murder me, Harry? The eyes had seemed to say. I wanted to live a long life!
And now Voldemort had taken the only true father figure Harry had ever known. At the end of his third year, he'd thought Sirius Black had betrayed his parents and was out to finish the job, but that had been far from the truth. Peter Pettigrew was the real culprit, and Sirius had been mad with rage and grief that night in the Shrieking Shack when the three remaining Marauders had met up again. Over the past two years, Sirius and Harry had kept in correspondence, and the summer before, Harry had actually stayed in 12, Grimmauld Place, where he and Sirius had bonded even more. Sirius shared memories of the good old days, and Harry ate up every scrap of information the man offered.
Another line of thought which was deeply disturbing Harry, though, as well as Sirius's death, was Sirius himself. Thinking of Sirius also made him think of his father, James Potter. And whenever he thought of James, he thought of what he'd seen in Snape's Pensieve during Occlumency lessons. Harry's heart clenched with shame when he remembered he'd gone snooping around in Snape's private memories. The way he'd seen his father and Sirius teasing Snape made his blood boil with anger. What made my mum fall for him, anyway? He thought with disgust. She could hardly stand the look of him in their fifth year!
And now I'll never know, he thought sadly. Remus will probably never want to speak to me again, since I took his last friend away from him. Harry had been thinking a lot about Remus Lupin over the summer. The man was a werewolf, shunned by most of the wizarding world because of the horrific prejudice that existed. And now his last glimmer of happiness was gone.
Sighing, Harry lay back down on his bed. Five days had passed since school had ended, and he'd hardly left his room at all in that time. His sixteenth birthday was coming closer, but he truly couldn't care less. Dumbledore was keeping him a prisoner in his own house; he was only able to receive short letters from Ron and Hermione. He wrote his own obligatory letters to the Order every three days, letting them know he was fine, but that was about all he did. He hardly ate or slept, because whenever he slept, he had nightmares about Sirius, Cedric, or his parents.
"BOY!"
The sound of Uncle Vernon bellowing up the stairs made Harry jump out of his skin, although, he reflected, he should be used to it by now.
"BOY, GET DOWNSTAIRS THIS INSTANT!" roared Vernon. The man obviously wanted breakfast, along with his horsey-faced wife, Petunia, and their fat pig of a son, Dudley.
Harry trudged downstairs, and started making scrambled eggs, bacon, baked beans, and toast for the family. After it had been served, he left a meager portion for himself.
Of all the summers Harry had been at the Dursleys, this was the worst one he'd ever had. Vernon was always insulting him. Petunia stayed silent, and it was almost as if she sensed something had happened last school year to make Harry so withdrawn and upset. The only bright spot was that Dudley was totally ignoring him.
Harry couldn't decide where he wanted to go once he left, however. Grimmauld Place? That would only make the blow of Sirius's death much, much worse. The Burrow? No, he didn't deserve to be in such a happy place which was filled with so much love. Hogwarts? It would bring back memories of what Umbridge had made him do all year, and the lake would remind him of when his Patronus had saved Sirius from about a hundred Dementors. Hogwarts used to be his second home, but now it seemed to be littered with bad memories: Umbridge, Hagrid being attacked during the Astronomy O.W.L, the vision during the History of Magic O.W.L, Draco Malfoy's taunts. And what made it even worse was the fact that as far as he knew, he was still banned from playing Quidditch, his only distraction. But would he really ever want to play Quidditch again, now that the Firebolt he owned would only remind him of the sharp, jabbing pain of Sirius's death and his own part in it?
After breakfast, he went back to his room. And the rest of the monotonous day was spent just like that. He only came out to go to the bathroom, and to make the Dursleys lunch and dinner. He'd hardly even looked at his schoolbooks, although part of him was telling himself to hurry up and get his homework done, otherwise Hermione would badger him nonstop. The thought of her and Ron used to be comforting during these long, lonely summers, but now, the thought of them filled him with dread. Would they be next to die? Would he see the life leave their eyes as well?
That night, as he lay in bed, he counted silently how many more days he had until his birthday. Would he have left this Godforsaken house by then? Would Dumbledore have allowed him out of his cage? More bitter thoughts consumed him as he pulled the covers up to his chin.
The last thoughts he had before an exhausted sleep claimed him was that Dudley was probably being kissed and hugged good night right now. Harry had never been hugged good night, as long as he could remember. The only memories he had of his parents were the one he'd seen in the Pensieve, and the one of them dying. He'd never known the love of a mother and father, and it was all his fault.
He wished, for the thousandth time that day, that he'd never been born. For the prophecy had concerned him, and that was why his parents had gone into hiding. If it wasn't for him, they'd still be alive. I'm so sorry, Mum, Dad, he thought silently as a single tear slipped down his cheek. I didn't mean to get you killed. I'm so sorry.
And with that, he sank into sleep, falling into more nightmares of screams, flashes of green light, bodies falling, and agonizing, soul-crushing grief and guilt.