Disclaimer: WE DO NOT OWN. We could barely read when the first one was published, suckers.
A/N - Sans: I don't like pairings, I don't like Gary/ Mary-Sue, flames go in the hot tub, 'nuff said.
- Gabes: As stated above, pairings are not liked here. Eventually we'll try writing some, for now, they will be either ignored, or made fun of. Ginny may, or may not, be murdered multiple times. In awful, gory ways. Ginny lovers, be gone. Flames shall be use to heat my house.
The War is over. It's such a simple statement, yet it's so hard to believe, to wrap my mind around.
Hard to believe that all the death is over, the rape, the torture, the destruction, the pain. How odd.
In a way, it's depressing, that when I think of it being over, the first thing that comes to mind, is just how strange that is. Just how strange it is for there to be good in the world.
Perhaps not good though, perhaps it's just ignorance, and naivety. After all, the Magical World could be compared quite accurately with a child. A child with innocence that had been stolen, but one that was blissfully ignoring that fact.
After all, it's childish to believe that just one man can save the world. I'm not Superman, I never have been. I can't fly after all.
The War is over.
Harry woke that morning, and simply laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking the thoughts above, and contemplating just how badly he needed to use the bathroom. Should he, or should he not get up, that was the question of the morning.
As usual.
Eventually he sighed, pulled the covers off himself, and stood. Stretched , and pulled up over large pajama pants. He never could get used to wearing close that fit properly after his time at the Dursley's.
After rubbing the eye-boogers away he shuffled hurriedly into the overly extravagant, overly large, overly irritating bathroom.
Given to him by those kindly, pushy bastards at the Ministry. Possibly as an apology.
He went quickly through the morning ritual of using the toilet, and then hopped into the shower, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor.
As usual.
They were the only, non marbled things, excluding himself, in there. How lovely.
He got out of his cool shower, mechanically wrapped himself in a too fluffy towel, and promptly kicked his vacated clothing into an empty corner, where they would promptly be forgotten about, until they started to mold. At which point, after finding the nasty things, he would immediately use an Incedio on the them.
As usual.
Breakfast was next on his morning routine.
As usual.
Developed during the war, and never changed afterwards.
Most commonly, Harry ate bare toast, but today he opted for a treat and made himself a plate of eggs.
All this was decided while trying to ignore the incessant hooting from the News Owl. Why he hadn't yet simply stopped his subscription to the Daily Prophet was unknown and would, preferably, stay that way. Although you can't ignore an owl for too long, they have a tendency to get . . . Pesky. Which usually involves beaks and blood.
So, after a few nips, a few drops, the Post Owl was on it's way out. Harry blankly stared at the newspaper, wondering if, really, he even wanted to know. The decision wasn't as prompt, nor as habitual, as most of the other rituals of the morning, but it was determined that he did, in fact, want to know.
As usual.
Just like it was every morning.
On the front page headline of the Daily Prophet, was, in bold, black letters, another happy exclamation of celebrations of the Dark Lords fall.
As usual.
What they seemed to forget to mention was the families morning their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, lovers, and friends.
As usual.
But, if you bothered to look to the obituaries, as he did every morning, you would notice at least three pages. These pages where mostly filled with those who hadn't made it into the recovery stage in their hospital stint. Though there were quite a number of suicides. Likely from those to broken from losses of those they cared about. Harry sympathized with these few.
But as usual he cared to much to follow.
He always had been a leader.
A fault of his perhaps? He thought so.
Was what he thought before his midmorning nap.
As usual.
What wasn't usual about the morning, where these following thoughts:
Tomorrow the world will start fresh.
And maybe, just maybe, I can learn to live in a world full of corruption and ignorance.
Who knows, I may even be able to make a difference.
It must have been the eggs.
A/N, lovingly named the second: This is mostly Gabes style, with Sans input, we will try to switch this off, so next will be Sans style instead.
Constructive Criticism is loved, hugged, used, cherished, thrown away after good use.
Ideas you're willing to let us use, are welcomed, and this time, kept.