She was lucky, that's all.
She was lucky, that was all. It was only luck that kept her from dying at his wand, Harry felt sure. And as much as he hated Snape, and much as he blamed Voldemort, and as much as he wanted so badly to change events, Harry knew one thing was concrete. Bellatrix was simply lucky.
He didn't know how he would have punished Snape, hadn't decided. He hadn't decided how exactly he would or could kill Voldemort. He hadn't decided how to feel exactly, since Sirius's death. But he had decided that it was simply luck his curse 'missed' Bellatrix. His hate towards Snape was nothing compared to Bellatrix Lestrange. It simmered constantly, red hot and ready. It mixed in with his tears of bitter sorrow. His hate, his tears, burned like an acidic potion that was meant to pain you and never stop. Not kill you, but always been there. Lurking.
There were times Harry felt he could simply look at something and it would explode or begin burning immediately. Like the picture from Dudley's eighth birthday, or the ugly small vase Aunt Petunia kept up in the living room with the periwinkle tulips and gold outlining. Those were the times Harry was ready, almost daring Voldemort to come and get him, for Lestrange to come searching for him and battle. Those were times he felt he could defeat an entire army of Dark Eaters. Those were the times Dudley staid far away from Harry, the times when his eyes burned fiercely, and he was grateful for that burning. It meant he couldn't cry just yet.
Then there were times when the anger, the strength, the burning left him, and he felt like a scared, skinny fifteen year old boy. He felt weak and sick, lying on his soaked pillow, wishing so desperately for Sirius, for his father and mother, even for Remus, who had understood him well too. Those were the times he felt disgusted with himself after crying, for wishing for things that weren't going to happen. He was glad, in part, for Mrs. Weasely not being there, or himself at the Burrow. One hug would be all it took, one soft word and look or touch would be his undoing. The tears would come, the pathetic mewlings for his mother, for Sirius, for his father, would all come out.
It was better to feel the anger or the numbness than to feel the truth. Better to think about how wrong Bellatrix Lestrange was when she said his curse hadn't worked properly because he didn't mean it, because he didn't really want to see her die.
Because he did. Harry had wanted that almost as much as he wanted Sirius to come out of the woodwork, a grin on his face, wand raised in the air. Maybe that's what did it, Harry reflected later on in his tiny bedroom on Privet Drive. The fact that he wanted Sirius to live more than he wanted to see Lestrange die was the deciding factor of the curse's outcome.
But still.. When Harry said Crucio!, he knew exactly what he had said, exactly what he was doing. He wanted to see her die, maybe not as much as he wanted to see Sirius live, but enough to mean it. It wasn't self- righteous anger that propelled him to say that curse, not entirely. It was hate, it was revenge, it was to see her crawl and weep on the floor in agony. It was to stop the ache in Harry's chest, the tightness in his throat..
But maybe, just a little, it was to make Sirius proud of him, make him think Harry was James' son after all, do something James would do. Maybe it was to bring Sirius back. .. She was just lucky. That was all.
She was lucky, that was all. It was only luck that kept her from dying at his wand, Harry felt sure. And as much as he hated Snape, and much as he blamed Voldemort, and as much as he wanted so badly to change events, Harry knew one thing was concrete. Bellatrix was simply lucky.
He didn't know how he would have punished Snape, hadn't decided. He hadn't decided how exactly he would or could kill Voldemort. He hadn't decided how to feel exactly, since Sirius's death. But he had decided that it was simply luck his curse 'missed' Bellatrix. His hate towards Snape was nothing compared to Bellatrix Lestrange. It simmered constantly, red hot and ready. It mixed in with his tears of bitter sorrow. His hate, his tears, burned like an acidic potion that was meant to pain you and never stop. Not kill you, but always been there. Lurking.
There were times Harry felt he could simply look at something and it would explode or begin burning immediately. Like the picture from Dudley's eighth birthday, or the ugly small vase Aunt Petunia kept up in the living room with the periwinkle tulips and gold outlining. Those were the times Harry was ready, almost daring Voldemort to come and get him, for Lestrange to come searching for him and battle. Those were times he felt he could defeat an entire army of Dark Eaters. Those were the times Dudley staid far away from Harry, the times when his eyes burned fiercely, and he was grateful for that burning. It meant he couldn't cry just yet.
Then there were times when the anger, the strength, the burning left him, and he felt like a scared, skinny fifteen year old boy. He felt weak and sick, lying on his soaked pillow, wishing so desperately for Sirius, for his father and mother, even for Remus, who had understood him well too. Those were the times he felt disgusted with himself after crying, for wishing for things that weren't going to happen. He was glad, in part, for Mrs. Weasely not being there, or himself at the Burrow. One hug would be all it took, one soft word and look or touch would be his undoing. The tears would come, the pathetic mewlings for his mother, for Sirius, for his father, would all come out.
It was better to feel the anger or the numbness than to feel the truth. Better to think about how wrong Bellatrix Lestrange was when she said his curse hadn't worked properly because he didn't mean it, because he didn't really want to see her die.
Because he did. Harry had wanted that almost as much as he wanted Sirius to come out of the woodwork, a grin on his face, wand raised in the air. Maybe that's what did it, Harry reflected later on in his tiny bedroom on Privet Drive. The fact that he wanted Sirius to live more than he wanted to see Lestrange die was the deciding factor of the curse's outcome.
But still.. When Harry said Crucio!, he knew exactly what he had said, exactly what he was doing. He wanted to see her die, maybe not as much as he wanted to see Sirius live, but enough to mean it. It wasn't self- righteous anger that propelled him to say that curse, not entirely. It was hate, it was revenge, it was to see her crawl and weep on the floor in agony. It was to stop the ache in Harry's chest, the tightness in his throat..
But maybe, just a little, it was to make Sirius proud of him, make him think Harry was James' son after all, do something James would do. Maybe it was to bring Sirius back. .. She was just lucky. That was all.
