By- Cynic
A/N---------- Disclaimer- I am not J.K. Rowling. I am not making any money (just a little humiliation) by publishing things about her characters on the web. No copyright infringement is intended. The world, original characters, and basic background are all hers.Rating and Warning- PG-13 to be safe. For language, and general angst. (or mature themes if I am going to continue with the "movie ratings")
Summary- Beauty is gone. Art has been replaced by survival. The once proud ministry clings to the shipwreck, alongside mudbloods and muggles. Hope has nearly died, but in the hearts of few, sheer mulishness holds on. (A dark vignette from Harry's point of view about the war. Brought upon by reading too much Oscar Wilde-De Profundis)
To everyone who will(might) review-
Thank you so so so so so so much! I live and breathe reviews. Both good and bad. However, my computer is clinically insane, and will no longer let me read the review posting board. If you want me to respond to your reviews or even just read them than please e-mail them to me at QueenDrgn06@aol.com. Its easy, just put the name of the chapter and story in the subject line. Please? *wimpers* You can still put them in the normal place for others to look at (and to raise my review count if your generous).
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For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small iron-barred window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart. And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion is no more. The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-morrow. Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of why I am writing, and in this manner writing. . . . –Oscar Wilde
My soul burns in the fires of hell, yet Perdition has frozen. No warmth or light of Aidenn can reach me, deep within the walls of endless ice. My hell is not paved with good intentions, but with the lives of innocents. No love graces my foul presence with it's sweet song for I can have no weakness. They speak of the heat that comes with battle, but I feel only cold. The war has fed for three years, on countless lives, but still it hungers on. It consumes all, there is no escape but death.
Voldemort has risen, as Christ did long ago from Nazareth. Died, risen and he has come again. But I will not sully Jesu's name with bitter similes. From the ashes, yet not in a blaze of glory as Fawkes would soar, but with a dawning of a new era did Riddle return. A time of death and gore that once was and now again, the first ended 18 years ago with my actions. But still this destruction continues. Would that the circle would complete with my death! But he must waltz to Hades first.
I sit here, perpetually alone, shivering with cold and loneliness. These ancient halls of my Alma Mater fill me with laughing memories of a better world, one that will never return. Too many have died, including the boy that I once was. Harry Potter as his teachers and schoolboy friends knew him is no more. And I grieve for him. My spirit, once filled with the laughter and joy of childhood, was distilled into its essence through the filter of pain. And like fine liquor, I am stronger. But I can no longer laugh and play. My childhood is forever gone. I never graduated. I did not have a first date, a first kiss. In war we had no time for such niceties as dates. And my first kiss was quickly consummated. But I am stronger.
This war always comes back to me. It was my rivalry with the Dark Lord that killed all the numerous innocents. It was me. I feel as if I need to turn myself in, my soul is always blackened by guilt. But everyone knows. They deny my fault, but I know. I can see that in their heart of hearts, they blame me. And so do I.
I can no longer close my eyes, for I see visions of the dead etched upon my lids. Neville Longbottom, who did not even have the refuge of insanity. Ron, who jumped in front of Avada Kedavra, to save my life. Hermione, who's bright future was snuffed out by her love of me. And Cedric, always Cedric, the first, who's death still haunts me.
If I could join my soul in its confines within Pluto's realm! But no, for I am the figurehead in this God-Forsaken war. It falls always to me. I told the Weaslys of their son's death. With tears in my own, red-rimmed eyes, I watched Molly's sweet face go from shock, to denial, to a numbing sorrow in all it's depths. I never saw her smile again. I told the poor muggle family of the Grangers, cringing in the depths of London, the last British stronghold. I told them of the thief in the night, with his poisoned blade. I told them of their daughters demise. And I saw their denial, their confusion. They had no chips in the vast game, but still they suffered. Neville had no family to tell of his brave actions. They were lost in the first round. And yet the death toll still rises.
I court Voldemort as a lover courts his affection. We trade attacks, and the riposte always cuts deeper. Neither of us care for those lives that are in our way. Our personal need for revenge is too black. I yearn for the strength of the muggle generals, Churchill and his Hitler. Yet my enigma is far more cunning and much closer than the Fuehrer could ever dream of being. He is stronger than I am, he knows no love, no compassion. But without Love, the soul is weaker. Hate is a bitter pill that hurts while it achieves. But it is hard to remember that wisdom in this grayest of times.
Beauty is gone. Art has been replaced by survival. The once proud ministry clings to the shipwreck, alongside mudbloods and muggles. Hope has nearly died, but in the hearts of few, sheer mulishness holds on.
I yearn to plunge cold steel deep within my own breast, but Voldemort is not dead. I wish to die, but my task is not complete. I will never surrender, the Dark will not win so easily. All the deaths that weigh my conscience, are also blood on your hands Voldemort. But don't worry, they have a nice cell waiting for the both of us in Hell. I just have to get you their first. Like true lovers, I will soon follow.
All trials are trials for one's life, just as all sentences are sentences of death; and three times have I been tried. The first time I left the box to be arrested, the second time to be led back to the house of detention, the third time to pass into a prison for two years. Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole. – Oscar Wilde