Title: The Eyes of the Angel
Characters: Harry, Castiel
Rating: T
Warnings: Character Death(s), Suicidal thoughts, Dark
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 1,304
Summary: After the final battle, everyone Harry knows and loves is gone. He left his heart on the battlefield and just when he thinks he's about to lose it all, an angel appears. Castiel saves him in more ways than one.
Author's Note: Holy...this is depressing. I'm not usually one for stories quite like this one, but I found an image(link can be found in my profile) that broke my heart and the guy in it looked so much like Harry...this happened. Go look at the picture, though. It's heartbreaking and breathtaking at the same time. I adore it. By the way, this occurs pre-supernatural series and follows the HP books through the 6th book.
Harry never imagined the Final Battle would be the thing, after years of being persecuted by a blood-purity fanatic, to break him.
Ron—his best friend that stuck by him through thick and thin(with one noticeable exception)—was gone. About three months ago, a surprise attack on the Burrow killed him and all the remaining Weasley family. None of them, not even sweet Ginny, were spared of the brutal torture and slow killings. Ron was the last to be killed, but first he had to endure watching his entire family die before his eyes, while he watched, helpless and knowing he would join them. Despite all that, Harry couldn't cry.
Sirius, who died when he fell through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. He was only there to save Harry.
Remus—killed by Fenrir Greyback for 'turning his back on the pack'. In other words, Geyback just wanted a legitimate reason to kill Remus to gain favor with the Dark Lord. Harry killed Fenrir in return, only three days later.
Dumbledore—killed and tossed off the tower like a ragdoll.
Luna and Neville, two of the only remaining members of the legendary D.A., were killed in battle right beside him. They both smiled, dying in each others arms. They were happy, in the end, but that only made Harry even angrier. The expression on their lifeless faces gave him even more reason to pursue Voldemort's blood.
The Death Eaters started winning around that time.
It all turned around on July 23. Harry never quite understood what made him wake up that one particular morning, alone in a magic tent with Hermione, his only close friend he had left. He only remembered picking up his wand and knowing that it would all change—they would win.
They were going to fight back.
So they did.
Harry killed Voldemort exactly three weeks later on a small battlefield just outside the naked shell of the burrow. Exhilaration shot through his veins as he pointed his wand at the defenseless murderer just moments after disarming him. Two words...two little latin words was all it took to kill the most feared wizard in the world.
Killing the leader didn't kill the spirit of the most dedicated followers—namely one Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black. The insane, melodramatic witch did only one last act before sacrificing herself at the point of Harry's wand.
A cutting curse.
The cutting curse is a nonlethal curse taught to a lot of younger Hogwarts students as a self defense method. It's known for its simplicity, the fact that it has a good success rate, and it has never killed people unless aimed wrong.
Bellatrix aimed that curse at Hermione's throat, slicing her jugular. In retaliation, Bellatrix was dead only seconds later, suffering a simpler fate to that of her beloved master. Harry held Hermione's head in his lap as she died, unable to even gasp out her last words because of the deadly wound.
She died that day.
Everyone died that day.
Everyone was gone.
He was alone, kneeling on a bloody battlefield, the only survivor. And he laughed, because really? The very thought is ironic. He was the one person who was supposed to die—now, he's the only one left alive.
It hurt—it ate away at his bones, his soul, his magic.
Magical fire burned around him as he sat in that field, not moving. No one came to get him, because no one was left. Sometimes, he wondered if It was all a hallucination. Maybe he was dead, in the pits of Hell, living out his worse nightmares while his friends were still alive on Earth, mourning his death.
Then he looked down at Hermione's still, agonized form and he remembered.
He hated.
He won.
He lost.
Harry never cried—not once.
After three days of pure agony wrenching at his heart, he stood on saky feet, swaying from side-to-side in a nonexistent breeze. He visited the bodies of all those who fell during that battle—Moody, Tonks, Kingsley, Colin—the list goes on. No one was given mercy.
Not even little, infant Teddy.
The moment came when he realized this wasn't a battle—this wasn't even a war zone. It was a slauhterhouse—they never stood a chance against the overwhelming forces the Death Eaters presented. No one was left.
Only Harry.
He left the bodies where they lay in their ready-made graveyard, invisible to muggles for all eternity and on land so fueled by magic, their bodies would remain intact for centuries. Harry closed his eyes, pulling his magic to the surface and apparated as far as his magic would allow him.
He lands on a rickety old bridge. Hewasn't sure where he lands—it could be just about anywhere in the world. It wasn't, however, England, because England was gone. What's left of it was riddled by fire and corpses, and blood and death. This wasn't England, but that's alright.
Harry leaned over the side of the desolate bridge, staring into the depths of the water that cascaded below him. The roar of the river is loud in his ears—the sound of the pouring rain beating the thoughts out of his head. It's nice here, he decided quickly, continuing to look at the beautiful blue water that ran over sharp rocks. It's easy to forget—to let it all go.
He still didn't cry.
The train tracks that run over the bridge are rusted over—old and unused, in places, the iron supports are completely gone. I's fairly reminiscent of his life now. His friends—his iron supports have been plucked away, so now he's alone, useless to the world and no loner cared about in any fashion. He took another step forward, leaning over the bridge even more.
His foot dislodged a part of the old track and it hurtled into the water. After only a few seconds, he wasn't able to pick out the little, useless piece of metal from the other pieces that have fallen over the years.
All heros fall.
The bridge will, one day, fall into the murky depths.
It's over.
He wasn't certain if his thoughts were for the bridge or for himself.
Harry ducked under the iron rods holding up the bridge, his feet lining up perfectly with the edge of the platform. The water seemed even closer, swirling beneath him, ready to swallow anything it could possibly clutch onto.
His left hand held onto the only bar within reach as he leaned forward, mystified by the water—the lack of care—the hatred that seemed to drain away. It seemed better when he looked at the water and thought maybe, just maybe, it's good that this was all finally over—forever. A gale made him stumble, nearly falling off the bridge.
His breath quickened, his eyes looking towards the heavens—then he let go, letting the wind wrap him up in its embrace and carry him to the dark water—the sharp rocks—below.
But nothing happened.
His eyes lowered and he gasped.
He knew what saved his life—even if he didn't consider his life worth saving—the second he saw it. He wasn't disillusioned by the suit and trenchcoat, though some surely would be. No, because the first thing he saw was it's eyes—those amazing blue eyes that stared into his soul and told him not to do it.
Not to give up.
No to waste everything he had.
So, Harry stepped back, unable to take his eyes off the angel—the angel that saved him from himself.
"You should not waste the life given to you, Harry Potter. Enough people have sacrificed themselves for you today." Harry allowed his eyes to fall at those words, ashamed as his hands were clenched tightly at his sides.
When the angel stepped closer, Harry moved forward and buried his head in the soft fabric of the trenchcoat.
And for the first time in almost three years, he cried.
Yes, the entire chapter is supposed to sound choppy, confusing, and repetitive. It's like this in order to symbolize Harry's current state of mind—broken, but not beyond repair.
This, for now, is the only part for this story. I do, however, plan to continue it at a later date. I can't right away because school is about to get really hectic again and I have so many other stories lined up already. Never fear, I do hope to get to this one eventually.
Review if you have any input, suggestions, or just want to offer support. I'm not sure where to go from here, but I do know that the pairing will(obviously) be Harry/Castiel. Thanks!