Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, etc.
Author's Note: THis chapter is sort, because I'm just sort of writing where my muse takes me. Maybe some chapters will be long. Not sure yet. I will edit to the best of my availability. As prefaced before, this is more to explore my own writing.I hope you enjoy. Leave a review if there is something you would like to see in this story.
It had taken some time, but soon Harry has a tent, food, and clothes after a course of two weeks. No wand, and he wants one, but where would he get it from? Ollivander's? Ha! He would be caught. No, it's best to stay far, far away from civilization. Soon, he will go to Greenland, or Canada, somewhere in the cold North and probably die, maybe live, maybe ponder life's questions. That all, of course, was a lie.
He needs to kill VOldemort. It's his mission. But by God, if he could even look the man in the eye again! How could he? The crazy psychopath, practically raping him. Fuck. Fuck.
The tears come.
He likes to count them. Feel each burst of liquid fall, and then feel his hands shake, listening to a breathless cry that leaves his mouth and yet, he can't believe it's actually coming from him. He might as well be dead now.
He could start a new life and be someone. Maybe an accountant. Hell, he wouldn't mind being an actor, but like he could get away with that. No, accounting is more safe. Even being a garbage disposal man would be safe.
He feels it suddenly, the pull. Voldemort's pull. The man is calling out to him. Harry thinks back to that night, weeks ago. The red eyes, and the full head of hair. No snake-like man. Just a man. A handsome man, who could pass as a normal civilian, maybe a policeman, or a politician. The dictator of the world.
Harry is well aware his thoughts are flying again, but he doesn't give a damn. Everything seems to be flying around him, and the only physical ground left is his abused body.
A wave of nausea runs over him. He stands up, then throws up. Heaves out bile. He has little food, he has been saving it. Been conserving it. Now the breakfast orange is all over the ground, painting the grass. He heaves again, then lays on his side, eyes drooping from exhaustion, the smell of oranges clinging to him.
He wants to die.
The pain from wanting to die is too great, but it is growing, and because of that, Harry has a choice.
He must go home.
He apparates outside of Hogwarts, staring at the beautiful castles pointing like needles in the blue velvet of the darkening sky. Blue, blue, blue, a nice reminded of other days. No green, and definitely no gold. Harry cannot handle anymore gold, or the red of clothing and blood.
He hears someone behind him, and whips around. Bellatrix.
"We knew you would come," she says, grinning. A beautiful woman with sharp features that might almost be rounded, her eyes small with vicious rage and a dark passion, a need to see human pain. Her hair blows wildly in the wind, and Harry thinks of those large dogs with thick fur, curling and untamed. He takes a step forward his godfather's killer.
"Go ahead," he says. She smiles and lifts her wand in a fluid motion, and Harry ducks. The curse goes pass him. Muggle-style, he runs, she's only ten feet away, and a curse hits him this time. Pain explodes through him, maybe it was the cruciatus curse. He screams but continues to fly across the ground, and takes down Bellatrix with his body weight. As soon as they collide, the pain goes away, and Harry feels his body shaking from all his effort.
He rolls onto his side, feeling Bellatrix get up, but he doesn't want to move. But he must. Rage fills him, and he sees Sirius' dark eyes in his mind's eye. He rolls over and pushes Bellatrix to the ground, slapping her. She screams and claws his face, Harry is sure she drew blood.
His hands search for that promising spot, her neck. And when he finds it, he squeezes. He lets out a yell, and forces her neck and head and spine into the ground, he bites his tongue from the effort. She lets out a growl, one that is clogged from lack of air. Her nails dig into his hands. He squeezes harder, knowing she is strong, and might escape. She will escape. But damn if he wasn't going to try.
Her eyes flicker, she looks at him, and there it is. Worry. Anxiety. Fear. Harry laughs, feeling dark, and then, he thinks of someone he hasn't given much thought to in the last while.
"Harry, my boy, what are you doing?"
He didn't actually hear those words, but he can imagine them, and see the sadness in those blue eyes, vacant of hope. Harry screams.
"Fuck!" he says. Fuck. Fuck Dumbledore. He lets go, but Bellatrix's eyes fall close, and Harry is sure she's already dead. He pushes himself off of her, crawling away. His chest seems to collapse in on itself, and he sobs. He looks at his victim.
It's barely there, that movement of her chest. But it definitely is there. Harry stares at her and realizes he lost something inside himself. He isn't sure what it is. What did he lose? His head starts to hurt.
"Now, you realize it's me?" Harry says softly. There is a chuckle.
"You're so predictable, Harry," Voldemort says from behind him. Harry stands slowly and turns around, breathing hard, his back hunched, eyes deprived of everything except tears. He takes a slow step to the nemesis, the villain, the psychopath.
"What do you want," Harry says. Voldemort remains neutral.
"Your death. You can go out valiantly. But I don't want that. Now," Voldemort pauses, "I want your submission."