This was my first ever fanfic!
I wrote it before the HBP came out, and thus, I'm not sure if I'll be finishing it. One thing I didn't like about HBP is that it was very vague and general and didn't go into a lot of detail in the story plot (in my opinion). Thus, I might finish my own version of HBP if I have people who actually want me to and if I ever get the time. Other than this paragraph, everything was written a while ago.
Summary:This story is about HP's 6th year, and I will try to be as true to Rowling's world and characters as possible. Besides using my own writing style, I will allow myself a certain significant change from Rowling's technique: I will be writing using an omniscient narrator perspective, and will focus in on other characters as well as Harry. As far as accuracy allows, I might in the future have a short relationship between Hermione and Draco Malfoy; particularly for insight into Draco's character, not at all buttered up, but harshly accurate (in my opinion, of course). However, the focus will be on Harry Potter's story.
Most probably, the rating of this story will increase in the future, as things get more intense.
Chapter One – Twilight Morning
At last, with much gusto, the sun plunged over the horizon of Little Whinging, marking the start of yet another long drawn-out hot summer day. The first ray of light to enter Private Drive, perched upon the unopened eyes of a young man with unkempt black hair. Harry Potter stirred slightly and groaned, turning to face away from the now brightly shining window. A few moments later, unable to fall back asleep, he cursed and stumbled over to draw the shades; on the way, he managed to trip over a wide variety of books and clothes which littered the floor. After closing the drapes on the approaching day, he practically leapt back onto his bed in order to avoid stepping on any more of his personal belongings. He sighed in satisfaction at the artificial twilight created in his room. For once, he had had a dreamless sleep and was unwilling for it to end. His content, however, was short-lived as, once thoroughly awake, Harry's thoughts began to drift back to the previous night.
He had opened the window to allow the tranquil night breeze to wash across his face. He stood, unmoving, and mentally numb, with his eyes locked upon a single spot beneath a lamppost. Hour upon hour passed, and the light radiating from the streetlamp above shone continuously upon the pavement, slowly conjuring up a dark and foggy figure. The longer his eyes focused, the clearer the image became: an image of a past memory, a solitary black lab standing stately on an empty street. The picture became more and more substantial, willing itself into reality, until the constant dull throbbing of Harry's scar suddenly peaked. He grasped his forehead in pain, startled, and the illusion was banished. Overwhelmed by this desolation, he was unable to even cry, and collapsed on his bed. He closed his eyes, painfully aware of Hedwig's empty cage, and fell into a deep slumber.
The miserable feelings of last night seeped inexorably back to him like gravel shifting into the pit of a newly stirred mine. Praying that this time there wouldn't be a cave-in, Harry sat up, put on his glasses, and attempted to move across the room. Because his scattered transfiguration papers on the floor prohibited movement, he went about the task of picking them up. The previous evening he had finished his homework for the summer and was currently contemplating how else he might fritter away the rest of his days trapped in his Uncle's house. Not to mention, he wondered, what could possibly occupy his mind thoroughly enough to keep it from traveling back to the Department of Mysteries and that fatal day in Dumbledore's office. Harry shook his head and went back to organizing his homework papers neatly in his trunk, so they wouldn't get lost.
'I wonder what would Ron say to me finishing with my work so early?', Harry thought. He almost managed an internal grin as he imagined Ron's scowl. Harry's lips actually upturned slightly as his imagination wandered further, to the probable triumphant expression upon Hermione's face which would result. Harry shook his head at the thought of them arguing over it.
"That's excellent Harry! You'll be able to bring your potions up to scratch now if you use your extra time to stud —"
"What do you mean excellent? With your study habits, Harry'll likely bloody kill himself. Not to mention, we don't need another antisocial book worm," Ron would interrupt, exasperation eminent.
"What do you mean antisocial?" Hermione voice would rise to a high-pitched shriek. "I am most certainly not antisocial! Are you insinuating that I don't have any other friends?!"
For once, his friends' bickering, so far away, seemed endearing. Even though he had felt distanced from them of late, Ron and Hermione were the only people who could help him forget, for a short time, that he was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. That his life and death had nothing to do with his free will or any choice of his own, but that he was merely a victim of Moirae's (the fates in Greek mythology) threads. At times he almost wished to curse Atropos, (cuts the threads of life in Greek mythology) or even bribe her not to fulfill his destiny. 'And yet, that would be selfish and cowardly. To sacrifice the world to attend to my own wellbeing.' Harry hung his head. There was a part of him that no longer cared. With Sirius gone, a part of Harry had died and could never be replaced. He'd lost his will to live, to fight, to carry on. And yet, what would happen to the rest of the world if he did nothing? His mind replayed a Halloween night of 15 years ago. He saw Voldemort brandishing his wand of phoenix feather, muttering forbidden words, and creating a flash of green light. However, instead of seeing his father's death replayed, Harry saw Ron's body fall to the floor and, with a whoosh of air from its lips, go still. He yelled aloud, briefly, before his trance ended, and he realized where he was. He whispered softly the names of his two best friends, "… Ron… Hermione…"
No, he did care. He would die before he allowed any harm to come to Ron or Hermione. Ironically, death would probably be his fate.
Glancing down at the floor, Harry's eyes rested upon a pile of letters from his friends and other members of The Order. Tonks' messy scrawl, Mrs. Weasley's fluid script, Professor Lupin's neat cursive, Hermione's upright printing, and Ron's excuse for the written word. A grave line crossed Harry's forehead as he narrowed his lips in conviction. He may have been born with a baneful existence, but he had a duty and he would fulfill it. These people, whom he cared about, worried about, and had learned to love, were the most important thing in the world to him; And yet, they only represented a miniscule sector of humanity. No matter what, Harry could let nothing happen to any of them or any other innocent bystanders. He would kill Voldemort. He had to. It was his destiny.