A/N: First story, so please leave a review telling me what I can improve :) Just a short one-shot to see if people like my writing style, and if they do, you can expect more :)
The digital camera changed everything for Harry. Even as war exploded around him, Harry was content to look through the view finder of his little digital camera and snap shots of different things. He took pictures of everything – firemen rescuing children from a building being bombed, his family in the countryside, safe. His office, half the windows missing, and more than half the personnel missing as well.
One day, as Harry Potter was walking around, just taking pictures of the war, a huge poster caught his attention. "COUNTRY SIDE BOMBED". His heart dropped, and he rushed to the nearest phone box that wasn't completely destroyed, to phone his beloved family. No answer. This was the first incident that caused Harry to lose a bit of his mind. He no longer viewed the people getting pulled from fires with compassion, but instead with a cold indifference. He started losing interest in anything that he might have liked before. He was rude to people asking about him.
One day, as Harry Potter was walking to his office, that he still persisted to attend, he saw a woman sobbing on the doorstep of a ruined, burnt down shell of a house that was apparently hers. All you could hear on this quiet morning was her sobbing, shouting about her lost family. Harry suddenly felt a little shred of compassion. This was the second event that caused him to lose a little more about his mind. He started pulling people out of burning buildings, to take them back to his little flat and brutally dismember skin and eat them, filming all this. He would walk around London with blood around his mouth, but in this time of war, who was there to care? Slowly, but surely, he lost more and more of his grip on reality, taking more and more people, filming his gruesome business, and leaving their rotting carcasses in his flat to rot, whereas before he'd been so careful to toss them into the Thames, already filled with corpses. He stumbled around, growling and mumbling to himself.
One day, as Harry Potter was walking around London, a stranger's bleeding heart clutched in his hand, a bomb landed dangerously close to him. It didn't hit him, but shards of glass ricocheted off his body, leaving a hundred little cuts. Harry found he liked the pain, liked how this anchored his body to the earth more firmly. He dug under the rubble of a butcher's shop, and found a big, sharp, shiny knife. Whenever he found himself slipping, going under, remembering his darling family, he would pull out the knife and add a few bleeding lines to his arms, his legs, his chest. He filmed himself, with his little digital camera. People cowered from this figure wreathed in blood in the streets.
One day, as Harry Potter climbed up the stairs of the skyscraped left intact, by some magic, or trick of fate, he thought about Ginny, Albus, James and Lily. How he missed them. How he wished they were here, to prevent this. But it was too late. Harry reached the top, and stood, looking down at the ground, all 32 stories away. He took out his little digital camera, that hadn't left his side for this terrible few weeks, and started filming. Slowly, almost agonizingly, he took the first step off. His body tipped forwards, and for a few moments, he almost
Believed...
He was...
Flying!
